Menace (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  He saw the car rock, heard the explosion. Flash Jo bent over the wheel in a desperate endeavour to gain control. At the same time the two Department men who had gone towards the rear of the house broke cover.

  But Kerr hardly needed them.

  He knew now that Falling was dead, and he was filled with a cold determination to avenge him.

  Tino Platt, his eyes blazing, fired his last shot, and then opened the car door to run for it. Kerr’s bullet struck him in the chest and he dropped half-in, half-out of the car.

  Even Kerr shuddered.

  Jo, aiming to travel on the wheel rims, urged the car forward. It ploughed on, dragging Tino’s body with it.

  And Jo suddenly realised that all hope of escape was over.

  Kerr left him to the two Department men and then started to run towards the house. Three minutes afterwards he pushed open the door of the second floor room where Falling was lying. He stood very still on the threshold. Then swore, coldly and slowly.

  * * *

  Mr. Adam Criff, millionaire-adventurer grown rich on wars, was sitting in his easiest chair, and scowling. There was little of the debonair man-about-town in his expression. He was waiting for the telephone to ring, with a message from Platt.

  Criff was definitely uneasy. If his plans had misfired, was it possible to trace their origin back to himself?

  He thought not, he hoped not, but he could not be absolutely sure. Tino and Jo might talk of Grattle Street, and although no one there knew of Criff’s part in the affair, the police might be able to trace the telephone calls, usually made from Criff’s nearest call-box. Moreover Criff had given them a number, so that they could call him back. It was not in the directory, but the police would have access to private numbers.

  Criff was beginning to sweat.

  He had sent Rene Mondell over to Paris, to make sure she was out of the way while he dealt with Falling.

  But Falling was dead.

  Criff wished fervently that he had not given those last instructions. His personal inclination had over-ridden his caution.

  That was not all. There was something else which was worrying Adam Criff.

  He had always disliked admitting it, but he was not the top dog. There were those above him whose orders he had to obey. He knew of them only vaguely. He himself had heard nothing from them that day, but he had learned that both von Hauf and Shirin had left England hurriedly, obviously ordered to do so by that higher command. It worried and harassed him. It was rare that he did not have the order to give to the others, and it suggested that the higher command was beginning to lose faith in Adam Criff.

  Well, his suitcase was packed. He had a private plane waiting for him in a private airfield, and he did not think anyone knew of its whereabouts. At the first real rumour of trouble, Criff would be away.

  He heard the ring of the door bell, and started.

  His man’s footsteps were deadened by a thick carpet, but he heard the murmur of voices, and then silence.

  The door opened, and for the first time Criff and Kerr met face to face.

  Criff was so shocked that he could only stare, his mouth agape and his eyes widening with alarm. Kerr saw guilt and fear on that handsome face with the too-red, too-full lips, and Kerr remembered Falling’s hanging head, the three bullets buried in Falling’s body. He closed the door slowly, without speaking.

  Criff tried to speak and could not.

  He felt a surge of fear that he had never known before, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Kerr’s silence was uncanny. That wooden, forceful face. Those grey eyes, neither narrowed nor widened, but deadly. Criff was beginning to tremble, the tension was unbearable.

  His voice came, harsh with useless anger.

  ‘Who are you, and what do you mean by coming here, what – ’

  Kerr said stonily: ‘Tell me, Criff, would you prefer to be imprisoned for life, or to be shot – three times – and see death coming?’

  Criff was half-mad now, with a dreadful fear. Kerr knew.

  ‘You – you’re talking nonsense, I don’t know what –’ His hands were trembling as he moved them towards his pocket. There was a gun there, a small automatic. If he could just reach it –

  Kerr went on: ‘You’re a murdering swine, Criff. Falling was killed on your orders, I’m lucky to have escaped. You killed Doriennet and you’ve probably killed others. I could forgive you but for Falling.’

  Criff’s hand was in his pocket. He could feel the cold steel of the gun, but his fingers were trembling too much to find the trigger.

  ‘We caught two of your men, we’ve unearthed Grattle Street, and we’ve found that it was you who phoned the orders.’

