Curtain Of Fear Part 16

"I doubt it. All the odds are that his house would have been given to someone who bears him a grudge, so that they can keep an eye on him-some lazy swine whom he has sacked, or one of his workmen with known Com sympathies-and that he will be sleeping in the attic or the cellar. Anyhow, if a Com is in possession it would be much too dangerous for us to stay here."

Fedora had hardly finished speaking when they were relieved of their fears that the pessimistic picture she painted as yet applied to the Sova farm. Two figures emerged from the darkness; the stalwart barge-master, and with him a tall, thin man whom he introduced as his cousin Otokar Sova.

Otokar proved to be a not unkindly but gloomy man. He said that he would willingly have taken the fugitives in but was unable to do so, because the authorities now compelled him to house all his work people who could not find other accommodation. In consequence, owing to the general housing shortage there was not a room at the farm that had not someone sleeping in it. However, if they cared to doss down in the barn, there was plenty of hay there and he could let them have a couple of blankets.

They were glad enough to accept his offer, and while he went off to get the blankets they said good-bye to Karel Sova; repeating more than once, in spite of his protests, that they would never forget what a good friend he had been to them.

The barge-master had not long disappeared in the darkness when Otokar Sova reappeared carrying a lantern as well as the blankets. As he led them into the big barn the oasis of light made by the lantern was just enough for them to realise that it was a fine old building with great oak cross-beams and a vaulted roof. The greater part of it was empty, except for a few piles of sacks; but at its far end, about one third of its length was divided horizontally by an open loft some ten feet from the ground, and it was upon this that the hay was stored.

Having set up a ladder against the open end of this upper floor, the lugubrious Otokar told them that his wife would bring them something to eat in the morning, then held up his lantern for them to mount to their resting place. As soon as they had reached it he wished them 'good sleep' and, evidently in no mind to risk a fire, went off, talking the lantern with him.

By groping about in the darkness they soon had enough loose hay to make a soft couch and, having spread the blankets out on it, lay down side by side.

After a moment's silence, Fedora said: "I love the smell of hay."

"Were you brought up in the country, then?" Nicholas asked.

"No; in Prague. My father was a Czech businessman, and we weren't well-off enough to have even a cottage in the country. I love the smell of hay because it reminds me of New England, where my husband's home was. His parents had a farm there, and we used to go and stay with them sometimes on our leave. I liked it so much better than living in Was.h.i.+ngton."

"I hadn't realised that you married an American."

"Yes. He was an Intelligence Officer, and came here with the American mission in 1945, before the Iron Curtain closed down. I was only nineteen then; but we fell in love, and he married me and took me back to the United States."

During nearly the whole of the time that Fedora and Nicholas had been together they had spoken to one another in Czech, but he now recalled the slight American accent that he had noticed when they had first met and she was talking in English, as he asked: "For how long were you in America?"

"Three years. It was during that time I taught my husband to speak Czech. How I wish to G.o.d now that I hadn't."

"Why?"

"It was that which led to our being sent back here. In those years between the defeat of j.a.pan and the opening of the Korean War the prospects for a young regular Army Officer weren't up to much, and we had very little money. When they found out that he spoke Czech fluently, as well as having a Czech wife, they asked him if he would agree to be transferred for a tour of duty with a civilian outfit. They promised that it should make no difference to his seniority; and, of course, the pay for undercover work was about four times what he had been getting. We fell for it and came back as stooges on the staff of a trade delegation. Our idea was that living being so cheap in Europe to dollar earners, we'd be able to put by a fine fat wad, then buy ourselves a nice little home for keeps when we got back to the States. But it just didn't work out that way."

All that Nicholas could think of to say was "That was rotten luck. You've had a hard deal, Fedora." But he stretched out a hand in the darkness, found one of hers, and pressed it.

"Thanks, Nicky," she murmured. "But I'm not complaining. I've had a lot of fun, and I've been lucky enough to help save a few people from a very gruesome finish. I've a feeling now, though, that I'm pretty well finished myself. I can't explain it; because if I were going to die I ought to have died tonight at the bottom of that ca.n.a.l. Perhaps it is that I have nothing left that I want to live for."

