When Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust arrived in Superintendent Marrowfat’s room at Scotland Yard that evening at seven o’clock he was naturally a little taken aback to find Gregory there. He hid his surprise under an affable greeting to the Superintendent, Wells, and some other men who were present; assuming, quite rightly, that some new occurrence had caused Gregory to alter his plans completely.
Gregory sat silent in front of the Superintendent’s desk puffing a little more rapidly than usual at a cigarette. Lord Gavin’s letter had shaken him worse than any other incident that had occurred in his decidedly exciting career.
For an hour he had wrestled with himself once more; turning over in his mind again and again all the possibilities which might develop from the alternative sequence of actions he might take. Sabine was now a prisoner and he had not the faintest doubt that the soulless, deformed, little monstrosity, round whom the whole conspiracy centred, meant to kill her out of hand if he had the least suspicion that his warning had been disregarded.
In the face of that all Gregory’s courage had temporarily ebbed away and, single-handed as he was, he had felt that he simply dare not risk raiding Quex Park. Lord Gavin would almost certainly be protected by his gunmen; Sabine was a prisoner in an upstairs room and in addition the situation was horribly complicated by the presence, outside the Park, of members of the police force who would have been told to watch for him.
Later, he had been sorely tempted to throw discretion to the winds, go in bald-headed, and chance what might happen; but in his saner moments he realised that the odds were so terribly against him that it would be sheer madness to do so. If Sabine were taken by the police it meant that she would receive a prison sentence; but by making a premature move he would place her life itself in jeopardy.
Cursing the necessity of deferring personal action, he had decided that his only hope now lay in leading the police to suppose that he was completely loyal to them. Lord Gavin could know nothing of the projected raid on Eastchurch Marshes; by participating in it Gregory saw that he would at least learn of all new developments at first hand. Such information might prove invaluable and he just trust to his judgment as to the best moment to slip away from the police and act independently. He had brought Rudd with him to Scotland Yard knowing he could rely upon that loyalist’s co-operation in any circumstances; now he sat listening intently, but saying nothing, as the big Superintendent outlined his plans.
Marrowfat’s oration was brief. With a map spread before him he pointed with a stubby finger to various places on it. The Kent constabulary were co-operating with them; special levies drawn from Rochester, Chatham, Sittingbourne and Maidstone would take up their positions on Sheppey Island directly dusk had fallen. The Thames River Police had also been called in. With launches manned to capacity they would slip down the north coast of the island after dark, rendezvousing near the Ham Fishery buoy in the deeper water a couple of miles or more to the north of Shell Ness. Sound detectors would be on board some of the launches and they would lie in wait there until the motor barges of the smugglers passed south of them up the channel of the East Swale; upon which they would move in and close the mouth of the river. The Superintendent’s own party, consisting of some Special Branch men, Sir Pellinore, Gregory and Wells would leave by car immediately and, crossing the West Swale to Sheppey, rendezvous at Queenborough. Small arms and ammunition were then to be served out.
A quarter of an hour after Sir Pellinore’s arrival at the Yard the little crowd of muscular big-chinned men shouldered their way out along the passageway from the Superintendent’s room, down the stairs, and into the waiting line of swift supercharged cars.
Gregory had brought his own car for his own perfectly good reasons. He got into the back with Sir Pellinore; leaving Rudd to drive it and a plain clothes man beside him to decide on the route they were to take.
As they ran out of the courtyard behind the others Gregory found his thoughts distracted from Sabine for a moment by admiration for the police organisation. There was no fuss or bother; no disturbance of the traffic. The fleet of cars did not form a procession, but separated immediately, all taking different pre-arranged routes down into the City and through Southwark, on the south side of the Thames, to the scene of their midnight activities.
They were at Queenborough before half past eight and, having already had his instructions, the plain-clothes man beside Rudd conducted them to the police station which served the docks. Wells and Marrowfat had just driven up but there was no sign of the squad of Special Branch men who had left the Yard with them.
Sir Pellinore and Gregory got out and followed the Superintendent into the station. In the private office there he introduced them to the Chief Constable of Kent and a number of local officers from Chatham, Rochester and Maidstone. Standing in front of a large scale map, which hung upon the wall of the plainly furnished room, the police chiefs spent half an hour discussing the positions which were soon to be taken up by their various bodies of men on both banks.
