The Council of Justice - Edgar Wallace (best autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

after he had retired to rest, they took away his prison

clothes and returned the suit in which he had been arrested. He thought

he heard the measured tramping of feet as he dozed, and wondered if the

Government had increased the guard of the prison. Under his window the

step of the sentry sounded brisker and heavier.

 

‘Soldiers,’ he guessed, and fell asleep.

 

He was accurate in his surmise. At the eleventh hour had arisen a

fear of rescue, and half a battalion of guards had arrived by train in

the night and held the prison.

 

The chaplain made his last effort, and received an unexpected

rebuff, unexpected because of the startling warmth with which it was

delivered.

 

‘I refuse to see you,’ stormed Manfred. It was the first exhibition

of impatience he had shown.

 

‘Have I not told you that I will not lend myself to the reduction of

a sacred service to a farce? Can you not understand that I must have a

very special reason for behaving as I do, or do you think I am a sullen

boor rejecting your kindness out of pure perversity?’

 

‘I did not know what to think,’ said the chaplain sadly, and

Manfred’s voice softened as he replied:

 

‘Reserve your judgement for a few hours—then you will know.’

 

The published accounts of that memorable morning are to the effect

that Manfred ate very little, but the truth is that he partook of a

hearty breakfast, saying, ‘I have a long journey before me, and need my

strength.’

 

At five minutes to eight a knot of journalists and warders assembled

outside the cell door, a double line of warders formed across the yard,

and the extended line of soldiers that circled the prison building

stood to attention. At a minute to eight came Jessen with the straps of

office in his hand. Then with the clock striking the hour, the governor

beckoning Jessen, entered the cell.

 

Simultaneously and in a dozen different parts of the country, the

telegraph wires which connect Chelmsford with the rest of the world

were cut.

 

It was a tragic procession, robbed a little of its horror by the

absence of the priest, but sufficiently dreadful. Manfred, with

strapped hands, followed the governor, a warder at each arm, and Jessen

walking behind. They guided him to the little house without windows and

stood him on a trap and drew back, leaving the rest to Jessen. Then, as

Jessen put his hand to his pocket, Manfred spoke.

 

‘Stand away for a moment,’ he said; ‘before the rope is on my neck I

have something to say,’ and Jessen stood back. ‘It is,’ said Manfred

slowly, ‘farewell!’

 

As he spoke he raised his voice, and Jessen stooped to pick up the

coil of rope that dragged on the floor. Then without warning, before

the rope was raised, or any man could touch him, the trap fell with a

crash and Manfred shot out of sight.

 

Out of sight indeed, for from the pit poured up a dense volume of

black smoke, that sent the men at the edge reeling and coughing

backwards to the open air.

 

‘What is it? What is it?’ a frantic official struggled through the

press at the door and shouted an order.

 

‘Quick! the fire hose!’

 

The clanging of a bell sent the men to their stations. ‘He is in the

pit,’ somebody cried, but a man came with a smoke helmet and went down

the side. He was a long time gone, and when he returned he told his

story incoherently.

 

‘The bottom of the pit’s been dug out—there’s a passage below and a

door—the smoke—I stopped that, it’s a smoke cartridge!’

 

The chief warder whipped a revolver from his holster.

 

‘This way,’ he shouted, and went down the dangling rope hand over

hand.

 

It was dark, but he felt his way; he slipped down the sharp

declivity where the tunnel dipped beneath the prison wall and the men

behind him sprawled after him. Then without warning he ran into an

obstacle and went down bruised and shaken.

 

One of the last men down had brought a lamp, and the light of it

came flickering along the uneven passage. The chief warder shouted for

the man to hurry.

 

By the light he saw that what confronted him was a massive door made

of unpainted deal and clamped with iron. A paper attracted his

attention. It was fastened to the door, and he lifted the lantern to

read it:

 

‘The tunnel beyond this point is mined.’

 

That was all it said.

 

‘Get back to the prison,’ ordered the warder sharply. Mine or no

mine, he would have gone on, but he saw that the door was well nigh

impregnable.

 

He came back to the light stained with clay and sweating with his

exertions.

 

‘Gone!’ he reported curtly; ‘if we can get the men out on the roads

and surround the town—’

 

‘That has been done,’ said the governor, ‘but there’s a crowd in

front of the prison, and we’ve lost three minutes getting through.’

 

He had a grim sense of humour, this fierce silent old man, and he

turned on the troubled chaplain.

 

‘I should imagine that you know why he didn’t want the service

now?’

 

‘I know,’ said the minister simply, ‘and knowing, I am

grateful.’

