“Any luck, Carter?” French asked, quietly, as he reëntered Pyke’s
room.
“No, sir. He has taken a suitcase with him, a brown leather one of
medium size. I got the description from Mrs. Welsh. She says she
noticed it here yesterday afternoon and it’s gone now. And he has
taken all his outer clothes, his suits and overcoats and shoes, but
most of his socks and underclothing are here in these drawers. I’ve
been through everything, but I’ve not found anything useful.”
“Let’s have a look.”
French hastily ran through the missing man’s effects. “Most of this
stuff is foreign,” he observed, as he glanced over the clothes. “You
see the Argentine marking on the collars and shirts. No, I don’t think
there’s much to help us there. No books or papers?”
“None, sir. But there’s a big heap of burnt paper in the grate.”
“So I saw. We’ll go through it later on. Now ask the landlady to come
here. Just sit down, Mrs. Welsh, will you? I want to know if you can
tell me anything to help me to find your lodger. I’m sorry to say he
is wanted on a very serious charge—murder, in fact. Therefore, you
will understand how necessary it is that you should tell me all you
know.”
Mrs. Welsh was thunderstruck, declaring again and again that she would
not have believed it of so nice a gentleman. She was also terrified
lest her rooms should suffer through the inevitable publicity. But she
realised her duty and did her best to answer French’s questions.
For a long time he gained no useful information, then at last an
important point came out, though not in connection with his immediate
objective.
Having given up for the moment the question of Pyke’s destination,
French was casting around to see if he could learn anything connecting
him with the crime, when he chanced to ask, had Mr. Pyke a typewriter?
“Not lately, he hadn’t,” Mrs. Welsh answered, “but he did have one for
a time. I don’t know why he got it, for I never knew him to use it.
But he had it there on the table for about three weeks.”
“Oh!” said French, interested. “When was that?”
“I couldn’t say exactly. Three months ago or more, I should think. But
my daughter might remember. Vera is a typist and she was interested in
the machine more than what I was. I’ll call her, if you like. She is
at home on holidays.”
Vera Welsh was the pretty girl with fair hair and blue eyes whom
French had already seen. She smiled at him as she appeared in answer
to her mother’s call.
“We were talking of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter,” he explained. “Can you
tell me what make it was?”
“Yes. I noticed it when I was dusting the room. It was a Corona Four.”
“And when did he get it?”
The girl hesitated. “Between three and four months ago,” she said at
last, with a reserve which aroused French’s interest.
“Between three and four months?” he repeated. “How are you so sure of
that? Was there anything to fix it in your mind?”
There was, but for some time the girl would not give details. Then at
last the cause came out.
It seemed that on the day after Vera had first noticed the machine she
had had some extra typing to do in the office which would have
necessitated her working late. But on that day her mother had not been
well and she had particularly wanted to get home at her usual time.
The thought of Mr. Pyke’s typewriter occurred to her, together with
the fact that he had left that morning on one of his many visits to
the country. She had thereupon decided to borrow the machine for the
evening. She had brought her work home and had done it in his sitting
room. She did not remember the actual day, but could find it from her
records in the office.
“Very wise, if you ask me,” French said, sympathetically. “And what
was the nature of the work you did?” He found it hard to keep the
eagerness out of his voice.
“Just a copy of some tenders we had from America. I am in a hardware
shop in Tottenham Court Road and it was about American lawnmowers and
other gardening machines.”
“I understand. I suppose you don’t know what the copies were required
for?”
“Just for filing. The originals had to be sent away, and these were
wanted for reference.”
French rose to his feet. Certainly the luck was not entirely against
him.
“Put your hat on, if you please, Miss Welsh, and come along with me to
your office. I must see that copy. I can’t tell you how much you have
helped me by telling me of it.”
The girl at first demurred, as she feared her employer might have
views of his own as to the taking of important papers home from the
office. But French assured her that he would see she did not suffer
for her action. In fact, before she knew what was happening to her she
was in a taxi on the way to the place.
