Warnford and Marden had to spend four nights in uncomfortable lodgings before they could board a ship crammed to suffocation and were extremely lucky to get on at all. They landed with profound relief at Dover several hours late and had a leisurely lunch at the Lord Warden, retrieved the Bentley, and drove happily back in the direction of London in a “thank-goodness-that’s-over” mood.
“That trip was not one of my brightest ideas,” said Warnford.
“Never mind. We’ve at least seen the Hotel Malplaquet. Would you care to drop in and have a look at my place? It’s not much off the road the other side of Maidstone.”
“I’d love to; let’s go. Have you had it long?”
“Well, yes,” said Marden rather diffidently. “It’s belonged to my people for some considerable time—it’s the last remaining bit; there was a lot more at one time. My people were a Kentish family; in fact, there’s a place called Marden not far from here; I expect there was some connection originally. We turn off left just beyond Addington and plunge into the woods. They are not what they were before the last war, but it is still a pleasant spot.”
But before they reached Addington they met a large two-seater car being driven in a wildly erratic manner from side to side of the road. Warnford was so justly alarmed that he swung the Bentley into a cart track to get out of the way. They stopped among hazel bushes twenty yards down the lane and walked back to the corner, having heard a crash.
“Feller ought to be in jail,” snorted Warnford. “Drunk in charge of a car is practically murder. Feller ought to be hung.”
They came into the main road and saw the sports car stopped almost opposite to them with one wheel in the ditch. A big American saloon car had just pulled up behind it, and four men were getting out. “Friends of the casualty, I suppose,” remarked Warnford, “following after in case—— What’s the matter?”
“Back behind these bushes,” said Marden, grabbing him. “Don’t let them see you. Something funny here.”
“Why, what d’you know about it?” said Warnford, retiring as instructed. “Is the binged one a friend of yours?”
“No. But I’ll bet he’s not binged. That’s the King’s Messenger with the Duesenberg car I told you about. I thought I knew the car when it came round the bend. Proper toughs those fellows look, don’t they? The other car’s a Paige-Jewett.”
The four men manhandled the Duesenberg out of the ditch and onto the road again; two of them pushed the King’s Messenger out of the driver’s place and propped him up in the passenger’s seat. One of them got into the driver’s seat of the Duesenberg, which was apparently unharmed; the other three ran back to the American car close behind and scrambled in. Whereupon both cars moved off with the Duesenberg leading and took the first turning on their side of the road; the whole performance had taken less than three minutes, and during that time the few cars that had passed had taken no notice.
“King’s Messengers,” said Marden, “don’t get drunk when they’re——”
“I’ll back the car out,” interrupted Warnford. “You wait here and give me a clear road, will you? We’ll chase these fellows,” and he made a dash for the Bentley; Marden came aboard as the car backed out, and they went off in pursuit.
The cars they were chasing were, of course, out of sight, but two cars driven one closely behind the other do not usually travel fast, and Warnford drove the Bentley at the highest speed possible in such a narrow twisting lane, praying to be delivered from farm carts round corners. At the top of a hill the lane dropped steeply away below them to rise again in a long ascent. Near the top of this were two small objects in motion. “There they go!” yelled Marden. “Yoicks forrard!” and he bounced in his seat.
The Bentley shot down the hill like an express lift in the Empire State Building, with the air whistling past the windows; Warnford braked violently when he saw the little hump-backed bridge at the bottom only just in time; as it was, the big car left the ground and it was mere luck that landed them on the road instead of in the ditch. Warnford laughed, and Marden said that so far as he knew there wasn’t a hospital along there, though there was a churchyard a bit farther on.
“You know this country, do you?”
“Of course I do. Used to cycle round these lanes when I was a small boy. Hold hard, there’s a sharp bend over this ridge.”
When they rounded the bend they saw the two cars not too far ahead, and Warnford slowed down. They had no wish at all to get too near. The leading cars turned left and then right.
“Where are they going, d’you know?”
“No idea; might be anywhere. I don’t know it so well beyond this point.”
