are going to find it much harder to get away with it. That's all we can do for the moment. What would you like to do next?"
"I'd like to have a look at this place where the car dropped one of its passengers, but there are other things I must do here first," answered Gimlet. "There's a wounded Werewolf to be picked up and I must have a word with Freddie Ashton, if he's conscious.
"
"Very well. You hang on here for a bit. I'll see Hebblethwaite and collect all available information about the car," offered the General. "I don't think the wounded wolf will get away; I've a pretty strong cordon round the area."
"That may be the best way of handling things," Gimlet concurred. "You go back to Town. We'll stay here until we have things cleaned up, then we'll join you at headquarters — bringing with us, I hope, a live Werewolf"
"You'd better take steps to see that no further harm comes to Ashton," instructed the General. "Now that he has had a sample of what the Werewolves can hand out he may agree to lie low for a bit. If he goes barging about on his own they'll get him as sure as fate. Impress that on him."
"I'll do my best," promised Gimlet.
The General stayed for a cup of tea. Then the party broke up, the General starting back for London, and Gimlet's party, in the police car, returning to the Manor, where, to their relief, they learned that Captain Ashton had regained consciousness, and although he was still in bed appeared to be little the worse for his adventure.
Gimlet saw him alone in his room while the others waited in the library. When he returned he was able to report that Captain Ashton had agreed to move right away, under cover of darkness, to the house of his brother in Chelsea—this on the understanding that he would be allowed to have a "crack at the wolves" should the opportunity offer.
"Let's get along to see what the police are doing about this stray wolf" concluded Gimlet.
"The Nazis are a cold-blooded lot, so the king wolf may decide to abandon him. On the other hand, if he's a useful member of the gang, he may attempt a rescue."
They went out to the car.
Night drew its sombre veil across the landscape as the car cruised slowly back over its tracks to the scene of the attempted abduction. The air was mild; the rain had passed; a full moon glowed mistily through a high cloud layer, with an occasional star blinking through the gaps.
The police cordon of whom the General had spoken was soon in evidence. While still half a mile from the wood a red light sprang suddenly to light in the middle of the road, and as the car slowed to a standstill two shadowy figures closed in on it. Cub could just make out a third standing in the background, with what looked like an automatic rifle levelled. Copper evidently noticed it too, for he breathed. "Strewth! They ain't takin' no chances of bein' bit. Don't blame 'em, either. I'd do the same. What say you, Trapper, old pal? Am I right?"
"Tch! Every time," agreed Trapper.
Gimlet opened the door on his side, whereupon a voice of authority ordered. "Stay where you are. This is the police. Who are you and where are you bound for?"
Gimlet revealed his identity, showing his special pass, which had the desired effect. "
Any news?" he inquired.
"Nothing so far, sir," answered the police officer. "We're gradually closing in, but the chief's orders were to cover every inch of ground and that takes time. The cordon is still best part of a mile across with the wood about in the middle. We've sent for a couple of bloodhounds. They're on the way. They should liven things up a bit."
"In that case we'll wait for a while and see the fmish," returned Gimlet. "Where can I park my car out of the way?"
"There's an old cart track a bit along the left," replied the officer. "It ought to be all right there."
The car was parked and locked, Gimlet putting the key in his pocket. Leaving the police, the party then moved quietly to a spot at the corner of the wood, one that commanded a wide view of the open country beyond. For the most part it comprised broad rolling fields with very little cover. At one point the moonlight glistened faintly on a long, if rather narrow, sheet of water. This, Gimlet told the others, was an artificial lake, brought about by the damming of a brook at the lower end, the object being to provide Captain Ashton, who owned the property, with his own trout fishing.
"Not much risk of the wolf breaking out that way," observed Copper.
Gimlet agreed.
Trapper spoke. He had been regarding the wood thoughtfully, and now put forward the suggestion that he should enter it, find the wolf, and either kill it or bring it out alive. He supported this request by pointing out that he had tracked plenty of wolves in his time.
