Lonely Road (26 page)

Eighteen bullets came into the room, not more than that, but in five seconds two of us were dying on the floor. I think the first shots missed. There was a low cry from Mollie as her brother threw her to the ground, and a sort of gasping as he spun around, tottering above her with the bullets pumping into him. Then as he fell they traversed; Stenning and I were down behind the table by that time, and Fedden went down with a bullet in the neck. The Superintendent was too
slow, and fell, shot cleanly through the heart. A shot ripped Norman’s sleeve, but he got down unhurt.

In the infinite, stunned silence when the firing stopped, I remember Stenning said:

“Get these damned lights out!” But the switches were high up upon the wall, and nobody was fool enough to stand upright to turn them off. I crawled across towards Mollie, and as I went I saw Norman wriggle out through the service door into the kitchen quarters, and I saw Stenning creeping forward by the wall towards the broken window. I got to her and found her conscious on the floor, her eyes filled with pain. Her left shoulder was a mass of blood. “My dear,” I whispered, “is this all?”

She nodded slightly. “I do feel so sick.” She had gone very white. “But it’s all right. Please, see after Billy.”

I turned and bent over him without much hope, for I had seen men fall that way before. And while I was examining him the door moved open and the lights went out; Norman had come in from the back and thrust his hand through, well protected by the door.

The room was very dark. A little light came filtering through the shattered window, and a little breeze came into the room; outside, the wind was strong. Billy was dead. I laid the body down and crawled towards the other two. Fedden was unconscious and bleeding a good bit from the neck wound; I found the Superintendent dead.

A shadow darkened the window and I looked up in alarm, but it was Stenning getting out into the garden. In the hall I heard Norman’s voice upon the telephone, speaking quite quietly. “I want nine one, please—nine one. The police station. Will you hurry it? Yes.”

I could not but admire the courage of the man. He was audible all over the house, which was in complete darkness; he had pulled out the master switch. He could not have known what enemy was lurking within hearing; he sat there, tied to the telephone, a sitting shot for anyone who cared to shoot at him. In a minute I heard him speaking to the police
station. Crouching over Mollie in the darkness, I knew that help was on the way.

I got up and moved out of the door to him, saying as I went in the darkness: “It’s Stevenson. Ring up eight two. That’s Dr. Dixon. Tell him to come here, and have the fire brigade ambulance brought up.”

I heard him start that call and ran upstairs to get some shirts for bandages. And as I came down to the hall again someone else came from the dining-room. It was Stenning, and he said:

“I saw them go. There were two of them, carrying one gun, on the north lawn. They went down through the fuzzy to your bathing beach. They’ve gone right down. You can put the lights on now.”

Norman said quickly: “Which way is that? There’s landing for a boat?”

Outside, the wind howled dolefully; it was getting up in earnest. Stenning nodded. “You can get a boat in there, but it’s a rotten night for it.”

Norman hesitated for a moment. “Get down to the beginning of the path and watch they don’t come up again,” he said. “I’ll join you when we get the men up here.”

He moved away and suddenly the lights came on again. Stenning went out into the night. I went through into the dining-room and found Norman bending critically over Fedden. “Give me a pad here, quick,” he said. “Have a look at the girl.”

I stooped by Mollie and began to strip her shoulder. The bullet had gone through, breaking her shoulder-blade; it was a clean wound in front and torn and ragged at the back. I remember that I thanked my stars that it was not more serious, and wondered, as I put a pad on it, whether or not old Fedden would pull through. It would be terrible if he died, I thought.

Mollie was quite awake, and in some pain. I moved her as little as I could, but I could not help hurting her a good deal. And when I had finished she whispered: “Please, Commander Stevenson. Is Billy dead?”

I remember that I thanked my stars I had not got to tell her that. “My dear,” I said, “I’m afraid so.”

She said no more, but lay there crying quietly. I glanced across at Norman working over Fedden, and asked him if he wanted help. He said he was all right, and where were those infernal police? And so I sat there holding her uninjured hand among the ruins of my blood-soaked dining-room, wiping away the tears that trickled from her eyes and doing what I could to comfort her.

And presently the room was full of people standing over us, Dixon, alert and competent, with a fellow from the fire brigade, and very many police. “Have a look at Fedden first,” I said. “He’s bad.”

