by Mike Dorrell
‘Of course it’s working,’ Melganik said in his sibilant, mid European tones. ‘I’m afraid that brain power is not our friend Barton’s strong point.’
There was a stirring from behind the master criminal. Of the two women present, one was lying on the floor, bound and gagged. Her eyes smouldered with rage at Melganik’s remark about Dick Barton. She was loyal to her father’s friend. Her name was Virginia Marley.
Melissa, who had been standing near Melganik, glanced down in contemptuous fashion at Virginia.
‘I think our little kitten is fearful for Mr Barton’s safety,’ she said derisively.
The master criminal chuckled in the sparsely furnished room. ‘And well she might be, Melissa. And well she might be.’
Virginia Marley struggled helplessly against the ropes that bound her.
Snowey White hurried towards Dick Barton’s Riley which was still parked in front of the sagging front gates of Ever Ring Chase. When he reached the car, he flung open the driver’s door, got in and started the engine, then put it in gear and reversed into the undergrowth of the spinney that threatened to engulf the drive.
Once he was sure that the car was well hidden, Snowey switched off the engine, and peered through the windscreen to await developments.
He didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, the 1934 Rolls Royce 20/25, with Curly Cohen at the wheel, began to glide past.
Snowey waited until he was sure that the Rolls was going past him. He peered through the windscreen again, and saw the car go through the gates and on to the country road.
Snowey held his breath and counted ten. Then, he started the engine again, put his foot down on the accelerator, and the Riley burst out of the undergrowth in pursuit of the Rolls.
By this time, Dick Barton had reached the lorry that Hetherington had been talking about. He walked around the back, and went into the interior through the open rear door. There was no sign of Virginia, yet he was sure that Hetherington had said she was going to be taken there.
He looked around the inside. It struck him immediately that this was not the usual sort of goods vehicle. The thick, insulated sides indicated that it was probably a refrigerated truck, used for transporting meat.
There were footsteps from outside. Quickly, he made for the only place in which he could hide; in the corner behind the doors. He pressed himself as far into the corner as possible. At the very least, he could not be seen from outside.
But unexpectedly, no one came into the lorry. He heard the sound of footsteps on gravel. They stopped, and then, the heavy doors began to swing shut, and he heard the bolts being slid home. He walked to the door and examined it. There was no way that he could get out.
The Rolls was still in front of Snowey, and he drove carefully, taking care to keep a good distance between them. He saw the driver crane around, but he was sure that he could not be spotted.
But, inside the Rolls, Curly Cohen was chuckling to himself. ‘Sucker,’ he said softly. He continued to drive on.
If Dick Barton could have seen Hetherington climb into the driver’s seat, and the self-satisfied smirk on Melganik the master criminal’s face as the former carried out his orders, then undoubtedly he would have been even more concerned than he was.
‘A trap,’ he muttered to himself, as he made a thorough search of the interior of the refrigeration lorry.
There were no weak spots in the entire structure. The floor and walls were made of metal, and the only real feature of the whole interior was a small grille in the middle of the ceiling.
While Dick Barton was still searching, the grille suddenly crackled into life. Melganik’s silky tones came through the static: ‘Hello, Mr Barton. We have not had the pleasure, I think of conversing before.’
Dick Barton had no intention of letting them see what a fix he was in. His voice had a jaunty quality when he spoke. ‘The pleasure is entirely yours, Mr ...?’
‘Names scarcely matter at this juncture,’ continued the voice. ‘You see, as you will have gathered, this is a refrigeration truck ...’
Barton heard the voice pause.
‘In a moment you will hear the gentle hum of the refrigeration unit going into action ... so ...’
Melganik was speaking into a microphone from the cab at the front of the lorry. He depressed a switch.
Inside the body of the truck, Dick Barton heard the gentle hum as the refrigeration unit started up. He looked up the grille. ‘Looks like we’re in for a cold snap,’ he commented.
The reply began in a chuckle. ‘Snap – how very appropriate. You see, Mr Barton, this truck is now going to be concealed in a remote part of the grounds. No one can possibly find you. The refrigeration unit will continue to function for at least twenty four hours – until its fuel runs out. But by that time you will be a solid block of ice, Mr Barton. I do so hope that those who eventually find you will not “snap” you in two when they come to lift you out.’
Through the speaker that was fitted into the cabin of the lorry as part of the two way communication system, Melganik heard Barton’s reply: ‘Why not? Then there’ll be two Dick Bartons to stop your filthy business instead of one.’
‘Two?’ Melganik said angrily into the microphone. ‘I could deal with a dozen!’ Then, he switched off the microphone and handed it back to Hetherington who was sitting at the wheel beside him.
Melganik got out of the cab and joined Melissa, the lady who specialised in automatic pistols. He waved Hetherington on. ‘Go,’ he shouted.
From Snowey White’s point of view there wasn’t much action at all. He was still driving after the Rolls, still keeping his distance, and still wondering what the governor was up to back at Ever Ring Chase. He turned a bend in the road, and slowed the Riley.
There was a fork up ahead. He brought the Riley to a stop. He didn’t know what to make of it. The major road, the one he was now on, stretched ahead for a good half mile. There was no traffic on it at all.
