The League of Dark Men

by John Creasey

  ‘Dotes on me,’ claimed Abbott.

  Looking at them each in turn, Hammond thought ruefully that they were dealing with him much as any Department Z men would deal with a man whom they wanted to frighten. The touch of flippancy and of facetiousness was there, but beneath it something dangerous and threatening.

  He was feeling cool enough now. There was a slight draught from the window, cutting across his neck, and he put his hand to it. As he raised his hand Abbott moved sharply, but relaxed when he saw what Hammond was doing.

  ‘You see, Clarissa wouldn’t disappear,’ said Wilkinson, ‘unless, of course, she were spirited away by the police or someone pretending to be a policeman. Hammond, you wouldn’t be so unfair as to come here and pretend that Clarissa’s disappeared, so as to try to get information about her from her friends, would you?’

  Hammond said equably, ‘No, I wouldn’t.’

  Wilkinson squeezed Hammond’s knee more tightly. ‘Are you a policeman, Hammond?’

  ‘I am not a policeman.’

  ‘Is that really true?’ Wilkinson appeared to marvel. ‘But you are the man who went to see Parmitter, aren’t you? Don’t lie about it. We don’t like people who tell us lies.’

  Hammond settled back in his chair.

  ‘I came to ask questions, not to answer them. I think...’

  Wilkinson suddenly released his knee. Those steely fingers fastened about Hammond’s arms, near the shoulders. It would not be easy for Hammond to pull himself free. As Wilkinson shifted his grip, Ferguson stepped forward and took out Hammond’s wallet. Hammond made no effort to resist. Abbott began to go through Hammond’s pockets, one at a time, while Ferguson examined the contents of the wallet. The inspection lasted for fully five minutes, and during that time neither Hammond nor Wilkinson moved. At last Ferguson finished. He had put everything back in the wallet, including the loose notes, and he tucked it into Hammond’s coat pocket. When they had finished, Ferguson said:

  ‘No police card.’

  ‘Just a plain man,’ Abbott commented.

  ‘That’s hard,’ said Wilkinson. ‘It’s hard on you, Hammond. If you were a policeman we might be rather worried about you, but when a private citizen forces himself upon us on a night like this, he’s asking for trouble. Who are you?’

  Hammond smiled. ‘Just a private citizen.’

  Ferguson slapped him across the face. It was not a hard blow, but it took Hammond by surprise.

  ‘I shouldn’t do that again,’ Hammond said.

  Abbott raised his hand.

  The door opened, and Sue came in. She had renewed her make-up, her hair was tidy and her dress was straight. She saw what they were doing and her eyes widened in alarm. She came hurrying across, protesting in a high-pitched voice that they must not hurt her boy friend. She stood in front of Hammond.

  ‘Must they, ducky?’ she asked.

  ‘It wouldn’t be wise.’

  Wilkinson murmured: ‘I don’t think it would be very risky, Hammond. No one knows that you’re here. There aren’t many people out tonight. And you aren’t a policeman—I didn’t think you were when I heard that you’d visited Parmitter. I don’t think the police would worry him. Not far away from here there are snow-drifts six and seven feet high. It would be just too bad if you wandered about Wimbledon Common and stumbled into a snow-drift and couldn’t get put. We could hold you in the snow just long enough for you to stop breathing, but there would be no marks of violence.’

  ‘It would be so cold,’ Sue protested, shuddering. ‘You couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Or could we?’ asked Ferguson.

  Abbott, who was the most serious of them all, asked in a clipped voice: ‘Who are you, Hammond?’

  Hammond didn’t speak.

  He saw Abbott lunge forward, hand upraised, and he kicked out. He caught Abbott in the stomach. The man doubled up and staggered back, making no sound. He struck a small table and sent it crashing. Glasses fell to the floor and broke. He did not fall, but straightened up and approached again, with a livid face.

  ‘Hold it, Abby,’ said Wilkinson. The pressure of his fingers was tighter now. ‘Hammond, I’ve already warned you of your danger. We could do away with you quickly and quietly, but we don’t want to—we want to know who you are and why you’re interested in Clarissa Kaye and why you went to see Parmitter. Tell us, and you won’t get hurt.’

