Trouble on the Thames (19 page)

“There she is, sir,” continued the Superintendent proudly, “and this is Constable Plummer, who'll run you across. Lived around here all his life, Plummer has. Used to do odd jobs for the old General when he was a lad, so if there's anything you want to know about the place, he'll be the one to tell you.”

“That may be very helpful. You have got a car of your own, I suppose?”

“Out at the back, sir.”

“Excellent. I think the best plan will be to hand Craig over into your charge for the night, and we will make arrangements to collect him in the morning. We shall have plenty to do ourselves, going through the house.”

“He'll be safe enough with us! I can promise you that.” Fothergill paused. “I take it you want me to remain here sir?”

“If you don't mind, Superintendent. Sorry to leave you out of the fun, but we must have somebody on this side whom we can absolutely rely upon.”

Motioning to the others to take their places, Greystoke stepped down after them into the launch. Seated behind the wheel, Constable Plummer bent forward over his controls. With a faint swish the propeller began to revolve, and in another second they were gliding silently under the narrow archway and heading out into the open stream.

Anything more calm and restful-looking than Otter's Holt it would have been difficult to imagine. Lying there in the moonlight, a nocturne in black and silver, it appeared to be the last spot on earth that could be associated with crime or violence. Somewhere between the trees a faint, friendly pencil of light flickered out across the water, while from the shadowy depths on the farther side of the island came the low, caressing murmur of the weir.

“Is there a back entrance to the place?”

“Yes, sir.” The young constable glanced round over his shoulder. “Faces the opposite bank and leads out into the kitchen garden.”

“That will be your job, Sergeant!” Greystoke nodded to Campbell. “Get round behind as soon as we land and rope in anyone who tries to leave the house that way. Plummer can go with you and keep an eye on the rest of the grounds.”

“Very good, sir.”

“What do you think, Elliot? Any improvement you can suggest?”

The Chief Inspector shook his head. “Seems about the best we can do. Don't see him dodging out of this, not unless he can make himself invisible.”

With a broad white ripple trailing away astern, the launch sped on silently towards the deserted landing-stage. It was a solidly constructed affair, supported on thick wooden piles, with a stout iron mooring-ring at either end of the staging. Attached to the nearer of these lay a long, rakish-looking punt, and heading for the other a few feet farther on, Plummer switched off the motor and brought them neatly alongside. There was a sudden rustle of wings, and from an adjoining bush two or three startled shapes scurried away into the darkness.

As quietly as possible, the whole party scrambled out. From where they had stepped ashore a red-brick path led up to the front door, bordered on the right by what appeared to be a stretch of open lawn.

“Off you go, you two,” whispered Greystoke. “I'll give you four minutes to get to your places.”

As he spoke he took another glance at the illuminated dial of his watch, and fading away obediently, Campbell and Plummer disappeared amongst the shadows.

“Best leave Craig to me,” murmured the Chief Inspector. “If we do happen to strike trouble that'll mean a free hand for you and Mr. Bradwell.”

A brief nod was the only answer, and making no attempt at any further conversation, the three of them stood there with their eyes riveted upon the house. To Owen the time seemed interminable. With every moment that passed his anxiety about Sally became more and more desperate, and it was only by a superhuman effort that he forced himself to remain silent and inactive.

“That's about right. Now I think we can announce our arrival.” Greystoke buttoned up his coat.

“I'll go first, if you've no objection, sir.”

Stepping out in front, Elliot led the way up the path. In another second or so his hand was on the knocker, and a vigorous tattoo went echoing through the house. Somewhere in the far distance a dog barked protestingly.

A longish pause followed, and then, just as the summons was about to be repeated, a muffled tread of heavy boots could be heard approaching the door. Slowly and grudgingly it swung open.

“Who are you, and vot you doing here?”

A big, grotesquely hideous man who looked rather like a gorilla was peering out at them with an air of sullen hostility.

“I am a police officer from Scotland Yard. I have called to see Mr. Mark Craig.”

