Run! (25 page)

Bright and quick out of James's mind jumped the answer to that—“There's a handle on the other side.” And a lot of use that was to James Elliot or to Sally West. Well, he ought to be able to burst the blasted thing open. He had a feel of it, and found it surprisingly firm. He measured the distance, lay down on his back in the hay, and kicked at the shutter with his heel. The only thing that happened was that the impact jarred his head so much that he nearly went off again. He waited, and had another try, and another after that. When his head had settled down from the third attempt, he was reasonably sure that the shutter was held by a bar on the outside. That last kick would have sent any lock to blazes. If there was a bar, he was done. You can't break down a door with a bar across it when you've got nothing but your bare hands and no run back.

He groped about on the off chance of finding anything helpful. The place contained nothing but hay. A brickbat now—and brickbats do crop up in the most unlikely places—or a pitchfork—there was no reason why there shouldn't be a pitchfork. It was a bitter fact that there was neither brickbat, nor pitchfork, nor anything else except hay, and dust, and the dust of hay.

James sat down, put his head in his hands, and tried to think.

It was tolerably obvious that the people who had put him here wouldn't have put him here if they had thought there was a single earthly chance of his being able to get out.

On the other hand, he was bound to get out.

Because of Sally.

If he didn't get out, anything might happen to Sally.

Also to the Rolls. They might damage the Rolls.

He thought a little more, and perceived that they would certainly damage the Rolls. Now that they had got hold of him, they would certainly do him in. The obvious way of doing him in without any risk to themselves was to engineer a car smash. He almost forgot Sally in his rage at the idea of their smashing up the Rolls.

He got up again and stood there leaning against the shutter which he hadn't been able to budge and trying to think of a way out. The loft was very dusty and stuffy. He felt as if he could have thought much more clearly if there had been some fresh air. The hay dust made him sneeze, and it hurt like blazes to sneeze. He found himself on the floor again holding his head and vaguely remembering something—something about a hayloft—long ago—he, and Daphne, and Alice Cummins who was Daphne's friend. It was Alice who sneezed. They had made a tunnel in the hay, and Alice stuck in the tunnel and sneezed. She was a bun-faced girl with freckles—very tiresome and always sucking peppermints.

James let go of his head and remembered about the tunnel. The hayloft was like this one. There was a lot of hay in it. The tunnel ran through the hay to a little flapdoor which led into the next loft. It was very convenient if you were playing hairbreadth escapes and secret passages, and that chump Alice stuck in the tunnel and sneezed. Suppose this loft had a door in the wall behind the hay. If there had been one in the loft at Cranley, why shouldn't there be one here?

He began to shift the hay from the left-hand wall, which was where it was piled highest. Suppose it was fastened and he couldn't open it. Suppose it wasn't. He heaved at the hay, and got more dust in his eyes, in his ears, in his mouth, and down the back of his neck. And presently there wasn't any more hay to shift. Just rough brick wall.

He began to feel along the wall, and all at once there wasn't any wall to feel, because his hand slipped through into a hole.

He really hadn't any idea of how hopeless he had been until his hand slipped through into that hole. With a sudden rush hope came back very bobbish and lively, and in an instant he had his head and shoulders through the hole. There wasn't any door, just a rough arch through which the hay could be pushed from one loft to another.

James went through on his hands and knees, and scrambling up, found himself in an empty place. No hay here, but an odd upward draught of cold fresh air. He leaned against the wall and drew in the air. Quite fresh, quite cold, and after a minute or two he began to wonder why. And then he guessed, and very nearly shouted for joy—a hayrack with managers below, and by the freshness of the air the stable door must be open.

It was just as well that he had played at escapes in a hayloft at eight years old, because it would have been the easiest thing in the world to break a leg or even a neck by falling over the rack into the manger.

He felt his way with extreme care and dropped safely into the tilted wooden trough. The stable door sagged from a broken hinge and creaked as he shoved it wide.

Next moment he was running across the yard.

XXXIII

As soon as the sound of James's footsteps had died away, Jock West came broad awake, sat up, and said with the bright fervour which Sally dreaded,

“I've got an idea.”

