Читать книгу Temple Tower - Herman Cyril McNeile - Страница 6

Table of Contents

I don't pretend for a moment, of course, that there was the slightest excuse to be offered for us. Manifestly the matter was no business of ours. If Mr. Granger chose to barricade his house with iron spikes it was his affair, and no one else's. Still I regret to say that there are people in this world who are as irresistibly drawn to a thick-ear atmosphere as a cat is to a saucer of milk. And Hugh Drummond was one of them, having been born that way.

In that way he differed from me: I only acquired the liking by force of his example. And I am bound to admit that had I been the one to see a red and blue light flashing on Romney Marsh, and realised that such a harmless, even peculiar phenomenon produced terror in the breast of my next-door neighbour, I should not have proceeded farther with the matter.

Wherefore the difference of our mental attitudes during lunch is easily understandable. Mine was principally concerned with our official position in the matter: his was entirely occupied with whether the thing was likely to produce some sport.

"My dear Peter," he said, as the waiter brought the coffee, "we haven't got any official position in the matter. So that's that, and there's no use worrying about it. But it is manifestly the duty of every law-abiding citizen to investigate such a strange pastime as flashing coloured lights on the Marsh. Maybe it is some new method of catching moths: maybe not. Anyway, we're darned well going to see."

"And the first move?" I asked.

"Is to call at Spragge's Farm," he answered. "We are not to know that his notice about rooms to let has been withdrawn. We will therefore, on the way back, present ourselves at the door, and you will ask if he can put you up. Say that you're suffering from nervous breakdown due to backing three winners in succession, and demand to see what accommodation he has to offer. Then say you'll let him know. We'll both keep our eyes skinned and perhaps we'll see something."

"Right ho!" I said resignedly. "As long as I'm not expected to stop at the bally place, I'll put up the palaver."

We paid the bill, and left the dining-room. Hugh's car was outside the hotel, a Bentley Sports model: and ten minutes later we had dropped down the hill to Sandgate and were running along by the sea towards Hythe.

"From now on, Peter," he said, "until we get actually to Rye itself the ground is dead flat. When we get out a bit farther you'll see the range of hills away to the right where my house stands."

It was a hot, lazy afternoon, and the heat haze shimmered over the country which stretched dry and parched on each side of the road. Even the usual breeze which one gets in the locality had died away, and the few cattle we saw were standing listlessly in what shade they could find. The disused red water cistern on Littlestone golf links dropped away behind us, and the Martello towers ceased as we turned away from the sea after New Romney.

"Dungeness away there to the left," said Hugh briefly. "And Lydd. Now we're on the Marsh proper."

The road was good but narrow, with a deep ditch on each side, and he pointed out the spot to me where a motor char-à-banc had skidded and overturned one night, pinning the occupants underneath it till they were drowned in six inches of water.

"These grass sides to the road get slippery at times," he explained. "And then you want to watch it."

At length he stopped the car and lit a cigarette.

"Now, Peter," he said, "we approach our destination. That place there in front of us is Rye. Cast your eyes two fingers right and you will see on the hill an imposing red-brick edifice. That is the house of Drummond. Straight in front of us you will see a smallish house in a clump of trees: that is Spragge's Farm. One finger to the right of my house, also on the hill, you perceive another house. That is our friend Granger's prison. Now you get the geography of the part that concerns us. And the great point, as you will notice, is that if, as I am tolerably certain, those lights were a warning of some sort, Spragge's Farm is as good a place as any on the Marsh for Granger to see them from."

"Correct," I agreed. "Now what am I really to say to Spragge?"

"Any darned thing you like," he laughed as we started once more. "It's only a preliminary reconnaissance, and we can't expect much luck."

It was fortunate we didn't, because we had none at all. The farm stood about a quarter of a mile from the road, and a rough drive—little more than a stony lane—led up to it. A gate barred the entrance, and leaning over it was a morose-looking individual smoking a pipe. He stared at us with scarcely veiled hostility as we pulled up, and made no effort to move.

"This is Spragge's Farm, isn't it?" said Hugh politely.

"It is," grunted the man without removing his pipe from his mouth.

"Do you know if Mr. Spragge is anywhere about?"

"I'm Mr. Spragge. What might you be wanting?"

