The Trail of Fear (20 page)

CHAPTER XXI

AT LYNDHURST ROAD

Rezaire crawled on painfully. His hands were cut by the sharp stones of the ballast, he was soaked in oil and filth, but he persevered. His one fear was that the train should move on again, leaving him disclosed, before he got to where he wanted, but he had every hope that it would be delayed a long while by the detectives. Not having seen him get out anywhere, though they had stationed men all round, they would not let the train proceed till they had searched it very thoroughly indeed.

The banging of doors and stamp of feet in carriages above his head continued. He could hear passengers asking questions, could hear impatient noncommittal replies. There was a buzz of excitement as the news got about that the police were after one of last night's gang. Women stood about in a high state of pleasurable tension; men got in the way, offering their services, and were refused.

Rezaire crawled on. At the end of every car he had to wait and judge his time before covering the gap between the two where he was no longer so well sheltered and where the light from the station lamps struck down onto the track.

At last he came to the end of the cars. Just ahead of him, he could tell by the wheels, was the tender of the locomotive. He paused for a minute. He had reached the point where caution was necessary. He was now well away toward the far end of the platform where the people and the lights were fewer. He gathered his courage to crawl on under the locomotive, though his vivid imagination at once brought back his ever present physical fear, making him terribly afraid of the big hot pulsating monster just above him. He feared all manner of things; boiling water, jets of steam, red hot coals, anything might come upon him from above as he wriggled slowly forward… He had to lie flat and draw himself forward with his hands.

At last he was clear and out in the open just in front of the engine. Before him stretched the track illuminated by the headlights; to left and right the deserted ends of the platforms. On the left the country was bare and open, but to the right as far as he could make out were trees and forest. That way perhaps lay safety. At this juncture he had to leave the shelter of the train and strike out away from the station to Beaulieu. He wondered if he could cross the track to the right without being seen, and get into the friendly darkness beyond. He peered round the off side of the engine, and scanned the other platform. There was only the one porter on it and he was now watching the scene opposite. But the engineer was leaning out of that side of his cab whistling. Even as he looked he called out to the porter who, getting down onto the line, came across and stood talking to him. If only, Rezaire felt, he could distract their attention for one moment he might get across unperceived.

He peeped round still further. The fireman also had his head out now on that side, talking to the porter. The slightest sound or movement would give his attempt away, unless he could get their attention riveted in the opposite direction.

He had an idea. He picked up a big stone and, hidden behind the front of the engine, hurled it well up in the air and away, aiming it to fall directly among the people further along the main platform. As soon as it had left his hand he peered round the corner of the engine to see the result.

But nothing had happened. He had thrown too far to the right and by the sound landed on the roof of the station buildings. The clatter passed unnoticed. He threw another. Again without result. He picked up a third and bigger one, and this time there was a crash and a cry from a woman. Just what he had intended had happened. The crowd, already strung up to a state of excitement, suddenly collected round the woman. He moved to the other side. The engineer and fireman had left the far side of the cab, and the porter was moving down the line to see what the disturbance might be. It was Rezaire's chance and he took it.

Gathering himself up, he ran swiftly across the track, scaled the far platform, was across it like a flash, and into the deep shadow of a siding just beyond. Passing behind a car standing there he mounted an embankment on the far side and moved on into the night, leaving behind him the station buzzing with the search like a hive of disturbed bees.

He came to a thick hedge which he could not scale or break through without much noise, and was forced to creep along this to the right where he suddenly arrived by a gate at the open yard in front of the station. Here and there were two cars standing at the entrance and Rezaire instantly guessed that these must be the police cars which had now come round from the level crossing gates to the front.

He was about to beat a retreat when suddenly he stopped in amazement. There were three men sitting in the back of one of the cars and to his astonishment, under the station lamp he recognized the middle one as Dixon. Dixon with his head, now bandaged, sunk between his shoulders, a picture of dejection. What on earth was he here for, he instantly wondered. He thought that he would have been lodged in jail at Southampton by now.

Then he realized what had happened. They had put Dixon in the car at Totton, expecting that they would capture his companion also the next minute and take them both together to Southampton. Then when Rezaire had made his dash for the train, they had had to start off so hurriedly in pursuit by road that they had not time to get their captive out and so they had brought him along.

He stayed watching for a moment. Deep in his heart a vague feeling of pity for the man who had stuck to him and helped him so well was taking shape. He wondered whether he could not do something for Dixon. Perhaps, he thought boldly, he could stride out and hold his escort up with the revolver while the others were inside. But this picture faded from his mind as soon as formed; his courage was not great enough for that, especially when it was only on behalf of another. The police might refuse to be held up, might shoot back…

Even while he turned the matter over, a man suddenly ran out of the station and spoke hurriedly to one of the policemen in the car, with the result that the man got out and the two went back together. They were hardly out of sight when Dixon, who, despite his air of dejection, had evidently been waiting his opportunity in desperation, suddenly sprang to his feet with a yell and jumped straight out of the car.

He fell to his knees on the far side owing to his being handcuffed, but was on his feet again in an instant, running hard for the shadow, the constable a few feet behind him. The other two reappeared at the door of the station and instantly took up the chase.

It had all happened in the wink of an eye. For the moment Rezaire forgot in his excitement that he had just thrown the police off his own track, and in his desire to help his comrade jumped forward and called out: “This way, Dixon!”

Dixon heard the voice, swerved to the left and ran straight for him. Rezaire could see his face white in the lamplight and his eyes, wildly glaring, noted mechanically the gleam on the uniform of the men behind. At the same instant he realized how, by his altruistic folly so unlike his usual calculating selfishness, he had betrayed his own whereabouts. He half turned to run away himself at the realization, then checked himself. He was a fool, but he must see his folly through. Then Dixon was after him, crashing blindly into the shadows, muttering strangely to himself as he ran.

