Читать книгу The Turn of the Tide - Fred M. White - Страница 4

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Left to himself in the solitude of the dingy old offices in Great Bower Street, Mark Gilmour sat down at his desk in a small back room looking out over the Thames, and proceeded to immerse himself in a mass of correspondence. He had the whole office for his own since the last of the clerks had departed, and a supreme silence reigned everywhere. At that hour in the evening Great Bower Street was absolutely deserted, for it was a business quarter entirely, and, save for a caretaker or night watchman here and there, there was probably not a soul within a quarter of a mile. Outside a gentle rain had commenced to fall through a curtain of fog, which rendered the young March night thick as a blanket. From time to time Gilmour could hear shouts and calls from the river, and occasionally a heavy dray rumbled along the cobbled street. The mice were busy behind the rotting wainscot and the decayed oak panelling on the walls. Once a rat ran across the floor, and dived into a hole by the side of what once had been a magnificent marble fireplace in the old days when Great Bower Street had been a residential quarter for opulent City merchants, what time George III was king. A big grandfather's clock ticked lazily in the corner of the office, and as it struck the hour of eight Gilmour rose and put away the mass of papers before him in a safe.

He appeared to have forgotten entirely that, at that very moment, he was due to dine at the Moat House, and if he had any recollection of this, then there was no sign of disappointment or regret upon that hard, white, battling face of his.

Long before this, he had closed the shutters of the office facing the river, so that not a single ray of light showed through the dusty, cobweb-clad window panes. He listened with a certain dour satisfaction to the dripping rain outside, then he crossed over and pressed his hand upon a spring in the centre of one of the oak panels, which seemed to release a slide, for one of the panels slipped back, exposing a square dark space beyond, from which he took a luncheon basket and carelessly emptied the contents upon the table. He ate the half of a chicken, and drank one or two whiskies and sodas, after which he put the basket back in its hiding-place and took from the same hidden receptacle a suit of blue dungaree overalls and a pair of top boots, india-rubber shod, which he drew over his own neat brown brogues.

Once this was done, he placed an electric torch in his pocket and went down into the black airless basement. This was devoted to offices now, and store-rooms for old ledgers and papers. Right at the back of what once had been a scullery was a flat stone in the floor, which Gilmour lifted with apparent ease, disclosing a flight of steps below, leading, presumedly, into the bowels of the earth. He flashed his torch into this forbidding opening, and whistled a few bars between his teeth. Then a head appeared, followed by a body, and Gilmour was no longer alone.

"That's right, Joe," he said. "Nothing like being punctual. What sort of a night is it?"

"A real beauty for us," the intruder said, in a voice that was hard and husky. "Black as your hat, and a fine rain falling. Can't see your hand in front of you. I have known the river pretty well all my life, but it took me all my time to get across. Got anything to drink about, mister?"

Without further preamble, Gilmour led the way up the stairs into his office. He watched his visitor keenly as the latter proceeded to pour a generous measure of almost raw spirit down his throat. He saw a short, thick-set individual with broad shoulders and legs like pillars standing before him, a man with a hard repulsive face and dreadful bloodshot eyes that bespoke a nature capable of anything. In his thick pilot jacket and trousers he conveyed the impression of one who is familiar with the sea and, indeed, his appearance did not belie him, for Joe Airey had been bred and born on the Thames side, and had passed most of his life in coasting vessels, and at one time might, indeed, have become a Thames pilot, but for the fact that he had found it impossible to remain sober for a week at a time. For the rest, he was utterly unscrupulous, hated work in every shape or form, but was ready to undergo untold danger and prolonged privation if he could only see a suitable reward at the end of it. He had been in jail more than once, and it was characteristic of the man that he was not in the least ashamed of the fact. From Gilmour's point of view he was a treasure, and the money that constantly found its way into his pocket from Croot's manager was exceedingly well-earned.

"It's a rare nice crib you've got 'ere, guv'nor," Airey exclaimed, as he glanced round the room. "Safer than any church, and bang on the spot. Might have been made for our purpose."

"I suspect it was," Gilmour said with one of his acid smiles. "You may depend upon it that the original Verity did a good deal in the smuggling line, or he would have blocked up those passages long ago. You see, this house was once part of the Tower defences, hence that secret waterway at the side of Crombies Wharf, and the underground passage leading to the house. But we needn't worry about that. What have you got to-night?"

"Magnetos," Airey whispered hoarsely. "About fifty cases of them, a nice compact little cargo, not taking up much room, and worth Gawd knows what, once we get 'em back to Germany again. But that's your business, guv'nor. I taps the stuff, and you shoves it away. Been trackin' it for days, I 'ave. They unloads it off the steamer Konig, and tows it up the river in a barge, not three hundred yards away, waiting to be unloaded, and only one man aboard and 'im not very much good."

"Lord, what a set of fools they are," Gilmour muttered. "After all the warnings they have had, too. Only one man, you say?"

"Well, there was two, guv'nor," Airey laughed coarsely. "But one of 'em put ashore for a drink, and 'e goes into one of the pubs we knows of, so I follows and gives the landlord a tip, and they put 'im to sleep proper between them. The cove I speak of won't be aboard the barge much afore to-morrow night, anyway."

"Then we had better get along," Gilmour said.

He was the man of action now, keen-eyed, quick and alert, with his fighting jaw stuck out, and a resolute look on his face. Satisfying himself that the front door was closed and fastened, he made his way, followed by his companion, into the scullery, and thence down the stone steps along a slimy dripping passage that ended presently in a large room, not unlike an underground swimming-bath, which was situated in the very foundations of the ruined building with the boarded-up windows on Crombies Wharf. There was at least five feet of water on the floor, and floating on it a small collapsible launch driven by a small but powerful motor engine.

