by John Creasey
‘If you don’t know, forget it. But – ’ He leaned forward a little, intense, impressive. ‘Take my advice, and whether you’re in “Z” Department or not, get out of the country while the going’s good, and take Grimm with you. Otherwise there might be an “accident” –’
He met Storm’s cool stare icily. For a second time within the last few days Storm felt that he was gazing into a pair of eyes which could spell death! But with the man on the Hoveric he had felt an intense, unreasonable hatred, the hatred of a man of his type for anything and anybody unclean. From the man in the flat the challenge came cleanly. If he crossed swords it would be against someone of his own mettle.
The pregnant silence lasted for a full thirty seconds. Then the stranger curled his lips with the same mocking grin that had illuminated his features throughout the discussion.
‘Well?’
Storm stood up, stretching himself idly to his full height.
‘With my compliments,’ he said easily, ‘and with those of Roger Grimm – get out!’
The stranger saw the coming trouble a fraction of a second too late. With the word ‘out’ Storm shot his great fist downwards, driving with every ounce of strength against the man’s biceps. His long reach and the incredible speed with which he moved beat the other, and the automatic, shaken from pain-numbed fingers, clattered to the floor.
But in a trice he was out of his seat, ducking like an eel. For a fierce minute they struggled.
‘I think,’ panted Storm finally, ‘that you’ll have to give me best.’
The self-confessed agent of Redhead’s organisation went limp in unspoken surrender.
Storm let him go, then swooped on the automatic.
He said lightly: ‘You’ll hardly believe it, indeed I hardly believe it myself, but I’ve taken quite a liking to you – on the “our friend the enemy” basis, of course. After all you undoubtedly had a sound chance of potting me in the back a little earlier in the evening and you didn’t take it. That suggests that when you said “warning” you meant it.’
The other breathed hard, but the mocking smile still persisted.
‘Further,’ said Storm mildly, ‘I think it was deuced decent of you. Most unlike Redhead – ’
He rapped the last words out but there was no change of expression on the other’s face. Slowly:
‘Not rising to the bait, eh? Well, I want to ask you one or two minor questions and we’ll call it square. But keep in mind the bonny boys from that “Z” Department you mentioned. Do you take me?’
‘Depends on the questions.’
‘You’re a cool one,’ admitted Storm. ‘Well, here goes. Who are you?’
The other seemed to toss a mental coin. In point of fact he was willing enough to vouchsafe information that the authorities already had, although he would have tried to make a break from Storm rather than give away vital stuff. He said at last:
‘Since it interests you, I’m known as Zoeman. For some time I operated the English side of the Wenlock Oil Corporation, but twelve months ago I was “retired”. Since then,’ he added blandly, ‘I’ve been devoting my time to rather less orthodox but more profitable business.’
Storm saw his chance and took it.
‘Still on behalf of Wenlock Oils?’
For a moment he saw consternation behind the mask of mockery, but Zoeman recovered himself well.
‘What makes you think that?’ he asked softly.
Storm grinned genially.
‘It is possible I know more than you think. It is unwise to underestimate one’s enemy.’ It was bluff, but Zoeman’s expression showed him it was succeeding. ‘However,’ Storm added with a cheery grin, ‘my row’s with Redhead. I don’t like him and he doesn’t like me – and he’s going to hate me a lot more!’ He snapped his fingers expressively. ‘There you are, Zoeman. Take it or leave it. Purely because you didn’t pull the trigger when you could have done I’m going to let you go – but when you get out, stay out!’
Zoeman stood up slowly. He looked at the gun which rested lightly in Storm’s hand, and from it his gaze travelled to the lazy blue eyes. The two men stared as they had stared before, the one challenging and the other defiant, but this time Storm held the cards. He had Zoeman guessing and guessing hard, and he had learned that the Wenlock Oil Corporation was well worth looking into.
