As they drew nearer to the place to which the King’s Messenger had been taken they could see through the screen of poplars in front of it that it was a small but ancient farmhouse with many outbuildings and that the road ran along the front of it before turning in at the white gate. Warnford pulled the car onto the grass at the roadside well short of the house. “I don’t think we’ll advertise our coming,” he said. “Of course they’ve probably seen us from afar off and are preparing a hero’s welcome with tommy guns. On the other hand, there’s just a chance they haven’t been looking out of the front windows during the past ninety seconds. We will enter quietly by the farmyard.” He led the way over a field gate.
“Nice tall hedges they keep here, don’t they?” he went on. “I’d hate to lope along bent double like a kidney-pill advertisement.”
“They are very grossly neglected,” said Marden severely. They climbed another gate and proceeded quietly since they were nearing the farmyard and there might have been people about. “The place may be stiff with gangsters for all we know,” whispered Warnford. “Come in behind this barn.”
“There’s one chimney smoking,” said Marden, looking up, “but I think that fire’s only just been lighted.”
“Very quiet for a farmyard, isn’t it?” murmured Warnford. “Not a sound. You’d expect cluckings and quackings, wouldn’t you?”
“I expect the land belonging to this place is being worked by the next farm; this house may be empty. There’s grass growing in the cart ruts, look.”
“If we get down in the ditch behind this clump of nettles we’ll get across to the next shed and work along nearer the house. Come on.”
The next building was a cart shed with some derelict farm carts in it; the open front faced the house, and they slipped in at the back and kept in the shadow behind the carts. Before them the cobblestoned yard slept peacefully in the August sun; not a cat or a dog appeared, and the only birds visible were a couple of thrushes hunting for snails in the ivy along the house wall, and then hammering them to pieces on a suitable stone. Only one small window upstairs looked out from this end of the house, and a great chimney projection spoke of an inglenook inside. Neglected roses swung loose from the rose-red wall, and the steep roof came down within ten feet from the ground in lovely curves of lichened tiles. There was a small door at one side of the chimney, and about ten yards from it was a cow-tail pump. In the middle of the yard, resplendent in chromium plating and silver-grey enamel, stood the King’s Messenger’s Duesenberg.
“I think we’ll have the ignition key out of that while yet we are alone with it. I don’t know what I want it for, but it’s good tactics to immobilize the enemy.” Warnford sidled round to a spot where the car masked him from the upper window, made a silent dash, and returned with the key. “Nice place, this,” he went on in the same low whisper; “brooding peace and all that. Only wants a few pigeons cooing and I’d buy the place.”
“Typical Kentish farmhouse,” answered Marden. “If you bought the place you could install the pigeons. Hullo!”
The small door opened; a man came out with a bucket in his hand and walked towards the pump. He looked doubtfully at the bucket as he came but put it under the pump and filled it. He looked still more doubtfully at the water, emptied it away, and pumped some more. This time he seemed satisfied, for he picked up the bucket, streaming water from a dozen places, and walked towards the door. Before he reached it there was a sudden gush and a silver flash in the sunshine, and his pail was empty again. The bottom had fallen out. With a gesture of exasperation he swung it round his head and hurled it into the patch of nettles. He looked about rather vaguely for something else which was not there and then went back into the house, leaving the door ajar.
“He’s coming back,” whispered Warnford. “I’m going to dodge round behind the chimney stack and cosh him with this.” He indicated the scythe handle.
“I’m coming. Round behind the car, this way.”
They were hardly in the angle of the chimney stack before they heard steps again from the other side of it as the man came out of the door with a shining new tin kettle in his hand. Warnford made a dash at him, cracked him on the head with the scythe handle as he turned, and the man sank to the ground on top of his kettle, which collapsed. Marden took him by the legs and Warnford by the shoulders and stowed him along the house wall beyond the stack where he could not be seen from the door.
“Three out of four,” said Warnford. “This is too easy; something’ll happen to us next time.”
