shack. The mistress imagined—here’s the inspection pit, you see, sir—that the little cottage which stood here used to have a cellar, and that the cellar was connected with the cave.’
‘Then the cottage itself originally formed part of an inn, I daresay,’ said Denis. ‘A cottage would hardly have a cellar. It’s not as though it’s built on a hill. Come on, George, let’s go down.’ He looked into the empty pit. ‘It’s obvious it’s still a cellar. Look, you can see the steps.’
‘I would suggest, sir,’ said George, ‘that you don’t venture into that rat-trap minus the means of self-defence. Here, sir, catch hold of this spanner. I’ve got my big file for myself. I think… ’
‘Hands up!’ said a voice from the doorway.
‘Jump, sir!’ said George, suiting his own actions to this advice, and disappearing with some suddenness from view.
Chapter Twenty
—«¦»—
‘
Ibid. (
« ^ »
The strange sounds heard by O’Hara were those of Denis and George descending into the cave. The jump into the inspection pit had been a strategic measure calculated to confuse the enemy, but it could not do more than throw him mentally off-balance for a moment or two.
This moment on which George had counted was lengthened by several seconds whilst the man fired six shots after them into the pit, but the opening into the cave was under the right-hand side of the hole and they had ducked in before the second shot was fired.
Regardless of what might be ahead of them, they switched on torches and were soon on a flight of stone steps which led down to a long ramp and ended in front of the packing-cases in the cave.
The Irishmen, from their hiding-place, were astounded to hear Denis’ voice, as he called back to George:
‘I can’t see a thing, and heaven knows what we do next. Hide somewhere, I suppose, and put up a fight if we’re followed. I’m not so sure I think much of our chances, you know.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said O’Hara, shining his torch. ‘Here are two good men to come to the aid of the party.’
There was mutual recognition and rejoicing, and adventurous accounts were exchanged among the three young men whilst the middle-aged one, working in silence, removed first the twine and then a board from the packing-case behind which he sheltered to find out what was inside.
‘Can’t think why nobody followed us down,’ said Denis.
‘If the chap fired six shots he’s had to reload, I expect, and that may have meant returning to the shack. If that’s where he went, I expect he’s taking counsel with the fellow whose boat we’ve borrowed, and whom you laid out,’ said Gascoigne. ‘I should think that bloke’s had a sticky evening, throttled by Mike, beaten up by his pals and then knocked out by you. By the way, what’s happened to George?’
‘Sir,’ said George, ‘I have succeeded in prising open one of these packing-cases with my file. I think that, whilst we are still undisturbed, we should look to see what is inside. I feel that madam would be interested.’
Before he had concluded these observations the young men were shining their torches into the packing- case.
‘Good Lord!’ said Denis. ‘The thing’s full of pictures, I think! Framed pictures, too, by the feel of them. Here, let’s have one out.’
‘Pictures?’ said O’Hara, doubtfully regarding the object drawn forth by Denis.
‘Yes, of course. Done up in sacking and packed between shavings. You can feel the edges of the frames. It must be pictures. No one would smuggle mirrors out of the country. Besides, this isn’t heavy enough for glass. They’re oils, I suppose. I wonder what’s the idea?’
Scarcely had he spoken when there was the sound of persons descending from the garage, and at the same time there were shouts (from the mouth of the cave) which came booming in the ears of the listeners.
The young men and George crouched low and prepared for battle. George had his file, a tasty weapon in skilled hands; O’Hara depended upon his fists; Gascoigne was limbering up, in a surreptitious way behind his packing-case, a limb of Attic shapeliness whose merit, as he saw it, was its ability to deliver, when called upon to do so, a French kick in the face ; the wiry Denis was still possessed of George’s spanner, and had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
There was a considerable amount of confusion at the mouth of the cave. The boat left by Gascoigne and O’Hara was in the way of the motor boat which was bringing the enemy in, and an argument was in progress which came, with sound and fury, but without recognizable words, hollowly to the young men and George.
Suddenly down the ramp at the landward end, from the garage, appeared two men, the second one carrying a lantern. O’Hara leapt out and smashed his fist into the first face. Denis went for the lantern and knocked it out of the second man’s hand by tapping him hard on the elbow with the spanner. George, with a neat flick, smacked his file across the side of the fellow’s neck, and then Denis pulled out a whistle and blew three police blasts on it.
The effect on the men at the mouth of the cave was instantaneous. There was a bellowing sound suggestive of panic-stricken orders. The next moment the engine of the motor boat was started up again and the enemy put back to sea.
‘You’ve spoilt the fight!’ grumbled Gascoigne, picking up the twine which had been tied round one of the packing-cases, and kneeling by the prisoners to secure them.
‘Can’t help that,’ said Denis, who was practical. ‘Our job is to get these packing-cases away before any more of those chaps turn up. The thing is, what to do with these two fellows.’
‘I’ve frisked them, sir,’ said George, who was helping Denis. ‘You’d better take their guns.’ He handed these over.
Behind an ubiquitous hedge Laura and Mrs. Bradley were deciding which of them should go to the police and which should remain to watch the cartshed.
Morning was broadening before they came to any conclusion, but Laura had her own way, in the end, and remained in hiding whilst her employer walked back towards the stones on her way to the village of Upper Deepening from which the buses went to Cuchester and to Welsea Beaches.
Mrs. Bradley took the Welsea bus with the intention of contacting the nearest police station. Laura, left alone, prowled restlessly up and down the hedge, keeping low so as not to be seen above it, and prayed that adventure might follow.
It did, in dramatic fashion, for at just after eight o’clock by Laura’s wristwatch a small lorry drove into the farmyard from out of the wood and pulled up opposite the cartshed.
‘They’re going to remove the evidence,’ thought Laura. ‘Mrs. Croc. knew it, and that’s why she wanted to stay. Now what should I do for the best?’
With Laura, deeds came an easy first and planning a fairish second. Almost before the question had presented itself, she was crawling towards the gap in the hedge where the gate was, and then, rising to her feet, switch in hand, was strolling carelessly down the hill towards the farm.
It was soon certain that her presence had been perceived, for, at the bottom of the hill, where the ploughland gave way to the farmyard, stood a nonchalant man with a piece of grass in his mouth who stepped out in front of her and said :
‘No way through here, miss. Back the way you come, if you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, rot!’ said Laura boldly. ‘I’ve been this way dozens of times.’ Without further argument she walked on. The man jumped ahead of her.
‘I said you can’t come this way!’ he said, speaking sharply.
‘But why not?’ asked Laura, stopping. ‘Has the farm changed hands or something? Nobody stopped me before.’
‘Well, I’m stopping you now,’ said the man. Laura shrugged and turned away. Mrs. Bradley, she sadly
