The Glory Fades
TRAMPING men approached the door. The door opened and Bony took cover behind the wall drapery. Benson entered, followed by six men, stalwart and formal in evening clothes. Individually, none would have gained special notice among a gathering of business executives, but collectively they were distinguished by racial characteristics and bearing.
“To you, gentlemen, is the honour,” Benson told them. “To you I am to transfer the Trust which has been mine for a year, and you are to conduct the Trust from me to those appointed to receive it.
“Captain Conrad will land the plane on a property I own near Portland. There a van will be placed at your service, and the van will transport the Trust and yourselves to a wharf at which members of my launch crew will be waiting. When the Trust and yourselves, with my launch crew, are transferred to the submarine, the launch will be sunk without trace.
“I beg of you, in your report to the commander of the submarine, to convey my regret that I failed to take every precaution to prevent any set of circumstances interfering with The Plan set for this twenty-eighth day of March, and, in consequence, being compelled to expose the Trust to unnecessary risks. As you know, The Plan included transport to Portland by road, as being the safest, and the enforced alteration to air transport will forward the time of boarding the launch by three hours, and the launch will be three hours early at the rendezvous with the submarine.
“Mrs. Tegen is to go with you. Ernst, who is to drive the van, and Wilhelm and Mrs. Tegen are now with the plane. Miss Benson will remain with me. So, too, will Heinrich and Simpson. We shall not live to be arrested. That is all.”
Benson strode to the organ and pressed a button, which set in motion the mechanism controlling the stage curtain. Bony watched them mount to the stage, where Benson gently closed the lid of the casket. The six men took up the casket and bore it from the building, Benson leaving after them. Their feet scuffled on the gravel without, became as the feet of one man marching, marching…
It could not be permitted. At all costs to himself it must not be permitted. Bony tore himself free from the wall draperies and dashed to the door, no longer taking count of the interior lighting revealing him to anyone without.
The aeroplane engines were throbbing with smooth power. A car was approaching at terrific speed. The porch light was on. The house roof was etched against the sky, now paling with the advancing dawn. To the right, Benson’s flashlight revealed the way to the bunched men carrying the casket.
The noise of the car engine drowned out the sound of the aeroplane as it entered the space before the house, skidded with locked wheels, rocked, and almost turned over. From it appeared Simpson, who rushed to the observatory door, looked in, turned, and ran for the house porch, on which stood Cora Benson.
“The gate was forced, Cora!” he shouted. “It was open. We got out and examined it. Someone jammed stones under it to keep it open. We were looking round when Heinrich fell. I heard the bullet slap him. They’re using silencers. They shot at me too. It couldn’t have been the same people who broke into the hotel and set off the alarm. Aren’t you going? Come on-we mustn’t miss the plane.”
“I am not going,” the woman said slowly, adding: “Neither are you.”
“But I must go. I can’t stay here. I can’t-”
Leaving the porch, he ran along the house front to take the path after Benson and the bearers. His dress-coat was split up the back, and one shoulder of it hung down and flapped as he ran.
Bony followed. He could have winged Simpson and arrested him for the murder of Edward O’Brien, but who and what was Simpson now compared with the contents of that casket being borne along the garden paths to the waiting aeroplane? Simpson was shouting to Benson, and Bony could hear his voice, panting, imploring, fearful.
“You must let me go too, Carl. There was someone there at the gate. Heinrich got it. They’re using silencers. They’ve propped the gate open with stones ready for the police cars. I can’t remain here, not now, Carl. I can’t go back to the hotel.”
“No, Jim, you can’t go back to the hotel,” Benson said coldly. “And you cannot go in the plane.”
“But I must, Carl. The police will know everything. They’ll know about those girls who’ve escaped, know how you and Cora forced them to work. They’ll get to know about Ted O’Brien. I didn’t tell you, but I thought I saw that someone had been in the place where I buried him. I tell you they’ll get to know everything, even about Price and how he was shot at your orders.”
