The Dark Frontier (23 page)

The rain had lifted slightly, but the lightning still flickered on the horizon and the road was already a quagmire. It was impossible to avoid the potholes in the dark and I was soon up to the ankles in liquid mud. For five minutes we squelched along on the level, then Carruthers bore to the right and the ground began to rise. We were now, I guessed, on the road leading to the stone quarry. The surface here was firmer as the road was drained by streamlets which I could hear running alongside. The gradient was about one in ten and we climbed for perhaps half a mile before Carruthers cautioned us against
noise and ordered us into single file. We proceeded gingerly until I saw the sides of the quarry right above us. Then Carruthers stopped. Whispering to Beker and me to stay where we were, he disappeared into the darkness ahead. I could just see that the road degenerated at this point into a rough track. Carruthers returned a moment later with the news that there was a car fifteen yards ahead and that there was a man in it.

We held a council of war; that is to say, Carruthers told us what to do. A minute later I found myself following Beker off the road to the left, down a sharp incline, across a bog and through a clump of trees perched on ground rising almost perpendicularly. I slipped twice and Beker tore the skin of his leg against a knife-edge of rock, but once among the trees we had something by which to steady ourselves. We made the top at last and found ourselves standing on the track slightly above the level of the quarry bottom. Making no attempt to silence our footsteps we started to walk down the track towards the car. We had gone about fifty metres before we saw it, a big sedan without lights. I saw the door by the driving-seat open slowly; then, raising his voice slightly, Beker said something reassuring in Ixanian and the man got out. He stood peering uncertainly at us as we covered the last three or four yards. We were about two metres from him before he saw us at all clearly. Then he gave an exclamatory grunt and went for his gun. His hand did not reach it. A shadow moved suddenly behind him, there was a faint “snick” and he dropped to the ground.

Carruthers stepped round him and nodded to us. We bound the man with rope from the tool-box, gagged him with two handkerchiefs—one in his mouth and one to keep it in—and dumped him down among the trees. Murmuring that there was no harm in cutting off Groom’s retreat, Carruthers removed the arm from the car’s distributor and slipped it in his pocket. We resumed our march up to the laboratory. We were nearer than I had supposed. The track became a path.
We halted before a small wicket-gate. Carruthers examined it and reported in a swift undertone that it was part of an electrified fence which surrounded the laboratory. The gate, however, was swinging on its hinges in the breeze and we passed through it.

We moved forward cautiously up the path. The familiar shape of the laboratory was visible now. It was in darkness except for a dull glow from one of the long windows in the High-Tension laboratory at the far end. Carruthers motioned to us to listen to him.

“There’s one entrance to the end laboratory from the low buildings. I shall take that way. There’ll be another door in the far side wall of the High-Tension building. Beker and Casey, you try that way. I want to get them boxed in, but don’t do anything until I give the signal. Then shoot.”

He moved off and Beker and I had turned to go when we came to a sudden standstill. A dreadful cry had come from the direction of the laboratory. It started as a long-drawn “Ah” and rose to a blood-curdling shriek. Then it was cut off as though a hand had been clapped over the mouth that uttered it. Beker and I stood still. My heart was pounding and my legs shook. The skin on my spine tingled. I heard Beker mutter an oath and felt his hand quivering on my arm. Then we heard Carruthers’ voice hissing “Go on” and blundered through the dripping bushes toward our objective. We reached the wall eventually and paused a moment to get our breaths before we started to work our way along towards the High-Tension building.

There were loose stones underfoot and our progress was slow, for they crunched at every step. My stomach was turning with fear, not so much of the situation as of hearing that scream repeated. It had upset my nerve badly. To make matters worse, there were overhanging trees that shut out every vestige of light so that I kept running into Beker in the darkness. We managed it at last, however, and on rounding the corner of
the building, came upon a small door leading into it. Beker stepped past me and, taking the handle in both hands, turned it slowly. Slowly it yielded and a thin blade of light split the blackness. Beker leant forward and the blade broadened until we could see inside.

