THE HOUSE appeared to be deserted. A vague mass in the night, it stood about four yards back from the road in what had once been a cultivated garden but was now a wilderness of weeds and overgrown shrubs.
Del opened a broken picket gate and went cautiously up a tiled path to the front door. He listened intently for a sound from within, but heard only that gentle sough of waves from the nearby beach. No hint of light showed between the slats of Venetian blinds behind the windows.
He moved carefully along a path to the rear and returned along the other side. Everywhere there was darkness and silence, and the adjacent houses seemed as deserted as this one, and just as dilapidated. But for a glimmer or two from windows some distance down the road, the whole neighbourhood appeared to be dead.
Once more he cursed the long-nosed driver, yet he could not be sure that he had been duped. Chavez might listen to him and search the house, but Chavez was a long way from the spot.
He was moving to take another look at the back premises when a faint sound made him doubly alert. A thin slit of light broke the darkness; a dim ray, as instantaneous as the quick flick of a camera’s shutter.
It might have been caused by the movement of a blind or the opening of a door, but it was not from the house. It came from some distance in the rear.
Again he went cautiously along the side path. A tangled back garden of fruit trees and lush grass sloped gently downward, and the path, overgrown in places, led him on.
Now the shape of a tall out-building loomed against the lower stars; a strange structure, resembling a barn more than anything else. Like the house, it was dark and seemingly deserted, yet Del was sure it was the source of that momentary gleam.
Listening intently, he heard a lapping of water, and when he moved closer he realised that it came from within. Puzzled, he passed stealthily to the far end and there found the explanation.
The structure was a clapboard boat-house on a tidal creek or inlet, and the upper floor, probably a sail-loft, roofed a dock or landing-stage. The tide was coming in through an open gateway, lapping at the timbers. At the full, it would furnish enough water for a small craft to enter or leave. And from above a dim lamp shone through a dingy window, as if it had been put there to guide someone in from the creek; someone who might arrive at any moment.
Panic held Del rigid for a moment. Anne was here, and in imminent danger of being taken away. The obvious conclusion was that the kidnapper had held her here all day, waiting for nightfall and high tide. With the tide rising rapidly, there was no time to waste. Before he could bring the police, it would be too late.
The light through the dingy window revealed the rail of a narrow balcony that appeared to run round the whole of the upper floor. No doubt there were steps to this gallery somewhere on the garden side, but Del did not look for them. Retreating a little from the creek, he measured the height, leaped, got a hold on the flooring, and raised himself till he could reach the lower railing.
It was an easy matter to gain the balcony after that, and he made a quick examination. There were windows along the side, but they were all obscured by dark blinds. He could see no means of entry, so he moved with cat-quiet steps till he was crouching below the lighted pane at the seaward end. Then he rose up slowly and looked inside.
The loft was a storehouse of marine junk and other rubbish: old sails, broken timbers, lengths of rope, discarded paint pots, fishing tackle, petrol cans. At the far end, his back to the window, a man lolled on a packing-case, reading a paper. Del rubbed some of the grime from the pane, raised himself another inch, and looked again.
Anne was lying on a canvas camp-bed, apparently asleep.
Del took in the essential details carefully. There was a door at the far end, and it must have been the momentary opening of this that he had seen from the garden. Since it had been used so recently, the chances were that it would yield to a push. There were no bolts on it; only a heavy, old-fashioned lock. Del peered, but could not decide whether there was a key in the lock; the light supplied by a single hurricane-lamp was too dim.
The solitary guard was a big fellow, obviously an awkward customer. If he were alert, he must see any movement of the door, but it would take him a moment to get on to his feet and another split second might be gained by surprise. From the door to his packing-case was about three yards; a quick step and a leap as Del measured it.
In the silence the lapping of water was loud. If a craft was coming, it must come very soon.
Del went quietly but swiftly along the side gallery towards the door, going over his plan of attack as he did so.
It worked out perfectly up to a point. The door was unlocked. Del crashed it open and made his leap. The guard, giving a shout, dropped his newspaper and sprang up just in time to be toppled over the packing-case. But he was too tough to be put out by one blow. He came back with a knife in his hand.
