The League of Dark Men

by John Creasey

  Then, loud and clear across the stillness, came the crack of a shot. None of them saw the flash of flame which preceded it, but they watched more intently. Just before the sound of another shot came floating towards them, they saw a tiny yellow flash.

  ‘So someone’s attacking the place,’ Tim said, in a low-pitched voice.

  The stutter of a machine-gun cut across his words; and that too was being fired from the outside.

  16

  Gregory Wilkinson

  Hammond touched Sam’s arm.

  ‘You’ve finished your part of the job,’ he said. ‘Go back, tell my men at The George what is happening, and tell the policeman to try to get a call through to the nearest town and police station.’

  Sam said: ‘They can try.’

  ‘Then that’s all we can hope for,’ said Hammond. ‘Off with you.’ Sam turned and sped across the snow. Now that he had not to lead them, he moved more freely, but they did not see him; they watched the house. The stutter of the machine-gun had stopped now, and there was no more shooting. They were near enough to be able to see if men moved against the light. There were no silhouettes.

  ‘Good idea to have the lights on,’ said Fordham, coming up and stamping his feet. ‘No one can approach without being seen. Are we going to split up?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hammond. ‘They won’t see us for a long time. Single file again.’

  Out of the darkness two more men materialised, George and the other Department Z scout. The shooting had been spasmodic for the last five minutes, George reported. He did not know who was in the house, for he and his companion had lost their way and only arrived a quarter of an hour earlier.

  The going was easy enough at first, being downhill. Hammond watched the house for a further outburst of shooting. If there were only four men in the attacking party round’ the house, it meant only one at every corner; and he had enough men with him to overcome them without any difficulty. The attackers would not expect anyone to come from the village. This battle was being fought in the isolated grounds of Colston House; the people there doubtless believed that it was a fight to death.

  Tim’s question hovered about his mind: who was attacking?

  The suicide squad had gone first, by road; Wilkinson and his men, presumably, had followed. So the likelihood was that Wilkinson was attacking. Hammond did not want to go too fast; when they drew near to the house, they wanted to be able to breathe silently.

  Another shot came from the far corner of the house, then, almost simultaneously, more shots came from the two other corners that were in sight.

  The Department Z agents reached the foot of the shallow valley, with the house only three hundred yards in front of them. They could not see the attackers until suddenly one man ran from the cover of a tree towards the house. Immediately there was a burst of fire from the house. The man stopped, taking cover behind a bush. Next moment another man moved from another point. Hammond realised what was being attempted. The attackers were approaching cunningly, a few yards at a time, and drawing fire. Now he realised that the spasmodic bursts of shooting were cover for the men as they made the attack. The nearest man was only ten yards from the front door of the house, only three from the front of a car which stood with headlights blazing.

  Two shots came swiftly, and the headlights went out.

  For a moment the drive seemed dark, but he could see shadowy figures rush forward. Hammond held his breath. Was this the final attack? Would the men outside get in too soon for him to approach them from behind? He saw two men running; then there was a burst of machine-gun fire again from the house. The attackers flung themselves down behind the car, which hid them both from Hammond and from the people in the house. The shooting stopped.

  Hammond stood still, and the others gathered about him.

  ‘Two men to every spot where there’s shooting,’ Hammond said. ‘Fordham, you and I will take the drive.’

  ‘Righto.’

  ‘You take the side where the garage is, Tim,’ Hammond ordered.

  They separated and began to walk in twos towards the attackers. Most of these men could be seen from behind now, because of the light. All were crouching behind bushes or stone work, and there was a lull, as if they were waiting for the men by the car to recover and to make another burst.

  Hammond and red-haired Fordham reached the drive.

  The men by the car straightened up; so they had not been injured badly. They were both small men, and one had lost his hat. He groped for it. Against the bright light shining from a ground floor window the round, bullet-like head was visible.

  Fordham whispered: ‘So Wilkinson’s inside.’

  The man found his hat, and crawled back through the snow, away from the car. There was a mutter of voices, not five yards away from Hammond. He was hidden from the talking men by a low brick wall. The men were talking in a language which he did not understand.

