GETTING THROUGH
WHEN Elk came up to the Prosecutor’s room, Dick was sitting at the
table, writing telegrams. They were each addressed to the Governor of
Gloucester Prison, and contained a brief intimation that a reprieve for
James Carter was on its way. Each was marked viâ a different route.
“What’s the idea?” said Elk.
“The ’phone to Gloucester is out of order,” said Dick, and Elk bit his
lip thoughtfully.
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Then if the ’phone’s out of order——”
“I don’t want to think that,” said Dick.
Elk took up the instrument.
“Give me the Central Telegraph Office, miss,” he said. “I want to speak
to the Chief Clerk. . . . Yes, Inspector Elk, C.I.D.”
After a pause, he announced himself again.
“We’re putting some wires through to Gloucester. I suppose the lines are
all right?”
His face did not move a muscle while he listened, then:
“I see,” he said. “Any roundabout route we can get? What’s the nearest
town open?” A wait. “Is that so? Thank you.”
He put down the instrument.
“All wires to Gloucester are cut. The trunk wire has been cut in three
places; the connection with Birmingham, which runs in an earthenware
pipe underground, has been blown up, also in three places.” Dick’s eyes
narrowed.
“Try the Radio Company,” he said. “They’ve got a station at Devizes, and
another one somewhere near Cheltenham, and they could send on a
message.”
Again Elk applied himself to the telephone.
“Is that the Radio Station? Inspector Elk, Headquarters Police,
speaking. I want to get a message through to Gloucester, to Gloucester
Prison, viâ—eh? . . . But I thought you’d overcome that difficulty. How
long has it been jammed? . . . Thank you,” he said, and put down the
telephone for the second time.
“There’s a jam,” he said. “No messages are getting through. The radio
people say that somebody in this country has got a secret apparatus
which was used by the Germans during the war, and that when the jam is
on, it is impossible to get anything through.”
Dick looked at his watch. It was now half-past nine.
“You can catch the ten-five for Gloucester, Elk, but somehow I don’t
think it will get through.”
“As a telephone expert,” said Elk, as he patiently applied himself to
the instrument, “I have many of the qualities that make, so to speak,
for greatness. Hullo! Get me Great Western, please. Great Western
Stationmaster. . . . I have a perfect voice, a tremendous amount of
patience, and a faith in my fellow-man, and—Hullo! Is that you,
Stationmaster? . . . Inspector Elk. I told you that before—no, it was
somebody else. Inspector Elk, C.I.D. Is there any trouble on your road
to-night?” . . . A longer pause this time. “Glory be!” said Elk
unemotionally. “Any chance of getting through? . . . None whatever? What
time will you have trains running? . . . Thank you.”
He turned to Dick.
“Three culverts and a bridge down at Swindon, blown at seven o’clock;
two men in custody; one man dead, shot by rail guard. Two culverts down
at Reading; the metals blown up at Slough. I won’t trouble to call up
the other roads, because—well, the Frog’s thorough.”
Dick Gordon opened a cupboard and took out a leather coat and a soft
leather helmet. In his drawer he found two ugly-looking Browning pistols
and examined their magazines before he slipped them into his pocket.
Then he selected half-a-dozen cigars, and packed them carefully in the
breast pocket of the coat.
“You’re not going alone, Gordon?” asked Elk sternly. Dick nodded.
“I’m going alone,” he said. “If I don’t get through, you follow. Send a
police car after me and tell them to drive carefully. I don’t think
they’ll stop me this side of Newbury,” he said. “I can make that before
the light goes. Tell Miss Bennett that the reprieve is signed, and that
I am on my way.”
Elk said nothing, but followed his chief into the street, and stood by
him with the policeman who had been left in charge of the car, while
Dick made a careful scrutiny of the tyres and petrol tank.
So Dick Gordon took the Bath road; and the party of gunmen that waited
at the two aerodromes of London to shoot him down if he attempted to
leave by the aerial route, waited in vain. He avoided the direct road to
Reading, and was taking the longer way round. He came into Newbury at
eleven o’clock, and learnt of more dynamited culverts. The town was full
of it. Two laden trains were held up on the down line, and their
passengers thronged the old-fashioned streets of the town. Outside _The
Chequers_ he spoke to the local inspector of police. Beyond the outrages
they had heard nothing, and apparently the road was in good order, for a
car had come through from Swindon only ten minutes before Dick arrived.
“You’re safe as far as Swindon, anyway,” said the inspector. “The
countryside has been swarming with tramps lately, but my mounted
patrols, that have just come in, have seen none on the roads.”
