The Trail of Fear (16 page)

The whispering stopped. The two girls clutching one another's hands stood by the roadside. They were still dazed at the unreality of it all.

“Now, quickly, Dixon,” ordered Rezaire. “There'll be something along soon. Just hold your revolver pointed at these two young ladies. There's something I want to do.”

While Dixon covered the girls with a grin, Rezaire transferred his suitcase to the new car, and then diving into the bonnet, he took off the top of the carburetor and removed the float, which he crushed under his foot.

Then the two got into the little car, Rezaire still leaning out of the back with his revolver. The Calthorpe moved slowly off leaving the Mercedes and the two frightened girls in the middle of the quiet country road.

“Poor old Mercedes,” murmured Dixon, as he changed the gear with a grating sound. “This box of tricks isn't a patch on 'er. I've looked after her for a good while and I'm sorry to leave 'er.”

“So am I, but we can get on some way now before those two get the word through.”

“Made me laugh,” suddenly announced Dixon a moment later, “the way you spoke to 'em. Something like a serial story I was reading in my paper the other day. Flash Eddie, the gentleman cracksman, the 'ero was. He spoke like that whenever he lifted anything off a bloke.” A new respect seemed to have come into his voice, which was not the respect of a chauffeur for his employer but of the dealer in small crime for one whom he recognizes as a master of the art.

A few minutes later they turned back onto the Southampton Road and were once more speeding southward.

CHAPTER XVII

PURSUIT

They passed through King's Worthy without mishap. Though there were several police in evidence, they took no notice of the two men in the small Calthorpe when they were looking for a green Mercedes with a different registration number.

Thanks also to their disguise they passed in safety through Winchester itself where they sensed a certain air of expectation as though the news were already known that the mysterious green car they were looking out for contained the London criminals about whose doings the previous night the papers were so full.

“We've run through 'em once,” murmured Dixon nervously, as they passed two groups of policemen about fifty yards apart. “I wonder they haven't built a barricade to stop our doing it again.”

“They don't need to here,” replied Rezaire. “You can't go more than ten miles an hour anywhere in this old town.”

They threaded their way through the old capital of England, losing their direction once and being obliged to ask. Rezaire after his manner would have questioned a policeman but Dixon could not stand it. He had not the experienced coolness or nerve of the other; in fact it was all Rezaire could do to prevent his cowering down as they passed every uniformed figure.

At last they found themselves out on the Southampton Road.

“Push her along now, Dixon,” ordered Rezaire with a sigh of relief. “We want all the time we can get.”

“Why, we're all right in this car.”

“We are for the moment. But it won't take long for those girls to walk to a farmhouse or get picked up by a car and it'll take even less time for the police to realize that we are the fellows who have pinched their Calthorpe.”

“H'm!” grunted Dixon. “You're right. But I can't knock much out of this little bus compared to my Mercedes.”

“Well, do what you can. They're not fools, these police. I should think by now every bobbie in England is watching out for us.”

“What, for just running through a trap and having a wrong number?” queried the other innocently and Rezaire glanced sideways at him.

“That, and other things,” he said shortly and looked at his watch.

It was about four o'clock. Thank Heaven it would be dark by about seven and his chance of escape would be doubled.

He hoped there was no hitch about the launch, but he knew the mechanic in charge was a reliable man and so was old Levy who had put the deal through. Besides he was paying well and, as Levy had hinted, the mechanic had done a queer job or two in his time.

They passed through Compton and Otterbourne, dipped down into Chandler's Ford over the railway and up the hill. They stopped once to replenish the petrol and oil, and a clock at the garage showed ten minutes past four. The little car was going well, but not very fast. Rezaire wondered how long it would be before the police on the roads leading south from Winchester were notified that the Mercedes had been abandoned. It was now getting on for an hour and a half since the change had been made. But he was getting nearer and nearer safety. They could not be more than about seven miles from Southampton; and he felt he could almost smell the sea. The sun was low on the horizon. The road dipped between dark woods on either hand and Rezaire became conscious at last that night was not so far off.