  Hammond was looking into Abbott’s face; the last remark seemed very hard to believe.

  ‘Don’t make them hurt you,’ murmured Sue. ‘I loved that dance, ducky. I want you to teach us how to do it.’

  ‘I’m not a teacher of dancing,’ said Hammond. He glanced at the window, and let out a high-pitched cry. It seemed to shiver about the room.

  It would be heard outside.

  Abbott leapt forward, and his clenched fists battered Hammond’s face. Sue pulled at him, but he shook her aside. Wilkinson relaxed for a moment, and Hammond wrenched himself free. Momentarily surprised, neither Ferguson nor Mendicott made any attempt to stop him. He pitched into Abbott, body to body, and as the man backed away he drove both fists into his face with a force which made Abbott’s blows seem puny. This time Abbott fell over the table, hitting the floor amid a crash of breaking glasses. Hammond straightened up, only to find himself looking into the muzzle of an automatic held in Wilkinson’s hand.

  No one else moved.

  ‘Is someone waiting outside?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hammond answered.

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Enough,’ said Hammond.

  Abbott was getting up slowly, and he muttered in a hoarse voice: ‘Shoot the swine. Shoot him.’

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ said Hammond.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ferguson turn and pick up a whisky bottle from another table. Hammond tried to back away, but Ferguson moved so quickly that he had no chance. The bottle struck the back of his head. He felt himself falling forward, his senses swimming; then he lost consciousness, sprawling across the floor.

  Wilkinson jumped up; his bandaged foot seemed to give him no trouble now.

  ‘Let’s move,’ he said. ‘Hurry!’

  10

  Raid

  Waiting outside it was so cold that Tim Kemble could not stop his teeth from chattering. It would be difficult to move quickly even if there was no snow, though as things were it might take five minutes to reach the house. He had beaten a narrow path in the snow, going to and fro to the man nearest him, and he trudged along it again. He met Graham, who was dressed in a huge teddy bear coat, beating his arms across his chest and whistling faintly.

  ‘Chilly,’ he remarked.

  ‘Perishing,’ said Tim. ‘I wish...’

  The cry from Hammond came then, clear and near in the still air. Both men were pushing their way towards the house before it finished. Tim had forgotten the cold and the imagined difficulties. It was impossible to move really quickly, but he made fair speed; so did Graham and the other men who closed in upon the house. Further away Miller warned his own men, by word of mouth and radio, to be at the ready.

  Tim, Graham and four others approaching the front of the house, were at the edge of the drive when the lights went out.

  One moment the front of the house was bright, the light reflecting so clearly and white from the snow; the next darkness descended. Graham banged into Tim, but they kept their balance, and moved forward at a slower pace. Not far away someone exclaimed in annoyance as he was pushed over.

  Torch beams shot out, criss-crossing the snow, vivid patches of light that made the outer darkness seem more intense.

  ‘Watch the door!’ a man called.

  Graham, still next to Tim, muttered sotto voce:

  ‘First show us the door.’

  ‘Straight ahead,’ said Tim. His torchlight shone on what looked like a heap of snow nearly waist high. It proved to be a flight of steps. He could see the glitter of the brass knocker and letter-box. He clambered up the steps, with Graham just behind,
and several others were close on their heels. As Tim reached the door, Graham said:

  ‘We’re not going to waste time, are we?’

  ‘Not a second,’ said Tim. ‘Hold your torch steady.’ As Graham obeyed, Tim drove his gloved fist through the glass panel. Glass fell with a tinkling sound. Tim fumbled for the catch, had difficulty because of his gloves, but at last pulled it back.

  The door swung open.

  ‘Find the light,’ said Graham.

  ‘Put that torch out!’ snapped Tim.

  He stood on the threshold, peering ahead. The torch went out, and he felt easier; until then he had been a clear target for anyone standing in the darkness. He crept forward. Other men pressed behind Graham, and began to grope about the hall. Tim reached a wall and ran his hand over it, pushed a picture to one side, and, still groping, loosened another from its hanger.

  It fell with a crash.

  No one spoke; all stood quite silently, waiting. Then in a small, apologetic voice, Tim said:

  ‘Sorry, chaps.’

