The Executioners

by John Creasey

  He saw the stocky man bending over a cleared spot on the floor. He saw him take a box of matches from his pocket, and knew that it was a fuse trail, leading to the gallows. In minutes the place would blaze up, no one left inside would have a chance of survival. Medlake rushed to join the man …

  Where were the police?

  As the question entered his mind, with an anguish he could hardly bear, there was a crash from one of the windows above, and the head and shoulders of a man appeared, a silhouette against the evening sky.

  Roger West stared down from the open roof-light, and for a split second could not believe his eyes. He had a panoramic view of the great shed, the timber, the gallows, the men in the trucks, the others stretched out between two stacks, like bodies ready for the grave.

  Four men were down there – two of them tossing liquid out of wide-necked glass jars, one of them – Medlake – at a hole in the floor which obviously led to a cellar and an escape hatch, one on his knees with something in his hand.

  And there was the gallows.

  On that instant, Roger tossed two tear-gas bombs down into the shed, and as they smashed the vapour billowed out and the scene was hidden from sight. At the last moment of visibility he thought he saw a flash of flame.

  Two men, by his side, had ropes round their waists. He did not need to give an order, for they began to lower themselves with a desperate but controlled haste. At the same moment the double doors clashed down. Two of the advancing men had extinguishers, and these were urgently needed, for the red glow was spreading.

  Through the wavering fumes of gas Roger discerned the movement of a figure tugging desperately at a rope which fastened him to the wall.

  He was closest to the hole in the floor.

  “That’s Cecil Chayter,” Roger said aloud.

  Then he saw Chayter stagger free.

  Cecil felt the sudden slackening of the knot as it gave way and he reeled back, almost tumbling on to the bed of shavings. The tear-gas bit at his eyes and nostrils, and at his mouth. He cleared the shavings, and saw three men running through the gas – the three masked men. Medlake reached the hole in the floor and disappeared. The second, who had said little on the gallows, drew close to it. Cecil hurled himself forward, and crashed into the man, who went thudding backwards. The third man cannoned into his fallen body, rolled over and lay still.

  It was then that the police appeared, but Cecil Chayter barely saw them. The man he had felled had struggled to his feet, his lips twisted, his eyes blazing. The mask had been displaced in the fall, and covered only one part of His face.

  Cecil exclaimed in a strangled voice: “Paul!”

  His brother rasped: “You filthy swine. I’ll teach you to—”

  He jumped at Cecil, but as he did so two plainclothes detectives caught Paul before he could attack. Cecil had a vivid picture of his brother’s distorted face, and the froth at his lips, and thought, in a moment’s swift revelation, my God, he’s mad.

  Medlake, brought up from the escape hatch with the other two, looked just as crazed.

  Then Roger West appeared, asking Cecil brusquely: “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I—I’m fine.”

  “I’m sorry we let this happen.”

  “It’s over now. Did you know before—” he looked helplessly towards his brother.

  “No,” West said. “I’d no idea, and obviously you hadn’t.” He was tense and angry, with himself rather than with anyone else. “Will you stand by for a few minutes? I’ll need—”

  He broke off at a shout from the double doors. The wind was clearing the gas, and Cecil’s eyes were much less painful. He could see a woman, running from the street into the large shed, and rushing towards the prisoners. Roger West exclaimed in a voice expressive of so much: “Rachel!” There were at least twenty men in the shed by now, but Cecil seemed aware only of West, the woman Rachel, and the tall, authoritative prisoner.

  Roger thought in a tense, angry kind of way: why did they let her get by? The man guarding Medlake suddenly realised where she was heading, and one man stepped in front of him as if to fend her off. But there was no physical danger that could stop Rachel del Monde; her eyes and her expression made that apparent. There was despair and dread in them, and there was something which made the detective in front of Medlake move to one side.

  “No,” she moaned. “Oh, no, it can’t happen, it can’t happen!”

  Medlake looked at her without speaking.

