MASTERS OF THE PARACHUTE MAIL

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 60, Issue 31, 16 November 1939, Page 7

MASTERS OF THE PARACHUTE MAIL

By PETER BENEDICT A Gripping Romantic Story of Modern Methods in an ancient Smuggling Trade.

CHAPTER I. PEGGY AWAKENS EARLY. Peggy Calder got up at four o’clock. It was earlier than her usual time, even for a glorious morning in August; but the fact was that she had been awake most of the night with toothache, and to stay any longer in bed seemed pointless ,since there was very little chance of getting to sleep again. She had succeeded in falling off to sleep several times during the night but lever for long; and once well after midnight, she remembered awaking to the unfamiliar sound, for that hour of an aeroplane's engine. She had lain and listened to it, as something on which to fix her strained nerves for some time. Extraordinary, now that she came to consider it, how long it had continued in her hearing. It was unusual enough to see one across the moorland of Abbott’s "Ferry, that desolate and deserted spot, even during the day ; to hear one during the night, and cruising so slowly above the empty undulations of this loneliest part of the uplands, was unprecedented. some machine off its course, perhaps; she knew very little about aeroplanes, but it was reasonable to suppose that they could lose their bearings occasionally; and there would certainly be no lights to guide the strayed pilot. She had sat up in bed and seen through the intense darkness of the night the two riding lamps at the tips of the spread wings. She had occupied herself idly with trying to invent explanations for the machine’s presence there, and in the middle of them had fallen uneasily asleep again. She dressed and went down in the greyish light on the stairs. Her father and mother were still sleeping, of course; they were always an hour at least later than she in getting up.

Habit had become preference to Peggy. A small holding such as this one, which supplemented Jier father’s quite inadequate army pension, required that someone upon it should arise early. In an access of generosity which was typical of her, and which had occasionally been as typically regretted since, she had claimed the right to seu the clays rolling. To-day, however, she was earlier than usual, ancl had time to spare. It occurred to her that a blow in the fresh air might do her irritated nerves good. She would fetch her bicycle out of the shed ancl go for a ride. Better than walking, that, because slie could go further in the time at her disposal. The morning air struck cool and pleasant through her thin dress as she walked clown the garden path towards the old shed which could not longer in decency be called a garage, since it was two years since it had contained a car, and even then the car had belonged to a cousin.

Peggy had never owned a car; she felt no regret about this. They seemed to her so much less individual than, say, horses. No doubt they were very convenient, and would, in bad weather, have got her into market with much less trouble* than she now . had with Sunny. But it was useless thinking of one, for where was the money? They had always, in her recollection, been chronically short of this desirable commodity; it worried none of them, for they were so used to it that any other state would have made them uneasy.

All things considered, they did very well—largely thanks to herself, as she was well aware. Her father was splendid with a garden; he could make it grow whatever he wanted it to grow, though the actual degree of success did depend largely upon circumstances. Her mother was wonderful with a house and an oven. But try and get either of them to understand the intracies of markets and market prices, and you were floored. They just didn’t include any sense of figures; they had been made without it, and it was useless trying to graft it in now. “I WOULDN’T SCREAM!”

She was twenty. She had been general manageress of Heath Cottage for three years, and was not yet beginning to feel herself pinched between limits not meant for her, though she had sometimes a premonition that such a feeling would come in the end. For Peggy had a high opinion of her own abilities, and not without some reason. There were things about Peggy Calder which ,could not he ignoredi She had her share of brains, and some people said her share of beauty, too, and she was well aware that there were few things, and few prospects, which frightened and awed her. Sim could hold her own at most things. Some day she would be finding the sky and the moorland horizon too small for her needs; she would be conscious of a sort of spiritual cramp; and what would happen then she had no idea. She paused with her hand upon the door of the shed, holding the latch of the wicket which let her through the big sliding door which had once, before their time at Heath Cottage, opened and closed upon a battered four-seater of family proportions. It was not locked, of course; her father had been last in, and how could he be expected to remember that gardening tools are sometimes stolen, even from sheds lar out in the moors?

But she stopped with one foot raised to cross the low sill. She could hear, from the direction of the open moor, the double purring rattle of a car and motor cycles—she thought two cycles—like the police ear of the pictures, with its inevitable attendants. She was vaguoty-surpviscd again, hut that was all. Time could, not go on for ever without making occasion, sooner or later, to send cars over Abbott’s Ferry moor at an unusual hour. Even if the whole universe here seemed to run in a rut, there must be a variation some time, if 011 c waited long enough.

The sound was drawing rapidly nearer, but how near, in that clarity of the early air, it was impossible to say,

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when she lifted the latch of the door, and stepped through into what seemed complete darkness. The windows were mere square gratings, and gave a greyish light which made her quite blind for a moment. She went forward confidently from memory across the room to where she knew her cycle would he, ancl before she had taken three steps had walked full info something hard and sharp, which struck and bruised her thigh, something which clanged as her foot struck it, something which should not have been there, which had never been there before.

She gave a little gasp of comical unbelief, feeling forward with her hands to restore her balance. The mysterious something was there, too, hard and flat, a cold surface from which her fingers recoiled. Then she saw it, her sight sharpening; it was a smallish, dull-grey car, a fast car, slung low shaped for speed. She had walked into the right front mudguard, and flattened her hands against the windscreen. She let her mind dwell upon cars, and here came a car, conveniently backed into their shed, a present from some geni of the Arabian Nights.

