by Paul Somers
We watched him for what seemed like an hour, though in fact it couldn’t have been much more than twenty minutes. His blows on the chisel were strong and well-directed. Lumps of cement kept falling on the iron slats that guarded the overhang. The man obviously didn’t mind how much mess he made—whatever he had begun, he meant to finish that night. He continued to hammer. Suddenly his chisel went through into a cavity like a dentist’s probe, and he gave a little grunt of satisfaction and worked with redoubled energy to clear the debris. He pulled away several large lumps of cement, and put his hand in the hole and then his arm, and for a while he groped around inside. Then he picked up the coil of wire and cut a length off it with some pliers from his pocket, and bent one end into the shape of a hook. He pushed the wire into the hole and worked it along some sort of crevice to the left and began to fish around with it. Sweat glistened on his face. I still couldn’t see his features properly. He poked and prodded and pulled for quite a while. Several times he drew the wire right out and bent the end into a different shape and started all over again. Either he couldn’t hook the fish, or he couldn’t land it, or there wasn’t any fish there. He was certainly having extreme difficulty. Then, suddenly, a satisfied “Ah!” escaped him, and he withdrew the wire very slowly, very carefully, as though he had a trembler mine on the end of it. What, in fact, he had was something that looked like a wash-leather purse with a string that pulled tight at the neck. He dropped the wire and opened the neck of the purse and took out some small object which he held in his palm before the lamp. It flashed and sparkled, throwing out blue lights. After a moment he put it back and stuffed the purse into his pocket and began to collect up his tools. He was going to leave!
I’d been so fascinated watching him that I’d almost forgotten our own precarious position. Now we had to move. I put my mouth against Mollie’s ear and whispered “Back!” She began to wriggle her body down, but we were tightly jammed on the narrow stairway and extrication wasn’t easy. “Hurry!” I hissed. The man had zipped his bag shut and picked up the lamp. He was walking towards me. In a second he’d see me, and I’d be at his mercy. I knew then that we’d left it too late. There was only one thing to do. I struggled clear of Mollie and burst out of the doorway.
He was on to me like a panther, before I could even get upright. I caught one glimpse of a lean and ruthless face, and then I was flying across the roof. He came after me at once, but he’d had to drop the lamp and perhaps that fifth of a second saved me. I hit the parapet and scrambled away on all fours and grabbed wildly at a foot, which was all I could see of him. By a miracle I got hold of it and I jerked with all my strength. He fell with a crash and I grappled with him in the shadows. He was a powerful man, and there wasn’t a nasty trick he didn’t know. Happily he couldn’t see what he was doing. I couldn’t, either. For a few seconds we gouged and tore at each other on the concrete floor, rolling over and over. I landed a short-arm jab to his face that made him grunt, but a moment later he caught me an agonising blow in the groin with his elbow, and I fell back, writhing. He might have finished me then, but Mollie suddenly joined in, using the bag of tools like a two-handed axe, and though her blows weren’t heavy they distracted him and gave me the respite I needed. I staggered to my feet and weaved around him, just out of reach, avoiding that murderous infighting of his, while the wave of pain passed. Then I went at him, punching with all my strength, and he punched back, and for a moment or two we slogged it out. I thought I had his measure now. I thought that with luck I could manage him. I ducked a haymaking left and caught him a cracking blow with my right on the side of the jaw, and he crashed back against the parapet and fell with a clang on the iron slats. It was an awkward fall, and he seemed to be in bad trouble. I rushed in to settle him, too recklessly, and he lashed out with his foot as he lay twisted on the ground and caught me sharply in the side. As I fell back his hand went to his pocket—and a moment later I was looking into the barrel of a gun.
“Back against the wall!” he said, breathing hard. “You too, girl!”
I hesitated, watching the gun. It didn’t waver. His hand was steady. He was holding the gun like a man who was used to guns. I didn’t think it was any stage property. I stepped back against the wall. Mollie moved across and joined me.
