Читать книгу The Black Mole - George E. Rochester - Страница 6

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Kenyon flung himself flat on his face. The game had been his, and he had bungled it. Zworge’s iron nerve and amazing swiftness had turned the tables.

Kenyon daren’t even fire now, for the stabbing flame from his gun would give his position away and draw the deadly, concentrated fire of Zworge and his men. The hammering inside the Mole had ceased with the first shot fired, and the men had climbed out.

The warm blood from his wounded shoulder trickled down Kenyon’s arm, and the arm itself was becoming stiff and numb. If he was to get out of this alive he must act—and act quickly.

Lowering his face to the hand of his undamaged arm, he gripped the hot barrel of the gun with his teeth. Then, not daring to make a sound, he eased his arm inwards, groping with his fingers for a pencil in his waistcoat pocket.

Withdrawing the pencil, he jerked it away from him with a flick of his wrist. It fell with a faint clatter on the concrete which fronted the building.

Instantly the darkness was riven by lurid, stabbing flame, and the building reverberated to the crash of guns, as Zworge and his men fired in the direction of the sound.

Bounding to his feet, Kenyon emptied his guns towards them and leapt aside. A man screamed, and from another came a choking gurgle.

Bullets whistled over the spot from which Kenyon had fired, but Kenyon was no longer there. His movements covered by the roar of the guns, he had glided swiftly into the building.

Now his outstretched hand touched the hull of the Mole. He backed against it, sidling along it inch by inch and foot by foot. His hands behind him groped suddenly in space. He had reached the open doorway in the hull. It was he who had designed the Mole, and he knew every bolt and rivet of her.

With heart beating exultantly, Kenyon stepped backwards into the hull. His fingers moved over the smooth steel plates, seeking the electric button which controlled the door.

They touched it, there came a soft, sliding sound, then a click as the door locked shut.

With a triumphant laugh, Kenyon pressed the switch which controlled the lighting, and the warm and glistening interior of the Mole was flooded with brilliant illumination.

One swift and searching glance round assured Kenyon that he was alone in the hull. The ports were closed as well as the door, and not a chink of light could show outside.

Stepping swiftly to the instrument board which fronted the control wheel and shining control levers, Kenyon glanced at the gleaming array of dials and gauges.

The main electric batteries which drove the bladed outer casing and the gyroscopic motors were three-quarters charged. The auxiliary batteries were fully charged, and satisfied that he had all the power he needed, Kenyon turned to the oxygen gauge. It was very low, but that didn’t matter much. There would be only himself to use the precious life-giving gas.

The fuel tanks which provided the power to drive the caterpillar treads were practically full, and the depth gauges, pressure gauges, barometers and thermometers appeared to be working satisfactorily.

The gyro-compass synchronised with the compass on the instrument board and both the speedometer and evolution indicator were connected up.

As far as Kenyon could see by his rapid and expert survey, the Mole was ready to be driven, and stepping to the nearest starboard port, he slid it open the fraction of an inch.

As the thin but brilliant chink of light split the darkness outside there came a startled shout and the lights of the building blazed on.

“Are you there, Zworge?” called Kenyon.

One bound took Zworge to the slightly opened port. His green eyes were blazing, his swarthy face maniacal with rage.

“You, Kenyon?” he choked. “Listen. I want to talk to you. Don’t be a fool. You can’t get away with this——”

“If you mean I can’t get away with the Mole, you’re mistaken!” cut in Kenyon. “You’ll see that in a minute. What I want to tell you is this. I’m going to prove you faked that evidence against me and I’m going to send you and your gang to the scaffold——”

He broke off as Zworge whirled on his men, screaming:

“Close the doors, you fools!”

Slamming shut the port, Kenyon leapt for the control switch. If that order of Zworge’s meant anything at all, it meant that the doors were constructed of as tough a metal as was the Mole.

Even as the motors whirred into life and the caterpillar treads slid out, the doors dropped like a solid curtain of steel in front of the earth crawler.

