The Fellowship of the Frog Page 29

“You’re not going alone, Gordon?” asked Elk sternly. Dick nodded.

  “I’m going alone,” he said. “If I don’t get through, you follow. Send a police car after me and tell them to drive carefully. I don’t think they’ll stop me this side of Newbury,” he said. “I can make that before the light goes. Tell Miss Bennett that the reprieve is signed, and that I am on my way.”

  Elk said nothing, but followed his chief into the street, and stood by him with the policeman who had been left in charge of the car, while Dick made a careful scrutiny of the tyres and petrol tank.

  So Dick Gordon took the Bath road; and the party of gunmen that waited at the two aerodromes of London to shoot him down if he attempted to leave by the aerial route, waited in vain. He avoided the direct road to Reading, and was taking the longer way round. He came into Newbury at eleven o’clock, and learnt of more dynamited culverts. The town was full of it. Two laden trains were held up on the down line, and their passengers thronged the old-fashioned streets of the town. Outside The Chequers he spoke to the local inspector of police. Beyond the outrages they had heard nothing, and apparently the road was in good order, for a car had come through from Swindon only ten minutes before Dick arrived.

  “You’re safe as far as Swindon, anyway,” said the inspector. “The countryside has been swarming with tramps lately, but my mounted patrols, that have just come in, have seen none on the roads.”

  A thought struck Dick, and he drove the inspector round to the police-station and went inside with him.

  “I want an envelope and some official paper,” he said, and, sitting down at the desk, he made a rough copy of the reprieve with its quaint terminology, sealed the envelope with wax and put it into his pocket. Then he took the real reprieve, and, taking off his shoe and sock, put it between his bare foot and his sock. Replacing his shoe, he jumped on to the car and started his cautious way toward Didcot. Both his glare lamps were on, and the road before him was as light as day. Nevertheless, he went at half speed, one of his Brownings on the cushion beside him.

  Against the afterglow of the sunset, a faint, pale light which is the glory of late summer, he saw three inverted V’s and knew they were the ends of a building, possibly an aerodrome. And then he remembered that Elk had told him of the chemical factory. Probably this was the place, and he drove with greater caution. He had turned the bend, when, ahead of him, he saw three red lights stretched across the road, and in the light of the head-lamps stood a policeman. He slowed the machine and stopped within a few yards of the officer.

  “You can’t go this way, sir. The road’s up.”

  “How long has it been up?” asked Dick.

  “It’s been blown up, sir, about twenty minutes ago,” was the reply. “There’s a side road a mile back, which will bring you to the other side of the railway lines. You can back in here.”

  He indicated a gateway evidently leading to the factory. Dick pulled back his lever to the reverse, and sent the Rolls spinning backward into the opening.

  His hand was reaching to change the direction, when the policeman, who had walked to the side of the car, struck at him.

  Gordon’s head was bent. He was incapable of resistance. Only the helmet he wore saved him from death. He saw nothing, only suddenly the world went black. Scarcely had the blow been struck when half-a-dozen men came from the shadows. Somebody jumped into the driver’s seat, and, flinging out the limp figure of its owner, brought the car still further backward, and switched off the lights. Another of the party removed the red lamps. The policeman bent over the prostrate figure of Dick Gordon.

  “I thought I’d settled him,” he said, disappointed.

  “Well, settle him now,” said somebody in the darkness, but evidently the assailant changed his mind.

  “Hagn will want him,” he said. “Lift him up.”

  They carried the inanimate figure over the rough ground, through a sliding door, into a big, ill-lit factory hall, bare of machinery. At the far end was a brick partition forming an office, and into this he was carried and flung on the floor.

  “Here’s your man, Hagn,” growled the policeman. “I think he’s through.”

  Hagn got up from his table and walked across to where Dick Gordon lay.

  “I don’t think there’s much wrong with him,” he said. “You couldn’t kill a man through that helmet, anyway. Take it off.”

