by John Creasey
‘In England?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. It might help. Hurry, Branner!’
Branner nodded and left the room. He went downstairs to the kitchen quarters, where Jeffs and Brighouse were unconcernedly preparing food.
‘He wants you,’ Branner said to Jeffs. ‘Brighouse, you’re coming with me. You’ll take this photograph, when we get to London, and visit every good-class photographer, to locate the original.’
‘O.K.,’ Brighouse said glibly. ‘What’s your job?’
‘A memory test,’ said Karl Branner. ‘I want to find out what happened to a sister of an old friend. Carris,’ he added to himself, ‘had a sister. I remember a big fellow named Burke smashed the Krotz game. Now, I wonder …’
Branner was confident that he knew the girl in the photograph. Carris’s sister had married Jim Burke. He should soon find out where she was living once he reached London. An hour or two would suffice to discover where she lived—if she was Smith’s wife—and to get enough men there to make a raid.
• • • • •
Kerr and Arran stepped out of the Frazer-Nash in which they had journeyed to the cottage and hurried to the porch. The door was opened as they reached it, and Patricia was standing there, her face expressionless save for the question in her eyes.
‘Hallo, Pat,’ said Arran.
She was as self-possessed as ever, although she must know why Kerr had called in person and not by telephone. ‘Did you find the house?’
‘Without any trouble,’ said Kerr. ‘That’s all we did find, I’m afraid.’
An expression that defied understanding was in Patricia’s eyes for a moment, but she was still very possessed.
‘They’d flown?’
‘We saw them flying, some of them literally,’ admitted Kerr. ‘We didn’t find Mr. Burke.’
‘So—so they took him?’
‘We can’t be sure. I don’t want to seem gloomy, Mrs. Burke, but—well, they fired the place. We’ve no reason to think he was left behind. In fact we’ve every reason to think they took him, for they would be very anxious indeed to learn where Mueller’s body is.’
‘They have taken Jim,’ Patricia said, speaking very calmly and feeling like ice.
‘So there’s a good chance of getting him back,’ Kerr answered. ‘And we will arrange to move Mueller before nightfall. It will be wiser and safer.’
Patricia’s eyes were narrowed.
‘Do you think Jim will talk? You needn’t, whatever happens. I know he left his letters and papers behind. He would have nothing by which they could identify him.’
Kerr shrugged.
‘They’re clever.’
‘I don’t think there’s much need to fear that they’ll come after Mueller here,’ Patricia said evenly. ‘Mueller’s safe in the garage, but you can send two or three men round, just to make sure that nothing goes wrong.’
Bob Kerr smiled.
‘We’ll leave things as they are,’ he said. ‘Thanks. By now two or three of our men will be outside, and I have asked Craigie to send someone here you’ll recognise. Just carry on as usual, we’ll take the first chance we get of sending news.’
‘I know you will,’ Patricia said. ‘And now—you’ll want something to drink. Tea, or——’
‘Tea’s an excellent idea,’ said Bob Kerr, and Patricia hurried out of the room as though anxious to be busy.
Patricia brought the tea in within ten minutes, and another ten saw Arran and Kerr on the road. They speeded to London, and they reached Craigie’s office just as Mr. Karl Branner was leaving a registry office at Caxton Hall.
Mr. Branner was mightily pleased with himself, for he had learned that Patricia Carris had married James William Burke nearly two years before, and he had also discovered that they lived in a cottage near Dorking.
Branner spent five minutes on a telephone-call to a small house in Trite Street, Chelsea, and then went to get a meal. He was hungry, satisfied, and looking forward to visiting the Burkes’ cottage at dusk. For he was prepared to wager that the body of Gustav Mueller was there, and he saw more than a chance of spreading the story in time for the next morning’s papers.
• • • • •
About the time that Branner was telephoning to the house in Chelsea, for assistance in his new effort to find the body of Mueller, a woman was sitting at Griceson’s desk in the house in Wiltshire. Most men would have called her beautiful, and would have wondered why she was looking afraid.
