by John Creasey
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Death Stands By
by
John Creasey
1: Murder of a Gentleman
Out of the silence and darkness of the night came a single cry, short and high-pitched, that might have been of surprise, of pain, or fear. It seemed to echo about the trees, across the meadows, and upwards to the dark heavens, as though calling on them for help. Then the silence closed down again but for the light rustling of spring leaves in a gentle wind.
There was no moon, and the stars were hidden by clouds moving sluggishly across the skies. No one near the gate of the short drive leading to the house could have seen the moving figure, dark and indiscernible against the black background, making no sound as it moved along the grass near the drive. Even when it reached the gate, and was forced to walk across the gravel of the drive, hardly a pebble grated.
Now the man was visible. Tall, thin, wearing a trilby hat pulled low over his eyes and a dark coat with the collar upturned. He turned left from the gates and quickened his pace for a hundred yards or a little more and then paused. Out of the hedge a second figure materialised, guarding against being seen as carefully as the first man.
‘All right, Branner?’ The second arrival spoke.
‘Of course.’ The thin man’s lips were twisted. ‘He’s finished. Where’s the car?’
‘Follow me,’ the other said, and there was noticeable tension in his voice.
‘Nervous?’ Branner’s smile was still contemptuous.
‘Yes, and you will be before you’ve finished working for Gri——’
‘No names, you fool!’ Branner raised his voice for the first time. They were hurrying through a small copse, along a well-trodden path with trees shooting upwards, dark and somehow menacing, on either side. ‘Didn’t they make that rule clear when you joined us?’
The second man grunted irritably. He was shorter and heavier than Branner, a different type both mentally and physically. Branner had brains, and Richard Allwing little else but brawn and a sense of his own importance. He half stopped, and then went on at a faster pace, speaking very softly.
‘There’s no need to keep to rules like that out here. Who’s going to hear us?’
‘The skies and the trees and the ground have ears,’ said Branner, as though he were reciting a piece of prize verse.
‘Don’t be a mug,’ muttered Allwing.
He realised none the less that he had made a mistake by breaking an order. When one worked for Griceson it was unwise to disobey orders or break rules, for the penalty was often out of proportion to the offence.
They walked in silence for five minutes; the path opened to a stile, and the stile to a main road. A hundred yards along it, outside a cottage, stood a Mini-Morris car. The man at the wheel turned round.
‘Well?’
‘It’s done,’ Branner answered.
‘Blimey, that’s a relief. Come on.’
The driver let in the clutch before Branner had closed the door.
• • • • •
The caretaker of Thornton Lodge, a medium-sized house on the outskirts of Guildford, was by no means an exemplary character. True he had no prison record, although he had twice been fined for drunkenness and disorderly conduct.
His name was Sam.
He was a smallish man with a shock of yellow hair that stubbornly refused to go grey, although he was nearly sixty. His wife had been grey for the past fifteen years, and his two eldest sons looked enviously at his yellow thatch. Apart from that distinguishing feature he looked old. His lined face often twisted as though with an expression of disgust, and he used a gnarled stick to help him get about. The stick was no more necessary than his expression, but it served an excellent purpose. Strangers in Wilham Village were apt to look on him as the Grand Old Man, and dispense free beer.
One morning in March, when a warm sun promised that spring was nearly over and summer begun—the trees seemed to have come to full leaf overnight—Sam tottered towards the White Goose, Wilham’s one hostelry. A large, powerful car outside the pub suggested that wealthy folk were drinking, and in case they happened to be looking outside, Sam accentuated the totter.
Nothing happened, however, and he reached the door, pushed it open and walked in without another glance at the car.
The sight of the two men lounging against the bar—he could see them over the waist-high partition that separated the private bar from the public—cheered him. He pushed his old hat to the back of his head and sat on a chair. He was the only occupant of the public bar, and the potman made no effort to attend him.
