After lunch, a goodly proportion of the guests departed for walking exercise. Others, chiefly the elderly people, retired to their rooms for a nap. A hire car arrived and took yet others for a drive round the mountain, and when that had left there remained on the veranda less than a dozen people.
Ofthese Bony was one, occupying his favourite chair placed at the far end. In a group sat Sleeman and Lee and the new guest at their table, whose name was Tully. Downes occupied a chair beyond them, whilst beyond him were grouped several men and their wives.
The day had continued fine and gently warm. The kookaburras were silent, but the whip-birds in a distant gulley now and then gave forth their peculiar notes. Over the valley floor the scattered “wool” had been swept up and away by the heat of the sun, and now this early afternoon the distant mountains were receiving their Joseph’s coat of many colours. The only blot onall of Nature’s vast and beautiful scene were the Devil’s Steps on Miss Jade’s lawn.
To doze, of course, was impossible for Bonaparte. His mind was charged with the electricity of expectancy for at any moment now Bolt and his men would appear and go into action against Marcus. He wondered if by now the house belonging to Marcus’s friend had been raided, and just how the preparations for arresting Marcus were shaping. Bolt would take no chances. He would have half the Police Force of Victoria on the move, moving grimly and with machinelike precision towards the focal point of Wideview Chalet.
A kookaburra laughed lazily. It was high up among the foliage of a mountain ash growing near the main entrance, and Bony wondered if the bird had sighted anything unusual. Other than that laughter, faintly mocking, faintly satanic, there was no sound. The quiet air appeared held within the grasp of a giant, careful that nothing should vanquish the spell exerted by the valley and the distant mountains.
Bony had decided not to take any action in the arrest of Marcus unless compelled to do so by circumstances. For one thing, he was not a member of the Victorian Police and was not even on loan for duty to that Department. For another, he had agreed to co-operate with Bolt, and he had done so by establishing to him the man responsible for a Victorian policeman’s death, and, moreover, a man having an international reputation for ruthlessness, a man whose capture would give great credit.
For Bony, the minutes passedlaggardly, and then the first move of interest since he had reclined in that wickedly luxurious chair was made by Downes. He left his chair and, passing behind Sleeman and his companions, he approached Bony with an easy motion like that of a cat.
“Care for a game of draughts?” he asked. “Not the right time for a game, but I don’t feel like sleeping-or reading.”
Bony swung his feet over to the floor and sat up.
“Yes, I’ll play,” he consented.“Where? Here?”
“Might as well. I’ll get the board, it’s in the lounge.”
Downes went away, again passing behind Sleeman, Lee and the hefty Tully. Bony noticed that both Tully and Sleeman watched Downes until he had disappeared through thefrench windows into the lounge, and both appeared to be careful not to be looking that way when Downes reappeared, carrying the board and the box of draughtsmen. He picked up a card table en route, and placed it near the balustrade, and before Bony could assist him he had arranged two chairs, one on either side of the table, and had occupied the seat facing the lawn, Bony thus having to be content to sit with his back to the lawn. It was all done with casual politeness.
“It’s your choice of colour,” Downes said, evenly, placing the draughtsmen.
“Then I’ll choose black. I am not taking any chances this afternoon-not with an opponent like you.”
“I never take chances with an opponent,” Downes declared with a faint smile. “Draughts, like any other game, and like life too, isn’t to be taken lightly. A mistake can rarely be retrieved, especially an initial mistake.”
“I agree. Well, you make the first move.”
Dowries played without any affectations and, when playing with Bony, never with defensive tactics. He went swiftly into action, and then leaned back in his chair whilst waiting for Bony to make his move. Bony took time to consider, and then moved with greater deliberation. Under which arm-pit did Marcus carry his gun? He wore single-breasted coats, slightly full in front and with padded shoulders. Neither side pocket was out of place.
It was Marcus’s turn to study the board. His pale face was expressionless. His hands resting on the table on either side of the board showed no signs of nerves. Never once did he raise a hand to stroke his chin, or to stroke his moustache which was so perfect that even in that light Bony could not detect its falsity.
