TRACKED DOWN
Clive stood as still as a post, watching and listening. Overhead there
was a small crescent of the moon floating over the school and partially
illuminating the quad. But the corridors were plunged in stygian
darkness. Had he actually heard anything? Had someone really passed him?
"Well, I'm jiggered," he observed to himself, clinging doubtfully to one
of the cross-bars placed across the usually open windows of the corridor
by a thoughtful directorate, and with a view to keeping small boys from
clambering through them. For it was the custom at Ranleigh to indulge in
an ample measure of fresh air, and those corridor windows remained free
of glass until the depths of winter.
"Feel certain someone went by," thought Clive. "Felt rather than heard
him. But--but where's he gone? Is he just opposite me. Ah!"
No wonder he was puzzled, for as we have intimated, whoever had gone
down the corridor had made not the smallest sound. Recollect that it was
a little past midnight, that the school was plunged in slumber, and
that, to the best of Clive's belief, he and Masters were the only two
about the premises. Remember that the circumstances provided an intense
stillness, and that at such times sounds usually inaudible come to the
ear with certainty. He had heard something, he was sure.
"As if a fellow had a dressing-gown on and the gown were trailing on the
ground," he told himself. "The merest whisper. It may have been a man's
deep breathing. But there's not a sound now. Not a single sound."
But there was something else. There came the flicker of a light away to
his right, a mere flicker, and then the same all-pervading darkness.
Clive slid off in that direction at once, halted when he judged he had
reached the correct position, and strained his ears and eyes to detect
the author of that sudden glimmer. And what a job he had to be sure to
drown the sound of his own breathing and his own thudding heart beats!
That was the worst of such intense stillness, and of excitement, for he
was excited.
"The chap took me by surprise," he muttered beneath his breath, as if by
way of excuse. He struggled against the feeling of excitement, but
failed hopelessly. His heart still thudded against his ribs, beating
with unusual rapidity. And then, worse than all, a sudden tickling
sensation at the back of his throat assailed him. He was going to cough.
He was----
No. He beat the feeling down, and of a sudden once more had all his
attention engaged elsewhere. For from a spot some ten feet to his right,
from the centre of the inky darkness of the corridor, a jet of light
swept across to the far wall. He could see the actual point from which
it arose. There the beam glowed brightly, perhaps an inch and a half in
depth. It spread itself gradually through the darkness, till it obtained
much greater dimensions and finally settled on the brick and stone inner
wall of the corridor in a wide ellipse of light. Silently it stole along
the brickwork till it fell upon a door.
"The Head's entrance to his house. This is queer," Clive thought, while
his excitement rose. Let us be brutally frank about this young fellow.
He was no coward. He was noted for dash and courage at Ranleigh School.
But, like every other fellow there, he was susceptible to outside
influences. And here was one decidedly uncanny and out of the ordinary,
one which affected him most strangely. Clive felt positive pain in his
scalp. His hair bristled beneath the school cap which he had donned for
this adventure. He felt almost scared. Raising his hand he thrust the
fingers beneath his cap, and instantly the beam of light vanished. It
was there one instant. It was gone the next. There was merely dense
blackness, and silence.
"Phew!" Perspiration trickled over his brows. His palms were moist and
clammy. He began to wish that Masters would turn up, only that would be
awkward.
"Give the whole show away," he told himself. "This is beastly ghostly
and uncanny, but I ain't going to be funked. There's something mighty
suspicious here, and that beam comes from an electric hand light. Then
there is someone operating it. Ghosts don't have such things. Don't need
'em."
The very thought tickled him vastly. It was queer at such a moment to be
struck by the utter absurdity of the suggestion that a ghost should
require a lamp, and should be so up-to-date as to have adopted an
electric one. Still, the deathly silence gave a most undoubted ghostly
appearance to the whole transaction, and we must excuse Clive if he was
impressed by it.
"He ain't moved. Shall I show him up with my lamp?" he asked himself.
"No, I'll wait. Ten to one this is the beggar we're after. But he's done
nothing yet. I'm out to catch an incendiary, and if this is he, why, I
sit tight till he's got to the business."
Ah! The beam flashed again, alighting on the tiled floor of the
corridor, and stealing along it to the foot of the Head's door. It
slowly climbed it till it reached the keyhole, concentrated itself upon
that orifice, and then gradually grew smaller and more brilliant, while
the point from which it originated approached the door ever so slowly,
the beam shortening in proportion. Click! There was the faintest of
sounds in the distance. The beam disappeared, strangled by the hand
which operated the lamp.
