Читать книгу The Murder Germ - A. O. Pollard - Страница 3

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Dominant above all other sounds, the siren blared its warning over the countryside.

As the harsh note rose crescendo through the gathering mist, men ceased their labours to listen excitedly, women called their children indoors and shot the bolts.

No one who dwelt within range of that ominous blatant alarum had any doubt as to its meaning: a convict had escaped from Broadmoor criminal lunatic asylum.

But whilst the message was plain enough to those familiar with the neighbourhood, it conveyed little or nothing to Flight Lieutenant Francis Antony Grayling. Ignorant of the fact that he was anywhere near the prison boundary, the caution left him quite unmoved.

He was far more concerned with the thickening haze, which he cursed softly under his breath. It was the very devil. Unless he could get into the air again within the next few minutes, it looked as though he would be earth-bound for the night.

Not that it would matter very much, except for the inconvenience. Now that he had passed from the Active List into the Royal Air Force Reserve, he was his own master, his movements concerned no one but himself.

All the same, it would be a fag to be held up. He would have to find a guard for the machine, and an hotel in which to sleep. Since he could no longer call on Service organization to help him, it meant making all arrangements single-handed.

It jolly well served him right for shouldering other people’s troubles. When Mortimer told him his engine was not running as smoothly as it should he ought to have left it to the mechanics to put right, instead of offering impulsively to trace the mysterious loss of power.

He had thoroughly enjoyed the flip at first. It was exhilarating to fly again after having been on the deck for a whole month. Nor did the engine he was supposed to be vetting exhibit the symptoms Mortimer had outlined.

Deceived by the absence of trouble, he had gone farther than he had originally intended, and was almost as far west as Basingstoke when the air-screw suddenly began to lose revolutions.

Tony at once swung round and headed for home, but the engine refused to pick up, and he quickly realized he was faced with a forced landing. Had he been still in the Service, or a veteran of longer standing, he would have endeavoured to make Farnborough aerodrome, but with the novelty of being a civilian fresh in his mind he decided to be independent.

The country beneath offered few difficulties to a pilot of his experience. There was a considerable amount of woodland, but there were also numerous open spaces, and, selecting one at random, he glided to leeward, landed, and switched off the engine.

He had already surmised the fault, and a brief examination confirmed the correctness of his diagnosis: the rocker arm of the magneto had become stiff with the heat of the engine, and was functioning only intermittently. It merely required to be cleaned and oiled, and the engine would be as right as rain.

Although invisible from the air, the mist had begun to form before he came down. Now, as he worked, he was conscious that it was steadily intensifying. Thin whorls curled upward from the grass and floated about the fuselage like thistledown. Harmless in themselves, as they joined together they wove a mighty bandage which would presently blindfold the earth and deprive those within its belt of their vision.

Tony would have completed his repair long before the fog threatened his take-off had he not dropped a tiny screw. A vital part of the mechanism, it was barely a quarter of an inch in length, and the field grass made his search a laborious business.

He groped on hands and knees for nearly half an hour before his perseverance was rewarded. But as he straightened his stiffened back, he realized how considerably visibility had lessened during his preoccupation.

It might still be possible to get away, he determined, and hurried with the reassembly of the contact-breaker. At last it was back in position, and, closing the cowling, he prepared to restart the engine.

He was in the act of taking hold of the propeller-blade when he heard footsteps running towards him. Glancing over his shoulder he saw a big man materialize out of the mist. He was bent with the crouching gait of a fugitive. Gripped in his right hand was an automatic pistol.

At sight of Tony standing by his aircraft, he halted abruptly, and the gun came forward in a menacing challenge.

“What do you want?” demanded Tony sharply, though even as he spoke he knew the question was redundant.

The letters B.C.L.A. on the white corduroys, the siren in the distance, informed his brain in a flash of the peril in which he stood. How the devil could he have forgotten that Broadmoor was in the vicinity?

For a moment or two the convict did not answer. Breathing heavily from his exertions, he fought to recover his voice.

“God, what luck!” he panted at last. “An aeroplane ready and waiting for me!”

To Tony’s surprise his voice was soft and cultured.

“I’m afraid it won’t help you,” said Tony deliberately. “I’ve forced landed here with engine trouble.”

The man leered cunningly and firmly shook his head.

