by John Creasey
His heart in his mouth, Devenish pressed his foot on the accelerator, one hand gripping the wheel above his head, the other fumbling blindly for the horn. The car leapt forward, making him lose his grip, and he grabbed at the wheel desperately, knowing what was coming, thankful for a moment’s respite as he heard the bomb drop in the road behind him.
The car twisted towards the kerb. Above the dashboard, Devenish saw a lamp standard looming up in front of him. Swearing beneath his breath, he wrenched the wheel round, and the standard dropped away to his left. The car lurched sickeningly.
Then it happened!
With a devasting roar, the bomb burst. Devenish saw nothing of the vivid red and yellow flash, but felt the car lift bodily upwards from the back, its rear wheels leaving the road a good twelve inches, swaying and rocking from side to side. A rain of shrapnel showered above his head, dropping about him, on his arms, his hands, his shoulders. Several sharp points pierced the backs of his hands.
The car thudded down again, shuddered from bonnet to tail lamp, slithered forward, then jerked to a stop.
Devenish felt a tremendous load lift from his mind. Neither of the rear tyres had been pierced by the flying pieces of steel, and he was within a second or two of safety.
The deafening din of the explosion had hardly settled before a dozen windows opened, and a dozen startled faces peered into the road. From one end of the street—behind Devenish—a policeman came running, the shrill blasts of his whistle echoing between the tall buildings. Two pedestrians turned into the street, running in the policeman’s wake, and from a window just above Devenish a woman’s voice shrieked out, vibrant, high-pitched.
‘There he is—in that porch! In there ...!’
Devenish forced himself to keep below the dashboard. If he looked over the side of the car, he knew that there was still a possibility of the sharpshooter aiming for him. He heard the thudding of footsteps, the raucous voice of the policeman, the shrieking of the woman. In his mind’s eye he could picture his assailant, rushing from the cover of the porch from which he had thrown the bomb, and men who were chasing him. What he did not see—until it was past him—was the low-built car which swung suddenly into Clarges Street from the direction of Piccadilly.
The driver was a uniformed chauffeur, whose heavy features were twisted in a vicious snarl as he swerved into the little crowd of men who were running after the fugitive. The policeman held his arms wide in a plucky effort to send the car on to the pavement, but it only slowed down for a fraction of a second.
In that moment, Devenish’s attacker leapt for the rear door, swung it open, and threw himself into the back seat.
Then the driver trod on his accelerator, hunching himself over the wheel as he sent the car swooping onwards. The constable leapt madly to safety, falling headlong to the ground, and in a few seconds the car had whirled out of sight.
As Devenish climbed out of the Aston Martin he presented a picture which would last a long time in the minds of those who saw him.
His usually impeccably groomed hair was ruffled, his right cheek was smeared with blood from a slight wound just below his eye. His hands, swinging beside him unconcernedly, were a mass of cuts and scratches. His coat was ripped on the shoulder, and a piece of steel still lodged in the rent—but there was a twisted smile on his lips, and a glint in his eyes.
The constable stared.
‘You’re knocked about a bit, aren’t you, sir? I…’
‘It was a Chrysler that took the man away, wasn’t it?’ cut in Devenish.
The policeman nodded.
‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I’d better be calling the Yard. Will you accompany me to the box, sir?’
‘I will indeed,’ said Devenish, grimly.
The policeman gave his report with admirable precision, answered one or two questions, then looked at Devenish, still holding the receiver.
‘May I have your name, sir?’ he inquired formally.
Devenish grinned and gave it.
‘But,’ he went on, before the man spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘I’d like a word with a Mr. Fellowes. Do you think ...?’
The constable looked impressed.
‘You mean the Commissioner, Sir?’
‘The Commissioner,’ agreed Devenish.
‘One moment, sir,’ murmured the constable respectfully.
In a couple of minutes Hugh Devenish was talking to the Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard.
‘Hallo, Bill!’ commenced Devenish breezily.
Commissioner William Fellowes grunted.
