Beginner's Luck

by Paul Somers

  It was just before eleven when Smith, suddenly very alert, announced that two people were walking up the path towards the castle door. I leaned over and caught sight of them just before they went out of view—a man and a girl, with their arms round each other. Smith got up and crossed to the other side of the roof, crouching down, so that he could see over the courtyard to the entrance passage without any risk of being seen himself. I made a tentative move, just to see how great his preoccupation was, but he whipped round in a second and I didn’t try it again. His air of amused unconcern had quite gone—his face was as hard as the stone he was leaning against. I hadn’t a doubt that if those two forced their way in and came up to the tower, he would kill them without a qualm. And us, too, if he had any trouble. There was no help for us that way—it would merely precipitate the end. For a moment or two we waited in a state of almost unbearable suspense. Then the pair came sauntering round the end of the castle, circled the moat, and walked slowly away.

  Another hour passed. Several more people approached the castle, but no one tried to get in. I’d been right about the Saturday sightseers, but I’d under-rated the effect of the “Closed” notice at the gate, which would make most people assume that the castle door was locked. In any case, the stone shot would frustrate any but a most determined effort to get in. Smith hadn’t really much to worry about.

  As the time dragged slowly by, my spirits ebbed to a new low. Things were no worse than I’d expected them to be, but forced inactivity made them seem worse. We were obviously going to be kept sitting here all day. I could see no prospect of any useful diversion. I could think of nothing to bring about any hopeful change in the situation. There seemed to be two courses open to me, both pretty grim. I could get in touch with the police when I went to fill up the car tank, and that would take care of Smith—but it would mean certain death for Mollie. Or I could try a last reckless dive for the gun. If we were going to be shot anyway, I might as well make a fight of it. Even Smith might not find a fatal spot with the first bullet …

  I was still reflecting on the desperate alternatives when I heard voices. Several voices. Distant, at first, but getting louder and closer every second. Smith jerked the gun threateningly, and peered through the slats. I leaned over and looked, too. A couple of youths appeared on the path, riding bicycles. Behind them were two girls, also riding. And then, up the slope, so many cyclists came surging that I lost count. There were thirty of them, at least—a whole club. And they were all making for the castle door.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Smith scrambled to his feet and went over to the ramparts again so that he could watch the entrance passage. I couldn’t see the cyclists any more, but I didn’t feel this was the moment to change my position. Smith’s finger was tight on the trigger of his gun; he was beginning to look like a man with an itch to shoot. Anyway, I didn’t need to see, because his expression told me what was happening. These young people didn’t give a fig for notice boards—or stone shots behind locked doors that moved at a push. They were coming in! Their cockney voices were suddenly much louder. They were in high, larking spirits. They were flowing over the courtyard in a tidal wave of shouts and laughter.

  Smith’s face had turned a dirty, mottled colour. An incursion on this scale was something that even he hadn’t allowed for.

  I said, “This is it, Smith. You’ve lost, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t move!” he said. “Don’t move an inch!” His expression was vicious. “If I lose, you lose. But don’t worry—I’m not finished yet.” He tapped his gun meaningly.

  “You can’t shoot all of them,” Mollie exclaimed in a tone of horror. “Why start something you can’t finish? You haven’t a chance.”

  “We shall see.”

  I sat still, listening. I could hear individual voices quite plainly now—even what they were saying. Someone shouted across the courtyard, “These castles look like they just been put ’ere, don’t they?” A girl said shrilly, “Get on, you soppy date, I want to see, too.” There was more laughter. The tidal wave was sweeping on. They seemed to be down by the well now. One of them called out, “Prob’ly the bride’s barf or somefin’.” Another said, “Coo, look what’s up ’ere!”

  They’d reached the tower. They were certain to come up. I could see no end to it now but a massacre. First us, and then as many of them as there were bullets for.

