THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY First published m 1928 Reprinted in the United States by special arrangement with the English Publishers Copyright, 1929 by The World Syndicate Publishing Co. Press op THE COMMERCIAL BOOKBINDING CO. Cleveland /'«}" 3 3 In addition to giving the customary assurance that the characters in the yarn which follows are imaginary, the author wishes to make it clear that the liberties taken with certain megalithic remains are intentional, and that the house on the island, together with its various approaches, has no existence whatever outside his own fancy. CONTENTS CBAPTIX FACT I. THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER ... 9 II. DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS ... 32 III. THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER . . 50 IV. SOME ADVANTAGES OF A THUNDERSTORM . 74 V. ONE EVENTFUL NIGHT . . • • 95 VI. THE HUT ON THE SAND-DUNES . . 119 VII. THE THREE RAYS 137 VIII. THE CLERGYMAN WHO DIED . . . 164 IX. ON THE ISLAND 189 X. A NEW USE FOR A DOLMEN . . . 212 XI. CEPHALOPEDA 233 XII. THE LOCKED ROOM . ■ . . . . 258 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY CHAPTER I l THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER (0 At the moment when the three shots rang out, Peter Brown was sitting alone on the stone wall that runs by the quay at Tregenneth, the little Cornish fishing- village, smoking a final pipe before turning in as he watched the play of moonlight on the river. The sound at such an hour—for it was after eleven—was so unexpected that for a few moments he continued to sit in a kind of dazed astonishment. Then the patter of running feet made him turn his head sharply, and he beheld a man a hundred yards away, racing towards the quay as if for his life. And a little distance behind him ran several others. He was a fat man, the foremost runner, with a bare bald head that gleamed white under the moon, but despite his bulk he covered the ground well, and by the time he reached that part of the quay near where Peter was sitting he was fully fifteen yards ahead, apparently making for some steps which led down to the water. Before he could reach them, however, 9 io THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY disaster overtook him in a singular fashion; for sud- denly, as he ran, he gave a tremendous sneeze. Whether this circumstance was in itself responsible, or whether his foot caught in something on the surface of the quay, it is impossible to say; at any rate he tripped and fell; and before he could recover, his pursuers—Peter counted four of them—were upon him. It was at this juncture that Peter decided to take a hand in the game. Normally an amiable individual who disliked rows, he disliked still more the spectacle of a middle-aged man of stout aspect being set upon by four others. He hesitated only long enough to take off his spectacles and slip them in his pocket; then he darted forward with that agility which had once made him one of the most famous rugby three-quarters in England. And since he was wearing rubbers on his feet, his approach possessed in large measure that element of surprise which constitutes in all warfare the surest prelude to success. There was no doubt about the surprise. Indeed, if a tornado had burst above the heads of those four men they could hardly have been more astonished. One of the ruffians was kneeling on the prostrate man's chest, apparently trying to tear open his waist- coat, when an iron hand seized him by the neck from behind, another grip fastened on the seat of his trou- sers, and he was flung full into the bosom of one of his friends who unwisely chose that instant to slink up; with the result that he, in his turn, cannoned into yet a third. All fell in a mix-up on the ground; while Peterv turning, was in time to meet the rush of the rourth man, a huge mulatto. One rapid glance was THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER u sufficient to convince Peter that he was no match for the coloured man at close quarters, so he dived like lightning for his legs. The mulatto's head met the ground with a crack, and for a time, at least, his interest in the proceedings was negligible, while Peter had a moment's leisure to see how the situation was developing elsewhere. The fat man, profiting by the respite, had regained his feet. Peter had a glimpse of him in the act of charg- ing his assailants like an enraged bull, but it was no more than a glimpse, for he suddenly became aware of a new peril. Creeping towards him with a peculiar sinuous movement was a slight man, some kind of foreigner, who held in his hand a weapon that looked like a razor without the handle. His lips rolled back in a malevolent grin as he saw his approach was dis- covered, but he did not cease his stealthy advance, planting one foot in front of another with the soft tread of a marauding cat. With a queer constricted feeling in the region of the breast-bone Peter waited for him, leaning a little for- ward on the balls of his feet, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. Of the methods of attack practised by razor-slashers he was in entire ignorance, but he remembered how years ago, during the War, a Canadian gunner, by way of passing the time in a convalescent home, had taught him the trick of defeating an aggres- sor armed with a knife. The ruse depended largely for its success upon watching one's adversary's eyes, and he breathed a little prayer of thankfulness that he had the moon behind him. To this fact he undoubtedly owed his safety, for, 12 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY just before his assailant sprang, there leapt into his eyes an unmistakable warning of his intention. And in that instant, with a frantic movement, Peter hurled himself to the right. The razor swept harmlessly, and then, before the man could recover himself, Peter's hands were upon him. There was a quick twist—no violent effort—followed by a yelp of pain and a sound like a stick being broken under water. The weapon fell to the ground, and Peter, stepping back a pace, let the other have his left on the point of the chin. And number two of the attacking party flopped over like a dead thing. So far as Peter was concerned, that ended the fight. The remaining two ruffians, who had been having an uncomfortable time at the formidable hands of the fat man, now, on Peter's approach, immediately took to their heels; and hardly had they disappeared, when the big mulatto, recovering consciousness, staggered to his feet. He gave one wild look round, and finding himself deserted, promptly followed the example of his companions and bolted. "Cleared out, by George, the whole bunch!" declared the fat man breathlessly. "Laddie, I don't know who you are, but—" He broke off, staring over Peter's shoulders, and turning, Peter saw why. Crawling along the ground in the evident hope of escaping observation, was the man whom he had hit on the jaw. Suddenly Peter perceived his objective—the razor which lay near the edge of the quay, where he had carelessly kicked it after knocking out his man. He sprang forward, and immediately the man, abandoning THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 13 all efforts at concealment, leapt to his feet. It was Peter who reached the weapon first, however, and he covered it with one foot. "I think not," he said quietly. The next moment the fat man, coming up behind, had seized the enemy by the coat collar. "Now, you scum!" he cried. "Try to murder me, would you! Why, you damned little squirt, for two pins I'd tear you in half. Did he hurt you just now?" he demanded of Peter. "He had a jolly good try to. I rather think I broke his arm, though." "Broke his arm?—pity it wasn't his head!" growled the fat man. "Got anything to say, you?"— this to his prisoner, whose sullen eyes were fixed on Peter. The man slowly felt his dangling arm, and Peter noticed that his face was disfigured by a huge scar that ran across cheek and nose. "I not forget you," he said deliberately. "One dese days—I kill you!" The fat man laughed in a soft and particularly unpleasant fashion. "Indeed," he said, in a silky voice, "and pray what makes you think you're going to live so long? Kill, by George!"—and here his voice began to gain in volume. "I reckon the boot's on the other leg! Listen here, little man. I'm not going to kill you here and now, because you'd be a nuisance, and I've no time to waste on coroner's courts and things. But by the living God, if ever I lay hands on you again after this I'll break every bone in your body and dance on the remains 14 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY afterwards. D'ye hear? Now go before I change my mind, and thank your lucky stars I'm a humane, kind man. Understand? And if I catch you monkeying round here again to-night, sure as my name's Jim Bridgewater I'll smash your ugly face in, broken arm or no broken arm! Now run away back to Horst- man. Impshi! Futsack! Or by the Lord, I'll" Here he suddenly gave his prisoner a mighty shove that sent him ten paces, and then, taking a run. launched a tremendous kick at the flying man which, had it taken full effect, would assuredly have given him cause to remember the moment for long after- wards. Mr. Bridgewater returned, wheezing audibly, but with his face agleam with laughter. "Filthy little swine, ain't they!" he said cheerfully. "I must apologize for my language, but it's the only kind that sort of blackguard understands." He sneezed twice, then added: "We'll collect the spoils of war." Picking up the razor, he glanced at it and pitched it into the river. "Hurt?" he inquired. "Not at all, thanks. How about you?" said Peter. "That was a nasty purler you went just now." Mr. Bridgewater gave a contemptuous snort. "Pooh, that was nothing. My dear fellow, it takes more than that to hurt me. What I'm sorry about is having to let 'em get away so easy, but there's no alternative, unfortunately. I don't suppose this place has a police- man, let alone a lock-up. The dirty cowards—they