by Howard Mason
I struck out again into the current, and four or five strokes took me to the other side and another rocky boundary. I clung to this wall, treading water, and tried out my voice in a halloo. It echoed back to me very close, from the rocky ceiling.
As far as I could work it out, I was in an underground river.
That gully, I thought, must have started as a fissure in the rock wall, which the water had widened and worn into a channel, the fissure creeping down, finding joints in the rock, till it reached the danger point above the passage roof. I tried to work out how far upwards my climb had led me: there had been a couple of yards on the vertical, then several more on a sharp slope; then the gentler climb of the gully. Say twenty or thirty feet. The depth at which the passage was cut couldn’t be very much more than that; I must be fairly close to ground-level.
Well, an underground river must start somewhere, I thought, and it must come out somewhere. Since there wasn’t much point in going against the current, I decided to go with it. I struck out into the centre again and began to swim.
I was so tired now that I could hardly lift my arms, and after a while I had to turn over and float for a bit, letting the current take me. The tunnel seemed to curve and twist, but I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. This might go on for miles, for all I knew. Drifting through the darkness, like a piece of flotsam, I began to feel as though I was eternally lost, in the outer circle of hell perhaps; the river was going to twist on for ever, without end. My eyes were closing; I found I was sliding under water, and shook myself, starting to swim again.
Suddenly I realized that the curve of the tunnel ahead was taking shape, faintly, in the darkness; it was no longer a pitch-black void.
At first I thought it was only that my eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, but then I became aware that there was some definite source of light ahead; nothing more than a faint, pale glow, as yet, but still, light. I swam on faster, and reached the bend. The source of light was directly overhead now, and I saw what it was. The tunnel’s roof here was perforated with several small smallish holes, like a rabbit-warren. Swallow-holes, I thought, made by sinking rain. Through them the wan light filtered; and when I clung high to the wall and peered up, I found that the largest hole gave me a vista of stars.
I blinked once or twice, in case it was an illusion, but it was still there all right, a nice, round patch of navy-blue sky with stars in it. Quite a big hole, too. Big enough to take my shoulders, if I could get up to it.
I felt over the surface of the rock-wall, feeling for a hold. I found a ledge, about two feet above the water’s surface. I pulled myself up then, but I found the ledge was very narrow, only a few inches; my feet could find no hold, and I slipped back into the water with a resounding splash.
I was winded, and had to wait and get my breath before I could try again. I tried three times, and the third time I got a foothold on the ledge. I could reach the mouth of the swallow-hole now, and got a grip with my hands just above the mouth, where the rock was pitted. I swung out from the wall too soon, and was dangling then over the water, my fingers slipping, scrabbling; I caught on to a higher niche, and another; I felt desperately stuck there, my head and shoulders in the swallow-hole, my legs kicking below. Then my climbing hands encountered hard earth, and burrowed into it to give me a levering hold. I paused for several seconds, my arms aching and dragging from their sockets; then I grasped higher, and felt level turf beneath my arm.
The earth was beginning to fold in on top of me as I clawed at the grass above, and I could feel the turf sinking, crumbling. Earth fell into my eyes, entered my nostrils, my mouth; I shook my head, bringing down more; then I clawed and clawed at the turf, till I’d brought my body up clear and felt the cool touch of grass against my face.
I lay then, panting, on my stomach, my legs still lying across the caving gap. There was a hole, a small one, near my head; I lay looking down it into the dark tunnel below, hearing the water’s echoing plash and flow. I turned over on to my back then, and looked up into the dark night sky. The moon was emerging from behind a big, bruised, waxy cloud. It had been raining, and the air was fresh and cool. The grass was wet under my back, and high above me, a tall tree moved its branches gently, shaking the water from its leaves.
CHAPTER VI
I got to my feet and stood, dripping and earthy, and shook myself. When I’d wiped a bit of the earth from my face, I moved away from the pitted hollow of ground and began to take my bearings.
Below me, not a hundred yards away, I could see the Endertsbach; the moonlight was glancing across its calm waters. Beyond it, the Tower Hill loomed up in its nest of trees, the tips of the pines feathering gently at its summit. I couldn’t see the Tower.
