by John Creasey
But not if he could help it.
He thought of Perry, Williamson, and Brown — good men, who would take orders unquestioningly and carry them out no matter what it cost; but when they were standing easy, they would behave like undergraduates on a spree. When it came to the point, he could fool as easily as they could — the difference was that they enjoyed it, he didn’t. He knew that none of them was a key agent, and was never likely to be. In a way he envied them; it was easier just to do what you were told. He was putting it too high; in emergency they would show plenty of initiative, but they were useful chiefly because their reflexes worked well and — like Harry — they’d take the last count without complaint.
It was hard to believe that Harry was dead.
And Conway’s kidnappers had killed him; that gave a second good reason for wanting to do some damage tonight. He slackened speed and lit a cigarette, then went all out — only to slow down suddenly again. He dropped the cigarette out of the window.
The car was behind him again.
The driver must have missed him, come this far and then waited in a side road until he’d passed.
He was near an A.A. box, stopped and went across to it, opened it with his key and called Craigie’s office. He said laconically that he was being followed, and:
“Not by one of us, is it?”
“No,” Loftus answered. “Take it easy, Peter.”
“Oh, sure,” said Ross. “I just wanted to know. Bye.” He rang off and sauntered back to the car. The other car was some distance off, parked at the side of the road, with the headlights dipped. Ross started off again, reached a wide curve and, swiftly, swung round in the road, reversed and was off again in the other direction, almost without stopping. The other car was only thirty or forty yards away, and Ross drove at it, his headlights blazing. The car was forced to pull to one side, hit the verge, bumped over it, and then crashed against the hedge; the engine stalled. Ross parked his car and rushed towards the big car, gun in his right hand. He expected shooting, but it didn’t come; was the driver stunned? He reached the side of the car, and saw the driver sitting erect — a vague figure in the gloom, but not so vague that he couldn’t see that it was a woman.
The window was open.
“Just keep still,” Ross said, then stretched out his free hand and opened the door. “Now let me have a look at you.”
The woman turned to face him.
“So, as you couldn’t get away from me, you’ll try to kill me,” said Mae.
4
RIVER-SIDE
“YOU get the most wonderful ideas,” Ross said. He helped her out of the car. There was no other traffic in sight, and he climbed in, backed the car from the hedge, found that there was no serious damage, and pulled up on the verge; no one passing would think they were in trouble. Mae stood and watched him, without speaking. He took the keys of her car, locked the doors, slid the keys into his pocket, and led Mae, hand on her elbow, to his own car.
They got in.
“Darling,” said Mae, “I didn’t know you were a Sphinx.”
“What makes you so interested in the man you’re not going to marry?”
“I warned you,” said Mae.
“That’s right, but you haven’t answered me.”
“I want to know if she’s blonde or brunette.”
“Just jealousy,” mused Ross, and let in the clutch. “You’ll be surprised where it can lead you, precious. How did you manage to find out where I was?”
“I just followed you.”
“You didn’t. Not in London.”
“Oh, that,” said Mae. “I followed you one night last week and saw you park the car outside the club, and then saw you go through that little door. So tonight I went straight to the parking-place. I was there when you arrived, and you didn’t seem to notice you were being followed until we were out of the traffic. After that, I was lucky.”
“How?”
“You could have taken several other roads, but you chose this. So did I.”
“Why?”
“Call me psychic,” said Mae.
“You ought to be a policewoman,” said Ross. “Or else a private detective. You wouldn’t need any lessons in following crooks in cars.”
“But you’re not a crook, are you, darling?”
“Not yet,” said Ross. “I’m not even wanted for murder or wife-beating.”
He started up the car, turned it and drove slowly along, keeping a look-out for the signpost about which Gordon had told him.
“It’s going to be wonderful, when we’re married,” said Mae.
“You gave me back the ring, remember? I don’t have to give you a second chance.”
“How gallant, Peter dear.”
Ross said quietly: “Mae, listen. I told you I was on hush-hush work, and you ought to have had the common sense to know I wasn’t lying about that. We can get through most of the trials of marriage if we’ve a basis of mutual trust. If we haven’t, there’s no point in going on with it. I ought to be savagely angry with you, and it wouldn’t take much to make me feel that way. I’m on an important job, and I can’t risk distractions.”
“How high will you fly?” asked Mae sweetly.
“You didn’t have to take the flying literally, you just had to realise that I was on secret work, and sit back and wait until it was over.”
“I’m not the sit-at-home-and-darn-socks kind, Peter.”
“You don’t have to darn socks. You could knit.”
Mae didn’t answer.
Ross said: “I’ve told you more than I have before, and more than I ought to have. Just at the moment you’re in the way. And more — you’re a menace. I’ve one thing to think about, and distractions might make me careless. If I’m careless, I might get hurt.”
She drew in her breath.
Ross caught sight of the white signpost, with River Lane painted on it in black. He turned off the main road. A little farther along a car was parked at the side of the road; this was a popular spot for courting couples. The red light of this car was in the shape of a diamond, and Ross knew that its passengers were the ‘reserves’ for whom he had asked. He saw neither of them.
