XIV
The Remarkable Train That Did Strange Tricks
By six o’clock that evening Michael Pretherston was back again at his work, passing down from station to station on a pilot engine, questioning and cross-examining the officials concerned. T. B. Smith picked him up at Maidmore going down by the ordinary train.
“Have you found anything?”
“I have a theory,” said Michael. “I’d like you to listen to what the stationmaster here has to say.”
“Have you questioned him?”
“Not yet,” said Michael, “but I have an idea he will say exactly what the man at Stanborn said.”
The inspector who had been on night duty at the time the train passed proved to be a very intelligent and observant man. He told the same story, that the rain was falling very heavily and that he had seen the distant lights of the gold special which had flown through the dark station at incredible pace.
“Is it not a fact,” said Michael, “that it passed you before you realized it was gone?”
The man was surprised.
“That is so, sir. It seemed as though I had hardly seen the headlights come into the station before I saw the taillights going out.”
“Did it whistle as it passed through?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, “a deafening whistle. I remarked to my porter at the time that it must be trying a new kind of siren. It made the most fiendish row and you could hear nothing else.”
“It whistled through all the stations where there was somebody on duty,” said Michael turning to T. B. Smith. “It is a curious fact that at Stanborn Halt and Merchley which are closed for the night they made no noise at all. Was the station in darkness?” he said, turning to the inspector.
“Practically so, sir,” said the man; “there was one light on the down platform where I was standing, but it was a very dark night and it was impossible to distinguish anything on the other platform. All that we saw was the flash of lights and the train had passed before one had realized that it had gone.”
The inspector at Pinham Heights station had a similar story to tell.
But the Tolbridge junction signalman and the Tolbridge assistant stationmaster did not report any whistle or any unusual happening.
T. B. and Michael spent the night at Tolbridge and resumed their journey at daybreak. It was a slow and laborious business. Once between Pinham and Beckham Beacon, Michael had stopped the train and switched it on to a sidetrack.
“Why is there a sidetrack here?” he asked.
The railway official who accompanied him and who by this time was very weary of the whole business, explained vaguely that it was partly to provide a very necessary relief for any congestion on this section, and partly to connect up a “chalk pit or something” which now, however, was no longer used.
Michael walked along the rusted rails for a quarter of a mile. They led toward a low line of hills about three miles away. Rank vegetation grew between the sleepers, for it had been many years since its private owners had taken the trouble to put this little branch line in working order.
The road ended abruptly with a big buffer made of sleepers and behind this the rail drooped limply over a great hole as though there had been a subsidence of the earth.
Michael turned back and joined T. B.
“It could not have passed over here. The rail is rusty and runs into a large-sized hole at the other end,” said Michael in despair. “Well, go on, driver.”
It was a day of enquiries which led nowhere and Michael returned that night to town, weary and sick at heart. Nevertheless, he had the dim beginnings of a theory which, however, he refused to communicate to his chief.
“It is rather fantastic,” he excused himself, “but then, the whole thing is fantastic. It is obviously impossible to steal a railway train and carry it through the streets of London without somebody being attracted by the novelty of the spectacle.”
“Will you see Sir Ralph?” asked T. B. “He has been waiting here for an hour to meet you.”
“Hasn’t he got a home?” asked Michael irritably.
He saw the distracted baronet but could offer him little hope.
“It is impossible they can get away with it,” said Sir Ralph; “my expert tells me that it will take them two days to break through the steel walls whatever they use.”
A thought struck Michael.
“Have you a large scale map of your southern railway system?” he asked.
“I will have it sent round to you tonight,” said the baronet. “What chance do you think there is?” he asked anxiously.
“I think a very poor chance,” said Michael frankly; “you see, Kate doesn’t take any risk.”
“Kate?” said the baronet.
“You call her the ‘Princess Bacheffski.’ Flanborough calls her ‘Miss Tenby.’ As ‘Miss Tenby’ she secured Flanborough’s code and through some of her agents in the telegraph office learned about the shipment. As ‘Princess Bacheffski’ she wheedled the whole of your wonderful scheme for bringing gold from Seahampton and probably discovered the nature of the steel you use.”
