by Sapper
“Not unless he’d shaved off his beard. Even my mutton-headed poop would have noticed that amount of face fungus. But there is one rather important point, which I forgot to tell you yesterday. The plan was framed, and on the back of it is some writing. And that writing gives the clue to the secret entrance. The plan, of course, shows where it is approximately, but without the writing at the back you can’t get in.”
“And you haven’t any idea what is written there?” I asked.
“Not the remotest. Dash it, old boy! I was only about eleven years old at the time.”
“As you say, John, that is very important,” said Hugh. “Because what it boils down to as far as I can see is that unless the bloke that pinched it takes it out of the frame it is useless to him.”
“That’s about the long and the short of it,” agreed the other.
“Gosh! You fellows,” cried Hugh, “I’d give something to see a little daylight in this. Anyway, let’s go and gnaw a bone.”
And all through lunch we argued it backwards and forwards. Was it the man we had seen at Spragge’s Farm who had stolen the plan, or was it, perhaps, Jean Picot the chauffeur?
“That’s a point, John,” said Hugh. “Go and ring up your place and find out if the footman can say what sort of a car it was the man came in. See if he remembers the colour: that might help.”
But again we drew blank. The car had not been left at the front door, and the man had no idea on the subject.
“The more I see of it, Scott,” said Hugh as we finished lunch, “the more do I think that the first real daylight we shall get is from Miss Verney. I want you and Peter to be there from two to three this afternoon, in case she gets a note over the wall. I’m going to turn in for a couple of hours, and then this evening our work really begins.”
“The Marsh again?” asked Freckles.
“No, young fellow – Temple Tower,” said Hugh gravely. “If anybody gets inside that wall we’re going to follow.”
And so two o’clock found Freckles and me ensconced in the little wood which lay opposite the front gate. Hugh had turned in: John James had returned to Laidley Towers with the definite intention of getting some kit and then coming back to the house. As he pointed out, it was his plan, and if there was any fun and laughter going begging, he was going to have a dip at it.
Not unnaturally, the boy was a bit on edge, and I certainly didn’t blame him. All that we could see of the house was the tower: the rest of it was hidden by the wall. And in the hot, drowsy afternoon the whole place looked more like a prison than ever. Even to me it was so gloomy as to be depressing, and I hadn’t got my fiancée inside.
We hardly talked at all, and when we did for some reason or other, we found ourselves whispering. Save for the drone of countless insects, the silence was absolute: even the birds seemed stricken dumb. Once a farm waggon creaked slowly by, the driver half asleep: but except for that the road was deserted. And after a while Freckles began to doze.
I suppose I must have followed his example, because I distinctly remember that I had a brief vivid dream of the beast-faced man at Spragge’s Farm. And then, quite suddenly, I was wide awake. Something had moved not far away, and the sound had roused me. I sat up and glanced at my watch: it was a quarter to three. I looked at Freckles: he was sleeping peacefully. Then I stared round me: what was the noise I had heard?
The undergrowth was dense: I could see nothing. But that noise which had sounded like the cracking of a twig must have been caused by something. Or somebody. And then – I cannot explain it – I began to be aware of a peculiar sensation, a sensation I had never experienced before. Someone was watching me; I knew it.
Once again I stared all round me; once again I saw nothing save the brambles and trees. But the feeling grew on me, till it amounted to a certainty. I was being watched. Back to my mind came Hugh’s words of that morning: he, too, had felt the same sensation in the sand dunes. And after a while I could stand it no longer: I got up. Still no sound: still no sign, but the feeling remained. The silent watcher was still there. I took a few steps forward, and there came the sudden crack of another twig. And now I knew I was right: we were not alone in the wood.
Absurd I know, and I am almost ashamed to admit it, but for some reason or other the most unreasoning panic began to get hold of me. And only by taking a firm pull at myself did I remain where I was. In the middle of a summer’s afternoon, for a grown man to be frightened in an English wood was utterly ridiculous, and yet the plain fact remained that I was. The noise had seemed to come from the direction in which I was facing, and acting on a sudden impulse I plunged into the undergrowth. There was nothing – nothing at all. A bird startled by the noise flew away chattering angrily, but of anyone human there was no sign. I took a few more steps, peering in every direction, with the same result. And then, suddenly, I heard Freckles calling me, and his voice was urgent.
“Darrell! Darrell! Where are you?”
“Here I am,” I answered. “What’s the matter?’’
I found him sitting up, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
“I must have been dreaming,” he said slowly. “And yet I could have sworn I was awake.”
“What did you think you saw?” I asked.
“It is a most extraordinary thing,” he said, “but I thought I saw a black figure through those bushes over there. It was all black, standing between those two trees. Just at first I thought it was you, until it moved: then I saw it wasn’t. And then it suddenly vanished.”
“Let’s go and have a look,” I said: and together we walked over to the two trees. But there was no one there, and though we stood listening intently we heard no further sound. The wood had relapsed into its drowsy silence once more.
“A trick of the light most probably,” he said. “Some shadow or other.”
