The Collected Fiction of William Hope Hodgson: The Dream Of X & Other Fantastic Visions (21 page)

Sandy Mech had got hold of himself, as he realised that there was not only time to achieve the gold, but that an effectual line of retreat was ready prepared; and he nodded back, rather shame-facedly, at the Parson.

“You’re boss, Parson,” he said. “I’m all right now.”

“That’s a goodish thing,” said Parson Guyles. “A very goodish thing. Get packing the gold, smart now.” He opened the remaining cages, with a perfectly controlled nerve.

“Surely hath mine enemy been delivered into mine hand!” he muttered; and picking up one of the gripsacks, began to fill it rapidly with bonds.

“Nay!” he said, catching John Vardon’s glance. “Just to burn, laddie, and so to repay an eye for an eye. I will take a hand with the siller in a moment.”

As each of the diminutive, strongly-built portmanteaux were filled with the solid little bags of gold coin, Parson Guyles locked and strapped them carefully, his amazing coolness acting on the others in a nerve-steadying way; so that they worked with a swiftness and method that had in it no signs of the panic, that might have been expected in three burglars who knew that, already, the police were drawing a cordon round the very building which they were robbing.

As the Parson was strapping the fourth portmanteau, there came suddenly, voices, seeming far away and muffled:—

“The door’s not touched.” . . . “Where are they?” . . . “Inside . . .” “They’ve tunnelled in. . . .” And then a silence, during which there were several soft thuds on the door.

“Not a sound, either of ye!” whispered Parson Guyles. “Keep them guessing, laddies. Keep them guessing. The longer the better!”

“. . . There’s no one inside!” came one of the muffled voices. “The door’s not touched; and they can’t have tunnelled in, for this room’s got an Anson’s patent ‘warning’ incorporated in the walls. It’s absolutely impossible to get in that way without ringing us. And it would take them a week after that to cut through.”

Parson Guyles smiled, grimly, inside the room.

“The emergency keys will be here in less than half an hour,” continued the voice, “and then we can get in. I expect some of the electrical gear has fused, or something. Anyway, it’s certain there’s nothing to bother about.”

“That’s good for us!” said Parson Guyles, still in a whisper. “Now get the bags out. And never a sound, laddies. If they knew we were here, they’d be sure we’d tunnelled, and they would ha’ a cordon round all the near-bye buildings, and make immediate investigation of all likely basements and cellars.”

He lifted the four, enormously heavy, small portmanteaux, one after the other into the tunnel, and John Vardon and Sandy Mech began to creep with them, with infinite difficulty, along to the cellar. They found it easiest to take only one portmanteau at a time—one of them creeping on hands and knees, with the bag on his back, and the other steadying it from rolling off.

This method required four journeys to get the portmanteaux into the cellar; and then the two returned hurriedly for the grip-sacks, one of which was filled with notes and the other with bonds.

“Darn silliness! I call it,” said Sandy Mech, as he crept behind John Vardon. “You can’t do nothin’ with bonds; nor no wise pup ever messes with notes. They’re rotten dangerous.”

“Drop it!” said John Vardon. “The Boss knows what he’s doing. He’s a wonderful man. Come on, and get it done.”

“I’m with you,” said Mech, honestly. “ ’E’s a bloomin’ wonder; but I never ’ad no use for paper trash.”

They reached the strong-room again; and, silently, Parson Guyles passed out the two grip-sacks, stuffed with paper of incredible value.

“I’ll be with ye in a moment,” said the Parson. “Go ahead.”

Sandy Mech led the way back along the tunnel to the cellar. He had the bigger of the two grip-sacks, which, though quite light, was difficult to handle, owing to its size and the way in which it kept catching the inequalities of the walls and roof of the narrow drift.

“Cuss the thing! Cuss it! Cuss it!” he exclaimed, suddenly, as the sack caught for the tenth time on a snag in the roof.

John Vardon raised his head, as he crept some feet behind Mech, to see what was wrong. He had lit the tunnel in three places with incandescent lights, that made it tolerably bright. He saw something that made him sicken; for the roof, only partly and hastily lined, was sagging perceptibly, and Sandy Mech’s sack was caught by some protruding fragment of the down-sagging roof.