“Dot is impossible. He does not see peoples midout an appointment.”

“He'll see us all right.”

With a sudden thrust Elliot sent the objector lurching sideways and, followed by the other two, shouldered his way past. They found themselves in a square, pleasantly furnished lounge-hall, from which a dimly lighted staircase led up to the landing above.

“Eet is an outrage you do.” Recovering his balance, the big fellow took a step forward. Then he pulled up, clenching his fists and glaring at them malevolently.

“Where is he? Come along now; don't waste time.”

“You haf no right to act zo, you—”

“I have a warrant entitling me to enter and search this house. If you don't answer my question—”

A sudden warning yell split the air, and from outside came the sound of running feet.

What the hell—

Greystoke and Owen, who were nearest, sprang forward simultaneously. Elliot was only a pace behind them, and after a brief, savage scuffle in the doorway all three stumbled out into the open. At the same instant a long-legged figure in overalls raced past, pointing towards the river.

“There he is, sir—shovin' off in the punt.”

It was Craig right enough: one could tell that at a glance. Even now he was well clear of the landing-stage, and at each powerful thrust of the pole the gap steadily widened. A yard or so upstream, with its loosened painter trailing over the stern, drifted the long, green shape of the empty launch.

“Don't shoot—he can't get away.”

Greystoke's voice rang out sharply above the uproar and letting go the automatic which he had been in the act of dragging from his pocket, Owen set off down the path in the wake of the fleet-footed Plummer.

That the latter was a man of action was swiftly and dramatically demonstrated. With a resounding splash that sent a shower of spray in all directions he dived headlong into the water, and before Owen himself had reached the edge of the wet planking he was already swimming furiously in pursuit of his escaping craft.

“Good man!” panted the Inspector as he and Greystoke ranged up alongside. “We'll catch the swine all right, sir: there's Fothergill coming along now!”

Wielding his pole with the smooth dexterity of an expert, Craig shot forward towards the opposite shore. He was making for a point slightly above the entrance to the backwater, and towards this, grim and relentless as an approaching Fate, raced the menacing form of the Superintendent.

Just as Plummer's arm was reaching up to grasp the launch the converging forces met. A yellow spurt of flame, accompanied by a venomous roar, lit up the adjacent bushes, and staggering backwards with a drunken lurch, Fothergill slumped down heavily upon his hands and knees.

“The murdering bastard!” Elliot shook his fist in impotent fury.

“Look, man, look! Who the devil's that?”

“Good God! It must be Humphreys.”

From somewhere in the darkness beyond a third figure had suddenly hurled itself forward. Almost simultaneously another shot crashed out, and then, locked together in a frantic grapple, two writhing, struggling bodies reeled towards the bank. There was a harsh, agonised scream like the cry of a wounded animal, and plunging downwards in a tangled mass, they struck the water and disappeared beneath the surface.

“Quick, Bradwell,” Greystoke nodded towards the house. “Slip back and see that ruffian doesn't destroy anything in the way of papers. I'll be with you as soon as I can.”

By now the indomitable Plummer had already succeeded in scrambling into the launch. Owen caught a momentary glimpse of it swinging round in the direction of the landing-stage, and then, a trifle dazed at the catastrophic suddenness of the whole affair, he found himself sprinting desperately up the narrow path, with a vague glimmer from the open doorway shining out ahead of him. He was still several paces from his goal, when a breathless Sergeant Campbell came bursting hurriedly round the corner.

“What's happened? Anyone hurt?”

“Looks like it; but there's no time to explain now. Greystoke's sent me back to collar the beauty inside. Afraid he may be up to mischief.”

“All right, sir. I'll give you a hand.”

Together they strode through into the now deserted hall, where an overturned table, with a litter of books and other objects spread out around it, bore witness to the recent scuffle. Owen, who was leading the way, pulled up abruptly. Almost the first thing that had caught his eye was a small blue-silk handbag lying amongst the wreckage. He recognised it instantly as the one which Sally had been carrying on the day they had lunched at the Milan, and with a sudden oath stepped forward to pick it up. As he did so a partly open door opposite was pulled back, disclosing the repulsive figure of Craig's dishevelled-looking retainer.

