by John Creasey
The harsh, insistent ringing of the door bell interrupted her. Martin and his companion were getting impatient.
Wiggings fidgeted, clenching his hands.
‘Jus’ let me ‘ave one slam at ‘em,’ he pleaded. ‘I won’t ‘urt ‘em, reely.’
‘We’d better telephone the police,’ said Diane urgently.
Marion shook her head determinedly.
‘I’ll call the number Hugh gave me,’ she said. ‘Wiggings, you had better stay in the hall, in case they try to break through, and Pincher had better watch from the window.’
She went to the telephone, and within thirty seconds heard a quiet, rather sharp voice at the other end of the line, a voice which somehow gave her much more confidence than she had felt previously.
‘I’m speaking from Hugh Devenish’s flat,’ she said quietly. ‘Do you ...’
‘I understand quite well,’ said Gordon Craigie.
‘He asked me,’ said Marion, losing no time, ‘to mention Wharncliff.’
‘Has he gone?’
‘Yes—a quarter of an hour ago.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘Yes—Lord Chester is there.’
There was a brief silence at the other end of the wire, then Craigie’s voice came again, reassuringly.
‘All right, Miss Dare,’ he said. ‘I’ll look after that. Are you all right?’
Marion wondered afterwards at the extent of Craigie’s knowledge—although she did not then know him as Craigie—and at the calm confidence of his voice. She spoke quickly.
‘No—at least, I don’t think so. There are two men outside, and another with a car ...’
‘Do you recognise the men?’
‘One of them—a man named Samuel Martin.’
Craigie muttered something inaudible, and there was an edge to his voice as he spoke again.
‘For the love of heaven,’ he said urgently, ‘don’t open your front door until you hear from the police. Put a barricade of furniture in the hall if necessary, and keep away from the windows. That’s all.’
He replaced his receiver, and Marion did likewise, looking into Diane’s anxious eyes with a slight, relieved smile.
‘I think we shall be all right,’ she said quietly.
• • • • •
It was, Fellowes afterwards told Craigie, a perfect example of co-operation between ‘Z’ Department and Scotland Yard. Within five seconds of speaking to Marion Dare, Craigie had sent urgent request for Flying Squad cars to go to the Clarges Street flat. Within ninety seconds, two powerful police cars hummed out of the courtyard at Scotland Yard into Whitehall, and less than ten minutes later they appeared in Clarges Street, one at each end.
Warned by the Bleddon’s Bank outrage, the police took no chances. As they drove past the waiting car, they sprayed it with gas, and the man in tweeds, now sitting in the driving seat, gave one short, strangled cough and slumped sideways, dead to the world. Then, walking quickly but quietly, two plain-clothed detectives went up to Devenish’s flat; both men wore masks, making them look like denizens of some strange undiscovered world.
The first notion Martin had of trouble was a slight, barely noticeable hiss. He had been trying to force the door of the flat. He swung round, his hand dropping like lightning to his pocket, but before he could touch the trigger of his gun, gas billowed invisibly into his eyes, his nose, his mouth. For a moment he reared, clawing the air, then he too slumped down, his companion dropping across him.
‘Keep away from the door for five minutes,’ called one of the detectives, as he heard footsteps hurrying across the flat. ‘Then open it—there’s nothing to worry about.’
• • • • •
‘So we’ve got Martin,’ said Gordon Craigie, when he heard the result of the raid, a quarter of an hour later.
‘Do you think you can make him talk?’ asked the Chief Commissioner, who might be sceptical of the charges levelled against Sir Basil Riordon, but had no hesitation about dealing with gangsters in the salubrious neighbourhood of Clarges Street.
‘You might not be able to,’ returned Craigie, with a ghost of a chuckle, ‘but I am.’
• • • • •
Robert Augustus Bruce, a large, humorous-faced, curly-headed man, whose connection with ‘Z’ Department had started some eighteen months before, arrived at the bar of the Carilon Club at five forty-five that evening.
At six o’clock two more ‘Z’ Department agents, Tobias and Timothy Arran, joined him.
