THE REMARKABLE TRAIN THAT DID
STRANGE TRICKS
By six o’clock that evening Michael Pretherston was back again at
his work, passing down from station to station on a pilot engine,
questioning and cross-examining the officials concerned. T.B. Smith
picked him up at Maidmore going down by the ordinary train.
“Have you found anything?”
“I have a theory,” said Michael. “I’d like you to listen to what the
station-master here has to say.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“Not yet,” said Michael, “but I have an idea he will say exactly what
the man at Stanborn said.”
The inspector who had been on night duty at the time the train passed
proved to be a very intelligent and observant man. He told the same
story, that the rain was falling very heavily and that he had seen the
distant lights of the gold special which had flown through the dark
station at incredible pace.
“Is it not a fact,” said Michael, “that it passed you before you
realized it was gone?”
The man was surprised.
“That is so, sir. It seemed as though I had hardly seen the headlights
come into the station before I saw the tail-lights going out.”
“Did it whistle as it passed through?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “a deafening whistle. I remarked to my
porter at the time that it must be trying a new kind of siren. It made
the most fiendish row and you could hear nothing else.”
“It whistled through all the stations where there was somebody on
duty,” said Michael turning to T.B. Smith. “It is a curious fact that
at Stanborn Halt and Merchley which are closed for the night they made
no noise at all. Was the station in darkness?” he said, turning to the
inspector.
“Practically so, sir,” said the man; “there was one light on the down
platform where I was standing, but it was a very dark night and it was
impossible to distinguish anything on the other platform. All that we
saw was the flash of lights and the train had passed before one had
realized that it had gone.”
The inspector at Pinham Heights station had a similar story to tell.
But the Tolbridge junction signalman and the Tolbridge assistant
station-master did not report any whistle or any unusual happening.
T.B. and Michael spent the night at Tolbridge and resumed their
journey at daybreak. It was a slow and laborious business. Once
between Pinham and Beckham Beacon, Michael had stopped the train and
switched it on to a sidetrack.
“Why is there a sidetrack here?” he asked.
The railway official who accompanied him and who by this time was very
weary of the whole business, explained vaguely that it was partly to
provide a very necessary relief for any congestion on this section,
and partly to connect up a “chalk pit or something” which now,
however, was no longer used.
Michael walked along the rusted rails for a quarter of a mile. They
led toward a low line of hills about three miles away. Rank vegetation
grew between the sleepers, for it had been many years since its
private owners had taken the trouble to put this little branch line in
working order.
The road ended abruptly with a big buffer made of sleepers and behind
this the rail drooped limply over a great hole as though there had
been a subsidence of the earth.
Michael turned back and joined T.B.
“It could not have passed over here. The rail is rusty and runs into a
large-sized hole at the other end,” said Michael in despair. “Well, go
on, driver.”
It was a day of enquiries which led nowhere and Michael returned that
night to town, weary and sick at heart. Nevertheless, he had the dim
beginnings of a theory which, however, he refused to communicate to
his chief.
“It is rather fantastic,” he excused himself, “but then, the whole
thing is fantastic. It is obviously impossible to steal a railway
train and carry it through the streets of London without somebody
being attracted by the novelty of the spectacle.”
“Will you see Sir Ralph?” asked T.B. “He has been waiting here for an
hour to meet you.”
“Hasn’t he got a home?” asked Michael irritably.
He saw the distracted baronet but could offer him little hope.
“It is impossible they can get away with it,” said Sir Ralph; “my
expert tells me that it will take them two days to break through the
steel walls whatever they use.”
A thought struck Michael.
“Have you a large scale map of your southern railway system?” he
asked.
“I will have it sent round to you to-night,” said the baronet. “What
chance do you think there is?” he asked anxiously.
“I think a very poor chance,” said Michael frankly; “you see, Kate
doesn’t take any risk.”
“Kate?” said the baronet.
“You call her the ‘Princess Bacheffski.’ Flanborough calls her ‘Miss
Tenby.’ As ‘Miss Tenby’ she secured Flanborough’s code and through
some of her agents in the telegraph office learned about the shipment.
