The Trail of Fear (15 page)

To his amazement, however, Dixon suddenly put on speed instead of slackening down at the constable's signal. The car leaped forward at the two figures in the roadway with upheld hands. As it bore down on them they jumped aside. Rezaire caught a glimpse of the mingled surprise and indignation on their faces, and then they were past. Out of the back window he saw them taking down the number. The police trap suddenly assumed more threatening proportions; for they had broken the law a second time by charging it, which was a much more serious crime.

CHAPTER XV

FALSE COLORS

For a moment Rezaire was too amazed and angry to do anything, then he snatched the voice pipe again and waiting till they were some distance away and out of sight brought the car to a standstill.

“You damn fool,” he began, head out of the window. “What did you charge through like that for?” He was really angry, for Dixon had nearly spoiled everything. It would have meant nothing to Rezaire really to have stopped, apologized courteously, shown his license—made out incidentally in the name of Carruthers—given a name and address, and gone on. When he was in Paris, a summons in the name of Carruthers at a fictitious address would really hardly have affected him.

“If you get caught in a trap,” he went on furiously, “it's much better to stop. Surely you of all people ought to have learned that by now.”

“I'm very sorry,” said Dixon sullenly, “but you told me to do it.”

“I didn't. I shouted “Look out!'”

“You said ‘Go hard!'”

“Good Lord, I didn't. What should I say ‘Go hard!' for?”

“I thought perhaps you didn't want to have anything to do with the police.”

“You mean you didn't want to yourself,” retorted Rezaire. He sat back in the car and reflected. It was really extraordinarily annoying. A short while ago he had been as free as the air, now the police were after him again. They had got the number of his car and what was worse they would now probably detain him or make inquiries. He would not be at all surprised if this did not give away the whole show. Suspicion would be aroused, for people do not generally run through police traps without stopping unless they have some good motive for avoiding the police. He sat biting his fingers and thinking it over.

Dixon's face suddenly appeared again at the window. He had been rummaging in the tool box at the back.

“Anyway, we've done it now, sir. Better be getting on or they may send after us.”

“That's not much good,” snapped Rezaire. “We'll be stopped at the next village.”

Dixon grinned. He seemed to know that his master was anxious to avoid the police. Insensibly they seemed to be drifting into mutual conspiracy.

“'Ow will they stop us?” he asked with the air of a man who has a point to make.

“By the number, you fool.”

“Ho! Will they?” Dixon grinned again. “Look 'ere.” He produced and held up two number plates which he had taken from the tool box. Then he said triumphantly: “They may have got our number, but they haven't got this one.”

“BK3140,” Rezaire read out in surprise. “Is it a registered number?”

“I suppose so,” admitted Dixon. “It isn't registered by us though. Anyone might have it.”

“Well, it's safer than our other is.” Rezaire began to see the possibilities of the scheme. “We can get through on this.”

“Shall I put 'em on then, sir?”

“Yes, but be careful none of these passing cars sees you doing it. And be quick! They may come on after us in a car, though they're more likely to phone to the next village.”

Only two cars passed while Dixon was working and in a very short space of time Rezaire's car bore the registered number BK3140. The old number plates were put in the bottom of the box, the car purred into life again, and they were once more on the road heading southward.

As Rezaire had guessed, though they saw no one at Sunningdale a mile or two further on, at Bagshot two constables stood on the roadway examining the passing cars. As Dixon approached, one of them stepped forward, glancing at a paper in his hand. The car evidently answered to the description. Then he saw the number and paused. He spoke to his companion, who shook his head, and in that moment the car glided past. They were through; thanks to Dixon's foresight, they would not now be held up. Rezaire wiped his forehead. He had really been very nervous about the affair. For though he knew no one yet guessed who he was, this was only true as long as he behaved normally; the moment he began to run through police traps without stopping, there was every chance of bringing last night's pack down on him again, for they would not have been idle during the latter half of last night. Doubtless all the main roads round London, as well as all termini and ports were being watched and anything suspicious would be at once reported direct to Scotland Yard.

He laughed as he thought of the policemen in Bagshot, waiting for the car with his number that never came. They would phone back in the end and probably the circumstances would be reported, but by that time he would be well on the way to freedom.

