Why Shoot a Butler (22 page)

She fought desperately and heard through the roaring in her ears Bill's snarl, coming as though from an immense distance away. Then the anaesthetic overpowered her; she felt her head growing lighter and lighter, and a numbness paralysing her limbs, and slid into unconsciousness. The man who held her had kicked the kitchen door to just in time to stop Bill's murderous rush. On the other side of it the dog was clawing frantically at the wooden panels, barking in a frenzy of rage.

The unknown man laid Shirley down roughly and forced a gag between her slack jaws and secured it with a scarf bound over her mouth. He drew a coil of thin rope from his pocket and quickly lashed her wrists and her ankles together. Then pulling her up, he flung her across his shoulder and went out with her, through the shadowed garden to the lane and up it, keeping close under the lee of the hedge until a closed car was reached.

He thrust his burden into the back of it, on the floor, and threw a rug over the girl, completely concealing her. A moment later he was, in the driving-seat and had switched on the lights. The car crept forward, gathering speed, reached the main road and swung round on to it.

In the cottage Bill turned from the unyielding door to the window and gathered his haunches under him for the spring. There was a smash, the tinkle of broken glass, and a big bull-terrier, his white coat flecked with blood, put his nose once to the ground, sniffing, and was off, following the scent of a man he meant to pull down.

Chapter Seventeen

The Bentley swept into Upper Nettlefold and drew up at the Boar's Head. Miss Brown, the porter informed Amberley, had not yet come in. He was about to leave the place when he paused and said briefly that he wished to telephone. The porter led him to the box and left him there. Mr. Amberley opened the tclephone book and swiftly found the number he sought. In three minutes he was speaking to the hall-porter of a certain London club.

Yes, Mr. Fountain had been in the club that afternoon, but he had left shortly before tea-time. No, the hallporter could not say where he was going, but he would no doubt be found later at the Gaiety Theatre. He had reserved a seat there for Mr. Fountain over the telephone.

Amberley thanked the man and rang off. He strode uut again to his car, beside which he found an indignant constable who proposed to take his name and address for dangerous driving in the town.

Amberley got into the car and started the engine. "Get gut of the way," he said. "No doubt I shall see you later. I can't stop to chat with you now."

The constable jumped back just in time as the car shot forward. He was left standing speechless on the curbstone and had only just enough presence of mind to jot down the Bentley's number.

Amberley drove straight to Ivy Cottage and drew up outside the gate with less than his usual care. He saw that a light was burning in the house and drew a sharp sigh of relief. He was just getting out of the car when the bullterrier came into sight in the lane, questing about to pick up the scent he had lost. Amberley stopped short and called to the dog. Bill came at once, recognising the voice. He was whining with suppressed eagerness and dashed off again immediately. But Amberley had had time to notice the gashes on his muzzle and flanks. He made no attempt ho catch Bill but strode into the garden, calling to Constable Tucker. There was no answer.

His foot scrunched on something brittle; he looked down and saw the gleam of broken glass. There was a hole in the kitchen window, and no need to speculate on what had caused it.

The front door was shut, but Amberley thrust in his arm through the broken window and unbolted it and flung up the lower sash. He climbed in and took in at a glance the lamp, still burning, Shirley's handbag lying on the table, and beside it the Colt automatic. Even at such a moment as this Mr. Amberley's thin lips twitched into a smile that was amused and rather scornful. He pocketed he gun, got out his torch and made a tour of the house.

A strong smell of chloroform assailed his nostrils as he opened the kitchen door; a scrap of cotton-wool, torn by Shirley from the pad in her struggle, lay at the foot of the stairs. Amberley picked it up and held it to his nose. The anaesthetic was still clinging to it; he judged that it could not have been lying there for more than a few minutes. The living-room window was open, and there was a cake of mud on the floor with the imprint of a rubber heel on it. Amberley gathered it up, taking care that it should not crumble, and laid it down on the table. There was no one in the house and no sign of Constable Tucker.

He went out into the garden again, and using his torch, made a tour of it. A groan led him to a lilac bush beside a rustic seat; Tucker was on the ground, as though he had fallen from the seat, trying to raise himself on his elbow.

Amberley's torch flashed full into his face; he blinked stupidly at the light, still groaning. Amberley dropped onto his knee beside him. "Come on, man, come on," he said impatiently. "What happened? Pull yourself together!"

Tucker's hand went up to his head. "My head!" he muttered. "Oh, Gawd, my head!"

"Yes, I've no doubt something hit you. Luckily your head's a hard one. Drink this!" He snapped back the lid of his brandy flask and put it to Tucker's mouth. The raw spirit revived the man; he managed to sit up, still clasping his head. "What happened?" he said dazedly. "Who hit me?"

"Don't ask me questions! Try to think!" snarled Amberley. "Did you see anyone?"

"No. I don't know what happened. I was sitting here waiting for the young lady. Somebody must have hit me."

"My God, you're a fine policeman!" Amberley said savagely. He got to his feet. "Do you mean to tell me you didn't hear anything? No footstep? No car?"

The unfortunate Tucker tried to concentrate his mind. "A car. Yes, I heard a car. But it went up to the farm. It didn't stop."

"What sort of a car? Did you see the number plate?"

"No. No, I only got a glimpse as it passed the gate. I think it was a closed car. It was a big one."

"Colour?"

"I couldn't see, sir. It was too dark to see."

"Listen to me!" Amberley said. "There's a cake of mud on the table in the living room. You've got to take that to the police station. There's an imprint on it. Understand?"

Tucker nodded and managed to get up. Mr. Amberley turned and strode towards the gate. Bill's desperate whines made him look over his shoulder. "Look after the dog. There's a leash in the kitchen."