"Oh, come!" he protested. "You mustn't talk like that. You're a very lovely woman, and still quite young. From what you've just said you can't be much more than twenty-seven. It's certain that you'll fall in love again. Next time that may mean a home, security, jolly children, and all the sorts of steady-going happiness that you seem to have missed so far."

The hay rustled, as she shook her head. "No, Nicky. I'm not that sort of a girl. For a little time I thought I was; but I'm not. I've lived too hard and too dangerously these past few years. And somehow this last business of Bilto's having let me down makes me feel all burnt out. I wouldn't mind if I died tomorrow."

"I wish to G.o.d I'd never told you about that woman that Bilto was going to meet in Prague."

"You didn't know that I cared about him, then. But as he has been separated from her for years, it's quite understandable that he should have consoled himself with me in England. That's life. Men and women may carry an ideal love for another person in their hearts all their lives long, but that doesn't alter the fact that they can love another person with their senses from time to time; and I'm sure that Bilto loved me that way."

Again she was silent for a moment, then she gave a little laugh. "I wonder what would have happened if it had been you I had met in the first place, instead of him. You are awfully like him physically, but nearer my age, and at rock bottom a much finer person."

"No, I'm not. He's kind and generous, and a much stronger character than I am."

"That's not altogether true. He can be very weak at times, and he is not open, like you are. He has plenty of good points; but, loving him as I do, I know him well enough to recognise his bad ones."

"Ah, that's just it. You may know his, but you don't know me well enough to know mine."

She sighed. "And I don't suppose I ever shall. As things are that makes you all the more attractive. At this moment, for me, you are all the best of Bilto without the worst. Did you mean it just now when you said you thought me a very lovely woman, or were you just being nice?"

"No. I meant it. When I saw you first I thought you striking, yet hardly even pretty. But you grow on one; and the extraordinary thing is that you don't need any trappings. That pale face of yours was still lovely when you were covered with muck, after they pulled us out of the ca.n.a.l."

Once more there fell a short silence, then she asked, "Tell me, Nicky. What would you do if this was your last night on earth?"

The pressure of events in the past thirty-six hours had forced the circ.u.mstances in which he had left Birmingham so far out of his mind that it now ignored them; but as he consciously drew in the sweet smell of the hay it brought him a vivid memory of the unforgettable afternoon that he had spent years before with a girl in a haystack. Spontaneously he replied: "I should make love to you."

She slid an arm round his neck. "Then let's pretend it is. I want you to. Please, Nicky; love me to sleep."

For a good two hours they slept soundly; but as the full light of day percolated into the big barn Fedora became restless. She began to talk in her sleep and turn about uneasily. Nicholas roused up, and when he touched her cheek he found that it was hot and dry. He knew then that sleeping in her damp underclothes had given her a chill and that she had a touch of fever. He did not waken her, but dozed beside her for another hour or more, until she woke herself, to complain that her head was aching and her throat parched.

He was wondering if he dare go out to the farm to get her something to drink when a plump middle-aged woman appeared, carrying a basket over her arm. Climbing up the ladder, she introduced herself as Boena Sova, Otokar's wife, and took from the basket the bread, cold bacon, cheese and milk she had brought for their breakfast.

She said that she had not come earlier as she had wanted to give them as long as possible to sleep, and would have given them still longer, but for the fact that Sunday service was to be held in the barn in three-quarters of an hour's time.

On Nicholas looking rather mystified, Fedora told him in a quick aside that the Coms had closed nearly all the churches as places liable to be used for reactionary gatherings, and forbidden the holding of religious ceremonies in private as anti-social activities; so they now had to be held in secret.

Mrs. Sova said she understood that they would be leaving that day, and asked if they would like a parcel of food to take with them, or if there was any other way in which she could be of help.

