by Brian Ball
Wiggins and Sparrow took turns in describing what they knew. And then, over breakfast, Wiggins came to his conclusions.
“We know Orlovitch and Bukovsky are going to try to murder the Archduke,” he said. “And we know that Sir Alfred’s involved. But we can’t square up the other things—not three tons of dynamite, unless it’s to blow up this place.”
Freddie Connyngham whistled loudly.
“By Jove, I hope not! Now, let’s get a few things straight,” he went on. “The Archduke isn’t here, nor, of course, is my father. They’re due here, though, at about ten this morning, by special train, along with the Foreign Ministers of four more countries, and I can quite see that these anarchists would wish all of them blown sky-high. But I can assure you this place is too well-guarded for any desperadoes to enter—they wouldn’t get past the dogs. As for three tons—”
He was interrupted by Roberts, bearing further supplies of food. “The Three Tuns, did you say, sir?” said Roberts.
Freddie Connyngham dismissed the interruption.
“I wasn’t talking to you, Roberts,”’ he said irritably, but Sparrow had suddenly sprung to his feet and hared off after the servant.
“Here!” the others heard him call to Roberts. “You said ‘The Three Tuns’—why’d you say that?”
“So he did,” said Freddie Connyngham slowly. “And I can answer that myself!”
“It’s a public house!” called Sparrow triumphantly. “And it’s near a bridge—”
“Over which the special train must pass to get onto our private siding!” Freddie Connyngham said, his face growing pale. “Of course—you didn’t hear the anarchists talking about a weight of explosives, you heard them naming a rendezvous!”
Wiggins shook his watch. Sparrow heard a clock chime.
“’S’trewth!” he cried. “We’ve got an hour, no more! And it took us a lot more’n that to get here!”
“The last clue,” said Wiggins. “It all falls into place, like a pattern, as Mr. Holmes would say.”
“Arm yourselves, Roberts—Yates! Send the trap for help! Bring some of the men from the home farm—and fetch me a revolver at once!”
“Phew!” muttered Sparrow in admiration. “Revolvers!”
“We’re dealing with murderers!” said Wiggins. “And they’d blow us up too if they could! Ain’t we going in the trap?” he asked Freddie.
But the shortest way by far was not by road.
“We’re going along our private railway line,” declared Freddie Connyngham. “It won’t take us more than half-an-hour with luck to get to The Three Tuns, but heaven help us if we’re late, for the bridge there crosses a gorge a hundred feet deep, and no doubt the anarchists have mined it!”
Out of the house and into the woods went the boys and Freddie Connyngham, followed by Yates and Roberts and an assortment of delighted hounds. They ran along the track of the private line that linked The Chimneys with the public railway system. Before long, they had left the servants far behind.
“Keep going!” Wiggins called to Sparrow. “Got a stitch!” he moaned.
“And me, old man,” groaned Freddie.
“Run it off!” growled Wiggins, lengthening his stride. “How far now?” he asked Freddie.
“A mile—maybe a bit more!” panted Freddie Connyngham.
“We’re cutting it fine,” said Wiggins. “Come on!”
But Freddie Connyngham was no athlete, and Sparrow was near exhaustion after his sleepless night.
“I’ll take the revolver,”’ decided Wiggins, grabbing the weapon from Freddie’s nerveless hand. “You two follow!”
“No need!” called Freddie, as Wiggins began to draw ahead. “Look!” A small gang of railway workmen were eating their morning bread-and-cheese beside the track.
“‘Morning, sir!” they called, looking in puzzlement at Freddie Connyngham in the company of a pair of boys, one of whom was holding a large revolver, “Need any help, sir?” said their ganger cautiously.
“That bogey!” cried Freddie. “Can you get it on to the lines?”
“We could,” agreed the ganger. “If that’s your wish, sir!”
In a few moments, the three of them were bowling along the line at a high speed, and within five minutes or so Freddie hauled on the brake.
