“That’s as far as we can go with the car,” Sir Clinton announced, opening the door and getting out.
The moon shone out just at that moment, as a passing cloud slipped away from its face; and Sir Clinton, gazing along the shore, uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
“We’re in luck, inspector! See him? Yonder, just under the cliff. He hasn’t been able to get far.”
He pulled out his automatic.
“I’ve often wondered how far these things carry. I don’t want to hurt him, and it seems safe enough at this range. A scare’s all we need, I think. He’s making for the mouth of the cave below the headland.”
He lifted the pistol and fired in the direction of the figure. At the sound of the shot, the fugitive turned and, seeing his pursuers, ran stumblingly over the rocks where the edge of the tide was washing close up against the cliff.
“No hurry,” Sir Clinton pointed out, as Armadale and the constable quickened their steps. “We’ve got him trapped by the tide. There’s only one bolt-hole—the cave. And I hope he takes it,” he added, with something of sinister enjoyment in his tone which surprised the inspector.
They moved leisurely in the direction of the cave- mouth; and, as they did so, the fugitive gave one backward glance and then splashed waist-deep through the water which was foaming into the entrance. He ducked under the low arch and vanished. As he did so, Sir Clinton halted, and then, after a careful inspection of the incoming tide, he led the way back to the car.
“It’s as cheap sitting as standing,” he commented, settling himself comfortably in the driving-seat. “We’ll need to wait here until the tide shuts the door on him by filling that tunnel he’s gone through. After that, I suspect he’ll be the most anxious of the lot of us.”
“But there’s another exit from that cave,” Armadale pointed out. “He’s probably climbing up the tube of the Blowhole just now, sir. He might get clean away by the top of the headland.”
Sir Clinton pulled out his case and lit a cigarette in a leisurely fashion.
“I’m sure I hope he does,” he replied, much to the inspector’s surprise. “Just wait a moment and you’ll see.”
He smoked for a minute or two without troubling to make his meaning clear; and then the souffleur itself gave the answer. Armadale’s ear caught the sound of a deep gurgle from the heights above their head; then came a noise like a giant catching his breath; and at last from the Blowhole there shot up the column of spray, towering white and menacing in the moonlight. As it fell, Sir Clinton pressed the self-starter.
“That bolts the back door, you see, inspector. I only hope he’s been caught on the threshold. Now, I think, we can go back to the hotel and see if we can pick up one or two useful things.”
He turned the car on the last strip of sand before the rocks and swung it round towards Neptune’s Seat. After a little searching, he found a spot from which he could ascend to the road without straining his springs.
“I had the curiosity to examine that Blowhole cave at low tide once, inspector,” he explained as he drove up towards the hotel. “The thing works this way. The entrance is low, and the tide fills it soon. The air in the cave can still get out by a narrow tunnel leading up to the Blowhole. But in a minute or two this second tunnel’s mouth gets filled up, and there’s no escape from the cave. The sides are smooth, and the tide rises quickly, so that fellow will either drown or else he’ll creep into the Blowhole tunnel to escape. The tide rises a bit farther, and compresses the air in the cave. At that stage the souffleur begins to work. Intermittently, you get the air-pressure in the cave big enough to blow through the Blowhole tunnel, carrying the layer of water there in front of it; and that mixture of water and compressed air makes the jet. So, you see, if that fellow’s in the cave, he must be swimming round like a rat in a pail; and if he’s in the tunnel, he must be suffering agonies as the jet comes up and tears at him. You know what sort of force it has. And if he can’t cling on to the rocks of the tunnel, he’ll be battered against the sides as the jet carries him before it, and he’ll probably be severely injured by the time it spits him out at the top.”
“Good Lord!” said the inspector, as the realisation of the thing crept into his mind. “That’s a nasty trap to fall into. He’s going to get his gruel, sure enough.”
They had reached the hotel, and Sir Clinton dispatched the constable to bring ropes, if any were available.