She had just finished a telephone conversation, and she believed there was reason for her fears. But she drew a deep breath suddenly, opened the drawer in front of her, and took out a small packet containing white powder. She held her head back, tilted the powder into her mouth and swallowed. She shuddered a little, and then seemed to fall into a coma. It was ten minutes before she was alert again, and now men would have marvelled at the change in her.
Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and she looked as though she did not know the meaning of fear. She was smiling as she stood up from the desk, and she laughed aloud as she took a cigarette from her case, lit it, and stepped to the window. In the distance she could see the huddled mass of Bath, for the room was on the first floor, and the ground level was high where the house was situated.
Something about her beauty seemed too hard, too brittle. Yet she was certainly lovely. She took a photograph from her handbag. It showed the face of an old man, heavy about the jowls, seeming to stare from hooded eyes.
‘And to think I’m married to you,’ she laughed again, a high-pitched, unnatural sound. ‘Lady Julian Crabtree! Thank God we only had ten days of that blasted honeymoon!’
There seemed every reason why she should regard the fact that she was married to Crabtree with distaste. He was, among other things, fifty years her senior. Life was not a pleasant prospect, despite his reputed wealth.
She had married Crabtree because she couldn’t avoid it, and the old fool thought she loved him.
She moved from the window, locked the desk, glanced about as though afraid of being surprised in the room that Branner knew was usually occupied by a gentleman who called himself Griceson. Then, without a word to the servants, she left the house. There was a small car outside, and she drove off quickly.
Some hours later, well after dark, she was entering a large, pleasantly furnished flat in Clarges Street, London, W.1. By the open door stood another woman, who at first glance paled into insignificance beside the young and beautiful wife of Sir Julian Crabtree. Yet when the second woman smiled there was a charm that was quietly fascinating.
‘Hallo, Lydia! Back already?’
‘Just for a few days.’ Lydia Crabtree kissed the other’s cheek and smiled. ‘Big business brought Julian back, and of course I had to come.’ She laughed, and Lois Dacre, Lydia’s friend for years, detected the note of bitterness, yet said nothing. Lois was smiling, her grey eyes very sober, as though at some secret joke. Lydia went ahead of her into the drawing-room of the flat, then stopped on the threshold. Lois Dacre smiled more widely. Lydia cried:
‘Father, what on earth are you doing here?’
The voice of an oldish man, pleasant, soft and well modulated, answered her quickly:
‘Can’t I come and see your friends, Lydia? How are you, my dear? I didn’t expect you to come back with Julian. I should have thought Cannes was far more tempting.’
Lydia Crabtree laughed. Lois Dacre still noticed the strain in her voice, and put it down to the fact that she did not want Arnold Marency to know that she was so desperately unhappy.
Why in heaven’s name had Lydia been such a fool as to marry Crabtree? Her father had protested—he had even pleaded with Lois to try and stop the marriage. But nothing had deterred Lydia from marrying a man ten years older than her own father.
Lois rang for tea. As they sat round a cheerful fire Marency was talking in his uncertain, discursive fashion of this and that. He was, in the opinion of Lois Dacre and many others, a dear
old soul in some ways, but the biggest bore on earth. His gold watch-chain was stretched across a developing paunch, over a waistcoat that fitted well, for he was fastidious in his dress. His eyes, a little watery and uncertain, roved about the room.
‘It’s going to be a wonderful summer—wonderful,’ Marency said. ‘I can feel it in my bones. Is Julian going to call on me, Lydia, or don’t you know?’
‘I have no idea why he came to England,’ Lydia said. ‘He’s been away for the last two days, and I’ve been in the country. I couldn’t stick it a moment longer, so I came to see if Lois could cheer me up.’
Marency laughed gently.
‘I think she will.’ He stood up, looking round for his hat. ‘Well, I’ll leave you two young folk alone. Come and see me, Lydia, if you have time.’
‘I’ll try,’ Lydia promised, and Lois saw him to the door.
The older woman was smoking and scowling when she returned.
‘You’re like a bear with a dozen sore heads,’ said Lois Dacre. ‘Let’s go out for a couple of hours; I can spare them.’
