IN STRANGE COMPANY
A load report rang out just behind me. The light before my eyes
vanished. Something lurched up against my chest, knocking the breath out
of me, then collapsed in a heap on to the ground at my feet.
There was an instant's stillness. Now footsteps could be heard crackling
forward through the undergrowth. There came the sound of a heavy blow, a
stifled cry, a dull thud as though a body had fallen heavily. What had
happened? And what was happening? Helplessly I stared about me, striving
in vain to pierce the blackness of the forest. I heard people moving
close beside me, but no word was spoken.
Then suddenly someone touched me. The ropes which bound my wrists were
being severed with a blunt instrument. Now my legs were being released.
Some fragments of rope dropped to the ground. _I was free!_
Nowhere was there any light, and still nobody spoke. Taking me by the
arm, the man who had set me free led me forward through the darkness.
Now we were close to the car. Men were beside it, apparently very busy,
though what they were engaged in doing I could not ascertain. And then,
all at once, the road became flooded with light—the headlights of the
car had been switched on simultaneously.
Almost immediately I saw what was happening. Several large bags had
been placed inside the car, and others were being pushed in after them.
What did they contain? For the moment I was puzzled. Then suddenly the
obvious truth flashed across me. The group of men—I could see them
indistinctly in the darkness—must be poachers, and poaching out of
season I knew to be an offence punishable in France with a very heavy
sentence. There seemed to be five men engaged in handling the sacks,
while a sixth stood looking on.
"_Entrez_" a voice beside me said suddenly. At the same instant I was
gripped by the arm and pushed forward towards the car.
"Who fired that shot?" I exclaimed quickly, in French.
"I did—and saved your life," the man who held me answered. "Why?"
"And you killed him?"
"Yes."
"The report sounded like a rifle shot."
"It was a pistol shot. But what matters, so long as he is dead?"
"Have you his revolver? Did you pick it up?" I asked anxiously.
"Yes."
"Show me both pistols."
My thoughts were travelling with extraordinary rapidity. Rather to my
surprise he handed the pistols to me without a word. Quickly I held them
in the light cast by the car's lamps and hurriedly examined them. Yes,
both were weapons of the same calibre, both took the same cartridges.
Below the barrel of Gastrell's revolver was the small electric lamp from
which the light had shone on to my face. I gripped the pistol tightly
and the light shone out again.
"I will return here in a moment," I said in French, as I moved away, for
the man had released my arm.
With the help of the pistol glow-light I made my way back to the tree
where a few minutes before I had been propped up, helpless. On the
ground, close to the trunk, Gastrell's body lay huddled in a heap, a red
spot in the middle of his forehead showing that death must indeed have
been instantaneous. I had, however, no time for reflection. Quickly I
thrust my hand into the dead man's pockets, one after another. All were
empty—someone must already have gone through them. Glancing about me to
make sure I was not observed, I hastily transferred to the dead man's
pocket, from the inside pocket of my own coat, the letter which he
himself had placed there not ten minutes before. Then I rebuttoned his
coat, picked up the bits of severed rope lying about—the ropes that
previously had bound me—threw the pistol on to the ground close to the
dead man's hand, and turned to retrace my steps. Suddenly I stopped. I
had forgotten something. Picking up the pistol again I fired a shot into
the air, then once more threw it down. My ruse would have proved truly
futile had Gastrell's body been discovered, shot through the head, a
letter in his pocket pointing directly to suicide, and a revolver on the
ground—still loaded in every chamber!
A minute later I was hustled into the car, squeezed tightly between
several men. On the floor of the car were a number of large sacks,
exhaling an odour none too savoury. The door was slammed, I saw a figure
step on to the driving seat, and once more the powerful car shot out
into the night, its search-lamps lighting up the road as far as we
could see.
For a while nobody spoke.
"I don't know who you are," I said at last in French, breaking the
silence, "but I am most grateful to you for saving my life."
Still nobody uttered.
"On my return to England," I continued, "I shall prove my gratitude in a
way you may not expect. Meanwhile, I should like to know if you heard
what happened, what was said, after the car pulled up and I was lifted
out of it."
"We heard everything," one of the men answered in English, out of the
darkness. "The man who shot your enemy is driving this car now."
