A Rogue by Compulsion - Victor Bridges
Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24
A ROGUE BY COMPULSION
An Affair of the Secret Service
By VICTOR BRIDGES
With Frontispiece By JOHN H. CASSEL
1915
[Illustration: "A CURTAIN AT THE END OF THE ROOM WAS DRAWN SLOWLY
ASIDE, AND THERE, STANDING IN THE GAP, I SAW THE SLIM FIGURE OF A
GIRL."
Chapter X.
Drawn by John H. Cassel.]
TO
THAT BEST OF FRIENDS
HUGHES MASSIE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A BOLT FOR FREEDOM
II. A BICYCLE AND SOME OVERALLS
III. A DUBIOUS REFUGE
IV. ECHOES OF A FAMOUS CASE
V. AN OFFER WITHOUT AN ALTERNATIVE
VI. THE FACE OF A STRANGER
VII. A KISS AND A CONFESSION
VIII. RT. HON. SIR GEORGE FRINTON, P.C.
IX. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR
X. MADEMOISELLE VIVIEN, PALMIST
XI. BRIDGING THREE YEARS OF SEPARATION
XII. A SCRIBBLED WARNING
XIII. REGARDING MR. BRUCE LATIMER
XIV. A SUMMONS FROM DR. McMURTRIE
XV. A HUMAN "CATCH"
XVI. CONFRONTING THE INTRUDER
XVII. THE WORKSHOP ON THE MARSHES
XVIII. A NEW CLUE TO AN OLD CRIME
XIX. LAUNCHING A NEW INVENTION
XX. APPROACHING A SOLUTION
XXI. SONIA'S SUDDEN VISIT
XXII. THE POLICE TAKE ACTION
XXIII. IN THE NICK OF TIME
XXIV. EXONERATED
XXV. A LITTLE FAMILY PARTY
CHAPTER I
A BOLT FOR FREEDOM
Most of the really important things in life--such as love and
death--happen unexpectedly. I know that my escape from Dartmoor did.
We had just left the quarries--eighteen of us, all dressed in that
depressing costume which King George provides for his less elusive
subjects--and we were shambling sullenly back along the gloomy road
which leads through the plantation to the prison. The time was about
four o'clock on a dull March afternoon.
In the roadway, on either side of us, tramped an armed warder, his
carbine in his hand, his eyes travelling with dull suspicion up and
down the gang. Fifteen yards away, parallel with our route, the sombre
figure of one of the civil guards kept pace with us through the trees.
We were a cheery party!
Suddenly, without any warning, one of the warders turned faint. He
dropped his carbine, and putting his hand to his head, stumbled
heavily against the low wall that separated us from the wood. The
clatter of his weapon, falling in the road, naturally brought all
eyes round in that direction, and seeing what had happened the whole
eighteen of us instinctively halted.
The gruff voice of the other warder broke out at once, above the
shuffling of feet:
"What are you stopping for? Get on there in front."
From the corner of my eye I caught sight of the civil guard hurrying
towards the prostrate figure by the wall; and then, just as the
whole gang lurched forward again, the thing happened with beautiful
abruptness.
A broad, squat figure shot out suddenly from the head of the column,
and, literally hurling itself over the wall, landed with a crash
amongst the thick undergrowth. There was a second shout from the
warder, followed almost instantly by a hoarse command to halt, as the
civil guard jerked his carbine to his shoulder.
The fugitive paid about as much attention to the order as a tiger
would to a dog whistle. He was off again in an instant, bent almost
double, and bursting through the tangled bushes with amazing
swiftness.
Bang!
The charge of buckshot whistled after him, spattering viciously
through the twigs, and several of the bolder spirits in the gang at
once raised a half-hearted cry of "Murder!"
"Stop that!" bawled the warder angrily, and to enforce his words he
quickened his steps so as to bring him in touch with the offenders.
As he did so, I suddenly perceived with extraordinary clearness that I
should never again get quite such a good chance to escape. The other
men were momentarily between me and the warder, while the civil guard,
his carbine empty, was plunging through the trees in pursuit of his
wounded quarry.
It was no time for hesitation, and in any case hesitation is not one
of my besetting sins. I recollect taking one long, deep breath: then
the next thing I remember is catching my toe on the top of the
wall and coming the most unholy purler in the very centre of an
exceptionally well armoured blackberry bush.
