The Clue of the Silver Key by Edgar Wallace (free biff chip and kipper ebooks .TXT) 📖

door, and by sheer physical strength flung it open

and scrambled out on to the wet road. The chauffeur was already standing

by the bonnet, staring at the car stupidly. ‘I’m very sorry, miss,’ he

said huskily.’ I’ll have to telephone for another car from town. Perhaps

this gentleman will take you into Welwyn.’

 

The second car, in avoiding which the accident had occurred, was behind

them. Mary walked towards it as the driver got down from his seat. His

coat collar was turned up, and she could not see his face.

 

‘Had an accident?’ he asked gruffly.

 

The chauffeur came forward.

 

‘Will you drive us into Welwyn?’ he asked. ‘I’ve smashed my near side

front wheel.’

 

‘You’d better wait with the car. I’ll drive the lady; it’s only a couple

of miles ahead,’ said the other. ‘Go on, miss, jump in; I’ll drop you in

the town and send back a breakdown gang for the car.’

 

This arrangement apparently suited the chauffeur, and Mary followed the

motorist and, when he opened the door of his car, entered without any

misgivings. He walked round the back of the car, got in by the other

door, and sat by her side. She could not see his face; his collar was

still turned up. As he started the engine and moved on she thought she

heard him laugh, and wondered what there was amusing in the situation.

 

‘It’s very good of you to take me,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid the accident

was our fault.’

 

He did not reply for a moment, but at last: ‘Accidents will happen,’ he

said sententiously.

 

They went two or three hundred yards along the road, and then suddenly

the car turned left. She knew roughly the position of Welwyn, knew enough

at any rate to realize that they were going away from the town.

 

‘Haven’t you made a mistake?’ she asked.

 

‘No.’ His reply was short and gruff, but it aroused in her no more than a

sense of resentment.

 

From the second road they turned into a third, a narrow lane which ran

roughly parallel with the main road. It skirted some big estate; high

trees banked up one side of the lane, and a wire fence cut the estate

from the road. The car slowed, and as they came abreast of the white

gate, stopped. The driver turned so that the headlights searched the gate

and revealed its flimsy character. Without hesitation he sent the car

jerking forward, crashing one of the lights and sending the gate into

splinters.

 

Beyond was a fairly smooth gravel road, and up this the car sped.

 

‘Where are we going?’ A cold chill was at the girl’s heart; an

understanding of her danger set her trembling from head to foot. Binny

did not reply till they had gone a hundred yards. He found an opening

between the trees on the right, set the car in that direction, and jolted

on for another fifty yards. Then he stopped. ‘What is the meaning of

this?’ she asked.

 

‘You’re a very nice young lady, a very sweet young lady. Charmed to meet

you again in such romantic circumstances.’

 

As she heard that mincing, affected voice she almost fainted. Binny! The

horror of her discovery came to her with full force, as he went on:

‘Friend of Mr Allenby’s—fiancee, aren’t you, young lady? And a friend of

my dear friend, Surefoot Smith.’

 

She reached out for the door handle and tried to rise, but he threw her

back.

 

‘I’ve had several ideas about you. The first was that nobody would stop

me if they saw me driving with a lady. Then it struck me that I was being

optimistic. The second thought that occurred to me, my dear, was that you

might be of great assistance to me. And the third thought, my sweet young

thing, was that, if the worst came to the worst—they can only hang you

once, you know, whatever you do. Not that they will hang me,’ he went on

quickly, ‘I’m too clever for them. Now we’ll get out and see where we

are.’

 

He leaned over her, pushed open the door and, catching her by the arm,

guided her to the ground.

 

Just before she had left the hotel the porter had handed her a bundle of

letters. She had thrust them into her pocket, and as she stepped from the

car she remembered them. She drew one from her pocket and dropped it on

the ground.

 

Binny had retained the torch he had taken from the policeman, and with

the aid of this they found their way through the plantation. ‘You and I

will find another car.’

 

He chatted pleasantly, and even in her terror she could find time to

wonder how he could return to the character of Washington Wirth. It was

grotesque, unbelievable, like a bad ream.

 

‘I am a man of infinite resource,’ he went on, never releasing his grip

of her arm.’ For hundreds of years they will talk about Binny, just as

today they talk about Jack Sheppard. And the wonderful thing about it is

that I shall end my life quietly, as a respectable member of society.

