Now what Cub could see was also observed by the woman and her male companion—for the two were unmistakably riding together; and they lost no time in taking advantage of a situation that might have been created for their benefit. Wheeling their mounts they cut off a wide turn by riding straight down the sloping ground into the dip, towards the strung-out pack and the two riders behind. This, of course, was the obvious thing for them to do if they wanted to be in at the death, which clearly could not long be delayed.
Cub did likewise, although he was now more concerned with the riders than with the fox.
He noticed that the man and woman were not looking at the fox, or hounds, as might have been expected in the circumstances; they were looking at Freddie, and even making allowances for his imagination, it struck him that they were riding with a more definite purpose than the position warranted. They would be in at the death, anyway, now, and as they were going there seemed to be some risk of their committing the un-pardonable sin of over-riding hounds. Freddie evidently thought so too, for looking up at them he shouted and made a warning gesture. It had no effect.
The fox reached the covert for which he was making with the leading hound snapping at his heels. The rest piled in, and it was somewhere inside the belt of trees, or on the road just beyond, judging from the sounds, that hounds killed their fox. In this proceeding Cub was not interested, for thereafter things happened, and they happened quickly. This was the order of them.
Freddie arrived at the edge of the timber and reined in, as he was bound to, the undergrowth being thick. He glanced behind him, perhaps to see who had survived the run, or more probably to look for Tom Lench. Gimlet was at this time the best part of a hundred yards away. He had pulled up to a trot and the reason was at once apparent. His horse had gone dead lame. The woman and her male companion rode straight for Freddie, who crop in hand, was about to enter the trees, on foot. The man, Cub noted with astonishment, was talking, or rather shouting, into an instrument like a small telephone receiver which he held in his hand. A cable connected it with the satchel. Cub, also riding on, realised instantly that the instrument could be only one thing—a mobile radio unit. The man finished speaking and thrust the microphone back into his jacket. His hand flashed to his pocket and came up holding a squat black object. Reaching Freddie, he was taking deliberate aim when Freddie turned, and seeing what was happening, ducked. He was too late, or so it seemed. There was a dull report, a sort of vicious whoof, and Freddie went over backwards as though he had been punched on the jaw.
The woman, who had gone round behind him, dismounted.
Now, all this had occurred in three seconds of time, and, of course, Cub was no longer in doubt as to what was afoot. Without a moment's hesitation he rode straight at the man who
had fired the shot and knocked him flying with his foot, unseating himself in the process. His horse jumped over Freddie's motionless body and galloped away. Picking himself up, he flung himself aside as he saw the woman taking aim at him with a short, fat pistol similar to the ones they had found on the Werewolves at the Europa. Again came the vicious whoof. A blast of wind spun him off his feet. Without getting up he groped for his thirty-eight and fired back; but he was in an awkward position and the shot missed its mark. It grazed the woman's horse, however, which reared, throwing its rider.
She got up, still holding her pistol, and took aim at Cub; but before she could fire a shot rang out and she staggered, calling out something which Cub did not catch, speaking presumably to the man. The voice gave Cub a shock. It was deep and hard, clearly a male voice, and for the first time he realised that the dress was a disguise. Both Werewolves ran into the wood. Gimlet arrived an instant later. He hesitated, his pistol covering sounds of crashing undergrowth which indicated the direction taken by the fugitives.
Thus the situation remained, like a screen play suddenly arrested, for perhaps five seconds. Then Gimlet said tersely: 'Are you all right, Cub?"
Cub answered. 'Yes."
Gimlet's eyes probed the bushes. "Watch out. We're vulnerable here in the open. Cover me while I get Freddie into the trees."
Cub stood guard, pistol at the ready, while Gimlet picked up the unconscious Freddie and carried him to a safer place. Said Gimlet: "I don't know what hit him but he seems to be in a bad way. We'd better get him to a doctor. Let's carry him to the road—we may pick up a car."
