The Launching of Roger Brook (28 page)

‘’Twas a pleasure,’ murmured the man in grey, but he made no move to get off the bed, and continued to lie there propped up on one elbow with his head resting on his hand.

By the light of the candle Roger could now see his features clearly. He looked about twenty-four and was handsome in a way. His features were well cast though long and bony and the high cheekbones in conjunction with his deathly pale face suggested that, although tall and wiry, he might be delicate. The most disturbing thing about him was his hooded eyes and the fact that whenever he spoke he seemed to deliberately avoid the gaze of whoever he was addressing.

‘Then if there is nothing else …’ hazarded the Doctor suggestively.

Fouché’s thin lips broke into a smile. ‘You seem very impatient to be rid of me.’

‘No, no, Monsieur, not in the least. But my young friend here and I made a change in our plans this afternoon. Big places like Rennes are no good for our business and we—well, we decided to push on to a smaller place tonight, and darkness is already falling.’

‘Indeed! You wish to get on with your packing, then. Well, do so by all means. I am quite comfortable here, and there will be ample time for me to mention another little matter before you go.’

Roger saw that their sinister visitor was only playing with the poor old Doctor, so he blurted out:

‘What do you want, Monsieur? Give it a name, or leave us!’

Without a second’s warning Fouché sprang from the bed,
seized Roger’s wrist and twisted it up behind his back, causing him to let out a cry of pain.

‘I’ll tell him what I want in my own good time, you impudent young puppy,’ snarled Fouché. ‘Meanwhile, let’s have your name, and hear how you came to join this old codger?’

‘My name’s Rojé Breuc!’ gasped Roger. ‘Let me go! You’re hurting!’ Then, as he felt the tall man’s grip ease a little, he went on: ‘I come from Alsace. I’m a native of Strasbourg and I ran away from home to seek adventure.’

‘You lie!’ Fouché snapped. ‘You’re no Frenchman of German stock. You are English. I could tell it by your accent from the first words you spoke on entering this room. Try again. But I want the truth, now, or it will be the worse for you.’ And to emphasise his point he gave Roger’s arm another savage twist.

‘All right, then!’ Roger panted, as the pain caused tears to spring to his eyes. I am English, and my name is Roger Brook. It’s true, though, that I ran away from home.’

‘Where is your home?’

‘At Lymington, in Hampshire.’

‘You mean the little port near Southampton?’

‘Yes.’

‘You look like a youth of good family. Are you wellborn?’

‘Yes.’

‘What is the name of your father?’

‘Christopher Brook. He is an Admiral in the English Navy.’

‘Is that the truth?’ Fouché again exerted his full strength on Roger’s arm, forcing him up on tiptoe with it twisted behind him.

‘Yes, yes!’ moaned Roger, ‘I swear it!’

‘And when did you become the apprentice of this old charlatan?’

‘About eleven weeks ago. I met him soon after I landed at Le Havre.’

Fouché suddenly released Roger, flinging him with a contemptuous jerk half across the room and turned to the Doctor, who, during Roger’s swift interrogation, had been standing impotently by, wringing his hands.

‘Now!’ said the man in grey, ‘I have amused myself long enough. I know how you succeeded in escaping your due deserts in Nantes. You bribed the police-agent with the ten
louis
that you received in payment for the Ergot of Rye that you sold to the demoiselle Bracieux. ’Tis my policy never to persecute people or make enemies needlessly, and the matter would have ended there, as far as I am concerned, had we not met again today and it so chances that the moment finds me in dire need myself. The annual remittances from my plantations in the Indies have failed to reach me this year, and I am committed to heavy expenses in connection with certain experiments in ballooning, in which I am interested. But why should I tell you all this? The fact is that I need money urgently and, after your long summer journey, you must have a nice sum put by. I trust you will see the wisdom of lending me fifty
louis
without argument.’

The Doctor spread out his hands in a pathetic gesture and looked at Roger.

Still nursing his twisted arm, Roger muttered angrily: ‘’Tis naught but blackmail!’

Fouché’s small mouth broke into a thin smile. ‘Call it by any name you like, but I need the money. Either I get it or I’ll lay an information with the police of Rennes.
Monsieur le Docteur
will be held upon my affidavit, the warrant will then be forwarded by courier from Nantes, and executed.’

