by John Creasey
15: Anything More?
Roger sat down again, glanced at Mark and back at Harrington before saying heavily: ‘Have you any specific objection to Mr Lessing knowing what you’re working on? I’ve just had a confidential report, but I’m prepared to tell him.’
‘It makes no odds to me,’ Harrington said. ‘That’s your pigeon. So you’ve got it as quickly as that,’ he added ruminatively. ‘I suppose it was inevitable. I’m working on synthetic rubber, the first to-be simple and cheap to manufacture, I’ve had special machinery installed at Dean Park. Anderson was one of the few men who really knew what he was doing in the experimental stage. My company,’ went on Harrington with deep satisfaction, ‘is going to expand tenfold. I’ve a big new factory almost ready, and it will be large enough to cope with twenty-five per cent of British rubber requirements once it’s in operation. I’m out of the experimental stage.’
Mark broke his silence.
‘We see a genius before us,’ he said solemnly.
‘This isn’t funny,’ said Harrington. ‘I’ve spent a lot of time in the Far East, and if you’d seen the slow way we get rubber and smoke it, you’d know that with increasing consumption we need new and revolutionary sources of supply. I started off trying to find a better way of curing crude rubber, and then went on to one development after another. Once the war started, it was all Singapore to an onion that there would be trouble with the Japs, and that they’d go straight for the rubber and the oil. I came here and set to work on a synthetic product. That’s all there is to it. Naturally I haven’t wanted the fact known too widely. Nor has the Ministry of Supply.’
‘Did all the Dreem people know of this?’ Roger asked.
‘They knew I was making synthetic rubber. I don’t think they knew anything else. Why?’
‘He means,’ said Mark, ‘that we’ve been searching for a motive for the murder of the Prendergasts. We’d concentrated on Dreem cigarettes and the Company. It could be nothing to do with Dreem, but only with you. What’s the estimated value of your process?’
Harrington gave a bark of a laugh.
‘I couldn’t give a value. When it’s fully exploited it will make the Dreem company look small. It’s outsize. You don’t need me to tell you that. And it’s simple enough, while there’s nothing very difficult about raw materials. It’s partly from coal, partly from certain ores and oils.’
‘And Anderson knew the process?’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘When you said last night that “it couldn’t be anything like that”,’ said Mark, ‘you meant that it had occurred to you that Anderson might have been selling the secret process?’
‘I did. It would be foul if he had.’
Roger put in: ‘Anderson might have sold out to Potter, and been double-crossed. That could explain why he had a go at Gabby, and why he was killed. All roads lead to Potter. I’ll find what they’ve been doing between ‘em,’ he added. ‘May I use your phone?’ He was soon connected with Sloane. ‘About the dead man Anderson,’ he said quickly.’ Concentrate on his association with Gabriel Potter, will you? Get a full story as quickly as you can.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Roger replaced the receiver.
‘Just for the record, Mr Harrington, I would like to see your passport, and the other documents of identification.’ He did not smile, but his eyes were amused. ‘Mrs Claude Prendergast apart, I need to see them.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Harrington. ‘They’re in my bureau. I’ve a box-room I use as a study-cum-lab. Would you like to see me take them out of the drawer?’
‘We’ll trust you,’ said Roger amiably.
Harrington nodded. He went out. Quite suddenly Mark got up, opened the piano, and began to play very gently.
He conjured magic out of the keys, yet Roger felt irritated; he did not want music or anything else to interfere with his thoughts, already varied enough, but he found himself listening against his will. He did not notice Harrington return and stand in the doorway, watching Mark. It was an odd interlude, made more unreal when Mark stopped and swung about on the stool.
‘Forgive the liberty,’ he said.
Roger turned to look at Harrington, and as he did so, saw a shadowy movement at one side of the man. He shouted: ‘Look out!’ and leapt forward.
Harrington swung round.
Now Roger saw the shadow materialize into a man’s hand and arm. The man held a length of iron bar. It rose and fell, catching Harrington on the side of the head. Harrington fell sideways.