As ‘Princess Bacheffski’ she wheedled the whole of your wonderful
scheme for bringing gold from Seahampton and probably discovered the
nature of the steel you use.”
“Good heavens!”
Sir Ralph sank into a chair and turned pale.
“You don’t mean to tell me--?”
“That is what I mean to tell you. Didn’t you realize that the whole
thing was a put up job? Why should the car of the Princess break down
at your front door?”
“But she was so beautifully dressed.”
“Why shouldn’t she be beautifully dressed?” asked Michael mercilessly;
“she probably carried twenty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds.
Wasn’t it worth it? Didn’t you give her information which she could
not have bought for the money?”
“Then you mean to say that she is a common swindler?”
“She is a very _un_common swindler,” said Michael. “There’s only one
thing that puzzles me,” he said, half to himself; “what did she want
of Reggie?”
Mr. Reginald Boltover was interrupted in the delicate business of
dressing for dinner by a peremptory demand that an officer of Scotland
Yard should be admitted. He was relieved to discover that it was
nothing more formidable than Michael.
“I have come to ask you about your friend Vera.”
Mr. Boltover winced.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “don’t mention that lady’s name. It is a
sore subject. Don’t mention her, dear old fellow, don’t.”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Michael good-humouredly; “you must give me an
idea of the questions which she asked you. What did she talk about?”
But Mr. Boltover’s mind was a blank.
It was his boast that he did not know there was such a thing as
yesterday.
“Did she ask you to give her any information about things you are
interested in?”
“My dear fellow,” said Reggie Boltover, shaking his head, “if she did
I have forgotten it. All I know is that she very seriously compromised
me. I have not been to Sebo’s since.”
“As you are such a perfectly hopeless person,” said Michael, “will you
give me a note to your secretary or your factotum or whatever human
substitute for mentality you possess, instructing him to give me a
full list of your properties?”
“With the greatest pleasure in life, with every happiness,” said
Reggie earnestly, “with the greatest alacrity!”
Armed with this, Michael called the next morning at the office of one
who was frequently referred to by journalists as a “merchant prince,”
and when he came out into Threadneedle Street his step was lighter and
his eye was brighter than it had been for weeks.
“Now, Kate,” he said between his teeth, “this is where you finish!”
He could have had all the men he wanted but he preferred making his
investigation without assistance. He went home and changed into a
knickerbocker suit, took his oldest overcoat, a walking stick and a
Browning pistol with two spare magazines. He did not ask for a special
engine, but travelled to Pinham Heights station by ordinary train. He
showed his authority to the station-master who, however, recognized
him.
“I don’t want anybody to know that I am down here,” he said, “and I
must rely upon your discretion to see that my wishes in this respect
are carried out. Am I likely to meet any plate-layers or people on the
line between here and Tolbridge?”
“You will meet nobody until you come to Tolbridge box, but be very
careful,” warned the station-master, “the down express goes through
the tunnel in ten minutes. I should advise you not to leave until that
has passed.”
This advice Michael thought it expedient to accept and not until the
rocking train had shrieked through the station and the receding red
lamps were disappearing in the darkness of the tunnel did he walk down
the sloping platform into the six-foot way and pass into the smoking
tunnel.
He could have reached his destination by the high road which runs from
Pinham round the foot of the Beacon, but for reasons of his own, he
preferred to accept the discomforts of the darker way and the uneven
going. He passed through the tunnel after a seemingly interminable
walk and came to the switch line where his engine had been
sidetracked. He followed this until he came to the buffer and the deep
hole beyond.
He examined the buffer very carefully, retraced his footsteps and
examined the rail. It was, as he had seen before, red with rust.
Nevertheless, he went on his knees and examined the rail through a
magnifying glass. Then he wetted his finger and drew it along the red
surface. He looked at his finger. It was red. But it was not the red
of rust.
He walked back, carefully examining every inch of the rail until he
found what he sought. At one place by the side of the actual rail was
a little red spot. It was no larger than a three-penny piece and it
was, to all appearance, rust. But rust does not develop on a wooden
sleeper and he found the counterpart of this spot, a trifle larger on
the wood. Again he wetted his finger and was satisfied.
For this was not rust, but a very common form of distemper employed by
builders.
