第 23 页

Chapter 36

BETCHER LONG guessed what had happened before the girl in the bed began her stammering excuses.

"Get up and dress. I'm arresting you for conspiracy," he said. And to the other: "Send a nurse to remain with this woman until she is ready to be taken away."

He went downstairs with the night sister, who told him what had happened.

The girl had been brought in in the afternoon on their commendation of a doctor. She was apparently in a state of hysteria, and had moaned and wept till late in the evening. When the "doctor" called before dinner, the matron had asked could she be taken away because she was disturbing the other patients, and he had promised to send an ambulance for her later at night. The ambulance had duly arrived, accompanied by two uniformed stretcher-bearers, and under the supervision of the doctor the patient had been lifted into the stretcher.

"I was present until then," said the night sister, "but the doctor asked me to go downstairs to get an extra blanket. I was gone about three minutes—"

"And during that time the stretcher-bearers either doped or terrified Miss Sanders to silence and she was put on the stretcher instead of the girl. Did you hear a shriek?"

The woman nodded.

"Yes, just as I got to the foot of the stairs. I thought it was Mrs. Dennsey."

Betcher Long was white to the lips.

"I see," he said simply. "I can't very well blame you. I should have anticipated something like this happening when I heard of this patient who had been brought here during the afternoon. Her room was next door, of course?"

There was nothing for him to do but to make the usual notification to Scotland Yard, warn all stations to seek information of the motor-ambulance, the number of which had been taken by the officer on guard outside the nursing home.

He had forgotten all about his father, until, at three o'clock in the morning, when he was receiving reports at Scotland Yard, the valet telephoned him.

"Sir Godley has not returned yet, sir," he said, and Betcher Long turned cold.

He had need now of all his courage and resolution. He sat back in his chair, and, with a tremendous effort of will, swept all sentiment from his mind. He was a detective officer engaged in tracing the disappearance of a man named Godley Long and the secretary of Miss Revelstoke. If he thought of them in any other way, he would go mad.

And these were not the only two people who had disappeared that night. Miss Revelstoke had gone out early in the evening to a party and up to three o'clock she was still away. Henry, the lawyer, also was absent; apparently, he had accompanied Miss Revelstoke. But one man was at his post. At four o'clock in the morning, in answer to a 'phone call, Mr. Cravel spoke.

"Long, is it? Anything wrong?"

"I've been calling you since midnight," said Betcher Long. "Where have you been?"

"Calling me since midnight, have you? That's a lie! I've been asleep since eleven, and the 'phone is by the side of my bed. What do you want?"

It was not the voice of a man who had been aroused from sleep; it was clear, virile, very wakeful.

"I'm coming along to see you," said the detective. "Is your sister there?"

There was a pause.

"No, my sister isn't here. She's in town. You know her flat?" He gave the number.

"I'll be down in an hour," said Long.

He had already called the girl, but could extract no information from her, and when he sent an officer to bring her to Scotland Yard, he found that she had gone out a few minutes before the detective's arrival.

Day was breaking bleakly and a gentle rain was falling as the police car roared along the Great West Road, on its way to Berkshire. As they passed the empty house to which the girl had been carried, Betcher was half inclined to stop the machine and conduct a search; but common sense told him that, wherever else in the world the Terrible People had taken Nora, it would not be there. Cravel knew, and Cravel should tell. That was the thought uppermost in his mind. Before he had left Scotland Yard he had got into touch with one of his superiors and the wise old police chief had uttered only one note of warning.

"Go easy on that third-degree business, Betcher," he said. "Get any information you can, but use legal means."

"All means are legal to me, Colonel. But I'll make a memorandum that you have warned me."

This, then, was the great stroke that had been planned almost at a minute's notice. They had secured Monkford's money through the girl, and now they were to find a means whereby the money could be safely transferred to them. She was to be married to one member, and once that was accomplished, in conditions which made it impossible for Nora Sanders to bring a charge, they hoped to present him with an accomplished fact and dare him to risk the ugly consequences which would follow exposure.

