Читать книгу The Black Mole - George E. Rochester - Страница 4

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The military court which was being held in the Tower of London was hushed and still as the grey-haired judge addressed the prisoner.

“Robert Kenyon,” he said in grave tones, “whilst engaged in your duties in the technical department of the Tank Corps you designed a machine known as an earth crawler—a tank which can bore its way through solid earth and rock. You have been found guilty by this court of selling the plans of the earth crawler to a desperate gang of criminals!”

He paused a moment, then went on:

“These criminals, led by a man named Zworge, have built an earth crawler from the plans you sold them, and have used it for robbery and murder. Banks in Newcastle, Liverpool, and Manchester have been raided by these villains, night watchmen shot dead and more than half a million pounds stolen!”

Again he paused, and the stillness in the court was deathly.

“Robert Kenyon,” he resumed, and now his voice rang harshly, “in addition to selling the plans you have been found guilty of being a confederate of Zworge and his gang, and it is the sentence of this court that you go to prison for twenty years’ penal servitude!”

Every eye was turned on the young prisoner. He was standing with hands clenched, his clean-cut features pale beneath their tan.

“What did you say?” he rasped, glaring at the judge with burning eyes.

There was a flutter of excitement in court. Not often was a learned judge addressed in that manner by a prisoner in the dock.

“I said,” repeated the judge sternly, “that you will go to penal servitude for twenty years!”

“I won’t!” shouted Kenyon passionately. “You’re a fool—the whole lot of you are blundering fools. I’m as innocent as any of you. I’ll never serve that sentence. D’you hear me? I’ll never serve it——”

He broke off, struggling violently with the gaolers who had seized him and who were trying to hustle him from the dock. He caught one a blow on the mouth which sent the unfortunate official reeling, and landed another a savage jolt on the jaw.

The court was in an uproar, lawyers, barristers, and public shouting and yelling, whilst newspaper men feverishly scribbled details of this dramatic and unlooked-for scene.

The judge himself had half-risen to his feet. He was gripping the table in front of him and glaring at the scene in fury. Never in all his long years as a judge had he witnessed such disgraceful behaviour in any court over which he had presided.

Suddenly above the uproar a voice screamed:

“Look—the floor!”

An amazing thing was happening in the well of the court. The floor was vibrating madly, and above the tumult sounded a dull, metallic whir.

Next instant the floor heaved convulsively, there came a splintering crash and an immense black cone of whirling steel bored up into view.

Men yelled, women screamed, and there was a frenzied stampede for the doors. The whole floor was bulging upwards now, and above the shrieks of terror and the crash of falling benches sounded the high-pitched drone of powerful motors.

The dock went over with a resounding crash, flinging Kenyon and his gaolers sprawling, and pinning several people beneath it.

Scrambling to his feet, Kenyon stood staring with dilated eyes at the huge, sleek cylindrical monster of steel which had heaved itself up from out of the very bowels of the earth, and which was now resting on the floor of the court.

It was the earth crawler—the Black Mole, as Kenyon had dubbed her when he had designed her.

The circular steel ports between the great curved blades of her hull had been pulled open, and from them poured dense clouds of yellow gas which filled the court-room with a hideous murk.

Kenyon caught a whiff of the gas and staggered back, sick and dazed. A yellow wraith swirled round him, enfolding him in its foul and deadly fumes. His knees caved in, and with a choking cry he crumpled to the floor, a huddled, prostrate form.

Everywhere men and women, bewigged barristers and uniformed officials, were lying in sprawling heaps. The deadly yellow fog drifted over them, eddying out into the corridor to meet and drop those who came dashing to the scene. Denser and denser it grew, swirling along corridors, through doorways, up stairways, filling the old, historic Tower with its foul and deadly murk.

Suddenly a steel door in the hull of the Mole was pulled back and three men wearing black rubber suits and gas masks emerged. Stepping over the limp and sprawling bodies they groped their way through the yellow murk in the direction of the overturned dock.