"And may I ask where we are going?" I said, as the car still tore along
the white, undulating road, scattering the darkness on either side and
far ahead, for we were still deep in the forest.
"Yes. We shall stop first at Chalons-sur-Marne, to deposit these," and
he indicated the sacks, which I had by now discovered contained dead
pheasants, tightly packed.
"And then?"
"You will see."
Later I gathered from them that the police, as well as gamekeepers, were
their deadliest enemies. That night, it seemed, they had been almost
captured by some of the forest keepers, who had succeeded in securing
their car. The car we were in, they told me quite frankly, they intended
to get rid of at once, in a far distant town. That town we were now on
our way to—after leaving Chalons we should not stop until we got there.
The car, they added, had happened to pull up close to where they lay
hidden. Upon discovering that it contained only four men, including the
driver, they had intended to overpower all of us and seize the car.
Then, overhearing some of the conversation, they had decided to pause
and await developments. Owing to that decision it was that my life had
so fortunately been saved.
"And how do you poach the birds?" I asked a little later; as they became
gradually more talkative we began to grow quite friendly.
They laughed.
"It is easily done," one of them answered, and went on to explain that
the method they adopted consisted in burning brimstone under the trees
where the pheasants roosted, the fumes causing the birds to tumble off
their perches and down to the ground.
They further told me that different parts of the forest teemed with
different kinds of game, and that most of it was preserved. In the
section we had just been in, pheasants were most abundant. Poached out
of season they were additionally valuable, being placed in cold storage
directly they were sold, and eventually exported. Equally ingenious were
the methods they employed for poaching other sorts of game—some of
these methods they described to me in detail—and certain dealers in the
town of Chalons, they ended, were always ready to receive it.
At last we passed out of the forest, which I felt glad to leave behind.
Now the road twisted a good deal, also it grew more hilly. The darkness,
however, became gradually less intense. In Chalons we pulled up in a
curious little street. The driver, having clambered down, knocked three
times at a small door. Instantly it was opened; the sacks, one after
another, were handed in, the door shut noiselessly, and once more we
started off.
"Have you any idea," I asked suddenly, "what became of the companions of
the man who meant to kill me?"
"Yes," came the immediate reply. "One of them attacked us, and was
knocked senseless."
"And the other?"
"I can't say. He suddenly disappeared. We emptied the dead man's pockets
to prevent, if possible, his identity being established. You might tell
us who he was, and all about him."
I had already told them a good deal, but now I told them more,
explaining, eventually, how I had come to be with Hugesson Gastrell and
his companion, and the wastrel, Robert Challoner; why they had wished to
murder me; how they had already murdered Churchill and George Preston,
and the reason they had done so. Miscreants of sorts themselves, as I
now knew, they became immensely interested. As we proceeded I told them
of the letter that Gastrell had pushed into my pocket, and how, on the
following day, it would be found in his own pocket.
"So that until I reveal myself," I added, "I shall, after the discovery
of that letter, be dead to my friends and relatives. That, according to
a plan I have now thought out, should facilitate my getting the gang
arrested, if not in France, at any rate in England."
On and on the car sped at the same regular speed. Village after village
was left behind. Now and again we skirted large towns, keeping, however,
well without their boundaries. What departments we travelled through I
had not the least idea. The driver's knowledge of the country was
remarkable. Upon my expressing surprise at the geographical knowledge he
possessed, they told me that at one time he had been chauffeur to a
nobleman who moved about a great deal.
When I pulled out my watch I found it was half-past two.
"I wish you would tell me how much further you are going," I said at
last, yawning. "How many more hours are we going on like this?"
"We are now on our way to Lyons," the man who had last spoken answered
quickly—the cigar that he was lighting cast a red glow in his face. "To
sell the car nearer Paris wouldn't be safe; besides, in Lyons we have a
purchaser awaiting it. We have passed Troyes, Chatillon, and Dijon. We
are now in the Department of Saone-et-Loire."
Again we sank into silence. The soft purring of the car seemed to
increase our drowsiness. Colder and colder the night air grew—in my
evening clothes and thin overcoat I felt it very keenly.