Then there were stretchers and a clearing of the room; Norman had gone and there was a policeman at the door. And after what seemed many ages Dixon came across to me and said: “I think he’ll do all right. Now for the young lady.” And he stooped over her, undoing all my pads with his deft hands and talking in his best professional manner—he made a quick inspection—“That’s not very bad,” in cheerful manner, and began bandaging again with proper things. Finally he gave her a morphia injection, and they got her on to a stretcher and went out to the car. I followed it, and saw it move away.

Dixon lingered for a moment before following in his own car. “Fedden is serious, I’m afraid,” he said. “I don’t say critical, but serious. The girl is not so bad.”

Freed from anxiety I felt the anger rising in me in a slow, cold tide. “This girl,” I said bluntly. “She’s all I’ve got. Ought I to stay near her?”

He looked at me curiously. “I don’t think she’s in any danger,” he remarked; “although, of course, there’ll be some pain. There will probably be a disability in some degree, more or less permanent. Why—are you thinking of going away?”

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I only know that two men have been murdered in my house to-night.”

He turned briskly to the door. “The girl should be all right
if things go normally,” he said. “I am more concerned for Fedden than for her.”

He went off in his car to follow up the ambulance, a fine, competent fellow and a man that one could trust. I turned back to the hall, and there was Norman with Stenning by his side, and a police official of some sort.

Stenning said: “They got away. They’ve got a vessel in the Range. They went out in a dinghy, sculling.” He said that a rift in the clouds had shown them that much from the top of the cliff.

Norman said grimly: “They’ve arrived a day before their time—and they were warned. That fellow Palmer has been wise to all that we’ve been doing here.” He turned. “I must get off. We’ll warn the ports all up and down the Channel. They can’t get away.”

“Don’t talk such nonsense,” I said angrily. “They can land anywhere they like. They aren’t in charge of the
Olympic.”

He turned on me. “What would you do, then?”

I laughed unpleasantly. “Me? I’m going for a sail in my tug.” Outside, the wind howled noisily around the house; it was rising to a full gale. “It’s a nice night for a pleasure trip,” I said sarcastically.

“You’ll never find them in the darkness, on a night like this,” he replied. “They may be anywhere at sea.”

“You bloody fool,” I said. “What wind is it?”

Stenning answered: “It’s about south-east.”

I went on: “They’re in a sailing vessel, possibly with an auxiliary. That’s all the evidence. Where can they go to get away from here? They can’t beat up against a gale like this. Even with an auxiliary they’ll not lie seven points from the wind. God, man, you know that!”

“That’s right,” said Stenning. “I see what you’re getting at.”

Norman looked from one to the other. “I don’t understand,” he said.

“Oh, come in here,” I said impatiently. I marched him into the model room and ripped a chart out of the drawer and laid it on the drawing-board. Then with pencil and parallel rule I
drew quick lines. “There’s the wind. There’s the most southerly course that he can lie, going east. He gets embayed with Portland—he can’t help but go ashore if he goes that way, somewhere near Bridport. You’d better watch the coast from here to Portland, just in case he’s a damn fool.”

I paused, and drew rapidly. “That’s the course that he can lie going west. He should be able just to scrape around the Start. Then he must bear up for the Lizard if he’s going to get away. He can lie to in the Irish Sea till this blows out, and then go where he wants.” I took a quick glance at the barograph, and at the isobar chart of the day before. “This wind may last for thirty hours or more. It’ll move into the south a point or two at dawn; he’ll have to keep close-hauled for the Lizard. He’ll have all that he can do to make it. You want to watch the coast from here down to Penzance.”

Norman said: “You mean that you’d go westwards in the tug?”

I packed the chart and barometric chart together, and put in a rule, a pencil and protractor. “I do,” I said. “He can no more change his road than if he had a motor-car. I shall come up on him some time in the forenoon within sight of the Eddystone.”

“I see,” said Norman thoughtfully. “What then? Can you board him?”

I shook my head. “Not in this sea,” I said. “He’s armed, too. I can only hang on to him, and trust you to get in touch with me before nightfall. I shall have a signal lamp, but no wireless.”

