by Eric Ambler
Ruth whispered: “For heaven’s sake, let’s go.”
Andrew stepped in front of her and glared down at the mechanic.
“I’m well aware it’s private property,” he snapped. “It belongs to this lady; all of it-the mill, the cottage, the yawl. What’s more, she hasn’t ordered any repairs by Mr. Robison or anybody else. You can leave the engine alone. Now get out of that craft and take yourself off, before I bring the police here.”
The man reached down and picked up a broken hammer from the sail locker. He stepped onto the deck and faced Andrew menacingly. For a moment he looked dangerous; then he changed back to the affable mechanic and smiled a slightly bewildered smile. He put his pipe back in his mouth.
“There must be a mistake,” he said, “though how that can be, I cannot explain. Mr. Robison is not usually confused. The craft by the windmill, he said to me, and there’s no other windmill here nor another craft. You talk to Mr. Robison. He’ll be here any minute. Promised to give me a hand with the engine because the owner’s in such a hurry. Quiet at the garage, we are, so Mr. Robison…” He broke off as he turned to look towards the track across the marsh from the slight elevation of the deck. “See, he’s coming now!” he said. “You can speak.”
The newcomer, like his mechanic, had a bike, but instead of riding he was wheeling it and balancing a jerrican on frame and handlebars. He was a tall man in an overlong grey raincoat, and he had a cloth cap pulled down over his eyes. When he leaned the bike against the wall of the mill and lifted the jerrican from it, he was obviously lifting the full weight of petrol. He came down the knoll with the long grey coat flapping against his legs, and Andrew saw that under it he was wearing slacks and a seaman’s sweater of rough blue wool.
Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fit together, and Andrew had bitter thoughts as he looked upon them. He had been right after all to suspect the man in the long coat. He had been followed to the Blandish Gallery the day before. He had led the man to Ruth Meriden and she had been trailed to Groper’s Wade. And Charley Botten had been right in his theory about the tramp in the rubbish dump. It was very easy to remove one’s hat and coat and hide them for a moment or two, and, hatless and coatless, anyone might be mistaken for a local inhabitant. This fellow had watched Ruth start on her way across the marsh, and the direction she took had been clue enough for him. He had waited for her to return. Then, no doubt, he had started to explore. Once the yawl had been found, he and his mechanic had lost no time. Andrew stared into the dark deep-set eyes that had focused on the Dufy in the window of the Blandish Gallery, and once more he had an odd feeling of familiarity, a sense of having seen the man somewhere else in different circumstances.
The mechanic said: “I’m glad you have come, Mr. Robison. These two people are trying to make trouble. The man claims that the woman owns the craft we have instructions to repair. I have told him there must be some mistake. Perhaps you will be able to straighten the matter out.”
“By all means let us straighten the matter out.” The newcomer put down the jerrican on the edge of the landing stage. “We need to speak plain without making fictions. The Dr. Maclaren knows there is no mistake. So, I think, does the Fraulein Meriden. Before I have had only the distant pleasure to see you, gracious Fraulein.”
He touched his cap and made a slight bow, and in that moment of mocking gesture the sharp ferret like features of a face that had the immobility of a ventriloquist’s dummy were fully revealed. Andrew knew him. The chambermaid at the Risler-Moircy had called him Herr Schlegel. He had waited that morning in Brussels to inspect the suite from which Kusitch had been taken in the night. Now the dark eyes that were the living part of the face had the same evil assurance.
“The Herr Doktor and I have met once before,” he said. “He showed kindness to me. He left in the room of the man Kusitch an empty envelope. When I find an empty envelope, I have the conviction there may have been something in it. I hope the Herr Doktor will continue to co-operate.” He turned to address the mechanic. “I believe that will be his best policy-best for himself, best for the gracious Fraulein. What do you think, Haller?”
Twelve
Schlegel, Robison! There might be many other aliases, but they would all add up to Kretchmann and Haller- Inspector Jordaens’ friends. And that meant…
Andrew checked his thoughts. This was not the moment for internal argument. It was equally futile to abuse himself for his folly in exposing Ruth to danger. Now, as Haller, with a smile, stepped from the deck of the yawl onto the landing stage, Andrew retreated a step from Kretchmann and drew the girl towards him with an arm round her. His one thought was to protect her, but, even as he made the gesture, he realised its stupidity. He needed both arms free at this moment. The tactical possibilities were limited. First he must knock Haller into the creek with one well directed blow; then he must batter Kretchmann to an insensible pulp. Child’s play for the conventional hero, but he was not a conventional hero. He doubted his ability to execute even the first part of the programme.
“For myself,” Kretchmann said, “I am always agreeable to co-operate. I am full of the friendliness and peace when people are reasonable. I hope the gracious Fraulein is reasonable. She has, I think, not so much interest in this little boat. On the other hand, my friend and I have the great need for it, to make a journey. It is not our wish to steal, only to borrow. Somewhere or other your property will be found and returned to you, Fraulein. Meanwhile, you and the Herr Doktor will be able to take up residence in your cottage. I hope you had a hearty meal at midday, because I am afraid we have no supplies to leave you. But perhaps the police will find you.”
