John Creasey Box Set 1: First Came a Murder, Death Round the Corner, The Mark of the Crescent (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  He spoke pugnaciously.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me I can’t see my client?’

  Billitter hesitated. He had been going to say just that, but now he was worried. He had had no definite instructions that Martin was not to see his solicitor.

  Redmond, Soames and Redmond were no small firm, either. They had influence.

  Billitter shrugged his shoulders and turned ponderously towards the cell.

  Throughout the interview, which lasted less than five minutes, and consisted of the usual questions in such circumstances, Billitter as well as the two young constables saw everything and heard everything. Afterwards they all swore that the only time Rothman had touched Martin or had been near enough to touch him was when the two men had shaken hands.

  Afterwards, too, a small red puncture was found in the palm of Martin’s right hand. The crook was seen, ten minutes after Rothman had left, to stagger and crumple up as though shot from close quarters. His face distorted and one short, rasping gurgle echoed in his throat.

  When the constables reached him he was a lifeless heap on the floor.

  • • • • •

  Devenish heard of the murder when he reached the office of ‘Z’ Department just after ten o’clock that night.

  His eyes were tired and red-rimmed.

  ‘Turn in early,’ advised Craigie, tapping the bowl of his meerschaum in the fireplace—the two men sat in the arm-chairs opposite each other— ‘and turn out late. There isn’t much you can do that others can’t,’ he added, with a grimace. ‘I’ll put someone on Rickett’s tail.’

  Devenish grunted.

  ‘I suppose Martin didn’t say anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Craigie.

  ‘Anything turn up about Meeson?’

  Craigie pulled a wry face and shook his head.

  Meeson, a well-known, well-liked member of the Carilon Club, had been in the reading-room of that now notorious institution from five o’clock until six o’clock that afternoon. As often happened when the bar opened, the reading-room was practically deserted at six o’clock, and only Meeson and a middle-aged man who had been asleep were in the room where Carruthers had met his death.

  Meeson had died in exactly the same way. He had been poisoned by adenia, injected with a hypodermic needle. The murderer had escaped from the room through the kitchen, which was near the reading-room; the two rooms were separated only by a narrow passage.

  ‘No,’ admitted Craigie, ‘nothing turned up about Meeson. The Yard is looking into his recent investments, but there won’t be much learned until the morning.’

  ‘It was Rickett, of course?’

  ‘I suppose so. Rickett was at the club this afternoon, but no one saw him after five-thirty—they assumed he was in his office. Heigh-ho!’ Craigie heaved a deep breath, displaying more emotion than usual. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of it one of these days, Hugh. Meanwhile ...’

  ‘I’ll go home and go to bed,’ said Devenish, stifling a yawn.

  The next morning he went to Gomshall Gardens, more spruce than ever in a suit of gleaming grey, and handed Mrs. Horace Birch the enlargements which a reputable firm had made of her family group.

  Mr. Birch, he learned, had not been home for the past two days. His wife had heard nothing of him, but his business often kept him away from home unexpectedly and she was not perturbed.

  Devenish next visited the villa of Mr. Honeybaum, where the maid told him what he half expected. Honeybaum, too, had not been home for the past forty-eight hours.

  Would Mr. Octavius William Young, the fourth and last Marritabas director, be missing also? Hugh wondered. In a very thoughtful frame of mind, he turned his car in the direction of ‘Fourways’, Barnes.

  A hundred yards from ‘Fourways’ an indolent looking young man was peering into the interior of a stationary Bentley; with him was a large, curly-headed, humorous-faced mechanic.

  Devenish pulled up alongside the Bentley, ostensibly to offer assistance.

  The mechanic greeted him fraternally.

  ‘Any luck?’ asked Devenish, lighting a cigarette.

  The mechanic—who was also Robert Augustus Bruce—shook his head cheerfully. The indolent young man, yet another ‘Z’ Department agent, whom Devenish knew to be Dodo Trale, shook his head gloomily.

  ‘Not a sound nor a sign,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been waiting in the hope of someone turning up with a gun for the last two hours.’

  ‘Something’ll happen all right,’ Devenish said with certainty, ‘and I don’t think it’ll be long.’

