by John Creasey
‘There’s a can in the garage.’
‘Bless your heart!’ Mark uncovered the receiver. ‘All right, Pep, I’ll be there in about an hour.’
He rang off, and held out a hand for the garage key.
‘One can, I said, and one can you’ll get,’ said Roger. ‘I’ll come and superintend. I think I’ll come with you all the way, too,’ he added as he reached the kitchen door.
The telephone rang again. Roger handed Mark the key, and went back into the lounge. Detective Sergeant Sloane thought that Mr West ought to know that Chief Inspector Lampard of Guildford had telephoned for him, and obtained his private number. Roger replaced the receiver, and contemplated the kitten.
He was still tempted to go with Mark, but it might be wise to allow Mark and Morgan to work by themselves; they would be freer without him. He held no illusions; knew quite well that Mark would use the law as he thought it should be used, and ignore its finer points whenever he considered it necessary.
Mark was outside for ten minutes, and the telephone kept silent. Mark returned with his hands oily and a smear of dirt on his right cheek.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he said sarcastically. ‘I hope you have to empty a can of petrol in the blackout tomorrow night. Are you coming?’
‘Lampard’s coming through in a few minutes. I expect he wants to tell me about McFallen. Good hunting, Mark.’
Very slowly and appreciatively, Mark Lessing smiled.
‘Thanks,’ he said, and went away.
When he had gone, Roger felt heavy-hearted and deeply anxious. The injury to Janet, the excess of violence, the darkening mystery, crowded into his mind. There were a dozen things he wanted to do, but as a policeman he could do few of them. In Mark’s place he could tackle Harrington, for instance, and even Potter again, but what made him think he could do better than Mark?
Mark was running into danger.
It was a strange, half-way position for Roger. If the police took all the official action they could, it might lead nowhere and could scare off the criminals for a time, but only for a time. By going into this almost alone, with some help from Pep Morgan, Mark was sticking his neck right out. True, Mark wanted to; equally true, Chatworth saw the value to the police. But he, Roger West, saw the acute danger to his friend, and ached to be in his place, or at least sharing it with him.
It was close on midnight when Lampard called, to talk of the McFallen ‘accident’. Lampard felt that Roger should know that there were suspicions that the steering-column of McFallen’s Rolls-Royce had been tampered with, but nothing more than suspicions, Lampard wondered whether West considered it wise to watch Transom’s house.
At least he could help Mark this way.
‘At the moment, I don’t see why,’ said Roger thoughtfully. ‘Lessing has been telling me about it. I gather that McFallen’s car wasn’t at Yew House long enough to be tampered with, so the damage was done before McFallen started his journey.’ He did not ask why Lampard had taken the extraordinary step of asking his advice, but suspected there was a catch in the Guildford man’s question.
‘Lessing’s there, is he?’ said Lampard dryly. ‘Is he better?’
‘Much.’
‘All right.’ Lampard was suddenly brisk again. ‘I’ll do nothing for tonight.’
Roger replaced the receiver and regarded the kitten with his head on one side.
‘Quisling,’ he said, ‘Lampard’s a deep ‘un. Was Mark at Transom’s, that was his question. Does he also think that Mark might learn something we can’t, or is he going to surround the blasted house so that if Mark does what he didn’t ought to, there’ll be trouble. Lampard wouldn’t do that on us, would he?’
The kitten cleaned the inside of a hind leg earnestly.
‘There are times when I wish I could take Mark’s advice and get out of the Force,’ went on Roger. ‘I would be able to move more freely, But on the other hand . . .’
He went to bed and was asleep by one o’clock, and awoke soon after seven-thirty. He lay for some time in the pleasant and drowsy stage between sleeping and waking, then realized that he was alone, and wondered whether Janet was up yet, He must ring through to find what time she would be home; it would be much better if he could be here. Or better still, if he went to fetch her. There was no news from Mark, then. He rang Mark’s flat to find the number engaged; Mark would probably ring through soon.