The long sweep of road unrolled before the purring bonnet, villages swept up to them and passed in a confused impression of little houses, village greens, sign posts, and war memorials. Dixon was driving very carefully now and taking no risks of coming under police notice once more. Soon after twelve-thirty they arrived on the outskirts of Basingstoke. Here Rezaire told Dixon to drive to a hotel for lunch and in a minute or two the big car was being backed into the courtyard of the Black Boar Hotel.

Rezaire got out and stretched himself.

“So far so good,” he said to Dixon.

“I'm sorry, sir,” replied the man, “about that trap. I thought you wanted to blind through it and to hell with the boys in blue.”

“No, no, always treat them properly—unless there is no other way. We may have to ‘blind' through them before we're finished.”

“Well, you can trust me to do that.” He put his face close to Rezaire's and added confidentially, “I 'ate the blighters!”

“I know you do,” Rezaire laughed. “That was a very good scheme of yours,” he added, “having those number plates ready. Now go and get yourself something to eat and be ready in about three-quarters of an hour.”

Dixon nodded and grinned and disappeared into the saloon bar for a pint of food.

Rezaire in the coffee room of the Black Boar sent out for a paper and eagerly looked it through. His story was all there again in big headlines. It was, without doubt, the news of the day. There was a little more than had been in the London morning papers, but not much. He would not be able to learn what had happened in Mr. Challoner's flat till the first of the evening papers' midday edition arrived from town. The only item of interest was that the detectives had now discovered his ruse of disguising himself as Robinson and Carlyle alternately and were looking for one man only instead of the two. Here followed a smudgy photograph and a description (in which he recognized Mrs. Gibson's touch).

Three of the gang he saw were definitely reported to be still at large, so Viv had not been captured on the roof, but like Sam and himself was still free at about midnight. There was nothing more of any interest except that Scotland Yard was offering a reward. Rezaire felt rather annoyed at the latter. He had never in his career had a price on him before, for generally he had covered up his tracks so well. That resulted from having Sam as a companion, Sam who apparently only made himself conspicuous by killing policemen.

He folded the newspaper up and looked round. The people at the next table were discussing the affair. It was certainly making a stir, while common enough perhaps in say Paris or Chicago, that sort of thing did not often happen in staid respectable London. An old gentleman was holding forth with some asperity on the inefficiency of the police and Rezaire felt almost inclined to get up and correct him. The detective force was by no means inefficient; in fact they had displayed almost too great an efficiency. The real facts of the matter were that for once, as did not often happen, they were up against a criminal of their own mental caliber, who knew the ropes; and at the moment it was still anybody's game.

Rezaire finished his lunch and strolled to the doorway into the courtyard. The hotel had been one of the ancient coaching inns with a big gateway from the street, while the old yard was now used for parking motor cars. Several cars had come in while he was at lunch and were drawn up on the far side of the yard. Round the Mercedes Dixon was hovering with an oil can and a rag.

Rezaire, cigar in mouth, felt at peace once more with all the world, but underlying it all was a vague sense of discontent. During the last sixteen hours whenever he had most felt that things were going well and smoothly and that no obstacle lay before him, something had cropped up unexpectedly and all but laid him by the heels. He did not at all like that happening; in fact he almost preferred the moments when there were definite difficulties ahead of him and he knew what they were. Then he could set to work with his brain, which was his best weapon, to devise a way out. But with these sudden setbacks, he started, so to speak, level with everyone else and was just as likely as not to be beaten on the start. Despite his cigar and the atmosphere of well-being that a full stomach and a spring afternoon had brought, Rezaire mistrusted the moment.

He watched Dixon for a minute longer and then began to walk across the yard to him. It was about time they were moving on. Two small boys were dodging about with little note-books, engaged on the pastime, always attractive to boys of a certain age, in collecting the numbers of motor cars. Rezaire was half-way across the court when a maid came out after him with his bill and he returned to settle up.

He waited a short time, getting some loose silver, and when he came out again the whole atmosphere of the courtyard had undergone a subtle change. There was a little crowd round his car and the one near to it. Dixon wore a worried look and was arguing with another chauffeur. An officious looking man was trying to intervene. One of the small boys with his book was also there, and evidently in a position of some importance. The others, loafers, garage hands, and so on, were offering gratuitous advice which no one listened to. Rezaire walked quickly across. As he did so, he heard Dixon's voice, indignant and angry: “I tell you that's my number.”

“I tell you it ain't,” retorted the other chauffeur. “I've had this one for years.”

“So've I.”

