Читать книгу The Treasure House of Martin Hews - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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I think it could have been a matter of seconds only before I was in my sitting-room, feeling eagerly along the wainscotting for the spring which opened the hidden door. Whilst I stood there, it rolled open before me, and Beatrice Essiter appeared. She was perfectly cool, but there was urgency in her voice.

“Put out your light,” she ordered.

I had turned on the switch as I had entered the room. I stepped back and did as I was bidden. We stood there then in an intense darkness.

“Joseph is on his way down,” she announced. “We didn’t expect him to-night, or Uncle would have sent Minchin to see you. He seems to have made up his mind suddenly. He is only bringing one carload of men, so I imagine he is more out for carrying the girl off by a quick rush than a fight.”

“What time did they start?” I asked.

“An hour ago,” she answered. “They may be here at any time. Put some clothes on quickly. Our other men are at their posts already. You can turn on the light in your bedroom if you are sure the curtains are drawn. I should get outside by your private door and keep in the shadow of the house. You will find Huntley, the red-haired footman who served you, on your left.”

“How many are we?”

“Let me see,” she reflected. “We shall have to leave out Miles. He certainly won’t be any use as a fighter to-night. There can’t be more than ten or a dozen of them, and there probably won’t be as many as that when they get to close quarters.”

I heard the click of the door and knew that she had gone. I hurried into a few clothes, caught up a leaded stick which Huntley had brought me in after dinner, and, with my automatic safely in my pocket, cautiously opened the door and stepped outside. At first I could see nothing in front, and behind me the house itself seemed dark and lifeless. There was not a sound to be heard from the road or the open spaces beyond. I crouched against the wall, listening intently. Owing no doubt to a regrettable streak of brutality in my character, fighting, even for its own sake, has always made an appeal to me, and I felt the joy of the coming battle already throbbing in my veins. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I could distinguish Huntley crouching a few yards on my left, but so far as I could apprehend there was no sign as yet of the attack. Then, when I was still leaning forward, peering into the obscurity around me, the air was suddenly rent with a sound as though a million telephone bells set in different keys were clanging one against the other. Simultaneously, from the tower came a blinding stream of light, passing slowly in a semicircle from the house. By its illumination we saw that the invaders were close at hand. Barely forty yards away, a wormlike procession of dark forms in a single file were creeping towards the house. Caught in that sudden blaze of light, they hesitated, and although the situation was tense enough, for I realised at once that we were very much outnumbered, my first impulse was to laugh. They swayed and staggered about as though they were drunk. Then the leader made a spring forward, and with a hideous cry leaped into the air and fell over motionless. The invaders were quick enough to recover themselves. They stepped over the fallen body and came running towards the house in the form of a semicircle. Huntley, a few yards off, cursed softly.

“Bad work!” he muttered. “Some one’s done a split. If they hadn’t come singly, the wire would have had the lot. Look out, sir!”

As it was, the attack seemed a little demoralised. A second searchlight from the other tower, flashing unexpectedly in the eyes of the invaders and blinding them with its intense brilliance, created something of a panic. One man stood with his face buried in his hands and his back to the house; another fell over; a third unashamedly ran back to where I could see a tumble-down looking motor char-à-banc waiting in the lane. The sound of alarm bells died away, however. The searchlight could only play upon one section at a time. A tall figure from the centre of the attackers blew a whistle, and the result was electric. The skulkers returned, and they were at us.

