“We’re putting some wires through to Gloucester. I suppose the lines are all right?”
His face did not move a muscle while he listened, then:
“I see,” he said. “Any roundabout route we can get? What’s the nearest town open?” A wait. “Is that so? Thank you.”
He put down the instrument.
“All wires to Gloucester are cut. The trunk wire has been cut in three places; the connection with Birmingham, which runs in an earthenware pipe underground, has been blown up, also in three places.” Dick’s eyes narrowed.
“Try the Radio Company,” he said. “They’ve got a station at Devizes, and another one somewhere near Cheltenham, and they could send on a message.”
Again Elk applied himself to the telephone.
“Is that the Radio Station? Inspector Elk, Headquarters Police, speaking. I want to get a message through to Gloucester, to Gloucester Prison, viâ—eh? . . . But I thought you’d overcome that difficulty. How long has it been jammed? . . . Thank you,” he said, and put down the telephone for the second time.
“There’s a jam,” he said. “No messages are getting through. The radio people say that somebody in this country has got a secret apparatus which was used by the Germans during the war, and that when the jam is on, it is impossible to get anything through.”
Dick looked at his watch. It was now half-past nine.