The other road was narrow and winding, he reckoned that it was the more likely choice, so heaved the wheel over hard and went on down.
In a field at the side of the road, concealed by the hedge,
Curly Cohen sat grinning with satisfaction. Making sure that Snowey was out of sight, he started the engine of the Rolls, and headed back down the major road again.
Hetherington sat in the driver’s seat of the refrigeration truck as it bumped its way over the rough ground. He chose his way carefully, steering between trees until the lorry was lost out of sight in the wood.
Then, when he was sure that the whole vehicle could not be seen from any angle, Hetherington stopped and cut the engine. He got out of the cab, checked once more. Then he fastidiously dusted off his hands and clothes and headed back in the general direction of the house.
Dick Barton felt the lorry come to a stop. He was glad when it did, trying to cling to its sides as it went over the bumpy ground wasn’t exactly his idea of a picnic. He heard the engine die away, and then there was nothing. Only a sinister silence, and already, a sense of creeping cold.
He listened intently for any sound of action from outside. There was nothing. Not even the sibilant tones of the sinister arch criminal. Not even a bird.
‘Hello!’
He beat against the sides of the lorry in an attempt to attract attention.
‘Hello.’
There was no response. Dick Barton’s breath was beginning to condense on the air in front of his face. He shivered and began to slap his arms around his body in an attempt to keep his circulation going.
Already, crusts of ice were beginning to form at the top of the vehicle. He could feel the ends of his fingers going numb. There was no point in wasting energy. It was too cold. Much too cold.
Is this the end for Barton, left to a hideous, lingering death by the sinister Melganik and his henchmen?
Read the next chapter of: Dick Barton – Special Agent.
Chapter Five
Dick Barton, hot on the trail o
f the abducted crooner Rex Marley and his sister Virginia, is trapped in a refrigerated lorry with Snowey sent off on a wild goose chase by the master criminal Melganik.
Now read on...
Each breath was now like drawing in icicles. Dick Barton watched as the ice forming on the sides of the refrigerated truck which was well concealed in the woods surrounding Ever Ring Chase, crept down further and further.
In desperation, he began to beat on the sides of the lorry with his fists again.
He stopped. Then, he began to blow on his hands in an attempt to warm them.
The road was getting narrower and narrower. Snowey White was wondering what to do as the hedge loomed over the sides of the Riley Monaco, and threatened to meet overhead.
He had to slow the car anyway. He couldn’t get up any speed at all. The road was getting worse; it was petering off into a rough track.
He decided that he’d better stop the car altogether. It was useless going any further. He put his foot on the brakes. They couldn’t have got a Rolls through. They must have given him the slip back there where the main road forked.
Cold threatened to engulf him. He began to stamp up and down in the confined space in an effort to keep his circulation going. Then, when Dick Barton started to slap his arms around his body again, he noticed a bulge in his jacket pocket. He stopped and felt for the object. It was Snowey’s clasp knife. He must have forgotten to give it back to him. Still, it looked as if it might come in useful now.
He unfolded the blade and walked across to the metal wall. He tried to dig it into the metal, but met with no success. Then, he had an idea. He looked again at the knife, and unfolded the other side – a long, pointed instrument that was intended for removing stones from horses’ hooves.
This time he might be more successful.
Snowey decided to turn back. He reversed Barton’s car in a nearby gateway, and put his foot down on the accelerator. He was going back the way he had come. He had a feeling that there was a lot of catching up to do.
Dick Barton stood at the front end of the lorry. The pointed end of the clasp knife was open. He held that in his left hand and was using it as a punch in an attempt to make an opening. In his right hand, he held his shoe. He was using it as a hammer. The exertion was helping to keep him warm. And, with luck it might even help him to escape.
Snowey drove through the gates of Ever Ring Chase, and steered off the drive into the cover of the spinney. After making sure that it was well concealed, he began to walk cautiously towards the house. He didn’t want to meet any poison arrows or sinister gentleman with Samurai swords this time.
Dick Barton had managed to make a small hole in the front wall of the lorry. After opening the blade of the clasp knife once more, he had twisted it around to enlarge the hole. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the thin strips of metal beading that covered the joints in the metal sheets that formed the wall. Using the knife as a screwdriver this time, he started to unscrew one of the six screws that held the beading in place.
By this time, Snowey had reached the stable yard. But there was nothing around. Not even a dickey bird, or more particularly there was no sign of a Leyland lorry whose registration number had been noted by Dick Barton and which had taken part in the mysterious tobacco robbery the night before.
For a moment, Snowey stood there puzzled. Then, he made a decision. He started to walk towards the house.
The screws weren’t as difficult as he’d expected. He was now working on the last one. But the cold had seeped through to Dick Barton’s bones. He was having trouble keeping his hand steady. From time to time, he broke out in a burst of uncontrollable shivering. One of these bouts struck again.
He stopped work and tried to warm his hands under his armpits. He looked at the ice forming on the sides of the refrigeration truck. It had almost reached the floor.
