Dick Barton and the Great Tobacco Conspiracy

by Mike Dorrell

  ‘You fool!’ Melganik shouted back at him.

  ‘Not such a fool as you take me for,’ Hetherington said coldly. ‘You and your mistress.’

  ‘How dare you!’ Melissa stepped forward in outrage.

  Hetherington waved the automatic in her direction ‘Oh – I dare, my dear – I dare. You think I haven’t watched you plotting together, whispering in comers, exchanging glances, giving orders to my men that you have no right to give?’

  ‘This is sheer madness,’ Melganik protested.

  The renegade M.P. covered them both with the gun. ‘Madness, is it? When you and this Agranova woman talk about being my “associates.” ’

  For once, it was the master criminal’s turn to taste fear. He saw the cold glint of determination in Hetherington’s eyes. He did his best to mollify him: ‘Advisers, my dear Charles, is what we said.’

  Hetherington’s voice rose in anger. ‘You think I need advice from you? You think that I,’ he puffed out his chest, ‘a man trained in the whole spectrum of political skills – a leader born of a line of leaders stretching back to the Conqueror – need advice from a man conceived in the stews of Trieste and raised in the gutters of Alexandria?’

  Melganik could no longer contain himself. His intelligence and capability had been questioned. His giant ego had been bruised. ‘Why you ...’ he began, as he advanced towards his former partner.

  But the master criminal got no further than his first step. Totally in control of himself, Hetherington pressed the trigger of the automatic. With the first shot, Melganik staggered backwards, his hands to his chest.

  ‘You ... fool ...’ he gasped.

  But, with the second shot, Melganik collapsed on his knees, and then fell sideways to the ground. His body contorted, and then went rigid. His eyes open, staring.

  Melissa rushed to the aid of her accomplice, and crouched down beside him. She paused a moment, then she looked up at Hetherington. ‘He’s dead,’ she said quietly. ‘You’ve killed him.’

  Dick Barton’s cigarette lighter flickered in front of him as he held it out to provide light for Snowey to work by. The cockney ex-sergeant was working on the door lock with a hair grip that he had borrowed from Virginia Marley.

  ‘How goes it, Snowey?’ Barton was careful to keep the lighter held as high as he could. Snowey would want as much light as possible.

  Snowey thrust the hairpin into the tumbler mechanism once more. ‘Bit dodgey, sir,’ he said quietly.

  Virginia spoke from her position close to the two friends. ‘Supposing they start the electricity again.’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ Dick Barton said. He wondered how much fuel he had left in his lighter.

  Progress was not as fast as Jock Anderson had hoped. Twice, he had to flatten himself against the quarry wall as guards ran past towards the generator room. This time, after eluding them yet again, he went quietly in the direction of the main doors that led underground. He was in luck; a group of four guards stood in front of the open doors, jabbering excitedly in Chinese, and pointing up towards the non-functioning searchlight set above the door.

  Making as little noise as he could, Jock sidled past them. He was not noticed. He had gained entry to the underground complex.

  The moments ticked by slowly as Snowey repeatedly inserted the hairgrip into the lock’s mechanism. There was absolute quiet as he listened for the tumblers to fall into place. Then, there was a quiet ‘click’.

  ‘Got it!’ came the triumphant shout.

  ‘Good man, Snowey,’ said Dick Barton.

  The petrol lighter still flickered. Snowey gently began to open the door.

  ‘Now comes the difficult part,’ Dick Barton announced.

  Virginia kept her position in the dark, cold room. Something else was on her mind. ‘How are we going to get Rex under the spikes?’ she asked.

  ‘Exactly,’ the special agent replied. ‘If we could just get to the other side we could drag him, I suppose.’ He glanced at the network of steel that separated him from Snowey White. ‘You get out into the corridor anyway, Snowey, and keep your eyes peeled.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ Snowey answered. He began to squeeze his way through the spikes that still blocked his escape.

  But, little known to Jock Anderson, the group of Orientals that had rushed into the generator room had already finished their repair work. From inside the room, came a series of comments in Chinese. Then, the generator started up again.

  And, as the motor hummed, in the small steel room, the single electric light bulb came on again, and the deadly spikes began their advance once more.

