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  Mr. Bosworth — for that was the driver’s name — was not only reluctant, but inclined to be truculent. ‘I’ve been drivin’ now for fifteen years,’ he said in an injured voice, ‘an’ never ’ad nothin’ aginst me. There ain’t a mark on me licence, an’ now this feller —’ He looked disdainfully at the constable. ‘— comes along an’ drags me from me business an’ brings me up ’ere. Who’s this feller I drove to Dulwich? If ’es a crook, I don’t know nuthin’ about ’im. ’E ’ired me cab and paid me like anyone else. Honest Bill Bosworth, they calls me. You can ask anyone.’ He glared round at Paul, Crick and Mr. Robin as though defying them to dispute his statement.

  ‘I’m sure they do, Mr. Bosworth,’ said Paul soothingly. ‘Nobody has anything against you at all. Nor was the fare you drove to Dulwich a crook. He was, in fact, my brother, and all we want to know is where you set him down.’

  The fiery Mr. Bosworth looked slightly mollified. ‘Well, that’s easy enough,’ he grunted. ‘But who’s goin’ ter make good me time? Comin’ up ’ere, I mean. I lost a good fare when this rozzer came up and started his questions.’

  ‘I’ll see that you don’t lose anything,’ said Paul impatiently.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Honest Bill Bosworth, and rather grudgingly added, ‘sir. It was just beyond the fire station after you passes ’Orniman’s Museum that I set the gen’le-man down.’

  ‘Could you take me there?’ asked Paul.

  Mr. Bosworth snorted contemptuously. ‘Course I could,’ he said. ‘S’long as you pay the amount on the clock.’

  ‘I’ll give you double the amount on the clock,’ snapped Paul. ‘Come on, get a move on!’

  Mr. Bosworth had his cab below, and Paul, Crick and Mr. Robin, who insisted on accompanying them, bundled themselves into it as its driver took his place behind the wheel.

  Curiously enough, as they left the entrance to Scotland Yard it was exactly the same time as Bob, on the previous morning, had started on the same journey.

  The dawn was just beginning to break, and the grey light coming in through the windows of the cab showed Paul Rivington’s face drawn and haggard. He had said little, but the strain he had endured over the last ten hours had been terrific. Were they setting off on a journey that was already too late? Was all this worry and anxiety over nothing? Was Bob all right, and was the fact that Paul had had no word from him attributable to the fact that he was so hot on the trail of William Hooper’s murderer that he had not had the opportunity to phone? Or …

  Paul’s mind went back to the scene at Prospect Place: Emily Boulter’s dark sitting-room with the billows of escaping gas from the shattered door. Once again he saw the still figure of the laundress sitting huddled up by the table. Were they going to find something similar at the end of this journey, or something — worse? A still figure that would remain still forever, sacrificed to save the neck of this brutal murderer?

  With an effort, Paul thrust the morbid thought out of his mind. It would do no good. This method of thinking was harmful. Sadly, he forced himself to watch the streets along which they were travelling. Mr. Bosworth, secure in the knowledge that his passengers were police officials, was breaking every speed limit. It is doubtful if his cab had ever gone so fast since it had left the maker’s. Once a scandalised constable stepped out into the road to try to stop him, but Honest Bill merely treated him to a gesture that was more forceful than polite, and with a derisive hooting of his horn drove on. He pulled up at the corner of the road where he had dropped Bob, and, slipping from his seat, jerked open the door.

  ‘Here y’are,’ he said proudly. ‘And there ain’t another driver in London who could ’ave brought yer in the time!’

  Paul got out and glanced quickly about. ‘Now, which way did your fare go when he left you?’ he asked.

  Mr. Bosworth became voluble. ‘’E went after the other bloke — down there.’ He swept his arm across and pointed to a street opposite. ‘I watched ’im because I thought the ’ole thing was funny. You know what I mean, making this journey so early in the morning, an’ tellin’ me to follow the other feller’s cab an’ all that.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ broke in Paul impatiently. ‘I understand. Did you see what happened after they turned into the street?’

