by John Creasey
A telephone bell rang, and Palfrey picked up the instrument, giving a nod of apology. He said, “Yes, Jim,” in a way that he had done thousands of times before, but then seemed to grip the telephone more tightly, and bleakness showed in his eyes. As he listened, a faint sound of Jim’s voice came into the big room.
“All right,” Palfrey said at last. “Thanks, Jim. No, not now.” He rang off, and his right hand strayed to his hair as it so often did when he was under stress, and he said: “Cornell died an hour ago. There’s a message from Pau saying that our man there isn’t likely to last the day out. Same cause, but it’s killed quicker. Swelling of the throat, paralysis, sudden anaemia, wasting and death.”
Matt felt the intensity of his gaze and the cool appraising gaze of the Russian. This was a kind of test, hurled at him by the circumstances.
“Sap,” he said, “are you sure I ought to have the woman with me? Wouldn’t it be better to try to handle this alone?”
Palfrey began to smile.
“No,” he said. “I’m going to send you photographs of our agent Yvonne Brown, of Rondivallo, and of all his known girl friends including Maureen O’Shea. Make sure you’ll recognise any original you happen to see.”
“Right,” said Matt, and grinned. “I hope Rondi’s taste was good.”
Chapter Eight
VISITORS TO CONNE
Matt Stone waited by the side of his powder blue Chrysler, parked in one of the smaller London squares, where American cars usually attracted attention. Most youths and most men who passed glanced at it; most girls and women glanced at him as he sat at the wheel. It was a bright morning, although the sun wasn’t yet hot, and he sat relaxed and at ease at the wheel. He watched the pavement in front, and kept glancing in the wing mirror so that he could see who was walking towards him; he hadn’t yet met Yvonne Brown. All he knew was that she would be wearing a pale yellow linen dress, that she was a brunette, that her name was so unexpected. He was not sure how old she was, but the photographs suggested the early thirties. He told himself that the manner of their meeting was a piece of pointless play-acting on Palfrey’s part, but Palfrey always had a purpose. This could be another kind of test, the girl’s first job might be to tell Palfrey how he had reacted.
A girl turned the corner behind him, and the sun made her yellow dress look very bright. He watched as she came walking towards him. Nice legs, nice ankles. Tall. He couldn’t see her face and wasn’t sure that it mattered. As she drew nearer he had a peculiar view of her. Her feet disappeared in the mirror, he could see her legs, and also her waist and bosom. Well, Palfrey hadn’t exactly wished a hag or a bag on him. She drew nearer, walking briskly but without any sign of haste, and the temptation to look round was overwhelming; but Matt continued to look into the mirror. This might not be Yvonne Brown, remember. She was on the outside of a stream of people closest to him. Now he could only see her waist, but he could hear the sharp tap-tap of her footsteps.
She drew up alongside the car.
He put his head through the open window.
“Why, hallo Yvonne?”
“Yes,” she said.
He looked into her face. It was beautiful, and like the photograph, but lifeless. It was easy to understand why he wasn’t expected to like her. He didn’t like the way she said “yes” or the coldness of her expression or the aloofness of her manner. She was English “county” at its stuffiest. All these thoughts went through Matt’s mind as he slid out of the car and held the door open for her.
“Won’t you get in?”
“Thank you.” Words could be made of ice, and these were very close to it. He shut the door on her and went round to the other side, to get in. At least fifty people were in the square, but for a few moments Matt hardly noticed any of them. He felt mad at Yvonne Brown. Then he glanced into the wing and driving mirrors again, to see if anyone was showing interest in her or in him. No one appeared to be. He started the engine, waited for an errand boy to pass, and then slid forward. By then, he had decided to behave as if this woman was the friendliest, fluffiest little creature imaginable, as warm as she was frigid. It was no use nursing himself into a mood of resentment because Palfrey had wished an iceberg onto him.
He gave her his brightest smile.
“Did they make a mystery of me to you too?”
“Mystery?” She wasn’t even going to co-operate.
“Did they show you a photograph?”
“Yes,” she answered, and did not trouble to ask if he had seen a photograph of her, or to make any comment at all. She sat rather primly. In the wide front seat there was room for another person between them, and Iceberg Yvonne Brown obviously meant to keep at a distance. She wore shoes of soft green leather, and there was no doubt that her legs and ankles were better than most. Her dress was embroidered with small flowers of a slightly paler yellow than the linen itself.
Matt tried again.
“Sap tells me you know the Forest of Conne well.”
“Very well.”
“Been there recently?”
“No.”
Matt looked at the traffic, which was thickening as they neared Piccadilly.
“How about telling me what Sap’s told you?”
“Very well,” she said.
He could have slapped her down, she was so snooty; but he accepted the situation now. He manoeuvred the big car into Piccadilly traffic, taking advantage of every chance he had to forge ahead. At Hyde Park Corner there was a thick knot of traffic which seemed to separate in front of him, and he grinned as he swung round by the hospital, and said:
“That Gordian knot’s untied.”
She said: “Dr. Palfrey told me that...”
