by John Creasey
‘Well,’ Storm went on, ‘I’ve found another man who wants the same kind of job done for him. Oh Lord no, there’s no real hurry. Anytime within the next hour or two’ll do. Yes, round in Bond Street, Timothy. I can’t manage it myself. Eh? Oh, I’m getting on so-so, old son. Raining like hell here, though, and I can’t get out. Be glad when I get back to town and see some friendly faces. Who? Well, Best and Thrale are holding that little show, aren’t they? I don’t know who else is going. Milhowel and Dane, eh? Quite enough too, if I know anything about them. Get plenty of beer. Oh – oi, Timothy!’ His voice rose urgently, for the especial benefit of anyone who might be listening in. ‘Oi – I thought you’d gone, old son. Listen, I’ve just remembered what I wanted to ring you about. I’ve a date at the Carilon – Fluffy Vere – tell her I’m sorry will you, and I can’t possibly get away. Yes, take her yourself if you want to. I don’t mind. All right, Tim, thanks. See you some time.’
Timothy Arran, a different man from the one he had been five minutes before, left the telephone and swung round to the waiting Splits.
‘Splits, take that blankety telephone and get Toby to come back, quickly. He’s at the Junior Conservative. Tell him to round up Derek Milhowel, Martin Best, St John Dane and Dodo Trale. They’re to bring enough things for a couple of nights, anyhow. Then ring the garage and tell Sparks I want the Bentley and the Bugatti, ready for long travel at once.’
Meanwhile at Ledsholm Grange, Martin Storm was assuring Frank Granville that trouble, and large trouble, was on the way for Ginger Wenlock.
‘One day,’ rasped Granville, ‘I’ll get my hands on that devil, and – ’
He stopped, swinging round like lightning. Storm’s hand was at his side but he didn’t touch his gun. Grimm, with his back to the door, sat dead still, frozen.
‘What will you do?’ demanded a voice, suave and charged with a sinister, threatening power.
Like men in a dream they saw Wenlock, a squat, gleaming revolver in his right hand.
* Men, Maids, and Murder by John Creasey. Melrose.
Chapter 8
Trouble at the Grange
‘And how the devil,’ asked Storm, ‘did you get here?’
‘Walked in,’ said Wenlock, but there was no humour in his green eyes. ‘You imagined that an addle-headed countryman would be good enough to warn you, didn’t you, Storm? Well – as with other things you must change your mind. And quickly!’
‘Hm-hm,’ murmured Storm, thinking desperately. ‘Talk on, pretty man, talk on.’
Wenlock glowered.
‘You trumpety fool! I’m tired of you! You’re getting a nuisance, Storm. I – ’
‘No threats,’ pleaded Storm blandly, wagging an admonitory finger. ‘Listen, Big Boy. You’re scared stiff to do anything which might harm Grimm or myself because you know the interest of the Men Who Matter hovers over us. And remember I left information as to where I was going when I left London.’
Wenlock hesitated. Storm’s quick-tongued attack had been shrewder than he knew. Wenlock’s own doubts and fears that if anything happened to the cousins the plans which he had carefully laid and which were set for a colossal reward would be destroyed, returned to him. A false step now would mean ruin – ruin when he was tantalisingly near success.
His green eyes gazed with devilish intensity at Storm.
‘One day, you interfering bastard, I’ll kill you!’
‘Language, language,’ chided Storm automatically. He was fairly confident that there was no immediate danger. If Wenlock’s object had been simply to kill them he had little doubt that he would have done so. What was lurking in that tortuous brain?
The man was now leaning back against a massive table. At the main door of the great hall three tough specimens, as hard-bitten as the two upstairs, lolled lazily, badly rolled cigarettes dangling from their lips. Each man carried a gun and showed it.
Gangster rule in England! Ten days before, Storm would have scoffed at the thought. But it was here. The men in front of him were killers.
‘I intend,’ said Wenlock bitingly, ‘to take complete possession of this house. Whether I have to kill you in order to do so doesn’t matter. I’m going to get it.’
‘A challenge to the gods indeed,’ murmured Storm.
