The Clue of the Silver Key - Edgar Wallace (read e book txt) 📗

twisted aside, but did not wholly escape the impact of the

shock. The gun fell from his hand on to the floor.

 

The room was now a mass of flames; the fire had licked through the thin

plaster of the wall and the laths were burning like paper. The atmosphere

was thick with acrid smoke, the heat already intolerable.

 

Again Surefoot struck and again Binny dodged. Surefoot had kicked the

pistol out of reach—kicked it into the mass of flames that were spurting

from the bottom of the canvas-covered trunk. The door was open and Binny

darted out of the room, trying to close it after him, but Smith’s

shoulders were in the way. Jerking the door wider, he stumbled into the

passage and hurled himself at the murderer.

 

The only hope was to keep at close quarters. Binny had another pistol,

had it half out of his pocket, when Surefoot pinned him against the hot

wall and, bracing his feet, exerted all his strength to crush him there.

In this position it was impossible to hit the man. In the half-light he

saw Binny reaching out towards the front door and edged him nearer to

facilitate his task. As the door was flung open and the air came rushing

in, the hum of the fire became a roar; flames were flung out like red and

yellow banners whipped by the wind.

 

Binny was trying to pull himself clear of the hands that held him by the

singlet; striving desperately to pull out his second gun. His breath was

coming in shrill whistles; he was frightened, had lost all his old

reserve of courage. He wriggled desperately to escape the pressure of the

heavy figure that was jammed against him, and at last, by a superhuman

effort, he succeeded, and darted through the door, Surefoot behind him.

 

His gun was out now and he fired. The detective hurled himself on his man

and brought him down. He was up in a second and was running towards the

back of the house.

 

The flames were coming from the roof. The countryside for a hundred yards

was almost as light as day. Surefoot, handcuffed as he was, flew in

pursuit; and then suddenly Binny turned, and this time his aim was

deliberate. Surefoot Smith knew that there was no hope now. The man who

covered him was a dead shot, and was within half a dozen paces of him.

 

In desperation he sprang forward. His feet touched air, and he was

falling, falling…

 

He heard the shot, wondered dimly if this was death, and was brought to

the realization that he was still alive by the impact of his body at the

bottom of the hole into which he had fallen. He realized at once what had

happened: Binny had been busy all that night preparing this hiding place

for his crime, but had missed falling into the hole.

 

He struggled to his feet, bruised and aching, heard a second shot and

looked up. There was a third and fourth. An authoritative voice was

challenging somebody. Then he heard his own name called, and shouted. A

man’s face loomed over the edge of the pit. It was his own sergeant. They

brought him up to the top.

 

‘He won’t get away,’ said the detective to whom Surefoot addressed a

gasping inquiry.

 

‘Which way did he go, and where’s his car?’

 

He was weary, aching from head to foot, bruised and scratched, but for

the moment he had no thought of comfort.

 

‘Feel in my hip pocket; I think he left the key of these handcuffs.’ They

unlocked the irons and took them off, and he rubbed his bruised wrists.

‘Have you found his car?’

 

Binny’s saloon had not been located. The last time Surefoot had seen it,

it was at the door of the cottage, but evidently, during one of his

absences, the man had taken it to a hiding place. There was a small

garage attached to the cottage—a tiny shed—but this was unoccupied.

 

By the light of the burning house they picked up the tracks. They crossed

the grassland to the left of the cottage and must have passed over the

very place where Binny had dug the grave.

 

Thereafter they were difficult to trace, but obviously they went straight

across the field in the same direction as the man had taken. A quarter of

an hour later they picked up unmistakable evidence that the car had been

left standing near a small secondary road. The gate was wide open and the

tracks of the vehicle were visible on the soft, wet earth. He had not

made for the main road again, but had turned up to the road to Cookham,

where traffic would be practically non-existent at this hour of the night

and the chances of observation nil.

 

The solitary police officer on duty at Cookham had seen the car pass, but

had not observed the driver. He had turned on to the toll bridge, but at

this hour of the night the toll gate is left open. The Bourne End police

had seen several cars without taking particular notice of them. He could

have taken the Oxford Road across the railway crossing, or he could have

followed the river to Marlow.

 

Surefoot Smith rejected the suggestion that he should go home and rest,

leaving the chase to the Flying Squad and the Buckinghamshire police; he

rejected it violently and with oaths.

 

‘This fellow can’t go far, dressed as he is,’ he said, ‘in a singlet and

trousers—I pulled most of his shirt off. He’s going to hold up somebody,

or burgle a house and get a new outfit. You realize what this man is,

don’t you? He’s trained in the gang methods. He will not stop at

murder—you are not dealing with an ordinary English criminal.’