Roger rushed forward. The man who entered came at a run, taking a flying kick at his hand. Roger snatched his hand away.
Mark, just behind him, drew in a sharp breath.
Behind the first man was a second, smaller one, He held a gun, and covered both Mark and Roger. Roger had a quick vision of flame, a stab of imaginary pain, as if a bullet had entered his chest.
‘Get back, the two of you,’ the gunman said.
The big man put a hand to Mark’s pocket and drew out an automatic. He grinned.
‘Think you’re clever, don’t you?’
‘Clay, put that gun away,’ Roger made himself say. ‘You must be crazy.’
‘You’re the crazy one,’ said Charlie Clay. He stood, large and hulking, rather undecided, as if he did not know what to do next. The smaller man joined him. They stood in the doorway, each holding a gun.
‘Turn around,’ ordered Clay.
‘If you don’t do what I say –’ Roger began.
Clay moved forward, jerking his gun up.
Roger saw the ugly face and the bunched hand the big ugly hand so dextrous at opening safes.
‘Turn around,’ he said harshly. ‘I won’t say it again.’
The little gunman put his gun back in his pocket. He took out something else; two long, silk scarves. He bent down and wound one about Harrington’s face, and then as Mark turned he looped the second about his head, knotted it, and drew it tight. It was all done with great precision, and Mark made no attempt to struggle.
Roger said in a stony voice: ‘So you tied the towel round him before, did you?’
‘Shut up,’ said Clay.
He watched Roger closely, while the little man tied Mark’s wrists behind his back, then did the same to Harrington’s, with pieces of tape. Roger thought: they should be easy to break. Then almost before he realized that the man was ready for him, another scarf dropped over his face, was drawn tightly back and knotted. He knew then why Mark had been so helpless. The sudden tightening made him choke. He drew an inward breath and could not breathe out properly. He was heaving for breath when his hands were jerked behind him, and tied. He could see above the scarf. He forced himself not to struggle, knowing that would make his breathing even more difficult.
Clay jerked Roger round towards the door. In the hall he turned him towards another door, one which Roger had not yet seen open. It was a box-room. Roger could see a bench along one wall, a dozen or more instruments on it, bottles, glasses, what looked like a square steel box, a bunsen, and a small machine, almost a miniature, in one corner. Against the other wall was a bureau, next to it a filing cabinet. There was room for only one chair, between the bureau and the bench. The walls were lined to the ceiling with shelves, crowded with bottles; it was a small laboratory, well-equipped.
Clay pushed him violently.
Roger had no control over himself, and fell heavily to the floor. The sudden effort to breathe made it impossible for him to think of anything else. He was still on the floor when Mark was brought in and pushed over in exactly the same way. They were struggling to get to sitting positions when Harrington was carried in and dropped beside them.
With the three men here, there was only just room for the door to close.
Clay said something; it sounded like ‘bloody dicks’. He took a can from the bench, opened it, and began to pour its liquid contents on to the bureau. It splashed over Harrington’s body and Mark’s legs; the stench of oil
was so strong it made them catch their breath.
Roger heaved as he thought: ‘My God, petrol.’
Through the fringe of the scarf he could see Clay’s vague face. The little eyes were glittering. He dropped the tin with a clatter. It struck Roger’s ankle, but he was hardly aware of the sharp pain.
‘Be careful,’ the other man muttered.
‘Get outside,’ ordered Charlie Clay. He took a box of matches from his pocket. As Roger saw it, a dozen thoughts flashed through his mind. He felt less afraid than bereft of ordinary feeling, his mind working dispassionately.
Petrol was used for treating rubber, the fire could easily appear accidental. The tape and the scarves about their faces would burn swiftly, their flimsiness was now explained; they would burn, leaving no trace. There was no window in the box-room, smoke would not be seen until there was a fierce conflagration; it would be far too late to bring help.