“Well, where the 'ell did you get it then?” He paused and added triumphantly: “I don't believe you know. What district is it?”

“Yes,” added an onlooker with the air of one bringing home a point. “Where is ‘BK'?”

“What the bloody'ell does that matter to you?” retorted Dixon heatedly.

“It matters a bloody lot!” said the chauffeur equally heated. “You p'raps get run in for something and my bloke gets the blame.”

“Let the police settle it,” put in the officious man trying to soothe the combatants. “Someone's gone for them.”

“Yes, let 'em,” said the other chauffeur, thrusting his face up against Dixon's. “Wouldn't suit your book that, would it?”

“'Course I don't mind,” retorted Dixon, evidently taken aback. “I'm not going…”

“Now then, what's all this, Dixon?” asked Rezaire, arriving in the crowd with a feeling of apprehension. He had known in his heart just now when he felt so content that something would go wrong, and evidently it had.

Several voices tried to answer him, the small boy's note-book was waved in his face, but as the crowd stood back he saw the answer himself. Side by side with his car was a large red Rolls-Royce limousine. His own car was a Mercedes and painted green—quite a different car,—but the trouble was obvious. On the front of each was the number BK3140. The luck, both good and bad, which had been so consistently attending him was still with him. Of all cars to run into the yard of the Black Boar at Basingstoke, the one car that mattered most had arrived, that which in reality bore the number that Dixon had substituted for his own to avoid the police at Bagshot.

It had been a thousand to one, even a million to one chance, but Fortune, feeling that she had perhaps favored Rezaire too much already, had laughed and brought the two cars side by side.

CHAPTER XVI

EXCHANGE NO ROBBERY

For a moment Rezaire hesitated, appalled by this stroke of bad fortune. Then he realized that this was one thing he could not bluff out, because the real owner of the number would have incontrovertible proofs of his ownership and he would have none. The only thing therefore to do was to make his getaway as soon as possible. Since he did not think he would do it unobtrusively, it would have to be quick, though it would, of course, raise that infernal hue and cry against him once more…

A policeman entered the gate, preceded by the other small boy and attended by three or four loafers. At the same moment from the hotel appeared a stout gentleman, evidently the owner of the Rolls-Royce, accompanied by the manager of the hotel, a man of middle age and of the ex-officer type.

“Now then, Parkins,” began the stout man, evidently angry at having to leave his lunch. “What's all this?”

The other began to pour his tale into his ear. The manager chased the loafers out of the yard. The policeman took out a note-book. Rezaire managed to get near Dixon and whisper: “Get her going and wait for my signal.”

Dixon replied by the merest flicker of an eyelid and the next moment they were both swept up into the controversy, Rezaire hoping desperately that the policeman had not heard of the car that had run through the police trap near Sunningdale.

“Now then, what's all the trouble?” began the representative of the law.

Rezaire let the other man pour out his grievance, which he did very angrily, and then himself said: “I don't know anything about the numbers, except that I only got this one a short while ago. It had another before, which I had transferred to my other car.” He spoke with an air of finality and good temper, hoping to point the difference between himself and the Rolls-Royce owner in his favor.

“Is that all?” said the policeman in surprise, looking round on the crowd. “Well, there's one way of settling it! Have any of you looked at the licenses?”

No one had thought of it, Rezaire realizing that he himself had not either. There was a general move to the cars again. Dixon, Rezaire noticed, got into the driving seat as if to show the license better.

“Well,” said the policeman to the big man after inspection, “you're all right, but yours”—he turned to Rezaire—“has got another number.”

“That's my old number,” said Rezaire glibly, edging imperceptibly to the gateway. “I told you I just changed it and got a new one.”

“Where's your new license?”

“I haven't received it yet. Probably they've made some mistake at the office.” He felt almost ashamed of the tale he was telling. It was so feeble and third rate, not worthy of his other bluffs. It would not deceive a child. But it was achieving its object in that it had given him time to set up a gradual movement of the crowd, always swayed by imperceptible suggestion, toward the gateway as if to discuss the matter in the street.

By the time the policeman had decided that the whole matter wanted looking into and was demanding his name and address, he had attained his objective, and the whole group were standing in the gateway, where outside already another small crowd was forming.