The two men were young. One was taller than the average, fair-faced and blond-haired, exquisitely tailored and turned out. The other was of medium height, with a pair of very broad shoulders. Those shoulders sloped a little from right to left, the left being an inch lower than the right. When Sam saw the man’s face, rather heavy and expressionless, he discovered that the left eyebrow was also a fraction lower than the right; the set of that face seemed slightly unbalanced.
Although the stranger’s expression was dull and his grey eyes seemed veiled, his mouth gave him away. It was generous, and obviously smiled easily.
His voice was deep, his words a little abrupt.
‘Push it down, Carry. We want to be moving.’
The man addressed as Carry drank the best part of a tankard of bitter, but he promptly poked two fingers towards the bar for a refill. The potman obliged, and his broad-shouldered companion swore mildly.
Robert Carruthers, recently christened Carry to avoid confusion with Bob Kerr, his companion at the Goose that morning, shook an admonishing finger.
‘It won’t do, old son. We can’t have language on a morning like this, and we need fortifying. When we get to that place I’ll bet you what you like there won’t be a drop to drink.’
Robert McMillan Kerr eyed his own tankard with disfavour. He was not the beer-swiller that Carruthers and other agents of a peculiar Department called Z would have liked. That was the only point in which Kerr failed them.
‘You don’t expect to get welcomed like a long-lost son, do you? Anyhow, the place will probably be empty.’
‘Be it near here, sir?’
The croaking voice was Sam’s. He was leaning forward and eyeing the two young gentlemen hopefully. Apparently neither had noticed his presence, and they might be going soon, and he was thirsty.
Carruthers turned slowly, eyeing the speaker’s yellow thatch with interest, the filthy hat with curiosity, and the lined face with its red nose in amusement. He contrived to show all three emotions. The broad man simply turned his head.
‘What’ll you have, gaffer? Yes, it’s near here.’
‘Thank’ee, sir, thank’ee!’ Sam was so overwhelmed with gratitude, for he had not expected the invitation from that quarter. ‘The usual, Bill, please, the usual. A nice morning, gents, nice as any mornin’ I’ve known in Surrey fer nigh sixty year.’
Bob Kerr seemed uninterested in the old man’s memory.
‘It’s near here,’ he repeated. ‘A place called Thornton Lodge. Do you know it?’
The name of the house did what nothing else could have done. It made Sam forget the pint glass pushed towards him. Sam, hobbling to the counter, stopped dead, his mouth rounded in an O of surprise.
‘The Lodge, sir! Well, bless me, thet’s a surprise! Why, I bin workin’ at the Lodge these last six months.’
Carruthers widened his eyes. Kerr grunted. Sam had not the slightest idea
that they had already learned that Sam would look in before twelve o’clock; and that he was caretaker at Thornton Lodge.
There was a sound motive in their roundabout approach, and in the innkeeper they had a safe ally: he was one of many men on the books of Department Z known to be reliable to receive and pass on messages. They wanted to note the reaction of the caretaker to a chance mention of the house.
There seemed nothing about Sam Martin to suggest that he was scared. After his first surprise he slaked his thirst, and cackled:
‘Thet’s strange, gents. I can show ye the place, but ‘tis empty, empty as a barn.’
‘For sale, you mean?’ asked Carruthers. ‘I’d heard that——’
‘I don’t know as how it’s fer sale,’ said Sam. ‘I ain’t heard nothing about thet.’
‘Then we’ve come down on a wild-goose chase, Carry,’ Kerr said. ‘Of all the luck!’
Carruthers shrugged.
‘I warned you, Bob, but you would come.’ This was purely for Sam’s benefit. They wanted to create the impression that they were interested in Thornton Lodge solely as purchasers. Carruthers went on to explain that his friend had been told by a man who had known Thornton Lodge years ago that it was just the place he was looking for. His friend had been abroad for many years, and was now anxious to settle down.
Carruthers paused and urged mine host to refill Sam’s glass.
Sam’s tongue was thoroughly loosened now. He explained that he had taken the job of caretaker at the Lodge through an agent in Guildford. In the six months he had worked there he had seen neither owner nor tenant. He received his wages every Friday, when the agent’s representative came to collect rents in Wilham Village.
