by John Creasey
Clarissa studied it intently, then looked up, obviously relaxed, and glanced at Tim.
‘So Gregory was right,’ she said. ‘He felt sure he was. That’s why you are still alive, Mr. Hammond.’
‘Is it also why Abbott was killed?’ Hammond demanded.
Clarissa said: ‘I can’t tell you why Abbott was killed, but I can tell you that had he had his way, you would have been shot.’
‘It’s quite true,’ Susan said quickly. ‘I’d gone on ahead, and we were going to leave you behind, but Abbott slipped back with some paltry excuse, and Gregory went after him. I heard the shots. Just what happened I don’t know, but Gregory said that Abbott was dead.’
Hammond said slowly: ‘That fully satisfied you, did it?’
‘Everything Gregory says is all right with me,’ said Susan.
‘I see. Where is his wife?’
‘She hurt her foot when she was getting into the car at Wimbledon, and she went to stay with some friends. That was rough justice, really. Greggy had been pretending that his foot was bothering him, in case anyone thought that he had left Hatch End when, of course, he had been there all the time, and poor Vi—wasn’t it a shame?’
Hammond looked at her thoughtfully.
He believed that she knew more than she had told him; and that Clarissa did, too. But they volunteered no further information, in spite of the card.
‘Did the landlord make you welcome last night?’ asked Tim.
‘Greggy has a way with him,’ Susan said. ‘He didn’t want to admit us, but Greggy used some influence, so we stayed. I won’t pretend we’ve enjoyed it. There was something wrong all the time. The beastly little dark men, of course.’ She shivered, and it was not affectation. ‘Until they appeared this evening, I’d no idea they were here.’
That part of the story had already been told.
Two of the men with cropped heads had gone into the big bedroom and, while one had covered the occupants of the room with a gun, the other had injected a narcotic drug. None of them was likely to suffer more than a hangover next morning, but none except the policeman would be of much use that night. The policeman appeared to have received a much smaller dose than the others.
‘We’d better see the landlord,’ Tim said.
‘Bring him, will you?’ asked Hammond. When Tim had gone, Hammond looked from Clarissa Kaye to Susan, and spoke very gently. ‘I don’t want to be rough with either of you, but I must know why Wilkinson brought you here, and what you’ve been doing with Wilkinson. Abbott was murdered. You are both accessories to that crime. You may think it a trifling affair compared with the issues at stake, but it might be enough to hang you both.’
Clarissa said: ‘I don’t think that frightens me very much. How can I be sure that your card really belongs to you?’
If the telephone lines weren’t down, you could call Scotland Yard. As it is you’d better take my word for it.’ He took a cigarette out and lit it, without offering his case to them. ‘Why did Wilkinson want to get to Colston House?’
‘I’ve told you—because the little dark men were known to be going there.’
‘What did they want?’
Clarissa shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think Gregory knows, but wherever they go, he or one of his friends goes. One of them was watching Oslam House the other day, that’s how he came to know about the attack on “Virnov”. As Virnov was at Uno at the same time as the attack, it was easy to guess what trick had been played.’
‘Why was the story sent to the Press?’
‘Abbott did that, without orders,’ said Clarissa, and added: ‘There is nothing else I can tell you.’
15
Colston House
It was never pleasant to get tough with a woman, but he would have to, Hammond told himself. Susan would give way first, he would have to start on her. While he was making up his mind there were footsteps outside, and Tim brought in the landlord.
The man was terrified. His hands were clenching and unclenching, and he could not meet their eyes.
Tim said cheerfully:
‘There isn’t much in it, Bruce. Parker’s made a packet on horse doping, and betting on certainties. He retired and came out here. Our dark-faced men discovered what he’d been up to, and forced him to let them stay. Wilkinson also knew what he’d been up to, and used similar pressure. The local Robert seems to have winkled out his black past, too. Not a happy retirement, but I think you’ll find that’s all there is to it.’
Hammond said: ‘Is that so, Parker?’
