Cargo of Eagles by Margery Allingham Page B

half an acre or so apiece.
    â€˜Then he brought down a load of suckers by special train, which you could get in those days, gave them a champagne lunch in a marquee erected for the occasion and held a sale. By then everyone was as high as a kite and the promoter sold off his land at a fantastic profit. One or two of the poor boobs actually built their dream homes here, but the roads and the drains and the Town Hall never appeared. Probably the neatest real estate trick in the calendar and darned nearly legal, too.’
    Dido wrinkled her nose. ‘And all on the back road to Saltey,’ she said. ‘It’s been a great experience but I think I’ll let Hector get me back tomorrow by some orthodox method, like taking me to a railway station.’
    â€˜Damn Hector.’
    They drove in silence for some time through an area of new open planned villas, writhing television masts, mini cars and mass produced respectability. The uncompromising predictability of street after street was as depressing as the straggling wasteland they had passed through and they intuitively shared the relief of reaching open countryside again. It was flat and uninspiring but now there was a tang of salt in the air and the rain-black road snaked between carefully tended fields, occasional weather-boarded farms with stridently new outbuildings and elm trees which were gnarled and bent by the coastal wind.
    â€˜The last of the old forest is just ahead,’ said Morty. ‘That bit of a rise on our left is probably the highest point for miles. They’d have felled that timber years ago if the land was worth cultivating, but from now on it’s sour ground, mostly. That’s what protects Saltey from civilisation—it’s on the road to nowhere and you have to make a great U-shaped detour toget there anyway. It’s virtually an island cut off by the saltings.’
    The scrawny woodland had retreated from the verge and the road curved gently to the left approaching a sharp T-shaped corner where the signpost read ‘
Saltey only. No through road
.’ An ugly red brick farmhouse with a slated roof stood at the corner with its barns and pigsties hard against the tarmac. Tattered posters proclaimed that there had been an auction of livestock and furniture some time since and a notice board announced that the entire freehold property was for sale.
    â€˜What the hell!’ Morty pulled the car up with a squeal.
    Ahead of them two cars were drawn up half blocking the road and immediately beyond, barring the way completely, was a laundryman’s van, skewed directly across the turning. A push bicycle leant against the wall.
    â€˜Looks like an accident,’ said Dido, becoming professional. ‘I’ll go and see.’
    They got out together and as they approached the van they saw that a group of people were confering beyond it. A young policeman, his trousers still in bicycle clips, eased himself gingerly round the obstruction and came towards them smiling sheepishly.
    â€˜Been a bit o’ trouble,’ he said. ‘I can’t be in two places at once, can I?’ He turned and raised his voice to include the three men who stood together in the lane behind him. ‘I wonder if one of you gentlemen would mind doing a little traffic duty at the corner or we’ll have both roads blocked? Now sir, if you’re going to Saltey you’ll have to wait, and if you’re not will you please move on?’
    Dido pushed forward.
    â€˜I’m a doctor,’ she said. ‘Is anyone hurt? Morty, you can keep the road clear for a minute. Is there anything I can do?’
    â€˜It’s hard to say, miss. I’ve only just arrived, coming from Firestone.’ The constable was flustered. ‘If you can get round here you’ll see what the trouble is. There’s a young girl—or I think it’s a girl. She may be hurt but she won’t say.’
    Beyond the van in the neck of