Send for Paul Temple, page 20
She had recovered her former calm. Her little smile had returned to her face. She once again seemed to be mocking them as she spoke. But both Milton and Diana recognized her determination.
Again it was Diana Thornley who remained calm. Dr. Milton was watching the automatic and the menacing finger on its trigger.
For some second he stared at it with a fixed expression. Then he could stand the strain no longer.
“All right! All right!” he ejaculated, in a voice of abject terror. “Put that gun down . . . my God, it’ll go o f f ! Put—”
It was Diana Thornley who cut short his confession.
“Keep your mouth shut, you swine!” she suddenly exclaimed. “If you so much as breathe a—”
Suddenly, from the wall behind them, came a strange rustling noise.
“What’s that?” demanded Miss Parchment suddenly.
Dr. Milton had turned to Diana with a look of surprise. “It’s Horace!” he exclaimed.
The little innkeeper had been lying in the cupboard where he had been dragged by the doctor and Diana Thornley. It was clear that he was now recovering consciousness and sudden hope came to both Diana and the doctor.
“If we can get him to untie—” started Diana, expressing the feelings they both shared. She came to a sudden stop. The cupboard door was slowly opening, and, as it opened, Miss Parchment levelled her automatic towards it. “Look out, Horace!” Diana shrieked. “Look out!”
Simultaneously, Miss Parchment fired. The crack echoed and re-echoed through the room. The acrid smoke made the doctor cough.
They saw Horace Daley crawl through into the room and pick himself up. Miss Parchment had missed. The two watched each other closely. Miss Parchment was clearly a little nervous and uncertain what to do. On the other hand, although Horace Daley had recovered consciousness, he was still dazed and striving to understand the cause of the strange scene before him.
They were standing a yard or two apart, both motionless. Horace brought his hand to his forehead and rubbed it, as if in an effort to clear the daze in which he found himself. For some seconds the two stared at each other without speaking.
Then, quite suddenly, and without warning, Horace fell sideways on to Miss Parchment. At exactly the same moment, she fired. But she fired at the spot where the innkeeper had been an instant before.
Miss Parchment’s struggles were useless. In a moment or two Horace was in command of the situation. He pushed Miss Parchment away from him, and with a broad grin on his face, looked from one to the other.
Then turning round to Miss Parchment again, his face became grim and determined.
“I don’t know what the ‘ell you’re doing ‘ere!” he started. “But get in that cupboard! Get in that cupboard!”
Miss Parchment stood still.
“Mr. Daley,” she said, “I must ask you to—”
But the innkeeper did not intend discussing the situation.
“Get in that cupboard or—”
He stopped. Miss Parchment was paying not the slightest attention to him. He put the automatic down on the table and walked over to her. Then, gripping her arms from behind, he forced her across the room into the cupboard. She was powerless to resist. Once inside the cupboard, he turned the key so that escape was impossible. Then he walked back to the table, picked up the automatic again, and faced Diana and the doctor.
“Get this untied, Horace!” exclaimed Milton suddenly. “Quickly!”
But Horace Daley was still too dazed to listen to his plea. ‘”Strewth! My head!” he groaned, as he sank down into the chair Miss Parchment had recently occupied. “It’s like a blasted furnace!”
Neither Diana Thornley nor Dr. Milton were greatly anxious that Horace should fully recover his wits before their joint purpose was carried out.
“Horace!” It was Diana who now appealed to him in a tone that was part command, part wistful anxiety. “Untie this – quickly—”
The innkeeper laughed. Although confused, Horace nevertheless retained an unpleasantly clear memory of recent events. He had been glancing around the room, and it had not taken him very long to realize that the diamonds were no longer on the table.
‘”Ello!” he exclaimed. “Where’s the stuff?”
But Dr. Milton was far more anxious that he should be speedily released than that Horace should be given a full account of what had happened. “Horace!” he exclaimed. “For heaven’s sake don’t stand there! Get this rope untied. We must get out of here—”
“Quickly, Horace!” added Diana, with the same suave kindliness that she had used to persuade him to drink his glass of whisky.
“Listen, you two!” he burst out, “where’s the stuff?”
