The Hand of Fear (Keith Calder Book 3)

by Gerald Verner

  ‘Put up your hands, quick!’ snarled the voice again, ‘and don’t try any funny business. If you do I shall shoot to kill.’

  It was not a bluff. He was stating a fact, and Stanley Holt slowly raised his arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Street is Worried

  Farringdon Street woke early on the morning following the dinner appointment with Stanley Holt at the Ritz-Carlton, and almost the first thing he did was to put through a call to the young American’s flat. To his surprise the same voice that had spoken before answered, and told him that Holt had not returned since the previous morning.

  ‘Do you mean that he hasn’t been back all night?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ was the reply.

  Farringdon frowned. ‘Have you any idea where he is?’ he demanded.

  But the servant had no idea. He sounded a little worried and suggested that Farringdon should ring up Holt’s office later and see if they could supply him with any information.

  ‘I’m rather uneasy, sir,’ he concluded. ‘Mr. Holt’s never stayed away before without letting me know.’

  The reporter hung up the receiver and ate his breakfast thoughtfully. He was a trifle uneasy himself at this unaccountable disappearance of the American. Of course there might be nothing in it; Holt might have been suddenly called away on business. But in that event surely he would have left some message, or at least arranged to notify Farringdon and prevent him kicking his heels at the hotel for nothing. Perhaps he had done this, and the people at his office had forgotten to give the message.

  At ten o’clock he telephoned Holt’s office and was put through to his secretary, but she could offer no more information than the servant. Holt had left early on the previous afternoon in order, she thought, to keep a business appointment, but he had said nothing about being away for any length of time.

  Farringdon’s uneasiness increased. He felt there was something peculiar about the whole thing. Had something happened to Holt? Something that in an obscure way was connected with the Felix Dexon business? Holt was not actually mixed up in it, but he was a friend of the principal person concerned, and although the reporter could see no object in the person behind the business wishing him any harm, there might easily be one which he had overlooked. He made his way to Scotland Yard with the intention of talking the matter over with Hallick, but the inspector was not there. According to his sergeant, he had returned to the inn at Deneswood.

  Farringdon went along to the offices of the Morning Herald, but there was little or nothing for him to do there, and presently he found himself in the neighbourhood of Bloomsbury, and called to inquire after the welfare of Lesley Thane.

  She was not up, and he sent a message by Mrs. Williams asking if she would care to have lunch with him. Her reply disappointed him. She was still feeling very tired, and although she thanked him for his invitation, she hoped he would excuse her. Farringdon went back to Fleet Street and ate a solitary lunch in a snack bar.

  He was sitting in the reporters’ room of the Morning Herald, gloomily reading the morning edition of that enterprising paper, when a telephone call came through for him. It was from Hallick.

  ‘That you, Street?’ said the inspector. ‘Listen. You know that friend of Miss Thane’s who drove us down the other day, Stanley Holt?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Farringdon, wondering what was coming.

  ‘Well,’ went on Hallick, ‘his car has been discovered abandoned on a lonely road two miles outside of Deneswood. We rang up his office and his flat, but they haven’t seen anything of him since yesterday. It looks to me as though something has happened to him.’

  ‘I’ll come down,’ said the reporter promptly, and two hours later he was talking to the grave-faced Hallick in the little police station at Deneswood.

  ‘It was one of the police patrols who found the car,’ said the inspector, ‘and he notified Blagdon, who remembered the name and immediately got in touch with me. There’s no doubt about it being Holt’s car. There were some letters addressed to him in one of the door pockets. But there’s no sign of Holt.’

  ‘I wonder what the deuce could have happened to him,’ muttered the reporter.

  ‘I’m wondering that,’ said Hallick. ‘It looks bad to me. I’ve instituted a search of the neighbourhood in the vicinity of the place where the car was found abandoned, but nothing’s been discovered yet.’