This blunder probably saved my life: it certainly accounted for my
escape. The warder who evidently had more nerve than I gave him credit
for, must have fired at me from where he was, right between the heads
of the other convicts. It was only my abrupt disappearance from the
top of the wall that saved me from being filled up with lead. As
it was, the charge whistled over me just as I fell, and a devilish
unpleasant noise it made too.
I didn't wait for him to reload. I was out of that bush and off up the
hill in rather less time than it takes to read these words. Where I
was going I scarcely thought; my one idea was to put as big a distance
as possible between myself and the carbine before its owner could ram
home a second cartridge.
As I ran, twisting in and out between the trees, and keeping my head
as low as possible, I could hear behind me a hoarse uproar from my
fellow-convicts, who by this time were evidently getting out of hand.
No sound could have pleased me better. The more boisterous the good
fellows became the less chance would the remaining warder have of
worrying about me. As for the civil guard--well, it seemed probable
that his time was already pretty fully engaged.
My chief danger lay in the chance that there might be other warders in
the immediate neighbourhood. If so, they would doubtless have heard
the firing and have come running up at the first alarm. I looked back
over my shoulder as I reached the top of the plantation, which was
about a hundred yards from the road, but so far as I could see there
was no one as yet on my track.
My one chance lay in reaching the main wood that borders the Tavistock
road before the mounted guard could come up. Between this and the
plantation stretched a long bare slope of hillside, perhaps two
hundred yards across, with scarcely enough cover on it to hide a
rabbit. It was not exactly an inviting prospect, but still the place
had to be crossed, and there was nothing to be gained by looking at
it. So setting my teeth I jumped out from under the shelter of the
trees, and started off as fast as I could pelt for the opposite side.
I had got about half-way over when there came a sudden shout away to
the right. Turning my head as I ran, I saw through the thin mist a
figure in knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket vaulting over the low
gate that separated the moor from the road.
I suppose he was a tourist, for he had a small knapsack fastened to
his back and he was carrying a stick in his hand.
"Tally-ho!" he yelled, brandishing the latter, and then without
hesitation he came charging across the open with the obvious intention
of cutting me off from the wood.
For the first time in three years I laughed. It was not a pretty
laugh, and if my new friend had heard it, his ardour in the chase
might perhaps have been a trifle cooled. As it was he came on with
undiminished zest, apparently quite confident in his ability to tackle
me single-handed.
We met about ten yards this side of the nearest trees.
He rushed in on me with another "whoop," and I saw then that he was a
big, powerful, red-faced fellow of a rather coarse sporting type--the
kind of brute I've always had a peculiar dislike for.
"Down you go!" he shouted, and suiting the action to the word, he
swung back his stick and lashed out savagely at my head.
I didn't go down. Instead of that I stepped swiftly in, and striking
up his arm with my left hand, I let him have my right bang on the
point of the chin. Worlds of concentrated bitterness were behind it,
and he went over backwards as if he had been struck by a coal-hammer.
It did me a lot of good, that punch. It seemed to restore my
self-respect in a way that nothing else could have done. You must have
been a convict yourself, shouted at and ordered about like a dog for
three weary years, to appreciate the full pleasure of being able once
more to punch a man in the jaw.
At the moment, however, I had no time to analyze my feelings. Almost
before the red-faced gentleman's shoulders had struck the ground I had
reached the railing which bounded the wood, and putting one hand on
the top bar had vaulted over into its inviting gloom.
Then, just for an instant, I stopped, and, like Lot's wife, cast one
hasty glance behind me. Except for the motionless form of my late
adversary, who appeared to be studying the sky, the stretch of moor
that I had just crossed was still comfortingly empty. So far no
pursuing warder had even emerged from the plantation. With a sigh of
relief I turned round again and plunged forward into the thickest part
of the tangled brake ahead.
It would have been difficult to find a better temporary hiding-place
than the one I had reached. Thick with trees and undergrowth, which
sprouted up from between enormous fissures and piles of granite rock,
it stretched away for the best part of a mile and a half parallel with
the main road. I knew that even in daylight the warders would find it
no easy matter to track me down: at this time in the afternoon, with
dusk coming rapidly on, the task would be an almost impossible one.
