A CALL FOR HELP
A telegram from Conrad arrived the next morning. It informed Wallace
that he would arrive at Arveyes on the ten o’clock train the following
morning.
“Good!” said Fouchard. “That will still give me two days. I was never
more keen to unravel a mystery in my life. I’ll come along with you
and meet him if I may.”
Wallace was quite agreeable, and he went into the garage to tinker
about with the Bentley. The first thing he saw was Watkins lying in a
corner with his hands bound and a gag in his mouth. Then he noticed
that the captured car was gone.
“Damn!” he muttered, and set the chauffeur free.
“What has happened, Watkins?” he asked.
The chauffeur gasped for breath and rubbed his cramped limbs,
muttering something about “them blasted Huns” under his breath.
“Last night,” he eventually said aloud, “I was just about to turn in
when someone knocked. I thought it was you or M’sieur Fouchard. Lumme!
I had scarcely poked my head outside the door when something was
clapped over my nose. It put me off in a jiff. That’s all I know about
it.”
“They’ve taken their car.”
“So that’s what they were after?”
“Yes. We ought to have put it out of action.”
Fouchard received the news with a scowl.
“So much for their word of honour,” he said. “They used the first
opportunity to bring off a coup.”
“I’m not so sure--this may have happened after midnight. I’m grateful
that they didn’t mess up the Bentley.”
On the following morning the two men set out for Arveyes, arriving
there a trifle early. They discovered that the train was already forty
minutes late, so Fouchard killed time by visiting the local police,
whilst Wallace sat and smoked at the small café next the station.
“Brilliant lot!” grumbled Fouchard on his return. “They haven’t a
notion where Niels and his friends are hiding. Here comes the train.”
When the few passengers had alighted, it became apparent that Conrad
was not amongst them. There was no other long-distance train until the
evening, so they went back to Grammont in the hope of finding a
telegram. But nothing had arrived.
“There would scarcely be time,” said Yolande. “It takes hours and
hours for a telegram to reach us. No doubt he realises that, and will
arrive by the next train.”
“I wonder?” said Fouchard mysteriously.
“You don’t think that Niels----”
“Why not? That man would move heaven and hell to prevent our
discovering his secret. Last night he came and stole his car. They
must have pushed it a good way, for I sleep lightly and heard no
noise. Why did they need the car so urgently?”
“By Jove--yes,” said Wallace. “They had time to get to Calais and
waylay Conrad. I believe you have hit upon the truth, Fouchard.”
“I’m sure of it. We were fools to give them the cue. Without Conrad’s
help we are as we were.”
“Let us wait and see what the next train brings,” pleaded Yolande. “To
kidnap anyone at Calais is not an easy matter.”
So the two men went to the station in the evening, and saw the train
in. There were but a dozen passengers for Arveyes, and no Conrad.
“The devil!” said Fouchard viciously.
Wallace came home alone, for Fouchard had business to attend to in
Arveyes, and said he would walk back later. He had scarcely got the
car into the garage when a small boy was seen nosing round the
château.
“What do you want?” asked Wallace in French.
“_Je cherche_ M’sieur Wallace.”
“I am he.”
The boy produced a piece of paper from his blouse. Some words were
scrawled on it in French--so badly that he could scarcely decipher
them. But at last he succeeded. The message ran:
“_Am a prisoner at a farm three kilos from Basset. It is called Mont
Rouge. Messenger writing at my dictation as I cannot use hands.--_
“Conrad.”
He bade the boy wait and went inside the château to find Yolande. She
saw at once that he had news of some importance.
“A message?”
“Yes--from Conrad. That gang have got him. Do you know a village
called Basset?”
“Yes--it is twenty-five kilometres from here.”
“Read that.”
She did so and pursed her lips reflectively.
“Is it a ruse?”
“I don’t think so. But I’ll get the boy in and see what we can wring
from him.”