I had never before seen the interior of a high-voltage laboratory. To my unscientific eye it looked very like a shot from an early German film about “the future.” Suspended from the roof on a ganglion of long corrugated-glass insulators were two large copper globes. There appeared to be an arrangement for raising and lowering them. Two gleaming copper tubes descended vertically from the globes to another pair of insulators embedded in the concrete floor and thence passed to where row upon row of tall metal containers paraded against one wall. From the top of each container projected two smaller insulators like horns. I could also see part of an elaborate switchboard. A single powerful lamp hanging from the roof in an enamel reflector illuminated the place.

The general effect was highly decorative. Far from decorative, however, was the scene for which it provided so dramatic a setting.

Five men stood in a semicircle in the centre of the laboratory. I recognised Groom and Nikolai, with his arm still in a sling, amongst them; but it was the man in the centre of them who held my gaze. Lashed to the chair in which he sat, he appeared to be a mechanic for he was wearing brown dungarees. His head was lolling on his chest and he looked as if he were unconscious. This, I guessed, was the one who had screamed. I was soon to know why. One of the group advanced threateningly towards the seated figure weighing what looked like a short stick in his hand. Then I saw the stick whip as the man brandished it and realised that it was a rubber truncheon, the
totschläger
or “beater-to-death” of Nazi Germany and the persuasive element in many a Third Degree. The man with
the truncheon made a show of hitting the mechanic across the knee with it. The man’s head rolled back and he let out a hoarse shout of terror. I understood. A blow on the knee-cap is bad enough at the best of times. When that blow is dealt with a rubber truncheon the pain is unbearable. Moreover, the knee-cap does not numb as easily as other parts of the body, so that repetitions of the blow will intensify the agony. The device, a New York detective has told me, is far more demoralising to the victim than many of the more elaborate tortures.

The man with the truncheon twice repeated the feint of hitting, but the man in the chair had fainted and did not respond again. Another man rained blows on the mechanic’s face with his fist. They jarred him back into consciousness and he raised his head in a pitiful effort to evade the blows. Nikolai stepped forward and spoke to him in Ixanian. I saw him point threateningly to the man with the truncheon. Groom stood by smoking placidly during the questioning. The mechanic evidently could not or would not tell what they wanted to know, for Nikolai struck him with his free hand and motioned to the truncheon expert and stepped back. The latter advanced again and, glaring at the mechanic, raised his arm slowly. The man in the chair flinched and shouted huskily. I heard Beker beside me draw breath sharply. Then my hand fastened on the gun in my pocket. I did not think or even care whether what I was about to do was against Carruthers’ orders or not. I just knew that I could not stand by and hear the man in the chair shriek again. With a sweep of my arm I flung the door open and charged into the laboratory.

I have often wondered how much of the pyrotechnic display that followed this highly absurd action of mine can be attributed to blind fury and how much to the fact that I had never fired an automatic pistol in my life before. A little of both I think. In my excitement I must have pressed the trigger several times, for I signalled my entry with a fusillade of shots.
The first two hit the opposite wall, the third and fourth sent up spurts of concrete from the floor. The next instant I felt a paralysing blow on my wrist and my gun clattered to the floor. I saw the man who had fired the shot levelling his gun again as the others sprang towards me, when there came a deafening explosion from behind me and the man went down on his face. If Beker had not decided to support my futile effort I should have been shot dead instantly. Before he could fire again, however, another player took a hand in the game. From the door on the far side of the laboratory came the thud of a silenced gun, there was a crash of glass and the light went out.

I felt Beker catch my arm. My next clear memory is stubbing my foot against a stone as we made for cover. “
Vite
,” gasped Beker breathlessly as we stumbled on. There were shouts behind us. “What about the Professor?” I panted in between breaths as we got back on to the path.

“The Professor is more than able to take care of himself,” rejoined Beker.

Suddenly there came the thud-thud of Carruthers’ automatic from the direction of the laboratory, followed by a yell of pain, then a spatter of intermittent firing. There was no pursuit now. We halted and listened. There was another shout and more firing. “
Sacré chien
, what a madness!” Beker was muttering. Then, telling me to stay and look to my wound, he started back to the laboratory.