‘I have every reason,’ went on Wenlock, speaking with carefully chosen words which did nothing to rob his eyes of their glowing malevolence, ‘to believe that you have just “disappeared into the country”. Thus it would not be remarkable if you failed to return for a while. At the same time I want to make sure that I am not discovered in this neighbourhood, and it is just possible that your protracted absence might lead to inquiries. Therefore I would – ’
‘Rather have a peaceful evacuation,’ interpolated Storm. ‘What’s your bait, little man? How do you propose to hook us?’
Wenlock’s green eyes shimmered malignantly.
‘Shall we say – the girl?’
Careful watcher though he was he failed to see the hardening of Storm’s mouth and the slightly more aggressive sweep of his jaw.
‘If you get out,’ said Wenlock, ‘and persuade Granville to get out, I will return Miss Granville – unharmed. If you don’t’ – he paused for effect, and got it – ‘I will deliver her – dead!’
Only the pressure of Storm’s arm on Granville’s elbow kept the younger man from throwing himself at the tall, red-haired devil who stared with those horrible green eyes.
Storm tugged at his underlip.
‘In England,’ he began mildly, ‘murder is – ’
‘One more or less makes no difference to me,’ replied Wenlock. ‘I’ll give you an hour to decide. Take it or leave it. If you leave it you’ll be as cold as the girl, and you’ll never get word through to London. The telephone wires have been cut again, both cars in the garage are useless, and there are twenty men in the grounds to stop you from getting away.’
He swung round, snapping instructions to one of the men at the door, who went swiftly towards the passage leading to the staircase. They reappeared quickly, with the two prisoners taken in Ledsholm village. Without another word Wenlock went out, taking the two erstwhile prisoners with him. Only the men at the door remained, their guns very much in evidence.
The air seemed cleaner when he had gone, but the full meaning of his words struck home with a chilling impact.
At considerable risk and with a large portion of luck they might overcome the three swarthy gunmen on the threshold, but they knew that Wenlock had not exaggerated his forces much. Even a dozen men in the grounds would turn a sortie into suicide.
Storm glanced at the clock standing in the corner of the hall. Its hands pointed to half-past four, which meant that the talk with Timothy Arran had been finished less than fifty minutes. But Wenlock’s reference to the telephone wires made it certain that he knew nothing of the summons for help.
Was there a chance of rescue?
He turned his back on the three gunmen but was careful not to touch his pockets.
Granville stared at him, white-faced.
‘This means we’re beaten, Storm.’
‘What-ho!’ beamed Storm, not without effort. ‘If the worst comes to the worst we’ll have to let ’em have it.’
With Letty Granville in Wenlock’s hands they were, indeed, helpless. The devil of it was that if they surrendered the Grange and went to the police, Wenlock would get back at them. Of course, it looked easy enough to double-cross Wenlock, but –
The Home Office would not have worried itself half dead over the man had he not been a menace. Wenlock, police or no police, was a living danger. They were up against a brick wall.
And the only alternative to an unpleasant death was unconditional surrender!
He sought desperately in his mind for a means of gaining time until the Twins arrived. The minutes flew and Wenlock’s hour was nearly up.
Suddenly he laughed, a harsh and mirthless sound, making Grimm look at him sharply, and sending Granville�
�s head up with a jerk.
‘Bright boys, aren’t we? After all, we’re not dead yet. If we clear out we shall get Letty back and all we’ve got to do is to take a nice long holiday.’
He beamed happily on the grim-visaged, sullen-eyed gangsters. That they were products of America’s crime wave was certain. But where did they hide? What part of the surrounding country sheltered them? How did Wenlock manage to muster them at the Grange, even allowing for the loneliness of the great building, without rumours getting round which demanded investigation?
He gave it up as his plan matured slowly. Grimm broke the short silence.
‘How’d you know Wenlock will do as he says?’
Storm, his back towards the three gunmen, winked meaningly, careful to keep his hands in view. He knew that if the gangsters lost sight of one hand for a split second they would shoot.
‘We’d have to trust him. I believe he’d come across.’
