Wells’s eyes brightened. ‘I think I get the idea. They’re probably shipping cargoes of non-dutiable goods in a small freighter. Those would be cleared by the customs without any charges in the normal way, of course, then consigned to London by the railway. But they must have got at some of the railway people to halt the goods train for a few moments near their secret landing ground; then the contraband that the planes bring over is substituted for the non-dutiable stuff and delivered in London without any questions being asked.’
‘That’s about it,’ said Gregory, ‘though why they should bother to make the exchange I don’t quite see.’
‘I do,’ Wells grinned. ‘A fleet of lorries anywhere near the coast at night might quite well be pulled up by one of the preventative men. By using this method they eliminate that risk and get the contraband straight through to London. The thing we’ve got to find out now is the address where the goods are to be delivered at the other end—after they leave the London goods depot.’
Gregory produced the carefully folded form of the stolen telegram, addressed to Corot, from his pocket and spread it out although he knew its contents by heart now. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘at the last two lines, “Seventh”, that was yesterday, 43 47, “Eighth”, that’s today, 43, again 47. From the repetition of the numbers it looks a reasonably safe bet they mean to use the same landing ground to run another cargo tonight; but we’re not having any funny business with parachutes this time. We’ll fly over to Ashford this evening, hire a nice safe car there, park it somewhere where it won’t be noticed a few hundred yards from the Brown Owl and see what’s doing. Maybe, if the luck holds, we’ll be able to secure the information you want.’
‘Fine,’ Wells agreed. ‘We’ll have to get on that train somehow, if it’s only for a moment, so that I can get the address to which the goods are being forwarded in London.’
The next move having been arranged, Gregory decided to go in to Margate. It did not trouble him that the room Wells had occupied at the Queen’s had probably already been let again, owing to the holiday rush, as the proprietors of the St. George’s were old friends of his and he felt certain that, however full up they were, they would fix him up with a bath and a bed for the afternoon. Margate too was more convenient than Birchington for Mansion Aerodrome, so it was agreed that Wells should pick him up at the St. George’s, before going out there, at seven o’clock.
As Gregory stood up Mrs. Bird came in. ‘You’d better make yourselves scarce now you two,’ she said. ‘That Miss Szenty is a proper lazy one, lying abed there and wasting all this lovely morning, but I’ve just taken her breakfast up so she’ll be down shortly, and you don’t want her to see either of you about the place. She says she’ll be staying here for the next few nights so you’d best watch out when you visit us again or you may run into her in the garden.’
‘Thanks, Mrs. Bird. I’m just off,’ Gregory told her. It was some small comfort to be reasonably certain that he would be able to find Sabine there if an emergency made it necessary for him to get hold of her in the next day or two. Tired as he was, he wished desperately that he could remain and see her when she came downstairs, if only for a few moments, but he dared not risk it. His previous blunder was still fresh in his mind. It was a hundred to one that she would take to flight again the second she got rid of him and, in addition, it would give away the fact that the police knew Lord Gavin to be the tenant of Quex Park.
‘Coming, Wells?’ he said abruptly.
‘Not your way,’ the Inspector answered with a shade of embarrassment. ‘As I’ll be at a loose end till this evening I thought of spending the afternoon in Birchington.’
‘Take her to lunch at the Beresford,’ suggested Gregory with a cynical twist of his lip. ‘Be careful you don’t get run in for cradle snatching though.’
Gerry Wells flushed angrily. He saw no reason why he should deny himself the pleasure of remaining in Milly’s immediate vicinity, and asking her to lunch with him had been the very thing he had had in mind, but before he could think of an appropriate retort Gregory had turned his back and slouched out of the door.
‘He’s a rum one and no mistake,’ murmured Mrs. Bird gazing after him resentfully.
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ Wells shrugged. ‘Bitter at times as though something had hurt him once, right inside if you know what I mean, but there’s something about him that one can’t help liking, all the same.’