I stayed and not ungratefully for I felt slightly dizzy and my wrist was beginning to ache. I put my hand to it and a spasm of pain shot up my arm. My hand came away wet and I saw by the faint light that the sky yielded that I was bleeding badly. I improvised a tourniquet with my handkerchief and a pencil to tighten it and applied it on my forearm above the wound. I tightened it savagely. I was bitterly ashamed of my rash behaviour. It was not improbable that I had completely wrecked Carruthers’ careful plans. I listened dismally for sounds of
life from the laboratory and heard nothing but the drip of the bushes. I had no precise idea of my position. I was on the path, but at what point on it I did not know. I moved slowly back the way Beker had brought me. A few metres and I was at the fence. I paused. Then, quite distinctly, I heard someone moving in the bushes ahead. I withdrew from the path, crouched down in the undergrowth and waited. Without a gun and with a wounded wrist that was becoming more painful every minute, I could do nothing else. The rustling continued. It sounded as though someone was working his way towards the gate. Suddenly the beam of a searchlight from the roof of the High-Tension building stabbed the darkness. Carruthers or Groom must have found the way to operate it. Whoever it was, the area inside the fence was going to be an uncomfortable place for the other party.

The beam swung down like a huge finger and started to traverse the bushes. It was an eerie sight. There was a ground mist rising and in the searchlight it swirled like white smoke above the gleaming wet leaves. Huge moths flitted and whirled in the beam and once a small owl started up flapping wildly. The light came on slowly. Suddenly, from the blackness towards which it was moving, came the flash and crack of a revolver shot. The light jumped a few yards and stopped. There, picked out as though he were on a stage, stood Nikolai.

As the light caught him he crouched and dodged sideways. The beam followed him. He double backwards and forwards, but though he kept disappearing from my view, the man at the searchlight did not lose him. Nikolai must have realised that he was hopelessly trapped, for although he still kept zigzagging among the bushes—presumably to make himself a difficult target for a gun—he was steadily working his way towards the fence near where I crouched. He was three metres from the fence when he hesitated, then, turning suddenly, he made a dash straight for it. He was in the full glare of the searchlight when I saw him
grasp the top wire preparatory to squeezing through it. He got no farther. The moment his hand touched the wire he seemed to stiffen, his body twisted, his heels left the ground and his knees bent slowly as though he were bearing an insupportable burden. Then, fixed in that posture, he lolled gently against the fence. He did not move again. From the laboratory came the faint clangour of an electric bell.

The light moved on with a quick sweep round the laboratory and then went out. The filament was still glowing dully when I heard feet scrunching on the path and Beker’s voice calling my name. I stood up and he saw me.

“It is well, Monsieur. The power is now off. Come in.”

I opened the gate and we were nearing the laboratory when I heard the starter of a car grinding away on the track below.

“Groom,” explained Beker. “He got away with another man before the power was switched on to the fence. It is as well. We are not anxious to have his death to account for to the British Consul. But the automobile will not start. They will have a long walk.”

“What about the others?”

“Nikolai is where you saw him. The man I shot is dead. The Professor killed the other when he tried to climb up the ladder to the searchlight. He lies with a broken neck.” He stopped, then added: “The Professor is a great fighter.”

“What’s happened to that poor guy in the chair?”

“He is, I think, dead. A weak heart probably. That treatment would have killed stronger men.”

We found Carruthers in the small laboratory surrounded by papers. He was rummaging through the drawers in a small desk in the corner. He straightened himself as we came in.

“No use,” he said briefly. “I can’t find anything. I’ve tried the living quarters, every likely place. We shall have to adhere to our original plan.” He turned to Beker. “Are the men there?”

Beker nodded.

“Look here,” I burst out, “I’m darn sorry for what’s happened, Professor. I guess I’m not cut out for this sort of job.”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t worry, Casey,” he said. “I was just about to butt in myself when your fireworks started. You certainly stirred them up.”