“We’re coming to the regular passenger line,” he said. “The Three Tuns is only a few hundred yards away—and there’s the bridge! Here, let’s push the bogey off the track and take a look.”
It was a wooden bridge, sturdy enough for occasional traffic, but without the massive strength of the iron railway bridges Wiggins and Sparrow knew in London.
Far below they could see a rushing stream strewn with jagged boulders. Wiggins gulped.
“Cor!” murmured Sparrow. “If the train was to—”
“Exactly!” said Freddie, who had recovered his poise. “But we’re here and we can warn the driver to stop—come on!”
As the boys approached the bridge, however, Freddie paused. “That’s odd,” he said.
“What’s odd?” said Sparrow.
“Those railwaymen—track inspectors by the look of them,” said Wiggins. “Now why should there be two gangs out on the same length of track—look, on the far side of the bridge. Only two of ’em,” he continued slowly. “One a big bloke, an’ one small and nasty. And both of them dressed like railway workers.”
“Yeh,” agreed Sparrow. “It’s them!”
“Who?” demanded Freddie Connyngham, as the two men on the far side of the bridge noticed that they had been spotted.
“The Great Orlov!” said Wiggins. “And the bloke with the red beard! Watch out! They’re shooting!”
Shots rang out, and the boys dived for cover.
“Then they have mined the bridge!” cried Freddie. “And they’ll pin us down till the train comes, and it’s all up with father and the Archduke!”
“And a few foreign ministers and suchlike,” agreed Sparrow. “And Inspector Lestrade,” he added thoughtfully.
Of course, it would have been the end of me too had the boys not acted, for I was on the special train with Inspector Lestrade. We were keeping a sharp lookout for anything suspicious, and the Inspector had even placed a couple of his men in the cab of the engine to watch the track. But all our precautions would have been in vain had not young Wiggins employed that combination of caution and daring which was so reminiscent of the Master.
“Here!” yelled Wiggins, as bullets whistled around his ears. “Get the bogey back on the track—they can’t hit us back there!”
It was true. The bogey was out of range of the revolvers, and it took only a little time for the boys to wrestle the heavy bogey back on to the track. Desperation lent them additional strength, but when it was in place both Sparrow and Freddie were baffled.
“Now what?” said Sparrow. “I’m not going over that bridge on this thing, ’cos I’ll get me head blown off.”
“It’s a diabolical risk,” agreed Freddie, “but I’m game!” Wiggins was already providing the answer to their dilemma.
“Here!” he said, indicating a pile of railway sleepers, massive timbers stored as replacements for those that rotted. “Get a dozen of these in front, then we’ll be safe!”
And so it proved.
With only a minute or so to spare before the special train reached the mined bridge, the three boys had erected a barricade of heavy logs before them.
“Faster!” yelled Wiggins, as Sparrow and Freddie and he pumped with the last of their strength on the handles of the bogey. “Come on!”
Bullets thudded into the heavy timbers.
“We’re on the bridge!” panted Freddie. “Not far now!”
“Then those anarchists can shoot us as we go by!” yelled Sparrow.
“Nah!” groaned Wiggins, whose own energies were practically used up.
“We’ll jump just after the bridge and dodge into the woods—that’s the best we can do!”
“But what about
the train—it’ll hit the bogey!” panted Sparrow.
“Better that than being blown sky-high!” said Freddie grimly. “Well, Wiggins—well, Sparrow—good luck!”
Then they were all leaping from the bogey only yards short of where the gunmen lay.
As they jumped, Wiggins caught sight of an electrical battery and a pair of wires leading to the bridge. He also heard a roar of rage from Bukovsky. “Well,” he said as he landed on a gravel incline. “We did what we could—and I hope it’s enough.”
It was. The three boys were too much concerned with their own immediate problems to take in what was happening, but I was very much aware of the events of the next half-minute.
