John Creasey - Send Superintendent West

Other flashlights were shining, on the far side of the turf. He stared towards them, fancying that one man was being dragged along by two others; a third and a fourth, lighting the way, were in the party. Then he heard the man coming towards the thicket call out:

“See him?”

“This way.”

They were heading for the spot where Roger had first disappeared into the trees. He reached the grass, then turned again and walked along the edge of the thicket away from the house, the light of which was now too far away to show him up. The shadowy darkness of the trees hid him.

One party with their prisoner was going towards the house, the other was looking for Roger in the wrong place. Grant him just a little luck, and he would get away. A little more still, and he would find a telephone and get help, bring a rescue party to the house in time to save the boy, perhaps catch Gissing.

How had that alarm been raised?

The grounds might be ringed with a trip-wire; or a gate protected with an alarm. Did it matter? Someone had blundered into the alarm system, and been caught; it didn’t seem to matter who. Roger quickened his step, sure that there was no immediate danger. He could no longer hear the men who were seeking him.

He could see much better now. Another row of trees was facing him; the trees seemed to grow completely round the grounds with the house built in a clearing. It was downhill, here — the big disadvantage was that he didn’t know what the ground would be like a few steps ahead. There was a danger of running round in circles, too. He mustn’t hurry, he must keep his bearings.

There were no stars.

He looked for a light, other than the lights at the house and those from the flashlights, but saw nothing. He had his back to the house, and the glow from that would shine for a long way, if he kept his back to it he could at least be sure that he was getting farther away.

The trees were thinning.

The ground was even but slippery with pine-needles; he couldn’t go too fast. The immediate danger was past, but any mistakes now could damn him. If he were taken back, he wouldn’t find a smooth-voiced Gissing, he would find a devil.

He kicked against something that struck his ankle, and then heard a sound — a long way off, like the ringing of a bell. It went on and on. He glanced over his shoulder. The flashlights had stopped moving towards the house. He felt sweat breaking out. This was the trip-wire, the alarm had gone off again. He hadn’t a knife, couldn’t break it. He didn’t try, but began to run along it, then realized that if the wire ran round the clearing, they wouldn’t know whereabouts it had been touched again. He climbed over, and ran on.

Were there guards?

He had taken it for granted that everyone in the grounds had gone towards the man who was now a prisoner, but he must not take that or anything else for granted.

He stopped running, and now and again looked over his shoulder. The light from the house fell away to a dim glow, well above him, and the hillside was much steeper. Twice, he nearly pitched forward. The trees were all about him. He looked round again, and the light had vanished, but by going downhill he could be sure that he was getting farther away. His legs felt stiff and heavy, his back ached and his head throbbed. He hadn’t been aware of any of that at first, now he had time to think of it; and it became an obsession — that, and the need for keeping out of the way of the men who would be searching. If he had any idea where to go, it would have given him hope, but this was an unknown wilderness. There was no light anywhere, only the greyness of the sky and the darkness of the trees.

He stumbled on.

He didn’t know how long the transition took, but after a while he stopped thinking clearly, stopped being afraid of pursuit, somehow dragged one foot in front of the other and made himself go forward. He had no watch. He had no sense of time. Now his whole body ached, every muscle seemed to groan in protest. There was a sharp pain at the back of his right foot, another where he had kicked against the wire, but he knew that he must go on, and clung to that, forcing his feet to carry him farther. After a while, he knew that he would soon have to stop, that it would soon be impossible to keep moving. Each leg seemed like a leaden weight. The sharper pains were worse. His head now throbbed as badly as it had done after the blow at “Rest”. His mouth was wide open and he was gasping uncontrollably.

The hillside was behind him, he was on level ground now. Gradually he became aware of something different, as if his feet were being clawed back into the earth. He had taken a dozen floundering steps before he realized that he was walking through marshland That set a new conscious fear flaring into his mind. Marshes — bog. God! Where was he? Why didn’t he come to a road?

He didn’t come to a road.

He came to a clearing in the trees. A long way off there was light — light of all colours, tiny bars of green and blue and red and yellow. So far off that they were as far away as the stars. He stopped and swayed, putting one hand against a tree for support, then leaned against the tree. Water was up to his ankles. He studied the lights, and slowly the truth dawned. This was a lake. The patch of treeless darkness ahead was the smooth surface of the water. On the other side, miles away, was a village.

