by John Creasey
“Ready,” Frisby said.
“Get it, will you?” When Frisby went out, Roger said to Kane: “You’d better go and see Cecil Chayter and find out what you can of the situation. We want to know what the caller’s voice was like, whether it was the voice of the man who telephoned before – everything possible.”
“I’ll fix it,” Kane promised.
“Take one other man,” ordered Roger.
Frisby coming in at that moment, Roger told him where Kane was going. They could hear Kane hurrying along the passage.
“What were you arguing about?” Roger wanted to know.
“Kane was saying that he thought the only man capable of organising this lot is Jeremiah Taylor,” answered Frisby. “And I was telling him I thought he was crazy. I can’t believe Jeremiah—”
Roger was opening the file.
“I can’t either, but we could be wrong,” He scanned a newspaper article which gave a précis of Jeremiah’s activities. “Wealthy – very active in Youth Club movements – a Rotarian – a director of a dozen companies – lifelong teetotaller – non-smoker—”
“At least he’s married,” Frisby interpolated.
“—substantial subscriber to Cancer Research, Famine Relief, the Prison Visitors’ Association – the Discharged Prisoners’ Aid Society. What’s this? … ‘For many years Mr. Taylor has made a point of visiting men and women soon after their release from prison, particularly if they have served a long term’ – as we know.”
“Now he’s going to see Chayter,” Frisby remarked.
“An irreproachable life of service to humanity, it says – I wonder what his vices are – and how he makes his money.” Roger flipped, through the papers and came to a typewritten sheet headed: “Directorships held by Jeremiah Taylor – Benson and Finelove, Food Distributors, Pulp Limited, Paper Merchants, North Canadian Forest Incorporated, Hepplewhite and Company, Timber Merchants (and associated companies), Smith—” he broke off sharply. “You see that?”
Frisby said: “Hepplewhite and Company and associated companies?”
“Yes.” Roger picked up a telephone. “Give me Mr. Barnard.” Barnard was the Yard’s top expert on Companies and Company Law. “Hallo, Barney, how long will it take you to tell me whether Hamble and Hamble, Timber Merchants, are associates or a subsidiary of Hepplewhite and—”
He broke off, and Frisby breathed: “No.”
Roger said: “Thanks, Barney. Yes, please, I’d like a note of confirmation.” He replaced the receiver and said in a grating voice: “Hamble and Hamble is a subsidiary of Hepplewhite’s – Barney had just dug out the information for Kane, who was after information about Hamble and Hamble. It looks as if we might be going places.”
“You don’t think Kane will lose Chayter, do you?” Frisby asked anxiously. “He’s young and comparatively inexperienced.”
“We’re going to make sure by having them both followed,” Roger said. “And we want Hamble and Hamble’s yard surrounded. All of our missing men have been seen in that vicinity. It’s only a very short distance from Pilkington Street.”
“Going to raid it at once?”
“I think we’ll wait for Chayter,” Roger said.
Cecil Chayter left the house in Link Street just before half past six, and turned towards Swiss Cottage and the bus stop. A uniformed policeman across the road noticed him and made a note of the time. A middle-aged man who appeared to be canvassing walked in Chayter’s wake. Kane, at the far end of the street, sat at the wheel of a red Mini-Cooper which seemed too small for his long legs. Chayter, feeling much more normal than he had for a long time, half-smiled at the detective, who had spent half an hour with him earlier in the afternoon. Two girls and an old woman waited by the bus stop, and Chayter stood about for three or four minutes before a bus came along. He got on to the top deck. The girls and the woman went inside. He sat near the back, glancing round from time to time, and seeing the red Mini-Cooper in a stream of traffic. He had taken a liking to Kane, believing he was a man to be trusted.
The bus roared on.
As it approached the traffic lights at Lord’s Cricket Ground, Chayter looked out of the window again, without a thought of alarm. As he did so he saw a large car swing out of a side road into the path of the Mini-Cooper. On the instant, the smaller car swerved, but not far enough. The big car struck it a crushing blow on the near side, and the little Mini seemed to fly across the road, right in the path of another bus. The bus swung to one side as the Mini turned on its side, then on its top, then on its side again.