came on me suddenly, five of them—and one started getting busy with a gun, damn him." "I heard him," said Peter. THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 15 "That was Horstman—you didn't see him," went on Mr. Bridgewater, who seemed to find relief in talk- ing. "He's too lame to go running races in the dark. Well, I'm not a tenderfoot cowboy that I should go about with a six-shooter in my hip, so not carrying a gun I ran for it, remembering a wise tag about a lame dog. I'd have got clean away, too, if my cursed hay- fever hadn't come along and made me trip and embrace Mother Earth with rather more affection than I usually bestow on that hard-bosomed lady. But it was worth my trouble to see the way you set about them—upon my soul, I couldn't have done it better myself. Quite sure you're not hurt?" he insisted, casting an anxious eye over his rescuer. Peter laughed. He rather liked this large garrulous man who could show such solicitude for another when he had only just escaped what had every appearance of being a violent attempt on his life. "Not a scratch," he assured him. "I suppose, by the way, your friends are not indulging in what the newspapers used to call a strategic retirement, and intend coming back with reinforcements? Because" "Come back? Not they!" cried Mr. Bridgewater with a confident laugh. "They won't trouble us again if I know anything of the breed. They've had their bellyful for one night, I fancy. But look here, laddie, I haven't properly thanked you" "Please don't," said Peter hastily. "In any case I suggest we move away from here, in case your friend with the pistol decides on a forlorn hope. I don't 16 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY know whether you live here or not, but I'm staying at a cottage about half a mile away, if you'd care to come and have a clean up." Mr. Bridgewater consulted his watch. "Thanks, I will. It's too late now to find the man I'm looking for. Excuse me one moment." Whereupon this strange man produced a small glass instrument with a bulb attachment like a scent- spray, and proceeded to apply it to his nostrils. The treatment was evidently effectual, for he drew several deep breaths with every appearance of satis- faction. Peter began to put on his spectacles, when he noticed that his new acquaintance had paused, and was regarding him with an amused smile. "Do you usually have time to take your glasses off when you come to the rescue of middle-aged men in distress?" he inquired with a chuckle. Peter smiled. "Well, as a matter of fact, I see much better without them," he confessed. "They aren't really necessary, but I happened to have a slight accident to one eye during the War—" he broke off, for Mr. Bridgewater's large face had changed like a conjuring trick, and he was staring open- mouthed. "Well, if this ain't providence I don't know what is," he said in a new voice. "Are you by any blessed chance P. J. Brown, the rugger-man?" "Yes. Why?" asked Peter mildly. "It's a sign from Heaven," Mr. Bridgewater declared solemnly. "You're the very man I've come to these parts to see." THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 17 00 Half an hour later, scraped and cleaned into some semblance of respectability, and with several strips of sticking-plaster across his forehead, Mr. Bridge- water sat in the solitary arm-chair that Peter's sitting- room boasted, smoking a vile-smelling cigarette which, he explained, alleviated his hay-fever. Seen in the light he proved to be a much more powerfully-built man than Peter had supposed. There was latent strength in the broad shoulders and deep chest. He had a massive face, sallow and heavily lined, with a wide tolerant mouth, and a dominant nose like Mr. Punch. His eyes were at present suffused with his distressing malady, but they were kindly, and for all his air of complacency, there was that about the shape of his jaw that hinted at his being an unhealthily efficient person to play monkey-tricks with; and Peter had evidence that in his case excess of flesh did not necessarily mean lack of agility. His years looked to be about forty-five. "Well, Mr. Brown, I expect you're thinking it's time I gave an account of myself," he said, stretching his legs in front of him. "You probably wonder what in the name of sanity and common sense a fellow of my age and spread is doing scrapping with a lot of dock-sweepings at this time of night." Peter nodded. On the way up from the quay Mr. Bridgewater had given no hint as to the motives of the gang in attacking him. Realizing that his companion was a man who would tell his story in his own way, 18 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY Peter had forborne to ask questions, but he certainly felt intensely curious. "I'll enlighten you," Mr. Bridgewater proceeded. "I came down here by car, which I left in a field some way out of the village, and I was going to sleep there if I couldn't find anywhere else. I should have been here earlier if I hadn't been delayed by two punctures, one of which I had to mend myself. I came into the village on foot; and, as I told you, when Horstman and his merry men appeared from nowhere and started mistaking me for a moving target, I didn't linger, and a lucky thing it was for me he was the only one with a gun. As it was I half-expected a knife in my back any moment. They're pretty handy with their knives, some of those boys. I've seen one split an apple at thirty paces before now. What beats me is how Horst- man knew I was coming here; I only landed at Croydon early this morning. Tell me, now, I believe you know a man named Cartwright—Colonel Richard Cartwright?" "Old Dick? I used to know him very well indeed at one time." "So I am given to understand; he happens to be a friend of mine also. He told me quite a lot about some of your exploits in the War." "Dick is a silly ass," said Peter laughing. "What is he doing now, by the way? The last I heard of him he was on some kind of secret police work in Egypt." "Dick is at the present moment—or he was two days ago—lying ill with pneumonia in a place called Bratis- lava in Czecho-Slovakia. I've come straight from him." THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 19 "Is he seriously ill?" "He was, but he's pulling round. Naturally he won't move about for a bit. I was to show you this by way of credentials." Mr. Bridgewater took from his pocket a bunch of keys, one of which he held out for the inspection of Peter, who, noticing what was scratched on the wards, experienced a sudden feeling of annoyance. Once during the War, in a certain Italian town, he had secretly met by appointment an agent, a harmless- looking civilian in a bowler hat, who, he had been informed, was one of the cleverest spies in the service of the allies. It had been arranged that this man, whom Peter, then a pilot in the R.A.F., was going to attempt to drop in Austrian territory from a para- chute, should reveal his identity by means of a sign. The key which Mr. Bridgewater had handed to him bore a precisely similar marking, and it brought back the memory of certain things which he thought he had finished with for ever. "Go on," said Peter quietly, as he gave back the keys. "Let's hear the worst. Dick always was a bird of ill-omen." Mr. Bridgewater heaved his heavy body forward in his chair and began to speak with the grave deliberation of a man who weighs the value of each word before uttering it. "I'm going to tell you a little story. You must know that some time ago our people became interested in a certain man who had made a reputation, to say nothing of a small fortune, out of the War. You have heard of the Drude Submarine Detector and the Drude so THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY Mortar—well, Sir Mortimer Drude is our man. If you will look him up in 'Who's Who' you will learn among other things that he is a distinguished physi- cist, the author of several notable works on scientific subjects—I am told his monograph on the Brownian movement is already a classic—and that he lives in Okewood Hall in Devonshire. I can supplement that record a little. Before the War he was an amiable and popular professor at one of the minor universities, loved by his friends and respected wherever he went. He resigned his position early in the War to devote his energies to the perfecting of those inventions which made him famous, and, incidentally, transformed him from a comparatively poor man into a fairly rich one. After the War he went away for a six months' holiday abroad. Where he went to no one but him- self knows, but he came back a changed man. His entire nature had altered. From being one of the most open-hearted and charitable men in the world, he became secretive and suspicious. He shut himself up in his house and would see no one: became a misan- thropist, detested by his neighbours, to most of whom he was unbearably rude, and the despair of his former friends. So he has been ever since. Twice every year he goes abroad, no one knows where. For the rest he spends most of his time in his laboratory, locked up with his assistants. Only for one person he seems to have any kind of toleration, and that is his niece, an orphan who has lived with him for some years. The two, it appears, are devoted to each other, which is the more remarkable as she is a girl of some personal attraction, who you would think would be happier in THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 21 an environment more suited to her youth and position. • I should perhaps mention that Sir Mortimer is over sixty, a widower, and lias no children of his own. "Now you must also know that our people some- times pick up very odd bits of information from all sorts of queer places. It so happened that we heard rumours of an unusual piece of business going on on the Continent. We got a line on it through a Polish Jew, a gentleman who had once belonged to a certain secret service that had since gone out of business in that line on account of the poor state of trade. He kept a coffee-house in the Ringstrasse in Vienna, very