"Masters making his round and coming along to meet me. He'll alarm this
beggar," thought Clive. "Better get off and warn him. I'll get him to
watch the far end of the corridor."
He went off like a ghost himself across the quad, entered the corridor
by the open doorway below the entrance to East Dormitory, and halted
outside the Bursar's office. Yes, there was the gentle slither of an
almost noiseless footfall. Clive whistled gently.
"That you, Masters?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.
"Yes. What's up? You've seen something?"
"Just now. The fellow's got an electric lamp, and he's along there in
the corridor. I'm not sure that he's our man, and I came back here to
warn you not to make a sound. Look here, watch along there by the steps
leading to the washing rooms. I've just thought this beggar may be an
outsider who breaks in, or makes his way into the school by the back
doors. You'd catch him at the turn of the corridor, and in any case
you'd be within hearing and I could call you. That right?"
"I'm off. Yell if you want me," answered Masters. "Look out in case the
fellow's armed. George! I never thought of that possibility of a man
getting into the school from outside and doing this firing business.
Hope it'll turn out so. Ranleigh don't want such scum about the school."
He went off without another word, while Clive slid into the quad again
and stole along by the corridor windows. In a little while, having used
the greatest caution, he had reached the spot he had stood in before,
and straightway leaned against one of the barred windows and stared in.
There was not a sound. No beam of light helped him to discover the
whereabouts of the ghostly stranger parading the corridor.
"Gone! Slipped off on hearing that sound," Clive told himself. "Bad luck
to it! He's beaten us again."
He fingered his own electric lamp, with which Masters was also provided.
"Shall I, or shall I not?" he wondered, his finger on the sliding
trigger. "Supposing he's over there, still waiting and listening?
Supposing he's slid off and is at work elsewhere?"
It was a dilemma. There are very many placed in the same position of
responsibility and under the self-same circumstances who would have
hesitated, and rightly so, who would have determined to do nothing that
savoured of rashness, and who would have decided to curb their
impatience, risking everything lest by premature action they should
wreck the whole enterprise. Still Clive swung badly between the two
decisions. He brought his electric lamp out of his pocket, presented it
across the corridor, and then tucked it back in his pocket again, just
as he had done a few moments before. It gave him a start, a minute
later, when he again had his lamp in position, though the trigger was
not yet moved, suddenly to perceive a ray of light opposite.
"Why, he's opened the Head's door," he told himself. "That light's
shining from the inside. The beggar's managed to get into the house.
What's his business?"
It was something dishonest and underhand, in any case, else why such
silence? why this flitting in the depths of night, when the school and
its residents were sunk in slumber?
"Frightfully fishy," Clive told himself. "Either a burglar or the
incendiary we're after. I'm going across to that door to take a look in.
No, I'm not."
He bobbed down like lightning, his head below the window frame through
which he had been staring. For the light within the half-open door
increased. It swung across to the opposite side of the corridor, and
then, through the surrounding darkness, Clive saw the bull's-eye orifice
through which the beam was projected. Nothing more was visible. The hand
which operated the lamp, the man behind might not have been in
existence. He was invisible. It looked, indeed, as if the torch were
supporting itself, and swaying from side to side by its own efforts. And
then, of a sudden, the beam died out.
"Beggar felt it necessary to come out of the house into the corridor so
as to make sure no one was about," Clive whispered to himself. "Now, is
he still outside the door, listening and waiting, or has he gone in
again? I'm not going to wait much longer. This cad means business, and
if he's up to the old game, why, the sooner I nab him the better.
Supposing he's already made a fire!"
That caused his heart to increase its exertions again, for his
excitement had abated a little after his first discovery. But as he
thought of this serious possibility, his pulses stirred with a
vengeance. Why, the whole fate of the school might be in his hands!
Delay and hesitation at this moment might see old Ranleigh, the place
which he and hundreds like him loved, some young, some growing to
manhood, some already arrived at that stage in life's progression, and
getting rather on the seamy side, might see it burned to ashes. The
thought sent a chill through his sweating frame. Clive moved quickly in
the direction of the open door at the west end of the quad and crept
into the corridor. Was that a flash of light he saw from beneath the
door?