“Peter, just what are you doing?” Mae asked.
“If I have to tell you in words of three letters, you aren’t the girl I thought you were.” Ross slowed down. “It’s dangerous and it’s hush-hush, and this is probably the last time I shall be working on it — and not because of your fervent wish. I’ll get the sack.” He sounded bitter, and his voice was hard and uncompromising. “It happens to be a job I think is important, and I’ve a pride in my work. You’ve done very nicely to-night.”
“I’m sorry, Peter.” Mae sounded almost humble; that wasn’t like her.
“You needn’t be sorry. You’ve opened my eyes to a part of you I didn’t know existed, and I don’t like it.”
The car stopped.
“Peter...”
“I won’t be any use to my Chief with a beautiful doll fastened round my neck,” Ross said. “He can’t take the risk of using a man who’ll be followed around by a woman searching for imaginary blondes. But you’re not going to spoil tonight’s job, precious, it matters. This is where we get out.”
“Peter!”
“Come on,” he said.
She slid across the front of the seat and got out. Except for the stars and the sidelights of the car behind them, it was dark. He could only just see the pale blur of her face, and the night breeze wafted the perfume she was wearing — subtle, intoxicating — but it didn’t affect him. He took her elbow, and they walked along the gravel road towards the other car. Not until they were ten feet away from it did Mae stop.
“Where are we going?”
“My friends are going to look after you,” Ross said.
“Friends? A couple of ...”
A man climbed out of the other car, another on the far side. Mae stopped. One man showed tall and lean against the sky-line, and there was only one man in
Department Z with that lanky figure; his name was Lane. The man struck a match, ostensibly to light a cigarette, actually to show Ross his face.
“Hallo, Peter? Want any help?”
“I don’t but my friend does,” said Ross. “This is Mae Harrison, and she was stranded along the road — her car broke down. Take her back to Hampton, will you, and put her on the first non-stop train that comes in — for Waterloo. Not a stopping train, she’s in a great hurry.”
“Delighted,” said Wally Lane.
“Then telephone a garage to pick up her car, along the road — a black Lagonda — and drive it to Waterloo. She can pick it up there. Then come back and wait here, please. One of you stay here all the time,” said Ross, as an afterthought.
“Right,” said the man from the other side of the car, a shorter and stockier man who had not lit a cigarette.
“Mae, this is Wally Lane, an old friend of mine,” said Ross. “You’ll get along fine, I should think. Make quite sure Mae doesn’t miss the train, Wally, won’t you?”
“My dear chap! I’ll keep closer than a brother.”
“Thanks.” Ross turned to Mae. “Good night, precious, sleep well.”
He swung round.
“Peter!”
He didn’t respond to her cry, and went straight to his car. Before he had started the engine, the other car had started up, and the driver began to reverse. Ross wiped the sweat from his forehead, took a flask from the dashboard recess and gave himself a nip of whisky. He didn’t relax, felt taut as a tension cable. He’d felt savage and been savage with Mae, and there wasn’t any way of being sure that he’d used the right methods. Being soft wouldn’t help with Mae, but this might cut her too deep. He’d meant what he said, but knew he would probably regret much of it in the morning.
He had to forget it.
He drove on slowly, and soon reached the river. The road ran alongside it, and the stars reflected from the smooth surface, showing the trees on the far bank more clearly and the bungalows that were dotted along, most of them close to the water. Shepperton itself lay some distance ahead, but the bungalow where Professor Conway was prisoner was somewhere along here. He saw several jetties jutting out into the river, there were lights on at some of the windows, radio music blared from one bungalow, a dizzy South American tune was in sharp contrast to the calmness and quiet loveliness of this night scene. Close at hand, Ross could see the water lapping gently against the bank. A hundred yards away, a car was parked at the back of one of the bungalows — all of which fronted the river. The road was poor, with deep ruts in it, and the car jolted from side to side. He switched off his headlights as he crawled towards the parked car, and a man came from it.
Ross stopped.
“Peter?”
It was Williamson, a man about his own size and figure.
“Hallo, Tim.”
“Hallo. No birds flown?”
“No, he’s still here. Another Johnny arrived half an hour ago, that makes at least three plus the Professor,” said Williamson. “There may be others in there.”
“Where’s Perry?”
“Squatting in a little launch in the jetty next to the one we’re interested in, so that he can hoot like an owl or make a noise like a goldfish if they leave by the front and try to sneak off in their motor launch. What a launch! High-powered beauty, and worth a fortune. A funny thing happened to it.”
Ross found himself grinning.
“What?”
“Something to do with the petrol lead,” said Williamson apologetically. “Perry fixed it, he’s the engineer of the party. He says that if they do start off that way, they won’t get more than a couple of miles, and then the engine will go pop-pop-pop-pop, and Bob’s your uncle.”
“Not bad,” murmured Ross. “Where’s Brown?”
“Sitting in another car, three gardens removed — just round the corner, we can’t see it from here. He has cushions, trust him to get an easy job. The bungalow where they’ve got Conway is the next but one to this — with the red light in the inside window.”
