Traherne jabbed the gag in. They tied the scarf—tight—mercilessly tighter—still tighter. He lurched. He tried to squirm. He was powerless—helpless. He attempted to cry—it trailed off into a strangled gurgle. That gurgle was Watkins’ death-rattle. He caught at the edge of the wireless set, clutching it so desperately that blood clotted and purpled under his well-kept finger-nails. Crespin wrenched his hands away, twisted his arms behind him, tied the wrists with his strong, silk handkerchief. They made the gag fast. They tightened it more. They pinioned him well. They pinioned him not too kindly. They swung him up in their knotted arms—Traherne’s face writhed. Crespin was smiling. He struggled desperately. But Watkins knew. They carried him out of the wireless-room. He’d never listen-in again. He had sent his last message. He was off for the Last Orderly Room. Lucilla Crespin sobbed as they passed her, sobbed and clung to the mantelpiece. They reached the window. His head fell back, hanging from his limp neck like some hideous, distorted, unclean growth. Over the cruel, swathing gag she saw his tortured pig-like eyes strain. She turned away.
For a moment they rested on the balustrade.
“Must we—?” Traherne said huskily.
“Nothing else for it”—Crespin almost chuckled—“one, two, three!”
They lifted. They threw.
Compelled, against her will, Lucilla Crespin had followed them—stood watching, petrified. “One, two,—three!” She gave a gasping, shuddering, sick cry. “One—two—three!” Watkins, the Londoner—once of the Dorsets—had reached the Orderly Room—a mass of mangled pulp, down there in the Orderly Room, a sheer drop of a hundred feet long, he lay facing His Colonel.
They turned away from the balcony—they stumbled back into the room, Traherne like a drunken man, Crespin erect and soldierly. He crossed the room with a springy, soldier’s tread, and poured out a glass of whiskey.
“At least,” he said quietly, as he lifted it to his lips, “we haven’t taken it lying down.” He bent his mouth to the liquor—then—he put the untouched glass down with a cry of intense excitement “Hold on! Don’t speak!” They kept the silence they dared not break. His eyes flamed, and leapt “I have it!” he cried. . . . “Yes, by God, I have it! I’ve remembered the call!”
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Whiskey had done its medicinal work. Alcohol had wrought its miracle. It had paid something more off the long score it owed Antony Crespin.