Dead or Alive (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  Ross went off, got into his car, and turned to look into the back seat. It wasn’t until now that the delayed-action effect of the attack hit at his nerves, and that was partly because his head wasn’t too good. He crashed his gears as he changed up, and hadn’t done that for a long time. He sped through the quiet streets and half-expected a chase car or shots out of the darkness.

  Why had he been attacked? Forget it.

  He knew that Craigie or Loftus would be at the office; built into the wall there was a bed, which could be lowered.

  But there was no delay after he had pressed the switch, the doors opened and Loftus bulked against the light. Several of the lamps were turned off, and Craigie was lying in the bed, not far from the fireplace. He was wide awake, and a book was lying on the sheet. Loftus was fully dressed.

  “Sorry about this,” said Ross, “but I’m full of ideas.”

  “We need them,” said Loftus.

  Ross explained briefly, and his arguments didn’t seem so strong when he was talking to the others as when he had only himself for an audience; it hadn’t seemed overpowering, even then. He watched the faces of the Department leaders, both sober and serious — and knew just how deeply this affair was affecting them. They couldn’t see the end yet.

  Need they be worried? The other side seemed to be on the run.

  “And that’s it,” he said at last. “Tell me I ought to go and sleep it off.”

  “You probably think better when you think you can’t think at all,” said Loftus with heavy humour. “We’ve just had a message from Berry, who had a crack at the man Tim shot. Your assailant. The man isn’t dead, but he isn’t far off it — and he’s talked. He had to kidnap you, if he could.”

  “Nice,” said Ross.

  “If it had worked the way he planned, he would have knocked you out and then driven you to Hyde Park Corner, where another man would have taken over the car. He doesn’t know your final destination, but he does know where he got his orders.”

  Ross didn’t speak.

  “From a man at the Dive,” said Loftus. “He met the man outside there, two hours before he attacked you. We’ve laid on men for a raid — our chaps this time, not the police. It’s due at a quarter to three, when the last of the ordinary members should have left. Coming?”

  The little neon sign outside the front door of the Dive went out as Ross and Williamson took up their positions in a shadowy doorway, farther along the narrow street. The commissionaire was visible against the inside light, and was obviously waiting for someone to come out. Two couples, one man the worse for drink, left a few minutes afterwards; the commissionaire’s thanks for a substantial tip floated along the road. Under cover of the noise of the car engines starting up, Ross and Williamson went forward and other Department agents closed in. There was only the one entrance, as far as anyone knew, but agents were also watching the buildings at the back of the Dive; there might be a secret exit.

  Ross reached the door as the commissionaire was closing it.

  “Hallo,” said Ross. “Too late?”

  “I’m afraid you are, sir.”

  “I left my cigarette-case downstairs.”

  “Oh, you can go and get that,” said the commissionaire. “I’m in no hurry. Empty earlier to-night than usual.”

  He nodded affably as Ross and Williamson went down, then looked in surprise at the others.

  Ross didn’t worry about the commissionaire.

  He led the way slowly down the stairs and past the empty cloaks cubicle. The cloakroom attendant wasn’t there, but he heard a woman laughing inside, and, at the door, saw the attendant with a glass at her lips, looking at Sam, who leaned across the bar as if well satisfied with the night’s work and prepared to go on talking for a long time. The other barmen were tidying up, and from a little room behind the bar there came the chink of glasses being washed.

  Ross slipped into the room.

  Sam started, recognised him, and stared, his mouth dropping wide open, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. The woman looked puzzled but not alarmed. Ross grinned and approached the bar, his right hand in his pocket — and then Sam turned and bolted through the narrow doorway which led to the kitchen.

  Ross put a hand on the bar and vaulted over, snatching up a bottle of gin.

  Sam shouted to someone unseen.