The thing that his mind boggled at was Clay’s part in this. Clay was a cracksman, Clay -
The big man drew a match along the box. The head fell off; there was a single spark, but nothing else.
Clay was standing in the doorway; the other man hidden behind him. Obviously they were afraid of an explosion, of getting hurt if a blast of flame shot up once the match was dropped.
Before he tried again, Clay started; and Roger heard the sound at the same time, feeling his heart thump wildly.
There was a loud knock on the front door.
Clay disappeared from the room.
Roger’s mouth and nose were filled with the petrol fumes and his heart would not stop thumping. He tried to move, but his cramped position made it difficult and he could only stare towards the door. A mutter of voices followed, as if Clay and his companion were having an argument.
The knock was repeated
Roger heard the footsteps going along the hall. He imagined that the little man went to the door, and heard it open. A voice travelled to him, but he could not recognize it. There was a louder voice, a shout, and the door banged.
Then heavy, thudding footsteps.
The door swung open, banged against Harrington’s foot, and swung back on Clay, who had appeared for a split second with a bunch of matches in one hand and the box in the other. Matches and box fell, and Clay gasped as the door struck him on the face. The other man was shouting: ‘Come on, come on !’
Footsteps again, and then a fresh thundering on the front door, the opening of others. A different sound, which Roger imagined was that of Clay and his companion going down the iron fire-escape.
The only thing certain was that they were on the run.
The thundering on the front door increased, and then was replaced by a different sound, as of splintering wood. But there was a long wait before the man who forced an entry reached the box room. He pushed cautiously against the door, and then looked round it.
Roger gasped incoherently: ‘Lampard!’
Behind the Guildford man was Pep Morgan. Morgan’s bright teeth showed not in a smile but in an expression of surprise which at another time would have been ludicrous. Roger actually saw his big nose twitch as he sniffed, saw his lips form the word ‘petrol’.
Lampard said: ‘My God!’
Morgan squeezed into the room, taking a knife from his pocket and beginning to cut at the scarf about Mark’s head. Lampard started on Roger, and Morgan finished with Mark and turned to Harrington.
Detective Sergeant Sloane of Scotland Yard replaced the receiver and looked across at a fellow sergeant. He scratched the end of his nose, and said deliberately: ‘They aren’t half going some. We’ve got to get Clay, There’s a general call. I wonder what he’s been doing!’
‘Stop wondering, and get busy,’ said the other. ‘Where’s Handsome?’
‘At Kingston. A rum show,’ said Sloane, and lifted a telephone to give further orders in an urgent yet curiously deliberate voice.
Earlier, there has been a look-out for Charlie Clay; now there was a hunt. Roger’s description of both Clay and his little companion was broadcast.
Next morning Roger was feeling better after the shock at Kingston, but it would be a long time before he forgot the few minutes while all three of them had been helpless.
He had talked to Harrington, who had been just as badly shaken.
Back at the Yard, he received a summons to Chatworth’s office.
Chatworth wasn’t smiling.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Smoke if you want to or don’t you feel much like fire and smoke?’
‘I shall never like the smell of petrol again,’ Roger said feelingly. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He lit up.
‘How’s Lessing?’
‘He’s all right, sir.’
‘Harrington?’
‘It shook him pretty badly. There isn’t any doubt that Clay meant to kill the three of us, including Harrington,’ went on Roger, ‘and that seems to take the pressure off Harrington.’
‘You mean, he’s no longer on the short list of suspects?’
‘He’s lower down the list,’ Roger replied. ‘Everything he’s told me and everything Garielle Transom’s told me stand up to investigation. I’ve been studying the reports until I know them off by heart. I believe it was a chance of a kind which brought Harrington and Miss Transom together chance in the sense that she happened to be there when he went to ask for financial help a year or so ago.’ When Chatworth nodded, Roger knew that he also had made a study of the reports. ‘I’ve checked with the Ministry of Defence. Harrington’s one of their white-haired boys. He’s passed through all the security screens because so much of his work is on the secret list. So the question is, why should anyone want to murder him?’