‘Yes,’ muttered Parker, ‘I’m glad to get it off my chest, I haven’t had a minute’s peace since I came here. It’s been—it’s been terrible.’
‘How did the little men get in touch with you?’ he demanded.
‘One of them came to see me. I couldn’t argue with him, he had me where he wanted me! There wasn’t anything I could do, I tell you! He said he would be sending visitors from time to time and I was to look after them. He told me I wasn’t to accept anyone else, I was always to say that we was full up. No one but his friends have stayed here since I came, until—until last night.’
‘You see how wonderful Gregory is,’ murmured Susan.
‘How many visitors have you had?’ demanded Hammond.
‘Six,’ replied the inn-keeper. ‘Just six. It’s cost me a fortune, I could have been full up most nights. I haven’t had much custom downstairs, either, the villagers wouldn’t come. I was ordered not to be friendly with them. It’s ruined me,’ he muttered.
‘Who are the people who have stayed with you?’ Hammond asked.
Parker drew a sharp breath. ‘They’ve all called themselves Smith or Brown. Most of them—all but one—were little tykes like you’ve got locked up in the garage, the other was a big overbearing Englishman. He went up to the house sometimes.’ In Colston, ‘the house’ obviously meant Colston House. ‘I can tell you his name, too,’ he added. ‘Parmitter. I saw it on a letter he dropped out of his pocket.’ Parker drew in his breath when he saw Hammond’s expression. ‘I tell you he was Parmitter!’
‘No one’s called you a liar.’ Tim cocked an eyebrow at Hammond. ‘More mystery about Parmitter. But we can’t get much more here, can we?’
Hammond looked at Clarissa. ‘We’ll get all we need before we’ve finished. Parker, what are the attics like?’
‘They’re clean enough,’ muttered Parker.
‘Take me up to them, will you?’
Parker led the way upstairs, climbing a narrow flight of steps which creaked on every tread. The attics were lit by small-powered lamps; obviously they had once been used for servants’ quarters. Single beds, all of them neatly made, were in each of the three small rooms. The windows were too small for anyone to climb out. There were electric fires, all switched off, and the rooms struck bitterly cold.
‘Take the fires and the bed-clothes away,’ Hammond said. ‘I’m going to leave the two women up here. You won’t bring them food or drink, clothing or blankets. Is that clear?’
Parker gaped. ‘On a night like this?’
‘On a night like this,’ said Hammond. ‘I shall leave some men here to make sure that you do as you’re told. Don’t try to slip anything upstairs to them. You’ll only make your own position worse.’ He paused. ‘Get the rooms cleared in five minutes. I want the two end rooms.’
He went downstairs for Clarissa and Susan.
Ten minutes later they were standing on the tiny landing, and Hammond said in a relentless voice:
‘You will be in separate rooms. There will be no heating, no food, no bedding. As soon as you decide to talk, you may come downstairs. Do you understand?’
Clarissa went into one of the rooms. Susan hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders and flounced into the other. From the door, she said brightly:
‘Come up and dance with me sometime, Hammy dear. It’ll warm you up!’
Hammond locked the doors on them.
Downstairs, he told Tim wha
t he had done. Tim made no comment, but as they went down to the crowded lounge, where the ten waiting men were singing in what they fondly thought was harmony, he asked:
‘You’re not going to wait for them to talk before we move, are you?’
‘No. Half a dozen of us will try to get to Colston House tonight.’
A burst of singing came from the lounge as Hammond touched the handle of the door.
‘Just a moment,’ said Tim. ‘What did bring you here?’
Hammond smiled. ‘The reliable Miller. He had a call put out through the whole of the Home Counties. There were one or two reports, on the strength of which I asked you to come here. Then he picked up a message from Reading about the four little men. One of them had his hat off in the car they used, and his cropped head caught the eyes of a watchful policeman. There are times when we’d be lost without the police.’