  ‘Snowey!’ There was urgency in Dick Barton’s voice.

  Snowey White stopped dead in his tracks and peered around the door from the corridor where he was now standing.

  ‘We’re in trouble again,’ Dick Barton announced. ‘Get into the room next door and see if there’s any way of stopping this infernal machine.’

  ‘Right,’ Snowey answered. He ducked back into the corridor.

  Virginia Marley looked at Dick Barton as the spikes inched their way towards them. Her brother Rex was between them. She was terrified.

  When the lights came on in the corridor of the underground complex, Jock Anderson was caught completely unawares. There was no cover anywhere.

  Then, two guards came around the bend in the passage. They saw Jock and began to unsling their guns. But the mechanic was too quick for them. He had his sten gun ready. He fired a short burst and the guards toppled to the ground.

  Hetherington, who was still covering Melissa with his automatic while his former co-conspirator Melganik lay dead on the floor, heard the sound of gunfire from the corridor outside and moved towards the door of the cavernous room.

  ‘Your saboteurs have been discovered I think, Miss Agranova.’

  Melissa looked at Hetherington with complete contempt. ‘You fool, Hetherington,’ she hissed. ‘There never were any saboteurs.’

  ‘A likely tale,’ the renegade M.P. replied. He motioned her towards him with the automatic. ‘Come here.’

  When Melissa had done as he had ordered, Hetherington pushed her in front of him, and moved further towards the door.

  Virginia Marley and Dick Barton huddled together as the spikes advanced. Virginia’s face was pale and drawn.

  ‘Dick,’ she said softly.

  ‘What, old girl?’

  ‘I’m frightened,’ she confessed.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Dick Barton comforted her. ‘Snowey’ll fix it if anyone can.’

  Then, as if to confirm Dick Barton’s opinion of his ex-sergeant, the humming of the generator stopped, and the spikes stopped their deadly advance.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ Dick Barton said.

  But then, the humming started up once more.

  ‘No – listen,’ Virginia screamed.

  Even the special agent was disturbed – until he realised what was happening. ‘What the ...’ he began, and then, he broke out into a smile. ‘No! Look! He’s put the thing into reverse. Good old Snowey!’

  With tears in her eyes, Virginia Marley watched the spikes retract into the walls. ‘Oh – thank heaven,’ she managed. ‘Thank heaven!’

  When he was sure that the two Oriental guards were dead, Jock Anderson bent down over the body of the nearest one, and began to remove the guard’s revolver from his holster. His fingers had closed over the butt of the gun, when he heard a sharp English voice from behind.

  ‘Don’t move!’

  Hetherington had come out of the operations room, and now, using Melissa as a shield, he pointed his automatic pistol at Jock.

  ‘Drop the sten,’ Hetherington commanded. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want to shoot a lady.’

  For a moment, Jock felt that he had no real choice. He didn’t know who the character with the gun was, but he certainly didn’t like the look of him. Rather unwillingly, he dropped the sten and backed away.

  ‘Hands in the air!’
>
  Jock Anderson did as he was told. And although he had seen Dick Barton appear around the corner of the corridor behind the character with the automatic, he gave no indication of the fact.

  ‘Now – who are you? Who are you working for?’

  In a second, Dick Barton sized up the situation. He signalled to Snowey and Virginia, who were coming up behind him, supporting Rex between, to stop. Then, taking his pipe from his pocket, and holding it upside down, with the bowl in his hand, he advanced silently behind Hetherington.

  ‘Come on now,’ the renegade M.P. said to Jock. ‘Speak up!’

  Jock Anderson stalled for time. ‘Well, you see, sir ...’

  Dick Barton, who was now within striking distance, jabbed his reversed pipe into the small of Hetherington’s back. ‘Drop it, Hetherington,’ he ordered.

  The renegade M.P. was too startled to question the ruse. He dropped the automatic.

  Jock Anderson was relieved, he smiled slowly as he lowered his hands.

  Still holding his pipe, Dick Barton spoke to the mechanic ‘Pick up his gun, will you, Jock?’

  The Scotsman came forward and did as Dick Barton suggested. Hetherington had not turned around.

