The Greatest Thrillers of Edgar Wallace. Edgar Wallace

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      Across the moor came the dull sullen boom of a gun.

      “You haven’t time for argument. They discovered your escape,” he said. “Get in.”

      John clambered up into the frail body of the machine and Kara followed.

      “This is a self-starter,” he said, “one of the newest models of monoplanes.”

      He clicked over a lever and with a roar the big three-bladed tractor screw spun.

      The aeroplane moved forward with a jerk, ran with increasing gait for a hundred yards, and then suddenly the jerky progress ceased. The machine swayed gently from side to side, and looking over, the passenger saw the ground recede beneath him.

      Up, up, they climbed in one long sweeping ascent, passing through drifting clouds till the machine soared like a bird above the blue sea.

      John Lexman looked down. He saw the indentations of the coast and recognized the fringe of white houses that stood for Torquay, but in an incredibly short space of time all signs of the land were blotted out.

      Talking was impossible. The roar of the engines defied penetration.

      Kara was evidently a skilful pilot. From time to time he consulted the compass on the board before him, and changed his course ever so slightly. Presently he released one hand from the driving wheel, and scribbling on a little block of paper which was inserted in a pocket at the side of the seat he passed it back.

      John Lexman read:

      “If you cannot swim there is a life belt under your seat.”

      John nodded.

      Kara was searching the sea for something, and presently he found it. Viewed from the height at which they flew it looked no more than a white speck in a great blue saucer, but presently the machine began to dip, falling at a terrific rate of speed, which took away the breath of the man who was hanging on with both hands to the dangerous seat behind.

      He was deadly cold, but had hardly noticed the fact. It was all so incredible, so impossible. He expected to wake up and wondered if the prison was also part of the dream.

      Now he saw the point for which Kara was making.

      A white steam yacht, long and narrow of beam, was steaming slowly westward. He could see the feathery wake in her rear, and as the aeroplane fell he had time to observe that a boat had been put off. Then with a jerk the monoplane flattened out and came like a skimming bird to the surface of the water; her engines stopped.

      “We ought to be able to keep afloat for ten minutes,” said Kara, “and by that time they will pick us up.”

      His voice was high and harsh in the almost painful silence which followed the stoppage of the engines.

      In less than five minutes the boat had come alongside, manned, as Lexman gathered from a glimpse of the crew, by Greeks. He scrambled aboard and five minutes later he was standing on the white deck of the yacht, watching the disappearing tail of the monoplane. Kara was by his side.

      “There goes fifteen hundred pounds,” said the Greek, with a smile, “add that to the two thousand I paid the warder and you have a tidy sum-but some things are worth all the money in the world!”

Chapter VII

       Table of Contents

      T.X. came from Downing Street at 11 o’clock one night, and his heart was filled with joy and gratitude.

      He swung his stick to the common danger of the public, but the policeman on point duty at the end of the street, who saw him, recognized and saluted him, did not think it fit to issue any official warning.

      He ran up the stairs to his office, and found Mansus reading the evening paper.

      “My poor, dumb beast,” said T.X. “I am afraid I have kept you waiting for a very long time, but tomorrow you and I will take a little journey to Devonshire. It will be good for you, Mansus — where did you get that ridiculous name, by the way!”

      “M. or N.,” replied Mansus, laconically.

      “I repeat that there is the dawn of an intellect in you,” said T.X. , offensively.

      He became more serious as he took from a pocket inside his waistcoat a long blue envelope containing the paper which had cost him so much to secure.

      “Finding the revolver was a master-stroke of yours, Mansus,” he said, and he was in earnest as he spoke.

      The man coloured with pleasure for the subordinates of T.X. loved him, and a word of praise was almost equal to promotion. It was on the advice of Mansus that the road from London to Lewes had been carefully covered and such streams as passed beneath that road had been searched.

      The revolver had been found after the third attempt between Gatwick and Horsley. Its identification was made easier by the fact that Vassalaro’s name was engraved on the butt. It was rather an ornate affair and in its earlier days had been silver plated; the handle was of mother-o’-pearl.

      “Obviously the gift of one brigand to another,” was T.X.’s comment.

      Armed with this, his task would have been fairly easy, but when to this evidence he added a rough draft of the threatening letter which he had found amongst Vassalaro’s belongings, and which had evidently been taken down at dictation, since some of the words were misspelt and had been corrected by another hand, the case was complete.

      But what clinched the matter was the finding of a wad of that peculiar chemical paper, a number of sheets of which T.X. had ignited for the information of the Chief Commissioner and the Home Secretary by simply exposing them for a few seconds to the light of an electric lamp.

      Instantly it had filled the Home Secretary’s office with a pungent and most disagreeable smoke, for which he was heartily cursed by his superiors. But it had rounded off the argument.

      He looked at his watch.

      “I wonder if it is too late to see Mrs. Lexman,” he said.

      “I don’t think any hour would be too late,” suggested Mansus.

      “You shall come and chaperon me,” said his superior.

      But a disappointment awaited. Mrs. Lexman was not in and neither the ringing at her electric bell nor vigorous applications to the knocker brought any response. The hall porter of the flats where she lived was under the impression that Mrs. Lexman had gone out of town. She frequently went out on Saturdays and returned on the Monday and, he thought, occasionally on Tuesdays.

      It happened that this particular night was a Monday night and T.X. was faced with a dilemma. The night porter, who had only the vaguest information on the subject, thought that the day porter might know more, and aroused him from his sleep.

      Yes, Mrs. Lexman had gone. She went on the Sunday, an unusual day to pay a weekend visit, and she had taken with her two bags. The porter ventured the opinion СКАЧАТЬ