Death and a Snapper (The Inspector Felix Mysteries Book 6)

by R. A. Bentley

  'Now that's what I calls love,' said the cabbie, impressed, Nash having long since taken him into his confidence.

  At a little after two o'clock he struck lucky. 'You want Marnhull street,' the constable told him. 'It's on my beat.' Three minutes later the three of them were standing at the very spot shown in the photograph. 'I know that car, sir. I recognise the dent. And unless I'm much mistaken those two characters are staying in one of those flats. Not residents, I don't think, just visiting. Been there a week or two, on and off.'

  'Do you happen to know the tenant's name?'

  The constable shook his head. 'It won't be the old ladies. Must be the top one. Let's go and look.'

  *

  'I shouldn't want to be in your shoes when the Chief Inspector sees you,' said Polly severely.

  'But sir, I've found Ronald Grant, where he lives. The Russians must have come from his flat. They were parked outside it in the photo.'

  'Was he at home?'

  'No he wasn't, or not answering the door anyway.'

  Polly scratched his chin thoughtfully. 'Well it's suspicious, I'll grant you that, but we can't do much about it if he's not there. The others will be in Newbury by now, so I can't contact them. Best go and do some paperwork or something. I'm sure you must have some.'

  Sitting at his desk, the Superintendent returned to his own work, sighed, pushed it away, doodled for a while on the blotter, then reached for the telephone. 'Enid, get me the A/C will you?'

  *

  Mid afternoon saw them crouching behind a hedge, trying to see into the windows of the Old Parsonage. They all jumped when a voice behind them said, 'Hello.' It was a little girl of seven or eight, who despite the chill of the afternoon was wearing only a grubby dress and buckled shoes.

  'Hello, Curly,' said Felix pleasantly. 'Do you live here?' He noticed that she was careful not to get too close to them.

  'Yes I do. You're not Russians, are you? Have you come to rescue us?'

  'Yes, we have. What's your name? I'm Miles and this chap is Paul and the big one is Teddy.'

  'You're supposed to tell me something first,' she said severely, 'Or I mustn't talk to you.'

  They all looked at each other. 'I think it's your Russian name, which is Katinka Vasilievna,' essayed Felix, his fingers mentally crossed.

  She clapped her hands together with excitement. 'Yes! Except they call me Katie normally. Katie Cadogan. What are you going to do?'

  'Well first of all we must put you somewhere safe. Is there anywhere you could go?'

  'She shook her head. I'm not allowed out of the garden or they'll shoot Grandma and Granfer and burn the house down. They said so.'

  'Well they won't, because we'll shoot them first. What about the people next door? Could you go there?'

  'I suppose I could. It's Mr Tredwell. He's the vicar.'

  'That's perfect. How about if Paul here takes you to him? Is there a Mrs Tredwell?'

  'Yes there is, and there's Annie. She's the maid.'

  'All right. Now before you go, do you know how many people in your house want rescuing? That's important.'

  'Well, there's Grandma and Granfer. And I suppose Nettie and Mrs Thomas ought to be rescued too. Nettie is our maid and Mrs Thomas is the cook.'

  'Nobody else there?'

  'Only them.'

  'How many?'

  She counted on her fingers. 'I think three now, but they come and go, and sometimes they put on ladies clothes and look different. Oh yes, I forgot. There's a lady, a real one. I should think she'd want rescuing because they hurt her and she screamed.'

  'All right, Katie. Thank you. Off you go, and we'll try not to take too long.'

  'Will you really shoot them?'

  'Only if we have to.'

  They returned to studying the house, taking it in turns with the binoculars.

  'That'll be Clare they brought in, very likely,' said Rattigan.

  'Doesn't sound too good, does it? I'm going to see if I can get closer. Cover me, Teddy.'

  Creeping to the right until he was among shrubbery Felix worked his way to a corner of the house. Then, crouching, he peered into the nearest room. It appeared to be the Colonel's study. There was no-one in it, but a low murmur of voices presaged more luck with the next one and he moved in a kind of squat until he was outside it.

