Chris Kennedy Scores a Try Only
As soon as Abbershaw had recovered from his first surprise, he turned
to Meggie. She was standing just beside him, the others having split
up into little groups talking quietly together. ‘Did you come in here
this morning,’ he said, ‘after we came in from the garden?’
She nodded, and he saw that she was trembling slightly. ‘Yes,’ she
whispered, ‘and – and _it_ was here then, hanging just where it is
now. I – I couldn’t help coming in to see. Someone must have put it
back – in the night.’
Her voice died away in a sob on the last word, and he laid a hand on
her arm.
‘Scared?’ he said.
She met his eyes bravely.
‘I’m glad you’re here too,’ she said simply.
A wave of pleasure swept over Abbershaw, and he coloured, but he did
not speak. The gravity of the situation was by no means lost to him.
He was the eldest of the party, and, moreover, he knew more about the
events of the last twelve hours than probably anyone else in the room.
Something told him to keep quiet about his discoveries, however; he
realized that they were up against dangerous men. Mr Benjamin Dawlish,
as he styled himself, was no ordinary individual, and, at the moment,
he was angry.
The main idea now was to get away at all costs; Abbershaw was sure of
it.
He had not dreamed that the late Colonel’s extraordinary friends would
dare to take this extreme course, but since they had done so, he was
not fool enough to think that they would risk the possibility of being
overpowered; their forces must be very strong.
Once out of the house he himself could get an immediate inquiry
instituted by the highest authorities. If the police could be informed
without their captors’ knowledge, so much the better, but the
principal problem was escape, and that, in the present circumstances,
did not appear to be any too simple.
There was, of course, one way of obtaining freedom; he felt the
battered red wallet in his pocket now, but he was loth to take that
path, for it meant the escape of what he felt certain was a leader of
one of the most skilful criminal organizations in the world. So far he
had been working in the dark, and if he gave in now, that darkness
would never be lightened. It would mean complete surrender. The
mystery would remain a mystery.
He glanced down at Meggie.
‘We’ll lick ’em yet,’ he said.
She laughed at him.
‘Or die in the attempt.’
Abbershaw appeared vastly relieved.
‘That’s how I feel,’ he said.
It was at this moment that Mr Campion made the entire party one group
again by a single fatuous remark.
‘Of course,’ he said affably, ‘I suppose nobody has pinched anything.’
‘I’ve got two bits of soap in my room,’ murmured Prenderby, ‘but I
shouldn’t think that’s what the old bird’s after by the look of him.
And look here, Wyatt,’ he added suddenly, ‘there’s something damned
queer about something else! I suppose you know –’
Abbershaw interposed hastily.
‘The whole thing is a bit queer, Michael,’ he said, fixing the boy
with his eyes. Prenderby took the hint, and was silent, but Wyatt
turned to him.
‘I’m beyond apologizing,’ he said. ‘The whole business is quite out of
my experience. My uncle asked me to bring a party down for this
week-end. He had often done so before. I have met Gideon here before,
but never exchanged more than half a dozen words with him. As for that
Hun, Dawlish, he’s a complete stranger.’
Prenderby, to whom the words had sounded like a reproach, coloured,
and what might have been an uncomfortable pause was covered by the
sudden return of Chris Kennedy. He was in high good humour. His
handsome young face was flushed with excitement, and the others could
not banish the suspicion that he was enjoying the situation
thoroughly.
‘They _have_, the blighters!’ he said, bursting into the group. ‘Not a
drain of juice in any of the buses. Otherwise they’re all right,
though. “Exhibit A” has vanished, by the way – crumbled into dust, I
should think – but apart from that they’re all there.’
‘Meet anyone?’ said Martin.
‘Not a soul,’ said Kennedy cheerfully, ‘and little Christopher Robin
has an idea. If I asked you for a drink, Petrie, would you give me
ginger-beer?’ There was an air of suppressed jubilation in his tone as
he spoke.
‘My dear fellow . . .’ Wyatt started forward. ‘I think you’ll find all
you want here,’ he said, and led the way to a cupboard set in the
panelling of the fire-place. Kennedy stuck his head in it, and came
out flushed and triumphant. ‘Two Scotch and a “Three Star” Brandy,’ he
said, tucking the bottles under his arm. ‘It’s blasphemy, but there’s
no other way. Get to the window, chicks, and Uncle Christopher will
now produce the rabbit.’
‘What are you going to do with that stuff?’ said Watt, who was not an
admirer of the athletic type. ‘Fill yourself up with it and run amok?’
Kennedy grinned at him over his shoulder; he was already half out of
the room.
‘No fear!’ he said, pausing with his hand on the door-handle. ‘But the
Salmson is. Watch the garage. Keep your eyes upon the performance,
ladies and gentlemen. This trick cannot be repeated.’
The somewhat bewildered little group regarded him doubtfully.
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you even now,’ said Martin, still coldly.
‘I’m probably infernally thick, but I don’t get your drift.’
Michael Prenderby suddenly lifted his head.
‘Good Lord!’ he said. ‘I do believe you might do it. What a stunt!’
‘That’s what I thought,’ said Kennedy.
He went out, and they heard him racing down the corridor.
Abbershaw turned to Michael.
‘What’s the idea?’ he said.
Prenderby grinned.
‘He’s going to use the booze as juice,’ he said. ‘Rather an idea,
don’t you think? A car like that ought to run on pure spirit, I
suppose. Let’s watch him.’
He led the way to the windows and the others followed him. By craning
their necks they could just see the doors of the barn, both of which
stood open.
For some minutes nothing happened, and Martin Watt was just beginning
to assure himself that his first impression of Kennedy’s ideas in
general was going to be justified when a terrific back-fire sounded
from the garage.
‘Good heavens!’ said Abbershaw. ‘He’s going to do it.’
Someone began to laugh.
‘What a pack of fools they’ll look,’ said Prenderby.
Another small explosion sounded from the garage, and the next moment
the little car appeared in a cloud of blue smoke, with Mr Kennedy at
the wheel. It was moving slowly but triumphantly, and emitting a
stream of back-fires like a machine-gun.
‘Isn’t he marvellous?’
Anne Edgeware clasped her hands as she spoke, and even Martin Watt
admitted grudgingly that ‘the lad had initiative’. Kennedy waved to
them, and they saw his face flushed and excited as a child’s. As he
changed gear the car jerked forward and set off down the drive at an
uneven but ever-increasing pace.
‘That’ll show ’em,’ said Prenderby with a chuckle.
‘They haven’t even tried to stop him,’ said little Jeanne Dacre.
At that moment Mr Kennedy changed into top gear with a roar, and
immediately there was a sharp report, followed by a second, which
seemed to come from a window above their heads. Instantly, even as
they watched it, the Salmson swerved violently, skidded drunkenly
across the drive and turned over, pitching its occupant out upon the
grass beside the path.
‘Good God!’
Michael Prenderby’s voice was hoarse in the silence.
Martin Watt spoke quickly.
‘Dawlish’s gun. They’ve got him. The Hun was in earnest. Come on, you
fellows.’
He thrust open the window and leapt out upon the lawn, the men
following him.
Chris Kennedy was already picking himself up when they reached him. He
was very white, and his left hand grasped his other wrist, from which
the blood was streaming.
‘They got my near-side front wheel and my driving arm,’ he gasped, as
they came up. ‘There’s a bloke somewhere about who can shoot like
hell.’
He swayed a little on the last word, and smiled valiantly. ‘Do you
mind if we get in?’ he murmured. ‘This thing is turning me sick.’
They got him back to the house and into the room where they had all
been standing. As they crossed the lawn, Abbershaw, glancing up at the
second-floor windows, fancied he saw a heavy expressionless face
peering out at them from behind the dark curtains.
The rescue party was considerably subdued. They were beginning to
believe in the sincerity of Mr Benjamin Dawlish’s remarks.
Kennedy collapsed into a chair, and, after saving him from the tender
ministrations of Anne Edgeware, Abbershaw was just about to set out in
search of warm water and a dress shirt to tear up as a bandage, when
there was a discreet tap on the door and a man-servant entered bearing
a complete surgical outfit together with antiseptic bandages and hot
water.
‘With Mr Gideon’s compliments,’ he said gravely, and went out.
Kennedy smiled weakly.
‘Curse their dirty politeness,’ he said, and bowed his head over his
injured wrist.
Abbershaw removed his coat and went over to the tray which the man had
brought.
‘Hullo!’ he said. ‘There’s a note. Read it, Wyatt, will you, while I
get on with this. These are Whitby’s things, I suppose. It almost
looks as if he was expecting trouble.’
Wyatt took the slip of paper off the tray and read the message aloud
in his clear even voice.
‘_We are not joking. No one leaves this house until we have what we
want._’
‘There’s no signature,’ he added, and handed the note to Prenderby,
who looked at it curiously.
‘Looks as if they _have_ lost something,’ he said. ‘What the devil is
it? We can’t help ’em much till we know what it is.’
No one spoke for a moment.
‘Yes, that’s true,’ said Martin Watt at last, ‘and the only thing we
know about it is that it isn’t an egg.’
There was a faint titter of laughter at this, but it soon died down;
the party was beginning to realize the seriousness of their position.
‘It must be something pretty fishy, anyway,’ said Chris Kennedy, still
white with the pain of his wound which Abbershaw was now bandaging.
‘Else why don’t they describe it so that we can all have a hunt round?
Look here, let’s go to them and tell them that we don’t know what
their infernal property is. They can search us if they like, and when
they find we haven’t got it they can let us go, and by God, when they
do I’ll raise hell!’
‘It is precisely for that reason that I’m not inclined to endorse that
suggestion, Kennedy,’ said Abbershaw without looking up from the
bandage he was winding. ‘Our friends upstairs are very determined, and
they’re not likely to risk a possible visit from the police before
they have got what they want and have had reasonable time to make a
good getaway.’
Martin Watt raised his hand.
‘One moment,’ he said, ‘let us do a spot of neat detective work. What
the German gentleman with no manners has lost must be very small. “And
why, my dear Sherlock?” you ask. Because, my little Watsons, when our
obliging young comrade, Campion, offered them an egg wrapped up in a
table napkin they thought they’d holed in one. It isn’t the Black
Dudley diamonds, I suppose, Petrie?’
‘There aren’t any,’ said Wyatt shortly. ‘Damn it all!’ he burst out
with a sudden violence. ‘I never felt so helpless in my life.’
‘If only we had a few guns,’ mourned Chris Kennedy, whose wound even
had not slaked his thirst for a scrap. ‘Then we might make an attempt
to rush ’em. But unarmed against birds who shoot like that we
shouldn’t have an earthly.’
‘It’s not such a bad thing for you that we’re not armed, my lad,’ said
Abbershaw, straightening his shoulders and stepping back from the
table. ‘You don’t want too much excitement with an arm like that.
You’ve lost enough blood already. If I were you, I’d try and get a
spot of sleep. What’s your opinion, Prenderby?’
‘Oh, sleep, by all means,’ said Michael, grinning, ‘if he can get it,
which doesn’t seem likely.’
They were all standing round the patient on the hearth-rug, with their
backs to the fire-place, and for the moment Kennedy was the centre of
interest.
Hardly were the words out of Prenderby’s mouth when they were suddenly
and startlingly confirmed by an hysterical scream from Anne Edgeware.
‘He’s gone!’ she said wildly, as they turned to her. Her dark eyes
were dilated with fear, and every trace of her usual sophisticated and
slightly blasé manner had disappeared.
‘He was standing here – just beside me. He spoke to me a second ago.
He couldn’t have got past me to the door – I was directly in his way.
He’s just vanished. Oh, God – I’m going potty! I think – I . . .’ She
screamed again.
‘My dear girl!’
Abbershaw moved to her side. ‘What’s the matter? Who’s vanished?’
The girl looked at him in stupid amazement. ‘He went from my side just
as if he had disappeared into the air,’ she repeated. ‘I was just
talking to him – I turned away to look at Chris for a moment – I heard
a sort of thud, and when I turned round he’d gone.’
She began to cry noisily.
‘Yes, but who? Who?’ said Wyatt impatiently. ‘Who has vanished?’
Anne peered at him through her tears.
‘Why, _Albert_!’ she said, and burst into louder sobbing. ‘Albert
Campion. They’ve got him because he made fun of them!’