Gun in hand, Owen wheeled round savagely.

“Where's Miss Deane?” he demanded. “You've got her here somewhere.”

“I—I do not know vot you mean.”

“Don't lie to me unless you want a bullet in your guts.”

The man shrank back, his eyes fastened upon the weapon which was pointing straight at the pit of his stomach.

“She—she—is upstairs,” he stammered. “In the liddle room mid the locked door. She is not hurt—no.”

“If she is I'll smash your face in.” Owen turned to Campbell. “Will you carry on while I go and look for her!”

“Right you are, sir.” The sergeant whipped out a pair of handcuffs. “If you want any help,” he added, “just give me a call.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, Owen raced up to the landing above. Before him lay a broad passage, leading straight through to the back of the house. It was lighted by a shaded electric bulb suspended from the ceiling, and one revealing fact stood out at a glance. In the end room on the left the key was on the outside.

Hurrying towards it and twisting it round with a vicious jerk, he flung open the door. At first he could see nothing. Then, out of the darkness in front of him came a low, suffocated moan, and almost simultaneously his groping fingers encountered a switch. The next instant he was down on one knee, bending over the small, white-faced figure that lay stretched out on the bare floor.

“Sally! Sally darling!”

With feverish haste he began to unknot the thick coloured handkerchief that was fastened across her mouth. From above it two dazed blue eyes stared up at him through a tangle of red-gold hair.

“Owen!”

It was the merest whisper, so husky and faint that it barely reached his ears.

“Don't try to talk—not for a moment or two.”

He had dragged out a knife from his pocket, and was sawing through the stout cords that imprisoned her wrists and ankles. As they fell away, exposing the chafed and bruised skin below, such a flame of rage swept through him that it seemed to leave him physically exhausted. Very gently he raised her up until her head was resting against his shoulder.

“It's all right: you're quite safe now, Sally.”

She made a gallant but rather pitiful attempt to smile.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

“I—I don't know. I just remember waking up and feeling horribly sick. Then—then a man came in, and began asking me questions about you. I wouldn't answer him, and that made him angry. He twisted my arm and it hurt, so I—I think I must have fainted.” She gave a little shiver and her eyes closed. “Oh, gosh, I do feel so ill.”

With an unsteady hand Owen smoothed back the soft, curling hair that had tumbled forward across her forehead.

“Don't worry, darling. You'll be out of this and comfortably in bed before you know where you are. We have only got to wait until Greystoke comes back with the launch. He won't be more than a few minutes at the outside. I'm going to take you downstairs, and you can lie on the sofa in the hall.”

Another wan smile flickered momentarily across her lips.

“Don't drop me,” she whispered, “or I'll probably be sick again.”

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her to the end of the corridor, and very slowly and carefully made his way down the short, poorly lighted staircase. For the moment the ground floor appeared to be deserted, but as he reached the bottom step and turned towards the leather couch in the corner, the sergeant came in hastily through the open door opposite.

“So you've found her!” he exclaimed. “What's the trouble, sir?”

“Don't know exactly. Those devils have gagged her and tied her up like a trussed chicken.”

Hurrying across and taking hold of Sally's arm, which was trailing down limply over the side, Campbell placed his fingers on her wrist. With an obvious effort she again opened her eyes.

“They—they've been doping me,” she muttered. “I—I remember now. I tried to scream, and somebody jabbed a needle into my arm—” Her voice trailed off into silence.

“Isn't there a telephone in the damned place?” demanded Owen. “Couldn't we ring up a doctor and—”

There was a sound of steps on the path outside, and before he could finish the sentence Greystoke appeared in the doorway. He stood for an instant breathing quickly, his keen eyes taking in every detail of the scene in front of him.

“She
was
here, then: that's something to be thankful for.” He strode forward to the couch. “How is she, and where did you find her?”