‘Sir,’ said George, ‘I have succeeded in prising open one of these packing-cases with my file. I think that, whilst we are still undisturbed, we should look to see what is inside. I feel that madam would be interested.’
Before he had concluded these observations the young men were shining their torches into the packing-case.
‘Good Lord!’ said Denis. ‘The thing’s full of pictures, I think! Framed pictures, too, by the feel of them. Here, let’s have one out.’
‘Pictures?’ said O’Hara, doubtfully regarding the object drawn forth by Denis.
‘Yes, of course. Done up in sacking and packed between shavings. You can feel the edges of the frames. It must be pictures. No one would smuggle mirrors out of the country. Besides, this isn’t heavy enough for glass. They’re oils, I suppose. I wonder what’s the idea?’
Scarcely had he spoken when there was the sound of persons descending from the garage, and at the same time there were shouts (from the mouth of the cave) which came booming in the ears of the listeners.
The young men and George crouched low and prepared for battle. George had his file, a tasty weapon in skilled hands; O’Hara depended upon his fists; Gascoigne was limbering up, in a surreptitious way behind his packing-case, a limb of Attic shapeliness whose merit, as he saw it, was its ability to deliver, when called upon to do so, a French kick in the face ; the wiry Denis was still possessed of George’s spanner, and had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
There was a considerable amount of confusion at the mouth of the cave. The boat left by Gascoigne and O’Hara was in the way of the motor boat which was bringing the enemy in, and an argument was in progress which came, with sound and fury, but without recognizable words, hollowly to the young men and George.
Suddenly down the ramp at the landward end, from the garage, appeared two men, the second one carrying a lantern. O’Hara leapt out and smashed his fist into the first face. Denis went for the lantern and knocked it out of the second man’s hand by tapping him hard on the elbow with the spanner. George, with a neat flick, smacked his file across the side of the fellow’s neck, and then Denis pulled out a whistle and blew three police blasts on it.
The effect on the men at the mouth of the cave was instantaneous. There was a bellowing sound suggestive of panic-stricken orders. The next moment the engine of the motor boat was started up again and the enemy put back to sea.
‘You’ve spoilt the fight!’ grumbled Gascoigne, picking up the twine which had been tied round one of the packing-cases, and kneeling by the prisoners to secure them.
‘Can’t help that,’ said Denis, who was practical. ‘Our job is to get these packing-cases away before any more of those chaps turn up. The thing is, what to do with these two fellows.’
‘I’ve frisked them, sir,’ said George, who was helping Denis. ‘You’d better take their guns.’ He handed these over.
Behind an ubiquitous hedge Laura and Mrs. Bradley were deciding which of them should go to the police and which should remain to watch the cartshed.
Morning was broadening before they came to any conclusion, but Laura had her own way, in the end, and remained in hiding whilst her employer walked back towards the stones on her way to the village of Upper Deepening from which the buses went to Cuchester and to Welsea Beaches.
Mrs. Bradley took the Welsea bus with the intention of contacting the nearest police station. Laura, left alone, prowled restlessly up and down the hedge, keeping low so as not to be seen above it, and prayed that adventure might follow.
It did, in dramatic fashion, for at just after eight o’clock by Laura’s wristwatch a small lorry drove into the farmyard from out of the wood and pulled up opposite the cartshed.
‘They’re going to remove the evidence,’ thought Laura. ‘Mrs. Croc. knew it, and that’s why she wanted to stay. Now what should I do for the best?’
With Laura, deeds came an easy first and planning a fairish second. Almost before the question had presented itself, she was crawling towards the gap in the hedge where the gate was, and then, rising to her feet, switch in hand, was strolling carelessly down the hill towards the farm.
It was soon certain that her presence had been perceived, for, at the bottom of the hill, where the ploughland gave way to the farmyard, stood a nonchalant man with a piece of grass in his mouth who stepped out in front of her and said :
‘No way through here, miss. Back the way you come, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, rot!’ said Laura boldly. ‘I’ve been this way dozens of times.’ Without further argument she walked on. The man jumped ahead of her.
‘I said you can’t come this way!’ he said, speaking sharply.
‘But why not?’ asked Laura, stopping. ‘Has the farm changed hands or something? Nobody stopped me before.’
‘Well, I’m stopping you now,’ said the man. Laura shrugged and turned away. Mrs. Bradley, she sadly decided, would have thought of a dozen ways of dealing successfully with this sort of thing. She herself could think of nothing except the possibility of turning round suddenly and poking the man in the eye with the switch she had cut from the hedge. But that, although desirable from one point of view (for she disliked the man very much, and resented his victory over her), would scarcely, in the long run, have helped her very much, and this she realized.
She thought fast when once she had turned about, and then, as though she were hurrying from sheer bad temper, she tore up the hill at top speed. When she reached the boundaries of her hedge she still stalked on. When she knew that the man could no longer see her, she swung off in a slant and followed the line of the hedge to where the pasture ended and the dark woods met the arable land beyond. There she slid into cover like an wolf, and paused to survey the landscape.
She was on the edge of the circular wood beyond the farmyard, and had soon descended past the disused Army hut and into the winding lane. She turned towards the farm-buildings, but was in time to retreat into the wood and see the small lorry drive away. It had to pass her, and, as it slowed at the bend (for the lane was extremely narrow), she was able to ascertain, from her position among the thick trees, that only one man was in it. Automatically she registered the number on the back, and then she came into the road and began to run.
What her intention was she scarcely knew. Instinctively she felt that she had to find out whither the lorry was bound, and whether the head and hands had been put aboard it.
By the time she had rounded the bend the lorry had gone. She toiled on until she came to the house with the four dead trees. The telegraph wires to the house gave her inspiration.
She went in at the first entrance she came to, and knocked on the door. The teak-countenanced Sorensen opened it. He scowled when he saw her, and said very briefly:
‘No admittance!’
‘I know! I know!’ said Laura hurriedly. ‘But I’ve got to use your telephone. May I come in? Where is it?’
To her surprise, the man made way for her at once, and then, overtaking her, guided her along the passage and opened the door of the office. Laura went in, found the room empty, seized the telephone, called up the police in Cuchester and gave the number of the lorry. The sound of the key being turned in the lock of the door did not perturb her.
‘To do any real good, they ought to have cut the telephone wires,’ she thought. ‘Anyway, I’m on the ground floor.’
She rang up the police again, and informed them that she was a prisoner at Cottam’s. Then she hung up, and walked across to the window. Outside was young Sisyphus Cassius with a short, thick, ugly cosh in his hand. He swung it and grinned nastily at her. He had not, it was clear, forgotten the morning on the beach, in spite of his attempt to redeem himself. Laura opened the window.