The Phantom Hollow, page 7
part #1 of Trevor Lowe Series
‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Shadgold, jumping up from his chair excitedly. ‘I remember the case well. He got away with a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds, which he chucked in the Thames before he was arrested. But if he’s in Broadmoor, how the deuce did his fingerprint get here?’
‘If you’ll let me finish, you’ll see,’ said Lowe. He continued reading: ‘Luckman escaped from Broadmoor three weeks ago, and is still at large. We shall be glad to have any information that may supply a clue to his whereabouts.’ Lowe folded the report and put it in his pocket, looking across at the Scotland Yard man in silence. ‘I think this helps us take a step forward,’ he said, at length. ‘At least we know who we’ve got to look for.’
‘Joseph Luckman,’ Shadgold breathed softly. ‘The insane murderer.’
‘Not so insane as they made out,’ retorted Lowe. ‘I was intensely interested in the case, and through a friend on the Press I managed to get a ticket for the Old Bailey. If ever a man ought to have been hanged, Luckman was that man. The murder was a particularly brutal one; the watchman was scarcely recognisable when they found him. Of course, Luckman had a kink — but then, so have all criminals. But insane, as the average person understands the word, he was not. He was merely abnormal.’
‘Insane or not, he appears to be loose somewhere in this district,’ said Shadgold, ‘and we’ve got to find him.’
Chapter Nine – The Men in the Night
The man who was watching from the shadow of the wood moved his cramped limbs and stifled a yawn. The vigil had been a long one. For over two hours he had lain concealed among the thick undergrowth with his piercing little black eyes fixed on the lighted windows of Monk’s Lodge.
Presently he saw the window of the sitting-room darken, and after a little while lights appeared in two of the upstairs rooms. These, too, went out after an interval, and the cottage became wrapped in darkness. But the watcher still remained where he was.
Another hour dragged slowly by, and then he cautiously wriggled his way from the screen of foliage that had covered him and rose stealthily to his feet. The mournful hoot of an owl broke the silence of the night, and so skilful was the imitation that it was scarcely possible to believe that it had emanated from the stranger’s bearded lips.
Twice he repeated the call, and then waited in silence, listening intently. The faint sound of rustling leaves and crunching twigs reached his ears after several minutes, and his eyes, which had grown accustomed to the darkness, made out the faint blot of shadow that indicated the figure of his approaching companion. The man who had driven the car from Friar’s Vale to Monk’s Lodge on the day that Lowe arrived from London drew level with the other, and laid down a bulky parcel he was carrying with a sigh of relief.
‘That’s heavy,’ he whispered. ‘I was beginning to think that we should have to wait all night. Everything O.K.?’
The bearded man nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, speaking in the same low tone. ‘They’re all gone to bed, and I’ve given them an hour to get thoroughly asleep. Bring that stuff and follow me, and be as quiet as you can.’
‘Which is the room?’ breathed the other as he stooped to pick up his parcel.
‘I’ll tell you when we get to the cottage,’ was the reply. ‘Keep close to the hedge, and don’t show yourself in the open. Once we’re under the walls of the place itself, we’re pretty safe. I don’t suppose there’s anybody awake, but I don’t want to take any chances.’
They crept forward through the darkness, and, emerging from the wood, skirted the straggling hedge that bordered the garden of Monk’s Lodge. At the foot of the south wall of the cottage they stopped, and the man with the beard unwrapped a coil of some flexible material which he had worn wound around his waist underneath his coat. He handed the end of this to his companion without a word. While the other was engaged in fixing it to a long, narrow, oblong object that formed part of the parcel he had been carrying, the bearded man proceeded to fit together the joints of a long fishing rod. No word was uttered while they completed their preparations. The other end of the flexible tubing was fastened through a screw-ring at the top of the fishing rod. Slowly the rod, with the trailing rubber tubing attached, was raised until it was level with the windowsill above them. The window was half-open; and as the rod was pushed another six inches, the projecting end of the rubber pipe protruded into the room beyond.