But Gimlet would not hear of it. He said he did not doubt Trapper's ability as a scout, for this had been demonstrated often enough; but his entrance into the wood at that juncture would complicate things for the police, who might easily shoot him in mistake for their quarry.
Time wore on. Nothing happened for about an hour. Then an excited canine bay, quickly silenced by a sharp word of command, came from somewhere in the direction of the road.
"That means the bloodhounds have arrived," murmured Gimlet. "We shouldn't be long now."
Hardly had the words left his lips when, from the inky recesses of the trees, there arose a long-drawn howl, so sinister, so horrible, that Cub experienced a tingling sensation at the nape of the neck.
"That's our wolf howling," muttered Copper.
"Why should it howl?" demanded Gimlet.
Trapper shrugged. "Why it should howl I do not know, but it is the howl of a wounded wolf calling to its mate. I have heard it before."
"Calling to its mate? You mean—a wolf makes a noise like that when it calls for help?"
"So the Indians used to say," replied Trapper carelessly.
"Then it may mean that our wolf heard the bay of that hound and is calling urgently for help," suggested Gimlet. "It might easily be a signal, and come to think of it, the fellow may have a portable radio," he added.
"Could be," agreed Trapper.
"Seems likely he's expecting help or he'd do better to keep his mouth shut," reasoned Copper.
Silence fell again. A few minutes passed. Then came another sound, but this time one so common that no one remarked on it. It was the purr of an aircraft, distant, but coming nearer. Cub glanced in the direction of the sound but could see nothing. He made a casual remark about the machine not carrying navigation lights, but apart from that no comment was made. It was not until the drone ended abruptly that anything further was said about it. Then Gimlet said: "What does that fellow think he's doing? I hope he isn't in trouble."
No one answered. The truth was, as was afterwards admitted, it did not occur to any one of them that the aircraft had any connection with their own affairs.
It was not until a soft whine overhead suggested that the aircraft might be circling preparatory to landing that the first glimmerings of a suspicion entered Cub's head.
Looking at Gimlet questioningly, he said sharply, "That machine's coming down."
"As long as he don't land on us, that's 'is worry," asserted Copper dispassionately. "He's got plenty of fields to chose from."
"Yes, now you come to mention it, he has," said Gimlet in a curious voice. 'By gad! I wonder . . ."
What it was that he wondered was never revealed, although it did not take Cub long to guess; for at that moment there was a diversion of such significance that the conversation broke off short. There was a crashing in the undergrowth, and from out of the trees, a hundred yards from where the party stood watching, burst a man holding with difficulty on leash a couple of straining bloodhounds.
Three figures, presumably policemen, followed close behind.
"Sam! Those hounds are on a hot scent," declared Trapper straining his eyes.
"Queer—they seem to be making for the water," observed Gimlet in a puzzled voice. "
Surely our man wouldn't go that way." He started forward at a run and the others did the same.
; The aircraft now came into the picture. It was Cub who spotted it first and his voice rose in his excitement, for, suddenly he understood. "Look!" he cried. "The machine. It's down—on the lake. Watch out."
Gimlet pulled up dead, stared for a moment and then went on. "I should have thought of it," he muttered in a hard voice.
His words were half drowned in the bellow of an aero engine as the machine, without finishing its run, opened up and swung in a smother of foam, sending white ripples racing tow ids the rushes that fringed the shelving bank. From these rushes a man's form now arose and floundered through the water towards the aircraft.
There was a shout from the police as their quarry broke cover. The hounds bayed furiously. Gimlet increased his pace to a sprint, as did the others, although it was evident that they were going to be too late; they still had fifty yards to cover and the fugitive was already being helped aboard the machine. Shots rang out as one of the policemen pulled up and opened fire; but the light was tricky and the range long, and as far as Cub could see the shots had no effect. There was no answering fire from the aircraft, but suddenly the air was filled with a curious whistling noise which Cub could not understand until from several points along the bank there arose grey clouds of what looked like steam. The clouds spread and merged swiftly until they formed an almost continuous curtain.
