The Terror of Torlands

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 70, Issue 210, 21 June 1950, Page 3

The Terror of Torlands

S By T. C. H. JACOBS =

Serial Story:

~ (Copyright) ~

CHAPTER XXXV THE WAREHOUSE ON EIRE But only those two gruesome, nerveracking shrieks there were; silence, absolute and oppressive, reigned again. Davies inhaled a long breath as he drew a quivering hand across his dome-like forehead. “My God! Morris, that was another murder!” he cried. “Come on, there’s the -door we want.” Morris laid a restraining hand upon his arm: “Wait,” he snapped. “We don’t want to rush to our deaths. Mr Davies, you stay here please, and bring Rivers and as many men as can be spared after us. We will leave the doors open as we go through. Wait until you hear my whistle or the sound of firearms, and then come hell for leather.” “Yes, yes, all right,” replied Davies glancing fearfully around. “Go carefully, Inspector, there’s danger here.” The little man was fairly trembling as he retreated towards the door plainly thankful to escape the ordea: of going on. The door at the back of the room was actually standing ajar, so that Moms and Anderson .passed through without obstruction. A smell of damp antiquity came up to them as they cautiously' descended the stont steps. Anderson put out his hand and found the walls wet and slimy. “Getting down to water level,” Inbreathed.

Morris nodded, sweeping the beam of light before him. Presently they came to the iron ring in the wall, and Anderson took hold of it. Following Westwood’s instructions he twisted it once left, twice right, and sharply up. Without the slightest noise, a section of the wall swung slowly inwards, revealing an opening just large enough the admit them. The torch showed a wood-paved passage, dark and narrow Revolver in hand, Morris stepped in, followed by Anderson. Scarcely were they both in when the trap flew back into place. As they paused in consternation, a low laugh, indescribably evil, the mirth of some foul monster gloating over its victims, came softly to them out of the darkness ahead.

Anderson, with upraised arms, swept the perspiration from his brow as he stumbled against the wall. A powerful feeling of revulsion brought the sickness of nausea. It was not fear alone which possessed him; more was it the horrible loathing which is inspired by the presence of a thing infinitely foul, something unspeakably wicked, leprous, which shocked his very soul. With a mighty effort he switched on his torch, but the passage was empty. He glanced at the face of the Detective Inspector, palid and drawn with horror. Breathing rapidly, keyed up to the , uttermost tension, he commenced to move forward. “What was it?” whispered Morris shakily. “Black Harry himself,” murmured Anderson in reply. "He has us trapped,. Morris.” "The devil he has. Then we have n© option but to go on.” The Inspector was rapidly recovering his nerve. Presently they came to the large room, but no sound broke the deathly silence as they waited, listening. “I’m going to put: the light around,” wfhispered Anderson. Snapping on the torch he swept the room in one swift survey. “No one here,” said Morris, bringing his own light into action and stepping into the room. “Somebody lost his hat, though.” Anderson stooped to recover a soft, black hat from the floor. Holding it at arm’s length he studied it for a moment. “There is something very distinctive about hats,” he remarked. “I’m quite sure that I have seen this one before. Ah, what’s this!” From inside the leather band he extracted a piece of paper which had been used to pad it. Spreading it out it proved to be an envelope, and the name and address were—“Meldo Pestana. Stone Cottage, Post bridge, S. Devon.” Morris glanced at him enquiringly. “Isn’t that the South American valet you told me about?” he asked. “It is,” replied Anderson, slowly, "and it complicates matters for us like the deuce; but let us explore further. In the meantime we will park the hat upon this table. Nothing doing in this room. Let’s try the door yonder.”

They found themselves in a pasaage from which a series of rooms appeared to lead.

