Читать книгу The Factory on the Cliff - A. G. Macdonell - Страница 6

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WHEN the excitement of the chase, the police investigations, the inquiry by the Procurator Fiscal, and the general buzz of gossip, theory and speculation had died down, Templeton found that his holiday was almost at an end. Another three days and he would be seated once more at his desk in the City corporation for which he worked. His thumb not yet allowing him to swing a golf-club, he determined to pay one last visit to the building on the top of the cliffs.

There was obviously some connection between it and the murdered man. He himself had seen and handled a bomb which Griffin was searching for; therefore there was a connection between the mysterious farmhouse and bombs. The murdered Irishman had visited the farmhouse. One of the murderers had spoken pointedly about bombs. Supposing that Griffin and his colleagues were manufacturing bombs to be used by anarchists; that would be a possible solution, but the difficulty was that nowadays anarchists hardly ever used bombs.

"They are much more likely," reflected Templeton, "to use pamphlets. The bomb anarchist dates back to the days of the old Tsars in Russia."

Nor could the demand be sufficiently great to make such a place pay. On the other hand, it was out of the question that Griffin could be manufacturing bombs on a scale sufficiently large to equip even a small army. Templeton had been a divisional bombing officer at one time during the war, and he knew something of the number of bombs required by a modern army, even for one day's fighting. Griffin's establishment at the outside could hold enough bombs for the smallest of regiments engaged in the shortest of battles. And yet there was sufficient proof that the business, whatever it was, was of vital importance to somebody, if two men were prepared to commit murder in broad daylight over it. He determined, therefore, to make another visit, on the chance of finding some clue which might help him in connecting up the apparently inexplicable incidents of the last few weeks.

He set out, therefore, along the road where he had picked up the bomb, and proceeded as far as the cart-track. As soon as the cluster of buildings came into view he slipped behind the dyke and moved forward on hands and knees. When he came to the corner where the track turned and dipped, he halted and arranged a small loophole in the dyke, through which he could observe the buildings with his field-glasses.

For about twenty minutes he sat and watched, and then the door opened and the girl came out and began to walk with the same purposeful air towards him down the lane. Templeton felt extraordinarily embarrassed; he could not be certain whether she had seen him, and after a moment's hasty thought he came to the conclusion that her sallying from the house was a pure coincidence, and that his best plan would be to stay quiet and take the chance of being unobserved.

To his intense mortification, he heard the footsteps approach and then the girl's voice saying, "Don't you find it rather damp sitting in the field?"

He rose to his feet, blushing, furiously angry with himself and with her.

"You seem determined to spy upon us," she went on.

"Are you afraid of being spied on?" he replied.

"Not in the least," she said with some asperity, "but it is an objectionable habit, and you certainly are the most incompetent spy I have ever seen."

Templeton felt himself blushing again, and he said, "How did you know I was here?"

"If you will turn your field-glasses so that the sun shines on them," she said, with a touch of scorn, "you can't expect us not to notice it. You were flashing away like a searchlight. For sheer incompetence you and your friends would be hard to beat."

There was a pause for a moment and then she said, "Don't you think your work in London is calling you?"

"Not for another forty-eight hours," said the young man, beginning to recover his composure. "Much may be done in forty-eight hours."

She looked up at him steadily and said, "What is it that you want here?"

"I am interested," he said, "in bombs and Irishmen and the migration of fishes."

"I cannot make out," said the girl, "whether you are the biggest fool in Scotland or not. I suppose it would be no use asking you to come and have tea with me?"

"Is that your parlour," said Templeton, "because if so I should prefer not to play the part of the fly."

A faint tinge of colour appeared in the dead white of her cheeks. "What do you think I would do to you?" she asked.

"I don't know," said Templeton with a laugh, "but it seems a very unhealthy neighbourhood."

"Unhealthy," she said slowly. "That is about the best description that could possibly be given to it. Don't say I didn't warn you," and she turned to go.

"In story-books," he said, "the beautiful heroine always warns the hero to fly and save his life."

