The Trail of Fear (8 page)

As they reached the outer door, Rezaire tripped slightly. The next moment a piercing wail, as of some disembodied spirit, echoed eerily through the empty house.

CHAPTER VIII

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The wail died away into silence. There followed for a moment the stillness of complete surprise. Then Rezaire plucked at the astonished Sam's sleeve.

“Come along quickly. It's only the cat.”

Sam cursed under his breath, as they ran out into the garden.

But the unfortunate accident had given away their escape sooner than would otherwise have happened. The men in the house, warned by the sound, almost immediately began to run after them to the door.

Sam and Rezaire dashed quickly into the shadow of the wall, and made for the end of the garden. Despite that piece of ill-fortune Rezaire began once again to congratulate himself on his luck. When the police had entered the house they had apparently only left one man on guard outside, never thinking that their quarry would get past. Yet that man had been drawn into the house too, and was now behind them. Rezaire felt inclined to shout aloud with joy as they ran noiselessly along on the soft soil. After all the narrow escapes they had had, the fact that there was now nothing actually between them and the open spaces of London seemed almost like freedom. But there were half a dozen pursuers not a score of paces behind—and they were armed. His new found sense of freedom vanished like mist as he remembered this latter. After all, matters were now on a different footing. Before, the police would not have fired, but now they would fire on sight. For both Harrap and Sam had fired on them and had hit. He was now quite decided in his mind to get away from Sam at the first opportunity—provided he could be certain Sam would not be free to follow him. Sam had shot one, if not more, of his pursuers, and thus had gone very near to putting the rope round both their necks.

He found himself climbing the wall at the end of the garden. The detectives, by the sound, were at the door they had left. Looking back he saw lights in the windows of all the near-by houses and excited heads craning forth. The chase over the roofs and the shooting had aroused the neighborhood.

He jumped down the other side and discovered that he was in the garden of the house opposite. The alley way which ran at the back of Mrs. Gibson's garden did not reach as far as this. Then he heard a sudden cry from Sam, still on the top of the wall, and saw him strike out with his fist at someone on the other side. One of their pursuers, quicker than the rest, had caught them up and got hold of Sam's foot. For a moment Rezaire felt a strong impulse to run on himself and leave Sam to his fate. This was his opportunity. Then fear of Sam overcame the impulse. If he were to betray Sam like that—and he had now decided that he must—he must be certain that Sam was definitely caught, and would not be free to take his vengeance. No, the time had not yet come. He turned back a pace and catching hold of Sam's arms, pulled with all his force, Sam also kicking out with his feet. There was a muffled exclamation from the other side and Sam almost fell on top of him. They picked themselves up, Rezaire thankful that Sam had not used his revolver again, although it was too late now.

Turning sharp to the right, Rezaire led the way over the wall into the next garden, and so into the next. His plan was to work back toward Mrs. Gibson's house till he came to the alley he knew of which led out into an unfrequented back street. The detectives were shouting somewhere behind, but owing to the darkness, it was difficult to pursue by sight, and they had to go by the unavoidable noise he made in getting over the garden walls.

He came to the next wall and then an idea struck him. Instead of getting down into the garden on the far side, he continued on the top running along the flat bricks with Sam behind him. Doing this he could make much more distance, could go more quietly, and avoided the necessity of scaling a wall every twenty yards. Suddenly a shot rang out and a bullet whistled past his ear. The police had caught sight of him against the sky and had fired. At the same time, owing to the shock, or misjudgment, he caught his foot in a strand of tough ivy and fell right off the wall.

For a moment he lay there, the breath knocked out of his body. A cold sweat broke out over him at the narrowness of his escape. He had forgotten for the moment that in the eyes of the guardians of the law he was now a desperate criminal who had already probably killed one policeman, and was to be fired at on sight. And despite his warning and counsel, this was Sam's fault.

Sam's urgent whisper floated down to him. He was crouching on the wall: “Good God, man, are you hit?”

“No,” stammered Rezaire.