A local Inspector who had reconnoitred Eastchurch Marshes that afternoon gave them a brief description of the terrain where the landing was expected.
‘We shall proceed to Eastchurch village,’ he said, ‘and leave our cars there; parked out of sight in garages for which I’ve already arranged. We shall then go on foot down the by-way leading south from the village. It’s about a two-mile walk through low-lying unwooded country. There’s a little cultivated land here and there; but it’s mostly marsh which is waterlogged in winter.
‘You’ll see from the map the track I’m speaking of doesn’t run right down to the water so, at the bend, just at point 13 which marks a slight rise in the ground, we shall turn right and cross the fields for about five hundred yards until we strike that second track which actually leads to the creek. That’s probably the road they’ll use. That, or the third track half a mile to the right again, which ends at the creek where it’s marked “Hook Quay”.
‘The only buildings between the second and third tracks are a collection of empty tumble-down sheds near Hook Quay and a new cottage on the river bank about two hundred yards south of it which was only built a few months ago. The cottage is inhabited but, as the people who live there may be in with the crowd we’re after, I didn’t like to risk rousing their suspicions by going near the place when I was having a look round this afternoon.’
The whole party then left the station and, piling into four cars, drove off along the good road to the north of the island until they came to the little village of Eastchurch.
Having garaged the cars they began their walk, crossing the railway line at Eastchurch Station half a mile south of the village, and proceeding after that into the gathering dusk which had now descended upon the lonely stretch of country before them.
They left the lane at point 13 and struck across the low-lying ground with its coarse tufts of high marsh grass, found the road to the east and turned south along it, until they arrived on the banks of the creek; a sluggish stream set between sloping muddy levels.
The opposite bank was about a hundred and fifty yards away and, although scores of police were now lurking in the neighbourhood, not a soul was visible in the failing light. The only life apparent in that desolate waste was an oyster catcher pecking in the mud and a few screaming seagulls which wheeled overhead.
The Chief Constable’s party turned inland along the bank towards Hook Quay, making a detour to avoid passing within sight of the new brick cottage which the local inspector had described, and arriving just before ten o’clock at the cluster of empty sheds.
It was dark now and producing their torches, once they were inside the ramshackle buildings, the police made a thorough investigation of them.
They were quite empty but showed signs of recent use. Their windows had been boarded over so that no lights could show and gaps in the wooden walls had been pasted over with brown paper. The earthen floors showed marks where heavy cases had been thrown down upon them and in two of the larger sheds cartwheel tracks were visible.
‘It looks as if they work things differently here and store the stuff instead of getting it away immediately,’ Wells remarked. ‘Although, of course, a fleet of lorries may come rumbling down the lane outside to meet them when they turn up.’
‘I doubt it,’ replied the Superintendent. ‘A dozen lorries rumbling along the Ashford road or anywhere behind all those coast towns in Thanet wouldn’t call for special comment. But here in Sheppey it’s different. The roads don’t lead anywhere so convoys passing in the middle of the night, even once or twice a month, would be certain to arouse some inquisitive person’s suspicions. They wouldn’t dare risk that. In my opinion they store the stuff here and local farm carts come along later to collect it. The carts probably deliver the goods to some other depot on the west end of the island, south of Queen-borough, where it would be easy to transfer them to the railway with so much goods traffic passing from the docks there up to London.’
Gregory drew Rudd outside and into a smaller shed near by where they were quite alone together. Kneeling down on the floor he spread out his map and shone his torch upon it.
‘See where we are now—Hook Quay?’ he said in a low voice.
‘Yes sir,’ muttered Rudd.
‘Right. Think you can find your way back to the village?’
‘Easy. Straight up the track that leads from here. ’Crorst the railway at the level crossin’. Turn right along that second-class road south of the one we come to Eastchurch by for half a mile and there we are. Simple as kiss me ’and.’
‘Good lad.’ Gregory patted his arm affectionately. ‘Now I want you to fade out when no one’s looking. Go back to Eastchurch, collect the car, and drive it to the farm marked “Old Hook” on the map. That’s just half-way up the track between these sheds and the railway. I daren’t let you bring it nearer in case the people here catch the sound of the engine, send a man to investigate, and finding it’s my car tumble to what I’m up to. When you reach Old Hook turn the car round and park it at the roadside, facing north, ready for an instant getaway. If one of the local coppers who’re playing hide-and-seek all over the countryside tonight ask what you’re up to just say you’re acting on Superintendent Marrowfat’s orders. We must risk their disbelieving you and coming over to report. When you’re through, leave the car and join me here again to let me know everything’s all right. That clear?’
