The Just Men of Cordova/Chapter 17

“ are we going?” asked Sir Isaac faintly.

“We are going to Southampton,” growled Black in his ear. “We shall find some friends there.” He grinned in the darkness. Then, leaning forward, he gave instructions in a low tone to the chauffeur.

The car jerked forward and in a few minutes it had crossed Hammersmith Broadway and was speeding towards Barnes.

Scarcely had it cleared the traffic when a long grey racing car cut perilously across the crowded space, dodging with extraordinary agility a number of vehicles, and, unheeding the caustic comments of the drivers, it went on in the same direction as Black’s car had taken.

He had cleared Kingston and was on the Sandown road when he heard the loud purring of a car behind. He turned and looked, expecting to find his second car, but a punctured tyre held Black’s reserve on Putney Heath. Black was a little uneasy, though it was no unusual thing for cars to travel the main Portsmouth road at that hour of the night. He knew, too, that he could not hope to keep ahead of his pursuer. He caught the unmistakable sound which accompanies the racing car in motion. “We’ll wait till the road gets a little broader,” he said, “and then we’ll let that chap pass us.”

He conveyed the gist of this intention to the chauffeur. The car behind showed no disposition to go ahead until Sandown and Cobham had been left behind and the lights of Guildford were almost in sight. Then, on a lonely stretch of road, two miles from the town, the car, without any perceptible effort, shot level with them and then drew ahead on the off side. Then it slowed, and the touring car had perforce to follow its example.

Black watched the manoeuvre with some misgiving. Slower and slower went the racing car till it stopped crossways in the road; it stopped, too, in a position which made it impossible for the touring car to pass. Black’s man drew up with a jerk.

They saw, by the light of their lamps, two men get out of the motor ahead and make what seemed to be a cursory examination of a wheel. Then one walked back, slowly and casually, till he came to where Black and his companion sat.

“Excuse me,” said the stranger. “I think I know you.”

Of a sudden an electric lamp flashed in Black’s face. More to the point, in the spreading rays of the light, clear to be seen was the nickel-plated barrel of a revolver, and it was pointed straight at Black. “You will alight, Mr. Black—you and your companion,” said the unknown calmly.

In the bright light that flooded him, Black could make no move. Without a word he stepped down on to the roadway, his companion following him. “Go ahead,” said the man with the revolver.

The two obeyed. Another flood of light met them. The driver of the first car was standing up, electric torch in one hand, revolver in the other. He directed them curtly to enter the tonneau. The first of their captors turned to give directions to the chauffeur of the grey touring car, then he sprang into the body in which they sat and took a seat opposite them.

“Put your hands on your knees,” he commanded, as his little lamp played over them.

Black brought his gloved hands forward reluctantly. Sir Isaac, half dead with fright, followed his example.

They struck off from the main road and took a narrow country lane which was unfamiliar to Black, and for ten minutes they twisted and turned in what seemed the heart of the country. Then they stopped. “Get down!” ordered the man with the lamp. Neither Black nor his friend had spoken one word up till now.

“What is the game?” asked Black.

“Get down!” commanded the other. With a curse, the big man descended. There were two other men waiting for them.

“I suppose this is the Four Just Men farce,” said Black with a sneer.

“That you shall learn,” said one of those who were waiting.

They were conducted by a long, rough path through a field, through a little copse, until ahead of them in the night loomed a small building. It was in darkness. It gave Black the impression of being a chapel. He had little time to take any note of its construction. He heard Sir Isaac’s quick breathing behind him and the snick of a lock. The hand that held his arm now relaxed.

“Stay where you are,” said a voice. Black waited. There was growing in his heart a sickly fear of what all this signified. “Step forward,” said a voice. Black moved two steps forward and suddenly the big room in which he stood blazed with light. He raised his hand to cu his eyes from the dazzling glow.

The sight he saw was a remarkable one. He was in a chapel; he saw the stained-glass windows, but in place of the altar there was a low platform which ran along one end of the building. It was draped with black and set with three desks. It reminded him of nothing so much as a judge’s desk, save that the hangings were of purple, the desks of black oak, and the carpet that covered the dais of the same sombre hue.

Three men sat at the desks. They were masked, and a diamond pin in the cravat of one glittered in the light of the huge electrolier which hung from the vaulted roof. Gonsalez had a weakness for jewels.

The remaining member of the Four was to the right of the prisoners.

With the stained-glass windows, the raftered roof, and the solemn character of the architecture, the illusion of the chapel ended. There was no other furniture on the floor; it was tiled and bare of chair or pew.

Black took all this in quickly. He noted a door behind the three, through which they came and apparently made their exit. He could see no means of escape save by the way he had come.

The central figure of the three at the desk spoke in a voice which was harsh and stern and uncompromising. “Morris Black,” he said solemnly, “what of Fanks?”

Black shrugged his shoulders and looked round as though weary of a question which he found it impossible to answer.

“What of Jakobs, of Coleman, of a dozen men who have stood in your way and have died?” asked the voice.

Still Black was silent. His eye took in the situation. Behind him were two doors, and he observed that the key was in the lock. He could see that he was in an old Norman chapel which private enterprise had restored for a purpose.

The door was modern and of the usual “churchy” type.

“Isaac Tramber,” said Number One, “what part have you played?”