"Jolly like it. Believe he's gone in again. I'm going to chance
matters."
He touched the trigger of his lamp and sent a flood of light on the
half-open door. The corridor was empty. There was no figure beside the
door. Clive darted over to it, and stood at its edge, peeping round into
the passage leading to the Head's own study. It was a dismal place at
any time, badly lighted in the most brilliant day, and now sunk in the
depths of impenetrable darkness. It was a heart-breaking sort of
passage, with uncompromising and unsatisfactory walls, which gave not
the smallest encouragement to a malefactor. And here it was that
malefactors gathered. Not the class of malefactor that Clive was now
after, but wretched Ranleighans, haled before the Head, sent there often
enough with the politest of notes by one or other of the masters--notes,
too, which the wretched victims had themselves to bear. They were almost
like death warrants. Clive had experienced the dreadful feeling of
bearing one. He had waited in that depressing passage while another
sinner preceded him. He had listened to the drone of voices behind the
Head's door. And then had come the sound of tribulation. Staring into
this dark pit brought his early days at Ranleigh back to his mind. What
a thrashing he had had on that occasion when he and Masters had broken
bounds and contrived to stampede two of Squire Studholme's finest
horses!
Then his thoughts were just as suddenly switched from old recollections
to present events. He was on the point of flashing his own lamp into the
passage when the darkness was illuminated from the direction of the
Head's door. That, too, was half open. The miscreant was inside. Now was
the time to lay hands on him.
"Catch him nicely in a trap. That'll do," thought Clive. "He's coming
out, though. What's he up to?"
The reflection from the walls of the passage threw into relief the
figure of a man, gowned in something loose.
"Overcoat," said Clive. "Hat crammed on his head and rubbers on his
feet. He's--he's pouring something along the sides of the passage.
Paraffin. I can smell it! Jingo! Then this is the beggar! I've got him
right in the middle of the act. This is what we've been waiting and
watching for."
Yes, there could be no doubt now, for the penetrating odour of the oil
was already filling his nostrils. But how silently the rascal worked!
But for the faint whisper the tail of his coat made now and again as he
stepped along the side of the passage there was not another sound. Clive
watched the fluid pouring from the spout of the fellow's kettle as if he
were fascinated. It spread slowly and greasily, as paraffin does
invariably, across the woodwork and matting of the floor. It ran freely
from the receptacle in which this rascal had brought it, and then slowly
became less in quantity, till it merely dribbled from the spout. And all
the while an elliptical, bright ray of light fell on the particular spot
upon which the fluid was falling, the mere outline of the bending figure
of the man being visible to the watcher. Suddenly the light went out.
There was a faint scraping noise, as if the kettle had hit against the
wall. Then the light flashed for a second again, and once more
disappeared.
"Gone back into the Head's room. Now I have him," said Clive, whetting
his lips. "It'll be a business, but I ain't going to be funked. This is
a matter concerning the whole school, and I don't shirk it. All the
same, I wish Masters were closer."
He rounded the door, flashed his own lamp for one instant so as to give
him a view of the passage, and then went noiselessly onward. Outside the
study door he waited and listened. Yes, someone was moving inside. He
heard the faint rustle of papers. The fellow no doubt was piling them
upon the pool of paraffin he had poured on to the floor. Or perhaps he
was scattering the fluid broadcast. It was the moment to nab him. Clive
stepped into the doorway and----
A blinding flash of light blazed right into his eyes. The bull's-eye of
this ruffian's lamp was within ten inches of his face and suddenly
opened upon him. There came a startled cry, a sudden movement, and the
clatter of a kettle falling to the floor. Then Clive was dashed backward
into the passage with terrific violence, and stumbling on the mat
outside the study door, fell heavily on his back, his own electric torch
clattering away into a corner. He felt the sweep of the fellow's gown or
overcoat across his face and gripped swiftly for his legs. His hand
closed on something, trousers perhaps, though the material seemed
extraordinarily thin. Then he was kicked savagely, though the softness
of his assailant's soles caused but little damage. But it threw his grip
off, and in a moment the fellow was fleeing.
"Beaten me after all," thought Clive as he sprang to his feet and
groped for his torch. "Ah, here's the thing. Now, which way did he
bolt?"
