For ten minutes Gregory remained a silent spectator of their intense activity. By the end of that time the contraband cargo had all been loaded on to the train, the wagons relocked, the last big plane was gone, and all the flares except one had been put out.
The train moved off and, rapidly gathering speed, disappeared in the direction of London. The men then flung themselves upon the great higgledy-piggledy pile of boxes which had been thrown out of it, and started to hump them across the landing ground, disappearing into the belt of shadows beyond which the flare did not penetrate.
'What now?' thought Gregory. 'My luck's been in so far and I'm not chucking up till I find out what they do with the stuff.' Crawling back by way of the ditch, he began to make a detour outside the lighted patch of ground and, after going a hundred yards, he stumbled through some low bushes, up a small bank and on to a road. Having crossed it, he slid down the slope on the other side and proceeded to follow the line of the lane, which curved slightly. The flare was some distance away, but he could hear muffled voices carried on the night wind to the front of him and, a moment later, came upon a thick hedge which barred his passage.
Scrambling up the bank again he got round the corner of the hedge and saw that it hid the kitchen garden of a solitary house, which loomed up before him, abutting on the road. A faint square of light filtering through a heavy curtain marked one of its down stair windows.
He got down on his hands and knees and crawled forward under cover of the hedge which here fringed the roadside. The voices of the men grew louder as he advanced and then he saw the dark outline of a lorry. There were others behind it and on these the men were busily loading the boxes that had come off the train.
From this new position he could see some of the smugglers in the distance, silhouetted against the light of the flare, as with the boxes on their shoulders they trudged in Indian file across the grassland. Suddenly the last flare was put out and two minutes later the loading of the lorries was completed. The men climbed into them and the lightless convoy set off in the direction of New Romney.
One by one they crawled past Gregory, where he crouched in the shadows, and shortly after the last one had disappeared a sudden vibrant hum, which grew lower and then receded, told him that the Limper had departed unseen in his plane. The rumble of the lorries faded in the distance and an utter silence closed down upon the deserted stretch of country. Not a sign or sound remained to show the illegal activity which' had been going on there so recently.
Gregory came out into the lane and tiptoed along it towards the front of the silent house The light in the ground floor room had gone out but there was now one showing in a front window upstairs. The heavy curtains had been carelessly drawn and a bright ray filtered through between them. The window was too high for Gregory to see into the room, but a wooden sign above the doorway of the place showed that it was a wayside inn and, by the light which came from the crack between the curtains he was just able to make out the lettering upon it. Thankful that he would be able to find the place again in this desolate stretch of country he read the faded lettering on the weather-beaten board. It was the Brown Owl Inn and he knew that it must lie within a few hundred yards of the railway line south of Romney.
Turning away, he walked up the road for a hundred yards and lit a cigarette. He was unutterably tired and now he had to trudge he didn't know how many miles before he could get a lift into Ashford. That seemed the nearest place where there would be any chance of his picking up an early train. He could sleep there, of course, or knock up some pub which he might pass on his road, but that did not fit in with his way of doing things. Wells would be anxious about him and eager to hear the result of his night's work. The extra hour or two in passing on the information he had secured might make all the difference so, tired as he was, he hardly thought of bed, but determined to get back to Quex Park at the earliest possible moment. Chin down, and in his long loping stride, he set off up the road inland.
15
Glorious Day
Inspector Gerry Wells was the lucky one this time. He very definitely had the soft side of the deal and, while the wretched Gregory was still hurtling through the air in fear of an imminent and horrible death, the Inspector turned his plane north-westward heading back towards Thanet. He was not risking any more night landings in the fields outside Quex Park without adequate reason so he came down on the well lit landing ground of the Royal Air Force Depot at Mansion, about midway between Quex Park, Margate and Ramsgate. Having presented his official card to the officer on duty, the courtesy of accommodation for his plane was extended to him and he managed to get a lift in a car to Margate where, feeling that he had earned a comfortable night's rest, he went straight to the Queen's Highcliffe Hotel.
One of the hotel guests had had to return to London suddenly that evening because his son had been taken dangerously ill. It was only this fortuitous chance which enabled the night porter to give the detective a bed at the height of the August season with every room booked for a month ahead.
Early rising was a habit with Gerry Wells. He was as fit as a fiddle in wind and limb and a few hours of deep healthy sleep were all he needed to prepare him for another almost indefinite period of activity.
Splashing in his bath at half past six he only controlled the impulse to burst into song at the thought of the other guests who were still sleeping. He was not unduly worried about Gregory because he knew the care with which service parachutes are packed and inspected; it never even occurred to him that the great silk balloon might fail to open.
He thought that Gregory might perhaps have had a bit of a shaking when he landed, owing to the fact that he had never had any instruction in parachute jumping, but Mr. Sallust was a tough customer to the Inspector's mind and, therefore, should come to little harm. Moreover, Wells had made certain that his unofficial colleague would drop well away from the smugglers' base so there was no likelihood of his descending in the midst of their illegal activities and being bumped on the head for his pains.
As the Inspector rubbed himself vigorously with his towel his thoughts turned to Milly Chalfont at the Park. What a delightful little thing she was, so slight and graceful, so utterly unspoiled, and so friendly too in spite of her apparent shyness. Gerry was rather a shy fellow himself where women were concerned and although he could admire Sabine as a work of art he would have been terrified of having anything to do with her outside his official business.
While he dressed he reviewed the situation and found it good. His investigation had progressed by leaps and bounds in the last forty-eight hours, thanks of course largely to that lean, queer, cynical devil, Gregory Sallust, but Wells had no stupid pride about the matter. It was his job to run Lord Gavin's crew to earth and he was only too grateful for any help which might be given him. He assumed, quite reasonably, not knowing what a tiger Gregory could be when he had got his teeth into a thing, that his ally, stranded in Romney Marshes, would spend the night at some local inn, whether he had secured any information or not and, therefore, it was most unlikely that he would put in an appearance again much before midday. There was nothing Wells could do to further his inquiry until Gregory turned up and the golden August morning lay before him. His thoughts gravitated again towards Milly and Quex Park. Had Sabine spent the night there or gone off again after all? In any case it obviously seemed his business to go over and find out.