Besides, it was starting to rain. All the afternoon a thick cloud had
been hanging over North Hessary, and now, as scratched and panting I
forced my way on into the ever-increasing gloom, a fine drizzle began
to descend through the trees. I knew what that meant. In half an hour
everything would probably be blotted out in a wet grey mist, and,
except for posting guards all round the wood, my pursuers would be
compelled to abandon the search until next morning. It was the first
time that I had ever felt an affection for the Dartmoor climate.
Guessing rather than judging my way, I stumbled steadily forward until
I reached what I imagined must be about the centre of the wood. By
this time I was wet through to the skin. The thin parti-coloured
"slop" that I was wearing was quite useless for keeping out the rain,
a remark that applied with almost equal force to my prison-made
breeches and gaiters. Apart from the discomfort, however, I was not
much disturbed. I have never been an easy victim to chills, and three
years in Princetown had done nothing to soften a naturally tough
constitution.
Still there was no sense in getting more soaked than was necessary, so
I began to hunt around for some sort of temporary shelter. I found it
at last in the shape of a huge block of granite, half hidden by the
brambles and stunted trees which had grown up round it. Parting the
undergrowth and crawling carefully in, I discovered at the base a kind
of hollow crevice just long enough to lie down in at full length.
I can't say it was exactly comfortable, but penal servitude has at
least the merit of saving one from being over-luxurious. Besides, I
was much too interested in watching the steady thickening of the mist
outside to worry myself about trifles. With a swiftness which would
have been incredible to any one who didn't know the Moor, the damp
clammy vapour was settling down, blotting out everything in its grey
haze. Except for the dripping brambles immediately outside I could
soon see absolutely nothing; beyond that it was like staring into a
blanket.
I lay there quite motionless, listening very intently for any sound of
my pursuers. Only the persistent drip, drip of the rain, however, and
the occasional rustle of a bird, broke the silence. If there were any
warders about they were evidently still some way from my hiding-place,
but the odds were that they had postponed searching the wood until the
fog lifted.
For the first time since my leap from the wall I found myself with
sufficient leisure to review the situation. It struck me that only a
very hardened optimist could describe it as hopeful. I had made my
bolt almost instinctively, without stopping to think what chances I
had of getting away. That these were meagre in the extreme was now
becoming painfully clear to me. Even if I managed to slip out of
my present hiding-place into the still larger woods of the Walkham
Valley, the odds were all in favour of my ultimate capture. No escaped
prisoner had ever yet succeeded in retaining his liberty for more than
a few days, and where so many gentlemen of experience had tried
and failed it seemed distressingly unlikely that I should be more
fortunate.
I began to wonder what had happened to Cairns, the man whose dash from
the ranks had been responsible for my own effort. I knew him to be one
of the most resourceful blackguards in the prison, and, provided the
civil guard's first shot had failed to stop him, it was quite likely
that he too had evaded capture. I hoped so with all my heart: it would
distract quite a lot of attention from my own humble affairs.
If he was still at liberty, I couldn't help feeling enviously how much
better his chances of escape were than mine. In order to get away from
the Moor it was plainly necessary to possess oneself of both food and
clothes, and I could think of no other way of doing so except stealing
them from some lonely farm. At anything of this sort I was likely to
prove a sorry bungler compared with such an artist as Cairns. He was
one of the most accomplished cracksmen in England, and feats which
seemed impossible to me would probably be the merest child's play to
him.
Still it was no good worrying over what couldn't be helped. My first
job was to get safely into the Walkham woods; after that it would be
quite time enough to think about turning burglar.
I sat up and looked out into the mist. Things were as bad as ever, and
quite suddenly it struck me with considerable force that by lying low
in this fashion I was making a most unholy idiot of myself. Here I was
growing cold and stiff, and wasting what was probably the best chance
I should ever have of reaching Walkhampton. In fact I was playing
right into the hands of the warders.
With an impatient exclamation I jumped to my feet. The only question
was, could I find my way out of the wood, and if I did, how on earth
was I to strike the right line over North Hessary? It was quite on the
cards I might wander back into Princetown under the happy impression
that I was going in exactly the opposite direction.
For a moment I hesitated; then I made up my mind to risk it. After all
the fog was as bad for the warders as it was for me, and even if I
failed to reach the Walkham Valley I should probably find some other
equally good shelter before it lifted. In either case I should have
the big advantage of having changed my hiding-place.
Buttoning up my slop, I advanced carefully through the dripping
brambles. One could see rather less than nothing, but so far as I
could remember the main Tavistock road was on my right-hand side.