  Criff had the gun ready and was actually fingering the trigger. But Kerr was no longer standing in front of him; he had moved towards the window. His hand slipped in and out of his pocket like lighting. There was the slightest of smiles on his face.

  Criff felt the bullet bite through the fleshy part of his right arm. Kerr’s gun was still trained on him, glinting as coldly as his eyes. ‘I wanted you to try for a gun, Criff, it gave me an excellent chance of making you know what it’s like to be shot at. Now – start talking. If you don’t the next shot will be fatal.’

  Criff’s jaws were working. The man meant it. That dreadful, frightening stare, that harsh clipped voice.

  ‘You – you daren’t! It’s murder, you can’t do it, you –’

  ‘It would be self-defence,’ said Kerr quietly. ‘Understand? Your gun’s in your pocket, and you fired through the coat. Self-defence, Criff! You saw me lock the door – and I’ll tell you that one or two of my men are waiting outside. There’s no hope for you, unless you talk.’

  Criff, a pain in his shoulder that was like a living fire, felt dreadfully afraid. It would be useless to attempt to bluff this man. He had heard stories of Kerr, he had been told that Kerr was the one man in Craigie’s Department who was really dangerous, who stopped at nothing to get what he wanted. He had given orders – after receiving them from that higher command – to have Kerr killed.

  Kerr breathed slowly as he stepped towards the millionaire.

  ‘Listen. I know what orders were given to Doriennet. I know that you are partly responsible for the wrong shipments from Vallena to England. I know that you arranged for Falling to die, for me to die, and I guess that you killed Doriennet. Fencer may have fired the shot, but you killed him. What I don’t know is why it’s happening, but I’m going to find out. If I have to kill you by inches, I’m going to.’

  He slapped the cringing man sharply across the face, and Criff’s shriek was stifled in his throat.

  ‘I – I don’t know, I –’

  Kerr shot out his right hand again, and it was more than a slap this time. Criff suddenly realised what was meant by stopping at nothing.

  ‘You don’t know, eh? That’s unfortunate for you, Criff. Because I think you do, and I’m going to find out.’

  He was serious, of course.

  He knew that he had to find out what Criff knew. He had a deepest conviction that behind the absurd fiddling with small shipments of goods that Doriennet had talked about there was something far bigger, far more dangerous. He knew that England was concerned, and he wanted to know why.

  He had to know why. It was his job.

  He shot his right hand out suddenly, and grabbed Criff’s uninjured left wrist. Criff started to shriek, and then the pain that sheered through his body became agonising.

  ‘All right – all right! I’ll tell you!’

  Kerr released his hold, stood over the millionaire, and nodded. He felt relieved, for it had been easier than he had expected. Kerr did not always like the things he had to do, even with a man like Criff, who was now at such a peak of terror and pain that it did not occur to him to lie. Kerr knew that. But as he listened he experienced an overwhelming disappointment, because Criff did not know a great deal!

  ‘Kerr – Kerr – I’m only one. Only one! I get orders �
�� from abroad. Several – countries. The trick with the Vallena stuff was –’

  Kerr heard him out. He felt sure that Criff was telling everything he knew, and the sense of disappointment was greater than ever when the millionaire, gasping, pain-wracked and terror-stricken, finished and flopped back in his chair. Kerr felt a sudden pity for the man. He turned round, found the whisky and poured out a strong measure. Criff had hardly the strength to lift it to his lips, but Kerr left him to it and went to the door. He had finished with Criff for the time being, and Carruthers and Davidson – those two stalwarts were in the next room – could carry on.

  Kerr opened the door.

  He opened it slowly, by habit, and what he saw was like a blow in the face.

  He caught a glimpse of Wally Davidson stretched out on the carpet, and there was blood coming from Davidson’s neck. As his eyes took in the picture he saw also the man who was standing in the window recess of the first room, holding something that looked like a black tennis ball in his hand.

  Kerr saw him very clearly.

  He was abnormally tall – six-feet-and-a-half at least – and he lobbed the tennis ball towards the doorway. But he lobbed it a fraction of a second too late to be really effective.

