by John Creasey
Crack!
The report came sharp and clear—and then the thud of a bullet in the trunk of a nearby tree. Then another. And another. At the third, Loftus was out of the car with the speed for which he was famous, and crouching at its side as Davidson followed suit. There was a whang as a bullet struck the offside wing, and a sharper crack as the next powdered the safety-glass of the windscreen, then ricocheted off to strike the road.
‘From our right,’ murmured Loftus, as Davidson stealthily opened the rear door and eased the tommy-gun out. ‘There’s one thing, Wally—no one can scoff any more at the thought of gunfire in the fair lanes of England. War’s not what the armchair pundits think it—the direction’s changed.’
The shots still came, but now the bullets were striking the rear of the Talbot.
‘There’s the car,’ growled Davidson. ‘Moving along up there on the road we came by. See? Through the hedge—the sun’s on it, now.’
‘Got it,’ said Loftus. ‘Act injured, Wally.’
He sprawled by the side of the car, the automatic in his right hand hidden by his coat, as Davidson pushed the tommy-gun under the running-board—out of sight, but within easy reach—and sprawled beside him.
They could hear the hum of the approaching car, now, and suddenly it appeared around a bend. Two men were leaning out from either side of the driver, their rifles pointing.
‘Let her go!’ grunted Loftus, and fired at the driver as Davidson grabbed the machine-gun.
He saw the man’s hands drop from the wheel, and the car slithered over the road. In almost the same moment, Oundle squeezed the trigger and a spray of lead hit the tyres.
Now, the car was completely out of control. One of the marksmen jumped too late, and was crushed between its side and the high bank of earth. His scream echoed sickeningly for some seconds, then was drowned by the grating crash as the car piled into the bank.
The marksman on the off-side jumped and ran. Almost casually, Loftus fired again and he toppled forward, his gun clattering to the flint-surfaced road. Whereupon Loftus rose in one quick, graceful movement—and calmly proceeded to brush down his trousers.
‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘claim omniscience. But they did come, old son. And got what they didn’t expect. I hope the Horsham chaps don’t let Richards go. Or the woman.’ As he spoke, he was moving towards the three gunmen. There were two wounded, and one dead, he saw.
The man crushed against the bank was not a pleasant sight, and he looked away quickly—in time to see the driver pull something from his pocket with his uninjured left hand. He had time, too, to see the vicious malevolence on the thin, cadaverous face—
And then the man tossed a small glass phial into the air.
6
Slip Catch
There was in Loftus’s make-up that unique and inexplicable ‘something’ which enabled him to think and act simultaneously, even on occasions when it seemed impossible that he had time to think at all. This was one of them.
He shot his large bulk forward, springing from his toes with his right arm outstretched. The little phial, glittering in the sun as it curved its downward arc, seemed beyond his reach. Wally Davidson, behind him and therefore unable to help, held his breath. What there was in the phial he had no idea, except that it would be gas which might send them to sleep but was more likely to do greater damage.
He, too, saw the vicious satisfaction on the driver’s thin face—and then he saw the impossible happen. For Loftus’s leap put a yard on his reach and he scooped up the phial a foot from the ground. Keeping it aloft he sprawled forward, breaking the force of the fall with his left shoulder. He heard the driver swear and looked round at Davidson, who was rooted to the spot.
‘How’s that?’ he said calmly and picked himself up, slipping his prize unconcernedly into his breast-pocket.
‘Out,’ said Davidson automatically. Then the temporary paralysis left him, and he moved forward. ‘Good catch, Bill!’
‘A better one than we think, I hope.’ Loftus had reached the wounded driver. ‘Little man,’ he informed him: ‘that was an unfriendly act; the kind of act which causes war. What’s in the tube?’
The driver sat silent, clutching his arm above the wound, which had bled freely. Davidson remembered the sullen silence of the man Tenby and the woman with him. Loftus recalled what he had heard of it, and shrugged.
‘All right, it’ll keep. Ah—doesn’t that sound as if there’s activity in the neighbourhood, Wally?’
