THE INCIDENT OF THE 13TH OF JANUARY
"I do not altogether like it," said A.
"Do you prefer to leave things as they are, then?" demanded B.
A. went over and stood by the window, looking moodily out.
"It is merely a necessity," said C.
"The necessity of a necessity," suggested D. happily.
"Perhaps you are not aware," said B., addressing himself to the man
standing at the window, "that the suggestion of arresting Salt did not
come from us in the first case."
"Is that so?" replied A., coming back into the room. "I certainly
assumed that it did."
"On the contrary," explained B., "it was Inspector Moeletter who
reported to his superiors that he had succeeded in identifying the
mysterious man who was seen with Leslie Garnet, the artist, about the
time of his death. He would have got his warrant in the ordinary way,
only in view of the remarkable position that Salt occupies just now,
Stafford very naturally communicated with us."
"The only point that troubles us," remarked C. reflectively, "is that
none of us can persuade himself in the remotest degree that Salt killed
Garnet."
"I certainty require to have the evidence before I can subscribe to
that," said B. "The man who is daily killing hundreds----"
"Ah, that is the difference," commented D.
"Where are the Monmouth colliers now?" asked C., after a pause.
"Newbury, this morning," replied D. "Reading, to-night."
"And the Midland lot?"
"Towcester, I think."
"If Hampden formally asks for protection for the oil store at Hanwood,
after the miners' threat to burn it, what are you going to do?" asked A.
"I should suggest telling him to go and boil himself in it, since he has
got it there," replied C.
"There will be no need to tell him anything but the bare fact, and that
is that with twenty-five thousand turbulent colliers pouring into London
and adding to the disaffected element already here, we cannot spare a
single man," replied B.
"I quite agree with that," remarked D., drawing attention to his
freshly-scarred cheek. "I had a tribute of the mob's affection as I came
in this morning."
"That's your popularity," said C. "Your photograph is so much about that
no one has any difficulty in recognising you. How do you get on in that
way, B.?"
"I?" exclaimed B. with a startled look. "Oh, I always drive with the
blinds down now."
"Are any extra military coming in before Friday?" asked A.
"Yes, the Lancers from Hounslow. They come into the empty Albany Street
Barracks to-night. Then I think that there are to be some extra infantry
in Whitehall, from Aldershot. Cadman is seeing to all that."
"But you know that the Lancers are being drawn from Hounslow?" asked C.
with a meaning laugh.
"Yes, I know that," admitted B. "Why do you laugh, C.?"
C.'s only reply was to laugh again.
"I will tell you why he laughs," volunteered D. "He laughs, B., because
the Lancers withdrawn from Hounslow to Regent's Park, Salt under arrest
at Stafford, and the Monmouth colliers coming along the Bath road and
passing within a mile or two of Hanwood, represent the three angles of a
very acute triangle."
"There is still Hampden," muttered B.
"Yes; what is going to happen to Hampden?" asked C., with a trace of his
mordant amusement.
A., who was walking about the room aimlessly, stopped and faced the
others.
"I'll tell you what," he exclaimed emphatically. "I said just now that I
didn't like the idea of smuggling Salt away like this, and, although it
may be advisable, I don't. But I wish to God that we had openly arrested
the pair of them as traitors, and burned their diabolical store before
every one's eyes three months ago."
"Ah," said D. thoughtfully, "it was too early then. Now it's too late."
"It may be too late to have its full effect," flashed out B., "but it
won't be too late to make them suffer a bit along with our own people."
"Provided that the oil is burned," said D.
"Provided that no protection can be sent," remarked C.
"Provided that Salt is arrested," added A.
There was a knock at the door. It explained the attitude of the four men
in the room and their scattered conversation. They had been awaiting
some one.
He came into the room and saluted, a powerfully-built man with "uniform"
branded on every limb, although he wore plain clothes then.
"Detective-Inspector Moeletter?" said B.
"Yes, sir," said the inspector, and stood at attention.
"You have the warrant?" continued B.
Moeletter produced it, and passed it in for inspection. It was made out
on the preceding day, signed by the Stipendiary Magistrate of Stafford,
and it connected George Salt with Leslie Garnet by the link of Murder.