Del grappled. Weight was against him, but he was strong, and a trick he knew served him well. The knife fell to the floor, to be kicked aside. Del broke away and poised himself for another assault.
A hard jolt to the jaw made the enemy grunt. Del followed it up, missed with a left, and was sent back by a painful blow on the side of the head. Then muscular arms were round him in a crushing hug. He went down, bringing the man with him, and they rolled on the boards, clutching and striking at one another.
Del was first on his feet, and as his opponent came at him with fists swinging wildly, he dodged easily and found his mark with a counter of shaking force. Then he went in, knowing just what he had to do. There was no law of fair play in this sort of brawl. He crashed home a right well below the belt and followed it with an uppercut to a wide-open jaw.
The man went down, his head thudding on the floor. He was half stunned, rolling in agony, with Del on top of him, pounding him till he blacked out.
Anne had not moved. The panting Del ran to the camp-bed and shook her.
“Anne!” he called. “Anne!”
A noise from the doorway made him turn, and shock caused him to step back involuntarily. He was looking into the barrel of a revolver, and behind the weapon he saw a long thin face with a greying goatee at the end of it.
“Put up your hands!”
A gesture with the pistol supplemented the calmly spoken order.
It was stupefying, dazing. The bitterness of defeat and his frantic anxiety for Anne produced a feeling of nausea. He heard the order repeated. He heard the chug-chug of an engine from the creek outside, and slowly he raised his hands.
“Keep them up!”
The intervener was tall and lean and well groomed and completely at ease. Keeping his pistol levelled, he reached behind him with his free hand and turned the key that Del had failed to see. Then he moved to the rail-guarded opening of a stairway that gave access to the dock below.
He waited. The engine outside gave a few more chugs and a splutter and a beam of white light played up through the stair hatch, a beam that moved to the undulations of the water and grew in brightness as the craft in the creek came nearer.
Del watched, fully alert again, determined to risk an attack if the man relaxed. He was on his toes, ready to spring. There would be a moment, surely, when the movement below must distract the fellow.
The engine cut out and the launch glided into the boathouse with a faint rasping of timbers against the dock. But the man with the pistol did not relax. With his eyes on Del and his trigger-finger ready, he called down the stairway.
“Dino!” he called. “Come up here at once. Bring Felipe with you.”
Dino was an under-sized, worn-looking Italian in grease-smudged overalls. He stared at Del with alarm in his eyes.
“What is this?” he demanded. “Who is the fellow?”
“A friend of the girl’s. I saw him at the pier. She told me he was going on to Antofagasta. It is unfortunate for him that he changed his plan.”
“But how did he come here?”
“Ask him. Possibly he ran across my cab-driver.”
Dino swore. “I told you how it would be, Balaguer. It was madness to pick up a taxi on the Embarcadero.”
“What could I do?” Balaguer pointed to the stunned man on the floor. “That clown failed to turn up with the car. Could I show myself on the ship?” He shrugged. “You have no need to worry, my friend. You will have another passenger for a while. That is all. The girl will give you no trouble. She will sleep for an hour yet, and when she wakes –”
Del broke in on him wildly. “What are you going to do to her?”
Balaguer smiled. “You are in no position to ask questions, señor,” he said. “She will, perhaps, be in good hands. The one you have to worry about is yourself.”
“If anything happens to her, you’ll answer for it.”
“To whom, señor? To you?” Balaguer wheeled. The revolver was lowered, but the odds were too much for Del. There were three of them, all barring the way to the door, and Dino’s man was a burly ox of a fellow.
“Tie him up, Felipe,” Balaguer ordered.
“What am I to do with him?” Dino demanded.
“That is entirely for your discretion.” Balaguer pocketed his revolver. “There is no need for me to suggest the details.”
Del struggled as Felipe came at him with a length of rope, but his resistance was quickly overcome. Then, as he was helpless, his hands tied behind him, Dino went through his pockets and his wallet was transferred to the smeared overalls.
“A souvenir!” Dino exclaimed. “A nice fat souvenir. Enough to pay for many masses.”
The stunned man came to life, groaning and shifting and feeling his bruises. Balaguer prodded him with a foot.