  ‘Now you and the others get out of here quick while I keep these characters, covered,’ Dick Barton said once Jock had picked up Hetherington’s gun. He was wondering how long the deception would last, and was relying on the fact that Hetherington’s fear would be conveyed to Melissa.

  ‘What about you, Mr Barton?’ Jock Anderson asked as he started down the corridor towards the spot where Virginia and Snowey were standing with Rex Marley between them. When he reached them, all four began hurrying towards the exit.

  ‘Now – in there, you,’ Dick Barton said to Hetherington and Melissa, He prodded them towards the nearest door, opened it, pushed them in, and slammed and locked it after them. Then he turned and ran down the corridor after the others.

  When Barton reached the end of the corridor that led to the main doors, he saw that Virginia, Jock and Snowey, and Rex had been stopped by the guards. They were standing just outside the main door. One of the guards, while covering them with his sten gun, was shouting questions at them in Chinese. The group looked at each other with baffled expressions.

  Keeping cool, Dick Barton strode past them, guard included. He barked a few words of Chinese as he went. The effect was as he had calculated; the guards lowered their guns.

  ‘Come on you, chaps,’ Barton said. He continued striding confidently up to Melganik’s car, a large American saloon.

  Snowey, Jock, Virginia and Rex came towards the car. Jock recognised it at once. It was an American AS Sedan, made in 1935, not exactly the kind of machinery he loved. A bit too indulgent for his tastes. But, still, it offered a possible means of escape.

  ‘In you get – quick,’ Barton said as they approached.

  They all piled into the car without hesitation. Snowey, Virginia and Rex in the back, and Jock Anderson in the passenger seat.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Chinese, sir,’ Snowey said, as he settled into the back seat.

  ‘Just a smattering,’ came the reply. ‘Accent’s a bit provincial.’

  Dick Barton then slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the ignition.

  ‘What did you say to them?’ Jock wanted to know.

  Dick Barton smiled back. ‘Just, “Mr Hetherington’s orders”.’

  ‘What was?’ Snowey asked.

  Barton grinned again as the starter motor turned and the engine caught. ‘I didn’t specify.’ Then he put his foot down on the accelerator, and the AS Sedan roared off towards the main gate.

  A few minutes later, the big American car reached the narrow country road leading away from the Llanechbrantiog quarry. All the occupants were safe inside.

  ‘Hold tight, folks,’ Dick Barton remarked. ‘I’m going to have to put my foot down, I’m afraid we won’t have much of a start.’

  Dick Barton negotiated a bend, and then accelerated once more. A quick glance in his driving mirror told him that the road was clear behind – but he couldn’t see very far.

  Then Snowey spoke from the back. ‘We ain’t got no start at all, sir, scarcely. There’s the Rolls coming up behind us now.’

  Jock Anderson turned and looked past Snowey, Rex, and Virginia. Through the rear window he saw the familiar pattern of the large headlights of Hetherington’s 1934 Rolls Royce 20/25. ‘And gaining fast!’ he exclaimed.

  Can Dick Barton get to London in time to warn the authorities of the imminent coup?

  Or will the power of three hundred horses under the bonnet of the mighty Rolls Royce prove too much for him?

  Read the next episode of: Dick Barton – Special Agent.

  Chapter Ten

  Barton, Snowey and Jock, having escaped from Hetherington s deadly trap are speeding towards London to warn the government of his plans for an armed takeover. Hetherington is hot on their trail.

  Now read on...

  Dick Barton kept his foot on the accelerator of the AS Sedan. The inside of the American car was illuminated by the Rolls Royce’s headlights. They were nose to tail on the narrow country road and there was nothing more that the special agent could do about it. By his side, Jock Anderson’s face showed up a ghastly white in the reflected headlamps of the pursuing car.

  ‘They’ve got the leg on us, I’m afraid,’ Dick Barton said. ‘These Yank jobs aren’t built for the rolling English road.’

  The special agent didn’t mention that he was behind the wheel of a left-hand drive, that he didn’t know the territory, and that in terms of engine power, they were at a distinct disadvantage. All these he compensated for with his driving skill.

  ‘Never you mind about that, sir,’ Jock Anderson said confidently. He kept his eyes on the speedometer.

