Martin felt Ricky clap him on the back at the result of the draw.
"That's all very well, Mr. Ghostmaster," said Ricky, leaning one elbow on the wall and making no pretense of liking Stannard, "but you led us in here. How do you expect us to get out?"
"Ah. Did you observe the floor as we came in?" "Not particularly."
"In the aisle leading out you will find a length of heavy white string. I put it there this afternoon, a clue to the Cretan labyrinth. Follow the string; it will take you to the main gate."
In spite of everything, Martin thought, Stannard's all right. He's all right!
In a very short time he and Stannard were alone. The other three, obviously very nervous, watched while Martin stood outside the iron door, turned the key, and dropped it into his pocket. They saw the white splash of Stannard's lamp as he stood inside, close to the tiny square barred opening in the iron door.
"It's amusing," the barrister said, "that nobody's asked to see the execution shed. You and I can speak to each other through this opening." he added very pointedly, "it is at all necessary."
The trembling echoes fell away to sharp-pointed quiet Ricky's bobbing light Ruth's red and black slacks, Dr. Laurier's smile all faded amid rustles against bales. Martin switched off his own lamp. For a little time he watched Stannard, without speaking, through the little barred opening.
Holding the lamp ahead, Stannard opened the door of the execution shed. He raked the light inside. He started a little, though he must have guessed exactly how the room looked. It would look—
Stop that! Martin Drake shut up his own imagination.
Stannard, not quite so ruddy in the face, contemplated what lay inside. He turned back, entered the condemned cell, and after a moment emerged carrying an ugly-looking rocking-chair which Martin well remembered. Hoisting this awkwardly on one arm, Stannard returned to the execution shed, maneuvered in backwards, and closed the door. Utter darkness and silence descended on Pentecost Prison.
Martin hastily switched on his own lamp. The space between the iron door and the line of the piled paper was about ten feet clear. Brick walls and a brick floor. He set the lamp in a corner.
Got to sit down.
Standing on tiptoe, and with a heavy lift, he brought down one of the long paper bales. Pushing the lantern to one side with his foot, he thumped down the bale almost in the corner with its back to the wall at right-angles to the iron door. He glanced at his wrist-watch, thinking vaguely that Stannard's watch must be slow: his own registered a full fifteen minutes past twelve.
Only when he sat down and relaxed back against the wall, letting his arms and legs go as limp as a straw, did he realize. God!
His head swam dizzily. His heart beat hard, though it was slowing down. There was sweat on his forehead, and his shirt stuck to his back. He hadn't quite realized the heat and oppressiveness in there. The others had been the same as himself, dust-grimed figures — except for Ruth, who in some inexplicable fashion preserved her freshness, the trim up-swept hair-do — but at the time he hadn't noticed it
You couldn't call this place exactly soothing; yet it was soothing by contrast to that force which had put the black dog on his back in the condemned cell. Soothing! The lamp shed a thin beam at his feet across the floor. With Stevenson, and tobacco, he could easily pass less than four hours until dawn.
Smoking here? Yes; the paper bales were a good distance away. He lit a cigarette, drawing in smoke deeply and again relaxation; and out of the smoke swam Jenny, and Jenny's look, and Jenny's present address'.
Well, Martin thought grimly, he had got that address.
Vividly he remembered how, at the telephone in the hall of Fleet House at well past seven that evening, he had got in touch with Dawson the butler at Brayle Manor. Dawson couldn't be overheard. The Old Dragon was upstairs at Fleet House with Aunt Cicely.
"I am sorry, sir, the voice told him. ‘Tm not at liberty to say where Lady Jennifer is."
"Yes, I appreciate that," Martin had answered. "But I'll pay you five hundred pounds if you do."
The telephone, so to speak, shook at its moorings.
If you want to bribe anybody, Martin thought, don't mess in small craftiness with ten-bob notes, or there'll only be haggling and you'll lose. Hit your man in the eye with a sum so staggering that he'll fall all over himself to get it
"Go on!" jeered the telephone, in a startlingly different tone, but much lower-voiced. "How do I know you can pay that?"
The banks are closed. But did you ever hear of Mr. Joseph Anthony? He's the biggest art-dealer in London."
"Yes, sir," the voice muttered respectfully. "We've had to— " the word "sell" seemed to tremble on his lips.
"His private 'phone-number is Grosvenor 0011. Confirm it with Information if you doubt me. I'm going to 'phone him now. You ring him in about fifteen minutes. Ask him then if he's ready, on my say-so, to send you his own personal cheque for that amount The cheque will reach you tomorrow, and won't be stopped unless you've given me a fake address."
"The… the address is not on the 'phone, sir."
"Never mind. Get it!"
Then he had 'phoned Joe Anthony; and waited in agony, twisting his knuckles, for Dawson's return-call. Curious, too: once or twice he imagined he had heard somebody whispering in the background while he spoke to Dawson. Then the telephone pealed its double-ring.
That's all right, sir," Dawson muttered. The address is not exactly in London."
"I didn't suppose it was, or the old — she wouldn't have told me so."
"Care of Mr. and Mrs. Ives, Ranham Old Park, Ranham, Hertfordshire."
Serene satisfaction animated Martin when he wrote it down, and put it in his pocket. He was still sitting by the telephone in the hall when Lady Brayle herself came downstairs past the dying light from the tall arched window.
Martin, startled, did not get up. She did not look at him; was not conscious of him. On her face was an expression he failed to read. She marched on her flat heels, shoulders swinging a little, to the front door; and departed without a word to anybody.
Then there had been dinner in the high square room at the back of Fleet House, candle-flames on polished wood making a shimmer against daylight through garden trees. H.M. and Masters had somewhat hastily departed after the interview on the roof, saying they were going to see the local police at Brayle. Ricky insisted on Martin's bringing his bag across from the inn. Then the long sitting in the back garden — Dr. Laurier arriving in his own car from just outside Brayle, Ricky rushing into the house to see how his mother was — until the position of the quarter-moon above rustling darkness told them it was time to…
Yes; he had got that address!
Sitting back relaxed, the cigarette-end glowing red against the darkness of Pentecost, Martin felt cool in temperature as well as mind; and he smiled. Tomorrow morning, very early, he would see what train-connections he could make for Ranham in Hertfordshire.
"With luck," he said aloud, "I might get there at breakfast-time.''
The sound of his own voice startled him. By the Lord, he was jumpier than he'd thought! Not a whisper of noise had come from beyond the iron door. Stannard must be sitting in the rocking chair, perhaps wheezing a little as he read Chekhov, near the closed gallows-trap. Martin reached down for the Stevenson; and then flung his head round.
Something was moving and rustling among the paper bales.
Steady, now!
He dropped his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his foot. Reaching down for the lamp, he directed it towards the aisle between bales and wall. Whoever it was, the person carried a light Out into the open emerged Ruth Callice: her face anxious, her finger at her lip.