The name of the second hotel they were going to? The name of the … Ben stared. But before his face could register the emotion that was going on behind it, his companion issued a swift instruction.
‘Pick up the sack!’ she muttered. ‘Quick!’
They were under observation again. Sims was glancing back over his shoulder. Ben bent down in a flurry, slipped, and clasped the sack. But he went on thinking—you can think in any position. Name of the second hotel, eh? The second place they were making for? Why, that would mean … No, would it?… Well, it might, you know, if …
‘Is he dying?’ came Sim’s voice from the distance.
Ben leapt up, rising as quickly as he had descended. The sack was on his back. He didn’t know how it had got there. He staggered forward with it, in the direction of the calling voice.
‘Manage it?’ asked the girl at his side.
‘Yus,’ murmured Ben.
‘If you get tired, I can lend you a hand,’ she suggested.
‘Wot, a gal?’ he objected. ‘Go hon!’
‘Go on yourself!’ she retorted. ‘This isn’t a question of politeness. It’s just a question of whether you can last out.’
‘Last hout? When there’s trouble arahnd, I’m always last hout and fust hin.’
‘I believe you’d joke on your deathbed!’
‘’Corse! Ain’t I jest toljer? It’s the on’y way ter stop yerself wobblin’.’
She looked at him, hesitating. Then she turned her head, and stared at the three men who were in advance. Faggis and Greene had paused, and were addressing Sims as he reached them.
‘Something’s worrying them,’ frowned the girl. ‘I expect it’s us. I’m going on ahead, if you don’t mind, or they’ll think we’re getting too thick.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Ben. ‘The blasted orficer’s comin’ back for yer.’
‘And then there’s Miss Holbrooke,’ she whispered. ‘I’d better be near her, in case she comes to. She may need help.’
‘So may you,’ he said. ‘If yer does, give us a shart.’
She smiled, and went forward to meet the third officer, while Ben trudged behind with the sack.
Ben himself was now the man with the sack! The thought come to him uncomfortably. The sack he was carrying contained food and other necessary odds and ends. What had it been originally designed to contain? He glanced at Sims, who was leading the party with Faggis a few paces to the rear. Sims had just reached the first trees of the gloomy forest. Ben shuddered.
Now he, too, was entering the forest. They were following a narrow, winding track. It wound gently upwards for a while, and the trees became thicker as they ascended. The trees seemed to be crowded nearer and nearer, as though anxious to watch the little procession go by. ‘We’re a reg’lar Lord Mayor’s Show for ’em, ain’t we?’ thought Ben. Of course, when you looked at the trees, they stood very straight and still. It was only when you caught them out of the corner of your eye that you found them moving, and advancing, and whispering.
The sky became blotted out. Ahead were dark green shadows through which the ascending path wound like a small, too venturesome child. Behind, also, were dark green shadows. A door seemed to have been closed between them and the beach. Ben fought a sudden longing for the beach. It had been clear and sunny there. If something came at you, there was space to run. And then, bordering the beach was the water, on some invisible part of which the Atalanta sailed, with its sense of orderliness and security. True, Ben had not experienced any of the security. He had experienced all the Atalanta’s most insecure and uncomfortable places. But there had been law-abiding folk within hail, and even the throb-throb of the engines had been the pulse of organised, civilised work. Here, in this forest, too thick even for the sun to pierce, there were nothing but ghosts or murderous solidarity. ‘Yus, there’s three murderers ’ere,’ thought Ben, ‘and a couple o’ gals, one drugged, and me!’ A pretty gruesome Lord Mayor’s Show!
The path grew steeper. They were now beginning to ascend a definite slope. Not a nice, wide slope, but a narrowing slope, with great dark blobs on each side denoting cavities. The procession halted. Greene took Faggis’s load. Ben shifted his own from one shoulder to another. As he did so, he suddenly found Sims a yard away, watching him.
‘Like the view?’ inquired Sims.
‘It’s better when its back’s turned,’ answered Ben.
‘I think I must try your own back view,’ said Sims. ‘It may help you to get a move on.’
‘’Oo’s goin’ ter git a move on hup this mounting?’ demanded Ben.
‘We all are,’ replied Sims. ‘You included. We’ve some way to go yet, and I’ve given orders in front to mend the pace.’
‘I can’t go no quicker, not with this sack.’
‘You can, and you will.’
‘’Ow?’
‘I’ve a simple little device that will make you.’
He drew a step nearer and poked his revolver in Ben’s back.
‘Yer know,’ said Ben, ‘barrin’ the Kaiser, yer the nicest man I hever met.’
The journey continued. Sims, adhering to his new policy, remained in the rear. Several times Ben felt the point of the revolver between his shoulder blades, and accelerated materially. As the path grew steeper, the acceleration grew harder, but the point of the revolver was ruthless, and kept him on.
‘Wot would you say if I was ter drop dahn dead?’ puffed Ben once, as he felt a particularly hard jab.