Roger saw that there was no way in which they could escape the demand and, with bitter reluctance, began to undo his shirt to get out his money belt. As their funds were all in the one long narrow sack he could not pretend that they were incapable of paying the full sum but in an effort to save part of the amount he announced with such firmness as he could muster: ‘Half of this belongs to me.’

‘Does it so?’ said Fouché quietly. ‘How much have you there altogether?’

‘Fifty-four
louis
,’ Roger replied as he took off the belt.

‘I’ll have the lot, then!’ cried Fouché with another sudden display of brutality. The extra four as a penalty for your impudence.’

As he spoke he snatched at the end of the belt that dangled free. But Roger had firm hold of the other end and, springing back, endeavoured to wrench it from his grasp. The thought of all their savings from two long months of toil being taken from them by the unscrupulous amateur crime-investigator lent him strength and he almost jerked the tall young man off his feet.

‘Let go!’ shouted Fouché, his white face flushing with anger. ‘For rogues like you what I say is the law! D’you hear me! And learn that I’ll take this but as an interim payment. We’ll meet again from time to time, never fear. And each time we meet I’ll empty your pockets for you, if I’ve a mind to it. Let go, now, or I’ll swear you both into jail this very evening.’

It was perhaps the threat to his future earnings, the thought of a never-ending blackmail, that stirred the Doctor into sudden, violent action. As the other two swayed wildly back and forth, struggling for the belt, they had moved round so that Fouché’s back was now turned to him. Grabbing up Roger’s sheathed sword from a chest nearby he struck the blackmailer a heavy blow on the back of the head with its hilt.

Fouché gasped and fell, half stunned, to the floor. But he still had hold of the belt and the sudden pull upon it dragged Roger down with him.

The Doctor, his watery blue eyes now mad with desperation, raised the sword to strike again. But Fouché was too quick for him. Letting go the belt he rolled over and pulled a small double-barrelled pistol from inside his grey coat. As he cocked it Roger heard the click. Next second there came a blinding flash and a loud report.

Roger staggered to his feet. He saw the Doctor drop the sword; then that one of his eyes had become a hideous red patch. The blood began to trickle from it. He had been shot clean through the head, and with a long, low moan sank slowly to the floor.

Still holding the belt Roger stood for a second, transfixed with horror, staring down at the Doctor’s crumpled body. Then he heard Fouché cock the second barrel of his pistol. The sound released a spring in his momentarily petrified brain, and in one bound he reached the door.

He was barely through it and out on the landing when he heard the informer begin to shout: ‘Help! Murder! A man has been killed here. Stop, thief! Below there! Stop the murderer!’

In a flash Roger realised that Fouché intended to pin the Doctor’s killing on to him and, in a panic of terror from a vision of the hangman’s rope, he launched himself down the stairs.

Some eleven weeks previously Roger had gone crashing down the rickety stairs at the ‘Widow Searron’s’ in Le Havre. Then, his flight had been actuated by a sudden wave of physical revulsion; now, he knew that he was flying for his very life. There, with a hand on the banister rail he had gone down three steps at a time; here, he jumped the first short flight in one swift bound. Yet here, as there, he had barely crossed the upper landing before the sound of opening doors and excited voices coming from below told him that the cries from the attic had already roused the house.

The money-belt still dangling from his hand, he hurled himself down the second flight. Suddenly his foot slipped on the highly polished wood. His legs shot from under him and sprawling on his back he slithered down towards the next landing. In an effort to save himself he flung out his hands. One end of the long purse caught round a banister. In his fall he had relaxed his grip and the precious belt was jerked from his grasp.

At the bottom of the flight he rolled over, jumped to his feet and swung round to regain the belt. In the faint light from the landing-window he could just see it as a whitish blur where it now lay, a few feet beyond his reach. One end of it was on the stairs, the other hanging over in the gulf beyond the banisters. Springing up two stairs he thrust out a hand to grab it. At that second he heard Fouché’s heavy footsteps on the upper stairs. The sound threw him into fresh panic. In his haste, instead of grasping the end of the belt firmly, he overshot it, merely knocking it with his hand. Before his fumbling fingers could catch at it again it had slid from under them. The weight of the coins in its far end carried it over the edge into the dark abyss of a passage below which led to the kitchen quarters.