Hugh's fingers began to drum on the steering wheel, and it wasn't difficult to tell exactly what he was wanting. But to clip a man over the jaw is not conducive to further conversation, and his voice remained studiously mild.

"I was told, Mr. Spragge," he said quietly, "that you had a room to let at your farm. My friend here is anxious for a place where he can finish—er—a book undisturbed. If your room is free he would like to see it."

The man removed his pipe, only apparently to enable him to spit with greater ease. Then he stared insolently from one to the other of us.

"You were told wrong," he grunted. "I've no room to let, and if I had I choose who I put up."

"Your choice must be fairly limited, I should imagine," remarked Hugh, "if this is a fair sample of your manners. Nice chatty little fellow, aren't you, Mr. Spragge?"

The man straightened himself up, and the veins on his forehead began to stand out like whipcord.

"Look here, you damned dude," he said thickly, "you get out of this before I lose my temper. I speaks how I like, and to whom I like. But unless you're out of this pretty quick, I'll pull you out of your car and little Pansy-face beside you as well."

Hugh laughed pleasantly.

"And why should I get out of this, Mr. Spragge? This road is as much mine as yours, and you've no idea what a pretty picture you make leaning against that gate. True, your face leaves much to be desired, and your clothes are deplorable, but the general picture—the tout ensemble—of the Englishman guarding his home is quite wonderful. Don't you agree, Peter?"

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, and saw the old, well-remembered look on his face. He was deliberately goading the man on, though for what purpose I couldn't quite make out. This man Spragge was a powerful-looking brute, and I failed to see any object in starting a rough house. And that was exactly what seemed imminent. With a flood of blasphemy the farmer flung open the gate, and slouched over to the car; and as he came Hugh opened the door and stepped into the road.

"You —— ——" snarled Spragge. "I've warned you once: now you can have it."

I almost laughed: how many men had said words to that effect in days gone by? And with the same result. Spragge shot out a fist like a leg of mutton, which encountered air, and the next instant he was lying flat on his back in the middle of the road, completely knocked out.

"Quick, Peter," said Hugh urgently. "Sling the blighter into the back of the car, and we'll take him to the farm. Heaven forbid, old man," he chuckled as the Bentley spun up the track, "that we should be so grossly inhuman as to leave this poor injured fellow lying in the road. His wife's tender care is essential, and—keep your eyes skinned. We might spot something."

We pulled up at the door, and almost immediately a woman appeared. She was a worthy helpmeet to Mr. Spragge; in fact, I have seldom seen a more forbidding looking pair. Tall and gaunt, with a thin saturnine face and bony hands, she looked an even more unpleasant customer than her husband. He was a powerful, foul-tempered brute: she looked the personification of evil.

"What has happened?" she asked harshly.

"Mrs. Spragge, I assume?" remarked Hugh politely. "I regret to state that your husband's jaw has encountered a hard substance, which has temporarily rendered him unconscious. So my friend and I, at great personal inconvenience, have brought him to the dear old homestead. Shall we bring him in?"

Spragge was already beginning to stir uneasily, so there was no time to be lost if we were to get inside the house.

"I don't understand," she said angrily. "What has happened to the fool?"

"Far be it from me, madam," murmured Hugh, "to cavil at the excellent description of your spouse. But he will doubtless tell you all about it when he is his own bright self again."

We had slung him out of the car and laid him on the grass, and as Hugh spoke I suddenly became aware of a noise that rose and fell regularly. It came from the inside of the house, and at that moment Hugh evidently heard it, too. He grinned faintly, and looked at the woman.

"How nice it is to have a little peaceful nap in the afternoon," he murmured. "But you should never take in a lodger that snores, Mrs. Spragge."

"Get out of this," came a thick voice from behind us. Spragge, who had come to, had raised himself on his elbow, and was glaring vindictively.

"Splendid," cried Hugh. "Our own bright boy again. A little arnica applied by mother, and the face will be as good as new. But tell me, who is the human fog-horn within?"

"Look here, mister," cried the woman shrilly, "you be off. This farm ain't no business of yours, and I'll thank you to get into your car and clear out."

"The ingratitude of woman," said Hugh resignedly. "After all I've done for poor Mr. Spragge, too. Well, Peter, never shall it be said that we stayed where we weren't wanted. We'll go. But do tell little Ferdinand when he wakes that he ought not to sleep on his back."