On reaching the senior partner’s office, French was as good as his
word. He explained the importance of his seeing the typescript, and
saying that Miss Welsh had risked her job in the interests of justice,
begged that the matter might not be held against her.
Mr. Cooke shook his head over the incident, but, admitting to French
that the girl was satisfactory, he agreed to overlook it. Then he rang
for the papers in question.
Ten seconds with his lens was enough for French. Here at last was the
proof he had been looking for! The typing was that of the notes to the
Veda works, to the Swansea garage, and to the magneto company.
“I’m pretty glad to get this paper, Mr. Cooke,” he declared. “Now do
you think you could let me keep it? Miss Welsh could perhaps type
another copy for you?”
Mr. Cooke was obliging, and in ten minutes the precious document was
handed over. Stopping only to get the girl to certify on it that she
had made it with Pyke’s machine, French hurried her away.
“I’ll drive you home, Miss Welsh,” he said, with his pleasant smile.
“You have been of the greatest help. Now I wonder if you could do
something else for me,” and he began repeating the questions he had
already put to her mother.
Almost at once he got valuable information, though once again not on
the matter immediately at issue.
It appeared that on the previous afternoon Pyke had called the girl
into his room and asked her if she would do a small commission for
him. It was to take a letter to a lady in Chelsea. It concerned, so he
said, an appointment to dine that evening, so that she would see that
it was urgent. The matter was private and she was not to give the note
to any one but the lady herself, nor was she to mention it. To
compensate her for her trouble and to cover the cost of taxis and so
on he hoped she would accept a ten-shilling note. She had not thought
this strange, as she knew him to be liberal in money matters. But she
had wondered that a note about a dinner appointment should be so
bulky. The envelope was of foolscap size and must have contained at
least a dozen sheets. She had taken it to the address it bore and
handed it to the lady—Mrs. Berlyn at 70b Park Walk, Chelsea. She had
not mentioned the matter to anyone.
Here was the explanation of the conversation French had overheard on
Hampstead Heath. With a little thought he was able to follow the man’s
mental processes.
In the first place, it was evident that Pyke had realised that he was
suspected, as well as that French had opened Ganope’s note. He would
guess, therefore, that French would shadow him continually until his
meeting with Mrs. Berlyn, and would try to overhear what passed
thereat. He would also see that for that very reason he was safe from
arrest till the meeting had taken place, when this immunity would
cease.
But he wanted the night in which to escape. How could he stave off
arrest until the following day?
Clearly he had solved his problem by writing out the conversation,
possibly with stage directions, as a playwright writes out the
dialogue in his play. In it he had pledged himself to a visit to
Berlyn on the morrow. If he could make French swallow the yarn he knew
that arrest would be postponed in order that French might learn the
junior partner’s whereabouts. He had then sent Mrs. Berlyn her “lines”
and she had learnt them like any other actress. French ruefully
admitted to himself that in spite of the absence of a rehearsal, the
two had presented their little piece with astonishing conviction.
On reaching the Yard, French’s first care was to set the great machine
of the C.I.D. in operation against the fugitives. Among his notes he
already had detailed descriptions of each, and he thought he would be
safe in assuming that Pyke would wear his collar up and his hat pulled
low over his eyes. Mrs. Welsh had described the suitcase, and burdened
by this, French thought there was a reasonable chance of the man
having been noticed.
A number of helpers were soon busy telephoning the descriptions to all
the London police stations as well as to the ports. Copies were also
sent for insertion in the next number of the _Police Gazette_. In a
day or so all the police and detectives in the country would be on the
lookout for the couple.
With Mrs. Welsh’s help French made a list of the clothes likely to be
in the suitcase. As these would have had a considerable weight, he
thought it unlikely that Pyke would have walked very far. He therefore
despatched three sets of men, one to make enquiries at the adjoining
railways and tube stations, another to comb the neighbouring hotels
and boarding-houses, and the third to search for a taxi driver who
might have picked up such a fare in one of the near-by streets.
