I LEARNED to know Inspector Forrest very well during the next fortnight, better perhaps, since during that time the Motor Pirate gave absolutely no sign of existence. It seemed as if, contented with the sensation he had created and the plunder he had secured, he had retired into the obscurity from which he originally emerged.
For two reasons I was not sorry for this interval. In the first place, I found I could not get immediately the type of car I wanted. Manufacturers and agents were willing enough to book orders, but none of them had in stock the high-speed automobile such as I required. Only after a long day's hunt did I discover an agent who thought that he could obtain for me a 60-h.p. Mercédès, and then it would have to be sent from Paris. At my suggestion, he telephoned through an order that the car should be despatched to him at once; but two or three days elapsed before its arrival in London, and then there were certain alterations which I required to be made which took a week to complete. I was glad, therefore, that my enemy did not make a reappearance until I was provided for him. When the new Mercédès was delivered to me I was delighted with it, especially when I found on my return from the trial run the engines worked as smoothly as when I started.
The other reason why I did not regret the Pirate's quiescence was because of the opportunity afforded me of cementing the friendship which had grown up between myself and the detective. It became a very real and warm friendship during those long idle days. He upset all my preconceived notions of the police, at least as regards the detective portion of the force, he was such an all-round man. He had not allowed his undoubted powers of observation to be entirely concentrated upon the seamy side of his profession. Judging from his conversation, I gathered that he knew quite as much about modern French literature as he did about French criminals, and of the latter his knowledge was both extensive and interesting. I remember on one occasion that he gave me a really acute criticism of the Verlain school, with special relation to the effects of decadent literature on national life. But that is only one example of his scope. Wherever he had been and whatever he had done, had apparently awakened in him the desire to see all round the case he was investigating, and being possessed of a well-trained memory, his mind was a storehouse of curious knowledge.
Let me give one instance. One evening when we were driving slowly along a bye-road in the vicinity of Uxbridge, in accordance with our preconceived plan—the Mercédès had not then arrived, and our progress was additionally slow as the roads were exceedingly heavy, as rain had been falling daily ever since the night I had been arrested—suddenly my companion said—
"Do you know anything of Persian poetry, Mr. Sutgrove?"
As it happened, owing to the fact that a Sutgrove had once represented his country at the Persian court, I had a slight knowledge of the subject, and I said so.
"I am never out of doors on a spring evening," he continued, "without wishing I had the time to acquire a knowledge of it."
"Why?" I asked.
"It's this way," he replied. "On one of my jobs—a show job, attendance on a distinguished visitor, don't you know—I was thrown a great deal into the company of a Persian gentleman, and we did our best to learn something of each other's languages. He taught me out of Hafiz, and I picked up just enough to make me wish for more. Listen to this."
He recited to me one of the shorter poems from the Divan.
"Isn't that musical?" he continued. "It seems to me to have the real poetry of the spring evening in it."
I agreed with him, and we were silent for a while. Later he asked me diffidently not to mention to any one his penchant for Persian poetry.
"Even at the Yard," he explained, "I doubt whether they would put it down to my credit."
I gave him the assurance he asked for, and from that time forth I came to look upon him as a personal friend. I confided wholly to him the hopes I entertained in regard to my love affair; and he assured me that if he had anything to do with it, I should also have a hand in the arrest of the Pirate.
All our time was not spent, however, in pleasant excursions about the country. Forrest was by no means idle; he had been busy perfecting his scheme for utilizing the telegraph in notifying the Pirate's reappearance when it should be made. Then he had in addition thoroughly and minutely explored the whole of the country round, to see if any trace of the strange visitor were obtainable. His endeavours were quite fruitless, but he still held to his belief that he could not be far away; and the next time the Pirate did make his appearance he was confirmed in his opinion.
The weather had been fine for three days in succession, there had been a drying breeze, and the roads from sloppy quagmires became in such perfect condition that I was looking forward to a really good spin. But Forrest had other views for the evening of the third day.
"I don't think," he remarked, as he sipped his coffee after our early dinner, "we can afford to spend the night ranging the highways. Business first and pleasure afterwards."
"I thought you were of opinion that our friend will be tempted to make his reappearance to-night?" I remarked.
"I am," he answered; "and therefore the best thing, we can do is to wait until we hear in which direction he makes his reappearance. If we wait in St. Albans at the end of the telegraph wire, we shall be much more likely to meet him than running about at random."
There was so much good sense in the suggestion that I resigned myself to the inevitable waste of time, and I had my reward. About eleven a message came over the wire: "Motor Pirate seen near Towcester going in the direction of Daventry."
"How far is Towcester?" asked Forrest, the moment he heard the message.
"Roughly, I should say forty miles," I answered.
"We ought to manage it within the hour, then," he remarked. "Come along."
Without another word we seated ourselves in the car, and with a continuous toot-toot of the horn we rolled out of the town. Directly we were clear of the houses, I jammed on the highest speed. I cannot say that I felt quite comfortable, for though I knew the road, the night was very dark, the light we threw ahead was so bright as to dazzle my eyes, and hitherto I had no experience of driving a 60-h.p. motor at top speed through the darkness. My companion's sang-froid soon reassured me, however, and as soon as we were fairly going, the sting of the night air as it whipped my cheeks brought a sense of exhilaration which would have sufficed to banish my fears had there been time to have entertained any. But there was not. If you have ever driven a speedy automobile at top speed through a dark night, you will readily understand that there is little opportunity for the brain to cultivate imaginary perils. If you do not believe me, try it for yourself and see.
