Francis, meanwhile, had been subjected to a different ordeal. He had been offered release, or, at least, to be handed over to the care of the local Cuckford police, if he would make a written confession of his complicity in the crime for which he had been convicted, and the penalty of refusal had been plainly stated.
“If you are so unreasonable as to refuse,” Captain Morgan had said, “you will put me to the unpleasant necessity of assisting you to escape from the penalty of the law. We must provide you with a machine in which you can attempt to cross the Channel to such safety as may be found on the other side. We can start you off, but you will see that we cannot afterwards navigate the machine. If you should fall into the sea, which I fear would be a very probable end of your adventure, you will see that you will have perished in the endeavour to flee from an appeal in the merits of which men will suppose that you had no belief, and they will judge it to be the act of a guilty man.
“Why not therefore save your life by a confession which will place you in no worse position?”
Stated so, it was a hard thing to refuse, and he might not have rejected the temptation to write and then endeavour to repudiate such a document, had he not felt a natural distrust of the good faith in which the proposal was made. Might it not be that they desired to obtain it from him for their own security, before they sent him to dreadful death?
It was at a late hour of the winter night when he was roused from such sleep as his condition allowed, to be told to dress, as he would now be permitted to leave at once.
He was led, with a pistol-muzzle against his back, to one of the smaller hangars, which were for the renting of those who kept their own private planes at the aerodrome.
He looked up at a machine which was, in fact, of the larger size, and which seemed immense to his unaccustomed eyes, which had only seen such monsters before as they passed far over his head, or in pictures upon the screen.
He looked round in the vain hope of escape, or for someone to whom he might make what his reason told him would be no more than useless appeal, and saw Augusta Garten, similarly guarded, a few paces away.
She returned his glance, and saw in his eyes the desperation of fear. Better, he thought, to die in a useless struggle there, to make one last effort of breaking free, to be shot down if he must, rather than to be sent aloft to that certain and dreadful death. She said: “It’s no use, Harold. We’ve got to go. There’s no other way,” and he found himself calmed and steadied by the dull hopelessness of her voice, and by a sense of companionship in misery that it gave. He felt as though he would be deserting her at her equal need, if he should endeavour to break away.
All this was in an instant of time, for their captors were in a great haste. They saw, to their surprise, a pilot climb into the machine. They were pushed and hurried into seats at his rear.
They could not guess that the occasion for haste was that Inspector Beddoes was known to have already stopped at the Cuckford police station, and now to be on the point of starting his cars on the three miles of road still separating him from the aerodrome, which four minutes would be sufficient to cover. They heard the whirr of the propeller. Slowly, heavily, but at ever-increasing speed, the machine moved out on to the field, and rose into the darkness.
Inspector Beddoes saw it go, and supposed ruefully that he had missed his intended prey. He did not see the pilot drop by parachute from the machine when he had taken it to a sufficient height, and headed it on a southern course. He left it rising slightly but steadily into the wind, with sufficient petrol in its tank to take it well out over the sea.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Inspector Beddoes was a sanguine and resolute officer. He did not consider the possibility of failure so much as the results of success, if he should become a prominent instrument in rooting out a gang on whose tracks he had been for the past two years, with no more result as yet than that Tony Welch was behind prison bars for a number of years to come.
If we contrast his conduct with the hesitations of Inspector Combridge, we must in justice observe that he had no more than a subordinate responsibility, that he had not the burden of two mistaken arrests on his record in this case already, and that he had more to gain and less to lose than his superior officer, whose brilliant record could more easily be sullied by conspicuous failure than brightened by one additional triumph.
Finding the aerodrome to be in a condition of activity unusual for the night hours, he had no scruple in surrounding it, and placing everyone he found on the premises under detention while he commenced his investigations.
He was told at once that Captain Morgan was in control, and he proceeded to question him.
“I understand that you are in charge here?”
“In Colonel Driver’s absence, yes.”
“You have had a young man here named Francis Hammerton?”
This was a random shot, which was lucky to find its mark, and Inspector Beddoes had additional cause for surprise when he received a frank and affirmative answer.
“Yes, if that be his real name. He came here under that of Vaughan, with a young woman named Garten, with whom he appeared to be on rather intimate terms. He wanted to hire a plane, which I was unwilling to let him have. I should say that Miss Garten is, more or less, an acquaintance of Colonel Driver. She’s been here before, and no doubt it was she who brought him.
“I learned that he was a convict with a bad record, and though he said he was out on bail, I had no confirmation even of that.
“I made excuse that we must have a large deposit before letting him have a machine out, and though he offered to pay it, it was by cheque, which I said we must have time to clear.
“I suppose they knew you were on their track. Anyway, they’ve stolen a plane, and bolted only a few minutes ago. I expect you saw them as you came, heading out to the sea.”
Inspector Beddoes listened to this explanation with a face which gave no sign of his thoughts. He said only: “I expect I shall have further instructions by morning. In the meantime, I am taking charge here. You can all get back to bed.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Inspector Combridge was in the office of the Assistant-Commissioner.
