第 19 页

She was focussed in a ray of light and a hand gripped her arm! With a shriek, she tried to free herself. Better the river than those lurking horrors of the night. And then she looked up— it was the face of Betcher Long!

Chapter 28

THE two detectives arrived at Mr. Jackson Crayley's house at half-past ten. His sedate butler ushered them into his sitting room, and the dregs of pale whisky in a glass and a half-smoked cigar on the silver ash-tray advertised his proximity.

"I will tell Mr. Crayley you are here," said the butler. He returned in a few minutes, however, with the announcement that his master was not in the house.

"I haven't seen him for nearly an hour, sir, but he very often strolls in the garden at night, and sometimes he takes his little power boat down river."

"Where does he keep it?" asked Betcher curtly.

The butler showed him the way to the boat house. "The boat is there; he must have gone in his car." When they looked in the shed where the car was usually kept, there was confirmation of this theory, for the garage was empty.

"Has anybody been here to-night?"

"Nobody, sir. We have very few visitors. As a matter of fact, we shouldn't be here at all, only that dreadful tragedy at Heartsease has upset all Mr. Crayley's plans."

"Are you sure nobody has been here to-night?" Betcher faced the man squarely.

"Perfectly certain, sir."

The detective thought a moment.

"How many 'phone calls have you had to-night?"

At first the butler was inclined to give a brusque refusal of any information until Arnold disclosed his official position.

"I believe there have been two."

"Where is your 'phone?"

The 'phone was in the sitting room, and, taking it up, Betcher called the office. He had maintained a detective officer at the exchange ever since Jackson Crayley had come under suspicion, but the difficulty of finding a man with a knowledge of Danish had led to his withdrawal. It was the chief night operator who answered.

"Two calls, Mr. Long, both from London. I cut in, but they were in the usual language, in Danish, of course."

"Can you give me the exact times?"

"One came about half an hour ago and the other earlier in the evening."

Betcher was satisfied now that the latest call had sent Jackson Crayley out on to the river.

So it was not here that the girl had been taken— where else? He knew that Shelton had had hiding places on the river bank, and although one of these had been identified, there were probably others. He sent Rouch down to Meakes's boat house to hire a launch, and waiting in the garden, paced up and down by the edge of the lawn, until the launch came round the corner and pulled in to the bank. Marlow Church clock was striking eleven when the craft began to feel its way upstream.

They were midway between Marlow and Temple locks when Betcher heard the scream and spun the wheel to the direction of the sound.

"Somebody on the river bank, perhaps, skylarking," ventured Rouch.

Again the scream, and then, right ahead of him, Betcher saw the canoe; heard the cry, "Help!" The sound was not more than twenty yards from him. He flashed his lamp on the water and presently saw a head. A woman! Even as he looked, the first shot whizzed past the launch. Somebody was firing at him, but he did not extinguish the light. Nearer and nearer he came to the swimmer, and now he saw her, and shouted her name...

She was unconscious when he hauled her on to the cushions of the launch, and by the time he had her safe, the electric canoe had vanished. Had his attention been less occupied, he would have seen it slip toward the mill and disappear in the shadow of the overhanging trees.

"Get back to Crayley's place," he said, and the boatman turned the launch and headed downstream.

She was wide awake by the time they came to the rose bank, and with assistance was able to walk to the house, but not for a long time could she tell them of the horrors of the night.

And now occurred a vexatious delay. The telephoned request for assistance from Marlow had brought the inspector. But Marlow is in Buckinghamshire, and the southern bank of the river in Berkshire, and a search of the southern bank is a matter entirely for the Berkshire police. It was an hour before the first contingent arrived by motor tender from Maidenhead, and two motor-boats having been requisitioned, the parties went upstream, one on the south, the other on the northern bank. The electric canoe they found in midstream, and it was empty. The canoe had been salvaged earlier, opposite Jackson Crayley's garden as it floated downstream. There was no sign of Crayley, though the rush-lined banks were carefully searched.

The lock-keeper reported that no other boats had passed through the lock, and that he had seen nothing.

