Triumph For Inspector West

“Raeburn was annoyed by the evening papers, and I went to see if I could pick anything up.”

“Could you?”

“Enough to know that he was upset,” grinned Mark. “If you haven’t seen the papers, get them—they’ll do you good. I’m going for a drive,” he added, carelessly, and took the matchbox back. “There’s no need to follow me this time.”

Peel looked blank. “I am watching Mr Raeburn and the hotel, sir.”

“Oh, yes? Then what’s Turnbull doing?”

“He’s at the station just now.” Peel was innocence itself.

Mark’s car was parked at the front, Raeburn’s in the hotel garage. He guessed that Raeburn would drive toward Hove, and then northward into the country, so he drove slowly in that direction. Raeburn’s Silver Wraith passed him, purring along the wide road; Mark’s Talbot, making little more noise, followed a hundred yards behind. Now and again, when the Rolls Royce was slowed down by the traffic, Mark could see the couple; they did not appear to be saying much.

The light was fading fast when they turned into the Pet- worth Road. In the west the afterglow bathed the countryside in soft blue and grey; against the skyline leafless trees stood out, dark and spectral. Hills rose up on both sides, bleak and forbidding. The winding road ahead was dark beyond the beams of the headlights; little white centre marks curved this way and that with the road. All that Mark could see of the man and woman in the Rolls Royce were silhouettes of heads and shoulders.

Eve’s head moved slightly toward Raeburn. Mark hardly saw that at first, but took more notice when he saw her nestle against Raeburn’s shoulder. Raeburn pulled in to the side of the road and stopped, without troubling to give a signal.

“This is where they make it up,” mused Mark. “But they’re vulnerable, all right.” He drove on, deciding that there was no point in watching them any longer. Raeburn had gone out to try to throw off the effect of the newspaper stories, that was all.

Mark grinned when Peel passed him in a two-seater, pretending not to notice him.

A mile or two farther on, Mark turned a wide corner as a car containing several men passed him, forcing him almost into the hedge. He glared into his mirror at it, then turned a corner—and his heart jumped.

In the glare of the headlights, he could see a man lying in the road.

CHAPTER XV

OLD TRICK

MARK SWUNG the Talbot’s wheel hard over. The right fender brushed against a hedge, and twigs scraped along the side of the car. He drew up, with the rear of the car level with the man, only a couple of feet away. He could not see behind him now, and did not get out immediately.

The man was still lying inert. No other cars were approaching, or he would have been able to see by the light of their headlamps.

He opened the door and got out. Was he hurt, or could this be an old trick?

The man was lying on his back, his right arm bent at an odd angle, his left covering his face. Mark went toward him, and bent down. He touched the man’s arm gently, and as he did so the “victim” butted his head into Mark’s face, and leaped to his feet. It was the old trick, all right, and he had fallen for it. Bitter self-reproach made the situation seem worse. He backed toward the hedge, but before he touched it, his feet were hooked from under him by someone he hadn’t seen. He fell heavily.

“Get him over the hedge,” a man said, urgently.

Mark felt hands gripping him; he was hauled to his feet. He glanced desperately to the right and left, hoping to see the glow of Peel’s headlights, but none appeared. Peel was watching Raeburn; what reason was there to hope he would turn up? Mark was dragged to the hedge; then the big man bent down, gripped his legs below the knees, and hoisted him up.

They were going to toss him over. . . .

Mark kicked out. He caught the man on the side of the face, which made him lose his grip, and Mark slipped to the ground. The man struck at him savagely, but Mark got to his feet, still on the right side of the hedge. A blow cut his lip, and he could taste the salty blood. He kicked out, making one man squeal and drop away; then, next moment, the whole party was bathed in the glow of headlights.

A powerful car came round the corner and slowed down, its horn howling, and the assailants swung round and scrambled over the hedge. The end had come so quickly that it seemed unreal. Was Peel the rescuer? Mark leaned against the hedge, gasping, blinking in the dazzling light. He was vaguely aware of two people coming toward him.

“Are you all right?” a man asked, sharply.

This was Raeburn: Raeburn and Eve were his rescuers.

“Yes, I’m okay,” Mark muttered, and moistened his lips. “Yes, quite all right, thanks.”

“You don’t look it,” declared Raeburn.

“Your face is bleeding!” Eve exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”

“I was held up—by a gang.” Put like that, it sounded ridiculous.

“Let’s go to the car,” said Raeburn, brusquely. He took Mark’s arm, and led him to the Rolls. “See what you can do, pet,” Raeburn added to Eve, and switched on the light. “I’ll move his car on to the right side of the road.”

Mark sat on the soft cushions of the Rolls, and had the wit to pull out a handkerchief when Eve took hers from her bag. She dabbed at his lips, which were already puffy and painful. The soft light suited her; her face was only a foot away from him, and her eyes seemed full of concern.