The room which Snowey now entered in Ever Ring Chase was the same one in which Melganik had been sitting sometime previously. But there was now no sign of the master criminal’s occupancy. Neither was there any indication that Virginia Marley had been lying, bound and helpless on the floor while Melganik had chuckled, and the special agent had walked into a trap.
He managed the last screw. The piece of beading came away from the wall as he pulled. His hands could hardly manage to touch the bare metal. But Dick Barton had been in situations as difficult as this one before. His four years in the commandos had taught him a lot. And one of the most important things had been ingenuity.
Holding the beading straight, he carried it over to the small hole he had made with the clasp knife, and slowly began to insert the beading into the hole.
Snowey White came out of the decaying Victorian mansion no wiser than when he went in. There was no one about anywhere. All he could see was tyre marks, and a lot of depressing greenery. He was beginning to be concerned about the governor. He cupped his hand around his mouth and began to shout:
‘Mr Barton.’
Only silence met his attempt.
‘Mr Barton!’
There was no reply. With a frown on his face, Snowey started off down the drive.
There was frost on his hair, and on his clothes and his fingers were blue with cold. But Dick Barton was still working hard. The piece of beading was now threaded right through the hole, and, frowning in concentration, he was gently manipulating it this way and that.
He had an idea. He only hoped he could hold out against the increasing cold until it worked.
He was trying to judge the position of the horn button in the cab at the front of the lorry. If he could get it right, then he could send out the alarm. If ...
Snowey had reached the sagging gates at the end of the drive. He turned off into the undergrowth, and stood uncertainly near the parked Riley. He didn’t like to go off, not until he knew that Dick Barton was all right.
‘Mr Barton!’
There was still no reply. Snowey didn’t feel happy about going off but couldn’t really think what else he could do. He got into the car and slammed the door shut.
Back in the refrigerated lorry, the ice was now creeping across the floor towards Dick Barton. He was still struggling with the strip of metal beading, trying to make contact with the horn in the middle of the steering wheel.
He grinned to himself as he felt it touch the outer rim of the wheel. Gradually, he inched it across. He stopped for a moment, blew on his numb right hand, and then pressed gently.
His reward was one very short blast on the hooter. Then, the beading slipped.
Snowey was about to press the starter button when he heard the sound. He was sure that it was a lorry’s horn.
He listened carefully, frowning in concentration. The wind rustled the undergrowth around him. He didn’t like this place.
Barton, heavily encrusted with frost, and almost surrounded by the thickening ice, desperately struggled once more with the beading. It was wavering and wavering ...
Couldn’t have been anything, Snowey decided. He shrugged to himself, and pressed the starter button. The engine caught almost immediately. He put the Riley in gear, and edged carefully on to the drive again.
He reached the gates and stopped. There it was again. In the distance. There was no point in mucking about. It must be the governor. He started to run up the drive, back towards the house.
The effort was almost too much for him. He could feel nothing in his hands at all. Numbness was creeping up his arms. He tried to keep the strip of beading in position so that it pressed on the horn but it was increasingly difficult to maintain any pressure.
Dick Barton collapsed to his knees. The combined effect of the freezing cold and effort of working was threatening to prove too much for him. He hoped there was enough pressure on the strip.
Panting, Snowey reached the stable yard. There it was again. He tried to fix the direction of the sound. It was nowhere near the buildings of Ever Ring Chase. It was further away, amongst the trees.
He began to r
un again. He crossed an open field and made for a dense woodland on the far side. The sound of the lorry horn was growing louder as he ran.
Inside the refrigerated truck, in a temperature many degrees below zero, Dick Barton made his final effort, and then collapsed on the floor. Finally, the special agent was overcome by the cold.
Snowey heard the horn stop, and began to run faster. Then, he paused. He’d lost his direction. He was deep in the woodland now, the trees were casting shadows around him. Then he saw it. It was only just visible – the body of the lorry showed through the trees about twenty yards away. He began to run towards it.
Dick Barton lay slumped against the wall of the truck. Ice was all around him. He was trying to stay awake. He was remembering Virginia as a young girl, and Rex before he had become a drug addict. He knew that if he lost consciousness then that would be the end of him. But he wanted to close his eyes. To drift away into a peaceful place where everything was warm and cosy. He felt his eyes close.
He jolted himself into wakefulness by remembering Rex as he had appeared that night onstage at the Blue Parrot; by thinking about the stricken look of despair that had overtaken Virginia. He must survive.
Suddenly, there was a great crash. The doors were flung open from the outside, and the sunlight streamed in. And standing in the doorway was no one else but Snowey White.
‘Mr Barton?’
Dick Barton croaked his reply: ‘All present and correct, Snowey.’ Then he slumped to the floor.
When he regained consciousness, Dick Barton found himself out in the open air, propped up against a tree. Snowey was standing over him. He was holding a hip flask and pouring some of the contents down Barton’s throat. Barton coughed violently as the raw spirit entered his system.
‘Jumping Jehosephat, Snowey,’ he said weakly. ‘Did you make that stuff yourself?’
Snowey grinned back at his ex-captain. He was glad to see him come round. ‘It’s the last of the schnapps I brought back from Fritzland, sir.’ He paused to make sure that Barton was all right. ‘I thought you was a goner that time.’