Not without difficulty they carried Freddie some fifty yards or so to the road where they laid him on the grass verge. And precisely at that moment a car came tearing round the nearest bend. Cub caught his breath, for its colour was dark green. In a flash he understood. The mounted Werewolves had been in radio communication with the car all the time and had called it to the spot.
"Look out!" he warned crisply. "Here comes trouble."
The car came on, slowing down. But before it reached the spot where Freddie lay on the grass there was a shout, and the man in riding kit, without his pseudo-female attendant, burst out of the trees, an arm raised in a peremptory stop signal. The car slowed to a standstill, picked him up and came on again, by which time Gimlet and Cub, perceiving that the enemy had received reinforcements, had slithered into the ditch that skirted the road, dragging Freddie with them. How many men there were in the green car Cub could not see, but there were at least two, not counting the man they had just picked up.
As the car drew level, travelling dead slow, Cub took aim at the man nearest to him. The face seemed vaguely familiar. He fired, hoping to reduce the opposition by one, at any rate; but all that happened was a small white spot that appeared on the glass, and he realised with disgust that the glass was bullet proof. Gimlet had also fired with like result. He, too, must have perceived what they were up against, for he muttered a warning against wasting ammunition.
How the business would have ended had not a new factor appeared on the scene is a matter for speculation. The new factor was another car, their own, which, travelling at suicidal speed, now came tearing round the bend from which the green car had appeared.
It turned out later that Copper had heard the shots—hence his haste.
Whether the occupants of the green car knew or suspected that they were being followed, or whether it was decided that there was nothing more they could do—which in fact they could not without getting out of the car, which would have been a dangerous undertaking, as they must have realised—was not known to those in the ditch. Somebody must have been on the lookout, however, for as the police car came to a skidding stop the green car shot forward, and accelerating
swiftly sped on down the road. Out of the police car tumbled Copper and Trapper, pistols in their hands.
"Follow that car!" shouted Gimlet. Then he appeared to remember something and changed his mind. "No! Wait! We've got a casualty on our hands. Captain Ashton has been hurt. We shall have to get him home and send for a doctor."
Copper turned hostile eyes after the retreating car. "Seems a pity to let 'em get away," he muttered.
"Can't help it," said Gimlet shortly. "Freddie must come first. We can't leave him here."
He made a quick examination of the unconscious man, but could fmd no wound. "It may be gas or it may be sheer concussion," he decided. "We'll get him home. Keep your eyes skinned—there's a female wolf about somewhere."
"It isn't a woman, it's a man," put in Cub. "At least, if it's a woman she's got a man's voice."
"That doesn't surprise me," returned Gimlet.
With Trapper keeping guard they lifted Freddie into the car, by which time, of course, the green car had been out of sight for some minutes.
"Lucky you turned up when you did," said Gimlet to Copper during the operation.
"I wouldn't say it was altogether luck, sir," answered Copper. "After we lost touch with you we spotted the green car. It was following the hunt, too, and when I sees a graze on the paintwork I sez to Trapper 'My gawd! There's our fox.' So we followed it, not knowing what it was goin' ter bring us to, but having a rough idea. Tha
t's all there was to it."
"I see," murmured Gimlet.
Tom Lench appeared, an expression of bewilderment on his face. "What's happened, sir?
" he inquired. "My horse put his foot in a rabbit hole, the darned old fool, so I got a bit behind."
"There's been an accident," replied Gimlet. "Captain Freddie has taken a nasty toss. We'
re getting him home. You'd better look after hounds."
"Very good, sir."
Gimlet turned to Copper. "Get a move on," he ordered. "Make for Wongerford Manor, but stop at the first house that looks as if it might have a telephone."
"Aye, aye, sir," acknowledged Copper.
"What about the wolf in the wood?" reminded Cub.
Gimlet hesitated. "We'll attend to that later," he resolved. "Never follow a wounded beast into cover—it's asking for trouble. We've other things to do; we've only one car and we had better keep together. We may come back later. Go ahead, Copper."
The car shot forward.
