The Plague of Silence

by John Creasey

  “Does your throat hurt?”

  A shake of the head.

  “Feel sore?”

  Another shake.

  “We’ll see how it goes in the morning,” Dimmock said. “Give her one of these tablets and a glass of hot milk, and she’ll sleep like a top.”

  “What about her voice, doctor?” Larry asked.

  “If she isn’t back to normal by the morning, I’ll get Dr. Forsythe to have a look at her,” Dimmock said. “Don’t worry, Larry, I’ve never seen a fitter woman. The back of her mouth’s a bit red and swollen. Could be… humph. No kidney troubles, no neglected illnesses, no arterial disease.” He was muttering to himself. “Seems to be over the worst anyhow, probably get her voice back soon. Quite thought you were going to tell me that Number Two was on the way! Where’s that strapping boy of yours?”

  “He’s with his grandmother in Bournemouth.”

  “Fine,” said Dimmock. “Fine! Goodnight, and get a good sleep yourself.”

  Lany said: “Dr. Korven said it would be wise to have a nurse. He said she must be kept under observation. I told my wife that. Don’t you agree, doctor?”

  “Can’t say I do,” said Dimmock. “Peculiar that he hasn’t turned up. Be happier with a nurse?”

  “Oh, no! But we’ll need someone here. Do you know if Dr. Korven sent that telegram for me?”

  “Telegram?”

  Larry explained.

  Dimmock left soon afterwards with the address of Larry’s sister in his pocket; he had promised to send a second telegram. He drove away slowly and thoughtfully, and as he approached Conne village, tried to imagine what could have happened to Korven. This was the first time there had been even the slightest suggestion of unreliability.

  Dimmock had driven so many miles in all weathers along these narrow country roads that he gave little conscious thought to the task of driving. The beams of his headlamps slashed the summer darkness, rabbits’ eyes showed a glistening pink, a fox crouched, staring. As he neared the village the green eyes of cats were turned towards him as if in secret malevolence. The lights reflected from the windows of the cottages and the inn, but the village was asleep and silent. One light showed in the top room of a small house on the outskirts. Still puzzled, a little drowsy, and beginning to think about his wife and the fact that he would soon have to retire, Dimmock neared the tunnel of trees through the forest. He knew the road well, was well aware of its eeriness. No one could ever drive through it alone, by night, without a feeling of tension.

  Where the devil had Korven got to?

  The headlights shone on trunks of trees and turned the leaves to a bright, silvery green. The sound of the car engine seemed louder here, as if the forest was shouting at him. Ahead, he saw the outline of a car pulled off the road. It was after one o’clock. Damned fools, to be out so late, thought Dimmock: couple of lovers probably, people were shameless about sex these days. As he drew nearer, travelling at nearly seventy miles an hour, he caught sight of the face of a man against the back window of the car. The face looked ghostlike in this fierce brightness, the eyes were half closed.

  Dimmock muttered: “What the devil’s all this?”

  He eased his foot off the accelerator, then began to apply the footbrake, not by any means sure of what he ought to do. He noticed the shadowy figure of another man on the far side of the car; and in some odd way, a shadow was cast on to the road, as if someone was crouching in front of the car.

  At sixty-eight Arthur Dimmock had a mind as alert as a man half his age. He didn’t like this situation at all. He would not have liked it had a man stood in front of the car, or at one side, to slow him down, and he suspected this furtiveness even more. He was travelling at about thirty miles an hour and was only thirty yards from the car.

  Something peculiar had happened to Korven.

  Suddenly, the crouching man in front of the other car stepped forward, hands raised and arms outstretched. The movement was so sudden that Dimmock jammed his foot hard on the brake. The man stepped right in front of the car, meaning to make absolutely sure that Dimmock did not pass.

  He was waving, too.

  The other car door opened and a second man got out.

  “Don’t like it,” Dimmock said in his gruff voice. “Damned if I do.” He slowed down to fifteen miles an hour, and leaned sideways so that his voice would carry out of the open window: “What’s all this about?”