  Suddenly Smith stepped across to Mollie and released her from the wire and jerked her to her feet. “Down the steps!” he said. He turned on me. “You stay here. You know what happens to the girl if you try anything.”

  He stuck the gun in his pocket, but he was still holding it. The barrel was pointing at Mollie as they went down the steps.

  I wasn’t at all sure now what he was up to. If he was going to shoot his way out, why hadn’t he started with us? Why had he taken Mollie? He must have some other plan. I crossed to the door and stood there listening. He seemed to have stopped half-way down at the first-floor room. I heard him say, “Get in there and keep quiet.” That must be to Mollie. I heard the youths and girls come piling up the stairs. Someone was whistling the theme tune from La Ronde. A voice said, “Ever see The Thirty-Nine Steps, Alf?”

  Then I heard Smith again. “What do you people think you’re doing?” he demanded in a tone of authority. “Get out, all of you. The castle doesn’t open till next month. Can’t you read?”

  So that was it!

  There was a moment’s silence—then an outbreak of indignant “Coo’s” and a few catcalls. Some bold youth said, “’Oo are you, mister, anyway?”

  “I’m the caretaker. Now push off, all of you, or I’ll call the police.”

  There was murmuring at that, and more derisive jeers.

  “Go on,” Smith said, “before I collect a bob off each of you.”

  That worked better than the threat. There was a bit of grumbling, a bit of argument. Then, slowly, the tide began to recede. In a moment or two they were all back in the courtyard. There were a few more insults, hurled from safety. There was more laughter. There was a cheeky cacophony of bicycle bells as they collected their machines. Then the noise gradually subsided. They were going. Smith had pulled it off.

  I moved to the ramparts and watched them leave the courtyard. They weren’t in any hurry. Some of them had begun fooling about on the edge of the moat outside. Smith didn’t wait for their final departure. As the last one went out through the door he emerged from the tower with Mollie in front of him and the gun still in his pocket and crossed the courtyard to the entrance passage. He was obviously going to replace the stone shot against the door. In a few moments he’d be back on the roof—and we’d all be as we were again.

  I couldn’t let that happen. I knew I’d got to do something now. Even though he’d be sure to come back with Mollie ahead of him and the gun in her back, I’d never have a better chance to surprise him. I’d never have the freedom of the roof again. I gazed anxiously round. Suppose I crouched behind the door? No, he’d expect that. Above the door, perhaps? There was a little turret over the top of the spiral staircase, and the door opened out of the turret. I could climb up on to it—and try dropping down on him as he came in. But it wasn’t much of a place to drop from—there was a lot of fancy stonework, but no good platform. Much better if I had some weapon—something to strike at the gun with. I scanned the roof. There were the two soft bags, empty, and the light, unmanageable water can. How right he’d been to throw everything into the moat! I needed something long and thin, and there wasn’t anything. Unless … One of the slats, perhaps? Maybe I could break off one of the unattached ends.

  I darted to my corner and heaved up a slat with all my strength. It bent like a bow—but it wouldn’t snap. It was no good—they were coming back. I could hear them on the staircase. I forced the slat back and down until it was bent double and almost flat again—but it still wouldn’t break.

  Then, suddenly, I had a different idea. I held the slat down with my right hand and d
rew the blanket over the bend in it and sat down with my right elbow pressing hard on the free end. I’d just settled myself when Mollie’s head appeared in the doorway.

  Smith called out, “Where are you, Mr. Curtis? Answer!”

  I was thankful, now, that I hadn’t climbed on to the turret. I’d never have got away with it. I said, “Don’t worry, Smith, I’ve given up. I’m over here by the wall.”

  Mollie stepped out. Smith stuck his head round the edge of the door, cautiously, and saw me. He grinned.

  “So I hadn’t a chance, eh?”

  I said, “You’re a murdering swine, Smith, but I have to hand it to you. That was quite a performance you gave.”

  “I thought it was pretty good myself,” he said.