All this time, Chayter’s bus was drawing away.
Chayter sprang to his feet, but the bus was travelling fast and he was flung against another passenger, then into an empty seat. Before he could recover the bus had turned a corner.
Chayter thought: He must have been killed. Poor devil.
He thought: What the hell shall I do? The police won’t rely on one man, surely. He moistened his lips, acutely conscious of the gaze of the other passengers. Obviously he must get off at the next stop, and telephone Scotland Yard. On the other hand, he had told Kane where he was to meet Jeremiah Taylor’s friends, at the junction of Marylebone Road and Pilkington Street. West would know, and would have men there.
Could that have been a genuine accident?
He felt at heart that it hadn’t been, which meant that someone was prepared to kill a policeman in order to prevent him, Cecil Chayter, from being followed. It was a frightening thought, but he must keep his head. This was a chance in a million to rehabilitate himself, saving nine lives was surely some kind of redemption for taking one.
How far away and remote that day of his crime now seemed.
He would wait until he reached the rendezvous.
He sat back more comfortably in the seat into which he had fallen, still badly upset by what had happened to Kane, still fearful, but sure of what he should do. He closed his eyes to shut out the bright evening sunlight, realising that the tension culminating in the shock had given him a thumping headache.
A passenger who had just boarded the bus carrying a briefcase, pushed past him and as he struggled by, Chayter felt a scratch, almost like a pin-prick. He winced and snatched his hand away, seeing a tiny spot of blood. He put his hand to his lips, in a natural gesture – and as he did so, life seemed to be blacked out. One moment he was fully conscious, the next he was aware of nothing.
“Poor chap’s fainted,” a man said.
“He was upset by that accident,” said the new passenger. “Awful, it was.”
“Better get him off the bus.”
“Can you ask the conductor to stop?”
“Who’s going to look after him?”
“I’m in no hurry,” the new passenger said. “I’ll find out where he lives and get a taxi, if necessary. Dare say I ought to say I saw the accident, too.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Glad to help.”
“Now what’s all this?” the little conductor wanted to know, and then he saw Chayter, leaning back in his seat. “Strewth – and we’re late already,” he went on bitterly. “It would happen tonight.”
Roger West sat at his desk just before six-thirty that evening, waiting for the reports, quite prepared to believe that nothing that could help the police would happen to Chayter, and that a raid on the timber merchants’ yard would yield no results. He was on edge as well as pessimistic, without quite knowing why. Probably it was because he had encouraged Chayter to take a chance, and he would be to blame if anything went wrong.
Frisby came in.
“Should hear something soon,” he said,
“If we don’t—’ Roger began, and suddenly a telephone bell rang and he snatched up the receiver. “West.”
A man said: “Information, sir. We’ve lust heard from a man working with him that Detective Officer Kane was seriously injured in a car crash in St. John’s Wood at six-forty tonight. His condition is touch and go, sir.”
Roger a
sked urgently: “Chayter?”
“Nothing yet, sir.”
Roger put down the receiver, and said: “Kane. Car crash,”
He began to get up from the desk. “I’ll go over to the timber yard myself, and—”
Another telephone bell rang and he snatched off the receiver,
“West.”
“Cecil Chayter has just been assisted off a bus, near Pilkington Street, and is being helped into a taxi which was following the bus, sir.”
“Assisted?”
“He seems unconscious.”
“Are you in a squad car?”
“Yes, sir, and we’ve another close by.”
“Don’t lose that taxi.”
“No need to worry about that, sir.”
“Report to Information from now on.”
“Very good.”
Roger rang off. “Tell Information to keep me posted. I’ll drive to the timber yard.”
Frisby said gruffly: “Handsome, don’t—” he broke off.
“Sorry, sir.”
“I’ll be all right,” Roger said. “The timber yard’s surrounded, isn’t it? And if we’re wrong about the place, then there isn’t any danger.”