respectable and proper, but as his name wasn't the one he was known by in Berlin we kept an avun- cular eye on him for old acquaintance' sake. One of our men happened to be in this place one evening when some Americans belonging to the A.R.A. came in. They had with them a compatriot whom our man thought he had seen before; he couldn't at first recol- lect where, until some little mannerism or movement helped his memory, and then he knew. He was one of the biggest men in one of the old underworlds of Berlin. He was now talking like an American of good breeding, and was apparently engaged in showing the A.R.A. men round Vienna, but our man had had deal- ings with him before and made no mistake. That chance meeting resulted in our learning quite a lot of things. One was that the Polish Jew-boy was acting in con- nection with some mysterious syndicate that was out to obtain the sole rights for some secret discovery at present in the possession of Monsieur X; moreover this syndicate had already offered an enormous sum 22 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY of money which had not yet been accepted, and negotia- tions were still in progress. The sum mentioned was one million pounds. Another thing we learnt was the names of some of the syndicate, and a nice lot they were. "One passed as a Lithuanian diamond merchant who owed his wealth to having been an international receiver at the time the homes of the Russian aristo- cracy were being broken up. A second was Kreller, the renegade Englishman who enjoyed the peculiar distinction of having fought on both sides in the War, first in the French Foreign Legion and then in an Austrian Infantry regiment. Another was the notorious Pagleiro or Straussmann, who seems to have been everything from an Albanian brigand to a secret-film proprietor. I could name a dozen, but though they came from nearly every country in Europe, they were all alike in one particular respect: they reeked with rottenness and degeneration. There was not a man among them who wasn't an outcast and enemy of organized society. But that didn't mean there was any lack of funds. We had ample evidence of the extent of the financial backing. "Well, these people being what they were, we were at some pains to discover the identity of the mysterious Monsieur X. There was no Monsieur about him: he was an Englishman and his name was Sir Mortimer Drude. "You may say it was no business of ours. There was an eminent scientist with a fine record of service to his name and a K.C.B. into the bargain. If he chose to be so unwise as to sell an invention or discovery or 24 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY recover it. You saw yourself to-night to what lengths he was prepared to go." "D'you mean—those fellows on the quay?" said Peter in astonishment. "I don't mean that Sir Mortimer himself was there, of course; but the sole object of that attack was to get this paper from me. Thanks to you, it failed, and friend Horstman, the man in charge of to-night's attempt, won't love you for it. How he got word of the fact that I was coming down here I can't explain, but there it is." Peter handed back the papers with a thoughtful expression. "What's their history?" he asked. "Our man found that Sir Mortimer was spending night after night alone, locked in his laboratory. He was working at something—something he wanted to keep so secret that even his two laboratory assistants were excluded. Then one night he was interrupted —two foreigners arrived in the small hours demand- ing to see him—and on leaving he left the door open. It was the opportunity which our man had been wait- ing for. He had been in the laboratory before and had already examined much of the apparatus that is always lying about a big laboratory, without having found any clue to the nature of Sir Mortimer's noctur- nal experiments, however. But this time he was luckier. On the previous occasion he had noticed a large cupboard, about the size of a bathing-machine, and stoutly built of wood, with a Yale lock: this cup- board was now open, revealing what at first sight looked like a magnificent radio-receiving set. But a THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 25 second glance convinced him it was no ordinary set. It was totally unlike one he had ever seen before. In front was a small table on which lay a pile of manu- script and a pair of headphones. Clapping the latter on his head he heard a loud ticking noise going on— not Morse, but presumably some other code, for it was intermittent. As he listened his eyes ran over the bewildering array of instruments and valves on the board in front of him and they rested on a curious thing. In one corner was a square of ground-glass, about the size of the one on a reflex camera, and shadows were moving across it. He was going to examine it more closely when he heard footsteps approaching, and had to hide behind a bench. It was Sir Mortimer come back to shut up shop. He came in, noticed nothing out of the ordinary, switched off the valves, hung up the phones, and locked the cupboard; then he turned off the light at the door and went out, locking the door behind him. "Waiting a little in case he returned unexpectedly our man presently switched on his torch and tried to open the cupboard. Short of bursting the lock it was impossible—you can't pick a Yale with a bit of iron. While he was considering his next move he noticed that Sir Mortimer had left his manuscripts behind, and he picked up some of the sheets. They were covered with little rows of figures, as you've seen. Suddenly to his annoyance he heard footsteps again, and he had barely time to hide behind the bench oefore the door opened once more, the light was switched on, and Sir Mortimer came in with the two foreigners. 26 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY "He was speaking as he entered, and the words he used were interesting. "'You shall see for yourselves, gentlemen,' he said, 'that I do not exaggerate when I say that the man with this knowledge in his possession would be among the most powerful men in the world.' "That was something of a startler for our man, but it was nothing to Sir Mortimer's next words, for he suddenly cried out: 'There's been someone at my papers: the top sheet was only half-covered.' "Then our man realized the game was up. He was a fellow of considerable resource, and before one of the men could so much as raise a hand to stop him he had smashed a window and climbed through. It was lucky Sir Mortimer hadn't a pistol handy. After that it was easy enough to get away through the grounds, and next day our man reported at headquarters, bringing these papers with him. But you would have had some difficulty in recognizing in the elegant young man with the Free Forester tie the escaping footman of the night before. Only his bandaged hands, where he had cut himself getting through the window, remained to testify to the hurry of his exit. "A fortnight later, Brown, he was abominably murdered. Oh, they were clever rogues, I give them credit for that; there was never a hint of foul play. He was found in his own motor-house lying dead with the engine running and the doors closed, asphyxiated by the fumes from the exhaust. Accidental death! —and the usual remarks by the coroner about the folly of running an idle engine in an insufficiently- ventilated motor-house. I tell you I know, Brown— THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 27 I know it as well as I know my own name, there was no more an accident than if I had been killed myself to-night. I've no proof—of course I've no proof— but it isn't very difficult to imagine a possible sequence of events: the sudden attack, the victim bound and gagged and left on the motor-house floor, the engine started and the doors shut; and then later the removing of the bonds and leaving the body in a natural position, as if he'd been overcome while doing some odd job about the car. You probably read the case in the papers. Does anything strike you?" A look of interest came into Peter's face. "Yes—wait a minute—wasn't it Hangerson, that chap who played for the Gentlemen last year at Lords? Good Heavens! And you mean to say he was the man who—" he stopped abruptly, awed into silence. Mr. Bridgewater rose heavily and stood with his back to the fireplace. "I understand from Dick that you are at present in the motor-trade, Mr. Brown?" he said. Peter nodded. "I am. I own a garage on the Brighton road." "Think you could drive and look after an Isotta Fraschini?" "Oh yes—why? Who's got one?" "Sir Mortimer Drude." "Sounds thrilling—what do you want me to do— go as his chauffeur?" asked Peter lightly. "As a matter of fact that is the exact thing we do want you to do," returned the other with a serious face. 28 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY Peter gave an incredulous laugh. "You're joking, man?" he declared. "I'm not joking; I'm making a dead serious propo- sition. We want a man with certain qualifications to do this job, and Dick Cartwright assures us that you have them. You are a practical air-pilot, and I under- stand you have had experience with seaplanes" "Seaplanes? Good Heavens, what on earth are you talking about?" cried Peter. "Is there a submarine in the show as well?" "Hardly," returned Mr. Bridgewater with a grin. "Then Dick tells me you were on the stage for a short time." "I was; but if you and Dick think I'm going to dress up as a motor-driver or an air-pilot or any such tomfoolery, just because a mad scientist has invented television or whatever it is, then you may consider the deal off. I'm a motor-engineer, not a policeman." He spoke with decision, and Mr. Bridgewater con- sidered him with an indulgent smile. "My dear fellow, if it were only a matter for the police, do you think for a moment we should ask for your help?" He shook his head. "It goes rather deeper than that. Consider what would happen once this secret got into the hands of these people—the cleverest gang of crooks in Europe. Do you suppose for a moment they are offer- ing