  ‘Do you think his disappearance has anything to do with the Dexon business?’ asked Farringdon.

  Hallick nodded. ‘Yes, I do,’ he declared. ‘It’s my opinion that he’s stumbled on something, and instead of notifying us, decided to do a little investigation on his own.’

  ‘And fallen foul of the person responsible for the Dexon murder,’ ended the reporter.

  Again the inspector nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said gloomily. ‘He was at Deneswood late yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Street.

  ‘One of my men saw him,’ answered Hallick. ‘He was talking to that girl of Earnshaw’s, and they drove away together.’

  ‘Can’t she give you any information?’ inquired the reporter.

  ‘I’ve seen her,’ said Hallick, ‘and if she’s speaking the truth it doesn’t help us much. She says she met Holt unexpectedly and he offered to drive her to the village. She accepted, and changed some books at the library there. After this they went out to the Anchor Hotel and had some tea, and he drove her back. When she left him it was a little after half past six. Nobody apparently set eyes on him after that.’

  Farringdon scratched his chin irritably. ‘I suppose this girl was speaking the truth?’ he grunted, and to his surprise Hallick nodded.

  ‘I’m sure she was,’ he answered. ‘I can pretty well tell when a person’s lying, and she wasn’t. She was terribly worried when she knew why I was questioning her, and I believe her worry was genuine.’

  ‘Well, what are we going to do?’ asked the reporter.

  The inspector shrugged. ‘What can we do?’ he said. ‘I’m having the locality searched, and the usual routine inquiries have been circulated. There’s nothing else we can do. The fact that his car was found near Deneswood doesn’t mean that Holt’s in the locality. The abandoning of that on the road where it was found may have been a blind.’

  ‘Did you see that fellow Thorpe?’ asked Farringdon as the thought suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hallick. ‘He’s got nothing to do with it. He’s a genuine fellow and was indignant at the thought that anyone had been using his cottage. Bit annoyed, too, that he should have been dragged all the way back from Bournemouth to answer questions.’ He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘The man I want to meet is this thin-faced fellow whom Miss Thane described,’ he went on.

  ‘Sam Gates,’ said Farringdon, and Hallick pursed his lips.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he answered. ‘Anyway, Sam Gates or Tom Smith, he’s the fellow we want to get hold of, for he seems to be the prime mover in the business.’

  ‘Are you staying in Deneswood tonight?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hallick. ‘I’ve got a hunch that Deneswood is the spot which holds the secret of this business.’

  ‘Have they got another room?’ said Farringdon.

  The inspector looked at him queerly. ‘Thinking of staying?’ he asked.

  The reporter nodded. ‘Yes, I think so. I feel the same as you do. I believe that if we ever find out the truth about Dexon we shall find it out here.’

  How right he was proved. Before twenty-four hours had passed, the secret of Deneswood Valley was to be a secret no longer, for in those sylvan surroundings the final act of the drama was to be staged, in the same setting in which it had begun.

  Chapter Twenty-Five – A Matter of Minutes

  ‘Get over there against the wall!’ said the man, still covering Holt with the pistol. ‘And keep your hands well above your head.’

  The young A
merican obeyed reluctantly. He could do nothing else. Unarmed, it was useless to attempt to argue with an automatic. He backed slowly as the other advanced, and was able to see in the reflected light of the torch that the man wore some kind of a covering — it looked like a handkerchief — over his mouth and chin which effectually concealed his face. When he reached the wall the other stopped a yard away from him and surveyed him for a second in silence.

  ‘So you managed to get free, did you?’ he snarled. ‘It was lucky I happened to come back in time.’

  ‘Not for me,’ remarked Holt coolly.

  ‘No, not for you,’ agreed the man, nodding. ‘Certainly not for you.’ He thought for a moment and then he went on: ‘How did you come into this business? What brought you snooping round this place last night?’

  ‘Curiosity,’ said Holt coolly. ‘I saw the light of your torch and followed you.’