Crouched in the control seat, his face grim and set, Kenyon whipped the control lever, full open and drove the Mole straight at the doors.

There came a deafening crash, a violent jar which flung him forward across the wheel, then to the scream of tortured metal and the roar of falling girders the doors flattened outwards with a thunderous crash and the earth crawler rumbled away into the night, smashing down trees and bushes before the white-faced Kenyon could switch on the powerful headlights.

Ahead of him was a high wall which obviously encircled the grounds in which the house stood. Kenyon smashed through the wall, rumbled across a road and took the Mole sliding down into a field.

Cutting out the caterpillar motors, Kenyon pressed a switch. The treads slid back into the hull and the bladed outer casing locked into place and commenced to revolve.

Faster and faster it spun, and as the black, conical nose dropped under the pull of the gyro-motor, the whirling blades bit deeply into the ground, and the Black Mole vanished from out of the night, burrowing its way down into the deep and secret bowels of the earth.

If Kenyon had had time for more than a swift, searching glance round this amazing machine which he had designed, he would probably have looked into the small, curtained sleeping quarters which were situated aft.

But there had been no time for that, and as the Mole bored its way down into the earth, Kenyon was quite oblivious of a pair of burning eyes which glared at him in hate through a chink in the curtains of one of the compartments.

They were the eyes of a man who, ever since the Mole had started on this fateful trip, had been writhing frienziedly on the floor in a desperate effort to free himself from handcuffs and manacles.

He had already succeeded in getting one hand free, and by a sudden almost superhuman effort which brought a stifled groan of pain to his lips, he managed to wrench his feet free from the ankle manacles.

For a few moments he sat massaging the bruised and broken skin of his ankles with his free hand, then, steathily drawing aside the curtain, he commenced to crawl towards Kenyon, who was blissfully unaware of his presence aboard.

Nearer and nearer the man drew to Kenyon, the handcuffs trailing from his left wrist, a heavy spanner in his other hand.

When only a pace separated him from Kenyon he rose softly to his feet, raising the spanner for a savage downward blow which would smash Kenyon’s skull.

And in that same instant Kenyon saw him, glimpsing the man’s hate-contorted face in the mirror of the dashboard.

It was Bert Higgs, his late valet—the one man whom Kenyon had looked upon as friend!

With a wild cry Kenyon hurled himself aside. But, already the heavy spanner was whirling down with savage force.

Had Kenyon delayed the faction of a second the heavy spanner would have crashed down on his head. As it was, the spanner caught his arm, nearly breaking it, as he hurled himself aside.

Oblivious to the pain, Kenyon leapt to his feet. Whirling, he seized Bert by the throat and forced him back against the batteries which lined the side of the control room.

“So you’re against me as well?” he rasped, his face convulsed with passion.

Bert was glaring at him with protruding eyes, striving desperately to tear Kenyon’s hands away from his throat. He tried to shake his head, tried to speak, but all he could get out was a horrible, choking sound.

“Tried to kill me, did you?” grated Kenyon. “I suppose Zworge’s bought you, like he tried to buy me!”

Bert struggled frantically. With one last despairing effort he brought his knee up with vicious force, catching Kenyon full in the stomach. Kenyon doubled up, gasping in agony, and Bert tore himself free.

“Listen, sir—listen!” he croaked, one shaking hand outstretched as though to ward Kenyon off. “I didn’t know it was you—honest, I didn’t!”

“You saw me come aboard, didn’t you?” demanded Kenyon harshly.

“No, no; that’s just it, I didn’t!” panted Bert. “I was lying ’andcuffed in one of them compartments there. I was, honest!”

Kenyon stared at him and saw for the first time the handcuffs dangling from Bert’s wrist.

“Just what’s the idea?” he rasped.

“Stop the Mole!” panted Bert. “Stop ’er, sir, and I’ll tell you!”

Kenyon wheeled. Two strides took him to the control switch. He cut out the motors, and in the deathly stillness which followed, he turned to Bert.

“Well?” he said grimly.

