Kitabı oku: «King of Ranleigh: A School Story», sayfa 17

CHAPTER XVIII
TRACKED DOWN

Clive stood as still as a post, watching and listening. Overhead there was a small crescent of the moon floating over the school and partially illuminating the quad. But the corridors were plunged in stygian darkness. Had he actually heard anything? Had someone really passed him?

"Well, I'm jiggered," he observed to himself, clinging doubtfully to one of the cross-bars placed across the usually open windows of the corridor by a thoughtful directorate, and with a view to keeping small boys from clambering through them. For it was the custom at Ranleigh to indulge in an ample measure of fresh air, and those corridor windows remained free of glass until the depths of winter.

"Feel certain someone went by," thought Clive. "Felt rather than heard him. But – but where's he gone? Is he just opposite me. Ah!"

No wonder he was puzzled, for as we have intimated, whoever had gone down the corridor had made not the smallest sound. Recollect that it was a little past midnight, that the school was plunged in slumber, and that, to the best of Clive's belief, he and Masters were the only two about the premises. Remember that the circumstances provided an intense stillness, and that at such times sounds usually inaudible come to the ear with certainty. He had heard something, he was sure.

"As if a fellow had a dressing-gown on and the gown were trailing on the ground," he told himself. "The merest whisper. It may have been a man's deep breathing. But there's not a sound now. Not a single sound."

But there was something else. There came the flicker of a light away to his right, a mere flicker, and then the same all-pervading darkness. Clive slid off in that direction at once, halted when he judged he had reached the correct position, and strained his ears and eyes to detect the author of that sudden glimmer. And what a job he had to be sure to drown the sound of his own breathing and his own thudding heart beats! That was the worst of such intense stillness, and of excitement, for he was excited.

"The chap took me by surprise," he muttered beneath his breath, as if by way of excuse. He struggled against the feeling of excitement, but failed hopelessly. His heart still thudded against his ribs, beating with unusual rapidity. And then, worse than all, a sudden tickling sensation at the back of his throat assailed him. He was going to cough. He was —

No. He beat the feeling down, and of a sudden once more had all his attention engaged elsewhere. For from a spot some ten feet to his right, from the centre of the inky darkness of the corridor, a jet of light swept across to the far wall. He could see the actual point from which it arose. There the beam glowed brightly, perhaps an inch and a half in depth. It spread itself gradually through the darkness, till it obtained much greater dimensions and finally settled on the brick and stone inner wall of the corridor in a wide ellipse of light. Silently it stole along the brickwork till it fell upon a door.

"The Head's entrance to his house. This is queer," Clive thought, while his excitement rose. Let us be brutally frank about this young fellow. He was no coward. He was noted for dash and courage at Ranleigh School. But, like every other fellow there, he was susceptible to outside influences. And here was one decidedly uncanny and out of the ordinary, one which affected him most strangely. Clive felt positive pain in his scalp. His hair bristled beneath the school cap which he had donned for this adventure. He felt almost scared. Raising his hand he thrust the fingers beneath his cap, and instantly the beam of light vanished. It was there one instant. It was gone the next. There was merely dense blackness, and silence.

"Phew!" Perspiration trickled over his brows. His palms were moist and clammy. He began to wish that Masters would turn up, only that would be awkward.

"Give the whole show away," he told himself. "This is beastly ghostly and uncanny, but I ain't going to be funked. There's something mighty suspicious here, and that beam comes from an electric hand light. Then there is someone operating it. Ghosts don't have such things. Don't need 'em."

The very thought tickled him vastly. It was queer at such a moment to be struck by the utter absurdity of the suggestion that a ghost should require a lamp, and should be so up-to-date as to have adopted an electric one. Still, the deathly silence gave a most undoubted ghostly appearance to the whole transaction, and we must excuse Clive if he was impressed by it.

"He ain't moved. Shall I show him up with my lamp?" he asked himself. "No, I'll wait. Ten to one this is the beggar we're after. But he's done nothing yet. I'm out to catch an incendiary, and if this is he, why, I sit tight till he's got to the business."