"When you applied for this warrant," said B., looking hard at the
inspector, "you considered that you had sufficient evidence to support
it?"
Moeletter looked puzzled for a moment, as though the question was one
that he did not quite follow in that form. For a moment he seemed to be
on the verge of making an explanation; then he thought better of it, and
simply replied: "Yes, sir."
"At all events," continued B. hastily, "you have enough evidence to
justify a remand? What are the points?"
"We have abundant evidence that Salt was in the neighbourhood about the
time of the tragedy; that fact can scarcely be contested. Coming nearer,
an old man, who had been hedging until the storm drove him under a high
bank, saw a gentleman enter Garnet's cottage about half-past five.
Without any leading he described this man accurately as Salt, and picked
out his photograph from among a dozen others. About an hour later, two
boys, who were bird-nesting near Stourton Hill church, heard a shot.
They looked through the hedge into the graveyard and saw one man lying
apparently dead on the ground, and another bending over him as though he
might be going through his pockets. Being frightened, they ran away and
told no one of it for some time, as boys would. Of course, sir, that's
more than six months ago now, but the description they give tallies, and
I think that we may claim a strong presumption of identity taking into
consideration the established time of Salt's arrival at Thornley."
"That is all?" said B.
"As regards identity," replied the inspector. "On general grounds we
shall show that for some time before his death Garnet had been selling
shares and securities which he held, and that although he lived frugally
no money was found in the remains of his house or on his person, and no
trace of a banking account or other investment can be discovered. Then
we allege that 'George Salt' is not the man's right name, although we
have not been able to follow that up yet. He is generally understood to
have been a sailor recently, and the revolver found beside the body was
of a naval pattern. I should add that the medical evidence at the
inquest was to the effect that the wound might have been self-inflicted,
but that the angle was unusual."
B. returned the warrant to the inspector.
"That will at least ensure a remand for a week for you to continue your
investigations?"
"I think so, sir."
"Without bail?"
"If it is opposed."
"We oppose it, then. Did you bring any one down with you?"
Inspector Moeletter had not done so. He had not been able to anticipate
what amended instructions he might receive in London, so he had thought
it as well to come alone.
"For political reasons it is desirable that nothing should be known
publicly of the arrest until you have your prisoner safely at Stafford,"
said B. "At present he is motoring in the southern counties. I have
information that he will leave Farnham this afternoon between three and
half-past and proceed direct to Guildford. Is there any reason why you
should not arrest him between the two places?"
Inspector Moeletter knew of none.
"It will be preferable to doing so in either town from our point of
view," continued B., "and it is not known whether he intends leaving
Guildford to-night."
The inspector took out an innocent-looking pocket-book, whose elastic
band was a veritable hangman's noose, and noted the facts.
"Is a description of the motor-car available?" he enquired.
B. picked up a sheet of paper. "It is a large car, a 30 H.P. Daimler,
with a covered body, and painted in two shades of green," he read from
the paper. "The number is L.N. 7246."
"I would suggest bringing him straight on in the car," said Moeletter.
"It would obviate the publicity of railway travelling."
B. nodded. "There is another thing," he said. "It is absolutely
necessary to avoid the London termini. They are all watched
systematically by agents of the League--spies who call themselves
patriots. You will take the 7.30 train with your prisoner, but you will
join it at Willesden. I will have it stopped for you."
"I shall need a man who can drive the motor to go down with me," the
detective reminded him.
B. struck a bell. "Send Sergeant Tolkeith in," he said to the attendant.
Sergeant Tolkeith was apparently being kept ready in the next room, to
be slipped at the fall of the flag, so to speak. He came in very
smartly.
"You will remain with Inspector Moeletter while he is in London, and
make all the necessary arrangements for him," instructed B. "I suppose
that there are men at Scotland Yard available now who can drive every
kind of motor?"
Sergeant Tolkeith hazarded the opinion that there were men at Scotland
Yard at that moment who could drive--he looked round the room in search
of some strange or Titanic vehicle to which the prowess of Scotland Yard
would be equal--"Well, Anything."
"A man who knows the roads," continued B. "Though, for that matter, it's
a simple enough route--the Portsmouth road all the way to Kingston, and
then across to Willesden. You had better avoid Guildford, by the way,
coming back. Now, what other assistance will you require?"