‘You bet it is. I’ll be back under the hour sir.’
Rudd slipped out of the hut and vanished in the darkness. Gregory folded up his map and rejoined the others. Just out side the largest shed Wells was standing; peering down at the small wharf which jutted out from the bank into the sluggish stream.
‘What about having a quiet look at that cottage the local man mentioned,’ Gregory suggested, coming up behind him.
Wells nodded. ‘Righto. It’s very unlikely anything will happen for an hour or more, so we’ve plenty of time.’
The two left the shed together and made their way cautiously along the bank of the creek. Six hundred yards from the shacks they came round a sharp bend and saw a light directly ahead a little way in front of them.
‘That’ll be it,’ muttered Gregory, ‘I’ll bet the earth whoever lives there is in this thing.’
Picking their way carefully they approached nearer to the small two-storied house. It had no garden, only a back yard filled with rubble that the builders had left, and no road or lane led to it. The light came from a downstairs window; covered by a thin cretonne curtain.
‘I’d lay any money that Gavin built this place,’ Gregory went on, ‘and I’m pretty sure I can tell you why he picked this site, well away from either of the lanes, too.’
‘All right, let’s hear your theory,’ Wells whispered.
‘The sheds at Hook Quay are round the bend of the creek so no light shown there could be seen for more than five hundred yards down stream. That’s probably why Gavin chose it as the actual landing-place, but it has one drawback, they can’t signal from it. Now this place is right on the bend of the river. A light in the upstairs room of the house, on its far side, could be seen for five miles at least, right down at the entrance of the Swale. That’s how they signal to the incoming fleet of luggers that the coast is clear, or if there are any suspicious-looking people about, and the smuggler boats had best hang off for a bit.’
‘That’s sound enough. I see they’re on the telephone too,’ Wells remarked, jerking his head towards a stout pole only a yard away from them. ‘That in itself is suspicious; seeing it’s only a jerry-built place miles from anywhere. It must have cost them quite a bit to get a line brought down from East-church Station; far more than ordinary people who lived in a little place like this could afford.’
They were crouching behind a pile of debris, left by the builders, about thirty yards from the cottage. ‘I wish we could get near enough to look in at that window,’ Gregory said thoughtfully; but Wells shook his head.
‘Too risky. If they spotted us they’d be on the telephone to warn their pals the game was up before we could get inside. Now we’ve seen all there is to see I think we’d best get back to the others.’
In one of the sheds Sir Pellinore, the Chief Constable, Marrowfat and the rest, were gathered, seated on the dry earth floor busily engaged in eating a picnic supper. Producing their own packets of sandwiches Gregory and Wells joined them.
When they had finished Sir Pellinore, who had refused offers of various drinks, produced a large medicine bottle from his pocket, removed the cork, and took a long pull at it.
‘Not allowed to drink with my meals,’ he lied cheerfully, winking at Gregory, ‘gives me such awful indigestion. That’s why I have to take this medicine.’
Gregory kept a perfectly straight face as he listened to this barefaced lie. He had often seen that interesting medicine bottle before. Whenever Sir Pellinore was compelled to accept an invitation for dinner at a house where he distrusted his host’s choice of wines the medicine bottle always travelled with him. He left it outside in the hall and sent for it after dinner; having first pronounced his glib tarradiddle about suffering from indigestion. The medicine it contained was in actual fact an ample ration of his own impeccable Napoleon Brandy.
At eleven o’clock they switched off the shuttered electric lamps they had brought with them. The Chief Constable and his party remained seated in the darkness of the shack, except Marrowfat, who went out to check the final dispositions of the Special Squad men he had brought with him from the Yard. One of these sat in the doorway with a box-like apparatus before him and a pair of telephone receivers clamped over his ears. It was a small portable wireless set.
Soon after Marrowfat had left them Gregory got up and strolled outside. He waited for a little on the edge of the wharf keeping a watchful eye upon the end of the track to landward. He was desperately impatient now for something to happen, so that he could submerge his gnawing anxiety for Sabine in the necessity for action, but he scarcely moved a muscle when a familiar figure sidled up to him out of the darkness.