“You can’t lock us up in that place,” Ruth protested.
“Oh yes. It is certain,” Kretchmann said in his dead voice. “The necessity is to be regrettable, but I can see no alternative. What do you think, Haller?”
“Kill them,” said Haller. “We don’t want witnesses.”
“My friend learned his English from a London war prisoner. He speaks like the native,” Kretchmann asserted. “He loves the English very fondly, but he has little patience. He is interested only in our journey. We shall leave this evening.”
“Why do you want the craft?” Andrew demanded. “If you think there’s anything of value in it, you’re wrong.”
“You have searched?” Kretchmann managed to contort the lower part of his face into a smirk of amusement. “Kusitch told you something, but are you sure he told you enough?”
“I’m sure someone has been here before you.” Andrew released his hold on Ruth and moved an inch or two away from her. While facing Kretchmann, he was watching Haller, waiting for the moment when the man would be off guard. “There’s nothing in the craft,” he insisted.
“Then there is no reason why you should object if we take a little trip in it.”
“I do object. It is Miss Meriden’s property. You’ve no right to move it.”
“Perhaps the gracious Fraulein will not be so difficult. I do not care for difficult people. That was the great fault in your friend Kusitch.”
“Talk will never make the engine work.” The impatient Haller turned to Kretchmann as he made his protest, and that was Andrew’s moment. He hurled himself forward, putting all his weight into a blow that would topple the man into the creek. But Haller was not there to receive the blow. Before Andrew could recover his balance something hit him with sickening force in the back of the neck. He sprawled forward helplessly and saw a boot coming up to meet his face. It grazed the side of his head, but there was sufficient force in the impact to stun him. Through a mist of pain he heard Ruth cry out. Then the boot drew back again. There was a moment of terror; then a light blazed in his head and he felt himself sinking.
He was in darkness and his body was in some peculiar and excruciating state of tension. Through a kind of singing in his ears he could hear faint fluttering sounds. He opened his eyes and there were thin parallel strips of light like white rulings on a sheet of bl
ack paper. He stirred and then gasped as he was shaken by a wave of pain.
“Andrew.”
The voice came very softly from the darkness somewhere near him.
“Andrew. Are you all right? Andrew.”
Consciousness was making its way back slowly and uncertainly, like an insect seeking a way of escape through a window.
“Andrew.”
He was beginning to remember now. She was somewhere near him. He tried to speak but the sound he made was a kind of gasp.
“Andrew.”
Suddenly he began to cough; and even as the throbbing agony of it tore through his head he came to his senses. He was lying on a bare wood floor and his hands and feet were bound, the hands behind him and tied to the rope round his ankles.
“Andrew. Are you all right?”
For a moment he lay there gasping for breath. Then he licked his lips.
“I think so. Are you?”
“Yes, but I can’t move.”
“Where are we?”
“In the cottage by the mill.”
“Where are our friends?”
“I heard them arguing over the boat. They couldn’t get the engine to start. I caught odd words. I think they’ve gone to the garage at Britsea for something. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I don’t think there’s anything broken. How long have they been gone?”
“About five minutes.”
“Did they take the car?”
“No.”
There was a pause. A kind of numb lethargy was stealing over his body, abating the cramp in his legs and arms. Soon, perhaps, it would soothe the pain in his head and he would sink back into a blessed unconsciousness. Then, in the silence, he heard her catch her breath in a sob.
The sound acted like an alarm signal, jolting him back into an awareness of their predicament. Unconsciousness now could mean death-for them both. He opened his eyes again to the strips of light showing between the boards nailed over the window. Then he tried to move his hands. The rope was round his wrists and his fingers were nowhere near the knots. It was good rope too, thin but as hard as whipcord.
“Ruth.”
He heard the effort at self-control she made before she answered.
“Yes?”
“Whereabouts are the knots?”
“There aren’t any. They used ropes from the boat with metal eyes and tied the ends with wire.”
His heart sank but he persisted. “Could I untie the wire with my fingers?”
“I don’t think so. It’s thick wire. It took the two of them to twist it.”
It would have to be the rope then. A faint hope suddenly flickered. “Did they search me?”
“Yes. They wanted to see if you had a pistol.”
“Did they empty all my pockets?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did they take my lighter?”
“I don’t know.” “If they didn’t, it’s in a ticket pocket inside the right-hand pocket of my jacket. Can you move far enough to see if it’s there?”
“I’ll try.”
He heard her feet scraping along the floor seeking a hold. A moment or two later she rolled over against him. Her hands were by his chest.
“Hold on.”
With an effort he edged backwards and then rolled over on his face. He felt her hands against his hip.
“It’s there. Keep still.”
There was a sudden movement and then he heard the lighter clatter on the floor.
“I’ve got it.”
He rolled over again. A moment later the lighter clicked and he could see her lying with her back towards him, the lighter held up between her fingers.