Ah! The beam flashed again, alighting on the tiled floor of the corridor, and stealing along it to the foot of the Head's door. It slowly climbed it till it reached the keyhole, concentrated itself upon that orifice, and then gradually grew smaller and more brilliant, while the point from which it originated approached the door ever so slowly, the beam shortening in proportion. Click! There was the faintest of sounds in the distance. The beam disappeared, strangled by the hand which operated the lamp.

"Masters making his round and coming along to meet me. He'll alarm this beggar," thought Clive. "Better get off and warn him. I'll get him to watch the far end of the corridor."

He went off like a ghost himself across the quad, entered the corridor by the open doorway below the entrance to East Dormitory, and halted outside the Bursar's office. Yes, there was the gentle slither of an almost noiseless footfall. Clive whistled gently.

"That you, Masters?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes. What's up? You've seen something?"

"Just now. The fellow's got an electric lamp, and he's along there in the corridor. I'm not sure that he's our man, and I came back here to warn you not to make a sound. Look here, watch along there by the steps leading to the washing rooms. I've just thought this beggar may be an outsider who breaks in, or makes his way into the school by the back doors. You'd catch him at the turn of the corridor, and in any case you'd be within hearing and I could call you. That right?"

"I'm off. Yell if you want me," answered Masters. "Look out in case the fellow's armed. George! I never thought of that possibility of a man getting into the school from outside and doing this firing business. Hope it'll turn out so. Ranleigh don't want such scum about the school."

He went off without another word, while Clive slid into the quad again and stole along by the corridor windows. In a little while, having used the greatest caution, he had reached the spot he had stood in before, and straightway leaned against one of the barred windows and stared in. There was not a sound. No beam of light helped him to discover the whereabouts of the ghostly stranger parading the corridor.

"Gone! Slipped off on hearing that sound," Clive told himself. "Bad luck to it! He's beaten us again."

He fingered his own electric lamp, with which Masters was also provided.

"Shall I, or shall I not?" he wondered, his finger on the sliding trigger. "Supposing he's over there, still waiting and listening? Supposing he's slid off and is at work elsewhere?"

It was a dilemma. There are very many placed in the same position of responsibility and under the self-same circumstances who would have hesitated, and rightly so, who would have determined to do nothing that savoured of rashness, and who would have decided to curb their impatience, risking everything lest by premature action they should wreck the whole enterprise. Still Clive swung badly between the two decisions. He brought his electric lamp out of his pocket, presented it across the corridor, and then tucked it back in his pocket again, just as he had done a few moments before. It gave him a start, a minute later, when he again had his lamp in position, though the trigger was not yet moved, suddenly to perceive a ray of light opposite.

"Why, he's opened the Head's door," he told himself. "That light's shining from the inside. The beggar's managed to get into the house. What's his business?"

It was something dishonest and underhand, in any case, else why such silence? why this flitting in the depths of night, when the school and its residents were sunk in slumber?

"Frightfully fishy," Clive told himself. "Either a burglar or the incendiary we're after. I'm going across to that door to take a look in. No, I'm not."

He bobbed down like lightning, his head below the window frame through which he had been staring. For the light within the half-open door increased. It swung across to the opposite side of the corridor, and then, through the surrounding darkness, Clive saw the bull's-eye orifice through which the beam was projected. Nothing more was visible. The hand which operated the lamp, the man behind might not have been in existence. He was invisible. It looked, indeed, as if the torch were supporting itself, and swaying from side to side by its own efforts. And then, of a sudden, the beam died out.

"Beggar felt it necessary to come out of the house into the corridor so as to make sure no one was about," Clive whispered to himself. "Now, is he still outside the door, listening and waiting, or has he gone in again? I'm not going to wait much longer. This cad means business, and if he's up to the old game, why, the sooner I nab him the better. Supposing he's already made a fire!"

That caused his heart to increase its exertions again, for his excitement had abated a little after his first discovery. But as he thought of this serious possibility, his pulses stirred with a vengeance. Why, the whole fate of the school might be in his hands! Delay and hesitation at this moment might see old Ranleigh, the place which he and hundreds like him loved, some young, some growing to manhood, some already arrived at that stage in life's progression, and getting rather on the seamy side, might see it burned to ashes. The thought sent a chill through his sweating frame. Clive moved quickly in the direction of the open door at the west end of the quad and crept into the corridor. Was that a flash of light he saw from beneath the door?