  Mr. Bosworth shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied. ‘I got back in me cab an’ drove away then.’

  Paul turned to Mr. Robin and Crick, who had joined him in the roadway. ‘Well, we’ve got so far, and we know the direction Bob went, but that’s all.’

  Round Robin wrinkled his little nose. ‘The fact that this crippled man dismissed his cab here looks as if he wasn’t going much further,’ he said, ‘so perhaps if we have a look round we may be able to pick up some news.’

  ‘I think that’s the best thing to do,’ agreed Paul. ‘You wait here, will you?’ he went on, addressing Mr. Bosworth, and the cab driver nodded. ‘Come on, you two.’

  He crossed the road and turned into the street along which Bob had followed his quarry on the previous day, and he went with a heavy heart, for from here onwards it would be a question of guesswork.

  The sun was up, and its pale rays cast long yellow streaks across the road as they went forward, scanning every house as they passed. The majority of the people living around here were not up, and as Paul eyed the windows with their drawn blinds he wondered which one concealed the whereabouts of the crippled man and the secret of his brother’s silence.

  24

  Buried Alive

  Bob Rivington watched the flickering flame of the candle, and his thoughts were not pleasant ones. The death which the crippled man had planned was infinitely more horrible than anything he could have imagined, for it would not be swift and merciful like the knife or a bullet, but lingering, with all the dreadful accompaniments of slow suffocation. And there seemed no way of stopping it; he was completely helpless and at the other’s mercy.

  The candle burned on, sometimes steadily, sometimes jerkily and waveringly as the draught caught the flame and blew it about, but relentlessly. Lower and lower it burned, until Bob almost persuaded himself that he could see the wax getting less and less as he watched. That yellow flame was eating up the last remaining hours of his life; eating them up with a hungry enjoyment.

  The minutes dragged themselves into hours, and presently he began to wish that the time would pass more quickly. He had got a grip on himself now, but it threatened to give at any moment, for the suspense was snapping his strength rapidly. A cold sweat had broken out on his forehead, and unconsciously he had clenched his hands until the nails had bitten deeply into the flesh of his palms. Already it seemed that a lifetime had passed since the crippled man had announced his sentence. How much longer would he have to wait? He had no means of judging the passing of the hours; the candle had burnt down nearly an inch, but it was impossible to guess from that, for at times it had guttered badly. Never in the whole of his life could he remember spending such a time of mental agony. He found himself straining every nerve to catch some sound in the silence that would warn him of the return of his executioner.

  Presently he heard it: the opening and shutting of a door, followed by the shuffling of footsteps. It was almost with a sense of relief that he heard those steps come along the passage. The horrible suspense would soon be over now. True, it would be replaced with something infinitely more horrible, but he felt that the waiting, with his nerves strung up to breaking point, was the worst part of it.

  The door opened and the limping man came in. There was no hesitation in his movements this time. Without uttering a word, he crossed over to the sofa and, stooping, lifted Bob up as if he had been a child. His strength must have been tremendous, for he raised him without apparent effort and carried him through the open door. Along a dark passage and down a flight of three steps he went, with the assured step of one who knows every inch of the way, and Bob realised that now he was no longer limping. In this crisis he had discarded part of his disguise.

  He passed th
rough an open doorway on the left of the passage and began to descend some rough wooden steps. A damp, earthy smell came to Bob’s nostrils and he realised, before he saw the grimy rafters and brick walls in the dim light of the candle that was burning on a box, that this was the cellar of the cottage.

  His captor set him down on the slimy, moss-grown stone slabs that formed the floor, and straightened up. Still without speaking, he went over to one wall of the cellar and began to clear away a heap of bricks that had obviously fallen from a ragged, irregularly shaped gap. It was not very large, and beyond it Bob could see a dark aperture. So that was to be his grave!

  He shuddered, and in order to take his mind off the unpleasant thoughts that tried to crowd into his brain, looked about him.