a round million for a deadly thing like this appears to be, without intending to make some vile use of it, or sell it to someone else who will make some vile use of it? I know the cunning of the breed. Their immedi- ate aim is the lining of their own fat pockets; but it's precious little it'll worry them if Europe gets set by THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 29 the ears in the process. And what then? Is the League yet so strong that we can sweep aside the prospect of another war as being outside the range of possibi- lities?" Peter leaned forward, and all trace of levity had gone from his voice. "Another war!" he said with some bitterness. "I wish to heaven the words could be banished from the language. I'm not a pacifist by a long chalk, but if I had my way I'd heavily fine anyone not in the services who so much as mentioned the prospect of another war. Honestly, it makes me tired. There was a man in the club-house at the Polhaven golf-club the other day who assured me in all seriousness that because man was a fighting animal wars would never cease; and he brought out a lot of statistics about the world's birth-rate to prove what would happen in three hundred years' time. Talked about war being the great purifier and ennobler, and said it was Nature's way of readjusting the balance of the population. I don't for a moment go so far as to say there will be no more war; but I do say it will not be for many a long year yet. Civilization hasn't yet forgotten lessons of the last. If the late War proved anything, it proved that all the nations are so economically dependent on one another, that so far as material gain is concerned 'there's precious little difference between the fruits of victory and the ashes of defeat." "That's only partly true," Mr. Bridgewater admitted. "In the abstract every nation has for a long time recognized war only as a disagreeable necessity. We all pay lip-service to the ideal of world-peace. But 30 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY you've got to remember the curious psychology of a nation: you can't deal with it as if you were dealing with a single intelligent mind. Nations are like crowds; when the passion's in the sense it's out; one whiff of national temper will blow the work of years of calm reflection skyhigh. A little bit of flag-wagging and peace-time arguments go by the board. And look how many more nations there are in Europe to-day than there were ten years ago—each a potential war-maker. I ask you, Brown, are there more than half a dozen nations on the Continent of Europe to-day who would have the moral strength to resist using a weapon that assured world supremacy, were such a one placed within reach? Mind you, a supremacy gained by such means would not last. No nation has ever yet attained to world-power except through the collective will of its people. The advantage gained by such things as death-rays, gas, or freak flying-machines are soon neutralized. Defence, as you know, keeps only a little behind defiance; once the results of the initial sur- prise have worn off, things have a wonderful way of levelling up. But consider, the consequences. Modern civilization is a precariously-balanced affair. It went near to toppling in 1918—we're still wobbling from the shock to-day. Inflict on it such another shock in its present unstable condition, and what would happen? Utter collapse, probably—at any rate, in Europe. The dark ages over again. A desolation and famine too horrible to contemplate, but which we must contemplate if we are going to prevent it. Well, we ask you to help us and try and get to the bottom of the mystery." THE MAN WITH HAY-FEVER 31 "And if I fail?" Peter asked quietly. Mr. Bridgewater shrugged his shoulders. "Don't let us imagine unlikely and unpleasant contingencies. If you succeed—well, we won't talk reward, but you would be able to ask for practically anything you liked." Peter shook his head and smiled. "You don't con- vince me, Mr. Bridgewater. If I thought there was a real possibility of some dreadful secret being launched on Europe, as you suggest, I shouldn't hesitate for a moment, believe me. But what proof have you? You've only got Sir Mortimer Drude's word, and you say he's mad. Suppose he isn't mad, but is carrying out some kind of gigantic bluff on the people he's trying to sell the secret to?" "In that case Sir Mortimer's remaining tenure of life will probably be short and extremely unpleasant," returned Mr. Bridgewater with a grim chuckle. "But he's not bluffing. He wouldn't be at such pains to get these back if he was," and he tapped his belt. "He may be mistaken, though. His secret may be quite harmless after all." "Ah! It may be; but it may not. Are we justified in taking the chance?" Peter laughed outright. "It's no good, Mr. Bridge- water; I'm sorry, but I'm not convinced. Suppose we adjourn the meeting till morning, shall we? I've got to get up early, remember, I've a long journey to go, and I want to start before seven." But Mr. Bridgewater only smiled with quiet con- fidence. 32 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY CHAPTER II DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS (0 It was ten minutes past two when Peter, having seen his visitor comfortably accommodated on the parlour sofa, at length retired to his room. Slipping off his clothes and donning pyjamas, he did not get into bed, but sat on the edge of it with an unlighted cigarette in his mouth, gazing thoughtfully at the candle. His mind was troubled and confused, and he wanted to sort it into some condition of order before he went to bed. His refusal to accept Bridgewater's proposal had been bluff, pure and simple. Partly from a certain obstinate disinclination to be forced along a course he disliked, and partly in order to see to what length the other would go in efforts to cajole him, he had affected complete disbelief in the urgency of the sug- gested expedient. But in his heart of hearts he knew he stood committed. Fantastic and unusual as the story was, it had the ring of truth. Dick Cartwright was not the kind of man to appeal to him for help without just cause. Yet Peter could not help a slight feeling of resentment against him for dropping the bombshell into his tiny garden of contentment. He had been so happy in his work, and his friends, and his games. Looking at it in retrospection he realized what it meant to him. And now he must give all these things DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 33 up to embark on an adventure which he knew he would ioathe. He turned the question over in his mind: was he in duty bound to accept? Many men, he knew, would jump at the chance for the sake of the adventure itself. That reason held little appeal for him, but he certainly thought there must be men, trained in the ferreting out of secrets, more competent to under- take the job than himself The mechanical part of the role—the driving and looking after the car and so forth—presented no difficulties; but what about the other and more important part? Hangerson, a pro- fessional, had failed in this; What were the chances of a mere amateur? Yet Dick Cartwright, no mean Judge of men and their capabilities, had thought him not unworthy. It was all very puzzling. He rose from the bed, and lighting the cigarette, moved to the open window, where he stood with his arms on the sill, looking out over the moonlit landscape. The sight of the river below him brought to his mind the violent attack made on Mr. Bridgewater earlier in the evening, and he wondered what had become of the gang. Probably they were miles away by now. Having failed so completely in their purpose with all the advantages of surprise, it was hardly likely they would linger on in the hope of achieving it now that their intended victim knew of their presence in Tregenneth, and was sure to be on his guard. The window at which he stood overlooked the road, a thoroughfare bounded on the far side by a low stone wall, beyond which the ground fell steeply to the river. Peter had finished his cigarette and was still ruminating 34 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY on the strangeness of his proposed mission when his eye chanced to fall on a green light moving slowly np-stream. As it drew nearer he could see the dark outline of a small boat and hear the faint throb of its engine. Idly wondering who it could be at such an hour, he was watching it when suddenly the light went out, reappeared for a space, and vanished again, only to appear once more for a similar period before it ngain ceased. Almost immediately it was there again, a mere flicker this time, and Peter suddenly realized it had spelt the letter "G" in the Morse code. As the light continued to wink away he read the message mechanically. It said: "Going to Creek." Peter's heart was beating a shade faster as the green light, shining steadily now, continued up the river. The flashing of a message implied the presence of a recipient—and who, other than himself, was there awake and alert in Tregenneth at that time? Peter had little doubt as to the right answer. And even as the light, having passed the village, began to draw in to the Tregenneth side of the river, he made up his mind as to his course of action. Half a mile above the village was a small inlet, called Benton's Creek, for which the motor-boat was obviously making. Here was an opportunity not to be missed. Since there was no way of avoiding the part Dick Cartwright had cast for him, he might as well start at once—and what better beginning could be imagined than scrutinizing at close quarters the members of the gang with whom he had to deal, while remaining invisible himself: During the fight on the quay he had been unable to jjather more than an impression of their appearance, DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 35 and he had not even caught a glimpse of Horstman— "the lame one" of Mr. Bridgewater's narrative. Ben- ton's Creek, surrounded as it was by trees, was an ideal spot for such an espionage. There was no need to rouse