by John Creasey
Lampard crossed to the mantelpiece. Harrington and Garielle moved aside so that he could get to the clock more easily. The clock did not shift at the first attempt, but Lampard persisted, and eventually found the secret. He pressed a piece of the carved woodwork, which released a spring which held the timepiece close to the wall. It came away on a hinge. Behind it was a round wall-safe, with a sunken handle. The keyhole was on the right-hand side.
Roger was studying the Dreem directors. Widdison had his hands tight on the arm of his chair, and Hauteby was sitting bolt upright. Harrington and Garielle, nearest Lampard, were looking at him with an interest only a little less tense. Wade was gaping, as Lampard began to try the keys, one after another, showing no signs of tension or excitement.
The fifth key fitted. Lampard turned it.
There was an audible gasp from Widdison, and Hauteby shifted in his chair. Roger glanced away. Lampard was lifting something from the safe. He had a seated envelope in his right hand, and explored the inside of the safe for anything else; apparently there was nothing, for he withdrew his hand.
‘This seems to be it.’
Hauteby moved again.
He did two things at the same time, standing up and taking his right hand from his pocket. The electric light shone on the barrel of an automatic. He backed swiftly towards the wall alongside Lampard; it was the only place which he could reach quickly while keeping the whole company covered.
Wade drew a hissing breath.
Roger saw the red-faced Inspector out of the corner of his eye. Wade was picking up the attaché case, obviously preparing to throw it. Hauteby fired a single shot. The bullet buried itself in Wade’s shoulder, and the case dropped with a clatter to the ground. Wade clutched his shoulder, but stood staring, swaying.
The echoes of the shot floated about the room.
‘Give me that envelope,’ Hauteby said harshly. ‘Put it on the arm of my chair.’
Lampard’s grip tightened on the envelope.
‘I’ve warned you,’ Hauteby said. His face was twisted, his lips drawn together in a thin line, ‘I mean to have it. Don’t throw your life away.’
Roger wondered it was really happening, whether it was possible-that the man seriously expected to get away with the envelope. Other police were downstairs, more in the garden; the shot would have been heard. But there was no sound but the heavy breathing of the men and Garielle.
Lampard threw the envelope into Hauteby’s face.
Hauteby thrust up his left hand and snatched the envelope out of the air, then shot out his right foot as Lampard came forward. A crunching sound came as his foot went into Lampard’s stomach. Lampard groaned and sank down. Hauteby slewed the gun round towards the others, saying: ‘Get near Widdison, all of you.’
‘Don’t,’ Garielle exclaimed suddenly. ‘Bill, don’t, it’s useless!’
Roger saw Harrington’s hands clench, knew that the girl expected him to rush at Hauteby. If Harrington did it would be suicide.
He had to get that gun and make sure no one was hurt. He had to make Hauteby drop both the gun and envelope to make the effort which Wade and Lampard had already tried, so disastrously. It gave him a numbness in the pit of his stomach, especially as Harrington and Garielle moved back towards Widdison’s chair, and Hauteby turned to him. The man was ruthless. He meant to get away with that envelope, and did not care what he had to do to achieve it.
‘I’ll give you thirty seconds,’ Hauteby said.
Roger swallowed a lump in his throat.
‘I don’t know that I need that long.’
This was the moment he had to make his move. His mind was curiously void of fear. Police outside should be here by now, it was as if this case had a jinx. What a way to take charge! He took a step towards Widdison’s chair, and stumbled over the edge of a skin rug. He straightened up, as Hauteby’s gun moved. Hauteby did not press the trigger, or utter further threats, but the stumble had helped he thought Roger had lost his chance.
Roger stumbled again, and fell.
He was on the ground, when he saw the stab of flame from Hauteby’s gun. The crack of the shot was loud; a dull plop came as the bullet buried itself in the floor ahead of him. He rolled over towards Hauteby. Harrington shot out a hand and swept the ornaments from the mantelpiece towards the crook. A vase struck Hauteby’s shoulder, as a second bullet nicked Roger’s arm.
Hauteby was off his balance, and slewed his gun round towards Harrington, but Harrington was on him in a flash. The crack of his fist on Hauteby’s chin echoed nearly as loudly as the pistol shots.