The first glance told him that it would be impossible either to untwist the wire with his hands or to burn through the rope about her wrists; the wire was of stranded steel, rusty but still tough; the rope was too near her wrists at every point to be burnt without also burning the flesh. He had another idea.
“Can you stand the lighter on the floor without putting the flame out?”
“I think so.”
It was difficult for her and she burned her hands doing it, but she managed in the end. He remembered thankfully that he had filled the lighter the previous day. It burned steadily as he rolled on to his back and manoeuvred the rope about his ankles into the flame.
The rope began to char almost at once but so did the material of his trouser legs and he had to keep pausing in his efforts and hold his legs away from the flame. By the time the rope parted and his ankles were free he was almost too exhausted to stand up.
The next thing was to free his hands. The lighter flame was low now and he knew that he had to move quickly to find something against which he could abrade the rope between his wrists.
The only thing that presented itself was the rusty bracket of an old shelf. He found that he could just reach the curved brace of the bracket before the light went. He began to saw at the rope.
There was no doubt about its being good rope. He worked away in an exhausted silence. The girl spoke only once.
“Can you do it?”
“I think so.”
It took nearly half an hour and his wrists were bleeding when it was done but, although he was aware of pain, it seemed to him now that his nerves no longer responded to it.
Steady movement of the bracket had loosened the screws that fastened it to the wall. He wrenched it off and with it prised open one of the windows sufficiently to admit a working light. Then, using the bracket as a lever, he tackled the wire cable that secured the girl’s hands.
At first he scratched his hands and tore his fingernails, but once he could use the leverage of the bracket his task became easier. She was almost free when suddenly he felt her stiffen.
“What is it?”
“Listen. Didn’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“They’re back! They’re at the car! I heard the door close.”
The blood was thumping so in his head that he could hear little else. He said, “They’ll make for the yawl. We’ll hear them talking.”
They listened. There were sea gulls and silence.
Andrew went to the window again. No one was visible. The craft swam high, but the tide was past the full.
“You could have been mistaken,” he said.
“I tell you I heard the car door.”
“All right. Hold still now.” The last knot came free and he helped her to her feet. She sat down again with a groan as the circulation began to return to her limbs. Andrew went back to the window. Yawl and landing stage were still deserted. It might still be possible to reach the car and drive off, but caution was imperative, for by now Kretchmann and Haller must be on their way back. The essential thing was to reach the car and start it up; then a couple of encumbered cyclists would have no chance against them, especially if they were taken by surprise just outside the yard.
The bracket had one more job to do. Andrew tried the door and found that, although there was only a simple latch on it, it had been jammed in some way from the outside. There was, however, a crack in one of the door panels and he set to work with the bracket. It bent and finally broke but he had done enough damage to the panel to enable him to get his arm through and remove the piece of wood wedged in the latch. They went out on to the landing. Then they stood still for a moment, listening anxiously, but there was no sound. Even the gulls were silent now.
“Wait here,” Andrew said. “I’ll look around first.”
From the window of the opposite room he could see the yard and the car.
“There’s no one there,” he said. “We’d better not waste any time.”
“Please be careful.” She grasped his arm again. “I’m sure I heard someone at the car.”
He was recovering now. “We’ll both be careful,” he said.
She followed him nervously. When a stair creaked under his weight, she started and caught her breath. They went on down quickly to the plaster-strewn flo
or of the hall.
“Andrew!” They were close to the open doorway of the cottage when she called to him in a whisper of apprehension.
This time there could be no doubt about the noise. He heard it himself. A man coughed. Then footsteps sounded in the yard, approaching from the rear of the cottage. Andrew opened a door on his left, pushed Ruth ahead of him into the room, and closed the door again. He saw dimly, between the slats of a broken Venetian blind, the figure of a man. What he saw was enough to tell him that the man was neither Kretchmann nor Haller.
“It must be another of them,” he whispered to Ruth. “If he goes upstairs, we’ll make a dash for the car.” “He might come in here.”
There was one possible hiding place, a cupboard on one side of the fireplace. The shelves had been removed, the doors swung on broken hinges.
Andrew shook his head when Ruth pointed to it.
“If he comes in here, I’ll tackle him,” he said.
“He may have a gun.” She was trembling now. He could feel it through the hand resting on his arm.
“All right,” he said.
They crouched together in the cupboard. He tried to close the doors; they would not meet, but the gap was narrow enough. They waited, trying to control the sound of their breathing. The man seemed to be in no hurry. He had paused on the doorstep. He was still looking round outside.
They crouched there painfully, listening. The footsteps sounded again-this time on the littered floor of the hall passage. Then the room door opened, and, Andrew, peering through the gap between the cupboard doors, saw a hand advance with a finger ready on the trigger of an automatic pistol.
Except for a portion of fawn raincoat, the rest of the man was masked by the room door, and almost at once the door was closed again. The fellow had seen an empty room, and that had been enough for him. As he crossed the hall to the other front room, he began to whistle faintly, allaying his own anxiety. He whistled as he went along the hall and climbed the stairs, and the tune took shape, became identifiable.
