The Cauldron Read Online Free
Author: Colin Forbes
minute.'
Newman was focusing his binoculars. He gazed through them for several minutes, then lowered them from his eyes.
'She's got her second wind, is swimming strongly. And she is heading for this cove. What was that?'
'That.' said Marler, 'was undoubtedly the crack of a rifle shot. But she's still coming. Even a top rifleman won't hit her from that distance. They must be firing from that Venetia V ship you told me about on the way down the path.'
The swimmer came on with powerful strokes. No more shots. The mist had blotted out the ship. Newman and Marler were waiting for her when she reached the end of a concrete ramp. As she tried to crawl ashore they lifted her gently and carried her, choking, to the path, where they laid her down.
The woman, hair flat against her well-shaped head, was clad in a swimming costume. She reached up with one hand to pull Newman closer to her, her grip on his arm surprisingly strong. He bent close to listen to what she was trying to say.
'Quack... Quack ... Prof. Benyon ... Quack...'
Then her head slumped back and she was still. They tried every known means to bring her back to life. Eventually, exhausted, Newman stood up, shook his head.
'No good, Marler. She's dead. No pulse. Nothing. She took in too much water during the swim, would be my guess.'
'We'd better report it...'
'And have the police on our backs for God knows how long? Tweed wouldn't like that. This is going to seem obscene but it has to be done.'
He took out the camera he always carried, stood close to the poor woman and took three flash pictures. With a sigh he left the cove, led the way back up the path towards the hotel.
'I'm going to make an anonymous phone call to the police in Truro when we get back,' he told Marler. 'Driving through that nice village of Mawnan Smith I noticed a public phone box.'
'Why Truro? Falmouth is closer.'
'Because then the police won't associate the call as coming from anywhere near here. At the same time I'll call Tweed, get him to send a courier straight down to pick up the film in my camera. The boffins in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent can develop and print the pics I took. At the same time I'll ask Monica to report it to Truro.'
'Sounds sensible. We don't want anyone else seeing what you photographed. We tell Paula?'
'Not yet.'
When he eventually returned to Nansidwell after making his phone call Newman had a word with the proprietor.
'I've got a courier coming down from London with some urgent documents. He could arrive early in the morning. Mind if I sleep in my clothes on a couch near the front door?'
'You'll end up with a crick in your neck,' the proprietor joked. 'Of course I don't mind. I'll show you how the special lock on the front door works.'
The sturdy, tough Harry Butler arrived at 3 a.m. He had approached discreetly, cutting out the engine of his motorcycle when he saw the entrance to Nansidwell. He freewheeled down the drive and Newman, who was restless, had the door open when Butler arrived.
Stepping outside, Newman saw the precautions Butler had taken: he wore a dispatch rider's outfit and the invented name of a courier service was -attached to his machine. He took the camera Newman handed him, holding his helmet in the other hand. He kept his voice down.
Tweed is sending me back with prints as soon as the Engine Room lads have done their stuff. I should be here again while you're eating breakfast.'
"Three hundred miles there, another three back - that's a tough ride, Harry.'
'I've done more. The photographic team has been alerted to wait for me. We're speed merchants, Bob. I'd better get cracking...'
Newman crept back to his room after locking up. He had a leisurely bath, and slipping his revolver under his pillow, fell fast asleep. He woke at 7 a.m. - Newman could get by on four hours' sleep. He stayed in his room to avoid any risk of being conspicuous and entered the dining room at 9 a.m. Paula was at her own table, finishing off a full
Newman was focusing his binoculars. He gazed through them for several minutes, then lowered them from his eyes.
'She's got her second wind, is swimming strongly. And she is heading for this cove. What was that?'
'That.' said Marler, 'was undoubtedly the crack of a rifle shot. But she's still coming. Even a top rifleman won't hit her from that distance. They must be firing from that Venetia V ship you told me about on the way down the path.'
The swimmer came on with powerful strokes. No more shots. The mist had blotted out the ship. Newman and Marler were waiting for her when she reached the end of a concrete ramp. As she tried to crawl ashore they lifted her gently and carried her, choking, to the path, where they laid her down.
The woman, hair flat against her well-shaped head, was clad in a swimming costume. She reached up with one hand to pull Newman closer to her, her grip on his arm surprisingly strong. He bent close to listen to what she was trying to say.
'Quack... Quack ... Prof. Benyon ... Quack...'
Then her head slumped back and she was still. They tried every known means to bring her back to life. Eventually, exhausted, Newman stood up, shook his head.
'No good, Marler. She's dead. No pulse. Nothing. She took in too much water during the swim, would be my guess.'
'We'd better report it...'
'And have the police on our backs for God knows how long? Tweed wouldn't like that. This is going to seem obscene but it has to be done.'
He took out the camera he always carried, stood close to the poor woman and took three flash pictures. With a sigh he left the cove, led the way back up the path towards the hotel.
'I'm going to make an anonymous phone call to the police in Truro when we get back,' he told Marler. 'Driving through that nice village of Mawnan Smith I noticed a public phone box.'
'Why Truro? Falmouth is closer.'
'Because then the police won't associate the call as coming from anywhere near here. At the same time I'll call Tweed, get him to send a courier straight down to pick up the film in my camera. The boffins in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent can develop and print the pics I took. At the same time I'll ask Monica to report it to Truro.'
'Sounds sensible. We don't want anyone else seeing what you photographed. We tell Paula?'
'Not yet.'
When he eventually returned to Nansidwell after making his phone call Newman had a word with the proprietor.
'I've got a courier coming down from London with some urgent documents. He could arrive early in the morning. Mind if I sleep in my clothes on a couch near the front door?'
'You'll end up with a crick in your neck,' the proprietor joked. 'Of course I don't mind. I'll show you how the special lock on the front door works.'
The sturdy, tough Harry Butler arrived at 3 a.m. He had approached discreetly, cutting out the engine of his motorcycle when he saw the entrance to Nansidwell. He freewheeled down the drive and Newman, who was restless, had the door open when Butler arrived.
Stepping outside, Newman saw the precautions Butler had taken: he wore a dispatch rider's outfit and the invented name of a courier service was -attached to his machine. He took the camera Newman handed him, holding his helmet in the other hand. He kept his voice down.
Tweed is sending me back with prints as soon as the Engine Room lads have done their stuff. I should be here again while you're eating breakfast.'
"Three hundred miles there, another three back - that's a tough ride, Harry.'
'I've done more. The photographic team has been alerted to wait for me. We're speed merchants, Bob. I'd better get cracking...'
Newman crept back to his room after locking up. He had a leisurely bath, and slipping his revolver under his pillow, fell fast asleep. He woke at 7 a.m. - Newman could get by on four hours' sleep. He stayed in his room to avoid any risk of being conspicuous and entered the dining room at 9 a.m. Paula was at her own table, finishing off a full
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