She heard, and felt, and saw, ail in one moment, the door close behind her. Heard it, because it made tbe slight moaning of .protest as it'swung; felt it, because a distinct chill ran down her spine; saw it with the changing of the light over her and over the monstrous metal visitant before her. She swung round upon her heel to face the doorway, without a word, without a. sound, breathing short in her throat.

“Take it easy, my dear,” advised a 'voice from the doorway, a man’s voice, cool and harsh and very quiet. “And I wouldn’t scream, if I were you; not if you like this nice weather we’re having. Keep quiet, or you won’t see much more of it.” She had never intended to do anything else hut keep quiet. For one thing, there was no sense in screaming when no one in the least effective' was within earshot; and for another, though she could not yet make out every detail of the figure which stood with its hack to the door, she could very clearly see that he had a revolver in his hand. She had caught the gleam of its barrel; she' knew it, though, she had never seen one before in a’ny metal more solid than celluloid.

“That’s a good kid!” said the patronising stranger, with amused approval. “Not every woman knows when to keep her mouth shut as well as that.” “THE POLICE KNOW YOU?” “Too bad I got up so early, wasn’t it?” remarked Peggy, her mind busy between this car inside and those other interlopers who must now be within a. few hundred yards of the garden fence, on the Abbott’s Ferry road. “On tho contrary, it looks like, being the best thing you could have done for me.” He said, in the same low and quick tonej.a tono of urgency undisguised : “Come here!” Peggy came obediently. One learned very quickly that tliex*e could be no arguing with a man who held a revolver and seemed perfectly capable of using it if anything annoyed, him. IShe stepped reluctantly to his side, and he took her by one wrist. He had his eye upon the chink of the door, and she saw his face for a moment quite clearly in the sunlight falling thinly through the space. The intensity of the light made his flesh clear red, as when in her childish days, she had held up her finger to the keyhole for the pleasure of seeing through them; but she thought.she would know him again, if ever they should meet. Not an unhandsome face, rather fullfleshed, clearly blond, quite young, Peggy felt an aversion to his mouth, because it was full without being loose, and gave him a vicious look. He held her tightly, and his hand—it was gloved —was very strong; but at least the half of his attention seemed to be on the garden outside, on the road—on the car and its attendant motor-cycles. He said rapidly: “You’re known about these parts, I shouldn’t wonder? The police know you? They’ll take anything you say without question?” “I don’t know,” said Peggy, feeling her way, and unwilling to be helpful. “I’ve never thought about it.” “You can think about it now, and make it snappf. There are some local worthies looking for me; and they aren’t going to find me. When I give you the word, my dear, you are going to open this door, stand in the doorway, and tell those flatfeet that there’s no man here, no car—never has been a man—tho car, if they can see the tracks, belongs to your uncle, who was here last night. And if you try and pull anything funny, it will he just too had for you. I’ve nothing to lose.” “It wouldn’t do you any good to shoot me,” she said, reasonably, “if they get you just the same.” “But if you get it firmly into your little head that I shall do exactly what I say, that will do me a great deal of good. Either you cover me securely, or else I put 3*oll out. You can feel the goad, can’t 3*011?” She could; it was pressed into her side; she felt the chill of it through her dross, steady and relentless. Ho meant what lie said. There was no getting away from that. She heard tho ear draw up; she heard the 03 T elcs purr to a standstill, and the garden gate open. “Get your stoiy straight,” hissed the jnau in her ear, his face very close to hers as he leaned against the wall. The revolver prodded. her. “All right! Open the door!” She opened it, and the sunlight leaped in. A sergeant of police was advancing up the gravel path. With all her heart she wished she could advance to meet him, out of earshot of the man in the shod; and she did make one sly attempt to draw her left wrist out of his hold, without success. She was instantly drawn more closely to the jamb of the door, covering him, and the revolver gave a disquieting jab

into her side. She gave up the attempt. She was not such fool as to take any unnecessary chances. If a real chance offered, that would be a different tiling.

The sergeant came up stripping driving driving gloves from his hands, two satellites hard on his heels. He was brisk, and would not be difficult. Not difficult enough, she thought, hating the idea of defeat; but at the same time, it would not be very nice if anything went wrong for this nightmare person behind her. The thought of driving him to use that revolver made the short brown hairs rise along her neck, and her flesh shrink'together. It drove her to be realistic.

She leaned against the doorpost, her pinioned arm trailing behind her in what she hoped was a natural manner. The sergeant had seen her, and was approaching; she saw*that he was a local man, and one who knew both her father and herself well.

‘‘Sorry to rush in on you this early, Miss Caldcr,” he said, saluting her with a very perfunctory smile which came and went in a second, leaving his face eager and keen in. gravity, “but have you seen or heard anything of a grey racing car on this road? I’d say it passed within the last half-hour. How long have you been up?” “Only-maybe a quarter,” she said, falling naturally into the innocent, gaping surprise which the crisis demanded. “But I’ve been awake nearly an hour, and my room looks on the road. . • • I haven’t heard anything.” “Nor seen anything? No cars have passed at all?” “No. We don’t get many oven in the day, up here.” She felt that conviction, the steady urging of that gun in her flesh, where it made a little nagging pain, demanded some degree of curiosity from one who made no claim to be unfeminine. She added, with an effort: “Why? What’s happened?”