She smiled a slightly mischievous smile. "Casting yourself for the part of hero?

"Every inch a hero," responded Templeton, puffing out his chest and pulling down his coat. "And you are the heroine," he added gallantly.

"Well, I fear that you've already gone too far. I doubt if you could save your life even by flying."

"Naughty, naughty," said the young man, shaking his forefinger at her. "Making threats like that. Really, I'm surprised."

She gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her neat shoulders. Then she held out a small hand and said: "Good-bye and good luck. You'll need all you can get."

"Tut, tut!" said Templeton with a laugh. The girl frowned, turned sharply on her heel, and marched, head in air, back to the farm.

He found Snell in the smoking-room and recounted the conversation.

"There's nothing for it," he concluded, "but to visit the place by night and go up that path to the house. Do you want to come?"

"You bet I do," was the instant reply, "and Armstrong will have to come too to row. Count us both in."

The evening found the three friends at work oiling the oars of the rowing boat which they had again hired, and filling their flasks with the landlord's excellent whisky.

Towards midnight they slipped quietly out of the hotel and proceeded, by three different routes, to the harbour, taking the utmost precautions to see that they were not followed. It was one of those long summer nights in the North of Scotland when the sun hardly seems to sink at all, and even at half-past twelve there was a distinct light in the western sky, either of the setting or of the rising sun, but by keeping close inshore, the three adventurers succeeded in hiding themselves and their boat in the complete darkness thrown by the shadow of the cliffs. They pulled silently up the coast, Templeton again steering, until they rounded the first of the promontories that guarded the narrow cove. They halted the boat at the end of the promontory and waited for a long five minutes to see whether there was a watchman who had observed their approach. Everything, however, was quiet by the sandy beach, but a light in a window of the farmhouse showed that the little community had not yet retired to bed.

At last Templeton gave the word and they pulled silently in to the shore, moored the boat to the little rowing boat which lay high and dry on the sand, and crept towards the path which led up the cliffs. In single file they moved slowly up, Templeton leading, Snell behind him, and Armstrong bringing up the rear.

There was no sign of a sentry or watcher of any sort, and the three men reached the top of the path unhindered. There they found a short patch of grass, no more than fifteen feet in length, between themselves and the lighted window of the farmhouse. They had not realized how close the building was to the edge of the cliff.

Templeton crept forward to listen at the window, the other two remaining at the head of the path. The window was open and it was perfectly easy to hear every syllable that was uttered in the room. Templeton listened, and could hardly believe his ears. He had expected to overhear some dark conspiracy, or at least some information which would help him to clear up the tangle. Instead of that, he found himself eavesdropping at a harmless and quiet game of family bridge. There was not a sound in the room except the shuffle of the cards and the quiet voices of the players.

For about ten minutes he waited, and was then on the point of creeping back and heading the retreat to the boat when it occurred to him that it was unusual for people to play bridge in a country farmhouse after one o'clock in the morning. It was possible, he thought, that they were whiling away the time and waiting for something which they expected to happen. Just as this thought crossed his mind, he heard an electric bell ring and then a voice obviously answering the telephone. He heard someone say, "Wait a minute while I write it down." Then came a long silence, during which the speaker at the other end of the telephone was doing all the talking while the person at the farmhouse end was writing it down.

Then a voice said, "Is that all? Very well, good night;" and there was the click of the telephone receiver back in its place. "This is what Morton says," went on the voice.

"George Templeton is in business in London, in the 'Anglo-Siamese Trading Corporation.' About twenty-eight, unmarried, not much sense.

"Henry Snell is twenty-nine and in the Home Office; looked upon as very promising.

"Armstrong is a stockbroker, and Morton can't find out much about him except that he is unintelligent and is a champion thrower of the hammer and an international Rugby football player.

"He could not find any apparent connection between them and Scotland Yard, but he is going to telephone again tomorrow."