"I heard the shots fired and somebody scream," he said. "In fact, I have not been to bed, expecting there had been a murder or something."

Beyond the lock they came to Clay Shelton's old bungalow, and, landing on the stage, Betcher forced the door with a crowbar he had brought for the purpose. The candle had burnt down until it was guttering in the socket. There was no evidence of human occupation. Betcher went into the bedroom and found it empty; the door at the end of the little passage was also closed.

"There is nobody here. They were hardly likely to come back," he said. "Light the candle, somebody. Or that." He pointed to a dusty oil lamp hanging above the table.

Minutely he examined every article in the two rooms, but there was no document or paper of any kind, and the only thing of interest he found in a bookshelf against one of the walls. It was a slim volume entitled "Weaklings," and the author was "Gregory Bates."

Betcher, who had made a study of the man, knew that this was one of the pseudonyms for Clay Shelton. A clever man— how clever he was, nobody quite knew, or, for the matter of that, would ever know. Betcher knew that he held views that were at once novel and reprehensible. He had an itch for scribbling, suffering no ill effect from the habit, and this was one of his sidelines.

He turned the dusty pages and was arrested by a passage:

Man in his relation to society must either accept the place made for him by his more fortunate fellows (all of whom are determined that he shall not be as well placed as they), or he must jump the hedges which bar his given road, and, by his own volition, find a peak and a castle for himself. Such an achievement calls for the suppression of sentiment, for complete isolation of his personality from any identifiable kind of species, and his absolute segregation from community interests...

Betcher smiled grimly as he read, for here was Clay Shelton's whole philosophy in a nutshell, and here, too, lay the inmost secret of the Terrible People!

"We shall get daylight in an hour, Mr. Long," said the chief of the Berkshire police. "I think we had better put off making any further search until then."

There was enough light to show wheel tracks in the road, but it was a considerable time before they discovered the little two-seater car that had brought Jackson Crayley to this desolate house. It was hidden in a little copse about a hundred yards away from the bungalow, and the dust coat he had worn on the journey was still lying across the seat.

"I wondered how he had got here," said Betcher. "I wonder more how he escaped."

"You'll get a warrant for him, of course?" asked the Berkshire man.

"Ye-es," said Betcher dubiously. "I could always have got a warrant for him, but the devil is that I'm not so sure that his arrest is going to be very helpful."

He knew enough of Jackson Crayley's habits to realize how he must have hated that drive in the night; for, whatever else he was, he was constitutionally lazy, something of a fool, Betcher guessed, and a kind-hearted fool at that. He had a sneaking admiration for this weakling, who had faced unknown perils in order to help the girl.

But where was Jackson Crayley? He was the key to the position, the weak link in the strong chain of the Terrible Folk.

He walked out on to the stage before the house and stood in silent contemplation of the lightening sky. Here, by the curious convolution of the river, he was looking into the dawn. The trees were silhouetted black against the morning sky, and beneath one of its branches he saw what he thought to be a broken limb swaying gently to and fro. He called the Berkshire man's attention to this.

"Don't let any of your men go under that tree or they'll be hurt," he said. "Somebody ought to cut it down."

His attention was directed elsewhere, and when he looked up to the tree, it was lighter, and the broken limb was visible to his keen eyes. He uttered an exclamation, called hurriedly for the launch, and, jumping in, went slowly downstream toward the swaying object. It was the body of a man in evening dress. His hands were roped behind him, and across the soiled white dress shirt was written in red: "Sorroeder!"

"What the devil is that?" asked the astonished Berkshire man.

Betcher Long did not reply. His knowledge of Danish was small, but he knew that "Sorroeder" meant "Traitor!"

Chapter 29

"IT WAS a theatrical flourish," reported Betcher to Colonel Macfarlane." The poor fellow was dead before they hanged him— shot through the heart, the doctor says. "

"Are they Danish, these people?"

Betcher shook his head.

"No, sir. Exactly what nationality they are, I have yet to ascertain. Some of them may have had their education in Denmark, for reasons which are fairly obvious to me. Did I ever show you this?"

Betcher Long took out of his pocket a little card on which a number of dates were written:

June 1, 1854. J. X. T. L.