I turned and saw the bulk of Burg Endert, across on the opposite hill. The road below it was hidden in the woods.
I made my way towards the woods, running when the ground allowed it, to warm myself. My bare feet stubbed on stones and slipped on wet grass, but I went as fast as I could. It wasn’t far to the wood; not so far as it had seemed underground in the passage. I entered it, finding a path, and picked my way through to the road. Somewhere along here, near the foot of Burg Endert, the Rolls lay parked in the woods. If only there was a motor road up to the castle… I didn’t like the thought of that long climb up the Pilgrim’s Way. Especially with bare feet.
I turned up the road, breaking into a run again. I had a lot of things to do yet, and not enough time; my numbed brain was beginning to get into action again, and I thought of Sophia and Stony in the cellar, and Mott on the hill, and I hastened my step. I could see the foot of the zigzag path ahead now; a few minutes later, I reached it.
I stared up the long steep slope; and suddenly, looking at the mouth of the zigzag, I began to wonder if it wasn’t, after all, wide enough to take the Rolls’ chassis. I paced it, mentally judging the car’s breadth; and it seemed to me that the thing was possible; just possible.
Not safe for a car, the old waiter had said; no surface, no banking at the corners.
Maybe no car had been up that path before, but it was going to see one now.
I turned and ran for the wood where the Rolls lay, praying the extra set of keys were in their hiding place under the seat. They were, but she took a bit of starting. I gave her a moment to warm up, and fished in the boot for a spare sweater, slid back into the driving-seat, and began to back the car. Two minutes later, the Rolls was nosing up the first bend of the zigzag towards Burg Endert.
* * * *
It was better than walking; there was that to be said for it, but not much else. I wouldn’t have chosen to drive up that zigzag in broad daylight. In the dark, it was sheer folly.
The width of the path allowed the Rolls to pass with an inch or two to spare on either side; as for the bends, they were a nightmare. Hairpin was the word for them; one error of judgment, and I’d be off the track and tumbling down the embankment. It was the little wayside altars that were the worst; they protruded into the path, and the wing of the car caught more than one of them as the Rolls passed, leaving a trail of damage behind it. I drove as fast as she would take the slope; after the first few bends, I found it was easier to cut across the corner, turning the car off the road to climb straight up the bank on to the next slope. Some of the banks were pretty steep; at the third from the top, the Rolls hung for one horrid moment on the steep bank, quivering and motionless, till the old engine forced it gamely up on to the path. At the second bend from the top, I began to sound my horn, urgently, to bring the servants out; it made a tremendous racket. I navigated the last turn, and roared up the final slope, to come to a jerking halt on the cobbled terrace, with a screeching of brakes. There were several lights on in the castle, I saw now, flinging myself out of the car. As I ran round to the front, the great door was opened wide, flooding the terrace with light.
I stood in the porch, blinking at the sudden brightness; I’d
been in darkness for so long that it dazzled me. In the doorway, and in the hall beyond, a group of frightened servants stood, chattering in high voices. They fell silent as they saw me, a bedraggled, filthy, half-naked figure, blinking in the doorway.
A man stepped forward; I recognized him as the one I had seen, whom they’d called Hans, I thought. I said:
“Do any of you speak English?”
The man called Hans nodded. “What’s happened, mein Herr? There is no one—we’ve searched everywhere—”
I cut past him into the hall, speaking as I went. “Your master’s hurt. They’re locked in a cellar, beneath the chess-room. We’ll need tools, an axe; we may have to break a door in.”
Hans followed me, anxiously. “Mein Herr—the visitor who called—the little old gentleman, Herr Constantine—”
I stopped. “Have you seen him?”
“Kurt here found him in the chess-room, two, three hours ago—longer perhaps—”
“Where is he?”
Hans cleared his throat nervously. “He was—he was stealing, mein Herr. Kurt found him with a bag, taking some of the chessmen.”
“Where is he?”
“We locked him up, mein Herr. In the old schoolroom.”
