A policeman swung over the railings and began to follow him. The tension was almost unbearable. The policeman moved more slowly, and hung on more carefully; obviously he had gone to make sure that the swarthy man could not double back on his tracks.
Forty yards, now. . . .
The swarthy man slipped!
Every moment Palfrey had been waiting for it, but now that it had happened, it was with a sense of shock. One moment the man was there; the next, he was falling without a sound into the stillness of the gorge, into the waiting waters below.
No one moved or spoke. Every eye followed the falling body of the swarthy man. He disappeared. There was no sound to indicate when he had hit the water or the road below.
There was complete silence.
A short, sharp blast on a car-horn broke it absurdly. The man who had sounded the horn looked sheepish; but the tension had snapped. Men moved about. Some went to the aid of the policeman under the bridge. Palfrey, feeling cold and damp with perspiration, lit a cigarette and went back to the commandeered car. An inspector in uniform came up.
‘You’d better get back and have a rest, sir.’
‘Rest!’ echoed Palfrey. He laughed mirthlessly. Of course, you’re right. But I shan’t rest until I know whom they found in that launch.’
‘Better get below then, sir; they’ll be able to tell you there. Or, better still, go to the police station; the latest reports will be in.’
‘Thanks. I will,’ said Palfrey. He got into the car next to the eager driver, who was silent and glum after the tension. Perry climbed in the back.
They reached the police station, and the driver gave his name and address and then drove off. Palfrey walked wearily into the station, and was received by a man in plain clothes who introduced himself as Superintendent Cox. He was a breezy man, eager to do everything he could to help. No, they had not yet got the name of the man who had been picked out of the river, but they knew he had been slightly wounded in the leg but would be well enough to be brought to the police station after treatment at the hospital. He would not be long. No results had yet come in about the chase on the other side of the bridge. Some of the men might have got away.
‘Some?’ asked Palfrey.
‘There were five in all.’
Palfrey telephoned the Grand Hotel, and was not surprised when Drusilla answered almost as soon as he had given her room number.
‘Much action, but all safe,’ Palfrey said,
He thought Drusilla caught her breath. All she asked was: ‘Are you coming back soon?’
‘In about an hour, I expect,’ said Palfrey. ‘Excitement is over for the night, and you can both relax.’
‘I see,’ said Drusilla, and then Palfrey heard Susan Lee’s voice asking whether there was any news of Kyle. ‘I’ll telephone you as soon as I’ve got any news at all,’ said Palfrey. As he spoke, the door opened and the inspector who had been on duty at the theatre came in. ‘Just a moment,’ said Palfrey, and looked eagerly at the inspector, who obviously had news of some kind.
‘Well, that wounded man is
Kyle,’
said the inspector, in some excitement.
‘Nick’s all right,’ Palfrey said into the telephone, and then replaced the receiver. ‘That’s fine,’ he said to the inspector.
‘You want him, don’t you?’ asked Cox.
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘He should have quite a story for us.’
Some time later an extraordinary figure limped into the room. It was Kyle. His clothes must have dried on him. His trousers were shrunk and tight, the bottom of one was cut away and bandages showed beneath it. One lapel of his coat was torn and he wore an old muffler instead of a collar and tie. He looked on the point of exhaustion as he dropped into a chair, but when he glanced at Palfrey there was all the humour and devilment imaginable in his eyes.
‘Why, hallo, Palfrey!’ he greeted. ‘You don’t know how good it feels to be rescued by the police instead of hunted by them. You haven’t fixed the rest of this business yet, I suppose?’
‘Not yet.’
Kyle shrugged. ‘I thought that would be asking too much. But I’ve got quite a story, Palfrey. . . .’
Kyle’s’ story added little to their knowledge of the affair; it was logical. It explained all that had happened that night, but it was not a vital contribution. Palfrey wondered, as the American talked, whether he were keeping anything back. The police seemed to entertain no such suspicion.
Kyle had been convinced for some time that, usually after it was closed, and sometimes during performances, the theatre had been used by Fyson and his men. He had gone there again that night, at the beginning of the performance, and scanned the audience from a seat in the front of the circle. During the interval he had seen a man he knew as Darkie.