There was the roar of a car engine, and something else—nearer and less mechanical. The thud, in fact, of a horse’s hooves across a nearby field. Loftus would not have been surprised, he said afterwards, to have heard a ‘tally-ho,’ but all he did hear was the gruff voice of the horseman who reached the road, through a gap in the hedge, a few seconds before a camouflaged lorry rumbled up behind them. The horseman was a heavy man, moustached and dressed in Norfolk tweeds, with an L.D.V. armlet to identify him. He had a rifle slung over his shoulder, and rifles were also in evidence aboard the lorry.
Loftus beamed on the horseman.
‘A more welcome sight there couldn’t be,’ he said. ‘We were just wondering how we could get these fellows to a hospital or a morgue, as the case might be.’ He showed his identity card as he spoke: it was one which gave him both special privileges and considerable authority. Two men in muddy boots and gaiters and rough clothes, also with L.D.V. armlets, approached as he finished speaking, and one said gruffly:
‘What will we do to un, Colonel?’
‘Do whatever these gentlemen ask, Weeks.’ The rider dismounted as he spoke, ‘Colonel Hargreaves, at your service, Mr. Loftus.’ His look at the dead man showed his natural curiosity, but he asked no questions. Silently, Loftus applauded. Aloud, he said:
‘If you’ll load these two men into the lorry and get them some attention, it will be a big help. Stay at their side—don’t leave them until the police or military replace you. That’s essential.’
‘Right, sir.’ A man saluted, then with his gun urged the wounded driver from his seat. The other wounded man was carried to the lorry, which was reversed into a gateway and then driven back towards the village. Colonel Hargreaves was smoothing his horse’s long nose, and trying not to look at the crushed man by the hedge. Loftus broke into his thoughts:
‘A word of explanation would be welcome, I’m sure, Colonel—but I hope you’ll forgive me if it’s delayed. Do you know a Mr. Charles Richards?’
‘Richards?’ Hargreaves pulled at his grey moustache. His weather-beaten face and the keen grey eyes beneath unruly, bushy brows all betrayed his puzzlement. ‘Yes. If you want to see him, you’re going in the wrong direction.’
Loftus smiled grimly. ‘I’ve asked for a cordon to be flung around his house, and I want to make sure he doesn’t get away.’
‘What? You want Richards?’ Hargreaves snorted. ‘My dear sir, Richards is——’
‘I know,’ said Loftus. ‘A little crazy, a stamp-collector, a gentleman, and probably a useful subscriber to charities. But he’s wanted badly. I asked whether you knew him in the hope of getting a reliable local impression of the gentleman. Can you help?’
‘Help? I can tell you all I know,’ said Hargreaves shortly. ‘Er—come up to the Manor with me. It’s not far—twenty minutes will do it—and you can have a drink while you listen. Good thing,’ added the Colonel bluffly, ‘that I happened to be on patrol about here.’
‘A very good thing,’ agreed Loftus. ‘We’ll come to the Manor as soon as we’ve finished in Hayling, Colonel. You’ll forgive my not suggesting that you come with us?’
‘Of course,’ Hargreaves looked affronted, nevertheless. ‘Yes, of course.’
Davidson was at the wheel, and he turned the car expertly. One of the men from the lorry was standing by the wrecked car which had carried the three attackers, and Hargreaves was clearly in authority. Loftus nodded and smiled, and the car swept back along the road it had taken. Davidson spoke as he
drove:
‘Was that about what you expected, Bill?’
‘More or less,’ said Loftus cheerfully. ‘It’s why I left instead of asking Richards some pertinent questions—if he’s been caught, the questions can come later. I wonder what was in that phial?’
They reached the village more quickly than they had left it, and swung through the High Street towards Fourways. Approaching it, they saw two privates with fixed bayonets standing near a cottage just out of sight of the house. There were other soldiers dotted around and he reflected that the Horsham people had made arrangements swiftly, which was a good thing to know. It did not occur to him that Richards would have had time to get away, and when he saw the two-seater and the cream-coloured Hispano-Suiza by the gate he felt sure no one had left.