Mr. Bridgewater. Hurriedly slipping on some clothes he stole downstairs, and cautiously opened and closed the front door; therf he ran swiftly and silently in the direction of the village. Two minutes after he had gone, a man emerged from the shelter of the wall opposite the cottage, and put- ting his hands to his mouth, uttered a strange cry, which floated down through the quiet night like the plaintive call of a night-bird. Peter, hurrying through the silent village on noiseless rubbered feet, heard the cry, but being occupied with keeping a wary look-out for lurking members of the gang, he gave no heed to it. He had no reason to suppose that they were familiar with his personal appearance, but he was taking no chances. Once clear of the village he felt more at ease, for he took a short cut of which he knew his enemies would be ignorant. It led along a deep-rutted lane between high banks which presently became a path that crossed a field to the foot of a little hill with a ruined stone tower on top, like the spike on a police- man's helmet. He reached the top of this hill a little breathless, for he had made good time, and he eagerly scanned the several miles of river up-stream which its height commanded. But there was no sign of any boat. Below him, its shores thickly fringed with trees, lay Benton's Creek. Here, he decided, the motor- boat must be hidden. DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 37 in sight of the small landing-stage. Twenty yards from the shore lay a motor-boat containing two men. One, little more than a lad, sat forward in an alert attitude; the other, presumably the surly Dan, lolled in the stern, cigarette in mouth, and Peter saw a villainous face with a shield over one eye. There was a stretch of mud between the boat and the stage; it would be the best part of an hour, he decided, before there was sufficient depth of water to float the boat alongside. Peter settled himself to wait. Slowly the night wore on. The men in the boat hardly stirred. Once the younger of the two essayed conversation, only to be immediately snubbed by his morose companion. The moon sank perceptibly lower in the heavens. Silently the tide crept up to the land- ing-stage, but still the men made no move. At length, when his vigil seemed to have lasted for hours, Peter heard the melancholy call of a night-bird in the dis- tance. The occupants of the boat at once bestirred themselves, the younger busying himself with the anchor-rope, while the peevish Dan, to the accompani- ment of much profanity, bent over the engine. "About time, too," he grumbled, as the engine started with a splutter. "We'll be lucky if we get out o' this before daylight, I tell you. 'Orstman can say what he likes—'ullo," he broke off, staring up the creek. "Wot's all this?" At the far end of the creek, where the road came down to the shore, a party of men came into sight, and commenced to advance along the path to the stage. Among them strode a huge man with a conspicuous limp, a monstrous bulk of a man who towered above 38 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY the others like a damaged battleship amidst a swarm of destroyers. Fascinated by the spectacle Peter did not at once observe the rest; but when at length he took his gaze away from the giant his heart missed a beat with sudden horror, for the others were carrying the limp body of a large man. "It's Joseyl" declared the young man in the boat excitedly. "Josey be Mowed," rejoined Dan, standing up as the boat glided to the stage, "it's Big Pedro. Say, boys, wot's happened?" he called out. "Is he dead?" "Dead?" answered one of the bearers as they laid down their burden. "Ah, I should think 'e was dead. As mutton." Stray beams of moonlight filtered through the trees, weirdly freckling the face of the dead man; and Peter saw with inexpressible relief that it was the giant mulatto with whom he had tried conclusions earlier in the evening. For several ghastly moments he had thought it was Mr. Bridgewater. "Aye, but he gave as good as he got," piped the huge man in a shrill voice that contrasted unplea- santly with his enormous size; "trust Pedro for that . Pity he didn't get the other swine as well, blast his bones. Get him in, boys; we don't want to stop here no longer'n we can help. I suppose you ain't seen no man round 'ere, Dan?" he asked. "There I" cried the young man in the boat. "You 'old yer ruddy tongue—'e didn't ask you. did 'e?" answered Dan angrily. "I only said—" commenced the other. "Stow it!—who wants to 'ear your opinion." DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 39 retorted Dan. "There wasn't nothing, Mr. 'Orstman. There's been no man 'ere, I'll take my oath." "Dan couldn't 'ear—'e was half-asleep," said the lad with spirit. "About a hower ago, it was, Mr. 'Orstman . . . ." "Look 'ere—" began Dan in menacing tones, but the big man interrupted him. "Well, it don't signify if he ain't here now," he squeaked. "If I got my hands on him I'd tear his eyes out, curse him. Josey here 'ud like to have a word with the swine, too—broke his arm, he did—eh, Josey?" The miscreant addressed—it was the dago who had tried to slash Peter with a razor—replied with a threat so dreadful that all except the angry Dan laughed loudly. "Any'ow, we got no time to waste on him now," said Horstman with finality. "We done enough for one night I reckon—leastways, Pedro has. Got those stones, George? Well, chuck 'em in—we'll tie 'em on outside. Get a hustle on, boys." With a strange sinking of the heart Peter watched them haul the dead body of their fellow-conspirator on board. What was the meaning of these sinister allusions to the dead Pedro?—to whom had he given "as good as he got"? If anything had happened to Mr. Bridgewater while he was away—he clenched his fists at the thought. By Heaven! if there had they should pay for it. If he had to spend a year searching for every member of the gang they should pay. A wave of anger swept over Peter. He wanted to hurt these men physically, make them suffer, shake them out of their vile complacency. And he was DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 41 dropped into a walk. He had run from Benton's Creek, not for fear of pursuit from the dripping gang, but urged on by the dread in his heart. The elation of the glorious moment when he had seen his victims strug- gling in the shallow water had gone, leaving the fear of what he would find at the cottage. When he came in sight of it he was partly reassured by a light in the sitting-room window, which was wide open. Now, to reach the front door he had to pass this window, and he naturally looked in. What he saw struck him stiff with horror. In the room stood three people. One was his land- lady, her head and shoulders enveloped in a shawl; she had evidently been weeping, and she was looking pathetically at a short man whom Peter recognized as the local doctor, who lived near by. By the couch, in helmet and unfastened tunic, stood the familiar figure of Police-Constable Trethewy, examining some object like a walking-stick in his hand. A figure lay stretched at his feet—a bulky motionless figure with its boots towards the window. Peter gave it one long fearful look; then he again fixed his gaze on the object held by the constable. This time he recognized it It was a heavy niblick which usually reposed in his golf-bag in the corner; and on the head and part of the shaft was a dark stain. (11) Even in the frightful moment of his discovery Peter realized that he must not enter that room. The con- sequences of such -a step were only too apparent. In 42 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY the first place he could do nothing to help: Bridge- water was obviously dead and the vital documents stolen; in the second he clearly foresaw the equivocal nature of his position. What kind of story had he to tell? The truth, to the stolid village constable and the hard-headed country practitioner^ would sound like the ravings of a lunatic; the deduction they would draw, with the damning evidence of that golf- stick in front of them, obvious. Nor would they hesitate to act on their conclusions. He was practically a stranger in Tregenneth. Apart from a few fishermen, his landlady, and some members of the golf-club at Polhaven, ten miles away, he knew not a soul in Cornwall. It would be nothing less than the duty of the constable to detain him, if only upon suspicion. That his detention would only be of short duration he knew; he had not the slightest fear of being unable to prove his innocence, given time. But until his innocence was established in the eyes of the law, even if he were not put to the ignominy of arrest, a watchful eye would indubitably be kept upon his movements, and his liberty of action be curtailed. And at all costs he must keep his freedom if he were to get into touch with Dick Cartwright. He realized that must be his first aim. While these thoughts flashed through his mind the doctor had been bending over the prostrate figure on the floor; and now he straightened his back and said something in an undertone that resulted in the con- stable turning to the window. Peter drew away just in time. The voice of Constable Trethewy came from the window: DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 43 "Likely he be twenty mile away by now," he remarked. A woman's voice, his landlady's, said tearfully, "He didn't do it sir—that I do know. There wasn't a kinder nor simpler gentleman you'd ever meet than Mr. Brown. You know that well, Mr. Trethewy. Don't 'e take away a man's character behind's back!" "I got my duty to do, Mrs. King," returned the constable. "Never spoke tu' chap t'arl meself. He looked a decent well-set-up sort o' chap—I will say that for'm." "Give me a hand here, Trethewy," said the doctor's voice. A pause followed, and then the constable's voice again: "It do put me in mind of the War, doctor." Peter waited to hear no more. It distressed him to leave his landlady to face the music alone, and she standing by him so loyally; but there was no help for it. Some