by John Creasey
Kerr choked as he jumped back, with Carruthers only a step behind. He took his handkerchief out, padded his fingers and pulled the door to with a bang.
He was turning towards the stairs, speaking as he went. ‘Try and get Arran and Davidson back; they’re still careering after the mob. We want this place combed through.’
‘Beaumant!’
Beaumant was still by the back door, but he moved forward as Kerr shouted.
Beaumant was young, medium tall, very dark and alert-looking.
‘Want me?’ The words were laconic.
‘Get upstairs and turn out every drawer. Collect every scrap of paper. Every scrap, get me? Miss the second door on the right up there, and don’t lose time, the blasted place’ll be blazing in ten minutes.’
‘Right-ho,’ said Beaumant, as though he had been asked to go up and make sure all the lights were switched off. Kerr entered the first room leading from the hall.
It was poorly furnished, possessing only one small cabinet that might hide papers. Kerr had it open in a flash. A bundle of tradesmen’s bills were his only reward, but he put them in his pocket quickly and turned towards the door.
He intended to get everything from the house, for there was just a chance that one of the bills might hold a clue to the identity of the men who had escaped by air, or to their new rendezvous. Kerr was trying hard to keep his mind off the possible fate of Jim Burke. If the big man had been in the room where the fire was he would have had no chance of escape.
Carruthers was in the hall again, his fair hair singed and ruffled.
‘They’re coming,’ he said. ‘The flames are poking out of the windows, old man.’
‘I expected it,’ Kerr said. ‘Slip up and help Beaumant with the top rooms, will you, but don’t stay there too long.’
Carruthers nodded and went off. Kerr felt the heat of the fire sweeping through the house now, even into the hall, and there was perspiration on his grimed face. He went through the dining-room, taking some papers from an unlocked bureau, without much hope of finding them useful. By the time he had finished, Toby Arran, that little ugly man, was in the hall. A step or two behind him was a tall, good-looking man whose eyes were heavy-lidded and who looked as though he would gladly fall asleep, despite his haste. Wally Davidson had a reputation for being the laziest man in London.
‘Roasting something?’ inquired Arran. He had a sharp voice and a staccato utterance. ‘We saw the flames and thought we’d better come back.’
‘What happened to the men you were chasing?’
‘Climbed in a couple of cars at a by-road half a mile off,’ said Arran. ‘What’s doing? We heard a hell of a blow-up.’
‘A time-fuse and dynamite, I fancy,’ said Kerr off-handedly. ‘Upstairs, the second floor, and look for anything that might help. I’ll finish down here.’
Arran strutted off, and Davidson followed. Kerr went into a small library, and for the first time found a locked bureau. He forced the lock and stuffed all the papers into his pockets. Three or four account books were tucked under his arm as he finished.
The heat was increasing and now the roaring of the flames was fiercer. He heard a floor creaking and glanced upwards. Davidson was at the head of the stairs.
‘We’re nearly through,’ he shouted down. ‘Anything else?’
‘No, we’d better be going,’ said Kerr.
Half an hour after their arrival the six heat-ridden and begrimed young men from Gordon Craigie’s office left the house and climbed into the cars.
The house was now a roaring furnace.
Kerr did not look back, nor did the others.
They had to get back to Craigie with the report.
Carruthers took the wheel, and Kerr just let his mind play. It was hard to believe all this had happened since they had taken the body of the murdered Ambassador to Burke’s place. If only he had stopped Burke from joining in!
Burke might be dead, or still a prisoner, and one thing was as bad as the other. But one hide-out of the murderers had been located. For the first time in the hunt against the organisation which was bent on stirring trouble with Shovia the Department had made headway. Without Burke it could not have been done, and his sacrifice was therefore justifiable.
Thank God his wife had not rushed blindly to his assistance.
Kerr went through the conversation he had had with her over the telephone. Less than half an hour after his arrival at Craigie’s office Patricia Burke had telephoned. Kerr had sensed the tension in her voice.