"How many are there likely to be in the car, sir?"
"No one but Salt, I am informed. He has been touring alone for a week
past, at all events."
"In that case, sir, we had better take a couple of men from Guildford
and drive towards Farnham. We can wait at a suitable place in the road
and make the arrest. Then when the irons are on I shall need no one
beyond the driver I take with me. The two local men--you'll want Mr
Salt's _chauffeur_ detained for a few hours, I suppose, sir?"
"Yes, certainly; until you are well on your way. And any one else who
may happen to be in the car. I will give you authority covering that."
"The two local men can take him, or them, back to Guildford--it will be
dark by the time they get there--for detention while enquiries are being
made. Then if a plain-clothes man meets me at Willesden we can go on,
and our driver can take the car on to Scotland Yard."
"You see no difficulty throughout?" said B. anxiously. The inspector
assured him that all seemed plain sailing. It was not his place to
foresee difficulties in B.'s plans.
"Then I shall expect you to report to me from Stafford about 10.30
to-night that everything is satisfactory. Let me impress on you as a
last word the need of care and _unconcern_ in this case. It must be
successfully carried out, and to do that there must be no fuss or
publicity."
"Sergeant," said Detective-Inspector Moeletter, when they were outside,
"between ourselves, can you tell me this: why they think it necessary to
have three mute gentlemen looking on while we arrange a matter of this
sort?"
"Between ourselves, sir," replied Sergeant Tolkeith, looking cautiously
around, "it's my belief that it's come to this: that they are all
half-afraid of themselves and can't trust one another."
"D.," remarked C., as they left together a few minutes later, "does
anything strike you about B.?"
"It strikes me that he looks rather like an undertaker's man when he is
dressed up," replied D.
"Does it not strike you that he is _afraid_?"
"Oh," admitted D., stroking his wounded cheek, "that's quite possible.
So am I, for that matter."
"So may we all be in a way," said C.; "but it is different with him. I
believe that he is in a _blue funk_. He's fey, and he's got Salt on the
brain. Just remember that I venture on this prophecy: if Salt through
any cause does not happen to get arrested, B. will throw up the sponge."
* * * * *
The office of the Unity League in Trafalgar Chambers was little more
than an empty hive now. The headquarters of the operations had been
transferred to the colony at Hanwood, and most of the staff had
followed. With the declaration of the coal war, an entirely different
set of conditions had come into force. The old offices had practically
become a clearing house for everything connected with the League, and
the high tide of active interest swept on elsewhere.
Miss Lisle remained, a person of some consequence, but in her heart she
sighed from time to time for a sphere of action "down another little
lane."
On the afternoon of the 13th of January she returned to the office about
half-past three, and going to the instrument room unlocked the
telescribe receiver-box and proceeded to sort the dozen communications
which it contained--the accumulation of an hour--before passing them on
to be dealt with. Most fell into clearly-defined departments at a
glance. It was not until she reached the last, the earliest sent, that
she read it through, but as she read that her whole half-listless,
mechanical manner changed. With the first line apathy fell from her like
a cloak; before she had finished, every limb and feature conveyed a
sense of tingling excitement. In frantic haste she dragged the special
writing materials across the table towards her, dashed off a sprawling,
"Stop Mr Salt at any cost.--LISLE," and flashed it off to the League
agency at Farnham.
A couple of minutes must pass before she could get any reply. She picked
up the cause of her excitement, and for the second time read the message
it contained:
"If you want to keep your Mr Salt from being arrested on a charge of
murder, warn him that Inspector Moeletter from Stafford will be waiting
for him on the road between Farnham and Guildford at three o'clock this
afternoon with a warrant. No one believes in it, but he will be taken on
in his motor to Willesden, and on to Stafford by the 7.30, and kept out
of the way for a week while things have time to happen at Hanwood. There
will be just enough evidence to get a remand, as there was to get a
warrant. This is from a friend, who may remind you of it later and prove
who he is by this sign."
The letter finished with a rough drawing of a gallows and a broken rope.
It was written in a cramped, feigned hand and addressed to Sir John
Hampden. It might have been lying in the box for an hour.