  Ross reached the little wash-room, and saw another door open and Sam disappearing. He flung the bottle and caught Sam on the back of the head, pitching the man forward — Sam seemed to fall on his face and his legs kicked. There was a scuffling sound in the room beyond. Ross reached the doorway, gun in hand now, and saw two men in a room not more than ten feet by ten. Sam had banged his head on the desk behind which one of the men was standing.

  The other was by his side — also gun in hand.

  Ross fired. His bullet struck the other’s gun and knocked it from his grasp. The man by the desk grabbed at something in an open drawer. Ross snapped:

  “Keep away.”

  The man hesitated.

  “Show your hands,” said Ross.

  Slowly, the man withdrew his hands. Ross went across and plucked another automatic from the drawer. It had come so swiftly that it almost surprised him. There seemed to be no other way out of the room, the walls were cream distempered and quite blank. There were two arm-chairs and two upright chairs, the desk, a corner cupboard, a small table, and two telephones — that was all.

  Sam was gasping, and trying to get up.

  Williamson came in, and drawled:

  “They don’t seem pleased to see you, Peter.”

  “They aren’t pleased,” said Ross, “but they may get a laugh later on.”

  Sam got to his knees and crawled on all fours to a chair, then sat on the floor with his back against the chair and his chin on his chest. Williamson went across and frisked him; Sam didn’t carry a weapon.

  Ross studied the two men.

  He had seen them both before, and knew one of them by name — a medium-sized man who was running to fat. He had broad features and the rather weak eyes behind thicklensed glasses. His hair was quite grey, but he had plenty of it, and also had the indefinable look of the north countryman. He was Higson, the owner of the Dive.

  The other man was taller, dressed in evening clothes, and was younger. He was often here, usually with a woman. He was pale and scared, and that had shaken out of him any claim to good looks.

  The only man who didn’t show fear was Higson.

  “You stand in that corner, you in that.”

  Ross jerked the gun towards the respective corners, and the younger man obeyed at once. Higson hesitated. Williamson crossed to him, and took his arm, and Higson didn’t resist. When they were in their respective corners, Williamson backed to the door and took out his gun. The other raiding agents poked their heads in.

  “Having a nice time?” That was Perry, who looked like a whippet.

  “Wonderful,” said Ross. “Have a good look round everywhere, won’t you?”

  He went to the desk and sat down, then opened all the drawers and took out the contents — and suddenly he stopped. He drew out a wig — a man’s wig of blond hair. Next, he took out a false nose, long and wriggly. He nodded with satisfaction and held the wig up.

  “Yours, Higson?”

  Higson didn’t speak.

  “Or your wounded boy friend’s,” said Ross.

  He glanced through the papers and saw little of interest, until he came to a packet of photographs. He shook these out and spread them on the desk. Mae was there; Conway; Alice Conway ...

  He found himself staring at Alice; and putting blue in place of the grey in the photograph. He put that aside quickly. There was a photograph of himself — a good one. He had never seen it before, had no idea where it had been taken. Bray, Dolly Leeming, several other agents — but neither Loftus nor Craigie — were there. Also, there were pictures of the three men who had died at the house at Shepperton.

  That raid seemed an age
ago.

  He finished looking through them.

  “Nice picture gallery,” he said. “Why don’t you like your picture taken, Higson?”

  Higson didn’t speak. Neither of the men had uttered a word since the raid.

  Ross turned the photographs over, and on the back was a potted biography. His own name, address, and approximate age were noted down, and there was a note: “Independent means; believed Intelligence agent.”

  “How did you get the wig and false nose?” Ross asked mildly.

  Higson didn’t speak; the man in evening clothes licked his lips and stared at Higson, as if ready to take his cue from the north countryman. It was Sam who stirred, got to his feet unsteadily, and looked at Ross with his mouth hanging open and a scared glow in his dark eyes.

  “Massa Ross, sah, they was brung in, early to-night.”

  “Who brought them?”

  “A man from outside, sah.”

  Higson said in a thin, cruel voice: “Now keep your mouth shut, Sam, or you’ll suffer for it.”