The man got slowly to his feet. One of his shoes, I noticed, had got caught up by the heel between the slats and had come off. For a second or two he studied us in silence. I could see his face quite clearly now. It was a surprising face for such a man—intelligent, good-looking, sardonic. But his eyes and mouth were utterly without pity. I thought he would make a most efficient executioner.
His finger tightened on the trigger, and he took half a step forward. Then he gave a little gasp, and stopped. He seemed concerned about his right foot, the one that had lost its shoe. Still covering us, he began to feel and rub it with his left hand. After a moment he made another attempt to put his weight on it, but he couldn’t. His face wore a worried expression now. He stood there as though undecided what to do. Finally he hobbled round to the wooden door, using the parapet as a crutch, and pushed the door shut.
“Well, now,” he said, “who are you?” He had an educated, almost a suave voice.
I told him who I was. I told him who Mollie was. It was the oddest introduction I’d ever made.
He nodded. “My name is Smith,” he said. He was a man with a sense of humour! He asked if we were staying at the Castle Arms, and I said we were. He continued to study us in silence for a while. He still seemed to be debating what to do.
At last he said, “Well, this is all very awkward. As you can see, I’ve sprained an ankle rather badly. That’s going to be very hampering for a man in my position. I’d planned to—well, to move about rather quickly. Now it looks as though I’ll have to postpone my plans. In fact, it looks very much as though I’ll have to rest up here for a day or two. Which means, of course, that I shall need your help—in quite a number of ways.”
Neither of us said anything. There seemed nothing to say. He had the ball.
“We’ll arrange things like this,” he went on, after a moment. “You, Mr. Curtis, will be allowed to leave. You will get food, water and blankets, and to-morrow night you will come back here with them. In the meantime, Miss Bourne will stay here with me—as a hostage. You realise what that means, of course. If you give me away, if you attempt to bring anyone back with you, if the police come here—I shall kill her. To be precise, I shall shoot her in the stomach, and she will die in agony.… Did you ever see anyone die that way?”
“You must be mad,” Mollie said.
“Not mad, Miss Bourne—just desperate. Unless I can get clear away I’m a man with absolutely nothing to lose. As you undoubtedly realise, I killed Hoad. If I’m caught, I shall have to pay the penalty for that. If I kill you, too, I shall still only have to pay the same penalty. Two for the price of one, you might say—and no extra charge for the method used! So why should I hesitate?”
Off-hand, I couldn’t think of any reason why he should.
“At the same time,” he said, “if you co-operate with me loyally for a day or two, you need have nothing to fear. When I can move about again comfortably, which should be in about three days’ time, I shall leave here and let you both go free. I’ve no desire to kill either of you—particularly such a charming young lady as yourself, Miss Bourne. Before you can put anyone on my trail, I shall be out of reach. So you see, I can afford to offer you your lives—as a prize for good behaviour. Our interests are really identical—we all want to get away safely, and there’s no reason why we all shouldn’t. Well, Mr. Curtis, what do you say?”
“The police may come anyway,” I said. “The caretaker may come. Anyone may come. The odds are hopelessly against you.”
“If anyone comes, I shall have to start shooting—and I’m afraid Miss Bourne may be the first victim. But why should they? The police have finished their work here. Figgis is in London until the end of the week. The castle is always k
ept locked. No one will come—except you.”
Mollie said, “They may come and look for me. They’re bound to start searching if I don’t go back to the hotel.”
“That’s something we must take care of, Miss Bourne. You must write a note to the manager—I’m sure you have paper and a pencil with you. Make it sound as though it was written very early to-morrow morning—as though you’d suddenly decided to go off for a day or two but were leaving most of your things and wanted your room kept. Mr. Curtis will see that it’s delivered.”
“If it was written in the morning,” Mollie said, “my bed would have been slept in. And it won’t have been.”
“Ah …!” Smith considered that for a moment, “Is your room locked?”
“No.”
“Then Mr. Curtis can attend to the bed when he goes back to-night.”