He turned into the drive, and pulled up outside the house. None of the military were visible, here: his instructions were being carried out fully. But as he climbed from the car, he was puzzled. Where was Oundle?
With Davidson behind him, he strode to the door and rang the bell for the second time in one hour.
There was no answer.
He rang again. There was still no response.
‘They could be waiting for us, Bill,’ said Davidson softly. ‘And they could have Ned.’
‘Yes.’ The big man’s face was grim. ‘They could.’
Without further ado, he took out his automatic, held it by the barrel, and cracked through the small pane of glass near the lock. The fragments tinkled as they fell on the other side: nothing else happened.
Carefully, he pushed his gloved hand through the hole. Davidson had his own gun poised, and both of them realised the possibility of sudden attack—knew that there was risk in what they were doing, but were convinced that it had to be done, and quickly.
The door opened an inch.
Loftus withdrew his hand, then pushed the door sharply, flattening himself against the wall of the porch as he did so. Davidson pressed against the other side, but no shot or sound came from the hall.
Loftus stepped through.
As he reached the door of the drawing-room, he saw a faint wisp of smoke coming from a door under the stairs, and hurried towards it. The door was closed but not locked. He flung it open, and but for his mask he would have been forced back by the billow of smoke that enveloped him. He could see nothing through it, and had to feel his way to the stairs that led below.
Davidson needed no instructions. He returned to the car and fired a single shot into the air, bringing half-a-dozen soldiers at the double. They saw the smoke, by then billowing from the front door, and knew what was wanted. Davidson ran back to follow Loftus down the stairs with the Talbot’s extinguisher. The smoke was thinning, but they could hear the crackling and hissing of the flames which caused it.
The fire, glowing red and already throwing out a fierce heat, was in one corner of the famous underground shelter. The heat was increasing with every second, and the extinguisher had little effect on the flames.
There were two safes, just out of the reach of the fire.
Together, they lugged them both further away. But they saw through the red glow that a desk was already burning fiercely, and two filing cabinets behind it were a mass of flames. There was nothing more they could do, and in any case the military were now on the spot.
Loftus gave orders. The sergeant in charge accepted them without argument, and Loftus led Davidson upstairs.
As they went, he said grimly: ‘I want to find Ned, Wally—and I also want to find that youngster. His car was still outside, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. So was the woman’s.’
‘Well, they’ve got to be somewhere—come on!’
It took them less than a minute to explore the ground floor, and they raced up to the next. Five bedrooms, two bathrooms, two wall-closets: all were empty. There was no sign of life. No sign of Oundle, Richards, his alleged step-daughter, or the fresh-faced young American. The house was empty.
But in an outbuilding—a combined wash-house and ironing-room—they found a middle-aged woman dressed in black, and a maid in a cap and apron. Both were lying on the floor, so still that they seemed to be dead. Loftus lifted the older woman, Davidson the girl, and carried them into the open air.
‘They’re breathing, Bill,’ said Davidson, relieved.
‘Yes.’ The big man’s voice was bleak. ‘They’re asleep.’
Moments later, they found Ned Oundle.
He was in the tool-shed which adjoined the laundry-room, hanging half-in, half-out of the window. But although he was dazed and at first incoherent, it was obvious that he had only been affected by whatever fumes had escaped from the one room to the other. When he was able to talk, he told them how he had seen, from the shelter of the huge rhododendron bushes where he had hidden, the young American waiting alone with obvious impatience for several minutes, then seen the girl return to lead him out of the room and down the hall.
Oundle had worked his way round the house, through the shrubbery, and had quickly satisfied himself that there was no one in any of the ground-floor rooms. And since it had seemed unlikely that Richards, the girl, their visitor and the hunch-backed servant would be congregated together on the bedroom floor, he had known that there must be some underground room and had cautiously approached the house to see if he could spot its entrance and so keep it under his eye. He had entered the tool-shed by the window, and was about to leave it by the door when he saw the hunch-back step into the hall from an opening under the stairs—and head for the kitchen quarters.
