by John Creasey
‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘I...’
Then he heard a door open, and looked along the passage. A girl came from a room and walked towards them, smiling as if at some secret joke. She was plump, dark-haired, and rather merry-looking. She glanced at them seductively as she passed, and hummed to herself.
Latimer said, ‘Buxom wench.’
‘See where she’s going,’ said Tim.
Latimer widened his eyes, but hurried to the head of the stairs, leaving Tim alone in the passage. He turned to go into Mike’s room, but as he did so another door opened, and he looked along the passage. Another girl stepped into view.
‘I thought it was you,’ said Clarissa Kaye. ‘You’re a very persistent reporter, aren’t you? The Gazette is to be congratulated.’
There was no malice, only good humour, in the words.
• • • • •
It was not a good moment for Tim.
His ducking and the anxiety which had followed it had taken the vitality out of him. His mind was working only at half-pressure. He realised that vaguely; he realised also that he should not be so astonished to see Clarissa here, and yet he was. So he was angry with himself because he stood gaping while she regarded him without the slightest embarrassment.
‘Or aren’t you a reporter?’ she asked.
Tim began to recover. ‘I’m qualifying,’ he said.
‘And qualifying well, I imagine,’ said Clarissa. ‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’ She turned and led him into a small bedroom. It was pleasantly furnished and pleasantly warm. No one else was there.
‘Well?’ said Tim, almost accusingly.
She pointed to a chair.
‘Do sit down,’ she invited. ‘You must be tired. I’m very glad you came off so lightly. We were afraid they would do something to the bridge, that’s why my...’ she paused, and then added deliberately: ‘my friends have gone a long way round. With luck, they’ll be at Colston House by now.’
‘And who are your friends?’ asked Tim.
‘Wilkinson, Mendicott and Ferguson,’ said Clarissa. ‘My cousin Lionel has gone with them. That is why the hotel is so full, they have reserved all the rooms. But it isn’t likely that they’ll be back, and if they are I’ve no doubt the men will gladly double up, so you can have at least one room. Will that help?’
‘Yes,’ said Tim. ‘But you’re playing with fire, Miss Kaye.’
‘I know,’ she said freely. ‘And I know that fire burns!’ She watched Tim narrowly for a while, and then went on: ‘Who are you? Ferguson thinks that you’re from the police.’
‘Wrong,’ said Tim.
‘That’s a pity. I was hoping that you were. Surely you can’t be with those cropped-headed, dark-faced men.’
‘I am not,’ agreed Tim, heavily.
‘Then if you’re not with them and not with the police and not with us, who are you? Can Gregory be right? He suggested Secret Service.’
‘This Gregory Wilkinson is obviously a man with a fine flight of imagination,’ Tim said, drily.
He could not make sense of this conversation, he could not understand what Clarissa was driving at, and yet one thing seemed to stand out: she was opposed to the men with cropped heads. He watched her closely, his thoughts running much more freely and wondering what his next move should be. Before he decided, the door opened and Latimer’s ‘buxom wench’ came in, followed closely by Latimer, who looked bewildered.
Susan Harris gurgled:
‘Clarissa, isn’t he lovely? He’s really sweet—followed me all over the hotel.’ She treated Latimer to a luscious smile, and patted his arm. ‘I won’t run away from you any more, ducky. Have you told the reporter all about it, Clarissa?’
‘No,’ said Clarissa. ‘I thought I’d wait...’
As she spoke, the door opened again.
No one had heard a sound. No one was looking towards the door. Tim had reassured himself, and was looking forward to hearing a story. Then he saw Clarissa’s expression change; one of alarm replaced mild amusement. He swung round.
A little man stood in the doorway pointing a gun towards him. Another, also carrying a gun, sidled into the room. They were dark and thin-faced; at a quick glance both might have been taken for Kolsti. Their cropped heads were like little black bullets—and their guns looked deadly. It had happened so suddenly that Tim could not move.
Latimer could. He cried:
‘Oh no, you don’t!’ and jumped forward.