‘But mebbe,’ said Sam hopefully, ‘ye would like to look over the place.’
‘That’s very good of you,’ said Carruthers. ‘Care to, Bob?’
Kerr hesitated.
‘What’s the use if it isn’t for sale?’
‘It might be, sir,’ piped Sam, seeing a handsome tip disappearing. ‘I could speak to the agent, sir, and——’
‘All right, we’ll go,’ said Kerr.
Sam was as good a man as any at hurrying with a pint, and he moved quickly, noticeably hobbling less, to open the door. Carruthers and Kerr followed the fair-haired man to the car—Carruthers’ Allard. Sam tucked himself in a rear seat. Carruthers took the wheel, and they went at Sam’s direction along the road to Guildford, until they reached the open drive-gates of Thornton Lodge.
‘Them blasted kids!’ Sam growled. ‘Been in agen an’ left the gates open; if I catch ‘um I’ll give ‘um a tanning. I close them gates religious, sirs, every afternoon when I comes away.’
‘It’ll save us getting out to open them,’ said Kerr.
That did little to ease Sam Martin’s indignation, and nothing could have stopped his stream of vituperation when he saw one of the downstairs windows wide open. He even shook his gnarled stick at it and hurried from the car, forgetting to open the door for the others. His keys were jingling in his hand as he reached the porch.
Carruthers and Kerr were on his heels when the front door of Thornton Lodge opened. Sam stumped indignantly through the hall towards a room on the right, where the door was ajar.
‘Thet’s where the window opens,’ he said, pushing the door wider open. ‘Some durned tramp bin restin’, thet’s my opinion. Makin’ a mess as they always do, and——Gawd!’
Kerr and Carruthers were two yards behind Sam Martin. They saw his bent back stiffen as the exclamation came out in a high-pitched voice. Then Sam turned round, his face working, his eyes and lips twitching.
‘Look—look!’ The word was pitched very high.
Kerr reached the door and pushed past him. Carruthers was only a second behind. They did not stand in the doorway looking at the outstretched figure on the bare boards of the room, but went towards it. Sam Martin plucked up courage to turn again. He was in time to see Kerr bending over that figure, his right hand feeling for the heart.
Sam, drunk or sober, knew when it was necessary to feel for the heart. No one who was still breathing could lie there on his back, with glassy eyes staring towards the ceiling. Sam seemed held by a paralysis that gripped his limbs as he saw the broad-shouldered man stand up, saw his slanting mouth open.
‘Dead some hours.’
‘Hm-hm.’ Neither Kerr nor Carruthers seemed particularly shocked by the presence of death, and Carruthers pointed towards a dark stain close to the body. Sam suddenly realised it was blood, and he felt sick.
‘Through the back,’ Kerr said, and then apparently remembered Sam Martin. He turned round.
‘Have you seen this man before?’
‘N-n-no, sir! I never—I swear I never——’
‘Ever found the windows open before?’ Kerr demanded.
‘Ye-yes, sir. Them tramps——’
‘Any idea when?’ Kerr stepped from the outstretched body. Carruthers was on the other side, and the body was between them. It was of a well-dressed, well-preserved man of fifty or so. A monocle was lying a foot from his face, unbroken and attached to his coat lapel by a thin cord.
Sam was in the grip of a terror that it was almost impossible to shake off. But the quiet of the broad-shouldered man steadied him. The questions made him think, and thinking helped him.
‘Usually—usually once a week, sir. I reckon them fellers tell each other.’
‘What makes you think tramps come in?’
‘Who else could it be, sir? They leave dirty paper an’ crusts o’ bread an’ things. Wet weather it’s fair mucky, sir.’ Sam broke off as he caught a glimpse of those glassy eyes.
‘Do you find the window open any particular day of the week?’ Kerr asked.
‘Well—well, maybe Wednesdays, sir.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Kerr.
‘It’s Market Day in town, an’ I always go in with my son’s stall, sir, to help him arrange it. I bin this mornin’. Otherwise I’m here at nine sharp.’