  He knew that it was a silly question. He also knew that it served his purpose, for the man in front moved to one side, so as to approach the window to talk, while the second man nipped to the other side of the road.

  “Eh? What’s wrong?” Dimmock demanded, in his gruffest almost angry voice. “Breakdown? I’ll telephone a garage for you.”

  Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and the car shot forward. The men on either side grabbed at it, but the shiny handles and the shiny doors slid off their fingers, and the car went from ten miles an hour to forty in twenty seconds. Dimmock caught a glimpse of the men in the driving mirror while they were caught by the glow of his rear lights.

  Then he saw a flash; a second and a third.

  “Now I know I was right,” he muttered with fierce satisfaction. “Shooting on the highway. Bloody murder! ”

  After another flash, he heard a sharp clang at the back of the car. It didn’t do any harm, but meant that they were still within range. If they struck a tyre, he’d have had it. Swine. Why the hell hadn’t he fitted tubeless when he’d been advised to? Another flash: he almost winced, but this time there was no sound. The car travelling at over sixty miles an hour, the headlights were tunnelling through the forest where the road was so straight that there was no hope of getting out of sight quickly. Two miles or more, and there would be a series of sharp bends, where he could get further away.

  Ah!

  He saw lights go on, and was sure that they were moving.

  “Show you,” he said, and there was a note almost of elation in his voice. Sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five. “Damn good job Mabel didn’t come!” He laughed aloud. Eighty. The headlights of the car behind flashed on, and he could not tell whether it was catching up on him or not. He did not think it likely.

  A fox darted across the road.

  “God!” cried Dimmock.

  He jammed on his brakes but couldn’t miss it. He felt the thud, felt the wheel quiver, and for a moment almost lost control. Ugh! He shuddered, but regained control as the near side wing passed within an inch of a tree trunk. “Nearly had it,” he said fiercely. “I’ll show the swine.” But he was more wary, not sure what might leap out of the darkness.

  He reached the end of the long, straight stretch, and although he could see the glow of headlights in the distance, they seemed a comforting way behind. He was only five miles from Lauriston, and no one knew this section of the road better than he. The only danger would be from a cyclist whose lights didn’t show very far, but there wasn’t much likelihood of cyclists being on the road as late as this. He swung the wheel right and left, leaning over as if he were on a motorcycle. There was a set grin on his face: he hadn’t had a drive like this for forty years, and even then he had been told he was crazy! He scraped the hedges, the tyres screamed, the car body quivered and rattled; but soon he saw the pale blue lights of the Wide World Foods plant, which often worked a night shift. The huge plant, which included a cannery, deep freeze, processing and storage plants, covered several square miles. It was about a mile south of the town, with the main London railway on one side, easy for sidings.

  Once beyond it he could feel safe. Dimmock slowed down a little. There was no reflection of headlights in the mirror, but that meant nothing because the driver of the other car might have switched down to parking lights on. At forty miles an hour Dimmock drove through the silent town, and then saw two men at a corner: policemen
.

  He jammed on his brakes and slithered to a stop.

  A constable and a sergeant came towards him, and as he leaned out the sergeant said:

  “Going a bit fast, sir, aren’t you? Who—oh, it’s Dr. Dimmock.” His disapproval eased only slightly.

  “Hallo, sergeant,” Dimmock said jerkily. “Believe it or not, I’ve just avoided a hold-up in the forest. Three men in a big black car. Fired at me. Look at the bullet hole in the back if you don’t believe me.”

  Disapproval vanished.

  “Fired at you, sir?”

  “Five times. If that car comes along here, stop it. Be careful, though. Who’s on duty at the police station tonight?”

  “Superintendent Farley’s in charge, sir.”

  “I’m going to see him,” Dimmock said, and could not conceal the fact that he was as excited as a schoolboy. “Murderous brutes. Be careful.” He let in the clutch and shot off again, leaving two policemen who did not know whether to believe him or not.