He knew that Sir William Divot would have been more than perturbed had he known of the situation, but secretly Storm was annoyed at the virtual threat of preventive action by the Government. He had kept the rules by telling the Secretary of the shooting incident, but from the time he had left the Home Office he considered himself a free agent. Nothing the politician had said altered his grim determination to settle with Wenlock. If Wenlock happened to be Redhead – well, it was in the game.
Added to his desire to find Wenlock and a belief that he would do it best by letting Zoeman go, was the unreasonable but nonetheless certain liking that he had formed for the gunman. Possessing a deep if sometimes boisterous sense of humour, the idea that Zoeman was somehow pulling his leg gave a spice to the situation. Divot could go to blazes. Zoeman was going free.
For his part, Zoeman had more than an idea that if Storm did intend to let him go there was some ulterior reason for it lurking at the back of the big man’s mind.
He hesitated.
‘Oh, blue hades!’ exploded Storm. ‘There’s the door. Use it. I’m going to keep your gun as a small memento. Scoot. Vanish. Run. And do remember me to Ginger!’
Chapter 6
A Telegram from Granville
Grimm, released from the crowd of relations and friends collected by his parents to greet his triumphant return, looked at Martin Storm as though he was seeing a five-headed dinosaurus.
‘You really mean,’ he breathed, ‘that you had him here and you let him go?’
‘Certainly I do,’ asserted Storm pugnaciously.
‘Of all the –’
‘Oh, do shut up,’ interrupted Storm rudely. ‘We haven’t time for that, Grimy. He could have plugged me through the back and all you’d have seen of me would have been the coffin. He called it an errand of mercy and I paid him back in the same cloud of righteousness. Kind of armistice.’
‘But the war hasn’t properly started yet,’ said Grimm aggrievedly. ‘Oi – what’s that?’
‘That’s more like it,’ grinned Storm, revealing the two purchased automatics and that which he had appropriated from Zoeman. ‘Now we’re armed and ready for anything – I’ve got silencers, you’ll notice. Catch.’
Grimm caught the tossed revolver, worked its mechanism, sniffed, helped himself to a goodly supply of ammunition, and put the lot in his overcoat pocket.
Then he helped himself with the air of a proprietor to Storm’s whisky, and lit a cigarette.
‘Here’s luck, Martin. What’s for tomorrow?’
Storm drank and deliberated. Finally:
‘First a little inquiry into the Wenlock Oil Corporation. They’re in Leadenhall Street according to the telephone book. Then a journey into the country. We’ll travel large and all that so that the boys Sir William has almost certainly put on our tail will give the “all clear”. Then we can park our stuff and come back when we want to, free citizens of good old England.’
‘Where are we going?’ demanded Grimm pertinently.
Storm affected to consider.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘somewhere in the country. Now –’ He stared at Grimm as though struck suddenly by a brainwave. ‘What about the Granvilles and Ledsholm Grange?’
‘You darned humbug!’ snorted Grimm. ‘Trying to make the poor girl’s life a misery.’
‘Who said anything about a girl?’ demanded Storm, slightly red and over-indignant.
‘You did,’ asserted Grimm. He grinned. ‘All right, my lad! Only I won’t promise not to try my hand too.’
‘As to that, there’s not the slightest, wildest chance of.’
* * *
Bedeck
ed in a glorious dressing-gown which made even Horrors blink, Storm spent an hour puzzling over the matter of Redhead, Sir William Divot, Zoeman and the Granvilles. His conclusions, although indefinite enough, gave him a certain measure of satisfaction. Tabulated, they were:
1. Redhead must be classed as a national danger, otherwise the Home Office would not have taken the tone it had.
2. That Sir William was convinced that Storm and Grimm were out of harm’s way.
3. That Zoeman was a likeable cuss, but what the devil made him run in harness with a swine like Redhead?
4. That Redhead’s belief that he, Storm, knew things about the business, strengthened as it would be by Zoeman’s report (if Zoeman ever made one) made it likely that further attacks would materialise, p.d.q.
As it was three o’clock before he slid between the sheets it was not surprising that he slept till ten.