She had a pleasant voice once she forgot that she was Lady Goddess Almighty, but it wasn’t her voice which impressed Matt, it was the way she told her story. This girl had a mind as lucid as infra-red rays. She told everything in detail, which proved conclusively that Palfrey had kept nothing back from her. Yet she did not glance at Matt as he drove at nearer forty than thirty.
“… and of course we have to try to find out what caused Mrs. Hill’s seizure, and the essential thing is to trace her movement on the day she was taken ill; and on the preceding days if necessary.”
“That’s right,” Matt said. “And we have to talk to everyone who saw her after she was struck down, and anyone the doctors might have talked to. Also”— he smiled faintly, and shot her a sidelong glance— “we have to do all this without allowing anyone to suspect that we’re interested in her.”
“If the task was easy, it would hardly be worth Dr. Palfrey’s while sending two of us,” she said.
Matt looked as if he were startled.
“That’s exactly right!” he declared. “How come I didn’t think of it?” But sarcasm was wasted on her; so was the grin which accompanied it, for she was staring straight ahead.
Matt settled down more comfortably in his seat once they were on the Great West Road, and he felt that he could let the engine all out. Factories, houses, garages, churches and pubs all fell behind; then they hummed past the London Airport; then into Staines.
“You want to stop for coffee?” Matt asked.
“I would rather get on with the job.”
“Suits me, but we have to eat.”
“We should reach the forest before one o’clock,” Yvonne Brown said, “and before we try anywhere else I think we ought to try to get accommodation at the Forest Hotel. It’s the obvious place for tourists of our standing. In any case we can get luncheon there.”
Matt couldn’t resist saying:
“It’s where Rondivallo stayed before he vanished, remember.”
“Yes, of course.”
They drove through Staines.
“Now let’s see how soon we can get to the forest.” Matt said,
and let the great car have its head. It held the road as if it was still, not touching ninety miles an hour. Speed soothed him. “Sap give you photographs of Rondi’s girl friends to study?”
“Yes.”
“The one he was making hay with down here was quite a picture,” Matt observed. “An Irish red-head.”
“She was bright chestnut,” declared Yvonne Brown.
“Okay,” Matt said, and sighed. “Light bright chestnut.”
The Forest Hotel stood in its own grounds on the Winchester side of the forest. It was on a hill, and had views over the forest and the rolling countryside beyond. Bordering the forest were the great market gardens and orchards which helped to feed the Wide World Foods plant, and beyond the fields was the English Channel. They could just see the sea as they got out of the car in front of the huge doors and the wide stone steps of the hotel. It looked more like a private house, with its arched, mullioned window, its iron work, its pale grey stone.
“Someone’s ancestral home,” Matt observed, and looked up at a great coat-of-arms emblazoned on the stained-glass window atop the front door.
“Yes,” Yvonne said.
He had an odd feeling, when they went inside, that they were expected or at least were recognised. He was used to the friendliness and often the courtesy of the English, but they seemed to be a little over-obsequious here; perhaps Yvonne had that effect on them. A faded, greying man at the desk in the hall, which looked like the hall of a miniature castle, greeted them.
Yes, there were rooms, each with a bathroom.
Yes, they were in good time for luncheon.
Yes …
They went straight to the dining-room, which was large, and panelled in baronial hall style; six waitresses were all easy on the eye.
Theirs was a girl with more than her share of looks and with light auburn hair. She wasn’t the missing Maureen O’Shea, but was very like her, and her Irish brogue was as lilting as a brogue could be.
Yvonne did not seem to notice this.
Service and food were so good that it was almost suspicious. Had Palfrey laid it on? Once before he, Matt, had gone to a hotel and found that it had been filled with Z5 members. This one, too? He didn’t really think so. He noticed with wry amusement that Yvonne seemed as hungry as he was.
He pushed his plate aside.
“For a souffle, that had most of my Paris friends beaten,” he said. “Where do you suggest we go first?” He had decided that the Irish girl could be tackled later.
“You are in charge,” Yvonne said, and glanced round quickly, as if to make sure that they hadn’t been overheard. No one was near them.
“I’d like to look over the terrain,” Matt agreed, “and also the place where Rondivallo worked. We need to see the cottage where Mrs. Hill collapsed, too, and the other where the Carter family lives. Then I’d like to talk to the man Hill, when I can find an excuse.”
“I can find one,” Yvonne said.
Goddam her, Matt thought; yet in a way she more amused than irritated him.
“Is there a good reason for a tourist to go in that general direction?”
“Oh, yes,” Yvonne said. “One of the more interesting Roman burial mounds in the district is near there. Two years ago urns were dug up, and more bones were discovered. It is certainly a place which an American tourist should visit.”
She did not even smile.
“According to my memory,” Matt said, “this Carter family consists of husband, wife and three children, two of them in the late teens, one about nine. The woman is sour and a gossip, the man a dullard with green fingers. They make a fair living growing vegetables. What do you call that kind of farmer?”
“He is a market gardener.”
“Sure, I knew there was a word for it. He lives in a cottage near the hills. Shall we go near there for a start?”
