Chapter Twenty-One

Clayton’s Story

Scott took out his gold cigarette-case, flipped it open and thrust it in front of Chatworth, who shook his head. Scott’s grin was almost a sneer as he lit a cigarette himself.

“My, my,” he said to Peel. “You get around, sergeant.”

“What are doing here?” countered Peel.

“Business,” said Scott. “Perriman’s want a special airtight carton for some of this stuff, and I want to find out what the storage conditions are like.”

“I’m not satisfied with your explanation,” Peel said.

“That’s all you’ll get,” said Jeremiah flatly.

Chatworth asked: “How long have you been here?”

“About an hour.”

“How many people have you seen down here?”

“Not many – they’re working upstairs tonight.”

“Have you seen Inspector West?” demanded Chatworth.

Scott opened his mouth and gently rubbed the corner.

“So West’s in trouble, is he? Lost him?”

Chatworth said: “Mr Scott, I don’t like your manner, and I agree with Sergeant Peel that your answers have been extremely unsatisfactory. I shall ask—”

He was interrupted by a sudden exclamation from their guide, who had gone round the corner. Peel ran forward and saw their guide standing and staring at a hole in the wall. The passage was thick with rubble, bricks, and dirt. Near it were footprints and little blobs of dirt; a number of men had walked this way recently.

Peel reached the hole quickly, shone a torch inside, and stepped through.

The wall was nearly a foot thick, and beyond it was a narrow passage. The torchlight fell on crumbled earth and bricks, much the same as that at the other end of the passage. There must have been two explosions, and both ends of the tunnel were blocked.

The others joined Peel inside the hole, and Scott said softly: “Well, you’ve certainly found something!”

Peel switched on his torch and swivelled the beam swiftly. Next moment, the beam struck a man’s foot. It travelled up the body swiftly, but before it fell upon the face, Peel knew that it wasn’t Roger West.

It was Clayton.

Orders were given for digging to start at this end immediately. Clayton’s head was injured, but he regained consciousness while they bent over him.

He was taken to hospital, but was unable to tell a coherent story. The escaping crooks had either left just before Scott’s arrival or else he had seen them. The escape-hole was next to a small, steel door, painted the colour of the walls, and which they obviously hadn’t been able to open. It had been jammed by the blast from the explosion.

Peel was in the warehouse cellar; Bill Sloan; Eddie Day, who had arrived only half an hour before, just after four o’clock – heaven knew how he had managed to learn of the trouble. There was a woman, too, from a nearby Sailors’ Mission, who had brought in food and a tea urn and cups and saucers. They rattled on a hastily erected trestle-table.

And Janet was there, fetched by Chatworth, tense and pale.

The men were still working in the tunnel, and they had cleared nearly twenty feet. Janet knew that they were afraid that they might find Roger buried under the rubble.

Chatworth was talking to a big fellow to whom she had been vaguely introduced – the local superintendent. Janet watched them, rather dully. She knew now something of what the miner’s wives felt like when there was a fall in the pits and their men were entombed.

Entombed …

“Oh, Mrs West.” It was the Mission woman, who was just at her elbow. “I want to slip away for a few minutes to get some more bread, I wonder if you would look after the urn for me.”

“The urn—oh—oh yes.”

“Thank you so much.”

It was good to have something to do, and the little woman probably realised it. Men, smeared with dirt, their faces streaked with perspiration, came from the tunnel and had a cup of tea and a sandwich, while others took their places; a dozen were working in relays of three, now, and there was a chain of men moving buckets of earth and pieces of rubble, dumping them in a corner of the cellar.

Someone inside the tunnel exclaimed: “Careful!”

“Found something?”

“Looks like …”

The cup fell from Janet’s hand, tea splashed on to her shoes and stockings. The man waiting swung round, the tea forgotten. Chatworth and Peel sprang to Janet’s side, and the little woman stopped spreading butter on the bread.

“Take it easy,” a man said.

“It’s his foot.”

His foot!

Chatworth tightened his grip on Janet’s arm but did not speak. She walked round the trestle-table towards the hole, and Chatworth went with her. She peered along the well-lighted tunnel. The lanterns were hanging at intervals of a couple of feet on each wall. She stepped through the hole, and Chatworth followed her. Now the men were standing on piles of rubble and working from the top.

She saw Roger’s leg.

It was clear from the knee; one leg – no, his other leg was visible now.

Janet began to tremble.

“Easy, m’dear,” said Chatworth. “Easy.” He looked round. “The doctor there?”

“Waiting,” said Peel. “We’ve got oxygen, we’re all ready.”

“Good.”

Janet’s trembling became more violent.