A thought struck Dick, and he drove the inspector round to the
police-station and went inside with him.
“I want an envelope and some official paper,” he said, and, sitting down
at the desk, he made a rough copy of the reprieve with its quaint
terminology, sealed the envelope with wax and put it into his pocket.
Then he took the real reprieve, and, taking off his shoe and sock, put
it between his bare foot and his sock. Replacing his shoe, he jumped on
to the car and started his cautious way toward Didcot. Both his glare
lamps were on, and the road before him was as light as day.
Nevertheless, he went at half speed, one of his Brownings on the cushion
beside him.
Against the afterglow of the sunset, a faint, pale light which is the
glory of late summer, he saw three inverted V’s and knew they were the
ends of a building, possibly an aerodrome. And then he remembered that
Elk had told him of the chemical factory. Probably this was the place,
and he drove with greater caution. He had turned the bend, when, ahead
of him, he saw three red lights stretched across the road, and in the
light of the head-lamps stood a policeman. He slowed the machine and
stopped within a few yards of the officer.
“You can’t go this way, sir. The road’s up.”
“How long has it been up?” asked Dick.
“It’s been blown up, sir, about twenty minutes ago,” was the reply.
“There’s a side road a mile back, which will bring you to the other side
of the railway lines. You can back in here.” He indicated a gateway
evidently leading to the factory. Dick pulled back his lever to the
reverse, and sent the Rolls spinning backward into the opening. His hand
was reaching to change the direction, when the policeman, who had walked
to the side of the car, struck at him.
Gordon’s head was bent. He was incapable of resistance. Only the helmet
he wore saved him from death. He saw nothing, only suddenly the world
went black. Scarcely had the blow been struck when half-a-dozen men came
from the shadows. Somebody jumped into the driver’s seat, and, flinging
out the limp figure of its owner, brought the car still further
backward, and switched off the lights. Another of the party removed the
red lamps. The policeman bent over the prostrate figure of Dick Gordon.
“I thought I’d settled him,” he said, disappointed.
“Well, settle him now,” said somebody in the darkness, but evidently the
assailant changed his mind.
“Hagn will want him,” he said. “Lift him up.”
They carried the inanimate figure over the rough ground, through a
sliding door, into a big, ill-lit factory hall, bare of machinery. At
the far end was a brick partition forming an office, and into this he
was carried and flung on the floor.
“Here’s your man, Hagn,” growled the policeman. “I think he’s through.”
Hagn got up from his table and walked across to where Dick Gordon lay.
“I don’t think there’s much wrong with him,” he said. “You couldn’t kill
a man through that helmet, anyway. Take it off.”
They took the leather helmet from the head of the unconscious man, and
Hagn made a brief inspection.
“No, he’s all right,” he said. “Throw some water over him. Wait; you’d
better search him first. Those cigars,” he said, pointing to the brown
cylinders that protruded from his breast pocket, “I want.”
The first thing found was the blue envelope, and this Hagn tore open and
read.
“It seems all right,” he said, and locked it away in the roll-top desk
at which he was sitting when Dick had been brought in. “Now give him the
water!”
Dick came to his senses with a throbbing head and a feeling of
resentment against the consciousness which was being forced upon him. He
sat up, rubbing his face like a man roused from a heavy sleep, screwed
up his eyes in the face of the bright light, and unsteadily stumbled to
his feet, looking around from one to the other of the grinning faces.
“Oh!” he said at last. “I seem to have struck it. Who hit me?”
“We’ll give you his card presently,” sneered Hagn. “Where are you off to
at this time of night?”
“I’m going to Gloucester,” said Dick.
“Like hell you are!” scoffed Hagn. “Put him upstairs, boys.”
Leading up from the office was a flight of unpainted pine stairs, and up
this he was partly pushed and partly dragged. The room above had been
used in war time as an additional supervisor’s office. It had a large
window, commanding a view of the whole of the floor space. The window
was now thick with grime, and the floor littered with rubbish which the
present occupants had not thought it worth while to move.
“Search him again, and make sure he hasn’t any gun on him. And take away
his boots,” said Hagn.
A small carbon filament lamp cast a sickly yellow light upon the
sinister group that surrounded Dick Gordon. He had time to take his
bearings. The window he had seen, and escape that way was impossible;
the ceiling was covered with matchboards that had once been varnished.
There was no other way out, save down the steps.
“You’ve got to stay here for a day or two, Gordon, but perhaps, if the
Government will give us Balder, you’ll get away with your life. If they
don’t, then it’ll be a case of ‘good-night, nurse!’”