I turned to him. “Give me a sergeant and a constable. I think that I can find him and hang on to him, and I think you’ll find us to-morrow afternoon between the Lizard and the Start, a bit towards the Lizard. I’ll signal the Eddystone if I get near enough. Warn them.”

“All right,” he said at last. “I think you’d better go. Be careful, though. I’ll let you have a sergeant and a man.”

I turned to Stenning. “Will you come? I’ll want a hand from time to time, I fancy, on a night like this.”

There was no time to be lost. I went to the telephone and rang up the night watchman at the yard, and told him to go along and warn the tug’s engineer that we were putting out in half an hour. He was to rouse him at his house, and tell him to bring down what food he had; we should be out all night and the next day. Then I went up with Stenning to my room and changed into sea-going kit. Coming down I found my sergeant and his constable waiting in the hall; the sergeant was a stranger to me, but I had seen the constable about the town from time to time. Neither of them had any arms, and I did not think we would need any. Our only function could be to find our quarry and hold on, mark where he went.

Then to the larder to collect what food there was, and to the stables in the rainy bluster of the rising gale. It was about half-past one when we were in the Bentley on our way down to the yard.

It was a filthy night. I drove in a cold, numbed sort of way. I do not think I was particularly excited: I only remember a slowly growing anger that was turning to cold hatred of the people who had done this violence in my house. I was not especially sorry for the victims, that I can remember, for the Superintendent or for Billy or for Fedden. All these were in the game and subject to its chances. But as I drove down to the quay I think I knew that I was going to kill the people who had shot at Mollie, if God gave me strength.

The engineer was waiting for us at the tug; he had been quick enough. I swung out of the car upon the quay and turned to him. “Morning, Fleming. We’re putting out at once.” I turned to Stenning. “Tell him what it’s about, and get on board and get her started up.” Then to the policeman: “Give a hand, and get that stuff aboard.” And I went down into the little cuddy of the tug, and pinned the chart down on the table, and laid off our course to clear the Start.

Behind the bulkhead a great heave and rumble told me that the port engine was alive. I went on deck and forward to the wheel-house; as I passed the engine hatch I stopped and peered down. Stenning was there with Fleming, a lighted blow-lamp
in his hand; they were labouring to get the starboard engine under way. I went forward and uncast the lashing from the wheel and stripped the cover from the binnacle, lighted the binnacle light and saw that it was filled with oil. Then a low increase in the rumble told me that the starboard engine was alive; I rang Stand By and Stenning rang it back to me. Then he appeared on deck.

I leaned from the wheel-house. “Cast off your stern rope now,” I called; Stenning jumped aft and presently I heard him cry: “All gone!” The bow ropes were cast off and I rang Slow Ahead; the vessel stirred and slid quietly from the wharf into the main stream of the tide.

I worked her up to full speed as we went down the harbour, while Stenning and the police made all fast upon deck. I called up Stenning to the house and warned him to get everything secure and battened down, but Stenning knew as well as I did what we should find beyond the Range. He got her pretty well squared up, showed the police the cuddy and put them down there, and came up to the house with me.

For a summer gale it was a devil, that night. Out in the Range the wind was straight onshore, blowing the tops off the short waves and crashing them against the wheel-house as we steered. It was pitch dark and difficult to see more than the bows. I held on till we took one green over the bows and Stenning stirred beside me, but he didn’t speak. Then we took another rather worse; I put my hand down to the telegraph and rang Half Speed.

She took the sea more easily that way, and we went out to the open, rolling and pitching with a short, uneasy motion that was worse than anything I can remember in that way. She is rather an unusually short boat, with a good wide beam and little draught; in that heavy sea she got a screwing action on her every now and then that I would back to turn the strongest stomach up. Throughout that night and the next day we were all sick. The policemen were the worst; they lay for the majority of the time in coma in the cuddy, which got in a filthy state. Fleming stuck it like a man, coming up now and
then out of his engine-room to vomit on the sea-swept deck. Stenning and I stuck by the wheel and did our stuff, soaked to the skin and trembling with cold, out of the lee-side window of the house. The vessel was a wonder in a seaway; when we slowed down she hardly took a drop on board, but I have never sailed in anything that had a motion like she had.