‘Thank God! But aren’t you caretaker or something to the Greytor Street house while Julian and I are away?’
‘Yes, but Jeffs is on duty tonight, so I’m free.’
‘All right. But you’re beyond me, darling. This place costs you thousands, yet you’re always broke. When Julian told me you were going to stay at the house and look after it for us I nearly collapsed.’
Lois protested.
‘I love this flat. It’s an effort to keep it. I can’t say I like caretaking at Greytor Street—and that’s what it amounts to—but it all helps. Now don’t talk about it, we’re going to see some bright lights.’
They left the flat together talking and laughing, and no one passing them could have an idea of the thoughts in both their minds.
7: Postmarks
Gordon Craigie pushed his hand through his sparse hair and for once took his meerschaum from his mouth, resting it on the table in front of him. Arran and Kerr were sitting opposite the Chief of Department Z, with Kerr doing most of the talking and Arran taking the unusual post of listener-in-chief.
This was some time before Lydia Crabtree had arrived in London and visited Lois Dacre.
They had been through the whole affair thoroughly, and Craigie had already searched through the papers and bills that had been found at the house in Surrey. One Dodo Trale—who had been sent to telephone the first news to Craigie—was on the way to Patricia’s cottage, with Wally Davidson, Ted Beaumant and Carruthers. For the first time since the trouble over the Ambassador from Shovia had started the Department had something definite to work on, and they were more cheerful despite Burke’s disappearance.
‘And that,’ finished Kerr, ‘is about the lot. What have you found? Anything?’
‘The owner of the house—it was called “Wilton”—was named Griceson,’ said Craigie. ‘But just a moment. Mrs. Burke’s insistent on Mueller’s body staying there, you say?’
‘She simply says it’s foolish to move it,’ Kerr said. ‘I’m inclined to agree with her.’
‘Yes. I wish …’ Craigie didn’t say what he wished. He took the bundle of documents taken from the burned house, including bills, and envelopes without contents, and pushed them across the desk.
‘Glance through them,’ he said, ‘and see if you can find anything.’
Kerr looked at bill after bill, envelope after envelope, passing each one to Arran as he finished. Arran spoke first:
‘Nothing at all, blast it! Not a damned thing!’
‘You can’t see any further than your nose, and why the hell Craigie doesn’t take you off the pay-roll I don’t know,’ said Kerr irritably. ‘Eight envelopes with a Bradford-on-Avon postmark, all typewritten, all addressed to H. J. Griceson. That’s a big help, Gordon. I’d better go down there, and I suppose I’ll have to take this with me.’ He looked at Toby as he spoke, and the little man’s cheeks flamed red. Kerr chuckled.
‘You’ll get there right away,’ said Craigie. ‘Take four of the envelopes, and leave the others with me. How will you go?’
‘By air,’ Kerr said. ‘Will you arrange for the postmaster down there to give me everything I want?’
‘I’ll get Wishart to arrange it,’ Craigie said. ‘Have a look at the evening papers as you go. Heston or Croydon?’
‘Heston for Wiltshire,’ said Kerr. ‘Right-ho. How many men did you say have gone to Mrs.—Pat’s?’
‘Five in all.’
‘Hmm! You think the others might get at something from Burke, then?’
Craigie shook his head decisively.
‘They can do what they like to Burke, but he won’t talk. But they obviously recognised you and the others, or they would never have got away from “Wilton”. So they might be able to recognise Burke. He was well known a while ago, particularly in the Lathian affair. Toby will tell you about it as you go. Good luck, and if you locate the house in Wiltshire, go carefully.’
Kerr nodded, Arran grimaced, and the two agents left the office. Arran was feeling more cheerful even than usual.
‘How much petrol have we got?’
‘Plenty to get us to Heston. Are you driving?’
‘Yes, I want you to tell me about the Lathian affair. Lathia’s near Shovia.’
Arran whistled.
‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ he admitted. ‘But no, it’s far too old.’
‘Maybe,’ said Kerr, slipping into the driving-seat and letting in the clutch. Arran sat down nervously as the car started.
‘Lathia, mon brave, and get to it.’