I stared at him.
“I hope we did right—we couldn’t find the master, the mistress—it seemed—”
I cut him short. “Go up and search him. Bring the bag, too, but search him first; he’s got a bishop, a red bishop—it may be on him, it may be in the bag. It’s the key to the door. Bring it to the chess-room.”
He nodded, startled, and calling to one of the others, ran for the stairs. I reached the chess-room door, and switched on the light.
Facing me, the tall portrait was hanging on the wall in its original place. I glanced at the shelves on my left; there were gaps, I noticed, in the orderly display of pieces, where Constantine had made his depredations. I ran to the portrait and unhooked it; then I knocked on the wall, calling Sophia’s name.
At first I heard no reply; then, very faint and muffled, there came an answering call.
“Charles?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Stony?”
“I—I don’t know. Alive, but—”
The voice was so faint it might have been a great distance away. I raised my voice. “All right. It won’t be long now. Hans is getting the key.”
I couldn’t hear what she said, but I knew she must be close to the door. I didn’t try to speak any more, till Hans came back at last, bringing the red bishop.
“In his pocket, mein Herr.”
“All right. Send someone to ring for a doctor. And we’ll need two men to carry Herr von Arnhem up.” He hurried away again, and I fitted the key into its lock. The heavy stone flap moved, stiffly; I lowered it to the ground. A moment later Sophia stood, damp and shivering, in the chess-room.
She had a dazed look, and I picked her up and put her into a chair, and told someone to fetch some brandy. Hans came back, then, with another man, and I told them where to find Stony and sent them down the stair. After that I poured some of the brandy and made Sophia drink it, and then I poured some for myself.
I said: “I’m going after Mott now. There isn’t much time. You’ve got to answer some questions. Can you?”
She nodded.
“Right.” I swallowed some of the brandy. “The Tower Hill. How many paths to the top?”
“Two. A zigzag, like ours, only narrower; on the south face. And a steep one, following a stream—that’s northeast.”
“What about the far side, the west?”
“It’s a cliff. You can’t get up or down. The Tower’s right on the edge of the spur—the outer wall rises flush with the cliff-face.”
I thought for a moment.
“The zigzag—could a heavy vehicle get up it—a truck?”
“No.”
I said: “I got up here in a Rolls.”
She stared, at that, and then she said: “Even so, the path’s narrower than this. It couldn’t be done.”
“You’re sure?”
“Certain.”
In that case, I thought, Mott must be letting the stuff down the face of the cliff—to a vehicle waiting at the bottom. I said: “Is there a road, round at the foot of the cliff?”
“No. It’s deep in woods. But there’s a ride, through the wood; overgrown a bit. That goes quite near the cliff.”
“That’ll be it.” I rose then, speaking rapidly. “Will you ring through to the Cochem police? Tell them any story you like—they’ll probably be in bed, and you’ve got to get them out. Tell them there’s been a murder committed, if you like; that’ll fetch them. Tell them to send some men to the hill, all they can spare. Some to the foot of each path, some to the cliff-face. Will you do that?”
She nodded again.
“I’ll need help; two of your men. Which of them knows the country best?”
She hesitated. “Hans; he was a forester.”
“I’ll take Hans. And the other, the young one—Kurt? And they’ll want arms: shotguns, anything they can find. Tell them to come out to the car as fast as they can; I’m going to change first.”
By the time I returned, she was giving orders, in a cool, steady voice; they were bringing Stony up now, and there seemed to be people and bustle everywhere. I left them to it, and went out to the car.
There wasn’t much room to turn on that terrace, and it took me a lot of time, backing and shunting, but I managed it somehow. I had the Rolls aimed at the slope and purring softly, when the two men came out, carrying shotguns over their shoulders. They looked scared stiff at the sight of the car, and I saw the younger one glance down the slope ahead and cross himself rapidly; but they climbed in without comment. I let in the clutch.