He was out of the passage like a flash of lightning, and turned into the
corridor. At once his finger went to the trigger of his torch and sent a
beam ahead of him. Yes, there was a flying figure in advance, going at
full speed down the corridor, and without making even the smallest
sound. Clive gave chase instantly, first with the help of the light
given him by his torch, and then in total darkness, for his finger had
slipped from the trigger. But he had it on again in a moment. There the
fellow was, plainly visible, his clothing blowing out behind him.
"I'm gaining on him," thought Clive. "We're bound to have him nicely,
for he's going straight for the corner. He'll be round in a jiffy, and I
shall be after him. Masters will see my lamp from the post he's taken
and will be in splendid position to stop him. Bother the torch. My
finger's slipped again."
A second earlier the flying figure had arrived within three feet of the
end of the corridor, where it turned abruptly to the left. Clive reached
the spot perhaps ten seconds later. He flashed his light round the
corner and along the other corridor. There was nothing visible. Not a
soul was in sight. Even Masters was not present, and was doubtless
waiting round the corner at the far end. But where had this fugitive
gone? Into the archway leading to the Bursar's room and to East
Dormitory, or through the opening to the quad? Clive flashed his torch
through the latter. No. There was no one in the quad. Then elsewhere? He
sent the beam against the banisters of East Dormitory. No. There was no
one. This fugitive seemed to have been actually swallowed by the
surrounding walls. Clive was sorely puzzled and perplexed. He retraced
his steps to the corner of the corridor, and peeped into a boot-room
there. That, too, was empty. The man had been too clever for him. He had
gone.
"Dived into that boot-room, without a doubt. Waited for me to pass and
then went off back along the same route towards the Head's door. I'll go
along there after him. Wonder whether he fired that paraffin? Must find
that out. Why, even now a fire may be blazing. My word! To think that a
chap could go in for such a caddish business."
But who was the man? Did Clive know? Had he recognised that fleeting
figure?
There was a deep furrow across our hero's face. Even as he raced back
along the corridor he was conscious of a feeling of unusual distress, of
sadness almost, of despair at the thought of what must inevitably follow
his discovery. For the miscreant was without question a Ranleigh boy.
Clive had not seen his face--had seen little else, in fact, but legs
rapidly moving and a flowing gown, above which was a head hidden beneath
a hat pressed closely down upon it. But even figures have their own
special features. Every individual almost has his own particular
movements, something, however small, which differentiates them from
others. And Clive knew the special run of this fugitive well. In a court
of law, perhaps, his evidence was useless. Here, at Ranleigh, perhaps it
was little better. Were he asked at that moment to say who the miscreant
was he could merely shake his head.
"Couldn't actually dare to declare the fellow's name," he told himself
as he raced up the corridor. "I feel sure. But others would doubt.
They'd doubt naturally, and considering the circumstances, the
excitement, the intermittent light, why, I may easily be mistaken. I
daren't wreck a fellow's future on such flimsy evidence. Perhaps I'll
nobble him yet. At any rate, I'll try my best. My word, what a slippery
beggar!"
He was back at the Head's door now, to find it wide open, where no doubt
he had flung it as he raced after this mysterious incendiary. The
passage within was empty. He searched every corner with his torch. The
corridor outside the Hall was equally vacant, and there was no one on
the stairs leading to West and certain of the masters' rooms, nor on
those giving access to North Dormitory.
"Then the beggar's back in the Head's room," he thought. "I'll go right
in this time, close the door so that he can't try the same sort of
business, and then nail him. George! The place smells of paraffin. He
meant to have a proper flare while he was about it. Now, is he in the
Head's study or not?"
No, he wasn't. At least, the place seemed empty. But a combination of
misfortunes was pursuing Clive on this adventurous evening. To commence
with, he had been taken by surprise by the crafty fellow he was
watching, and had been tripped up nicely. And now, perhaps because the
fall had injured it, his torch failed all of a sudden. Clive groped for
a match-box, upset some ornament on the mantelpiece, felt his fingers
light upon something remarkably like a match-box, and gripped the
latter. Then he rapidly withdrew one of the matches and struck it
against the box. A candlestick was within easy reach, and in a second he
had the wick burning. It was giving off a good light, and he was holding
it above his head so as the better to see his surroundings, when the
door was pushed swiftly open, a figure bounced into the room, and in a
twinkling our hero found himself gripped by the collar.