Nicholas thanked her and declined the food, but said that they wanted to be at the Ruzyn Airport by midday at the latest, and they were not certain either how far off it was or how to get there.

"That is simple," she smiled. "The airport is only about six kilometres away, and the left-hand fork of the road south leads right past it. As for getting there, my good man can easily drive you over in the gig, after service."

"We must not put him to that trouble," said Fedora quickly, "and it is just possible that if he is seen with us he might be questioned afterwards. We can walk that distance in a little over an hour."

The apple-cheeked farm-wife had already been regarding Fedora's flushed face and feverish eyes with concern. "No," she said firmly. "Perhaps it would be wise for him to drop you half a kilometre this side of the airport, but he shall certainly drive you that far. You are in no state to walk, my dear, or travel at all for that matter. I wish I could put you to bed in the house. As that can't be managed, why not let me make you as comfortable as I can here for a day or two?"

Fedora shook her head. "It's terribly kind of you, Pan Sova, but we have a date with friends who hope to get us away, and it is very important indeed that we should stick to our arrangements. I would be grateful, though, if you could let me have some aspirin."

"I'll bring you some when I come back for the breakfast things," Mrs. Sova agreed, "and some lavender water to cool your poor forehead."

When she had left them Nicholas made a good breakfast, but he could persuade Fedora only to swallow a few mouthfuls of bread and bacon with the milk. It was clear that she was running a high temperature, which was not to be wondered at in view of all she had been through the previous day; but, worried as he was about her, there was nothing he could do, except hope that the aspirin would bring it down before they had to make a move.

Soon after they had finished eating, Mrs. Sova returned with it and, having given Fedora a couple of tablets, insisted that she should take the rest of the bottle with her. Then she sponged the girl's forehead, cheeks, neck and wrists with home-made lavender water, and told her to lie quiet until it was time for her to go.

But to that Fedora said, "If I may, Pan Sova, I would very much like to come down and attend the service. I'm sure that wouldn't make me worse."

The good woman smiled. "G.o.d forbid that I should restrain anyone from wors.h.i.+pping their Maker, child. You will be welcomed by both Him and us. But it would be better if you don't join in the singing or exert yourself more than need be. It will be starting in about ten minutes' time."

As she descended the ladder to the floor two men carried in a small harmonium and set it down at the far end of the barn. Soon other people began to collect, until a small congregation had a.s.sembled consisting of eight men and about a score of women. Nearly all of them were middle-aged or elderly and all were of the peasant cla.s.s.

Fedora got up to go down and join them, but after a moment's hesitation she turned to Nicholas and asked, "Wouldn't you like to attend the service too?"

He smiled up at her a shade apologetically. "I'd rather not; if you'll excuse me. I gave up all that sort of thing when I was a boy, so I'd only feel embarra.s.sed. But perhaps I'll say a private prayer up here."

He watched her join the group of women round Mrs. Sova, then saw the pastor come in. At his entrance a hush fell on the congregation and they quietly took their places: the men all together at one side and the women at the other, in the old Lutheran manner. Seeing that the service was about to begin Nicholas felt that it was not proper for him to remain there sitting up aloft like a spectator at a barn-play; so he got up and clambered over some bales of hay to the back of the staging.

Behind the bales it was almost dark; so, noticing a wooden door in the side wall of the barn, he pulled it open a few inches and sat down beside it. The door looked out on to the road and was about nine feet above it, so that wagons could draw up immediately below and load or unload crops direct from or to the loft.

It was a lovely May morning with the peace of Sunday on the countryside. Soon, as he sat there, the murmur of prayers, the clear voice of the pastor, and the chanting of age-old litanies came to him. He rather wished now that he had accepted Fedora's invitation to join in, for he had suddenly become strongly conscious that there was something fearless and fine and indestructible about these people's simple faith.

Their voices were raised in a hymn when he saw a big furniture removal van come round the bend of the road. To his surprise it slowed down and pulled up immediately beneath the door behind which he sat half concealed. From the seat next to the driver, a young boy of about eleven jumped down. Waving his hand excitedly, he shouted something and pointed to the barn.