The telescribe bell gave its single note. Irene opened the box in
feverish dread. An exclamation of despair broke from her lips as some
words on the paper stood out in the intensity of their significance even
before she took the letter from the box.
This was what Farnham replied:
"Hope nothing is the matter. Mr Salt left here quite half an hour ago,
in his motor, for Guildford. He will stay there the night, or proceed to
Hanwood according to the time he is occupied. Please let me know if
there is any trouble."
Half an hour! There was not the remotest chance of intercepting him.
Already, under ordinary circumstances, he would be in the outskirts of
Guildford. It only remained to verify the worst. She wrote a brief
message asking Mr Salt if he would kindly communicate with her
immediately on his arrival, and despatched it to the agency at
Guildford. If there was no reply to that request during the next
half-hour she would accept the arrest as an established fact. And there
being nothing apparently to do for the next half-hour, Miss Lisle, very
much to the surprise of ninety-nine out of her hundred friends could
they have seen her, went down on her knees in the midst of a roomful of
the latest achievements of science and began to pray that a miracle
might happen.
* * * * *
"I suppose that I may smoke?" said Salt. He was sitting handcuffed in
his own motor-car, charged with murder, and formally cautioned that
anything he should say might be used as evidence against him. It was
scarcely a necessary warning in his case; with the exception of an
equally formal protest against the arrest, he had not opened his lips
until now. He and Moeletter had sat silently facing one another in the
comfortably-appointed, roomy car, Salt with his face to the driver and
leaning back in his easy seat with outward unconcern, the detective
braced to a more alert attitude and with his knees almost touching those
of his prisoner. For a mile or more--for perhaps seven or eight minutes
by time, for the new driver was cautious with the yet unknown car--they
had proceeded thus.
Yet Salt was very far from being unconcerned as he leaned back
negligently among the cushions. He was thinking keenly, and with the
settled, tranquil gaze that betrayed nothing, watching alertly the miles
of dreary high-road that stretched along the Hog's Back before them. He
had long foreseen the possibility of arrest, and he had taken certain
precautions; but to safeguard himself effectually he would have had to
abandon the more important part of his work, and the risk he ran was the
smaller evil of the two. But he had not anticipated this charge. Some
legal jugglery with "conspiracy" had been in his mind.
"I suppose that I may smoke?" Half a mile ahead a solitary wayfarer was
approaching. Salt might have noted him, but there was nothing remarkable
in his appearance except that pedestrians--or vehicles either, for that
matter--were rare along the Hog's Back on that bitter winter afternoon.
"Why, certainly, sir; in your own car, surely," replied the inspector
agreeably. He was there to do his duty, and he had done it, even down to
the detail of satisfying himself by search that his prisoner carried no
weapon. Beyond that there was no reason to be churlish, especially as
every one had to admit that there was no telling what might have
happened in a week's or a month's time. "Can I help you in any way?"
"Thank you, I will manage," replied Salt, and in spite of his manacles
he succeeded without much difficulty in taking out his cigarette-case
and a match-box. He lit a cigarette, blew out the match, and then looked
hesitatingly round the rather elegant car, at the rich velvety carpet on
the floor, at the half-burned vesta in his hand. Then with easy
unconcern he lowered the window by his side and leaned forward towards
it.
It was a perfectly natural action, but Inspector Moeletter owed at least
one step in his promotion to a habit of always being on his guard
against natural-seeming actions of that kind. His left foot quickly and
imperceptibly slid across the carpet, so that if Salt made any
ill-judged attempt to leave the car he must inevitably come to grief
across that rigid barrier; with a ready eye Moeletter noted afresh the
handle of the door, the size of the window frame, and every kindred
detail. His hands lay in unostentatious readiness by his side, and he
felt no apprehension.
But Salt had not the faintest intention of attempting any sensational
act. He dropped the match leisurely from between his fingers, cast a
glance up to the sky, where the lowering clouds had long been
threatening snow, and then drew in his head. But in some way, either
from his position, a jolt of the car, or a touch against the sash, as he
did so his cap was jerked off, and, despite a quick but clumsy attempt
to catch it in his fettered hands, it was whirled away behind in their
eddying wake.