All hope of recovering it for the present had gone, but life was infinitely more precious than money. Without wasting another second, Roger turned to resume his flight. Dashing across the landing he reached a broader staircase that led to the ground floor. The sound of Fouché’s pursuing
footsteps spurring him to fresh recklessness he charged down it. At its bottom, attracted by Fouché’s cries, three men and a serving-maid were standing; he glimpsed their excited faces staring up at him.

With a final bound he reached the hall, stumbled and fell again. It was his fall that temporarily saved him. The two nearest men had sprung forward to seize him, but neither had anticipated his mishap. Going down head first he slithered along the boards between them and they came into violent collision above his prostrate body.

His hands stinging, his knees bruised, gasping for breath, Roger rolled away from them and stumbled to his feet. He was hardly up before the third man came at him. Instinctively Roger put up his fists. The Frenchman not understanding this manœuvre ignored it and came charging in. With a fleeting memory of George Gunston, Roger struck out at the man’s face. The blow took him on his fleshy nose, bringing him up with a jerk. Pain, surprise and indignation showed in his eyes as they suddenly began to fill with water and the blood came gushing from his injured member.

The two men who had collided wasted a moment cursing at one another, but they now simultaneously turned on Roger. To avoid their grasp he dodged behind a large table that stood in the centre of the hall. For a second he thought himself temporarily safe from a renewed attack, as all three men were on the far side of it; but he had reckoned without the serving-wench. She had snatched a copper bed-pan from the wall. Lifting it, she now struck at his head from behind.

His eyes riveted on the men, he had not even seen her. It was pure chance that he moved a little sideways at that instant. The heavy bed-warmer missed his head but struck him on the shoulder. Swinging round he seized it by the middle of its handle and wrenched it from the woman’s grasp.

Less than a minute had elapsed since he had arrived sprawling in the hall. His wild career down the stairs had left the more cautious Fouché well behind; but now he had arrived on the scene and was bellowing orders to the others for Roger’s capture.

‘Quick, get round that side!’ he shouted. ‘I’ll take the other!’ and he ran round the table to the serving-maid’s assistance, just as Roger snatched the bed-pan from her.

Caught between two fires Roger now seemed lost; but, once again, his agility temporarily saved him. Since he was holding the bed-pan by the middle of its handle he could not use it as a weapon, but he flung it with, all his force in Fouché’s face. As the informer ducked to avoid it, Roger side-stepped and darted past him. The rest, following instructions, had raced round the other end of the table, so that the whole group was now upon its far side, leaving Roger a clear run to the door. Without pausing to glance behind him he dashed through it and out into the street.

It was now nearly dark outside and there were lights in the windows of many of the houses. Dashing across the road he gained the deeper gloom of a double row of plane trees that lined the south side of the
Champe de Mars
. Turning west, between them, he pelted along the avenue that they formed.

Already he could hear the shouts of his pursuers as they streamed out of the inn. Then came a cry from Fouché: ‘There he goes! There he goes!’ and he knew that he had been seen entering the shadow of the trees.

For a moment they lost him in the gloom and, thinking that he had struck straight across the square, charged in a ragged line through the trees towards its open centre. Then, not seeing him ahead of them in the half-light, they halted uncertainly; but only to catch the patter of his flying footsteps farther along the avenue to their left. With renewed cries of ‘Stop, thief! Stop, murderer!’ they came pounding after him.

The avenue was three hundred yards in length and their false start on leaving the inn had given him a hundred yards’ lead, but it was all that he could do to keep it. With his head down and his arms tucked in to his sides, as he had been taught to run at Sherborne, he sped on. The ground flew from beneath his light, swift feet. But they had the longer pace and, still shouting, came thundering on between the trees behind him.

The end of the avenue loomed into view. From his walk with the Doctor that afternoon Roger knew that the big building he was now approaching, on the south-west corner of the square, was the barracks. Through the lower branches of the trees he could see a hanging lantern above its gate. The thought flashed upon him that if there were any soldiers lounging there, he would be caught between
two fires. He had scarcely had it when there came a sudden stir of movement beneath the light, and shouts ahead of him answered those in his rear.