  ‘What do you mean, Jock?’ Dick Barton asked. ‘Have you been up to your tricks again?’

  The speedometer needle on the bulky American car touched fifty. Simultaneously, from behind, there came a tremendous booming explosion. The AS Sedan juddered, but Dick Barton kept it under control. Jock Anderson saw the orange flash in the speedo glass as the Rolls Royce 20/25 caught fire. It was a sad end for such a fine piece of machinery.

  ‘What the dickens ...’ Barton exclaimed.

  ‘Och – it was nothing, sir,’ the mechanic replied modestly.

  Dick Barton put his foot on the brake pedal.

  When the AS Sedan stopped, the doors were flung open, and its occupants ran back along the country road. They didn’t have to go very far. They soon came to a shallow, smoking crater. Scattered along the roadside were pieces of smoking scrap metal. There were fragments in the hedges, and small pieces of shattered glass littered the grass verge. That was all. There was no sign of any occupants alive or dead.

  Dick Barton turned towards the mechanic. ‘Jock,’ he said. ‘I think explanations are the order of the day.’

  The Scotsman seemed to be slightly embarrassed. Hesitantly, he replied; ‘Well, sir – it was just that I happened to have those sticks of rock in my pocket. Seemed a pity to waste them.’

  ‘The dynamite they rigged up in Captain Barton’s car?’ Snowey chipped in after he’d finished looking at the wreckage.

  ‘Right. So I just thought I’d give them a taste of their own jollop,’ Jock replied quietly.

  Dick Barton stroked his chin. It was about time he had a shave, he thought. ‘Hoist with their own petard, eh?’ he mused.

  ‘Their what, sir?’ Snowey wanted to know.

  Barton smiled at his ex-sergeant. ‘Stand easy, Snowey.’

  ‘Oh – right you are, sir.’

  It was now Virginia’s time to speak. She had been standing at the edge of the group while they discussed what had happened. ‘So that’s the end of that,’ she said with relief.

  ‘By no means,’ Dick Barton said grimly. ‘Those drugged cigarettes are still going on the market, remember. We’ve got that to stop before we can count our chi
ckens.’

  Snowey White was keen to get the job over and done with – once and for all. ‘Well, let’s get moving then, sir,’ he replied.

  Dick Barton said one word: ‘Right.’ Then he began to walk back towards the car. The others followed.

  Some hours later, the same group, with the addition of Sir Richard Marley, were standing in the book-lined study of the millionaire industrialist’s home. His son Rex was slumped in an armchair. Sir Richard himself stood in front of a blazing fire and the others were ranged around the room, with Dick Barton nearest the peer.

  ‘And that’s the whole story, Sir Richard,’ Barton said as he finished the tale of megalomania that had led them to Llanechbrantiog and back.

  ‘The cold-blooded swine,’ the millionaire commented.

  ‘My sentiments exactly,’ added Dick Barton.

  Virginia took a stride towards her father. ‘We’ve got to stop them, daddy,’ she said anxiously. ‘If those cigarettes get on to the market ...’

  Sir Richard held up his hand. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Virginia,’ he replied. ‘I’ve seen the victims of this scourge in my days in Egypt. Hashish smokers – the glazed eyes, the complete lack of moral fibre ...’

  Incisively, Dick Barton interrupted Sir Richard’s description.

  ‘But how do we prevent that tragedy from being enacted in this country?’

  Sir Richard thought for a moment. ‘The bales of tobacco were headed where?’

  ‘The Dominion Tobacco Company,’ came the crisp reply.

  The name struck a chord with the industrialist. ‘Didn’t we build an irrigation system for them before the war, Dick?’

  Barton thought for a minute. It all seemed such a long time ago. Before he had even been a captain in the commandos. ‘By George,’ he said after a while. ‘You’re right, sir!’ Suddenly, it all came flooding back to him. ‘Of course we did. For their plantation outside Bulawayo. I got to know young Eddie Moulton quite well out there.’

  From the far end of the room, Snowey watched in amazement. Sometimes he wondered if the governor forgot anything at all. Better than a blooming elephant, he was – and much lighter on his feet.