The bearded man signalled to his companion, and a second later the stillness of the night was broken by a faint hissing sound. For nearly half an hour they remained motionless, the bearded man holding the fishing rod and his companion gently turning the stop-cock of the gas cylinder as the pressure decreased.
‘I think that’ll do now,’ whispered the man with the beard, and he began cautiously to lower the rod.
The rubber tubing was removed, and its place taken by the hooks of a rope ladder. When these had been lodged firmly on the windowsill and the ladder tested, the bearded man fastened a respirator over his mouth and began to ascend the frail, swaying structure. Gently raising the window to its fullest extent, he climbed into the room. The sound of heavy breathing reached his ears; and, tiptoeing across to the bed, he bent down over the recumbent figure lying there. For perhaps half a minute he remained thus; then, apparently satisfied, he took an electric torch from his pocket and pressed the button. The light that came from it was very dim, for over the lens at the top had been stuck a piece of tissue paper, but it was sufficient for his purpose. Directing it full on the upturned face of Trevor Lowe, he raised the dramatist’s eyelids. There was no sign of movement. The gas had obviously done its work. Replacing the torch in his pocket, he jerked back the bed-clothes and, picking up the unconscious figure of the dramatist, carried him to the window. Hoisting him over the sill, he dropped him into the arms of his waiting companion, and swiftly descended the ladder. A sharp jerk freed the hooks, and rolling it up, he stuffed it into his pocket.
Swiftly and noiselessly the fishing rod was taken to pieces and packed up together with the rubber tubing and the gas cylinder. Leaving his companion to look after the parcel, the bearded man swung the limp form of the unconscious dramatist across his shoulders fireman-fashion. They retraced their steps, and presently in the centre of the wood the bearded man put down his burden and wiped his streaming face.
‘Very neatly done,’ he whispered breathlessly. ‘Hide all that stuff somewhere while I bind him.’ He secured Lowe’s wrists and ankles with a thin cord while the other man deposited the empty gas cylinder and the rest of the paraphernalia in the midst of a dense thicket.
‘Now give me a hand,’ said the man with the beard, ‘and we’ll finish the job. We shan’t have anything to fear from Mr. Trevor-confounded-Lowe after tonight!’
They picked up the dramatist between them and set off in the direction of the river. Once, as they were nearing their destination, the man who had driven the car raised his head sharply and stopped. ‘Did you hear anything?’ he asked.
The other man strained his ears, but the night was perfectly still and silent. ‘No; what was it?’ muttered the other. ‘I can’t hear a sound.’
‘I thought I heard something moving behind us,’ replied his companion.
‘Must have been a rabbit,’ grunted the bearded man. He stopped and listened, all the same, for nearly half a minute before they continued their stumbling progress down the rough slope towards the river. Reaching the waterside, they paused.
‘Now then, in with him!’ said the bearded man harshly.
They gave the motionless form between them a forward heave and let go. There was a second’s silence, and then a loud splash from the dark waters below.
‘Come on!’ murmured the bearded man, grasping the other by the arm. ‘Let’s get away!’
Without a backward glance, they took to their heels and disappeared into the blackness of the night.
*
With a deep and rhythmical throb of its high-powered engine, the big car turned slowly into the dark and deserted High Street of Dryseley, the blazing headlights throwing a penetrating white beam.
‘Can’t miss it, sir, if you keep on,’ directed the policeman with a friendly salute as he stepped back to the pavement.
‘Thanks,’ replied White. With a smile and a nod at the obliging constable, he dexterously swung the car round and pressed his foot on the accelerator. The throbbing purr developed into a throaty roar, and the Rolls went smoothly forward into the blackness of the night.
He was feeling a trifle fed up, for when he had started from London that afternoon he had calculated on reaching his destination somewhere round ten o’clock. A breakdown on the road, however, had caused a long delay at Yeovil while it was being put right, with the result that it was now considerably after two. He had not the faintest idea of the exact location of Monk’s Lodge, and had stopped at Dryseley to ask the policeman on night duty his way.