Sir William Ingleby had discussed the Rabone murder with him for the last hour, and his decision was still to come.
“It isn’t that I don’t trust you, Combridge,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ve got a sounder officer in the force, or one on whose judgement I should be more pleased to rely. But I can see that you’re not certain yourself, and after what has happened already—well, the press and the public have been kinder than we’ve deserved, but everyone’s watching now to see that we bring the thing to a satisfactory end, and a third mistake might be more than some of us could survive.
“As to the tale of how Hammerton got away, I’m with you when you say it leaves a lot to explain, but, after all, it’s quite a possible thing. You must remember that he asked you to leave him unwatched on the night when he started his flight. At the most, I don’t see how you can go further today than inviting Banks to call in and clear up one or two matters like that hundred pounds bribe, which I daresay he’ll be quite equal to doing. Of course, when you’ve had time to verify some of Entwistle’s allegations, you may be on stronger grounds. But even there we’ve got to remember that they are made by a man who admits his own criminal practices, by implication at least, and who is not free from suspicion of being the murderer.”
“Yes, I admit all that, sir,” Inspector Combridge answered stubbornly. He had made up his own mind, perhaps the more firmly for the time which that process had required, and was resolved that the hesitation of his Chief must not frustrate the full success of the coup on which he had now determined.
He said: “From the telephone conversation I’ve had with Sir Reginald, I reckon it won’t be many hours before he’ll have checked up on Entwistle’s statements sufficiently to give us all the proof we shall need at this stage. We needn’t put the Rabone case to
the front till we can see further ahead, but I’ve got a feeling that—”
It was a sentence he was not destined to finish, for he was interrupted by an announcement that Mr. Jesse Banks had called, and would like to see him.
“I’d better go, sir?” he asked.
“No. I think not. We’ll have him here. It’s not fair to leave all the responsibility on your shoulders. I’ll talk to him myself, and then tell you what I’ve decided to do.”
Inspector Combridge could make no objection to this, though he saw that Sir William’s decision was capable of an interpretation less flattering to himself than that which had been expressed.
The next moment, Mr. Banks, looking his usual calm and taciturn self, entered the room.
Certainly, Sir William thought, he had no aspect of criminality. His manner was that of a man whose mind was at ease, and there was somewhat more than usual of friendliness in his tone as he said: “I hear you’ve got Driver. You can always reckon on Beddoes to make his catch if he once gets on the trail. I meant to be first for once, but I suppose it’s you that will be in at the death... It’s your organization that’s bound to beat any private office.”
Sir William Ingleby interposed before Inspector Combridge could reply.
“Mr. Banks,” he said, “you are a gentleman of good reputation, and when aspersions against any such come from criminal mouths, we are very slow to believe. But we often think it well to inform those who are traduced in such ways, so that the facts may be properly ascertained, and no lingering suspicion may remain against them.
“It is due to you to say that during the last twenty-four hours you have been the subject of allegations of the most serious kind, which your very opportune call will doubtless help us to dispose of as they deserve.”
He went on to narrate the nature and extent of these accusations, not shrinking from a sufficient bluntness, and yet putting them in an impersonal and putative manner, at which it would not be easy for an innocent man to take offence.
Mr. Banks listened without interruption, and with no more sign of feeling than a slight smile which crossed his face at times as the more monstrous of these charges appeared.
“I suppose,” he said easily, when the recital was concluded, “that you wish me to make a formal denial of these allegations, as, of course, I do. But,” and his manner changed to that of a faint contempt as he turned to the inspector, “I always knew you were jealous of what I do, but I didn’t think you’d fall into such a mug’s trap as that.
“Of course, I’ve been mixing myself up with the Driver gang. How do you suppose a private detective gets along? Of course, I didn’t want you to know I’d been at No. 13 that night. I like to go my own way, without interference from you, and in this case I thought it cheap at the price
“I daresay Sir Reginald would have done too, if you’d left me to complete what I was doing. But, anyway, it’s between him and me, and if he disallows the payment, I daresay I can stand the loss.
“I think that’s the only point that deserves an answer in the whole tale. I’ve helped you to bring Entwistle to justice, which he’s been too clever to let you do in the last ten years, and when he turns on me, you’re foolish enough to swallow the hook.”
There was a moment’s silence as he concluded. Sir William, more than half convinced that they had heard the contemptuous protest of an innocent man, and recognizing that his defence was largely a repetition of the arguments he had himself been urging upon the inspector before Mr. Banks entered the room, looked at his subordinate officer to see what effect it had had on his mind.
Inspector Combridge saw that if he stood his ground, and was wrong, he would be discredited beyond further remedy. He may be excused if there was a moment of hesitation during which his reply paused, and in that instant Sir William’s telephone rang.
