The Savage Gorge by Colin Forbes Page A

which would lead her up to the tunnel. She took a deep breath and the air was cold, which cleared her mind. The only solution was to climb up to the moor and explore, to search for the large round boulder she'd noticed near the entrance.

As she climbed, often on hands and knees, she was protected from the sharp rocky ground by her old jeans. One thing worried her: crawling up over shale, the small pieces started scattering down the slope, making too much noise.

She changed direction, moving gradually to her left, where the ground was more solid, more familiar. She thought she'd heard another noise above her, like a subdued moan. Could there be animals up here? If so, what were they? Reaching down she checked that her Browning was secure in its holster. The feel of the butt gave her fresh confidence.

She began hauling herself up more rapidly over the
    ground, which was more stable than any so far. She was concentrating so determinedly on grasping tufts of grass, testing their stability before using them as handholds, that she got a shock.
    Something spiky brushed her face. She stopped, looked up. It was the beginning of the black gorse. She stretched out a hand and touched something hard, smooth and round. She had located the large boulder near the entrance to the tunnel. She could have cheered.

She stood up, bent her aching knees several times. They still felt strong and limber. Crouching down, she crept slowly along the path, her left hand extended for fear of missing the tunnel entrance. Then she felt something odd. Taking off her glove, she felt with her bare hand a curved surface of smooth metal. She extracted her pencil torch from her backpack - her more powerful torch would show too much light in this wilderness. The brief illumination revealed a large circular lid covering the entrance to the tunnel. Putting on her glove again, she grasped a handle at the lid's top, twisted it slowly. It was well oiled and made not a sound as she removed it. The entrance was revealed. Using her more powerful torch she shone the beam inside it.

The entrance, easily large enough for her to crawl inside, was not inviting. The interior was clean but it gradually sloped downwards until, beyond the beam's reach, it was black as pitch.

'Come on, girl,' she said to herself, hitching the
    pack onto her back and dropping to her knees to crawl inside. Her last hope was that Tweed had found the message shoved under his door.
    When Tweed had ushered private detective Dermot Falkirk into his suite he immediately noticed a differ ence from the man he'd rescued from the cell in London. He was smartly dressed in a suit, his black hair had been cut, his moustache was shorter, neatly trimmed. His litheness was apparent in his move ments but his normally poker face was smiling.
    Using a technique rarely employed by other Yard interrogators, Tweed suggested Falkirk sat in the most comfortable armchair. At the Yard he would have been escorted to a bare room, seated in an uncom fortable hard-backed chair.

'How are you, Dermot?' Tweed asked, sitting in the other armchair.

'Exhausted.' Dermot grinned. 'I have a ton of information to give you. First, I'm breaking my code of secrecy. I have been employed by Miss Lisa Clancy, the only girl who escaped being murdered - her sisters, Nancy and Petra Mandeville, the two missing daughters of Lord Bullerton.'

'I have wondered recently if that's who they were,' Tweed said grimly. 'The daughter who employed you is Lizbeth Mandeville.'

'Yes,' Falkirk agreed, 'she changed her name when she escaped from Hobart House. She picked me out
    of the list of private detectives because she liked "Eyes Only". Don't ask me why. Mission, to locate the mur derer of her sisters. Since I've broken the code and identified her I'll return the five thousand pounds she paid me.'
    'What else did Lizbeth tell you? Incidentally, last night I called a friend at the Yard and she's under pro tection, but doesn't know it.'
    'What else? She