"Please stop," he said, turning to Moeletter. "I am afraid that I shall
find it too cold without."
The detective was not pleased, but there was nothing in the mishap that
he could take objection to. Further, he had no wish to make his prisoner
in any way noticeable during the latter part of their journey. "Pull up,
Murphy," he called through the tube by his shoulder, and with a grinding
that set its owner's teeth on edge, the car came to a standstill in two
lengths.
Moeletter had intended that the driver should recover the cap, but he
was saved the trouble. The solitary pedestrian had happened to be on the
spot at the moment of the incident, and he was standing by the open
window almost as soon as the car stopped. Forgetful of his indignity,
Salt stretched out a manacled hand and received his property. "Thank
you," he said with a pleasant smile. "I am much obliged."
"Go on," said Moeletter, through the tube.
"I think that I had better get used to these--'darbies' is the
professional name, is it not, Inspector?--to these 'darbies' before I
look out again," remarked Salt good-humouredly.
* * * * *
The telescribe bell announced another message. It found Irene sitting at
the table in the instrument room with ordnance maps around her and the
index book of the League's most trusted agents lying open on the shelf.
She just glanced at the clock as she jumped up. It was 4.15, exactly the
last minute of the half-hour that she had fixed as the limit of
uncertainty. The message might even yet be from Salt. But it was not; it
was this instead:
"Fear Mr Salt has been arrested. He is in his motor-car, handcuffed,
proceeding towards Guildford, in charge of man who has appearance of
belonging to police force. Driver is not Mr Salt's man. Mr S. made opp.
for me to see sit., but said nothing. Passed just W. of Puttenham 3.55.
Roads good, but snow beginning. Car trav only 10-12 m. hour. Shall
remain here on chance being use. Don't hesitate."
A hall-formed plan was already floating in the space between Miss
Lisle's adventurous brain and the maps. The Puttenham message
crystallised it. There was now something to go on. The route she knew
already; the times and mileages also lay beneath her hand. The scheme
had a hundred faults, and only one thing to recommend it--that it might
succeed. For ten minutes she flung herself into the details of the maps,
jotting down a time, a distance, here and there a detail of the road.
"Puttenham" might remain at his box till dawn, but all the work, all the
chance, was forward--before the car. At the end of ten minutes Irene
picked up the accumulation of her labours and rang up the telephone
exchange.
* * * * *
"What is it, Murphy?" demanded the inspector through the tube, as the
car came to a dead stop. "Something else in the way?"
"I can't quite make it out, sir," was the reply. "We're just outside the
long railway arch, and there seems to be something on fire towards the
other end. Terrible lot of smoke coming through."
"Can't we run up to it?"
"This is an unusually long bridge--fifty or sixty yards, I should say. I
hardly like to take you on into that smoke, sir."
"Oh, very well. Jump down and see what it is. Only be as sharp as you
can."
It was now pitch dark, and a driving, biting storm of snow and hail was
blowing across their path from the east. When the constable-_chauffeur_
had learned sufficient of the car to give him confidence, the storm had
swept down, and their progress had been scarcely any faster. There had
been delays, too. By Ripley a heavy farm waggon had broken down almost
before their eyes, and it had been ten minutes before a spare chain
horse could be obtained to drag it to the roadside. Further on some men
felling a tree in a coppice had clumsily allowed it to fall across the
road, and another ten minutes elapsed before it was cut in two and
rolled aside. Fortunately they were not pressed for time. Fortunately,
also, the driver knew the way, for few people were afoot to face that
dreadful stream of snow and ice with the lashing wind and the numbing
cold. Two, two or three, or perhaps four men had chanced to be at hand
when the car stopped, making their way towards the bridge, but the
wreathing snow soon cut them off. Occasionally, when the wind and drift
hung for a moment, a figure or two showed dimly and gigantic in the murk
of the tunnel. Nothing of the fire could be seen, but the smoke
continued to pour out, and the mingled odour of burned and unburned oil
filled the car.