Reaching it, they set to work examining every huddled body lying there until they found Kenyon. It was evidently him for whom they were searching, for picking him up, they carried him into the Mole.

A moment later another man emerged. He was clad in a tightly fitting black rubber suit and gas mask. Crossing agilely to where the judge was lying, he stooped and pinned a scrap of paper to the judge’s breast. On it was written:

“The Law is powerless against me and any man of mine. Robert Kenyon is my good friend and servant. That is why I am taking him away from you. Let this be a warning lest worse befall you.

“Zworge.”

Straightening up, the man retraced his steps to the Mole and disappeared into the hull. Then the door slid shut, the steel gas ports were closed and heavy caterpillar treads slid out on each side of the hull.

They rumbled into life, and pivoting in her own length amidst the crash and dust of falling masonry, the Mole slid back into the cavity from which it had emerged.

The caterpillar treads were withdrawn into the hull, the bladed outer casing locked back into place and commenced to revolve. Faster and faster it whirled, and within a few moments the Mole was burrowing its way down into the bowels of the earth, leaving behind it a silent, shattered court-room and huddled bodies shrouded in deadly yellow murk.

•••••

How long Kenyon was aboard the earth crawler he never knew. In fact, he had no recollection of ever being aboard her at all.

All he did know was that when consciousness slowly returned he found that he was sitting lashed hand and foot to a chair in a sparsely furnished kitchen illuminated by a large oil lamp standing on a littered table.

His head was aching agonisedly, and as he began to take stock of his surroundings he saw that eight men were in the kitchen with him.

Four of them, swarthy-faced and unshaven fellows, were clad in worn and oil-stained dungarees. The others were in civilian attire, and it was one of these who drew Kenyon’s burning glare.

The man was leaning against the table smoking a cigarette. His well-cut, dark lounge suit showed the slim litheness of his frame, and, like the majority of the other men, his features were dark and swarthy. Kenyon picked him out at once as the leader and noted the man’s thin, cruel-lipped mouth and his cunning green eyes.

“So, my friend,” he said mockingly, “you have come round!”

Recollection was surging swiftly back on Kenyon now. He remembered that amazing scene in the court-room and the discharge of poison gas from the Mole.

“You’re Zworge!” he grated.

“Yes,” returned the other with a smile. “I am Zworge!”

Frantically Kenyon fell to struggling in his bonds, his one frenzied desire being to get at this villain and choke the life out of him.

“Struggling will avail you nothing,” said Zworge amusedly. “Your bonds have been well tied.”

Kenyon subsided, weak and panting.

“By heavens, Zworge,” he grated, “one day I’ll get even with you for this!”

Zworge spread out his hands with a gesture.

“For what?” he demanded. “Have I not saved you from a long term of imprisonment?”

“If it hadn’t been for you, you hound,” rasped Kenyon, “I wouldn’t have been sentenced to that term of imprisonment. You ruined me, faked the evidence against me, and one day I’ll make you pay!”

“You talk as though I intend to let you live,” purred Zworge.

Kenyon glowered at him.

“What is this place and why have you brought me here?” he demanded.

“This place is one of my many secret headquarters,” replied Zworge. “Just where it is situated does not matter. As to why I have brought you here, I wish to have a little chat with you!”

“Go ahead!” said Kenyon grimly.

“When I learned that the plans of this marvellous earth crawler of yours were nearing completion,” said Zworge, “I made you an offer, over the telephone, of twenty thousand pounds for them.”

“You did,” rasped Kenyon, “and I told you to go to blazes!”

“Exactly!” smiled Zworge. “You probably thought I was either a madman or a foreign spy or something. Neither you nor the world had heard of me then. But, my friend, I was in deadly earnest. I wanted that earth crawler, and as you refused to do business with me I was forced to steal the plans.”