I told them, as we went, what we had to do; I don’t know how much they took in, as the car careered down the zigzag in the darkness; they were too busy holding on to their seats. I cut across a bend; the Rolls toppled bumpily down the drop like a tank, and swerved into the next slope. Four more corners now…three…two…
I swerved suddenly, seeing a man’s figure in the middle of the path, lit up by the headlamps. He sprang aside as I screeched to a halt, half off the path, and, cursing at him, began to haul the car back to the path. It was only when the headlamps swept across the man for the second time that I saw the bush of red hair above a scared white face, and recognized Nobby.
He was blinking in the headlamps, a neat, stocky figure, carrying a suitcase, plodding up the hill.
I flung open the door and said: “Get in.”
“What the—”
“Hurry.”
He got in then, and I let in the clutch once more. I didn’t speak until I’d navigated the last bend, and brought the car safely down to the road. Then, as we gathered speed, I said:
“What the hell are you doing here?”
Nobby said: “You told me to come, so I come.”
“At this hour?”
“Missed the last train from Cologne,” said Nobby succinctly. “Thumbed a lift in a mail-van. What the mickey’s going on here?”
I told him.
We sped along the deserted roads, Hans directing me as we went. I learned from him that there was a way to the Tower Hill from the village, leading off from the main riverside road; that was the route Mott had taken, then, when he had set off “in the direction of Trier” with his store of provisions. The way we were taking was a tortuous one through the woods; Hans assured me it was the quickest route. We sped over a bridge, spanning the Endertsbach; a hundred yards further on, the road reached the foot of the Tower Hill, near the mouth of the zigzag path.
We turned then, compassing the foot of the hill; we clung to the road till it turned away from the hillside. Then Hans said:
“The ride is ahead; there’s the entrance.”
I told Nobby to get our guns out of the locker.
I drove past the entrance a little way; if Mott’s men were at the foot of the cliff, I didn’t want them to hear a car stopping too near. I parked it off the road, among trees; then we climbed out and made our way back to the mouth of the ride.
We went very quietly now, padding down the road like cats. Hans led the way into the woods; the ride was, as Sophia had said, very overgrown, but you could tell, from the broken branches and the flattened undergrowth, that a vehicle had passed that way very recently, tearing its own path. Hans used a torch, sparingly, keeping it well down. I moved behind him; Nobby and Kurt were in the rear. We had gone about three hundred yards, when Hans halted.
I came up beside him.
“We are near to the cliff. A hundred yards, perhaps.” He breathed the words into my ear. I nodded, and took the lead then, going very slowly, for fear of making a sound. I had gone about fifty yards when I heard movement, ahead.
I went on, silently; there was a glimmer of moonlight entering the ride now, very faint and cloudy. I became aware of some big dark object ahead, blocking the path. A vehicle of some kind. A lorry? No, it had a high, curved top.
An oil-truck. That’s what it was. That was the great circular cylinder whose outline rose from the shadows. I stood very still for a moment; behind me, the others stopped.
There were men moving about, not twenty yards ahead, beyond the truck. A dragging sound; something heavy being moved. A metallic clatter then, very close; they were lifting the object into the truck. That was it, then; the gold chessmen were being lowered, one by one, over the face of the cliff, and transported to the truck for removal. A nice, neat job.
They must have got help. Mott and Rivera had been in the Tower, with, I thought, a third man; Hedge was probably here below with another.
I waited till the metallic sounds ceased; the two men moved away then, talking in low murmurs. I beckoned to the others and moved up beside the truck.
There was a small clearing ahead; in the faint shadowy light I could see the two men moving up to the foot of the cliff, which sheered up on the right-hand side of the clearing. There were trees going right up to the cliff, near the spot they were making for; enough for cover. You couldn’t see the top of the spur or the Tower; they were high above, lost in darkness and a hammock of dark trees. There was some growth on the cliff-face; they must have had to clear a passage down. I watched the two men by the cliff; I thought I recognized Hedge’s figure. He was pulling at something, a rope; once, twice, I thought his arm moved; a signal. I signed to the others and moved rapidly round the side of the clearing, under the trees. They hadn’t heard us yet. They stood looking up the cliff: that must have been the signal; now they were waiting for the next consignment.