‘It’s you again, is it?’ he demanded. ‘I thought you’d gone native. What’s the trouble?’
‘Lots and lots,’ grinned Devenish, ‘of large men with little guns and a dislike of me.’
At the other end of the wire, Fellowes widened his eyes, and snapped out a request to a clerk who was with him to get the number of ‘Z’ Department.
‘Hold the line a moment,’ he told Devenish, then spoke into the other telephone on his desk.
A moment’s conversation with Craigie sufficed him.
‘So you’re on that game, are you?’ he said, back on the line to Devenish.
‘By the grace of Providence and a pretty face,’ said Hugh, ‘I am. Tell this constable I can go, will you?’
Fellowes chuckled.
‘Confound you—yes. But wait a moment, Hugh. Craigie wants to know when you’re going round.’
‘In a couple of hours, if I’m alive,’ said Devenish cheerfully.
Twenty-five minutes later, he arrived at Companies House, went straight to the department of company registration, and soon had in front of him a pile of papers concerning the Marritaband Development Company Ltd.
At first sight, his mission looked like being disappointing. The Marritaband Development Company had gone out of existence two years before, apparently because there had been nothing left to develop. The unfortunates who had bought shares had lost everything they had invested.
As he made a note of the names of the four directors, he commented on his disappointment to the clerk who was helping him in his search.
The man scratched his forehead.
‘If my memory serves me well,’ he commented, ‘I remember that the Marritaband Company, after its bankruptcy, was purchased by another firm—now let me see,’ he muttered, closing his eyes with the effort of memory. ‘I seem to remember a very great similarity of names—Marrit—Marritibar—no, that’s not it, but the name’s on the tip of my tongue, sir. I—I beg your pardon?’
He broke off, as Devenish snapped his fingers. Devenish had been leaning against a desk, gazing out of the window overlooking Waterloo Bridge, but as the name came to him he turned on the clerk with a gleam of excitement in his eyes.
‘Marritibas!’ he muttered. ‘I thought as much....’
The clerk quickly found the papers regarding Marritaba Tin Mines, Ltd., and Devenish turned to the original form of application, which held the names and addresses of the directors of the company.
There were four.
As Devenish had suspected, the directors of Marritaba Tin Mines, Ltd., had also been the directors of the Marritaband Development Company.
• • • • •
Exactly one hour after he had called at Companies House, Devenish walked thoughtfully back to his car. The names and addresses of all four directors of the two companies—one of which had ruined Tony Carruthers—in his pocket.
Before he set out on a tour of the four addresses, he telephoned Craigie.
‘I want another three or four hours,’ said Devenish, without preamble.
‘For the love of Mike, be careful, Hugh. This job’s getting nasty.’
‘Did you say getting?’ asked Devenish.
9
Devenish Makes Some Visits
The first name on the list of the Marritabas directors was Mr. Samuel Benjamin Martin, who lived at Queen’s Court Chambers, Grosvenor Gardens, S.W.I. Devenish had no desire to meet Mr. Mart
in personally. He wanted, simply, to obtain a photograph of the director, who had shared in the prosecution of Marion Dare four years earlier.
A middle-aged charwoman opened the door. Mr. Martin, so she told him, would not be in until after six.
‘What a pity,’ sighed Devenish, unostentatiously putting his foot against the jamb.
As he spoke, he dipped his hand into his breast pocket, and with a quickness which did anything but deceive the woman’s eye, he produced a pound note.
The woman opened the door more widely, eyeing the note.
‘Please listen,’ urged Devenish, stepping over the threshold into a tastefully furnished room which bespoke the success of Marritabas—for Mr. Martin. ‘I don’t want to steal anything. Find me one photograph of Martin, and this is yours. If I could have a look round,’ he suggested helpfully, ‘I expect I could find one. Does he keep a photograph album, do you know?’
The charwoman retreated into the room.
‘Humph!’ she snorted. ‘I’d say ‘e do. Alius being photygraphed with a girl, and alius a different girl. I don’t know what the world’s comin’ to, that I don’t.’