He slowly expelled a mouthful of cigarette-smoke, then resumed:

“To steal those plans from your safe in the War Office was a highly dangerous job, and one which imperilled my safety. Yet you left me no alternative, so when I did manage to steal the plans I determined to avenge myself on you by making it appear that you had sold them to me.”

“Which you did most successfully, you blackguard!” burst out Kenyon hoarsely.

“Yes, as you say, most successfully,” agreed Zworge, with a smile. “I planted in your rooms forged correspondence purporting to have passed between you and me about the sale of the plans. I also planted in your rooms a money draft on the Bank of Holland for twenty thousand pounds. The detectives investigating the mystery of the missing plans found the correspondence and the draft. You were promptly arrested——”

“And sentenced this afternoon to twenty years penal servitude, you rat!” cut in Kenyon savagely. “You’ve had your revenge all right!”

“Twenty years, was it?” observed Zworge interestedly. “I was on my way to rescue you, so I did not know the sentence. I suppose you were found guilty on all counts?”

“Yes, on all counts!” said Kenyon bitterly. “The court was convinced that I am a confederate of yours, curse you!”

“And will be more convinced than ever when they read the note I have left,” murmured Zworge. “The gas I used is not fatal, by the way. Nearly everyone will recover. I wanted you alive, consequently I merely used a stupefying gas.”

“Why do you want me alive?” rasped Kenyon.

“I will tell you,” said Zworge. “Those plans I stole were not complete. At the moment the Mole is not capable of remaining long under ground. The oxygen supply is not right, and all our efforts to adjust it have failed.”

“And you want me to fix it for you, eh?” cut in Kenyon. “I’ll see you in blazes first.”

“On the contrary, I’m convinced you will help me,” returned Zworge calmly. “The alternative will be a particularly horrible and painful death!”

“So that’s it, is it?” said Kenyon grimly. “Torture?”

“Yes, torture and death,” agreed Zworge. “On the other hand, if you do as I ask, you can either join my gang and share in the proceeds of our robberies, or I will give you ten thousand pounds and smuggle you out of the country. You can choose whichever you wish!”

“You’ll get nothing out of me, you rat!” grated Kenyon.

“Wait!” said Zworge gently. “Consider your position. Why shouldn’t you join my gang? Everyone thinks you are already in league with me, so you have nothing to lose in that direction. The moment you show your nose anywhere you’ll be arrested. You haven’t a friend in the world——”

“That’s where you’re wrong!” cut in Kenyon with savage triumph. “I’ve got one friend, Bert Higgs, my late valet. He’s stuck to me through all this and believed in me!”

“Bert Higgs?” repeated Zworge, and Kenyon saw him exchange a smiling glance with the grinning men in the room. “If I were you, my friend, I shouldn’t rely too much on Bert Higgs!”

“What d’you mean by that?” demanded Kenyon sharply.

“Nothing, nothing!” murmured Zworge. “Don’t let us waste time in discussing a person of such little consequence as Bert Higgs. As I was saying, you have everything to gain by joining my gang. If you don’t wish to join it I will smuggle you out of the country with ten thousand pounds in your pocket. All I ask in return is that you fix our oxygen supply for us. Will you do it?”

“No!” shouted Kenyon fiercely. “I won’t!”

Zworge sucked on his cigarette until the end glowed crimson. Then with a swift movement he bent forward and thrust the glowing end between Kenyon’s fingers.

The agony was excruciating, and, in spite of himself, a groan broke from Kenyon’s livid lips.

“That is but a trifle of what you will suffer if you persist in your refusal,” purred Zworge, his evil face and glittering green eyes within inches of Kenyon’s. “I will give you until midnight to reconsider your decision!”

Straightening up, he turned and rapped out an order to the men. In response a couple of them approached Kenyon, and severing the bonds which bound him to the chair, jerked him to his feet.

His wrists were still lashed behind his back, however, and his ankles tied. Securely gagging him with a handkerchief, the men carried him along a dark and unfurnished hallway and up a wide and uncarpeted flight of stairs.