“Mr. Jellipot?” they heard him say. “Oh yes, the Rabone matter, of course. And who did you say? Well, show them up.” He laid the receiver down as he said: “Mr. Jellipot, Mr. Hammerton’s lawyer, is here. I thought we had better see him together.”
As he spoke, Mr. Jellipot entered the room, with Francis Hammerton and Augusta Garten behind him.
Mr. Jellipot paused when he saw the visitor that Sir William already had. He took no notice of the amazed expressions of those who observed the two who followed him into the room. He said, in his precise and almost diffident manner: “It is most opportune that Mr. Banks should be with us now. It will save trouble all round. It is my painful duty to charge him with the attempted murder of—”
He was interrupted by the voice of the man of whom he spoke, which had changed its tone to one of peremptory order.
“I’ve heard enough of this. Hands up, if you think your lives are worth keeping.” He added sharply: “I shan’t warn you again.” His eyes as he spoke were on Inspector Combridge and the Assistant Commissioner, whom he doubtless recognized as his most formidable opponents, and the last words were for the Inspector, who had shown a dangerous reluctance to accept the ignominy that obedience must entail both upon himself and the force to which he belonged.
It is difficult to give equal attention to several people at once who are not all at the same side of the room, and it may be in that that Mr. Jellipot saw his opportunity, but his own explanation was that he acted from an impulse of fear alone.
He had not yet been asked to take a seat, and he was standing beside a table on which there was a carafe of water, very similar to that which had been overset on the occasion of Francis Hammerton’s escape from custody a few weeks before.
There seems to be some faint suggestion of poetic justice, very difficult to analyse, in the second appearance of one of these articles at the present crisis.
However that be, the fact was that Mr. Jellipot caught the bottle by the neck, and hurled it with considerable force at Mr. Banks’s face, against which it broke, with results which were not conducive to rapid and accurate shooting by a man whose previous practice was of a very occasional kind.
He did fire twice, but the shots did no damage, except to the substantial furniture into which they sank, and before there was time for a further discharge, Inspector Combridge had tripped up a man who was stumbling half-blindly toward the door.
Sir William Ingleby looked coolly round a somewhat disordered room, as the handcuffed man was removed by the constables who had rushed in at the astonishing sound of shots in the peaceful office of the Assistant-Commissioner. He said: “Mr. Jellipot, I have a double reason for which to thank you. You have saved us from a most undignified possibility, and have also been opportune in supplying us with an unimpeachable reason for arresting a man of whose guilt I was less than sure.”
Mr. Jellipot could not dispute the justice of the praise which he received. No man, however blameless on other grounds, can expect to retain his liberty if he discharges revolver shots in the office of an Assistant-Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.
He said: “It seemed foolish to me, but I am afraid that the sudden sight of my young companions may have caused him to lose his head.”
The remark directed attention upon those who had been reported to be in a very different and more perilous situation, and Mr. Jellipot went on to explain their presence.
“It appears,” he said, “that there was a little misunderstanding—a very natural misunderstanding—concerning the extent of Miss Garten’s previous acquaintance with the art of flying. She had, in fact, taken a course of instruction in Germany, at a time when aviation was very popular among the youth of that country, and before she commenced the associations which she has since, I feel sure, regretted.
“An incident in which she refused, for quite different reasons, to take the risks of the air, was interpreted in a way which led it to be supposed that she was as inexperienced in as she was averse from that somewhat hazardous method of transportation; and her subsequent denials, which do not appear to have been accompanied by the explanations she might have given, had there been a m
ore real intimacy subsisting between herself and her late companions, seem to have been misapprehended and disbelieved.
“When the machine was very kindly left in her charge, she flew it back to the Croydon station, where she knew that a safe landing would be easy to find.”
Sir William looked at her with the respect which those who have not yet joined in the conquest of upper air are inclined to feel for their more venturesome fellow-citizens. “It was,” he said, “a very brave thing to do.”
“There wasn’t much in that,” Miss Garten answered. “At least there wouldn’t have been if they hadn’t been so stingy in filling up. The real fright I got was when I thought Harold was going to kick against going, and I daren’t give him any idea that they were setting us free in the way I had hoped they would.”
Sir William said: “Well, I hope your troubles are over now.” He spoke to Francis and Miss Garten equally, or so Mr. Jellipot took it to be. To the astute lawyer the opportunity was too good to miss. He reminded the Assistant-Commissioner that his client’s appeal was still a fence to be overcome.
“Oh,” Sir William said, in the good-humoured satisfaction he felt from the knowledge that the Rabone case was likely to end in a way that would redound to his own credit, and that of the efficient force it was his pleasure to rule, “I don’t think he need trouble overmuch about that. There are ways—and ways—”
And Mr. Jellipot, for all his caution, was inclined to agree.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sydney Fowler Wright (1874-1965) penned over seventy volumes of science fiction, fantasy, classic mysteries, historical novels, poetry, and non-fiction, many of them being published by the Borgo Press imprint of Wildside Press. Please visit his website at:
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