The Golden Dagger: A Bobby Owen Mystery

by E. R. Punshon

  He began to run. He flashed his torch, but it was of little use against the soft persistence of the clinging mist that seemed to grow thicker with every yard he advanced. Very soon he knew that he had lost all sense of direction, for indeed he was running like a blind man set down at random in a place where he had never been before.

  He slackened his pace to a walk. No object in running, no use in hurrying when he had no way of knowing in which direction it would be best to go. No sound broke the utter stillness and silence around, no sound of human footstep or of human voice, no sound at all, no sound of bell or hammered tray or metal pan such as he had asked for. He did not know whether this meant that Mrs Cato had not obeyed his request or whether the sound of it was being muffled by these dense waves of mist.

  “Only hope,” he muttered, half aloud, “she hasn’t tried to follow and got lost herself.”

  He walked on, more slowly still, pausing frequently, hoping against hope that the mist might presently lift, in part at least. Once he ran into another fence, once into what seemed a post stuck in the ground. He cursed it and pressed on. Because he had read, or thought he had read, that lost travellers tended always to stray to the right till presently they walked in circles, he tried at every fifth or sixth step to take one sideways to the left.

  How far this was effective he had no idea. He began to think he must wander helpless here all the long night through till dawn came and daylight to chase away the faint, fatal enmity that held him captive.

  Every few moments he stood still and shouted. Never came there any reply, listen he never so closely. But now, when he shouted his loudest once more, he thought, but was not sure, he heard a sound close by that might have been a human footstep. He listened, but there was nothing. He called again and now, suddenly, silently, there became visible a faint shadowy form, so faint indeed he could not tell whether it was man or woman, or even be sure that it was human. It was indeed no more than a faint wavering darker outline against the pale nothingness of the mist.

  He ran towards it, if indeed it had been at all. But no sign or shape of it remained, nor any trace or sound to show it was more than some passing trick of the changing wreaths of mist. He could almost have believed he had seen nothing and yet was sure he had, and somehow he felt too that that passing form had concealed a dark and dreadful threat. He flashed the torch he was carrying, the useless torch whose light was instantly lost as utterly in the mist as he was lost himself. Nevertheless, still shouting, he pressed forward, and suddenly there was Maureen, clinging to his arm, breathing in great gasps, sobbing, clinging to his arm as a drowning man to a lifebelt.

  “Thank God! Thank God!” she was panting. “Thank God it’s you!”

  “What on earth—” Bobby began, completely taken by surprise. “What’s been happening?” he asked.

  “It’s Linda,” Maureen stammered. “Linda . . . her face was all over blood . . . there was a man . . . masked. I ran . . . I couldn’t help it . . . I saw you and I thought it was him after me and I think it was but then it was you . . . thank God!” She was speaking more quietly now. “I said I hoped to God I would never see you again and now I’m thanking God it’s you.”

  “Pull yourself together,” Bobby said sharply. “What’s this about Linda? Where is she?”

  “It’s the fog,” Maureen said. “After I ran away I couldn’t find her again. Or the hat. She threw it away. It’s what he wanted. He must have known. He must have been waiting for us. He came out of the fog all of a sudden and I screamed and Linda threw it away—the hat I mean . . . and then she was on the ground all over blood and I ran away . . . her face I mean . . . and I think he followed me, but I don’t know . . . and then I was lost till I saw you.”

  “I’m lost, too,” Bobby said. “Keep with me. If you move a yard away, we may never find each other again. You and Linda were bringing a hat, the one she found on the path through the plantation, was it? You were taking it to the bungalow and a man attacked you. He was masked. Who was he?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered. She spoke quietly now, simply and quietly. She repeated: “I don’t know. How could I? He had a mask and he came all of a sudden out of the fog and it was all over before I knew. And I ran and I know it was being a coward, but I couldn’t help, and when I tried to go back I couldn’t because of the fog. If we don’t find Linda she’ll die.”

  “You must keep with me,” Bobby said again. “Catch hold of my coat and don’t leave go whatever you do. If we could even find the bungalow it would help. Or the stile into the next field. If we do find Linda I shall have to ask you to stay with her while I try to find the bungalow or anything to show where we are. Shall you be afraid to stay alone with her?”

