The House Of The Bears (23 page)

They set to work on the door.

Once the door started to open, it swung back easily on well oiled hinges. Palfrey did not open it wide, but waited, half expecting a shot. None came. He opened it wider; only darkness lay ahead. He took out his torch, but the policeman stepped forward and offered his. ‘Mine’s more powerful, sir,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ said Palfrey, gratefully.

The long white beam carved its way through the darkness.

It fell upon a man’s head with fair hair. The man was on the floor against the wall. A faint, mildew like smell came from the tunnel, and when Palfrey stepped forward, his foot slipped on the slimy floor. He trod more carefully, and the policeman kept the beam steady.

‘Well, well,’ said Palfrey, blankly.

The light shone on Gerry Markham’s face. There was an ugly gunshot wound on his throat. He lay much as Rose Lindsay had done in the caves at Cheddar Gorge.

Gerry Markham had not been dead for long.

There was an expression of horror on his face, as if he had seen death coming. His hands were clenched, and in them were hairs, hairs probably pulled from a man’s head in his struggle with the murderer.

‘Nothing we can do for him, I suppose, sir?’ said the policeman.

‘Nothing at all,’ said Palfrey.

At first the tunnel was high enough for them to walk upright, but after a while they had to bend their heads and then their knees. At one point they had to crawl for a few yards, and their hands and knees were covered with evil-smelling slime. Apart from the torch, there was no light.

When they reached a spot where they could stand upright again, Palfrey murmured: ‘Let’s stand still for a moment.’

They did so, their breathing hushed. Vague, muffled sounds travelled along the tunnel; it was even possible to make out a man’s voice. The sounds drew no nearer, and Palfrey said: ‘All right. We’ll go on.’

It was some time before they saw light.

It was at the end of the tunnel, a faint, dull light which grew slightly brighter as they walked carefully along. When they were close to the opening they saw that it was water, with light reflecting from it. After another few minutes, they reached the end of the tunnel, and found themselves standing on a narrow ledge in the side of a dock. Further on, in another dock, was the flood-lighting which Palfrey had noticed earlier in the evening. Here, at the exit of the tunnel, it shone only faintly, but it was bright enough to show a motor launch which was moving fast towards the Severn. The dock gates were open, the level of the water was the same as the level of the river. The moon had risen, making vision clearer.

The harsh roar of the engines filled the night air.

Policemen were running along the side of the dock, and there were people standing and staring from the dock-side – people from the little houses which lined it. Then there was another roar, and a second motor-boat, a police launch, started off in the wake of the first.

‘Quick work,’ Palfrey said. ‘Well, we can’t do anything.’

‘We
can,
sir!’ The policeman’s voice was pitched high in excitement.

‘What can we do?’ asked Palfrey,

‘If we cut across to “A” Dock, sir, we can cut the first boat off,’ said the policeman. ‘We shall have to commandeer a car.’

‘Good work!’ exclaimed Palfrey. In the light of the rising moon, he could just see the first boat, making good speed, a heavy wake behind it. The police launch did not seem to be travelling so fast. He followed the policeman, using a flight of narrow, slippery steps, to the road, and ran after the man towards the main road, past gaping crowds, many in their nightclothes. He stopped a small car that came along and explained the situation in a few words to the driver who raised no protest. They drove at speed to ‘A’ Dock. As the car drew up, the policeman shouted loudly to the night-watchman.

‘We want a launch, and–’

‘You don’t want no launch,’ said the watchman. ‘They’ve gone back, up along the Avon.’

‘What!’

‘S’fact,’ said the night-watchman. ‘Just come down from the roof. I saw them. Your fellows are a long way behind.’

‘Never mind,’ said Palfrey, as cheerfully as he could. They’ll probably catch up.’

‘Not in
that
old barge they won’t,’ said the night-watchman.

‘Along the Avon,’ said the policeman. ‘I know what we
can
do.’ He turned to the driver of the commandeered car, a young fellow who seemed eager to help. ‘Have you got plenty of petrol?’

‘The tank’s half full,’ said the driver.