From the corner of his eye he saw one of the gunmen heave his thickset body from the door post and lurch towards the others. There followed a brief dialogue spoken so low that Storm failed to catch a word before the man who had moved tucked his gun in his pocket and went bullishly down the short flight of steps leading from the hall door.
Storm was satisfied. The gangster had swallowed his bait and it was ten pounds to an orange pip that he was taking the news of the ‘surrender’ talk to Wenlock. With Ginger lulled into a sense of security a desperate sortie such as Storm was crazily planning had a better chance of success. But the chance was perilously thin.
If he had believed in Wenlock’s good faith he might have made the peaceful evacuation; there were few things that he wouldn’t have done for Letty Granville. But he had a pretty shrewd idea that were they to get a hundred yards away from the Grange they would find themselves ambushed.
Storm had a hunch that the only reason for Wenlock’s hour of inactivity was that the red-haired man was desperately anxious to make sure there was no disturbance at the Grange which could reach outside ears. The cold-bloodedness which was an integral part of the man’s make-up was being held in check only by reasons of exigency.
Glancing meaningfully at Grimm and Granville, he played with the buttons of his waistcoat, revealing first three and then two; dumb-play was safer than whispering.
Grimm raised his brows a fraction. Granville frowned.
Tantalisingly Storm wandered about the corner of the hall. His back to the men, he flicked his eyes towards a heavy sofa. His meaning was clear.
If we can get behind the sofa, my hearties, we’ll have some kind of cover. Shall we take a chance?
His question was answered by a barely-concealed eagerness in Granville’s eyes and a barely-perceptible nod from Grimm.
Storm stretched his great body upwards, arms wide apart and high above his head in a gargantuan yawn. Taking two long strides forward and bringing a sudden wariness to the eyes of the gunmen he grinned engagingly, bringing his hands to rest lightly on the back of a solid oak occasional chair.
It happened in a flash. Gripping the chair he heaved it upwards before crashing it towards the gangsters. They ducked simultaneously and the chair winged over their heads, crashing against the wall but catching them as it rebounded.
In a flash Storm dived backwards and as the first shot spat out he dropped behind the cover. Frank Granville was already there while Grimm, behind a great armchair dragged next to the couch, was equally safe.
The gangsters mouthed a stream of oaths as the bullets from their guns bit into the stout leather, but the thick upholstery closed round the messengers of death, taking away their bite. The faces of both Americans were distorted with fury as they fired, cursing and bellowing.
Beneath the storm of profanity Storm muttered:
‘Can you get a grip on the bottom, Granville? Good. Roger, slide your chair over to the sideboard. We’ll follow.’
Before the gangsters saw the ruse, it had succeeded. The sofa seemed to slide along the polished floor and as the great armchair joined it formed a barricade round one end of the enormous oak sideboard, fitting snugly to the wall opposite the door. With almost superhuman strength Storm and Grimm, getting small purchase with their fingers on the edge of the sideboard, slewed it round until one end was at an angle of thirty-five degrees from the wall. With the settee and chair it made a small but effective pill-box, secure against the revolver fire of Wenlock’s thugs, secure even against rifle-shooting.
Storm squinted across to the grandfather clock still ticking away the seconds. It was nearly half-past five, but their new position gave them breathing space. The message to the twins was now nearly two hours old; if they came by car they might arrive at any time.
Before the sudden manoeuvre Storm had worked the position out and taken what seemed to be the most likely chance.
First, if Letty was anywhere near the Grange, when Wenlock learned of the development it might prove fatal. But he played on a hunch that she had been taken out of the neighbourhood, and he prayed that his hunch was right.
Second, he had deliberated whether to pack themselves in or whether to make a dive for freedom. The latter was almost impossible, for Wenlock’s numerical strength was high. On top of which, if the twins and their bodyguard arrived they would be running into the arms of Wenlock without anything to fight for. Staying in the hall but keeping Wenlock at bay was obviously the only course to take.
He had little fears about the twins running blindly into trouble. The telephone message carried a warning and an exhortation to bring guns, and bring them quickly; and he knew his men.