It was not until these urgent matters had been dealt with that he
turned to consider his second line of enquiry. Of Jefferson Pyke
himself he knew practically nothing. What was the man’s history? Why
was he remaining in England? Particularly, where had he been at the
time of the crime and while the crate was at Swansea.
He began operations by writing to the Lincoln police for all available
information about Phyllis Considine, as well as Stanley and Jefferson
Pyke. Then he sent a cable to the Argentine, asking the authorities
there for details about Jefferson. He wired to the police at San Remo,
Grasse, and in Paris, asking whether the cousins had stayed during the
month of July at the various hotels Jefferson had mentioned. Lastly he
rang up the Bibby Line offices to know if they could help him to trace
two passengers named Pyke who had sailed from Liverpool to Marseilles
on their _Flintshire_ about four months previously.
The Bibby people replied that the _Flintshire_ had been home, but had
left again for Rangoon. However if Mr. French would call at their
office they would show him the passenger list and perhaps give him
other required information.
In an hour French was seated with the manager. There he inspected the
list, which bore the names of Stanley and Jefferson Pyke, and he was
assured that two gentlemen answering to these names had actually
sailed.
“If that is not sufficient for you, it happens that you can get
further evidence,” the manager went on. “Mr. Hawkins, the purser of
the _Flintshire_, broke his arm on the homeward trip. He went off on
sick leave and if you care to go down to Ramsgate you can see him.”
“I shall be only too glad,” French said.
Armed with an introduction from the manager, French travelled down
next morning to the Isle of Thanet. Mr. Hawkins was exceedingly polite
and gave him all the information in his power. He remembered the Pykes
having sailed on the last trip from Birkenhead to Marseilles. Stanley
Pyke he had not come in contact with more than in the normal way of
business, though they had once chatted for a few moments about the
day’s run. But he had seen a good deal of Jefferson. He, Mr. Hawkins,
had spent a year in the Argentine in Jefferson’s district and they had
found they had many acquaintances in common. He had formed a high
opinion of Jefferson, both as a man of the world and as a rancher.
Both the cousins had seemed in every way normal, and several of the
passengers had expressed regret when the two left the ship at
Marseilles.
On reaching London, French drove to the Houston. Showing his
credentials, he asked whether two gentlemen, a Mr. Stanley and a Mr.
Jefferson Pyke, had stayed there for one night towards the end of the
previous July.
It was not to be expected that the reception clerk would remember
either visitor. But she soon turned up the register. The names
appeared on July 21st, both having been written by Stanley.
“That’s scarcely good enough for me,” said French. “It doesn’t prove
that they were both here.”
“Practically it does,” the clerk returned. “You see, each was allotted
a room. If the rooms had not been occupied the allocation would have
been cancelled, for at that time we were turning people away every
night. But we can soon settle it.” She looked up her account books.
“Here,” she went on after a moment, “are the accounts in question. Mr.
Stanley occupied Number Three Forty-six and Mr. Jefferson Number Three
Fifty-one. The accounts were paid separately. I receipted Mr.
Stanley’s, and Miss Hurst, another of our staff, receipted Mr.
Jefferson’s. Curiously,” she went on, “I remember Mr. Stanley paying.
He broke the basin in his room and we had some discussion as to
whether he would be charged for it. He was, in the end.”
This would have seemed ample confirmation of Jefferson’s statement to
most people, but French, with his passion for thoroughness, decided to
see the chambermaid. She remembered the incident and remembered also
that the gentleman’s friend had occupied No. 351, as on her bringing
his hot water in answering to his ring, he had said he was late and
would she go and wake his friend in No. 351. She had done as
requested, but the friend was already up.
From the Houston, French walked to Kettle Street. Yes, Mr. Jefferson
had taken the rooms on the 22nd July last, and though he had been
frequently away for a day or two at a time, he had lived there ever
since. Moreover, Mrs. Welsh’s records enabled her to say that he had
been absent not only on the night of the crime, but also on the date
when the crate was disposed of at Swansea.