Two reports were deafening in the small room. Two bullets struck Latimer in the chest. Latimer staggered forward, his hand at his side as if he were trying to get at his gun. Then he pitched downwards, while the little man who had fired slewed his gun round to cover Tim.
He waved his free hand.
Tim realised that he was telling Clarissa to go to the door. Tim said hoarsely: ‘Don’t! Miss Kaye, don’t...’
The gun was jerked towards him, menacingly, and the man at the door came in. He took Clarissa’s arm, and led her into the passage. There was not another sound in the inn. The echo of the shots seemed to linger in that room; but there was nothing else.
The man covering Tim backed to the door. Clarissa had disappeared. Susan was standing quite still, staring at the gun, mesmerised. Tim could see Latimer out of the corner of his eye, and he remembered Parmitter’s death.
The little man took the key out of the inside of the door, slipped outside very quickly and, as Tim rushed at it, locked the door. Tim crashed into it. The impact shook the room, but made no impression on the door. Tim drew back, shaken. Susan went down on her knees beside Latimer, and tried to lift him. Tim forced himself to examine the door. It opened inwards; there was little chance of breaking it down.
Tim turned, stepped over Latimer, and reached the window. All he could see was a snow-covered yard. He opened the window and climbed out. It was not far from the ground, and the snow would break his fall. He dropped, lost his footing, and then picked himself up, wet through for the second time that afternoon.
Dusk had fallen, and the sun was lost in a purple haze. Tim went towards the road. No one was in sight; there were lights in the windows of two cottages; the only signs of life.
He raised his voice and shouted: ‘Police!’ but it seemed a pointless thing to do out here.
He was near the corner when he heard the snort of an engine. As he reached the corner, he saw the jeep moving along the road towards Reading and away from Colston House. Sitting in the back with one of the men was Clarissa, without a coat; Clarissa, peering behind her. Two other little men were in the front of the jeep, two more clung to the sides. It was making good speed along the treacherous road.
Outside The George was the doctor’s car.
Tim rushed towards it. No one came from the inn, no one had responded to his call. Where was the policeman? For that matter, where were the doctor, the landlord and Mike?
He reached the car, started the engine and turned in the wake of the jeep. There was a hopeless feeling deep inside him. He had no weapons here; one jeep was at the bottom of the river, the other was a quarter of a mile away, out of sight but clearly audible; and the men in it were armed. The best he could do was to keep it in sight and hope to find out where it was going.
He reached the crest of a hill; and he had to make the attempt, slim though the chances were, and...
He stopped abruptly.
The jeep was travelling towards some cross-roads, and Tim could see what the men in the jeep could not—a big army truck was racing towards the corner. Unless one or the other stopped, a smash was inevitable.
14
Rout of Little Men
Tim thrust his thumb on the horn and kept it there. He was two hundred yards behind the jeep and there seemed little chance that his warning would be heeded. Both vehicles tore towards the cross-roads at a speed suicidal on that surface. Tim could see Clarissa’s fair hair blowing in the wind, and the little men hanging on to the jeep, in danger enough without the new threat lumbering tow
ards them.
The high-pitched note of the car horn wailed through the air. Tim thought the army truck slowed down. Then, when he went downhill, the whole scene was hidden from him and he waited in sickening suspense for the crash. They could not avoid it. He set his teeth and waited.
It came.
Not so loud, not so deafening, as Tim had expected. He heard the sudden racing of one engine, then silence as it cut out. He put on an extra burst of speed, and came in sight of the cross-roads. He could not see the jeep, but could see the top of the truck, which had not overturned.
He slowed down.
Why was there no sound? He could hear no voices, and their sound should travel far on such a clear, cold evening. It was much darker now, but if anyone moved from the scene of the crash he would be able to see them clearly enough.
He edged the car forward until the radiator nosed beyond the cross-roads. Then for the first time he saw the jeep, thrown to one side after it had crashed into the side of the truck. He saw Clarissa standing quite still by the side of the truck, and the little dark men standing about, all of them motionless and staring towards the driver of the truck. It made no sense; at least, it made none until he saw the driver clearly.