Sally felt cold all the way down her spine. She had a most horrible premonition of what the idea might be. She said hastily,

“So have I. I was thinking it might be a good plan to go and cook something—for supper, you know. I suppose your Beatrice stove will cook?”

“I shouldn't fancy her myself. No—my idea was that we should search the cellars.”

Sally knew it before the words came out, but her flesh crawled just the same.

“Jocko, I simply won't!”

His eyes sparkled with malicious enjoyment.

“My child, have I asked you to? No—you shall stay here, miles above ground, with a candle to help you see any family ghosts who may happen along, and if when I'm well out of earshot and it's no use calling for help, that damned panel begins—very—very—slowly to open, don't blame me.”

Sally knew herself to be quite incapable of remaining alone in Aunt Clementa's bedroom or anywhere else whilst Jock went down into the cellars.

She followed him to the butler's pantry, and experienced a really strong desire to stay there. With the candle on the shelf, and Jock's candle, and James's, and her own, the place seemed quite brightly lighted, and the oily warmth diffused by Beatrice produced a most comfortably unancestral atmosphere. She had a feeling that no ghost would long survive it.

Jock crossed the room and opened a baize cupboard door on the far side. The door to the cellars lay beyond, very thick, very old, and deeply sunken in a still older wall.

“Jocko,
please
don't go down,” said Sally in an imploring voice. “Or at any rate wait till James comes back, because he won't know where we are or anything, and if anything happened down there,
nobody
would know.”

“Dry up!” said Jocko in an excited voice. “Sally, there's a bat under the arch of this door—at least I think it's one! Come and look!”

They peered at the arch, and Sally said that it wasn't a bat.

“Well, what is it then?”

“A broken brick and a damp-mark—that's all. Goodness knows it's damp enough to make marks come out on anything. Jocko,
don't
go down!”

But he was already half way down the worn stone steps. A horrible cold smell came up to Sally where she stood with her hand on the heavy door. What was it—petrol? How could it be? Then from behind her she heard footsteps coming down the passage. She called after her brother,

“Jocko—here's James. Do wait a second—I must just tell him where we are.”

Jock called back, “All right,” and Sally turned and went through the baize door into the passage. The heavy cellar door fell to behind her. The baize-covered door fell too. She ran across the pantry with her candle in her hand and out into the passage beyond. She ran straight into the arms of Henri Niemeyer.

The shock was so great that it stopped the processes of feeling. The candle tilted in her hand. She stared at Henri, who kept an arm about her and kissed her lightly on the cheek. It was his left arm which was about her. His right hand held a powerful electric torch. He passed the light across her eyes and she blinked at it. The candle guttered its boiling wax upon her wrist, and she let it fall. There was too much light already—cruel, unmerciful light in a cruel, unmerciful hand. She said in her own mind over and over, “Don't let me scream. Don't, don't let me scream.” Because this was going to be the end—for her. But it needn't be the end for Jocko—or for James—not unless she lost her nerve and screamed for help. If Henri shot this time, he would shoot to kill. The masks were off and the game played out. With every bit of her Sally was sure that this was the end.

“Well, my dear, where's Jocko?” said Henri Niemeyer in his light, pleasant voice. “And has he found what he was looking for, or hasn't he?”

Sally stared. She didn't feel anything except a certain relief, because now that it had come to the point, she wasn't afraid. She wasn't really anything. She was hardly Sally. She looked so blank that Henri shook her a little.

“My dear child, wake up! Where's Jocko?”

She heard herself say, “Not here,” and from behind Henri she heard Hildegarde Sylvester's hard, impatient voice.

“He's gone down to the cellars. I told you they were arguing about it when I listened at the door. What are you waiting for? Knock her on the head and get on with it!”

Anger gave Sally a voice and words. She pulled away from Henri, and he let her go.

“If that's a joke, Hildegarde, it's a very stupid one.”

Hildegarde laughed.

“Oh, it is not a joke, my dear Sally. I don't think it will amuse you—Oh, not at all.”