Ten minutes later the cars slowed suddenly and turned off up a cart track. “I’ll run past the end,” said Warnford, “just in case they’re watching us. We’ll turn somewhere and come back.” Sure enough, as they passed the end of the lane the Paige-Jewett had stopped and a face looked out at the rear window.
“Go round that corner and stop,” said Marden. “We might be able to see something from there.”
The ground fell away from the field gate over which they leaned, and a bare paddock with cows in it ended in a thin hedge through which they caught glimpses of a silver-grey car proceeding with caution and, a moment later, a black car following it.
“Reassured, the pilgrims proceeded on their way,” said Marden. “What happens next?”
“Study the lie of the land a little, I think. There was no signpost at that corner, so I think that lane just goes to a house and not beyond. That’s the lane, I suppose, that white streak alongside that wood. Yes, there’s the Duesenberg. And escort. This is where we exercise caution; they are two to one and, as you said, toughs. Is that a barn of some kind by those ricks? If it is we might be able to run the car in there.”
“If it’s not locked. It will probably be empty just now,” said the country-bred Marden; “the machines will be out harvesting. We could hide the car behind the ricks; there’s sure to be a gateway leading in. Let’s go.”
When they got there down the extremely bumpy lane they found the barn doors only latched and the barn itself empty except for a couple of ploughs at one end. The Bentley went in easily, and the big doors were closed again. Just past the barn the lane bent sharply to the right between high banks, ran along by the side of a beechwood and across a field. After that it dropped out of sight for a time, to reappear again as a thin streak along a hillside, and came to an end at a gate and a screen of trees; behind these one rose-red brick chimney and the corner of a tiled roof announced the presence of some sort of house. Marden and Warnford found that if they climbed the bank they could see the road nearly all the way to the white gate.
“This is a good spot,” said Marden.
“Apart from stinging nettles up my trouser legs and a rose branch down the back of my neck, it is. What happens next?”
“I wish the party would divide. I wonder how long they propose to keep the King’s Messenger there.”
“I wonder whether they’ve got enough provisions, or will some of them come out to buy some beer?”
“What were you thinking of doing?”
“Stopping the car,” said Warnford, “with a block in the road. There were a couple of ploughs in that barn; they’d do nicely. Even if they were all four in the car, the moment of impact with two unexpected ploughs would disconcert them, don’t you think? However tough they are. Then, while they’re still seeing stars, we can advance upon the car and bat them with something heavy.”
“Suppose they don’t come out again for hours, or even stay there tonight?”
“If I’d stolen despatches from a King’s Messenger,” said Warnford, “I’d get ’em away as soon as possible, wouldn’t you? All the same, if they don’t come to us we’ll have to go to them. I wish Ashling was here; he might be useful.”
“Would it be a good idea to get those ploughs out ready in case they come back? We shan’t have a lot of time when we see the car coming.�
�
“I think you’re right. Have a cigarette and I’ll go and get them out of the barn. One of us must do Sister Anne on the top of this bank in case they come upon us unawares; I think it had better be you. You’ve got a nicer piece of bank than I have, a rail to sit on, I notice, and no stinging nettles.”
“I went where there weren’t any,” said Marden. “I have trained myself to exercise ordinary foresight. While on that subject, could you look round the barn for some weapons of a simple kind? A club or a bar of iron or some such.”
“I’ve always thought what a nice weapon a mace must have been. Not the Lord Mayor’s kind; I mean a long handle with a lump of iron covered with spikes on the end. I’ll go and see what I can find.” Warnford jumped off the bank and walked round to the barn, leaving his friend on the lookout. The barn provided a bar of iron about three feet long, apparently broken off something, a scythe blade which Warnford rejected as being useful but too barbaric, and a couple of scythe handles. He took the iron bar and the heaviest scythe handle outside, put them in a convenient spot, and returned to wrestle with the ploughs, leaving the door ajar. A plough is not the easiest thing in the world to move about if you are not used to it. Warnford pulled and pushed, got projecting parts caught up in things, and was making a good deal of noise and not much progress when he became aware of the sound of an engine running just outside the door. The next moment the door opened wider and an elderly man with a red face put his head in.