Crouching back against the wall they could see nothing of the two gunmen who had apparently realised that they were out-manoeuvred, for no matter from what angle the barricade was approached it afforded safe cover. Storm heard a chamber being reloaded and an oath-strewn muttering. A moment later one of the gunmen moved towards the staircase.
The chance was devilishly tempting. With only one man in front they had a sound chance of reaching him before reinforcements arrived.
But there was twenty feet of space to cross, and in that twenty feet one automatic could speak a dozen times.
‘Doggo’s the game,’ signalled Storm.
Across the near silence of the great hall came the sudden sharp staccato sound of footsteps.
The red-haired devil’s voice came to them, trembling with repressed fury.
‘I’ll give you two minutes to come out!’ he rasped.
Storm managed a chuckle.
‘You really expect us to do that?’
He could almost see the beetroot red suffusing Wenlock’s sandy skin as a curse spat out.
‘Let them have it, Pedro!’
The words made Storm wonder. Let them have what?
The answer came with a shivering suddenness which made even Storm’s face blanch. Across the momentary silence blasted the spitting tap-tap-tap of machine-gun fire!
Bullet after bullet bit into the sofa, tearing remorselessly through the upholstery and padding. Before the staring eyes of the three trapped men the back of the couch bulged outwards. Like living ghosts, hot-eyed and haggard with the damning of their hopes, they saw the first jagged tear in the leather. Then came another – and another –
Granville cursed as the first rasping bullet came through the hole, striking into the oak panels of the wall and sending splinters flying backwards. A second hummed a few inches from Grimm’s nose. A third cracked against the sideboard.
Pressed back as far as they could from the ominous split in the leather all three stared at the stream of bullets coming with devilish speed through the hole. Storm felt an awful hopelessness, a dull, bitter rage. Grimm seemed paralysed. Granville, under fire for the first time in his life, clenched his fingers and bit into his lips to stop himself from breaking down.
The machine-gun rattled on. Its deadly tap-tap-tap came with fear-inspiring regularity. Remorselessly the frayed hole in the leather widened. Bullets streamed two inche
s from their faces.
‘I can’t stand it!’ groaned Granville. ‘I can’t – ’
Storm gripped his arm. The horror of that creeping death! God!
Then the gun stopped.
They heard Wenlock’s voice, thick with rage; Pedro’s answer, surly and gruff.
‘Cawn’t help it, Bawse. Jammed. Mebbe I soon fix it.’
Wenlock spoke again, his voice harsh and remorseless. Storm knew that nothing would stop the murderous attack, nothing would stop the killing.
‘Damn you bohunks! Use your guns!’
Almost on his words an automatic spat out, sending a bullet through the hole and thudding against the wall. A second – a third –
Then Pedro’s sluggish voice:
‘I done it, Bawse.’
Storm groaned. Grimm felt sick. Once that spitting stream started again it spelt the end!
It came; murderously, devilishly. Granville moaned.
‘Oh, God!’
Tap-tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap!
‘Oh, God!’ burst out Granville, ‘I can’t stand it!’
Storm gripped his arm, controlling himself with a tremendous effort. They were all white-faced, unnerved by the horror, looking death in the face.
Tap-tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap! Tap-tap-tap!
Each bullet crept closer.
Then for the first time the sound of a shot fired without a silencer broke across the hum. The deadly tapping stopped and Pedro’s thick voice wavered upwards in bewilderment.
‘Gawd – Bawse! I’m – shot – up!’
Wenlock’s furious cursing streamed out, but across it came a sharp, steely voice.
To Grimm the voice was unknown. To Storm it was familiar; soft, steely, mocking.
‘Keep looking ahead, Wenlock. And the rest of you. I’m a dozen strong – and I don’t mind shooting fellows like you in the back!’
It was Zoeman!
Zoeman, the ‘English agent’ who had given Storm his warning on the previous night!
Chapter 9
Enter the Twins
Never a particularly pious young man, Martin Storm’s belief in miracles had been negligible until that moment. But thereafter it became a deep and profound faith. Nothing but a providential interference, he decided, could have sent Zoeman, hostile to Wenlock, at that moment.