“Shadows don’t come and go,” I answered. “As a matter of fact for the last five minutes I’ve had the impression that we were being watched.”
“But, damn it,” he cried, “if there really was someone there, what was he doing in that extraordinary rig? He was absolutely black, and a most peculiar shape.”
“What do you mean by a peculiar shape?” I said.
“I’m blowed if I know what I do mean,” he answered, scratching his head. “But he didn’t look normal.”
“When you say black,” I persisted, “do you mean he was a nigger?”
“No; he didn’t seem to have a face at all. He was just a black outline.” He gave an irritable laugh. “Confound it, Darrell, I’m not tight. And I know I was awake. What the deuce is in this wood?”
“It’s a bit too big a proposition to explore at the moment,” I said. “I think we’d better return to our observation post; we don’t want to miss the letter if it comes.’’
We went back to our original position and lay down again. And for the next ten minutes while we waited I have no hesitation in admitting that I frequently found myself looking over my shoulder into the shadows behind us. What was this mysterious being that I had heard, and Freckles had seen?
After a while I glanced at my watch: it was ten minutes past three. And I was on the point of suggesting that we should give it up, when something skimmed over the wall and fell in the road, not two yards from where we were lying. It was the letter, and it had hardly reached the ground before Freckles had it in his pocket.
“Pat,” he called out in a low voice. “Pat.”
“Hullo!” I just heard her answer from the other side.
“Are you all right, darling?”
“Yes, quite. Look here, Tom…”
But whatever she was going to say we missed, because at that moment Freckles glanced up the road. He let out an urgent “Shut up,” and bolted back under cover beside me.
“The Vandalis,” he muttered, and even as he spoke I heard
the roar of their car in the distance. It drew up almost in front of us, but fortunately in such a position that we could see the gate. The woman was driving, and we wormed our way a little further forward in order to see better. The whole thing was evidently cut and dried beforehand, and a direct frontal assault was the plan. Vandali got out of the car, looking even more overdressed than he had in the Dolphin, walked over to the bell and rang it. Then he lit a cigarette, and coming back to the car, stood leaning against it and talking to the girl. Once I thought he must have seen us, because he stared perfectly straight at me, and seemed to pause for an instant in his conversation. But he gave no further sign, and a few moments later, the hole in the gate was opened and Gaspard looked out.
Vandali turned round, and for a while he and the girl stared at him in silence. Then Vandali spoke.
“Is Mr Granger at home?”
“That’s as may be,” retorted the other. “Who are you, and what do you want?”
“My name doesn’t matter. But I wish to see your master.”
“Well, he don’t wish to see you, nor anyone else.”
He made as if to shut the hole in the gate, but Vandali stepped forward.
“Wait a minute, my friend,” he said. “You know who is down there on the Marsh, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Gaspard hoarsely.
“Don’t lie: it is foolish,” said Vandali. “You know that you are found at last – or rather your master is. And you know what that means.”
Gaspard moistened his dry lips with his tongue.
“Tell me who you are?” he repeated.
“As I said before,” answered Vandali, “it doesn’t matter who I am. But go and tell your master that someone who knows everything is outside and wishes to speak to him. And tell him further that he need have no fear.”
For a while the man hesitated: then he slammed and bolted the panel of the opening and we heard his steps departing up the drive.
“I wonder,” said Vandali thoughtfully to the girl, “if it will work the trick. We hit the mark all right over Marillard. Still it is only guesswork.”
“Guesswork that is a certainty,” she answered impatiently. “My dear Paul, look at the house, look at the precautions he has taken against anyone getting in. Of course it is the man.”
“I suppose you are right,” he agreed. “Anyway, we can but try the bluff.”
He lit a cigarette, and stood leaning against the car.
“And if the bluff doesn’t succeed?” she remarked, “what then?”
“I see nothing for it,” he said, “but the police.”
The panel suddenly opened again, and he swung round. And framed for a moment in the hole in the gate was an unpleasant shifty-eyed face. The owner himself, I decided, and evidently Vandali had come to the same conclusion.
“Mr Granger, I believe,” he said quietly.
But if he expected any further conversation he was doomed to disappointment. A querulous voice said: “I don’t know you: go away,” and then the panel slammed to again.
“Wait a moment,” called out Vandali. “I know you don’t know me, but I know you.”
“Go away,” shrieked the voice from the other side of the wall.
“Listen to me, you fool,” snarled Vandali, losing his temper, “or it will be the worse for you. Unless you consent to see me, and discuss things, I will put the police on to you.”
A peal of cackling laughter was the only reply, and I saw the girl put her hand on Vandali’s arm and whisper something.
“Look here, Mr Granger,” he said more calmly, “we’ll give you a day to think it over in. Tomorrow at about this time we will return. And then I advise you, for your own sake, to see me.”
But there was no reply, and after a time, with a shrug of his shoulders, Vandali got back into the car. And the girl was just leaning forward to press the starter, when a noise like a young explosion occurred at my elbow. As I pointed out to Freckles afterwards, he might have controlled himself for another half second, but he merely retorted that half a second can be longer than an eternity if a fly goes up your nose. Anyway, the bald fact remains that the uproar of Freckles’ sneeze literally shook the countryside. And the girl drew back from the self-starter, and then they both stared straight at us.
