Away screamed the car again down the Brighton road. To the broad main street of Crawley village after crossing Crawley Down. Anthony slowed down in Crawley.
“Check up, Andrew . . . although I’ve no doubt . . . there’s one just over there.”
MacMorran entered a police ’phone-box. To be out again in a matter of seconds. “All right. They’ve made Handcross and are now close to Cuckfield. The front car is travelling fast. Faster, they say now, than it has been anywhere else on the road.”
Anthony nodded grimly at the news. “Do you know the country round Clayton Hill and Pyecombe, Andrew?”
“No—not too well—although I’ve been here before. Why?”
“I’ve a fancy that we shall finish up pretty close to there. Something seems to tell me so. Sit tight and hold your breath.”
The car flashed on. MacMorran felt a strange and sudden sinking in his stomach. He knew now that he must talk.
“They’ve a fair start of us, Mr. Bathurst. Hope it isn’t too much.”
“Don’t worry, Andrew. This isn’t quick murder. By an electric shock. It’s damned slow, let me tell you. In long drawn out stages. To say nothing of the time taken up in the preliminaries.”
MacMorran, rattled more than ever, blurted more words. “Why did they kill the old man differently?”
“Not being a boxer, Andrew! There’s your answer in one. Just a stager of scraps but no scrapper himself. Different! Autres temps, autres moeurs. Hang on and say ninety-nine. Here’s a nasty swerve coming. Hallo! There’s a motor-cyclist . . . wants to speak to us. That looks as though I must slow down. Look out, Andrew and see what he wants, will you? It may conceivably be a message for you.”
Anthony brought the car almost to a standstill. The cyclist drew up alongside them and spoke to the Inspector. MacMorran bent his head forward to listen.
“The second on the left, you say?”
“Yes, sir. I was to tell you that. Your men will hide their car and then wait for you and further instructions.”
MacMorran scrutinized the man’s face and then passed on the information. The car flew forward again. For nearly three miles. At length they made the turning. All around there loomed large trees with ghostly swaying branches. The country had suddenly become wild and wooded. MacMorran shivered. Anthony was compelled to reduce pace. The road was not good. The farther they went the worse it became. The car lurched and bucketted. With the night growing older, the wind was rising in fury and whistled in shrill treble through the tree branches with an almost malevolent menace. Suddenly MacMorran leant forward and touched Anthony’s sleeve.
“It’s been raining here. Not long ago too. But stopped. Notice how strong the wind is?”
The car wheels dipped into a pot-hole and MacMorran’s body went lurching against Anthony’s shoulders. “Stop,” he said, “stop. Townsend and Jessop are waiting over there. I arranged for a signal from them. There . . . there you are . . . look . . . two flashes.”
“Perhaps they’ll tell us where their car is,” muttered Anthony, “for where the merry hell . . .”
He stopped the car suddenly for MacMorran to get out. Anthony waited.
“Follow me,” said the Inspector after a few seconds consideration . . . “there’s a path of sorts here. And it’s not so muddy as it might have been. I can see our men.” Anthony took the car along under MacMorran’s guidance for some way. At length he stopped. Townsend and Jessop stood there with MacMorran.
“How far’s the car you followed?” Anthony asked the question of them immediately.
Jessop answered. “We were well behind it all the way down, in fact, you passed us once. They never knew we were on their tail. When they first turned off the road, we went straight on and then turned back again. According to my reckoning that car’s about a quarter of a mile away. Can’t be much more than that. I could see its lights about five minutes since.”
“Good,” returned Anthony. “With me, then . . . and each man keep his eyes open. You lead the way, Jessop, will you? Towards where you think you saw those car lights. Be careful. I don’t want to be seen if we can help it.” They made their way slowly towards the edge of the wooded plantation. The path was rough and uneven. When they had almost reached the road again, Jessop stopped and motioned the others back. “Somebody coming. Keep well back—everybody.”
All four of them halted in their tracks. Jessop was right. Footsteps were coming down the road. Anthony and the others used trees to hide themselves behind. They were now but a few yards from the road again. The footsteps drew nearer. Suddenly a man came into sight. A blurred figure. But of abnormal height. The man came nearer with a curiously swinging stride. In an instant Anthony recognized him. There was no mistaking that height and that unusual walk. The man passed by. Anthony beckoned to MacMorran to break cover from behind his tree. “Recognize him, Andrew?” he whispered.
“Ay,” returned MacMorran laconically. “Asater! It’s comfortin’ to think that we’re comin’ across auld acquaintances.”
Anthony whispered to Jessop. “After him, Jessop . . . but give him a bit of a start first. The darkness will help us and the wind will help to deaden any sounds we make.” They made the road, in the wake of Jessop and kept on the way that Asater had taken. Every now and then they could hear his footfalls in the distance ahead of them. Anthony and his companions crept nearer. And then . . . with an almost sinister suddenness, Asater’s footsteps ceased to be heard . . . and silence reigned save for the soughing of the wind. Anthony passed Jessop and pushed forward for about another hundred yards before halting his little force. The three men gathered round him.
“He’s gone,” said Anthony in a low voice, “and I’m hanged if I know where . . . any of you bursting with ideas?”
He obtained no response. There was neither sight nor sound of anything beyond the wind wailing. MacMorran shook his head blankly. There they stood on the rough road that was not much more than a cart-track. Until, suddenly and ominously, there came the sound of a low, dry cough from somewhere away to the right of them. Anthony gestured silently to the three others. They followed him in the direction from where the cough had come. Across broken ground and tangled grass roots . . . until without further warning, they came upon the strangest sight. A man confronted them. He was leaning on some support. Straw-coloured hair hung over his shoulders as a shaggy mane and he seemed to have a violent stoop. Old, tattered grey trousers covered his legs, a dark-blue sailor’s jersey went to his neck, and round that neck and across his back, pinned tight to the throat, was a woman’s dark red shawl.
As Anthony approached closely to him, he showed ugly yellow teeth . . . like a dog’s . . . and he mouthed uncouth noises. It was at that moment when Anthony saw on what he leant for support. There was a square slab of stone, like a mammoth tomb in a gigantic cathedral . . . and at one end of the square slab, Anthony could see a narrow flight of stone steps. And beyond the stone steps . . . a black pit . . . which looked to be bottomless . . . and as awesome a place in that bizarre setting as the eyes of man could look upon.