It was Bruce Hammond!
In Hammond’s hand was a sub-machine gun.
It flashed upon Tim Kemble that this made the complete circle. The affair had started with a machine-gun in the hands of one of these men—Kolsti. Now Kolsti’s associates were helpless because one was pointing towards them.
So little time had passed since the crash, there had been scarcely time to move. Now the men began to stir. Not only did the little dark men with one accord rush towards the fields, but men spilled from the back of the covered truck. Tim recognised George Henry George and Mark Errol, Fordham, Graham and several other Department men.
‘Yip-yip-yee! yelled George, and he came running forward.
Tim saw one of the little men turn.
A gun was pointed towards Clarissa.
The man had reached a clump of trees, and none of the men from the truck could see him. The other little men were racing across the snow, with surprising agility.
Tim flung open the door and bellowed:
‘Look out, Clarissa!’
Clarissa turned as the little man fired. At the same time George reached the trees, and two shots were fired almost simultaneously. Clarissa stumbled. Tim jumped out of the car and raced toward her, but young Graham was helping her up. She was not hurt, but was blue with cold and her teeth were chattering. When she saw Tim she gave a twisted, distorted smile.
George was running after the little man who had fired, and the other Department Z men were now hot-foot after their quarry. Tim saw that Graham, still with Clarissa, wore snow-shoes; that explained the ease with which the Department men moved. Quickly though the little men ran, they had no chance against Hammond’s party. Tim saw that two Department Z men followed the trail of each dark-faced man, and saw two overpowered before turning to Clarissa, Graham and Hammond, who had climbed down from the driving seat.
Tim said: ‘Hallo. Joined the army?’
Hammond smiled. ‘It looks like it. The quicker you get Miss Kaye indoors somewhere the better. Where did you find your car?’
‘From the local sawbones,’ said Tim. The question reminded him of the unnatural silence at The George before he had left. ‘Odd thing,’ he went on. ‘The village is full of mystery, but I know one place where Clarissa will get a warm welcome. Coming with me?’
‘I’ll follow,’ said Hammond. ‘Explanation later.’
‘Right,’ said Tim. ‘You might tell Mark that Mike’s had a nasty turn, but he’s on the mend now.’
Graham, who had hurried to the back of the truck, came out with a thick rug and wrapped it about Clarissa. She was too cold to speak coherently or to move freely. She sat in the back of the car, and Tim set off for the village, puzzled by the sudden arrival of the Department in such strength, but satisfied that things would move very quickly now.
He pulled up outside the post office. A lamp was burning near the window, spreading a yellow glow on to the snow. He helped Clarissa out, and half-carried her into the post office. The fat post-mistress uttered the inevitable: ‘Well I never!’ and in the same breath she called ‘Will!’
Tim left Clarissa sitting in front of a blazing log fire in the kitchen, with the fat woman’s assurance that she would get the young lady something hot immediately.
The truck was not yet in sight.
Tim hurried across the road to The George. The front door was wide open. He called out when he stepped into the hall, but no one answered. He hurried upstairs, more than a little afraid of what he might find. There was a ruthlessness about the little men which...
Suddenly, vividly, he remembered Latimer, who had been shot in the chest. On the road and at the cross-roads he had forgotten him. His heart was beating fast as he hurried up the stairs.
Susan was coming out of the bathroom, carrying a towel. She looked at him quickly, suddenly tense, but when she recognised him she relaxed.
‘How is he?’ asked Tim.
‘I don’t think he’ll live,’ said Susan. ‘If only I could get the doctor. I can’t get him on the telephone.’
‘He’s already here, I’ve seen his car. How did you escape?’
‘There was a key in my bag,’ she said.
He hesitated outside the door of the big double room, then turned the handle. The door was locked. He put his shoulder to it, and the door gave way just as he heard the engine of the truck in the street outside. He staggered into the room, with Susan just behind him.