  “Oh, dear God,” gasped Rachel, “They’ve caught you, they—” she drew in a shuddering breath, saw Roger, turned towards him and cried; “It wasn’t him, not really, he did it for me, if it weren’t for me he wouldn’t have done it, I made him, I drove him to it.”

  Witch.

  “I tell you I drove him to it,” Rachel screamed. “If it weren’t for me he would have had nothing to do with it. Let him go, please let him go. Take me instead. Oh, dear God, take me, not him!”

  Throughout all this, Medlake stood detached, expressionless.

  Roger said: “Take it easy, Miss del Monde.”

  “But it’s my fault, not his! Don’t you understand?”

  “I understand very well,” Roger nodded to the men with Medlake and they began to lead him away. Rachel rushed towards him, but Roger caught her arm, holding her back until she turned on him, face distorted, mouth twisted with rage and pain and anguish. She began to beat at his face, his chest and shoulders, until he wrestled with her and caught her arms, pinioning them. “You must take it easy,” Roger said roughly. “You must stop blaming yourself for Medlake’s crime. You must stop trying to protect him.”

  He heard Cecil Chayter mutter: “Protect him?”

  Rachel’s body sagged and she buried her face in her hands. Roger had no time to comfort her. His men were looking to him for guidance and he must tell them what to do. He turned to Cecil, who was close at hand.

  “Try to help her,” he said. “Stay with her.”

  It was the strangest irony, Cecil Chayter thought, that he, the released murderer, should be standing with his arms round the sobbing woman who had so hated the law which had allowed him to live. He wondered what she would think and feel and do when she realised who was trying to comfort her.

  She was sobbing bitterly.

  He wished Julie were here to help her.

  Against his will, the full realisation of the truth flashed into his mind. Paul, his brother, Julie’s husband, had been one of the instigators of these dreadful crimes.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Causes of Hate

  Behind Roger was the stench of tear-gas, fading now, the fumes of the fire-extinguisher foam, the smell of burning and of oil. The charred and blackened wood and shavings where the fire had started, the nine still bodies of once-condemned men, his own officers and firemen clearing up the mess, and Cecil Chayter and Rachel del Monde, whose hysteria had worn itself out but who was still sobbing. He went into a small office outside the shed, where Frisby was going through the files; Frisby and clerical work were inseparable. He had a scratch on his right cheek, and a jagged tear in his jacket, but he looked happy enough.

  On the desk was a two-way radio, and a man was saying: “Jeremiah Taylor is on his way to Hamble and Hamble’s premises.”

  “You asked for him?” Roger demanded of Frisby. “Thought this was the best time to shake him down if he needs shaking down,” Frisby said.

  “I dare say. Any news of Kane?”

  “Multiple injuries, sir.”

  “Where is he?”

  “St. Mary’s Hospital.”

  Roger nodded.

  “He wasn’t far wrong in what he tried to do. Judge their mood and work on it is much the same as saying break ’em down and get at the truth. Rachel del Monde said more in the last ten minutes than I could have made her say in a week. So did Paul Chayter.”

  “There’s a shock,” Frisby said. “All the paperwork we did, all the questioning, all the checking and we missed out
on Paul Chayter. We shouldn’t have.”

  “Does he supply the stationery here?”

  “Yes—and at Blenheim Terrace and the campaign headquarters.”

  “How the devil did we miss that?”

  “He uses a trade name – PC Stationery Supplies. I dare say the ‘PC’ lulled us into a sense of security,” Frisby said, lugubriously. “Can’t find any association here with Jeremiah Taylor, though. It’s a funny thing, I would hate to think Taylor was involved. Kane once said he thought the old boy fanatical enough to stage these hangings to shock the country against capital punishment, but that would make him a special kind of devil, wouldn’t it, sir?”

  “A very special kind,” Roger agreed. “But I don’t believe he’s involved.”

  He glanced out of the window overlooking the street, and saw the shining black Rolls-Royce draw up outside. Jeremiah’s elderly chauffeur climbed down and opened the door. Jeremiah, looking more like an Old Testament prophet than ever, stepped out and strode towards the double gates. A moment or two later, a constable tapped at the office door.

