Terror keep
wheels of the trolley had collided with the side, for there was a deep
scoop in the clayey soil which the impact had hollowed out.
“It almost appears,” said Simpson, who had been put in charge of the
case, “that the trolley swerved here to avoid the farmer’s car. There
are his wheel tracks, and you notice they were wobbling from side to
side. Probably the man was already dying.”
“Have you traced the trolley tracks from here?” asked Reeder.
Simpson nodded, and called a sergeant of the Essex Constabulary, who
had charted the tracks.
“They seem to have turned up north towards Becontree,” he said. “As a
matter of fact, a policeman at Becontree said he saw a large trolley
come out of the mist and pass him, but that had a tilt on it and was
going towards London. It was an army trolley, too, and was driven by a
soldier.”
Mr. Reeder had lit a cigarette and was holding the flaming match in
his hand, staring at it solemnly.
“Dear me!” he said, and dropped the match and watched it extinguish.
And then he began what seemed to be a foolish search of the ground,
striking match after match.
“Isn’t there light enough for you, Mr. Reeder?” asked Simpson
irritably.
The detective straightened his back and smiled. Only for a second was
he amused, and then his long face went longer than ever.
“Poor fellow!” he said softly. “Poor fellow!”
“Who are you talking about?” demanded Simpson, but Mr. Reeder did not
reply. Instead, he pointed up to the bridge, in the centre of which
was an old and rusted water-wagon, the type which certain English
municipalities still use. He climbed up to the bank and examined the
iron tank, opened the hatches and groped inside, lighting matches to
aid his examination.
“Is it empty?” asked Simpson.
“I am afraid it is,” said Mr. Reeder, and inspected the worn hose
leading from its iron spindles. He descended the cutting more
melancholy than ever.
“Have you thought how easy it is to disguise an ordinary army lorry?”
he asked. “A tilt, I think the sergeant said, and on its way to
London.”
“Do you think that was the gold-van?”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“I’m certain,” he said.
“Where was it attacked?”
Mr. Reeder pointed to the mark of the wheels on the side of the road.
“There,” he said simply, and Simpson growled impatiently.
“Stuff! Nobody heard a shot fired, and you don’t think our people
would go down without a fight, do you? They could have held their own
against five times their number, and no crowd has been seen on this
road!”
Mr. Reeder nodded.
“Nevertheless, this is where the convoy was attacked and overcome,” he
said. “I think you ought to look for the trolley with the tilt, and
get on to your Becontree man and get a closer description of the
machine he saw.”
In a quarter of an hour the police car brought them to the little
Essex village, and the policeman who had seen the wagon was
interviewed. It was a few minutes before he went off duty, he said.
There was a thick mist at the time, and he heard the rumble of the
lorry wheels before it came into sight. He described it as a typical
army wagon. So far as he could tell, it was grey, and had a black tilt
with “W.D.” and a broad-arrow painted on the side, “W.D.” standing for
War Department, the broad-arrow being the sign of Government. He saw
one soldier driving and another sitting by his side. The back of the
tilt was laced up and he could not see into the interior. The soldier
as he passed had waved his hand in greeting, and the policeman had
thought no more about the matter until the robbery of the gold convoy
was reported.
“Yes, sir,” he said, in answer to Reeder’s inquiry, “I think it was
loaded. It went very heavily on the road. We often get these trolleys
coming up from Shoeburyness.”
Simpson had put through a telephone inquiry to the Barking police, who
had seen the military wagon. But army convoys were no unusual sight in
the region of the docks. Either that or one similar was seen entering
the Blackwall Tunnel, but the Greenwich police, on the south side of
the river, had failed to identify it, and from there on all trace of
the lorry was lost.
“We’re probably chasing a shadow anyway,” said Simpson. “If your
theory is right, Reeder--it can’t be right! They couldn’t have caught
these men of ours so unprepared that somebody didn’t shoot, and
there’s no sign of shooting.”
“There was no shooting,” said Mr. Reeder, shaking his head.
“Then where are the men?” asked Simpson.
“Dead,” said Mr. Reeder quietly.
It was at Scotland Yard, in the presence of an incredulous and
horrified Commissioner, that Mr. J. G. Reeder reconstructed the crime.
“Flack is a chemist: I think I impressed it upon you. Did you notice,
Simpson, on the bridge, across the cutting, was an old water-cart? I
think you have since learnt that it does not belong to the farmer who
owns the land, and that he has never seen it before. It may be
possible to discover where that was purchased. In all probability you
will find that it was bought a few days ago at the sale of some
municipal stores. I noticed in _The Times_ there was an advertisement
of such a sale. Do you realise how easy it would be not only to store
under pressure, but to make, in that tank, large quantities of a
deadly gas, one important element of which is carbon monoxide? Suppose
this, or, as it may prove, a more deadly gas, has been so stored, do
you realise how simple a matter it would be on a still, breathless
morning to throw a big hose over the bridge and fill the hollow with
the gas? That is, I am sure, what happened. Whatever else was used,
there is still carbon monoxide in the cutting, for when I dropped a
match it was immediately extinguished, and every match I burnt near
the ground went out. If the car had run right through and climbed the
other slope of the cutting, the driver and the men inside the trolley
might have escaped death. As it was, rendered momentarily unconscious,
the driver turned his wheel and ran into the bank, stopping the
trolley. They were probably dead before Flack and his associate,
whoever it was, jumped down, wearing gas masks, lifted the driver back
into the trolley and drove on.”