  “Oh, yes,” Maureen answered fervently. “I never knew I was such a coward. But I’ll stop with her if you say so. Only I think if that man finds us he will kill us both because he’ll be afraid we knew him. Only, of course it’s the hat he wants, but how can he find it when it’s like this?”

  “I think both you and Linda knew well who he was,” Bobby said. “Will you not tell me?”

  He waited for a reply. It did not come at once. Then she said the one word:

  “No.” Correcting herself quickly, she said: “How could we know? It was all so sudden and he was masked and then the fog.”

  “Loyalty may become a crime,” Bobby said. “Please think that over. Now I’m going to walk in as straight a line as I can. I am hoping in that way we may reach the hedge. Then if we follow it round we may be able to get to the bungalow or the stile into the next field. I left one of my men in the lane. I told him to stop there, but he may have sense enough to try to find out what’s happening. He may have heard you calling. I’m going to shout as loudly as I can. When I stop, you shout. As loudly as possible. Your voice may carry further than mine in this mist. I don’t know. But whatever you do, don’t leave hold of my coat.”

  “I won’t,” Maureen assured him with great firmness. “Me hanging on to a man’s coat-tails,” she added ruefully, “and awfully afraid of letting go.”

  They walked on accordingly, Maureen clinging very tightly indeed to his coat-tail. As he walked Bobby shouted as seldom he had shouted before, then listened for a reply. Maureen, too, at intervals, with all the vigour that her fear gave her, fear both for herself and Linda. Nor was it long before these tactics succeeded, for presently there came a reply. Bobby shouted again. This time the response was nearer. Maureen added a scream by way of helping and Bobby told her not to, for fear of confusing the direction.

  “It may be the man in the mask,” Maureen whispered with sudden, renewed fear.

  “I hope so, but it won’t be,” Bobby said. “If it were, I would not have to ask you or Linda to tell me who he was.”

  “Perhaps Linda’s dead,” Maureen said in a little low whisper he could hardly hear, and he had not time to remind her that Baldwin Jones at least was dead before he heard Ford calling.

  “That you, sir?” Ford was saying. He loomed huge and indistinct from out of the all-embracing wreaths of mist. “When I saw how bad the mist was getting I thought I had better come along, but it wasn’t anything like it is now or I would have bumped the car through the hedge somehow—lamps and all. I thought I heard someone scream,” he added, aware now of Maureen half hidden behind Bobby and still clinging firmly to his coat-tail.

  “It was me,” Maureen said, peeping out from her shelter. “It’s Linda been hurt. You must find her.”

  “They were attacked on their way to Mrs Cato’s,” Bobby explained. “By a man in a mask. Keep on the look-out for him. He may be dangerous. He used the Golden Dagger once. Perhaps he will again. They had the hat we’ve been looking for. Linda is probably unconscious somewhere about here. I hope he hasn’t found the bungalow. Mrs Cato is there, alone. Thank God!” he exclaimed as at this moment, and apparently from no great distance, they heard a banging, as of metal upon metal. “That’ll be her. Hurry, Ford. You go with him,” he added to Maur
een. “Don’t get separated. Ford, tell Mrs Cato to lock the bungalow door and not open it to anyone except us. There’s risk our masked friend may be there first. When Mrs Cato and the girl are safe indoors, get all the string or rope you can and lay a trail from the bungalow so we can find it easily again. Look sharp. There’s danger till we have got this masked man or know he’s gone—and most likely he’s still here looking for the hat he knows he has to find.”

  “I think the mist is lifting,” Ford said.

  “I think I saw someone over there,” Maureen said. “I think perhaps he was near enough to hear. I think perhaps that he was listening.”

  “Well, that doesn’t matter much now you’ve told us who he is,” Bobby said loudly. He clapped his hand, none too gently, over Maureen’s mouth, for he saw she had been about to protest. “Shut up,” he said in an angry whisper as she tried to push his hand away. “If he thinks you’ve told us, he won’t bother about you any more.” Aloud he said: “Hurry now. I’ll stay and see if I can find Linda.”