“You don’t seem eager to get him out, sir,” the inspector ventured, as they were waiting.
“I don’t know exactly what happened at Peter Hay’s to-night,” Sir Clinton returned, “but I saw enough to know it was something uncommonly bad that they were trying to do to that girl, inspector. It must have been something worse than the normal way of putting the screw on a woman. Our friend in the Blowhole didn’t mind doing that. And, somehow, that makes me feel a bit indolent when it comes to rescuing him. Let him go through it. Besides, the longer he’s there—if we happen to get him out alive—the more his nerves will be shaken, and the easier it will be to wring some truth out of him. You can tackle him at once, before the effect wears off. And I shan’t feel inclined to ask you to be moderate in your questioning this time. We must get all we can out of him while he’s got the jumps. I’ve no doubt whatever that Billingford will turn King’s evidence if he gets half a chance—he’s that sort. But the other fellow was deeper in, and we may get more out of him if we can catch him at the right moment. So I’m not really in much of a hurry. This isn’t a case where my humanitarian instincts are roused in the very slightest.”
He broke off, seeing Wendover coming out of the hotel.
“Everything fixed up comfortably, squire?” he asked.
Wendover nodded affirmatively; then, as Sir Clinton invited him to join them, he amplified his news.
“We got Mrs. Fleetwood down here quite comfortably; and she’s upstairs now. Very shaken up, of course; but she’s a plucky girl, and she hasn’t had any bad collapse of her nerves so far, though one might have expected it.”
“I’ve a good mind to see her myself now,” Sir Clinton said thoughtfully. “Did she say anything about what they’d done to her?”
“No. But she asked me to send for Rafford immediately. I didn’t like to worry her with questions.”
Sir Clinton’s face darkened.
“It’s a nuisance we have to go and fish that creature out of the Blowhole. I’d much prefer to leave him there to go through it. He deserves as long a spell as we can give him. But I suppose there would be a howl if we left him to die. Besides, I want to hang him if I can. By the way, what about his jovial colleague, Billingford?”
“He’s here too,” Wendover explained. “We thought we’d bring him to the hotel and wait for your instructions. He’s safe enough.”
“That’s all right. Now here’s the constable with the ropes, so I think we’ll have to move on.”
Sir Clinton showed no desire to hurry; nor did Wendover when he had learned the state of affairs. Both of them were in the mood to prolong the agony so far as decency permitted. Wendover could not get out of his mind the expression he had seen on Cressida’s face at Peter Hay’s cottage; and when it came back to his memory he felt that the man in the Blowhole tunnel was getting only a fair retribution for his crime.
As they came near the mouth of the souffleur, the great fountain shot up into the night air and broke in spray in the moonlight. Sir Clinton hurried forward and bent down to listen at the orifice.
“He’s there, all right, and still alive,” he reported. “A trifle unnerved, to judge by his appeals. I suppose we’ll have to yank him out now.”
Armadale also had been listening to the cries from below.
“If we get him out in that state,” he said, with satisfaction, “there won’t be much that he’ll keep back when we start questioning him. He’s all to pieces.”
Before they could do any more, the souffleur spouted again. Wendover, whose imagination was keener than that of th
e inspector, was suddenly appalled by the picture conjured up by that wild fountain jetting from the ground. Down below their feet he could see with his mind’s eye the miserable wretch clinging for life to some inequality in the tunnel, while the continual blasts of the souffleur tore and battered at him, and the rush of water made him fight for his breath. A rat in a trap would be happy compared with that.
“Oh, let’s get him out!” he exclaimed. “It must be devilish down there in the dark, waiting for the next spout.”
“If you’re set on seeing him hanged, squire, we’ll do our best,” Sir Clinton conceded, with no sympathy in his tone.
But, even by doing their best, they had great difficulty in rescuing their quarry from the grip of the death-trap. When at last they got him to the surface, he was more dead than alive; and three ribs had been cracked by the last torrent which had flung him against the side of the conduit.