This would leave North Hessary away to the left; so turning in that
direction I set my teeth and took my first step forward into the
darkness.
I don't suppose you have ever tried walking through a wood in a fog,
but you can take my word for it that a less enjoyable form of exercise
doesn't exist. I have often wondered since how on earth I managed to
escape a sprained ankle or a broken neck, for carefully as I groped my
way forward it was quite impossible to avoid all the numerous crevices
and overhanging boughs which beset my path.
I must have blundered into about fourteen holes and knocked my head
against at least an equal number of branches, before the trees at last
began to thin and the darkness lighten sufficiently to let me see
where I was placing my feet. I knew that by this time I must be
getting precious near the boundary of the wood, outside which the
warders were now doubtless posted at frequent intervals. So I stopped
where I was and sat down quietly on a rock for a few minutes to
recover my breath, for I had been pretty badly shaken and winded by my
numerous tumbles.
As soon as I felt better I got up again, and taking very particular
care where I was treading, advanced on tiptoe with a delicacy that
Agag might have envied. I had taken about a dozen steps when all of a
sudden the railings loomed up in front of me through the mist.
I put my hand on the top bar, and then paused for a moment listening
breathlessly for any sound of danger. Except for the faint patter
of the rain, however, everything was as silent as the dead. Very
carefully I raised myself on the bottom rail, lifted my legs over, one
after the other, and then dropped lightly down on to the grass beyond.
As I did so a man rose up suddenly from the ground like a black
shadow, and hurling himself on me before I could move, clutched me
round the waist.
"Got yer!" he roared. Then at the top of his voice--"Here he is! Help!
Help!"
CHAPTER II
A BICYCLE AND SOME OVERALLS
I was taken so utterly by surprise that nothing except sheer strength
saved me from going over. As it was I staggered back a couple of
paces, fetching up against the railings with a bang that nearly
knocked the breath out of me. By a stroke of luck I must have crushed
my opponent's hand against one of the bars, for with a cry of pain he
momentarily slackened his grip.
That was all I wanted. Wrenching my left arm free, I brought up my
elbow under his chin with a wicked jolt; and then, before he could
recover, I smashed home a short right-arm punch that must have landed
somewhere in the neighbourhood of his third waistcoat button. Anyhow
it did the business all right. With a quaint noise, like the gurgle of
a half-empty bath, he promptly released me from his embrace, and sank
down on to the grass almost as swiftly and silently as he had arisen.
I doubt if a more perfectly timed blow has ever been delivered, but
unfortunately I had no chance of studying its effects. Through the fog
I could hear the sound of footsteps--quick heavy footsteps hurrying
towards me from either direction. For one second I thought of
scrambling back over the railings and taking to the wood again. Then
suddenly a kind of mischievous exhilaration at the danger gripped hold
of me, and jumping over the prostrate figure on the ground I bolted
forwards into the mist. The warders, who must have been quite close,
evidently heard me, for from both sides came hoarse shouts of "There
he goes!" "Look out there!" and other well-meant pieces of advice.
It was a funny sort of sensation dodging through the fog, feeling that
at any moment one might blunder up against the muzzle of a loaded
carbine. The only guide I had as to my direction was the slope of the
ground. I knew that as long as I kept on going uphill I was more or
less on the right track, for the big granite-strewn bulk of North
Hessary lay right in front of me, and I had to cross it to get to the
Walkham Valley.
On I went, the ground rising higher and higher, until at last the
wet slippery grass began to give way to a broken waste of rocks and
heather. I had reached the top, and although I could see nothing on
account of the mist, I knew that right below me lay the woods, with
only about a mile of steeply sloping hillside separating me from their
agreeable privacy.
Despite the cold and the wet and the fact that I was getting devilish
hungry, my spirits somehow began to rise. Good luck always acts on me
as a sort of tonic, and so far I had certainly been amazingly lucky. I
felt that if only the rain would clear up now and give me a chance of
getting dry, Fate would have treated me as handsomely as an escaped
murderer had any right to expect.
Making my way carefully across the plateau, for the ground was stiff
with small holes and gullies and I had no wish to sprain my ankle, I
began the descent of the opposite side. The mist here was a good deal
thinner, but night was coming on so rapidly that as far as seeing
where I was going was concerned I was very little better off than I
had been on the top of the hill.