  “Shut up,” Ross barked. “Go on, Sam.”

  “They was just brung in,” said Sam. “A little guy said that they had finished with them, sah. Also ——”

  “Keep your mouth shut!” Higson snarled.

  Sam darted a sideways look at him.

  “There was one other thing, Massa Ross, sah. The man who brung them said that there had been some trouble and that Elliott was wounded, sah, that’s God’s truth. I didn’t imagine it, Massa Ross, he said Elliott was wounded.”

  “Elliott,” mused Ross. “Do you know Elliott?”

  “Sure thing, sah! He’s often been here, he ——”

  The roar of a shot cut across his words.

  It didn’t come from Higson or the tall man — but from the wall, near the corner cupboard. Sam choked. Ross saw him stagger, saw the wound on his forehead. Sam was dead before he hit the floor. Higson rushed towards the cupboard, the doors of which were open. Williamson shot him in the leg and brought him down. The younger man, farther away from the corner, groaned but didn’t move. Ross went quickly to the cupboard, knowing another shot might come at any moment. There was darkness beyond a hole in the wall, a sound of footsteps but no more shooting.

  “Careful!” cried Williamson.

  Ross went into the cupboard and through the hole in the wall, knowing he was a clear target against the light of the office.

  23

  ELLIOTT

  OUT of sight, a door slammed.

  Ross could see from the light behind him. He was in a narrow passage, and there seemed to be a door at the far end. Immediate danger was gone. He kept one hand against the wall and hurried along, and footsteps told him that Williamson or Perry was behind him. Probably Perry — the passage was low, and Williamson would have difficulty getting along it.

  He reached the door.

  There was a handle, and it was an ordinary wooden door. He turned the handle and pushed, and was surprised that the door wasn’t locked. A faint light came from ahead of him. He stepped through cautiously into a large office, with several desks and typewriters, filing-cabinets and telephones.

  Perry called out from behind him.

  “Found the switch, Peter?”

  The light ahead went out almost on his words, and another door slammed. But this would lead into the streets at the back of the Dive, and agents were watching. It should be a complete haul. Ross thought: “And Alice?” and wondered what he would feel if he found her, then cursed himself for thinking of it.

  He reached the far wall as Perry switched on a torch. The beam caught the electric-light switch, and Ross pressed it down.

  Bright light flooded the office, which looked smaller now. Cigarette smoke curled up from two ash-trays. It looked as if several people had been in here when the alarm had been raised. Ross went to the door, and found it locked.

  He shot twice at the lock.

  He stood aside, and Perry took a chance and went ahead of him into a narrow passage which led to a flight of stairs. There were no sounds now — but that didn’t mean the danger was gone. Perry went up the stairs at the double. At the top was another door, and he fired at this lock before thrusting it open. This time Ross went through first.

  He was in a bedroom.

  A man lay on a single bed, eyes open, right arm and shoulder bandaged. He was groping for something beneath his pillow with his good hand. Ross went across and gripped his wrist, then slid his own hand beneath the pillow and drew out an automatic.

  “Where have they gone?” he asked.

  The man on the bed didn’t speak.

  “You might as well save us time, Elliott, that’s all that’s in it.”

  “Go to hell,” muttered Elliott.

  He had dark hair, a short nose, and brown eyes; and it was easy to imagine that the hatred smouldering in those eyes could frighten — as they had frightened Mae. He looked sinewy and powerful, and there wasn’t any doubt that he was the man whom Bray had meant, and whom Ross had wounded. His lips were thin and drawn back now; it might have been in pain or in hatred. There wasn’t any doubt about his hatred, either — he looked a fanatic.

  Ross said: “Where’s Alice Conway?”

  “You’ll never catch up, you fool.”

  Ross went across to the far door. It wasn’t locked, and led to a sitting-room. This was a small flat, nicely furnished; he judged that several people lived here. He crossed the sitting-room to a small hall, then opened the front door. He was in a small mews, and knew that it was immediately behind the Dive. He could see no one in the mews, and that puzzled him; the other agents ought to be here.