In a few minutes the driver returned. When he had left his seat
Moeletter had leaned forward, and with a gruff word of half apology had
laid a hand upon the rug across Salt's knees, so that he held, or at
least controlled, the connecting links of the handcuffs, while at the
same time his other hand had dropped quietly down to his hip-pocket. He
now lowered the window on the further side, still keeping his left hand
on the rug.
"Oil cart ablaze, sir," gasped the driver, between paroxysms of
coughing. "Road simply running fire, and the fumes awful." His face was
almost completely protected beneath cap, goggles, and a storm shade that
fell from the cap over the shoulders and buttoned across the mouth, but
no covering had seemed effectual against the suffocating reek of the
burning oil. The fire had melted the snow off his clothes, and he stood
by the door with a bar of darkness just falling across his face, and the
electric light through the lowered window blazing upon his gleaming
leathers, his gauntlets and puttee leggings, and the cumbrous numbered
badge that the regulations then imposed.
"It will be some time before the road is passable?" asked Moeletter with
a frown.
"Oh, hours perhaps," was the sputtering reply. "Would suggest going by
Molesey Bridge, sir. Best way now."
"Is it much out?"
"The turning is half a mile back. From there it is no further than this
way."
"And you know the way perfectly?"
The driver nodded. "Perfectly, sir."
"Very well; go on. We have plenty of time yet, but you might get a few
more miles out of her, if you think you can."
The driver jumped up to his seat, the horn gave its bull-like note of
warning, and gliding round the car began to head back towards Esher with
the open common on either side and the pelting wind behind. It slackened
for a moment at the fork in the high-road, turned to the right, and then
began to draw away northward with an increased speed that showed the
driver to be capable of rising to his instructions.
"It is fortunate that the inspector is not a motoring man," thought Salt
to himself with an inward smile. "This is very much too good." But the
inspector only noticed that with the increased speed the car seemed to
run more smoothly, and even then he had no means of judging what the
increase had become. The man whose car it was knew that a very different
explanation than mere speed lay behind the sudden change that made the
motion now sheer luxury. He knew with absolute conviction what had
happened, and he would have known without any further evidence that the
driver who now had his hand upon the wheel was a thousand miles ahead of
constable-_chauffeur_ Murphy in motor-craft.
It was not the first suggestion of some friendly influence at work that
had stirred his mind. The incident of the stranded waggon across the
road by Ripley was little in itself. Even when they were a second time
delayed by the fallen tree a few miles further on nothing but an
unreasoning hope could have called it more than coincidence. But with
the third episode a matured plan began to loom through the meaningless
delays. Oil was here, and where there was oil in England at that day the
hand of the Unity League might be traced not far away. In his mind's eye
Salt ran over half a dozen miles of the Portsmouth road. As far as he
could remember, if it was _intended_ to block the road there was
scarcely a more suitable spot than the long railway bridge to be found
between Esher and Kingston, and, followed the thought, if it was
intended to force Moeletter to accept the bridge at Molesey, no point in
all the high-road south of the fork would have served.
The three accidents had taken place each at the exact point where it
would best serve its purpose.
Salt did not even glance at the driver when he returned from the fire.
He leaned back in his seat in simple enjoyment, and Inspector Moeletter
thought from his appearance that he was going to sleep.
There was little to be gained by looking out, apart from the policy of
unconcern. The huge white motor-car that was waiting in the cross-road
by Esher station had its head-lights masked, and in the snow-storm and
the night it could not have been seen ten yards away. The driver of the
green car sounded his horn for the road as he swept by, and ten seconds
later the white car glided out from its place of concealment like a
ghostly mastodon, and, baring its dazzling lamps, began to thrash along
the road in the other's wake.
What would be their route when they had crossed the bridge? That was
Salt's constant thought now, not because he was troubled by the chances,
but because it was the next point in the unknown plan that would serve
to guide him. He had not long to wait under the dexterous pilotage of
the unknown hand outside. The flat, straight road became a tortuous
village street, the lights of the Molesey shops and inns splashed in
splintering blurs across the streaming windows, an iron bridge shook and
rumbled beneath their wheels, and they were in Middlesex.
The horn brayed out a continuous warning note, the car swung off to the
left, and Salt, with his eyes closed, knew exactly what had been
arranged.