  He broke off suddenly and stared upwards into the pale blue of the skies, which was broken in several places by large white clouds.

  As they listened, Bruce and Trale realised what had attracted Devenish’s attention.

  Very low, barely audible even as they waited tensely, they heard the hum of an aeroplane.

  For thirty seconds the dull throbbing of the engine continued, sounding almost directly above them and seeming to come from the centre of a broad patch of cloud which covered them and hung over ‘Fourways’. Then the hum was replaced by a sudden, vicious roar, coming from a quickly opened throttle. The edge of the cloud seemed cleaved in two by a long, sharp-nosed silver streak, which swooped across the skies, dropping at a frightening angle as it went.

  Trale’s eyes widened. Bruce swore.

  ‘Down!’ he bellowed. ‘Get down, for the love of Mike!’

  As he spoke, the silver streak steadied for a fraction of a second, seeming to hover over the squat building which was owned by Mr. Octavius William Young. Then, in front of their staring eyes, the three men saw a small, black object loosen from the carriage of the plane, a swiftly falling shape like a long black pear.

  It landed full on the roof of ‘Fourways’; but before it reached the house the three watching men dropped flat on to the road behind the long body of the Bentley.

  They did not see the sudden cloud of dust rise from ‘Fourways’, nor the vivid flash of yellow light which leapt outwards in an increasing circle. But they heard the tremendous crash of the detonation, the thunderous, deep-toned roar. Hardly had its echoes shivered through the air about them when there came a second explosion, sending the great Bentley quivering on its four wheels.

  Heavy pieces of wood and iron flew above their heads.

  Shrubs, trees and bricks hurtled about them, dropping within a hundred-yard radius of the doomed house, thudding, whining, splitting into a thousand fragments. Something thudded into the side of the Bentley, sending it lurching towards them, stopping again less than an inch from Bruce’s flattened figure.

  The air seemed to sway about them in great waves, like the sea tossed upwards and outwards by a depthcharge. The very ground shook and quivered and seemed to roar.

  Then, slowly, the noise lessened. Above it, Devenish heard the hum of a fast disappearing plane.

  He stood up, grimly.

  ‘All right,’ he muttered. ‘Nothing else is coming over. And,’ he added in a hard voice, ‘you boys won’t have to watch this house any longer.’

  All three of them walked slowly towards the heap of rabble and ruins which had been ‘Fourways’.

  19

  Marcus Riordon Gives Orders

  There were two things in common between Horace Oswald Birch and Robert Elijah Honeybaum. Both were members of the London Stock Exchange. Both sailed very close to the wind.

  Birch was a small rogue compared with his imposing associate, doing as he was told without question; Honeybaum occasionally raised difficulties, even with the Hon. Marcus Riordon. Honeybaum, with a crafty understanding of the laws, knew exactly how far it was possible to break them without being broken himself.

  There was another important difference. Honeybaum was a director of a dozen little mushroom companies, all controlled by the Hon. Marcus Riordon; Birch was on Marritabas only. He had no idea of the immensity of the risk that he was taking. Honeybaum, however, had a very good idea, an
d reasoned that as the risk was great, so would his pickings be proportionately substantial.

  On the morning of the bombing of ‘Fourways’, Birch and Honeybaum made a quick but comprehensive tour of the E.C. district of London, calling on numerous brokers and giving the same instructions.

  The brokers were to sell every possible share in Marritabas, amongst other flotations, and turn the bills of exchange into cash. That cash was to be deposited at the Lombard Street branch of Bleddon’s Bank before three o’clock.

  Although every one of the brokers realised that the shares they would handle were practically worthless, they knew that nothing could be brought home to them. They sold the shares in bundles of ten to blocks of a thousand, secretly where possible, to prevent the bottom falling out of the market, and handed the cash over to Bleddon’s, receiving for their share of profit a comparatively high commission.

  Money poured into Bleddon’s Bank that day in a continual stream. Not cheques, drafts, or bills, but hard cash. Of necessity, money poured out of the other big banks, but there was nothing unusual in a sudden run on treasury—and bank-notes. No report was made to the police, and the safe deposits and vaults of Bleddon’s were filled to overflowing.