"Jolly like it. Believe he's gone in again. I'm going to chance matters."

He touched the trigger of his lamp and sent a flood of light on the half-open door. The corridor was empty. There was no figure beside the door. Clive darted over to it, and stood at its edge, peeping round into the passage leading to the Head's own study. It was a dismal place at any time, badly lighted in the most brilliant day, and now sunk in the depths of impenetrable darkness. It was a heart-breaking sort of passage, with uncompromising and unsatisfactory walls, which gave not the smallest encouragement to a malefactor. And here it was that malefactors gathered. Not the class of malefactor that Clive was now after, but wretched Ranleighans, haled before the Head, sent there often enough with the politest of notes by one or other of the masters – notes, too, which the wretched victims had themselves to bear. They were almost like death warrants. Clive had experienced the dreadful feeling of bearing one. He had waited in that depressing passage while another sinner preceded him. He had listened to the drone of voices behind the Head's door. And then had come the sound of tribulation. Staring into this dark pit brought his early days at Ranleigh back to his mind. What a thrashing he had had on that occasion when he and Masters had broken bounds and contrived to stampede two of Squire Studholme's finest horses!

Then his thoughts were just as suddenly switched from old recollections to present events. He was on the point of flashing his own lamp into the passage when the darkness was illuminated from the direction of the Head's door. That, too, was half open. The miscreant was inside. Now was the time to lay hands on him.

"Catch him nicely in a trap. That'll do," thought Clive. "He's coming out, though. What's he up to?"

The reflection from the walls of the passage threw into relief the figure of a man, gowned in something loose.

"Overcoat," said Clive. "Hat crammed on his head and rubbers on his feet. He's – he's pouring something along the sides of the passage. Paraffin. I can smell it! Jingo! Then this is the beggar! I've got him right in the middle of the act. This is what we've been waiting and watching for."

Yes, there could be no doubt now, for the penetrating odour of the oil was already filling his nostrils. But how silently the rascal worked! But for the faint whisper the tail of his coat made now and again as he stepped along the side of the passage there was not another sound. Clive watched the fluid pouring from the spout of the fellow's kettle as if he were fascinated. It spread slowly and greasily, as paraffin does invariably, across the woodwork and matting of the floor. It ran freely from the receptacle in which this rascal had brought it, and then slowly became less in quantity, till it merely dribbled from the spout. And all the while an elliptical, bright ray of light fell on the particular spot upon which the fluid was falling, the mere outline of the bending figure of the man being visible to the watcher. Suddenly the light went out. There was a faint scraping noise, as if the kettle had hit against the wall. Then the light flashed for a second again, and once more disappeared.

"Gone back into the Head's room. Now I have him," said Clive, whetting his lips. "It'll be a business, but I ain't going to be funked. This is a matter concerning the whole school, and I don't shirk it. All the same, I wish Masters were closer."

He rounded the door, flashed his own lamp for one instant so as to give him a view of the passage, and then went noiselessly onward. Outside the study door he waited and listened. Yes, someone was moving inside. He heard the faint rustle of papers. The fellow no doubt was piling them upon the pool of paraffin he had poured on to the floor. Or perhaps he was scattering the fluid broadcast. It was the moment to nab him. Clive stepped into the doorway and —

A blinding flash of light blazed right into his eyes. The bull's-eye of this ruffian's lamp was within ten inches of his face and suddenly opened upon him. There came a startled cry, a sudden movement, and the clatter of a kettle falling to the floor. Then Clive was dashed backward into the passage with terrific violence, and stumbling on the mat outside the study door, fell heavily on his back, his own electric torch clattering away into a corner. He felt the sweep of the fellow's gown or overcoat across his face and gripped swiftly for his legs. His hand closed on something, trousers perhaps, though the material seemed extraordinarily thin. Then he was kicked savagely, though the softness of his assailant's soles caused but little damage. But it threw his grip off, and in a moment the fellow was fleeing.

"Beaten me after all," thought Clive as he sprang to his feet and groped for his torch. "Ah, here's the thing. Now, which way did he bolt?"