“I don’t know,” stammered Sir Isaac. “I am as much in the dark as you are. I think the bucket-shop idea is perfectly beastly. Now look here, is there anything else I can tell you, because I am most anxious to get out of this affair with clean hands?”

He made a step forward and Black reached out a hand to restrain him, but was pulled back by the man at his side.

“Come here,” said Number One. His knees shaking under him, Sir Isaac walked quickly up the aisle floor.

“I’ll do anything I can,” he said eagerly, as he stood like a penitent boy before the master’s figure. “Any information I can give you I shall be most happy to give.”

“Stop!” roared Black. His face was livid with rage. “Stop,” he said hoarsely, “you don’t know what you’re doing, Ikey. Keep your mouth shut and stand by me and you’ll not suffer.”

“There is only one thing I know,” Sir Isaac went on, “and that is that Black had a bit of a row with Fanks—”

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when three shots rang out in rapid succession. The Four had not attempted to disarm Black. With lightning- like rapidity he had whipped out his Browning pistol and had fired at the traitor.

In a second he was at the door. An instant later the key was turned and he was through.

“Shoot—shoot, Manfred,” said a voice from the dais. But they were too late—Black had vanished into the darkness. As the two men sprang after him, they stood for a moment silhouetted against the light from the chapel within. “Crack! crack!” A nickel bullet struck the stone supports of the doorway and covered them with fine dust and splinters of stone.

“Put the lights out and follow,” said Manfred quickly.

He was too late, for Black had a start, and the fear and hatred in him lent him unsuspected speed. The brute instinct in him led him across the field unerringly. He reached the tiny road, fumed to the left, and found the grey racing car waiting, unattended.

He sprang to the crank and turned it. He was in the driver’s seat in an instant. He had to take risks—there might be ditches on either side of the road, but he turned the wheel over till it almost locked and brought his foot down over the pedal. The car jumped forward, lurched to the side, recovered itself, and went bumping and crashing along the road.

“It’s no good,” said Manfred. He saw the tail-lights of the car disappearing. “Let’s get back.” He had slipped off his mask.

They raced back to the chapel. The lights were on again. Sir Isaac Tramber lay stone-dead on the floor. The bullet had struck him in the left shoulder and had passed through this heart. But it was not to him they looked. Number One lay still and motionless on the floor in a pool of blood.

“Look to the injury,” he said, “and unless it is fatal do not unmask me.”

Poiccart and Gonsalez made a brief examination of the wound. “It’s pretty serious.”

In this terse sentence they summarized their judgment. “I thought it was,” said the wounded man quietly. “You had better get on to Southampton. He’ll probably pick up Fellowe”—he smiled through his mask—“I suppose I ought to call him Lord Francis Ledborough now. He’s a nephew of mine and a sort of a police-commissioner himself. I wired him to follow me. You might pick up his car and go on together. Manfred can stay with me. Take this mask off.”

Gonsalez stooped down and gently removed the silk half-mask. Then he started back.

“Lord Verlond!” he exclaimed with surprise, and Manfred, who knew, nodded.

The road was clear of traffic at this hour of the night. It was dark and none too wide in places for a man who had not touched the steering-wheel of a car for some years, but Black, bareheaded, sat and drove the big machine ahead without fear of consequences. Once he went rocking through a little town at racing speed.

A policeman who attempted to hold him up narrowly escaped with his life. Black reached open road again with no injury save a shattered mud-guard that had caught a lamp-post on a sharp turn. He went through Winchester at top speed—again there was an attempt to stop him. Two big wagons had been drawn up in the main street, but he saw them in time and took a side turning, and cleared town again more by good luck than otherwise. He knew now that his flight was known to the police. He must change his plans. He admitted to himself that he had few plans to change: he had arranged to leave England by one of two ports, Dover or Southampton. He had hoped to reach the Havre boat without attracting attention, but that was now out of the question. The boats would be watched, and he had no disguise which would help him.

Eight miles south of Winchester he overtook another car and passed it before he realized that this must be the second car he had hired. With the realization came two reports—the front tyres of his car had punctured. His foot pressed on the brake and he slowed the car to a standstill. Here was luck! To come to grief at the very spot where his relief was at hand!

He jumped out of the car and stood revealed in the glare of the lamps of the oncoming car, his arms outstretched. The car drew up within a few feet of him. “Take me on to Southampton; I have broken down,” he said, and the chauffeur said something unintelligible.

Black opened the door of the car and stepped in. The door slammed behind him before he was aware that there were other occupants. “Who—?” he began. Then two hands seized him, something cold and hard snapped on his wrists, and a familiar voice said: “I am Lord Francis Ledborough, an assistant-commissioner of police, and I shall take you into custody on a charge of wilful murder.”

“Ledborough?” repeated Black dully.

“You know me best as Constable Fellowe,” said the voice.

Black was hanged at Pentonville gaol on the 27th of March, 19—, and Lord Francis Ledborough, sitting by the side of an invalid uncle’s bed, read such meagre descriptions as were given to the press.

“Did you know him, sir?” he asked.

The old earl turned fretfully.

“Know him?” he snarled. “Of course I knew him; he is the only friend of mine that has ever been hanged.”

“Where did you meet him?” persisted a sceptical A.C. of Police.

“I never met him,” said the old man grimly, “he met me.”

And he made a little grimace, for the wound in his shoulder was still painful.