The small procession halted at the garden gate whilst Benson opened it. Beyond it the new daylight was drowning the night on the floor of the valley. Bony stopped, waited for the bearers to get clear of the gate that he might detour round them to reach the plane and disable it with bullets fired into the revolving propellers. The procession passed through the gateway and Simpson resumed his frantic pleading.
“Let me go, Carl! Let me go, please, please. I’ve given everything to the Trust, done everything. We must all go, you and Cora and I. The police-”
“You cannot go, Jim. The plane will be fully loaded, and the Trust is not going to be endangered with overloading. You are the weak link in this organisation, which otherwise would have been perfect. We’ve both made mistakes. We both have to pay the price, I within a few minutes, you now. Was Heinrich shot dead?”
“Yes. I’m certain of that. Cora-”
“Cora will never fail. Nor will I. You would, and so-”
There was a spurt of flame and a sharp report. Simpson stumbled, lurched forward, tried to keep up, fell. Benson stooped over him and fired again with the weapon pressed against his friend’s head. The bearers did not falter. They went on to the aeroplane standing about a hundred yards distant from the gateway.
The light was strong enough to observe a running man, strong enough for Benson to dispense with his torch. Out here beyond the garden were no trees to retain the darkness, and Bony had to pass the bearers to get at the plane. The range beyond the valley curled its crests to greet the dawning, but the beauty of it was not registered on the mind of a man seeking for cover in which he could pass the bearers. There was no cover other than the white-painted post-and-rail fence erected to keep stock back from the swirling creek.
Without sound Bony raced to the fence, intending to run along its far side to the machine waiting quite close to it. The fence appeared strong. Lady Luck struck cruelly. The rail gave beneath his weight as he vaulted it, splintering with noise.
“Go on,” shouted Benson. “Wait for nothing. I’ll keep this fellow pinned.”
Bony had heard the snap of the bone in his left arm, but he felt no pain as he rolled over upon his chest to see Benson emerge at the rear of the bearers and begin to run towards him. Benson dropped, sprawled forward, opened fire, sent a bullet into the post behind which Bony had instinctively taken cover.
Again Benson fired and again the bullet thudded into the fence post, and the post was only five inches in diameter. Bony tried to shrink his body, and he wanted to yell when a giant’s stick lashed his side. The pain passed and his body felt numb. Another pain tore upward the length of his broken arm, and with all his will power he thrust aside that pain to concentrate on aiming at Benson.
Benson was inching towards him. Beyond Benson a great area of tenuous mist about the electrically-controlled gate was flooded with the lights of Mulligan’s cars. Benson fired again, and Bony heard the sound of the pistol and felt the wind made by the bullet as it passed through the inch-wide corridor between his face and the post.
The plane’s engines burst into louder song, but he dared not look at it. Benson was less than forty feet away, calm, cold, fearless, aiming with dreadful precision, and Bony had to roll himself away from the post to rest on the good right arm that he might aim at Benson.
Benson’s next bullet entered his left leg above the knee, and it felt as though the leg had been neatly torn away. He saw Benson’s white face and steadied himself, held his breathing and fired. He wanted to shout his exultation when Benson sank into the grass and did not move. For four seconds Bony watched him and knew Benson would never move again.
The exultation passed as swiftly as it had seized him. The bearers were passing the casket up a short ladder to those in the plane. A man was crouched before one of the landing wheels. The spinning propellers were like a flight of dragon-flies at the level of the eastern range crests. There was still time to reach the machine and fire into those revolving discs.
Despite the one broken arm and the one useless leg, he managed to drag himself up the post to the rail and then half lie over it. The ground was shuddering. It was all passing from him: valley, aeroplane, men, homestead. That wretched rail on the far side of the post had beaten him, robbed him of most of the glory. If only he could move nearer to the machine. He might… He tried to slide his body along the railing. The police would get the casket. Mulligan would have every policeman south of Baden Park on the look-out for the aeroplane. It would have to land somewhere-near Portland, Benson had said. The police would stop the van before it reached Portland, stop them from transferring the casket to the boat. The police at Portland would be waiting for the van, warned, instructed by telephone.