The doctor, the policeman, the landlord and Mike Errol were all there; all were sitting down; all seemed to be asleep. For one fearful moment Tim thought they were dead; and then he saw that Mike was breathing heavily, and he quickly found that they were all only unconscious.
Footsteps sounded in the hall downstairs.
‘Who’s this?’ Susan demanded, urgently.
‘Friends,’ said Tim. ‘Don’t worry. There’s been a rout of the sallow little swine.’ He smoothed down his hair, and then went with her into the small bedroom, knowing that it would be some time before the doctor came round.
Latimer died very soon afterwards.
When Tim helped to search the prisoners, he found it difficult not to break their necks. There was just one cause for satisfaction, however—each prisoner had a red, diamond-shaped card in his pocket, each with a different number.
• • • • •
No one looking into the big lounge of The George that early evening would have suspected that a close friend of the men present had been killed only an hour or so before. There were ten men in all, and they lounged in the chairs and settees, all taking the respite offered them with eager alacrity. On the small tables there was beer; for, without consulting either the landlord or the policeman, Fordham had gone to the bar and found there a small barrel. The barrel was now resting on a stool near the window, and Fordham and Graham were sitting by it, ready to replenish the glasses. They were kept busy.
Now and again, every one of them glanced towards the door. Hammond and Tim had been out for some time, their ostensible purpose to question the landlord and the two girls; and every man here, in spite of his apparent nonchalance, was eager to be at work again. They would have pushed on before this but for the blown bridge.
George and another Department Z agent had managed to leap across the gap in the bridge and were on their way to Colston House. They would be waiting further along the road when the others followed. In a cold garage, the four prisoners lay bound hand and foot. Hammond had questioned them, but they were no more prepared to talk than Kolsti had been.
The party in the lounge had heard Tim’s story.
They had heard, too, an explanation from the policeman, who had been satisfied by Hammond’s credentials and left them in possession of The George, which was due to open to the villagers half an hour l
ater. With the exception of one man, the staff of the inn had been sent out that afternoon. All of them lived locally. The policeman had discovered only the previous day that the landlord, whose name was Parker, had a police record.
Parker was now upstairs in a box room waiting to be questioned. Hammond and Tim were with Clarissa, who had arrived, wrapped in a tweed coat borrowed from the postmistress. Susan was also with them, listening with intense interest to the questions and answers.
Clarissa’s story was only partly satisfactory.
She admitted that she was a friend of Wilkinson, and that she had taken part in the anti-Soviet activities of Warning. Also she had known that her cousin Lionel was in the downstairs room at the Haymart Hotel and that, to escape police questioning, she had joined him and gone to Wimbledon. According to her story, she had left Wimbledon with Lionel Marchant and his wife before Hammond had arrived at Hatch End. They had intended to go on to Colston House the previous night, but had put up at The George. Before morning, Wilkinson and his party had arrived, and it had been agreed that the men should go on to Colston House, leaving Clarissa and Susan behind. Only Lionel Marchant’s wife had gone with them.
Hammond waited until Clarissa had finished, before asking:
‘Why have they gone to Colston House?’
‘Because they knew the sallow-faced men were trying to get there,’ answered Clarissa.
‘How did they know?’
‘Gregory Wilkinson has a way of learning these things.’
‘That’s hardly an answer,’ said Hammond.
‘It’s all I can tell you,’ retorted Clarissa.
Hammond said sharply: ‘You mean that it’s all you’re prepared to tell us.’
‘Even if we could,’ Clarissa shrugged, ‘why should we tell you? You’re not policemen. Mr. Kemble evaded the issue when I asked him whether you were from the Secret Service. I have worked far too hard and taken far too many risks to take chances.’
Hammond took a card from his pocket, and handed it to her. It carried the signature of the Home Secretary and the Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, and requested all citizens and civil and military authorities to afford the holder every facility; and all the lettering was superimposed upon a faint grey Z. When Tim saw the card he wondered whether Hammond was wise to use it.