day later he would put things right with her; at any rate, apart from the inevitable trouble and publicity, she would come to no harm. He started off down the road to the shed where he kept his car—and then he pulled up, swearing under his breath. His keys and all his money were in his bedroom; there was nothing for it but to retrace his steps. Ducking under the open window he found the front door ajar and silently slipped inside. As he tip- toed up the stairs he caught a glimpse of Trethewy busy with a note-book, and he wondered irrelevantly why it was that policemen invariably used such stubby pencils. Once in his own room he lost no time in slipping into 44 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY his pocket such articles as were necessary for his flight; and then, going to the window, he speculated on his chances of jumping down without making too much noise. Better to risk the stairs, he decided; but he regretted his decision a few moments later when, on reaching the bottom step, the burly figure of the constable emerged from the sitting-room. "'Ullo, 'ullo!" exclaimed that worthy, pressing the back of his neck importantly against the collar of his tunic. "An' where have yu' been arl this time, might I ask?" Peter thought quickly. Should he affect ignorance of the whole business or tell them the truth—or as much of the truth as was necessary to clear himself? There was no reason why he should encourage them to think him a murderer. At the same time he was certainly not going to allow himself to be detained. On that point he was determined. "Why, what's the matter—and what are you doing here?" he gasped in what he hoped was a voice of suitable astonishment. "You'll know soon enough! Going to sneak out, wasn't yu', now?" Peter's nerves, though he did not know it, were all to pieces, and the man's tone irritated him. "And what the devil has it got to do with you if I am?" he said angrily. "Do you propose to try and prevent me?" "Yais!' said Trethewy with a grim nod, and put his broad back against the front door. It was the constable's complacent assumption of his guilt that made Peter lose his temper. Afterwards DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 45 he realized that his action, besides definitely putting him on the wrong side of the law, was stupid and unnecessary; he could so easily have temporized and sought a later opportunity to slip away. Had he taken the wiser course the subsequent trend of this narrative would have been entirely different. But reason is apt to melt in the heat of anger, and Peter's course was the unwise one. He feinted for the constable's jaw, and as Trethewy's arm flew up he smote him on the unguarded mark; the man doubled up involuntarily, and before he could recover Peter was through the door. He ran down the road as hard as he could go. Day- light was rapidly gaining, and looking back, he saw the heavy figure of the constable lumbering after him. Of the doctor there was no sign. Well, he had not the slightest desire to hurt Trethewy, but he would per- sist in getting in the way ... it would be a harder blow next time, he thought grimly. Reaching the shed he thrust in the key and flung back the doors; then he jumped into the car, switched on, and pressed the self-starter. The engine fired at once, and shoving in first gear, and regardless of the unwisdom of speeding up a cold engine, he trod on the accelerator and let in the clutch. The car lurched forward just as Trethewy appeared at the entrance. Peter steered straight for him: it was the only thing to do, and he knew the constable wouldn't wait to be run over. Trethewy leapt aside with a yell, but as Peter turned into the road he jumped on the running- board—and then, in a ghastly moment for Peter, the engine made a peculiar hissing noise, coughed, and was silent. Well Peter knew that sound—no petrol! 46 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY In the excitement of starting he had forgotten to turn the petrol-tap; the amount left in the float-chamber of the carburetter had been sufficient to take him a few yards, but no further. Whether the constable had his truncheon with him Peter never knew; at any rate he did not use it. Instead, he threw himself on Peter like a tiger and endeavoured to drag him from the driving seat. He was a big strong man, full of righteous anger at the way he had been treated; but then so was Peter. Moreover, Peter was in the finer condition. Out of the car they rolled, twisting and turning, speaking no word, the breath whistling through their lungs as they struggled. There was no question of finesse; it was the old elemental game, man to man, with victory to the strong arm and the quick brain. Trethewy fought desperately; but he was by twenty years the older man, and he began to weaken. Peter felt the lessening resistence and put forth all his strength. And when presently he arose, shaken and panting, it was a sense- less figure that lay at his feet. Stooping, he lifted the inert body of the plucky constable, and with some difficulty carried him to the side of the road. It would take Trethewy about ten minutes, he reckoned, to recover consciousness, and by that time he would be well started on his journey. But how far would he travel before the hand of the law overtook him? Only too well he realized the seriousness of his position. He was no longer an innocent man fleeing from justice; to the crime for which everyone would hold him guilty he had now added that of a murderous assault on the police. No DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 47 amount of explanations would palliate that offence. Truly, he reflected bitterly, as he re-started the car, violence always recoils on the head of the violent. (in) But with the freshness of the morning, as he bumped along the narrow lanes, his spirits rose. After all, granting the original folly of having assaulted the constable, he did not see how he could have acted differently. He began to think of the future. Obviously he must make some sort of plan. In good open country his car was capable of doing sixty miles an hour; on the Cornish and Devonshire roads he could, he thought, average from thirty-five to forty at that early hour, though it would be bumpy going. In four hours, then, given luck, he would be well into Somerset or Dorset where the roads were better, but where, with the coming of the working day, he would need to be on the alert for those three flies in the speed-mer- chant's ointment—corners, cross-roads, and cattle. Provided he was not stopped he calculated he would reach London, two hundred and sixty miles away, in the early afternoon. But in the meantime the ether and the telegraph-wires of Great Britain would be humming to the description of a certain yellow two- seater car, driven by one Peter Brown, motor-engineer, aged thirty, in height 6 ft., etc., etc. . . "The devil!" thought Peter. "It will take some doing!" Exeter—that bottle-neck to the south of England— it was there he might first meet trouble. Impossible 48 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY to avoid that long High Street, with it numerous white-coated policemen, without making a tiresome detour. Better, perhaps, to get rid of the car and go on by train. The risk of detection would be immeasur- ably less. He would be able to get a much-needed sleep in the train, too, for he was beginning to feel the effects of having stayed up all night. For the present, however, he would have to be content with the car; there would be no train running yet for several hours. It was a steam-roller, snorting merrily out of a deep- sunk Devonshire side-lane some two or three hours later, that solved the problem of the disposal of the car. The thing happened with that swiftness which characterizes most motor accidents. One moment the speedometer needle was quivering near the fifty- five mark; the next the brakes were squealing a frenzied protest as Peter jammed on everything hard, klaxoning furiously. But the steam-roller kept on its course, completely blocking the highway. Peter had a vision of the scared driver, spinning his steering- wheel like one possessed; then seeing a smash was inevitable he turned the car into the side of the road. It hit the bank at twenty miles an hour, slithered round, and fell over on its side, pitching its occupant out onto the grass. Rising unhurt his first thought was for the car. It was out of action—he saw that at a glance. The near-side front wing was crumpled up like paper, the wheel beneath being bent at an angle of forty-five degrees. The steam-roller had stopped, and the driver climbed down from his cabin with an indignant face. He was a little man, and the reaction from the DOINGS IN THE SMALL HOURS 49 alarm of the averted collision rendered him abusive. "Now don't get angry," Peter told him. "It won't do you any good and you are entirely in the wrong. What do you mean by coming out of a side-road like that without knowing the coast was clear?" "You 'adn't no business to go ser fast. Think you own the ruddy 'ighway, you motorists—'airin' along at that rate!" Peter looked at his weak, angry face, and realized the uselessness of argument. "Where's the nearest garage?" he asked, with what patience he could summon. "You was a-doin' seventy if you was a-doin' ten," declared the man doggedly. "I know! I gotter motor- bike meself. Racin' you was! 