  “I didn’t smell any drink,” the sergeant said thoughtfully. “I—hey, look, Bob.”

  A car came swinging round the corner of the High Street, moving quite as fast as the doctor’s car. It was big and dark. Only the sidelights were on, and no more were needed here in the well-lit High Street. The sergeant and the constable moved as one, and it did not seem to occur to either of them to fear that the men in the car were armed.

  “Nip across and watch the other side,” the sergeant said. “When they see we mean business they’ll probably make a dash for it.” He saw the constable run across the road, twenty yards in front of the approaching car, and he himself waved it down.

  It didn’t slacken speed at all. He realized at the last moment that he was within an ace of being run over. He backed desperately, felt the wind of the car, stumbled and fell backwards, and his helmet bumped on the ground like cardboard.

  The car disappeared round a corner.

  The sergeant scrambled to his feet, but swayed, and when he tried to speak, his speech was slurred. The constable came hurrying.

  “You all right, Fred? Fred—”

  “All ri’,” grunted the sergeant. “They’re after Dimmock. Get my bike. Get a call out. Car without a number-plate.”

  The constable raced across the road, leapt on a bicycle which was standing against the wall of a house, and cycled as if his life depended on it. The sergeant followed a little unsteadily, and listened for the sound of shooting, now sure that Dr. Dimmock hadn’t been suffering from D.T.s.

  He heard the sound of the car engine fade, but no shooting.

  The constable saw the racing car swing towards Bournemouth and the coast, then saw Dr. Dimmock’s car parked outside the police station, where two policemen were standing on duty and a blue light showed. Men weren’t usually on guard like this; Dimmock had probably arranged it with the Super.

  Dimmock, eyes blazing, face vivid in his excitement, grey hair standing on end, was striding about the Superintendent’s office, banging a clenched fist into the palm of his other hand, telling the whole story with graphic emphasis. Superintendent Farley knew him well as a police surgeon, and also knew how lively he could get in his cups, but this wasn’t a question of alcoholic exuberance.

  While Dimmock was spluttering, Farley lifted a telephone and said quietly:

  “We want a car stopped, and a description radioed round at once, Inspector. Ready …” he waved Dimmock to a frenzied silence. “A big saloon car, probably black, number not known, looked about fifteen years old, square back … Three men believed to be in it … Passed through the town within the last few minutes, and could have been heading for Bournemouth or the west … Yes, get the call out right away.” He rang off and stood up, a tall, darkish, slow-speaking man. “They’ll get it, Arthur,” he said soothingly.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” demanded Dimmock. “Told you they were armed, didn’t I? Why didn’t you warn your chaps?”

  “If you’re sure they were armed, I’ll send a supplementary message, but I don’t want to raise an alarm if there’s any doubt.”

  “Why, you disbelieving son of Thomas, I told you they fired at me! Warn your chaps before they get shot to ribbons, then give me a drink.” Unexpectedly, Dimmock dropped into an armchair and mopped his forehead. In a few seconds he changed from an excited, fiery, powerful-looking man to one who seemed old and tired and pale. “Not so young as I used to be,” he said. “Can’t stand the excitement. Thing that worries me is, does this explain what happened to Korven?’

  “What’s this about Korven?” asked Farley sharply.

  “Oh, I know, you never approved of me taking him on, but he’s a damned good doctor,” Dimmock said, “and I’m worried about him.”

  Before he could go on, a message came from the sergeant who had seen Dimmock outside. Immediately Farley sent out the warning about armed men. Then he listened intently to Dimmock’s story, made notes, and sent out a call for Korven and the Vespa. It was nearly half-past two. Now very tired and suffering from reaction, Dimmock didn’t argue when Farley said he would drive him home and have a constable deliver the car later.

  “Coming in for a quick one?” Dimmock asked outside his house, without any enthusiasm at all.

  “Not tonight, Arthur, thanks. Think you can find the keyhole?”