But, to use Benson’s words, not to him would be the honour of presenting the casket and its contents to the world through Mulligan; of saying to Mulligan and his men: “This was the motive for the abduction of two young women, of the murder of Detective Price, of the murder of Yardman O’Brien. This…” and raising the lid of the casket to let them see who rested under the glass.
His left arm was a great weight, almost more than he could continue lifting with his shoulder. The leg wasn’t so bad, but a man couldn’t do much with only one leg, in addition to only one hand and arm. His clothes on the left side of him must be on fire and were scorching him. How far away was that plane? Eighty yards! Perhaps he could put a bullet into it from eighty yards. He must try that. The men with the casket had disappeared, had passed up the ladder. A man was removing the wheel chocks. Then he was running to the ladder. Now he was going up the ladder. He kicked the ladder away and it fell to the ground. The aeroplane was alive. The ground was shuddering and it rocked the fence railing. The noise was terrific. The range was blotted out by wings. Only the sky was still. And in the sky was the aeroplane, flying over the house, turning away from it to head towards the range whose mighty wave crests were on fire. Smaller and smaller and turning from silver to gold, the machine dwindled to the size of a bee, which appeared to hover for a long time between the gilded teeth of the distant range. A cavern of the clouds received it.
Then Shannon was standing beside him, and the American’s strong fingers were taking the automatic from his hand.
“Fetch Mulligan,” Bony said tonelessly.
“Mulligan’s on the job,” Shannon told him. “You’re in a bad way, pal. Better come off the fence and lie down. Where did you get it?”
“Never mind me, Shannon. Bring Mulligan-quick.”
“Don’t worry, Bony, old pal. Mulligan’s headed this way. There’s cops all over the scenery. I’ll lower you down. Smashed leg, eh! Clothes full of blood, too. Busted arm as well. Just take her easy. Wish’t I’d come sooner. Me and the girls followed Simpson on the bike, but what a hope of catching up with his Buick. Left the girl friends getting a little of their own back on the Benson woman. Aimed a gun at us, and I knocked it out of her hand with a throat slitter. Then Mavis grabbed the gun. Left her itching to pull the trigger, and the other one urging the Benson woman to do something to give an excuse. Let’s get your coat off and find out what’s doing.”
The sun had set and it was growing dark. He heard Mulligan’s voice and he struggled against a yielding something which held him close. He must tell Mulligan-about the casket, where they were taking it. He heard Mulligan say:
“What’s this? Inspector Bonaparte? Is he dead?”
He tried to tell Mulligan, but no one heeded. He could not see Mulligan or Shannon, and he wished Shannon would shut up and let him speak. He must tell Mulligan about the casket before-before…
Shannon’s voice seemed far away:
“No, I guess heain’t dead yet. He’s a real guy. Hit three times and still shooting at aeroplanes. What a guy! What a pal! There’s twenty million cops in the world, and of the lot he’s the only pal of theShannons of Texas.”
He dreamed much and often. Faces appeared in his dreams. Many he did not recognise, but among them were the faces of Superintendent Bolt, Inspector Mulligan, Glen Shannon, and one girl who had glorious auburn hair and another whose face was very beautiful.
When he awoke from his dreams the first thing of which he was conscious was of being in bed. Well, there was nothing so remarkable in that, because beds were invented to sleep in. Then into the white ceiling swam a face in which were two of the bluest eyes he had ever looked into, a face crowned with a nurse’s veil.
She smiled down at him and he tried to smile at her. Then he went to sleep, and the next time he awoke there was another nursing sister who came to bend over him, and her eyes were large and grey.
“What is the date, Sister?” he asked.