Dr. Milton made yet another appeal. “Cut the rope free, Horace, and then—”
“I’m asking – who’s got the stuff!” shouted Horace in a blind fury. “Who’s got the diamonds?”
“Horace!” exclaimed the doctor in a voice of despair. “We’ve got to get out of here . . . We’ve got to . . . No, don’t!”
The innkeeper’s patience had been exhausted. With a grip of iron, he had seized Milton’s wrist and was twisting his arm round, through the ropes which still bound him.
“Horace, for God’s sake!” he yelled.
“Now listen, Doc!” said Horace Daley, relaxing his hold for a moment. “If you don’t tell me where the stuff is, I’ll break every bone in your blasted body!” And, by way of emphasizing his words, he once again twisted the doctor’s arm.
“No! No!” Then, suddenly realizing that Horace very definitely meant business, the doctor nodded. “All right,” he gasped. He paused. “Temple’s got it. He left about ten minutes ago with the girl—”
In an instant the innkeeper had put the automatic in his pocket and was making for the door.
“Where are you going?” called out Diana in alarm.
“To get the stuff back!”
“You’ve got to untie us first!” begged Dr. Milton.
“That’s your guess, Doc!”
“Horace, listen!” began Diana in despair, “Temple’s after the K n a v e – he traced a telephone call – you’ve got to set us free! You’ve got to—”
“To hell with the Knave!” interrupted Horace briefly.
Diana Thornley had grown more and more alarmed. She was now pleading with him, begging him to release them. “You’ve got to get us out of here. . . . You’ve got to—”
“For heaven’s sake, Horace,” added Dr. Milton, “listen . . . we must . . .”
“Temple’s got the diamonds!” said Horace with satisfaction. “Right! That’s all I want to know!”
Ignoring their predicament, even rejoicing in it, Horace bowed sarcastically to Dr. Milton, kissed his hand equally sarcastically to Diana Thornley, and was gone. A few seconds later they heard his car accelerate.
“The dirty, double-crossing little swine!” began Dr. Milton furiously as he listened to the car driving off. “When I get out of here, I’ll—”
Another noise interrupted him. A hand banging on the door of the cupboard. Miss Parchment was struggling to be released.
“Let me out of here!” she shrieked. “Let me out of here! Let me out of here, I say!”
But Miss Parchment was perhaps a little too optimistic.
Chapter XXVI
Horace and the Bridge
“Steve . . . You haven’t told me what happened?”
They were now halfway on their journey to Bramley Lodge. Temple had kept the speedometer needle hovering between the fifty and sixty mark, which was as high a speed as most optimists would have claimed fit for the road. He was far too intent on his driving to devote much attention to conversation, but nevertheless this was the first time they had been able to compare experiences since Steve Trent had been captured.
“Well, there’s nothing much to tell, really,” Steve replied. “Early this morning, I received a telephone call which was supposed to be from the paper. It sounded quite genuine – but when I got outside the flat, I noticed a saloon car. It was drawn up close to the kerb. A girl got out of the car and came across to me. I forgot now what she said . . . but before I could do anything, a man came up from behind . . . took me by the arm . . . and well, the next thing I knew was that I was sitting in the back of the car. . . .”
“Well,” replied Paul Temple, “thank heaven Miss Parchment knew about ‘The First Penguin’.”
“Paul!” exclaimed Steve suddenly. “Who is Miss Parchment?”
“Her name is Bellman,” he replied. “Amelia Bellman. She’s the sister to the man who helped your brother over the Cape Town–Simonstown robberies.”
A look of bewilderment spread over Steve’s face.
“Sydney Bellman!” she cried. “But—he was murdered – by—Max Lorraine!”
“Yes,” replied Paul Temple quietly, “and from the very moment he was murdered, Miss Parchment made up her mind to track down the Knave. She knew quite a lot about the way Lorraine worked. In fact, if the Knave had known who Miss Parchment was, then, believe me, he wouldn’t have wasted his time on kidnapping Louise Harvey.”
“Does Miss Parchment know who the Knave really is?” inquired Steve, shutting her eyes as a car seemed to rush out of a side road at them, and opening them only a moment or two later after she felt their own car swerve to safety.