Tobias and Timothy were twins, but there was little resemblance between them. Timothy was a lean, weary-looking man, medium tall, fair-haired, blue eyed. Tobias was the same height as his brother, but his hair and eyes were dark, his manner alert.
All three men were expecting instrutions from Craigie.
At twenty past six a waiter informed Bruce that he was wanted on the telephone. The Arran brothers awaited his return with a mixture of anxiety and eagerness.
‘Wonder what job he’s got for us this time,’ murmured Timothy over the rim of his tankard.
All at once there was a sudden, stifled cry from the reading-room of the club, freezing the gathering in the bar to temporary immobility. For a moment no one moved or spoke. Then a middle-aged man burst through the reading-room door, his eyes staring, his hands waving in frenzy.
‘Get the police!’ he bellowed. ‘Don’t stand there gaping ... get the police! Meeson’s been murdered!’
In the uproar which followed, Bruce, who had received his instructions from Craigie and had returned to the bar, slipped quietly through the club and into the street, closely followed by the Arrans. All three men realised that if they didn’t leave then, and quickly, the police would be holding them for the inevitable inquiry.
Bruce turned to his two companions.
‘The Chief said hurry,’ he snapped. ‘Do you know Wharncliff?’
The others nodded.
‘Right,’ said Bruce. ‘Hugh Devenish paid the Riordons a visit this afternoon, and Craigie thinks he may need help. Keep on my tail.’
He stepped quickly into the grey Bentley pulled up at the kerb, and in the next moment the big car was disappearing down the street, closely followed by Tobias and Timothy Arran in their super-charged roadster.
17
More Trouble at Wharncliff
The Hon. Marcus Riordon stood on the drive leading to Wharncliff Hall, watching the faint red glow spreading over the heavens above the burning house. Lydia Crane stood beside him.
There was no sign of Devenish or Aubrey Chester.
Riordon’s face was twisted in an ugly grin as a tongue of flame shot suddenly from the roof of the Hall, vivid and yellow.
‘They’ll get too hot in a minute,’ he muttered. ‘If we can get Devenish out of the way we’re all right.’
‘There are others,’ murmured Lydia Crane.
Riordon missed her sarcastic drawl.
‘I can cope with the others,’ he said, ‘but Devenish is too dangerous. All I hope,’ he went on, an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice, ‘is that no one sees the fire from the village.’
Lydia laughed softly.
‘Your nerves are getting bad,’ she said. ‘No one in the village ever looks this way—they don’t like us well enough.’
Riordon glanced at her sharply.
‘What the devil’s the matter with you?’ he demanded, with an edge to his voice.
Lydia smiled to herself in the gloom.
‘I’m tired of all this,’ she answered, sincerely enough. ‘It’s nerve-racking, Marcus—it’s getting us both down. Why don’t you finish it and get away?’
Riordon shrugged his shoulders.
‘I can’t just yet,’ he muttered. ‘The stakes are too high. Another day or two, though ...’
‘It’s been that for weeks,’ said Lydia Crane wearily. ‘Killing, killing, killing! It’s too dangerous, I tell you.’
‘Sto
p that talk!’ snarled Riordon. ‘I’ve got enough to think about without you worrying me. God! Look at that!’
As he spoke, a sudden aura of yellow flame shot up above Wharncliff Hall. Vivid, awe-inspiring, the fire raged over the roof of the house—and Riordon, who had started the fire cunningly, knew that the only part of the building not affected by the flames was the front hall and the two large front rooms. In one place or the other Devenish and Chester were waiting—waiting!
Riordon had posted his men at fifty-yard intervals round the Hall, knowing that when the heat of the conflagration reached its limit the two men would make a sortie, preferring to risk a bullet than be burnt alive.
He reasoned accurately.
• • • • •
In the front hall of the big house Devenish and Chester were working like demons, clearing everything they could move as far away from the slowly encroaching flames as possible. They knew that there was only one chance of escape—rescue from outside—and although the odds were heavily against them they determined grimly to wait to the last possible moment before leaving the house.