‘Don’t I know it!’ exclaimed Tim. He stepped into the room, where Graham was now sitting on the barrel and ‘conducting’ the choir. The men draped about the room in a variety of inelegant poses glanced towards the door and then back at the conductor. Every face was set and serious, every man appeared to be putting his level best into the round song.
The tempo was quickening:
Three green bottles, hanging from a wall,
Three green—bottles!—hanging from a wall,
If one—green—bottle
Should acc-i-dent’ly fall!
There’ll be two—green—bottles
Hanging from the wall!
Tim caught Hammond’s arm. ‘Something’s just struck me,’ he said. ‘The police saw the cropped hair...’
Hammond leaned towards him.
‘Sorry—can’t hear!’
‘What?’ asked Tim, bellowing.
‘Can’t hear!’
Two green bottles, hanging from a wall,
Two green bottles...
Tim dragged Hammond into the passage and closed the door.
‘Now what?’ asked Hammond.
‘If the police saw a carload of the little beggars in Reading, where are they?’ asked Tim.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Parker says these men have been here for two days, so the carload was not the men whom we’ve locked in the garage,’ said Tim. ‘Sorry if I’m mixed, that damned tune is going through my head.’ The truth, thought Hammond, was that Tim was thinking of Clarissa Kaye, upstairs, shivering. ‘But you see what I’m driving at. There’s no car at The George, the garage was empty. Where’s the carload of men gone? Confound it!’ he roared. ‘The post-mistress told Latimer of a carload which had got over the bridge. We’ve been telling ourselves that we’ve caught the devils, but they’re on the way to Colston House—Wilkinson and his brood and four of the suicide squad.’
Hammond said grimly: ‘Tim, go and try to scare something out of the men in the garage. Handle them as you like. I’ll get the chaps ready for the next stage of the journey.’
Hammond opened the door as the last line of the refrain of the round song quivered through the room. As it finished there was a solemn brandishing of tankards and glasses, and Graham began to pour out again.
Hammond raised his voice.
‘Last round,’ he said. ‘Then most of us will be moving. Graham, choose one...’ he paused, and then added: ‘No, make it two, to stay with you until Clarissa Kaye and Susan have decided to talk.’ He explained, and apart from a murmur that it was a ‘bit hard’ no one commented. ‘As soon as you’ve got something put a call through to Craigie.’
‘Right,’ said Graham, cheerfully.
‘Where’s Tim?’ asked Fordham.
‘Going to interview the cropped heads,’ said Hammond. ‘I’ll see how he’s getting on.’ He hurried out of the room and into the yard. It was so cold that he started shivering. He thought of the two women upstairs, and set his lips. It was their own fault; whatever secret they held must be told, it was impossible to take chances with them or to be lenient. Yet he could not get it out of his head that Clarissa and Susan were doing what they believed to be right.
The garage door was open and he could see Tim standing just inside. Tim Kemble seemed to be standing very still, and he was not speaking. Hammond called out, and Tim glanced over his shoulder. In the single light which shone over the doorway, Hammond saw his tense, pale face. Alarm seared through Hammond as he hurried to the garage.
Inside were four dead men.
• • • • •
The prisoners had been put in the garage because it was empty of tools, there was nothing in there with which they could injure themselves; the lesson of Kolsti and Parmitter’s murderer had not been neglected. Everything which the men might have used as weapons had been taken away, yet there they lay, dead. A stink of bitter almonds reached Hammond’s nostrils.
Tim said in a hushed voice:
‘Cyanide. They must have had it in their mouths.’ He turned quickly away into the clear frosty night. Standing there, with one hand in his pocket and the other at his mouth, he added in a thick voice: ‘There’s something about it that frightens me.’ He still looked pale. ‘This utter ruthlessness, even with themselves—how far will they go? What are they trying to do?’
Hammond said: ‘Break Up Uno.’
‘If they’re as ruthless as they seem to be...’
‘They’ve got a chance to succeed,’ Hammond said. ‘That’s why we’re here. That’s why Clarissa and Susan are freezing upstairs.’ He looked round, and saw the Colston policeman wading through the snow towards them.
