by Howard Mason
Five minutes later, the Hispano-Suiza came by with a sullen roar as she climbed into top gear.
After that we drove without stopping through the flat, ugly night country. The signposts gleamed for a moment in our headlamps, waved ghostly arms, faded away; Malines, 20 kilometres; Lokeren, 10; Maastricht, 45. Maastricht meant the Dutch frontier. I hoped Agag would go south and bypass the little appendix of Dutch territory that lay between Maastricht and Aix; I didn’t want too many frontiers. The hold-up for the customs would make things difficult.
I needn’t have worried, though. We never got to Maastricht.
We had been driving for nearly three hours, and were some five miles west of the Dutch frontier. We had just passed through a small village. The main road stretched ahead. Suddenly, without warning, the car ahead turned sharply off—to the left. North, not south.
It wasn’t a main crossing, either; just a small country lane.
I had slowed down when the car ahead turned, and as its tail-lights disappeared down the winding road, I pulled up, hesitating.
Nobby looked up from the map. “Odd sort of place to turn.”
“Yes.”
“Think they’re on to us?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What do we do?”
I hesitated. A few moments more, and they’d be out of our view altogether.
“Well, we’ve nothing to lose,” I said, and let in the clutch.
We crawled round the bend and gathered speed up the narrow lane. Ahead, a long way ahead, we could see a flash of light from time to time, where their car emerged from the trees on rising ground. I prodded the Rolls up the gradient, feeling more uneasy every moment. The noise of our engine sounded deafening in the silent lane. Behind us, even the main road was empty now. If Agag didn’t know already that he was being followed, he must surely know soon. I began to wonder what he was up to. The countryside here was wooded, and as blank and quiet and dark as a tomb.
Nobby said: “Well, we’ve had a good run for our money.”
We went on in silence. Ahead, the two red lights flicked into my vision more frequently. The road was straightening out. I thought the car ahead was slowing its pace, but I wasn’t sure. Anyway, I was closing up a bit.
I think the distance must have been about three hundred yards, when the red lights disappeared altogether.
I drove on, straining for a glimpse of them. But they didn’t reappear. A mile slipped by; the road was winding, and they might be always round the next bend. We turned a corner and came suddenly out on to a main highway.
“Brabant road,” said Nobby, looking up from the map.
I slowed down to a stop. The road was straight for some distance in each direction, and there wasn’t a sign of a car.
I drew in to the hedge and switched off. The engine dribbled into silence. In the hush that followed, I could hear only a night-jar crying, and some rackety frogs croaking gently to each other in the darkness. There were some other chirrupy, crackling night sounds, but there certainly wasn’t a car engine within a couple of miles.
Nobby handed me the map. I switched on the dashboard light and studied it.
The little winding road we had just followed was some three miles long. It ran from the Maastricht road to the one where we now lay, serving nothing except an isolated farmhouse about halfway down. The farm lay some way to the west of the road, just clear of the woods, and overlooked pasture-land further west still. There was a cart-track leading off from the road to the farmhouse, through the woods. There was no other turning marked.
If the Spanish car had turned up the track, they’d been very quiet about it. And they must have switched off their engine before we stopped. The only other thing they might have done was to have driven straight on without lights; if they had, they’d be far away down the Brabant road by this time. I switched off the dashboard light and took out a cigarette, thinking.
Nobby said: “What’s the form?”
I hesitated. “I think we take a chance on the farm track.”
“It might be a trap.”
“Either that, or…
“Or what?”
“Or they’ve reached their destination.”
Nobby looked back down the dark lane. “It doesn’t look much like a finishing-post to me.”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out.” I threw down my cigarette. “You’re going to get out and push.”
“What’s the idea?”
“We came up on a slope. We’re going to turn around and coast down it. Without lights. I don’t want to announce our return.”
Nobby climbed out of the car. I took off the brake and let her slip gently backwards, turning the wheel sharply. With a bit of pushing from Nobby, we got the car pointing down the lane. The slope was only a gentle one at the top and Nobby had to give us a shove off from behind. Then he came up beside the moving car and slid into his seat.
Slowly we glided forward into the darkness, with no sound but the brush of the tyres and the occasional swish of a branch against the side of the car. I kept well in to the hedge. My eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness, but we nearly went into the ditch a couple of times.
We had gone about three-quarters of a mile, and the big car was gathering impetus as the slope sharpened. We were moving fast now, but silently, like a rush of wind. I braked a little, taking a curve. The cart-track was now, I judged, about seventy yards ahead. With a slight, unavoidable squeaking, I braked the car to a stop.
It was still very quiet. Through the dark windscreen, I could make out the black mass of the woods against the skyline, on either side of the road. In the woods to the right, where the farm lay, there was not a glimmer of light.
We sat in the dark car for about ten minutes, listening and watching. There was no sound, no spark. Then I said in Nobby’s ear, “I’m getting out. You’d better stay with the car. Get into the driving seat and be ready to move.”
Nobby nodded silently. I opened the door and slipped quietly out of the car.