“It was like this ’ere, sir,” said Bert, tenderly massaging his throat. “I was kidnapped by Zworge and ’is gang. Yessir, it’s a fact. Last night it was, when I was ’aving a bit of a walk before turning in. They jumped out of a car, bashed me over the head, and the next thing I knew was that I was in that perishin’ house of his.”

“But why the dickens did Zworge kidnap you?” demanded Kenyon staring.

“To fix his oxygen plant for ’im, sir,” explained Bert. “They knew I ’elped you build that first experimental model what you made, and they knew I could fix the oxygen cylinders for them!”

“Yes, and what happened?” asked Kenyon.

“Why, nothing ’appened, sir,” replied Bert. “Leastways, not much. I told Zworge and the whole lot of ’em to go to blazes. Zworge said he’d deal with me later, and they ’andcuffed me and slung me aboard the Mole ’ere.”

“And you’ve been here ever since?” demanded Kenyon.

“Yessir. I was aboard when they raided the Tower. I couldn’t see anything, but I ’eard them talking, and I knew what they was up to.”

“And when you saw me sitting at the controls just now you thought I was one of Zworge’s gang?”

“I thought you was Zworge ’imself, sir. You don’t look unlike ’im, not from the back, you don’t!”

“Thanks for the compliment!” said Kenyon, with a grim smile. “I’m glad I only look like him from the back. Do you know the result of my trial, Bert?”

“Yes; you got twenty years’ penal servitude,” said Bert. “I ’eard them saying so when they was working inside the Mole to-night.”

“Yes, twenty years,” nodded Kenyon. “I’m now an escaped convict, Bert, so I’m going to take the Mole to the surface, drop you out, and you’re going straight home!”

“Oh, am I?” said Bert sharply. “And what might you be going to do, sir?”

“Me?” said Kenyon, his hands clenching. “I’m not going to rest until I’ve rounded up Zworge and his gang and proved to the world that I was absolutely innocent of the charges brought against me.”

“And I’m with you, sir!” said Bert heartily. “We’ll fix that bunch of crooks, somehow——”

“There’s no ‘we’ about it!” cut in Kenyon. “Why, man, don’t you realise I’m an escaped convict? You’ll go to prison as well as me, if we’re caught. I’ve not only got Zworge after me. I’ve got the police chasing me, as well!”

“The more the merrier, sir,” grinned Bert. “You can’t get rid of me, no matter ’ow ’ard you try. No, guv’nor, I’m the one man what’s always believed in you, and the worse you’re up against it, the closer I’ll stick to you!”

Kenyon stepped forward and took him by the shoulder.

“You’re a good chap, Bert,” he said softly, “and you know how I feel about it. Right-ho, we’ll fight Zworge together. Now let me file that handcuff off, then we’ll take the Mole up and get our bearings. Do you happen to know where that house of Zworge’s is situated?”

“No, guv’nor, I don’t,” replied Bert, as Kenyon got busy with a file. “It was a closed car that they used to take me there in. I couldn’t see anything. But I’ll tell you this, that house is a proper fortress!”

“What d’you mean?” demanded Kenyon.

“I mean, the walls, as well as the shutters and the doors, are all made of steel,” said Bert. “You wouldn’t think so to look at ’em, but they are. The house is disguised to look rickety and tumbledown, but it could stand a siege, that house could.”

“Well, we’ll go up and see just whereabouts it lies,” said Kenyon, as the filed manacles fell from Bert’s wrist.

Reseating himself at the controls of the Black Mole, he switched on the motors and pulled the lever which controlled the gyro-balance. Bert, standing beside him, felt the floor tilting as the earth crawler bored its way upwards to the surface.

“I’ve not the slightest idea where we are,” said Kenyon grimly. “I hope to goodness we don’t come out under somebody’s house, or in the middle of a village street, or somewhere like that!”

The depth gauge was registering less than ten feet, and a moment later the black, whirling, conical nose of the earth crawler burst up through the ground.

page 39]

“GOSH, THAT ONE NEARLY HAD US.”