On his return to the Yard, French found that replies had come in from
Paris and the Riviera. Stanley and Jefferson Pyke had stayed at the
three hotels in question.
The next post brought a letter from the Lincoln police. It appeared
that the three young people about whom enquiries had been made had
lived in the district at the time mentioned. Dr. Considine was a
well-known practitioner in the town until his death in 1912, but
little was known of his daughter Phyllis save the mere fact of her
existence. Stanley and Jefferson Pyke had lived with a relative in the
suburbs and had attended a private school kept by a Dr. Oates. The
relations between the girl and boys were not known, but it was
probable that they had met, as they were in the same social set. More
could probably be learned by further enquiries.
This seemed to French sufficient to corroborate the statements of
Jefferson Pyke and Mrs. Berlyn, and he advised the Lincoln police not
to trouble further in the matter.
He had scarcely written his note when a cable from the Argentine
police was handed to him. Jefferson Pyke was well known as the owner
of an _estancia_ in the Rosario district. He was believed to be
comfortably off, though not wealthy. He answered the description given
in the wire from Scotland Yard and had left for England on the boat
mentioned.
With the exception of the fact that Jefferson was away from his rooms
at the time of the crime, all this was disappointing to French. So far
he had learned little to help in the building up of his case. On the
contrary, the tendency was in Jefferson Pyke’s favour. He did not
appear to be of the stuff of which murderers are made. Nor, from the
purser’s description, did it seem likely that he was hatching a crime
while on the _Flintshire_. On the other hand, there was no knowing
what even the mildest man might do under the stress of passion.
But what really worried French was the fact that he had made no
progress towards the tracing of his suspects’ present whereabouts. In
vain he urged his men on to more intensive efforts. Nowhere could they
learn anything to help.
But he realised that there was nothing for it but patience. The
business was necessarily slow, as it meant individual enquiries from
everyone concerned. French did not dare to advertise, lest Pyke should
see the notice and take still further precautions against discovery.
The third day passed and the fourth, French growing more restless
every hour. He now began to consider publicity—broadcast descriptions,
advertisements in the papers, even the offer of a reward for secret
information. Finally he decided that if by the following evening no
news had come in, he would put these agencies in operation.
But the men of the C.I.D. are marvellously efficient and persistent.
On returning from lunch on the fifth day, French learned, to his
infinite satisfaction, that a taximan whose information might prove
valuable had been found and was on his way to the Yard. Ten minutes
later an intelligent-looking man in a driver’s uniform was shown in.
“Good afternoon,” said French. “You have something to tell me? Just
let me have your name and address and then go ahead.”
William Service explained that he was the driver of a taxi in the
employment of Metropolitan Transport, Ltd. On Monday night, the night
in question, he had driven a fare to Euston for the 12.25 express. On
leaving the station he was returning through Russell Square to his
garage when, near the end of Kepple Street, he was hailed by a man
from the sidewalk. He had not wished to take another fare, but the man
had offered him an extra five shillings to do so and he had then
agreed. The man was of medium height and build and dressed in a fawn
coat and soft hat. Service could not describe his features, the brim
of his hat being pulled low to meet his upturned collar. He was
carrying a largeish suitcase.
He desired Service to drive to The Boltons, which, the Inspector
probably knew, was an oval with a church not far from Chelsea. (The
Inspector knew it and recognised with delight that it was just beside
Park Walk). There he was to pick up a lady and to drive them both to a
house in Victory Place, not far from the Elephant and Castle. The lady
had been waiting. As far as he could see, she answered the Inspector’s
description. He had driven both parties to the address mentioned. It
was a big house of working-class flats.
“Good! You’ve told your story well,” French approved. “Now I want you
to drive me to the place. I shall be ready in a moment.”
The last lap! A kind of cold excitement took possession of French. It
had been a long and troublesome case, but it was over now. Another
fine feather in his cap; another step to that somewhat overdue
chief-inspectorship for which he had been so long hoping! A few
minutes, an hour at most, and the thing would be an accomplished fact.