“My car’s parked at the hotel—I’d never go away for two or three days without that.”
“Then Mr. Curtis must look after the car, too. I expect a little initiative. After all, it’s your own lives that are at stake.” The gun jerked. “Please—the note!”
Mollie looked at me—and gave a helpless shrug. She took a pad from her bag, and wrote.
When she’d finished, Smith said, “Give your car ignition key to Mr. Curtis.”
She gave it to me.
“Now put the pad in your bag and throw the bag across to me. Gently!”
She tossed it at his feet. He put the gun on top of the parapet and opened the bag and took the note out. He held it so that the light fell on it, and began to read it with every sign of concentration. He was about four yards away from me. I thought I could just make it. I raised myself on my toes and sprang towards him. But before I was half-way there he’d whipped up the gun and had me covered again.
“You have a strange idea of co-operation, Mr. Curtis,” he said quietly. “That was very foolish, you know—I’m hardly a child in these matters. Get back to the wall. I’ll deal with you in a moment.”
I stepped back, beaten, and re-joined Mollie. She said, “Don’t try it, Hugh—it’s too risky.” Smith said, “That’s right, Miss Bourne—use your influence.” He finished reading the note, put it back in the bag, and threw the bag back to Mollie. “Yes, that’s all right,” he said. “The handwriting’s a little shaky, perhaps, but I expect it will pass. Give the note to Mr. Curtis.”
She gave it to me and I put it in my pocket.
There was a little silence. Then Smith said, “It seems, Mr. Curtis, that you still don’t quite realise what sort of man I am. Obviously you need a lesson—just to teach you not to do these rash things. Just to teach you what desperation means. Stand away from Miss Bourne!”
I moved six feet along the parapet. He waved me still farther along. Then he began to hobble painfully round the roof towards me. He still had me covered. His face was quite impassive—he looked more like an executioner than ever. As he drew nearer, I braced myself for a blow.
But it didn’t come. Instead, he stepped up close to Mollie and pressed the gun into her stomach. “I’m going to hit Miss Bourne,” he said. “If you make a move, Mr. Curtis, I shall shoot her.” He struck her hard across the face with his left hand. Involuntarily I started forward, but Mollie’s warning cry and the wicked little gun checked me.
“You can’t argue with a gun, you know,” Smith said softly. “You can’t be chivalrous in face of a gun. You could try, of course, but it would go off before you could do any good. And as far as Miss Bourne is concerned, it would precipitate the very thing you want to avoid. In face of a gun, you have to learn self-control. You have to learn to accept the lesser evil.”
He slapped her face again.
“You see what I mean?” he said. “If you hadn’t kept a tight hold on yourself then, Mr. Curtis, she’d be dead. You’d have forced me to kill her. And, of course, you too. What good would that have done to anyone? Your only hope is to co-operate.”
He stretched out his hand and gripped the neck of Mollie’s blouse and with one fierce wrench he tore her clothes open to the waist.
“Well, Mr. Curtis?” he said.
Sweat poured into my eyes. I said, in a shaking voice, “Be careful …!”
“Of course I shall be careful. Everyone has his breaking point, and I don’t doubt that you could be provoked into rash intervention. But then, you see, I’ve stopped short of the breaking point.… Well, now that you’ve had your lesson, you’d better be on your way.”
I looked at Mollie. She was trying to hold her torn clothing together, not very successfully. She looked terribly pale in the wan electric light. She said, “You’d better go, Hugh. We’ve no choice.”
“But I can’t leave you with him.”
“You must. I’ll be all right. It’s the only way.”
I turned savagely to Smith. “All right,” I said. “But if Miss Bourne comes to any harm while she’s with you, I swear I’ll get you if I have to follow you to the ends of the earth.” It was a stupid cliché of a threat—but it was what I felt.
“A nice speech,” he said. “Very creditable sentiments. I’ll bear it in mind.”