“Get up, you!” he ordered. “There’s work to do. Give Felipe a hand to get the cases on board.” He turned to Dino. “You have no time to spare if you’re going to use the tide.”
The two men started down the stairs, but Dino lingered.
“Have you heard anything from up-river?” he asked. “I’m worried about that shooting business.”
“Newspaper talk!” Balaguer was impatient. “The trucks will be waiting at the usual point below Guadelemo. Now get the girl on board, and see that there is no accident. You are to deliver her unharmed. I’ll make your other passenger ready for you.”
“You can leave him to me. You and Larreta are too fond of that damned needle.”
Dino lifted the sleeping Anne and started towards the stairway with her. Del pulled and wrenched to get his hands free, moved by an impulse beyond reason. He was helpless. He had only his voice to use, and he used it in his frenzy. He shouted for help with all the power that he had.
Balaguer answered the anxious look of Dino with a grimace. “He might yell for ever,” he said. “There is no one to hear.”
Dino went on down the stairs with his burden.
Del gave another shout, but it was merely the voice of his frustration. He heard the lapping of water. He heard the slithering and thudding of heavy cases being moved to Dino’s craft. And he contrived a last slender hope out of his desperation.
He could not free his hands, but he had the use of his legs and only one man to deal with.
Balaguer, his back turned, was doing something at a cupboard near the door.
A sudden charge would send him sprawling, a kick might disable him, and before help could reach him from below, Del would be out in the night and running for the first tenanted house. He would demand aid. He would telephone to Chavez. The launch would be overtaken before it could get very far.
Del took a cautious step towards the cupboard. He glanced at the door, but the difficulty of opening it did not deter him. Somehow he would manage to turn the key.
He moved another step. He gauged the distance carefully, but in the last split second of preparation for the charge, Dino came hurrying up the stairs.
“Most of the stuff is on board,” he announced. “We’ll be ready in one minute.”
Balaguer turned from the cupboard with a hypodermic syringe in his hand. He nodded, and Dino knew what to do. Del was gripped from behind. His jacket was hauled back and down from his shoulders. His shirt was wrenched open and torn and an arm was partly bared for the needle.
Del doubled and plunged and kicked out. Dino shifted his grip and threw him and held him down. The needle pricked the bared flesh and went in.
“So,” Balaguer said. “He’ll be calm in a moment.”
Del was pulled to his feet and pushed towards the stairway. He was panting, his pulse hammered. More slithering and thudding sounds reached him. Then there was a different kind of thudding, like the noise of running feet, and a shrill, imperative whistle was blown in the garden.
Dino let go of him and dashed down the stairs, calling to Balaguer to follow him. Now the thudding was on the door of the loft and the whistle sounded again and again.
Del broke away as Balaguer tried to force him towards the stairway. He saw then that the man was left with only a frantic urge to escape, and he barred the way to the stairs. If he could cause a delay, if Dino waited for Balaguer, they might all be taken and Anne would be safe.
Balaguer came at him, swinging a fist. Del side-stepped and kicked. He kicked savagely, and the lean man fell back with a cry of pain, his right hand reaching for the revolver in his pocket. The door splintered and shook under heavy blows, yet it held. Dino was still yelling urgent advice to Balaguer, but suddenly his voice was cut off by the roar of his craft’s engine.
Vibrations that seemed to start a trembling in the whole fabric of the boathouse had a shattering effect on Del. He felt sick. His legs were weak and aching and he caught at the rail of the hatch for support. A heavy drowsiness threatened him and it was difficult for him to keep his eyes open. Fumes of burnt oil were rising above him and he turned to get away from the stairway.
He saw the levelled revolver through a haze and he started on a stumbling run at Balaguer. The sound of a shot snapped through the engine noise, and he rocked back, lost his balance, and fell.
For a moment he lay as if all power to move had gone from him, but somehow he found a little strength to raise himself on his hands and knees. The splintered door gave way at last, and he saw Chavez as the police rushed through the opening.
He tried to get to his feet, but collapsed on the floor. A dark wave was rising to draw him away, right away, and Chavez could not save him. To get a word out was an enormous strain.
“The river,” he said. “They’re making for the river.”
He wanted to tell Chavez about Anne, but the wave rose over him and he was gone.