Elk 01 The Fellowship of the Frog (36 page)

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.”

Joshua Broad was silent until they were going up the steps of the house.

“When you know as much about the Frog as I know, you’ll be surprised at nothing,” he said, and did not add to this cryptic remark.

Six o’clock came, and there was no further news from the west. Seven o’clock, and the girl’s condition became pitiable. She had borne herself throughout the night with a courage that excited the admiration of the men; but now, as the hour was drawing close, she seemed on the verge of collapse. At half-past seven the telephone bell rang, and Elk answered.

It was the Chief of Police at Newbury speaking.

“Captain Gordon left Didcot an hour ago,” was the message.

“Didcot!” gasped Elk in consternation. He looked at the clock. “An hour ago—and he had to make Gloucester in sixty minutes!”

The girl, who had been in the dining-room trying to take coffee which Gordon’s servant had prepared, came into the study, and Elk dared not continue the conversation.

“All right,” he said loudly, and smashed down the receiver.

“What is the news, Mr. Elk?” The girl’s voice was a wail.

“The news,” said Elk, twisting his face into a smile, “is fine!”

“What do they say?” she persisted.

“Oh, them?” said Elk, looking at the telephone. “That was a friend of mine, asking me if I’d dine with him to-night.” She went back to the dining-room, only half-satisfied, and Elk called the American to him.

“Go and get a doctor,” he said in a low voice, “and tell him to bring something that’ll put this young lady to sleep for twelve hours.”

“Why?” asked Broad. “Is the news bad?”

Elk nodded.

“There isn’t a chance of saving this boy—not the ghost of a chance!” he said.

Dick, with his ear to the floor, heard the words “Frog says he’s got to die,” and his cracked lips parted in a grin. “Have you heard him moving about?” asked Hagn.

“No, he’s asleep, I expect,” said another voice. “We shall have to wait for light. We can’t do it in the dark. We shall be killing one another.”

This view commended itself to most of the men present. Dick counted six voices. He struck a match for another survey, and again his eye fell upon the cable. And then an inspiration came to him. Moving stealthily across the floor, he reached up, and, gripping the cable, pulled on it steadily. Under his weight, the supporting insulator broke loose. By great good luck it fell upon the heap of rubbish in the fireplace and made no sound. For the next half-hour he worked feverishly, unwrapping the rubber insulation from the wires of the cable, pulling the copper strands free. His hands were bleeding, his nails broken; but after half-an-hour’s hard work, he had the end of the cable frayed. The door opened outward, he remembered with satisfaction, and, lifting the steel plate, he laid it tight against the door, so that whoever entered must step upon it. Then he began to fasten the frayed copper wires of the cable to the rivet holes; and he had hardly finished his work before he heard a stealthy sound on the stairs.

Day had come now, and light was streaming through the glass roof of the factory. He heard a faint whisper, and even as faint a click, as the bolts of the door were pulled; and, creeping to the switch, he turned it down.

The door was jerked open, and a man stepped upon the plate. Before his scream could warn him who followed the second of the party had been flung senseless to the floor.

“What the devil’s wrong?” It was Hagn’s voice. He came running up the stairs, put one foot on the electric plate, and stood for the space of a second motionless. Then, with a gasping sob, he fell backward, and Dick heard the crash as he struck the stairs.

He did not wait any longer. Jumping over the plate, he leapt down the stairs, treading underfoot the senseless figure of Hagn. The little office was empty. On the table lay one of his pistols. He gripped it, and fled along the bare factory hall, through a door into the open. He heard a shout, and, looking round, saw two of the party coming at him, and, raising his pistol, he pressed the trigger. There was a click—Hagn had emptied the magazine.

A Browning is an excellent weapon even if it is not loaded, and Dick Gordon brought the barrel down with smashing force upon the head of the man who tried to grapple with him. Then he turned and ran.

He had made a mistake when he thought there were only six men in the building; there must have been twenty, and most of them were in full cry.

He tried to reach the road, and was separated only by a line of bushes. But here he blundered. The bushes concealed a barbed wire fence, and he had to run along uneven ground, and in his stockinged feet the effort was painful. His slow progress enabled his pursuers to get ahead. Doubling back, Dick flew for the second of the three buildings, and as he ran, he took out the magazine of his pistol. As he feared, it was empty.

Now they were on him. He could hear the leading man’s breath, and he himself was nearly spent. And then, before him, he saw a round fire-alarm, fixed to the wall, and in a flash the memory of an almost forgotten conversation came back to him. With his bare hands he smashed the glass and tugged at the alarm, and at that minute they were on him. He fought desperately, but against their numbers resistance was almost useless. He must gain time.

“Get up, you fellows!” he shouted. “Hagn’s dead.”

It was an unfortunate statement, for Hagn came out of the next building at that moment, very shaken but very alive. He was livid with rage, and babbled in some language which Dick did not know, but which he guessed was Swedish.

“I’ll fix you for that. You shall try electric shock yourself, you dog!”

He drove his fist at the prisoner’s face, but Dick twisted his head and the blow struck the brickwork of the building against which he stood. With a scream, the man leapt at him, clawing and tearing with open hands, and this was Dick’s salvation. For the men who were gripping his arms released their hold, that their chief might have freer play. Dick struck out, hitting scientifically for the body, and with a yell Hagn collapsed. Before they could stop him, Gordon was away like the wind, this time making for the gate.

He had reached it when the hand of the nearest man fell on him. He flung him aside and staggered into the roadway, and then, from down the straight road, came the clang of bells, a glitter of brass and a touch of crimson. A motor fire-engine was coming at full speed.