‘Know the road to the bridge?’

‘You mean Clifton –’

‘No, under the bridge.’

‘Oh, yes, the Avonmouth Road.’

‘That’s it. As fast as you know how,’ ordered the policeman. He was evidently a man of resource and initiative, a man after Palfrey’s own heart.

The car started off immediately. The driver reversed, drove back towards the town, then up past the big hotel, forked left off the Clifton Road and found speed along a flat, wide road where there was little or no traffic and no people except an occasional policeman. They passed ships and warehouses on their left, but soon were in a built-up area. The driver seemed to know the road well. He took one wide swing to the left, and then put on an extra burst of speed and the headlights shone on great wooded cliffs across the river.

Other lights came on, near them.

The driver pulled up by the side of the road, while Palfrey looked about him, amazed. The police had lost no time at all. Cars were stationed about the road, their headlights were already turned towards the river, while the motor-launch, some way off, was swinging its searchlight from side to side.

Lights came on above them.

Palfrey looked up. In the moonlight and against the beams of headlights he could see the giant span of the suspension bridge; it looked an infinite distance away. The cars seemed to be half-way down the cliff on their side of the river; only on the other side were there no lights.

The noisy
chug-chug-chug
of the motor-launches could be heard clearly – two separate engines. Palfrey watched the searchlight of the second as it swayed from side, to side, and saw it catch the leading boat, not more than two hundred yards in front.

The leading boat was heading for the opposite bank.

The policeman said, gloomily for the first time: ‘I think they’ll get away now, sir. I was hoping they’d come this way, or else try to get out by Avonmouth. Not much chance
there,
believe me.’ He sniffed with disappointment.

Palfrey said: ‘We’ve tried. Can’t we get on the other side?’

‘Only over the bridge, sir, and we’ll have men up there by now. You can tell that from the lights.’

‘Yes. They’ve been very quick,’ said Palfrey. ‘Still, we might try the other side – if,’ he added, turning to the driver with a beaming smile, ‘you can still run to it.’

‘I’m game,’ said the man.

Police cars were now on the lower road, shining their headlights towards the river, and the launch searchlight was pointing steadily towards the bank. Another launch came up, and its light was added to the other. Palfrey could see the wooded banks on the far side, and many people moving about. The police launches looked like toy boats on the broad surface of the river. Close to the opposite bank was another launch – the one in which the gang had escaped. They could see no one on board her.

The policeman said: ‘They might be in the tunnel.’

‘Another tunnel?’ exclaimed Perry.

‘The railway tunnel,’ said the policeman. ‘There’s a single track railway over there, and a tunnel almost opposite where the boat’s tied up.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t think we’ll catch them now.’

They stood watching for a few minutes. In the tense silence Palfrey began to feel unnerved by the height at which they were standing. He was about to turn away when he saw a flash far down in the depths of the valley, not far from where the policeman said there was a tunnel, A sound came echoing upwards.

‘That’s a shot,’ exclaimed Perry.

‘And another,’ said Palfrey.

Their attention was riveted on the point where the shooting was coming from – near the mouth of the railway tunnel, the policeman told them. At first Palfrey thought it was aimed at the policemen who were now clambering ashore from the launches. But they were some distance away from the tunnel, and it seemed unlikely that the gunmen could see them clearly enough to take aim.

‘Someone’s running!’ cried Perry.

Now they could see a man running down from the lower slopes of the cliff towards the river; and they could see the men following him, and shooting at intervals. Seen from that distance, the tiny running figures seemed unreal, like toys in motion; but there was no doubt in the minds of the watching men of the stark reality of that hunt.

The searchlights of both launches were now turned towards the spot. Palfrey could see the man darting from bush to bush, and at least three others following him, all of them with guns. Police were climbing up the hillside, working their way round to get behind the gunmen, who must have been desperately anxious to stop the man from getting away, for they were rapidly losing every chance they had of escape.

Crack-ack-ack-ack!