A much deeper voice spoke for the first time and said, "I don't much care about Mr. Henry Snell's profession. A man from the Home Office is just the sort of person that might be sent up here. We had better take steps about it. Switch those lights out, will you?"

Templeton realized that he would not likely hear more, and began to back towards the path, when he heard a slight exclamation behind him, and then the sound of a stone leaping and bounding from rock to rock down the cliff to the beach. He held his breath for a moment, hoping that it had not been heard, but there was a sudden silence inside the farmhouse and then a voice said, "What the devil was that?" and an inside door was flung open and footsteps ran towards the outer door.

Templeton, sprang up and ran for the path, and the three friends fled as fast as they could towards their boat. Their breakneck descent of the steep, narrow path in the darkness was achieved at the risk of their lives. The pursuers, who knew more of the risks, followed more slowly, and the big boat had almost rounded the promontory before the pursuers reached the foot, but if the inhabitants of the farmhouse had been unwilling to risk their necks in racing down the path, they made up for lost time by the energy and speed of their actions when once they had got down. The cove was lit up with a blaze of revolver flashes. Chips of wood were flicked off the rowing boat, and the rowers were splashed by spurts of water thrown up by the bullets. But it was too dark for accurate shooting and the next moment a friendly rock was between the boat and the battery of pistols. As soon as they were round the headland, Templeton steered for the land, "We can't do much when that motor-boat gets started," he muttered. "What a devilish business."

They pulled for the shore and by great good fortune chanced on a narrow section where a long grass field stretched down to the edge of the sea, instead of the almost perpendicular cliffs on each side.

As soon as the keel touched the sand, the three men tumbled out and began hurrying up the steep grass slope. As they did so, the motorboat came round the headland and began to sweep the sea and the coast with a small searchlight. The beam swung round and quickly picked up the rowing-boat; another moment and it was concentrated on the dark figures struggling up the hill. "That's done us," muttered Armstrong, but there was no more firing.

The motor-boat gradually crept towards the shore while the searchlight followed the fugitives up the hill. When they reached the top, they simultaneously sank down to recover their breath and take stock of the situation. Suddenly Snell pointed towards the road. He was too much out of breath to speak. A motor-car was cruising slowly towards the main road with headlights fully switched on. In the back seat a man was standing holding a powerful electric torch. When the car reached the main road, it turned to the left and went slowly in the direction of the village and the hotel.

From the direction of the farmhouse came another ray of light which soon resolved itself into an electric torch in the hands of a pedestrian.

Looking back, they could see figures landing from the motor-boat.

"We can't stay here," said Templeton, "And we can't go back or forwards," said Armstrong grimly. "Then let's go sideways," said Snell in a cheerful whisper, and he led the way on hands and knees, just below the level of the skyline, towards the rocky cliffs which terminated the grassy slope a few yards away. He chose a path at random, and led the way gingerly from rock to rock, feeling his way in the darkness. A few yards took them to a sort of rocky nest, screened from view from above and from the sea and providing just enough room for them to sit down.

They settled themselves down as comfortably as they could to wait for developments. It was not long before the landing party from the motorboat made the laborious ascent to the skyline, where they halted. There were three of them, and a minute later a hoarse whisper from the landward side showed that they had established contact with their friends, either from the motor-car or from the search party on foot.

There was a whispered consultation and then a fifth man joined them. He talked a little louder than the others, and the three friends distinctly overheard the words, "Wait till dawn. Tom has gone to cut them off from the hotel;" and another voice said, "Not going to risk my neck on the rocks." After a little more whispering the group split up, the landing party returning to the motor-boat. Then came the sound of the engines starting, and Snell, peering through a chink in the rocks, could see below him the outline of the motor-boat slowly returning to the cove. Behind it was the dark shape of another boat. "By Jove," he said, "they've pinched our boat. Retreat by sea cut off. The dirty dogs! We're like Napoleon in Egypt. What's the next move?"