He slowed to take a bend, and then once more let the car have its head. Almost before he realised it, he found himself shooting past a collection of squat cottages, scattered and straggling.
‘This must be Friar’s Vale,’ he muttered, and a little further on he came to a fork where two roads branched away to left and right.
White applied the brakes, and brought the car almost to a standstill. ‘Now which of these goes to Monk’s Lodge?’ he said to himself. Getting out of the driver’s seat, he went in search of a signpost. But if there had ever been such a thing, it was not there now.
‘I suppose I shall have to risk it,’ he thought disgustedly. ‘I bet whichever road I take, it will be the wrong one!’
He was turning to walk back to the car when he saw a dim light among the trees to his left. It came from the downstairs window of a small cottage two or three hundred yards further on.
White took his place again behind the wheel and sent the car moving slowly forward towards the light. As it was in one of the lower rooms, it appeared to indicate that there was somebody still up, and there would be no harm in knocking and making sure of his direction.
Leaving the engine still running, he once more got out of the car, and, opening a little rustic gate, went up to the door and knocked gently. He heard the squeak of a chair pushed back, and then silence. Just as he was on the point of knocking again, however, there came a shuffling sound from within. A bolt was shot back with a rattle, and the door jerked open.
‘Put up your hands!’ said a voice grimly, and White found himself looking into a muzzle of a revolver. It was held by a tall man in his shirt-sleeves, whose silver hair gleamed in the light that streamed through an open door behind him.
‘Put that thing away — it’s all right,’ said White hastily.
At the sound of his voice, the man lowered the weapon and peered at him closely. ‘What do you want?’ he irritably demanded.
White explained, and immediately the other’s manner changed. ‘I must apologise for my reception,’ he said, smiling; ‘only I’ve had burglars here recently, and therefore I was a little apprehensive of visitors at this hour. If you continue straight up this road, you’ll come to a lane on your right. It’s a little over three miles from here. You can’t possibly miss it.’
‘Thanks very much,’ said White.
‘Not at all — not at all!’ said the man with a smile. ‘I know them all up at Monk’s Lodge quite well. My name is Wyse. I’m only too glad to have been able to help you. By the way, I’m afraid the lane is too narrow for a car. It’s really only a footpath.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s much traffic along this road,’ said White, ‘so if I leave the car close up by the side, will it be all right until the morning?’
Mr. Wyse nodded. ‘I should think, quite,’ he replied. Shaking White warmly by the hand as he took his leave, he stood watching him until the car had moved away.
White had no difficulty in finding the lane, and one glance assured him that Mr. Wyse had not exaggerated when he had expressed his belief that it was too narrow for a car. It was barely four feet wide, and the thick hedges on either side almost met in places. He left the car close in by the edge of the road, taking the precaution to leave the rear and side lights burning, and set off up the lane to Monk’s Lodge.
The sky was a bit cloudy, but every now and again there was sufficient light from the moon to enable him to see ahead. After he had been walking for a little while, he caught a glimpse of the cottage through a thin belt of trees. ‘Nearly there,’ he muttered with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘Hope there’s something to eat in the house. I’m starving!’
The geography of the lane had changed. The unkempt hedgerow still bordered it on the right-hand side, but to the left the ground sloped away to a dense wooded fastness that was impenetrable, in this light, from the roadway. The winding path was pretty steep here, and White paused for a moment to remove a stone that had slipped inside his shoe. As he straightened up from performing this task, he thought he saw a movement on the fringe of the wood at the bottom of the slope. He looked more closely, and just then the moon shone for a fitful second before being again obliterated by the passing clouds. But that second had been sufficient to enable him to see vaguely what it was that had attracted his attention: two figures were on the point of entering the wood, carrying something between them. White was determined to find out what they were doing at that hour and what it was they were carrying. There was something so furtive about their movements that he was convinced they were up to no good.
