Chapter XXIII: A Call for Help

A telegram from Conrad arrived the next morning. It informed Wallace that he would arrive at Arveyes on the ten o’clock train the following morning.

“Good!” said Fouchard. “That will still give me two days. I was never more keen to unravel a mystery in my life. I’ll come along with you and meet him if I may.”

Wallace was quite agreeable, and he went into the garage to tinker about with the Bentley. The first thing he saw was Watkins lying in a corner with his hands bound and a gag in his mouth. Then he noticed that the captured car was gone.

“Damn!” he muttered, and set the chauffeur free.

“What has happened, Watkins?” he asked.

The chauffeur gasped for breath and rubbed his cramped limbs, muttering something about “them blasted Huns” under his breath.

“Last night,” he eventually said aloud, “I was just about to turn in when someone knocked. I thought it was you or M’sieur Fouchard. Lumme! I had scarcely poked my head outside the door when something was clapped over my nose. It put me off in a jiff. That’s all I know about it.”

“They’ve taken their car.”

“So that’s what they were after?”

“Yes. We ought to have put it out of action.”

Fouchard received the news with a scowl.

“So much for their word of honour,” he said. “They used the first opportunity to bring off a coup.”

“I’m not so sure--this may have happened after midnight. I’m grateful that they didn’t mess up the Bentley.”

On the following morning the two men set out for Arveyes, arriving there a trifle early. They discovered that the train was already forty minutes late, so Fouchard killed time by visiting the local police, whilst Wallace sat and smoked at the small café next the station.

“Brilliant lot!” grumbled Fouchard on his return. “They haven’t a notion where Niels and his friends are hiding. Here comes the train.”

When the few passengers had alighted, it became apparent that Conrad was not amongst them. There was no other long-distance train until the evening, so they went back to Grammont in the hope of finding a telegram. But nothing had arrived.

“There would scarcely be time,” said Yolande. “It takes hours and hours for a telegram to reach us. No doubt he realises that, and will arrive by the next train.”

“I wonder?” said Fouchard mysteriously.

“You don’t think that Niels----”

“Why not? That man would move heaven and hell to prevent our discovering his secret. Last night he came and stole his car. They must have pushed it a good way, for I sleep lightly and heard no noise. Why did they need the car so urgently?”

“By Jove--yes,” said Wallace. “They had time to get to Calais and waylay Conrad. I believe you have hit upon the truth, Fouchard.”

“I’m sure of it. We were fools to give them the cue. Without Conrad’s help we are as we were.”

“Let us wait and see what the next train brings,” pleaded Yolande. “To kidnap anyone at Calais is not an easy matter.”

So the two men went to the station in the evening, and saw the train in. There were but a dozen passengers for Arveyes, and no Conrad.

“The devil!” said Fouchard viciously.

Wallace came home alone, for Fouchard had business to attend to in Arveyes, and said he would walk back later. He had scarcely got the car into the garage when a small boy was seen nosing round the château.

“What do you want?” asked Wallace in French.

“_Je cherche_ M’sieur Wallace.”

“I am he.”

The boy produced a piece of paper from his blouse. Some words were scrawled on it in French--so badly that he could scarcely decipher them. But at last he succeeded. The message ran:

“_Am a prisoner at a farm three kilos from Basset. It is called Mont Rouge. Messenger writing at my dictation as I cannot use hands.--_

“Conrad.”

He bade the boy wait and went inside the château to find Yolande. She saw at once that he had news of some importance.

“A message?”

“Yes--from Conrad. That gang have got him. Do you know a village called Basset?”

“Yes--it is twenty-five kilometres from here.”

“Read that.”

She did so and pursed her lips reflectively.

“Is it a ruse?”

“I don’t think so. But I’ll get the boy in and see what we can wring from him.”

The wondering boy was duly cross-questioned. His story had every sign of truth. He lived near Mont Rouge and had lost a kitten. On going near the farm he heard strange noises. They came from a cellar--through a grating. At first he ran away, but he crept back again and saw a face. Gaining courage, he got closer. A man behind the bars told him to write what he had written, and to bring it along to a M’sieur Wallace, who would reward him. He did not see anyone else on the farm. He thought the man who owned the place was away on holiday.

“Sounds genuine enough,” said Wallace. “Let me look up the map.”

He found Basset easily, and its position gave him reason to believe that at last they had located the hiding-place of Niels.

“I’m going there at once,” he said.

“Better take Fouchard.”

“I left him in Arveyes.”

“You can ring him up at the police station.”

“I’ll try.”

He got on to the gendarmerie, but was informed that Fouchard had just left, and was on his way back to Grammont.

“I can’t wait, Yolande. When Fouchard comes back tell him where I have gone. He can come after me. I hate to leave you alone, but I can’t miss this opportunity.”

“No, you must go, of course. But I wish you were not alone. Why not take Watkins?”

“I think he is better here,” he said significantly.

Then he remembered an important fact, and asked the boy how he managed to get to Grammont from so remote a place as Basset. The boy replied instantly. He had climbed on to the tank of a motorcar after it had stopped for petrol, and had had a free ride to within a mile of the château.

“He’s genuine,” said Wallace. “I’ll take him back with me.”

“You--you will take care?” she begged. “I fear they are capable of violence in an emergency.”

“I know it. But Fouchard will know where I am He ought to arrive an hour or so after me.”

She went outside the château to see him off, and ere he departed she gripped his hand warmly.

“Come back soon,” she murmured. “You--you seem part of my very existence.”

It was so unexpected he let his foot slip on the clutch and the Bentley almost jumped towards the gate. His heart was thrilled, for it was the first definite sign of anything more than friendship on her part. The boy had evidently never been a passenger in a fast car before, and he sat huddled in the corner of his seat like a frightened mouse, whilst the Bentley roared down the road.