Nothing happened for the next ten minutes, and their prisoner began to stir. “This is awkward,” said Marden. “If he comes round and yells just as the next man comes out——”
“He’ll have to be coshed again, that’s all,” said Warnford grimly. “We haven’t got any rope here.” But the man quietened down again and showed no sign of animation. More time passed in silence till at last they heard footsteps along what sounded like a stone-flagged passage. They stopped at the door the other side of the chimney stack, and a cautious voice said, “Johan? Wo bist?”
Johan made no move, nor did his captors, and presently the man took three steps forward and came into their line of vision, a tall man with his back half turned to them, but they could see he had a stiff black beard. He was staring in a puzzled manner at the flattened kettle, and Marden made a dash at him at the same instant that the prisoner uttered a yell, spun round like a released spring, kicked Warnford on the knee with one foot and tripped him with the other. Warnford fell on the man and proceeded to abolish him, hearing at the same moment, with such attention as he could spare, a clean crisp smack from Marden’s part of the battle. “That’s that one,” he thought, and banged Johan’s head on the cobbles till he ceased to give trouble and fell asleep again.
Warnford picked himself up, nursing his damaged knee, and looked round just in time to see the tall man emerge from the farther door of the Duesenberg and run like a hare across the courtyard between the barns and away out of sight. Marden was just struggling to his feet, holding his jaw, which appeared to pain him. “You said something would happen to us this time,” he mumbled as Warnford limped towards him; “it did. See who that was?”
“I’ve seen him—yes, I know. That was the man who walked through the Hotel Malplaquet with the manager.”
“That’s him. He knocked me down and made a dive for the Duesenberg. I didn’t catch what he said when he found the ignition key was missing.”
“Let’s get this fellow indoors,” said Warnford. “Blackbeard is probably armed, and we’re offering quite good targets if he changes his mind and comes back.”
But while they were heaving Johan towards the door Marden stopped suddenly and said, “Listen. What’s that?”
“You know what it is,” said Warnford bitterly. “It’s my Bentley being driven away. Why didn’t I take the ignition key out of that one too?”
“At least we shan’t be shot at from behind the cart shed now,” said Marden. “Need we carry this fellow any farther?”
“Not if we had something to tie him up with. There’s a length of wire hanging on that nail; can you get it? That’s right. His hands behind his back, so. Handcuffs made to measure for all emergencies. The long end of the wire will go round his ankles if we bend his knees up a bit, since we haven’t any wire cutters. I don’t think he’ll get away now.”
“We shall travel in the Duesenberg when we leave, shan’t we?” said Marden.
“Certainly. Why?”
“Why not dump him in the dickey now?”
“You have the brains, partner. We must gag him before we start or we shall have wails—ugh, isn’t he heavy?—coming out when he revives, and people might not believe it was the cat. Heave him up. Can you hold him like that while I hop in from the other side and stow him? Fine. Let him slide gently to the floor. I don’t want him damaged too much; he’s got to talk to Mr. Hambledon tomorrow morning. Now for the King’s Messenger.”
They ent
ered the house by the same door as the men had used and passed down a stone-flagged passage. The place was plainly uninhabited; cobwebs masked the windows, and it had the stuffy, cold atmosphere of a house which has neither been aired nor warmed for months on end. At the end of the passage an open door admitted them to the farmhouse kitchen, a vast place, stone-flagged like the passage. The only furniture was a couple of boxes, some rugs, and a camp bed with a man lying on it, sound asleep.
“That your friend?” asked Warnford.
Marden looked at the sleeper. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him, but it must be. He’s so obviously respectable.”
“So he is. Silver hair, clear complexion, clean fingernails, subdued gentlemanly suiting. Do King’s Messengers really wear a silver greyhound badge under the lapel of their coats?”
“Don’t know. If he did it’s probably in Johan’s pocket by now.”
“I wish he’d wake up,” said Warnford. “I’d like to consult him about—— My hat! Do you know what?”
“What is it?”
“His satchel. It’s still under the driving seat of the Bentley. Blackbeard has got it.”