“No. No, she doesn’t. But I think she’s got a pretty shrewd idea. We raided ‘The Little General’ tonight, but the place was deserted.” He smiled. “Except for Miss Parchment!”
Steve showed her surprise. “What was she doing there?”
“Apparently she’d read somewhere or other that there was a passage between Ashdown House and ‘The Little General’.” Temple chuckled. “And she chose tonight, of all nights, to investigate the fact!”
“It’s perhaps a good job she did,” Steve replied seriously. “Or I might still have been at ‘The First Penguin’ – waiting for . . . Max Lorraine. . . .”
Paul Temple turned his head for a moment and looked at her, almost as if to reassure himself of her presence beside him. Then his eyes were back on the road again. They were travelling far too fast to take such chances.
“Steve,” he said earnestly, “you don’t know how glad I felt when I broke into that room and saw you there. All the way down to the inn I was . . .”
Steve interrupted him with a smile, the same quick, flashing smile that had won so many hearts. “Well, believe me, Paul, the relief wasn’t one-sided!”
For a few moments neither of them said anything. A winding stretch of road took up all Paul Temple’s attention, and Steve was giving herself up to a luxurious sense of ease and relief.
“It’s rather funny about Miss Parchment,” began Temple, as he straightened the wheel. “I guessed her identity after we’d visited Ashdown House. You remember I asked you the name of the man who assisted your brother in Cape T o w n . . . . At first, I had a feeling that Miss Parchment might have been his wife.”
“Does Sir Graham know about Miss Parchment?” Steve inquired.
“No, I don’t think so.” Temple began to laugh. “I’m afraid there are one or two surprises on hand for Sir Graham. And you’ll be one of them, Steve, unless I’m very much mistaken!”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, when I left ‘The Little General’, I told him I was taking Miss Parchment back to Bramley Lodge. He’ll get rather a shock to learn we’ve visited an outlandish inn known as ‘The First Penguin’, captured the doctor and Diana Thornley, recovered the proceeds of the Malvern robbery, and rescued you into the bargain!”
Steve smiled. “Yes, I suppose he will,” she said. She grew serious again. “Why didn’t you tell Sir Graham you were going with Miss Parchment to ‘The First Penguin’?”
“I don’t think that would have been too wise, Steve,” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.
Steve directed a puzzled glance at him. “Why do you say that?” she asked, laying a tiny hand on his arm.
“When Skid Tyler was murdered,” he explained, “it was in Sir Graham’s office at Scotland Yard. When Sir Graham and I devised a little plan about an imaginary ‘Trenchman’ diamond, the Knave got to know about it. When we decided to raid ‘The Little General’ tonight, the inn was deserted.”
“Paul!” exclaimed Steve suddenly. “You don’t think Sir Graham is . . . the Knave?”
“I don’t know who the Knave is, Steve, but I know that he has been to Bramley Lodge tonight, and when—” Temple broke off. “I say, that car’s coming up rather quick, isn’t it?” he asked abruptly, glancing into the driving mirror.
A car, which a few minutes ago had been a mere speck in the distance, was now rapidly overtaking them. Steve turned. The car was obviously being driven all out. From time to time, it seemed to slither wildly across the road. Suddenly Steve recognized it.
“Paul!” she exclaimed in alarm. “It’s one of the cars from the inn!”
“But . . . it can’t be—” There was amazement in Paul Temple’s voice.
“It is!” she exclaimed. “It’s the red one that—” She broke off. Nearer and nearer it came. Steve stared hard at the driver, suspecting who it must be, yet still unable to believe her senses. She leaned hard over the seat, in an effort to see the car more clearly. Suddenly she jumped back and turned to Paul Temple.
“Paul!” she shouted over the noise of the two cars. “It’s . . . Horace Daley!”
“Daley!” repeated Temple.
“He’s recognized us!” Steve was still watching him closely. Suddenly she saw him take his right hand off the steering wheel and move sideways to feel in his pocket. A second or two later she saw the reason.