He washed, shaved, got breakfast, allowed himself Janet’s share of bacon as well as his own, and found himself wondering where Mark was, and what Mark had done in the past nine hours. At nine o’clock there was no message. He began to feel annoyed. He telephoned the hospital, to learn that Janet was not leaving until three o’clock in the afternoon, but she had had a sound night’s sleep and was much better. He tried Mark’s number and was told there was no reply. He waited for about twenty minutes, and then decided that he could stay away from the Yard no longer.
When he reached his office only Eddie Day was there, engrossed in some bank notes which few people could have distinguished from the genuine article; he explained at great length how cleverly he had traced the flaw in them. Other D Is came in and out. Roger was on edge since there was still no news from Mark, but he displayed a polite interest; Eddie took a childish pleasure in his triumphs.
At half-past twelve a uniformed policeman came in, to tell Roger that a Miss Garielle Transom had called, and could she see him?
11: Meeting at Yew House
Mark Lessing, meanwhile, disliked his night drive to Yew House.
No one but a fool would think that there was any real chance of getting to Yew House in time to find the three Dreem directors together. No one but a greater fool would have imagined that he could do anything even if he found them. No one but a fool –
A car approaching without lights nearly crashed into him. He flickered his own headlamps feverishly. The light was not good, although the beam of his headlamps allowed him to make fair speed.
He brooded on his position at the Ministry of Information.
He had tried to resign three times and been told that he was doing an essential war job; the Powers that be had strange ideas on what was essential. He was having a ‘four-day-free’ spell then, but was due back at the office the day after tomorrow, when he would be on duty for four days in succession.
‘I’ll apply for leave,’ he decided. ‘I haven’t had any since Christmas.’
He reached the drive of Yew House at one o’clock, and congratulated himself on making the run in little over an hour. But he was still quite sure that he was too late, that Morgan would have gone or at best be in an evil temper. He could hardly blame Morgan, who –
‘That you, Mr Lessing?’
In spite of the faint reflection of light from the headlamp, Morgan’s teeth glistened. It needed only a little imagination to see his twinkling, high-polished shoes. His voice was not gruff or gloomy or irritable, but held a hint of excitement and tension. Mark wound down a window swiftly.
‘Yes, Pep. How are tricks?’
‘They’re still here,’ reported Morgan. ‘No one’s come out, but I’ll give you three guesses as to who’s gone in.’
‘Potter,’ sighed Mark.
‘Potter it is! He arrived just after I’d telephoned. It’s a lucky thing he wasn’t a bit sooner or I would have missed him while I was phoning in the village. Potter,’ repeated Morgan in a whisper, ‘and Transom, Widdison, and Hauteby. Peculiar thing, Mr Lessing, don’t you think?’
‘I believe you’ve been thinking a lot about this show, Pep. Yes, it’s peculiar. Do you know what room they’re in?’
‘One upstairs,’ said Pep promptly. ‘The only room where there’s a light. I can just see a chink, close to the house. The corner room, on the right side. I don’t think that anyone is up, apart from those four. There was a light in the kitchen up to midnight, I saw it through the keyhole. It’s out now.’
‘Well, well,’ Mark said. ‘I would like to know what they’re ta
lking about, wouldn’t you?’
‘I certainly would,’ agreed Morgan. ‘But you know me, Mr Lessing. I can’t go outside the law, but I can hang around and give you a whistle if anyone else came along. Mr West didn’t come with you, I see.’
‘No. What’s the front door like?’
Morgan thought it was a bit of a teaser, and he could assure Mr Lessing that none of the downstairs windows was open, although it might be possible to push aside the catch of one or two of them. All the widows were of the old-fashioned sash-cord type. The trouble was that they probably squeaked.
‘I’ll try the front door,’ decided Mark.
He did not ask himself what would happen if he were caught; he relied on making a quick getaway in an emergency, and on his plausibility to explain himself satisfactorily if he were caught.
