It was a struggle, and she was terrified that the wedges of coal might slip. If that happened she would be caught by the heavy trap, but with an effort she wriggled through and stood free, breathing the cool air of the garden.
For a moment she was undecided. Ronnie’s car must be on the other side of the house. Could she get the engine going and be away before they caught her? She thought of the rough, bumpy track, and decided that it would be best not to risk it. If she crossed the brook at the bottom of the garden, she could get through the woods and strike the road a few hundred yards further back, stop the first car she met, and hurry for the police at Guildford.
She skirted the side of the house carefully. Lights were still burning in the big lounge. She stooped below the level of the sill as she crept past the window, then she reached the lawn, the soft turf deadened her footsteps and she ran swiftly down towards the stream.
A fence lay along the bottom of the garden with a small gate leading to the woods. She unlatched it carefully. Immediately beyond it was the brook, plainly visible in the starlight; it was about three feet wide. Somewhere among the feathery alder trees a nightingale, belated in its migratory passage, was singing.
Avril jumped. She landed with one foot on the soggy ground the other side, one foot in the water. When she lifted her foot out of the brook her leg was wet to the calf and her shoe Covered with black mud, but that did not trouble her. She must reach the police at Guildford at the very earliest moment. She stumbled forward through the low-growing trees, but the green moss was deceptive. At her next step she was ankle-deep in bog! She drew it out quickly, with a sucking sound, leaving her shoe behind. From nowhere, it seemed, water had filled the hole where her foot had been a moment before. She looked about her for safer ground and saw a great tussock of coarse grass between the trees. She jumped and landed on it, clutching a frail alder stem to steady herself. In the faint light she could see other tussocks just ahead. She jumped again and landed on the next, there were three more in succession, then they seemed to stop. She was nervous now, the fair green ground was treacherous; beyond the last tuft of grass she could just make out a fan of reeds and the wood seemed to come to an end—that was a sure indication of a real morass. To her left the ground seemed to rise a little, that should be safer although it led away from the road. Between her and the higher ground she could make out several hummocks. They were not coarse grass such as she was standing on, but had a mossy look and seemed a darker shade of green. In no place were they more than two feet apart. She should be able to use them as stepping-stones; the nearest would be the most difficult to reach, it was a good five feet away. She balanced herself carefully and sprang—the hummock gave under her like an airy sponge, she had sufficient impetus to get her second foot on the next, but it sank right in, the tussock disappeared like a pricked balloon and the ice-cold mud closed round her leg up to the calf.
She seized a slender alder branch, which gave under her weight, and struggled to free her leg, but her other foot was now in the deadly grip of the morass. She pulled and jerked frantically, her front leg was now in up to the knee—the branch snapped and she fell forward, wildly clutching at another tree. The sudden wrench freed her other foot, it came out with an oozy plop, but she had no time to place it carefully, and being already off her balance it came to rest beside the first. With a wicked gurgle the green slime closed about that too.
Avril was frightened now, every story that she had read of people who were trapped in marshes and quicksands to suffer a terrible death came back to her. Yet surely this bog could not be of any depth? That safe tussock of grass that she had left was not more than ten feet away—she was scarcely further from the stream—and beyond lay the safety of the sloping garden. She could see the lights of the house clearly through the low branches of the alders, and yet she dared not call for help. Hinckman was there, how he would triumph in her recapture. At worst she would have to remain there, a prisoner, till the morning.
She ceased to struggle, hoping that she would not sink further in, and endeavoured to support her weight a little with the aid of two more frail stems of alders, but the oozing slime was already well past both her knees, the cold of it was chilling her feet and legs.
For half an hour that seemed like a whole night, she remained quite still. She tried to deceive herself, but she knew that the mud was gaining on her. Then for a moment her nerve broke and she began another frantic struggle to get free. The green slime made little sucking noises as she fought, it almost seemed as if this terrible soulless enemy were conscious, and chuckling with a foul delight as it drew her further into its cold embrace. When with a sobbing breath she ceased to fight once more she was engulfed up to her hips.
Avril’s heart thudded in her chest, her breath came in little gasps. She was frightened now that she might lose her life unless she called for help. How ghastly it would be to die, choking and screaming, as the mud crept up over her neck and face. She stayed rigid for a while, the icy cold was numbing her limbs, and she was afraid that she would soon have cramp in one leg. She remembered reading somewhere that the proper thing in such a situation was to fling yourself forward on your face and crawl. You stood a greater chance by distributing the weight of you body over the soft ground, but it was too late to think of that. She was sunk in the mire now up to her waist, she could not throw herself forward!
The nightingale still sang his songs some distance to the left, while she stood shivering, half-embedded in the slimy ooze. Within a few feet of her great golden kingcups showed faintly in the pale light. About the place brooded all the quiet serenity of an English summer night.
Thirty miles away lay the greatest city in the world, with its eight million inhabitants, its theatres, churches, palaces, and restaurants, all those miles upon miles of stone and brick that man has made as a sure shield against the dangers and treachery of nature—while here, in the marshy glade, the scene remained unaltered since the Ancient Britons set their snares for moorhen in the marsh and the Roman Legions passed that way.