Devenish sighed.
‘Nor do I,’ he admitted sadly, looking round the room with considerable interest.
It was not overloaded with furniture, and besides a luxurious Chesterfield suite in blue tapestry, there were only two small bookcases half-filled with paperbacks, an occasional table, and a desk.
The woman opened the desk and pulled open an inner drawer. There were papers inside which it might have paid Devenish to study, but he had neither the time nor the opportunity. Had he started to read them, the charwoman would almost certainly have repented, and he had no desire to antagonise her.
At the back of the drawer was a small, leather-covered album, decorated in gold with S.B.M.—Mr. Martin’s initials.
Devenish sorted through the little pack of postcard enlargements at the back of the book, glad that he would be able to take a photograph without leaving an empty space.
Martin was tall and well-built, with finely-cut features and dark heavily-lidded eyes. Not a man likely to be easily forgotten, Devenish thought, as he slipped one of the enlargements into his pocket and the pound note into the charwoman’s eager hand. Then, with a cheery wave, he let himself out of the flat.
As he walked along the short corridor, from which two other flats opened, he heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. Settling his face into an expression of cheerful vacuity, Devenish walked on.
His expression very nearly let him down, as the newcomer turned into the passage. For Mr. Samuel Benjamin Martin was coming home much earlier than the charwoman had expected.
In the flesh, the director of Marritaba Tin was even more handsome than his photographs had predicted, but in his eyes there was, at that moment, an expression of ferocious anger which made Devenish thankful that the meeting had not taken place five minutes earlier. Martin was hurrying, and his arms swung vigorously at his sides.
Devenish, who had never been known to miss an opportunity, thought suddenly that he would have a still better knowledge of Samuel if he heard his voice. The idea came to him as they were level with each other—Martin had not troubled to look at Devenish, but walked on, glaring straight ahead.
‘I wonder what’s upset his apple cart?’ Devenish thought to himself, and slipped sideways, cannoning into Martin’s big frame. The man staggered away, banging his head hard against the wall.
Devenish recovered himself quickly.
‘I say!’ he exclaimed, with an apologetic expression of doelike dismay in his eyes, ‘I’m sorry ...’
Mr. Martin swung round, swearing viciously.
‘You clumsy lout!’ he snapped harshly. ‘Why the hell don’t you look where you’re going?’
Devenish swallowed hard. At all times there were methods of expression which he disliked, and at this moment he disliked the man’s tone, words, and manner.
‘I said,’ he murmured coldly, ‘that I was sorry.’
‘I’ll teach you!’ Martin grated, aiming a weighty but ill timed blow at Devenish’s chin. ‘I—ach!’
‘That,’ murmured Devenish brightly, as he shot his fist outwards, ‘will teach you that all nice gentlemen accept an apology.’
The director of Marritabas crashed to the floor. He was stunned, but not unconscious, Devenish saw quickly, and was best left alone.
• • • • •
Mr. Horace Oswald Birch, the second director on Devenish’s list, lived with his wife and child in Gomshall Gardens. Mrs. Birch turned out to be a faded, harassed-looking woman, struggling vainly to cope with the obstinacy of an unruly five-year-old.
He did want his photograph taken. And whatever his mother said, he was going to have it taken.
‘But,’ said the woman, with a helpless shrug, ‘the gentleman doesn’t want to take photographs, he wants to copy them. Ronald must...’
‘Look here,’ said Devenish, with his most captivating smile, ‘I’ve a camera in my car. If you’ll let me make you half a dozen copies of a family group, Mrs.…’
‘Birch,’ supplied Mrs. Birch.
‘I’ll do one of the youngster without charging. It means,’ Hugh added convincingly, ‘a great deal to me, madam. My firm specialises in enlargements, and unless I get a certain number of orders ...’
Mrs. Birch surrendered, and Devenish took Ronald’s picture, gave Ronald sixpence, and went away from the flat with a family group of the Birches in his pocket.