  “I’ll find the keyhole a lot quicker than you’ll find those murderous crooks,” Dimmock said gruffly. “Thanks for the lift. Ask your chap to park the car outside the garage, it won’t do any harm tonight. ‘Night.”

  “Good night.”

  Dimmock went quite briskly up to the front door of his house, and Farley drove off, hoping that the old boy didn’t get any early calls. Farley, who seldom had to deal with deeds of violence, was wondering what action he ought to take next.

  Dimmock opened the front door at the first attempt. He was tired, that was all, he always felt a bit giddy when tired. He hadn’t had enough liquor to make a kitten drunk. What he wanted was a cup of coffee and a sandwich: he was one of the rare birds who slept better after coffee. Mabel might have left a snack for him, she often did if she thought he was coming in late.

  He stepped towards the kitchen.

  The door of the room on the right was open. He noticed that and the darkness beyond, but did not notice the man standing there. He passed this door and was in the kitchen doorway when he heard a rustle of sound behind him.

  “That you, Mabel?” he asked, and turned slowly and almost irritably.

  He saw a man, a small man, with a knife in his raised right

  hand.

  Dimmock did not even cry out as the knife stabbed into his

  chest.

  Chapter Five

  INQUEST

  “Some of the aspects of this deplorable, this heartbreaking affair cannot yet be seen clearly,” the coroner said at the postponed inquest on Dr. Arthur Dimmock, “but certain facts have now been established, as you have heard from the testimony of the police. It is not my duty as coroner, or your duty as a coroner’s jury, to try to give guidance as to the part played by the men in the automobile who it appears attempted to hold Dr. Dimmock up in Conne Forest. It is not even our duty to attempt to discover motives. Still less is it our duty to comment upon the circumstances which led to Dr. Dimmock’s decision to employ as an assistant a young general practitioner with so little experience and with such a—ahem—different background.

  “Our duty is to look at the facts as presented to us, and to decide upon our verdict.

  “I have no desire to influence the members of the jury unduly, but I would be doing less than my duty if I were not to remind them of certain established facts, to wit:

  “On the night in question Dr. Korven visited a patient, one Mrs. Hill, who had been struck down by paralysis and who, unfortunately, has not yet recove
red her power of speech. Dr. Korven left, promising to return at ten o’clock. He failed to return. He failed to report to Dr. Dimmock. It is established that three small boys cycling near the cottage were impudent to him, a fact which is no doubt deplorable. It is further established that he drove through the village of Conne towards the forest. He was not seen alive again.

  “However, at Dr. Dimmock’s home, and near the body after the cruel murder, one of Dr. Korven’s gloves was found. Several small jet black hairs were found near the body, and we have heard evidence that such hairs might easily fall out of a man’s head when he was rubbing or, ah, scratching.”

  The coroner, a man of forty with the manner of one of seventy, paused to allow that statement to register on the members of the jury, which included one woman. Then he went on quietly and almost as impressively as he meant to make it:

  “We have also established that the killer’s knife, found in the garden of Dr. Dimmock’s house, was one which belonged to Dr. Korven. That is beyond all doubt.

  “There is the unexplained matter of the car which followed Dr. Dimmock through the Forest of Conne, and the men who Dr. Dimmock said fired at him. You have also heard evidence that bullet marks were found in the back of the car and others on the forest road. We have another sad fact to acknowledge, that Dr. Korven’s body was found in the sea near Tingish Head, and that the wreckage of his motor-driven machine was found near the same place. It would not be surprising, therefore, if it were to be established that Dr. Korven was in the house when Dr. Dimmock returned. However, there appears to be no good reason why Dr. Korven should wish to kill a man who was, after all, his benefactor.

  “If you agree, members of the jury, that I have given you a fair outline of the circumstances as we know them, then I feel sure that you will bring in a verdict consonant with the opinion that Dr. Dimmock was murdered by some person or persons unknown.”