Harrington saw Hauteby’s gun arm fly upwards, and he seized the man’s wrist. The gun dropped, as Roger was picking himself up slowly, scowling because of the pain in his arm. Hauteby was stretched out, unconscious, and the gun and the letter were in Harrington’s hand.
‘Got ‘em both,’ Roger remarked absurdly.
‘Got them both,’ said Harrington. ‘I’d like to break this swine’s neck.’ He bent down and lifted Hauteby bodily, then dropped him into the chair. He pressed a bell-push by the side of the mantelpiece. ‘Where the hell are your men?’
‘If you’ll raise a shout on the landing, someone will come;’ said Roger. ‘May I have those?’ He kept his left arm close to his side, the elbow crooked. There was a throbbing pain half-way between the wrist and elbow, but he did not say that he had been injured.
Harrington handed over the gun and envelope and went into the passage. His bellow echoed back into the room, but there was no answering call, and no one responded to the ringing of the bell in the domestic quarters.
He called: ‘I’ll go and rout ‘em out, West.’
‘We’re all right here,’ said Roger. ‘Miss Transom, would you mind looking at Wade’s shoulder?’ He did not want to give Wade any attention himself, he was still afraid that Widdison might have a trick up his sleeve. Widdison had not moved since the threat from Hauteby; he sat back in his chair like a grotesque dummy, his deep-set eyes glowing.
Garielle moved towards Wade, who had dropped into a chair by the desk. Lampard was trying to sit up; he kept his hands pressed tightly against his stomach, and his face was a greyish-green, as if he was suffering from severe air-sickness.
‘Take it easy, Lampard,’ said Roger.
A shout came from Harrington, loud at first then fading away in a gurgle. Garielle swung round from Wade. The cry tapered off into a gasping note, followed by a sudden thudding noise; Roger had a swift vision of Harrington falling down the stairs.
He said to Garielle: ‘Stay where you are.’
He pushed her aside as he reached the door. As he showed himself in the dimly-lighted passage, he saw a flash of flame ahead of him. It showed a glimpse of a huge figure. The bullet smacked into the door, not an inch from him. He fired, but missed, and then from the other end of the passage another bullet struck his shoe.
He backed swiftly into the room.
‘Bill, I must go to Bill,’ cried Garielle. She tried to push past Roger, but he blocked her way. He caught a glimpse of the massive figure again and fired, heard a gasp and thought he had made a hit, but before he could be sure he slammed the door, then turned the key in it. Garielle shot out a hand to get the key, but Roger put it in his pocket, saying: ‘You wouldn’t get a yard along the passage. Don’t act like a little fool.’ He kept the gun in his right hand and went swiftly to the telephone, heard the operator’s voice and said: ‘Tell the Guildford police to send a strong force to Yew House, and give me Mrs Prendergast’s house, Delaware.’
He waited for the girl operator to say: ‘Yes, sir, right away.’
He heard the ringing sound, not once but half-a-dozen times.
Then came a sudden silence.
‘The line’s cut,’ he said, and turned. There was a rap on the door.
A man spoke in a voice he did not recognize.
‘Hand out that envelope, West. We’ll leave you alone then. You can’t get help, the line is cut. I’ll give you thre
e minutes.’
Lampard had pulled himself up to a sitting position against Hauteby’s chair. Widdison crouched back in his, staring at the door, no more life in him than in a corpse. Garielle had stopped glaring and was eyeing Roger with a scared look in her eyes. Wade was slumped over the desk.
Roger said nothing, and the man went on: ‘You can’t get out. The police have gone, and the servants. The house is empty, except for you and us. If you don’t surrender those papers, West, I’ll destroy them. There’s only one way of doing that. By fire.’
Roger said slowly: ‘Your last fire wasn’t very good.’
‘This one will be.’
Garielle said quietly: ‘What about the window, Mr West?’