He took a deep breath and first looking to see that there was no traffic outside, glanced back with meaning in his eyes toward his own car where Dixon sat ready at the wheel. The moment their eyes met, there was a sudden plunging whirr as the self starter woke to life, then a roar and a crash, as Dixon accelerated and let gear and clutch in almost simultaneously. The big car leaped forward straight at the gateway.

There was a shout and an instant stampede, everyone flying for safety to the side. The Mercedes leaped through the gateway, narrowly missing one of the small boys. As it swung out, Rezaire jumped for the footboard, caught it, scrambled over the door, and into the seat beside Dixon. The next moment they were racing down the street.

The scattered crowd at the entrance to the hotel stood still for a moment in dazed silence. For the first few seconds none knew that Rezaire had gone; they were indignantly wondering why the car had charged them. The chauffeur of the Rolls-Royce was the first to realize that he had been, as it were, snatched out of their midst.

“'Ere, stop 'em. He's off,” he cried wildly, and ran out into the street, followed by the policeman, angry and indignant.

Other members of the crowd streamed out and took up the cry. But their shouts grew faint and disappeared as Dixon wheeled the green car sharp round at a turning. They had escaped but only for the moment, for soon the wires would be humming with their number and description, and all the police in the towns and villages round would be on the lookout for them.

They threaded their way quickly out of Basingstoke on the Winchester Road. In answer to Dixon's query, Rezaire had replied: “Carry straight on for Southampton. They don't know where we are bound for, and it is as safe as any road is.”

“We'll be 'eld up, sir, somewhere.”

“Well, we'll have to chance getting through.” There was silence for a while as the long grey road unfolded before them. Then Rezaire, who had been sunk in thought, suddenly said: “You did that very well, Dixon.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How far are you prepared to go?”

“In what way, sir?”

“In this way. I've got to get to a certain place on the coast tonight at all costs. Are you prepared to help me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I repeat,” he said with meaning, “‘at all costs.' Whatever it may involve.”

Dixon thought a moment, then he said: “Of course you know that I don't like the police and want to keep clear of them, but still”—he hesitated—“I don't want to take on anything dangerous just for amusement like, if you understand my meaning.”

Rezaire smiled. “Quite so. Now look here. This is what I'll offer you. I'll give you £50 down later tonight, when I've got where I want on the coast. If there's been trouble of any kind, I'll double it. You see,” he added softly, “there might be shooting…”

“Shooting?”

“Yes. You notice I'm telling you quite a lot. But by now you're in it as much as I am.”

“Oh, I'm not afraid of shooting,” returned Dixon airily. “Besides, for a hundred quid, I'd…”

“And further, if by any chance after it's over you find it inconvenient, shall we say, to stay in England—you follow me?”

“Yes.”

“I'll take charge of you and get you away to the continent and leave you in France with your hundred pounds. Is that a deal?”

Dixon barely hesitated. “Right, it's a go.”

Rezaire sat back again satisfied. He had sized up the man at his side fairly well from the very first day he had engaged him, and he knew that he was honest after his lights. He was fairly certain that even without the hold he had on him he would not give him away. Dixon was certainly not clever but that was an asset. It would not dawn on him to do anything else but that which he was told.

They passed through one village—North Waltham, Rezaire thought—without mishap. No attempt was made to stop them, no one appeared to notice them any more than any other car.

At the next village, however, a mile or two further on, the two village constables were out in the center of the street. One, about one hundred yards in advance of the other, was waving incoming cars to slow down so that he might see their numbers and, if necessary, signal to his colleague to hold them up.

Dixon, however, simply put on speed. The first man got the number, as the car flashed past, and signaled frantically to the other. This man stepped out into their path with hand uplifted.

Dixon's reply was to lift the car from thirty m.p.h. to thirty-five. The constable just had time to jump clear. They heard his shout as they flashed past.

“He moved all right,” chuckled Dixon, as they went through the quiet village like a tornado. A pony and trap outside a shop started as they passed, and began to bolt. A knot of laborers returning to work dispersed like chaff. They ran over a dog. Looking back through the dust, Rezaire saw one of the policemen had just stopped the pony and cart; the other was running for a building in the main street, evidently the post-office.

Further on they passed an A.A. scout at a crossroads. He also had had warning and on reading their number signaled them to stop, but they merely laughed at him. He stood looking at them for a moment and then ran back into the roadside telephone box.

