by John Creasey
He left the car in a nearby garage, and walked towards his flat. He was extra careful, until he saw one of the Department’s younger agents; Craigie wasn’t taking any chances. The man winked, the all-clear signal. Yet Ross was cautious as he went in, and glanced into all the rooms before he felt completely at ease. He locked and bolted both the back and front doors, and went to his bedroom. He was used to sleeping at odd hours, and now that he knew he had a chance to relax, he wanted sleep. Trust Craigie to be right! He laughed to himself as he took off his shoes, collar and tie, then his coat, and lay down with an eiderdown over him. He stared at the ceiling for a while, then began to see pictures — of Alice Conway looking at him out of a newspaper and from the mantelpiece at Conway’s house.
It was nearly half past four.
He turned over, and willed sleep ...
The ringing of the telephone bell woke him, and he blinked in the fading light. The bell next to his bed kept ringing, and he turned over and took off the receiver. All that Craigie had said flooded into his mind; thought of the coming raid; thought of Alice Conway.
“Hallo?”
“Wakie-wakie,” Loftus said, cheerfully.
“Oaf!”
“You’re due at Crossways, Wimbledon Common, at nine o’clock, and it’s now just turned eight,” said Loftus.
“That’s easy. Anything else?”
“Two men have gone into the house, no one has come out. There’s a garbled story from a neighbouring gardener that a woman was carried in there on a stretcher the other day, but I wouldn’t like to rely on it too much, he waffles. The house has been rented furnished for the past four months, and Higson of the Dive signed the lease.”
“We certainly aren’t a thousand miles away,” Ross said. “What are you keeping me talking for?”
Loftus laughed, and rang off.
Ross put on his shoes, and had one tied when the telephone bell rang again. Mae? He hesitated; it might be wise not to talk to anyone, he hadn’t a lot of time. Nonsense? He lifted the receiver.
A man said: “You’ve had plenty of warnings, Ross.”
It wasn’t the voice; obviously it couldn’t be Elliott’s. The old trick was being tried by someone else. Ross caught his breath, and the man at the other end of the line chuckled.
“You’ll regret being obstinate,” he said. “You’ll regret it a lot.”
He rang off.
Ross stared down at the untied lace of his right shoe, and did nothing about it. The new warning had shocked him more than anything in the affair; it was completely unexpected; these devils were still sure of themselves. Slowly, he knotted the lace, and straightened up. He put on his collar and tie, and watched his expression in the mirror; it reflected the shock and the grimness that was in him.
He filled his two automatic pistols, slipped one into his hip pocket and another into his shoulder holster. He fastened a thin, sheathed knife inside his waist-band. The Department sometimes used other weapons, but Loftus would be on the job tonight, and would have everything required for the raid. Tear-gas, probably. He was going to the door when he swung round, hurried to the telephone, and dialled Craigie’s number.
“Loftus,” said Loftus.
“Peter Ross — SSOR. Bill, I’ve just had another ‘keep out’ warning.”
“Well, well,” breathed Loftus. “We aren’t quite through yet. How long ago?”
“Five minutes.”
‘Then it wasn’t Bray, or we’d have had word that he’d called you,” said Loftus. “From Crossways, possibly. All set to go?”
“Fully loaded.”
Loftus chuckled; he was always in a brighter mood when he thought the end of a chase was near. He knew that there might be casualties in the raid, possibly heavy casualties, yet he was cheerful.
“Don’t break your neck on the way.”
“No, sir,” said Ross with mock humility.
He banged down the receiver, and went towards the little hall — and caught sight of the newspaper with Alice Conway’s photograph in; he had left it on a chair, folded with her picture uppermost. He glowered at it, and stepped to the door — and the door bell rang.
“Now listen,” he said sotto voce. “I’m in a hurry.”
He moved into the front room, pulled aside the curtain, and saw the Department’s watchdog on duty; so the caller was someone who seemed reliable and safe. But he didn’t want to talk to anyone, he hadn’t much time. It was already much darker than when he had woken up — and the light was on. Whoever was outside knew that he was in. He could slip out the back way, but — why? A few minutes wouldn’t make all that difference, they would wait for him at Wimbledon. He went back to the hall, and in spite of the reassurance of the man outside, he stood to one side as he opened the door, so that he couldn’t be shot at as it opened.
Mae stood there.
“Hallo!” greeted Ross, after a brief pause. “We don’t have the luck, sweet, I’m just off out.”
“We have some luck,” Mae said. “You’re still alive.” She stepped in, and closed the door behind her, and took his hand. “Darling, I just have to talk to you.”
“Mae ——”
“I must!”
She held his hand, and he could feel the pressure of her fingers and the quivering of her nerves. She was pale; he thought ‘distraught’. He couldn’t understand it, unless she thought that she had news. Minutes wouldn’t matter, but he mustn’t stay longer. If he refused to listen, she would feel as if he’d struck her.
He freed his arm and squeezed her waist.
“Can it be quick, darling?”
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” said Mae.