‘I followed Jim,’ she had said simply. ‘He thought he’d dodged me, but I managed to get after him in a cab. He’s met trouble of some kind at …’
She had told him the exact location of the trouble—the drive of the house where Burke had first started arguing with Pedro. Kerr had heard her out, guessing her state of mind. More, he suspected that she would be following Burke as soon as she left the telephone. That had to be prevented if possible, and Kerr’s mind had worked quickly.
‘We’ll get after him, Mrs. Burke. Meanwhile, we can’t send a man to your cottage in less than an hour and a half. Across country you can do it in half an hour. Get there, will you, and make sure no one—no one—gets to the garage. Mueller mustn’t be found.’
Patricia had hesitated for perhaps five seconds. Kerr could imagine all the thoughts passing through her mind.
‘All right. ‘Phone me quickly, won’t you?’
Kerr had promised to, and it was to be his next job now. To tell her her husband was either dead or missing, and——
‘Damn it!’ Kerr said aloud. ‘I’ll go and see her. Carry, slow down. I want one of the cars, and Toby had best come with me. Get to Craigie with all the papers, and tell him just what happened. Above all, make sure the message about the aeroplane went through. You should pick Trale up on the road.’
Carruthers nodded.
‘Right-ho. But go steady with Pat; Burke’s a big fellow.’
Which told Kerr that Carruthers was laying on a hunch that Burke was alive. The other’s belief cheered him. He set out with Toby Arran in the smaller car, his heart easier.
Yet he was damnably worried, for somehow the men at the house had been warned. How had they known the Department agents were near? Kerr could not be sure, for the Department still had no clues, unless the assorted papers yielded something.
The question was: would they?
6: Branner Finds a Photograph
The monoplane flew due south for fifteen miles and then turned slowly towards the west coast. As Kerr had said, it was a Fokker 60, with a cruising speed of a hundred and seventy miles an hour. The pilot—the heavy-featured man who had made such a light burden of Jim Burke—did not believe in cruising that morning, and in a little under an hour it flew over Devizes, and the pilot began to lose height. The landmark of Bath Abbey was in view when the wheels bumped lightly against the hard turf of a large meadow. The ‘plane jumped up a little and then settled down smoothly.
Burke was sprawled back in a seat, his arms and legs bound tightly. His eyes were open, his head was aching, and when he moved his eyes a fraction of an inch the pain was excruciating. But he looked from one man to the other deliberately.
There were five altogether. Two he dismissed as brethren of Pedro, swarthy-looking specimens of the knife-in-the back kind. Burke worked on the knowledge that Griceson’s gang were killers, and he could judge exponents of the various types of murder. The third man was a different customer. He looked a typical Teuton, but he spoke good English in a surprisingly cultured voice. Nor did he look cultured, for his blunt features had obviously been battered in more than one fifteen-round fight, and one of his ears was a perfect cauliflower. Another surprising thing about him was his eyes. They were large where they might have been expected to be small, brown and doe-like in their expression. The gentleman was a puzzle in several ways, but certainly he was a first-class pilot.
Branner, thin, sardonic, was sitting next to Griceson. That man’s
alabaster face still had no vestige of colour, and for the twenty minutes during which Burke had been conscious Griceson had uttered no word and made no move. The others had been restless and uncertain in their various ways, but nothing seemed to perturb him.
Griceson spoke at last, and Burke heard the pilot’s name.
‘Jeffs, you are sure we are not being followed?’
‘Quite sure, sir.’ Again Jeffs’ cultured voice surprised Burke, for the obvious word to expect from him was ‘Boss’. ‘There was a call over the air for our first number, but I changed it ten miles from the other house. We are quite safe.’
‘Excellent,’ said Griceson, and for the first time since Burke had regained consciousness he appeared to notice the big man. ‘Well, Mr. Smith?’
‘Nice of you to keep me alive,’ murmured Burke.
‘Yes. You may change your mind.’ Griceson made a statement of the words in his cold, matter-of-fact voice. ‘I shall be compelled to ask questions, and possibly use methods of persuasion, Mr. Smith, but for the moment we need not worry. All right, Brighouse.’