Bony’s next move followed after several minutes of studying the board and attempting to elucidate the reason for Marcus’s last move. That last move had not been the one he expected. Pity he could not detect which arm-pit concealed the nesting gun, so that he could anticipate which hand Marcus would use when he went into action.
Following Bony’s move, Marcus took only three seconds to make up his mind how to counter. He forced Bony to take two of his men, and then he removed three of Bony’s men and brought his “jumper” to Bony’s rear line of defence. That wouldn’t do! Bony would have to remove his mind from arm-pits and guns and hands, and concentrate on this game. It was about time that Bolt turned up and earned his salary for the day. But then Bolt mightn’t arrive until after dinner. Oh, forget it and play, Bony!
Ah-Marcus had left himself wide open! But wait! That might be a trap. If he, Bony, movedthuswise, that would make Marcus movesowise, and then he could follow up with athencewise. No, that would leave his centre too vulnerable. Better try and dig into Marcus’s left flank. Seems to be more interested in the view than in the game, but he wasn’t playing as though his mind was occupied with anything else.
Bony made his move and sat back in his chair. Tobacco smoke drifted before his face, and its aroma he did not like. It came from Tully’s pipe, and Tully was half reclining on his wicker chair, his hands placed at the back of his head. The quiet of the afternoon continued. There had been only one car past the Chalet since the game of draughts began, and that had gone down the highway.
Then Marcus made a silly move. Why had Marcus made that move? It had been unlike his play. The minutes passed, and still Bony studied the board-until he became reasonably sure that his opponent had, indeed, made a move without intent. What did this mean? Was his mind wandering? What was he thinking?
What was he seeing?
Bony’s hand hovered over the board, was withdrawn whilst he fell to studying the board again. Marcus was sitting back, apparently relaxed, his gaze directed past Bony to something beyond the balustrade. The temptation to turn became strong in Bony, but to do so might be to make a physical movement as silly as the move Marcus had made with a draughtsman. If he did turn to ascertain what Marcus was seeing, Marcus would know that he was on edge about something, and it was essential that the man’s suspicions be kept to a minimum until Bolt arrived. Whatwas he looking at? Bony made his move, taking advantage of the stupid move by Marcus.
“H’m! I seem to have made that initial mistake after all,” Downes said, seeing that he was compelled to remove two of Bony’s men and to suffer more severe loss himself. “Sorry, Bonaparte, I’m not feeling very well. Indigestion, I think.”
Downes stood up, slowly and with both hands resting on the table.
“Perhaps if you walked about for a little while,” suggested Bony, easing himself on his chair and so turning a quarter-circle. That brought him round to face along the veranda towards Sleeman, Lee and the big man known as Tully. Downes moved back and away from the table. Bony saw him “opening” his chest, and the action increased the distance between the lapels of his coat. Then he saw Bolt and Mason, with a third man, on the lawn.
The three policemen were halfway up from the wicket gate. The Superintendent was pointing to the Devil’s Steps as they walked slowly and with a hint of deliberation towards the veranda steps.
> Nonchalantly, Bony cleared his throat and took up from the table his tobacco pouch and papers. Downes was moving slowly back from the table. Sleeman was watching the advancing police officers. Tully was sitting on the edge of his chair and staring intently at Bony, and Bony feltmore sure than ever that Tully was a policeman whose job it was to protect him.
“I’ll go and get a tablet,” Downes said coolly to Bony. “I’ll not be long. Remember, it’s your move next.”
Bony nodded. Whilst Downes had been speaking his eyes were directed towards Bolt and his companions. Then, for an instant which seemed to be a minute long, he stared into Bony’s eyes, and Bony saw a tinge of scarlet behind the black pupils.