He had heard him come out by the garden door, and hurry along the path to the laundry-room:
‘He didn’t go inside it—just stood there, breathing heavily.’ Oundle grimaced at the memory. ‘I tell you—I thought he was on to me: though there must be some spy-hole he could see through. But I stayed put, just in case—and held my breath so much that I was light-headed with it.’ He grimaced again. ‘Or at least—that’s what I thought it was.’
He only vaguely remembered hearing the servant’s footsteps returning to the house; even more vaguely, remembered his own realisation of his dizziness—of the need for fresh air, and determination to reach the window. He had known nothing of the women in the laundry-room, and laughed a little shakily as he saw its glass-panelled door.
‘Yes—friend Grey must have come out to have a look: check whether or not they were properly out for the count,’ said Loftus. ‘And he’s an ugly customer, Ned—just be glad the tool-shed was solid wood!’
———————
In a turning off Whitehall, but not outside the building he was headed for, Loftus pulled up the Talbot and climbed out.
The small, unimpressive-looking door which he entered moments later was known to few people—and led to the office of the Chief of Department Z. He had dropped Oundle and Davidson off at his flat and come on alone to see Craigie, although he felt he had not a lot to report. He had talked at length with Colonel Hargreaves after leaving Fourways, but had learned nothing which could rightly be called helpful. His legendary luck had been conspicuous by its absence on this case, to date, he thought wryly as he walked up the flight of stone steps.
At the first landing, he ran his finger along the underside of the handrail, and pressed the slight protuberance there. Part of the blank stone wall in front of him slid open. He went through, and it closed automatically.
Craigie was at his desk, a desk completely clear save for his several telephones, and a single file of papers. Behind him was a row of filing-cabinets and at his side, a dictaphone.
‘Well, Bill,’ he greeted. ‘Did you see him?’
Loftus pulled up an easy chair and slumped into it.
‘I did,’ he said, ‘but not enough of him. It was a hunch, Gordon, and I know you don’t like them. I wish it had been a stronger hunch than it was. You’ve put a watch on Dane and Company?’
Craigie nodded: Loftus had sent word for that watch to be kept.
‘Good.�
� Pensively, Loftus lit a cigarette. ‘It’s a peculiar business,’ he warned, wryly, then proceeded to explain just what had happened.
Craigie made little comment: it was always difficult to assess his thoughts. He spent most of his time, by night and day, in that single office, directing and controlling the activities of Department Z. To say that his finger was on the pulse of the world was as true that day as it had been before the outbreak of war. The difference was that in these times, his agents abroad had a far more difficult and dangerous task.
‘And so, Gordon,’ Loftus wound up, ‘the fire was put out, and we found that Richards and the woman and presumably the youngster had got out through a steel door which led to another underground room, and from there to a passage which came up near a small garage on the main road. And the garage owner has disappeared with the rest of them.’
Craigie said slowly:
‘Was it known that Richards had any interest in the garage?’
‘No,’ said Loftus. ‘They knew remarkably little about him, except that he collected foreign stamps—he is in fact an expert philatelist. There’s a Professor Norton in the neighbourhood who says his stuff was probably ninth in order of importance among private collectors in England. Whether that’s useful or not we’ll find out, but Richards as such is an innocuous character who’s been in Hayling about eleven years. I’ve the local police getting all the information they can, and trying to check back on him in his pre-Hayling days, but it’s not likely to yield a lot.’
‘No.’ Craigie looked thoughtful.
‘You’re not talkative,’ Loftus prompted, quietly.
‘You’ve given me everything?’
Loftus shrugged.
‘Pretty well. The men who attacked us are in hospital, and so far they haven’t talked. I’m having them brought to London—we’ll be able to deal with them more easily from here. The same of Richards’ servants: they’re being brought to town as soon as they recover. Another thing,’ he added, ‘is this phial.’ He took the glass container from his pocket. ‘You’ll have that examined?’