“Don’t bother your head about dates. Don’t talk-not yet.”
“What is the date, Sister?” he again asked.
“Well, it’s the fourth of April,” she conceded. “Now just lie quiet. Doctor will want to see you. Please don’t fret.”
She watched his eyes cloud and she thought her patient was about to weep. When she saw his lips moving and the effort to speak, she thought it wise to listen and soothe.
“Did they trace the plane, Sister?” he asked weakly, and she answered:
“Yes. It was found near Portland. It was deserted and none of those on board have been found, as far as I know. Now you really must not talk any more, and I must fetch Doctor.”
“Your finest achievement, Bony,” Superintendent Bolt told him the next day. “Finding those two girls and getting them away was damned good work. The newspapers are full of it. Like us, they’re raring to know the whys and wherefores. You just take your time and tell your old pal about it. Must have been quite a ruddy war.”
“You did not arrest the people who got away in the plane?” Bony asked.
“No. The machine was landed on a farm owned by Benson seven miles out from Portland. It wasn’t located until the afternoon of that day it flew from Baden Park, because Mulligan had to go as far as Dunkeld to communicate. Telephone wires were cut in half a dozen places, and that caused vital delay. Having found the plane, enquiries resulted in learning that a van had unloaded a large box and several men into a small boat, which took all hands and their box to Benson’s ocean-going launch, which at once put to sea. The next day a sea-search was made for the launch with boats and planes, but it was not sighted. They’re still hunting.”
“Just too bad, Super, that I couldn’t stay on my feet long enough to report to Mulligan. What of the Benson woman? Did they take her?”
“Yes. But she won’t talk, and we can only charge her with abduction-so far.”
“What did they get from Shannon?”
“Nothing but Mavis, Mavis, Mavis. Says he won’t crowd you.”
“You are not holding him, are you?”
“No. Oh no. He’s being married this morning. Mulligan’s taking time off to be his best man. Now tell us the story-or I’ll bust.”
In fair sequence Bony related his experiences from the time he had entered Baden Park by the back door, the only item not included being what he had seen in the casket; that fantastic idea, that face he had seen with the aid of a spluttering match, that glimpse of the unbelievable.
“They were a bad lot, all right,” Bolt continued. “Old Man Simpson was nearly frightened to death when Mulligan and his crowd went through the hotel. The fright made him properly balmy, poor old bloke. Mulligan says the place was wired, and they hadn’t been insidemore’n a minute when they found that their entry raised the alarm at Baden Park. There was nothing else, no evidence worth a hoot. Now, Bony, please tell your pal what was in the box.”
“I don’t know, Super.”
“Oh yes, you do.”
Bony closed his eyes as though he were tired, as, indeed, he was.
The sister intervened, saying that her patient was exhausted and that the Superintendent must go. Bony looked up into the troubled face of a man for whom he had great respect and not a little liking and he said:
“I can make a couple of guesses what was in the box, Super, and perhaps when we have both retired I may tell you what those guesses are. Had I been able to capture the box and its contents, the world, I think, might have been startled.
“I made a very great mistake when I guessed I had killed the butler, Heinrich, and I am not making another mistake by guessing. Had I made certain whether Heinrich was dead or alive, and, if alive, had taken measure to incapacitate him, he would not have turned up to give the alarm. Ah me, Super! I am a vain fool. If only I had not attempted to grab all the glory. If only I had waited for Mulligan.”
“What was in the box?” pleaded Superintendent Bolt. “Tell us your guess. Go on-be a sport.”
“Well, Super, I have the idea-the idea, mind you-that the contents of that box were of supreme importance to Benson and his associates.”
Bolt sighed. He shook his head and said with exaggerated emphasis:
“You’re telling me.”
He watched the smile flit into Bony’s eyes, and he heard Bony say with slow and equal emphasis:
“You have, I fear, been associating with Glen Shannon from Texas.”