Milly accepted the Inspector’s invitation joyfully and they lunched together at the hotel. An hour later they were bathing in the west bay beyond the town. The tide was in now but a narrow strip of golden sand enabled them to sun themselves afterwards and Wells thought it altogether the most delightful day he had ever experienced.
He would have liked to linger on the beach indefinitely but his sense of duty to be done did not allow him even to consider such an attractive prospect, so, a little after six, he set off again and by seven he had collected Gregory from the St. George’s Hotel, shaved now and refreshed from his bath, sleep, and an excellent dinner. An hour later, having made the hop to Ashford in Wells’s plane, they were running out of the town in a small hired car towards the scene of Gregory’s adventures on the previous night.
By the time they had completed their fifteen-mile run the sun was setting and soon twilight obscured the more distant prospects across the low-lying marshland. They pulled up at the Brown Owl Inn and went inside for a drink; just as though they were a couple of ordinary motorists.
It was a tiny place, much smaller than it had seemed to Gregory when half-obscured by semi-darkness the night before, and boasted only one small parlour which served the purpose of saloon, private bar, lounge and tap-room, all in one. A big red-faced man, who seemed to be the owner of the place, as well as barman, served them. His manner was surly and off-hand so they failed to draw him into conversation, as they did not wish to arouse his suspicions by forcing themselves upon him and appearing too inquisitive.
Gregory, never at a loss for a plausible lie, said that they were employed by the Ordnance Department, and had to spend the night at Lydd, the Artillery depot, in order to witness some experimental firing with a new gun which would take place early the following morning.
The landlord listened to their statement with a nod of his head but made no comment on it. He had accepted a drink for politeness’ sake, but lounged there behind his bar, stolid and apparently uninterested in their business.
Wells stood another round of drinks then, as an old grandfather clock in the corner of the low room chimed nine, he said to Gregory: ‘We’d better be getting on I think,’ so they went out to their car and drove away.
Gregory pointed out the actual landing-place of the smuggler planes as they passed it in the car just after leaving the Brown Owl. It was a long flat stretch of grassland about three hundred yards wide, between the railway embankment and the road. The place showed no trace of occupation in the evening light and they thought it better not to make a closer inspection of it in case they were observed from the windows of the inn.
The Inspector asked Gregory if he thought he could find the place again where he had abandoned the parachute; so that they might try and retrieve that expensive piece of Government property before darkness set in.
‘Drive on for another half-mile or so towards the coast,’ Gregory suggested, ‘then we’ll have a look round and see if we can spot it. We’ve got to park the car somewhere well out of sight, anyway.’
A few moments later they found a grassy stretch to the left of the road, over which they could drive the car for fifty yards, and they pulled up between two low mounds where there was little chance of it being discovered after nightfall.
Gregory got out and, scaling the fence, ran up the railway embankment. The landscape was dusky now in the fading twilight but, almost at once he saw a grey blob, a little to his right on the far side of the railway. It was the parachute; its tangled cords and material draped over some low bushes.
Calling Wells
he set off towards it; marvelling at the ease with which he could cross the tricky country compared to the frightful time he had had when blundering over it in pitch darkness.
They bundled up the parachute and got it back to the car, then settled down to wait, knowing that there was no prospect of the smuggler fleet arriving for another two hours at least.
Fortunately they had brought some sandwiches with them and, sitting on two tussocks of coarse grass, they made a leisurely meal which whiled away a fraction of the time before them.
The night had now closed in and the time of waiting seemed interminable but they had known that they would have to face it if they were to see the landing place by daylight. Gradually the hours dragged themselves along until, at half past eleven, they decided to leave the vicinity of the car and conceal themselves somewhere nearer to the landing ground, so that they would be able to overlook it.
They walked back past the inn, where a single light was still burning in one of the windows, and a few moments later discovered the bushes into which Gregory had blundered the night before. Following these they arrived at the gully under the railway embankment, where he had lain hidden, and decided that it was as good a spot as any from which to observe the operations of the smugglers.