Mr. Honeybaum, the third director, lived in Chelsea’s most residential quarter, near Cheyne Walk. The maid was very sorry, but she couldn’t possibly let the gentleman have a photograph—no—really....
‘You know,’ said Devenish, waggishly, ‘I think you’re afraid of what Mr. Honeybaum looks like. I...’
‘Indeed I’m not!’ asserted the maid vehemently. ‘He’s a very nice-looking gentleman.’ She looked at Devenish, flushed with her championing and with the light of battle in her eyes. ‘Why,’ she went on, drawing back into the hall a pace—she had kept the caller on the well-whitened doorstep—‘there’s a photo of him hanging here—you can see for yourself.’
Devenish craned his neck, thankful for even a sight of Mr. Honeybaum, who appeared to be a man of medium height, silver-haired and benevolent of aspect. He agreed that her loyalty was justified, and made his exit, a little disappointed, but realising that luck couldn’t last for ever. At least he knew what the third director looked like.
The fourth and last director was Octavius William Young, whose name had after it: ‘British-French origin.’
Mr. Young was the only member of the board who lived in the suburbs, his residence being in Mortimer Road, Barnes. His house was the proud possessor of a name, not a number, and was called ‘Fourways’.
Devenish strode up to the front door, having left his car some distance up the road, and banged on the ornate iron knocker. The banging echoed inside the house, but there was no sound of movement. Devenish knocked again, and again, still without an answer.
He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. The place was empty, and he had no desire to make a forced entry. He strolled to the corner of Mortimer Road and looked back at ‘Fourways’, hoping that someone would turn into it.
The nearest house was fifty yards away, and three sides of the residence of Mr. Young faced common land.
As Devenish watched, a car turned off the road leading across the common, and into Mortimer Road. At first he noticed it casually; then he stiffened.
There might be nothing in it, he reasoned to himself; but the car was a Chrysler, twin brother to the rescue car of Clarges Street.
Devenish hunched his head into his shoulders and half turned, hoping that he was hidden from the view of the uniformed chauffeur, yet still contrived to watch the car. Suddenly he gave a start of surprise.
The driver was Marcus Riordon’s ex-bruiser. The driver of the car which had tried to run him down the previous evening
, and in all probability the driver of the car which had rescued his attacker that afternoon.
His eyes widened with astonishment as he saw the car draw up outside ‘Fourways’ and a man get out of the back passenger seat and walk rapidly towards the house.
Devenish whistled inaudibly. Of the many things which he had half-expected, he had never dreamed of finding Mr. Charles Rickett, secretary of the Carilon Club, visiting the home of one of Riordon’s puppet directors.
10
Lord Aubrey Chester Disappears
Devenish waited until the door had closed on Rickett and the Chrysler had been driven into the brick-built garage by the side of ‘Fourways’ before he moved towards his own car. He lost no time in getting into it, and left Mortimer Road quickly and with a prayer of devout thanks to the fates which had watched over him.
Apart from the indubitable danger, he was anxious, too, to get away knowing but unknown. He had learned many things that afternoon, all of which were interesting. Nothing, however, was of such vital importance to his mission for ‘Z’ Department as his discovery that Rickett was one of the workers in the Riordons’ mysterious campaign.
As he hummed along the road towards Hammersmith, Devenish sat well back, his lips set firmly. He knew, now, why the death of Tony Carruthers had been such a complete mystery.
Knowing that, of course, was a long way from being able to prove it. On the other hand, Devenish was not concerned, directly, with the solving of Carruthers’s murder. His job was a bigger one; and the part which Rickett was playing in the affair promised to reveal a line of investigation hitherto unknown.
The farther he went, the more certain he was that he had garnered a point which was invaluable, and he congratulated himself mildly on having resisted the temptation to have a go at the visitor to ‘Fourways’.
As he said ‘visitor’ to himself, he wondered why.
Rickett had driven up to the house, had let himself in with a key, and his car had been garaged there. There was more than a chance, thought Devenish, that Mr.—known in the Press as ‘M’sieu’—Rickett was none other than Octavius William Young (British-French origin).