He swung the car round, and as we went down the drive I glanced back. The man had scrambled to his feet, and was standing by his wife. And the two of them stood there motionless watching us, until we turned out of the drive into the main road.

"Not much out of that, Peter, I'm afraid," said Hugh. "All that we have established is that the Spragges are a very unsavoury pair, and that they have a man who snores staying in the house. But whether the man who snores is the red and blue light merchant, or whether it is any of them, Heaven alone knows. And as far as I can see there is only one way to find out."

"Which is?" I asked.

"To go there by night," he answered. "That's when the activity is likely to occur. And I've somehow or other got a hunch that our musical sleeper is going to turn out to be very much in the picture. Let's go back to the house now, so that you can dump your kit: then we'll have dinner at the Dolphin in Rye, and do a bit of night work after. Jove! Peter, I'm beginning to feel quite young again."

"You'll be younger before you've finished," I said resignedly. "They tell me a few months in prison is a wonderful rejuvenator."

But he only grinned; in an affair of this sort he was beyond hope.

"Prison be blowed, old boy. We may be a pair of thugs, but we are young men from the Christian Association compared to this comic bunch. Besides, we can always retire from the contest if we want to."

At that it was my turn to grin: a lion can retire from its kill if it wants to. At any rate, time would show: up to date beyond putting Mr. Spragge to sleep we were blameless.

The Bentley swung to the left as we came to Rye, and we took the circular road around the hill on which the town is built.

"Up that cobbled road to the right, Peter," said Hugh when we had gone halfway round, "is the Dolphin Inn. A famed resort for smugglers in the old days, and an extraordinarily good pub now. On your left is the road to Hastings, but we go straight on up to the higher ground."

We crossed the railway line, and another three miles brought us to Hugh's house, where I dropped my baggage. As he said, the view over the Marsh was wonderful: it lay spread out in front of us like an aeroplane photograph.

"If you look through the telescope," he remarked, "you'll see it is focussed on Spragge's Farm."

I adjusted the eyepiece and found that I could make out every detail of the house. Almost could I see the handle on the front door, so powerful was the instrument. But though I kept my eye glued to it for fully five minutes I saw no sign of life. The place was deserted: presumably Mr. Spragge was dealing with the arnica, and the mysterious sleeper still snored.

"When you're ready, Peter," he said, after he had had a look himself, "we might stroll along past friend Granger's place. I'd like you to cast an eye on his preparations."

I was ready, and so we once more took the road. A short ten-minutes' walk brought us to our destination, and assuredly Hugh had not exaggerated when he called it a prison. The wall was about ten feet high, and constituted a fairly formidable obstacle in itself. But what made it practically impassable was the arrangement of steel spikes on the top. They faced in all directions: and each one was about two feet long. There was no gap anywhere: they continued over the massive wooden gates that formed the entrance. And by standing away from the wall I could see the top story of the house inside: every window was guarded with iron bars as Hugh had said.

"The gentleman certainly seems to resent intrusion," I remarked, and even as I spoke a small two-seater went past us and stopped outside the gates. A young man was driving it, and by his side was an extremely pretty girl. For a time they sat in the car looking somewhat dubiously at the prospect confronting them: then they both turned round and looked at us. And after a moment or two the man got out and came over to us.

He was a cheerful-looking youngster with a snub nose and freckles, and when he spoke he had a perfectly charming smile.

"Excuse me," he said, "but is either of you Mr. Granger?"

"Not guilty," remarked Hugh. "The gentleman you're after is inside the fortifications."

"I say," he went on a bit awkwardly, "you'll understand I don't want to be rude, or any tripe of that sort, but what kind of a bird is he?"

"Why do you ask?" said Hugh.

"Well—er—the lady with me has taken on a secretarial job with Mr. Granger. And dash it all, this bally place looks like an inebriates' home."

"It's not that as far as I know," said Hugh. "But frankly I shouldn't call it the sort of household that I'd like a girl I knew to go to."

"You hear that, Pat," he sung out. "This gentleman thinks the show is a dud."

The girl got out of the car and came and joined us. Though usually of an unobservant nature, I noticed that there was a ring on her engagement finger, and with the acumen of Sherlock Holmes I arrived at what turned out to be the correct solution.

