by John Creasey
By the time Martha was back, the others had had tea and Burke was getting his two-seater out of the garage. Carruthers was already at the wheel of the Allard, with Kerr beside him. They made a show of shaking hands, and the Allard moved off.
Burke was watching the intruder and as the Allard started, so did the man. He disappeared from sight, but Burke’s height enabled him to get a good view of the road in all directions, and while ostensibly looking after the departing Allard he watched for the man who had been hiding in the copse.
He half expected where the fellow would break cover.
There was a lane a hundred yards along the road towards Dorking, and he saw the Morris that turned out of it starting in the wake of Kerr and Carruthers. Burke’s eyes were gleaming, for the game was in his blood, and this was the first opportunity he had had of playing it for two years.
‘Sure you are coming, Pat?’
‘Try and stop me.’
‘I’ll pay you later,’ promised Burke with a smile. ‘Hop in. Kerr’s taking the main road. He’s going back through Guildford, and past the place where they found Mueller.’
‘Doesn’t that sound risky?’
‘Darned risky, but Kerr’ll make it all right.’
Knowing the road they were to follow for a start, Burke had nothing to worry about. He glanced down at his wife’s profile and chuckled.
‘I believe you’re enjoying it.’
‘Don’t be an idiot; I hate the whole idea.’
‘Little liar,’ said Burke, and for some reason he felt immensely relieved. He had known he could always rely on Patricia, but he had never expected he would have to put her to the test like this. After all, it would cause something of a furore if the body of the murdered Ambassador was found in their garage.
Kerr deliberately travelled slowly. At the other side of Guildford Burke saw the Morris, and he promptly trod harder on the accelerator.
‘Going mad?’ demanded Patricia, holding her hair close to her small ears.
‘Not quite. I’m going to pass ’em, and then pass the Allard. Give them a wave as we go, and that should stop our pal in the Morris thinking it’s a plant.’
It was a shrewd move, Patricia knew. Now he put his foot down hard on the accelerator of his Frazer-Nash and hooted like blazes to warn the Morris he was passing. The man did not glance at them. A few seconds later Burke roared past the Allard, seeing Carruthers glare and Kerr smile as he waved.
He gained a lead of a couple of miles, as far as he could judge, and pulled into a large garage. Patricia had another eye-opener as to her husband’s adaptability, for he spoke urgently to the petrol-hand who came to serve him.
‘I’ve trouble with something, and I’m in a hurry. Have you a fast bus I can borrow?’
‘Got a n’Austin Twenty,’ said the garage-hand uncertainly. ‘But the Boss is at dinner, an’ I …’
Burke had his wallet out in a second, and money worked the oracle. But he was still sitting at the Frazer-Nash’s wheel when the Allard and then the Morris passed. He changed cars quickly then, and before the Morris was half a mile ahead the car on its tail was the Austin 20. The man would be looking for a Frazer-Nash and not the driver.
Patricia was smiling.
‘Where’s Kerr aiming for?’
‘London, sweetheart. And there he’ll lose the Morris.’
‘That will help a lot!’
‘You’re not so bright,’ Burke said mournfully. ‘Must I explain? The Morris will lose Kerr, but we will not lose the Morris.’
‘I am staying with you,’ Patricia flashed; but Burke shook his head.
‘Sorry, Pat. We will slow down in a traffic-block, near the kerb. You hop out. ‘Phone Craigie, just for formality’s sake, and wait for me at the Eclat. All set?’
‘My dear man, I can’t possibly wait at the Eclat, I’ve no hat!’
‘Lord bless the woman!’ said Jim Burke with a smile, and he was still smiling when Patricia slipped out of the Austin at a traffic-block at Hammersmith.
The Morris was at the front of the block, and its driver was fuming, for Kerr had beaten the lights. I was impossible for the trailer to be sure which way his quarry had gone. He plumped for the Kensington direction, and Burke smiled, for he knew Kerr would go towards Putney or Shepherd’s Bush.
