Tom Tiddler's Island, стр. 64

“And, by the way, just see if there’s any motor-grease on the premises,” Northfleet suggested as an afterthought. “They may have a tin or two: supplies for the motor-boat or something.”

Colin went off on his errands, feeling less depressed now that he actually was making himself useful.

Their lunch was a scratch one, and the conversation did little to brighten it. Colin had given Wenlock a sketch of events; and the detective shared his distaste for Leven, apparently, since he never addressed a word to him. Northfleet was silent, evidently deep in thought. Colin himself had no great desire to say anything. As time wore on with nothing to show for it he was growing more and more anxious.

Late in the afternoon he blundered into the laboratory again and was swiftly turned out by Northfleet, who seemed to be busied with pouring some olive-green powder into what looked like large test-tubes, and who was even more irritated than before by Colin’s intrusion.

“You go and bury Beeston’s body, if you’ve nothing better to do,” he suggested. “No use leaving it there for the girls to see, is there?”

Colin had forgotten that the corpse on the beach might be within sight of the Wester Voe windows.

The afternoon wore on, dragging out its interminable hours; and with their passing, Colin’s anxiety and forebodings increased. He had to wait until twilight for news, since during the daytime signalling was out of the question. A lamp in the Heather Lodge window would have excited suspicion at once.

Hazel reported that food had been left at their door and that no attempt had been made to interfere with them. Someone had shouted a brutal warning against any attempt to escape. Their captors—with the exception of a man patrolling round the house—seemed to have settled down in the lounge and, to judge by sounds which reached the upper storey, they had begun a carouse.

Northfleet frowned when he read off this final message; and in his reply he ordered Hazel to make the barricade at their door as strong as possible. So long as no one came near them, they were not to worry; and if anything unusual occurred they were on no account to leave their room.

Reluctantly the two men left the signalling apparatus. The illusion of proximity, which the messages gave, was all that they now had to cheer them. They went downstairs, and Northfleet set to work lashing pairs of bamboo flower-sticks together to form rude crosses. As a preparation for action, this seemed merely ludicrous to Colin, but when he ventured a remark, Northfleet snapped out an angry sentence. Then, in half-apology, he added:

“I don’t like the idea of these swine getting drunk. Anything might happen now.”

Colin understood only too well. He had his own dire imaginings to occupy him. So far the gunmen had kept the truce. But drunken men might change their minds. And Northfleet had Zelensky’s taunts in his memory.

“And now,” said Northfleet sardonically, as he finished the last cross, “this seems a suitable time for a few last dying words and deathbed requests. I’m going to Wester Voe by the tunnel, and if I don’t get back you’ll have to do the best you can without me. A blue lookout, I’m afraid.”

“But you’re not going alone?” Colin queried, rather aghast. “You’re taking me along, of course?”

“No use. I’ve studied the plan of that warren thoroughly. I could find my way about in the dark down there. You’d only be a responsibility, Trent, and I must have my hands free. Sorry. I know how you feel. But it can’t be done.”

“You’re after the rockets?”

It had been fairly clear, from Northfleet’s last directions to Hazel, that he contemplated no immediate rescue.

“We must have them at any cost.”

“But you can’t fire rockets of that size on the quiet,” Colin objected. “These swine are sure to see them if they’re fired.”

“I suppose they will,” Northfleet agreed. “Still, the resources of civilisation are not yet exhausted. Hope for the best, Trent. If I don’t turn up in a reasonable time—two hours, say, since I may have to wait my chance at the other end—then block up this end of the tunnel for safety’s sake, and do the best you can, after that. By the way, I’ve locked the door of the lab. Don’t put your nose near there at any price. And now I’d better collect my traps and get off.”

Some of the articles explained themselves to Colin as Northfleet selected them: his pistol and ammunition, a flash-lamp, a rope, to one end of which Northfleet had spliced a spare grapnel belonging to the pleasure-skiff. But there were others with less obvious uses: a trowel, a lump of chalk, a hammer, a paper parcel containing the contents of two tins of motor-grease, and the bundle of six-foot stakes which Colin had prepared.

“That’s the lot, I think,” Northfleet said after checking them. “And now for the cellar.”

Characteristically enough, he made no demonstration of any sort as he climbed through the aperture Colin had opened in the brickwork. He gathered up his awkward bundle of stakes and, with his flash-lamp in his hand, set off on his subterranean raid without even a farewell. Colin could hear him whistling softly as he went.

Northfleet had a definite scheme in his mind and had no need to waste time in pondering over details. Here and there, as he went through the maze, he chalked deliberately misleading arrows on the walls for the benefit of anyone who pursued him at a later stage. He crossed two of the chasms by the help of his rope and grapnel, hoisting his stakes up by tying them to the end of the rope before he climbed out of the chasm himself and pulling them up when he reached the farther bank.

Just beyond the second pit he set a trap. The stakes were just a shade longer than the breadth of the passage, and by means of the