The fugitive was near the river now, and running across a clear patch of ground. He put on an extra spurt of speed; probably he knew that if he could get away here, he would be safe from his pursuers. He ran fast, but from that great height he seemed to be crawling. Flash after flash followed him and the echoes of the shots rumbled about the gorge. The man reached the edge of the river and plunged in. They could see the tiny splashes. There were more flashes as the gunmen loosed their last rounds; then they turned and disappeared among the trees.

The chug-chug of a motor-launch started again. It moved towards the swimmer. Palfrey saw him tread water and wave. Then he dropped down again. He seemed to move very little. Palfrey wondered how badly he had been hurt. The launch was alongside now. Palfrey could see men leaning over, to help the swimmer in. They seemed to stay there for a long time, bending over the side; then there was a concerted movement upwards, and Palfrey saw the man brought on board.

‘I wonder who it is,’ said Perry.

‘I’m hoping it’s Kyle,’ said Palfrey, ‘and I’m also hoping that he’s not badly hurt. We’d better go down.’

They moved towards the car.

Sharp across the quiet came the sound of another shot.

It was much closer to them and followed by a sharp clang. The driver said: ‘What’s that?’ There was another clang, and then Palfrey realized that the bullets were hitting the car.

At the same moment, Perry snapped: ‘Look out, Sap!’

He pushed Palfrey, who dropped behind the car. They all stared upwards. On the right of the bridge, on high ground, they could see the dark shape of a man crouching, and they saw the flash from his gun. He had probably been up there for some time, watching, waiting this chance to shoot at Palfrey.

The policeman shouted: ‘Get him! There he is. Get him!’

He began to run. Other police followed him. Palfrey felt a sudden stab of fear. He jumped to his feet and called out a warning. There was another shot. In the garish light of the headlamps, he saw their policeman escort suddenly pitch forward and he still. The policemen swerved aside, but went on. Then other policemen arrived from
behind
the gunman, who stood up for a moment and looked desperately about him.

It was the swarthy man.

He darted to one side and for a moment was lost in the shadows. A policeman called ‘Spread out!’ The men obeyed. With men above and men below, there seemed little chance for the swarthy man to escape; he might do more damage with his gun, but he was too heavily outnumbered to get away.

He tried!

Palfrey saw him clearly in the beam of a headlamp, moving downwards to a spot where the cliff seemed to drop sharply down towards the road. He ignored the path up which the police were streaming, and jumped. He disappeared. Two or three policemen turned and ran back, past the bridge.

Palfrey ran onwards, towards the stricken policeman. The shouts and confusion about him did not concern him just then. He went down beside him. He stayed for a moment, with his hand on the man’s chest; when he took it away, it was wet. That one shot, that one chance shot, had gone right through the heart; his hand was wet with the man’s blood.

Savage anger filled him.

He stood up and looked along the bridge. The headlamps of several cars had been trained along it now, and he saw the swarthy man leap over the turnstile. He sped towards the far side, but police were approaching him, and there was now no possible escape.

Palfrey joined in the chase. The fugitive was half-way between the two squads of policemen, about fifty yards from each. He hesitated only for a moment, then turned and climbed on to the railings of the bridge.

There was a gasp from a dozen throats.

One moment the man was astride the railings, the next, he swung himself over and disappeared. Palfrey leaned over the side. The ironwork immediately beneath the road itself was probably heavy enough to enable the swarthy man to move with reasonable safety, but he could have no chance of getting away, unless he achieved the almost impossible feat of climbing down the ironwork to the cliff.

Torches were trained on the man now, and some of the cars were being moved so that lights would converge on him. Only by leaning over dangerously could Palfrey see the man. With Perry, he left the bridge and went down the grassy slope on the left side. Now he could see the man, moving sure-footed along the ironwork, oblivious of the people watching him. He was too self-confident, thought Palfrey; no man could move at such speed on that ironwork and retain his balance for long.

He
was
trying to climb to the bank, in the hope of evading the police among the wooded slopes. And he still moved swiftly, although he had fifty or sixty yards to go, and the great stretch of water yawned before him, hundreds of feet below.