Zworge preceded them, carrying a small oil lamp with which to light the way, for every window was shuttered.

By the sickly illumination of the lamp Kenyon saw that dust lay everywhere, and he came to the conclusion that the place was some lonely and deserted house, probably situated in its own grounds somewhere out in the country.

Opening a door on the first floor, Zworge led the way into a room furnished with an iron bedstead, a table and a chair. The window was shuttered and the bare floorboards were thick with dust and littered with match and cigarette ends.

Setting down the lamp on the table, Zworge waited whilst the men deposited the helpless Kenyon on the bed.

“It still requires some hours until midnight,” he said. “A meal will be brought you. I trust that when you are feeling more yourself you will decide to act sensibly and do what I ask!”

With that he strolled from the room at the heels of his men. The door closed, a key clicked in the lock, and Kenyon was left to himself and his thoughts.

So this was the end, he reflected bitterly. He was out of the frying pan into the fire with a vengeance. For if he refused to help Zworge, the rogue would certainly carry out his threat to kill him.

And on one thing Kenyon was grimly determined. In no circumstances would he help Zworge. The man could do his worst, could try torture if he wished, but he would get no assistance from Kenyon.

As he lay there staring at the small oil lamp on the table, a prey to black and brooding thought, a sudden glitter came to Kenyon’s eyes.

Struggling to a sitting posture, he swung his bound feet to the floor. Straightening up, he swayed precariously on his feet, then, getting a grip on himself, hopped in the direction of the table.

He thanked his stars that the room was not above the kitchen, otherwise the thud of his feet must certainly have been heard by those below.

As it was he was none too sure that they wouldn’t hear him in the deathly stillness of the house. Still, he had to risk that, and balancing himself, he took another forward hop.

By the time he reached the table he was in a cold sweat of excitement and apprehension. It would be heart-breaking were he to be discovered before he had a chance of carrying out his plan.

Sidling on to the table he moved his bound hands about behind him until they touched the hot glass funnel of the lamp. Then setting his teeth he carefully slid his fingers round the glass and eased it loose.

It was a difficult and agonising job to remove that funnel and place it on the table without breaking it. But Kenyon managed it, then, biting his lip to keep back a groan of pain, he moved his bound wrists until the naked flame of the wick was burning the rope.

The agony was terrible, but Kenyon could smell the burning fibre and resolutely he stuck this self-imposed torture which, with any luck, would mean his freedom.

At last the rope parted and his wrists were free. Loosening his gag, with a stifled groan of relief, Kenyon slid from the table. Stooping, he removed the bonds from about his ankles, then, straightening up, he crossed swiftly to the shuttered window.

The shutters were made of steel, locked and immovable. A hunted look in his eyes, Kenyon turned and stared round the room. The only way of escape was by means of the door, which was locked. To attempt to burst it open would assuredly bring Zworge and his men racing upstairs.

Kenyon stood a moment, his brain working at lightning speed. Then, crossing to the table, he replaced the funnel on the lamp, and, gathering up all the burnt fragments of rope, returned to the bed.

Stretching himself out on it, he replaced ropes and gag to give the impression that he was still tied. Then, with his hands behind him, he lay tense and motionless, waiting until someone should come.

Nor did he have long to wait, for to his straining ears came a mounting tread on the stairs, steps approached along the uncarpeted landing and the key clicked back in the lock.

The door swung open and a man appeared, a laden tray in his hands. Kicking shut the door behind him, he advanced to the table, and, setting down the tray, turned to Kenyon.

“I’ll loosen your hands,” he grinned, approaching the bed. “But don’t try any funny business, because I’m armed and you’ll get a bullet through you if you do. Come on, sit up!”

Kenyon sat up—or, rather, he shot up—and as though released by a powerful spring, his right arm whipped up with savage, smashing force.