  As the bomb crashed against the woodwork, Kerr jumped backwards and slammed the door shut. The explosion shook the walls of the flat, set the pictures rattling, and smashed the windows, but it did no more than knock Kerr breathless. He was alert enough to find his gun and stay on the floor, the gun trained towards the door.

  It was smashed inwards. Through the smoke and flame he saw the far door close, and the tall man disappear, and he swore as he jumped up.

  A moment later he dropped down again.

  Something had gone wrong with his right foot: it would not hold him. Kerr grimaced as he dragged himself up slowly.

  Flame had started to run along the walls of the room beyond. They were running far too fast for it to be the result of the bomb, and Kerr could even see the trickle of oil as yet untouched by the flames. Davidson, Carruthers and the servant Jones were in that room, a room that would be an inferno in less than five minutes.

  Kerr grabbed the telephone and pushed it towards Criff.

  ‘Phone the fire-brigade,’ he snapped. ‘Give the fire-alarm.’

  He paused long enough to take the gun out of Criff’s pocket, and then started to hobble towards the door. The heat of the flames in the room beyond was already overpowering, and his face was bleak as he reached it.

  Davidson and Carruthers were both stretched out, both knifed. They might be dead or alive. The servant –

  ‘Gone,’ muttered Kerr, hardly knowing what he was saying or doing as he reached Carruthers – nearer that creeping fire than Davidson. ‘One of – them, of course. One of – for God’s sake, Carry, don’t act the fool!’

  Kerr knew he was perilously near delirium; the shock of the explosion had been more than he had realised. He hoped to God that Criff had called the fire brigade. Painfully, tenaciously, he lugged Carruthers towards the door of Criff’s room.

  Then back for Davidson, with the smoke choking him and the flames singing his hair.

  Thank God he was alive: his eyes flickered open.

  ‘Crawl – for the door,’ gasped Kerr.

  Davidson had strength enough. Kerr, sweating, gasping, almost crying, managed to lug Carruthers into Criff’s room. Davidson, on his hands and knees, and with a horrible crescent of red round his throat, reached the door and collapsed against it.

  Kerr saw that Criff, still sitting with the telephone in front of him, was staring ahead of him blankly. The telephone receiver was in his right hand, and it did not move.

  Criff was dead!

  Kerr stared at him stupidly, seeing the bullet hole in the side of his neck. Shot through the open window, he decided. As in a daze he heard the crackling in the microphone, and lifted the receiver.

  A girl’s voice came sharply to his ears.

  ‘What is it – what’s the trouble there?’

  ‘Fire,’ Kerr gasped. ‘Fire – and police! Superintendent – Miller. Fire – fire – fire –’

  His head was whirling, his pulse hammering. Smoke, shock and the excruciating pain of his ankle combined to beat him. He stood shouting fire like a madman, he had a moment’s sanity while he remembered that no one would be able to get in by the door, and as he moved towards the window he staggered, sprawling forward, blind and helpless.

  Behind, the fire roared and crackled more loudly as it crept along the carpet from the next room, slow, menacing, ravenous.

  * * *

  Superintendent Horace Miller, of Scotland Yard, was a stolid representative of all that was best in the C.I.D. He rarely grew excited, as rarely angry.

  On that September afternoon he was sitting in his office and frowning. Frowning because he had just been warned by the Chief Commissioner, Sir William Fellowes, that he was to stand by to help Craigie and Department Z. It was a normal occurrence for him, which explained the fact that his life was considerably more exciting and his work more dangerous than that of a shrewd, self-made Superintendent’s should have been.

  He knew, of course, about the Doriennet affair, but he had been in the north country on a poison case, and had only arrived back two hours ago. He had hoped for three or four days easy going, but nothing was ever easy going with the Department.

  The telephone rang, and Miller mechanically stretched out a hand and lifted the receiver.

  ‘This is the Mayfair Exchange, Superintendent. We have just had a call of fire from 191, Devenett Court. A man who did not give his name asked us to advise you … Yes, the fire-brigade has been informed.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Miller banged the receiver down and leapt for his hat, issuing a sharp order for a sergeant to accompany him.