He went back to the buffer and the sagging rail and climbed down the
hole which was about six feet deep. He had noticed that a quantity of
green stagnant water at the bottom of the hole advertised its age.
Again he drew his hand along the water and examined his palm. It was
green, but his strongest magnifying glass (and he had one of
peculiarly high power) failed to reveal any sign of that florescence
which forms on the surface of water and gives it its peculiar vivid
green. Instead, he saw a number of irregular specks, which were
undoubtedly crystals.
“Which means,” said Michael to himself, “that Kate is an artist even
if Fonso isn’t.”
The green scum which had deceived him at first had been artificially
created. Some chemical had been dissolved and had re-crystallised on
the surface. He dug into the soft earth on the other side without
securing any data as to when the hole had been made, but nearer the
surface and on the rim, he saw the white tendrils of growing
coltsfoot, which were still humid. One tentacle had been shaved away,
but the plant had not yet begun to die, nor the exposed root to
blacken.
“This hole was dug on the night of the robbery,” said Michael, “and
the earth was artistically removed. Kate would depend upon the railway
officials not having bothered to inspect this bit of line.”
As matter of fact, this was so. It was on private property, and after
it left the edge of the railway land it ceased to be their
responsibility. The buffer was also newly erected. He found this when
he had dug down to its foundation. The wood was still dry and there
were blades of grass and tiny fragments of plant in the earth beneath.
He walked round the little pit and reached the rails on the opposite
side. They were rusted as artistically as their fellows. The line
twisted and curved across level country for a mile before it turned
the shoulder of a hill and disappeared into a gorge, evidently
excavated in the course of the working.
Behind this was another chalk hole, and he gathered from an
examination of the map, that along this further ridge ran a road. The
abandoned cement works had been so built that they were not in view
from the railway itself. Possibly the philanthropic purchaser had
pulled down the one remaining smokestack on his occupation and the
whitened buildings did not stand out against the chalky soil behind
them. He had all the evidence he wanted before he had traversed
one-half of the two miles which separated him from the chalk pits.
The mark of the heavy wheels was visible now. In places the weeds
which grew thickly between the sleepers had been crushed by their
passage. He now left the rail and began moving round in a wide
semi-circle that would bring him to a low neck in the hill. His plan
was to climb the hill from here and work his way back along its crest
until he overlooked the works. He was now in the danger zone.
He shifted his stick to his left hand and slipped out his pistol and
pulled back the cover. It took him an hour to gain the crest of the
neck. He found it more difficult to climb than he had thought.
Evidently chalk had been quarried here and, save in one or two places,
he was faced by a sheer unscalable wall. It was hard climbing all the
way and he was hot and thirsty by the time he reached the top.
From the neck he could only secure a partial view of the works. He had
taken the precaution to bring a pair of prismatic glasses and with
these he surveyed the ground. There was no sign of the train and for a
moment his heart sank. Then he picked up the rail and followed it yard
by yard and he could scarcely restrain himself from a yell of joy when
he saw the rail led to a big shed, the gates of which were closed.
Originally, this may have been the mill house, but the new tenants had
relaid the line so that it passed into the building. He replaced his
glasses and continued his climb. He was half-way between the neck and
the point which would directly overlook the works when he heard the
hum of a motor car and dropped flat. He was within fifty yards of the
road which was slightly above him, and looking up very cautiously he
saw a car dash past and disappear over the rise.
There was no mistaking its occupant. It was the Spaniard, Gregori.
He rose cautiously and continued his progress, keeping a sharp
look-out for the sentries which he knew would be posted on the road.
The path he followed was a beaten track. He realized this before he
had gone much farther and sought to find a way either to the left or
the right, but without success.
He halted and debated with himself the question as to whether he
should go back. It was madness to attempt to make the capture alone.
Even now, he might have been detected, but if this was the case by the
time he went back and procured assistance the whole gang would have
gone and probably the gold with them. Of the two risks he decided to
take the first.
Little time was given to him to regret this decision. He had taken
three paces when he heard the unmistakable whirr of a lariat. He
turned to face the danger, pistol in hand, but too late. The rope
settled about his neck, he felt a sharp nerve-racking jar and fell
heavily to the ground.