“Good heavens!”
Sir Ralph sank into a chair and turned pale.
“You don’t mean to tell me—?”
“That is what I mean to tell you. Didn’t you realize that the whole thing was a put up job? Why should the car of the Princess break down at your front door?”
“But she was so beautifully dressed.”
“Why shouldn’t she be beautifully dressed?” asked Michael mercilessly; “she probably carried twenty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds. Wasn’t it worth it? Didn’t you give her information which she could not have bought for the money?”
“Then you mean to say that she is a common swindler?”
“She is a very uncommon swindler,” said Michael. “There’s only one thing that puzzles me,” he said, half to himself; “what did she want of Reggie?”
Mr. Reginald Boltover was interrupted in the delicate business of dressing for dinner by a peremptory demand that an officer of Scotland Yard should be admitted. He was relieved to discover that it was nothing more formidable than Michael.
“I have come to ask you about your friend Vera.”
Mr. Boltover winced.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “don’t mention that lady’s name. It is a sore subject. Don’t mention her, dear old fellow, don’t.”
“Don’t be an ass,” said Michael good-humouredly; “you must give me an idea of the questions which she asked you. What did she talk about?”
But Mr. Boltover’s mind was a blank.
It was his boast that he did not know there was such a thing as yesterday.
“Did she ask you to give her any information about things you are interested in?”
“My dear fellow,” said Reggie Boltover, shaking his head, “if she did I have forgotten it. All I know is that she very seriously compromised me. I have not been to Sebo’s since.”
“As you are such a perfectly hopeless person,” said Michael, “will you give me a note to your secretary or your factotum or whatever human substitute for mentality you possess, instructing him to give me a full list of your properties?”
“With the greatest pleasure in life, with every happiness,” said Reggie earnestly, “with the greatest alacrity!”
Armed with this, Michael called the next morning at the office of one who was frequently referred to by journalists as a “merchant prince,” and when he came out into Threadneedle Street his step was lighter and his eye was brighter than it had been for weeks.
“Now, Kate,” he said between his teeth, “this is where you finish!”
He could have had all the men he wanted but he preferred making his investigation without assistance. He went home and changed into a knickerbocker suit, took his oldest overcoat, a walking stick and a Browning pistol with two spare magazines. He did not ask for a special engine, but travelled to Pinham Heights station by ordinary train. He showed his authority to the stationmaster who, however, recognized him.
“I don’t want anybody to know that I am down here,” he said, “and I must rely upon your discretion to see that my wishes in this respect are carried out. Am I likely to meet any platelayers or people on the line between here and Tolbridge?”
“You will meet nobody until you come to Tolbridge box, but be very careful,” warned the stationmaster, “the down express goes through the tunnel in ten minutes. I should advise you not to leave until that has passed.”
This advice Michael thought it expedient to accept and not until the rocking train had shrieked through the station and the receding red lamps were disappearing in the darkness of the tunnel did he walk down the sloping platform into the six-foot way and pass into the smoking tunnel.
He could have reached his destination by the high road which runs from Pinham round the foot of the Beacon, but for reasons of his own, he preferred to accept the discomforts of the darker way and the uneven going. He passed through the tunnel after a seemingly interminable walk and came to the switch line where his engine had been sidetracked. He followed this until he came to the buffer and the deep hole beyond.
He examined the buffer very carefully, retraced his footsteps and examined the rail. It was, as he had seen before, red with rust. Nevertheless, he went on his knees and examined the rail through a magnifying glass. Then he wetted his finger and drew it along the red surface. He looked at his finger. It was red. But it was not the red of rust.
He walked back, carefully examining every inch of the rail until he found what he sought. At one place by the side of the actual rail was a little red spot. It was no larger than a threepenny piece and it was, to all appearance, rust. But rust does not develop on a wooden sleeper and he found the counterpart of this spot, a trifle larger on the wood. Again he wetted his finger and was satisfied.
For this was not rust, but a very common form of distemper employed by builders.