At Piccadilly Circus the man in the Morris realised he had lost his quarry. Luck was still with Burke. He was so close to the man now that he could see his expression of disgust.
Or, thought Jim Burke, fear of the consequences of failure?
Yes, he looked afraid. His eyes, his lips, his very bearing, suggested fear.
He looked like a Spanish or Portuguese half-breed, not over-loaded with intelligence.
He followed the Morris out of London again, this time towards Croydon. Just beyond Reigate the road took them into the country where houses were few and far between. Burke knew that they were getting close to home, and he was ready for trouble at any moment.
He almost guessed which was the house.
It was set well back from the road, and there was something dreary and yet sinister about its appearance as the two cars drew near. The grounds looked unkept, and yet the drive gates were open, and mud—from overnight rain—was churned up by car wheels. The place was occupied all right.
The man put his signal to turn right into the drive, and then Burke acted. His mind had never been more active, nor his decision more abrupt.
He had to stop the man getting information about Kerr’s movements to whoever was in the house.
Burke did the one thing to start trouble. He simply ignored the signal and drove straight on. The bumper of the big Austin hit the Morris in the rear, and the crash was enough to waken the dead. The man swung round, his eyes blazing with anger.
And then he recognised Burke.
‘You!’ he muttered, and Burke saw his right hand dive towards his pocket. It was still diving when Burke’s gun glinted in the sun.
‘Me, Pedro,’ he said softly. ‘If you value your life, don’t move any way I don’t tell you to. Get that tin can out of the path, and then climb out and join me. Remember I can see just what you are doing.’
He was speaking the truth, for the Morris—not badly damaged—could turn into the drive, and the man would have his hand in sight all the time excepting when he went for his hand-brake. They were close together, and Burke’s whispered words were clear enough.
‘Remember, it’s do as you’re told or a bullet, and I don’t mind much which.’
The Morris crawled forward. Burke sat back, one eye on Pedro, the other on the house. No one seemed to have been disturbed by the crash. Pedro climbed out. He walked unsteadily towards Burke.
‘Take your gun out, friend, by the muzzle, and hand it to me.’
Pedro, so called, obeyed. Or at least he started to obey. He was a yard away from Burke when the voice came from the hedge at the side of the house.
‘Very amusing, sir. Now, if you will lower your gun I shall be obliged.’
• • • • •
Burke did not move.
He could see the man who had appeared above the hedge. He did not recognise the face, for the man’s trilby was pulled down over his eyes. But the thing he did recognise was the squat Webley .32 in his right hand.
Burke’s mind was crowded, in the next three seconds.
Pedro had almost certainly followed Kerr from Thornton Lodge. If so, he must have seen Kerr and Carruthers move the body of the dead Ambassador. If he reported that fact to the people in this house they would know where Mueller was. And to save serious trouble, no one must know where Mueller’s body was secreted, particularly the gang which had planned his murder.
No one else would have followed Kerr from Wilham Village.
Burke saw it as clearly as that, as the man with the trilby spoke again, his voice harsh, menacing.
‘I’ve warned you, my friend.’
Pedro was so scared that he had not even turned his gun round. At
the second word from the man behind the hedge he moved it, and at the same moment Burke said slowly:
‘I am really sorry, Pedro, but for all our sakes it’s best.’
He touched the trigger of his gun.
One bullet was enough. He did not even cry, but dropped in his tracks, an expression of incredulity on his yellow face.
Burke waited.
If he turned the gun, the other would shoot. If he did not there was a slim chance that the man would hold his hand. Then the man in the trilby—whose name was Branner—let out a soft, hissing breath.
‘So. You’re very courageous, my friend.’
‘I choose my friends,’ said Burke. He was looking at the man, making up his mind to try a duel with automatics. But the other’s gun was aiming unerringly at his head, while the man lifted his left hand to his lips. A whistle shrilled out, three times.