  They took the leather helmet from the head of the unconscious man, and Hagn made a brief inspection.

  “No, he’s all right,” he said. “Throw some water over him. Wait; you’d better search him first. Those cigars,” he said, pointing to the brown cylinders that protruded from his breast pocket, “I want.”

  The first thing found was the blue envelope, and this Hagn tore open and read.

  “It seems all right,” he said, and locked it away in the roll-top desk at which he was sitting when Dick had been brought in. “Now give him the water!”

  Dick came to his senses with a throbbing head and a feeling of resentment against the consciousness which was being forced upon him. He sat up, rubbing his face like a man roused from a heavy sleep, screwed up his eyes in the face of the bright light, and unsteadily stumbled to his feet, looking around from one to the other of the grinning faces.

  “Oh!” he said at last. “I seem to have struck it. Who hit me?”

  “We’ll give you his card presently,” sneered Hagn. “Where are you off to at this time of night?”

  “I’m going to Gloucester,” said Dick.

  “Like hell you are!” scoffed Hagn. “Put him upstairs, boys.”

  Leading up from the office was a flight of unpainted pine stairs, and up this he was partly pushed and partly dragged. The room above had been used in war time as an additional supervisor’s office. It had a large window, commanding a view of the whole of the floor space. The window was now thick with grime, and the floor littered with rubbish which the present occupants had not thought it worth while to move.

  “Search him again, and make sure he hasn’t any gun on him. And take away his boots,” said Hagn.

  A small carbon filament lamp cast a sickly yellow light upon the sinister group that surrounded Dick Gordon. He had time to take his bearings. The window he had seen, and escape that way was impossible; the ceiling was covered with matchboards that had once been varnished. There was no other way out, save down the steps.

  “You’ve got to stay here for a day or two, Gordon, but perhaps, if the Government will give us Balder, you’ll get away with your life. If they don’t, then it’ll be a case of ‘good-night, nurse!’“

  XXXVI.

  THE POWER CABLE

  Dick Gordon knew that any discussion with his captors was a waste of breath, and that repartee was profitless. His head was aching, but no sooner was he left alone than he gave himself a treatment which an osteopath had taught him. He put his chin on his breast, and his two open hands behind his neck, the finger-tips pressing hard, then he slowly raised his head (it was an agony to do so), bringing his fingers down over the jugular. Three times repeated, his head was comparatively clear.

  The door was of thin wood and could easily be forced, but the room below was filled with men. Presently the light below went out, and the place was in darkness. He guessed that it was because Hagn did not wish the light to be seen from the road; though it was unlikely that there would come any inquiries, he had taken effective steps to deal with the police car which he knew would follow.

  They had not taken his matches away, and Dick struck one and looked round. Standing before a fireplace filled with an indescribable litter of half-burnt papers and dust, was a steel plate, with holes for rivets, evidently part of a tank which had not been assembled. There was a heavy switch on the wall, and Dick turned it, hoping that it controlled the light; but apparently that was on the same circuit as the light below. He struck another match and followed the c
asing of the switch. By and by he saw a thick black cable running in the angle of the wall and the ceiling. It terminated abruptly on the right of the fireplace; and from the marks on the floor, Dick guessed that at some time or other there had been an experimental welding plant housed there. He turned the switch again and sat down to consider what would be the best thing to do. He could hear the murmur of voices below, and, lying on the floor, put his ear to the trap, which he cleared with a piece of wire he found in the fireplace. Hagn seemed to do most of the talking.

  “If we blow up the road between here and Newbury, they’ll smell a rat,” he said.

  “It’s a stupid idea you put forward, Hagn. What are you going to do with the chap upstairs?”

  “I don’t know. I’m waiting to hear from Frog. Perhaps the Frog will want him killed.”

  “He’d be a good man to hold for Balder, though, if Frog thought it was worth while.”

  Towards five o’clock, Hagn, who had been out of the office, came back.