  ‘Oh, you followed me — I see.’ The voice was low but harsh and rasping. ‘Who are you?’

  Holt thought rapidly before replying. This man, whoever he was, obviously did not know him. Should he tell him who he was? He decided not to.

  ‘That’s my business,’ he answered.

  The other uttered a savage imprecation. ‘Is it!’ he snapped. ‘We’ll see about that. Not that it matters very much who you are. You’ve seen too much for my safety and you’ll have to take the consequences.’

  There was a world of menace in his tone, and although the American remained outwardly calm, inwardly his heart sank. There was murder in that voice and in the eyes that were regarding him malignantly above the covering.

  ‘Several people have had to take the consequences to ensure your safety,’ he retorted. ‘Felix Dexon was one. Feldon was another, and Sopley, too, unless I’m very much mistaken.’

  The man started, and for a second was evidently taken aback.

  ‘How do you know all this?’ he hissed. ‘How do you know it? Are you a ‘busy’?’

  ‘I’m the walking encyclopaedia of crime,’ said Holt. ‘I know everything.’

  ‘Funny, aren’t you?’ snarled the other. ‘You won’t be laughing presently, I can tell you.’

  ‘I’m not laughing now,’ said Holt. ‘I never laugh at my own jokes.’

  ‘You’ll laugh at mine,’ was the retort. ‘I’m going to show you the greatest joke you’ve ever seen.’

  ‘You flatter yourself,’ replied Holt. ‘I’ve seen funnier people than you.’

  His coolness rather disconcerted the man and he appeared to be uncertain how to take it. ‘I’m serious,’ he said after a slight pause. ‘If you don’t think I mean what I say you’d better think again.’

  ‘Suppose, instead of wasting all this time talking nonsense, you get on with it,’ suggested Holt sharply. He was trying to work the other up into a rage. Men lose control of themselves when they lose their tempers, and he hoped that he might be able to take advantage of this fact and profit by it. But the masked man evidently had no intention of losing his temper, although it was only by a great effort that he controlled it.

  ‘I will get on with it, as you call it, when I’m ready,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’m very anxious first of all to find out exactly who you are. When I caught you last night I was in too great a hurry to search you. That omission can be rectified now.’

  Setting the torch on a heap of stone he came close to Holt, and ramming the muzzle of the pistol into his ribs, rapidly began to search his pockets. The miscellaneous collection of small change, keys, watch and other odds and ends he ignored, and it was not until he came upon a crumpled letter in the American’s inside breast pocket that he showed any signs of interest at all. Then, as he read the name and address, he grunted.

  ‘So that’s who you are, is it?’ he muttered. ‘A friend of the girl’s, eh?’

  ‘That’s who I am,’ replied Holt sweetly. ‘And now, if you’ll tell me who you are, we shall have been properly introduced.’

  ‘Friend of the Thane girl, eh?’ murmured the other to himself, taking no notice of the remark. ‘What were you doing down here?’

  ‘Looking for fossils,’ answered Holt promptly.

  The other gripped his arm and shook him roughly. ‘Answer my question!’ he rasped. ‘What were you doing here? Why did you come down? Are you working with the police?

  ‘That’s three questions,’ retorted Holt. ‘Don’t you know the difference between singular and plural?’

  The other gave him a savage thrust that sent him staggering against the stone wall. ‘Keep a civil tongue in your head!’ he hissed, almost choking with rage. ‘I want to know how much you know.’

  ‘It’ll take too long to tell you that,’ said Holt, his head spinning from the blow. ‘I had a very good education.’

  The other snarled something, and suddenly clubbing his pistol, he brought it down with all his force on Holt’s unprotected scalp. Without even a groan the American slumped forward and slithered to the floor, where he lay in a crumpled heap.

  ‘Now be funny!’ growled the man, looking down at him, and then pocketing the pistol he took from his pocket a length of cord. Stooping, he proceeded to securely bind the unconscious form of his victim, and when he had finished he straightened up, wiping the perspiration from his forehead.