“And the farmer----” began the Commissioner.
“His death probably occurred some time after the trolley had passed.
He also descended into that death hollow, but the speed at which his
car was going carried him up nearer the cutting, though he must have
been dead by the time he got out.”
He rose and stretched himself wearily.
“Now I think I will go and interview Miss Belman and set her mind at
rest,” he said. “Did you send her to the hotel, as I asked you, Mr.
Simpson?”
Simpson stared at him in blank astonishment.
“Miss Belman?” he said. “I haven’t seen Miss Belman!”
CHAPTER XIV
/Her/ head in a whirl, Margaret Belman had stepped into the cab that
was waiting at the door of Larmes Keep. The door was immediately
slammed behind her, and the cab moved off. She saw her companion: he
had shrunk into a corner of the landau, and greeted her with a little
embarrassed grin. He did not speak until the cab was some distance
from the house.
“My name’s Gray,” he said. “Mr. Reeder hadn’t a chance of introducing
me. Sergeant Gray, C.I.D.”
“Mr. Gray, what does all this mean? This instrument I am to get…?”
Gray coughed. He knew nothing about the instrument, he explained, but
his instructions were to put her into a car that would be waiting at
the foot of the hill road.
“Mr. Reeder wants you to go up by car. You didn’t see Brill anywhere,
did you?”
“Brill?” she frowned. “Who is Brill?”
He explained that there had been two officers inside the grounds,
himself and the man he had mentioned.
“But what is happening? Is there anything wrong at Larmes Keep?” she
asked.
She had no need to ask the question. That look in J. G. Reeder’s eyes
had told her that something indeed was very wrong.
“I don’t know, miss,” said Gray diplomatically. “All I know is that
the Chief Inspector is down here with a dozen men, and that looks like
business. I suppose Mr. Reeder wanted to get you out of it.”
She didn’t “suppose”--she knew, and her heart beat a little quicker.
What was the mystery of Larmes Keep? Had all this to do with the
disappearance of Ravini? She tried hard to think calmly and logically,
but her thoughts were out of control.
The station fly stopped at the foot of the hill, and Gray jumped out.
A little ahead of him she saw the tail light of a car drawn up by the
side of the roadway.
“You’ve got the letter, miss? The car will take you straight to
Scotland Yard, and Mr. Simpson will look after you.”
He followed her to the car and held open the door for her, and stood
in the roadway watching till the tail light disappeared round a bend
of the road.
It was a big, cosy landaulette, and Margaret made herself comfortable
in the corner, pulled the rug over her knees, and settled down to the
two hours’ journey. The air was a little close: she tried
unsuccessfully to pull down one of the windows, then tried the other.
Not only was there no glass to the windows, but the shutters were
immovable. Something scratched her knuckle. She felt along the frame
of the window.… Screws, recently inserted. It was a splinter of the
raw wood which had cut her.
With growing uneasiness she felt for the inside handle of the door,
but there was none. A search of the second door revealed a like state
of affairs.
Her movements must have attracted the attention of the driver, for the
glass panel was pushed back and a harsh voice greeted her.
“You can sit down and keep quiet! This isn’t Reeder’s car: I’ve sent
it home.”
The voice went into a chuckle that made her blood run cold.
“You’re coming with me… to see life.… Reeder’s going to weep tears of
blood. You know me, eh?… Reeder knows me. I wanted to get him
to-night. But you’ll do, my dear.”
Suddenly the glass panel was shut to. He turned off the main road and
was following a secondary, his object being, she guessed, to avoid the
big towns and villages en route. She put out her hand and felt the
wall of the car. It was an all-weather body with a leather back. If
she had a knife she might cut----
She gasped as a thought struck her, and, reaching up, she felt the
metal fastening that kept the leather hood attached. Exerting all her
strength, she thrust back the flat hook and, bracing her feet against
the front of the machine, dragged at the leather hood. A rush of cold
air came in as the hood began slowly to collapse. The closed car was
now an open car. She could afford to lose no time. The car was making
thirty miles an hour, but she must take the risk of injury. Scrambling
over the back of the hood, she gripped tight at the edge, and let
herself drop into the roadway.
Although she turned a complete somersault, she escaped injury in some
miraculous fashion, and, coming to her feet, cold with fear and
trembling in every limb, she looked round for a way of escape. The
hedge on her left was high and impenetrable. On her right was a low
wooden fence, and over this she climbed as she heard the squeak of
brakes and saw the car come to a standstill.
Even as she fled, she was puzzled to know what kind of land she was
on. It was not cultivated; it was more like common land, for there was
springy down beneath her feet, and clumps of gorse bushes sent out
their spiny fingers to clutch at her dress as she flew past. She
thought she heard the man hailing her, but fled on in the darkness.
Somewhere near at hand was the sea. She could smell the fragrance of
it. Once when she stopped to take breath she could hear the distant
thunder of the waves as they rolled up some unseen beach. She
listened, almost deafened by the beating of her heart.