"Can't help that, Freckles," she said calmly. "Dud or no dud, I've had fifty of the best out of the old bean and that's that."

"You could send the money back," he said doubtfully.

"Easily, little bright-eyes," she laughed, "if I had it to send. Unfortunately all that remains is twelve shillings and fourpence halfpenny."

"That's a bit of a snag," he admitted. "But look here, Pat, I don't like the smell of this place at all."

"Nor do I," she agreed frankly. "But what can I do?"

"Can you tell me anything about this gentleman, sir?"

He turned again to Hugh with a worried look on his face.

"Practically nothing, I'm afraid," said Hugh. "He came here some years ago, and had all these affairs erected round the house. He calls nowhere and sees no one, and the only other occupants of the house are a man and his wife."

"There is a woman there then. That's good."

The youngster looked vaguely relieved.

"But may I ask exactly how you came to hear of this job?" said Hugh to the girl.

"Quite easily," she smiled. "I had my name down at a bureau in London for secretarial work. Ten days ago I went in to find if anything was doing, and the woman who runs it offered me this. It might have been anybody else, only I happened to be the first. And the terms were so very good that I jumped at it. Five pounds a week, and fifty on account."

"Ten days ago," said Hugh thoughtfully, glancing at me, and it was clear what he was thinking. If this girl had only heard of it then the offer must have been made before the appearance of the lights on the Marsh.

"Have you any idea what your work is to be?" went on Hugh.

"Not the slightest," she answered. "Presumably an ordinary secretarial job."

Once again Hugh glanced at me: then he lit a cigarette.

"Well, as I told this gentleman," he remarked, "it's not the sort of house I'd choose for a rest cure. But I may be wrong: I've never been inside myself. Only there is one thing you ought to know."

And then very briefly he told her about the mysterious signals from Spragge's Farm. She listened in silence, but the result was a foregone conclusion. Her mind was made up, though Freckles did his best to dissuade her.

"Can't you possibly chuck it, Pat?" he said earnestly.

"How can I, you mutt?" laughed the girl. "I tell you I've spent the fifty quid."

"And I'm overdrawn," he muttered. "Hell!"

"Look here," began Hugh and I simultaneously.

The girl gave us both a delicious smile.

"Sweet of you both," she said. "I know just what you were going to say. But I couldn't dream of it. After all, this old bird can't eat me. I shall be all right, Tom: don't you worry."

"But I do worry," answered the youth. "So would anybody who saw what sort of a house it was."

"Go and press the bell, my pet," she said firmly. "It's little Patricia for the shore. Go on, you ass: we can't stand here in the road all day."

He went over reluctantly and did as he was told, and suddenly Hugh spoke.

"Look here, Miss——?"

"Verney," said the girl.

"Mine is Drummond: and this is Peter Darrell. What I was going to say was this. My house is the next one to this—about half a mile away towards Rye. Now everything may be quite O.K., but in case—only in case, mind you—it isn't, it will help you to know that we're near at hand. So one or other of us will make a point of being here between two and three each day. Of course it's quite on the cards that you'll be able to take a walk: in fact, if I were you I'd insist on it. Then if anything crops up you can come and tell us. But if by any chance he keeps you inside or makes you stop in the garden, and you want to get at us, just write a note, put it in an envelope with half a brick inside and bung it over the wall. You can spot the place—close by the gate, and we'll be here to get it."

"Thanks most awfully," said the girl gratefully, "though I'm quite certain it won't be necessary. Oh! my goodness, what an awful-looking man!"

The peephole in the gate had opened suddenly, and staring through it was the man who I placed at once as the pugilistic servant. He was certainly not a prepossessing sight as his narrow eyes took us in in turn, and the girl's exclamation was very natural. Suspicion was in every line of his face, and it was not until he saw Hugh that his expression cleared.

"This lady," said Hugh, "has come to do secretarial work for Mr. Granger. Presumably you are expecting her."

The man made no reply, but stared up and down the road. Then at last we heard an iron bar clang and the gate opened just sufficiently to let him through.

"Come quickly," he said in a harsh voice. "Mr. Granger expects you, but we had forgotten your coming."

"My trunk is in the car," said the girl. "Get it, please. Don't touch the typewriter. I will carry that myself."

"Pat, I don't like it." Freckles made one final, despairing attempt. "Can't you possibly get out of it?"