Next moment a single-decker bus came into view and jolted to a standstill behind the lorry. Out of it poured a score of State police. Following the boy, they ran towards the gate of the stable yard. Springing to his feet, Nicholas pushed the door to from which he was looking. Out of the blue an evil fate had struck at him, Fedora and their friends. The barn was about to be raided: and from it there was no escape.

CHAPTER XVIII.

DECREE OF FATE.

For a moment Nicholas stood stockstill. To have rushed out from behind the bales of hay and shouted a warning to the congregation would have been futile. By the time he made himself heard above the singing, the leading men in the running squad of police would be at the main doors of the barn. It was already too late for anyone to get out that way without being caught. There remained the small door to the loft, near which he was standing. For the congregation to escape that way was equally impossible. The police would follow, call on them to halt, and open fire if any of them attempted to jump down into the road. For him alone it offered a means of escape, providing he did not involve himself with the congregation, and providing that no police had been left on watch with the vehicles below.

Realising that, as far as he was concerned, everything hung on this last point, he opened the door a crack and peered through it. The roof of the big removal van blocked a large sector of his view. Beyond it the road was empty, but he could hear voices. He felt certain that someone was standing on the far side of it, talking to its driver.

Suddenly the singing ceased. The harmonium played on for a moment, then died in a wail. For a matter of seconds there was a tense silence. It was broken by the bark of a harsh order. Hard upon it came a babble of mingled shouts of anger and cries of fear.

Nicholas pulled the Luger, which he had used in the warehouse, from his pocket. He knew nothing about weapons and wondered if its immersion in the ca.n.a.l had rendered it temporarily useless. The pistol had been well greased and, to his relief, he found that its recoil chamber still slid back easily. Pressing the magazine b.u.t.ton, he quickly removed the clip, and saw that it had only three bullets remaining in it. Ramming it into his pocket, he reloaded with one of the full clips that Fedora had given him. Then, holding the weapon at the ready, he clambered back across the bales of hay until he could see down into the middle and far end of the barn.

Crouching there, still under cover, he took swift stock of the situation. The police already had the little group of men covered with sten-guns. They were crowded into a corner with their hands above their heads. Their faces were sullen but resigned. It was clear they realised the uselessness of putting up a fight. The women were proving more difficult. They were screaming abuse and, in several cases, attempting to break through the police in the hope of getting away. Fedora was among them. She was struggling wildly with a tall, dark man. Stooping her head, she bit him on the wrist. With a curse, he let her go, but hit her. She fell to the floor. He dragged her up and hit her again.

Nicholas was desperately tempted to intervene; but he was not a practised shot with an automatic. He knew that at that distance he was just as likely to hit Fedora as the thug who was maltreating her. Another thought also restrained him. There was more at stake than Fedora, or himself, or any individual life. Unless one of them could stop Bilto he would leave England that night. To-morrow it would be too late to prevent him making a present of the secrets he held to the men who ruled behind the Iron Curtain, and were endeavouring to force their hideous tyranny on the whole world. That Fedora should have been captured was tragic, but that made it all the more imperative that he should do his utmost to retain his freedom, so that he might yet get back across the frontier and telephone a warning to London in time.

In any case, no one man could have rescued Fedora now, in the face of a score of armed police. Had Nicholas attempted it he would have been shot down long before he could reach her, and thrown away his life to no purpose. That thought allayed a little his feeling that it was cowardly to play the role of an onlooker; but he could have cursed aloud with fury at his impotence to help, as his gaze continued fixed upon her.

At the second blow she had fallen again. Now she was lying on her back at the side of the barn, sprawling half across a pile of cattle-cake. Her right arm was flung out at an awkward angle above her head, and she lay quite still.