“Botanising?” said Vandali quietly.
“No. Only studying the habits of the lesser carnivora,” burbled Freckles. “I say, laddie, he didn’t seem to like your face, did he?”
Vandali got out of the car, and slowly crossed the road.
“Spying, I see,” he remarked curtly.
Freckles grinned amiably and sat up.
“Blessed if it isn’t my old friend from the Dolphin,” he said. “And what are we doing in the fragrant countryside this afternoon?”
“May I ask what you are doing lying concealed here?” said Vandali angrily.
“Tush! Tush!” said Freckles, “and likewise pish, pish! I must buy you a little brochure on Manners for Men with Beards. Can you advance any reason why I and my dear old friend Abraham de Vere Potbelly should not lie in the verdant hay, studying the beauties of nature?”
“Look here, my young friend,” said Vandali quietly, “I would strongly advise you not to play the fool with me.”
“God forbid, my dear old lad of the village,” cried Freckles earnestly, “that I should ever play anything with you. I should hate to. I don’t think you’d make at all a suitable companion for me. In fact I know my aged mother would object most strongly. ‘Percy,’ she would say, ‘have nothing to do with that rude man. Give him the raspberry at once.’”
The veins were beginning to stand out on Vandali’s forehead, but he managed to control himself, and turned to me.
“Since this boy seems partially insane,” he said, “might I ask you to be good enough to tell me what the great idea is?”
“What the devil has it got to do with you?” I said curtly. “As far as I know we have as much right to lie in this wood, as you have to drive your car along the road.”
“I see,” he answered slowly. “Well, I hope you have profited by your eavesdropping.”
“Immensely, thanks,” said Freckles. “And now don’t let us keep you any more. I would fain resume my studies of nature.”
“Come along, Paul,” cried the girl imperiously. “You are only wasting time.”
“Madame,” said Freckles tragically, “you wound me to the very core. Surely, surely, to engage in playful badinage with one of my engaging countenance cannot be regarded as wasting time. But I do wish you’d get him to cut the grouse moor on his face. That’s given him the once-once,” he continued with a grin as the car drove off. “But there is no doubt, laddie, that the girl is a decided pippin.”
“I wish you could have controlled your nose,” I said irritably. “Damn it! People in Rye must have heard you.”
“It was a bit of a break,” he admitted. “Still I do not see that it has done much harm. We’ve had a pleasant little chat, and I suggest that we now ooze back to the house, and read Pat’s letter.’’
There certainly seemed to be no object in staying where we were, and I was on the point of agreeing, when suddenly the panel in the gate was cautiously opened, and Granger again looked out. We were standing in the middle of the road, so it was useless to try and conceal ourselves. He stared at us with utmost hostility, but Freckles, completely unperturbed, seized the opportunity.
“Good afternoon,” he cried cheerily. “Do you mind telling Miss Verney that I am here. Scott is my name.”
“Are you friends of Captain Drummond?” answered Granger, with a look of relief replacing the anger.
And then there occurred the most extraordinary thing. Granger’s expression changed suddenly. And it changed so suddenly that we coul
d do nothing but stare at him blankly. His jaw dropped, and a look of terror appeared on his face, such as I have never seen before or since. For perhaps a second he stood there: then the panel clanged to.
“What the devil is the matter with the man?” stammered Freckles.
“It was not us,” I muttered. “He wasn’t looking at us.”
We swung round quickly, and peered into the wood, the same thought in both our minds. And this time I, too, saw it – a great black shape that seemed to flit between the trees until it vanished. For a moment or two we stood there undecided, then we pulled ourselves together and gave chase. But it was hopeless. Once I thought I saw it in the distance between two trees, but when we got there, there was nothing. And after a while we gave it up and returned to the road mopping our foreheads.
“So it wasn’t my imagination after all,” said Freckles. “What is it, Darrell?’’
“Ask me another,” I answered. “But whatever it is it put the fear of God into our friend Granger. I’ve never seen a man look more terrified in my life.”
“I wonder if it is that swine from Spragge’s Farm masquerading about in disguise,” he said as we strolled back to the house. “What defeats me is that it seemed such a rum shape.” He stopped, struck with a sudden thought. “I suppose it is human, isn’t it?’’
“Good Lord, man!” I cried irritably, “there are enough complications in this affair already without introducing a bally ghost. Besides, ghosts do not step on twigs and break them.”
“That is so,’’ he admitted. “But it really was the most extraordinary object. It didn’t seem to have a face.”
We walked on in silence until we reached the house. Up to date every single hour seemed to have produced a new development, and I fully expected to find that something more had happened in our absence. But in that I proved to be wrong. Hugh was taking his ease in a long chair on the veranda, and assured us that nothing had disturbed his siesta. He hoped that we were not as hot as we looked, whereat we cursed him for a lousy knave, and demanded beer in tankards. But all his air of laziness vanished when we began to tell him what had happened.
