AN ENCOUNTER.
Anyone who is acquainted with the village of Polperro knows the stone
jetty which runs parallel with the horizon line of the sea. In length
it is perhaps eighty or a hundred yards. At its Western end it turns
at right angles past a terrace of old houses whose foundations are
washed by the tide. Barraclough had almost arrived at this point when
two men turned the corner and came toward him. One was a presentable
enough fellow, but his companion was a person of low class. They were
obviously in the heart of an altercation for the words, "You fill
yourself up with beer like a blasted barrel," preceded their appearance.
Now there was one thing Barraclough never forgot--a man's voice--and as
the words came to his ears he stopped dead. The moment of mutual
recognition was almost instantaneous, but Barraclough had precisely one
second's start to recover from his surprise. Behind him was the jetty
surrounded by the sea, and the narrow passage in front was blocked by
enemies.
Harrison Smith wasted a fraction of time crying out the name
"Barraclough!" Dirk fell back a pace fumbling for the pocket in which
he kept his "Mascot." It was a fatal mistake. Running down the length
of the jetty between the two men was a fisherman's net, and as Harrison
Smith sprang toward him pistol in hand, Barraclough ducked, seized the
net and raised it in the air.
It was the barest fluke that the manoeuvre should have worked so well.
Harrison Smith stumbled heavily, grabbed at Dirk and missed him.
Barraclough's foot just above his waist line destroyed the last of his
equilibrium and over the edge he went into the shallow water below.
Unquestionably the beer was responsible for Dirk's failure to win the
engagement. His quarry was before him in an open position. He should
have used his Mascot and used it hard. It was sheer criminal stupidity
to have looked over the edge at his fallen commander. Maybe the angry
scarlet of Dirk's complexion provoked Barraclough's attack and before
the poor man had recovered from his surprise a heavy lobster pot came
smashing down over his face with agonising force, the splintering
basket-work playing havoc with his features. Then he, too, experienced
the unique sensation of gliding downward through space, a delight
somewhat marred by the rudeness of its finish.
Barraclough did not stay to behold the result of his offensive, but
picked up his heels and ran. Just beyond the open fish market he saw a
neglected Ford car and hesitated an instant to debate whether or no he
should appropriate it. At the time he did not connect it with the two
men wallowing in harbour waters. Had he done so he would certainly
have driven it over the edge of the quay into the mud. His own car was
waiting less than a quarter of a mile away--an Hispano Suisa built for
speed--and the sense of speed ran through his own veins. As he raced
up the narrow, twisting street the good wives of the village turned on
their doorsteps, open mouthed, to watch him pass. He scarcely bothered
to glance over his shoulder satisfied that he had gained an easy five
minutes' start. Coming abreast of the three cottages he vaulted the
stock yard wall, threw open a gate and made for the stable door
fumbling in his pocket for the key of the padlock.
And suddenly an oath broke from his lips crisp, concise, and covering.
The first trick had been scored by him but undoubtedly Harrison Smith
had won the second. The blocked up keyhole told its own tale. He knew
the door very well and it would be half an hour's work to break it
down, also he knew the padlock having bought it himself. The Hispano
Suisa would have to be abandoned.
He did not waste time cursing, but instead leapt the shale wall and
took to the fields. A little footpath lay among the trees at the
meadow end and Anthony Barraclough made for it with all possible
dispatch jumping a brook and forcing his way through a fringe of thorn
and bramble. There had been no rain for some weeks and the going was
dry, a circumstance he noted with satisfaction, for your average
Cornish footpath is as much a waterway as a thoroughfare for
pedestrians. It was half a mile to his destination, a spot where the
path converged with the high road and as he ran, Barraclough covered
his face with his hand to avoid the swinging branches. A gap in the
trees gave a view of the village and as he flashed across it increasing
speed to avoid the risk of being seen he had a momentary glimpse of a
Ford car with two men in it stopping at the gate he had recently opened.
"How in blazes they found out beats me," he gasped.