“Perhaps he won’t find it,” said Marden consolingly. “You wouldn’t expect to find anything under the seats except batteries.”
“Wonder what he thought when he rounded the corner and found the Paige-Jewett upside down and his friends gone? He knew the satchel was in that car.”
“I should think he’d have a hasty look for it and, when he didn’t find it, hop in the car again and drive like blazes,” said Marden. “I should. After all, he doesn’t know we aren’t British Intelligence backed up by the whole of the Kent County Police and, if necessary, the Army.”
“Quite true. I only wondered whether he’d come back to see if we’d got it, but, as you say, it’s unlikely. I wish—again—this feller’d wake up. Can’t we do anything for him?”
“Black coffee? There are some tins in that cupboard, look. The one with the broken door.”
“Sardines,” said Warnford, examining the tins. “Tongue. Salmon. Biscuits. Coffee; you’re quite right. Tinned milk. Sugar. Quite a larder.”
There was a fire in the range, struggling bravely against blocked flues, which might boil a kettle though it could not warm the room. “The kettle’s squashed flat in the yard,” said Marden, “but here’s a saucepan; that’ll do. Now it’s our turn to fetch water.”
“I’ll come with you. Things are apt to happen to people who fetch water from that pump today.”
But nothing molested them, and even Johan still slept in the Duesenberg’s dickey. The water boiled on the kitchen fire, made up with the remains of the cupboard door, and there was a pleasant smell of fresh coffee. “I think we might have some too,” said Marden. “Can you bear tinned milk? And the tongue also, I think; let us spoil the Egyptians.”
Warnford bent himself to the task of inducing the King’s Messenger to swallow black coffee while Marden wrestled with tin openers. “I’m afraid of choking this fellow,” said the ministrant. “Is there a teaspoon? I’ll try that. Come on, old chap. Sit up and lap this down; do you good. That’s right, another spoonful. He can still swallow all right, I see. Now some more. Try drinking out of the cup.”
When the coffee had begun to do its work the King’s Messenger opened his eyes and stared confusedly about him. “Take it easy,” said Warnford. “You’ve been doped, but you’ll be all right again soon. You’re among friends.”
“My—my papers.”
“They’re all right. They’re not here, but I know where they are. Have some more coffee.”
“Have a nice biscuit-and-tongue sandwich,” said Marden, offering it, but the man refused to eat, though he drank thirstily.
“Who doped me?” he asked slowly.
“I don’t know that, I’m afraid. Where did you have anything to drink last?”
“Lunch. At the Green Doors. Roadhouse. On the Dover road. Where am I?”
“In a deserted farmhouse somewhere north of the Dover road; I don’t know its name. I should think we aren’t far from Meopham, but I don’t really know.”
“Who are you and how did you come to be here?”
“We saw your car pull up,” answered Warnford, ignoring the first part of the question, “and we thought there was something the matter with you. Then a big car came up behind and four men got out, pushed you into the other seat, and all drove off again. My friend here recognized your car, so we followed. That’s all. Sure you won’t have some tongue? It’s dashed good.”
“No, thanks. What did—where are the four men?”
“Oh, we managed them. One’s in the dickey of your car, tied up; we thought Mr. Hambledon would like to have him.”
“Oh—yes. D’you know Hambledon?”
“Not personally, no. Tell me, what would you like to do now? Go back to Town?”
“Since I’ve lost the papers, yes. What did you say about them?”
“I know where they are; don’t worry about that.”
“My head aches,” said the King’s Messenger wearily. “I feel awfully stupid still. Perhaps the air will do me good.” He lay back on the camp bed and seemed to doze off.
“I think the sooner we get him up to Town the better,” said Warnford.
“Don’t forget to gag Johan before we start,” said Marden. “We don’t want melancholy noises coming out of the dickey as we drive along. There’s a bit of rag here; that’ll do. It looks quite tasty.”
Warnford slowed down as they passed the barn and put his head out of the window. There came to his ears the sound as of someone chanting one of the less amiable Psalms.