“I suppose not, sir.”
Roger said: “Like to come?”
“My God, I would!”
“Come on, then.”
“But the office—”
“Send in another sergeant,” Roger said impatiently.
He was downstairs at his car in two minutes, the two-way radio already switched on, and was driving towards the Embankment exit when Frisby came hurrying; it occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Frisby outside the office for weeks, perhaps months. Frisby scrambled in, as the radio crackled, and a man said: “Report for Superintendent West, report for Superintendent West … Taxi now approaching Baker Street Station, sir.”
“Baker Street,” echoed Frisby.
“Thanks,” said Roger. He turned right. Traffic was at its lightest, and shouldn’t slow him down. He raced to Parliament Square, round it, then along Whitehall, heading for Regent Street, Regent’s Park, Baker Street … The radio kept up a constant crackling, but emitted no message until a man said: “Taxi approaching Hamble and Hamble’s timber yard, sir.”
“We’ve got ’em,” Frisby breathed.
“We’ve got something,” Roger said. “Hallo. Information … What is the latest report from the cordon at the timber yard?”
“Twenty men in position, sir. Barriers available for all roads in the immediate neighbourhood.”
“Stop everything coming out,” Roger ordered. “Let anything go in.”
“Right, sir. Just had a report that the timber yard gates are wide open.”
“Let the taxi go in, remember.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roger rang off, and Frisby said: “Timber’s made to burn.”
“You ordered all fire precautions, didn’t you?”
“Two fire tenders are standing by, sir.”
“I hope we’re not fooling ourselves,” Roger said. The telephone crackled. “Yes, what is it?”
“A flash about Rachel del Monde,” Information reported. “She’s just left Blenheim Terrace.”
“With Medlake?”
“Medlake has been out for some time, sir, but his wife is at home.”
“Are the house and Terrace surrounded?”
“Just as ordered, sir.”
“Make sure we know who goes in and out,” Roger said.
“Yes, sir. Just a moment, sir! ”
Roger held on, hearing the crackling, until the man from Information spoke again. “It’s a flash about Medlake, sir. He slipped our men at Piccadilly Circus.”
“Have a general call out for him,” ordered Roger sharply. “The moment he’s seen anywhere I want to know.” He put the telephone down with the quietness of suppressed rage.
“If a man wants to shake us off, it’s easy,” reasoned Frisby. “I hope no one decides to blow a safe deposit or hold up a Post Office van,” he went on. “There won’t be anyone to cope if there is.” He caught his breath: “There’s one of our cars, sir.”
Roger slowed down at the entrance to a street at the end of which were wooden gates darkly lettered with the words: HAMBLE AND HAMBLE. The police car drew alongside, and a man jumped out.
“The taxi has gone inside, sir, with Chayter still in it.”
“Now we need to know whether the other nine are there too,” Roger said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Shed
Cecil Chayter came back to consciousness in a huge shed, where he lay on a heap of wood shavings. He was aware at first of the odour of pine and new wood, but that did not mean anything at first; it was rather pleasant: refreshing. He half-dozed. Men talked in low-pitched voices not far away. Once a saw grated, and a machine whirred. A man said: “Try it again.”
Try what again?
Chayter opened his eyes to a scene he could not really believe.
This was a wood-working machine shed. Near him was a big circular saw, and there were other smaller saws, and saw benches. At the far end of the shed, which seemed as vast as an aeroplane hangar, timber was stacked in great piles; more timber was stored on the metal girders which supported the roof. Round the walls were sheets of timber, 3-ply and 5-ply and hardboard, all recognisable to him because of the carpenter’s shop at the prison. The glass drums were not so familiar, but he assumed they contained liquids to treat the wood.
In the middle of all this was a gallows.
He stared, throat constricted, eyes shocked to pin-points. He had seen pictures too often to have any doubt of the authenticity; it was a gallows, made of fresh, newly cut wood.
Hanging from a noose was a dummy, feet resting on the platform.