They could not last much longer, they realised.
The heat was terrific—a dry, scorching heat, made worse by the voluminous clouds of smoke sweeping from the upstairs rooms and along the passage from the domestic quarters of the Hall. Rarely a minute passed without a rending crash from above, telling of crashing walls, fire-eaten ceilings. On the first landing the flames had gained a fierce hold, great tongues of fire stretching sometimes to within a few yards of the two men.
Devenish, stripped to his waist, sweat rolling down his blackened face, stopped working suddenly and wearily straightened his back.
‘We’ll have to make it soon,’ he muttered hoarsely.
He turned round, his back to the door, and stared into the raging fire. Chester, his shirt blackened and scorched, his trousers torn jaggedly at the knee, showing a gleam of white flesh, stared at him.
The fire crackled and hissed above and about them, eating everything that came in its path. It was creeping now along the parquet-covered floor.
The air was stifling, hot, and thick. Every breath was an effort, every movement painful. Now and again something cracked in the flames like pistol-shot. Pieces of wood shot out, thudding against the walls and the door; once a great patch of plaster dropped from the ceiling, smashing into a thousand pieces, which rained over the two men like a shower of shrapnel.
‘That’s enough,’ Devenish muttered grimly. ‘Are we going out of the same window, or are we splitting up?’
‘We’ll s-stick to-g-gether,’ Chester gasped. ‘C-come on!’
The library was filling with flames and smoke as they hurried towards the broken window—another five minutes, they knew, would have made their escape from the Hall impossible.
As it was, they had one chance in a thousand of a getaway. In spite of the gloom outside—it was dark now—the fire would throw their figures up in sharp relief, plain targets for the gunmen who were waiting for them.
Devenish went first, crouching low as he climbed over the low window-sill, dropping down with a thud and laying full length on the ground. As Chester came after him, a bullet hummed over their heads into the fire-filled room.
Devenish crawled forward, pulling his automatic out of his pocket as he went. Aubrey had the smaller gun which had been strapped to Devenish’s calf earlier in the day.
‘They won’t have it all their own way,’ muttered Devenish. ‘Look for the flame when they fire.’
Another bullet whined an inch or two over his head as he spoke and he felt the wind rustle his hair.
Devenish swore and touched the trigger of his gun. Forty yards away he had seen two little flashes of yellow flame. Behind the flashes was the gunman.
He waited for a third flash, then fired. His automatic sneezed, flame spurted. Forty yards away a man cursed with pain as a bullet tore into his thigh.
The shooting stopped, and Devenish realised that his shot had hit its mark. But the next instant it was taken up again from a clump of bushes fifty yards to the right, and more bullets whined over their heads, dangerously near.
Devenish gritted his teeth as he crawled on, moving towards the gap in the cordon of gunmen. If he could get the man behind the bush as well, there would be a hundred yards or more clear space—and a lot could happen over a hundred yards when the shooting was confined to automatics.
The thought was hardly in his mind when he saw another flash of yellow over a hundred yards away. A bullet thudded into the ground less than a foot from his nose, sending a little spray of dirt into his face, momentarily blinding him.
Revolver-fire wouldn’t have carried that distance. Riordon’s men must have rifles!
The next two minutes confirmed his worst fears. Instead of occasional shots, a regular fusillade of rifle-fire broke out and spurts of dirt and dust shot up all around them. A bullet scored across Devenish’s forehead, leaving a thin trail of blood. Another pitted into Chester’s forearm.
‘All right?’ queried Devenish anxiously.
‘So-so,’ muttered Chester. ‘L-let’s make for th-that c-clump of bushes, Hugh.’
A short clump of laurels stretched to their right, perhaps ten feet from end to end. They crawled towards it, a sudden wave of hope in their breasts.
Just as they reached it the hope was smashed.
Not five yards on the other side was another row of laurels—and suddenly the bushes seemed to blaze with fire. Not desultory shooting, this time, but regular, monotonous firing. Tappitty-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap ...
‘My God!’ gasped Aubrey. ‘M-machine g-guns! W-we’re th-through, old son ...’