As Nicholas stared at her, he recalled the gloomy thoughts that had obsessed her when they had first settled down in the loft some six hours earlier-her feeling that she was finished, that she was burnt out and had nothing left to live for, her wish to pretend that it was their last night on earth. Had that been some strange foreboding that her death was imminent? He was no believer in fortune-telling and the 'mumbo-jumbo of the occult', preferring to explain away the inexplicable by attributing it to the as yet little understood affects of cosmic rays, or by other meaningless pseudo-scientific jargon. Yet he knew that there were cases of incontestable authenticity in which people had received previous warning of their own deaths. Had Fedora had such a warning? Had the policeman's last blow broken her neck? Had her gallant heart at last failed, after she had been through so much, at learning fate's decree that she was not to escape after all? As she lay slumped and twisted there, was she already dead?

The police now had the whole congregation under control.

The officer in charge of the raid took a paper from his breast pocket and in a careless gabble read it out. It was a decree by the People's Government of Czechoslovakia prohibiting all religious a.s.semblies held without an official permit, and making anyone caught attending such an a.s.sembly liable to a minimum penalty of one year's labour in the uranium mines.

Stuffing the paper back into his pocket, the officer gave an order, and his men began to hustle the cowed peasants towards the doors of the barn. He was standing near the pastor and, turning, gave him a vicious kick on the behind with his jackboot, as a send-off in the right direction.

Not long since, Nicholas had inveighed against priests of all denominations as parasites, and propagators of outworn superst.i.tions the continued observance of which was not consonant with the 'Dignity of Man'. Yet his gorge rose, not on account of the physical brutality of the act but from an instinctive feeling that the indignity had been inflicted upon something in essence higher than any individual man, of which this humble Lutheran pastor was only the representative.

As he continued to stare down at the heart-rending spectacle of the Sovas and their fellow-wors.h.i.+ppers being hurried from the barn, he saw Fedora move her arm, and the policeman who had hit her pulled her stumbling to her feet. His heart leapt with relief at the knowledge that she was not dead, but had only fainted.

Next moment he was given swift cause to think of himself. The boy of eleven who had led the raid was standing near the officer. He had caught him by the arm and was pointing to the loft. Owing to the hubbub which was going on below, Nicholas could not catch his words; but it was clear that he was suggesting that before they had entered the barn some of the congregation might have hidden themselves up among the hay, so the loft ought to be searched.

Without waiting for further indications of his peril Nicholas scrambled back. Next moment he was again standing in the semi-darkness beside the door of the loft. It was, as he had left it, open a few inches. He peered through. There was no one in sight, but he could still hear voices on the far side of the removal van, and at any second now the police would be bringing their prisoners out from the yard into the road. If he jumped down, capture was as good as certain.

The reason why the police had brought the removal van was now obvious. It was the perfect type of vehicle in which to lock up and cart away a score or more of men and women. Apparently it was in normal use during the week and commandeered only for such raids on Sundays; as on its top, which was heightened by the usual two-foot board along its sides and ends to keep light goods stacked there from slipping off, there lay a pile of hessian wrappers and a tarpaulin.

In a flash of inspiration Nicholas saw the chance it offered. He had only to step out on to the roof of the van and pull the furniture wrappers over him to escape detection. As he opened the door he heard footsteps running up the ladder on the far side of the hay. Without the loss of a second, he pocketed his gun and stepped across the yard-wide gap which was all that separated him from the roof of the van. Throwing out his hands, so as to fall upon it with as little noise as possible, he dived below the level of the side-board, which then screened him from anyone approaching along the road. Grabbing the coverings with both hands, he pulled the whole bundle on top of himself and lay still, so that if the searchers who had come up the loft chanced to look out of its door they would see nothing to arouse their suspicions.

He had been lying there no more than a minute when he heard sounds beneath him. Someone was pulling open the doors at the back of the van. There came a trampling of many feet approaching along the road, with which mingled cries and curses. The noise increased to a din as the twenty to thirty people who had made up the congregation were herded into the van. Gradually the commotion subsided. The engine started up, the van moved slowly at first until it had backed round to face the direction from which it had come, then drove off.