‘Good-looking and swarthy?’ asked Palfrey,
‘You’ve placed him,’ said Kyle, and went on.
He had followed Darkie up the stairs to the gallery, and than lost him. Like a fool, he said, he had ventured further and gone up the top flight of stairs. There he had been ambushed and knocked out. When he came round, he was tied hand and foot and crammed into one of the cupboards about which Palfrey knew only too well.
After the performance – a long time after, he imagined – he had been taken out and his legs freed. He had been hustled downstairs to the room beneath the stage. There he had been questioned; the bruises on his face and chin showed the way the questioners had set to work. Kyle showed no resentment about this. The questions, he said, had all been to one purpose: did he know anything about the mine? At that, Kyle cocked an eye at Palfrey, and Palfrey nodded.
‘I thought you would know something about that by now,’ went on Kyle.
Palfrey, it appeared, had figured largely in the questioning. Did Kyle know whether Palfrey was working officially for the British Government, or was he simply interfering? Did Palfrey suspect Morne of any part in this affair? Did he suspect any of the others at Morne House? If so, whom? Kyle had answered none of these questions. He said simply that he had not opened his mouth. Not even when they had brought Gerry Markham in . . .
A frightened Gerry, who was as much a prisoner as Kyle. Nothing was said about what he was doing there. They started to work on him. If Palfrey had examined his fingers, he would have seen that the little and third fingers of his right hand had been broken. Kyle said that he knew that nothing must make him talk, not even the same treatment, if meted out to him.
Then someone had come in and said that entry had been forced into the theatre.
Kyle grinned across at Palfrey.
‘When I heard your name, Palfrey, I certainly thought of you as an angel from heaven! There was panic for a while. Then Darkie sent one of his men to find out where you were looking. Gerry Markham and I were pushed into the tunnel with the crowd. We were there when you came down. You couldn’t see the stairs from the doorway, otherwise I don’t think you would have got out again,’ Kyle added.
The man whom Darkie had sent to watch Palfrey and Wyatt had been away for some time. Darkie had planned to go after him, but had timed his moment badly. When he had gone, there had been shooting – the shooting when Palfrey had been hanging over the gallery.
‘Then the panic really broke,’ said Kyle. His face was bleak, and he was looking at Palfrey. ‘Young Markham went crazy - just plain crazy. He was terrified of that tunnel. Darkie shot him through the throat – you’ve seen that, haven’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey.
‘I guess I needn’t tell you much more,’ said Kyle. ‘You know that we were rushed through the tunnel and there was a motorboat waiting for us. I had a chance to jump overboard then, but thought I might find out where they were heading, so I kept quiet. Then the police launches got busy and we had to double back. Everything went too fast for me. Darkie had left us near the dock – I don’t know what’s become of him. The other decided when they went ashore that I would be better dead than alive, but they said so at a silly moment, and I ran for it.’
Palfrey smiled faintly. ‘Well, Darkie won’t trouble us any more. That’s one thing on the credit side.’
Kyle was trying to be bright, but was clearly tired out, and he could walk only with difficulty. Palfrey made sure there was a room for him at the Grand Hotel, and went there with him, together with a police escort. He still had no idea whether the other men had been caught, but he did not think that greatly mattered. Darkie had seemed to be the only man of any importance.
He was so tired that he could hardly keep his eyes open. Drusilla had to help him undress. He grinned at her weakly, got into bed, and closed his eyes. . . .
It was past mid-day when he woke up.
‘I’ve arranged for some tea and then for a cold meal,’ said Drusilla. ‘Will you bath before or after?’
‘After. I would like to stay here all day. How are the others?’
‘Nick was still asleep when I looked in half an hour ago.’
‘Nick?’ Palfrey raised his eyebrows.
‘I’ve seen rather a lot of Susan,’ said Drusilla. ‘What else can I call him?’
‘No news of any kind, I suppose?’
They caught three of the men last night,’ said Drusilla, ‘but Superintendent Cox or Fox or something says that he doesn’t think we shall learn much from them.*
‘Nothing from Brett?’
‘Nothing from anyone.’
‘Have you telephoned
Sea View?’