As they left the last houses of Chandler's Ford behind them a further group of houses came in sight ahead. Rezaire scanned his map anxiously, for he would soon be nearing Bassett where he would have to turn off to the right to avoid Southampton and to get to Totton and the side roads for Beaulieu.

Suddenly he sat up and touched Dixon on the arm. Ahead of them among the houses the road appeared to be blocked by something. As they drew closer, he could see that two farm wagons had been placed across the road at an interval, blocking first one side and then the other, so that any vehicle would have to slow down and go through in zigzag fashion. It was the first road barricade they had come across and it showed that the police were taking no further chances. It seemed to Rezaire that in all probability he had by now been identified with the man the London police were after. He had shown such desperation in eluding capture that they must have realized that he was no ordinary wrong-doer trying to evade conviction for exceeding the speed limit. By now, too, the news would be all over the country that he was out of London, though he thanked Heaven they could not know where he was going.

A car overtook them and hooting loudly approached the barricade ahead slowing down as it did so. It crept in and out between the two wagons at a crawling speed and then passed on. Beside the second wagon Rezaire could once more see the hated blue uniform.

“What are we going to do?” asked Dixon quickly in some trepidation. “Do they know we've got this car?”

“I'm afraid they do by now. Can you charge it?”

“I can try.” He slammed his foot on the accelerator as he spoke. “She's small and got a good lock. I can probably twist in and out at speed where I couldn't with a big car.”

The last words were muttered as they were almost on the barricade. Rezaire caught a glimpse—it seemed to him almost a familiar one by now—of policemen waiting expectantly, heard a shout of “That's 'im,” felt the off wheel lurch into the ditch as Dixon took her well over to get a swing round…then he closed his eyes.

There was a wrench, another terrible lurch, and the crushing jolt of overstrained springs. The car swung to left and then to right. Rezaire felt himself bucketed about like a pea in an eggshell and had to hold on to the door to prevent himself being thrown out. He opened his eyes again and saw that they were past the wagons. Dixon had had to take the car right into the bank on the other side, but it was this that had saved them from overturning, for he had been able to bank the wheels on the slope. A policeman struck out at them with a truncheon as they passed but missed them and hit the side lamp which shattered to pieces. The car swerved and leaped violently like a live animal as Dixon took the ditch again and brought her back on to the road. Rezaire, rather frightened and peering over his shoulder, suddenly saw to his dismay a big red car drawn up behind the barricade facing the same way that they were going. Even as he looked he saw two men rushing for the door and another at the starting crank. The police had indeed left nothing to chance; they even had a car waiting to pursue should their quarry get past.

The next moment the barricade, the waiting car, the group of hurrying figures were veiled in the dust of their passage as they sped on and in another minute they were round a slight bend to the left.

“You all right?” grunted Dixon.

“Yes,” panted Rezaire. “Thanks. You did well. But give her all you can. They'll be after us.”

“Good God! Was that their car?”

“Fraid so.”

“We can't distance that in this thing.”

“Do your best. I'll try and think of something.” The little car roared on down the smooth tarred road at all the speed that Dixon could get out of her. With set face and eyes glued to the road in front of him he drove like a madman and the car bounced about as if it were a tennis ball. From somewhere underneath came the harsh grating of a broken spring which had snapped when they had charged the bank. Hooting wildly, a minute later they overtook the car that had gone through the barricade ahead of them. Rezaire, looking over the back for the first sign of the pursuing police, saw the astonished faces of its occupants. Then they flashed past a fork off to Eastleigh on their left.

The road flew away from under the wheels, the dust eddying behind them. The car they had overtaken was now out of sight, and the road stretched behind them unoccupied. But only for a moment. Suddenly there appeared, to Rezaire's dismay, the big red car of the police, coming up at a terrible speed.

“Quicker! Quicker!” he shouted.

“Can't do it,” cried Dixon as the Calthorpe jolted and bounced along the road. “Something'll go soon, as it is.”

“They're coming up.”

“They'll have to then…”

Rezaire, still looking over the back, saw the red car gaining on them slowly till it was only fifty yards behind. The two cars raced onward, passing, overtaking other cars. Rezaire began to curse to himself for at that speed he could never take the turning off to Totton which must be rapidly approaching and yet if they went straight on they would be in Southampton. A wild idea came as he realized the urgency of stopping the following car.