I suppose I must have dozed, for when, presently, I opened my eyes, the
streaks of dawn were visible. My neck and limbs were stiff, and, as I
looked about me dully, I saw that my companions one and all were
fast asleep.
I turned, rubbed the frosted glass in front of me, and peered out at the
driver. There he sat, motionless, almost rigid, his hands still gripping
the wheel, his gaze set straight ahead. That the cold outside must be
intense, I knew, yet he seemed not to notice it.
At a village beyond Louhans we stopped for breakfast, and to cool the
engine; but in less than half an hour we were on the road again. As the
car swiftly passed over one of the bridges in Lyons a church clock was
striking eight. Gradually slackening speed, we turned abruptly to the
right, then began a maze of narrow streets. At last, at a quiet-looking
hotel out on the road to Vienne, we stopped, and I knew that our journey
of three hundred miles or so was at last at an end.
_Cafe-au-lait_ was served for us in a private room on the first floor,
and I was able, for the first time, to scrutinize my companions closely.
Six in all, they certainly looked a dare-devil, reckless lot. To guess
from their appearance what their trade or calling had originally been
seemed impossible. Two of them might certainly have belonged to the
farmer class had the expression in their eyes been less cunning, less
intelligent. The man who had saved my life, and whom I judged to be
their leader, was tall, dark, thick-set, with a heavy beard and
moustache, and dark, deep-set eyes. His voice, full and resonant, was
not unpleasant. Seldom have I seen a man who looked so absolutely
fearless.
It was, I suppose, the confidence they felt that I should not betray
them after what had happened that made them speak so freely before me.
That very morning, I gathered, they would rid themselves of the car to a
big receiver of stolen goods, whose headquarters were in Lyons, the
largest receiver of stolen goods in the whole of Europe, so they said.
With the money thus obtained they would buy a car to replace the one
seized on the previous night; it was interesting to find that these
lordly thieves and poachers found a car essential to enable them to
carry on their business.
The time for parting soon arrived, and once more I thanked my rescuer
and his accomplices for the great service they had rendered me. That a
human life should have been sacrificed was terrible to think of,
and yet—
The reflection that, but for the sacrifice of Gastrell's life, I should
myself have been lying dead, set my mind at ease; and after all, I said
mentally, the death of a man like Gastrell must do more good than harm.
The first thing I did after leaving them was to buy some clothes and
other necessaries, and a valise to pack them in. After that I set out
for a quiet stroll through the quaint old town, which I had never before
visited. Reviewing the situation, as I walked slowly along, and debating
in my mind whether to return to Paris or go straight back to England by
the next boat, various possibilities presented themselves in turn.
Virtually I was dead to all my friends in England, or I should be in a
day or two, when the letter which would be found in Gastrell's pocket
had been printed in the newspapers. That belief, I felt, would help me
to carry out the plan I had formed for discovering at first hand the
actual movements of the gang, some members of which would, I felt sure,
be present at Eldon Hall for the coming-of-age festivities of Lord
Cranmere's eldest son.
Yet what about Dulcie? I felt that I must see her, and see her as soon
as possible. That thought it was which now entirely obsessed me. To see
her meant, of course, that I must at once return to Paris, for almost
for certain she would still be there. True, her last words, uttered in
the corridor of the "Continental," had convinced me that she now
strongly suspected Connie, that she wished to get away from her. But
would she succeed in getting away? Already I had proofs of the woman's
extraordinary will power, and Dulcie, I knew, had been hypnotized by her
more than once. I had doubts of Dulcie's ability to resist the woman's
spell. Obviously, then, my duty lay before me. I must at once return to
Paris. I must see Dulcie again—if possible, see her in private. I must
get her away from that woman and take her back to England, no matter how
great the risk I might have to run. And what, I wondered suddenly, was
Albeury doing all this time?
Still pondering all this, I sauntered into a restaurant I happened to be
passing, ordered a bottle of wine, and asked for a copy of the latest
railway time-table.
The _rapide_ for Paris was due, I saw, to leave Lyons Perrache at eight
that night. That would suit me well, and I at once decided to go by it.
Then, having nothing to do until the time of starting, I once more
strolled out into the town.