He was out of the passage like a flash of lightning, and turned into the corridor. At once his finger went to the trigger of his torch and sent a beam ahead of him. Yes, there was a flying figure in advance, going at full speed down the corridor, and without making even the smallest sound. Clive gave chase instantly, first with the help of the light given him by his torch, and then in total darkness, for his finger had slipped from the trigger. But he had it on again in a moment. There the fellow was, plainly visible, his clothing blowing out behind him.

"I'm gaining on him," thought Clive. "We're bound to have him nicely, for he's going straight for the corner. He'll be round in a jiffy, and I shall be after him. Masters will see my lamp from the post he's taken and will be in splendid position to stop him. Bother the torch. My finger's slipped again."

A second earlier the flying figure had arrived within three feet of the end of the corridor, where it turned abruptly to the left. Clive reached the spot perhaps ten seconds later. He flashed his light round the corner and along the other corridor. There was nothing visible. Not a soul was in sight. Even Masters was not present, and was doubtless waiting round the corner at the far end. But where had this fugitive gone? Into the archway leading to the Bursar's room and to East Dormitory, or through the opening to the quad? Clive flashed his torch through the latter. No. There was no one in the quad. Then elsewhere? He sent the beam against the banisters of East Dormitory. No. There was no one. This fugitive seemed to have been actually swallowed by the surrounding walls. Clive was sorely puzzled and perplexed. He retraced his steps to the corner of the corridor, and peeped into a boot-room there. That, too, was empty. The man had been too clever for him. He had gone.

"Dived into that boot-room, without a doubt. Waited for me to pass and then went off back along the same route towards the Head's door. I'll go along there after him. Wonder whether he fired that paraffin? Must find that out. Why, even now a fire may be blazing. My word! To think that a chap could go in for such a caddish business."

But who was the man? Did Clive know? Had he recognised that fleeting figure?

There was a deep furrow across our hero's face. Even as he raced back along the corridor he was conscious of a feeling of unusual distress, of sadness almost, of despair at the thought of what must inevitably follow his discovery. For the miscreant was without question a Ranleigh boy. Clive had not seen his face – had seen little else, in fact, but legs rapidly moving and a flowing gown, above which was a head hidden beneath a hat pressed closely down upon it. But even figures have their own special features. Every individual almost has his own particular movements, something, however small, which differentiates them from others. And Clive knew the special run of this fugitive well. In a court of law, perhaps, his evidence was useless. Here, at Ranleigh, perhaps it was little better. Were he asked at that moment to say who the miscreant was he could merely shake his head.

"Couldn't actually dare to declare the fellow's name," he told himself as he raced up the corridor. "I feel sure. But others would doubt. They'd doubt naturally, and considering the circumstances, the excitement, the intermittent light, why, I may easily be mistaken. I daren't wreck a fellow's future on such flimsy evidence. Perhaps I'll nobble him yet. At any rate, I'll try my best. My word, what a slippery beggar!"

He was back at the Head's door now, to find it wide open, where no doubt he had flung it as he raced after this mysterious incendiary. The passage within was empty. He searched every corner with his torch. The corridor outside the Hall was equally vacant, and there was no one on the stairs leading to West and certain of the masters' rooms, nor on those giving access to North Dormitory.

"Then the beggar's back in the Head's room," he thought. "I'll go right in this time, close the door so that he can't try the same sort of business, and then nail him. George! The place smells of paraffin. He meant to have a proper flare while he was about it. Now, is he in the Head's study or not?"

No, he wasn't. At least, the place seemed empty. But a combination of misfortunes was pursuing Clive on this adventurous evening. To commence with, he had been taken by surprise by the crafty fellow he was watching, and had been tripped up nicely. And now, perhaps because the fall had injured it, his torch failed all of a sudden. Clive groped for a match-box, upset some ornament on the mantelpiece, felt his fingers light upon something remarkably like a match-box, and gripped the latter. Then he rapidly withdrew one of the matches and struck it against the box. A candlestick was within easy reach, and in a second he had the wick burning. It was giving off a good light, and he was holding it above his head so as the better to see his surroundings, when the door was pushed swiftly open, a figure bounced into the room, and in a twinkling our hero found himself gripped by the collar.