  ‘It might be Burmese,’ Fordham said.

  They watched the point where the two little men had taken cover. Hammond was thinking that the attackers would probably launch another attack any moment, and that he and Fordham must start shooting, aiming low.

  The talking stopped. There came an outburst of shooting from one of the corners, and more answering fire from the house—not a machine-gun this time. The burst of firing lasted longer than any of the earlier ones, and it was still going on when three little men leapt forward in front of Hammond and Fordham. They did not shoot but rushed towards the front door. There was something in their intensity which told Hammond that they were now making their final rush.

  Hammond fired, and Fordham’s gun flashed; the shots sounded loud. Their frozen fingers were stiff upon the triggers, but they were at too short a range to miss. One after another the little men fell, one pitching backwards, the others falling on their faces. Not a single shot came from the house itself.

  Suddenly a shadow appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Who’s there?’ That was Wilkinson’s voice.

  ‘Hammond!’ called Hammond clearly.

  ‘Better run for it,’ Wilkinson called. ‘We’ll hold our fire.’

  There was shooting at the corner of the house. Hammond could see the flashes as the shots were fired. He hesitated for a moment before straightening up and running towards the porch. There was one fear in his mind; that Wilkinson intended to shoot him and Fordham as soon as they drew near.

  He reached the porch, with Fordham just behind him. A shot was fired from the side, but struck the brickwork. Wilkinson appeared by the side of the open door, and Hammond ran past him. Fordham followed close behind. They dodged to one side, near Wilkinson, who was standing with a submachine gun pointing towards the doorway. His long, lantern face was set in a sardonic smile, his dark hair was brushed carelessly from his forehead.

  ‘This time you are welcome,’ he said.

  ‘I hope so,’ grunted Hammond.

  ‘Anyone else with you?’

  ‘Several men,’ said Hammond.

  ‘I always did believe in miracles,’ Wilkinson said. ‘How does it feel to be a miracle?’

  In spite of himself, Hammond laughed.

  From one of the rooms a man called out:

  ‘Whom are you talking to, Greg?’ It was Ferguson.

  ‘Sue’s Hammy,’ Wilkinson called back. ‘You see how right I was.’ He raised the gun as another outburst of shooting came, but no one appeared on the drive.

  ‘Watch the drive, will you?’ he asked. ‘I’ll go and tell the others.’ He turned and hurried off, his tall figure a little rounded at the shoulders. Just before he disappeared along a passage, he glanced round, and there was a sparkle in his eyes.

  They heard him talking...

  There came the sound of footsteps in the house, someone cried out, and Wilkinson’s voice was raised:

  ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Tim’s voice could just be heard:

  ‘Thanks, Greg!’

  Wilkinson laughed. ‘Hammond is he
re,’ he said. ‘He’s welcome, too. I’ll go and warn the others.’ He came hurrying into sight again, winked at Hammond and Fordham, and disappeared along another passage. He was gone for ten minutes. There was no more shooting, but the silence outside might be deceptive. It was impossible to judge how many of the little men had taken part in the attack, and equally impossible to know whether they had concentrated their main forces on the front door or elsewhere.

  Wilkinson came back with a fair-haired man whom Hammond had never seen before, but who was so remarkably like a young Sir Hugh Marchant that he had no doubt as to his identity.

  ‘We might try and finish the job off,’ Wilkinson said. ‘I think we’ve got most of them. There were seven. Three at the front, two at the side entrance and your friend has dealt with them, and a couple of singles, just to keep us busy. There might...’

  He broke off abruptly. There were two shots, which came swiftly upon each other, followed by a cry of pain; Hammond realised that it was the first such cry he had heard, the men whom he had shot had fallen silently. Three of them were there in the snow, within sight.

  After a moment’s silence, Hammond recognised the voice of one of his men, the unmistakable voice of George Henry George. ‘That’s that, I think. Nasty little brutes, aren’t they?’ He raised his voice. ‘You inside, Bruce?’