He was clear of Egham, dipping steeply down the hill toward the Ascot road, and Sergeant Rouch dozing by his side, when he saw a figure standing by the side of the road. It was a woman, and she was signalling him to stop. He jammed on his brakes, the car slithered and skidded ominously, but came to a standstill within a yard of where the girl was waiting. Before he came up to her, he saw it was Alice Cravel, and a little car that lay on its side in the ditch explained her presence.

"I thought it was you," she said breathlessly. "Where are you going?"

"To Heartsease to see your brother."

She shook her head.

"For God's sake, don't!" Her hands were clasped in supplication. "Don't go, Mr. Long! I tried to get there before you, but my brakes jammed coming down the hill. You're not going— promise me you won't!"

She was a pitiful object; there could have been hardly a dry stitch on her, for the rain was pelting down by now and she had not even troubled to lift the hood of her car.

"What are you afraid of? What is he going to do? You know Nora was taken last night?"

She nodded.

"I knew— I warned you. But don't make matters worse. It is death for you to go to Heartsease, Mr. Long. I never dreamt that I should ever try to save your life, but I am doing it!"

"Where have they taken her?"

She shook her head.

"I don't know— honestly, I don't know. If I knew, I probably should not tell you— but I don't."

He looked at the wrecked car, and from the car to the girl.

"Get in here; I'll take you the rest of the trip."

She shook her head.

"Take me as far as Sunningdale; I can hire a car there," she said.

"You're not coming on to Heartsease?"

"No."

Rouch scrambled to the back of the car, and she took his place.

Betcher felt her shivering with the cold and, taking a rug from the back seat, he put it about her, she submitting meekly.

"Do you know my father has gone also?"

"Your father? Oh, Sir Godley Long, isn't it? Where has he gone?"

Evidently she did not regard Sir Godley's disappearance as an act of the Terrible People, for she seemed scarcely interested.

"I'm getting weak, horribly weak," she said. "I think it must be Jackie's death that was responsible. Poor Jackie!"

Tears rolled down her pale face, and he heard her sob, and was just as embarrassed as the average man would be in the presence of a weeping woman.

Beyond the level crossing at Sunningdale he stopped the car at her request before a garage which showed no sign of life.

"You'll never get a car here."

"Yes, I will," she insisted. "There's a caretaker on the premises."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to London," she replied. "I've done my best— I've done my poor best!"

She held out her hand.

"Good-bye, Mr. Long. I ought not to wish you well out of this, but I do. And if there is another world, as some people think, and you're conscious after life of all that is past, you will remember that I tried."

She turned away, her voice broken, and he stared after her as she went rapidly down the little road by the side of the garage toward a door which she evidently knew gave entrance to the night watchman's quarters.

He continued on the road with a queer little fear at his heart— a fear that had been a stranger to him hitherto. She was so sure that death awaited him at Heartsease that she had almost communicated her faith to him.

Chapter 37

TEN minutes' drive brought them to the big gates of Heartsease Park, and as he passed up the twisted drive, Betcher was oppressed by an unusual sense of danger. Anything less sinister than Mr. Cravel could not be imagined. He was waiting under the porch for Betcher Long's arrival, and though the hour was early he was dressed with scrupulous care, and, the detective observed, shaven.

"Did you see my sister by any chance, Mr. Long?" he asked.

"No," said Betcher, and Cravel laughed.

"She telephoned me five minutes ago from Sunningdale and said you had given her a lift to the garage."

"In that case," replied Betcher coolly, "I must have seen her."

In the hall on a little tray was a steaming pot of coffee.

"I thought you would like a drink after your cold ride," said Cravel. "I can assure you that it is not poisoned or doped."

Then, as he still seemed undecided:

"Perhaps you would like to try it on Mr. Rouch first?"