* * *
Police-Sergeant Coot had only three more years of service before he retired on his pension, and he was spending them in charge of a small quiet police station in Kent with nothing to worry him beyond a few cases of chicken stealing and sheep worrying, the high spirits of hop pickers in their season, and the deplorable deficiencies of the young constables he had to train.
“One after another,” he said, “you comes, you stays a two-three years, and then you goes on somewhere else, and I gets another cub just so like the last I can’t ’ardly tell you apart. I don’t keep a police station; I runs a college for hinfant constables. You, George ’Uggins, you’ve been ’ere six months and just left off blushin’ when the girls see you in uniform; you think you’re findin’ your feet, but I tell you you don’t know nothin’ yet.”
“No, sir.”
“If you’d started where I did, walkin’ a beat in Chatham when I was a lad, you’d learn quick then, believe me, if you didn’t want to end up in ’ospital with a face full of broken bottle. Not but what things is a lot better in Chatham now; as people gets more educated they behaves quieter, talks more, and acts about less. I’m not so sure, myself, that it’s all that much better. When they was throwin’ ’alf-bricks you knowed—knew—what they was up to; now they gets up on soapboxes and talk, talk, talk, and you don’t know what it may lead to. Always distrust a man as talks too much, my lad.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course in a place like this you can’t expect to get the experience as you would in a dockyard town, or any big town for that matter. It’s just the poachin’, and we know who’s done it if only we can prove it, and sometimes a bit of a bust-up down at the Chequers and that, and that’s all. Still, you can learn up your police law here nice and steady, and study yuman nature, too, that bein’ the same town and country alike.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And learn all I can teach you; then when you leaves ’ere and goes somewhere else they’ll say, ‘You don’t know much, but you’ve ’ad a good groundin’.’ That’s what they’ll say. All the same, I wish sometimes we could ’ave a good case as we could get our teeth into, a nice juicy murder or some such. Make a change, that——” The telephone bell rang, and the sergeant broke off to answer it.
“Yes, sir. . . . Yes. . . . Yes, I know Mr. ’Umphreys, the farm
er. . . . Keeps ’is car in a barn? Yes, sir, ’e does, in Frog Lane. . . . Yes, I know the barn. . . . Yes, ’e is a rather hasty-tempered gentleman at times. . . . What? . . . What? . . . But why tied up? . . . But why should ’e get into mischief? . . . Two other men wantin’ an ambulance? Why? . . . Dead? Who killed ’im and ’ow? . . . Oh, a car accident; I understand. . . . Broken leg? . . . Who? Take ’im to who? . . . ’Ambledon? H-a-m-b-l-e-d-o-n. Thank you, sir, I’ve got that. . . . But why is Mr. ’Umphreys tied up? . . . Yes, of course, but I expect ’e’ll tell me without that. . . . Who is this Mr. ’Ambledon, a local gentleman? . . . He will let me know? Can’t you tell me yourself? . . . Oh. . . . Thank you for ringin’ up about the accident, sir, but why didn’t you untie Mr. ’Umphreys? . . . Oh no, I shouldn’t think ’e’d do that, not if you’d untied ’im, sir. . . . Where are you speakin’ from? . . . Yes, I know it’s the other end of the telephone; I meant—I suppose it’s a call box? . . . My name is not Watson; it’s Coot. Sergeant Coot. What is your name, please? . . . Mr. Early? . . . Yes, I’m awake; o’ course I am. . . . Oh, poetry. What is your real name? . . . ’E’s rung off.” Coot turned a scarlet face upon the enthralled constable. “Get on your bike at once and go—— No, it’s no use; I must go myself. I shall want somebody to lend a ’and; you’d better come too—can’t leave the station. No, you stop ’ere and I’ll take Forrest. Get out the motor bike and sidecar; I’ll pick him up—— Oh, very well. I’ll take you, and Forrest can mind the station. Get a move on! To think I was just sayin’——”
Without Lawful Authority Page 10