He told the man what had happened, and the policeman insisted on looking into the garage. After one glance he turned away. He recovered and promised that he would see that everything was looked after.
‘Good,’ said Hammond. ‘Now, I’d like a guide to Colston House. Is there anyone in the village who knows how we can get there across country?’
‘You can’t get there, the bridge is down,’ said the policeman.
‘We’re going on foot. We can supply snow-shoes,’ Hammond told him, ‘and we must cross the river somehow.’
‘Well, Sam Oakes might guide you,’ said the policeman. ‘He’s just gone into the inn. He used to work for Sir Hugh Marchant on the estate, but they caught him poaching pheasant.’ The policeman said that with remarkable sang froid. ‘What will it be worth to him?’
‘What will he want?’
‘He won’t do it for less than five pounds,’ said the policeman.
‘Offer him ten,’ said Hammond, ‘and tell him we’re in a hurry.’
Half an hour afterwards, Hammond, Tim, Fordham and four other Department Z agents started out with Sam Oakes, a little wizened man who had little to say for himself and who carried a swinging lantern, for Colston House. They carried their snow-shoes.
From the top of the hill Tim glanced back at the village and The George. Yellow gleams of light showed clearly; he recognised the lights of the inn. One was the highest there was in the village; it might be Clarissa Kaye’s room.
Why hadn’t she talked?
He forced himself not to think of her. There was the inescapable fact that somewhere between the river and Colston House were four of the ‘suicide squad’ and Wilkinson’s party. It was possible that all of them had reached the house, although Sam had assured them that cars could only have got through with the greatest difficulty. The house was in the least accessible part of the country. They would have to climb the far side of the valley, then go down and up another, before they could see it.
At last they reached the river.
The bridge had been blown only in the centre. Torches shone on the gap, which was two yards wide. But for the snow on the far side, none of them would have hesitated to jump.
Sam went forward, calling over his shoulder:
‘If we had two or three planks from the barn, we could make it.’
Hammond said: ‘We’ll get them.’
It was a quarter of an hour before they were able to break boards
from the barn walls, and push them into position. The bridge swayed perilously when more than two men walked on it. Once there was a sickening crack as it lurched forward. Sam, in the lead, grabbed at the broken rampart and just saved himself from falling. Beneath them the wild roar of the river was like near thunder: it sounded menacing and seemed to draw them down towards it. Above, the stars lit up the sky, and the pale silver of the moon was dropping towards the horizon; it would not be up much longer, soon full darkness would be about them.
Sam called out: ‘Okay, now.’
Tim crossed the river first, the planks bending in the middle. His heart leapt to his mouth, and he seemed to feel the water closing about him again, but he reached the far side safely. He put on his snow-shoes, as the others came over safely.
Within five minutes, Sam began to lead them across the fields. Even with their snow-shoes, it was heavy going. At the top, Sam paused for breath, and decided that he would experiment with snow-shoes. They lit cigarettes and waited while he put them on. From here they could see no light anywhere.
‘Ready!’ said Sam. ‘Single file, now.’
The country was broken by bushes, great mounds in the snow, and the ground beneath the snow was more uneven. Now and again they found they were walking over small trees and bushes and gorse. They passed several thickets, and once there was a sudden, whirring noise, making every man thrust his hand to his pocket, to his gun.
‘Partridges,’ said Sam, with a sniff. ‘You’ll soon be able to see the house.’
Hammond, just behind him, grunted a reply. They went plodding uphill again. When they reached the top of the next hill they could look down into the valley.
On the far side, halfway up the slope which they could see in the pale afterglow of the moon, was Colston House.
The house was a beacon against the semi-darkness. Light shone in all directions, not only from the windows but from cars which stood outside, their great beams of headlights shining on to the snow. It was like a distant fairyland, and had a beauty which made all of them stand and stare; it did not seem reasonable that whoever was inside should try to attract so much attention.