She was breathing heavily as she led the way into the living-room. It was only a few days ago that she had come in here unexpectedly, using her own key, and his heart leapt and started to race as if he had never seen a beautiful woman before; she had been everything that was desirable. Was it her fault that he didn’t think that now, or had the change been in him?
He knew the answer. He frowned.
Mae didn’t seem to notice that.
“Didn’t you get your key back?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I forgot it,” said Mae.
She took off her hat and tossed it to a chair, almost indecent treatment for a model that had cost a small fortune. She pushed her fingers through her hair in the way she had, and now he could see that her eyes were glittering, as if she had a severe headache; or was feverish. He’d never seen her look like this before.
“Well, my sweet?”
The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to eight-twenty-five, and he would be late. He ought to have gone out the back way.
“Peter — where are you going?”
“Oh, come,” he said. “You don’t have to be told that I’ve some odds and ends to do.”
“On this — case?”
He didn’t answer.
“You’re — not — to — go,” said Mae.
Each word came slowly and distinctly. She backed a pace, as if she wanted to get between him and the door. She meant everything she said, she hadn’t been able to stand the strain. It hurt; and it told him that whatever happened in the future, for him it would not hold Mae. The last lingering doubt went then. She’d told him she couldn’t stand the strain, and she was right; just as he had been right with Craigie. But he had to stand it.
“Listen, my darling,” he said softly. “I’ve a job to do, and I must do it. We’ll talk afterwards.”
“You’re not to go,” Mae said more quickly. “I’ve just had — a message.”
“Oh?”
“From a man who said ——”
She caught her breath, went forward, and gripped his hands and pressed them against her breast. She kissed him suddenly and fiercely, and he could feel her warm breath mingling with his. He nearly lost his balance, steadied, and took her wrists.
“What man, and what did he say?”
“I don’t know the man. He said that you wo
uldn’t get back alive if you went to work tonight.”
“Nonsense. Cheap threats ——”
“It wasn’t a cheap threat, he meant what he said. Don’t you understand, you’ll be walking into a trap, they know you’re going, and you’ll have no chance. Peter, I can’t let you go, I won’t let you go.”
“Stay here until I get back,” he said more gently.
“No!” she cried. She flung herself at him again and imprisoned his arms, and she had more strength than he realised. “I can’t let you, you’ll be walking to your death, there’s no need for it. Peter, don’t you understand? I love you, I’d do anything to save you, you mustn’t die. You don’t owe this work your life, you owe that to me. You mustn’t go!”
“We’ll talk later,” he said, and had to exert a lot of pressure to move her away from him. She clutched at his coat, and pulled it open as he backed away. “Mae, I’m sorry, but I’m late already.”
“Sorry!” she cried.
She snatched at the gun in his shoulder holster, drew it out and backed away. Her eyes were blazing, her lips twisted back from her teeth.
“I won’t let you go! Don’t move.”
27
STRUGGLE
ROSS didn’t try to get the gun back. Mae whisked away from him, and it was out of reach. She pointed it at his chest, and her hand was unsteady, he believed that in her frenzy she would do anything to stop him. He didn’t move his hand towards the other gun, she might realise what he was doing. He’d turned full circle, and she was fighting desperately against the thing she said she had accepted as inevitable.
He felt compassion for her. Slowly, the compassion faded.
“Peter, I’m serious,” she said, and backed farther away. “I’ll wound you so that you can’t leave, if you try to go. I’m not going to let them kill you.”
“They’ve often tried, Mae.”
“This time they’ll succeed.”
“You’re not yourself,” he said. “Listen, my pet. We’ve talked this out several times, and we’ll have another session later. Just now I’ve a job to do that must be done, and if you stopped me, you’d never forgive yourself. And — I’d never forgive you.”
“You’d live to be grateful.”
“Not for this. Mae, if you want to hold my respect, put that gun down and see this my way.”
“Respect!”
“You need it for a basis for marriage.”
“I can’t marry a corpse.”
He held her gaze for what seemed a long time, and the gun kept pointing at his chest. Then he moved — not backwards, but sideways and forward, leaping at her. She fired. The bullet tore through his coat and thudded into the door, but it didn’t hurt him. He reached her and thrust the gun aside, but she didn’t lose her grip on it. He clutched at her wrist, and she twisted and turned furiously, she was like quicksilver. He would never have believed that she had such strength. He got a grip at last, and twisted.
She gave a stifled scream, and dropped the gun. He kicked it across the carpet. The sound of the shot would have reached the man outside, he would be rushing towards the flat by now. In a few seconds it would be over, but it had lasted long enough to force a physical struggle — to make the impossible real. Mae stood holding her wrist, glaring at him; there was no other word for it, she didn’t look sane. The only colour was lipstick and rouge, and the rouge seemed to burn, there were two spots of angry red on her cheeks. Her lips were still drawn back, she had a feline beauty — the kind of beauty he’d never really seen, although she’d hinted at it. This capacity for passion was the thing which had first attracted him, and it was too strong, he could never live with it.
There was a thunderous knocking at the front door.
“I’m sorry, Mae,” he said.
He backed towards the gun, and shouted: “All safe!” for the benefit of the man outside. He picked the gun up, without once taking his gaze off Mae. Then he backed out of the room, closing the door a little with his foot. He backed to the front door and opened it.