“It won’t do, laddie,” he contradicted. “You were just going to start her up.” He nodded towards the air-screw. “Go on, swing her round!”

Tony hesitated whilst his brain raced. What should he do? How could he outwit the fellow? He seemed sane enough, but he must have been off his rocker at some time, or he would not have been in Broadmoor.

The convict gave him no time to think of a plan. Tony’s reluctance to obey inflamed him to fierce anger. With eyes blazing, he thrust the pistol against his victim’s ribs.

“Swing her, you swine,” he ordered between set teeth, “or I’ll blow you to hell!”

In face of that flash of madness in his gaze, Tony seized the propeller-blade with alacrity. It would be suicidal to resist. Perhaps the engine would jib, perhaps a warder would show up in pursuit, perhaps ...

It was no good. The engine was still warm, and went off at the first tug.

Tony stepped back and forced a smile.

“There you are,” he said brightly. “Shall I hold the gun whilst you climb into the cabin?”

The convict ignored the suggestion.

“Get in!” he snapped. “I know what you’re thinking, but it’s no use. I’m just as sane as you or any other man. They’ve had me shut up there quite long enough. Now my chance has come, and no one’s going to stop me. Get in!” he yelled viciously.

A loaded pistol in the hands of a madman is a powerful persuader. Convinced of the futility of resistance, Tony preceded his captor round the wing and climbed into the cabin. The convict followed and slammed the door.

“Now take off!” he ordered curtly.

“All right, but I’ll have to taxi back to the hedge. With this mist, I’m not sure what lies in front of us.”

His passenger eyed him craftily.

“Oh no, you don’t; you’re not going to fool me like that. This field is big enough and to spare. You go right ahead.”

Tony shrugged his shoulders and opened the throttle. Further argument would obviously be a waste of time, especially as there was something in what the fellow said.

The field was quite large enough for a safe take-off in normal conditions. But there were three or four trees at the far end which, whilst they could have been easily avoided in clear visibility, were a potential source of danger now they were blanketed from view.

As the monoplane gathered speed across the turf, Tony peered forward through the windscreen. Every nerve and muscle in his body was tensed for instant action. In the ordinary way he would take a risk with the next man, but he did not fancy a crack-up because of the whim of a crazy runaway.

He was annoyed with himself for being caught off his guard, humiliated that he had been forced to do the other’s will, worried as to the outcome of the affair.

Would anyone believe him when he announced that he had been overpowered, or would the police regard him as an accessary in the convict’s escape. Whatever happened meant a loss of self-esteem. Those who had never been in a similar position would condemn him for not being quick-witted enough to out-general his assailant or would laugh at his helplessness.

The bumping of the undercarriage wheels on the uneven ground ceased as the machine became air-borne, and Tony eased back his stick to make her climb. Almost at once they were clear of the mist and into the brightness of the setting sun. Dead ahead, less than a hundred feet distant, spread the branches of a mighty oak.

Instantaneously, Tony moved rudder and control column, and the monoplane banked in a steep turn, the lower wing almost touching the grass. Had his reactions been less acute, they must have crashed. As it was, there was a harsh jar as the port wheel struck a branch. The next instant the danger was passed, and Tony came back on an even keel.

“Where am I to take you?” he asked quietly, wondering how much damage the bump had occasioned.

The convict looked down through the window at his side. The fog was not yet thick enough entirely to shut out the landscape, and the buildings of his recent prison were clearly visible.

He shook his fist in their direction and laughed insanely.

“They thought they could hold me there, but they couldn’t. Do you know who I am?” he asked Tony, proudly. “You won’t let it out if I tell you, will you?” he went on confidentially. “No, perhaps it isn’t safe; one can’t trust a living soul these days.”

Too unhappy to humour him, Tony made no reply. The mist did not extend very far to the south; perhaps if he edged down towards Farnborough he could land on the aerodrome and get some help in securing this maniac.

His passenger seized his arm and shook him roughly.

“Don’t you know you must reply when a senior officer addresses you?” he demanded. “I shall have you court-martialled if you’re insubordinate. I’m the head of the Secret Service, I’d have you know,” he declared arrogantly.

Apparently the poor brain realized it had given away its secret, for he lowered his voice.

“Take me to France,” he requested. “No, Belgium, to Ypres. There are some spies in the cellars under the ramparts. I have to interrogate them.”