'Ow was I to know . . ." And so on, and so forth. The dispute might have gone on indefinitely had not a commercial traveller in a Ford Sedan driven up, and learning the facts of the case, offered to give Peter a lift to Exeter, whither he was bound. Peter accepted gratefully, and after exchanging names and addresses with the still-simmering driver of the steam- roller, mounted up beside the traveller and ensconced himself between two cardboard boxes and a suitcase. Shortly after they had started they met two police- men on bicycles, who subjected them to a keen scrutiny, without, however, stopping them. As Peter's companion thoughtfully observed, they seemed to be "on the look-out for somebody". Peter consulted his watch. It was a quarter to eight. Constable Trethewy had apparently not been long in spreading the glad tidings. So THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY CHAPTER III THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER In Exeter, having parted from the obliging com- mercial-traveller, Peter took a tram to St. David's sta- tion. It marked the terminus of the route, and he was about to descend when the sight of two uniformed constables, lounging outside the station entrance, made him resume his seat somewhat hastily. There was no reason to suppose that they were there on account of him, but he was hatless and still dressed in the flannel trousers and shabby sports- coat which he had worn at Tregenneth; his damaged eye, in the absence of his glasses, was a fairly conspicu- ous object; all of which rendered him easily recog- nizable should his description have already been circu- lated. The risk, it was true, was only a slight one, but he wished to take no chances. As the tram journeyed back to the centre of the town he told himself he was giving way to panic: that it was absurd to suppose that the machinery of the law could have been set in motion in so short a time. But he changed his mind when, alighting at Queen St., the other of the two main stations in Exeter, the familiar uniform once again met his eye in the booking-hall. The double circumstance was too strange to be a coincidence, ft looked as if the task of leaving Exeter was going to prove more difficult than he imagined. 52 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY wait, he decided to try and snatch a little sleep, of which he was beginning to feel strongly in need. Espying a smoking-room which appeared at the moment to be empty, he told the Boots what he proposed to do, and asked him to rouse him half an hour before the train was due to start; then, making his way to a couch, he stretched his tired limbs on it with a feeling of infinite weariness. His body had begun to ache all over, and there was a dull pain in his left shoulder which was the result of his tussle with Constable Trethewy; nevertheless, it was the first peaceful moment he had enjoyed since the episode on the quay at Tregenneth eleven hours before, and he sighed for the sheer delight of it. Five minutes later he was asleep. • im M m Out of the formless land of shadows, that impal- pable world of half-impressions that lies between sleep and waking, in which he had yet been dimly aware of some sinister happening that menaced his safety, Peter was jerked, with a suddenness that set all his pulses racing, into complete, panic-stricken wakefulness, with every nerve taut, his whole being alive to the proximity of some imminent danger. Indeed, so real and unmistakable was the warning that, without being conscious of actual volition, he slid his legs from the couch and stood up, gazing fear- fully round the empty smoking-room. And then, just as the memory of a dream, clear enough at the moment of waking, quickly fades under the rush of new perceptions, so the feeling of appre- hension began sensibly to diminish. He laughed THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER 53 uneasily. Nerves—that was what was the matter with him: his cursed imagination was playing him tricks again. It was as well no one else was in the room—a pretty fool he would have looked, starting up like that at nothing. He glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece. It was half-past eleven—there was still time for another forty winks. Determined not to let his nerves get the better of him, he resolutely lay down once more. And as he did so he noticed a curious thing. In the opposite corner of the room two doors stood close together at right-angles—the one through which he had entered, and another marked "Writing-Room". His eye had chanced to fall on the handle of the former door, and been arrested by the fact that it was being slowly turned from without. Lying with eyelids almost closed Peter watched the sinister movement: saw the handle become still, and the door begin to open. Then a head was thrust cautiously through the gap. It was that of the commer- cial-traveller who had given him a lift in his Ford. And his eyes went straight to the couch and stayed there. There was something unnatural about that scrutiny. It was not as if the intruder had looked in in search of a friend, but rather as if he had come solely to examine the figure on the couch—to identify it, perhaps. The train of thought suggested was dis- quieting. It looked as though Peter's efforts to evade capture had failed, and his tracks been followed. He continued to lie quite still, while his brain took in this new development. 54 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY At length the head was withdrawn and the door softly closed, but not latched; whereupon Peter once more rose, and tiptoeing to the door, peeped through the crack. What he saw confirmed his sus- picions, for in the hall of the hotel were two police- men, one evidently a sergeant, talking earnestly to the manager, while the commercial-traveller, a few yards distant from Peter, was beckoning excitedly. The sight galvanized Peter into violent activity. With a couple of bounds he reached the windows, only to perceive that they looked out upon a busy street, with a white coated policeman directing traffic not a dozen yards away. Obviously there was no escape in that direction, and he promptly flew to the door of the writing-room. Two men were sitting at desks with their backs turned towards him as he entered. They did not look up, and he strolled care- lessly to the door, and whipping off his now all too betraying spectacles, walked out into the corridor. He was banking on the hope that the watchers, if he attracted their notice, would be so firmly convinced that he was still asleep in the smoking-room as to mistake him for an ordinary hotel guest. This was apparently what happened. Peter treated himself to a swift glance up the corridor, to be rewarded with a sight which, in less trying circumstances, would have filled him with laughter. Creeping along on tiptoe towards the smoke-room door with every appearance of stealth, looking ridiculously like stage conspirators, were the sergeant and the constable, followed by the manager and the commercial-traveller. Undoubtedly they saw him emerge from the THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER 55 writing-room, but Peter was half-way down the corridor, walking as slowly as he dared, before they realized who he was. A sudden shout warned him of recognition; and the next moment, casting aside all pretence, he was sprinting down the corridor, praying that the closed door which faced him at the end did not lead into another room or cul-de-sac. Reaching it amidst a growing uproar of shouts, he flung it open, and slamming it to again, found himself in the courtyard of the hotel, empty save for a man in brown overalls busy washing down a car near the entrance gates. To pass the man without being seen was impossible, yet there seemed no other way of escape, and Peter was on the point of making the attempt when his eye fell on a wicker skip or case, such as travellers carry samples in, standing open against the wall by the side-door—and it was empty! In an instant Peter was inside with the lid down, just before the hotel-door burst open, and the chase cas- caded noisily into the courtyard. Peter would have enjoyed the scene which followed if he had not been so desperately anxious as to its outcome. For a few minutes there was nothing but the sound of men running about and voices raised in excited comment and inquiry, dominated by the parade-ground bark of the sergeant. He seemed to be a man of explosive temper. Peter imagined him as being thick of jaw, with choleric, protruding eyes— as, indeed, he was. "Where in Hades is he!" he cried. "Talk about thick heads—God bless my soul, you've got eyes in your head, man haven't you?—you must have seen 56 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY him come out!"—this, presumably, to the man in brown overalls. "I didn't see no one," the unfortunate man returned surlily. "How could I, with me back turned and all?" "I don't want none of your sauce," retorted the sergeant. "A little more lip from you, cocky, and you'll find yourself in trouble! Any other exits bar them gates, sir?" he demanded of the manager. ''Not unless he climbed the wall," was the reply. "It's me belief he's hiding somewhere in those old stables yonder." "We'll soon find out. Edwards, you stop by them gates. Now, sir, if you please." The next half-hour was one that was long remem- bered by the hotel management and staff. The day had become uncomfortably hot, as the result of which tempers were already in a sensitive condition and the sergeant's energy, as he raged about like an angry lion, did nothing to soothe them. In his zeal he peered under motor-cars; he climbed into disused lofts; he insisted on having two lock-up garages unlocked; he entered the stock-room of a traveller in lady's lingerie and outraged the indignant salesman by feeling into a large case of his daintiest wares with hands soiled by a previous visit to the coal-hole. Yet it never occurred to him, or to anyone else, to look into that much more obvious case by the side-door. Finally, he invaded the servants' quarters, which were on the ground floor at the back of the hotel. And it was while he was there, engaged in a passion- ate altercation with an irate elderly female cook who resented his declared intention of searching her bedroom THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER 57 as a slur on her good character, and whose name and address were duly taken by the furious sergeant as the result, that Peter for the first time dared to raise the lid of his hiding-place. "Holy Moses!" he gasped. "Talk about the Black Hole of Calcutta!" He looked round the yard. The man in the brown overalls was lying half-under the car; the other men had gone to their dinner; the manager and the obliging traveller were nowhere to be seen. Only one policeman stood between him and freedom. It was a case of now or never. Leaping from the skip he rushed to the gateway. The constable saw him coming, and made a gallant attempt to grapple him; but with the experience born of many runs on the rugby field Peter handed him off, and raced down the street like a hare, with the policeman, vigorously blowing his whistle, after him. Fortunate it was for Peter that it was the dinner- hour and there were few people about, or his period of freedom would have been short. As it was, the only person to attempt to stop him was an old lady with an umbrella, which she valiantly brandished in front of him as if he were a runaway sheep. Dodging her, he slipped down a side-road; and running as fast as he could lay foot to ground, he reached the end of it just as the pursuing constable hove in sight. It was a comparatively easy matter to avoid the chase then; and presently he dropped into a walk. And soon afterwards, coming upon a field with a gate which bore the legend "The Chavverton Croquet Club", and seeing no one about, he slipped through, and 58 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY finding a large tree in one corner, lay down in its grateful shade to take stock of his position. The problem of reaching London was going to prove less easy than he had thought. It looked as if he would have to wait until darkness before he attempted to leave Exeter. 