Tea, a shave, a bath, bacon and eggs, a careful selection of socks and tie, accounted for his time up to eleven-thirty. Then he slipped a loaded gun into his pocket and decided to deposit his baggage at Waterloo before going to fetch Grimm.
A sudden thought delayed him. Horrobin would be useful at Ledsholm Grange. He left a note with full instructions for the valet’s return.
Picking up his cases he heard a strident whistle in the hall outside the front door of the flat. A second later his knocker reverberated to the thunderous assault of a telegraph boy.
‘Mr Martin Storm?’
Storm nodded, and tore open the wire. Then his eyes blazed and his lips tightened.
Come at once Wenlock causing trouble Granville.
‘Any reply, sir?’ demanded the boy.
‘Give me a form,’ said Storm slowly, faced with the need for quick decision and uncertain what to do.
The doubt did not concern his response to the wire for the telegraph boy greased off, richer by an undeserved half-crown and an injunction from Storm to get his reply – ‘Coming next train Storm’ – off quicker than any wire in the history of the Post Office. But he was uncertain whether to inform Sir William Divot that Wenlock was in the Ledsholm vicinity.
Storm imagined that the gangster – if Wenlock was Redhead – had fallen for the girl, so that she was in danger up to a point in any case. But he fancied that if the police started poking about in the Ledsholm neighbourhood Wenlock might think the girl or her brother had caused the trouble; and the danger to Letty would be colossal. No. The Assistant Secretary would get the news at a later date.
He discovered that a train, calling at Ledsholm Halt, left Waterloo at twelve-fifty-five. He hurtled into a taxi and told the driver to move quicker than blazes.
In exactly nine minutes he was entering the hall of the Philmore Crescent house. In one minute before the train was due to depart he dragged his cousin into the station with a sigh of relief.
Safe at last in their compartment he poked the telegram in front of Grimm’s generous nose. Realising that the personal element was developing fast, Grimm made little comment, even to the point of agreeing – or more accurately, not disagreeing – when Storm passed on his decision to keep Sir William uninformed.
Reaching Ledsholm Halt it proved to be a cockeyed station serving the small village through which it ran and the scattered farms and hamlets within a five mile area. Although they had left London in brilliant sunshine, rain was now streaming down, beating the rough surface of the road with all the fury of a hail storm.
‘Wonder if there’ll be anyone to meet us,’ murmured Storm as he handed the tickets to a surly-looking guard.
Outside they saw a bedraggled horse and cab, but there was no sign of a driver.
A weather-beaten, wind-swaying signboard opposite declared to the world at large that the drably painted inn before which it hung rejoiced in the name of The Four Bells A smaller notice bore the name Benjamin Cripps.
There was no-one in sight, only the length of a winding street lashed by rain.
‘Lord,’ groaned Storm, taking a firm grip of his two cases and cursing the weather, the village, and the cabby. ‘Better try the pub, hadn’t we?’
They dashed across the puddled road and burst into the bar parlour of The Four Bells, deposited their dripping bags and looked round with interest.
To their surprise the effect was pleasing. Everything about the inside of Benjamin Cripps’ hostelry was as bright and glistening as everything outside was drab. Even the five occupants of the parlour fell under the spell of its cheer.
Leaving their bags by the door they crossed to the bar, behind which a short, podgy little man was polishing glasses with comfortable energy.
‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. What can I have the pleasure?’
‘Two whiskies,’ said Storm pleasantly. Knowing better than to try and hurry natives of the Sussex Downs he waited with patience until the drinks arrived, taking meanwhile a brief look at the other occupants of the cosy parlour.
The station guard was leaning lazily against the bar, while a ragged-coated rustic, obviously the cabby, stared vacantly through the window. The two others were commercials from the look of them, waiting for the next train to town. But they were toughish-looking commercials. As he looked away he caught the furtive gleam of their lowered eyes which were officially regarding the brown ale reposing temporarily in their tankards.
Storm smiled at the innkeeper and raised his glass.
‘Here’s luck,’ he toasted. ‘Drinks all round, on me.’