‘Don’t show yourself,’ he ordered. ‘Pull the curtains back, that will attract attention.’ She obeyed, while there was another thud on the door. Garielle pulled at the heavy curtains, and they moved without trouble. The light would shine out for miles, but it might be half an hour before anyone took enough notice of it to send word to the authorities. Black-out or no black-out, the house was in comparatively empty country. There was little chance of help coming quickly enough unless the operator had acted promptly.
Garielle passed in front of the window and pulled the other curtain. Outside, it looked very dark. The light from the single electric lamp reflected on the window.
The unfamiliar voice said: ‘I mean it, West.’
Roger kept silent, and into the hush came another report, from outside. A bullet struck the window, shattering the glass. Widdison gasped, and Garielle backed away. Three reports came in quick succession; on the third a bullet smacked into the light. Darkness fell as slivers of glass were strewn about the room.
Roger stood stock still in the pitch blackness.
‘I’ll put on the desk-light,’ Garielle said. ‘They can’t hit that. Don’t move. I might knock into you.’ Roger heard her moving, heard also a movement outside the door. He fancied that he smelt petrol, but could not be sure. His mind was full of the memory of what had happened at Harrington’s flat, the horror of those few minutes were made fresh and vivid.
Garielle clicked on the desk lamp.
Its yellow glow spread about the room, but only a small circle of bright light showed, on the desk. It shone on Wade’s head and showed also the pool of blood from the wound in his shoulder. After the click of the light switch the silence was broken only by movements outside. Roger waited, tightening his hold on the envelope.
No further words came.
There was no sound inside or outside the room except the heavy breathing of the occupants. Garielle was staring at Roger, her lips parted. Roger waited for perhaps thirty seconds, then pointed a hand towards the lamp. Garielle was quick to put it out, and he crossed softly towards the door.
19: Mark Takes A Walk
As Roger moved towards the door he put the envelope into the inside pocket of his coat. He had looked round the room, making sure that no one was within the line of shooting from the door. There was only one course open; he must delay the men outside from putting the threat of fire into operation.
How long would help be? An hour? Only ten minutes had gone.
He turned the key in the lock, with hardly a sound.
He gripped the handle with his right hand, the gun in his left, and, pressing tightly against the wall, opened the door a fraction. A glow of light spread into the room. He caught a glimpse of a shapeless figure carrying a bulky bundle. The bundle hid the other’s face, but also prevented him from seeing Roger. It was a sitting target. Roger fired low down and aimed for the walker’s thighs.
The bundle dropped. The man turned and fled, gasping. A heavy thud suggested a fall. Roger pushed the door to swiftly. A bullet from the other direction struck its woodwork.
‘Did you hit him?’ breathed Garielle.
‘I think so.’ Roger heard footsteps padding past the door.
He leaned against it and smiled as Garielle put the light on again. ‘I hope help won’t be too long, because –’
He stopped. From the hall there came another shout, more of surprise than pain. A door banged, a shot barked, footsteps came thundering. It sounded like a dozen men.
There was an outburst of shooting, and then a shouted order in a voice unfamiliar to both of them.
‘After him one by one, and keep your distance!’
Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and heavy ones along the passage. They slowed down near the door, and Mark Lessing said: ‘Are you around, Roger?’
‘Lessing!’ exclaimed Garielle.
‘Yes, we make a team,’ Roger said. He was sweating as he opened the door. Mark and a burly man in khaki strode in, the burly man’s overcoat sleeve bearing a strip of cloth and the words: Home Guard.
Another khaki figure passed the door, heading for the end of the passage.
‘So you did get yourself in a jam,’ said Mark. His grin disappeared as he saw Hauteby, Wade, and Lampard, and he jumped when Garielle hurried past him towards the stairs. The Home Guard officer asked: ‘What’s got into her?’
‘She’ll be all right,’ said Roger. ‘How many of the crowd have you stopped?’
‘Only two or three,’ said Mark. ‘The only one outside was the man who fired at your light. I was that side and saw it. Did I thank the fates that there were some Home Guard chaps nearby. With leadership without prejudice, or red tape.’
The big officer grinned.
‘Cut out the blarney,’ he said. ‘But what has been happening here? Have you phoned for a doctor?’
‘The phone’s cut,’ said Roger. ‘We’ll have to get to another phone, or send by road. Do any of your men know first aid?’