  It appeared to be two people talking, with the occasional interjection from a third. The desultory nature of it suggested idle conversation, as of those with little to do. They were indubitably English, well-spoken and probably elderly, suggesting Grandma and Granfer. The other sounded like Nettie, the girl who had answered the door to them. Peering through a gap between curtain and sash he established that it was the dining room. Four people were sitting around the table, not restrained in any way. They appeared to be playing cards and there was no guard with them. Very slowly, so as not to alarm them, he moved into view. He saw the maid clap a hand to her mouth and they all turned. The Colonel came over and very carefully lifted the sash.

  'Come on,' said Felix.

  'Katie?' whispered Mrs Cadogan.

  'We've got her.'

  Mrs Thomas proved to be a clumsy sort of creature, but freedom was the spur and with a little grunting and an immodest show of knicker leg they got her out.

  'You took your time,' said the Colonel, when they were out of earshot. I take it you've learned the password.'

  'Yes, we have. Can you tell me about the other hostage? We think it might be a Miss Valentine.'

  'I don't know her name. Haven't seen her either. They brought her in last night. What are you planning to do?'

  'We'll have to play it by ear. Miss Valentine is the problem.'

  Accompanied by Yardley they returned to the house. 'The Tredwells are all right, he said. 'They've been worried about them, and Mrs T even called in but was told everything was fine. They thought they saw Basil Cadogan early on and wondered if it was to do with him. The Russians must stick pretty closely to the house as they haven't seen them, but they've seen Katie playing in the garden. They're pretty secluded round there and can't see much at all, but they've heard the car coming and going.'

  'Not entirely heartless then? If they let her play outside,' said Rattigan.

  'Perhaps. Or it might be to keep them under control. Any attempt to escape would jeopardise the child. However, I think we'd best go in there. Paul, you go and update the local chaps, then come back and hang about outside. Keep your head down. If you smell trouble, do what seems best. Got your whistle? Come on Teddy.'

  Guns in hand they cautiously reconnoitred the outside of the house. The drawing room was empty, as was a small sewing room and the room they had been asked into when they had last visited. I hope they're not upstairs, thought Felix. That might be tricky. They paused near the front door to reacquaint themselves with the entrance drive, their own car being parked in the lane nearby. The drive was a simple C shape, allowing vehicles to pass in through one gate and out of the other. The Russians' Austin was parked in the substantial garage, probably once a coach house. No attempt had been made to conceal it and the door was open. This suggested they considered themselves safe in their refuge, or they might have left it on the drive, ready for a quick getaway.

  Rattigan pointed at the registration number. It was the same as in Clare's photograph.

  There was nowhere else to look on the ground floor except the kitchen wing, but here they heard unmistakable Russian voices. Taking turns to peer cautiously through a window they found the two men and a third, previously unseen. All were now in male clothing and sitting smoking by the cooking range. Clare herself was sitting on a upright chair, slumped over the kitchen table. A slight movement of her shoulders suggested she was weeping.

  They moved to the nearby back door, which they could see opened into the room. It was locked but was of the single-thickness, tongued and grooved variety. A kick would probably open it. No word passed between them; they'd done this often enough, or some variant of it. Returning to the
window, Felix put on one of his driving gloves and with a nod to Rattigan, smashed the glass and levelled his gun at them.

  'Don't move — police!' he shouted, hoping one of them spoke some English or was bright enough to understand. At the same time there was a splintering crash, and Rattigan burst in on the seated men. Neither, however, had bargained for the reckless behaviour of the Russians. In a trice one of them had plunged across the room and snatched up Clare by the throat.

  'You shoot, I kill,' he sneered. 'Break neck, so.'

  It was the cross-dresser, as they called him. He might look half-dead, but the muscles in his thin arms stood out like knotted rope, and there was little doubt he could carry out his threat. Clare, for her part, made not a sound. It was clear that all the fight had gone out of her. Her clothes were in disarray and Felix was horrified to see the bruises on her face and legs and a deep weal across her forehead, still-moist blood matting her hair.

  It seemed it was stalemate, and Felix was desperately considering his options when an inner door opened and Ronald Grant walked in, also holding a gun.

  'Put her down Sokolov,' he said. 'The game's up.'