For a moment the men grouped about the gate stared at this intervention. Then, without taking any further notice of their quarry, they turned and ran. A word to the fire chief explained the situation. Another engine was coming, at breakneck speed, and firemen were men for whom Frogs had no terror.

Whilst Hagn was being carried to one of the waiting wagons, Dick looked at his watch; it was six o’clock. He went in search of his car, fearing the worst. Hagn, however, had made no attempt to put the car out of gear; probably he had some plan for using it himself. Three minutes later, Dick, dishevelled, grimy, bearing the marks of Hagn’s talons upon his face, swung out into the road and set the bonnet of the car for Gloucester. He could not have gone faster even had he known that his watch was stopped.

Through Swindon at breakneck speed, and he was on the Gloucester Road. He looked at his watch again. The hands still pointed to six, and he gave a gasp. He was going all out now, but the road was bad, full of windings, and once he was nearly thrown out of the car when he struck a ridge on the road.

A tyre burst, and he almost swerved into the hedge, but he got her nose straight again and continued on a flat tyre. It brought his speed down appreciably, and he grew hot and cold, as mile after mile of the road flashed past without a sign of the town.

And then, with Gloucester Cathedral showing its spires above the hill, a second tyre exploded. He could not stop: he must go on, if he had to run in to Gloucester on the rims. And now the pace was painfully slow in comparison with that frantic rush which had carried him through Berkshire and Wiltshire to the edge of Somerset.

He was entering the straggling suburbs of the town. The roads were terrible; he was held up by a street car, but, disregarding a policeman’s warning, flew past almost under the wheels of a great traction engine. And now he saw the time—two minutes to eight, and the gaol was half a mile farther on. He set his teeth end prayed.

As he turned into the main street, with the gaol gates before him, the clocks of the cathedral struck eight, and to Dick Gordon they were the notes of doom.

They would delay the carrying out of the death penalty for nothing short of the reprieve he carried. Punctually to the second, Ray Bennett would die. The agony of that moment was a memory that turned him grey. He brought the bumping car to a halt before the prison gates and staggered to the bell. Twice he pulled, but the gates remained closed. Dick pulled off his sock and found the soddened reprieve, streaky with blood, for his feet were bleeding. Again he rang with the fury of despair. Then a little wicket opened and the dark face of a warder appeared.

“You’re not allowed in,” he said curtly. “You know what is happening here.”

“Home Office,” said Dick thickly, “Home Office messenger. I have a reprieve!”

The wicket closed, and, after an eternity, the lock turned and the heavy door opened.

“I’m Captain Gordon,” gasped Dick, “from the Public Prosecutor’s office, and I carry a reprieve for James Carter.”

The warder shook his head.

“The execution took place five minutes ago, sir,” he said.

“But the Cathedral clock!” gasped Dick.

“The Cathedral clock is four minutes slow,” said the warder. “I am afraid Carter is dead.”

Ray Bennett woke from a refreshing sleep and sat up in bed. One of the warders, who had watched him all night, got up and came over.

“Do you want your clothes, Carter?” he said. “The Governor thought you wouldn’t care to wear those old things of yours.”

“And he was right,” said the grateful Ray. “This looks a good suit,” he said as he pulled on the trousers.

The warder coughed.

“Yes, it’s a good suit,” he agreed.

He did not say more, but something in his demeanour betrayed the truth. These were the clothes in which some man had been hanged, and yet Ray’s hands did not shake as he fixed the webbed braces which held them. Poor clothes, to do duty on two such dismal occasions! He hoped they would be spared the indignity of a third experience.

They brought him his breakfast at six o’clock. Yet once more his eyes strayed toward the writing-pad, and then, with breakfast over, came the chaplain, a quiet man in minister’s garb, strength in every line of his mobile face. They talked awhile, end then the warder suggested that Ray should go to take exercise in the paved yard outside. He was glad of the privilege. He wanted once more to look upon the blue sky, to draw into his lungs the balm of God’s air.

Yet he knew that it was not a disinterested kindness, and well guessed why this privilege had been afforded to him, as he walked slowly round the exercise yard, arm in arm with the clergyman. He knew now what lay behind the third door. They were going to try the trap in the death house, and they wished to spare his feelings.

In half an hour he was back in the cell.

“Do you want to make any confession, Carter? Is that your name?”

“No, it is not my name, sir,” said Ray quietly, “but that doesn’t matter.”

“Did you kill this man?”

“I don’t know,” said Ray. “I wanted to kill him, and therefore it is likely that I did.”

At ten minutes to eight came the Governor to shake hands, and with him the Sheriff. The clock in the prison hall moved slowly, inexorably forward. Through the open door of the cell Ray could see it, and, knowing this, the Governor closed the door, for it was one minute to eight, and it would soon open again. Ray saw the door move. For a second his self-possession deserted him, and he turned his back to the man who came with a quick step, and, gripping his hands, strapped them.

“God forgive me! God forgive me!” murmured somebody behind him, and at the sound of that voice Ray spun round and faced the executioner.

The hangman was John Bennett!

Father and son, executioner and convicted murderer soon to be launched to death, they faced one another, and then, in a voice that was almost inaudible, John Bennett breathed the word:

“Ray!”

Ray nodded. It was strange that, in that moment, his mind was going back over the mysterious errands of his father, his hatred of the job into which circumstances had forced him.

“Ray!” breathed the man again.

“Do you know this man?” It was the Governor, and his voice was shaking with emotion.