"Corer me while I get Freddie into the trees," said Gimlet.
[Page 70
CHAPTER vu
THE GENERAL TAKES A HAND
THE car took the road towards Wongerford and ran on for perhaps half a mile when Copper slowed down in front of a modern house of some size standing in its own grounds not far from the highway. "How about this, sir?" he questioned. "They're on the '
phone. I can see the wires."
"Fine," answered Gimlet, getting out. "Wait for me." He hurried up the short drive.
During his absence of a few minutes the others tried without success to restore the injured man to consciousness, at the same time discussing in low tones the events of the morning. When Gimlet came back, he merely said: "I've spoken to the General, and to the butler at Won gerford Manor. The hunt doctor is at the manor now. Get a move on, Copper."
They went on to the Manor, a matter of just on two miles, where Captain Ashton was handed over to the doctor, and the house servants, who carried him to his bed. The visitors then waited in the library for the doctor's diagnosis. After about a quarter of an hour he appeared, and with a puzzled expression on his face asked Gimlet to describe just what had happened. This information Gimlet could not, of course, withhold, so taking the medico into his confidence he told him as much as he thought would be helpful. Having heard this the doctor went off again, this time for an hour. Then he returned.
"I've done all I can," he reported. "He seems fairly comfortable, certainly better than he was, which leads me to hope that the trouble is not serious. There are symptoms of shock, but I suspect he was brought to unconsciousness by an anesthetic of some sort being forced into his lungs under pressure—perhaps by a weapon designed for that purpose."
"A gas pistol might have that effect," opined Gimlet.
"Quite so. I understand that the intention was not to kill him, but to make him unconscious in order that he might be carried off without offering resistance. If that is correct we may assume I think that the effects of the gas will soon wear off, leaving him in a condition comparable with that of a patient coming round from an anesthetic.
Different constitutions react differently, so it may be a matter of hours or days before he is quite normal. The time factor would depend on the potency of the gas used. I shall stay with him for the time being. He will be safe in my hands."
"In that case we'll go along to the village inn for a bite of lunch and come back later to .
see how he is," said Gimlet, picking up his cap.
"Very well," agreed the doctor.
"Don't leave him or you may fmd you have a dead man on your hands after all," warned Gimlet seriously.
"Don't worry about that," the doctor assured him.
Leaving the Manor, Gimlet took the others to the village, where, at the Three Bells tavern he arranged for a late lunch to be served in a small private sitting room.
A simple but satisfying meal had just been concluded when the door opened and—to Cub's unbounded astonishment—the General entered, carrying a small but obviously heavy leather case which, after a nod of greeting, he put on the sideboard before opening it to reveal a compact radio unit. Having set the dials at what was clearly a fine adjustment he left the instrument and joined the others at the table.
"Things are going well," he stated crisply, without preamble, looking at Gimlet. "We've picked up the green car." "Strewth! That was quick work,"
breathed Copper. "Where is it?" asked Gimlet.
"It's on its way again," asserted the General. "We let it go." "Let it go?" gasped Copper.
"Don't interrupt, Corporal," adjured Gimlet.