Kerr smiled suddenly.
‘All right, gaffer, no need to get worried. Have a spot of this. It’ll do you good.’
‘This’ was whisky, from a flask that Kerr had slipped from his hip pocket. Sam Martin took it with alacrity. It did him a world of good. His trembling eased, and before he could speak Kerr went on in a strangely reassuring voice.
‘Where’s the nearest telephone?’
‘There be one at the Goose, sir.’
‘How long will it take you to walk there?’
‘Mebbe ten minutes.’
‘Hurry along, will you, and ask the owner to telephone the Guildford Police. Tell them murder’s been done.’
‘Murder!’ The effect of the whisky disappeared.
‘Yes. Not a word to anyone else, but make sure you tell Guildford. Where is the local policeman, by the way?’
‘He be at the police court this marnin’, sir.’
‘That’s all the more reason for telephoning Guildford. Be a good fellow, and hurry.’
Sam turned, and hurried. The two men heard his hobnailed boots clattering along the drive, and eyed each other grimly.
‘Recognise him?’ Kerr asked gruffly.
‘Can’t say I do.’
‘Have another look.’
Carruthers obediently stood looking down so that he could see the face as it would have been in life. There was silence in the room of death for some ten seconds, and Carruthers exclaimed:
‘God! It’s Mueller!’
‘It’s Herr Gustav Mueller,’ said Kerr with an odd, frosty smile. ‘Shovian Ambassador to the Court of—oh, what’s the sense in talking? Craigie told us this job might be hot. It’s going to stir up all the mud in Europe, and this time it isn’t going to be easy for us to clean it up. Let’s get to work. The police won’t be here for half an hour, and we’ve time to have a good look round.’
2: Repercussions
Mr. Gordon Craigie was not well known at Whitehall, although he prob
ably possessed a more thorough knowledge of the thousands in the crowded Government buildings than any other man. It was generally known he did something hush-hush, for he had a small office that was well protected from outside interference.
The actual name, Department Z, was known by a few; what part it played in the Government’s affairs to fewer still. Yet there were those who claimed that if Gordon Craigie’s office closed, then the rest of the Whitehall buildings might as well follow suit. That served to show the opinion of important people of Department Z and in particular its director, Gordon Craigie.
At that time the Rt. Hon. David Wishart was Prime Minister of England. Many people believed that he was not the type to carry the burden of such responsibility, although he had twice proved beyond all doubt that he had strength and courage. Wishart was a tall, grey-haired, scholarly man, with a quiet, unassuming manner.
The Premier had more reason than anyone else to thank Craigie for the work of Department Z.
On the morning in March when Bob Kerr and Carruthers inveigled themselves into the good graces of Sam Martin, Wishart walked down Downing Street, unperceived by most people, and followed faithfully by his two detectives. He walked past the House, along the Embankment, and then through the Embankment Gardens, into a side-street. London was already beginning to feel the unseasonal heat, and a red-faced chief inspector and a pale-faced detective-sergeant who wore winter overcoats, were sweating freely.
Wishart reached a doorway. Adams, the inspector, approached him.
‘I’ll be here at least half an hour, Adams. You can have a coffee.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Wishart went up two flights of stone steps and at a small landing, ran his fingers underneath the hand-rail. He found a protuberance, pressed it, and a door appeared where there had seemed only a blank wall.
Wishart saw the inside of the office of Department Z, with Gordon Craigie sitting at a desk at the far end. Wishart entered, and the door slid to. Craigie stood up, and shook hands.
Craigie was a man worth looking at.
He was thinner than the average, and his grey hair was sparse and usually untidy. His eyes were grey, exceptionally large, and their expression was often hard. His nose was hooked, his chin heavy, but sweeping upwards so that side-faced he looked a veritable Punch of a man. His mouth, drooping downwards at both sides, formed an exaggerated Cupid’s bow. From his mouth hung a china-bowled meerschaum, and smoke was curling lazily from its bowl.