A newsboy was shouting the news, and I bought a paper from him. Almost
the first headline upon which my glance rested stirred a recollection in
my mind. Where, before, had I heard that name—"the Duchesse de
Montparnasse"? Ah, now I remembered. When Jack Osborne, confined so
mysteriously in the house in Grafton Street, in London, had been
cross-questioned in the dark, he had been asked various questions
concerning the Duchesse de Montparnasse. And now, right before me, was
an account of a strange robbery, a robbery committed the day before at
the Duchesse's great chateau on the Meuse!
At once I guessed that this robbery must be yet another of the gang's
outrages. My suspicion became conviction when, on reading further, I
learned that it had taken place on the occasion of a great reception,
when the servants at the chateau had been busily engaged. The goods
stolen, the report ended, were valued at many thousands of pounds.
Finding little else of interest in the paper, I continued my ramble.
Glancing at my watch I found it was past six. At that moment it was
that, turning aimlessly into a side street, I came suddenly face to face
with Francois, my rescuer.
"We seem fated to meet!" he exclaimed in his patois French, and he
laughed.
He looked hard at me for some moments; then, as though his mind were
suddenly made up, he said abruptly:
"I wonder, Mr. Berrington—I fancy that by nature you are
inquisitive—if you would like to see something you have never seen
before. I don't believe you fully realize how implicitly I now trust
you. I should like to prove it to you."
"I should like to see it, immensely," I answered, wondering what on
earth, in the nature of a novelty, such a man could have to show me.
"Come," he said in the same tone, linking his arm in mine. "I will show
it to you now. As I say, I have no fear at all that you will betray me,
yet there isn't another living person, excepting my own accomplices, I
would take where I am going to take you now."
Down the side street he had just come up I followed him. We turned to
the right again, then to the left. A little further on he stopped at a
greengrocer's shop, a small, insignificant shop with one window only.
"Wait here," he said as he entered.
A minute later he reappeared and beckoned to me.
"My friend," he said, presenting me to a cadaverous man of middle age,
with a thin, prominent, rather hooked nose, high cheek-bones, and
curious eyes of a steely grey, which bushy eye-brows partly concealed.
The man looked at me keenly, but he neither smiled nor spoke, nor did he
offer to shake hands.
We were now inside the shop. Quickly we passed into an inner room, and
thence to a room beyond it. This room was lined apparently with
bookshelves. Advancing to a corner of it, after carefully locking the
door, the cadaverous man, standing on tiptoe, pressed what appeared to
be a book in the topmost shelf. At once a door in the bookshelves
opened. In silence we followed him through it, and the door shut
noiselessly behind us.
I suppose we had walked ten or twelve yards along the narrow,
low-ceilinged, uncarpeted passage, lit only by the candle lantern that
our guide had unhooked from a nail in the wall, when he suddenly stopped
and bent down. Now I saw that he was lifting the boards, one after
another. A few moments later the upper rungs of a ladder became visible.
Francois descended, I followed carefully—I counted fifteen rungs before
I reached the ground—and the gaunt man came after me, shifting the
boards back into position above his head when he was half-way down
the ladder.
The darkness here was denser than it had been in the passage above, but
the lantern served its purpose. We were in a much narrower passage now,
so low that we had to stoop to make our way along it. The ceiling was
roughly hewn, so was the ground we walked upon. Half a dozen steps along
the rough ground and we stopped again. Facing us was a low, extremely
narrow door, apparently an iron door—it resembled the door of a safe.
Fitting a key into it, the gaunt man pushed it open, and one by one
we entered.
At once I became aware of a singular change in the atmosphere. In the
narrow, cavernous, obviously subterraneous little passage we had just
left the air had been humid, chill, and dank, with an unpleasant earthy
odour. Here it was dry and stuffy, as if heated artificially. So intense
was the blackness that I seemed almost to feel it. There was a dull
thump. Turning, I saw that the cadaverous man had shut this door too.
Just as I was wondering why he took such precautions something clicked
beside me, and the chamber was flooded with light.
For an instant the glare blinded me. Then, as I looked about me, the
sight that met my gaze made me catch my breath. Was this an Aladdin's
Palace I had suddenly entered? Had my brain become deranged, causing a
strange, an amazing hallucination? Or was I asleep and dreaming?