“Which way?”

“_Tout droit!_”

Ten miles farther on the boy pointed to the left, but he left it rather late and the car performed a nerve-racking skid.

“_Mon Dieu!_”

“All right, sonny! There are some lights in the distance. Is that Basset?”

The boy gulped and nodded, and a few minutes later the straggling village was entered. It was a poverty-stricken district, for the war had desolated the place, and all kinds of weird and wonderful dwellings had been built upon the old ruins, out of corrugated iron, old army huts and so forth. Beyond these there was a network of narrow roads, and the boy’s local knowledge had to be resorted to at every few minutes.

At last Mont Rouge came to view. It was a squat farmhouse lying some distance off the road, and the only vehicular approach was so deep in mud that Wallace decided to leave the car under some trees, on a kind of “island” near the junction of the farm-track with the main road.

The boy showed no great desire to approach the dark farm, so Wallace got a few more details from him, and paid him off. He then climbed over the fence and made his way across the meadows to where Mont Rouge could be seen silhouetted against the moonlit sky. So far as he could see, there was not a gleam of light about the place, and he began to fear that Conrad must have been taken away since he had sent the message.

He remembered to bring a small electric torch with him, and with the aid of this he explored the back of the building, for the boy had informed him that the grating through which he had seen the face of Conrad was situated opposite an outhouse. He reached a door and gently tried the handle. It was locked. The light from the torch revealed tyre marks not far from him, and he saw that these led into a shed. But the shed was empty, though there was evidence that a car had been parked there recently.

At last he found the grating. It was a small affair--less than a foot in diameter and about the same depth. He knelt down and flashed the torch through it. Immediately the ray fell on a familiar face, and he uttered a low cry of joy.

“Connie!”

“Good lad! I wondered if you were coming.”

“Is any of the gang here?”

“I’m not sure. I heard the car leave about three hours ago, but could not see who was in it.”

“How can I get in?”

“Have you tried the doors?”

“I’ve tried the one close by. Is there another at the front?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go there. Keep quiet--I’ll be with you before very long.”

He went round the house and found the front entrance, but this, like the back, was in darkness and the door was locked. There was a kind of portico above it, supported by small pillars over which grew wistaria. The gnarled trunk gave him footing, and he swarmed on to the top and tried the bedroom window. It was latched, but there was room between the sashes through which to insert the blade of his knife. In two minutes he was inside. It was poorly furnished, contained an old four-post bed and a few awful prints. The door led him into the corridor from which a staircase descended. He went down this cautiously, for the stairs were old and creaked badly.

On reaching the hall he was in a quandary, for there were three doors leading off, but after a moment’s reflection he chose the farthermost one, believing that it would lead him to the kitchen and thence to the cellar. He was turning the handle when he heard a noise from behind, and swung round to see Walther facing him.

Wallace’s hand dived for his pistol, but Walther divined his intention and sprang at him like a panther. Despite his big size he was wonderfully agile, and his hands reached Wallace before the pistol could be got into action. The torch fell to the floor, but the hall was well illuminated by a light from the room from which Walther had emerged.

“Got you!” grunted Walther.

But he sadly underestimated the strength of his opponent. Wallace, though two stone lighter, was built like a gun, and was literally spoiling for a fight. He tripped Walther neatly, and the pair fell with a resounding bump, clutched in each other’s arms. Wallace had the good fortune to be on top, but his advantage did not last long. With a Herculean effort Walther flung him backward, and in a second was on his feet again.

It was now plain pugilism, in which all the odds were on the younger man. He forgot all about the pistol, and framed up to his stalwart adversary. Walther had some knowledge of the game, but not enough to compete with the trained boxer. In the confined space the fight went on for five minutes--a savage affair in which hard blows were struck. Then Walther began to show signs of distress. Reduced to the defensive, he strove to cover his jaw from the lightning drives. But Wallace was old at the game. He planted his right into the big ribs and as Walther’s hands came down he drove his left to the jaw.

There came a sound like a horse falling, and Walther’s fifteen stone lay huddled up on the dirty linoleum. Wallace immediately dragged the heavy body through the end door. It led to a stone-flagged kitchen and on one side of it was a capacious larder, with two stout bolts on the door. He shoved Walther inside and rammed home the bolts.

Retrieving his torch he discovered the door which led to the cellar. Twelve stone steps led down into the darkness, and there was another bolted door at the bottom. Inside this, lying on a pile of wood and coke, was Conrad, trussed like a fowl ready for roasting.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Walther. I had to deal with him. By Jove, they didn’t mean you to escape!”

“They pushed a filthy rag into my mouth, but I managed to get rid of it.… Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“The car. They’re back!”

Wallace heard it now--and voices. He slashed at the rope with his knife, and the bonds fell away.

“Quick!” he said. “We haven’t a moment to spare.”

But Conrad was slow, for one of his legs refused to function properly. Wallace rubbed it for him with all the vigour he possessed.

“Better?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll get out the way I came in--upstairs and through the bedroom window. Hurry!”

They reached the kitchen and heard Walther dealing smashing blows at the larder door. As Wallace reached the bedroom landing the front door opened. He looked back and saw Bertha about to enter. She saw him and also Conrad at the same moment.

“Niels!”

“Neck or nothing, Connie--come on!”

Both of them jumped clean from the portico on to a soft patch of pampas grass, and immediately made out of the garden and across the fields. When they were close upon the road Conrad looked back and saw two blazing car lights moving slowly--but towards them.

“They’re giving chase,” he said.