  The cellar was not very big, but it was evidently very old, festooned with cobwebs, relics of a dynasty of spiders that hung from the beams that formed the roof. Originally the walls had been coated with a thin plaster, but in most places it had fallen away, leaving the naked brickwork visible. Near where he lay was a big heap of partially mixed cement, and stuck into it a bricklayer’s trowel. The crippled man, working busily, had cleared the fallen heap of bricks into an orderly stack, and now, panting from his labours, he came back to Bob and looked down at him.

  ‘I’m afraid this is where you’re likely to be a little uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘The only consolation I can offer you is that I don’t think you’ll be conscious for very long.’

  Bob said nothing. He dared not speak, or the control he had imposed over himself would give way.

  The other bent down, and picking him up once more carried him over to the gaping hole in the wall. Now that he was close, Bob could see that behind the bricks was a space of about two feet and then earth. The crippled man thrust him into this natural tomb upright, and wedged him firmly into one corner, so firmly that he couldn’t move an inch. And what followed was a nightmare. Brick by brick the ragged aperture was filled, and gradually the dim light of the candle became blotted out. Hopelessly Bob watched the wall that was rising between himself and life nearing completion, and then as the last brick was fixed into position utter darkness enveloped him. His teeth clenched on his lower lip, and he was unconscious of the blood that flowed in a warm stream down his chin and neck.

  This was the finish. So long as the air lasted he would live, and then … The air would not last very long in this confined space. He hoped that it would be over soon, the sooner the better.

  Muffled sounds came to his ears from beyond the wall and, later, footsteps overhead, and then silence — a silence so pronounced that it was almost palpable. He felt a flush creep over his body, and his hands became hot and dry. The dank smell of earth filled his nostrils. Sparks and flashes of light danced and floated in the darkness before his eyes, and then something snapped in his brain. His control broke down, and shriek after shriek left his lips …

  25

  Just In Time

  Paul paused at the end of the road and held a conversation with Mr. Robin and Crick. ‘So far as I can see,’ he said, ‘this is rather like looking for a grain of sand in the desert. For all we know, the man Bob was following may have gone into any one of these houses. If we go further on we may be passing our objective, and if we stop where we are we can’t do very much good.’

  ‘I’m all for getting on,’ said Round Robin. ‘Up to now we haven’t seen anything that might help us to pick up the trail, but there’s no knowing what we may strike.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with you,’ said Paul. ‘Though I must admit I think it is a rather a forlorn hope.’

  They continued on through the village, walking slowly and keeping a sharp lookout, though exactly what they were looking for none of the three could have put into words. They were just hoping some detail would appear that would supply them with a clue to Bob’s present whereabouts. They passed a milkman going on his rounds who looked rather surprised to see them. That was the only living soul they had so far encountered. Presently they arrived at the beginning of the new road, and here they came to a stop once more.

  ‘This looks a little more promising,’ said Paul, eyeing the half-erected houses and the heaps of bricks and wood.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Mr. Robin. ‘I was thinking it was just the reverse.’

  ‘If you look over there you’ll see what I mean,’ answered the other, and he pointed to where a column of smoke was ascending from the front of a wooden hut. ‘There’s a watchman there, and presumably he was there yesterday at the same time, in which case he’ll be able to tell us whether Bob or the crippled man passed this way. If they didn’t, then we can confine our search to the area between this spot and the place where they left the taxi.’

  He had started to walk towards the distant hut while he was speaking, and very soon they came upon the watchman, a bent old man with watery eyes and rheumatic fingers. He was brewing tea in a galley-pot, and stared up at them with rather an unfavourable expression.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Paul.

  ‘No,’ replied the old man in a wheezy voice.

  The detective looked rather taken aback. ‘No what?’ he asked.

  ‘It ain’t a good morning,’ replied the old man, ‘not for them what’s got rheumatics. There’s rain in the air.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Paul smiled in spite of the worry burdening his mind. ‘Well, perhaps this will help to keep the damp out when you go off duty.’ He took a pound note from his pocket and crackled it invitingly between his fingers.