  “Mr. Jeremiah Taylor’s here, sir.”

  “Show him in,” Roger stood up from the desk, all signs of personal feeling hidden behind a cold officiality.

  “Superintendent, I congratulate you—I congratulate you most warmly,” declaimed Jeremiah. “You have achieved yet another sweeping success.” He held both hands out, as if to embrace Roger, but did not move any closer. “None of them is seriously hurt, I trust.”

  “Let us go and see,” Roger said.

  He led the way across the shed, through the mess and the wreckage, glancing at the old man from time to time.

  “Shocking, shocking,” Jeremiah muttered. He stood staring at the gallows, lips set tightly, hands clenched. “What terrible things can go on in a man’s mind, Superintendent.”

  “You are familiar with this building, I believe?” Roger asked.

  “Hardly familiar,” answered Jeremiah, “I am a director of the parent company and have been here once or twice. It shocks me to realise that a building and a business in which I have an interest, should have been used for this purpose.”

  “And you had no idea?”

  Jeremiah said quietly: “I think I ought to resent that remark, Mr. West.”

  “I shouldn’t waste time resenting anything,” retorted Roger. “I have to get at the facts.”

  He drew up by the spot where five of the drugged men were still stretched out under the eye of a policeman, waiting for the ambulance men to come for them. Jeremiah stared downward, then turned to Roger.

  “They were drugged, I see.”

  “Yes.”

  “So they were not to be aware of what was happening to them.”

  “Most humane,” Roger said. “Do you approve?”

  Jeremiah said mildly: “I don’t approve of your attitude, Mr. West. But does that matter to you?”

  Roger said: “Mr. Taylor, Cecil Chayter was attacked on top of a bus tonight, on his way to see you. Had you telephoned, asking him to meet you and some friends?”

  “I had,” answered Jeremiah, without hesitation.

  “Why?”

  “I knew he was under considerable strain. I believed I ought to be able to help him. I knew he was a man of more than average intelligence, so I hoped he might become interested in my work on prison reform, I could both employ him at a reasonable salary, and give him a kind of therapy – forcing him to think about prison, not to brood about it.”

  “Who knew you’d asked him to visit you?”

  “I knew. My wife knew. Some of my colleagues, too.”

  “Which colleagues?” demanded Roger.

  “What is the point of these questions?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? Someone knew Chayter would leave the house about the time he did, someone arranged an assault on him, somebody had a taxi ready and waiting – all because he was coming to see you.”

  “Mr. West,” said Jeremiah, with great dignity, “I do not believe that any of my associates could possibly be involved in such treachery. We are all absolutely dedicated men.”

  “Someone knew Chayter was going to meet you,” Roger repeated inexorably.

  “He might have been followed, he —”

  “Nonsense.” Roger’s tone was curt. “A man might have got on the same bus, but arranging a taxi, having Chayter brought straight here – all of these things were carefully planned.”

  For the first time Jeremiah’s assurance wavered. “I see what you mean. And yet I can’t believe—”

  He broke off as a big Black Maria moved slowly into the shed, to collect the four prisoners, his eyes observing the corner where they were now waiting. Medlake stood upright and aloof, two of the others were sitting on piles of wood. Paul Chayter was standing looking morosely across at Jeremiah.

  “Paul!” exclaimed Jeremiah, and he sounded deeply shocked. “Paul, I can’t believe—”

  Paul Chayter’s lips seemed to twist into a sneer he could not control.

  “So you know Paul Chayter,” Roger said.

  “Paul Chayter? What are you saying? That is one of my most reliable helpers, Paul Curtis. He—Chayter,” Jeremiah repeated, with a catch in his voice. Before Roger could try to stop him he strode after the black van, and towards Paul. He was muttering to himself, almost as if in prayer.

  Roger stayed close behind him.

  “Paul,” Jeremiah said gruffly, “what does this mean?” He sounded as if he could not believe his eyes.