Bolt and the two with him were now within twenty feet of the veranda steps when Downes made a half turn and began to walk between Tully and the line offrench windows. Then Mason pointed to something beyond the far end of the house, and Bolt slowed in his walk. Mason said something, and Bolt stopped to gaze at what Mason was pointing to. Bony could not see what was interesting Mason, but actually the three were delaying in order to permit Inspector Snook and his troop to reach the main entrance. Other plain-clothes men were coming down from the top entrance to enter the house by the scullery door. Beyond the boundaries of Wideview Chalet, a hundred policemen entirely surrounded the property.
Still staring at Bony, Tully rose to his feet. With the merest motion of his head, he indicated Downes, and Bony nodded. Then, casually, the big man turned to his right and to Downes said:
“Better stay put-for a minute or two. It seems that the place is surrounded.”
Tully’s right hand was thrust into the pocket of his tweed coat. He was now standing squarely on his feet, facing Downes, and Downes halted to stand slightly raised on his toes with his arms hanging loosely. The fingers of both hands were splayed outward, as Bony had observed them that evening when they had rushed to the kitchen on hearing the screams of Alice.
Bony, whose gaze was now directed towards the tableau, heard heavy boots on the veranda steps almost behind him. He was gripping the table with his hands, his body leaning forward and resting partly on his toes. It was then that Downes moved with incredible speed.
His body appeared to lift and move two or three feet to the left all in a fraction of a second. A pistol shot crashed into the silence of the afternoon when Tully fired from his pocket. With such swiftness-that Bony barely followed the movement, Downes had altered position so that the bullet from Tully’s weapon smacked into the wall behind him. His right hand flashed upward and then flashed halfway down. It was empty when it rose, when it came down there was an automatic pistol in it.
The man’s face had fallen into a devilish grin. His eyes were wide and big-and red. To Bony they grew even larger in the small fraction of time. In that face was the exultation of the killer, and Downes paused before firing to savour the thrill. That pause saved Tully’s life.
He fired, intending to kill Tully with a bullet between and above the eyes, as he had killed Constable Rice and others, but even as his finger pressed the trigger, the table on which he had played draughts crashed against his legs. It was not a heavy table, but the impact was enough to spoil his aim. The bullet took Tully in the right shoulder.
Having thrown the table and cascaded the draughtsmen over Mason and Bolt, who were leaping up the veranda steps, Bony dived for Tully’s chair, and even before Tully fell the chair was on its way towards Downes. Downes dodged it and fired at Bony, who was crouched behind another chair. A woman screamed. Bolt’s great voice came like one of the wind-giants. Downes fired again at Bony the instant he disappeared into the lounge through the open windows.
Racing through the lounge, Downes arrived at the cross-passages, there to see policemen at the kitchen door. He turned right and rushed to the reception hall and the front entrance-to see Snook and others coming in. He turned left-into Miss Jade’s office.
It had been a bad day for Mrs. Parkes. It had begun badly for her when she entered a dark and cold kitchen with no Bisker and no tea waiting for her. The giggling Alice had not improved the cook’s temper, and when, later in the morning Mrs. Parkes witnessed Bisker and Fred at work under a guest’s supervision, the day was wholly ruined.
The day had not been easy for the maids, both having to do work normally done by George, and so during lunch tempers rasped and struggled for outlet until, when the staff sat down to lunch, open warfare broke out.
Mrs. Parkes had all day felt the need for exercise-violent exercise, the exercise giving both mental and physical relief from a condition of pent-up imprisonment, and when the second maid told Mrs. Parkes that she was a “nasty old gummy,” the climax was reached.
Mrs. Parkes removed her apron whilst she struggled for articulation. She threw the garment on the floor and stood on it. Then, with the index finger of her right hand stabbing to death the two girls, she managed to say:
“I’m finished, d’youhear? I’m finished, I tell you. You can do the blastedcookin ’ between you. I wouldn’t stay in this lousy, rat-infested joint for all the tea in China. You can have it-all the-all the-the-ruddy lot of it. You can kiss my back-so there-you couple of-of-”
Turning her enormous bulk upon her comparatively small andslippered feet Mrs. Parkes stamped from the kitchen along the passage, turned left and arrived at the reception hall. Without knocking, she entered the office where Miss Jade sat at her desk writing a letter.