  A thin, high voice from behind, a voice he did not recognize, a voice he thought might be disguised, said:

  “She’s there, on your right, about ten yards away. If you don’t get her into shelter at once, she’ll probably die of cold—your responsibility.”

  CHAPTER XXXV

  A SCRATCHED FACE

  “OR YOURS?” Bobby called back into that pale invisibility. “Hadn’t you better stop this sort of thing? I’ve always known who you were and now there’s your hat for proof.”

  There was no answer, no sound. Except indeed one so faint, so muffled, so low, Bobby was not sure he had really heard it. Yet he thought that it had sounded like the low moan of a stricken animal, stricken to death. Now the impenetrable curtain of the mist that had withdrawn itself momentarily came rolling back, and again it was to Bobby as if he stood alone in a world where he alone had palpable existence. The voice from the mist had said that Linda was lying a few yards away, to the right, and that she was in danger of dying from exposure and cold. That, at least, was probably true. But was the rest true? Or was it merely an attempt to lead him astray or even to give to one evidently desperate a chance to take him unawares? Or again, and more probably, was it true but was the motive to get Bobby to a safe distance and so leave the unknown a better chance of finding the hat that Linda had thrown away, the hat which, if it gave proof of ownership as it well might, would give also proof of guilt?

  And if what had been said could be trusted, if the direction had been given accurately, could he, he wondered, keep that direction for even so short a distance as ten yards?

  Very cautiously, slowly, on his guard, for he still thought an attack might be launched at any moment from out of the shelter of a mist now as thick as before, Bobby began to move in the direction indicated. He felt himself tread on something that was neither the turf of the field, nor the beaten track of the footpath, nor yet one of the many stones scattered here and there. He stooped to pick it up and found he was holding a black Homburg hat, the one beyond doubt that the two girls had had with them and that Linda had thrown from her into the sure keeping of the mist. Though sought for with passion, since on the finding of it hung issues of life and death, it might well have lain there unseen till finally the mist cleared and day had come. Unsought, it offered itself to his foot. Holding it, feeling that the long pursuit had ended at last, Bobby moved on as cautiously as before—and soon was obliged to recognize that he had gone much farther than the ten yards or so the voice from the mist had mentioned. No trace of Linda had he seen, though the discovery of the hat seemed to give proof that she could not be far distant.

  He made an attempt to retrace his steps and immediately was as hopelessly lost as before. Perhaps the direction given him had been mistaken, too, since it was altogether likely that its giver had been as entirely confused and astray as Bobby himself had now become once again. He stood still, listening intently, hearing nothing. A faint slow breeze came creeping across the fields stirring the mist, stirring in Bobby a hope that if only it would strengthen, the mist would clear. It did strengthen, and then suddenly, as suddenly as in a theatre the curtain rises to show the prepared scene behind, so now the mist rolled back, dissolved, was not.

  Above shone out a clear, cloudless sky, throwing down light from the stars and a young moon. At a little distance a human form became visible, that of a man, standing there silent and still, doubtless as much surprised as Bobby was himself by this swift change. Between them, equally distant, more or less, from the one as from the other, lay the huddled form of a prostrate woman.

  Instantly Bobby sprang forward. As instantly the man thus so revealed turned and ran, ran with such urgency of flight that he went headlong into the prickly hedge that here divided this field from the next. He was on his feet again on the instant, dabbing at his face with his handkerchief, whether because it was scratched and bleeding or as a means of concealment, since his mask had been torn off in his fall.

  “Look after her,” he screamed, his voice high, shrill, distorted, unrecognizable. “Or she’ll die—die.”

  The last word itself died away into the mist. Bobby’s swift dash forward had brought him to Linda’s side. He could see that in her condition she could not be left. He knelt down by her. She was moaning softly, but did not seem to be conscious.

  The bleeding from an injury she had received to the head had stopped. But when he tried to feel her pulse it was scarce perceptible. Her hand was as ice, and he heard with anger the sound of running footsteps die away as the fugitive made sure his escape.