‘Yes, and Morne House. There is no news of any kind; everything is normal. Bandigo and the others spent this morning looking up surveyors’ plans of the mines on the Morne estate, but at twelve o’clock they hadn’t any results. I mean,’ went on Drusilla, ‘they hadn’t found one with a plan like the map.’
‘What about the news of Markham’s son?’
‘Cox or Fox told me that he isn’t going to issue any news at all until he’s seen you,’ said Drusilla, ‘and I told him you would be available at three o’clock this afternoon,
if
you were awake.’
‘Protective, eh?’ smiled Palfrey.
‘Wells called about half past eleven,’ Drusilla went on. ‘The police told him a little about what you’re doing, and he came to apologize for leading off last night.’
‘Great Scott!
He
was all right,’ declared Palfrey.
‘Apparently the night-watchman and the cleaners who work there in the morning thought that someone was using the place,’ said Drusilla, ‘but Wells thought it was one or two of the cleaners having a quiet smoke against orders, and took no action about it. But he has watched the place at night now and again, and felt curious last night. That’s how he happened to be passing and why he came in.’
‘Lucky he did!’ said Palfrey. ‘If he hadn’t shown us that other way to the under-stage room, we would have been in serious trouble. Meanwhile, how far have we got?’
Drusilla said: ‘Susan and I have been talking, Sap, and it seems to us that we’ve weakened the other side but not got much further.’
‘That’s about right. Still got a good opinion of Susan?’
‘Very good.’
‘Splendid!’ said Palfrey. ‘Any news of Wyatt?’
Wyatt was patched up, Drusilla told him, and would be off duty for a few days. The police had failed, so far, to get any intelligent statement from the prisoner in the cupboard at the theatre, or the other prisoners.
Palfrey felt that he ought to get up quickly, but he was still very tired. Bandigo and the others would lose no time in telling him when there was anything of interest to report; there was no point in killing himself. A telephone call from Brett, when he was in the middle of his breakfast-cum-lunch, reassured him further.
‘I suppose there’s nothing else about Gorringer?’ he asked.
‘Except that he’s been missing from his home for several days, nothing,’ Brett told him.
Palfrey finished his lunch, and then went in to see Kyle, who was sitting up in bed, eating. Susan, fresh and delightful, was sitting by his side, and Palfrey was in no doubt as to her feelings for Nick Kyle.
Kyle was depressed because of his injured leg.
‘Nothing is likely to blow up quickly,’ Palfrey comforted him. ‘You’ll be about again in a few days, and-’
‘I’m going to be about today,’ declared Kyle.
There was little that Cox could tell them beyond what Drusilla already knew. He beamed when Palfrey told him what he thought of the organization, and reminded him that orders had come from Whitehall, with instructions for the police to be ready for any emergency. When Palfrey had called to suggest that trouble might develop quickly, Cox had made arrangements for all the main roads out of town to be watched, and for radio calls to be sent out directly trouble developed at any one point. What was troubling him now was what to do about the Press. They were demanding a fuller story about what happened, and someone had told them of a murder. Should he give the name of Gerald Markham?
Palfrey said: ‘Better call him an unknown man for the time being, I think. I’d rather tell his father myself.’
Cox’s cheerfulness spurred Palfrey to quicker thought and action. He must see Morne that night. He must, if necessary, force an issue. Bandigo and the others must trace that mine and get busy. There must be no delay; any minute might bring another disaster like the explosion in Wenlock Bay.
Kyle was well enough to travel, but not well enough to take any active part for the next day or two. He and Susan must stay at
Sea View
with Drusilla.
‘Urgent thoughts?’ asked Drusilla.
‘More urgent thoughts. “Begone dull sloth!” Hop next door and tell the others we’re starting for Corbin at once, will you?’
‘Ought Kyle to travel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said Drusilla, mockingly deferential.
They left Bristol at half past three, and before six o’clock the Talbot was standing outside
Sea View,
and Palfrey was helping Kyle out. Drusilla and Susan were on the porch, waiting for the door to be opened.
Kyle leaned on Palfrey’s arm and said heavily: ‘You’ve hedged every time I’ve mentioned coming with you to Morne House. I want to see Morne. I want to look inside that house. I’ve earned it, A little bit of flesh out of my leg needn’t stop me.
You
won’t stop me, friend.’