He produced a big key from his pocket. “The key to the castle,” he said. “The spare key! You’ll need it. Don’t forget to lock up behind you when you leave—we don’t want anyone wandering in through an open door.… Now let me see.… You might try to get hold of some sort of bandage for my ankle when you do your shopping—it’s in the interests of all of us that it should get better quickly. And bring us something nice to eat—I suggest a little cold chicken. But you probably know Miss Bourne’s tastes. Some wine wouldn’t come amiss—and glasses, of course. We’d like to be as civilised as we can while we’re camping out. But I’ll leave all the details to you. Come as soon as you can after dark—I’m sure Miss Bourne will get very hungry and thirsty. And don’t try any foolish tricks like putting cyanide in the sandwiches—I’ve my official taster here. Good night, Mr. Curtis.”
I moved towards the door, and opened it.
“Watch your step,” he said. “Watch it all the way. You’ve a valuable life in your charge, so be careful.”
I said, “All right, Mollie?”
She nodded. She had herself well under control. “All right, Hugh. This is going to make quite a story in the end.”
I turned and descended the steps. There didn’t seem anything else to do.
Chapter Twelve
I crossed the courtyard in a kind of daze. I locked the castle door behind me mechanically. I walked down the field path in revolt against the facts. The whole affair was too gangsterish, too utterly melodramatic to be credible. This sort of thing, I told myself, just didn’t happen in England. It was going to take a lot of getting used to.
I felt ghastly. Not physically, though I had plenty of bruises and aches. Mentally. I’d behaved like a damned fool. It had been crazy to go spying on a murderer virtually single-handed. It had been crazy to get wedged on those stairs. I’d certainly asked for trouble. And then I’d bungled the fight. I ought to have thought about a gun while there was still time. I oughn’t to have given Smith a chance to pull it on me.… Worst of all, I’d stood by and watched Mollie being savagely ill-treated. It was no good telling myself that if I hadn’t she’d have been dead by now. I felt a louse.
There was only one consolation—and I didn’t know how long it would remain one. If I hadn’t followed Mollie to the castle, if she’d stumbled alone upon the man, he’d almost certainly have killed her out of hand.
I was still pretty dazed when I reached the hotel. I still hadn’t come to terms with the situation. I still couldn’t quite believe it. But I knew I’d got to act as though I did. I slipped into the lobby and turned the key behind me and stole silently upstairs. My room came first, then Lawson’s, then Mollie’s. There was only a feeble light in the corridor, and outside Lawson’s door I stumbled over his shoes. They made a hell of a clatter, but no one stirred. I opened Mollie’s door and went in and closed it b
ehind me. The curtains were already drawn across the window, and I switched on the light. At that dead hour of the morning the switch made a frightful row, too, but I had to have a light. There was a fragrance in the room that took me straight back to Mollie, and I felt worse than ever. Heaven alone knew what sort of a sadist Smith might be—and she was utterly in his power. But I couldn’t help her, and I put the thought out of my mind and concentrated on the job. I had to make the scene convincing. I loosened the pillows, and made a dent in one of them with my fist, and mussed up the bedclothes. I damped one of the towels and threw it carelessly over the towel rail. I moistened the soap. I put a little tooth-paste in one of the tumblers and swilled it around with some water. Then I gathered up a few things that Mollie would certainly have taken with her—her nylon nightie from the bed, a thin silk dressing-gown from the wardrobe, her hairbrush and toothbrush and a few other toilet things from the shelf above the basin and from the dressing-table. I stuffed the nightie and the smaller things into my pockets, and the dressing-gown inside my jacket, and took a last look round. The state of the room might not have deceived a detective but it looked all right to me and I thought it would to a chamber-maid. I switched off the light, cautiously drew the curtains, opened the door, and crept out.
As I did so, another switch clicked on and Lawson’s door opened, sending a flood of light into the corridor. He peered out just in time to catch me in the act of leaving. For a moment he gazed at me as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then his pale face split in a fatuous grin.