For several minutes Nicholas did not dare to put his head out from under the coverings, as it was possible that some of the police might still be at the door of the loft, or, if they had gone into the farm, be looking out of one of its windows; but as soon as he felt confident that the van was out of sight of the hamlet he raised himself on one elbow and took a quick look round.

Behind the van the road was clear. In front the single-decker bus that had brought the raiding party was churning up the dust two hundred yards ahead. As he watched, it perceptibly increased its lead. In the distance, to the right, he could see the river; but they were veering away from it; so it was clear that outside the hamlet the van must have taken the left-hand fork and was on the road that led both to the airport and to Prague.

Now, for the first time since the raid, Nicholas had the chance to a.s.sess the new situation. That he and Fedora should have been caught up in the Communists' campaign to suppress religion was the most appalling luck. By what practically amounted to a miracle they had escaped from their pursuers, leaving no trace, and were by now almost certainly a.s.sumed to be dead; yet the arrangements for their flight from the country were in hand, and within another hour or so they should have been making their final preparations with Mr. Lutonsk for a clean get-away. It was indeed a bitter pill to swallow that, through having chanced to spend a few hours in the Sova's barn, rather than in any one of the scores of others in the district, they should now again be prisoners.

That Nicholas had managed to escape actual arrest was true, but he was as much a prisoner as Fedora, because he could not get off the top of the fast-moving van without the risk of breaking his neck; and when it did pull up all the odds were that it would do so in the yard of some police headquarters, so to climb down then would mean immediate arrest.

Prague was only some twelve kilometres away, the van was going in that direction, and there was no town of any size nearer; so it seemed certain that it was going to the capital and would not stop before it got there. The fact that it would actually pa.s.s the airport added to Nicholas' bitter fury; but it seemed that his only possible chance of escaping capture lay in remaining hidden under the coverings until night, then endeavouring to get away unseen from the garage or yard in which the van was parked after it had unloaded its human cargo. But, even if he succeeded in that, he would then have missed the plane, and all chance of stopping Bilto would be gone.

It was not until the van had covered a couple of kilometres that it suddenly occurred to him that he might manage to stop it while it was still out in the country. The bus containing the raiding party had gone on ahead and was now out of sight. It seemed certain that they would have left guards with the van, but he still had his pistol; so if there were not too many of them, and he could take them by surprise, there was at least a chance that he might get away.

Crawling to the back of the roof, he peeped cautiously over the ridge board. Six feet below, on the tail board, two guards were sitting. He could easily have shot both of them from above; but that was not necessarily going to stop the van. If the shots were not heard by the driver, the two guards would simply roll off the tail-board and the van go on. If, on the other hand, the driver did hear the shots and pull up, that would be far from the end of the matter. The driver was probably armed, and the odds were that he had one or two more guards sitting on the box with him. If so, they would jump out into the road with their guns ready in their hands, and before Nicholas could possibly get away he would be shot himself.

The only alternative was to do the job the other way about and, if possible, shoot the driver first. That would result in the van careering on till it ran off the road and crashed into a tree or overturned. The risk entailed was considerable, as Nicholas knew that he would be flung from its top, and perhaps be seriously injured. On the other hand the men on the box would almost certainly be trapped in the smash, and the two guards on the tail-board flung off. There was also a fair chance that if the doors of the van had not been fully secured the prisoners might break out. That offered a prospect of rescuing Fedora, and if they escaped injury, they might be able to get away in the confusion.

Having weighed the chances, Nicholas decided that the risk was worth it. He alone would know when the crash was coming, so would have a much better prospect than the guards on the tail, of landing safely. The question now was, could he get into a position from which it would be possible to shoot the driver?

On hands and knees he crawled forward to the front of the van. Beyond the ridge-board projected the lower roof of the cab. It appeared to be made only of match-boarding, and he considered shooting blind down through it, but decided that the possibility of missing the man altogether was too great. Turning to the side of the van, he peered over. He could now see the cab a few feet below him, but not the man in it. To lean over meant that he would have to fire into it from a very awkward angle, but that seemed to offer a much better chance of wounding the driver than firing through the roof.