“Paul! He’s got a gun!” shrieked Steve. “He’s—Look out, Paul! Look out!”
There was a crack, and a tiny hole appeared in the windscreen between them. The bullet had entered the back window and passed straight through the car. Horace Daley’s car was still some twenty yards behind them, and it was not easy for him to aim straight. Nevertheless, Steve again saw his hand reach out of the window. Before she had time to do anything, Horace had fired again. This time the bullet hit the back of the car.
Then he pulled back his arm and set out to overtake them. In a few seconds, only five or six yards separated them, and the red saloon had swung out in an attempt to pass.
But their own car had still ample power in reserve. Temple pressed his foot down hard on the accelerator, and with tremendous acceleration the car leapt forward. Soon they were a safe distance away.
“Steve, listen,” he said suddenly. “There’s a bridge round the next bend. As soon as we reach it, I’ll slow down and let him overtake us. Then we’ll force him over the top. It’s our only chance!”
“Yes!” answered Steve eagerly. “Yes, all right!”
“Wrap the rug round your head and keep down!”
Steve obeyed, but she still managed to peer over the top of the seat, to see what the innkeeper was doing.
“Look out!” she shouted suddenly.
Paul Temple ducked. The front seat was high-backed and not divided into two separate seats. They were both well protected. As he bent down, another shot rang out.
“It’s only the windscreen!” he shouted above the din made by the cars. “Keep down!” he added imperatively.
“Paul!” ejaculated Steve in alarm. She had seen the stripe of blood on his face. “You’re h u r t ! ”
“No . . . no, I’m all right!”
They were just reaching the bend. The needle of the speedometer fell as Temple released the accelerator, then crept up again as they shot round the corner, followed by Horace Daley.
Two hundred yards ahead was the bridge. Temple began to slow down and the big red car caught up with them. A second later, they were abreast. Steve could see the grim expression on Horace’s face. The automatic was still in his hand, but they were both travelling too fast for the revolver to be of any use.
Paul Temple kept a lead of a yard or two. Then gradually, on the bridge itself, he turned his wheel slightly to the right. The innkeeper turned too. An instant later it looked as if he would forge ahead.
It was exactly what Paul Temple wanted. He gave him another yard, then turned his car straight into the red saloon.
“Hold on, Steve!” he shouted. An instant later there was a rending crash as the two cars met. Horace turned his wheel to escape, but it was too late. The impetus from Paul Temple’s had succeeded. Over towards the parapet the two cars slithered, locked together.
Suddenly there was a second crash. The red car had hit the parapet. The stonework crumbled to pieces as the car ploughed through it. The red car tore itself free from the bumper and the off front mudguard of Paul Temple’s car, and plunged into the river below.
As it fell, they saw Horace Daley pitched through the open sunshine roof.
Paul Temple had been braking hard. Nevertheless, his car followed Daley’s through the parapet, and came to rest with the front wheels hanging over the river. The sudden jolt threw them both out of their seats.
“Steve!” Temple was the first to speak. “Are you all right?”
“Yes!” she replied breathlessly. “Yes . . . Yes . . . I’m all right!” Then she grew alarmed again. “Paul! You’re hurt!”
“No! No!” he repeated. “It’s nothing.” He drew his hand over his face and looked at the blood on it. “It’s only a scratch. I say,” he added suddenly, “we’d better get out of here. The car’s half over the bridge!”
On his side it was not possible to open the door. But Steve managed to raise the handle and push the door outwards. Then she clambered out, helped by Paul Temple, who had slid along the seat behind her.
Temple took her by the arm and together they walked round the car to the parapet, and peered over to the river below. They could see the roof of the car just above the surface of the water. It had fallen towards the side. Near the water’s edge, lying on the ground, they caught sight of the prostrate form of Horace Daley.
They hurried across the bridge and began to clamber down the steep bushy slope to the level of the river. It was not easy going. The ground was wet, and thick bracken impeded their progress. Steve, especially, found it difficult. At last, Paul Temple turned to her, and without a word, picked her up in his arms and proceeded to carry her down. She succeeded in extracting a handkerchief from Temple’s breast pocket and wiped the blood that had gathered on his face.
