Odell set off across the moors, the Alsatian pulling at the chain by which the detective held it. On and on they went, the dog straining all the time as if in a frenzy to reach its destination. Then, for the third time that night, Odell heard the cry of a wolf. The Alsatian, on hearing it, gave a sudden pull, wrenched itself free of its captor and seconds later it was swallowed up in the night. Odell continued in the direction from which the cry had come. That was obviously where the dog was heading. Once more he grasped the revolver which rested in his pocket.
As he came over the brow of the hill, the detective saw a rambling old farmhouse nestling in the hollow below him. Lights were on, and there appeared to be a general air of activity about the place. He realised that the utmost caution was needed if he was going any closer to investigate.
Odell pressed himself close to the wall of the old stone barn. From where he was he could see into the kitchen of the house. Three or four rough looking men were gathered round the table, and appeared to be in deep conversation. Somewhere he could hear the barking of dogs, quite a few of them by the noise they were making. He crept closer in an attempt to hear what the men were saying. Too late his ears caught the sound of a soft footfall behind him and as he wheeled round, something descended on his head. Everything seemed to explode around him, and then he sank into oblivion.
***
Raymond Odell judged that he could not have been unconscious for very long. He discovered that he was bound hand and foot and was lying on the stone floor of the farmhouse kitchen. The men were still engaged in conversation. One of them turned around, noticing that their captive had regained consciousness.
‘So, you’ve come to, have you, Mr Odell?’ The detective recognised the speaker as none other than the ex-convict Marty Wiseman. ‘Well, we’ve really got something in store for you, but as we’ve got an hour to kill before we can move from here, I may as well tell you what it’s all about. Dead men tell no tales, so there’s no harm in you knowing now.’
Raymond Odell listened intently, pushing everything else from his mind as the mystery unravelled. Wiseman went on talking. ‘Drug smuggling, that’s what we’re up to, Mr. Raymond Odell. A launch slips into the bay below the moors, a couple of hundred yards out, and a signal is given.’ He held up what appeared to be a hunting horn. ‘This is the wolf howl. They’ve got one of these on the boat as well. When they give a blast our dogs swim out to the boat. Waterproof containers with heroin in them are strapped to their backs, and we give another wolf call to bring them back again. Anybody watching would never see the dogs slipping past them in the dark. And as for nosey-parkers,’ he gave a laugh, ‘we’ve got a special dog that doesn’t go in the water. He’s painted with luminous paint. Scares all the locals, and is trained to disappear through a gap up in the rocks on the hilltop. I believe even you lost sight of him there.’
He paused, but there was no response from the detective, so he carried on.
‘That swine Roker has been the trouble. He meant to blackmail us, and tonight he managed to capture one of the dogs and took it back to the ‘Old Mariner’. I was on his trail, but then you butted in, and I had to fool you, pretending I was dead, while we drew you off with that wolf call. Anyway, I silenced Roker. It’s a pity you had to carry on interfering though. Tonight’s our last night. The drugs the dogs brought in are already on their way to London, and we’re going to the continent in the launch, which is still out there. And so are you Mr. Odell, but only part of the way!’
Raymond Odell did not reply. The implication was only too clear. They intended to drop him overboard somewhere en route.
Half an hour later the party made its way across the moors towards the sea. Odell’s legs had been freed to allow him to walk, but his hands were still bound tightly behind his back. They pushed him in front of them, forcing him to stumble along the rough terrain. There was one thought uppermost in Raymond Odell’s mind. They had not mentioned Tommy Bourne. Perhaps in all the night’s happenings they had overlooked the fact that his young assistant had even been with him.
At last the party reached the end of the moors. There was a narrow path down and Odell feared lest he might slip as he descended the path, which was more suitable for mountain goats.
Minutes later they were all standing on the beach.
‘Can’t see the boat,’ Marty Wiseman muttered. ‘He should have moved in close by now.’
No sooner had he spoken than dark shapes materialised from behind the nearby rocks. There seemed to be men everywhere. Marty Wiseman, cursing fluently, tried to draw his automatic, but strong hands seized him, and rendered him helpless.
‘This is the police,’ a voice barked out. ‘You’re all under arrest.’ A wave of relief flooded through Raymond Odell, and then he heard Tommy Bourne’s voice at his side.
‘Well done, Tommy,’ he grunted, rubbing his sore wrists together, trying to restore the circulation. ‘However did you manage to get here, though?’
‘After I left you,’ Tommy explained, ‘I’d gone about a mile down the road when a car caught me up. He was going like the clappers, couldn’t wait, overtook me on a bend, and piled his machine into the ditch. I’m afraid he put a dent in your car