He worked at the front door, and saw a picture of Transom in his mind’s eye. A big, portly man, good-looking too, although with a fleshy jowl. Pale-faced, with wide, large grey eyes, grey hair and a close-clipped grey moustache. A short, straight nose, rather wide at the nostrils, and well-marked lips. A man with a presence, less pompous than portentous.
Mark felt the barrel of the lock moving.
He wore gloves, and manipulated the key dextrously. He had practised a great deal and been schooled at one time, by a reformed cracksman who, in his heyday, had been at least the rival of Charlie Clay and Abie Fenton.
‘Got it?’ asked Morgan.
‘Yes.’ The door eased open as Mark pushed, and a faint glow of light showed.
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ said Morgan. ‘One good blow on the old whistle if there’s any cause for alarm.’
He went swiftly back along the drive to the gates. His car was parked some distance away, and Mark knew that if he were seen by the police he would swear that he was watching the outside of the house only, for a client whom he would not name.
Mark was relieved when he realized that the hall floor was covered from wall to wall with carpet; the stairs and the passages were likely to be, too. The dim light came not from the electric chandelier above his head, but from a tiny oil lamp burning on a table where there were several magazines. It was less hall than lounge, stretching the full depth of the house, furnished with easy chairs and sofas. A big fireplace took up a large portion of one wall, and on either side of it was a suit of armour, complete with broad-sword. Above them, two large oil paintings loomed dark and shadowy. The hall was panelled throughout in dark oak, heavy but impressive.
Some whim of the architect had set the staircase leading from the left of the hall, to a wide landing and then a gallery.
Looking upward, Mark saw the dark void of the ceiling, more like the roof of a church than the ceiling of the hall of a private house. Transom did things in style.
Mark went upstairs.
There was a faint murmuring sound in the quiet of the hall; someone was talking. His heart beat fast when, on the top stair, he saw a sliver of light coming from beneath a door on the right of the gallery, which was also carpeted. He approached it swiftly, while the muttering grew louder.
It was Potter’s voice.
Mark put his right hand to his pocket, and reached the door, Potter’s words were distinguishable.
‘I am sorry, gentlemen, but I have endeavoured to make this suggestion a practical one. I find the difficulties insuperable. You will, I trust -’ the cold, sardonic expression in his voice had made many men squirm ‘agree that I have given you an opportunity for a full discussion of your views.’
Someone said; ‘This doesn’t sound like you, Potter.’
‘Doesn’t it, Mr Widdison? It is me, I assure you. Is there anything else that I can do for you tonight?’
Someone said: ‘I’m a long way from satisfied.’
‘Perhaps, gentlemen, you will be able to find another solicitor more capable than I,’ said Potter. ‘Before I go, I feel it incumbent on me to express my very real sympathy for the sad loss to the board of directors in the person of Sir Andrew McFallen. Good night.’
Mark stepped to one side, into shadow.
Footsteps, dull and muffled by carpet, sounded inside the room. The door opened. The sliver of light became a beam which shone uncomfortably close to Mark, who took three steps backwards, and used a doorway for cover.
Potter stepped out, a tall, thin, angular silhouette.
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ said another man.
Transom appeared, and walked with Potter towards the stairs. He had closed the door, and only the faint glow from the oil lamp spread any light until Transom switched on a torch: Neither man spoke as they made their way down the stairs.
Mark followed, watching them from the first landing.
The soft, padding footsteps, the absence of words, all added to the tension between Transom and Potter. That the solicitor had contrived another double cross was the thought uppermost in Mark’s mind.
The two men reached the hall.
As they crossed towards the front door Mark saw a movement towards the right, from the fireplace. He stiffened as he saw more than a movement; there was a man there a dark clad man, with his right arm raised and some kind of weapon in his hand.
‘Look out!’ Mark shouted.
The man pounced, but Mark’s warning had given time for Potter to swing round, and Transom to jump forward. Both moved so swiftly that the dark-clad stranger’s blow went harmlessly through the air. The force of it overbalanced him. He staggered forward a few steps, his head nodding towards the ground. Potter swerved to one side, to avoid him. Transom Stood like a man transfixed.