"Smoke screen, eh?" panted Copper.
"Steady!" shouted Gimlet suddenly. "Stop! 'Ware gas! Keep back everyone." He shouted an urgent warning to the police who were some twenty or thirty yards farther along the bank. In any case, it was obviously no use going on, for the aircraft was again on the move, racing away at ever increasing speed across the ruffled surface of the lake.
Backing away from the spreading grey clouds those ashore could only stand impotent while the aircraft took off, to disappear almost at once in the night sky.
"So he got away after all," said Gimlet bitterly. "Well, we have at least learned this much. The enemy has aircraft at his disposal. We'll bear it in mind."
The police came up. "Sorry, sir," said one. "We weren't reckoning on an airplane."
"Neither was I,' admitted Gimlet frankly. "I'm afraid we're all a bit old-fashioned. We shall have to buck our ideas up. Well, we might as well pack up and go home. I'll go and report to the General that our wolf suddenly sprouted wings. Keep clear of that gas—it can't be anything else. I imagine it will soon disperse."
For a moment or two they stood watching the sinister clouds weaving and spreading until they lost themselves in the air. Then, with a brief, "Goodnight, sir," the police withdrew.
Gimlet turned and strode towards the track where they had left the car.
CHAPTER Vhf
ON THE TRAIL
IT was eleven o'clock when Gimlet and his party reached headquarters. The General was waiting for them. He knew about the escape of the Werewolf, for the information had been passed on to him by Scotland Yard, so it only remained for Gimlet to give him the details.
"It boils down to this," he concluded. "We know that the wolves are using at least one aircraft. The machine we saw had a flying-boat hull, but it may have been an amphibian.
It might have suited the pilot to come down on the lake. The machine is probably the link between this country and Germany. If it is, then that disposes of the transportation problem. But whatever type of aircraft it may be it must have a base, a landing ground and, perhaps, a refuelling station, over this side. We ought to be able to fmd it. The Special Air Police may be able to help us there. You might speak to Bigglesworth about it. Which reminds me—have you seen Hebblethwaite? I'm anxious to hear about this place where the car stopped and dropped one of its occupants."
"Yes, I've seen young Hebblethwaite," answered the General. "I saw him at the Yard and brought back with me a copy of the map with the spot pin-pointed. It's on the lefthand side, half way down a side street leading off the Whitechapel Road. Hebblethwaite, with commendable initiative, took a photograph. I understand Bigglesworth has had all police aircraft fitted with cameras. The picture is not very clear, owing to the weather, but it shows a car stationary outside a building which from the size and shape of its roof is larger than any private house in that district. It may be a store, a garage, or possibly a small cinema. Anyway, it shouldn't be hard to find. I haven't been to she place.
There was no desperate hurry. I decided to wait for you to come back. You may prefer to make your own reconnaissance."
"I'd certainly like to cast an eye over the place," returned Gimlet. "I think we'll have a quick cup of tea and slip down right away. That will save time to-morrow, and I've none to waste. I happen to be President of the Lorrington Cottage Garden Society, and they're expecting me down on Monday to judge the exhibits, and, in the evening, distribute the prizes at the village hall. Of course, I could get out of it, but this is the first post-war meeting, and as many of the competitors are my own tenants I don't like letting them down. I could catch the night train up and be back here on Tuesday morning. So if it's all right with you I'll leave my plans as they are—for the time being, at any rate."
"You're not forgetting that you're a wanted man yourself?" put in the General.
Gimlet smiled. "No, I'm not forgetting."
"The wolves may have a go at you at Lorrington." "I think that hardly likely."
"Everything so far shows that they know all about the movements of their selected victims. They will know about the flower show."
Gimlet shrugged. "They may. But I shall be with a crowd of people all the time."
"I'd rather somebody went with you. Two are harder to deal with than one."
"I can take one of my fellows."
"All right. You know what you're doing."
