‘Fool!’ he muttered to himself. ‘You’ll never be able to lift up your head again after this – if there is an after,’ he added grimly.
‘What did you say?’ came the voice of Shannon from the man by his side.
‘Oh, I was just quoting,’ replied Cousins.
Again he began to wonder. That voice! It was so perfectly Shannon’s that it seemed impossible that his companion could be an impostor. If he were, then Shannon must have, at some time or other, been studied by a master in the art of mimicry and make-up; perhaps for this very purpose. Cousins strove to persuade himself that he was merely letting his imagination run away with him. But the demon of suspicion had obtained strong hold upon him now; various little matters came uppermost in his mind. The reluctance of the man driving the car to speak. Was that not proof that he feared to give himself away? Surely Shannon would have been only too eager to confide in the other once they were upon that lonely stretch of road, absolutely safe from eavesdroppers! At that point in his reflections the car swung giddily round a bend. Cousins, unprepared, was flung against his companion. Then, despite himself, he chuckled. He knew only too well what would have happened had he collided with Shannon’s massive shoulders. His whole body would have been jarred by the shock. Nothing like that occurred in this case. He hit something that was soft and gave to the impact – padding!
‘Why are you laughing?’ asked the bogus Shannon.
‘Only because I overbalanced, and was flung against you,’ replied Cousins.
‘You laugh easily.’
‘Haven’t you ever noticed that about me before?’ was the cool retort. He broke into a long quotation from Shakespeare. ‘Very apt, isn’t it?’ he concluded.
‘Very.’
Again Cousins chuckled, this time very softly to himself. The real Shannon professed to loathe quotations, always nipped Cousins’ efforts in that direction in the bud, sometimes with more force than politeness.
‘What I like about you, Shannon,’ went on the little man, ‘is your readiness to listen to me when I quote poetry. As you know, the others generally do their utmost to shut me up. But there, you’re by way of being a poet yourself. What became of that ode you sent to the Windsor? Was it published?’
‘Er – not yet,’ came the hesitating reply.
‘It ought to be. I loved the bit about the moon shimmering on the water like a mantle of rapturous delight. How does it go again?’
‘Do you think I can break out into poetry now?’ snapped the other hastily. ‘I’ve other things to think about at the moment.’
‘Once a poet always a poet,’ retorted Cousins.
In the darkness his extraordinarily mobile face creased into a broad smile. Having assured himself that the man by his side was an impostor, his mind now began to work furiously in an effort to decide what was best to be done. The simplest thing was to produce the automatic he carried in his pocket, hold it against his companion’s head, command him to stop, and get out of the car, or order the fellow to drive him back to Sittingbourne. In that case nothing would be gained, and probably a great deal lost, for his quarry would, in all likelihood, take fright and make his headquarters elsewhere. If he refrained from holding up the driver until they reached their destination, his chances of escaping with information concerning the present hiding place of the organisation were practically nil. Even if he succeeded in getting away, it was certain that there would be nobody to arrest when he got back with help. ‘On the whole,’ he decided, ‘it’s just as well I was fool enough to walk into a trap. It’s the simplest way of getting into the headquarters of these people. Once in I shall be able to study ways and means of getting information to Brien, if they don’t kill me right away.’
In order to have at hand a means of defending himself in the event of his adversaries deciding on such an unpleasant course, Cousins spent some minutes considering where he could hide his automatic so that it would be overlooked when he was searched, as he was bound to be. It was a small Webley, but even so was too bulgy to pass unnoticed in his clothing. Eventually he slipped it cautiously from his pocket.
‘Have you a collection of mosquitoes in this bus?’ he asked the man by his side.
‘What do you mean?’ demanded the latter.
‘Something’s irritating my leg.’
‘Scratch it!’ tersely advised the impostor.
‘Just what I am about to do,’ Cousins informed him. ‘At the same time I object to the necessity of having to do such a thing.’
He lifted up his left leg; subjected it to a vigorous rubbing. During the process he managed to push the weapon into his sock. It did not make for comfort, but there was no danger of its falling out, as the sock was securely held up by a suspender. He muttered a prayer that it would not be discovered.