Burke saw the men moving from the house, three of them in all. He watched them coming and he knew that they had been looking all the time. He was impressed by the thoroughness of the opposition, and he was by no means pleased with the prospect that faced him.
His right hand, with the gun, moved a fraction. Branner snapped:
‘I shouldn’t!’
Burke didn’t.
‘Get out,’ Branner said, and Burke obeyed without argument. The moment was not ripe for another shooting-match. He let the three men reach the gateway, and heard Branner giving orders dispassionately.
‘Put Duval in the Morris, and one of you drive to the house. The others disarm the man in the Austin and make him drive after the Morris. I trust,’ he added to Jim Burke suavely, ‘you’ll have no objection.’
‘A matter of opinion,’ said Burke. Two of the newcomers approached him warily, although he was covered by Branner’s gun. Perhaps his size overawed them. In any case Burke made no move until one of them snapped:
‘Hand it over.’
Burke turned the gun, muzzle pointing backwards, and held it towards the beetle-browed speaker. Burke knew and liked beetle-browed toughs, for they always did exactly the same thing. This one put himself between Burke and Branner’s gun, and suddenly Burke’s fingers gripped his wrist like steel claws. In a single move Burke had the man close against him, and Branner’s gun was pointing at the tough, not Burke.
Branner swore. Burke saw the second tough’s eyes widen, and saw him dive to the rescue. Burke could not use his gun, for it was hanging to the thumb of the hand that held his human shield, but he could use his fist.
He clenched it and drove it into the face of the second man, connecting like a hammer. The man gasped and went staggering. And then Burke did a thing that looked impossible. He hitched his armour-plating up waist-high, loosed his hold on the wrists, and grabbed the seat of the man’s pants. Then he hurled him towards the gunman behind the hedge.
And as the man was moving through the air, arms and legs flying, as Branner was ducking, Burke darted towards the Austin. The door was open, and he had one leg inside when he saw the next batch of men—three or four, he could not be sure—streaming from the house. And he saw that these men were armed.
4: Mr. Griceson Asks Questions
Burke knew that he had seconds in which to get away. He thought there was an outside chance. He was in the seat in a flash, grabbing at the hand-brake. The Austin eased forward, but as it did so something pecked into one of the rear tyres.
The explosion of a punctured Dunlop seemed to deafen Burke, and the car lurched to one side. Burke grabbed the brake, bringing the Austin to a standstill for the chance was gone. That was even more conclusive when Branner leapt the hedge—the unfortunate human catapult was lying unconscious on the other side—and reached the Austin in a flash. Burke had no time to get his gun, which was on the seat beside him.
‘Put your hands up!’ snapped Branner, and Burke knew that one thing was certain: immediate shooting was not on the programme. Well, while there was life there was hope.
He lifted his hands. Branner kept out of the reach of his fists, but as one of the others hurried up, with the support of his gun, Branner leaned into the Austin and commandeered Burke’s automatic.
Now Burke could see the man’s face.
It was abnormally thin, with narrow, bloodless lips that were compressed, the expression contemptuous or sardonic or both. His eyes were almost black, his nose was thin and pointed, and across the bridge was a thin white scar. A noticeable nose.
‘Get out,’ said Branner, and he backed away.
‘I won’t bite,’ Burke said amiably.
‘You’re very talkative, my friend.’
‘Have we got to go into the friend business again, or can’t you take a hint?’
Branner’s lips parted in a smile that might have held a hint of admiration.
‘You don’t lack nerve,’ he said. ‘I suppose you know what will happen to you?’
‘I’m not good at guessing,’ said Jim Burke. He was standing in the road, his hands above his head. He felt a fool.
Branner frowned.
‘You won’t have to guess soon.’ He stepped forward, patted Burke’s pockets, and was satisfied. ‘Put your hands in your pockets, you’re too conspicuous like that. You can walk,’ he said to Burke.
‘Thanks, I’m fond of it. Scared of passers-by?’
Branner sneered.