A sickening fear assailed him that his second line of escape might also
have been blocked and, at the thought, he put out every ounce of speed
he possessed. It was better to know the worst at once. The path
widened out into a cart track and through an aisle of trees the white
patch of the high road came into view.
A casual passer-by would never have noticed the low built pigsty that
butted on to the hedge, its roof and sides being almost completely
masked with brushwood and bramble vine.
Barraclough could not resist an exclamation of joy as he noted that the
big piles of carelessly thrown kindlings were apparently untouched. He
kicked away great bundles of them with his foot, produced a key and
opened a small solid door. The relief was almost unbearable, but he
did not linger to offer up prayers of thanksgiving.
The motor bicycle flashed bravely as he dragged it out into the sun,
turned on the petrol and set the controls. He shoved the gear lever
into second, lifted the exhaust and pushed, and the willing little twin
fired its first spluttering salvo as he bumped out of the rutted lane
into the main road.
Concentration on the single object of getting away had dulled his ears
to other sounds, for normally he could not have failed to hear the
chuff-chuff of the approaching Ford. As he swung into the saddle he
saw it out of the corner of his eye and ducked. The vision of two
men--an excited yell and an oath--they were almost on top of him when
the twin took a healthy dose of the mixture and got away. Another
second and they would have ridden him down. Barraclough swerved to the
left to cut a corner and opened up. Harrison Smith did likewise,
choking his engine with too wide a throttle and losing a dozen yards in
half that number of seconds.
"Shoot, blast you! Shoot, you blasted fool!" he roared at Dirk.
Barraclough heard the order and swept over to the right to disturb the
aim as a couple of leaden hornets buzzed angrily past his ear striking
the macadam a hundred yards ahead and whining away into the distance.
Freddie Dirk's execution with an automatic was below the quality of his
Mascot work. He cursed fluently as the shots flew wide and tried to
steady his aim by resting the Colt on the iron crosspiece of the wind
screen.
"Take the wheel--take the wheel, damn you," cried Harrison Smith,
snatching at the pistol with his left hand. "You can't shoot that way."
Somehow they contrived to change places. A sharp rise in the ground
had perceptibly slackened the speed of Barraclough's mount and he
reduced his lead still further by hanging on to the top gear a couple
of seconds too long. The Ford, on the other hand, was beginning to
improve and leapt at the hill eagerly. No more than fifty yards
separated pursued from pursuer.
Harrison Smith sat on the back of the driving seat and bided his time.
A glance ahead showed him the road winding up interminably at the very
incline at which a Ford car develops its greatest efficiency and goes
sailing past nearly everything else on the road.
"Got him," he said, "got him cold."
This comforting reflection awoke in his breast a sporting fancy. After
all it was more fun to shoot a man than to ride him down.
The little twin in front was labouring bravely at the hill, but its
muffled exhaust was pleading unmistakably for still another change
down. Barraclough knew very well that were he to accept this
invitation he would be lost. The only hope was to keep in second and
pray hard that the engine wouldn't conk out. A glance over his
shoulder revealed the Ford bounding up the hill toward him. Then it
was Harrison Smith fired. Barraclough saw the flash out of the tail of
his eye and simultaneously his motor cycle seemed to leap forward with
a noisy roar. The bullet had struck the exhaust pipe cutting it clear
of the silencer and making him a gift of five miles an hour. A new
life seemed to run through the veins of the machine and the hill
flattened out before him like a level track. As he realised the
charity of Fate, Barraclough lifted a gladsome "Yoicks" and waved his
right arm above his head. Again the pistol cracked and a red hot
knitting needle seemed to pass through the palm of his hand. As he
brought it back to the handle bar he saw a pale blue circle between his
first and second finger bubble into scarlet and black.
"You scum, you dirty scum," he cried, "but it'll take more than a
bullet through the hand to bring down my flag."
He jerked the gear lever back into top and shot full bore at the down
grade before him. As the Ford car breasted the top of the hill its
passengers were rewarded by the sight of a tiny speck of dust tearing
along a ribbon of white in the valley below.