‘Obviously some prowling insect has bitten me,’ he observed.
There was no answer. The car was approaching the bridge over the channel that separated the island from the mainland, and began to slow down until it was merely crawling along. The driver gave three quick blasts on the electric horn. Cousins, wondering why, was at once on the alert. Suddenly two men appeared in the glare of the headlights, waving their arms.
‘I wonder what is wrong,’ muttered the pseudo Shannon.
He put on the brakes, bringing the motor to a standstill.
‘There’s trouble ahead,’ warned one of the strangers.
‘There’s always trouble,’ replied the driver.
‘Spoken as per arrangement,’ muttered Cousins to himself.
He became aware that the other man was standing at his side of the car; could just discern the revolver held close to his head.
‘Get out, and jump in the back,’ ordered the fellow. ‘Hurry up!’
‘Hullo! What’s all this?’ protested Cousins. ‘Are you holding us up?’
‘Do what you’re told, and be sharp about it.’
‘Do we submit or fight, Shannon?’ asked the little man. He was actually enjoying himself.
For answer the masquerader turned on him, and gave him a push.
‘Out you get,’ he commanded roughly, and the voice was no longer the voice of Shannon.
‘Good Lord!’ ejaculated Cousins. ‘Surely I haven’t made a bloomer. You’re Shannon, aren’t you?’
‘Shannon be hanged! Get a move on. Something might come along at any moment, and—’
‘Then I’ll wait here until something does come along.’
‘If you don’t hop into the back at once,’ came the grating tones of the man with a revolver, ‘I’ll fill you so full of lead that you’ll rattle.’
‘Oh, well, if you put it like that,’ sighed Cousins, ‘I have no option.’
He descended to the road; was immediately hustled into the back seat. The two newcomers stepped in, and sat on either side of him. The car proceeded rapidly on its way.
‘What is the meaning of all this, and who are you?’ demanded the little man. ‘I could swear that Captain Shannon—’
‘Shut up, and remain shut up!’ snapped one of the men. ‘Tie a handkerchief round his eyes, Swede. It’ll be just as well in case of accidents; though, if he does see where he’s going, he won’t live long enough to be able to talk about it.’
‘That doesn’t sound very cheerful,’ commented Cousins.
They both laughed roughly. The Secret Service man’s eyes were bound tightly, after which his hands were tied together behind his back.
‘I think we better gag him,’ suggested one.
‘Not necessary,’ returned the other. ‘If he makes a noise, I’ll dot him on the head. Do you hear?’ He shook the captive.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Cousins. ‘I’m not suffering from deafness, merely from a kind of offended curiosity.’
‘You’re for it, and that’s all there is to it. Better take things philosophically.’
‘“Philosophy will clip an Angel’s wings,’” quoted Cousins, ‘“Conquer all mysteries by rule and line, Empty the haunte
d air, and gnomed mine—”’
‘Will you shut up!’
‘Don’t you like poetry?’ asked the little man in aggrieved tones.
All the reply he received was a sound expressive of disgust. He fell silent, striving to sense in which direction they were taking him. But, owing to the frequent turns he became baffled. One thing was obvious; Sheerness would be avoided. They were not likely to take a man whose eyes were covered by a handkerchief, and whose hands were bound behind his back, through the lighted streets of a town. Presently he caught a whiff of the sea. That suggested that the car was close to the coast, heading probably for somewhere near Minster, perhaps between Minster and Eastchurch. He was very interested; felt that he might be able to guess fairly accurately after all in what part of the island the headquarters of the organisation was located. He knew Sheppey rather well. At last the car stopped, the engine was shut off, and he immediately became aware of the dull boom of the sea. It sounded very close by, and his curiosity was aroused. Was it possible that he was to be taken in a boat to some place abroad! Immediately he put the idea aside. It was hardly likely that people who had their headquarters in a foreign country would take the trouble to post letters in Sheerness, and keep a watch on Sittingbourne station. His cogitations were rudely interrupted.