“Then get up and come on,” snapped his companion, “instead of lying there. This isn't a game.”

Another shot rang out. This time nearer and Sam crouching yet closer to the wall fired back. There was a cry, and muttering: “That'll stop you for a bit,” he jumped down into the garden beside Rezaire. The next moment they were scaling the wall at the side.

“Where the hell are you going?” asked Sam, as they dropped over into yet another garden.

“Trying to find that alley,” panted Rezaire. “Once we get into it we can run dead straight out into a street.”

They went on a short distance. Sam was panting loudly with the exertion of climbing over the walls and the running. Rezaire, the more fit of the two, was not very distressed. The police were about two gardens behind.

They came to the next wall, and as they scaled it, Rezaire gave a short exclamation of relief. To his right he could see, vague in the darkness, the thick shadow of the alley he was seeking, with its doors into the back gardens. He made for it and dropped thankfully down between the walls. In a moment Sam was beside him.

“I can't go much further,” he gasped. “I'm done.”

“Come on, man,” urged Rezaire, as again the impulse seized him to run on by himself. “They'll shoot you on sight,” he added, and Sam pulled himself together.

They ran on about thirty paces down the alley, gaining rapidly on their pursuers, who were still hemmed in among the garden walls. There was, in fact, now a chance that they might get so far ahead that the police would lose them altogether. But just at that moment a man stepped out of one of the doors from the gardens. He was obviously not a detective; apparently he was only one of the many who had been drawn by curiosity to the scene and was looking about to see if he could see anything of what was happening. He certainly saw all that he wanted to. Rezaire, in full flight, ran straight into him, so that he staggered in a dazed fashion in the middle of the alley. Sam, cruder in his methods, hit him with his fist under the ear, the full force of his arm and the impetus of his speed behind the blow. The man gave a gasp and sank to the ground. A moment after, as they sped on, they heard his frantic shouts behind them, dispelling their hopes of shaking off pursuit.

The alley took a sharp turn to the left. They ran on some distance and then emerged into a street. No one was in sight. Rezaire turned to the right and Sam, laboring heavily, followed him.

“For God's sake,” panted Sam, “let's hide somewhere, or walk. I can't run any more.”

Rezaire slowed down for a space. It was essential that they should get out of sight as soon as they could, yet if Sam could not run… He looked swiftly about and a brilliant idea came quickly to him. Just ten yards ahead, drawn up by the curb, was a small car, which was empty. It was standing outside a house with lighted windows, whence issued the sound of a gramophone, and was evidently the property of some young gentleman who was footing it inside.

“He'll have to foot it back home as well,” thought Rezaire grimly, as they came up alongside.

He gave a swift glance round, but there was hardly anyone in the street, though a hundred yards or so away the night life of 9:30 p. M. London was roaring past in the Strand.

“Get in, Sam” he ordered, and Sam, gasping loudly, without sign of surprise or protest, sank wearily into the seat. He was bleeding badly from a wound across the face. Rezaire working hastily but methodically, with one eye behind him on the entrance to the alley, opened the throttle slightly and switched on the spark. He did not know much about cars, but luckily it was of a type that he had once driven—a small two-seated Rover. He went round to the front and rapidly jerked up the starting handle. The car did not start, and Rezaire cursed. The noise was very loud in the silence of the street, but seemed to pass unnoticed. Sam, in the passenger's seat, sat up and looked anxiously at him. He rapidly jerked the handle twice more without result. Then a curtain in the house was suddenly drawn aside as a man looked out for a moment. A shout came vaguely to them through the closed window, and the face disappeared.

“Quick!” urged Sam. “He's coming out…

Rezaire worked furiously at the handle and with a sudden clatter the engine sprang into life. Running round, he scrambled wildly in over the side into the driver's seat. As he let the clutch in, the door of the house was flung wide, and two young men raced down the steps.

“Hi! Let that car alone,” called out one of them angrily, as the car moved slowly forward. A third man came down the steps after them. A cluster of figures was at the open front door and the windows. The car began to accelerate, as the two young men ran out of the gate onto the pavement. At the same moment a shrill whistle from somewhere further behind told that the police had come out of the alley into the street, and were also on their track.