The road in front was clear. A glance over his shoulder showed that nothing was coming up behind. They were pa.s.sing through a wood, so there was no chance of his being seen from a distance, and it would provide good cover for flight if he survived the initial stages of his coup. Taking out his gun, he clicked a bullet up into its chamber. The van was approaching a bend in the road. With difficulty now he fought down the urge to get the desperate business over, and waited until they were within fifty yards of it. Then, leaning over as far as he dared, and with his elbow crooked, he fired three shots down into the driver's cab.

He heard a faint shout, but nothing else happened. He thought he must have missed. If he had it was to be expected that the van would pull up, and that frightened, angry men would soon be shooting back at him; yet it ran on steadily. It had almost reached the corner, and there was still no indication whether his shots had taken effect. He seemed to have been crouching on the angle of the roof for an age, waiting for the van to swerve and run off the road. Round the bend he glimpsed open country. If he could not halt the van before it came out of the wood his chances of getting away would be enormously reduced. Seized by panic, he leaned over to fire again.

It was not necessary. Even as he gripped the front-board with his free hand, to prevent himself being sent over the side by an unexpected jolt, he saw that the van could not now get round the bend. It was still running straight. As he pulled himself back, its front wheels went over the gra.s.s verge. The gra.s.s was fairly level but sloped down sharply. Without changing speed, or even a perceptible b.u.mp, the van left the road. Another moment, and it was charging down the bank towards the trees.

The instant Nicholas realised that his plan was, after all, succeeding, he turned and endeavoured to scramble to the rear of the roof. He hoped that if he could get there before the van crashed he would be able to shoot one, if not both, of the guards on the tail-board. He might have done it, had he known even half a minute earlier that he had accounted for the driver; but now it was too late. The sharp tilt the van took as it charged down the bank sent him slithering back. Scared now that he might be caught unawares if the van turned over, he got his feet against the front-board, wriggled round and sat up.

The wood was not dense; its trees were, on average, forty feet apart with low scrub between them. The van, now b.u.mping wildly, was about to career through a gap between a big oak and a beech, but their boughs almost met, and the lowest were a little less than the height of the van. With dilated eyes Nicholas saw that he was about to be swept from its top: yet he managed to keep his wits. As the nearest bough of the oak sc.r.a.ped the roof of the cab, lifted and rushed upon him, he thrust the gun into his trouser top and grasped at the bough with both hands.

For a moment he fumbled wildly, as the twigs and leaves were dashed into his face, then his clutching fingers found a firm hold. The van careered on beneath him; he was dragged to the rear end of its roof, b.u.mped painfully on the back edge-board, and over it. Now that there was nothing to support his weight the bough bent under him. Still hanging on to it, his toes were no more than five feet from the ground. Letting go, he dropped, made an effort to keep upright but fell, and rolled into some bushes.

As Nicholas staggered to his feet the van hit another oak, fifty feet away, head on. He was just in time to see the two guards flung off the tail-board. He could have run for it then and there, and got away, but he was checked by the thought of Fedora. Given a little luck now he might save her, and the unfortunate peasant congregation, as well as himself. If he could catch the guards before they had a chance to recover from their shaking, he could hold them up and force them to undo the doors of the van. Automatically now, his hand went to the pocket in which he carried the pistol.

Before his hand was half way there he remembered that he had not had time to thrust it back before the bough hit him, so had stuffed its muzzle into his trousers' top; but it was not there either. It had been knocked or jerked away during his fall from the van. Hastily he began to search about for it among the bushes.

Barely half a minute had elapsed since the van crashed, but already muted sounds of commotion were coming from it. There was a banging on its doors, a dull thump and a loud creak as a concerted effort was made against them. The lock was not strong enough to withstand the weight of a dozen bodies. With a rending noise the doors burst open and out tumbled the mixed crowd of men and women.