"Ah, what a beauty," Airey said huskily. "The fastest little craft on the Thames. And silent, too, as mother's grave. But we'd better get along, guv'nor."

"If the tide is right," Gilmour said.

"Which it is, mister. It's right for two hours, anyway. You get up the grating, and we'll be off."

Without further comment Gilmour proceeded to set certain unseen machinery in motion. Then the slimy wooden wall at the far side of the building rose slowly and creakily some four or five feet, disclosing a sort of slip berth capable of holding a large barge beyond, and a few minutes later the launch had slid out of this on to the bosom of the Thames, where the ebb-tide was running strongly. On this, Airey took the helm and, pausing a moment to get his bearings, shot out into mid-stream. There were lights here and there, and occasionally some shouted order on the deck of an unseen steamer that loomed up, ghostly in the fog, through the curtain of fine rain. It was as if they had drifted into another world, but Airey knew exactly what he was doing, and steered the silent little launch along as if he were in the broad light of day.

They came presently with intense caution, and just touched the side of a barge. Airey made the launch secure, and then he and his companion climbed softly on to the deck. It was littered with small packages in deal cases, and Airey chuckled under his breath as he called Gilmour's attention to them.

"There's the stuff," he whispered. "All very politely and kindly laid out for us, as if we was expected. It almost goes to one's 'eart to rob people as confiding as them. No, we'll just go down the caboose and truss up the cove down there, and with any luck, with two or three voyages, we'll 'ave the whole of the boodle stowed away on the wharf in a couple of hours."

Silently as cats, they crossed the deck and crept down the companion ladder into the cabin. A man smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper was seated there in an attitude of easy security, but he was not quite as indifferent to his surroundings as the intruders had thought. His ear had caught a suspicious sound and, almost before Gilmour was in the cabin, he was on his feet. He clutched an iron bar lying by the side of the table, and flung it with all his force in Gilmour's face. It struck him on the shoulder and glanced off. Then the man's face strangely altered, and a sudden cry broke from his lips.

"Lieutenant Ray!" he exclaimed. "I thought you was dead. What are you doing here, you dirty dog?"

Gilmour made no reply. He dashed headlong at the speaker, and caught him by the throat. Airey hung on round the loins of the unfortunate watchman, who was forced to his knees. But the fighting light still blazed in his eyes.

"I know you," he said. "I know you now, and I know what you was doing when I see you last week. Gawd, do you want to murder me? 'Ere, 'elp, 'elp. They'll do for me."

"All right, I'm coming," a voice cried from the deck. "Hold on a minute, Bill; fend 'em off."

It was then that Gilmour showed the stuff he was made of. He dashed his fist to the point of the watchman's jaw, and the latter fell senseless without so much as a groan. Five seconds later, Gilmour and Airey were on the deck of the barge, and making for their boat. They waited not an instant to see in what strength the allies were, but dropped into the launch and, a minute later, were speeding for the shore, taking every risk in their headlong flight for safety. They could hear the alarm raised, then a shot or two and, as if by magic, a police boat came looming out of the fog almost on top of them. Followed another shout and a shrill whistle, and a further police boat moved right across their track. "There's only one thing to be done," Gilmour muttered. "Get out your knife and slit her up, Joe."

In less time than it takes to tell, the trim little craft began to sink, and the occupants were swimming for their lives. With his hand on Airey's shoulder, Gilmour struck out, confident in the local knowledge of his companion. This was not misplaced, for they came at length to the slip, and a few minutes later, spent and breathless, were behind the screen under the old house in Crombies Wharf. The screen was down at length, and they crept along the underground passage till Gilmour's office was reached.

"There's isn't a moment to lose," he gasped. "Did you ever know such infernal bad luck? The man on the barge recognized me; he was my boatswain's mate for three years when I was serving on the China station. And, what's more, he seems to know what I am doing. I shall have to bluff it out. I can't stay here, and I can't get back to my rooms in these wet clothes. I've got it! You cut across at once into Harbour Lane, and find George. Tell him to get his taxi out at once, because I want him to drive me as far as a place called Cray, in Kent. It's only about fifteen miles, and I ought to be there in an hour easy. If Bill Avory—that's the man on the barge—opens his mouth to the police, as he is pretty sure to, and if he really knows who I am, or what I am doing in this part of the world, they are certain to go round to my rooms to inquire. I told my landlady I was dining at Cray, and that I shouldn't be back till late. So she'll be all right. But don't stand staring at me, get a move on. Tell George I will be waiting at the corner for him in ten minutes. Here, stop a minute, I must have some dry clothes. Any old clothes of George's will do. Now, be off."

Once alone, Gilmour sat there, not heeding the cold and damp, and conscious only of the struggle for freedom. Then, when his patience was getting exhausted, he heard the purr of an engine outside, and made his way into the street where the taxi was awaiting him. He paused for a moment as he entered.

"That's all right, George," he said. "You know where to go. And don't worry about the speed limit. Get me to Cray as soon as you can, and drop me at the corner of the lane not far from the Moat House. I can change inside the cab, and you can do what you like with my wet clothes. Is the stuff inside?"

"That's all right, sir," the driver muttered.

In just under the hour the taxi reached Cray, and in his impromptu wardrobe, Gilmour got out and made his way through the lodge gates to the front of the house where he could see the lights blazing in the dining-room windows. A clock somewhere was striking ten.

As he stood there, he could hear the sounds of gaiety and laughter inside, then he crept forward, and very gently commenced to tap with his knuckles on one of the window panes, not quickly, but two or three taps with intervals between. Then it seemed to him that the conversation inside ceased, and he smiled to himself grimly.