With Farnborough in mind, Tony decided to indulge his fancy.

“Very well, sir, as you wish. The course will be due south. Round we go.”

He banked and turned in the desired direction. The machine was up to one thousand feet now and he could see the old airship hangar at Farnborough station dead ahead. Somehow he must think of a plausible excuse for landing there. Hell’s bells, what should he say?

“We’ll have to fill up with petrol somewhere,” he remarked off-handedly. “Ypres means a long flight.”

As he spoke he kept his gaze on the horizon, but he was conscious that his expression was being studied suspiciously.

“That means landing, doesn’t it?”

“I’m afraid it does. It’s a nuisance, but it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, it can, yes, it can. We’ll go somewhere else—Rouen, Paris, Calais, anywhere, but we’re not going down again in England. Don’t you understand? The enemy are watching for me. They’re everywhere, with guns too. I should be shot like a dog. No, no, I’ll not go back! I’ll not, I’ll not!”

His breath came rapidly with excitement as he worked himself into a frenzy.

“But we must land sooner or later,” Tony pointed out firmly. “The bus won’t fly without fuel.”

He hoped that by speaking with decision he would coerce his passenger into agreement, but his attitude had the opposite effect.

“You’re trying to trick me,” the madman guessed uncannily. “That’s what it is; I see it now. You’re one of them—an enemy trying to destroy me.”

He raised the automatic and endeavoured in the confines of the cabin to point it at Tony’s head. Tony held off the barrel with his free hand and in a moment the incident had developed into a struggle for the possession of the gun.

“Sit still!” ordered Tony curtly as his big assailant rose to his feet. “You’ll have the machine out of control in a minute.”

The warning was ignored and in the next instant Tony was obliged to relinquish his hold on the control column to defend himself.

As the madman tried to twist the gun towards him he endeavoured to prevent him. Backwards and forwards it moved as each put forth a fresh effort, but, hampered by the confined space, neither was able to manœuvre with advantage.

Crack! A deafening explosion as the maniac pressed the trigger. The bullet struck some vital part of the engine, which ceased to function, and the struggle continued in silence.

As long as the air-screw was revolving normally the machine, being inherently stable, had continued on a fairly even keel, yawing and pitching with the vagaries of the wind. Now, without the necessary forward thrust to hold it up, the nose of the machine dropped and the monoplane dived steeply earthwards.

Indifferent to the danger of crashing out of control, and furious at being thwarted, the maniac hurled his full weight against his adversary, pinning Tony against the cabin door. It was impossible for him to aim the gun in this position, however, and, releasing his grip on the barrel, Tony administered a short-arm jab.

His opponent grunted with pain and, abandoning the gun in his turn, took Tony by the throat with both hands. His strength was colossal, and almost at once Tony felt strangled.

There was only one thing to do before he lost his senses. Raising his knee he butted his adversary in the pit of the stomach.

The ruse had the desired effect. Releasing his grip the madman sank back into his seat. He was doubled up with pain and for the time being the fight was over.

Delighted with his victory, Tony turned his attention to regaining control of the monoplane, but a glance through the window cut his satisfaction like a knife.

They were at an altitude of less than three hundred feet almost directly over a wood. Deprived of the engine, a forced landing was inevitable, but would he be able to clear the trees and reach the clearer space beyond?

Pulling up the nose of the machine out of its dive, Tony nursed it at the flattest gliding angle he could attain. Slowly it edged forward towards safety whilst each instant the trees seemed to grow taller and more menacing.

They were almost at the fringe and Tony’s hopes were rising when an unexpected down-draught caused the monoplane to drop ten or fifteen feet. Desperately Tony pulled back the control column to compensate for the loss of height.

The machine responded partially, the last tree brushed the under-side of the fuselage, and they were over.

No, by heaven! An outflung branch fouled the tail-plane unit, caught in the elevator. A moment later, equilibrium upset, the monoplane plunged headlong towards the ground.

Still Tony was not done. Kicking over the rudder he endeavoured to turn his doomed machine so that the port wing would strike first and lessen the shock of the crash.

He partly succeeded, but there was insufficient space for the manœuvre.

Zunk! The monoplane hit the earth, bounced springlessly, and flattened out like a stricken moth.