Arran grinned.
‘All right, drat you. You were still doing damn’ silly flying-stunts at the time, when Japan rushed materials and troops through to Lathia with a damn-fool idea of having a scrap.’
‘I know that they nearly set Europe alight,’ Kerr said. ‘I used to fly, but I could read at the same time. What was Burke’s part?’
Arran took a cigarette from his case.
‘Well. Burke was our star agent. You took his place. He got on to the job through a man named Carris—Pat’s brother. Carris had been doing some lookout work in Lathia, after a man named Krotz——’
‘I know of Krotz. The power behind the scenes. Is he still alive?’
‘He is not.’ Arran smiled reminiscently. ‘Burke broke his neck. I’ll bet that punch was a beauty. Anyhow, Carris was killed. Burke met his sister, and a bit later they were married. Burke carried the whole thing through.’
‘Hm!’ Kerr kept his eyes on the road, and ignored the speed limit as much as he could. ‘I’m wondering whether there’s any tie-up between Lathia and this business. Shovia’s next door to——’
‘You said that before.’
‘You often need telling twice. I’m wondering how it was we were recognised.’
Arran grunted.
‘Well, we’ve been mixed up in a lot of things. And there might be one or two outside agents of Krotz’s knocking around. They would know us.’
‘I suppose that’s it,’ Kerr said, but Arran knew that he was dissatisfied.
‘All right, let it come.’
‘I suppose there’s no one who’s not reliable?’
‘Forget it—and, blast you, mind that Rolls in front, it’s braking!’
The red light of the brake-signal on the car ahead of them glowed. Kerr jammed on his foot-brake. He hooted impatiently, Arran wiped his forehead, and Kerr slid past the car in front. They were going across Hammersmith Broadway, and Arran was scowling.
A mile along Chiswick High Road the Rolls, on their tail most of the way, brayed its siren and edged past them. Kerr was doing forty, and Arran swore beneath his breath.
‘Looks to me as if they’re in a hurry,’ he said. ‘I——my God!’
The words forced themselves from his lips as the Rolls squeezed in between the Frazer-Nash and a car in front, braking violently. Kerr’s foot was down in a flash, but he could not stop the cras
h. The Frazer-Nash piled into the back of the Rolls, the din echoing like gunfire along the High Street. The smaller car seemed to leap into the air; a small tradesman’s van crashed into its rear. The nose was squashed in like a concertina, and Arran, his face jerked forward, crashed his forehead and nose against the windscreen as the safety-glass cracked. Behind them there came a squealing of brakes, a dozen minor bumps, and from the pavement a hundred voices, including that of three hefty-looking policemen.
Arran was dazed, but not too dazed to hear Kerr’s voice.
‘Toby, I’m skipping. Blame that Rolls to blazes, show your card to the police if necessary, and don’t let the Rolls go. That was deliberate. So long!’
Kerr was talking in undertones as he opened the door and climbed out of the car. One of the hefty policemen eyed him.
‘You were doing a fine thirty,’ he grunted.
‘Matter of life and death!’ said Kerr. ‘My friend will give you all particulars. Excuse me.’
He walked quickly away, glancing twice behind him and seeing the face of the chauffeur of the Rolls-Royce. It was a dark, swarthy face, that of an Italian or Spanish type, and one Kerr would not forget.
It suggested that he had been followed from Whitehall—certainly the Rolls had been near him at Hyde Park Corner—and it also suggested that the driver had not wanted him to complete his journey. This business was getting worse.
The crowd was thick as he looked for a cab and failed to find one. He was half determined to hurry to the district station, when he saw the little M.G. Sports close to the kerb, with a girl at the wheel.
‘You’re in a hurry, Mr. Kerr?’
Kerr had expected many things, but this floored him. He didn’t know her from Adam, but she used his name without a moment’s hesitation. He smiled.
‘I am, yes, and I’m in the worst of spots, for I don’t seem to know you.’
‘That’s not surprising,’ she said. ‘Would you care to drive?’
‘I’d rather you did.’ He climbed in next to her, still smiling. ‘Heston Airport, if you know the way?’