Hastily calling his two assistants, Carter and Harvey, he set off with
them for Victory Place. “It’s a big thing, this,” he explained. “There
must be no mistake about it. If we let these people slip through our
fingers we needn’t go back to the Yard.”
They drove to the end of the block containing the house, and, Carter
and Harvey remaining in the taxi, French went alone to reconnoitre. He
rang at a door in the basement and asked the woman who opened if she
could direct him to the caretaker.
“My husband’s the caretaker, sir,” she answered, “but he’s out at
present. Is it anything I can do?”
“Probably you can,” said French, with his most winning smile. “I’m
looking for the lady and gentleman who came in on last Monday night.
They arrived by a late train and weren’t here till after midnight.”
“Oh yes. Mr. and Mrs. Perrin?”
“That’s right. Which flat have they taken?”
“Number Nineteen. That’s the top one on the right of the stairs.”
“Thank you. Do you know if they are in at present?”
“Mrs. Perrin is out. I saw her go about half an hour ago. So far as I
know, Mr. Perrin is in.”
“Thanks. I’ll just go up and see.”
French returned to the taxi.
“The woman is out, but Pyke is supposed to be upstairs in Number
Nineteen flat. You, Harvey, will stay in the entrance hall and watch
the stairs and lift. Take him without fail if we miss him above. If
the woman appears, don’t show up, but let her go in. Carter, you come
upstairs with me.”
Harvey strolled to the door and became immersed in the list of
flat-holders, while French and Carter began to climb the stairs. There
were two flats on each storey, to right and left of the flights. When
they reached the first landing French pointed to a fire-escape notice.
They followed the pointing hand to the back of the house along a
passage between the two flats, and, silently pushing open a door
fitted with panic fastenings, saw an iron staircase leading down
outside of the wall from the top storey to a paved yard.
“You’ll have to stay and watch that, Carter. I can manage the blighter
upstairs.”
For a moment French wished he had brought another man. Then he thought
of how many times he had carried out arrests single-handed. There was
no difficulty. A whistle would bring his two men at top speed, and if
by some incredibly unlikely accident he let Pyke slip through his
hands, one or other of them would certainly take him on his way down.
He silently mounted the stairs to the tenth storey. No. Nineteen was
the top flat, but the stairs led on to a door on to the roof. French
knocked at No. Nineteen. There was no answer. In a moment he knocked
again, then after waiting a few seconds, he turned the handle.
The door was unlocked and French pushed it open and looked in. Through
a tiny hall he could see into a living room, small and poorly
furnished, and with a kitchenette in the rear. Other partially open
doors from the hall led into bedrooms. So far as he could see, the
place was deserted.
Softly closing the outer door, he passed into the living room, and
standing in its centre, looked round. Opposite him was the fireplace
with a gas fire turned low. In the right wall was the window and
against the left stood a table with a chair at each end. Two wicker
armchairs were drawn up to the fireplace, and to the right of the door
was a dresser containing crockery. Some books lay on the floor in a
corner, but the centre of the room was clear of furniture.
French could see everything in the room with one exception. At the
side of the fireplace was a closed cupboard. Possibly this might
contain something useful.
He had stepped across the room and put his hand on the cupboard door
knob, when the feel of a presence, rather than an actual sound, caused
him to swing suddenly round. A man had entered and was watching him.
French stared in his turn. This was not Pyke. This was a smaller man
and hollow of cheek, dark in colouring, and with a pair of keen eyes
uncovered by glasses. A friend of Pyke’s, no doubt.
But this man was vaguely familiar. That he had seen him at no distant
time French felt certain. Then the man moved slightly and French
noticed the marks of _pince-nez_ on his nose. As he did so he
remembered where he had seen, not him, but his photograph, and he
stared spellbound in speechless amazement.
For a moment neither moved, then French recovered himself. With a step
forward he cried, “Stanley Pyke, I arrest you on a charge of——”
He stopped. Had he gone mad? Wasn’t the dead man Stanley Pyke? How
could he be charged with murdering himself?