“Be ready to take the next fork to the right,” he called to Dixon. “I think I may be able to stop them.”

The big car drew on. Fifty yards closed to forty, forty to thirty. Rezaire could see the set face of the man at the wheel and the others leaning forward from the back. There was only one thing to do. Softly he drew his revolver, the revolver he had not yet used. Though his fingers trembled he was going to shoot in the hope of frightening them off. It was his only chance.

They overtook another car and passed it, right in the teeth of one coming from the opposite direction. The angry driver, applying his brakes to avoid collision as they took his road, shouted something at them as they went past.

They made a few yards by this since the red car was forced to give way to the oncoming vehicle, but in a few minutes it had also passed and was a bare fifteen yards behind.

Rezaire drew a deep breath and leaning over the back leveled the revolver. Dixon out of the corner of his eye saw him and shouted: “For God's sake be careful! I don't want to swing. Shoot at their tires.”

“Neither do I,” muttered Rezaire between set teeth and aimed at the big front wheels of the red car only ten yards behind and already drawing out to the side.

The revolver snapped; the report was caught up and swept away at once in the rush of their passage, so that he hardly heard it. He saw a momentary hick of dust rise on the road. He had missed. He took aim again. The big wheels bounced and sprang madly under the body, as if they knew they were being fired at. Once more he fired but could not see where the bullet went. The pursuing car was edging out to the right to overtake them, and he knew what his opponents would do. They would come up alongside and by crowding in on them would force them either to slow down or to run into the hedge. And the more they went over to the side, the more difficult it was to shoot at the tire. He did not think he would ever hit.

Slowly they crept up. It seemed incredible that a car could overtake so slowly and yet be travelling at such a speed. He took aim once more. The air seemed full of dirt and small stones. One of the policemen in the car was standing up and shouting at him, but he could not hear a word. They did not seem to realize what he was trying to do. Perhaps they thought he was firing at them. His arm, resting on the hood, jerked this way and that. He could hardly hold the revolver, much less aim carefully. He fired again and hit the number plate—he saw the sudden impact;—then again he hit, this time somewhere on the side of the disc wheel.

There was a sudden grating of brakes and the police car slowed down suddenly, pulling in behind them. Another car had appeared going in the opposite direction and a collision had only just been avoided. The red car was once more directly behind them. It was now or never. He must hit—he must hit. The dust was whirling into his eyes. The little Calthorpe jerked and bumped with the grating of the broken spring. The car behind him seemed to hypnotize him, a fierce red monster relentlessly pursuing to snatch him up in its jaws. With a little sob he took aim once more.

Several things suddenly seemed to happen at once. As he looked along the barrel, for a fraction of a second he was aware of the man by the side of the driver also leveling a pistol at him. Then he heard a whistle past his ear and a smash behind him. There was a cry from Dixon, a sudden sickening swerve of the car and at the same instant his own automatic, pointed at their front wheel, went off once more.

There was a loud report. One of the tires of the following car appeared to be stripped bodily from the wheel, as though a giant invisible hand had plucked it off. The big car lurched to one side, plunged into the ditch, half got into the road again, took the ditch heavily once more, and by a miracle of good driving was kept straight, ploughing along through the hedge parallel to the road. The whole picture, the bent and twisted mudguard, the tense face of the driver above the cracked windshield, the absurd metal rim of the wheel, became suddenly remote and dropped behind. Rezaire had a last glimpse through the dust of the big red car stranded in the hedge half on and half off the road and then it was out of sight.

He scrambled back into his seat to find the inside of the car full of slivers of broken glass and Dixon, with white face and hands covered with blood from great cuts, grimly holding to the steering wheel. The shot that the police had fired had missed him but broke the windshield. In the same instant Rezaire noticed that he himself was bleeding slightly from one of the fingers of his left hand. Before he could speak, Dixon suddenly put on the brake, bringing the car up to a standstill.

“Can't stick it,” he muttered and instantly collapsed with a little gasp across the steering wheel, the blood from his cut hands dabbling his face and running down onto his knees.