 

Manfred felt himself caught in a net, deft hands loosened the straps

at his wrists and lifted him to his feet. The place was filled with the

pungent fumes of smoke.

 

‘This way.’

 

Poiccart, going ahead, flashed the rays of his electric lamp over

the floor. They took the slope with one flying leap, and stumbled

forward as they landed; reaching the open door, they paused whilst Leon

crashed it closed and slipped the steel bolts into their places.

 

Poiccart’s lamp showed the smoothly cut sides of the tunnel, and at

the other end they had to climb the debris of dismantled machinery.

 

‘Not bad,’ said Manfred, viewing the work critically. ‘The

“Rational Faithers” were useful,’ he added. Leon nodded.

 

‘But for their band you could have heard the drills working in the

prison,’ he said breathlessly.

 

Up a ladder at the end they raced, into the earth strewn

‘dining-room’ through the passage, inches thick with trodden clay.

 

Leon held the thick coat for him and he slipped into it. Poiccart

started the motor.

 

‘Right!’ They were on the move thumping and jolting through a back

lane that joined the main road five hundred yards below the prison.

 

Leon, looking back, saw the specks of scarlet struggling through the

black crowds at the gates. ‘Soldiers to hold the roads,’ he said;

‘we’re just in time—let her rip, Poiccart.’

 

It was not until they struck the open country that Poiccart obeyed,

and then the great racer leapt forward, and the rush of wind buffeted

the men’s faces with great soft blows.

 

Once in the loneliest part of the road they came upon telegraph

wires that trailed in the hedge.

 

Leon’s eyes danced at the sight of it.

 

‘If they’ve cut the others, the chase is over,’ he said; ‘they’ll

have cars out in half an hour and be following us; we are pretty sure

to attract attention, and they’ll be able to trace us.’

 

Attract attention they certainly did, for leaving Colchester behind,

they ran into a police trap, and a gesticulating constable signalled

them to stop.

 

They left him behind in a thick cloud of dust. Keeping to the

Clacton road, they had a clear run till they reached a deserted strip

where a farm wagon had broken down and blocked all progress.

 

A grinning wagoner saw their embarrassment.

 

‘You cairn’t pass here, mister,’ he said gleefully, ‘and there ain’t

another road for two miles back.’

 

‘Where are your horses?’ asked Leon quickly.

 

‘Back to farm,’ grinned the man.

 

‘Good,’ said Leon. He looked round, there was nobody in sight.

 

‘Go back there with the car,’ he said, and signalled Poiccart to

reverse the engine.

 

‘What for?’

 

Leon was out of the car, walking with quick steps to the lumbering

wreck in the road.

 

He stooped down, made a swift examination, and thrust something

beneath the huge bulk. He lit a match, steadied the flame, and ran

backward, clutching the slow-moving yokel and dragging him with

him.

 

”Ere, wot’s this?’ demanded the man, but before he could reply

there was a deafening crash, like a clap of thunder, and the air was

filled with wreckage.

 

Leon made a second examination and called the car forward.

 

As he sprang into his seat he turned to the dazed rustic.

 

‘Tell your master that I have taken the liberty of dynamiting his

cart,’ he said; and then, as the man made a movement as if to clutch

his arm, Leon gave him a push which sent him flying, and the car jolted

over the remainder of the wagon.

 

The car turned now in the direction of Walton, and after a short

run, turned sharply toward the sea.

 

Twenty minutes later two cars thundered along the same road,

stopping here and there for the chief warder to ask the question of the

chance-met pedestrian.

 

They too swung round to the sea and followed the cliff road.

 

‘Look!’ said a man.

 

Right ahead, drawn up by the side of the road, was a car. It was

empty.

 

They sprang out as they reached it—half a dozen warders from each

car. They raced across the green turf till they came to the sheer edge

of the cliff.

 

There was no sign of the fugitive.

 

The serene blue of sea was unbroken, save where, three miles away, a

beautiful white steam yacht was putting out to sea.

 

Attracted by the appearance of the warders, a little crowd came

round them.

 

‘Yes,’ said a wondering fisherman, ‘I seed ‘em, three of ‘em went

out in one of they motor boats that go like lightenin’—they’re out o’

sight by now.’

 

‘What ship is that?’ asked the chief warder quickly and pointed to

the departing yacht.

 

The fisherman removed his pipe and answered: ‘That’s the Royal

Yacht.’

 

‘What Royal Yacht?’

 

‘The Prince of the Escorials,’ said the fisherman impressively.

 

The chief warder groaned.

 

‘Well, they can’t be on her!’ he said.

 

THE END