  The watchman looked at the note suspiciously and then raised his faded eyes to Paul’s face. ‘Look ’ere, what’s the game?’ he said. ‘I ain’t an ’olesale dealer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Paul, this time really astonished.

  ‘What I says. I obliged the other gent last night, an’ I’ll ’ave to report that to the foreman when ’e comes because ’e’ll see there’s a sack missin’.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ broke in Paul sharply. ‘What I want is a little information.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you was after cement,’ grunted the watchman. ‘Like t’other feller.’

  ‘No, I don’t want any cement,’ said Paul. ‘What I want to know is, were you here yesterday round about this time?’

  ‘Course I were,’ said the old man, stirring his tea. ‘An’ the night afore that, an’ the night afore that. I been ’ere fer over six weeks now.’

  ‘Good. Then perhaps you can tell me if you saw anyone pass along this road just before dawn yesterday. A man with a limp and —’

  ‘Course I seed ’im. Ain’t I tellin’ yer I sold ’im a sack of cement last night?’

  ‘Was that the man?’ cried Paul eagerly. ‘A white-faced, dark-haired man with a crippled leg?’

  ‘That was the feller,’ agreed the old man. ‘Came up to me just before eight, ’e did, and asked if I could oblige him by sellin’ ’im a sack of cement because ’e wanted to repair ’is kitchen floor. Offered me ten shillin’, ’e did, an’ as there’d be a bit out of it fer me an’ the foreman, I let ’im ’ave it. It was only one of them there small ones.’

  ‘Did he take it with him?’ broke in Paul, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

  The watchman nodded. ‘Yes, ’e carried it away on ’is shoulder across them fields,’ he said, nodding towards the belt of trees by the hedge.

  ‘Had you ever seen him before?’ asked Paul. ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘No, I ain’t seen ’im before,’ answered the old man, and this was strictly true, for when the crippled man had passed previously with Bob on his heels, the watchman, contrary to regulations, was sleeping soundly. ‘An’ I don’t know where ’e lives, but it couldn’t be far away, I shouldn’t think, ’cause of carrying that there sack.’

  ‘He went across the field, you say?’ put in Mr. Robin.

  ‘Yes,’ said the watchman with his eyes upon the pound note that Paul still held between his finger and thumb. ‘There’s
a gate over in the corner. I expect ’e was makin’ fer that.’

  Paul thrust the note into his gnarled palm. ‘Come on, Robin,’ he said. ‘This is a prodigious piece of luck.’

  Leaving the old watchman staring after them, they went off across the fields, and eventually arrived at the gate he had indicated. Passing through, they came to a halt and looked up and down the lane beyond.

  ‘Now, then, the question is, which way?’ muttered Crick.

  ‘Yes, that’s the question,’ agreed Paul. Then he suddenly uttered a little exclamation and bent down. ‘That’s the question our friend the limping man has answered himself. Look here.’ He pointed to a little white heap that lay on the surface of the lane.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Mr. Robin, for the moment bewildered.

  ‘Cement,’ said Paul tersely. ‘This way!’

  He led the way to the left, his eyes fixed on the road, and every yard or so there was an irregular sprinkling of the white powder — a trail so plain that a child could have followed it. Obviously the cement bag that the unknown had been carrying had leaked. They followed it along a lane to a gate set back in the hedge, and there stopped. Paul went on a few yards to see if it continued any further, but there was no trace of it.

  ‘It looks as if he went through this gate,’ he muttered, and opening it he walked a few paces along the path inside. ‘Yes, here’s another,’ he cried softly. ‘This path must lead up to a house of some sort.’

  ‘Better be careful,’ warned Round Robin as he and the journalist joined Paul. ‘The fellow may be about somewhere.’

  Paul nodded, and his pulse beat a little quicker as he cautiously made his way along the path. At the clump of bushes where Bob had been attacked, he paused.

  ‘There you are,’ he said to the others. ‘You can see the place now.’ They looked round the edge of the screening bushes and saw the cottage. It looked lifeless and apparently deserted, but for all they knew the unknown might be lurking somewhere within.