Devenish muttered through his clenched teeth.
‘If they get our range we are,’ he said. ‘Don’t try shooting them,’ he went on. ‘They’ll find us soon enough.’
For two terrible minutes the machine gun fire rattled through the night, ominous, death-dealing. Slowly, but with awful certainty, the range slewed round towards them. Little spurts of dust kicked up a foot from Aubrey’s face as he crawled desperately, crab-fashion, to the right, fighting desperately to stave off the end in a faint hope for the millionth chance.
Then, with startling suddenness, stupefying the two men into absolute stillness, the millionth chance came!
High above the muttering of the firing and the whine of the wind came the roar of a powerful engine, opened full throttle. One engine—then, Devenish told himself with a tremendous sigh of relief—a second.
Two cars were racing along the drive to Wharncliff Hall—and they could only mean one thing. Rescue.
The din of the roaring engines was pierced, suddenly, with a shrill, high-pitched whistle, and as the whistle screamed, the men with the machine-gun stopped firing. From all over the grounds of Wharncliff Hall little shroudy figures rose up and scuttled madly towards the belt of trees nearly a mile away.
Chester scrambled to his knees. For the first time in his life he lost his stammer.
‘They’re on the run!’ he cried. ‘Pot ‘em, Hugh—pot ‘em, they’re on the run!’
Devenish dragged his friend down.
‘Pot ‘em nothing!’ he growled. ‘If they think they’re cornered, they’ll fight like hell! I wonder who—good lord!’ he broke off incredulously. ‘Listen to that, Aubrey! ‘
They both listened with straining ears, a tremendous singing in their breasts. From the main road, distant but clear came the unmistakable sounds of rescue.
• • • • •
Robert Augustus Bruce, the Arrans, Hugh Devenish and Lord Aubrey Chester were sitting in, or lounging against, Bruce’s big Bentley. A hundred yards along the drive, a dozen or more firemen had surrounded the burning Hall, their hoses sending thin streams of water into the red-hot building.
‘Lucky there’s a river on the premises,’ said Bruce.
‘Luckier still that the fire-engines arrived,’ frowned Devenish. ‘You say you could
n’t see the fire from the road, Bruce?’
‘Not even a spark of it.’
‘It’s queer,’ said Devenish. ‘If you couldn’t see it, it isn’t likely anyone else could—unless someone happened to be in the fields, saw the trouble, and scooted for the nearest phone. Maybe the Bull people will know something.’
But the Bull people knew nothing. And even after the party had quenched their thirst, and the three cars were humming Londonwards, Devenish was still puzzled and worried. How had the Fire Brigade learned of the fire?
For Devenish had first seen the fire in the second-floor room at about seven-thirty. It must have been ten minutes after that, at the earliest, before the flames could have been noticed from the outside.
And at seven forty-five the Fire Brigade had already been warned and had started out. The nearest telephone to the Hall was twenty minutes’ walk away, and the possibility of a passer-by—small enough, in any case—having seen the fire and sent the call could be ruled out. He couldn’t have reached a telephone in time.
Someone who had known when the fire was started had sent that call.
18
Outrage at a Police Station
Station-Sergeant Billitter, of the Line Street station, was like the majority of his fellows—solid, safe, but essentially unimaginative.
At half past six on the evening of the fifteenth of September Billitter was advised by telephone that an ultra-dangerous criminal named Martin, with two equally dangerous associates, would be brought to Line Street within ten minutes and lodged there until further instructions came from the Yard. Martin was to be guarded second by second—he was not to have a fractional chance of escape or of killing himself.
Billitter believed that he was fully capable of carrying out these instructions, although when he saw Martin and the two gangsters he realised why the danger had been emphasised. He took the precaution of keeping the men handcuffed, even when they were behind bars, and detailed two young, quick-eyed constables to watch them.
Just after seven, a lean, keen-eyed young man, who introduced himself as chief clerk to the reputable firm of Redmond, Soames and Redmond, solicitors, acting on behalf of Samuel Martin, arrived.