They had been settled down there for about twenty minutes when they caught the noise of a car approaching from inland down the lonely road. It halted outside the inn and soon afterwards the shadowy figures of a little group of men appeared on the landing ground. There was a hissing sound and suddenly a bright flare lit the scene, then the watchers saw that the men were planting big acetylene cylinders in the ‘T’ shaped formation, to indicate the direction of the wind. A few moments more and all the flares were burning brightly.
Wells and Gregory sat tight, knowing that no time would be wasted now the flares had been lit and, within a few moments, they heard the roar of an aeroplane engine as it approached from the north-west.
The plane landed and they recognised it as the four seater which both of them had seen leave Quex Park on the previous night. A tall figure descended from it and limped up to the men by the flares. Evidently it was the Limper’s business to see each cargo safely landed and sent on to its unknown destination.
Next, there was a rumble on the road. Gregory and Wells could not see them but, as it ceased somewhere beyond the inn, they guessed that the fleet of lorries had arrived with the crews who would hump the illicit cargo, and about thirty more men came on to the ground in groups of twos and threes. A new note now came from high up in the sky to eastward, a steady drone which rapidly grew louder, then one by one the de Havillands, lightless but obviously well-practised in making night landings at this secret base, came bouncing forward out of the heavy darkness to land in the glare of the flares.
A group of men ran over to each plane as its propellers ceased to twinkle and began to unload its cargo with well-drilled precision. Then, as the last plane landed, there came the puff, puff, puff of the midnight train, and the earth quivered below the embankment until its driver brought it to a standstill.
Wells touched Gregory upon the elbow and began to back away down the gully. Gregory followed, and when they were out of earshot the Inspector whispered: ‘We’ve got to get over the bank—far side of the train—so they can’t see us by those beastly lights. Then we’ll try and get into one of the wagons unobserved.’
Climbing the wire fence, they crawled up the steep slope, crossed the permanent way on hands and knees, slid down the other side, and made their way back to the place where the train was standing.
Intense activity was now in progress on the far side of it. The men were hurling out the boxes from its foremost wagons. Wells scaled the bank again and slung himself up on to one of the rear trucks but found it padlocked. Gregory tried another with the same disappointing result. Dropping off, the two men conferred again in whispers.
‘They won’t unlock the doors of the vans on this side,’ Gregory muttered.
‘No. Got to take a chance on being spotted and reach the boxes,’ Wells replied. ‘Come on, let’s get beneath the train and wait our opportunity.’
They crawled between the wheels, Wells leading, then a little way along, until they were below some couplings where two of the vans were hitched to one another. The smugglers were hard at work unloading within a few feet of them. The planes which had first arrived, now emptied of their cargo, were already leaving.
One of the wooden cases, which the smugglers were pitching out of the wagons, caught in the rough grass only about a third of the way down the embankment. Wells craned his neck to see the markings on it but the side towards him was in deep shadow. He poked his head out from below the train and took a quick glance round. The men were sweating and cursing as they heaved other cases down the bank. Speed seemed to be the essence of the whole operation and they evidently knew it. The drill, as the Inspector saw it, was that less than half an hour should elapse between the lighting of the flares to show the landing ground, and their extinction; while the train paused on its journey for about seven minutes only.
Gerry Wells decided to take a chance. Praying to all his gods that if the men saw him in the semi-darkness they would take him to be one of themselves, he slipped out from beneath the train and, drawing himself upright, launched himself upon the stranded case. As he heaved it up to throw it down among the rest, he tried to read the big label which was tacked to its top, before it left his hands.
‘Hi!’ a shout came out of the darkness in his rear. ‘What’s that feller doing there?’ It was the driver or the fireman who had witnessed his sudden appearance from underneath the train.