Ross had already seen the window, which was long and narrow; light came through a thin red curtain and spread a pallid glow over a little stretch of the garden. The bungalow was fifty yards from where he had parked, and he couldn’t be seen from it.
“Haven’t they posted any guards?”
“Nary a sentinel,” said Williamson, and stifled a yawn. “They’re over-confident, my boy, they don’t think anyone knows where they are. That was Perry, he shadowed them. Heard about Harry Marshall?”
The tone of Williamson’s voice didn’t alter.
“Yes.”
“What’s the drill?” asked Williamson.
“We want Conway alive, and Gordon thinks they’ll kill him rather than let him go. The one certain thing is they mustn’t get him away alive.”
“Not much fear of that,” said Williamson. “I don’t quite catch on, Peter. They’ve tucked up for the night, as far as I can see, don’t seem to have any idea of leaving suddenly — garage locked, cars inside, it’s true they could use the launch, but Perry says there isn’t enough petrol in the tank for thirty miles, so they haven’t fuelled for a long journey. Some kind of hoax, I wonder?”
“Not over-confidence?”
“Could be. But they’re good — very good. This doesn’t seem to measure up to their usual standard.”
“No,” agreed Ross thoughtfully. “It doesn’t measure up, but there’s no reason to think they’re slipping. What fast one could they pull?”
“Helicopter?” asked Williamson, and gave an inane little laugh.
“I suppose it’s possible, but I shouldn’t think it’s likely.”
Ross took the suggestion seriously, was prepared to accept any possibility. The most likely thing was that the kidnappers thought they were safe, that no one dreamt they were here, and that their only concern was keeping Conway quiet. They’d want Conway alive, so he was in no immediate danger, but if they were attacked what would happen? Conway would be shot — they wouldn’t allow him to be recaptured. Without knowing it, Conway was going to be shot from both sides.
“Dark thoughts?” Williamson asked.
“Gloomy,” agreed Ross. “The problem’s simple — to get him without being hurt, but although they may think they’re safe, they won’t take any chances inside.”
“Meaning, they’ll kill him rather than ...”
“That’s it.”
Williamson said: “Couldn’t we stage an accident just outside, and go there to beg for help? If they’re sure they’re not suspected, they’d probably fall for it. The simple things often come off.”
“I don’t like it,” Ross said. “The whole set-up seems phoney.”
Williamson shrugged.
Ross opened the door of the car and got out, glancing up and down. The radio music was muffled by the distance, but he could still hear it. With the engine switched off, he could hear the lapping of the waves against the river-bank. Everything seemed simple and straightforward, he might be imagining uncertainty and menace. Nine times out of ten, a raid came off without any trouble, but the gravest risk was that Conway would be killed.
Ross knew that he was in a bad mood. He didn’t consciously dwell on that last meeting with Mae, but it bit deeply into his subconscious, and he wasn’t easy about it.
“Don’t leave it too late,” Williamson said. “We mustn’t disturb the Professor’s beauty sleep.”
“Listen,” said Ross. “They catch one of the biggest plums they’re after, they bring him to a sleepy little bungalow in a lonely little spot, and do precisely nothing — no guard in the grounds, no one at the windows, no interest taken in what goes on. I tell you it doesn’t add up. We’ve missed some of the numbers. What would you do, if you’d kidnapped Conway and brought him here?”
“Bristle with guards,” said Williamson promptly.
“Where would you put them?”
Williamson put his head on one side.
“Hang it, old chap.”
He sounded forlorn.
“You might put them in the obvious place, in the garden or at the windows, or you might say that would be too obvious. But you’d have them about, and make quite sure you knew if there was any raid in the offing.” He looked at the bungalow next to that with the red curtain. “In there, for instance. The other one could be a decoy hide-out.”
“Hum,” said Williamson, and sounded impressed.
The other bungalow was in darkness.
“Seen anyone there?”
“No. There hasn’t been a light on, I took it for granted that the place was empty. A lot of these places are used for week-ends and holidays, you know, not by permanent residents.”
“Supposing we find out,” said Ross.
5
FORCED ENTRY
“WHAT’S the size of it?” Williamson asked, as they stood looking at the darkened bungalow. “Walk straight up and knock at the door?”
“If there’s anyone inside, they’ll know we’re here, and they’ll probably guess why,” said Ross. “We’re out of sight of the main bungalow, but not this one.”
“My fool fault.”
“No one’s fault yet, I may be dreaming,” said Ross. “I think we’ll both drive off. If they’re in this place they’re not likely to be near the one where Brown’s parked, and shouldn’t know anything about him or Perry.”
“We took all precautions,” Williamson said, with a faint note of laughter. “We shove off, and they think we’ve given up or gone for help, is that it?”
“You’re catching on,” said Ross, amiably.
“Going to tell the others?”
“Not yet.”
Ross went back to his car, reversed in the narrow road, and swung away, towards the main road and the spot where he had sent Mae off. Williamson followed shortly afterwards, and they drove at speed for several minutes before Ross slowed down. Williamson reversed, and Ross joined him in his car, a Lagonda.
“We’ll drive back without lights, stop fifty yards away, and walk the rest,” said Ross.