He was still breathing through his mouth.

He made himself think. The lights seemed to be directly opposite him, but he couldn’t judge which was the quicker way round. Right or left? He could turn in the wrong direction and never get there. This might be one lake or a string of lakes. There was no means of telling, he had to take a chance. So, woodenly, he turned right.

Sand and water were underfoot. He could hear the soft rippling of the water, which was cold at first, and slowly became icy. Trees grew right to the water’s edge nearly everywhere, now and again they receded and he could walk on dry ground, but the stretches were never long. The lights seemed to be just as far away, and he was haunted by the fear that this lake would run into another, and that he couldn’t reach that village. There was no light in front of him, no gleam that offered hope.

He came to a clearing.

He took Gissing’s gun from his pocket, went a few feet away from the water and plodded on, but tremors ran through his legs, they wouldn’t support him much longer.

A pain stabbed so sharply that he called out, and paused.

It would be easy to stop, to sit down, to stretch out, to rest. He longed to make the sand of the water’s edge a couch. He stared downwards all the time, and yet he didn’t see the boat. .He kicked against it, barked his shin, and fell. The gun dropped from his hand and plopped into water; was lost for good. A tree-stump? A rock? A fallen branch? He looked, and saw the dark outline of the small boat — long, canoe-like. The handle of a paddle stuck up.

He thought dully: “A boat. A boat: He turned his head to stare at the inviting lights. Were they nearer or further away?

He had a boat.

He saw something that seemed to grow out of the calm water; a small landing-stage. A boat and a landing-stage meant that someone often came here, might live here. He turned his head slowly, and made out the shape of a building, not big, but standing dark and solid against the trees. A building, but no light.

He turned towards it, less acutely conscious of the burden of his body. He did not expect to find anyone here. The door would be locked and the windows securely fastened — unless whoever lived here was asleep. He called out, but his voice was only a croak. He called again, and knew that it would be difficult to hear the sound more than a few yards away. He reached the side of the building, and banged, but had no strength to thump. The walls seemed to echo.

No one spoke, nothing happened.

He moved towards the left, where the hut faced the lake, and kicked against steps which led — where else could they lead? — to a front door. There was no rail. He mounted the steps unsteadily. The door faced him, he pushed, and the door opened.

That was so unlikely, that he stopped swaying drunkenly, hand stretched out, door creaking as it swung away from him. An age passed before he stepped up, and into the hut. It was darker here than it had been outside. That ordeal had ended in an empty hut and a canoe he hadn’t the strength to use, but he could rest. He must rest. There would be a chair, surely there would be a chair.

He started the cautious circling round the room; it seemed like second nature to walk with his hands outstretched. He felt rough wood walls, kicked nothing, began to think that it was empty of everything, and then his hand touched a shelf. He groped along it Something moved. He explored it slowly, and knew that it was something cold, smooth and round. He gripped it as tightly as he could and took it off the shelf, and then he realized what it was — a flashlight.

Would it work?

18

“EMPTY” HOUSE

ROGER pressed the switch. There was no strength in his fingers, and it would not budge. He screwed himself up for the effort, and light came on. It shone into his eyes, and he jerked his head away. The beam wove a yellow pattern on walls and floor, before he held it still He raised it towards the shelf. There was no sound but the creaking of boards beneath his feet, the light shone on some tins, rope, a hurricane lantern — then a rustle of movement made him swing round. Before he saw what it was, a heavy weight struck his hand, knocking the torch from his grasp. It clattered to the floor and went out Blackness — always blackness. His heart thumped and he felt suffocated.

They’d caught him.

“You looking for anything?” a man said laconically.

Roger opened his mouth, muttered a sound that must have seemed like gibberish. The man said:

“You heard me. What are you doing around here?”

Roger said slowly and carefully: “I — am — lost.”

“That so?” The voice was still laconic. “Just come to the door, friend. I’d like to take a look at you.”

The voice came from the door, but Roger could see nothing. He moved forward, a step at a time. A light shone into his eyes, not powerful enough to dazzle him. Then it dropped and a woman said:

“Mike, he’s just another bum.”

“Looks like,” said Mike. The light travelled again to Roger’s face. “Looks like he’s had a long walk, I guess. You a stranger to these parts?”

“I have just come —” the words seemed to hesitate before they came out — “from England.” As if that would mean anything to them — except to suggest that he was lying.