But there was yet Inspector Moeletter to be reckoned with. He was
ignorant of the roads, but he had a well-developed gift of location, and
the abrupt turn to the left when he had seen what appeared to be a broad
high-road leading straight on from Molesey Bridge, gave him a moment's
thought. He turned to the speaking-tube.
"Are you sure that this is right, Murphy?" he asked sharply. "Kingston
must lie away on the right."
"We go through Hampton this way, sir, and into the Kingston road at
Twickenham," came the chattering reply in a half-frozen voice. "It is
just as near, and we don't meet the wind."
It was quite true, although the inspector might not know it, but the
ready explanation seemed to satisfy him. Another circumstance would have
set his mind at rest. At Hampton the route took them equally to the
right. Salt did not know the road intimately, but he knew that if his
surmise was correct, they must very soon draw away to the left again.
What would happen then? For three or four miles they would run between
hedges and encounter nothing more urban than a scattered hamlet.
Twickenham they would never see that night. Inspector Moeletter was far
from being unsophisticated, and his suspicion had already once,
apparently, been touched. How would the race end?
The car slowed down for a moment, but so smoothly that it was almost
imperceptible, and with a clanging bell an electric tram swung into
their vision and out again. Salt was taking note of every trifle in this
enthralling game. Why, he asked himself, had so expert a driver
slackened speed with plenty of room to pass? He saw a possible
explanation. They had been meeting and overtaking trams at intervals all
the way from Molesey Bridge. In another minute they would have left the
high-road and the tram route, and the driver wished to hide the fact
from Moeletter as long as possible. He had therefore _waited_ to meet
this tram so that the inspector might unconsciously carry in his mind
the evidence of their presence to the last possible point.
They were no longer on the high-road; they had glided off somewhere
without a warning note or any indication of speed or motion to betray
the turn they had taken. The houses were becoming sparser, fields
intervened, with here and there a strung-out colony of cottages. Soon
even the scattered buildings ceased, or appeared so rarely that they
only dotted long stretches of country lanes, and at every yard they
trembled on the verge of detection. Nothing but the glare of light
inside the vehicle and the storm and darkness beyond could have hid for
a moment from even the least suspicious of men the fact that they were
no longer travelling even the most secluded of suburban high-roads. And
now, as if aware that the deception could not be maintained much longer,
the driver began to increase the speed at every open stretch. Again
nothing but his inspired skill and the perfectly-balanced excellence of
the car could disguise the fact that they flew along the level road;
while among the narrow winding lanes they rushed at a headlong pace,
shooting down declines and breasting little hills without a pause. The
horn boomed its warning every second, and from behind came the answering
note of the long white motor. It had crept nearer and nearer since they
left the high-road, and its brilliant head-lights now lit up the way as
far as the pilot car. Little chance for Moeletter to convoy his prisoner
out of those deserted lanes whatever happened now!
What means, what desperate means, he might have taken in a gallant
attempt to retrieve the position if he had suspected treachery just a
minute before he did, one may speculate but never know.
As it was, the uneasy instinct that everything was not right awoke too
late for him to make the stand. It was less than ten minutes after
meeting the last tram that he peered out into the night doubtfully, but
in those ten minutes the green car had all but won its journey's end.
"Murphy," he cried imperiously, with his mouth to the tube and a
startled eye on Salt, "tell me immediately where we are."
"A minute, sir," came the hasty answer, as the driver bent forward to
verify some landmark. "This brake----
"Stop this instant!" roared the inspector, rising to his feet in rage
and with a terrible foreboding.
There was a muffled rattle as they shot over a snow-laden bridge, a
curious sense of passing into a new atmosphere, and then with easy
precision the car drew round and stopped dead before the open double
doors of its own house. No one spoke for a moment. There was another
muffled roar outside, the sound of heavy iron doors clashing together,
and the great white car reproduced their curve and drew up by their
side.
From the driver's seat of the green car the Hon. Bruce Wycombe, son and
heir of old Viscount Chiltern and the most skilful motorist in Europe,
climbed painfully down, and, pulling off his head-gear, opened the door
of the car with a bow that would have been more graceful if he had been
less frozen.
"Welcome to Hanwood after your long journey, Inspector Moeletter!" he
exclaimed most affably.