As they lifted him into safety, Sapcote hurried up from the hotel; and, after a glance at the torn and haggard face, he recognised the prisoner.
“That’s Aird, sir. Used to be valet at Foxhills once.”
“Well, you can have Mr. Aird, inspector,” Sir Clinton intimated. “If you give him some brandy, he’ll probably wake up enough to part with any information you want. Don’t let your sympathy overcome you. We must get enough out of him to hang him if we can; and it depends on putting him through it while his nerve’s gone.”
He moved away without another glance at the broken figure on the ground, and, followed by Wendover, turned his steps towards the hotel.
“I suppose he calculated on being able to climb to the top before the jet began to play,” he continued. “Well, he seems to have paid for his mistake,” he concluded grimly.
At the hotel door, Wendover expected that they would go straight to the Fleetwood suite; but, rather to his surprise, Sir Clinton summoned one of the constables and gave him some instructions in a low voice. Then, accompanied by Wendover, he ascended the stairs.
“I want to see Cargill for a moment,” he explained, as they passed the first floor. “I’ve something to say to him.”
Rather puzzled, Wendover followed him to the Australian’s room.
“I happened to be passing,” he said, as he entered in response to Cargill’s permission, “and I dropped in to see how you’ve been getting on. Leg all right now?”
“It’s a bit better,” Cargill replied. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Got enough to read?” Sir Clinton inquired, stepping over to a pile of books which lay near Cargill’s couch and picking up one of them. “I’ve got one or two I can lend you.”
Wendover was taken completely by surprise; for, without altering the tone of his voice, Sir Clinton bent suddenly forward and imprisoned Cargill’s wrists.
“See if you can find a pistol anywhere near, squire. It’s as well to be on the safe side.”
He whistled shrilly; and, before the Australian had recovered from the surprise of the attack, two constables had rushed into the room and made any attempt at a struggle impossible. Sir Clinton relaxed his grip.
“I shouldn’t kick about, if I were you, Cargill. All you’ll succeed in doing is to reopen that wound of yours. The game’s up, you see; and you may as well take it quietly. We’ve got some of your friends.”
Cargill’s face showed an eagerness at the words.
“Has my brother got off?”
“You mean the pseudo-Derek, I suppose? Yes, he’s gone to ground”—Cargill’s expression showed a relief which was quenched as Sir Clinton continued—“in the same place as you put Paul Fordingbridge.”
Cargill’s head sank at the news.
“I’m afraid I can’t stay,” Sir Clinton said, with almost ironical politeness. “You’ve given me such a lot of work to do, you know, lately. I shan’t trouble you with questions, because I think we shall get all we want from your confederates. If you need anything we can give you, please ask the constables for it. Good evening.”
In the corridor, Wendover broke into a flood of questions; but Sir Clinton brushed them aside.
“There’s time enough for that by and by,” he said brusquely. “I must get to the bottom of this business first. We’ll go along and ask if Mrs. Fleetwood can see us for a moment or two.”
Wendover was glad to find, when they entered the Fleetwood suite, that Cressida seemed to be getting over the worst of the shock. Her face lighted up as she saw them come in, and she began at once to thank them. Sir Clinton brushed the thanks aside.
“There’s nothing in it,” he said. “I only wish we’d been sooner.”
At the words, Cressida’s expression changed, as though some dreadful thing had been recalled to her. Sir Clinton put his hand into his pocket and drew out the glass syringe.
“What part did this thing play?” he asked gently.
The sight of it brought back all Cressida’s terrors.
“Oh, you were too late!” she exclaimed despairingly. “I’m still dazed by it all, and that brings it back.”
Under Sir Clinton’s sympathetic interrogation, she was soon able to tell them of the ordeal she had gone through. When she had finished, the chief constable bent forward and took up the hypodermic syringe from the table.