  He made Mollie sit down, and he wired her up again. While he was occupied I shifted my position slightly and pulled the blanket a little higher. It looked all right from where I was. If only he’d hurry! My elbow was beginning to ache horribly.

  He finished with Mollie at last, and resumed his seat beside me. “There they go,” he said, as the rearguard of the cyclists disappeared over the hill. “Well, they’ll never have a closer shave than that!”

  I grunted. The pressure of the slat on my elbow was becoming unbearable. I felt the sweat break out on my forehead. I was afraid he might notice that one of the slats was missing to the right of him, but he didn’t. It was the inside one that I’d grabbed, the one nearest the wall, and the gap was less obvious there. Anyway, his main interest was in the path and who else might come up it. The gun was in his lap. I didn’t look directly at the gun any more. I’d be able to see any movement out of the corner of my eye. At the moment he was right out of range.

  I was sweating all over now. I could feel the moisture running down my sides, trickling down my back. My face was dripping, but I didn’t dare to wipe it. I didn’t want to draw attention to it. I concentrated on keeping the slat down. I reckoned I could hold on for another couple of minutes, and that was all. I could feel the end of it biting into the flesh of my forearm. The fingers of my right hand were beginning to grow numb. Soon the whole arm would be numb. I moved a fraction of an inch, trying to ease the pressure, but the slat merely bit deeper. I tried not to think about it, about the pain. I began to count, slowly. One … two … three.… Perhaps I could reach twenty. I must reach twenty.… There was still a chance, if I could hold on. I got up to fourteen.… It was no use, I should have to let go.

  Then Smith moved. The hand with the gun came down over the slats beside him, not quite pointing at me, but very much at the ready. His favourite position. Sweat dripped into my eyes, so that I could scarcely see. But I could see enough. The barrel of the gun was over the corbel where the slat had been. So was his hand. I leaned forward slightly and jerked my elbow away.

  Everything seemed to happen at once then. There was a rending of cloth, a loud smack as the slat hit the corbel, and a yell of agony from Smith. The gun went off and flew into the air. It landed on the concrete in front of Smith. I dived for it, just as he shot out a foot and kicked it out of my way. He scrambled after it—but he was too late. It went spinning across the roof towards Mollie. She picked it up neatly and threw it over the parapet into the moat.

  I was at the door before Smith could reach it, blocking his way. For a tense moment we all looked at each other. Smith’s face was like putty. Blood was oozing from the crushed fingers of his right hand. My own right arm was still numbed and useless. My coat was almost ripped from my back. I slipped it off and dropped it at my feet.

  “Well, Mr. Smith,” I said softly, “this looks like the last round, doesn’t it? Let’s see what you can do without your gun.”

  I knew he could do plenty if I gave him the chance. He still had a hand and two feet. The only time he’d be negligible would be when he was dead. I approached him slowly, watching him all the time. I feinted with my right—what there was of it!—and hit out hard with my left. The blow landed, but not heavily. He grunted, and put his head down, and came at me like a bull. He couldn’t use his right, either, but with what he had he could lay me cold if I wasn’t careful. I was careful. I sidestepped his rush, and hit him again. He was nothing like as agile as the first time we’d fought. His limp and his hand were against him. My right arm was coming back to life, now, and I used it. We weren’t fighting for fun. I rocked him with a blow to the face and an uppercut to the chin and when I saw he was groggy I went in and battered him. I thought of how he’d slapped Mollie, and ripped her clothes, and kneaded me in the groin when he’d still had his gun, and I wasn’t short of incentives. I went on hitting him, with all my strength. He didn’t fall—he slowly sagged to his knees. I dragged him up and gave him one more for good measure—and that was the end of the fight. He slumped back against the wall, drooling saliva and blood.

  My knuckles were flayed, but that was about all the damage I’d suffered. I rested for a moment while I got my breath back. Then I stepped across and slipped Mollie’s foot out of the wire. “Nice bit of fielding!” I said.