00 The Rev. Charles Barkleigh-Claughan was winning his game. As he strode about the croquet-lawn, bare- headed and in his shirtsleeves, his face glowed with pleasure and perspiration. It always afforded him keen delight to beat Rear-Admiral Bodmin, the best player in the club, for the old sailor's dislike of coming off second-best was notorious. Whenever the clergy- man made a particularly long break the Admiral's frown, always formidable, would have been terrifying to anyone but his opponent, who was not easily inti- midated. Finally, when Mr. Barkleigh-Claughan had ended the game by pegging out both his own balls, the Admiral gave tongue. "It's outrageous!" he declared explosively, '''it's positively a disgrace!" "What is that, Admiral?" asked the young clergy- man innocently. "The state of this lawn, sir! If I had my way the groundsman should be strung up at the end of a yard- arm. The ground isn't fit to play polo on, let alone croquet. It's like the present condition of this country, sir—a damned disgrace to those who are supposed to look after it." "Oh, come, Admiral," said the clergyman. "I oo THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY trying. He had hoped to play croquet for another hour at least, and there was no other member on the ground. And then his eyes fell with some surprise on the figure of a man walking past the end of the lawn— a complete stranger, dressed in blue serge and wearing tinted spectacles. It occurred to the clergyman to ask him what he was doing there, but being a companion- able soul he nodded instead, and remarked: "Hot, isn't it?" "It is," agreed the stranger. "Nice, though." "Oh, rather; I'm not complaining," returned the clergyman. "New member?" he asked. "As a matter of fact I came here to find a man," was the reply. "A man named Smith; but he doesn't seem to be here." "Smith, the accountant, do you mean? He only comes here on Saturdays." "No, my Smith is—a doctor." "No doctor of that name here," the curate informed him. "You must have made a mistake." "I'm afraid I must have," confessed the stranger. "What a jolly little club you have here." "Yes, isn't it! By the way, I suppose you—er—you don't happen to be a croquet-player?" asked the clergyman tentatively. "Well, I used to play a bit some years ago. You fond of it?" "I love it," said the Rev. Charles Barkleigh- Claughan. "Greatest game out—for the summer. You don't spend half your time in the pavilion like you do at cricket, and it's nothing like so maddening as golf, THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER 01 when you reach the green in two and take four more to hole out. Trouble is it's so dashed unpopular. In novels and things. The only writer I know who really appreciates it is Chesterton. Ever read that little thing of his on croquet? 'The game which is no game' or some such title. How he played in the dark and kept hitting balls he couldn't see . . . jolly true, too. I suppose you wouldn't care for a game yourself?" he suggested. The stranger's gaze rested thoughtfully on the distant figure of a policeman walking slowly and majestically past the railing that separated the field from the road. "I should like one very much," he said. "Only I'm afraid I shouldn't be able to give you much of a game." "Splendid!" cried the clergyman. "As a member I enjoy the privilege of inviting a friend to play. You can borrow the Admiral's shoes and mallet—he won't know, and if he did it couldn't make him madder than he was five minutes ago. Come in." "I like your pavilion," observed the stranger, glancing over the box-like structure. "Nice and compact." "Yes, isn't it? It was once a kiosk at some open- air exhibition or other, and we picked it up for an old song. It hasn't got a window—still, it suffices, and the door is strong enough." "It locks, I suppose?" the stranger asked carelessly. "Oh, yes, rather. We couldn't leave all these things lying about without. I'll get the book and put your name down." The clergyman disappeared inside. The stranger 62 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY glanced back at the policeman, now safely past the gate; then his eye came back to the clergyman's hat and coat, which were lying on a chair, and from there travelled to a bicycle leaning against the pavilion, presumably belonging to the clergyman also. Then, feeling an utter cad, he stepped to the door and turned the key. "Hello, what's up?" came the clergyman's voice from the pavilion, and the stranger heard him trying the door. "Here, I say!" he protested. "I'm really awfully sorry!" said the stranger apologetically. "I assure you I wouldn't do this if it was not absolutely necessary. I hope you don't mind if I borrow your clothes." "Borrow my clothes—what do you mean? Unlock this door." "I haven't the time to explain, but when you know the circumstances—" "What the deuce do you mean?" the clergyman interrupted angrily. "Let me out at once, do you hear?" The stranger had already removed his collar and put it on back to fore, and he now slipped on the clergyman's hat and coat, and seized hold of his bicycle. "I'll get someone to let you out," he called. "I'm leaving you my coat; it's a nice new one, I only bought it this morning. Good-bye. I'm so sorry to be so rude, but you'll understand some day. I'll send the bike back if I can." To the accompaniment of a thunderous banging on the door the stranger wheeled the bicycle into the THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER 63 road. On the footpath was a small boy with a dirty face, and the stranger felt in his trouser pocket and produced a coin. "Like to earn sixpence, sonny?" he said pleasantly. "You see that pavilion over there—well, there is a friend of mine, a very angry gentleman, locked inside. You can hear him talking to himself if you listen, but he's quite harmless really. Run and let him out and the sixpence is yours. Or better still," added the stranger with a sudden grin. "Run to that policeman and ask him to let him out. It'll make him happy for days to think he's been so near to me with- out knowing it." So saying he mounted the bicycle, and overtaking the policeman, graciously saluted him, to receive a dignified salute in return. "Nice fellers, them curates," was the mental com- ment of the constable as he watched the cyclist dis- appear; but whether this attitude of mind survived the next half-hour, when he discovered that the curate who had given him such an affable salutation was none other than the man for whom half the county was looking, history does not relate. (in) Picture now the spectacle of our Mr. Brown, strangely clad in clerical coat and collar and blue serge trousers, toiling along the Taunton road through that hot after- noon on a bicycle several sizes too small for him, tired in body, the calves of his legs already beginning to ache from the unaccustomed exercise, but in great 64 THE GREAT HOLD-UP MYSTERY spirits on account of his lucky escape from Exeter. Since leaving the town cars had passed him in plenty travelling in both directions, but as none had showi: the least interest in him he was full of hope that h had eluded the police for good. It would take them the best part of an hour, he calculated, to identify the miscreant in the hotel with the stealer of the clergyman's bicycle, and by that time he reckoned to have put many miles between himself and Exeter. To remain long on the main- road, however, was asking for trouble: and when, shortly, he came to the summit of a hill which com- manded a wide prospect of the vale through which the road travelled, he dismounted and brought out his map. He had a plan in mind. The hill on which he stood was, roughly, the center of a circle twelve miles in radius in which there were about a dozen railway-stations, from one of which he was convinced he would be, able to catch a local train and make his way to one of the larger towns, and thence to London. There was obviously a limit to the number of police who could be spared to join in the search, and the risk of being discovered at a wayside station seemed less than that of trying to get a lift in a passing car, the driver of which might easily have been warned to be on the look-out for him. Accordingly, therefore, he mounted his machine, and a few minutes later, coming upon a side-road with a finger-post bearing the name of one of the villages with a station, he turned down it. As he did so the thought occurred to him that he could not be far from Okewood Hall, the residence of Sir Mortimer Drude. Mr. Bridgewater had omitted THE GIRL AND THE MOTOR-SCOOTER 65 t