He slipped down the slope towards the dark mass of trees, making his way rapidly but noiselessly towards the point where the men had been swallowed up in the darkness. Once he nearly gave himself away: his foot caught a stone and nearly sent him sprawling. He could hear the men he was following now making their way through the wood, and presently as the trees began to thin out he caught his second glimpse of them. They had come to a halt; and as White dodged behind a tree, watching them, he heard from somewhere ahead the faint lap-lap of water. There was a pause, broken by a murmuring of voices, and then a dull, heavy splash. The next moment the two men were hurrying away as fast as they could go, but they were no longer carrying their burden.
His heart throbbing with excitement, White left his hiding-place and ran down to the water’s edge. The dark, swirling surface of the river looked cold and repellent as he peered in to see if he could catch a glimpse of the thing they had thrown in. And then he saw it!
Drifting out into mid-stream was a dark form almost completely submerged but for the dim white face. Without hesitation White ripped off his jacket and, taking a deep breath, dived cleanly, entering the water with scarcely a sound. A few strokes and he was beside that vague white thing that was even then disappearing beneath the surface.
Grasping the figure under the arms, he swam back to the bank and, scrambling out of the water, dragged the limp form onto dry land. Only then did he see who it was he had rescued, for the face that looked up at him was that of Trevor Lowe!
Chapter Ten – The Man in the Post Office
Except for a slight headache due to the after-effects of the gas, Trevor Lowe felt little the worse on the following morning for his submersion in the river. This was due entirely to White’s drastic measures, for as soon as he had succeeded in bringing the dramatist back to consciousness, he had hurried him with all speed to Monk’s Lodge; and, with the assistance of Shadgold and the others, who were hastily awakened, Lowe had been put to bed with a large dose of hot whisky.
The inquest on Ogden had been fixed for that morning, and after a hasty breakfast the four of them set out for Friar’s Vale, leaving White in charge of the cottage. They reached the school-room where the inquiry was being held with a minute to spare.
The entire population of Friar’s Vale, with a fair number of people from Dryseley, seemed to have turned up for the occasion, for the small room was packed; but if these spectators had come in the hope of hearing any sensational developments, they were disappointed, as the proceedings were of the briefest.
The coroner took Dr. McGuire’s evidence regarding the cause of death, and Trevor Lowe gave an account of how the discovery of the body had been made. This was confirmed by Jack and Tony. Then Inspector Jesson, acting on Shadgold’s instructions, applied for and was granted a fortnight’s adjournment.
Mr. Wyse, who had been present at the proceedings, tried to buttonhole Lowe as he left the building; but the playwright, who was anxious to get away, hurriedly excused himself. Leaving the grey-haired man chatting to Tony and Jack, he took Shadgold to one side.
‘I’m going over to Dryseley,’ he said. ‘There are one or two inquiries that I want to make over there. I don’t suppose I shall be very long.’
‘Do you want me to come with you?’
Lowe shook his head. ‘No, it isn’t necessary.’
‘Well, be careful,’ said Shadgold. ‘Don’t forget, there have already been two attempts made on your life. These people, whoever they are, aren’t likely to stop at that. The third may be more successful.’
‘They rather took me by surprise last night,’ replied the dramatist. ‘I must admit that I wasn’t prepared for the gas arrangement, but they won’t do it again. I shall be on guard in future.’ He left Shadgold with a nod of farewell, and set off towards Dryseley.
The offices of the late Mr. William P. Ogden, which were his objective, were situated in the narrow High Street. Upon entering, Lowe handed his card to the office-boy who came to inquire his business.
‘I should like to see whoever is in charge,’ he said.
‘You mean Mr. Wishart, sir?’ asked the boy brightly, and Lowe nodded. The boy disappeared into an inner room, and after a few seconds’ delay returned.
‘Will you come this way, sir, please,’ he said, and Lowe was ushered into a shabby but comfortably furnished room and greeted by a smile from the youngish-looking man who was sitting behind a broad littered desk.