The coffee was welcome, and Betcher Long drank a cupful gratefully.

"I am glad you brought Sergeant Rouch with you," said Cravel, apropos of nothing.

"Why?"

Cravel shrugged his square shoulders.

"When one is suspected of all sorts of terrible crimes, one likes to have a witness, even a hostile witness," he said "I've had a fire put in No. 7. That is Monkford's old suite. You're not nervous?"

"Why there?" asked Betcher steadily.

Again the manager shrugged.

"I don't imagine that you have come down here at five o'clock in the morning to book a room for next year," he said drily. "In fact, I expect rather an unpleasant interview, and, having some self-respect, I prefer that our conversation should be more or less private."

The elevator was not working, and they climbed the two flights of stairs, and Cravel stood aside to allow the detectives to pass into the familiar sitting room.

A wood fire was burning on the hearth, and Betcher stripped off his coat. He looked at Rouch thoughtfully.

"On the whole, I think you had better stay downstairs, Sergeant," he said.

The obedient Rouch went out of the room.

"I am afraid I am rather short of servants," said Cravel. "I only keep enough staff to run the hotel during the winter, but if there is anything you want while you're staying here, I shall be happy to get it."

Evidently Cravel had carried out his intention of converting the suite into a stair-head. When he had driven up to the hotel, Betcher had noticed the presence of a builder. A new wall was being built out from the main front, and he gathered, from the general untidiness of the saloon, that the builders had already started to convert the suite.

"Now, Cravel, I want a few words of explanation from you, and I'm warning you that you're very nearly at the end of your tether— where is Miss Sanders?"

Cravel smiled.

"Why should you imagine that I know?" he asked. "I have been in this place for the greater part of a week and haven't stirred out. The last news I had, which was from Miss Revelstoke, was to the effect that Nora Sanders had been carried off by some person or persons unknown, and had been most heroically saved by that prince of detectives, Betcher Long!"

"She was taken away from a nursing home last night," said Betcher, "your friend the Professor being responsible—"

"My friend the Professor? And who on earth is my friend the Professor?"

"I'm not going to argue with you; I'm going to find Nora Sanders, and you're going to tell me where she is."

They faced one another, and in Betcher Long's eyes was a light which Cravel had seen once before. Yet he did not flinch; the hard lips were still curved in a smile.

"Maybe you are a little distraught, Mr. Long," he said quietly, "and until you are calmer, I am afraid it is useless to talk to you, especially as the only information I can give you will come as a terrible shock to you."

"Is that so?" said Betcher softly. "What is the nature of the shock?"

Cravel walked over to the fire and stood with his back to it, his hands behind him.

"A most unfortunate thing has happened," he said slowly, "and I'm going to confess to you that I know a little— a very little— about this affair. Miss Sanders is by way of being a friend of mine— you probably didn't know that, but I have had a number of letters from her, and she has honoured me with her confidence. It appears that she was rather distressed by the marked attentions which you have shown to her."

Betcher nodded. The man was talking to gain time. He was also speaking with a purpose.

"Naturally, you would not imagine that your attentions would distress any woman, and I am not blaming you for that. It is consonant with human vanity—"

"You're talking more and more like Clay Shelton," interrupted Betcher. "That kind of shadow philosophy and half-digested logic was a specialty of his."

A red flush crept to the man's face for a second, his eyes blazed, and Betcher could hear his deep breathing. And then:

"I am not concerned with the philosophy of Clay Shelton, whoever he may be," he said evenly. "I am merely advancing the view that you naturally would not dream that your attentions would be disagreeable to anybody. Miss Sanders did not like to hurt your feelings. Your attentions were so insistent, however, that she became alarmed, and she asked a friend of mine to help her escape from your rather embarrassing vigilance. I do not know the exact details of the case, but I understand that my friend succeeded in rescuing her last night. Unfortunately..."

He paused here, and Betcher waited, his eyes on the man's face.