‘Get out!’ bade a curt voice.
He rose; was pushed over the step, and fell headlong. Owing to his hands being tied behind his back, he was unable to do anything to diminish the force of the fall. He crashed to the ground, hitting his head with such violence that he lay half stunned. In a daze he heard a callous laugh.
‘That will upset his poetical tendencies,’ remarked a voice.
He was jerked to his feet; someone took him by the arm, led him forward up a hill. It seemed to him in his benumbed state that he was climbing for a long time, actually it was a matter of a few minutes. Eventually his feet were guided up three or four steps, he heard a door open, was pushed along what sounded to his keen ears like a stone passage.
‘Who the hell have you got there?’ asked a voice.
‘Don’t know,’ replied one of his captors. ‘The guvnor’ll know him I daresay.’
‘Bring him upstairs.’
Cousins counted the steps he was forced to climb. There were twelve; then apparently a landing, followed by four more. He was propelled six or seven feet, and pushed into a chair. Hands went carefully over his person, searching his clothing thoroughly, removing everything from his pockets. Every moment he dreaded lest the automatic in his sock be found, but it remained undiscovered. He breathed an inward sigh of relief as the searcher desisted in his efforts.
‘Nothing more,’ he heard the fellow say. ‘The most dangerous weapon on him appears to be the pipe.’
‘Might as well let him have that and the baccy pouch,’ remarked the voice of the newcomer. ‘He’ll probably like a smoke or two before he gets his.’
His hands were untied, the handkerchief removed from his eyes. The sudden transition from darkness to a brilliant light caused him to blink owlishly. Before he had become accustomed to the glare, and was able to take stock of the two men, they had gone, closing a door on him. He heard it being locked on the other side, footsteps receding in the distance.
The first thing Cousins did, when he had ascertained that he was alone, was to make sure that the automatic was still where he had placed it. He had become so used to the feel of it that it no longer inconvenienced him, and, at first, experiencing no discomfort, he feared that, when he had fallen, it had slipped out of its hiding place. However, it was still there. Having relieved his mind on that important point, he took stock of his prison. It was a small room without windows, not much larger than a good-sized cupboard in fact. It had probably been intended originally as a box room. The cane chair on which he was sitting, a very small, cheap-looking washstand, an iron bedstead with no mattress, and two or three dirty blankets was all the furniture it contained. Cousins grimaced; allowed himself a moment’s regretful recollection of his own cosy, well-furnished bedchamber in the flat in London.
Expecting every minute to be summoned to an interview with the ruling spirit of the gang that had captured him, he sat for a long time waiting. However, he was not disturbed, and, deciding eventually that he was to be left alone till the morning, removed his overcoat, jacket, collar and shoes, wrapped himself in the blankets, and went to bed. With the facility of a man who had, on innumerable occasions, been compelled to seek slumber when and where he could, sometimes under the most uncomfortable circumstances, and in unwholesome surroundings, he was quickly asleep.
He awoke with a bad headache, due to the lack of air in the room, looked at his watch, which had been left on his wrist, found the time was five minutes to seven. The brilliant light, so out of keeping with the size of his prison, still burnt fiercely. He had forgotten to switch it off. He did so now, and lay in the darkness with his eyes closed, hoping thereby to ease his aching head. He was shivering with the cold, the three blankets being quite inadequate to keep him warm. Eventually he reached up to his overcoat, which was hanging over the bedrail, pulled it over him, and felt a little warmer, or perhaps it would be more correct to say, less cold. At length he dozed off to sleep again, awaking nearly two hours later to find the light on once more, and a man, with the battered face of a pugilist, standing by the bed, holding a tray in his hand.
‘Hullo!’ murmured Cousins drowsily.
‘Hullo to you,’ returned the man in almost friendly tones. ‘You believe in having your whack of sleep, don’t you?’
‘If you shut me up in a room without much air, you must expect me to be drowsy,’ retorted Cousins. ‘I feel as though I’ve been drugged.’