  Paul Chayter rasped: “It means you’ve been a fool, and all your sanctimonious hypocrisy didn’t help you to see it.”

  Jeremiah caught his breath.

  Paul went on savagely. “And you were so easy to fool. All you want is the publicity – the bigger your name is in the papers the better you like it, I only had to tell you I was on your side, and you believed me.”

  “No,” Jeremiah muttered. “Dear God, no.”

  “We had to know what tricks you were up to,” Paul Chayter said, “so I came along to the prayer meetings. There wasn’t a thing you were doing or a thing you learned about us that we didn’t know. You weren’t even aware I was a murderer’s brother. My God, the shame of it!” Paul’s eyes began to glitter, his hands clenched, he dragged up the arm of the officer to whom he was handcuffed. “It was like being a leper! His brother killed a girl, they would say. His brother’s a murderer. His brother’s going to be hanged. His brother’s been let off. His brother’s in prison for murder. It was hell, hell, hell every minute of the day. Every hour he lived he turned the knife in the wound, he ought to have been hanged. All murderers ought to be hanged! And when he came out of prison, I couldn’t wait. Medlake couldn’t wait. We had to show the country the truth, murderers ought to hang. They ought—”

  Jeremiah Taylor touched Roger’s arm.

  “I would like to leave, please,” he said quietly. “Will you be good enough to allow me to go home?”

  The Rolls-Royce moved off, and the ambulance followed with four more men, and the Black Maria brought up the rear.

  At midnight it was quiet at the Yard, and every light that was on seemed unusually bright. Roger walked along the empty passages, limping only a little. Opening his office door, he was startled to find Coppell sitting at his desk and reading some teleprinted reports.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep you long. I’ve seen most of the reports. Just wanted to congratulate you on finishing it off so neatly.”

  “I nearly finished Cecil Chayter off as neatly,” Roger said.

  He dropped into the chair reserved for visitors. “Anyhow you’ve got all you need for the Home Office.”

  “Pretty well. Anything much you know that I don’t?”

  “Shouldn’t think so,” said Roger. “Paul Chayter was the link between Medlake and Taylor. His printing business was the introduction to them both. It’s not surprising we wondered what Jeremiah was up to. Paul Chayter told the men
who were kidnapped that they were going to see Jeremiah, who was always good for a hand-out – and help if they needed it. They were taken to the basement near Pilkington Street, and on to the timber store after we raided the basement. Medlake and Paul Chayter were the real devils – both of them are certifiable, I would say.”

  “No need to put up an insanity plea, as they won’t hang,” Coppell growled. “Think that’s right and proper?”

  Roger ignored the bait.

  “They had other fanatical life-for-a-lifers, who worked at the timber yard,” Roger said. “These helped to handle the kidnapping and the drugging. I suspect it was Medlake who dreamed up the hanging business.”

  “Not Rachel del Monde?”

  “Not Rachel,” Roger replied heavily. “There isn’t much doubt that she was desperately in love with Medlake, was right behind him in the campaign and even in the hounding by telephone and the drawings, but when she realised what he was really trying to do, she tried to stop him – and being in love, she tried to save him. She arranged for Joe Mason to stage that attack on her and Medlake, believing it would divert your attention from Medlake. By that time she was desperate, of course, hardly knowing which way to turn.

  “She tells me that the first time she had any idea what was going on in Medlake’s mind was when he asked young Lancelot Spiers to make a model gallows,” continued Roger. “The one we found was a practice job – there’s another model on which the big gallows was based. She kept silent but I doubt if we could pin any charge on her.” Roger lit a cigarette and watched the smoke rise in a languid spiral towards the ceiling. “Whether they would have hanged them one by one, there’s no telling. I have a feeling that the whole thing grew into a kind of blood-lust.”

  “Looks like it,” Coppell agreed. “Mad’s the word.” He paused. “What’s the latest on your new recruit?”

  “Kane? I called the hospital and he’s still unconscious. The driver of the big car is another man employed by Medlake,” Roger added. He stifled a yawn. “Sorry, sir.”