The man who answered to the name opened the left-side cabin door. Branner cut the cords about Burke’s ankles and pushed the big man outside. There was a cool wind cutting across the fields where the aeroplane was standing, and Burke shivered.
None of the others spoke again. Branner kept his gun poking ostentatiously against his pocket, and followed a pace behind Burke. Jeffs and the two men took the lead, while Griceson brought up the rear.
There was no house in sight, but ahead of the party was a clump of trees, and Burke needed no telling that their destination was hidden by the copse.
It was more important for the moment to take a good look at his surroundings. He was not impressed, for although in the distance the country was wooded and lovely, for an area of several square miles the land was flat and almost barren. Only the one clump of trees broke the undulating monotony of poor grassland. If he tried to get away from the house behind the trees he would have little or no chance. It would take him half an hour at least to reach the nearest shelter, and Griceson’s men would not take half an hour to shoot him.
The position of the house told him that Griceson selected places where it was impossible to be surprised by any callers. The house in Surrey had been situated in a similar position to this.
Burke stubbed his foot on a mole-hill suddenly and stumbled forwards. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Branner’s gun move. He straightened up, smiling broadly.
‘Always be careful,’ he said, glancing down at the automatic. ‘You can’t be sure I won’t get away.’
‘I can,’ Branner said as unpleasantly as ever.
‘Good shot?’ inquired Burke affably. ‘I wonder if you’ll have any aspirins when we get home, Branner? I’ve a thick head.’
‘You’re lucky to have anything,’ Branner grunted.
‘You’re damned churlish,’ said Burke aggrievedly. ‘However, I suppose you’re worried. One hiding-place the less, and when the Z men get busy you don’t seem too pleased with life.’
Branner’s eyes narrowed, but it was Griceson who spoke. Through the thin foliage of early spring Burke could see the house, a modern mansion of moderate size surrounded by trim, well-kept grounds.
‘Branner, take him upstairs and find what papers he’s carrying.’
They had reached a small drive leading to the house, or rather encircling it. Branner poked Burke’s ribs with the gun, guiding him towards a small door at the back of the mansion. Griceson, with Jeffs, went towards the front. The men followed Branner and his prisoner.
The house was very much what Burke would have expected from the outside. It was pleasantly furnished, a typical home of country people. It did not fit in with the character of Griceson, but Burke, little though he knew of this affair, was prepared to believe Griceson capable of appearing out of character in many ways.
Burke had no time to look about him.
There was a small staircase facing the kitchen door, and he went upwards. Less than ten minutes after the aeroplane had landed, Burke was in a small attic room at the top of the house, and he was not liking it.
The windows, very small and latticed, were set high in the walls. Worse, the glass was frosted, and despite the bright sunlight outside the room was gloomy. It was furnished simply, with an iron bedstead, a washstand and other oddments of furniture.
Branner nodded to two others outside. The door closed, and Branner’s cynical eyes were regarding the big man. Burke pursed his lips.
‘You’re getting careless, Branner. All alone with me, and——’
‘They’re both outside the door,’ said Branner. ‘I’d try no tricks if I were you. Now, why don’t you stop being a fool? Tell me your name and who you are. It’ll save you a lot of pain and trouble. I know Griceson well enough to be sure he’s taken to you.’
‘Which serves,’ murmured Jim Burke, ‘to prove the axiom that unlike poles attract. I think he’s the perfect example of a swine, and you mix with him well, Branner.’
‘Don’t worry about calling me names, I’m beyond all insults. Well, I’ve warned you. I don’t like seeing a brave man broken——’
‘I never could stand flattery,’ beamed Jim Burke. ‘Next to beer and bad language it’s my pet aversion. What’s the next step?’
‘A simple one,’ Branner said.
He proved it. His right foot shot out, catching Burke behind the knees. The big man, with his wrists fastened, lost his balance and collapsed across the bed. Before he could try to kick out Branner had slipped a cord about his ankles, and Burke was as helpless as he had been in the aeroplane. He was lying face downwards on the bed, which was too small for him, and his big feet poked over the edge. Branner slipped his gun in his pocket and turned Burke over. It was something of a struggle, but Burke was in no mood to see the humour of it at that moment.