By the side of the dummy was a man with, a mask over his face, a mask cut to the fashion of the old-time executioner, the man who beheaded with an axe. This wearer of it was tall and lean, a skull cap covering the crown of his head, a leather jacket falling to his knees. Behind him, at floor level, was another man. It was his voice which spoke.
“O.K. Now.”
The voice was Medlake’s.
The tall man pulled a lever. There was a heavy thud as the trapdoors opened and the dummy dropped a foot or more, the rope tugging at its neck.
“Got it!” exclaimed Medlake. “It’s perfect.”
The other didn’t speak.
“Ready to start?”
The other said: “Yes.”
“How long do you think it will take?”
“Half an hour,”
“It’ll take an hour and a half! Ten minutes each.”
“It won’t take more than two minutes each,” argued Sir Solomon Medlake. He glanced across at Cecil Chayter, but the light was poor, and he could not see whether Chayter’s eyes were open or closed. He jumped down from the platform and the two of them walked towards the huge stacks of timber. A man out of sight called: “Coming for them?”
“Yes.” Medlake’s voice held the arrogant, withdrawn note of a man forced to use the services of those he considered inferior to himself.
“They’re all ready, sir.”
Chayter felt as if ice were forming in his veins.
All three men had disappeared and only the gallows stood in the middle of the shed, stark and macabre. Chayter began to ease himself up on the shavings but they gave way beneath him. The movement stirred the sawdust, and suddenly he wanted to sneeze. Terror filled him, for he knew exactly what would happen if he was heard. He pressed one hand over his nose and face, and tried desperately to keep the sneeze back, but it came, muted yet unmistakable. He lay motionless, listening for any exclamation or for footsteps. None coming, he relaxed cautiously, turning on one side very carefully, and levering himself up. At last, he reached his feet, and took a step forward.
Something tugged at his ankle; he was tied to the wall.
Panic rose up in him and as he pulled desperately he created a risi
ng cloud of dust which the men would see once they glanced his way. In fresh panic, he stood absolutely still.
He heard movements by the stacks – a squeaking, trundling sound, rather like someone pushing a wheelbarrow. A moment later the two masked men appeared, Medlake in the lead, and behind them a third man pushed a fiat, four-wheeled truck, obviously used for moving short lengths of timber.
On this was a man.
Behind it in turn came a second truck, also with a man on it.
He thought, unbelievingly: They’re unconscious!
He knew exactly what these masked men were going to do; hoist their unconscious victims up on the gallows, put the noose about their necks, and open the trap.
Chayter looked round desperately. There were huge double doors at one end of the shed, at the other was a smaller door. The only windows were in the roof. The walls rose smooth and unrelieved. The one hope he had of getting away and calling for help was by that far door, but before he could reach it he had to cut or untie the rope. He bent down, shifted some of the shavings away with great care, and saw the rope was new; he judged it to be nylon, and almost impossible to cut.
He could try.
He put his hand into his pocket, found his small penknife, bent down and began to saw at the rope; but he knew almost at once that he had no chance. The only possible way to summon help would be to shout, and that would be to court the attention of the very men against whom help was needed. He moved towards the wall to which the rope was fastened, noting the knot. Surely he could untie it! He started, but it was too stiff. Tearing his nails, he hardly loosened it at all.
Suddenly, there was a crash against the double doors, so loud and deafening that all the men in the shed ceased working and stared towards it. As they stared there was another crash, and the doors shook.
A thin cry went up: “The police!”
The police, please God, Chayter prayed.
While a third crash reverberated, the four men began to move, and they moved to a prearranged system, each to one of the small glass drums. The tall masked man reached one first, and hurled it at the gallows. It broke into smithereens and the liquid sprayed out, an oily liquid with the stench of petrol. Each man hurled a drum, each drum smashed. The thudding on the door continued. The tall man snatched up another drum and rushed towards the stacks of timber – the spot in which the unconscious prisoners lay. Chayter realised what they were going to do; the prisoners were to be soaked in petrol, and burned.