“Stop, Sandy!” he said, in a hoarse voice. “Stop!”

But even as he spoke, Sandy Mech lurched forward once more, dragging at his sack, and swearing. As he did so, there was a curious rending sound, as the lining-boards gave way, and then a low roar, as something like a ton of earth poured down into a tunnel, a little behind Sandy, cutting him off completely from John Vardon and the Parson.

John Vardon gasped, in an impenetrable smother of dust, and then backed rapidly, still carrying his grip-sack. His stern met the Parson’s head solidly, as he backed through the opening into the strong-room.

“What the de’il’s wrong?” whispered the Parson, somewhat warmly. “What the de’il—”

“The roof’s fallen in, Parson,” said John Vardon, husky with the dust, and the terror of the situation. “We’re trapped. It’s jail for us; just when I thought to win clear of all and start fresh. My goodness, Parson, we can’t clear the drift in the time we’ve got.”

“Well, laddie,” said Parson Guyles, with peculiar earnestness, and growing more Scottish, “I ha’ always had ma doots that good should come out o’ evil; but the A’michty works in His ain way; and maybe He’s but lessoning ye a bit mair, to show ye the hard and bitter path that is the lot o’ the evil doer. Let us away in, an’ see how the tunnel looks. The A’michty loveth a man that’s na ower ready to cry ‘Lord I’m beat!’ He’s a sight more patience wi’ the weak-minded than wi’ the weak-hearted. . . . I’m feared though, that yon Sandy will fall to the temptation o’ the opportunity, an’ to his lack o’ courage, an’ run off. An’ the diggin’-tools is a’ in the cellar, I’m thinkin’! Whist! Hark!”

The two men stood silent, John Vardon white and dust-smothered; but Parson Guyles calm, with bright, alert eyes.

“Here’s the manager, with one of the emergency keys,” one of the muffled-sounding voices was saying. “If the other two buck up, we shall have the door open in a few minutes.”

John Vardon quivered, and stared round the steel room, madly.

“Steady, my lad! Steady!” said Parson Guyles. “We are not beat yet. Never ha’ I, by the mercy of the A’michty, seen the inside o’ jail yet; and never will I, while the life goes in and out between ma breast banes. . . . To work, laddie!”

He thrust himself into the low mouth of the tunnel, and John Vardon followed, desperately. They came quickly to the place where the roof had collapsed, and the Parson threw himself at the loose bank of earth in which the tunnel vanished.

“Something to shovel with?” he said. “The tools are all in the cellar. . . . Ha! thanks be, I ha’ the notion. To the side, man, smartly, while I go by you.”

He crept quickly past the half stupefied engineer, and so into the strong-room. In a few seconds, he was back again, carrying something.

“Here ye are, laddie. Dig now, like man never dug, or ye’ll dig soon at Portland.”

He had brought two of the strong metal trays, in which the gold had been stored; and excellent makeshift shovels they proved. Vardon seized his, and, side by side, the two men worked like maniacs, sending the earth back between their knees in savage showers, and so filling the low drift with dust that they were almost blinded.

For some ten minutes, they worked; and then John Vardon gasped out:—

“Go back, Parson, a moment, and see if either of the other keys has come yet. I shall break up if I go on like this, feeling that they’ll open that door, and be on us any moment.”

The Parson merely grunted assent; he was too breathless, and too choked with the earth-dust, to speak. But if he were going to get the best out of Vardon, right to the last bitter moment, he must ease the nerve strain from him as much as possible.

He crept rapidly into the strong-room; and there, as he stood breathing heavily, he heard a confused chorus of greeting; and then one of the muffled-sounding voices say:—

“Thank goodness! There’s only the third key to come now.”

There was not a moment to lose, and the Parson dived head-foremost into the tunnel again.

“God forgie me!” he muttered, “but the laddie’ll drop work the instant, if I tell him the truth.”

He reached Vardon, through the blinding showers of earth which the engineer was heaving back between his knees. As he came alongside of him, he inadvertently gripped the man’s ankle, and Vardon whirled round on him, with a sick curse of fear.