Kenyon’s clenched and iron-hard fist took the man full on the jaw. He staggered wildly back, but before he could crash to the floor, Kenyon was on him, his lean fingers round the man’s throat in a vise-like strangling grip.

Whirling him round, Kenyon thrust him backwards across the bed, choking the life out of him with those terrible, throttling hands in which were concentrated all the bitter hate which he had for this infamous gang.

But already the man was unconscious. Releasing him, Kenyon stepped back a pace, passing a swollen and blistered hand shakily across his brow. Then swiftly he yanked the man’s gun from his pocket and crossed to the door.

Opening it a few inches, he listened intently. Not a sound came from below stairs. Taking the key from the lock, Kenyon inserted it on the inside of the door and turned it.

Crossing to the bed, he quickly gagged and bound the unconscious man, then munched a hasty snack taken from the tray.

A few moments later, having locked the door behind him, he was stealthily descending the stairs, his fingers curled round the trigger of his gun.

It was pitch dark in that lonely house of shuttered windows, and Kenyon had to grope his way down the uncarpeted stairs. More than once he paused, tense and rigid, as a board creaked beneath his cautious tread.

But nothing moved, nothing stirred, and gaining the hallway below, Kenyon crept along it towards the kitchen.

A chink of light was showing beneath the door. Kenyon’s fingers felt softly for the handle and fastened on it. Next instant, his gun raised menacingly, he flung the door open.

The kitchen was deserted!

On the table were signs of a recently consumed meal and the atmosphere was pungent with cigarette-smoke. It was evident that the kitchen had been but recently vacated.

Moving with cat-like stealth, Kenyon passed through the kitchen into a dimly lighted scullery. Instantly he drew back.

For the outer door of the scullery was open, and lounging there on the step, either on guard or enjoying the night air, was the figure of a man.

Kenyon could see the dark bulk of him silhouetted against the blue-black of the night sky. The fellow was leaning against the door-post, his back half-turned to Kenyon.

Gripping his gun by the barrel, Kenyon commenced to creep softly forward until he was within a few paces of the man. Then he leaped forward, his gun hand whipping up. The man whirled. For one split instant Kenyon saw the white blur of the fellow’s face, then the butt of his weapon smashed savagely down.

With a sobbing moan the man pitched to his knees, sagged sideways, then rolled grotesquely down the step to the ground outside.

Bending over him, Kenyon searched him hurriedly for a weapon. He found a gun in the jacket pocket. Straightening up, he snapped it open.

There were six cartridges in the chamber. That, with the gun Kenyon already possessed, meant twelve bullets. And he had already accounted for two of the eight men.

With head inclined, Kenyon now listened intently. From somewhere near at hand came a muffled, metallic hammering. Pausing a moment to get his bearings, Kenyon set off in the direction of the sound.

There loomed into view a large square building like a big workshop or garage. There were no windows, or if there were they were shuttered. But light was streaming out from the front of the building, and gliding forward, Kenyon halted in the black shadow of a bush outside the radius of light.

From where he crouched he could command a view of the interior of the building, which was fitted with benches and lathes around the walls. But what drew Kenyon’s glittering gaze was the long, cylindrical body of the Mole resting there on the concrete floor.

Zworge was standing near the earth crawler, talking to two of the dungaree-clad men. It was from the interior of the Mole that the hammering was proceeding; proof that the other men were working there.

A gun in each hand and his fingers round the triggers, Kenyon stepped swiftly forward.

“Up with your hands, Zworge,” he snarled, “or I’ll blow your brains out!”

With an oath Zworge whirled, his face livid, his hand streaking to his pocket. Even as Kenyon’s guns roared, Zworge hurled himself aside towards the lighting switch, lurid flame spurting from his pocket as he fired at Kenyon.

Something struck Kenyon in the shoulder, searing with the agony of white-hot metal and half-twisting him round. In that same split-fraction of time, before he could recover, the lights snapped out, plunging the building into inky darkness.