In about sixteen minutes we were at Dunstable. Passing through the town slowly, Forrest got news that the police were watching all the roads, but that nothing had been seen there of the Pirate. Another quarter of an hour brought us to Fenny Stratford. Here we wasted another minute or so in obtaining similar negative information. By this time I was feeling confidence in my car and in my powers to manage it. Once clear of the houses again, I let her rip for all she was worth; we simply flew along. With my right hand on the wheel, my feet on the two pedals, I sat as tense as a fiddle string, my one object to peer into the road ahead.
We had covered ten of the fifteen miles between Stratford and Towcester, when I became aware of a deeper blotch on the blackness ahead. With one movement I pressed down the clutch and jammed on the breaks. I was just in time. The car pulled up in its own length, though it swerved to such an extent that I thought we should be overturned.
There, standing still within the circle of our lights, was another motor-car. It had no lamps burning, but it was shivering with the vibration of its engine running free.
"The Pirate!" I shouted.
"Not a bit of it," said Forrest, jumping down and approaching the stranger.
I followed his example, and the first thing I observed about the car was that all the lights were out, and I wondered that any motorist in his senses should have courted the accident which so nearly occurred.
There was one occupant of the car, and he was sitting bolt upright with one hand on a lever beside him. I shouted something at him angrily as I approached, but he made no response.
"Hullo! Are you asleep, sir?" said Forrest, as he put one foot on the step and grasped the silent motorist by the arm.
There was no reply. I saw Forrest leave his hold on the stranger, and, stepping back into the road, draw his hand across his brow.
"My God!" he muttered
"What is it?" I asked.
Forrest caught his breath sharply. "A piece more of the Motor Pirate's work, I fancy," he said slowly; "and this time, I think it spells—murder."
For a minute I stood absolutely still. It was one of the most eerie moments of my life. Above and about us the black night, beside us the two cars coughing and grunting as if anxious to be moving, and that silent figure sitting up erect upon his seat, utterly unconscious of the two persons standing watching him with horror-stricken faces.
Forrest's voice, clear, cool, incisive, brought me to myself.
"One of your lamps here, Sutgrove, if you can manage it."
I took a lamp from its socket, and held it while the detective made a brief inspection. It took him a very short time to assure him that his surmise was near the truth.
It was murder.
Right in the centre of the forehead of the silent figure was a small blue hole, so cleanly drilled that it scarcely marred the features of the dead man. One hand still grasped the lever, the other had dropped slightly. When the light fell upon it, I perceived the fingers to be tightly clasped about the butt of a revolver.
Forrest lifted the hand and glanced at the weapon. "One cartridge discharged," he said. "Surely it cannot be a case of suicide?"
Just at that moment I caught sight of a piece of paper pinned to the dead man's coat. I pointed it out to Forrest. He unfolded it, glanced at it, and handed it to me without a word.
It was just a half sheet of ordinary paper used for typing, and upon it was typed the following sentence—
"This is the fate awaiting those who venture to resist the Motor Pirate."
"That would seem to settle the question as to whether this is a case of suicide or not," I said, handing back the paper to the inspector.
"H'm! At all events the inquest will," he replied. "I'm afraid in any case this ends our pursuit for the night," he continued. "I think I must ask you to run on to the nearest town for assistance. Have you any idea of our whereabouts?"
By calculating the time which had elapsed since leaving Stratford with the pace at which we had been travelling, I came to the conclusion we were not very far from Towcester, and I suggested I had better go there.
"All right; cut along then. Revolver handy?"
I replied in the affirmative as I mounted my car.
"Wait one moment," he called as I was starting; "and bring your light on a bit."
I did as I was directed. Forrest took one of the lamps and walked for five yards up the road, examining carefully every inch of the roadway. At last he paused.
"Here is where the Pirate's motor stopped," he said; and, plumping down upon his knees, he examined the surface carefully. Then, taking a tape from his pocket, he made a series of measurements.
I inquired what he was doing. He grunted in reply. When he had finished he remarked—
"Nothing much to be got out of that. Judging from my measurements, our friend might be driving a Daimler."
Another thought struck him, and, before starting, he asked me to lend him a hand in getting the other car to the side of the road, in case any one else came along and fell upon the fate we had so narrowly escaped. Then I was at liberty to proceed, and, getting once more into my own vehicle, I let the Mercédès drive ahead.
But my nerve had gone. Every moment I fancied weird shapes in the blackness before me. Every moment I heard in my ears the strange humming of the Pirate. Yet I dared not look round, lest I should in that instant come upon him unawares in the shadows in front.
Fortunately I had no long distance to traverse. Soon friendly lights broke the darkness. Slackening pace, I found myself in the well-ordered streets of a little town. The second person I met was a policeman, and, hailing him, I bade him jump on the car and direct me to the police-station. Nothing loth, he obeyed.
I have an idea that the story I told the sergeant in charge was more than a little incoherent, but he understood me sufficiently to become aware that his presence was required immediately at the scene of a crime, and he gave me to understand that he was ready to accompany me forthwith. Then I remembered Forrest asking me to see that the services of a medical man were obtained, in order that he might make an examination of the body before its removal, and I mentioned the matter to the sergeant. He at once gave instructions to the constable who had guided me to the station to knock up a doctor and follow us at once with him, so there was very little delay before I was once more driving my car at full speed towards the scene of the tragedy.
By this time my nerve had returned. One reason may have been that I had taken advantage of the slight delay, occasioned by the sergeant giving instructions to his subordinate, to brace myself with a stiff whisky-and-soda from the small supply I carried on the car for emergencies. Now, too, I had the companionship of another able-bodied man on the car with me. I felt that, even if the mysterious murderer were to make his appearance, I should have a better chance of tackling him.
We were not long in reaching our destination. In fact a very few minutes elapsed before we came to the spot where the motor-car stood, with the rigid figure of its owner still in the position I had left him. I pulled up beside the derelict.
"Hallo, Forrest!" I shouted.
There was no answer. The detective had disappeared.