“Not a single window in the place!” commented Morris as they stepped into the first. “Must be underground.” “Underwater, I should say,” responded Anderson. “We can’t hear a single sound from the River. Hullo! traces of William Drew,” he added, picking up a collar which bore the dead man's name in marking ink. “'This place has been a regular barracks.” “Listen!” whispered Morris a few seconds later. - “I heard a noise.” Almost holding his breath, Anderson listened. Very faintly he heard a crackling sound, followed by a dull roar, muflled and indistinct.

' “What is jt?” asked. Mopfis in a puzzled whisper. Anderson shook his head? “Sounded like ajieavy gust of wind somewhere,” he said. Suddenly Morris held up his hand. “I smell smoke,” he announced. “Gad! look.” Anderson looked, and immediately perceived a thin, blue haze drifting from the room at the end. Even as ho stared, smoke commenced to pour through the doorway and a tongue of flame licked across the ceiling. “This way,” he snapped. “ The building his been fired.” The crash and crackle of the fire as it spread with amazing rapidity over the wooden structure filled their ears as they raced along the passage. They heard the noise of falling masonry somewhere behind, while the smoke, increasing every second in volume, blinded them. “Healthy lot of use it was coming in here!” barked Morris. “Every man of them escaped, and they’ve taken Westwood with ’em.” Anderson did not reply. His opinion differed greatly from the Inspector’s. The discovery of Meldo Pestana’s hat made certain those suspicions, and confirmed that theory which he had first entertained on Dartmoor. That at least one member of the gang, other than William Drew, had paid with his life this night he was convinced. As they turned the corner, a great sheet of flame shot up a few yards ahead, revealing a huge mirror set in the - wall. There was a splintering crash as the fire reached the glass,

and, as the two men paused in their flight, the mirror toppled forward, leaving a dark opening behind it. Anderson glanced, at the wall of flames in front, and at the leaping flames behind, and quickly made up his mind. Impossible to retreat either way, they must take their chance along the line behind the mirror—where a worse horror might await them. The collapse of the ceiling sent Morris scrambling through the opening, Anderson tumbling after him into an area comparatively free from smoke. Suddenly the Inspector gave a cry of alarm, threw up his arms, clutching wildly at the air. Anderson felt the floor slide from under him, and the next second they were falling, hurled into space with the sound of rushing, swirling water beneath them. V * * * * The fog on the river was rapidly becoming dense as the Police Boat lay idly floating on the oily water. A tug towing a chain of lighters slid by in the gloom, and the muffled hoot of a syren came from an invisible vessel in midstream. Jacques Radford, seated in the stern of the cutter, waited with an impatience which was well-nigh' intolerable. He strained his eyes until they smarted in an endeavour to see more than the ghostly outlines of the warehouse buildings, and his ears to catch any likely sound. The raw, damp chill of the fog made him turn up his overcoat and push his hands into his pockets. He wanted badly to smoke, to do something which would relieve the strain of waiting. “They’re sticking close,” remarked Inspector Freeman, coming to his side. “Time’s getting on, must be nearly 20 minutes since we took you aboard. Thought I heard the sound of a shot a while ago, did you?” Radford shook his head. “Something must have gone wrong.” Suddenly he sat upright, gripping the river policeman’s arm. “Look!” he exclaimed. “Good Lord, the place is on fire!” From the shore came the sound as of sledge hammer blows and the shrill note of a police whistle. Immediately after the look-out man bawled excitedly: “Cutter on the starboard bow, sir.” “After her,” roared Freeman, leaping to his feet and scrambling forward into the bows. Radford, blundering after him, failed to discern anything in the enveloping fog, but he heard the sound of the engines clearly enough. “There she is,” cried Freeman, thoroughly used to Thames weather. “Keep her. sighted, my lads, or she’ll slip away in this damned fog. Curse it, just our luck,” he added in a savage murmur. Then, turning to Radford, “Can you see her, sir?” “No, I can’t eee her,” replied Radford, staring hard and craning over the bows, “but I can hear her motor.” (To be Continued.) *"

The characters in this story are entirely imaginary, and no reference to living persons is intended.