“We can drive on the top road and look down on the cottages about a mile and a half away,” Yvonne Brown explained. “From there you can see over the whole of the terrain.”
Still she did not smile, but the way she said that made him wonder whether a dry sense of humour was hiding beneath the ice. He was more preoccupied with Yvonne than he wanted to be; the meal had been good enough to make him sleepy.
As he drove away from Forest Hotel, with its well-trained servants and its atmosphere of bygone days, the whole of the Forest of Conne spread out in front of him, and beyond there were the undulating hills of Hampshire, some green, some brown and freshly ploughed, some gold as corn on the great American prairies. There were the big orchards and the neat fields of peas and beans, with dozens of labourers busy in the fields. The sun was hot; it would be easy to doze off.
Matt glanced at Yvonne as they turned out of the gates, soon losing elevation; half of the view had already disappeared. She was staring straight ahead of her, and had quite a profile, Matt already knew: classic was the word.
She told him to take a narrow road to the left. They passed three S bend signs within a mile, and forty miles an hour was the highest safe speed. That suited Matt’s mood. Soon they came to a straight stretch of road, rising steep, and Yvonne said:
“If you pull off the road by that oak tree, you can see everything you want to see.”
“Fine.”
It was quite a tree, with low, spreading branches capturing the sun and making the grass beneath it look black with shadow. He turned into the shade. The ground dropped sharply away from the road, and a small, flat valley lay in front of them, brushed with England’s pride. Beyond was the azure blue of the sea, like a sparkling stream.
“My, my,” Matt said. “It’s quite a place.”
She didn’t comment, just pointed towards the right.
“You can just see the church tower of Conne village, and the red roof of the inn.” Her arm moved. “There is the road which leads to the cottage where Jane Hill died. It is the tiled one.” Not only that, it looked small and snug, and in the front of it there was a tiny patch of bright colour, the flower garden showing clearly, although this was two miles away. “Over there, beyond the cottage, are the Roman mounds, and to the left, where those three small buildings are grouped, is the Carters’ cottage. You can see his smallholding quite well.”
“Yes,” Matt said. The smallholding land was clearly visible and they could see the straight lines of the growing plants. “You certainly know your terrain,” he added dryly.
For the first time she looked at him as if she was going to smile.
They got out of the Chrysler.
A mosquito settled on Yvonne’s forehead. With nine people out often, Matt would have acted first and laughed afterwards; he would have knocked it off. With her, he said:
“There’s a skeeter on your forehead.”
“Oh,” she said, and shook her head and put her hand up to brush it off. She made a little grimace. “I felt it bite,” she added. “Look. Ugh!” She squashed the thing, and it stained a tiny part of her forehead and a tiny part of her finger red with her blood.
They forgot the mosquito.
Coming from the Forest of Conne and the village on the outskirts was a small car. Matt took out a pair of field-glasses and looked through them. The small Austin seemed to keep towards him, and he could see the man and woman sitting in it. The Carters had that model car. They were travelling at quite a speed and were close to the Hills’ cottage. They drew level with it and passed. The Carters’ home was about a mile and a half away, as far as Matt could judge, and on the road was a little clump of trees. These were probably the Carters.
The small car slowed down, moved off again, and then seemed to sway, as if the driver was out of control.
It started yet again.
Yvonne was watching it intently, while Matt caught a glimpse of a movement among the trees. He did not notice that Yvonne was ru
bbing at her forehead; he did notice that the driver seemed to be trying to get out of the Austin. At that moment there seemed no significance in either of these things, but when the car stopped he saw two men near the clump of trees, one on either side of the Austin.
The little car’s driver was standing by it now, one arm waving, as if pleading for help. Then without a moment of warning, so suddenly that it seemed unreal, there was a flash, a billow of dark smoke hiding the car completely and enshrouding some of the trees.
Yvonne exclaimed:
“What’s that?”
“Hold it,” Matt said tensely. He saw two men running from the smoke; a moment later they vanished beneath some trees. Now there was the cloud of dark smoke tinged with a red which was getting brighter; the glow of fire. “How fast can we get down to the village?” Matt demanded, and snatched the glasses from his eyes. “We have to cut that pair off.”
A car appeared from the shelter of the trees, moving swiftly towards Conne.
“We’ll never cut that off,” Yvonne said in a thin voice. “They’d be halfway to Lauriston before we reached the village.” Her voice was tense and hard. “We might be able to help—”
She broke off.
The smoke was high above the blaze, now, and the fire itself looked like a molten red ball, burning so fiercely that they knew that there wasn’t a chance for the two people who had been in the car.
The Carters?
Matt was holding Yvonne’s wrist and drawing her towards the Chrysler.
“Get in, and hurry. Can we reach Lauriston before they do?”
“We might be able to, but why?”
He slammed the door and leapt in at the driving seat, and they were moving almost before she had finished the question.
“Which way?” Matt was sharp-voiced.
“The way we came.”
Mat swung the car round as if it was a toy, and put his foot down. They seemed to leave the ground as they leapt down the hill. Halfway down, and without taking his gaze off the road, Matt said:
