Scotland Yard had missed Surefoot Smith in the sense that the negative
reports which had been taken to his room had not been read or attended
to. The fact that they were negative would have justified the officer on
duty accepting the situation, but for the peculiar conscientiousness of
a young police officer who reported to the station at Cannon Row, which
is part of Scotland Yard, that a blue saloon car, driven by a woman, had
disregarded his stop signal at the junction of Westminster Bridge and
the Embankment, and had driven on the wrong side of the road. He called
on it to stop, and, when that failed, had taken its number.
Ordinarily the question of a technical offence of this character would
have been left over till the morning, but whilst he was making his
statement a Member of Parliament came into the station to report the
loss of a blue saloon car, which had been taken from the front of his
club in Pall Mall. It had been standing on a rank, against all traffic
rules, and he had actually been a witness of the theft.
"It was a man dressed as a woman," was his startling conclusion.
"What makes you think that, sir?" asked the inspector in charge.
"As he got in, the top of the car, which has a very low body, knocked
his hat off. It was a bald-headed man with a yellow face like somebody
suffering from jaundice."
The inspector sat bolt upright. All England was looking for a
bald-headed man with a jaundiced face, and in a few moments the wires
were humming.
Again it was a traffic policeman who supplied information, and again it
was Binny's anxiety to make a quick run out of London that betrayed him.
He had been held up near Heston, where a tramline crosses the main
arterial road. He narrowly escaped collision with the tram and the car
skidded. The policeman walked across the road to examine the licence of
the driver, whose engine had stopped. The policeman distinctly saw a
stout woman driver, but before he could ask a question the engine had
been restarted and the car moved on. This must have happened in the
second period of Surefoot's unconsciousness.
It was not until an hour and a half after the enquiry had been sent out
that the traffic policeman's report was received. By this time a "hurry
up" call for Surefoot had failed to locate him. Moreover, he had left on
his table at Scotland Yard a half-finished sheet of notes.
Now Surefoot never in any circumstances left his notes behind him; and
another significant fact was that he had not handed the key of his room
to the officer at the door, a practice which he invariably followed,
however hurried might be his departure.
His habit of taking a walk was common knowledge. He had been seen
walking towards Savoy Hill. The policeman on duty at the foot of the
hill had also seen him turn back. Then somebody remembered the blue
motor-car that had been standing by the side of the road.
By the time these enquiries had been completed every detective in
Scotland Yard had been assembled on the instructions of the hastily
summoned chief.
"He may be heading for the coast. What is more likely is that he's on
his way to one of those houses of his," said the Chief Constable. "Get
the Buckinghamshire and Salisbury police on the 'phone, and, to make
absolutely sure, send squad cars right away to both places."
One of the first people who had been interrogated was Dick Allenby. It
was known that Surefoot was a friend of his, and Surefoot was an
inveterate gossiper, who loved nothing better than to sit up till three
in the morning with a friendly and sympathetic audience. Dick Allenby's
arrival at the Yard coincided with the departure of the first squad car
for Salisbury.
"We may be chasing moonbeams," said the Chief Constable; "very likely
old Surefoot will turn up in about a quarter of an hour, but I am
taking no unnecessary risks."
"But he would never get bluffed," said Dick scornfully.
The Chief shook his head.
"I don't know. This fellow has had a pretty hectic experience in
America, and it will not be the first person he has taken for a ride in
this country."
Of one thing he was sure--that the threat of a revolver would not have
induced Surefoot to get into that car.
He looked at his watch; it was half-past one, and he shook his head.
"I wish the night were over," he said.
From that remark Dick sensed all that the other feared.
* * * * *
Surefoot Smith had less than half a minute to do his thinking and to
decide on one of the dozen plans--most of them impracticable--that were
spinning in his mind.
The door opened slowly and Binny came in. He wiped his forehead on a big
handkerchief he took out of his pocket, and sat down.
"You will come a little walk with me, my friend," he said pleasantly.
He took the bottle from the table, swallowed a generous drink, and wiped
his mouth. Stooping, he untied the scarf that bound Surefoot's ankles
and jerked him to his feet.
Surefoot Smith rose unsteadily. His head was swimming, but the terrific
nature of the moment brought about his instant recovery. Binny was
standing by the door, fingering his gun. He had fixed to the end of the
barrel an egg-shaped object, the like of which Surefoot had never seen
before, and he found himself wondering how Dick Allenby, who was
interested in silencers and who had asserted so often that a silencer
could not be used on an automatic, because of the backfire, would
reconcile this freakish thing with his theories.
Surefoot walked to the table and stood, resting his manacled hands on
its deal surface.
"Saying a prayer or something?" mocked Binny.
"You don't want anybody to know I have been here, do you? You don't want
to leave any trace, and that's why you don't kill me in this room?"
"That's the idea," said the other cheerfully.
"If you had a few hundred people rushing in this direction and asking
questions, that would spoil your plan, wouldn't it?"
Binny's eyes narrowed.
"What's the idea?" he demanded.
He took one step towards his prisoner, when Surefoot lifted the lamp and
flung it into the open hamper. There was a crash as the glass reservoir
broke, a flicker of light, and then a huge flame shot up towards the
ceiling.
Binny stood, paralysed to inaction, and in the next moment Surefoot had
flung himself upon the man. He drove straight at Binny's face with his
clenched hands. The man ducked and the blow missed him. Something
exploded in the detective's face; he felt the sting of the powder and
heard an expelled cartridge "ting" against the wall.
He struck again, striving to bring the steel handcuffs on to the man's
head. Binny twisted aside, but did not wholly escape the impact of the
shock. The gun fell from his hand on to the floor.
The room was now a mass of flames; the fire had licked through the thin
plaster of the wall and the laths were burning like paper. The
atmosphere was thick with acrid smoke, the heat already intolerable.
Again Surefoot struck and again Binny dodged. Surefoot had kicked the
pistol out of reach--kicked it into the mass of flames that were
spurting from the bottom of the canvas-covered trunk. The door was open
and Binny darted out of the room, trying to close it after him, but
Smith's shoulders were in the way. Jerking the door wider, he stumbled
into the passage and hurled himself at the murderer.
The only hope was to keep at close quarters. Binny had another pistol,
had it half out of his pocket, when Surefoot pinned him against the hot
wall, and, bracing his feet, exerted all his strength to crush him
there. In this position it was impossible to hit the man. In the
half-light he saw Binny reaching out towards the front door and edged
him nearer to facilitate his task. As the door was flung open and the
air came rushing in, the hum of the fire became a roar; flames were
flung out like red and yellow banners whipped by the wind.
Binny was trying to pull himself clear of the hands that held him by the
singlet; striving desperately to pull out his second pistol. His breath
was coming in shrill whistles; he was frightened, had lost all his old
reserve of courage. He wriggled desperately to escape the pressure of
the heavy figure that was jammed against him, and at last, by a
superhuman effort, he succeeded, and darted through the door, Surefoot
behind him. His gun was out now and he fired. The detective hurled
himself on his man and brought him down. He was up in a second and was
running towards the back of the house.
The flames were coming from the roof. The countryside for a hundred
yards was almost as light as day. Surefoot, handcuffed as he was, flew
in pursuit; and then suddenly Binny turned, and this time his aim was
deliberate. Surefoot Smith knew that there was no hope now. The man who
covered him was a dead shot, and was within half a dozen paces of him.
In desperation he sprang forward. His feet touched air, and he was
falling, falling....
He heard the shot, wondered dimly if this was death, and was brought to
the realisation that he was still alive by the impact of his body at the
bottom of the hole into which he had fallen. He realised at once what
had happened: Binny had been busy all that night preparing this hiding
place for his crime, but had missed falling into the hole.
He struggled to his feet, bruised and aching, heard a second shot and
looked up. There was a third and fourth. An authoritative voice was
challenging somebody. Then he heard his own name called, and shouted. A
man's face loomed over the edge of the pit. It was his own sergeant.
They brought him up to the top.
"He won't get away," said the detective to whom Surefoot addressed a
gasping enquiry.
"Which way did he go, and where is his car?"
He was weary, aching from head to foot, bruised and scratched, but for
the moment he had no thought of comfort.
"Feel in my hip pocket; I think he left the key of these handcuffs."
They unlocked the irons and took them off, and he rubbed his bruised
wrists.
"Have you found his car?"
Binny's saloon had not been located. The last time Surefoot had seen
it, it was at the door of the cottage, but evidently, during one of his
absences, the man had taken it to a hiding place. There was a small
garage attached to the cottage--a tiny shed--but this was unoccupied.
By the light of the burning house they picked up the tracks. They
crossed the grassland to the left of the cottage and must have passed
over the very place where Binny had dug the grave. Thereafter they were
difficult to trace, but obviously they went straight across the field in
the same direction as the man had taken. A quarter of an hour later they
picked up unmistakable evidence that the car had been left standing near
a small secondary road. The gate was wide open and the tracks of the
machine were visible on the soft, wet earth. He had not made for the
main road again, but had turned up to the road to Cookham, where traffic
would be practically non-existent at this hour of the night and the
chances of observation nil.
The solitary police officer on duty at Cookham had seen the car pass,
but had not observed the driver. He had turned on to the toll bridge,
but at this hour of the night the toll gate is left open. The Bourne End
police had seen several cars without taking particular notice of them.
He could have taken the Oxford Road across the railway crossing, or he
could have followed the river to Marlow.
Surefoot Smith rejected the suggestion that he should go home and rest,
leaving the chase to the Flying Squad and the Buckinghamshire police; he
rejected it violently and with oaths.
"This fellow can't go far, dressed as he is," he said, "in a singlet and
trousers--I pulled most of his shirt off. He is going to hold up
somebody, or burgle a house and get a new outfit. You realise what this
man is, don't you? He is trained in the gang methods. He will not stop
at murder--you are not dealing with an ordinary English criminal."
They were not kept waiting long for proof of this. Deciding upon the
Marlow road as being more likely to offer opportunities for this
desperado, they came upon a policeman pushing a bicycle. It was raining
heavily, and his helmet and cape were dripping wet.
"A blue car passed here five minutes ago," he said.
The police car sped on. Just outside of Marlow they found the machine
they were seeking; it was empty.
At three o'clock in the morning a car passing along the Oxford Road was
stopped by a policeman, who stood in the middle of the roadway with
outstretched arms. Driving the car was a well-to-do farmer from Oxford.
He was inclined to be truculent at this stop.
"I am sorry to bother you," said the police officer, "but we are
searching for an escaped murderer, and I want you to give me a lift to
the other side of High Wycombe."
The farmer, rather intrigued, was not at all displeased, probably a
little thrilled, to find himself a participant in a man hunt, and the
policeman got into the uncomfortable rear seat of the car. It sped on
through the Wycombes.
"I will tell you where to drop me," said the officer.
On the other side of High Wycombe there is a fork road which leads to
Princes Risborough.
"Turn here," said the officer.
The driver expostulated--he had to get back to Oxford.
"Turn here," said the police officer, and something cold touched the
nape of the farmer's neck.
"Do as you're told."
The policeman's voice was peremptory. The gun in his grimy hand was
eloquent. The farmer almost jumped out of his seat with astonishment. He
was not wanting in courage, but he was unarmed.
"What's your game?" he asked. He was still unsuspicious that the man
behind him was anything but a policeman. "You're not allowed to do that
sort of thing."
"Get it out of your nut that I'm a copper," said Binny. "The man whose
clothes I'm wearing is lying in a ditch with a break in his bean. Drive
where I tell you and save a lot of argument."
The driver turned the car in the direction indicated. They went along a
new road, a portion of which was under construction. There were red
lamps and a watchman's fire. Dimly the farmer realised that the man
behind him was the wanted murderer, and the realisation chilled him.
They were in a country which even at high noon is a little deserted. It
was a silent desert now. All the time Binny was watching left and right
for a suitable place for his purpose. Presently they passed by the side
of the road a wooden building that had the appearance of a barn, and he
ordered the driver to stop and turn back. There was an open gate by the
side of the barn, and through this they drove.
"Stop here," said Binny. He pushed open the door of the saloon. "Now get
down."
He took the little electric lantern which had been part of the
unfortunate policeman's equipment, and flashed it on to the door of the
barn. It was unsecured by lock or hasp. He pulled open the door with one
hand, covering his prisoner with the other.
"Go inside," he said, and followed.
Half an hour later he came out again, wearing the farmer's tweed suit
and his high-collared water-proof jacket. He listened for a second at
the door before closing it, got into the limousine, and backed on to
the road. There was still a considerable danger of his being stopped. A
solitary man driving a car would be suspect, no matter whose clothes he
was wearing, and the present solution to his difficulty was merely a
temporary measure.
If he could find one of those night trucks that run between London and
the provinces it would serve him better. These express lorries carried
two and often three men. He had to trust to luck.
Detection was certain if he took a direction which led him away from
London. In the few hours that remained before the dawn he must work his
way back to London. He had three bolt-holes; had the police found them
all?
He drove through Aylesbury and worked right. He had an extraordinary
knowledge of topography, and was aiming to reach the Great North Road
and approach London from that direction.
Passing through a village, a policeman came out of the shadows and held
up his hand. For a second Binny hesitated; his first impulse was to
drive on, but he was none too certain of the immediate locality, and the
chances were that if he did not stop now he would find a "barrage" a few
miles farther on.
Binny had studied the police situation very carefully. He knew that the
police could close London in a ring by the establishment of these
barrage posts, and that he would be liable at any moment to come upon a
place where a lorry was drawn up across the road. He knew too of the
canvas belts, heavily spiked, which are thrown across the roadway, with
disastrous consequences to the non-stop motorist.
He took his foot off the accelerator and brought his car to a
standstill.
"Let me see your driving licence," said the police officer.
Binny stiffened. He had relieved his victim of all his portable goods,
but a driving licence was not amongst them. Motorists have a trick of
carrying this important document in the pocket attached to the door. If
it were not there....
He slipped his gun out of his pocket and laid it on the seat by his side
before he lifted up the flap of the pocket and began a search. His heart
jumped as his fingers touched the familiar shape of the licence. He
handed it out and the policeman examined it by the light of his lantern.
"Is this Dornby or Domby?" asked the officer.
"Dornby," said Binny promptly.
It was as likely to be that as the other. The officer handed back the
licence without a word.
"You haven't seen anybody driving a blue saloon, have you--a man dressed
in shirt and trousers?"
Binny chuckled.
"Well, I wouldn't be able to tell the colour of the saloon, and I
certainly wouldn't see what the driver was wearing. Why? Do you want
somebody?"
"There's been a murder committed," said the policeman vaguely. "We only
had a vague idea as to why the 'arrest and detain' notice should have
been issued. Good-night, Mr. Dornby."
Binny drove on. The policeman had not looked into that yellow face, but
the next policeman might. They were pretty slick at Scotland Yard, he
decided, and wondered how these isolated police posts should have been
notified.
He looked at the licence. John Henry Domby was the name, of Wellfield
Farm. He memorised this, put the licence in his pocket, and went on.
He had now reached a point where he could avoid villages, for he would
soon be striking the North Road, where most efficient barrages would be
established, especially when he reached the Metropolitan Police area.
He came at last to the long, winding road that runs from London through
Doncaster to the north. Left or right? That was the problem.
He debouched on to the highway through a narrow lane with high banks. It
was near a turn of the road. He heard the whir of a motor-car, saw the
glow of headlamps, and turned sharply to the left.
The car that came round the corner was hugging the left of the road.
The driver saw Binny's machine almost too late to avoid a collision. He
swerved to the right, the car skidded on the slippery road, turned
completely round, and, striking a telegraph post with one of its wheels,
hung drunkenly over the side of the ditch.
Binny pulled up to avoid a second collision, for the wrecked machine was
now immediately in front of him, and only by jamming on his brakes did
he bring his own car to a standstill a few inches from the other. He
heard the chauffeur shout, the door was jerked open, and a woman
scrambled out into the glare of the headlamps.
Binny stared, hardly able to believe his eyes. The woman standing in the
downpour was Mary Lane!