"I can't say that I like it very much myself, Tom," she said quietly, "but I'm going through with it for all that."

The man, with the trunk on his shoulder, stood in the open gateway beckoning to her urgently.

"So long, old son," she said with a smile. And then turning to Hugh she held out her hand. "Between two and three: I'll remember."

She took her machine out of the car, and the iron bar clanged to inside.

"Damn it," began Freckles, "she oughtn't to have gone. She——"

He paused suddenly, and at the same time I felt the flesh at the back of my scalp begin to tingle. For from inside the wall there came the deep-noted baying of a hound. It rose and fell, in a snarling roar of incredible ferocity: then as suddenly as it had begun it ceased, and only the faint noise of rattling bars could be heard.

I looked at the boy: he was as white as a sheet. And the next moment he had sprung forward and was pounding with his fists on the gate.

"Pat," he shouted, "Pat. Are you all right?"

Came her answer, faint and a little tremulous:

"It's all right. Tom. It's locked up."

For a while we stood there looking at one another, whilst the colour slowly came back to his cheeks.

"By Jove! that gave me a shock," he said at length. "I ought never to have let her take this filthy job," he added savagely.

On Hugh Drummond's face there appeared his habitual cheery smile.

"My dear fellow," he cried, "from the little I know of the adorable sex, the question, as they say in Parliament, did not arise. Miss Verney had determined to take the job, and that was that. Don't you worry: we'll look after her."

"I suppose you're right," said Freckles gloomily. "Anyway, I'm going to put up at the pub here till I'm certain she's all right."

For a moment Hugh hesitated, and I could see he was summing the boy up.

"Look here," he said after a while, "don't bother about a pub. Come and put up with me."

"Do you really mean it?" he stared at Hugh doubtfully. "I mean—dash it—you hardly know me. You don't even know my name."

"I'll trust you not to steal the spoons," laughed Hugh. "But it would be an advantage to know your name."

"Scott," said Freckles. "Tom Scott. And it's really most awfully good of you. I'd love to stay with you if you don't mind."

"Shouldn't have asked you if I did," said Hugh. "Let's get into that bus of yours and push back to the house."

"It may take a bit of time to start her," said the proud owner. "I picked her up cheap."

At the end of five minutes his prophecy had proved correct. Acting under instructions, I had pulled out a wire and received a severe electric shock: Hugh had stamped on a button, causing a loud explosion and a discharge of grey smoke through the radiator. But finally she commenced to fire on at least two of the four cylinders and we started, the driver's face wreathed in a complacent smile.

"The steering is a bit dicky," he explained as we missed a milestone by an inch. "Wants knowing. Nearly took a tramcar coming over Vauxhall Bridge this morning."

"Do you mean to say," gasped Hugh, who was precariously clutching at the sides of the dickey, "that you drove this abom—this affair out of London?"

"Rather," said Freckles. "Why not?"

"To be left here," muttered Hugh feebly. "And for God's sake don't kill the cat. She has maternal duties to perform at the moment."

A frightful crash occurred in the bowels of the machine, and we came to a halt.

"When the brakes don't act, I put her into reverse," explained Freckles, and Hugh nodded weakly.

"I no longer have any fears for Miss Verney," he remarked. "Her perils at present are as nothing to driving out of London in this machine. However, young fellow, we'll have it pushed round to the garage and then we must have a little talk. Because there are one or two things you've got to get into your head."

He led the way into the house, and we followed him.

"I'll show you your room afterwards," he said to Scott. "But after that motor drive I want a nerve tonic. Help yourselves, you fellows: it's all on the sideboard."

We took our drinks outside and sat down.

"Now I suppose I'm right," began Hugh, "in assuming that you are responsible for the ring on Miss Verney's finger?"

"That's so," said Freckles with a grin. "We fixed it a month ago, but since neither of us has a bean the outlook is a bit grim."

"You've got plenty of time before you," laughed Hugh. "However, just at the moment we'll leave your matrimonial prospects. You heard what I said to your fiancée about those lights on the Marsh, didn't you?"

"Rather," cried the boy. "What's the game, do you think?"

"That," said Hugh, "is exactly what Darrell and I had decided to find out. We still propose to find out, but now you and Miss Verney have come into the picture."

"I wish to heaven she hadn't," said Scott gloomily.