Since her last struggle it seemed that she was sinking much more rapidly, and the cramp which she had feared, seized her right leg—she could feel no trace of bottom to the bog. It was no use to struggle any more, she was so far in that she could hardly move her limbs, and every motion gave rise to that evil, persistent sucking. She must shout for help, that was the only thing to do, and now, before it was too late. Bitterly she accepted her defeat and called lustily for Hinckman.
For a moment there was no reply and she had a sudden awful fear that he and Vitelma might have abandoned the cottage after the shooting. She called again, louder, choking back her sobs of rage, and then she saw him against the lighted windows coming down the garden path.
‘Well, where you got to?’ he cried, pausing at the little gate on the other side of the brook.
‘I’m here,’ said Avril between her sobs. ‘Stuck in this wretched bog.’
‘You don’t say!’ he drawled. ‘Stay put, I’ll fetch a torch.’
It seemed that he was away for ages, and she could feel the mud pressing in below her breasts. At last he returned and shone the light in among the trees.
He laughed when he saw her. ‘Well, I’ll say you’re in a jam.’
‘Help me out,’ called Avril.
‘Sure, I’ll get a ladder.’ He walked quietly back to the house.
Once more it seemed an eternity before he came down the garden path, dragging a long ladder behind him. With a sigh of relief, Avril saw him place it in position across the stream. The end of the ladder reached within a few feet of her. He picked up a coil of rope and walked across to her side of the brook, then he paused, shining his torch full upon her.
‘Now, kid,’ he said sharply. ‘What happens if I get you out of here.’
‘What do you mean?’ Avril parried.
‘Do you sign that damned paper or don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Avril with an effort.
‘O.K.’ He
turned away abruptly. ‘Then I guess you stay put for keeps.’
‘Come back,’ she called. ‘Come back.’
He stopped, turning to look over his shoulder. ‘Waal?’
Avril endeavoured to bargain. ‘What about Nelson Druce?’ she said.
‘What about him?’
‘If I sign will Vitelma do all she said?’
‘Yep—I guess so.’
‘All right—I’ll sign.’
He came back then to her end of the ladder and threw her the rope. ‘Best knot it round your shoulders, kid—you’ll take some shifting.’
She wrapped the end twice round her body, under the arms and then tied it firmly. ‘All set,’ he called, and began to pull.
Hinckman was a strong man, but the task was quite beyond him. The mud sucked and gurgled as Avril fought to get free, but the bog refused to give her up. After some minutes of vain struggling Hinckman threw down the rope with a grunt. ‘Hang on, kid. I’d best get help.’
He walked up the garden path bellowing some foreign name that Avril could not catch, then he stood mopping his face with a large red handkerchief. A small dark man came trotting out from the back of the house.
‘All things pack, boss. All ready in auto,’ Avril heard him say, and she saw that he was an Oriental in the neat dark clothes of a valet.
‘O.K. Is Black Eye still at the far end of the trail?’
‘Yep, Boss—he watchin’ road like you said.’
‘Go get him, an’ make it snappy; best get Wally, too.’
The small man trotted off into the darkness, returning a few moments later with two other men, one dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, the other in similar kit to the man Ronnie had knocked out with the bottle. All four of them set to work on the job of dragging Avril out of the marsh.
It was a long and painful business; had it not been for the resourceful Oriental Avril’s flesh would have been cut to ribbons. He fetched towels and cushions from the house with which he padded the rope where it went under her arms and round her back, then they all hauled together for the firm ground on the other side of the brook.
Slowly, reluctantly the marsh gave up its prisoner, and with a last great plop, as her legs came free, Avril found herself being dragged face downward along the ladder. She yelled to them to stop and then fainted from pain and exhaustion.
When she came to, she was in the sitting-room again, stretched out on the sofa. Vitelma was pouring brandy down her throat and stroking back her hair. Hinckman was leaning back up against one of the old oak beams that supported the false minstrels’ gallery, a freshly lit cigar in his mouth. The others had disappeared.
Avril sat up with a shiver. She was covered with mire from head to foot and her lower limbs seemed frozen. Hinckman stepped over to her.
‘Come on,’ he said harshly. ‘Let’s get through with this. I wanta get away outa this place.’
‘You let her be,’ snapped Vitelma. ‘Can’t you see the poor kids all in. I guess you’ve done enough rough stuff to last you a piece.’
‘Think I wanta stay in this place all night?’ He gripped Avril by the arm and jerked her to her feet, then scowled at Vitelma. ‘You go hit the car, an’ make it snappy. Give Wally the wire to have all ready when I come. Now beat it.’
For a second Vitelma wavered. Her blue eyes were full of an angry rebellion, but Hinckman was in far too dangerous a mood to be crossed with impunity. His eyes were red and bloodshot, all his veneer of urbanity had disappeared. Vitelma had never seen him like this before and she was scared. She half believed that the fight with Ronnie had turned his brain.