French felt his brain reel. But he grew more and more convinced that
the man was indeed Stanley Pyke. Therefore the victim must have
been—of course!—Berlyn. How the whole thing had happened French could
not form an idea, but he saw that this could be straightened out
later. For the moment his course was clear. He must arrest this man.
Though these thoughts flashed through French’s mind at lightning
speed, in his extremity of surprise he remained for a moment
speechless, his eyes fixed on the other’s face. Then a slight movement
of the man’s right arm attracted his attention and he glanced
downwards. Pyke had taken an automatic pistol from his coat pocket and
was holding it steadily pointed at French’s heart.
“No, Mr. French,” he said, quietly, “I don’t think so. You’ve not got
me, but I’ve got you. Put up your hands.”
As he slowly obeyed, French saw that he was in imminent danger of his
life. Pyke’s features were set in an expression of ruthless
determination and there was murder in his eyes. He went on speaking in
quiet, grim tones.
“It’s true that I may not get away with it, but I’m going to have a
try. You won’t, anyway. I suppose you have men posted below?”
“I’ve men coming up the stairs after me,” French lied.
“That so? They’re not hurrying. I shall have plenty of time before
they get to the top. I’m going to shoot you now, Mr. Joseph French.
The upper part of this building is deserted; no one across the way and
only a couple of old women on the floor below. The rest are all out at
work. I shall be across the roof and down the next stairs before your
men are halfway up these. I may carry it off and I may not, but I’ll
not be taken alive.”
“And Mrs. Berlyn?”
Pyke’s eyes flashed.
“They’ll not get her, either. I know where she is and I’ll pick her
up. Say your prayers, Mr. French. You’ve only got seconds to live.”
He slowly raised the pistol from the level of his side pocket to that
of his eyes, keeping it first directed to French’s heart and then to
his head. In those few moments French tasted the bitterness of death.
He knew instinctively that the man meant to carry out his threat and
he was powerless to prevent him. Covered by Pyke’s steady gaze as well
as by his pistol, no sudden spring would help him. They were only
about five feet apart, but the man would fire before he could reach
across half the distance. Carter and Harvey were at the bottom of a
hundred feet of stairs. They wouldn’t even hear the shot. A numbing
fear crept into French’s heart, while thoughts of his wife and visions
of scenes in his past life floated before his mind’s eye. And all the
time he was desperately, despairingly racking his brains to find a way
of escape.
An instinctive urge that he must gain time at all costs took
possession of him. Then, as he was trying to evolve some further
bluff, an idea shot into his mind which suggested a glimmering of
hope. It was a terribly faint glimmering; the chances were a thousand
to one against him. Almost a forlorn hope, but it was all he could
think of.
Neither man had moved during the interview. French had swung round
from the cupboard and was still facing the door through which the
other had entered. Pyke on his part had his back to the door and was
facing the cupboard.
French instantly began to act a part. First he wished to show fear.
Here he had not to act—the emotion was only too genuine. Indeed, had
he let himself go he would have been paralysed with terror. Therefore,
as he spoke his eyes were agonised, his features distorted, and his
voice thick and trembling.
“Don’t be a fool, Pyke. You can do better than that. I’ve sense enough
to know when I’m beaten. My life’s of more value to me than success in
a case. You want your liberty and I want my life. I see a way in which
we can each get what we want.”
Pyke did not relax his attitude.
“I believe you’re a damned liar,” he said, only with a stronger
adjective. “However, shove ahead with your plan. And any tricks or
movements and you’re a dead man.”
“If you were once clear of me,” French went on, evincing the most
transparent evidences of terror, “you could walk out of the building
past my men and they’d never suspect you. They’re here to look for a
quite different man. And the mere fact that you walked quietly
downstairs after I had gone up to look for Jefferson would show that
you were not the man I was after. That all right so far?”
“Well?”