“Mrs. Parkes!” exclaimed Miss Jade, outraged by the cook’s appearance in her working clothes in that part of the house where guests frequently moved. “What do you want here?”
“I’m finished,” Mrs. Parkes dramatically announced. “I won’t be called a nasty old gummy by anyone. I’mleavin ’. I’m finished. You can make up my money to last night. I’m going by the half-past fourbus.”
Miss Jade was petrified. She sat and stared at the infuriated cook. She was obliged to fight the fright produced by the prospect of no cook, a calamity far greater than the loss of a steward and of Bisker. She rose to her feet and stood in all her regal slimness. Mrs. Parkes broke out again, and Miss Jade vainly tried to stop her, to obtain a real explanation. And then the door was opened and slammed, and both women turned to be confronted by an automatic pistol menacing them below a pair of dark eyes gleaming red fire.
“Back!”Downes snapped. “Into that corner or I’ll snuff you out like candles.”
The threat backed by a pistol was less frightening than the man’s eyes and affected the two women in different ways. Miss Jade’s growing feeling of despair was replaced by a feeling of mounting anger, a feeling even inexplicable toherself. In contrast, Mrs. Parkes’s anger swiftly subsided as the heat of her brain was replaced by a coldness she often had experienced when her husband required correction.
“Back into that corner,” shouted Downes. “I’m giving no chances.”
Someone was banging on the door. Beyond it they could hear the voices of many men. By some freak of acoustics, or by reason of their mental excitement, neither woman had heard the firing on the veranda, and this sudden dreadful threat of death came upon them with terrific force. Miss Jade foundherself wanting to scream, and yet realised she was incapable of screaming. She remembered seeing a pair of flame-lit eyes, and the crumpling body of Constable Rice. The hardness of the wall at her back was like a giant hand holding her steady whilst she was about to be killed. She did not see Mrs. Parkes, but she felt the woman at her side.
The door withstood a fearful shock. Againcame the shock against it. Downes fired through the door-once. Yet again the door was shaken by some object without. This time there was the sound of splintering wood. And now Downes waited, a pistol in both hands, and it was now that he made his fatal mistake.
No great man can avoid making a mistake now and then. The greater the man, the sillier the mistakes he makes. Marcus was a great man in his sphere of activity, and yet he made a mistake of such enormity that his career ended on a note of farce. The mistake he made wo
uld never have been committed even by Bisker, and for him there was no excuse, for he had seen with both eyes wide open Mrs. Parkes kill a running rat with a flat-iron.
He actually turned his back on Mrs. Parkes.
There was only one missile handy to that woman’s great hands, and that was the secretary’s portable typewriter. This machine was a little too large for the normal hand to grasp and the normal arm to throw, but the hand that did grasp it was not ordinary, and the arm attached to the hand was as large below the elbow as is the leg of the average man above the knee, and much harder with muscle.
The machine struck Marcus on the back of his head and he went to the carpet with the terrible abruptness with which Constable Rice had fallen. With astonishing agility, Mrs. Parkes picked up the typewriter, held it up at arm’s length as she stood over one of the world’s most dangerous men, and over her wide face there hovered a tiny smile as though she were willing poor Marcus to sit up and beg for another jolt.
Miss Jade began to laugh hysterically. The door was burst inward. Policemen appeared at the window. Bolt and Snook and Mason almost fell in through the splintered door. Bony came in after them. They saw Mrs. Parkes calmly and contemptuously drop the typewriter onto the small of Marcus’s back, and then turn and take the over-wrought Miss Jade into her arms and press the dark head against her enormous bosom. They heard her say:
“There, there, dearie! Now don’t you take on so. It’s all right! When Ithrows things I throws ’em.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Rebel Goes Fishing
“YOU WILL be interested to know, Colonel, that Superintendent Bolt’s friend, known locally by the name of Marcus, is now recovering nicely from the impact of a typewriter. It was not a large machine. You will remember the story of Mrs. Parkes.”
The Devil_s Steps b-10 Page 23