The wondering boy was duly cross-questioned. His story had every sign
of truth. He lived near Mont Rouge and had lost a kitten. On going
near the farm he heard strange noises. They came from a
cellar--through a grating. At first he ran away, but he crept back
again and saw a face. Gaining courage, he got closer. A man behind the
bars told him to write what he had written, and to bring it along to a
M’sieur Wallace, who would reward him. He did not see anyone else on
the farm. He thought the man who owned the place was away on holiday.
“Sounds genuine enough,” said Wallace. “Let me look up the map.”
He found Basset easily, and its position gave him reason to believe
that at last they had located the hiding-place of Niels.
“I’m going there at once,” he said.
“Better take Fouchard.”
“I left him in Arveyes.”
“You can ring him up at the police station.”
“I’ll try.”
He got on to the gendarmerie, but was informed that Fouchard had just
left, and was on his way back to Grammont.
“I can’t wait, Yolande. When Fouchard comes back tell him where I have
gone. He can come after me. I hate to leave you alone, but I can’t
miss this opportunity.”
“No, you must go, of course. But I wish you were not alone. Why not
take Watkins?”
“I think he is better here,” he said significantly.
Then he remembered an important fact, and asked the boy how he managed
to get to Grammont from so remote a place as Basset. The boy replied
instantly. He had climbed on to the tank of a motorcar after it had
stopped for petrol, and had had a free ride to within a mile of the
château.
“He’s genuine,” said Wallace. “I’ll take him back with me.”
“You--you will take care?” she begged. “I fear they are capable of
violence in an emergency.”
“I know it. But Fouchard will know where I am He ought to arrive an
hour or so after me.”
She went outside the château to see him off, and ere he departed she
gripped his hand warmly.
“Come back soon,” she murmured. “You--you seem part of my very
existence.”
It was so unexpected he let his foot slip on the clutch and the
Bentley almost jumped towards the gate. His heart was thrilled, for it
was the first definite sign of anything more than friendship on her
part. The boy had evidently never been a passenger in a fast car
before, and he sat huddled in the corner of his seat like a frightened
mouse, whilst the Bentley roared down the road.
“Which way?”
“_Tout droit!_”
Ten miles farther on the boy pointed to the left, but he left it
rather late and the car performed a nerve-racking skid.
“_Mon Dieu!_”
“All right, sonny! There are some lights in the distance. Is that
Basset?”
The boy gulped and nodded, and a few minutes later the straggling
village was entered. It was a poverty-stricken district, for the war
had desolated the place, and all kinds of weird and wonderful
dwellings had been built upon the old ruins, out of corrugated iron,
old army huts and so forth. Beyond these there was a network of narrow
roads, and the boy’s local knowledge had to be resorted to at every
few minutes.
At last Mont Rouge came to view. It was a squat farmhouse lying some
distance off the road, and the only vehicular approach was so deep in
mud that Wallace decided to leave the car under some trees, on a kind
of “island” near the junction of the farm-track with the main road.
The boy showed no great desire to approach the dark farm, so Wallace
got a few more details from him, and paid him off. He then climbed
over the fence and made his way across the meadows to where Mont Rouge
could be seen silhouetted against the moonlit sky. So far as he could
see, there was not a gleam of light about the place, and he began to
fear that Conrad must have been taken away since he had sent the
message.
He remembered to bring a small electric torch with him, and with the
aid of this he explored the back of the building, for the boy had
informed him that the grating through which he had seen the face of
Conrad was situated opposite an outhouse. He reached a door and gently
tried the handle. It was locked. The light from the torch revealed
tyre marks not far from him, and he saw that these led into a shed.
But the shed was empty, though there was evidence that a car had been
parked there recently.
At last he found the grating. It was a small affair--less than a foot
in diameter and about the same depth. He knelt down and flashed the
torch through it. Immediately the ray fell on a familiar face, and he
uttered a low cry of joy.
“Connie!”
“Good lad! I wondered if you were coming.”