“From England,” the woman echoed.

“That so?” Mike’s voice had calmness in it and could have been friendly. “Then you’re a mighty long way from home.” He kept the light steady. “Honey, you just step behind him and make sure he doesn’t carry a gun.”

She moved without hesitating. After a moment, Roger felt her hands at his sides, patting his coat and trousers; she was thorough.

“No,” she said.

“Okay, stranger,” Mike said. “You can come this way.” He began to move, just visible in the reflected light of the torch. The woman took Roger’s arm, as if she realized his weakness.

He almost blacked out. He knew they were both helping to keep him on his feet. There was some trouble at a flight of steps before he stumbled inside a dimly lighted room and was lowered into a chair. He heard odd words. “Coffee.”

“Looks mighty sick to me.”

“Don’t wake them kids.” Kids. The boy!

He opened his eyes wide and started to speak, but Mike wouldn’t let him. Mike was a big, hardy-looking man with a grey-streaked beard, wearing a lumber jacket of coloured squares, trousers held up by a silver-buckled belt and a pair of old boots. The room was small and two other rooms led off it. The woman had disappeared, but Roger could just distinguish the clink of china and it wasn’t long before she came back with a percolator and cups on a tray. There were sandwiches as well as coffee. She poured out.

“Mike, you want to take his shoes off?”

“For why?”

“You want to use your eyes,” she said tartly. “He’s been wading in the lake.” She stirred sugar into the coffee and pushed cup and saucer into Roger’s hands. “Just you drink that, and then eat some, and then —”

“Thanks,” Roger said. “I — thanks. But don’t touch my shoes.” Mike was on one knee obediently. “I’ve got to — go on. I must get to the police.”

Mike stopped moving, just stared up at him. His wife went still.

“I must telephone the police,” Roger said, as if he were repeating a lesson learned parrot-wise. “There is a kidnapped boy.” He waved his left hand, nearly knocked the cup out of the saucer. “Up there.”

Husband and wife looked at each other, looked back at Roger.

“There is,” he persisted. “I must tell the police. How far away — are they?”

“State troopers in Wycoma,” Mike said, as if he were talking to himself. His wife was staring intently at Roger, but once looked towards the door she hadn’t been through. “The nearest telephone is six-seven miles, I guess. You sure about this boy?”

“Yes. We must hurry.”

“Where is he, you say?”

“Drink your coffee,” the woman ordered.

“Up there. A big house — in a clearing. Trees all round it. Firs — or pines.” The warm coffee was thawing Roger out, he felt more able to cope, and he was beginning to feel that these people might help. “I don’t know how far. Miles. It’s at the top of a hill.”

Mike said: “Webster’s old place. Webster doesn’t live there any more, since his boy died. Heard some funny stories about the guy who took over. So there’s a kid. What’s the name of the kid?”

“Shawn,” said Roger. Tricky Shawn. He was kidnapped in England —”

Mike moved quickly for the first time. On his way to the door, he said:

“You want to look after him while I’m gone, honey? Won’t be that long. Could be the kid’s up there, or could be this guy’s crazy, but it won’t do any harm to look and see. I’ll telephone Wycoma, stranger, and be right back with the police.” He stopped in the doorway. “I’m Mike Hill,” he said, and obviously expected a comment.

“You’ve been very —” Roger began, and stopped, forcing a smile. “I’m Roger West I’m not crazy. Hurry, Mike, please.”

Two minutes later, the quiet of the lakeside was broken by the stutter of a car engine. Soon it moved off, missing on one cylinder but chugging steadily. Mike Hill’s wife was pouring more coffee and urging Roger to eat the sandwich: a chicken sandwich. The sound of the engine died away.

•     •     •

There were three New York State troopers in uniform, two other men, Mike Hill and Roger. Hill’s old car was left by the lake, his wife stood in the doorway of the cabin, watching a big Pontiac and an Oldsmobile moving along the track towards a dirt road, head-lights carving a light through the trees. By road, Webster’s place was fifteen miles away, Roger was told; he had walked nine. It was nearly four o’clock in the morning.

They had asked few questions, all seemed sleepy and taciturn. Now he matched their silence. His eyes were so heavy that sleep was always threatening him, and his limbs would not stop aching. He knew that they were in the Adirondacks about two hundred miles from New York City, that was all.