Terror keep
Olga’s voice was distinct now. The passion and weariness in it would
have made Mr. Reeder sorry for her in any other circumstances. He was
too busy being sorry for Margaret Belman to worry about this fateful
young woman.
She did not know, at any rate, that she was a widow. Mr. Reeder
derived a certain amount of gruesome satisfaction from the superiority
of his intelligence.
“Where is he now? Your father, I mean?”
A pause, as she listened to a reply which was not intelligible to Mr.
Reeder.
“On the boat? He’ll never get across. I hate ships, but a tiny little
boat like that…! Why couldn’t he let us go, when we got him out? I
begged and prayed him to… we might have been in Venice or somewhere by
now, doing the grand.”
The girl interrupted her angrily, and then Mrs. Burton apparently
melted into the wall.
There was no sound of a closing door, but Mr. Reeder guessed what had
happened. He came forward stealthily till he saw the bar of light on
the opposite wall, and, reaching the door, listened. The voices were
clear enough now; clearer because Mrs. Burton did most of the talking.
“Do you think your father knows?” She sounded rather anxious. “About
Daver, I mean? You can keep that dark, can’t you? He’d kill me if he
knew. He’s got such high ideas about you--princes and dukes and such
rubbish! If he hadn’t been mad he’d have cleared out of this game
years ago, as I told him, but he’d never take much notice of me.”
“Has anybody ever taken any notice of you?” asked the girl wearily. “I
wanted the old man to let you go. I knew you would be useless in a
crisis.”
Mr. Reeder heard the sound of a sob. Mrs. Burton cried rather easily.
“He’s only stopping to get Reeder,” she whimpered. “What a fool trick!
That silly old man! Why, I could have got him myself if I was wicked
enough!”
From farther along the corridor came the sound of a quick step.
“There’s your father,” said Mrs. Burton, and Reeder pulled back the
jacket of his Browning, sacrificing the cartridge that was already in
the chamber, in order that there should be no mistake.
The footsteps stopped abruptly, and at the same time came a booming
voice from the far end of the passage. It was asking a question.
Evidently Flack turned back: his footsteps died away. Mr. Reeder
decided that this was not his lucky day.
Lying full length on the ground, he could see John Flack clearly. A
pressure of his finger, and the problem of this evil man would be
settled eternally. It was a fond idea. Mr. Reeder’s finger closed
around the trigger, but all his instincts were against killing in cold
blood.
Somebody was coming from the other direction. Gray, he guessed. He
must go back and warn him. Coming to his feet, he went gingerly along
the passage. The thing he feared happened. Gray must have seen him,
for he called out in stentorian tones:
“There’s nothing at the other end of the passage, Mr. Reeder----”
“Hush, you fool!” snarled Reeder, but he guessed that the mischief was
done.
He turned round, stooped again and looked. Old John Flack was standing
at the entrance of the tunnel, his head bent. Somebody else had heard
the detective’s voice. With a squeak of fear, Mrs. Burton had bolted
into the passage, followed by her daughter--an excursion which
effectively prevented the use of the pistol, for they completely
masked the man whose destruction J. G. Reeder had privately sworn.
By the time he came to the end of the passage overlooking the great
cave, the two women and Flack had disappeared.
Mr. Reeder’s eyesight was of the keenest. He immediately located the
boat, which was now floating on an even keel, and presently saw the
three fugitives. They had descended to the water’s edge by a
continuance of the long stairway which led to the roof, and were
making for the rocky platform which served as a pier for the craft.…
Something smacked against the rock above his head. There was a shower
of stone and dust, and the echoes of the explosion which followed were
deafening.
“Firing from the boat,” said Mr. Reeder calmly. “You had better lie
down, Gray--I should hate to see so noisy a man as you reduced to
compulsory silence.”
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Reeder,” said the penitent detective. “I had no
idea----”
“Ideas!” said Mr. Reeder accurately.
_Smack… smack!_
One bullet struck to the left of him, the other passed exactly between
him and Gray. He was lying down now, with a small projection of rock
for cover.
Was Margaret on the boat? Even as the thought occurred to him, he
remembered “Mrs. Burton’s” inquiry. As he saw another flash from the
deck of the launch, he threw forward his hand. There was a double
explosion which reverberated back from the arched roof, and although
he could not see the effect of his shots, he was satisfied that the
bullets fell on the launch.
She was pushing off from the side. The three Flacks were aboard. And
now he heard the crackle and crash of her engine as her nose swung
round to face the cave opening. And then into his eyes from the
darkening sea outside the cave flashed a bright light that illuminated
the rocky shelf on which he lay, and threw the motor boat into relief.
The destroyer!
“Thank God for that!” said Mr. Reeder fervently.
Those on the motor launch had seen the vessel and guessed its portent.
The launch swung round until her nose pointed to where the two
detectives lay, and from her deck came a roar louder than ever. So
terrible was the noise in that confined space that for a second Mr.
Reeder was too dazed even to realise that he was lying half buried in
a heap of debris, until Gray pulled him back to the passage.
“They’re using a gun, a quick-firer!” he gasped.