  That, moreover, was not the only exceptional happening at the Lombard Street branch. Bleddon’s was buying bullion. Gold was being delivered in van-loads to the vaults, and more gold was changing hands that day than had changed hands during the last three years.

  The City, alive to the slightest element of the unusual, sent its most experienced scouts to learn the name of the customer—Bleddon’s, of course, was buying for one of the bigger powers, probably European—but the scouts learned nothing. Under a cloak of extreme secrecy, the bullion was unloaded at the Lombard Street bank. Estimates started at a hundred thousand pounds’ worth, and jumped, by midday, to a quarter of a million. At one o’clock the first load of gold came from the Continent, and was landed by air-liner at London Airport. With the third and fourth planes the estimates of Bleddon’s purchases during that hectic—for the financial magnates—day leapt past the half million mark, and hovered towards the round million.

  Apart from the one central activity, the City was stagnant. No one was willing to take risks until Bleddon’s policy was revealed, or the sudden rush on gold was finished.

  After midday, the first murmur ran through Hatton Garden that there was a heavy buying run on precious stones.

  The precious stones market, of course, was not so generally known as the bullion market. Fewer brokers were concerned, but those few took early advantage of the favourable ruling prices. Diamonds and pearls ran up the ladder into boom figures, and there was a steady demand for the less important gems.

  Some of the sales, as usual, were conducted in hard cash—the precious stones market normally dealt more in money than in bills. Other sales were completed with drafts and cheques on the Big Five Banks—and so carefully was the run managed that no one realised that sixty per cent of the commitments were lodged with Bleddon’s Bank. Actually, the fact that Bleddon’s credit was called on proved an added security. Bleddon’s was as safe as the Bank of England.

  Only two people knew that Bleddon’s was actually trembling on the brink of insolvency. Riordon knew it—and Robert Elijah Honeybaum knew it.

  After a busy day, in which he had flitted from office to office, Honeybaum slipped into the Lombard Street branch of Bleddon’s and asked for the Hon. Marcus Riordon.

  A harassed cashier, who had taken more money that day than in any month for years past, sent his name in to Sir Basil, who had spent the entire day in his late general manager’s office. After a few moments Honeybaum was ushered into the great man’s presence.

  Riordon was sitting back in his chair, his eyes glittering with inward excitement, his jaw set hard. Honeybaum, who had heard rumours that the old man’s day was over, felt suddenly convinced that it was Sir Basil, not the Hon. Marcus, who was behind the day’s ramp.

  ‘I haven’t much time,’ snapped Riordon. ‘What do you want? Money?’

  Honeybaum beamed.

  ‘I have earned it, Sir Basil.’

  Riordon’s eyes glinted behind his thick-lensed glasses.

  ‘I’ll give you five thousand,’ he said.

  Honeybaum’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. His voice took on a sharp edge.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ he snapped. ‘If you had said fifty…’ And then he stopped. His mind seemed suddenly to freeze, for as he peered intently into the old man’s eyes he seemed to look into two murderous, icy pools. In them he read death ..,

  • • • • •

  At six o’clock on the afternoon of the amazing gold and jewel rush in the City, the Hon. Marcus Riordon, short and tubby but unrecognisable with a cunning application of grease-paint and a small black moustache, drove slowly along the City Road towards the Bank, and thence into Lombard Street.

  Beside him, Lydia Crane leaned luxuriously back in her sables, and watched the scurrying crowds with a faintly pitying smile.

  She was bored, but beneath her boredom there was a tremor of excitement. If Riordon pulled off his coup, this would be her last day in England, the last of comparative captivity, the last of boredom.

  The past few weeks, she told herself, had been dreary, but the past few days had been beyond words. The Hon. Marcus had been on tenterhooks as the day of his reckoning approached. He had refused, literally, to let her out of sight—except for a few hours during the day, when he knew where she was, and when she knew that any attempt to leave the flat in the Temple, which Riordon rented under the convenient name of Smith, would have been stopped by the two armed, tough, and forbidding gangsters on the premises.