Chatworth said: ‘Two possible motives, eh? Because he stands to inherit Dreem. Or because he’s doing this hush-hush work. Don’t think there are any signs of enemy action here, do you?’
‘I think we ought to pass all the information to MI5, sir, through the Special Branch.’
‘Hoped you’d say that,’ said Chatworth. ‘I will. But what’s your opinion?’
‘I haven’t formed a clear cut one yet, sir. I certainly don’t think I’ve distinguished myself in this so far.’
‘There’s time,’ said Chatworth, in tacit agreement. ‘This running with the hare and chasing with the hounds has its problems, hasn’t it?’
‘Big ones yes,’ Roger admitted. ‘On the other hand there are things which Lessing can do which I can’t. He can prod Potter much harder, for instance if I worked on Potter as Lessing does, you would have the Home Secretary breathing down your neck. I can’t say I like the situation, but it’s as good a way of working as any, at the moment. And Lessing doesn’t take unnecessary chances. He uses Pep Morgan –’
‘So I see,’ interrupted Chatworth. ‘And Morgan has been known to be useful to us, hasn’t he?’
‘Very useful indeed.’
‘Get on with Lampard all right?’
‘Better than I expected. Lampard and Morgan are high on my list at the moment.’
‘After what happened at Harrington’s, I should think so,’ Chatworth said dryly. ‘Now, about Potter. I see he offered to bribe Lessing, after Lessing did him some service, and when Lessing refused Potter seemed to make an attempt to break his neck in a lift. Sure that was Potter?’
‘Not absolutely sure. There’s evidence that Potter has paid Anderson considerable sums of money over a period of about six months, though. Everything starts from six months ago, including the first Prendergast death.’
‘One moment,’ Chatworth purred. ‘Is there evidence that Potter has paid money to Anderson? Or inference?’
‘I wouldn’t like to go into the witness box about it yet,’ admitted Roger, ‘but I think I could prove that Potter and Anderson have exchanged money and information. Three times Anderson has left Potter’s office, and gone straight to a bank in the Strand. Each time he has deposited two hundred pounds in notes. The time of his calls on Potter have been checked, also the time o
f his banking of the money. He’s had no time to go anywhere else but the bank. The notes can’t be traced back to Potter, but-’
‘That’s good enough,’ said Chatworth. ‘You’re not in the box yet. What has Anderson sold to Potter?’
‘Information about the Harrington process, presumably.’
‘All of it?’
Roger smiled.
‘He didn’t know the whole secret, Harrington has been careful, and there’s one vital ingredient which Anderson didn’t know about. There is more evidence, sir. At Anderson’s lodgings there is a notebook containing various items, some marked in red. I’ve assumed that the marked items are those that he hasn’t passed on to Potter; those unmarked were still to be sold.’ He paused.
‘Go on,’ said Chatworth.
‘I think it’s possible that Potter decided not to buy anything more from Anderson, who didn’t like the decision. I imagine that Anderson tried to blackmail Potter, who struck back. That would make Anderson sore, to say the least. As far as I can see Anderson attacked Potter, and this is the one motive which fits. Of course, Anderson might have been hired as Clay is. But I think Potter has tried this and failed. He certainly didn’t hire Anderson for the attack on himself. That attack was too realistic.’
‘Who killed Anderson?’ demanded Chatworth.
‘I don’t know,’ said Roger. ‘It might have been one of Potter’s men. I can’t see the significance of the two motives getting control of Dreem and getting the synthetic rubber process. If Potter was aiming to get the synthetic rubber process through Anderson, why did he refuse to string along with Anderson? Did he find another, easier way? The rubber trouble all began when it was obvious that Japan was going to overrun Malaya. The crude rubber available here would be next to nothing for a long time, whether we regained the territory or not. Harrington’s process suddenly became of vital importance and great value. The Dreem directors might have decided to try to get in on Harringtons Limited, through Potter.’