The air was cold, and the dew was rising on the narrow grassy verge of the road. I padded forward, keeping well in to the right-hand side. Some frogs started croaking again, nearby, and I thought I saw a white flash as a rabbit scuttled into a ditch. I began to dislike the narrow road between its walls of trees. I disliked the unseen, silent farmhouse, and the track that lay ahead. I began to wish I was at Epsom on a nice, sunny Derby Day, with lots of crowds.
A moment later, I came upon the mouth of the track.
It was narrow, and branches sprawled across it. It looked hardly wide enough to take the breadth of a car, but I supposed it could be done. I parted the branches, and moved cautiously forward a pace or two. The ground underfoot was ridged with the hardened mud of cart’s tracks. On either side the trees loomed above me, and the undergrowth was thick.
After I had gone a few yards, I saw that the track turned off to the right. It was now really black under the trees. A sudden rustle to the left made me jump. A bird flew swiftly up from the low bushes, brushing my face; it emitted a frightened squawk. I moved on, came to the bend. I stood still, listening. Suddenly I didn’t feel like going any further.
I shouldn’t like to say that I lost my nerve. It was just that it seemed more sensible to go back and hide the car in the woods, and then investigate the farmhouse more cautiously with the aid of Nobby and a couple of revolvers. Or so I told myself.
I turned and moved rapidly back towards the mouth of the track. The ridges underfoot were sharp, and the brambles caught at my clothes. I recognized the line of the road ahead with relief, and quickened my step.
I was just parting the branches at the mouth when it happened. It was very neatly done.
I didn’t hear a sound; I just felt an arm thrown across my face from behind, and before I had time to cry out, I was flat on my back in
the mud, with the weight of a heavy body on my chest. A pair of hands was working a gag into my mouth. The man above me was breathing heavily, and the whiff of garlic was strong and unmistakable.
* * * *
When he had finished with my face, I was rolled over and my arms were tied firmly behind my back. Then I was jerked to my feet.
A shaded torch sprang into life, and I looked into the large, brown, melting eyes of Pablo Rivera; he was looking very mournful indeed, and there was a knife-blade glinting in his right hand.
Then the torch was put out, and the Spaniard spoke in the darkness.
“You to go first.”
I felt myself propelled down the track, back the way I had just come. We rounded a bend, then another. Far ahead, I could see the dark mass of the farm building. We turned off down a smaller track to the left. A few yards more, and I was jerked to a halt.
The man beside me shone the torch. It leaped forward, catching the gleaming steelwork of a car’s bonnet, a little way ahead. The light was put out and flashed a second time.
From the windscreen of the car, an answering torch flashed back once. Then Rivera pulled me forward to the side of the car, and stood waiting.
The rear door began to open, propelled by some unseen hand within. A bright flashlight, more powerful this time, shone suddenly into my face, blinding me to the car’s dark interior. I was prodded forward, into the car. I stumbled, then was inside, pushed down on to a small hard seat, facing the rear. The door was snapped shut after me, and I was left alone with Agag.
The flashlight was still on my face, and I couldn’t see the man who faced me behind it. He leaned forward, and a shadowy hand came out. Beside me, I heard the smooth click of a blind being drawn down. As Agag bent forward, the torch’s beam swung down, and I saw his feet.
They were very small, neat, plump feet, and they were wearing buttoned boots.
He sat back, clicking a switch, and the overhead light came on.
Facing me, in the middle of the back seat, with a flower in his buttonhole and a gold watch and chain dangling across his broad stomach, sat Mr. Walter Mott of Mott, Babington and Pettigrew.
A gun was resting on his knees, and his small round eyes were cold.
* * * *
We looked each other over in silence for a full half-minute. Since there was a gag in my mouth, it didn’t seem to be up to me to open the conversation, and this was just as well, because I was at a loss for a really telling phrase.
After a while, Mott spoke.
“I’m sorry about this, Lord Stonybridge. I wouldn’t have had it happen for the world; not for the world.”
I didn’t think he was looking particularly distressed, but I wasn’t in a position to say so. I sat and waited.
“I had no idea you were going to persist in this fashion. You put me in a most awkward position; really, I hardly know what to do.”
I couldn’t help him there, either.
“But I shall think of something,” he added, considering me thoughtfully. “Indeed, yes. Just allow me a moment or two.”
He could have all the time in the world, as far as I was concerned. After a moment he leaned forward and opened the door.
“Pablo.”
The Spaniard’s mournful face appeared in the doorway.
“Sí?”
“Hedge returned yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Go and hurry him up.”
Rivera nodded, and moved away. He had left the car door ajar. I tried to keep my eyes away from it; Mott didn’t seem to have noticed it. I could hear Rivera treading off heavily through the bushes.
“Well now,” said Mott, watching me. “I think the best thing will be for your car to meet with an accident. Not a serious one, of course; no, no, not serious.”
Rivera’s footsteps died away. I tried to gauge my distance to the car door.
“You will both be drugged.” I ought to be able to make it, if I moved fast enough. And surely he wouldn’t risk shooting? “When you come to, you’ll find your car up against a tree—with you in it, naturally. The car will be smelling of whisky. I think I can spare you half a bottle.” He fingered the big watch on his stomach, delicately. I began to count up to ten. “Quite difficult to prove assault, under the circumstances; and in a foreign country, too. You may not actually be charged with drunken driving; I hope not; I do hope not. But in any case the trail will be—as one might say—cold.”