  ‘Yes,’ called Hammond.

  Wilkinson said: ‘I’d better go and make sure that everything is all right.’ He hurried off, and after a few seconds there came another plaintive cry from George Henry George.

  ‘But my dear chap, I’ve got nothing up my sleeve.’

  Hammond began to laugh.

  • • • • •

  Half an hour later, a thorough search of the grounds near the house was finished, and every one of the little dark men accounted for. Three had been killed in the fighting and three others were badly wounded. The only one not seriously hurt was sitting in an easy chair, with a bandage on his forehead. Wilkinson said that these men preferred death to capture; he said he had caught one when the man had broken into Hatch End. Suicide might be because they were frightened of what would happen to them if they lived, Wilkinson added.

  Only a patch of the prisoner’s cropped hair showed. His dark eyes glittered.

  Wilkinson and Ferguson were in the room with Hammond and the rest of the Department Z contingent. George Henry George was sitting by a blazing log fire in the drawing room, amusing himself with playing cards. The room was luxuriously furnished, with plenty of easy chairs and settees. Fordham was sitting at a grand piano, playing a note now and again, looking up towards the ceiling with his eyes half-closed. Tim, in his borrowed serge, was the only one badly-dressed. He sat near George, who kept on complaining that the cards would not come right.

  Trolley wheels rattled on the floor outside.

  ‘Ah,’ said Wilkinson. ‘Soup.’

  The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who helped an elderly man to guide in a dinner-waggon. On it were two great steaming tureens of soup, piles of bread cut into squares and, on the second shelf, a huge piece of cheese and a tin of biscuits. Cutlery glittered beneath the two chandeliers as the waggon was wheeled round.

  ‘Couldn’t hope to get a quick dinner for everyone,’ Wilkinson said. ‘I thought this would do for a start.’

  ‘Just right,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Happy thought,’ called George. ‘I knew there was something the matter with me. Starvation.’ He watched the servants ladling out the soup into generous-sized dishes. Small tables were brought in.

  ‘I hope you’re not wondering whether it’s poisoned,’ said Wilkinson suddenly.

  Hammond said: ‘No, I’m not. Wilkinson, does Clarissa Kaye and the woman Susan know what you’ve been doing?’

  ‘Most of it,’ said Wilkinson. ‘Why?’

  ‘They refused to talk freely.’

  ‘They’re very loyal,’ said Wilkinson. ‘They needn’t be stubborn any longer. They’re still at The George, I hope.’

  Hammond said: ‘Yes. In the attic, without food, fire or blankets. They were too stubborn. I can’t take risks, Wilkinson. I’ve got to know what all this is about.’

  Wilkinson’s expression altered. For the first time since Hammond’s party had arrived he looked angry. But he considered his words, although there was a hostile glow in his eyes when at last he said:

  ‘Sadism is your middle name, I gather?’

  Hammond said: ‘The sooner you talk the quicker I can send a man to release them.’

  ‘You can send one now.’

  ‘Not until I’ve heard your story,’ said Hammond. ‘I’ve told you what I’m doing. Now I’ll tell you that evasions, half-truths, trickery of any kind will only lead to more trouble, for all concerned. The quicker you talk...’

  He broke off as the woman handed him a bowl of soup.

  Wilkinson also took a bowl. His gaze did not leave Hammond’s face, but now a faint smile played about his lips.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I like men tough. For the last four years I’ve suspected the existence of an organisation planning to break up the United Nations. The chief target of the attack is Russia, because Russia can do the damage if she thinks Uno merely a talking shop.’ It was odd to hear this tall, dark man echoing Hadley’s words. ‘I didn’t like the idea.’

  Hammond said: ‘Don’t forget that I know all about Warning.’

  ‘You don’t,’ Wilkinson told him. ‘You only know what I’ve allowed the world—and that includes the police—to know. It would take a long time to tell you all about Warning. Just now I want to satisfy you enough to get those girls free. I knew of this organisation. I didn’t know enough of it to be able to report to the Government or to any authority. Whispers—rumours—an occasional paragraph in a newspaper—the anti-Russian campaign, which meant the anti-Uno campaign, was spreading pretty fast. But you know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hammond.