Mr. Reeder did not reply. He was gazing, fascinated, at something that
was happening in the middle of the cave, where the water was leaping
at irregular intervals from some mysterious cause. Then he realised
what was taking place. Great rocks, disturbed by the concussion, were
falling from the roof. He saw the motor boat heel over to the right,
swing round again, and head for the open. It was less than a dozen
yards from the cave entrance when, with a sound that was
indescribable, so terrific, so terrifying, that J. G. Reeder was
rooted to the spot, the entrance to the cave disappeared!
CHAPTER XIX
/In/ an instant the air was filled with choking dust. Roar followed
roar as the rocks continued to fall.
“The mouth of the cave has collapsed!” roared Reeder in the other’s
ear. “And the subsidence hasn’t finished.”
His first instinct was to fly along the passage to safety, but
somewhere in that awful void were two women. He switched on his light
and crept gingerly back to the bench whence he had seen the
catastrophe. But the rays of the lamp could not penetrate into the fog
of dust for more than a few yards.
Crawling forward to the edge of the platform, he strove to pierce the
darkness. All about him, above, below, on either side, a terrible
cracking and groaning was going on, as though the earth itself was in
mortal pain. Rocks, big and small, were falling from the roof; he
heard the splash of them as they struck the water--one fell on the
edge of the platform with a terrific din and bounded into the pit
below.
“For God’s sake, don’t stay here, Mr. Reeder. You will be killed.”
It was Gray shouting at him, but J. G. Reeder was already feeling his
way towards the steps which led down to where the boat had been
moored, and to which he guessed it would drift. He had to hold the
lamp almost at his feet. Breathing had become a pain. His face was
covered with powder; his eyes smarted excruciatingly; dust was in his
mouth, his nose; but still he went on, and was rewarded.
Out of the dust-mist came groping the ghostly figure of a woman. It
was Olga Crewe.
He gripped her by the arm as she swayed, and pushed her against the
rocky wall.
“Where is your mother?” he shouted.
She shook her head and said something: he lowered his ear to her
mouth.
“… boat… great rock… killed.”
“Your mother?”
She nodded. Gripping her by the arm, he half led, half dragged her up
the stairs. He found Gray waiting at the top. As easily as though she
were a child, Mr. Reeder caught her up in his arms and staggered the
distance that separated them from the mouth of the passage.
The pandemonium of splintering rock and crashing boulder was
continuous. The air was thicker than ever. Gray’s lamp went out, and
Mr. Reeder’s was almost useless. It seemed a thousand years before
they pushed into the mouth of the tunnel. The air was filled with dust
even here, but as they progressed it grew clearer, more breathable.
“Let me down: I can walk,” said the husky voice of Olga Crewe, and
Reeder lowered her gently to her feet.
She was very weak, but she could walk with the assistance that the two
men afforded. They stopped at the entrance of the living-room. Mr.
Reeder wanted the lamp--wanted more the water which she suggested
would be found in that apartment.
A cold draught of spring water worked wonders on the girl too.
“I don’t know what happened,” she said; “but when the cave opening
fell in, I think we drifted towards the stage… we always called that
place the stage. I was so frightened that I jumped immediately to
safety, and I’d hardly reached the rock when I heard a most awful
crash. I think a portion of the wall must have fallen on to the boat.
I screamed, but hardly heard myself in the noise… this is
punishment--this is punishment! I knew it would come! I knew it, I
knew it!”
She covered her grimy face with her hands, and her shoulders shook in
the excess of her sorrow and grief.
“There’s no sense in crying.” Mr. Reeder’s voice was sharp and stern.
“Where is Miss Belman?”
She shook her head.
“Where did she go?”
“Up the stairway… father said she escaped. Haven’t you seen her?” she
asked, raising her tearful face as she began slowly to realise the
drift of his question.
He shook his head, his narrowed eyes surveying her steadily.
“Tell me the truth, Olga Flack. Did Margaret Belman escape, or did
your father----?”
She was shaking her head before he had completed his sentence, and
then, with a little moan, she drooped and would have fallen had not
Gray supported her.
“We had better leave the questioning till later.”
Mr. Reeder seized the lamp from the table and went out into the
tunnel. He had hardly passed the door before there was a crash, and
the infernal noises which had come from the cave were suddenly
muffled. He looked backward, but could see nothing. He guessed what
had happened.
“There is a general subsidence going on in this mass of earth,” he
said. “We shall be lucky if we get away.”
He ran ahead to the opening of the well, and a glad sight met his
eyes. On the floor lay a coil of new rope, to which was attached a
body belt. He did not see the thin wire which came down from the mouth
of the well, but presently he detected a tiny telephone receiver that
the engineers had lowered. This he picked up, and his hail was
immediately answered.
“Are you all right? Up here it feels as if there’s an earthquake
somewhere.”
Gray was fastening the belt about the girl’s waist, and after it was
firmly buckled:
“You mustn’t faint--do you understand, Miss Crewe? They will haul you
up gently, but you must keep away from the side of the well.”
She nodded, and Reeder gave the signal. The rope grew taut, and
presently the girl was drawn up out of sight.
“Up you go,” said Reeder.
Gray hesitated.
“What about you, sir?”
For answer Mr. Reeder pointed to the lowest rung, and, stooping,
gripped the leg of the detective and, displaying an unsuspected
strength, lifted him bodily so that he was able to grip the lower
rung.