"I'll tell you exactly what I've done as a result of the information you gave me over the telephone this morning," continued the General, still addressing Gimlet. "I've put a cordon of picked men round the area in which the wounded wolf is assumed to have taken cover. They should see that he doesn't slink out and at the same time take care of any others who try to get in to his assistance. More important than that, though, is the car. I had all roads trapped that lead north from this area with the result that the green car was stopped by a barrier at Bletchworth. There's no doubt about it being the car we are interested in; your bullet marks were on the window. There were four men in it." The General smiled faintly. "The police were very nice to them, explaining that they had been stopped in connection with a smash and grab raid at Portsmouth. That put their minds at rest, or so we may assume, for on that charge they were most certainly innocent as there had been no such raid. They were therefore quite pleasant about it—said they quite understood—and gave us no trouble. After a delay they were allowed to go, with apologies from the police for their having been troubled. The guilty car, the police explained, had been picked up elsewhere. In the interval, however, while they were waiting, I got through on the 'phone to the new Special Air Police Department at Scotland Yard. It's under the direction of an ex-Air Force officer named Bigglesworth, whom I believe you know. Bigglesworth happened to be out, but I spoke to one of his assistants, a lad named Hebblethwaite, known unofficially as "Ginger," but officially as Number Four S.A.P. He grasped the situation right away. He is now in the air watching the car, which he should have no difficulty in following because while the wolves were being detained—out of sight of the car, of course—a large white circle was on my instructions whitewashed on the roof of the car. As the roof of a car is normally above eye level, as it is in this case, it is unlikely that the occupants will be aware of the mark for at least some time. The first rain will wash it off, so they may never know anything about it. It is to be hoped that they do not discover it, otherwise they may guess its purpose and our efforts will prove fruitless. Hebblethwaite's job is to watch the car from the air and by radio keep me informed of its movements. He should be coming through any minute now. Unless anything unforeseen occurs he should be able to watch the car to its destination, which is the information we so badly need. It may not be easy for Hebblethwaite to keep track of the car in London, which I imagine is its probable destination. Indeed, in the ordinary way it would hardly be possible on account of the volume of traffic; but to-day is Saturday, and on Saturday afternoon traffic in the City thins out considerably, as you know. We can only hope . . ."
At this juncture a voice from the radio broke into the conversation. 'Number Four, S.A.
P. calling. Number Four, S.A.P. calling. Can you hear me Number Nine—can you hear me. Over to you. . . over to you."
The General was already at the instrument, his mouth near the microphone. "Number Nine here—Number Nine here. Go ahead S.A.P. Transmission good. Go ahead S.A.P.
Over to you."
The voice of the air constable came through again. "Car under observation heading north on road N.3., approaching Caterham valley. Repeat. Car heading north on road N.3., approaching Caterham valley. Now passing Blindley Heath. Stand by."
The General quickly unfolded a map and indicated a spot with the point of a pencil. "
&
nbsp; Here we are," he said.
Again the voice came over the air. "Car still heading north on N.3. Approaching Purley.
Weather deteriorating. Met. reports cold front coming down from north. Have you anything to say? Over."
The General answered: "Thanks, S.A.P. Go ahead. Keep car in sight as long as possible.
Over."
And so it went on for the next twenty minutes by which time the objective car was crossing Vauxhall Bridge. The weather continued steadily to deteriorate, and when such reports were received the General shook his head sadly. "
The only thing that could defeat us was the weather," he muttered irritably.
Again came the voice from the air. "Weather bad. Visibility poor and getting worse. Rain coming from the north. Give me your instructions please. Over."
The General answered. "Hang on as long as you can, S.A.P. Fly as low as you like.
Forget regulations against low flying over the Metropolitan Area."
"Okay, Number Nine," replied the pilot. "Car now moving eastward. Car moving eastward. Raining now."
Another ten minutes passed slowly with occasional comments from the air. By the end of that time the weather had closed down, making observation increasingly difficult, particularly as the tell-tale white circle was being erased by the rain. The car was still heading east, the General following its position on the map.
The end came suddenly. "Hello, Number Nine. Car stopped. Car stopped. Name of street unknown, but pin-pointed on my map. One man getting out. Car moving on again."
There was a short interval, then: "Sorry, Number Nine. Now in heavy rain. Visibility zero. Car last seen heading north-east. I am going home—I am going home. Over."
"Thanks, S.A.P.," answered the General. "Will see you later about stopping place of the car, and its last known position. Am switching off now. Good-bye." The instrument clicked and fell silent.
The General turned to Gimlet. "Well, that might have been better and it might have been worse," he remarked philosophically. "S.A.P. should be able to tell us where the man got out. That may mean something or it may lead to nothing. We shall see. There's a great future in the Special Air Police. When Bigglesworth gets the thing properly organized, crooks
04 Gimlet Mops Up Page 6