  She was very pale, but amazingly composed. “I’d better get the police,” she said.

  “Yes, as fast as you like. I’ll be all right—I don’t think he’ll give any more trouble now.”

  She started towards the door—but before she could leave, Smith called out “Wait!” and she stopped. He struggled to his feet, and leaned against the parapet. He’d made quite a recovery, but I couldn’t see him renewing the attack—and I was right. What was on his mind was something quite different.

  He said, “Don’t be hasty, Curtis—this is the chance of a lifetime for you. Surely you’re not going to pass it up?”

  I said, “What do you mean?”

  He tapped his pocket. “These stones I’ve got here are worth fifty thousand pounds. You can have them—in return for the use of your car. You and Miss Bourne can share them. You’ll be quite safe—they’ve been lost sight of for four years, they’re not hot any more. No one will ever know. If you let me go, I swear I’ll never tell anyone that you have them. If they catch me, I’ll say I threw them in the moat. Fifty thousand pounds, Curtis! Think of it!”

  I looked at him sadly. It was the only speech he’d made since our first meeting that wasn’t in character. But then, of course, he’d never been in these straits before.

  I said, “Carry on, Mollie. Let’s get this over.”

  I stepped aside to let her pass. Smith’s expression was desperate. He pulled himself up on to his toes as though bracing himself for a last effort. I thought he was going to take another crack at me after all. But he didn’t. He took a flying leap on to the parapet, stood there for a second, raised his arms above his head—and dived.

  We both rushed to the edge. It was an incredible dive for a man in his state—a remarkable dive for anyone, fully clothed. He went vertically into the moat with hardly more splash than I’d have made from ten feet. He had such momentum that I expected him to come up near the bank. I was all set to rush for the car and intercept him. But he didn’t come up near the bank. He didn’t come up at all.

  Chapter Twenty

  That afternoon the police put a dinghy on the moat and recovered his body with a couple of grapnels. They had quite a job, because he’d gone head first into the gluey black mud and stuck there, and there was a lot of suction. His mouth, when they pulled him out, was full of mud. It couldn’t have been a nice death.

  Once they had the body, as well as our story, it didn’t take them long to identify him. The Yard knew all about him. His real name, it turned out, was Walter Rance. Up till a few years back, he’d been notorious as a gifted cat burglar and jewel thief, with a flavour of Raffles about him. Lawson, who came racing down to Lodden that evening, goggling and almost speechless over our adventure, told us when articulate words finally came to him that he’d have known the man anywhere from the photographs he’d seen. But then Lawson specialised in crime, and had done for quite a while. As an active operator, Rance had been before Mol
lie’s time, or mine, so we naturally hadn’t recognised him. Not that it would have made the slightest difference to anything if we had.

  The jewels, mostly diamonds and rubies, belonged to the Earl of Carisdown. They’d been stolen from his stately home on the South Coast four years earlier on the night of his daughter’s twenty-first birthday party. Rance had been arrested in London about a month later, but on another charge. He’d been suspected of a hand in the Carisdown coup, but a woman had given him an alibi which the police had thought phony but couldn’t break, and they hadn’t been able to prove anything. He’d been jailed for four years on account of the job they knew about.

  The Carisdown affair had never been cleared up. There had been a suspicious incident near Lodden the day after the raid, when a police car on special patrol had chased a car that had refused to stop. It had skidded and crashed on Lodden hill, overturning and bursting into flames. Two men had been trapped underneath it, and when the fire had died down their remains had defied identification. So had everything else in the car. The engine number had been scored out; the registration plates had turned out to be false. The two men were clearly crooks, but there had been nothing definite to connect them with the jewel robbery.

  “When Hoad had been found murdered, and attention had turned to the missing key, no one had thought of associating the theft of the key with the car crash. If the police, on the day of the crash, had happened to notice a third man in the escaping car, the link might have been established—but they hadn’t. Now it seemed more than likely that all these incidents were connected.