Instantly the mob of workers dropped their cases and turned towards him. Next moment a new voice called from the bottom of the embankment. ‘You there—come here—else I’ll plug you.’
A torch flashed out, and Gregory, who was still concealed under the train, an immobile witness of the scene, saw that the order came from the Limper.
For a second Gregory’s hand closed on the butt of his automatic, but this was England. If he shot the fellow all sorts of unpleasantness would result. He shifted his grip swiftly to his torch instead and silently drew himself up between the two coaches. Then, before Wells had time to answer, he flung it with all his force and unerring aim straight at the Limper’s head.
‘Run, man!’ Gregory shouted, as the torch struck the Limper full on the forehead. ‘Run!’
The Limper went down under the impact of the missile. Wells leapt on to the permanent way, but the man who had first spotted the Inspector sprang from the step of the engine cab and grabbed him round the waist.
Next moment the Limper was on his feet again, yelling blasphemous instructions to his men as half a dozen of them closed in on Gregory.
He laid one of them out with a blow behind the ear and tripped another who went plunging head-over-heels down the embankment.
Wells had torn himself from the grip of the man who had jumped off the train and turned to Gregory’s assistance, but below them now the smugglers were running from all directions, throwing themselves over the fence and scrambling up the bank. The Inspector hit out valiantly but he could not reach Gregory, who had been dragged to the ground. A second later he too was hurled off his feet by the rush of a dozen brawny ruffians. He went down with a thud, one of the men kicked him in the ribs and another, kneeling on his back, pinioned his arms behind him.
16
Hideous Night
Bruised and half stunned from their desperate struggle the two men were lugged to their feet and thrust down the bank. Half a hundred threatening figures milled round them, their scowling faces lit by the glare of the torches. Pilots, loaders, and the men off the train—all left their jobs to crowd about the captives. Every man on the secret base arrived at the scene of the excitement where they jostled together muttering hoarse questions.
A tall figure elbowed his way through the press. ‘Silence!’ he thundered. ‘Stand back there. I’ll atten
d to this.’
It was the Limper. The men gave way before him, forming a semi-circle, while he stood in its centre glowering at the prisoners, a little trickle of blood oozing from his forehead where Gregory’s torch had cut it.
‘You, you, you, you,’ he jabbed his finger at four husky fellows, ‘take these birds over to the inn. The rest of you get back to work. This upset’s put us two minutes behind schedule. You’ve got to make it up. To work! Like blazes now!’
The four men thrust Gregory and the Inspector forward. The Limper followed close behind with the sharp warning: ‘No tricks now. I’ll shoot you in the back the instant you try anything.’
The breath having been kicked and beaten out of their bodies they were in no state at the moment to do more than stagger along between their captors; even if they had been mad enough to think of attempting a breakaway.
At the inn they were dragged into the little bar parlour and the door slammed to behind them. The fat landlord was still behind his bar and the handsome knife-thrower of Trouville, now in airman’s kit, leaned against it drinking a tot of brandy.
‘Q’est-ce qu’il-y-a,’ he exclaimed, as the others tumbled into the room.
‘Spies,’ snapped the Limper. ‘Caught trying to board the train. Preventative officers I expect; we’ll soon find out.’
The Frenchman evidently understood English. An evil little smile twitched at his lips. With a single jerk he drew a murderous-looking knife from his sleeve. ‘Espions, hein,’ he murmured. ‘Ca s’arrange trés simplement.’
‘Stop that, Corot.’ The Limper jerked his hand out swiftly at the Frenchman’s knife. ‘This is not the place. Now you,’ he swung on Gregory, ‘what’s your little game?’
Gregory pulled himself together as well as he could with the two thugs still hanging on his arms. ‘What’s yours?’ he blustered, ‘that’s more to the point. We’ve got no game. We were just lost in the marshes. Seeing the lights we came over to ask if you could put us on our road again; but before we had time to open our mouths we were set upon.’
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