 

They were not kept waiting long for proof of this. Deciding upon the

Marlow road as being more likely to offer opportunities for this

desperado, they came upon a policeman pushing a bicycle. It was raining

heavily, and his helmet and cape were dripping wet.

 

‘A blue car passed here five minutes ago,’ he said.

 

The police car sped on. Just outside of Marlow they found the vehicle

they were seeking; it was empty.

 

At three o’clock in the morning a car passing along the Oxford Road was

stopped by a policeman, who stood in the middle of the roadway with

outstretched arms. Driving the car was a well-to-do farmer from Oxford.

He was inclined to be truculent at this stop.

 

‘I am sorry to bother you,’ said the police officer,’ but we are

searching for an escaped murderer, and I want a lift to the other side of

High Wycombe.’

 

The farmer, rather intrigued, was not at all displeased, probably a

little excited, to find himself a participant in a man hunt, and the

policeman got into the uncomfortable rear seat of the car. It sped on

through the Wycombes.

 

‘I’ll tell you where to drop me,’ said the officer.

 

On the other side of High Wycombe there is a fork road which leads to

Princes Risborough.

 

‘Turn here,’ said the officer.

 

The driver expostulated—he had to get back to Oxford. ‘Turn here,’ said

the police officer, and something cold touched the nape of the farmer’s

neck. ‘Do as you’re told.’

 

The policeman’s voice was peremptory. The gun in his grimy hand was

eloquent. The farmer almost jumped out of his seat with astonishment. He

was not wanting in courage, but he was unarmed.

 

‘What’s your game?’ he asked. He was still unsuspicious that the man

behind him was anything but a policeman.’ You’re not allowed to do that

sort of thing.’

 

‘Get it out your nut that I’m a copper,’ said Binny. ‘The man whose

clothes I’m wearing is lying in a ditch with a break in his bean. Drive

where I tell you and save a lot of argument.’ The driver turned the car

in the direction indicated. They went along a new road, a portion of

which was under construction. There were red lamps and a watchman’s fire.

Dimly the farmer realized that the man behind him was the wanted

murderer, and the realization chilled him.

 

They were in a country which even at high noon is a little deserted. It

was a silent desert now. All the time Binny was watching left and right

for a suitable place for his purpose.

 

Presently they passed by the side of the road a wooden building that had

the appearance of a barn, and he ordered the driver to stop and turn

back. There was an open gate by the side of the barn, and through this

they drove.

 

‘Stop here,’ said Binny. He pushed open the door of the saloon. ‘Now get

down.’

 

He took the torch which had been part of the unfortunate policeman’s

equipment, and flashed it on to the door of the barn. It was unsecured by

lock or hasp. He pulled open the door with one hand, covering his

prisoner with the other.

 

‘Go inside,’ he said, and followed.

 

Half an hour later he came out again, wearing the farmer’s tweed suit and

his high-collared waterproof jacket. He listened for a second at the door

before closing it, got into the car and backed on to the road. There was

still a considerable danger of his being stopped. A solitary man driving

a car would be suspect, no matter whose clothes he was wearing, and the

present solution to his difficulty was merely a temporary measure.

 

If he could find one of those night trucks that run between London and

the provinces it would serve him better. These express lorries carried

two and often three men. He had to trust to luck.

 

Detection was certain if he took a direction which led him away from

London. In the few hours that remained before the dawn he must work his

way back to London. He had three bolt-holes; had the police found them

all?

 

He drove through Aylesbury and worked right. He had an extraordinary

knowledge of topography, and was aiming to reach the Great North Road and

approach London from that direction.

 

As he passed through a village, a policeman came out of the shadows and

held up his hand. For a second Binny hesitated; his first impulse was to

drive on, but he was none too certain of the immediate locality, and the

chances were that if he did not stop now he would find a ‘barrage’ a few

miles farther on.

 

Binny had studied the police situation very carefully. He knew that the

police would close London in a ring by the establishment of these barrage

posts, and that he would be liable at any moment to come upon a place

where a lorry was drawn up across the road. He knew too of the canvas

belts, heavily spiked, which are thrown across the roadway, with

disastrous consequences to the non-stop motorist.

 

He took his foot off the accelerator and brought his car to a standstill.

 

‘Let me see your driving licence,’ said the police officer.

 

Binny stiffened. He had relieved his victim of all his portable goods,

but a driving licence was not amongst them. Motorists have a trick of

carrying this important document in the glove compartment of their car.

If it were not there…

 

He slipped his gun out of his pocket and laid it on the seat by his side

before he opened up the flap of the compartment and began a search. His

heart jumped as his fingers touched the familiar shape of the licence. He

handed it out and the