‘Several of them. Good God, it looks as if the invasion’s started!’
Two of his men came at the double when he called for them. Roger and Mark left the room and went towards the stairs. By one wall a huddled figure was on the ground. Near it a Home Guard stood with fixed bayonet; it was one of the oddest sights.
‘Victim one,’ said Mark. ‘It was trying to crawl away, but we intervened. There was another one at the foot of the stairs. I didn’t stop to look, but –’
He broke off.
Garielle was on her knees beside the ‘other heap’, cradling Harrington’s head in her arms. The light was too dim to show whether he was badly hurt, but as they drew nearer she said: ‘How soon can we get an ambulance? He’s broken his leg, and I think I think some ribs.’ Her voice was low-pitched. ‘Please don’t waste time.’
‘We won’t lose a second,’ Roger promised.
The Home Guard officer sent a motor-cyclist into Delaware village for a doctor, and with instructions to telephone for Tenby at Guildford. Before the doctors arrived, a dozen policemen in three cars reached Yew House. By then, too, Roger had explained, and the house had been searched. There was no one else there, except the ‘heap’, and Roger said: ‘So one of our men got away. Mark, how did you get here? What brought you?’
‘I thought you wouldn’t be able to wait for that much longer,’ said Mark. ‘I took a walk.’
Again he stopped abruptly, for he could see the ‘heap’ by the head of the stairs. It was Roger’s victim. He stank of petrol. Cushions from the lounge, also soaked in petrol, were strewn about the hall. There was no longer any doubt that the house would have been set on fire, and everyone inside burned to death.
Neither Roger nor Mark was thinking of that as they recognized Roger’s victim. It was Maisie Prendergast.
An hour or so later, the doctors and ambulances had arrived; Wade, Lampard, and Harrington had been taken to hospital with Garielle going in Harrington’s ambulance; and a nurse had come for Mrs Transom. She was in a heavy drugged sleep, after a morphine injection.
In a large woodshed, four frightened servants had been found. They said they had been held up at the point of a gun and forced to go into the shed. The same story was given by the three policemen who had been on duty about the house. All told the sa
me version a tall, thin man, with a gun, had forced them. At least, there had been no killing for the sake of killing.
Maisie, wounded in the thigh, was on the way to Guildford also in an ambulance. She either feigned unconsciousness or was genuinely dead to the world, for she could not be made to open her eyes.
‘Delaware was pretty grim on my own, and Maisie was staying put in her bedroom,’ Mark said. ‘Claude was asleep, with the nurse in his room. A grim sight, that nurse, a raw gaunt Scot. No one would get at Claude with her in the way, I thought, and when Maisie decided to take a walk, so did I. And could she walk! She strode over the hills as if she’d been used to them all her life, and met the tall thin man not far from here. They talked as they walked. I couldn’t get near enough to hear them. They met a third man, who had orders to watch the windows of the study, and it looked like a time for reinforcements. I knew the Home Guard were staging night patrol manoeuvres, as someone rang me up to ask if Petrie would be on duty. I persuaded the large lieutenant to lend a hand. We heard the shooting from the grounds when we were half a mile away. I couldn’t get here fast enough! I came close to leaving it too late, but it looked as if numbers were called for. Could I have helped any of the others?’
‘You did just right,’ said Roger, fervently.
‘Thank the Lord for that. Well, that’s all I can tell you. Oh Maisie had a telephone call in her room. I gathered that she was going out as a result of the call. Now what about you?’
Roger said: ‘That can wait. I want to see those documents that Hauteby was so anxious that I shouldn’t see. I don’t know what’s in them, but there’s some light in the darkness. Hauteby and Transom were in a racket together. Widdison probably wasn’t. At a guess, I’d say that McFallen caught on and came to tell Transom that he wasn’t going to stand for it, Transom arranged his accident. Or whoever worked with Transom did. Hauteby came here tonight to try to get the documents, of course. I suspect that what Potter was looking for was those documents in the first place.’ He took the envelope from his pocket, turned it over, and made sure that it was blank. ‘It’s been handled too freely for me to worry about fingerprints.’