‘Scared of them if you like, but they can’t help you now, my——’
‘No more friends, please!’ pleaded Burke, and for the first time Branner really laughed. It was no thing of beauty, but the interruption had tickled his sense of humour. He walked side by side with Burke, keeping his gun in his pocket and pressing into Burke’s side. That alone would not have stopped the big man from taking a chance, but there were several others within easy reach; all of them holding guns.
Burke was half-way to the house his mind moving fast.
Burke knew little of this affair, but he guessed a lot.
Kerr had obviously reckoned that by keeping the news of Mueller’s murder out of the Press it would give the Department time to find who had killed the Ambassador. That had been on the assumption that the murder had been inspired by someone with malice enough to want to cause European trouble. Well, they had nearly succeeded.
Burke knew that this gang was no ordinary one. It was too well organised, far too thorough. It had arranged the murder of Mueller, and its leaders would be annoyed—to put it mildly—that the murder was hushed up.
If Pedro had lived they would have known where the body was, and Kerr’s effort would have failed. Well, Pedro was dead.
Burke looked at the situation dispassionately. He knew that they had kept him alive for one thing only—to ask him questions.
‘Mind if I smoke?’ he asked as they reached the door, and Branner took a cigarette-case from his pocket.
‘Not a bit. Have one of these? They’re ordinary Virginias.’
‘You have some taste,’ said Burke.
‘Although a poor judge of friends? Yes.’ There was something almost likable about Branner as he struck a match, and Burke drew on the cigarette.
‘Thanks a lot. Prisoner’s last request, eh?’
Branner looked at him soberly.
‘Probably.’
‘So there’s someone higher up?’
‘You’ll learn what you’re wanting to learn,’ said Branner. ‘You’re a brave man, Mr. …’
‘Smith,’ said Jim Burke cheerfully.
‘And a bad liar.’
‘My natural honesty,’ said Jim Burke, ‘would stop me from telling a good lie.’ He entered the hall of the house, and behaved as though he were paying a social call. ‘By the way, I’m sorry I had to shoot Pedro. Or did you call him Duval? A nasty piece of work.’
‘You’ll be sorrier,’ Branner said briefly.
The way the words were spoken sent a chill shudder down Burke’s back, but his expression remained the same. They reached the first landing. Branner tapped on a door. Burke heard the slow, meas
ured voice of the man behind the door, and there was something metallic and artificial about its timbre. The voice alone proved the speaker a man to be reckoned with.
‘The head of this crowd?’ wondered Burke.
‘Who is there?’
‘Branner.’
‘Bring him in, Branner.’
There was no alteration in the measured spacing of the words, and that very fact seemed to make them somehow ominous. Burke needed no telling that the speaker had seen the affair in the road and knew why Branner had come.
Branner opened the door. Burke noticed that he turned the handle once, without result, and then turned it again. At the second attempt it opened, and Burke registered the fact.
Plunged into the affair as suddenly as he had been, he had not the slightest idea who might be in the room. Nor, for that matter, would any of the others have had, but Burke was not to know that. He set his lips in that smile which had made so many people mistake him for a fool, and stepped after Branner.
Jim Burke stared at the man sitting at the desk.
The face might have been made of alabaster. It was dead white, except for the clearly marked brows and lashes, and the pink, sensuous lips. The hair was jet black, forcing that alabaster face into greater relief, and there was something uncanny about the face. Uncanny and frightening, for the man did not move. Even his eyes, slate grey and set deep in that fantastic face, stared without blinking for seconds that seemed like minutes, and kept dragging on.
The man was hardly human.
The lips opened; the slow, measured words started afresh.
‘So. You caused a great deal of trouble, sir.’ It might have been a headmaster rebuking a sixth-former, or a fond father forcing himself to be stern. ‘Your name?’
The voice did more than anything else to relieve Burke of the feeling of horror that had come when he had first set eyes on the man, and the question helped. His smile relaxed, and he took the cigarette from his lips.
‘Smith,’ he said.
‘A foolish pretence. Why keep it up?’