‘If you stop to talk, you will undoubtedly drop down dead,’ replied Sims.
But five minutes later, Ben risked conversation again. The climb was beating him. He tripped on loose stones, and once fell flat. His breath was going, and also his nerve. They were now emerging from the thick forest and their track was bordered by chasms and dizzy depths.
‘’Ow much longer?’ he panted.
‘If it’s more than fifteen minutes longer,’ replied the voice behind him, ‘we shall be going over this ridge without the sun to help us.’
The sun had greeted them again as they rose out of the forest, but it was now very low indeed, and their shadows were grotesquely elongated. Ben noticed, with something of a shock, that his own shadow ended at the waist some twenty feet away, and that his head was over the side of the road, probably a thousand feet below!
‘Well, I’m done in, any’ow,’ said Ben; ‘so yer might as well know it.’
The revolver touched his back again.
‘I tell yer, it’s no good,’ gasped Ben, almost blubbering. ‘If yer feels ’ow yer feels, yer can’t ’elp ’ow yer feels.’
The revolver pressed harder. Ben dropped his sack.
‘I shall count three,’ warned Sims.
‘One, two, three!’ said Ben. ‘Now I done it for yer.’
He closed his eyes and opened his mouth and waited. Nothing happened. When he opened his eyes, he saw Greene clambering back towards them. Sims had summoned him, and Greene looked surly.
‘Pick it up, Greene,’ ordered Sims, ‘and be slippy.’
‘Bah! The fellow’s only shamming,’ growled Greene. ‘Think I’m so damned fresh?’
‘Damned fresh,’ returned Sims. ‘If the fellow were shamming I’d know it!’ His voice rose suddenly to a bark. ‘Do you hear me, Greene, or don’t you?’
The third officer scowled, and glanced at the revolver. Then he glanced ahead. Faggis was now carrying Miss Holbrooke, and Molly Smith was walking beside him.
‘Oh, all right,’ muttered Greene; ‘but if you’re not using him as a pack horse, why you don’t tip the fool over the mountain beats me hollow!’
He picked up the bag, turned, and made after the others. Sims paused before continuing himself, and gazed at Ben speculatively.
‘I wonder if he’s right,’ he mused. ‘Shall I tip you over, my man?’
‘If yer does,’ answered Ben, ‘I’ll call a bobby.’
‘You know, Ben,’ observed Sims, drawing an inch nearer, ‘you don’t quite believe in me yet, do you?’
‘Wot’s that?’
‘Faggis has two murders to his credit, and Greene goes about with chloroform and injection needles. It was Greene who gave Miss Holbrooke her present injection, you may like to know. Then Greene tried to murder you, also, didn’t he? But, so far, you haven’t seen any of my own activities. So you still imagine that when I poke you behind with my revolver it won’t go off—that when I consider tipping you over into a precipice there is no chance that I will actually do it—’
He seized Ben’s coat collar as he spoke, and jerked him towards the edge.
‘… And that, behind my talk, I am really quite an amiable old man, whose favourite occupations are Ludo and stamp collecting!’
Ben found himself staring over the edge, looking down at the tops of trees twenty thousand miles below.
‘Fer Gawd’s sake, git on with it!’ he squeaked.
‘I will,’ replied Sims, and pushed him.
Ben jerked out over space. There was nothing but space between him and those infinitely distant tree-tops. The alarm-bell rang in Heaven and Hell, and all the inhabitants left their occupations hurriedly to receive him. ‘Ben’ll be here in a minute,’ rang the cry. ‘He’s only got to hit those trees.’ ‘Nonsense—he’ll die through loss of breath on the way down!’ cried another theorist. ‘Don’t you worry,’ cried a third. ‘He’s dying of fright before he starts!’ Then the question arose as to which was to have him. A red devil thrust out two arms holding a large sack. An angel held out a golden fishing rod. ‘Go away!’ hissed the red devil. ‘He’s coming down, and Hell’s always at the bottom.’ ‘But I can pull him up,’ retorted the angel, ‘and I know he’d prefer to go to Heaven. He’s begging me at this moment. Can’t you hear him?’ ‘He told a lie to the captain about his mother.’ ‘Yes, but he says he’s sorry.’ ‘Well, what about that old man he bound and gagged on Newmarket Heath?’ ‘Don’t be silly! You know that wasn’t true! He’s got a soft heart, and he cries if you look at him. He’s crying now. And, if he’d lived, he’d have helped these two poor girls—’ ‘Go away! Here he comes! Here he comes! Right into my sack …’
Bong! A violent jerk! Space disappeared. Hard ground was under him again.
‘And, if there’s any more nonsense,’ said Mr Sims, ‘the next time I will drop you!’
A foot away was the small stump of a withered tree that had been struck a year ago by lightning. Ben stretched his arms forward and put them round it.
‘Get up,’ ordered Mr Sims.
‘Can’t fer a mo’, guv’nor,’ replied Ben. ‘I’m goin’ ter be sick.’