  He called out: “Hallo, there!”

  There was no answer.

  Perry joined him.

  “We keep chasing shadows,” he complained.

  “Keep an eye on Elliott, will you?”

  “No need — Tim’s there.”

  “All right,” said Ross. A flight of steps led down into the mews, and he went down cautiously, then realised that it was very dark. The street lights were out. In corners, the darkness was pitch, and the only light came from the stairs and the door from which Ross had come. He said: “Torch, old chap?”

  The torch shone out, the long beam stabbing right and left — until suddenly it stopped. It showed a man’s face — and the man was lying on his back. Perry hurried across to him, and before Ross had moved, called out:

  “It’s Parkson.”

  Parkson was one of the Department agents.

  “Just K.O.’d.,” Perry called with relief in his voice.

  He swivelled the torch round again, and they saw a second man lying in another corner. He was more badly hurt than Parkson — there was blood on his collar and shirt, and a wound in his cheek; but he was alive.

  “They were ready for us, Peter.”

  It hardly needed conscious thought to see what had happened. The gang had been alive to trouble, had discovered they were being watched and knew that agents were stationed in the mews; and they had sent for others, from outside, to attack the watching men and so make sure that they could escape. It wasn’t any good wasting time or wishing for the moon. For a few moments he had thought that this was the end of the chase, but he’d simply driven them from one hole to another — and had caught some of the rats.

  A car came along the road approaching the mews, headlights full on. It stopped, the headlights stayed on, and footsteps approached. The new-comer was Loftus, hurrying and limping badly.

  “No Alice,” said Ross. “Another dead end.”

  Ross woke up at half past ten next morning, and wondered why he had a headache — until he remembered what had happened. There was plenty to remember. He sat up and felt his head; it was very tender, and not surprising that it ached. He pushed back the bedclothes, switched on the electric kettle in the fireplace, and went to the bathroom. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face was unusually pale. He grinned at himself, to make sure that he could still look cheerful.r />
  He took the morning newspapers from the letter-box, and skimmed through them; there was a report of the shooting at Chancery Lane and an almost entirely guesswork story of what had led up to it. That was all. He tossed the papers aside, made tea, and smoked a cigarette while sitting on the side of the bed and calling his thoughts to order.

  He had left Loftus and other agents at the offices and the flat behind the Dive — Loftus had given him orders to come here, and he hadn’t argued. Loftus was the man for searching and routine, he was simply a man of action — paid to get results. Every time he thought he had them, he found that more results were waiting — out of sight.

  Elliott and Higson hadn’t said a useful word.

  The man in evening dress hadn’t appeared to know much more than that the secret entrance to the flat was used by Higson. Sam hadn’t even known about it.

  He had been in Higson’s pay for a sound reason — he was in the country on a forged passport; Higson knew that. He had taken messages which had been brought to the Dive, and done exactly what Higson had told him. He’d given Bray away because he had not known Bray was connected in any way with the case. Making Ross consider Bray had seemed a brilliant diversion.

  Ross didn’t know what had been discovered at the cellar office; he only knew that they had uncovered part of a sizeable organisation. It was even possible that the results were better than he realised, it might simply be a question of clearing up the odds and ends, but one thing remained — to find Alice Conway.

  Why did they want her?

  Was Craigie right? Just so that they could exert pressure on her father?

  What was the use of guessing?

  He poured himself out another cup of tea. The daily woman had been told not to come in for a few days — he preferred to be on his own at a time like this. He went to the dressing-table mirror. He needed a shave badly, and he hadn’t improved since he had last looked at his reflection. He swallowed the tea quickly and went to the telephone.

  Craigie was in the office, and answered promptly.

  “How’s the Professor?” asked Ross.

  “Going home today — and he’ll be closely watched, don’t worry.”