French allowed his eyes to roam over the room, but without making any
change in his expression. After the briefest pause he went on:
“Now to get away from me is the difficulty, for while I should be
willing to give you my oath not to interfere, I don’t suppose you
would accept it. Well, this is my plan.”
Calling all his histrionic powers to his aid, French again glanced
round the room, suddenly staying his gaze on the door. Then with the
whole strength of his will he pretended to himself that he saw Carter
entering. On this he fixed his mind, with the result that his eyes
took on the appearance of definitely looking at something, while an
expression of the utmost thankfulness and relief showed on his
features. But he was quick to add the idea that Pyke must not follow
what was in his mind, and he at once looked away and back to Pyke’s
face. With a fine effect of recovering a line of thought which had
been disturbed, he continued, now trying to give the impression of
faked fear.
“I propose that I withdraw to the kitchenette and there gag myself and
tie myself up to your satisfaction. You, of course, would keep me
covered all the time and it would be quite impossible for me to play
you any trick. Or, if you preferred it, I could do the tying up in
this room.”
Again he glanced at the door as if he could not keep his eyes off it.
This time he slowly shifted the point at which he was looking to just
behind Pyke, while he allowed relief and satisfaction to grow on his
face. Once more he hurriedly withdrew his gaze and looked at Pyke.
“I noticed a clothes line in the kitchenette which would do,” he went
on, but now absent-mindedly, and giving quick, as if involuntary,
glances behind Pyke. “If you agree, I’ll back in there and get it
down. If I attempt to play you false you can shoot.”
He paused, and looking directly behind Pyke, allowed a slight
triumphant smile to appear on his lips.
Pyke had obviously followed the direction of his glances and he had
been getting more and more uneasy. At French’s smile he could stand it
no longer. For the tenth of a second he glanced behind him. And at
that moment, French, standing braced and ready, sprang. Like lightning
he dropped his head while his left fist struck the other’s right wrist
upwards.
Instantly Pyke fired and a hot iron seemed to sear the crown of
French’s head. But he was not disabled. Seizing Pyke’s right wrist
with his left hand, he drove with his right for the man’s chin.
But Pyke ducked and he missed. Then the two men, clinching with their
free hands, began a voiceless struggle for their lives. Pyke’s
desperate efforts were to turn the pistol inwards, French’s to prevent
him. Locked together, they swayed backwards and forwards. Then French
tripped over a chair and they swung with a crash against the table. It
gave way, and staggering across its wreckage, they fell. French found
himself underneath and redoubled his efforts, but he was hampered by
the blood from his wound, which ran down and blinded one of his eyes.
Fortunately, he was the stronger man, and in spite of his handicap,
slowly his strength and weight began to tell. Gradually he forced
Pyke’s arm round until the other had to roll over on his back to save
its dislocation.
Both men were now gasping and sobbing from want of breath. But French
with a superhuman effort dropped Pyke’s left arm, and seizing his
collar, twisted it tight. Pyke laid out with his free arm, but he was
weakening, and French, spent and giddy, but thankful, felt he could
hold on in spite of the blows, and that the affair was now only a
matter of time.
And then, lying grimly clinging to the choking man’s collar, he felt a
real thrill of delight as he saw the door slowly open, just as he had
pictured it. Carter at last! It was over.
But it was not Carter who appeared. There, gazing down on them, with
amazement printed on her features, was Mrs. Berlyn.
It did not take her long to appreciate the situation, and with a
muffled scream she threw herself on the heaving mass.
“Give me the pistol, Stanley,” she cried, softly. “I’ll settle him.”
But Pyke was beyond coherent thought. Half insensible, he still kept
his hand locked and she could not release the fingers. French, seeing
the end, put all his remaining strength into a shrill cry of “Help!”
before he felt the woman’s fingers tighten round his throat.
Letting go of the now unconscious Pyke, he tried desperately to loosen
their clinging grip. But he was too weak. Choking, he struggled
impotently, while gradually it grew darker, and he sank slowly into a
roaring abyss of nothingness.