“What the devil ——” began the younger man outside.
“Just make sure she doesn’t get away,” Ross said. “She isn’t quite herself. She ——”
He saw astonishment on the face of Craigie’s agent — and then the man pushed him aside violently. He staggered against the wall, as a shot rang out — a sharp crack, not the roar of a large automatic or a revolver. He saw the hole leap into the other’s forehead, while he was still staggering. He caught a glimpse of Mae, with a tiny gun in her hand, turning towards him. He brought his own gun up, and fired; the shots were simultaneous, the roar of his drowned hers. He felt the knife-like pain of a bullet in his left arm — and saw her gun fly from her grip. Blood leapt on to her pale, slender hand; he’d hit it on the fingers and below the wrist. She stood quite still, glaring.
He said heavily: “You’re not sane.”
She didn’t answer.
He glanced at the other agent, and knew that Craigie would soon have to make another entry in his black book. He had really turned full circle, now — love to hate. He felt a sudden, wild desire to laugh. Love to hate!
He motioned to her with the gun.
“Turn round, Mae.”
She didn’t move.
“Turn round,” he said wearily, “and walk into the bedroom. I’m not going to hurt you, but I have to telephone for someone to come here. You’ll be all right, don’t worry.”
She didn’t move.
“Mae, don’t be silly. I don’t want to hurt you.”
He hardly knew what he was saying.
“Well,” she said in a slow voice, as if articulation were difficult and hurtful, “you have. I’ve tried to save you, but you haven’t a chance. I’ve done everything I could, although you’ve just ignored me. I couldn’t help falling in love with you, and if you’d been sensible, this — needn’t have happened.”
He stood rigid.
The truth came as a flash of lightning, vivid enough to blind him, but after that frightening moment he knew that it had been there from the beginning for him to see. Mae had wanted to stop him from working; Mae had clutched at him as Dolly clutched at Sammy Bray. Mae was working on the other side.
“It’s your own fault,” she choked. “I knew you were working on the Conway job, mine was to stop you. I’d got to know you so that I could spy on you, and — I fell in love with you. I fought for you, if it hadn’t been for me, you would have been killed long ago. Until you got to the Dive, no one tried to kill you. I wouldn’t allow it. I thought ——”
She broke off.
“All right, Mae,” said Ross. “Get out of the way. I’ve a job to finish.”
He might have to kill her; at least to wound her again.
“You and your work, that’s all you think about, you’d sacrifice everything for it. You were ready to sacrifice me when you didn’t know — the truth. Well, you’re not going to finish that job.”
His mind was beginning to work more freely. She had told him about the garage and Tiger’s house — after Tiger was dead. She had made a complete fool of him from the beginning, and he hadn’t once dreamed of it. He’d even let her ‘help’ — and Craigie and Loftus had fallen for that one.
“What do you think you’ll get out of it?” he asked.
“I’ll get Conway,” she said. “It’s taken until now to break down his daughter’s resistance, but now she’s going to beg him to help. He’ll rush to help her and walk into the trap, we’ll get him again. We’ve always meant to get him.”
“Who? Why?”
Loftus had been so sure that these were independent spies; which meant she was doing this for money.
Time was ticking away; Loftus would not wait indefinitely. Who and why didn’t matter, he could find all that out later. He felt weary enough to drop. She stood against the front door, hands stretched out to prevent him from getting at it, and he would have to shoot her or fight again. Blood dripped from her hand.
She
drew in a shivering breath.
“Peter, why don’t you see when you’re beaten? Give it up. You and I together can ——”
“We can’t do anything together,” he said. “I’ll give you one minute to come away from that door.”
She stiffened, and then came slowly towards him. She wasn’t giving up, was still trying to win. Her hands stretched out, and she seemed oblivious of the pain in her hand. Each drip of blood seemed to hurt him. She was only two yards away, and moved slowly and steadily. Her eyes were glowing, as with fire.
“Peter, we — can — still ——”
The door behind her burst open, a man appeared, gun in hand, and lost a precious second in his surprise at seeing them standing together. Ross didn’t recognise him, and fired. He struck the man’s gun arm and the gun went flying. The shot roared out through the open door, this one must have been heard outside. Ross leapt towards the man who was staggering back. Mae clutched at him, and he flung her off, reached the man and struck him savagely on the temple; he went down like a stone.
Mae grabbed at his arm.
“Peter, don’t go, don’t go!” She sobbed the words. “Don’t leave me, don’t go.”
He couldn’t go and leave her like she was, she was well enough to get away, there was no telling what devilry she might do then. She would be better dead. He felt a sudden, all-devouring desire to kill her. He flung her away, and she knocked against a chair, arms still spread out, eyes glowing with that unholy fire. He could shoot her, and no one would know that he could have avoided it.
“Peter,” she moaned.
He heard running footsteps; he hadn’t much time. His gun pointed towards her breast. With a slight squeeze of the trigger, she would die; there would be no clearing up to do, no trial, no turning of the sword in the wound of his folly.