So far as I could tell, we were outnumbered about two to one. We were better fighters, however, and although they were possessed of a sort of ferocious cunning, their methods were of less use in the open. I saw no trace of weapons at first, so I went ahead with my fists, and the first man I hit—I admit he was taken by surprise—finished the month in Bringford Hospital. The next—a sallow-faced, loose-limbed youth, with long arms and astonishingly nimble feet—dodged me so cleverly that I very nearly overbalanced myself, and gave him a momentary advantage. Then I saw the flash of steel in his hand as he crept round me, and just in time I sent him smashing over with a short upper cut to the jaw. The sight of his craftily concealed knife, however, had angered me, and I caught up my leaded stick and swung out with it fiercely at my next assailant. Up till then no guns seemed to have been used, but suddenly there was a sharp report, and Huntley went spinning over on his side. The next few minutes were a little hazy, for my corner seemed to have become the centre of the attack. I was never very clever with any sort of a blunt weapon, and I only half diverted the strength of two blows from a life preserver, either of which might have knocked me out for the night. As it was, I was dizzy for a moment, and, being hard pressed, was feeling for my gun when I saw one of the smallest of the gang trying to sneak round behind me, with that ominous glitter protruding from his sleeve. The state of fury into which I fell seemed to give me the strength of a dozen men. I lifted him by the collar and leg and flung him to the ground on his face, where he lay until he was picked up by the ambulance some hours later. Then for a few minutes I went for every one I could see. Twice a knife grazed my shoulder, and I felt the blood from a cut upon my cheek, but otherwise the luck was with me. In the midst of it all there was the sound of a long, shrill whistle. The two men with whom I was at that moment engaged slunk away, and I gathered that for some reason either a parley or a cessation of the fight was indicated. Then, full in the searchlight which was playing once more, I saw a tall, thin figure, wearing a black mask—the young man of the motor car in the afternoon, I was convinced—step boldly forward.

“Rachel!” he cried.

There was no reply. Suddenly the front door opened, and there shot out into a little semicircle of light Martin Hews in his small carriage. He appeared to be unarmed, but one hand was underneath the rug.

“Come and fetch her,” he invited, in his queer high-pitched voice. “No doubt she is pining in her room. Come and fetch her, Joseph.”

“Very well, I will,” was the calm reply.

The masked man took a few steps forward. The rest of the gang who had been making for the char-à-banc hesitated, and some of them retraced their steps. The fight seemed about to recommence when I heard a voice from one of the lower windows. I looked up. A shadowy form was standing at the casement of a darkened room. As soon as she spoke, I knew that it was Rachel.

“Look out, Jo!” she warned him. “The little man has a gun under the rug.”

Joseph paused. He was now about twenty paces from where Martin Hews was sitting in his chair, with Miles, the most terrified person I have even seen in my life, standing by his side. Joseph waved his hand to the window.

“Very well,” he called out softly. “We’ll dine at Shirley’s before the week’s out, kid.”

She laughed mockingly.

“I don’t know as I want to. You let Jim get away.”

I had recovered my breath and was ready again for action, and it seemed to me no impossible task to cut Joseph off from the gang who were lining out some distance behind him. He saw me move, however, and swung round. We had one another covered, but neither pressed the trigger of his gun. No one had called for an armistice, but the fever of fighting had abated. It was like shooting a man in cold blood. Joseph faced me, and although, when he spoke, his words were clearly pronounced, I think that he must have known we were due to meet again, for his voice was disguised.

“If you fire,” he said, “my men will tear you to pieces, and it really wouldn’t be worth while, for you would probably miss me. Goodnight, everybody. Goodnight, Martin Hews.”

“Take this with you,” the latter replied, turning suddenly with a venomous look to Miles. “Out you go, you common informer. Take your rubbish, Joseph.”

Miles staggered out into the night with the terror still on his face. Martin Hews reversed his little carriage into a dark corner where he was out of sight. I doubt whether any one but myself saw his hand steal up from underneath the rug. The darkness was stabbed by a quick flash. Miles spun round and round, gave one shriek of agony, and fell....

They were all running for the char-à-banc now—Joseph, with a cigarette in his mouth, sauntering on behind. A sudden desire came upon me to take him alive. My luck of the night, however, forsook me. I was trying to cut him off from the others by circling round a strip of marshland, and I put my foot into one of the deep holes filled with mud and water with which the whole of the marshy land was pitted. I struggled to my feet but before I was thoroughly steady I was caught up in the wire of the electric signal cord, and over I went again. A bullet whistled above my head, and probably the second fall saved my life. Before I could stagger to my feet, the char-à-banc was throbbing and grunting its way citywards.