  He continued to grope for the light, until someone on the other side of the hall said:

  ‘I’ve found a switch. Scatter.’

  The agents scattered, getting behind doors and large pieces of furniture, all moving by sense of touch, able to see nothing at all. When quiet fell again, the man by the wall pressed down the switch.

  A light came on at the landing.

  It was bright enough to show them everything here, and cast long shadows on the doors and the walls. They peered upstairs, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. A little shame-faced, they came out of their hiding-places. As they did so they heard a thump which seemed to come from a long way off.

  ‘That’s the crowd at the back,’ said Graham. ‘I’ll go and let them in.’

  Two men went with him, each carrying a gun. They went through the passage at the end of the hall, and the rest waited until they heard sounds of the back door being opened and others of their party admitted. Then they began to search the ground floor.

  Tim went into the big front room, and when he switched on the light, he exclaimed in surprise.

  There was no one there, but the fallen table and the broken glasses were on the floor, and there were signs of a struggle. Whisky and gin lay in pools on the little patch of floor which had been cleared for dancing. A cigarette was burning on top of the radio, and the polish was scorched, giving off a faint, unpleasant smell. There were crackers and party caps, the colourful trifles which had so surprised Hammond.

  Tim picked one up, and looked at it.

  ‘This is not Christmas,’ said one of the others, a man named Fordham. ‘On with the search.’

  ‘This isn’t funny,’ said Tim. ‘Bruce was here.’

  ‘Is here,’ corrected Fordham.

  They went into the dining-room, a library and a morning-room, all well-furnished. The library was piled from floor to ceiling with books, and Tim glanced at the shelves and found an impressive collection. This was the most imposing room of the house: the furniture was all old, the oak bookshelves were beautifully carved, and the whole gave an impression of learning and of comfort; it was a scholar’s room.

  Graham joined them with the men who had come in the back way, and a small party of agents who had broken in at a side door arrived. All had the same thing to report: there was no one on the ground floor. The domestic quarters and out-houses had all been searched, and there was no sign of any living thing, except a Scottie which had kept extraordinarily quiet during the invasion. It now mixed with the men, going from one to the other with ears and tail drooping.

  Tim fondled its ears, and the dog crouched away.

  ‘Find ‘em,’ Tim said. ‘Show us the way, McTavish!’

  The dog perked up its ears.

  ‘Good house dog,’ sniffed Fordham, sarcastically, smoothing down the thick hair. ‘It’s warm in here,’ he added, and loosened his coat. ‘Upstairs, next. Who’s first for the shooting gallery?’

  ‘If you ask me, this house is empty,’ Graham said.

  ‘It can’t be,’ said Tim. Yet the thought was in his mind.

  With Graham and Fordham he moved towards the stairs. They walked up slowly, their guns at the ready, and reached the halfway landing, then the first floor landing. They beckoned the others, and made a thorough search of every room.

  There were indications of a hurried departure. Lipstick and other make-up lay on dressing-tables in two of the bedrooms, a man’s clothes were flung about, as if he had changed in a hurry before going downstairs, and no one had had time to tidy the room. In another huge bedroom where there was a four-poster bed, a cigarette was still burning in an ashtray, and on the dressing-table lay a wallet which contained nearly thirty pounds.

  ‘Next floor,’ Fordham said.

  ‘I tell you...’ began Graham.

  Tim said: ‘We know that there were people here less than ten minutes before we arrived. We heard them. And we know Bruce came here. It’s crazy to think the house is empty.’

  Graham said: ‘Crazy or not, it is.’

  There was one more floor.

  In the first of the four rooms there, they found the first living person—the maid, Daisy. She was sitting on a narrow bed, smoking. She had just made up her face and was dressed for out of doors. She looked up with a pert smile when Tim and Graham went in.

  ‘I haven’t done anything,’ she said. ‘Search me.’

  ‘We’re going to,’ Tim said, grimly.

  She clutched her coat more tightly about her.

  ‘Don’t you get fresh,’ she said. ‘I can’t do anything for you. All I know is that the boss told me to wait here until someone broke in, and told me they would look after me. And you’d better.’ She looked at Tim’s set face apprehensively.