  Bobby would have given much to follow in pursuit even now, but Linda’s need for prompt assistance was obvious and paramount. She must not be allowed to remain any longer lying there in cold and damp, if indeed these had not already done their work. For well might it be that already it was too late. With some difficulty, he got the girl’s prostrate form on his shoulder in what is sometimes known as the ‘fireman’s lift’. Carrying her thus, he began to run towards the bungalow. He saw Ford running to meet him. He called:

  “I can manage. Fetch a doctor. Get to the car. Hurry. She’s alive still; that’s about all. Tell the doctor it’s chiefly cold and shock and exposure. Quick.”

  Ford was already hurrying full speed to obey. Bobby pushed on towards the bungalow. Mrs Cato was hovering near the gate. She had ignored the warning to keep inside behind locked doors. He noticed she was carrying in one hand the hatchet she used for chopping wood. Seeing him coming, she threw the thing down and ran to meet him. He called to her to go back and prepare hot drinks, hot-water bottles.

  “All we can do till the doctor comes,” he panted as he still ran with the girl upon his shoulder. “I’ve sent the car.”

  Mrs Cato fled back at her best speed to the bungalow. Maureen had come now to the open door, reassured by Bobby’s presence. Bobby put Linda down on a bed and left her to her mother and Maureen to undress and get between the blankets. He went back into the outer room and busied himself preparing coffee and boiling more water—the coffee both for himself, for he was chilled to the bone, and for Linda when she recovered consciousness. Mrs Cato came out and began to fill and trim a portable oil stove. As she worked, she said:

  “I was nearly lost, too. I tried to follow you and then I didn’t know where I was. That’s why I couldn’t do anything at first till I got back and found a tea tray to bang. Thank you for bringing Linda back.”

  “How is she?” Bobby asked.

  “We can’t get her warm,” Mrs Cato said. “Not in herself.”

  “Her assailant got away,” Bobby said. “But I know who he is. I have his hat,” and he indicated with a gesture the black Homburg hat he had put down on a table in the corner and towards which he directed from time to time a glance of grim satisfaction.

  Mrs Cato hardly seemed to hear what he said or to notice it. She went back into the bedroom. Bobby sat down to wait. There was nothing more he could do. He found himself nodding off to sleep
so he got up and went outside. There was no sign yet of any doctor or of Ford. He waited impatiently, chafing at the inactivity forced upon him. But he dared not leave the women alone, for he did not know to what pitch of desperation Linda’s assailant might not by now have wrought himself. He might be somewhere near at hand, watching, ready to attack again. He might appear even in innocent guise, claiming merely to have been lost in the fog and too confident in his disguise to believe he had been recognized. It might be he would make one last desperate effort to recover possession of his hat, which he could well feel was the only solid evidence against him. Nor, for that matter, did Bobby wish to let out of his sight for a moment that same piece of evidence for which he had searched so long.

  “And even yet,” Bobby admitted to himself, “I couldn’t swear to identity. I know all right, but that’s no good by itself. Even if either of the girls could and would, any clever K.C. could soon make a jury doubtful—and the girls themselves as well for that matter.”

  He drank some more coffee and then went outside again. This time he heard approaching footsteps. Then out of the dim night there loomed up three figures. They were those of Ford, of another, plainly a doctor, and of Jack Longton, looking tired, dishevelled, muddy from a fall apparently, his face slightly scratched and showing traces of slight bleeding. Ford said:

  “We met Mr Longton in Higgles Lane going towards the village so I asked him to come with us,” and in Ford’s voice as he spoke there sounded a suspicion he made no attempt to hide.

  “You are out late, Mr Longton,” Bobby said as the doctor disappeared into the room of which Mrs Cato had just opened the door. “It’s a long way here from where you are staying.” There was suspicion, too, in his voice, as he began to wonder whether the trail he had been so persistently following had not been mistaken from the start. “You’ve been out all night?” he said.

  “I got caught in that beastly fog,” Longton answered. “Got lost completely. Walked bang into a ditch.” He touched his face where the scratches showed. “Why? What about it? What’s up? Your man won’t say. Is it Maureen?”