Branner acted as though it was an everyday thing. He slipped his hands into the helpless man’s pockets, taking out everything he could find. Two handkerchiefs, cigarettes, a penknife and a dozen minor oddments joined a wallet and some loose change on the table next to the bed.
Burke stopped cursing inwardly, and was cooler now, but that trip-up had infuriated him.
‘An interesting collection,’ Branner said, taking the wallet. ‘Now we might learn your name, Mr. Smith.’
‘You might,’ agreed Burke.
Branner turned the contents of the wallet out, sitting on the edge of the bed as he did so. He found three five-pound notes, several of smaller denomination, a dated railway ticket to London and a small leather case, no more than two inches by three. Burke’s eyes were very narrow, but he made no move.
Branner’s expression had not changed until he opened the case. He smiled a little.
‘A very beautiful woman, Mr. Smith.’
‘Film stars usually are,’ said Burke gently, and he was praying that the bluff would work. For it was Patricia’s photograph—the only thing in his possession by which he could be identified. God, why had he brought it with him?
Branner’s lips curled.
‘You don’t appeal to me as a film fan to that extent, my dear Smith. Yes, a very lovely woman, I’ll admit it. Mrs. Smith?’
Burke chuckled, but his pulse was quickening.
‘Do I look married?’
‘What an obstinate fool you are,’ Branner said. He was peering intently at the photograph, and his eyes were narrowed. ‘Do you know, I’ve an idea I’ve seen this before.’
Burke’s heart jumped, but he still smiled.
‘Even if you’re not a film fan, you can’t avoid their photographs.’
‘If it were of a film star I’d recognise it,’ Branner said. ‘Perhaps Griceson will know it better than I,’ he added mockingly. ‘And in any case a beautiful woman like this cannot be hidden for long. I think we’ll find her very soon, Mr. Smith. And then … But why not talk, and save yourself and others a lot of trouble?’
�
�I’ve always talked too much,’ Burke said gently. ‘I’m reforming. And, Branner——’
‘Well?’
‘Be very careful,’ said James William Burke. ‘Be very careful indeed.’
• • • • • •
The man who called himself Griceson looked up from a desk in the first-floor room. It might have been the same room as that which had been fired less than two hours before. The furniture was almost identical, and Griceson was sitting with his back to the window, with the light and shadow playing odd tricks with his dead-white face.
‘Well, Branner?’
‘Smith’s one of the Department all right,’ Branner said as he closed the door behind him. ‘He’s carrying nothing in the way of identification, which means he didn’t intend to be recognised. There’s only one thing that might help.’
As he spoke Branner handed over the photograph. It was typical of Griceson that before looking at the woman’s face he took the photograph out and glanced at the back.
‘The name of the photographer’s not there, Branner. Mr. Smith is certainly a cautious man. H’m! A beautiful woman—very much his type, I would say. What was his reaction when you took it?’
Branner smiled.
‘He warned me to be careful,’ he said, and for the first time something like humour glinted in Griceson’s light-grey eyes.
‘I see. A remarkable man, our Mr. Smith. Tell Jeffs to put the ‘plane away and to report to me. We must work quickly, Branner. I expected many things, but this is outside my reckoning. I wonder who thought of taking Mueller’s body away?’
‘It sounds like Kerr.’
‘Or Craigie. Although Craigie might not like it, he’s rather too delicately placed to take that kind of risk. But we must find the body, Branner. We must have tomorrow’s papers carrying the story of the murder. You understand?’
‘I’ll find where it is, with this,’ said Branner, tapping the photograph. ‘And I’ve an idea I’ve seen the face before.’
‘Where?’
‘Well—it’s far back, somewhere. About the time that Krotz was busy in Lathia, and that man Carris double-crossed him. I was one of Krotz’s agents in England, and I think I saw the woman then.’
