Poiccart’s lamp showed the smoothly cut sides of the tunnel, and at the other end they had to climb the debris of dismantled machinery.
“Not bad,” said Manfred, viewing the work critically. “The ‘Rational Faithers’ were useful,” he added. Leon nodded.
“But for their band you could have heard the drills working in the prison,” he said breathlessly.
Up a ladder at the end they raced, into the earth strewn “dining-room” through the passage, inches thick with trodden clay.
Leon held the thick coat for him and he slipped into it. Poiccart started the motor.
“Right!” They were on the move thumping and jolting through a back lane that joined the main road five hundred yards below the prison.
Leon, looking back, saw the specks of scarlet struggling through the black crowds at the gates. “Soldiers to hold the roads,” he said; “we’re just in time—let her rip, Poiccart.”
It was not until they struck the open country that Poiccart obeyed, and then the great racer leapt forward, and the rush of wind buffeted the men’s faces with great soft blows.
Once in the loneliest part of the road they came upon telegraph wires that trailed in the hedge.
Leon’s eyes danced at the sight of it.
“If they’ve cut the others, the chase is over,” he said; “they’ll have cars out in half an hour and be following us; we are pretty sure to attract attention, and they’ll be able to trace us.”
Attract attention they certainly did, for leaving Colchester behind, they ran into a police trap, and a gesticulating constable signalled them to stop.
They left him behind in a thick cloud of dust. Keeping to the Clacton road, they had a clear run till they reached a deserted strip where a farm wagon had broken down and blocked all progress.
A grinning wagoner saw their embarrassment.
“You cairn’t pass here, mister,” he said gleefully, “and there ain’t another road for two miles back.”
“Where are your horses?” asked Leon quickly.
“Back to farm,” grinned the man.
“Good,” said Leon. He looked round, there was nobody in sight.
“Go back there with the car,” he said, and signalled Poiccart to reverse the engine.
“What for?”
Leon was out of the car, walking with quick steps to the lumbering wreck in the road.
He stooped down, made a swift examination, and thrust something beneath the huge bulk. He lit a match, steadied the flame, and ran backward, clutching the slow-moving yokel and dragging him with him.
“ ’Ere, wot’s this?” demanded the man, but before he could reply there was a deafening crash, like a clap of thunder, and the air was filled with wreckage.
Leon made a second examination and called the car forward.
As he sprang into his seat he turned to the dazed rustic.
“Tell your master that I have taken the liberty of dynamiting his cart,” he said; and then, as the man made a movement as if to clutch his arm, Leon gave him a push which sent him flying, and the car jolted over the remainder of the wagon.
The car turned now in the direction of Walton, and after a short run, turned sharply toward the sea.
Twenty minutes later two cars thundered along the same road, stopping here and there for the chief warder to ask the question of the chance-met pedestrian.
They too swung round to the sea and followed the cliff road.
“Look!” said a man.
Right ahead, drawn up by the side of the road, was a car. It was empty.
They sprang out as they reached it—half a dozen warders from each car. They raced across the green turf till they came to the sheer edge of the cliff.
There was no sign of the fugitive.
The serene blue of sea was unbroken, save where, three miles away, a beautiful white steam yacht was putting out to sea.
Attracted by the appearance of the warders, a little crowd came round them.
“Yes,” said a wondering fisherman, “I seed ’em, three of ’em went out in one of they motor boats that go like lightenin’—they’re out o’ sight by now.”
“What ship is that?” asked the chief warder quickly and pointed to the departing yacht.
The fisherman removed his pipe and answered: “That’s the Royal Yacht.”
“What Royal Yacht?”
“The Prince of the Escorials,” said the fisherman impressively.
The chief warder groaned.
“Well, they can’t be on her!” he said.
Endnotes
-
Literally, “Head off.” ↩
Colophon
The Council of Justice
was published in 1908 by
Edgar Wallace.
This ebook was produced for
Standard Ebooks
by
Norman C. Walz,
and is based on a transcription produced in 2020 by
Alex White and The Distributed Proofreaders Canada Team
for
Faded Page Canada
and on digital scans from the
Internet Archive.
The cover page is adapted from
Evening Glow,
a painting completed in 1884 by
John Atkinson Grimshaw.
The cover and title pages feature the
League Spartan and Sorts Mill Goudy
typefaces created in 2014 and 2009 by
The League of Moveable Type.
The first edition of this ebook was released on
January 19, 2024, 7:14 p.m.
You can check for updates to this ebook, view its revision history, or download it for different ereading systems at
standardebooks.org/ebooks/edgar-wallace/the-council-of-justice.
The volunteer-driven Standard Ebooks project relies on readers like you to submit typos, corrections, and other improvements. Anyone can contribute at standardebooks.org.
Uncopyright
May you do good and not evil.
May you find forgiveness for yourself and forgive others.
May you share freely, never taking more than you give.
Copyright pages exist to tell you that you can’t do something. Unlike them, this Uncopyright page exists to tell you that the writing and artwork in this ebook are believed to be in the United States public domain; that is, they are believed to be free of copyright restrictions in the United States. The United States public domain represents our collective cultural heritage, and items in it