“You can sleep quietly to-night,” he said. “There was nothing in this affair except tap-water. I saw the fellow filling it at the sink as I passed the window. I’d have stopped him then, but there were only two of us against three of them, and I had to wait till they were all in one room. I must say the hypodermic puzzled me. I couldn’t make out what they were after, unless it was more drugging. But there was nothing in the syringe. I saw him washing it out under the tap before he filled it. At the worst you may have a sore arm; but the only germs in the syringe were some that might be in tap-water. The whole affair was a piece of bluff from start to finish. But it’s no wonder it took you in. They must have staged it well. Be thankful it’s no worse, Mrs. Fleetwood.”
“Oh, I am! You don’t know what a relief it is, Sir Clinton. I meant to go off first thing to-morrow to the Pasteur Institute for treatment. I wasn’t very frightened, once I got out of the hands of these horrible men, because I knew I could be saved if I got treatment in time.”
“That’s very sensible of you. But you need have no fears about hydrophobia, at any rate. It was simply a bluff and nothing more.”
Cressida thanked them again, and, in order to escape from her gratitude, Sir Clinton said good night, promising to return next morning to tell her anything that she might wish to know.
Wendover had been horrified by the story; and he began to wish that after all they had left Aird to his fate in the tunnel.
“Brutes like that aren’t fit to live,” he declared bitterly, when the door had closed behind them.
“Some of them won’t live much longer, squire, if I can manage it,” Sir Clinton assured him, in a tone that left no doubt in the matter.
In the hall below, they encountered Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux, and at the sight of Sir Clinton her face showed something more than the mere pleasure of meeting an acquaintance. She came forward and intercepted them.
“I am most fortunate,” she explained, with a smile which betrayed her real gratification at their meeting. “I depart to-morrow morning by the first train, and I was fearing that I might not encounter you to make you my adieux. That would have been most impolite to friends so cordial as you have been. And, besides, I am so very happy that I would wish to be very amiable to all the world. All the embarrassments that I feared have been swept, and everything has arranged itself happily.”
Sir Clinton’s face lost the hard expression which it had borne a few moments before.
“I hope that it is my good fortune to be the first to congratulate you on your approaching marriage, madame. You have all my wishes for great happiness.”
Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux’s manners did not allow her to throw up her hands in astonishment, but her face betrayed her surprise.
“But it is marvellous!” she exclaimed. “One would need to be a sorcerer to know so much! It is quite true, what you say. Now that Staveley is dead, I can espouse such a good friend of mine, one who will be kind to me and whom I have been adoring for so long. I can hardly believe it, I am so happy.”
Sir Clinton smiled.
“And you would like everyone else to be happy too? Then you will perhaps begin at once. Go upstairs, madame, and ask to see Mrs. Fleetwood. Say that I sent you. And when you see her, tell her that you married Staveley in 1915. You do not need to say any more.”
Rather puzzled, but quite anxious to do as he told her, Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux bade them both farewell, and they saw her ascending the stair. Sir Clinton gazed after her.
“Easy enough to guess that riddle. One gets a reputation on the cheap sometimes. Her association with Staveley; then her complete separation for years; then this sudden need to meet him again in order to side-track some ‘embarrassments’: obviously she had married him, and needed a divorce if she was to marry again. I wish most problems were as simple.”
“And, of course, if she married Staveley in 1915, as she seems to have done, he committed bigamy in marrying Mrs. Fleetwood?”
“Which means that Mrs. Fleetwood is Mrs. Fleetwood, and that she’s legally married now. She won’t be sorry to hear it. That’s why I sent Mme Laurent-Desrousseaux up there now. First-hand evidence is better than documents; and, of course, the documents will be forthcoming if they’re required in future. Evidently those three scoundrels didn’t know this latest twist in the affair, or they wouldn’t have tried the trick they did last night. They’d have done worse, probably, when they got hold of her. If she’d been dead and out of the way, there would have been no one except old Miss Fordingbridge to contest that impostor’s claim—and she was so besotted with him that she’d never have dreamed of doing so.”
Mystery at Lynden Sands (A Clinton Driffield Mystery) Page 24