He was gone. Tucker heard the car start and sat down on the seat to recover his equilibrium.

Amberley drove the car into Upper Nettlefold and through the High Street to the Market Square. There was a garage at the corner with petrol pumps displaying globes lit by electricity. He ran the car under one of these, said curtly to the man in attendance: "Fill her up!" and got out, slamming the door behind him.

The police station was on the opposite side of the square. Sergeant Gubbins was behind the door marked PRIVATE, and Mr. Amberley walked in without troubling the constable on duty to announce him.

The sergeant looked up austerely but broke into a smile when he saw who was his visitor. "Evening, Mr. Amberley. Anything new?"

Amberley had no answering smile for him. "Sergeant, instruct that constable outside to ring up all surrounding police stations to stop and search a blue Vauxhall limousine, number PV 80496."

The sergeant knew his Mr. Amberley. He did not stop to ask questions, but got up and went to the door and repeated the order to the constable in the outer room. Then he turned and said: "What's happened, sir?"

"The girl's been kidnapped. Can you come with me at once?"

The sergeant stared. "Good Lord, sir!" he ejaculated. "Kidnapped? Where's Tucker?"

"At the cottage. Someone knocked him out. He saw nothing, heard nothing. My only consolation is that he's feeling something. Are you coming:

"Half a moment, sir, and I'm with you," said the sergeant, and pushed through into the outer room and conferred briefly with the constable, who was already sending out the message. By the time he had finished and had got his helmet and a revolver, Amberley had left the station and recrossed the square to the garage.

The sergeant followed him and climbed into the car while Amberley was paying for his petrol. As Amberley put his foot on the self-starter he asked where they were going.

"I don't know," replied Amberley, and swept round the square and out of it to the crossroads above the Boar's Head.

The constable on point duty, who had taken his number half an hour earlier, saw the Bentley coming and held up his hand to stop it. It drew up alongside him, and Amberley leaned out to speak to him.

"Has a dark blue Vauxhall, five-water limousine passed during the last hour? Number PV 80496. Think, man!"

The constable said grimly: "I don't need to think for what I'm going to do. I'll trouble you for your name and address."

Amberley sat back. "Speak to the fool," he said.

The sergeant was already preparing to do so. He spoke a language the constable could easily understand and had heard before.

"But - but, Sergeant, I 'ad my hand up, and he went past me like a streak of lightning. He must 'ave seen it, but he never took no notice. He went…'

"The wonder to me is he could see what was behind it," said the sergeant unflatteringly. "You answer him and be quick about it. He's Mr. Frank Amberley, that's who he is."

"I didn't know who 'e was," said the constable resentfully. "All I know was he disregarded my signal to him to stop."

"Get on with it! You can charge me some other time," said Amberley. "A Vauxhall limousine, PV 80496."

The constable scratched his chin. "There was a Morris Oxford went down the Lumsden Road," he said. "That wouldn't be it."

"Oh, my God!" said Amberley. "A large car, man! Bonnet with two scoops out of it."

"No, I haven't seen it," said the constable as though he were glad to be able to say so. "I seen Mr. Purvis' Daimler, but I haven't seen no other big car, not during the past hour I haven't."

Mr. Amberley's hand found the gear-lever. "Hold up that cart; I'm going to turn," he said.

"Don't stand there goggling, hold it up!" commanded the sergeant. "Lor' I never see such a fat-headed lout!

Right away, Mr. Amberley, sir, and for Gawd's sake mind that perishing cyclist!"

The Bentley went round the constable with a growl and shot off down the High Street. The constable, still holding up the horse and cart like a man in a trance, heard the infinitesimal check of the gears changing, then the hum of a high-powered car travelling at speed away into the distance, and came back to earth to hear himself being rudely addressed by the Carter.

"Where's the nearest constable on point duty past Ivy Cottage, Sergeant?" asked Amberley.

"There ain't one. There's an AA man about a mile on, at the Brighton Road crossing, but he won't be on duty now. It's too late."

"Damn. What are the turnings?"

"None, till you get to the Brighton crossing, if you don't count the lane leading to Furze Hall. I'll tell you what, sir! They're widening the bridge at Griffin's corner, before you reach the crossing. There'll be a man there directing the traffic."

"Well, pray God he's not a fool," said Amberley, swerving to avoid a careless pedestrian.

The sergeant clutched the door and righted himself. He refrained from comment but said: "I dunno, sir, but if you ask me it ain't what you'd call a brainy job, turning a signboard round and waving a lantern. Look out, sir, there's a bend coming!"

"You leave me to drive this car my own way," said Mr. Amberley.

The sergeant held his breath as the car swung round the bend, and ventured to relax again. "I've been in this district some years now, sir," he said slowly.

"You won't be here much longer," said Amberley.

"Not if you're going to drive at this pace, I won't," retorted the sergeant. "But what I was going to say was, I know a good few of the cars about here."

"Bright of you."

The sergeant ignored this. "And I know who owns a blue Vauxhall limousine, Number PV 80496. And I can tell you this, Mr. Amberley, you've got me fair gasping. That's the bridge ahead, sir! Go easy!"

The youth on duty there was moodily swinging a green lamp, but Amberley pulled the car up. The sergeant was nearest the youth, and he leaned out and inquired whether the Vauxhall had passed over the bridge.

The youth turned out to be typical of his generation. Very few cars passed him which he did not closely inspect and appraise. He was not interested in numberplates, but he had held up a big Vauxhall about three quarters of an hour earlier to let a lorry come over the bridge from the other side. He began to enter into a detailed description of the horsepower and year of the car, but was cut short.