"It seems to me," said Templeton after a moment, "that we have three possible courses: either to wait for the dawn, in which case they will find us at once, or else to make a dash for the hotel, and that's rather a hopeless business if the car has gone down the road to wait for us. The other thing would be for one of us to try to get out and go to the nearest farmhouse for help. All we have to do is to bring a couple of farm hands over here; there won't be any violence if there are independent witnesses standing about."

"That's the best plan—the last one," whispered Snell. "We'll toss for it. The odd man out goes for help."

Armstrong and Templeton tossed heads and Snell tails. "Cheerio," he said. "I'll be back in half an hour." He pulled up his coat-collar and slipped quietly round the rock along the path by which they had come.

"Take care of yourself, Harry," muttered Armstrong.

The other two waited; there was dead silence except for the murmur of the waves below. The light was already beginning to come, and they realized that the search would start again at any moment. Suddenly there was a loud shout, followed by a wild scream which echoed from rock to rock and set the gulls wheeling and crying.

"What in the name of the fiend was that?" whispered Templeton.

"The first was Henry," said Armstrong, who had started up, "but not the second, I'll swear to that. They were different voices."

"I wish to heaven we were armed," said Templeton. "I don't like this at all. Anyway, there's no good sitting here. I'm afraid Snell has been caught."

"You lead on," said Armstrong.

"Our only chance," said Templeton, "and it's a damned poor one at that, is to go straight back to the cove by the rocks, work our way round the other headland and try to get up the cliffs on the north side of the cove. They will expect us to make a dash for the hotel and they won't be looking for us in that direction."

Crouching low, they slipped down as rapidly as they could to the edge of the sea and began to climb from rock to rock out to the point of the headland from which they had originally surveyed the mysterious farmhouse. The tide was out and they made rapid progress. On reaching the place where Armstrong's unfortunate fall had first roused the attention of the watchers in the farm, they made a cautious examination of the sandy beach, the path above it and the buildings at the top. There appeared to be no movement and there were no signs of a sentry anywhere.

"Come on," said Templeton. "We must risk it," and they made for the shore, again from rock to rock, on the inside of the headland. About halfway Templeton stopped, with a half-stifled exclamation. "Is that Snell?" he said hoarsely.

Armstrong, who had been a little behind, came up beside him and looked for a moment at a twisted and shattered body that lay face downward like a huge grotesque starfish in front of them. He shuddered for a moment and then said decisively: "No, that's not Henry. It must be the man who screamed." He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his brow.

Templeton could see that the big, stolid footballer was profoundly anxious for his friend. He turned the body over. "It's the lorry driver," he said, "that I saw on the first day. Snell must have run into him and he got tumbled over. Let's get on quickly."

It was full daylight by the time they had rounded the second headland and had once more completed a painful and laborious ascent of the cliffs. At the top they found a long, low stone dyke running at right angles to the sea-coast, marking the boundary between one farm and another. It afforded excellent cover from any possible watchers in the upper storey of the buildings at Gulls' Cove. Half a mile away, across open country, was the nearest croft, and it was towards this objective that Templeton and Armstrong turned.

They had hardly gone a hundred yards along the wall when the sound of a powerful motor-engine brought them to a halt. An aeroplane came slowly from the south and began to make wide sweeps at a height of only three or four hundred feet, in a circle of which the cove was approximately the centre.

Both Templeton and Armstrong had learned the art of taking cover in the war, and especially the art of hiding from aeroplanes, the essence of which is never to show one's face. An upturned face is the one thing that the aviator looks for and recognizes. The two men, therefore, lay at full length beside the dyke, until the aeroplane was making one of its wider sweeps, and they could advance a few yards before it returned. In this way they made a certain amount of progress without being detected until they suddenly came to the end of the dyke and found that there was at least a quarter of a mile of open field between themselves and the farm.

As a dash across the open space was out of the question they decided to follow another dyke which led in a northerly direction towards the stretch of moor. The drawback was that it took them away from the haven of refuge in the croft, but it seemed better to take the risk of finding another farm rather than try the suicidal rush across the bare ground. They continued their spasmodic advance until they came to the end of the second dyke and the edge of the moor. There was nothing but open country on all sides, and the only available cover was the whin and broom bushes on the moor and the occasional clumps of long grass and reeds which marked the winter bogs.