“Quickly! Quickly!” snapped Sam in excitement. “They're after us.” He looked over the back and drew his revolver.

“Be careful!” flashed Rezaire over his shoulder. “Don't shoot.”

“I shall if I have to,” retorted Sam between his teeth. “I am not going to be caught.”

The two young men, running hard, were gaining on them and were now only five yards behind. A small body of police and detectives could be seen in pursuit a short distance behind that.

Rezaire, swearing at its slowness, threw the car into second gear. But the change necessitated a slight slowing down, and, before they could pick up their speed once more, one of their pursuers got his hands on the hood and sprang onto the footboard on the driver's side. The car quickly accelerated just before the other could catch up.

Instantly their assailant, cursing them vigorously, tried to switch off the engine, but Rezaire fought him off by holding his hand over the switch. All the while he kept his foot firmly pressed upon the accelerator, and the car was gaining speed the whole way. Losing his head, the other then began to wrest his hands from the steering wheel, while Sam leaned across from the other side and tried to push him off. They could hear his companions encouraging him with shouts from a short way behind.

The car swerved madly from side to side as the two pairs of hands struggled for the wheel. At last Sam succeeded in dealing their opponent a blow on the head with the butt of his revolver, which he more skillfully followed up by another on the fingers that grasped the steering wheel. The young man reeled under the shock and Sam, who was now standing up in the seat, pushed him in the chest as hard as he could.

He gave a cry and fell, rolling along the muddy road for a little distance. They heard his companion shouting “Stop thief!” and behind him the shrill police whistles. The wheel, suddenly freed from the strain to which it had been subjected, swung over to one side. Rezaire made a desperate clutch at it and with a swerve got the car right, Sam nearly falling out at the suddenness of the movement. But before he could get the car properly under control again, the turning into the brilliantly lighted Strand with its flow of traffic, and its busy evening crowds, was upon them.

Rezaire slowed down as much as he was able in the short space, for he had been accelerating all the way up to throw his pursuers off. Then he wrenched the wheel round to the left. A knot of people, who had been attracted by the police whistles and were standing at the corners, scattered like chaff. The car went round, lifting at the abruptness of the turn, and sped in a half curve across the road. Rezaire could not get her round completely for fear of a complete overturn, and so took the curb of a refuge in the middle of the street. With a sickening jolt to the springs they ran up onto it, grazing a lamp-post. A man who was standing on the refuge with his back to them was struck by the off fender of the car and knocked into the road. A taxi just behind, going the same way, pulled up with a whirr and a screech. A bus driver swerved out of his way, cursing him vigorously and nearly ran down a cyclist. Everything in an instant was thrown into confusion.

As Rezaire got the car under control once more, picking it out by a hair's-breadth from a dozen accidents, he saw a policeman running at him from the side, hand uplifted, angrily shouting something. He accelerated, passing round on the wrong side of a bus and the policeman was cut off from view. The police whistle again shrilled out in his ears above the roar of traffic, as their original pursuers emerged into the Strand. People were standing on the pavements staring about them and wondering what was the matter. A man yelled a sentence at him as he passed. Rezaire accelerated further, thankful that it was too early for the theater crowds, and that the road was comparatively clear.

Sam, who had pocketed his revolver again, wiped the blood from his face and, looking over the back, began to tell Rezaire what was happening.

“The police can still see us,” he muttered. “Some of 'em are running this way. There are a couple more in the chase now. Damn! A bunch of 'em have got in that taxi that nearly ran into us. Knock as much as you can out of her, for Heaven's sake.”

“I can beat a taxi all right,” returned Rezaire through set teeth, “if only I can get a clear road.” He charged at the Waterloo Bridge crossing, hooting wildly. The car swayed and bounced from side to side. Something loose in the off-side, where they had graced the lamp-post, was rattling loudly.

“The taxi is out of sight now, behind a bus,” resumed Sam. “There it is again.”