“Oh,” said Warnford, feeling thoroughly caught, “er—good afternoon.”
“May I ask what you’re doing in my barn?”
Warnford abandoned his labours for the moment and explained that he wasn’t doing any harm; he and his friend just wanted to borrow a couple of ploughs for a few minutes.
“Borrer my ploughs? Whatever for?”
“Oh—er—we just wanted to surprise somebody. That’s all.”
The farmer looked at him with growing distaste. “Say, you ain’t come from Barming, have you?”
“Barming? Where’s that?”
“Not far.”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“ ’Cause if you don’t mind I’d rather you went back. Borrer my ploughs!”
“But why Barming?” asked Warnford.
“County lunatic asylum, that’s why. Is this your car?”
“Yes, I—we just——”
“Take it out of my barn. Leave them ploughs alone; take your car out and get out yourself!”
Appeasement being at that time in the fashion, Warnford thought he’d better try it. “I’m frightfully sorry,” he said in a soothing tone, advancing towards the door. “I know it must seem a bit mad to you, but honestly I only wanted to borrow the ploughs for a few minutes. I’ll put them back.”
“Come out!” said the farmer, and flung the door wide open. It hit a stump in the ground, bounced back again, and bumped the farmer from behind. This seemed to annoy him more than anything, and he addressed a few remarks to the door. Outside, just in the gateway off the lane, stood a Ford saloon of an early vintage, with buckled wings, a cracked windscreen, and most of the paint missing. The engine was still running.
“I can’t get my car out,” said Warnford, “till you move yours. It’s in the way.”
The farmer seemed about to reply when there came a yell from Marden. “They’re coming! Look out, quick!”
Warnford caught the farmer by the wrist, swung him forward into the barn, slammed the door on him, latched it, and pegged the latch all in one movement. He leaped at the Ford as Marden came running round the corner and backed the old car right across the lane. “That ought to stop them,” he said, getting out hastily. “Weapons here, look. Stick or iron bar for you?”
“They won’t see it till they’re on it,” said Marden, taking the scythe handle; “that corner’s perfectly blind from the other side——”
There came from the farther side of the bank the roar of a big car being driven much too fast for comfort on that potholed lane, a slither as it skidded round the corner, the squeal of brakes applied much too late, and a perfectly appalling crash. The Paige-Jewett hit the Ford squarely broadside on and knocked it right across the hedge; the big car appeared to close up in front and slewed round in the road, shot straight into the ditch, hit the roots of a big tree, and turned three complete somersaults, ending up with its wheels in the air. Except for a hissing sound as the water from the radiator poured onto the hot engine, there was silence; even the farmer inside the barn was, for the moment, hushed.
“Good lord,” said Marden in awed tones, “you’ve killed them.”
Warnford, white-faced under his sunburn, said hastily, “I didn’t expect that. I hope the King’s Messenger isn’t inside,” and ran towards the wreck with Marden beside him.
There were only two men there, and neither of them was the King’s Messenger. One of them had been flung out in the road; when he was lifted up his head dropped back like a jointed doll’s when the elastic has perished.
“Neck broken,” said Marden shortly. “Put him on the grass at the side. Where’s the other?”
The other was jammed behind the steering column, and it took some trouble to get him out. He was quite unconscious and breathing noisily, but, apart from some cuts on the head and a broken leg, he was not much hurt so far as they could tell.
“Stunned, that’s all,” said Marden. “His leg’s broken below the knee; he’ll be all right again in a few weeks. What do we do now?”
8. Deep Sleep of a King’s Messenger
Warnford wiped his forehead and looked about him. The farmer inside the barn was shouting remarks fortunately muffled by brick and solid timber and kicking the door with hobnailed boots. The Ford was standing more or less on its wheels astride the hedge; the Paige-Jewett was in the ditch opposite, leaving the road clear. The man with the broken leg still snored heavily, and the dead man in the grass stared blankly at the sky.