“We'll have to do something different,” said Rezaire at last, who had been thinking over the situation. “They all know we're on this road now and though so far they haven't stopped us, they're reporting our progress pretty accurately. They know we're making for the coast somewhere. They'll concentrate a big force of police somewhere and put up a barricade. Also, they'll soon have someone on our track in another car.”

“Let's turn off the road and go somewhere else,” suggested Dixon, as they overtook another car.

“H'm! But I want to get to a particular place.” He glanced back at the car they had passed. Ahead of them was another one: for there were lots of cars on the road. An idea came into his mind. These cars would get through without difficulty. The obvious thing was to change cars, if possible. His own car had become too dangerous. He pulled a map out of his pocket and studied it.

“Take the next turning to the left,” he ordered at length, “before we come to King's Worthy.”

“Right,” said Dixon, and as the turning came in sight, at the bottom of a long dip, slowed down and wheeled round. Rezaire noted with satisfaction that there was no other traffic in sight at the moment of turning to see which way they had gone.

They went on for about a mile, passed one turning, and eventually took a road to the right, which, while only a third class road, yet showed signs of being fairly regularly used. A little way along this road they came to rest, drew in to the side, and waited.

“Now,” said Rezaire, “pay attention, Dixon. This is what I am going to do. I'm going to hold up the first car that comes along, and take it instead of this. This car is too dangerous for us.”

“Hold 'em up?” exclaimed the other.

“Yes, with guns.”

Dixon was thrilled.

“Lumme, that's the stuff!”

“Then we'll be able to get back along the main road for some way without being stopped. I'm going to change my appearance as far as possible and you'll have to get out of that uniform. They've got our description at Basingstoke.”

Dixon seemed to enter into the spirit of the thing at once with a zest that showed he was not averse to breaking the law. He was a man who perpetually hovered on the border line between honesty and dishonesty. If he got a good job, he kept it as long as he could; if he saw a chance of making a bit dishonestly, he turned his hand to it with equal facility.

In a few minutes his uniform lay in the ditch, he was wearing an old cap and coat of Rezaire's and Rezaire had also redressed himself from his purchases of that morning. One of the two revolvers had been given over into Dixon's keeping. Then they lifted the bonnet of the car to make it appear that they had had a breakdown, and settled down at the roadside to wait for a victim.

Rezaire had chosen his road with considerable skill. It was a road sufficiently used to make it probable that someone would turn up before long and yet unfrequented enough to ensure that there would not be much traffic to disturb them. There were no houses within sight, save a farmhouse just over the brow of the hill. The stage was set; they were only waiting for the other actors.

In about twenty minutes, during which a motor bike, whose offer of help they refused, and two farm carts were the only vehicles that had passed, a small car appeared round the corner. With satisfaction Rezaire noticed that its only occupants were two girls.

Dixon stood out in the road and waved them to stop.

They drew alongside and Rezaire advanced with uplifted hat.

“Are you broken down?” began one of the girls. “Can we take a message to a garage for you?”

“Yes, we are broken down,” began Rezaire, “and we want you to help.”

“Well, can we…”

“We would like to borrow your car, please.”

There was something in his meaning smile that made the girl look uneasily at her companion. Was the man insane or what? She looked at him again; then made as if to put her car into gear again, but Dixon's hand suddenly shot over onto the dashboard and switched off the engine.

“How dare you! What do you mean?” she began and found herself looking at a revolver which Rezaire had produced.

“I'm very sorry to trouble you,” he went on easily, “but, as I said, we must have your car. You can have that one of mine. No, it's no good looking surprised. I'm in earnest.”

“If this is a joke… What do you want?” faltered the young driver. Both girls were now looking frightened. There was something very sinister in Rezaire's polite tones and menacing revolver, something very evil in Dixon's grinning face under the thick dark eyebrows.

“This is no joke. I'm afraid it doesn't often happen that you meet what you might call bandits on the English highways, but you have done so today. Now will you get out, please? I'm in a hurry.” His voice took a steely ring that betokened he meant what he said.

White and frightened, the two girls got out. “You may get in my car. It won't be long before you get help. Please don't be frightened. I'm not going to hurt you.”

Dixon, after a brief glance at the small car, started her up.

“Calthorpe two-seater,” he muttered to Rezaire. “I can manage her easily.”

The two girls were whispering together. Rezaire's quick ears caught a word or two and he interposed suavely: “I should advise you not to shout or try to make a noise. As I said before, I'm a desperate man, and I'm quite prepared to shoot, even girls—if they are silly.”