I jumped for it then. Mott’s foot came out to trip me as I dived through the door, and I landed heavily, stumbling into brambles. Then I was on my feet running.
Behind me, there were shouts. I thought I heard an answering call somewhere to the left of me. I stumbled blindly on into the woods, thorns tearing at my face, my legs. A shout came again, on my right this time; someone was crashing through the undergrowth towards me. I swerved to the left, running wildly; it was pitch black; I might have been blindfolded. The voice to the left was closer: I swerved again, and then, with a jolt that shook my whole body, I ran smack into a tree.
I bent double, winded; I was dizzy; and the blood was pounding in my ears. I seemed to hear shouts all about me, before, behind. I heaved breath into my lungs and staggered on a few paces. Then suddenly I came up against another obstacle; this time it was soft and cushiony, and it embraced me like an octopus. A familiar smell drifted into my nostrils, and I knew that I was in Pablo Rivera’s arms.
The struggle was very short, and the last thing I remember was a faint, mosquito-like prick in the fleshy part of my arm, just above the elbow.
CHAPTER VI
The first thing that I became aware of was a strong smell of whisky.
Heavy, sour, and sickly, the odour swam into my consciousness. I shuddered and opened my eyes. My head was slumped against something hard: it was the Rolls’ steering-wheel.
I lifted my head and tried to sit upright. But a wave of sickness came over me, and I leaned forward again, resting my head on my arms. My right arm felt stiff and bruised; so did my jaw. I tried to think, but my mind was cloudy and hazed, and oblivion kept sinking over me. For a long time I seemed to be drifting, slowly, among clouds; then a spark of memory fought its way up and reminded me that I had been drugged.
I lifted my head again. It was daylight. A weak ray of sun glanced in at the car window, catching something bright on the floor. I bent down. It was a small flat bottle, dribbling a few last drops of liquor. My coat was damp with the stuff. I pulled down the window and tossed the bottle out.
I turned round then, and saw Nobby, slumped in the back of the car. He was breathing slowly and heavily, but was still unconscious.
I threw open the door and stumbled out on to the grass. The cool air cleared my head. I steadied myself with a hand against the roof of the car, and took a look round.
I was standing in a green lane, among trees. The Rolls was squashed up against a big tree-trunk, its bonnet concertinaed, its windscreen smashed. I looked at my watch: it had stopped. Glancing at the hazy blue sky and the weak, watery sun, and the dew on the grass, I decided it was very early; not more than five or six o’clock. In the woods, the birds were making their dawn racket. A lot of little splinters of glass, from the windscreen, sparkled frostily on the fresh grass, and everything seemed very peaceful.
I moved to the back of the car and opened the rear door. Then I got hold of Nobby’s shoulders and pulled him out on to the ground, leaning his head up against a wheel. The fresh air roused him slightly; he stirred, and opened his eyes. They flickered, and closed again. I looked about me, wondering if I could find some water.
Suddenly I noticed a faint drift of blue smoke, at eye-level, floating round the bend in the lane. A moment later, an old man came walking up the lane, a pipe in his mouth. A sheepdog ran before him. He was dressed in breeches and a leather coat, and looked like a farmer.
; Seeing the car, he stopped. Then he came steadily on towards me.
I addressed him in French. “There’s been an accident. Can we get help?”
He gazed stolidly from me to Nobby, to the smashed car, to the empty bottle lying on the grass. He took it all in slowly. Then he said dourly, with a strong Flemish accent:
“You’ll have drunk too much.”
The drug was trying to claim me again. I shook it off and made a great effort to speak clearly.
“No. We were set upon—a hold-up. Thieves.”
The old man eyed me suspiciously. He didn’t believe a word of it.
“You’d better come up to the house. Can he walk, the other one?”
I said: “He’s still drugged. If we could get someone to carry him up—”
“We’ll see.” The old man turned back up the lane, whistling to the dog. Over his shoulder, he said: “Follow me.” I came up beside him, moving with an effort.
“Have you got a telephone?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Where is the nearest one?”
“I don’t know. In the village, perhaps.”
“Which village is that?”
He halted his step, staring at me distrustfully.
“The village of Blint.”
“How far is it?”
“Three kilometres.”
I walked beside him in silence for a bit. Then he said:
“I suppose you know that you are trespassing.”
“I didn’t know. Is it your land?”
He nodded, grimly.
“Didn’t you hear anything?” I said. “Last night?”
“I heard nothing. But I sleep on the other side of the house.”
As he spoke, we came up to the farmhouse. It was a ramshackle place, and except for a thin trickle of smoke from one of the chimneys, there wasn’t much sign of life. He led me into a dark tiled passage-way, and then into a primitive kitchen. There he showed me a stone sink and a pump, and I ran some cold water over my head. It cleared my brain a bit. There was a fire burning, and something cooking on the stove, but there was no one else about. I said: “Do you live alone?”