  “Frog says he’s got to die,” he said in a low voice.

  Two people sat in Dick Gordon’s study. The hour was four o’clock in the morning. Elk had gone, for the twentieth time to Headquarters, and for the twentieth time was on his way back. Ella Bennett had tried desperately hard to carry out Dick’s instructions, and turned page after page determinedly, but had read and yet had seen nothing. With a deep sigh she put down the book and clasped her hands, her eyes fixed upon the clock.

  “Do you think he will get to Gloucester?” she asked.

  “I certainly do,” said Broad confidently. “That young man will get anywhere. He is the right kind and the right type, and nothing is going to hold him.”

  She picked up the book but did not look at its printed page.

  “What happened to the police cars? Mr. Elk was telling me a lot about them last night,” she said. “I haven’t heard since.”

  Joshua Broad licked his dry lips.

  “Oh, they got through all right,” he said vaguely.

  He did not tell her that two police cars had been ditched between Newbury and Reading, the cars smashed and three men injured by a mine which had been sprung under them. Nor did he give her the news, that had arrived by motor-cyclist from Swindon, that Dick’s car had not been seen.

  “They are dreadful people, dreadful!” She shivered. “How did they come into existence, Mr. Broad?”

  Broad was smoking (at her request) a long, thin cigar, and he puffed for a long time before he spoke.

  “I guess I’m the father of the Frogs,” he said to her amazement.

  “You!”

  He nodded.

  “I didn’t know I was producing this outfit, but there it is.” How, he did not seem disposed to explain at that moment.

  Soon he heard the whirr of the bell, and thinking that Elk had perhaps forgotten the key, he rose, and, going along the passage, opened the door. It was not Elk.

  “Forgive me for calling. Is that Mr. Broad?” The visitor peered forward in the darkness.

  “I’m Broad all right. You’re Mr. Johnson, aren’t you? Come right in, Mr. Johnson.”

  He closed the door behind him and turned on the light.

  The stout man was in a state of pitiable agitation.

  “I was up late last night,” he said, “and my servant brought me an early copy of the Post Herald.

  “So you know, eh?”

  “It’s terrible, terrible! I can’t believe it!”

  He took a crumpled paper from his pocket and looked at the stop-press space as though to reassure himself.

  “I didn’t know it was in the paper.”

  Johnson handed the newspaper to the American.

  “Yes, they’ve got it. I suppose old man Whitby must have given away the story.”

  “I think it came from the picture man, Silenski. Is it true that Ray is under sentence of death?”

  Broad nodded.

  “How dreadful!” said Johnson in a hushed voice. “Thank God they’ve found it out in time! Mr. Broad,” he said earnestly, “I hope you will tell Ella Bennett that she can rely on me for every penny I possess to establish her brother’s innocence. I suppose there will be a respite and a new trial? If there is, the very best lawyers must be employed.”

  “She’s here. Won’t you come in and see her?”

  “Here?” Johnson’s jaw dropped. “I had no idea,” he stammered.

  “Come in.”

  Broad returned to the girl.

  “Here is a friend of yours who has turned up—Mr. Johnson.”

  The philosopher crossed the room with quick, nervous strides, and held out both his hands to the girl.

  “I’m so sorry, Miss Bennett,” he said, “so very, very sorry! It must be dreadful for you, dreadful! Can I do anything?”

  She shook her head, tears of gratitude in her eyes.

  “It is very sweet of you, Mr. Johnson. You’ve done so much for Ray, and Inspector Elk was telling me that you had offered him a position in your office.”

  Johnson shook his head.

  “It is nothing. I’m very fond of Ray, and he really has splendid capabilities. Once we get him out of this mess, I’ll put him on his feet again. Your father doesn’t know? Thank God for that!”

  “I wish this news hadn’t got into the papers,” she said, when he told her how he had learnt of the happening.