They looked back. On the only two roads that were visible, motor-cars were slowly patrolling, while men were silhouetted against the skyline on the top of the cliffs. There was nothing for it but to continue the flight across the moor. Taking advantage of every ditch and whin bush, the two men continued to put as great a distance as possible between themselves and their pursuers.

Once the aeroplane circled the moor while the fugitives lay partially concealed among a clump of reeds, then it wheeled and made off towards the south, wheeled again and returned to the moor, flying not more than twenty feet above the ground. It passed directly above the clump of reeds and the next moment it turned abruptly and began a long spiral climb and then, at the height of about fifteen hundred feet, patrolled the moor backwards and forwards.

"I don't like this," said Templeton. "They must have spotted us. If he has got wireless on board he'll send a message to the farmhouse. Can you see the farm from here? Don't show your face."

Armstrong turned round in the reeds and looked back.

"Yes, I can," he said; "and I can see several people running. They have got another car there."

"That will be it," said Templeton. "The aeroplane has wirelessed to them. Well, there's no need for concealment now. Come on." Rising to their feet they threw off all attempt at taking cover, and set off at a brisk trot across the moor. The aeroplane descended a few hundred feet and cruised above them. Looking over their shoulders they could see a motorcar moving along the road on the side of the moor furthest from the sea, on a course parallel to their own.

"I'm getting a bit fed up with this," said Armstrong, "Running and climbing and being shot at. I wonder what has happened to Snell?"

"Save your breath," said Templeton, "you'll need it all before we've finished," and they went on running in silence.

The drone of the aeroplane overhead was the only indication on the lovely summer's morning that there was anything amiss.

Then they had their first piece of good luck. They had been pounding up a long, gradual slope, and when they reached the top they ran full tilt into a small party of men with guns in their hands.

"What the devil is all this!" exclaimed one of them, and the party came to a standstill and stared at the two runners, who certainly presented a peculiar spectacle. A night spent in climbing rocks, in furious rowing, in running, and creeping on all fours across fields and moors, does not improve the appearance of the clothes.

"It's not so bad as it looks," said Templeton, gasping for breath; "or rather it's a great deal worse."

"That explains everything," said the other dryly.

"It's a long story," said Templeton, "but I would very much like to tell it to you."

"Well, you have the whole day before you," said the other. "Take your time. You seem a little out of breath."

"The main thing," said Templeton, "is that we are going to stick to you like limpets."

"That's very flattering," put in another member of the shooting-party. "I don't know what we have done to deserve the honour. It's time we were moving on, Alastair, if we are to do any shooting before breakfast."

The man addressed as Alastair was the one who had spoken first, and he looked curiously at the two runners. "There's more in this than meets the eye," he said. "You look like escaped convicts, if I may say so, and you talk like Oxford men."

"Cambridge," said Armstrong, who had been standing stolidly beside Templeton.

"I say," said one of the strangers, turning to Armstrong curiously, "why aren't you out of breath too?"

"Training for Rugger," was the laconic answer.

"The fact is," said Templeton rather more cheerfully, "we don't like the people in that aeroplane, and they don't like us. That's partly our trouble."

Everyone instinctively looked up. The aeroplane had again descended and was now about five hundred feet above them.

"My name is Chisholm—Alastair Chisholm," said the first man suddenly. "I think we won't do any shooting this morning. There is my house over there. Let's go back and have a bath and something to eat."

He was a young man, not more than thirty-five, with a cheerful red face, and his companions consisted of two other men of about the same age and three gamekeepers.

In half an hour Templeton was recounting the whole affair from the beginning to an enthralled audience at the breakfast-table of Sir Alastair Chisholm. The aeroplane had vanished, but a powerful motor-car had taken up its position on the top of the hill a short distance away, whence it commanded an excellent view of the house.