Danny the detective

by Vera C. Barclay

Exactly behind him, peering through the hole in the wall, was an evil face, the two small pale eyes gleaming in the moonlight; the barrel of a revolver, like a round, black, hollow eye fixed on him in a deathlike stare.

“Hands up!” hissed the man. Standing quite still Danny met the small, blue eyes so intent upon him, and slowly his hands went up. It all felt like a dream; it was, again, the face of the “traitor”—the face of the stranger with the bicycle.

It seemed hours before the man spoke again, and all the time the black, vacant eye of the revolver seemed to be staring at a spot in the middle of Danny’s forehead.

“Stand still and speak not one word!” whispered the man, and began to climb through the hole, keeping the revolver pointed at Danny, the while. Then, without a word, he took him firmly by the collar, tapping the back of his head with the pistol.

“It’s loaded,” he whispered. “If you call out or try and run away, I shoot. Now, walk with me, quietly!”

With the cold barrel against the back of his neck, there was nothing for it but to obey. Cold sweat broke out on Danny’s forehead, as together the strange pair walked silently over the grass, in the shadow of the ruined walls.

Their feet made no sound on the long, wet grass as they walked across the Abbot’s Garden, keeping in the black shadow cast by the half-ruined walls of the church. Danny seemed almost stunned. He could not fully realise the horror of his position. He found himself vaguely admiring the delicate shadows cast on the grass as the moonlight poured down through the Gothic traceries of the windows. In his ear he heard the quick breathing of the spy. The cold barrel of the revolver touched his neck. The man’s fingers gripped the collar of his jersey and forced him to walk on. Was it a horrible dream, or was he really alone, defenceless, and in the power of a dangerous enemy?

They had stepped quickly across the brilliant “moonlit space,” and stood now in the shadow of the Abbot’s House—a low, square building standing away from the rest of the ruin. The arch over the doorway had fallen in, blocking it up completely. Ivy grew thick on the walls. On a level with Danny’s head was the sill of a Gothic window. Slipping the revolver into his coat pocket, the German lifted Danny by the back of his belt, and, swinging him up, dropped him through the dark aperture of the window. He fell on his hands and knees on the stone floor, rough with pieces of broken stone. Though bruised and cut, he jumped up quickly. Was there a chance of escape before that cruel hand was on his shoulder again, the revolver threatening certain death?

He glanced up at the window. But even at that moment the grey patch of sky was blocked out by the form of a man climbing through. A moment later the spy dropped on to the ground, and his groping hands touched Danny’s face as he crouched, trembling, in a corner. Grasping his wrist in a grip like steel, the spy dragged him across the dark room, muttering an oath in German as he tripped on a large stone. Stopping suddenly, he seemed to be feeling his way. Then Danny found himself being led down some steps and through a doorway.

His eyes ached with trying to pierce the darkness, he longed to see where he was. But it startled him considerably when a bright ray of light shot through the gloom. The spy had turned on a brilliant electric torch.