‘Shouldn’t worry about your quarters if I was you. They’re a sight better than you’re like to have after the guv’nor’s come back and seen you.’
‘Oh, and where do you think he’ll confine me? In a dungeon?’
The fellow grinned.
‘Call it a dungeon if you like,’ he remarked. ‘I’ve generally heard it called a grave.’
Cousins sat up.
‘You give me the shivers,’ he confessed. ‘Why on earth should I be buried, what have I done, why have I been abducted, and who are you?’
‘Here, steady on! I’m not here to answer questions. You’ll know all you want to soon enough, and a great deal you don’t want to know as well. Take this, it’s your breakfast.’
He handed the tray to Cousins. It contained a cup of tea, and a plate of bread and butter.
‘I prefer coffee in the morning,’ observed the little man, ‘and toast.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? Lord! You’re a cool customer. Here are you on the brink of – of—’
‘Eternity,’ supplied Cousins.
‘That’s it. And anybody would think you were spending a holiday at a friend’s house. You’ve certainly got guts.’
‘Vulgar, but you mean well,’ commented Cousins. ‘Tell me: when do you expect the gentleman you call the guv’nor to be back?’
‘Don’t know for certain. Probably tonight or early tomorrow.’
‘Dear me! Am I to wait all that time for the pleasure of seeing him?’
‘Pleasure!’ laughed the pugilistic one. ‘You won’t call it a pleasure when you’ve had a little time with him.’
‘It all depends upon how one looks at it. Aristotle helps us considerably in deciding what is pleasure, and what isn’t. Have you read Aristotle?’
‘No, I haven’t. Is it a book or a magazine?’
‘Tut! tut! The ignorance of the man.’ The multitude of wrinkles on the little man’s face seemed to express positive pain. ‘Aristotle was a great philosopher. He founded the Peripatetic school.’
‘Did he? Well, I hope it was a success. It sounds awful. Look here, you and I have talked enough. Get on with your breakfast; it’ll help to keep you quiet.’
He crossed to the door.
‘Just a minute,’ called Cousins. ‘You don’
t seem a bad sort. Suppose you forget to lock that door, and—’
‘None of that!’ The fellow’s manner changed. His apparent friendliness vanished. He looked positively evil, as he stood glaring at the little man in the bed. ‘If you want to get a taste of what hell’s like,’ he snarled, ‘you’ll get it quick, if you try bribing me.’
‘Why?’ queried Cousins coolly. ‘Are you so well acquainted with it as all that? All I know about it is: “Five hateful rivers round Inferno run. Grief comes the first, and then the Flood of tears, Next loathesome Styx, then liquid Flame appears, Lethé comes last, or blank oblivion.”’
The jailer stamped out of the room, the door slammed behind him. Then came the sound of the key turning in the lock. Cousins shrugged his shoulders.
‘Another whose soul has not risen above mundane things,’ he murmured. ‘It seems that I am never to find a kindred spirit in my wanderings.’
He turned his attention to the tea, and bread and butter.
The day passed slowly, almost agonisingly. Shut up in that tiny chamber with the minimum of air to breathe, always in artificial light, for not the slightest glimmer of daylight penetrated into the room except when the door was open, Cousins suffered acutely. The same man brought him a kind of stew, very unappetising, at one, and a large plateful of bread and cheese at six, with a cup of discoloured water which he guessed was supposed to be coffee. The fellow had become very surly, refused to answer questions, hardly spoke at all. It was with a very bad grace that he brought soap, a towel, and water – there was none in the jug on the washstand – and procured a razor. The blade of the latter was not too sharp, but Cousins had shaved with worse. At eight, after dipping his aching head in the icy cold water, the Secret Service man went to bed.
He slept badly, found it impossible to get warm, while the lower his head lay the more it ached. Eventually he dozed off in a half-sitting, half-reclining position in which attitude his jailer found him when he brought in his meagre breakfast. Cousins drank the tea, but refused the bread and butter, the very sight of food nauseating him.
‘How long do you intend to keep me confined in this black hole?’ he asked.
Get Wallace! Page 7