Mine host beamed and set to work. The cabby jerked into instant life, while the station guard murmured a polite thanks. The commercials merely grunted.
‘Nasty day,’ commented Benjamin Cripps when his task was done. ‘Travelling far, sirs?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Storm, who had been waiting for the question. ‘I’m going to Ledsholm Grange, but there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of a cab about.’
Benjamin Cripps beamed on them.
‘Well I never! Then ye’ll be the quality young Mr Granville was talking about!’
Storm grinned affably.
‘He was expecting me,’ he admitted. ‘Has he been down?’
Mr Cripps shook his head.
‘Not since yester night, sir, but he telephoned a while ago. “Ben,” says he – having known me since he were so high – “if two gentlemen should happen to be on the next train, see that they’re made comfortable like and that I’ll be meeting them by three o’clock”.’ Ben looked brightly at the grandfather clock in a corner. ‘Which means he won’t be more’n another ten minutes, he being a punctual gentleman if ever there was one.’
‘Good,’ smiled Storm, and felt Grimm’s arm nudge his.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the commercials walking quickly towards the street door. Mr Cripps’ rubicund face gaped in astonishment.
‘Well, I never did! Fancy going out into rain like that, and the next train not due for an hour!’
Storm looked across at the second commercial, feeling the man’s furtive scrutiny, noticing his swarthy face and powerful body.
He might be wrong, but it was all Europe to a suburban back garden that the men were not at the inn by sheer coincidence. It was only too easy to imagine them as emissaries of Redhead, and the probability made Storm go chill.
Then he thought of the slim, adorable figure of Letty Granville, reminding him that Redhead, as Wenlock, was butting in on a matter which engaged his, Storm’s, personal attentions very seriously.
His lips pressed together in a firm line. Grimm saw the signs and a ghost of a grin played about his rugged face.
‘Wonder who they are,’ he murmured, taking advantage of mine host’s preoccupation.
‘We’ll keep an eye open,’ said Storm briefly.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the sound of a heavy car speeding along the wet road came to their ears. It stopped outside The Four Bells.
A moment later the door swung open and Granville stepped inside. Looking towards him with a we
lcoming smile, Storm felt suddenly that he was seeing a ghost.
Granville’s face was almost devoid of colour. Lines were engraved there which the cousins had not seen before. But his smile was genuine as he gripped their hands with a hard, nervous clasp.
‘Lord! It’s decent of you to come. I don’t know what – ’
‘It’ll wait,’ snapped Storm, with an eye on the remaining commercial and a thought for the cocked ears of Mr Cripps. ‘Let’s get away from here before you talk.’
He lifted his cases and pushed through the door, with Grimm after him and Granville bringing up the rear. As he moved towards the car he glimpsed through the windows of the village post office the broad back of the commercial who had just left Benjamin Cripp’s comfortable parlour; the man was speaking into a telephone.
The door of the shop had been carelessly left open and Storm moved quickly towards it. The man’s voice, thick with anger, pierced the walls of the booth and came faintly to the listener’s ears.
‘Say! Are you dames sappy? What about my number? Yep, number! Heck! Mayfair one-eight-double-ought-three!’
Storm could have hugged himself. Not only was he given freely the fact that the fellow was an American, but presented in addition with what could be a vital telephone number.
Still keeping in the shadow of the door he heard the American give sudden vent to a stream of lurid Bowery profanity, glimpsed the shocked face of the village postmistress.
Storm was fully aware of the irritation which the telephone service could create, but he disliked the Bowery tough’s outburst nearly as much as he disliked the thought that he was one of Redhead’s spies. His voice rapped out like the lash of a whip.
‘Cut that out!’
The American spun round like a miniature tornado and almost before Storm realised it his hand was inside his pocket. Storm covered three yards of floor space in a split second, crashing his fist into the man’s face. Grunting, the other staggered back, the force of the blow dragging his hand down from the butt of a wicked-looking gun.
Storm’s long fingers whipped up the gun in a flash. He looked mockingly at the American.