  Every man there, except the butler, was looking at the two as they stood facing each other. Spoons clicked on china and then moved up to ready lips, but no one watched what they were doing.

  Wilkinson put his bowl down.

  ‘I got most of my early information from Parmitter. Being in steel, which so often means armaments, he was approached from many quarters for supplies. Some smaller nations who thought—and had been made to believe—that Russia was hostile towards them, were very anxious to have arms. Parmitter booked many orders, and kept his ear very close to the ground. He discovered that the agents of this organisation—and of its size and importance there was no doubt at all—were all very much alike. You know what they’re like, now.’

  Hammond nodded.

  ‘We couldn’t find out where they came from, who employed them or where they lived,’ said Wilkinson. ‘Most of this campaign took part outside Great Britain. We weren’t officially concerned. But I had an idea. I always felt sure that if Uno did break up it would be because Russia was driven to withdraw. I thought the best way of getting in touch with the organisation was to start Warning. Virulent anti-Soviet propaganda would make a lot of people angry, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the people behind the trouble should look for sympathisers in England. There are one or two rather furtive groups about, most of them ex-18B people. Someone who would boast about being anti-Russian, be picked up by the Press and held up to scorn and ridicule; that was what was wanted. Mendicott, Ferguson and I all had a pretty rough time during the Korean war. We all saw this thing in much the same way. Clarissa—whom we’d met through Parmitter—joined us. As she lived here with Marchant, she was in a good position to find out what kind of goods were being sold and asked for—that was most important—where Super-Steel was concerned. None of us was violently anti-anything, but we all agreed that we wanted to wipe out this organisation. That was a worthy enough purpose, wasn’t it?’ The sardonic smile was back on his face.

  Hammond nodded.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Wilkinson drily. ‘We four
, my wife and Susan Harris were all in this. We kept getting small bites. We kept ourselves rather exclusive, because we were afraid that we might enlist someone who couldn’t be trusted. It wasn’t easy to keep the pretence up. It got Clarissa into trouble with her uncle, for one thing. But I’m going too slowly. Those girls...’

  Hammond turned to the rest of his men, and asked:

  ‘Who’ll volunteer to go back to the village?’

  There was no immediate response; the transition from Wilkinson’s story to Hammond’s abrupt question was too sharp.

  George Henry George put up his hand.

  ‘Please, teacher.’

  ‘And me,’ Tim volunteered.

  ‘Two will be enough,’ said Hammond.

  They went out, George a little reluctantly, Tim eagerly. He had waited only because he had not wanted to be the first to volunteer. Wilkinson saw them to the front door, and then returned to the big room, where the servants were making another round with the waggon.

  Wilkinson said: ‘Thanks, Hammond. There isn’t a great deal more of the general theme, although there’s a lot of detail. You’ve probably guessed by now that the organisation we were trying to find did plant a man in our midst. Abbott. We’d suspected him for some time, chiefly because he’d made much love to Clarissa, and, at times, his questions were a little pressing—as if he were trying to find out how much we knew. And he gave the newspapers that story. The night before last we were on the way from Hatch End, after we’d left you asleep, and Abbott said he’d dropped something, and went back. I followed him. He was about to shoot you. I didn’t waste much time,’ Wilkinson finished drily.

  ‘Thanks,’ Hammond said.

  ‘Pleasure. I didn’t know who you were for certain at Hatch End—I couldn’t be sure you hadn’t visited Parmitter on behalf of the enemy, who might have suspected Parmitter’s loyalty. That’s by the way. You want to know just what I’ve found out. Well, this organisation exists. Its most active agents —these little dark men—are Shovian. I think that they get their orders from Shovia and, more recently, through Pirani, the chief Shovian delegate to Uno. I think they discovered that Parmitter was double-crossing them, and shot him. A servant here saw one about the grounds and told Lionel, who told me. I don’t know how it came about...’