A heavy shock ran along the train, hurling foreign ministers and senior policemen, to say nothing of important politicians, across their carriages.
The only casualty was the Archduke, who suffered a slight cut on his nose; he gained it whilst trimming his moustache in the bathroom of the special train.
He recovered sufficiently to join in the thanks and congratulations of Sir Alfred Connyngham, when he and the other dignitaries were told of their escape from death, and the part the boys had played in saving them. “You have saved my life twice over,” said Sir Alfred beside the railway track, watched by a humbled Inspector Lestrade. “I know everyone here joins me in this heartfelt expression of gratitude—we all owe our lives, and the peace of Europe itself to you. I can tell you now that the Archduke Alexander is in this country to sign a treaty with the Foreign Ministers of four other nations, and because of your gallantry the signing will take place at The Chimneys. What do you say, Lestrade?” he said, turning to the Inspector.
And there, in front of the distinguished assembly, Wiggins and Sparrow listened to Inspector Lestrade’s congratulations too. I later heard him say that regular police enquiries would have done just as well; but the truth is different.
There was some consolation for the Inspector, however.
Bukovsky and Orlovitch were later arrested in yet another of their disguises at Dover as they tried to board a steamer for the Continent. Wiggins had the last word:
“They didn’t get away with it this time,” he said. “Mind you, even Inspector Lestrade finally worked out that in the case of the Disappearing Despatch Case, things wasn’t always what they seemed.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BRIAN (NEVILLE) BALL was born on June 19, 1932, in Cheshire, England. Much of his substantial body of novels—science fiction, supernatural, detective thrillers, and childrens’ fiction—beginning in the early 1960s and continuing to date—was produced whilst Ball simultaneously pursued an academic career as a Lecturer in English at Doncaster College of Education, and whilst he was Visiting Professor to the University of British Colombia, Vancouver.
Like many of his British contemporaries, Ball began by writing science fiction short stories for New Worlds and Science Fantasy, but very quickly made the transition to full-length sf novels, beginning with Sundog in 1965. His early sf novels, whilst action-packed adventure stories, were also rich in metaphysical speculation, qualities that quickly brought him international recognition, His series of children’s books, ranging from nursery to teenage titles, were equally successful.
Of his adult science fiction novels, of especial note was his trilogy about an ancient Galactic Federation, Timepiece (1968), Timepivot (1970), and Planet Probability (1973). By 1971 he had began to diversify into supernatural novels with considerable success, and in 1974 his first detective novel, Death of a Low-Handicap Man, was published to wide acclaim. This novel is currently in print from Wildside, and a recent new sequel, Death on the Driving Range (2009), is scheduled to appear from the Borgo Press, along with the best of his supernatural novels, beginning with Mark of the Beast and The Evil at Monteine.
In 2004 Ball resumed writing short stories for Philip Harbottle’s Fantasy Adventures collections, published by Wildside Press, of which “Dark Peak” (FA #9) and “Seeing Flynn” (FA #13) stand out.
Also in 2004, Ball was commissioned to write a new Space: 1999 novel explaining the mysterious disappearance of Professor Victor Bergman from the last series of the Gerry Anderson TV series (for which Ball had earlier authored The Space Guardians in 1975). Survival was published in the U.S. by Powys Media in 2005. Its quality was such that Ball was quickly commissioned to write a new Space: 1999 novelette for the same publisher, intended for a new Space: 1999 anthology, Shepherd Moon. Unfortunately, this book and his story “Cargo” has yet to appear.
Following the publication of Survival, Ball was assigned to write a new UFO novel (based on another iconic Gerry Anderson TV series) by the UK publisher, Fanderson. Unfortunately, his superb novel The Dark Time is still in limbo, following the suspension of Fanderson’s TV tie-in books programme. Happily, his next new novel, a supernatural thriller, did appear. Malice of the Soul was published in the UK in 2008, and is also scheduled to appear soon from the Borgo Press.