He went back to the buffer and the sagging rail and climbed down the hole which was about six feet deep. He had noticed that a quantity of green stagnant water at the bottom of the hole advertised its age. Again he drew his hand along the water and examined his palm. It was green, but his strongest magnifying glass (and he had one of peculiarly high power) failed to reveal any sign of that florescence which forms on the surface of water and gives it its peculiar vivid green. Instead, he saw a number of irregular specks, which were undoubtedly crystals.
“Which means,” said Michael to himself, “that Kate is an artist even if Fonso isn’t.”
The green scum which had deceived him at first had been artificially created. Some chemical had been dissolved and had re-crystallised on the surface. He dug into the soft earth on the other side without securing any data as to when the hole had been made, but nearer the surface and on the rim, he saw the white tendrils of growing coltsfoot, which were still humid. One tentacle had been shaved away, but the plant had not yet begun to die, nor the exposed root to blacken.
“This hole was dug on the night of the robbery,” said Michael, “and the earth was artistically removed. Kate would depend upon the railway officials not having bothered to inspect this bit of line.”
As matter of fact, this was so. It was on private property, and after it left the edge of the railway land it ceased to be their responsibility. The buffer was also newly erected. He found this when he had dug down to its foundation. The wood was still dry and there were blades of grass and tiny fragments of plant in the earth beneath. He walked round the little pit and reached the rails on the opposite side. They were rusted as artistically as their fellows. The line twisted and curved across level country for a mile before it turned the shoulder of a hill and disappeared into a gorge, evidently excavated in the course of the working.
Behind this was another chalk hole, and he gathered from an examination of the map, that along this further ridge ran a road. The abandoned cement works had been so built that they were not in view from the railway itself. Possibly the philanthropic purchaser had pulled down the one remaining smokestack on his occupation and the whitened buildings did not stand out against the chalky soil behind them. He had all the evidence he wanted before he had traversed one-half of the two miles which separated him from the chalk pits.
The mark of the heavy wheels was visible now. In places the weeds which grew thickly between the sleepers had been crushed by their passage. He now left the rail and began moving round in a wide semicircle that would bring him to a low neck in the hill. His plan was to climb the hill from here and work his way back along its crest until he overlooked the works. He was now in the danger zone.
He shifted his stick to his left hand and slipped out his pistol and pulled back the cover. It took him an hour to gain the crest of the neck. He found it more difficult to climb than he had thought. Evidently chalk had been quarried here and, save in one or two places, he was faced by a sheer unscalable wall. It was hard climbing all the way and he was hot and thirsty by the time he reached the top.
From the neck he could only secure a partial view of the works. He had taken the precaution to bring a pair of prismatic glasses and with these he surveyed the ground. There was no sign of the train and for a moment his heart sank. Then he picked up the rail and followed it yard by yard and he could scarcely restrain himself from a yell of joy when he saw the rail led to a big shed, the gates of which were closed.
Originally, this may have been the mill house, but the new tenants had relaid the line so that it passed into the building. He replaced his glasses and continued his climb. He was halfway between the neck and the point which would directly overlook the works when he heard the hum of a motor car and dropped flat. He was within fifty yards of the road which was slightly above him, and looking up very cautiously he saw a car dash past and disappear over the rise.
There was no mistaking its occupant. It was the Spaniard, Gregori.
He rose cautiously and continued his progress, keeping a sharp lookout for the sentries which he knew would be posted on the road. The path he followed was a beaten track. He realized this before he had gone much farther and sought to find a way either to the left or the right, but without success.
He halted and debated with himself the question as to whether he should go back. It was madness to attempt to make the capture alone. Even now, he might have been detected, but if this was the case by the time he went back and procured assistance the whole gang would have gone and probably the gold with them. Of the two risks he decided to take the first.
Little time was given to him to regret this decision. He had taken three paces when he heard the unmistakable whirr of a lariat. He turned to face the danger, pistol in hand, but too late. The rope settled about his neck, he felt a sharp nerve-racking jar and fell heavily to the ground.