  “Silenski, of course,” said Broad. “A motion picture publicity man would use his own funeral to get a free par. How are you feeling in your new position, Johnson?” he asked, to distract the girl’s mind from the tragic thoughts which were oppressing her.

  Johnson smiled.

  “I’m bewildered. I can’t understand why poor Mr. Maitland did this. But I had my first Frog warning to-day; I feel almost important,” he said.

  From a worn pocket-case he extracted a sheet of paper. It contained only three words:

  “You are next!”

  It bore the familiar sign manual of the Frog.

  “I don’t know what harm I have done to these people, but I presume that it is something fairly bad, for within ten minutes of getting this note, the porter brought me my afternoon tea. I took one sip and it tasted so bitter that I washed my mouth out with a disinfectant.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday,” said Johnson. “This morning I had the analysis—I had the tea bottled and sent off at once to an analytical chemist. It contained enough hydrocyanic acid to kill a hundred people. The chemist cannot understand how I could have taken the sip I did without very serious consequences. I am going to put the matter in the hands of the police to-day.”

  The front door opened, and Elk came in.

  “What is the news?” asked the girl eagerly, rising to meet him.

  “Fine!” said Elk. “You needn’t worry at all, Miss Bennett. That Gordon man can certainly move. I guess he’s in Gloucester by now, sleeping in the best bed in the city.”

  “But do you know he’s in Gloucester?” she asked stubbornly.

  “I’ve had no exact news, but I can tell you this, that we’ve had no bad news,” said Elk; “and when there’s no news, you can bet that things are going according to schedule.”

  “How did you hear about it, Johnson?”

  The new millionaire explained.

  “I ought to have pulled in Silenski and his operator,” said Elk thoughtfully. “These motion picture men lack reticence. And how does it feel to be rich, Johnson?” he asked.

  “Mr. Johnson doesn’t think it feels too good,” said Broad. “He has attracted the attention of old man Frog.”

  Elk examined the warning carefully.

  “When did this come?”

  “I found it on my desk yesterday morning,” said Johnson, and told him of the tea incident. “Do you think, Mr. Elk, you
will ever put your hand on the Frog?”

  “I’m as certain as that I’m standing here, that Frog will go the way—” Elk checked himself, and fortunately the girl was not listening.

  It was getting light when Johnson left, and Elk walked with him to the door and watched him passing down the deserted street.

  “There’s a lot about that boy I like,” he said; “and he’s certainly fortunate. Why the old man didn’t leave his money to that baby of his— “

  “Did you ever find the baby?” interrupted Broad.

  “No, sir, there was no sign of that innocent child in the house. That’s another Frog mystery to be cleared up.”

  Johnson had reached the corner, and they saw him crossing the road, when a man came out of the shadow to meet him. There was a brief parley, and then Elk saw the flash of a pistol, and heard a shot. Johnson staggered back, and his opponent, turning, fled. In a second Elk was flying along the street. Apparently the philosopher was not hurt, though he seemed shaken.

  The inspector ran round the corner, but the assassin had disappeared. He returned to the philosopher, to find him sitting on the edge of the pavement, and at first he thought he had been wounded.

  “No, I think I just had a shock,” gasped Johnson, “I was quite unprepared for that method of attack.”

  “What happened?” asked Elk.

  “I can hardly realize,” said the other, who appeared dazed. “I was crossing the road when a man came up and asked me if my name was Johnson; then, before I knew what had happened, he had fired.”

  His coat was singed by the flame of the shot, but the bullet must have gone wide. Later in the day, Elk found it embedded in the brickwork of a house.

  “No, no, I won’t come back,” said Johnson. “I don’t suppose they’ll repeat the attempt.”

  By this time one of the two detectives who had been guarding Harley Terrace had come up, and under his escort Johnson was sent home.

  “They’re certainly the busiest little fellows,” said Elk, shaking his head. “You’d think they’d be satisfied with the work they were doing at Gloucester, without running sidelines.”