“I think we’d better get out of this as quickly as possible,” said Warnford. “I suppose a few people do occasionally come along this lane. We’d better go up to the house, lay out the other two, collect the King’s Messenger, and leave. I’d like to take the others prisoner and send them to Hambledon, though I don’t quite see how at the moment. Perhaps we shall think of something. As for these two, I don’t think they’re much loss, either of ’em. A more villainous pair of toughs I never set eyes on; the dead one is just like an anthropoid ape with unnatural vices, and this one’s more like a hyena.”
“Hyena or not,” said Marden, slightly horrified, “we can’t leave him in the middle of the road.”
“No, of course not. For one thing, we should run over him when we come back. Better dump him in the barn, I think, and his late friend too. Then there’s the farmer; he doesn’t sound too friendly somehow. We can’t have him running round telling the world before we’re ready.”
“Better tie him up and take him with us. Or leave him in the barn to keep the hyena company. By the way!”
“What?”
“Do you think they’ve got the King’s Messenger’s papers in the car?”
Marden was quite right; they had. The brown leather satchel had been broken open but still had a number of papers in it; in case any had been taken out search was made through both victims’ pockets but without result, except that they each had an automatic which was removed. Warnford concealed the satchel in the hedge for the time being and said, “Now for the farmer. There was some rope hanging up in the barn. You open the door; I’ll trip him up, and you sit on him. Then I’ll get the ropes and we’ll tie him up and put him in the barn. After that we’ll come back for these two. We might find a spare door or something to carry them on; easier than just lugging them.”
“Hurdles are best,” said Marden.
They approached the barn door and proceeded to carry out the first part of the agenda. It did not turn out to be quite so simple as anticipated because the farmer, though elderly, was a stro
ng man, accustomed to manual labour, and he put in a concentrated spell of it before being brought sufficiently under control for Warnford to fetch the ropes. Even then the three of them had quite a lot more exercise before he was tied up like a cocoon and laid in a quiet corner of the barn to cool off.
“Think we’d better gag him?” said Warnford as quiet fled from the corner where the farmer lay.
“Do you think we must?” said the softer-hearted Marden. “He might throw a fit if he couldn’t even swear.”
“Perhaps you’re right. We’ll get the others in first, and then I’ll talk to him. No hurdles in here.”
“Some outside,” said Marden. He pulled one out of the ground by the ricks, and they brought the two casualties in, one at a time. The broken-legged one showed signs of returning consciousness, so they tied him up, too, after straightening out his leg and laying him upon sacks; the other man required no consideration.
“You back the Bentley out,” said Warnford, “while I talk to the farmer.” He strode across the barn and stood over the prostrate farmer. “Listen,” said Warnford. “I am most dreadfully sorry to have to treat you like this, believe me; if only I could tell you all about it you’d understand how unavoidable it is. I’ll see you’re compensated for all this and I’ll buy you a new Ford too. I think you’ll need one. At the very earliest possible moment I’ll send somebody up to untie you. I hope it won’t be—— What did you say?”
The farmer repeated himself.
“Oh no, I’m not. Neither of us is. As I was saying, I hope it won’t be more than an hour at the outside before you’re rescued. If you’ll give me your name and address I’ll see you don’t suffer for this.” The farmer gave them, and Warnford wrote them down. “These men here,” went on Warnford, “won’t worry you. One’s got a broken leg and a clout on the head; the other’s dead. No, I’m afraid I can’t give you my name. Think of me as Deadeye Dick from Hangman’s Oak. Don’t yell too much; you’ll only exhaust yourself, and I shall be seriously annoyed. I must go now. Good-bye.” He went out, carefully shutting the door after him. The satchel was recovered from the hedge and stowed away under the driver’s seat in the Bentley. Warnford collected the weapons, including the scythe handle, and got in. They drove away towards the second part of the business.
Without Lawful Authority Page 9