Sally had her back to the wall. She felt the cold of it right through her clothes.

“I think it would be better for you if it
was
a joke, because it is known that I'm here, and if I don't turn up, you'll have something to explain.” She was listening, listening, listening for the click of the latch, the sound of the closing door, James's step in the hall, and with all her heart she was hoping that he wouldn't come. And yet—and yet—it was so very hard to go out just now—not to see James again—never to be his wife, to have a home with him, to have their children.… She began to feel, and the feeling was all pure pain.

Hildegarde slipped past her into the pantry.

“Oh, my dear, if you're counting on James—I hate to disappoint you of course, but I am afraid your James is out of it. No use to count that he will come and save you. He is quite out of it. And presently the Staling policeman, that lump of a Gibbs, will find him all smashed up in a ditch, and poor Colonel Pomeroy's beautiful new Rolls all smashed up too. No, no, my dear, dead men tell no tales.”

Sally stood against the wall. She looked piteously at Henri, and heard him say, “It's true, Sally.” She saw him take something out of his pocket and come towards her. The ground moved under her feet. She knew she was going to faint, but through her faintness she was aware of the heavy, sickly smell of chloroform.

Henri's arm came about her hard and held her up. Something pressed against her nose, her mouth. The chloroform drowned all.

XXXIV

“It is a pity about Sally,” said Henri Niemeyer. He had just straightened up after laying her down upon the cold flagstones of the butler's pantry. He spoke in a quiet, meditative tone, and if, as was possible, he wished to annoy Hildegarde Sylvester, he certainly succeeded.

She stood in front of the baize door with her hands in the pockets of a short black leather coat, a bizarre, arresting figure in the candle-light. A black beret hid her hair. Eyebrows plucked to an upward slanting line, black eyes enhanced by make-up, and lips the colour of orange-peel accentuated the irregularities of a face which, if it lacked beauty, certainly did not lack intelligence. She looked at Henri in a cold fury and said,

“You say that to me—a pity about Sally? And why?”

Henri laughed. He had a singularly charming laugh.

“Oh, my dear Hildegarde—need you ask? She has three thousand a year which will go to Ambrose. How much pleasanter to marry her and have it come to me. No risk, no trouble with the law, a charming wife, and three thousand a year. Naturally I say it is a pity.”

“You will have your share,” said Hildegarde.

He acquiesced lightly.

“Oh, yes—a share of Sally's three thousand, and also a share of Jocko's. It will not be too bad. But still—” he heaved a sigh—“you must allow me my regrets.”

Hildegarde beat with her hand on the baize door.

“And will you indulge them until Jocko comes back? You should have got him first. I tell you there is no time to be lost. It must be all over before Ambrose comes. He is like you—there is a soft place in him for Sally. He will not have her hurt. She is not to suffer. He is not to see what must be done. He is not to know too much.” She laughed harshly. “You know Ambrose—he must have her money, and he will stand by, but someone else must do the dirty work—you and I,
par exemple
.” Her tone changed abruptly. “And now you will get on with your share of it!” She stood away from the baize door and flung it open. “Hurry, my friend! He is down there.”

Henri smiled.

“I am to go down into the cellars and leave you here with Sally whom you love so much? Oh, no, my dear, I think not. You might—well, we will not say what you might do. You have an old score against her, but you will not settle it—here.” He spoke with sudden briskness. “Oh, no, I have a much better plan, and so simple. It is you who will go down into the cellars. Our dear Jocko will search them all. He is very much bitten with this idea that he will find something, and he will search. There are three among those cellars which have a bolt on the outside of the door, as you will remember—two of them old, and one which I put on myself—in case. Well, into one of these Jocko will certainly go, and as soon as he is in,
voila
—you shoot the bolt and we have him safe. He will not break the door—I will swear to that. It will not be the first time those cellars have been useful. Oh, my dear Hildegarde, you really need not take the trouble to look at me like that. When I say that I will not leave you here with Sally, it is finished. And if you think there is need to hurry, well then, my dear, get a move on!”