Sept. 6, 1862.

Feb. 9, 1886.

March 11, 1892.

Sept. 4, 1896.

Sept. 12, 1898.

Aug. 30, 1901.

July 18, 1923.

Aug. 1, 1924.

Aug. 16.

"Yes, I have seen it."

The Commissioner, a methodical man, counted the dates.

"Why, there is one more than there used to be," he said, and Betcher's quick smile was one of genuine delight.

"Added quite recently— in fact, two days ago."

"The first August date was, of course, for Monkford," said the Chief thoughtfully. "Do I understand that August 16th—"

"Is my humble self," said Betcher cheerfully. "Yes, they've decided that I must go over to the great majority, and August the 16th is the date they have chosen, so that, roughly, I have a week to live. And, in a sense, I'm glad."

The Chief stared at him.

"Tired of life?"

"Ye-es, tired of this kind of life," admitted Betcher. "Chief, do you remember remarking that it was curious that my father had never been caught by Clay Shelton?"

"I remember. Did you speak to your father about it?"

Betcher nodded.

"I'm going to speak to him again to-day," he said, and there was a curious note in his voice that made Colonel Macfarlane look at him.

"You're good friends with your father, aren't you?"

"Excellent friends. But my aged parent has been annoying me for quite a while, and I think it is about time I got back on him."

He did not explain that the annoyance, which was more or less imaginary, was due to Sir Godley's repeated efforts to get him out of the police. That morning, when he returned to town, he had found a letter from his father, and it was this letter which had decided him upon his course of action.

He went straight from Scotland Yard, as he had done before, to Berkeley Square, and Sir Godley, who was dressing for a garden party, sent down to ask him to come to his room.

"Have you digested my letter?" he said.

"The kind of letter you write to me," said Betcher, settling himself down in the easiest chair in the room, "so far from being digestible, makes me feel sick."

"Uh-huh?" grunted Sir Godley, struggling with his cravat.

"Do you remember my remarking how strange it was that Clay Shelton never caught you?"

"I seem to remember something of the sort."

"And yet he took sixty thousand pounds out of your bank— I've only just discovered the fact."

Sir Godley did not turn round.

"There's the making of a great detective in you," he said.

"Sarcasm is wasted on me," said Betcher calmly. "Old man, I've discovered your guilty secret! In fact, it has been discovered for some days, but I haven't had time to spring the bombshell on you. Who was born on June 1, 1854?"

"Heaven knows," said his father, carefully examining himself in the glass.

"Who was J. X. T. L.— John Xavier Towler Long?" asked Betcher quietly. "And to save your lying to your only child, I will tell you. John Xavier Towler Long was Clay Shelton!"

"Really?" Sir Godley placed a stick-pin carefully into his silken cravat, but showed no other interest.

"And Clay Shelton, whom I sent to the gallows, was your brother!"

Chapter 30

NOT by a flicker of eyelash did Sir Godley Long betray his emotion. "How did you know?" he asked.

Betcher sat down again.

"On Shelton's river yacht I found a number of dates carved, and I guessed that each one of those had some special significance. The first of these was a date which left me in no doubt that it represented the birthday of a man— June 1, 1854. Against this were the initials J. X. T. L. Now 'X' is a very peculiar initial, and could only mean one of about five names. I searched the records at Somerset House for the name of every child born on the first of June with these initials. And I didn't have to search far before I discovered that John Xavier Towler Long was born on that day. Towler was our family name, the name of my great-grandmother, if I remember rightly."

Sir Godley nodded.

"I should have been struck anyway by the coincidence of the surname, but there, plain to be seen, was the name of J. X. T. L.'s father, which is the name of my grandfather, who married twice— you were a son of the second marriage."

Sir Godley nodded.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

His father laughed softly.

"One doesn't exactly boast of one's association and relationship with a man of John's character. And, in truth, I scarcely knew him. He was ten years older than I, and I only remember him as a young man who was always in scrapes, who robbed my father, and disappeared after a particularly scandalous episode, probably the most disgraceful thing he ever did in his long and wicked life."