“Whist, laddie! Whist!” said the Parson. “It is I. The second key’s no arrived yet; and they’ve had a telephone message, saying the third man can no come for twenty minutes mair!”

“Thank God! Thank God!” said John Vardon. “I can work now.” And work he did; and the Parson beside him. But Parson Guyles worked all the time with an ear cocked down the drift, knowing full well that any minute there might arrive the third key; for the minimum time that he had calculated out for the keys to arrive, was already reached. And then there would come the opening of the door, and they would be caught, literally like human rats.

The minutes passed, like eternities, and suddenly the Parson could bear it no longer.

“I’ll away back,” he muttered, with breathless huskiness, “an’ see if yon second key’s arrived yet.”

As he crept out into the clearer air of the strong-room, he heard one of the muffled voices say, in a tone of authority:—“We are all here, gentlemen. Produce each your emergency key, and insert in the electrical combination to the right of the dial, in the order that I tell you. . . .”

The third key had arrived, and the officials were at that very moment proceeding to unlock the door.

A desperate feeling took the Parson for an instant, across the chest and around the heart, and he stared with a sudden fierce intensity round about the room, to see whether he might not come upon some plan to win a little more delay. Abruptly, as he stared, he noticed the lines still stretched across the floor, and the ball of cord lying in the corner.

Like lightning, an idea came to him, and he dashed at the ball; then went at a silent run to where the vast door of the strong-room fitted solidly into its rebates. It had the maker’s name-plate screwed on solidly to the otherwise smooth inner side of the door, and the Parson pulled a small, beautiful turn-screw from his pocket, as he ran. He reached the door, and fitted the turn-screw into the notch of the heavy steel screw; then applied all his strength and skill, and the screw moved. In less than five, noiseless, intense seconds, the screw head was sticking out half an inch from the door. He took a swift turn with the cord round the head of the screw, and then round the metal, electric light switch-lever, which was screwed into the left wall, near to the edge of the shut door. As the Parson took the turn with the cord, he caught the final directions from the muffled voice:—

“Key 1 to the left; key 3 to the right; key 2 to the right. Withdraw Numbers 1 and 2 keys; reverse Number 3. That’s right. The door is unlocked. Pull it open.”

As the muffled voice gave the final direction; the Parson, sweating until he was almost blind in that horrible moment, yet kept his nerve; and his swift fingers took turn after turn of the thin strong cord, from the screw head to the switch; back and forth; back and forth.

“The door’s stuck,” came one of the voices. “Have we worked the combination right?”

“Yes,” answered the previous voice. “Pull a bit.”

“Praise be!” muttered the Parson, as he drew his sleeve across his forehead. That’ll hold a while; and they’ll keep guessing on the combination. Maybe, the A’michty has a mind to let us go this once mair.”

He tested the tightly strung bundle of cord, with a heavy pull; then, without a second look, he dived again into the drift.

“Look out, John!” he called, softly, as he approached. “It is I. We’re safe a bit mair. How goes it, laddie? How goes it?”

“We—we’ll do it yet, Parson,” said Vardon, between shovelfuls, gasping as he spoke.

“Whist!” said Parson Guyles, “Whist! What’s yon?”

Vardon stopped, and they both listened. . . . Someone was digging, on the other side of the piled up obstruction.

“It’s yon honest de’il, Sandy,” said the Parson. “Man, I do praise the A’michty for the goodness o’ that.”

“He’s close, Parson!” said the engineer, still gasping. “Close! Do you understand? Only a few feet . . . My God, another few minutes, and we’ll be away clear.”

They spoke not a word more; but dug fiercely together into the remaining mound of earth. As they threw the earth between their knees, they scrambled it backwards with their feet, in a very orgy of effort, so that it mounded up behind them, half-way to the roof of the tunnel.

Suddenly, from the strong-room, there came a single sharp sound, like a rope snapping. “It’s gone!” gasped out the Parson, and whirled round. “They’re into the room!”

In the same instant, John Vardon cried out, inarticulately, and Parson Guyles turned again swiftly, a thousand plans for action surging in him. He saw that a shovel, gripped by two grimy efficient hands, was stabbing through the earth that barred their escape. Sandy Mech had broken through!