Possibly be a town councillor or a mayor in a colonial town—a pleasing

prospect and a part that I could act!’

 

It was at this point she dropped her third letter. She must husband her

trail; the supply of letters was not inexhaustible. She dropped her

fourth as they started to cross the corner of a field. All the time he

kept up his incessant babble.

 

‘You need have no qualms, my dear young lady. No harm will come to

you—for the moment. Whilst you are alive, I am alive! You are a

hostage—that is the word, isn’t it?’

 

She made no reply. The first feeling of panic had worn off. She could

only speculate upon what would happen at the last, when this desperate

man was in a corner and she was at his mercy.

 

Before them loomed against the night sky the outlines of a big house.

They came to a lawn surrounded by an iron fence and, walking parallel

with this, they reached an open gateway and a paved yard.

 

Once or twice there had been a lull in his monologue. He had stopped to

listen. It was a very still night; the sound of distant rumbling trains,

the whine of cars passing along the highway came to them distinctly. He

was apparently satisfied, for he made no comment. Now, as they passed

into a tiled yard, lie stopped again and listened, turning his head

backwards. As he did so he saw the flash of a light—only for the fraction

of a second, and then it disappeared. It seemed to come from the

plantation they had left. He had left his car lights burning—was that it?

He moved left and right a few paces, and did not see the light again.

 

The possibility that there were gamekeepers in the wood now occurred to

him. It was obviously a covert of some kind, the lower part of the fence

was made of wire netting.

 

He never once released his hold of the girl. She felt the tenseness of

the moment and held her breath. Then, without a word, he guided her into

the yard, and now she observed that he used his torch with greater

caution. There were stables here; two of the half doors were wide open

and hung on broken hinges. There was no need to make any further

investigation; the house to which the stables were attached was

unoccupied.

 

They came to what was evidently a kitchen door and found a small,

weather-stained notice.

 

‘Keys at Messrs Thurlow, Welwyn.’

 

There was a long casement window at the back of the house. Binny pushed

the barrel of his gun through two panes, groped for the catch and,

finding it, pulled it open. ‘Get in—‘he began, and at that moment he was

caught in a circle of blinding light.

 

From somewhere in the yard a powerful light was turned on him, and a

voice he hated said: ‘Don’t move, Binny!’

 

It was Surefoot Smith. For a second he stood, paralysed, his arm still

clasping the girl’s. Suddenly he jerked her before him, his arm round her

waist. ‘If you come anywhere near me I’ll shoot,’ he said, and she felt

the cold barrel of a gun glide along her neck.

 

‘What’s the good of being silly, Binny?’ Surefoot’s voice was almost

caressing. They could not see him in the glare of the light that he or

somebody held. ‘Stand your trial like a man. It’s fifty-fifty we’ve got

nothing on you.’

 

‘You haven’t, eh?’ snarled Binny. ‘That dog doesn’t fight, Smith. You

take your men and clear them out of this place. Give me an hour, and I’ll

leave this baby without hurting her. Come any closer and I’ll blow her

head off—and then you’ll have something on me. It won’t be fifty-fifty

either.’

 

There was a long pause, and the girl heard the low voices of men in

conversation. ‘All right,’ said Surefoot at last. ‘I’ll give you an hour,

but you’ll hand over the girl right away.’

 

Binny laughed harshly.

 

‘Am I a child? I’ll leave her when I’m safe. You go back to where you

came, and—’

 

That was all he said. The silent-footed man who had worked round behind

him struck swiftly with a rubber truncheon. The girl had only time to

swing herself clear before he crumpled and fell.

 

The chauffeur of the wrecked car had been in luck. Hardly had Binny

disappeared before another car came into sight, and the chauffeur begged

a lift into Welwyn. Less than a mile along the road they ran into a

police barrage and he told his story. He gave valuable information, for

he had seen the light of Binny’s car turn from the road.

 

‘Practically you were never out of sight, from the moment you left the

plantation,’ said Surefoot. ‘The broken gate gave him away, and he left

the lights of his car burning. It was easy, even without the trail of

letters you left. Very scientific, but we didn’t need them!’

 

The arrest and conviction of Binny had a demoralizing effect on Surefoot

Smith. On the day this wholesale murderer stood on the trap in

Pentonville Prison, Surefoot departed from the rule of a lifetime,

refused all beer and drank spirits. As he explained to Dick Allenby:

 

‘If ever there was a day to get soused—that was the day!’