  ‘Do you mean Wilkinson told you that?’ asked Tim.

  ‘Mister Wilkinson to you, and don’t you forget it. He told me he’d be back some day and I would have my job back, if I wanted it. And he gave me this, instead of notice.’ She took a small wad of notes from her handbag and waved them in his face.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Tim said roughly. ‘The house was surrounded, no one could have escaped, and Wilkinson was here a quarter of an hour ago. Where has he gone?’

  ‘I tell you I don’t know,’ she snapped, and Tim found it hard to disbelieve her.

  Graham stood looking down at her.

  ‘Did Wilkinson have a visitor earlier this evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is the visitor?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Tim touched Graham’s arm.

  ‘Leave her to me,’ he said. ‘Take the others and search all the rooms for a hidden door. There’s probably more than one in a house like this.’ A thought occurred to him, and he took the girl’s arm; she jumped again, proving nervousness bravely concealed. ‘Is there an old air-raid shelter?’

  ‘I don’t know! I’ve only been here three months. I’ve never seen one.’

  ‘Is there a cellar?’

  ‘I’ve never seen one,’ she repeated, and caught her breath.

  ‘We’ll get cracking,’ said Graham.

  He went out, and closed the door behind him. Tim turned the key in the lock and slipped it into his pocket. Daisy watched him, her eyes now reflecting more obvious fear. For Tim’s usually happy-go-lucky expression had gone, and he looked grim, sombre, determined. He took off his hat and ran his hand through his fine, fluffy hair. He was not bad-looking, but now his lips were set tightly and his eyes narrowed as he looked at the girl.

  There had already been murder, committed ruthlessly; there was reason to think that Wilkinson and his friends were concerned in that. If they would kill once, as they had killed Parmitter, were they likely to hesitate to kill again? The fact that Hammond had been taken away from the house suggested that he might still be alive; but Tim knew that there had been many disappearances of men who had walked into danger, as Hammond had done, and never returned.

 
The only immediate source of information was this girl.

  ‘Stand up,’ he said, harshly.

  She leaned back against the foot of the bed, defiantly.

  He took a step towards her. ‘Get up,’ he repeated. When she still did not obey, he took her wrist, pulled her up and over, and brought the flat of his hand hard on her bottom.

  ‘Don’t do that!’ she cried.

  ‘You’re going to answer my questions,’ Tim said. ‘If you lie once—just once, my pretty—you are going to be very sorry for yourself. Understand?’

  ‘I’ll tell you all I know,’ she muttered. ‘It’s not much.’

  She answered his questions grudgingly. A picture of the household built up in his mind. Wilkinson, Mendicott, Abbott and Ferguson had been here that evening, together with Mrs. Wilkinson and a woman named Susan Harris. Daisy said that Susan was at the house frequently and was a particular friend of Ferguson’s.

  After the cry which had summoned Tim and the others, Mrs. Wilkinson had hurried into the kitchen and told her to go upstairs to her room and put on her hat and coat. Wilkinson had come in, given her a bundle of notes in lieu of notice; told her that they would be back one day, and left, without locking the door, telling her that she must not leave until someone broke into the house and found her.

  The only thing she knew after that was that Wilkinson had gone downstairs. His wife had called out to him to hurry, and Daisy had heard Wilkinson clattering down to join her. That had surprised Daisy, because for the last two days he had been sitting about the house with his left foot bandaged, and had hobbled everywhere on a walking stick. She was quite sure of that, but his foot seemed to have got better suddenly.

  Had there been visits that afternoon?

  The girl didn’t know, but thought so. It had been her afternoon off, and she had spent most of the time in her room, reading and knitting. She showed Tim the book and the knitting, a vivid red bundle of wool which was going to become a pixie-hood.

  What made her think that there had been visitors?

  A car had driven up as far as the gate, about four o’clock, she had seen it from her window. She had not been able to see anyone get out. The car had been driven away almost at once. When she had gone downstairs, to get her own tea—Violet and Susan had got tea for the others—she had expected to find more people present, but none had been about. She thought that one of the spare rooms on the floor below had been used. Someone had made-up in there.