“Is any of the gang here?”
“I’m not sure. I heard the car leave about three hours ago, but could
not see who was in it.”
“How can I get in?”
“Have you tried the doors?”
“I’ve tried the one close by. Is there another at the front?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll go there. Keep quiet--I’ll be with you before very long.”
He went round the house and found the front entrance, but this, like
the back, was in darkness and the door was locked. There was a kind of
portico above it, supported by small pillars over which grew wistaria.
The gnarled trunk gave him footing, and he swarmed on to the top and
tried the bedroom window. It was latched, but there was room between
the sashes through which to insert the blade of his knife. In two
minutes he was inside. It was poorly furnished, contained an old
four-post bed and a few awful prints. The door led him into the
corridor from which a staircase descended. He went down this
cautiously, for the stairs were old and creaked badly.
On reaching the hall he was in a quandary, for there were three doors
leading off, but after a moment’s reflection he chose the farthermost
one, believing that it would lead him to the kitchen and thence to the
cellar. He was turning the handle when he heard a noise from behind,
and swung round to see Walther facing him.
Wallace’s hand dived for his pistol, but Walther divined his intention
and sprang at him like a panther. Despite his big size he was
wonderfully agile, and his hands reached Wallace before the pistol
could be got into action. The torch fell to the floor, but the hall
was well illuminated by a light from the room from which Walther had
emerged.
“Got you!” grunted Walther.
But he sadly underestimated the strength of his opponent. Wallace,
though two stone lighter, was built like a gun, and was literally
spoiling for a fight. He tripped Walther neatly, and the pair fell
with a resounding bump, clutched in each other’s arms. Wallace had the
good fortune to be on top, but his advantage did not last long. With a
Herculean effort Walther flung him backward, and in a second was on
his feet again.
It was now plain pugilism, in which all the odds were on the younger
man. He forgot all about the pistol, and framed up to his stalwart
adversary. Walther had some knowledge of the game, but not enough to
compete with the trained boxer. In the confined space the fight went
on for five minutes--a savage affair in which hard blows were struck.
Then Walther began to show signs of distress. Reduced to the
defensive, he strove to cover his jaw from the lightning drives. But
Wallace was old at the game. He planted his right into the big ribs
and as Walther’s hands came down he drove his left to the jaw.
There came a sound like a horse falling, and Walther’s fifteen stone
lay huddled up on the dirty linoleum. Wallace immediately dragged the
heavy body through the end door. It led to a stone-flagged kitchen and
on one side of it was a capacious larder, with two stout bolts on the
door. He shoved Walther inside and rammed home the bolts.
Retrieving his torch he discovered the door which led to the cellar.
Twelve stone steps led down into the darkness, and there was another
bolted door at the bottom. Inside this, lying on a pile of wood and
coke, was Conrad, trussed like a fowl ready for roasting.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Walther. I had to deal with him. By Jove, they didn’t mean you to
escape!”
“They pushed a filthy rag into my mouth, but I managed to get rid of
it.… Did you hear that?”
“What?”
“The car. They’re back!”
Wallace heard it now--and voices. He slashed at the rope with his
knife, and the bonds fell away.
“Quick!” he said. “We haven’t a moment to spare.”
But Conrad was slow, for one of his legs refused to function properly.
Wallace rubbed it for him with all the vigour he possessed.
“Better?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll get out the way I came in--upstairs and through the bedroom
window. Hurry!”
They reached the kitchen and heard Walther dealing smashing blows at
the larder door. As Wallace reached the bedroom landing the front door
opened. He looked back and saw Bertha about to enter. She saw him and
also Conrad at the same moment.
“Niels!”
“Neck or nothing, Connie--come on!”
Both of them jumped clean from the portico on to a soft patch of
pampas grass, and immediately made out of the garden and across the
fields. When they were close upon the road Conrad looked back and saw
two blazing car lights moving slowly--but towards them.
“They’re giving chase,” he said.