"If she hadn't you wouldn't have, either," remarked Hugh. "And we shouldn't be sitting here drinking a whisky-and-soda and having this talk. But she did and there's no more to be said about it. Now let me say at once that I do not believe she is in any danger, so you can set your mind at rest over that. But I do believe that she's in a house where some pretty funny doings are going to happen in the near future. It's obvious that her boss is terrified to death of something, though what that something is we know no more than you. But we propose to have a dip at finding out to-night."

"How?" cried Scott eagerly.

"I don't know whether you heard me mention Spragge's Farm. If you look through that telescope you'll find that it is focussed on it. And that is the house from which the lights have come. It therefore looks as if there was a connection between it and Mr. Granger's terror, which has only arisen since the signal was given. This afternoon Peter and I, by a little subterfuge, got as far as the front door, but we couldn't get any farther. However, it was enough to prove that there is someone else in the house besides Spragge and his wife, because we heard the blighter snoring. To-night we propose to investigate again, and you can come, too, if you like."

"If I like?" cried Freckles joyfully. "Lead me to it."

"But on one condition," said Hugh quietly. "There seems to me to be every prospect of a bit of fun, and fun is too hard to come by to run any risk of having it spoiled. If you come in with us, Scott, you have got to do as you are told. No fancy tricks of your own or anything of that sort—do you get me?"

"Absolutely," answered the other. "I'll do just what you say."

"Good," said Hugh. "Now come here, and let me feel your muscle. Not too bad. Got it cranking that infernal contrivance of yours, I suppose. Anyway, don't forget the golden rule—if you've got to hit, hit first."

"I say, you really are a priceless pair," said Freckles ecstatically.

"We may get a bit of sport," said Hugh casually, and then his eyes narrowed suddenly. "Isn't that a car, at the turn-off to Spragge's Farm?"

He went to the telescope and focussed it.

"A big yellow one, Peter," he said. "There's a woman in the driver's seat with a man beside her. And leaning over the gate talking to them is our Mr. Spragge himself unless I'm much mistaken. Now I wonder if they've got anything to do with it. Hullo! they are turning round, and going back towards Rye. Going like hell into the bargain. Come on, let's hit the Bentley. We might spot something."

"A Bentley," sighed Freckles. "Indeed and in truth the Lord is good. And incidentally, Drummond, if it's any good to you at any time, I'm used to driving the breed."

"Good," said Hugh. "It may come in handy."

We fell into the car, and he let her out. He drove, as he did everything else, magnificently, and in four minutes we struck the top of the hill leading down to Rye. Now as I say, Hugh had trodden on the juice, and yet roaring up the hill towards us was a big yellow car driven by a woman with a man sitting beside her. And another in the back seat. I had a fleeting glimpse of a beautiful, rather scornful face bending over the wheel, and a man with a small pointed beard sitting beside her; then they had flashed past.

"See which way they go, Peter," sang out Hugh, braking hard.

"They've turned off towards your house," I said.

"And towards Granger's," he answered, swinging into the entrance of a house to turn. "By George! they must have travelled."

"An Isotto straight twelve," remarked Freckles casually. "But you've got the legs of them in this. Oh! if Mother only knew what her baby boy was doing instead of sitting in Prodom and Peanut's office, the old girl would pass right out."

"You are a reprehensible young devil," chuckled Hugh as we started up the hill again. "But the girl at the wheel, Peter, was undoubtedly a pippin of the first order."

And as from a great distance I heard the voices of two adorable ladies in the Hermitage at Le Touquet wondering how the dear lambs were enjoying their golf.

We swung past the entrance to Hugh's house, and then he slackened speed a little.

"No good looking as if we were racing them," he said. "And if they've got anything to do with it——By Jove! Peter, they have."

The yellow car had stopped at the entrance to Granger's house. The occupants were still sitting in it, and were apparently studying the place. But as we passed they all three stared at us.

"Don't look round," said Hugh quietly. "Though I'm afraid we've committed a tactical bloomer. Do you think they spotted us as the car they met on the hill?"

"The chauffeur bloke at the back did," said Freckles.

"Damn!" said Hugh. "However, it is done now. We'll go back to Rye by another route. Now I wonder where that bunch come into the picture. In fact, I wonder the hell of a lot of things."