Below me, away to the right, a blurred glimmer of light just made
itself visible. This I took to be Merivale village, on the Tavistock
road; and not being anxious to trespass upon its simple hospitality, I
sheered off slightly in the opposite direction. At last, after about
twenty minutes' scrambling, I began to hear a faint trickle of running
water, and a few more steps brought me to the bank of the Walkham.
I stood there for a little while in the darkness, feeling a kind of
tired elation at my achievement. My chances of escape might still be
pretty thin, but I had at least reached a temporary shelter. For five
miles away to my left stretched the pleasantly fertile valley, and
until I chose to come out of it all the warders on Dartmoor might hunt
themselves black in the face without finding me.
I can't say exactly how much farther I tramped that evening. When one
is stumbling along at night through an exceedingly ill-kept wood in a
state of hunger, dampness, and exhaustion, one's judgment of distance
is apt to lose some of its finer accuracy. I imagine, however, that I
must have covered at least three more miles before my desire to lie
down and sleep became too poignant to be any longer resisted.
I hunted about in the darkness until I discovered a small patch of
fairly dry grass which had been more or less protected from the rain
by an overhanging rock. I might perhaps have done better, but I was
too tired to bother. I just dropped peacefully down where I stood, and
in spite of my bruises and my soaked clothes I don't think I had been
two minutes on the ground before I was fast asleep.
* * * * *
Tommy Morrison always used to say that only unintelligent people
woke up feeling really well. If he was right I must have been in a
singularly brilliant mood when I again opened my eyes.
It was still fairly dark, with the raw, sour darkness of an early
March morning, and all round me the invisible drip of the trees was as
persistent as ever. Very slowly and shakily I scrambled to my feet. My
head ached savagely, I was chilled to the core, and every part of
my body felt as if it had been trampled on by a powerful and rather
ill-tempered mule.
I was hungry too--Lord, how hungry I was! Breakfast in the prison is
not exactly an appetizing meal, but at that moment the memory of its
thin gruel and greasy cocoa and bread seemed to me beautiful beyond
words.
I looked round rather forlornly. As an unpromising field for foraging
in, a Dartmoor wood on a dark March morning takes a lot of beating.
It is true that there was plenty of water--the whole ground and air
reeked with it--but water, even in unlimited quantities, is a poor
basis for prolonged exertion.
There was nothing else to be got, however, so I had to make the best
of it. I lay down full length beside a small spring which gurgled
along the ground at my feet, and with the aid of my hands lapped up
about a pint and a half. When I had finished, apart from the ache in
my limbs I felt distinctly better.
The question was what to do next. Hungry or not, it would be madness
to leave the shelter of the woods until evening, for not only would
the warders be all over the place, but by this time everyone who lived
in the neighbourhood would have been warned of my escape. My best
chance seemed to lie in stopping where I was as long as daylight
lasted, and then staking everything on a successful burglary.
It was not a cheerful prospect, and before the morning was much older
it seemed less cheerful still. If you can imagine what it feels
like to spend hour after hour crouching in the heart of a wood in a
pitiless drizzle of rain, you will be able to get some idea of what I
went through. If I had only had a pipe and some baccy, things would
have been more tolerable; as it was there was nothing to do but to sit
and shiver and grind my teeth and think about George.
I thought quite a lot about George. I seemed to see his face as he
read the news of my escape, and I could picture the feverish way in
which he would turn to each edition of the paper to find out whether I
had been recaptured. Then I began to imagine our meeting, and George's
expression when he realized who it was. The idea was so pleasing that
it almost made me forget my present misery.
It must have been about midday when I decided on a move. In a way I
suppose it was a rash thing to do, but I had got so cursedly cramped
and cold again that I felt if I didn't take some exercise I should
never last out the day. Even as it was, my legs had lost practically
all feeling, and for the first few steps I took I was staggering about
like a drunkard.
Keeping to the thickest part of the wood, I made my way slowly
forward; my idea being to reach the top of the valley and then lie low
again until nightfall. My progress was not exactly rapid, for after
creeping a yard or two at a time I would crouch down and listen
carefully for any sounds of danger. I had covered perhaps a mile in
this spasmodic fashion when a gradual improvement in the light ahead
told me that I was approaching open ground. A few steps farther, and
through a gap in the trees a red roof suddenly came into view, with a
couple of chimney-pots smoking away cheerfully in the rain.