He reached out a hand to the wildly flying figure, catching at his manacled wrists to support him. Together they ran blunderingly through the darkness, crashed through a hedge into a garden, out again into some trees across a cart track. A big building, with lights in the windows, like the back of an hotel, loomed over them on the right. Behind them the police were running too, following them in the dark by the noise they were making.

“Quietly, quietly,” urged Rezaire in a fierce whisper. “Run quietly, you fool.”

Dixon got a hold of himself once more and tried to step quietly, muttering queerly to himself. They slipped with less noise past something that looked like piles of sawn up logs and came upon a shed in a corner overshadowed by trees. Into this Rezaire drew his companion even as the first of their pursuers burst through onto the track they had just crossed at the back of the hotel. Behind, in the direction of the station, they could hear further shouts and knew that all the detectives were now on their track.

The first man stopped uncertain for a moment on the edge of the road, paused to listen, was joined by the two others.

“Which way?” snapped one of them.

“Dunno, sir.”

“Dunno,” replied the other, evidently a sergeant. “You damn fool, Peters, you'll be on the mat if he gets away. He was in your charge. Come on quick! One of you down that way…”

The voices stopped. Footsteps went down the lane. Other men came up. There was a pause. A short distance away the delayed train, journey resumed, puffed past. Through the open doors of the shed they could see the car windows still filled with curious heads.

Footsteps and a voice on the road broke the silence once more: “No sign that way, sir, and no noise.”

“Perhaps they're in hiding, if they haven't got away through the trees.”

“There are three men of ours already out in the trees,” put in another.

“What's that shed there?”

Dixon muttered something between his teeth. Rezaire heard the chink of his handcuffs as he moved.

“Be careful,” he whispered. “What are you doing?”

“Getting my gun,” was the answer in a strange sobbing tone. “Get it out of my pocket for me.”

“Don't be a fool!”

“Must have it,” muttered the other. “Get it for me or I'll shout out.”

Reluctantly Rezaire took the automatic out of his pocket—the capture and pursuit had been so swift that the police had had no time to search him—and put it in his hand. The voices outside drew a little closer. Further away they could hear a woman talking volubly in broad Hampshire dialect, explaining how she had heard someone run through her garden.

“Don't be a fool,” urged Rezaire again. “Don't shoot at them.”

“Yes, I will. They shot at us,” came back the wild whisper. “Besides, it's our only chance.”

“It's not…” But even as he spoke, Rezaire realized that Dixon might be after a fashion right. His hope that they would not be discovered had failed. Their opponents were even now approaching the shed.

Fear came upon him and he laid a restraining hand on Dixon's arm.

The other shook it off angrily.

“Damn it! Leave me alone,” he snapped, and again Rezaire sensed that something was seriously wrong with his companion. The man seemed to have changed, to be mad with the fear of capture. Perhaps the blow that he had received had affected his brain, for he was quite different.

“Gently, gently,” said Rezaire through dry lips, but Dixon only answered, this time in a low whining voice: “They'll surround us. If we shoot we can fight them off.”

He moved away and the next minute a loud report echoed in the little shed.

A warning shout came from outside; the sounds of hurried movement; a whistle.

“They're in there.”

“Look out!”

Dixon fired again.

“That'll teach you, you—” he called, again the note of madness in his voice. And then a moment later: “Come on and take me, and to hell with you!”

Rezaire, trembling with fear, flung himself on the ground. He knew what to expect. The detectives who were after them now were the same ones who had pursued them in London. They had him marked as a dangerous man and would not hesitate to shoot.

He was right. As he clung to the foul smelly mud he heard two answering shots. There was a zip of splintered wood, the whine of a torn bullet ricocheting over his head. Dixon laughed loudly, like a maniac, and fired twice more.

Lying there Rezaire was even then wondering what to do. The fact that they were being fired on was for the moment keeping the police from rushing them. But as soon as the situation had been appreciated by the leaders and they had organized a plan, the game would be up. In the meantime could he not creep out, get to the nearest ditch, or into the shadow of the wood, and so away unobserved while Dixon held them off? He crawled to the door and looked out. He could just make out the dark mass that was the edge of the forest, quite close, if only he could get to it. But had he not heard someone say there were three men in the wood?… Perhaps they were surrounded after all. Another shot whined over his head and again he flattened himself to the ground in terror.

Suddenly a choking cry rang out inside the shed, followed by the soft crash of a collapsing body close at his side. Fearfully he put out a hand and felt—Dixon's limp form lying beside him. His fingers came away warm and sticky. Dixon was shot—killed—as he would be too if he stayed. Mad terror came upon him in the darkness. Seizing his revolver he emptied it wildly around him at his unseen foes—to keep them from rushing the place. The next minute on hands and knees he crawled rapidly out of the shed and in a minute was crouched in the shelter of a big pine tree some yards away.

He paused a moment here to master his fear. Voices and movement seemed all around him and yet he did not appear to have been observed. Behind him a shot or two rang out. The police had not yet decided to rush the supposed hiding place of the two criminals, thinking they were still both there. But in a minute a plan would be arranged. He must get away, must put as much distance as he could between himself and them before that time.

He made his way quietly to another tree where he paused. A twig cracked loudly a little distance away. He knew that his enemies, those that were in the wood, were nearby. As silently as a cat he made his way further into the forest, pausing every now and then to listen. The trees stood up about him, straight and silent, and when at last he judged he was out of hearing he broke into a run, setting his direction by the noise, faint in the distance, of the train that was on its way to Beaulieu Road station.