Gimlet nodded. "I'll have a look at this Whitechapel place before I go. In fact, I'll slip down right away. If a further reconnaissance is indicated, or if I decide to keep the place under observation, two of my fellows can take care of it while I'm down in Devon."
"As you wish," agreed the General. "Let's go through to the mess and have a cup of tea. I'
ve had a busy day and I'm tired, so I shall go to bed; but you can always get me if you need me."
They went through to the room that had been fitted up as a canteen.
Threequarters of an hour later the car was gliding down the Whitechapel Road. There was practically no traffic and only a few pedestrians remained in the streets, for the usual damp November mist hung over the City like a pall.
"This must be the turning—the next one on the right," observed Gimlet, who was driving. "It might not be wise to take the car any nearer. I don't think there's any point in us all trooping along," he continued, after bringing the car to a stop against the curb. "
There shouldn't be any trouble. I'll stroll along with Cub and give the place the onceover from the outside. Copper, you can follow us and stand at the corner. You may not be able to see us all the time, but you should hear if anything unexpected happens. Trapper will remain in the car.
Followed by Cub, Gimlet got out, and leaving the others turned down the street that held the object of the expedition. Being dark, all that could be seen clearly were those areas of road, pavement, and house, that came within the radius of the old-fashioned street lamps.
What these revealed was a scene typical of Victorian slum districts. Most of the houses were miserable little shops of miscellaneous character, drab, squalid, paint delapidated and blinds awry. Some of the windows were boarded up, apparently victims of the London blitz. It was evident that the street had once been a narrow thoroughfare between cheap little houses of uniform plan, built in a continuous row, the sort of thing that may be found in almost any London parish.
There was no difficulty in finding the objective for there was only one structure that differed from the rest. It stood back
a little way, behind railings. As they drew level with it Gimlet slowed down a trifle, but did not stop. He expressed surprise by a soft, "Ah-huh."
Cub also w
as surprised; so surprised, in fact, that for a moment he felt sure they were making a mistake; but there was no other building of any size for as far as he could see, so he quickly realised that however remarkable it seemed, the building must be the one they sought. It was not a store, or a garage, or a cinema, as the General had surmised. It was a small church, or chapel, or at any rate, a place of worship. This was at once made evident by the shape of the door and windows. The building was new, or comparatively so, for the bricks were still more or less red. Over the door appeared a notice. In passing, Cub could just make out the words, painted in white letters on a black board, TABERNACLE OF ST. BARNABY IN THE EAST. To what religious denomination it was devoted he could not even hazard a guess, but there it was—a church.
Gimlet walked on a little way and stopped in a shadow. "Well," he breathed, "what do you make of that?"
"Nothing," answered Cub frankly, without hesitation. "Of course, the fact that the man got out here doesn't necessarily mean that he was going to church," he opined. "He might simply have chosen this spot to alight."
Gimlet admitted the possibility of this. "Let's go back," he decided. "We'll take it more slowly this time."
They strolled back. All was still, dark and silent, outside the church. Gimlet stopped in front of a small notice board carved in the usual Gothic style affected by religious buildings. On it was pinned a small square of paper. His torch flashed on and made it possible to read a brief notice to the effect that there would be a special service at noon on the following day, Sunday, when the preacher would be Brother Geraldus. All were invited. All would be made welcome. The light switched off, but Gimlet did not move.
"Funny," he said in a normal voice. "I never noticed before that there was a church here."
Then he added quickly, under his breath: "Is there any way round these railings?"
Cub did not answer. As his eyes had become accustomed to the gloom he had observed something that had previously escaped his notice. Hunched in the scant shelter provided by a shallow porch was a dark heap, a large bundle of what looked like rags. It was surmounted by a small round object, light in colour, and this, he now realised with a shock, was a human face. At least, he thought so. He wasn't certain. Nudging Gimlet he pointed. Gimlet stared for perhaps five seconds; then his torch switched on, and the beam threw into relief the crouching figure of the lowest form of tramp, ragged, dirty, half buried in an ancient greatcoat.
04 Gimlet Mops Up Page 7