  Lydia Crane knew too much. Riordon was taking no chances with her. It was not, she realised, that he was afraid she would betray him to the police—she was too deeply involved in his crimes to do that. But Riordon was half fearful that Devenish would guess that Lydia Crane knew enough to make trouble—and Riordon had his own ideas on the method which ‘Z’ Department would take, if necessary, to obtain information.

  The Hon. Marcus breathed more freely when he had his eyes on her, although once or twice he wished that he had left her in the flat that evening. There was just the possibility that she would be recognised, and it might lead to trouble.

  Beyond that one small fear, however, the Hon. Marcus was feeling on top of the world. Everything had come off, although there had certainly been times during the past few days when Devenish had seemed likely to bring his plans tumbling about his head. But the danger was past....

  Riordon drove along complacently. In Lombard Street he saw a plain van drawn up outside Bleddon’s ostensibly moving old papers from the Bank. Other vans had been there and others would be. Bleddon’s, the police had been informed, was transferring these papers, the accumulation of years, to another branch. The opportunity for robbery, or worse, was considerable, and the police kept a strong and watchful guard on the vans as they drew up, were loaded with box after box, and moved off. There was going to be no opportunity for another successful hold-up.

  And every box was filled with gold.

  At six-thirty Riordon passed the head office of Bleddon’s for the second time, and glanced upwards. As he stared, a man’s dark, expressionless face appeared for a moment in a second-floor window.

  Riordon grunted and accelerated. The car leapt forward.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ drawled Lydia Crane.

  Riordon beat a red traffic light by a split second, and the car hummed towards the Mansion House.

  ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘That was the last van.’

  There was a hard gleam in his eyes, a flicker of triumph on his lips. The thing was done! All that remained was the getaway.

  ‘Where now?’ demanded his companion.

  Riordon flashed a cunning smile.

  ‘You’ll know soon enough,’ he muttered. ‘I’m not taking any chances, my dear, with you or with anyone else.’

&n
bsp; Lydia Crane laughed lightly, and dropped into a long, contemplative silence.

  • • • • •

  Riordon forgot her as he drove rapidly towards the open country, aiming first for Putney then Kingston. As he twisted the car between the traffic, he ran his mind over the few remaining things to be done.

  There was little left, he thought with grim satisfaction. Even though Marritaba Tin Shares had nearly proved his undoing, the danger had been averted.

  Marritabas, of course, had been a bad mistake—even a foolish one. They had brought in little more than a hundred thousand pounds—child’s play compared with the bullion which had been removed in those vans which officially carried paper, and with the two cases of precious stones now safely in the boot of his own car.

  When Carruthers, one of the easiest victims of the Riordon swindles, had been murdered, the first dangerspot had been removed.

  Meeson, another victim of the ramp, had died a few days later. Both Meeson and Carruthers had grounds for knowing that Riordon was behind Marritabas.

  Then there had been Macauly, the General Manager of Bleddon’s Bank. Macauly had said, in a brief letter to Sir Basil, two days before his death, that he felt uneasy at the support which Bleddon’s was giving to Marritaba Tins. Consequently Macauly had died. The raid on Bleddon’s, as Devenish had reasoned, was only a cover for the murder. Until the gold-buying was over, the Hon. Marcus had been forced to keep Bleddon’s credit at a high-water mark. If Macauly had been murdered without the camouflage of the hold-up there would have been a run on the Bank. Few countries would have risked selling their gold through Bleddon’s while there had been the slightest question as to the security of Bleddon’s credit.

  There still remained Devenish, of course, and Marion Dare, but Riordon now felt that if Marion Dare had revealed anything of vital importance Devenish would have already acted on it. The only thing that remained to be done was to avoid Devenish—and it was only a matter of hours now before any effort he might make would be useless.

  There had been several little things which had worried the Hon. Marcus Riordon. The failure of the attempts to kill Devenish, for instance: when he had been trapped at Wharncliff, and in the premature ‘accident’ with the Aston Martin which had been fitted with Devenish’s number. Riordon still couldn’t understand how that had misfired. It had been planned so carefully that failure should not have been possible. First, Devenish was to have been lured to Wharncliff. Then his car, with the unfortunate victim, was to have been discovered, both car and body burnt beyond recognition. Thus, Riordon had reasoned, there would have been no hue and cry for the agent of ‘Z’ Department.