  'The Russian looked at him in surprise, then swore, holding her tighter.'

  'I said put her down! That's my property you've got there. The rest of you — against the wall, hands above your heads. Do it! You can live or die; I don't care which. Clare, come here.' He reached over and took her arm, jerking her roughly away from the Russian. 'Wall, Sokolov! I won't tell you again. Come inside Chief Inspector.' He waited while Felix suspiciously complied, still holding his gun.

  'Bloody interfering police. What would you have done if I hadn't arrived, eh? I told that ugly bastard of a sergeant your help wasn't required. However, now you're here, you can make yourself useful and handcuff these gentlemen. I presume you carry handcuffs?' He turned and called behind him. 'Thomson, where have you got to?'

  It was then that Felix made his mistake, albeit an involuntary one. As soon as he'd walked into the room he'd known who killed Cadogan, but for the moment his attention was drawn to the front window. It was only a fraction of a second before he averted his gaze, but not quickly enough for the hyper-vigilant Grant. Both had seen John Nash and Underwood, Grant's presumed boss, hurrying towards the house.

  Quick as thought, Grant was dragging Clare out of the back door. The sight of Nash seemed to reanimate her and they heard her cry out, 'John, John, for the love of God help me!' Pounding footsteps were heard in the hall and what seemed like half of Newbury's police-force poured in.

  In front of the house, Grant was dragging Clare to his car, the gun to her head. 'Come near me,' he shouted, 'and she's dead.' Then picking her up he threw her into the back seat before starting the engine. She tried to climb out but he turned and clubbed her down with the pistol.

  'Come on!' cried Underwood, and dashed for his own car with Nash close behind.

  They came up with the Sunbeam some half-mile down the road, but Grant, driving like a madman, managed to stay ahead, mainly by forcing several other vehicles onto the verge.

  'I don't know where he thinks he's going,' shouted Underwood, 'but all we need do is stay with him. We've a full tank near enough, and he'll run out first. That's a thirsty engine.'

  'Are you armed?'

  'Yes, but we can't risk a shot, not with the girl.'

  'I just wanted to hear you say that.'

  Underwood, driving with calm efficiency, smiled. 'We'll get her back, don't worry.'

  Five frantic minutes passed, the two cars hitting fifty at times in the narrow lane. Nash, clinging to the windscreen, worried about taking a puncture or meeting a farm-cart pulling out of a gate. And what if they had to slow down, passing through a village? Grant, he guessed, would not do so. Suppose, also, Clare was seriously injured? He'd seemed to hit her very hard just now. He was relieved to see her suddenly appear, struggling upright, but then he saw she was holding something in her hand; something long and grey — a tyre lever! Please God, he prayed, don't let her hit him, not at this speed. But she did, bringing down the heavy steel bar with all her remaining strength. Just at the last moment he must have sensed or seen her, for he jerked sideways, the lever fetching him a glancing blow. The car, cornering hard, shot off the road, smashed through a low hedge and ran to a stop in a field of corn stubble.

  As they pulled up they saw Grant climb unsteadily out. But now Clare had the gun. She was standing a few feet from him and aiming it at him with both hands. They saw him raise his own in surrender, backing away from her, stumbling over the rough ground.

  'Clare, no!' cried Nash. 'Leave him to us!'

  Then she fired — once, twice, three times, Grant's body jerking at the impact of the bullets. She would have turned the gun on herself but he snatched it from her and took her in his arms.

  'Oh, Clare, Clare, what have you done?'

  But Underwood shook his head. 'You won't hear any more of it. Take her home.'

  Chapter Thirteen

  'I regret extremely, sir, that we did nothing to stop Grant,' said Felix. I had my suspicions, as did Sergeant Rattigan, but we didn't act. It all seemed so vague and circumstantial, and my personal antipathy to the man made me doubt my judgement. By the time I realised the truth it was too late.'

  'Well he was Third of Security,' said the A/C. 'I doubt if anyone would have acted differently.' He pulled forward Felix's report. 'And you achieved a great deal, you know, one way and another. The Cadogans, the Special Branch man, the butler, Miss Valentine, and Lady Coneybrook, all owe you their lives.' He smiled. 'I naturally include your team in that — a remarkable body of men; not to mention a remarkable young woman. Tell me in your own words. What did happen at Pacelli's restaurant?'