  Three or four minutes later Miller’s large Singer moved off. As it neared Devenett Court, smoke was already pouring from the windows. Miller swore as he saw the crowd, braked and jumped out, running as fast as his sixteen stone could take him. He did not know who had sent that message, but this was Criff’s address, and it would certainly have been one of the Department men.

  And Good God, if that fire had a hold –

  Chapter 8

  Criffs’ Story

  Miller recognised the Captain in charge of the fire brigade which was working desperately to keep the flames from spreading to the adjoining flats. Two more of these at least were doomed, and the occupants had been moved out quickly, their furniture pushed anywhere until the danger was past. The crowd was surging with excitement as first smoke then fire billowed out of the window, the streams of hissing water seeming only to add to the confusion.

  Miller, pushing his way towards Webb – the Brigade captain – saw an escape was up against one window. He glimpsed a helmet, caught by the sun. Over the man’s shoulder was a limp body.

  Miller, his heart thumping, grabbed Webb’s arm.

  The Brigade captain swung round angrily.

  ‘Get to blazes – oh! Sorry, Miller, I thought it was some blasted reporter. Nasty show.’

  ‘Anyone down yet?’

  Webb, middle-aged, grizzled and sceptical, grinned.

  ‘One – but he’s dead. A job for you, because he wasn’t burned to death. Over there – and by God!’ exclaimed Webb with a thunderous roar. ‘There’s that blasted reporter pestering them again!’

  The captain stretched out to grip the shoulder of a small, round-faced man, whose scowling pugnaciousness would have amused Miller at a different moment.

  ‘Listen, I’ve told you twice to keep off. Damn it, you’re like a bloody jackal – clear off!’

  Miller looked on with a certain degree of sympathy. Newspapermen were one of the worries of his life. But it was a job, and it had to be done. The main trouble was deciding how far to let them go.

  Then he reached the outstretched body.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Miller. ‘Criff!’

  With growing tens
ion Miller saw the bullet mark in the neck, and the bloodstains on the singed coat and shirt.

  Webb, still grumbling about young cubs, glanced at him inquiringly.

  ‘Know him?’

  ‘Do I know him?’ murmured Horace Miller, as though he had been asked whether he would recognise the King. ‘Yes, I do. No one else down yet?’

  ‘Only those by the escape.’

  Miller pushed his way back again. Police, firemen, the flat tenants – those intimately touched by the fire – the staff of the office building also affected and a few Press men, made up the crush. Miller was sweating and cursing by the time he reached the foot of the escape.

  A billow of smoke came down on him, making him choke. Water was coming down the walls like a miniature Niagara, but Miller, drenched though he was, did not budge.

  For he recognised the two outstretched men.

  Kerr, Bob Kerr, and Davidson. Oh, God, they’d caught it. Craigie’s best men, and – and Davidson’s throat was cut.

  He pushed forward, and a fireman stopped him roughly.

  ‘Say, you –’

  ‘Miller, of the Yard,’ said Miller brusquely.

  The fireman nodded and apologised. A fresh roar, telling of another start from the burning room, was echoing in Miller’s ears as he bent over Kerr. He could see that the chief agent was still breathing, but he was feverishly anxious to know what the doctor thought.

  A medico was already looking at Davidson.

  ‘Well?’ Miller snapped.

  ‘Bad, I’m afraid. Not much damage by the fire, but that –’

  He pointed to the vicious ring of dried blood encircling Davidson’s throat. Miller turned sharply away, almost cannoning into the two firemen carrying another unconscious figure.

  A moment later he recognised Bob Carruthers, his fair hair falling in singed wisps. Kerr – Davidson – Carruthers. Craigie’s three most lively agents. How many more?

  Miller felt a hand clutch at his sleeve, and swung round, to see Lois Dacre’s set face.

  Knowing something of the way things were between her and Bob Kerr, he forced a smile.

  ‘He’s all right, Miss Dacre.’

  Lois looked darkly about her, her lips set very tightly.