There was a split second’s silence. Mark moved then, beginning to go down the stairs as he saw the assailant recover and swing round, striking again at Potter.
There was no doubt which of the two men he aimed to injure, but Potter moved with surprising speed, brushing aside the assailant’s outstretched arm. There must have been more force in Potter’s blow than there appeared, for the man in black went staggering to one side. But he recovered, and flung his weapon at Potter’s head.
The handle struck home.
Transom jumped forward, but with less agility than that of an elephant; he was not a man accustomed to moving swiftly. He doubled up as he received a punch to his stomach. His gasp echoed high into the church-like ceiling.
A gun appeared in the dark-clad man’s hand.
It shone a blue-grey. There was a yellow flash and a sharp report. Then the door at the top of the stairs opened, and Widdison and Hauteby started down, running so heavily that they shook the staircase and set the suits of armour rattling.
The bullet missed Potter but buried itself in the panelling by his head. Potter darted towards a tall piece of furniture, near the front door. The man in black slewed his gun round, and then Mark reached him. He had no time to knock his hand aside, but went forward in a sliding tackle which knocked the gunman off his balance. The second bullet smacked into the staircase. The gunman scrambled to his feet again, but the gun had fallen, and Potter was out of sight.
The man swung round and raced to the far end of the hall.
Mark jumped up, ten feet behind. A door at the other end opened, letting in a draught of cold wind. The figure was a vague shape against the faint light beyond, then disappeared. The door slammed.
Mark made for the door, with Hauteby and Widdison just behind him. A voice, Hauteby’s, said: ‘Let me get at him!’
Hauteby pushed Mark aside and raced forward. He fired twice from the gun he had picked up in the hall. The flashes did no more than illuminate a few yards of air and ground, showing no sign of the running man.
Mark sped past Hauteby, annoyed by the way he had been shouldered aside, straining his ears to catch the direction in which the man ran. He guessed that the gunman was going towards the front of the house, and turned in that direction. As he reached the drive, the bright shaft of a searchlight shed its faint glow in the heavens. Hauteby and Widdison drew near, but there was movement on the
grass and in the shrubbery alongside the drive.
Mark said sotto voce: ‘If you must move, keep on the grass.’
Mark moved along the grass verge of the drive. A faint rustling was ahead of him, and he imagined that his quarry was heading for the road. There might be a car there, or he might be planning to get away on foot.
Morgan should be able to help.
Morgan was out of sight, but as Mark reached the gate the beams of two headlights from his Lagonda lit up the road. Against them, Mark saw Morgan as the private detective slipped to one side, into shadow. At the end of them was the dark-clad figure, taken by surprise.
Near him was a motor-cycle.
He moved towards it, crouching, but Morgan was advancing on one side and Mark on the other. The man reached the motor-cycle, straddled it, and kicked at the starter. A dull plop-plop came, nothing else. They could see him pushing desperately, but the engine only gurgled, and they were within a few yards of him before it actually started.
Mark was in front.
He could jump and stop the man, and knew that the other had to turn the cycle off the verge before he could move away. Mark was half-prepared for the other’s move he swung the machine round, and drove straight at him.
Mark dodged to one side, pushing out a hand. He touched the man’s shoulder. The machine staggered. Morgan appeared on the far side, striking out. The driver lost control, and the machine piled up against the hedge.
The light from the car showed all of this.
The driver jumped from his machine to try to save himself from being carried with it, but his coat caught against the handlebars, and he crashed down.
Then, from not far off, came the bark of a shot.
A rifle-shot, Mark believed; it was clear and crisp, not heavy like a revolver shot, and too loud for an automatic. It came twice. On the second, the motor-cyclist grunted, and fell heavily on his back. It might have been imagination, but Mark fancied that he saw a dark smudge on his forehead.
Morgan reached the man. ‘What was that?’
‘Get up,’ Mark said urgently. ‘Mind yourself.’