  'It was Grant who murdered Cadogan, of course,' said Felix. 'As soon as I saw the gun in his hand I knew that. It was a .38 calibre weapon, and so was the fatal bullet. We now have the gun, so there's no doubting it. Finding us at Newbury must have been a shock for him but he certainly rallied quickly. He tried to have us believe he'd been working undercover – which might have been difficult to refute – but when Nash and Underwood arrived he lost his nerve and fled.

  'As for the Pacelli's murder. His was a risky plan but simple enough. Having set Clare Valentine to do her photographing, he slipped out into the foyer and took up station beside the exit from the restaurant. The door is set back a bit, so he wouldn't have been very noticeable. He was glimpsed there, as a matter of fact, by a witness, a Mrs De Silva, but she wasn't sure if she'd seen Cadogan pausing there or someone else. Both were in black tie, so would have looked rather similar at a glance. When Cadogan appeared, Grant shot him in the back, slipping out into the street in the resulting confusion and then returning with his men. They were waiting with his hat and overcoat in a parked car but no-one noticed them.

  'It was essential, of course, that Cadogan didn't spill the beans as it would have ruined the Russians' plans. He had to die, and Grant was taking no chances. Possibly he wasn't sure, when it came to it, whether they'd shoot one of their own. As it happened, they were only too willing to do so, as we soon discovered. Once they'd killed, or appeared to have killed, they were taken very seriously, and the raid on Miss Valentine's flat did the rest. That's what they wanted of course — to be seen as Bolshevist bogeymen. It worked about as well as they could have hoped for; albeit at the cost of two of their number. I get the impression, you know, that Grant had little control over them and just had to help them to their goal as best he could. They came close to blowing him up at Coneybrook, of course.'

  'Not to mention your good self. Do you think they'd have tried it again?'

  'I think they would. There were still three of them left, and they're utterly fanatical. Undoubtedly they'd have murdered the Cadogan family when they cleared out; the place was wired up with explosives. However, they're not talking, and my guess is they won't.'

  The A/C leaned back, looking pleased. 'Well now, time to tell you what I know.' He off
ered his cigarette case and took one himself. 'This should go no further, incidently. It so happens that the top chap liaising with the White Russians is an old army pal of mine. He's just retired, and it was the sheerest luck that I met him here in town, at the Army and Navy, or we might never have heard the rest of it.

  'He knew Cadogan well, of course. He'd been recruited to the service while at Oxford, having just the qualities required in their line of work: a gift for languages, a taste for adventure and an iron nerve. He studied Russian, aped the usual political posturing, joined up when war broke out and quickly began life as one of their agents. It was desirable, they decided, to report him dead. Henstridge, for example, the Provost of St Mark's, is a known communist sympathiser and might have been a threat to him. The initial idea was to have him gather information on the Bolshies but they needed to put someone with the Whites, and being a bit of a diplomat he was perfect for the job. He found their company congenial and eventually became almost one of them, marrying the daughter of one of their field commanders. The result, as you know, was Katinka. Two years later his wife died of the cholera. Cadogan nearly succumbed as well. Katie was sent to her grandparents, where she remained. It was early agreed that she should be able to distinguish friend from foe, and the chosen password was her name in Russian. She wouldn't be likely to forget it and no-one else knew it; she was just Catherine Cadogan to the world at large. She's a bright child, as you have discovered, and like her father, not easily frightened.

  'By this year, however, Cadogan realised his work was over. The White cause was clearly doomed and he'd had little contact with our people for some time. One likes to think he'd have come home to his daughter, but then he learned of the plot. The Whites were his friends – his family too, come to that – but he knew it had to be stopped, and volunteered to take part, hoping to quietly put the kibosh on it at this end. It was enormously risky, of course; it needed only one of the madmen they'd recruited to turn on him and he was done for. What he couldn't know about was the rogue element in MI5. He trusted Grant, as who would not? A good man lost.'