‘All present and correct sir,’ came Rudd’s husky mutter.
‘Fine. Keep close by me from now on and be ready to bolt for the car the second I do.’ Gregory turned and walked slowly back to the shed with Rudd beside him.
As reports came through that the various forces on the north Kent coast and in the island of Sheppey had taken up their positions, the man at the wireless spoke in a low voice to a stenographer who sat beside him, his pad held under a boxed-in light. Before eleven most of the land contingents had already reached their stations and the river police now reported themselves ready at their rendezvous by the Ham Fishery Buoy.
After that they spoke little. To Gregory the period of waiting seemed interminable. He tried to keep his mind clear and alert, but he could not free it from the thought of Sabine, and fruitless speculations as to where she was, and what might happen to her in the next few hours.
At length a message came through from the river police. Their sound detectors had picked up the motor engines of a numerous convoy moving in the direction of Glite Hole Bank north-east of Herne Bay. A little later another report gave the convoy as directly south of them, off Pollard Spit at the mouth of the East Swale, and the river police stated that they were now moving in.
At a quarter to twelve the little group who waited in the darkness of the shack estimated that the smugglers must be entering Windmill Creek itself; then a message came through from the river police that they had closed the mouth of the Swale and were running up it.
Five minutes later a report came by wireless from another police post, a mile away at the entrance of the creek, that a fleet of six motor barges were proceeding past them at that moment without lights. The Superintendent’s party stirred into activity.
‘They may land here,’ Gregory said in a low voice to Wells, ‘but the centre of the trouble’s going to be at that cottage. Let’s get down there.’
‘We’ve got it covered by a dozen men,’ Wells answered, ‘but I think you’re right and I’d like to be in at the finish.’
They put out their cigarettes and hurried along the bank. The light in the window of the cottage had disappeared, but they turned inland, skirting it at some distance and, on reaching its farther side, saw that Gregory’s surmise was proved correct. The upper window made an oblong of bright light; naked and uncurtained. The only thing that marred its symmetry was the outline of a black cat seated, apparently, upon the sill inside.
For a few moments Gregory watched the cat. It remained absolutely motionless and, as he was standing only about twenty yards from the window, he suddenly realised that it was not a cat at all; but a black silhouette in the form of a cat, either painted or stuck on the lower section of the window. It was a sign which would arouse no suspicion in a casual passerby but, with good glasses, it could probably be seen miles away down the river as a black outline against the rectangle of light. Obviously it was the signal to the smuggler fleet that all was well.
As he crouched there peering at it the soft chug-chug-chug of motor engines came to him out of the darkness from the river. He crouched lower, pulling Wells down beside him, so that their forms should not be visible against the skyline. Rudd, just behind them, was already on his knees.
Six large motor barges chugged swiftly by and rounded the corner of the stream.
‘Will Marrowfat pounce on them the moment they land?’ Gregory whispered.
‘No,’ Wells whispered back. ‘He’ll give them a chance to unload some of their cargo and wait until the river police close in behind them.’
The noise of the motors grew less; then ceased. Silence settled again over the low, apparently deserted, stretch of country. It was broken only at intervals by the faint sound of men’s voices, drifting on the night air, as the first barge was moored against Hook Quay and the others came up alongside it.
Wells and Gregory waited with what patience they could muster. The Inspector knew that one of his men was squatting ten yards away to their right, another down on the river bank to their left, and that a dozen more were hidden in the marsh grass close at hand all round. Touching Gregory on the elbow he began to make his way stealthily towards the creek where he took up a fresh position from which he could see the front door of the cottage.
They had hardly reached their new post when two men came along the little-used footway leading to the group of shacks. From the lower ground Gregory could see them in the faint dusky light sufficiently to recognise the taller of the two, who dragged his leg a little, as the Limper.
A new sound came from down the creek, the rapid throb of other, more powerful, motor boat engines. The Limper caught it at the same second as Gregory, and paused, silhouetted for a moment in the lighted doorway of the cottage, listening intently.
Suddenly the shrill blast of a whistle pierced the muted roar of the engines. Marrowfat, lying in wait behind the shacks, had heard the approaching police boats, as well, and sent his men into action.