  Picking up the torch, he went over and looked down at the inert figure of his other prisoner. There was no sound or movement, and with a grunt of satisfaction he came back to Holt. Laying the torch down again he hoisted the limp form of the American onto his shoulders, secured the light once more, and carrying him like a sack made his way over to the entrance to the cave. He negotiated the narrow passage and came out into the quarry. Here he switched off the torch and dropped it back into his pocket.

  His most difficult task lay before him, for in order to carry out his plan he had to get the unconscious Holt up the almost sheer side of the pit. There was a point, however, where a landslide had made a rough kind of staircase, and by slow degrees he succeeded in his object. He was panting heavily and almost breathless by the time he reached the lip of the quarry with his heavy burden, and he had to lean against a pile of stones and rest before proceeding any further. After about five minutes, however, he had recovered sufficiently to continue. Picking Holt up once more, he staggered along down a steep declivity towards the open common.

  There was scarcely any risk of his being seen, for this part was wild and deserted even in the full light of day, and at that time of night there was no chance of there being anybody about. Holt was no lightweight, and before he had gone two hundred yards the perspiration was streaming down his face under the covering handkerchief, and his muscles were aching. He had very little further to go, however, for ahead he could see the glimmer of the pool for which he was making. It lay, an uneven stretch of water, black and unpleasant-looking, its surface covered with green slime. He reached the edge, and laying his burden down began to search in the vicinity for stones with which to fill Holt’s pockets.

  The cool night air was bringing the American round, and he showed signs of movement as the man finished his task. It mattered very little now whether he recovered or not. It would be better for him if he did not, that was all. Once he had disappeared under the surface of that black water it would only be a question of minutes . . .

  Bracing himself, he swung the body of the young American twice and hurled him out into the middle of the pool. There was a dull splash and the still surface of the stagnant water was broken by a succession of ripples.

  For a moment the murderer stood looking into the darkness in the direction in which he had flung his victim. Then, turning, he vanished into the night.

  Chapter Twenty-Six – Death at the Quarry

  Farringdon Street stirred uneasily and sat up in bed with a jerk, staring about him into the darkness of the room. What had wakened him so suddenly he could not tell, but something had disturbed his sleep. He glanced across at the dim square of the window. It was still dark outside, and he listened, straining his e
ars, but no sound came to break the stillness of the night. Yet something had caused that sudden wakefulness.

  He switched on the light and looked round the little hotel bedroom. He had carried out his intention of remaining at Deneswood, and had succeeded in securing a room at the inn in which Hallick was staying. Turning over on his side, he searched for and found the watch on the table by the bed. It was a little after two.

  For perhaps ten minutes he sat listening. Everything was still. And then, shivering slightly, for the night was cold, he lay down again and tried to sleep. He soon found that this was impossible; thoughts crowded into his brain and he became more wide awake than at midday. The uneasiness which he had felt ever since Holt’s disappearance had increased a thousand fold, and for the hundredth time he vainly speculated as to what had happened to the young American.

  He came to the conclusion that in his present state of his mind, sleep was impossible, and acting on an impulse, he got up and rapidly dressed himself. Anything was better than lying there tossing from side to side, his brain a chaos of disjointed thoughts, and he decided to go for a walk.

  Passing the door of Hallick’s room, it occurred to him to see if the inspector was awake, but with his hand on the handle a faint snore told him all he wanted to know, and he left him undisturbed. Hallick was to be disturbed before that night was over, but Farringdon did not know this then.

  Making his way down the narrow staircase, he crossed the little lounge and unbolted the front door. The key was in the lock, and turning this gently he pulled the door open. The night was fine, and although there was a chill in the air, it was also inviting. He passed out into the cool darkness, closing the door softly behind him. Perhaps a brisk walk in the still night would tire him out.