‘O.K.,’ she said sullenly, then to Avril as she left the room: ‘Get it over quick, kid, then slip upstairs an’ take a hot bath. I guess you’d better sleep here tonight—or you’ll get yer death of pneumonia. I’ll do my end about Nelson. Don’t you worry.’
Hinckman supported Avril to the table and plumped her down in a chair. He dipped a pen in the ink and thrust it into her hand. ‘Now get busy,’ he said tersely.
Her numbed fingers could hardly hold the pen, but she scrawled her name at the bottom of the paper and then flung it down with a little sob of bitterness at her defeat. She let her head fall forward on her arms and burst into tears afresh.
‘Can that!’ said Hinckman fiercely. ‘It don’t cut no ice with me.’ He blotted the paper quickly and threw it into an open attaché case that stood upon a nearby chair. Then he stooped swiftly and picked Avril up in his arms.
She lay there unresisting as he carried her out into the garden, thinking he meant to take her to the car. Her heart almost stopped beating as she realised that he had turned down the path towards the stream.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she cried.
‘Where you came from,’ he snapped.
‘You can’t—you can’t,’ she gasped.
‘I certainly can. It’s your own fool fault. If you’d signed in the first place I wouldn’t have to. Think I’m going to leave you sitting pretty to put the police on me for shooting young Sheringham?—not on your life.’
‘Help!’ screamed Avril. ‘Help!’ The thought of being left to the in that terrible marsh sent her mad with terror. She fought and struggled to wriggle from his grip with every ounce of her remaining strength—but it was useless.
He strode across the ladder to the far bank of the stream and with a terrific heave of his massive shoulders flung her—a whirling heap—back into the bog.
23
Ronnie Sheringham cashes in his Writs
Nelson Druce lay upon the narrow bed in his cell at Brixton. He had been trying to read, but had given up the attempt some time before. He turned restlessly from side to side.
He had resigned himself to a long sentence of imprisonment—he saw no escape from that. He knew that every artifice would be used by the capable Mr. Drefus to take advantage of the law’s delays and so put off his trial, but the result must be inevitable. As far as he was able during the last fortnight he had put cut of his mind the terrible experience in an American prison that awaited him, Time enough to face that horror, with what resolution he could muster, when the day arrived; but the very fact of what lay before him had made him more doggedly determined than ever to smash the Combine first. He was living from day to day in that one hope.
There were just four days to go now before Vandelstein’s money became due. Avril would do everything that was humanly possible he knew to complete the film and get it exhibited by that time. He had learned from Drefus that progress at Hatfield was considered satisfactory. They had hoped to complete by today, but Nelson knew that some days at least would have to elapse before the film could be ready for exhibition, and even then it was no matter of the audience who witnessed it simply pouring money into a hat. Enormous sums would be involved and lengthy legal documents had to be drawn up before he would actually receive the money in his bank and be able to pay Issey Vandelstein. It would be a des perate race against time, and here he was cooped up in prison, unable to help in any way.
During these days of agonising suspense his only comfort had been the thought of Avril—that sweet, wonderful woman who was fighting his battle for him. But he cared not think of her too much, that way lay madness. Too think of Avril was to think of those fifteen terrible years in prison that he must go through. That was unbearable enough in any case, but knowing that she loved him made it a thousand times worse, for it meant the added torture of their compulsory separation.
How bitterly he regretted the shooting of Angelo Donelli. He had done it in the mad rage following his father’s death. If he had only turned his whole attention to the Combine first, then later he could have dealt with the Italian. Perhaps it might even have been possible to bring the assassination home to him in the proper way, or trace his history and get him upon some other charge for his shootings in the past. Chicago gunmen were not always loyal, as Nelson knew, and doubtless Angelo had his enemies. He was too fond of women to remain without. It was pretty cert
ain that at some time or other he had filched some girl off a confederate. Time and money might have unearthed many things to his ultimate ruin. Nelson did not regret that Angelo was dead for one second, only that he had not brought about his death in some other way.
The big key grated in the lock of Nelson’s cell and his warder entered.
‘You’re wanted,’ he said briefly. ‘Good thing you’re not undressed yet. Come along, please, and bring your hat.’
Nelson got to his feet and preceded the man down the long corridor, wondering what in the world could have happened. The order to bring his hat obviously meant that he was to leave the prison, but why, at this hour of the night? Perhaps they were transferring him to some other prison, but what an extraordinary hour to choose for such a purpose. He saw by his watch that it was after ten o’clock.
He was led out into the yard and locked into a cell inside a prison van. ‘Say, what’s going on?’ he asked the warder who sat with him in the Black Maria.
The man shook his head. ‘Don’t know, not my business, and you’re not supposed to talk. Still, there’s no ‘arm in me telling you you’re being took to the Yard,’ and that was all the information Nelson could get out of him.
At Scotland Yard Nelson was taken at once to a room at the top of the building. A big, burly, red-faced man with a crop of ginger curls was talking in a low voice to Captain Rudd of the American Detective Service. The big man turned to Nelson, his sharp blue eyes running quickly over him.
‘So this is Druce. Got your note-book, Gartside?’ He addressed a tall, lean Inspector who had entered from an adjoining room.
Such Power is Dangerous Page 24
