by John Creasey
‘Don’t waste time,’ snapped Branner. ‘One minute’s gone. I’m not joking.’
And then Patricia leaned forward, tugging at the seat of his trousers. Davidson squinted round.
‘What the deuce——’
He could hardly hear her words, and he gathered that she was anxious that the men below should not know that a woman was talking. But as the words came out Davidson smiled.
‘Use Mueller,’ was all Patricia said.
Davidson coughed, creating the impression that he had been waiting because he wanted to. There was something about his manner that reminded Branner of the man who called himself Smith—or Jim Burke. Branner had never been face to face with members of Department Z before, and something of their influence was making itself felt. They succeeded so often because of one thing: they always had the other side guessing. Branner was guessing now, and wondering why the devil the men behind the arm-chair were so cool and calm.
‘Friends,’ said Davidson in a deep, hollow voice, and Branner guessed some more. Only a man who was supremely confident would have spoken like that. It sounded, Carruthers whispered to Patricia, like a very sick stage-ghost. ‘Friends, you’ve forgotten something.’
‘You’ve forgotten that two minutes have gone,’ said Branner very slowly.
‘Two?’ asked Davidson in some surprise. ‘Doesn’t time fly? No, my sin’s the lesser, I promise you. What have you come for, my pretty man?’
There were three sharp and distinct oaths from downstairs.
Branner spoke again.
‘You’re all bloody fools,’ he said clearly. ‘I’ve enough dynamite to send the place to smithereens in three or four minutes——’
‘Then we’re reprieved,’ said Davidson gently. ‘I thought you were ready to start right away. But, joking apart, my son, why did you come here?’
‘You know very well why I came!’
‘Ah!’ Davidson made the single word sound as though he were pushing home an important point. ‘Now, that’s the question. As a matter of fact, if you’ve come for what I think you have, the last thing you’ll do is to blow the house up. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘Damn you!’ snarled Branner, and his voice was thick with fury. ‘Once and for all, I’m not joking. Come down!’
‘It’s so comfortable here,’ sighed Davidson, ‘and we have to look after the dead, you know. The late lamented Herr Mueller would hate to think that he wasn’t on show for the first twenty-four hours after his demise, and it must feel good to lie in state. The thing is, dynamite will split him asunder, but it won’t put him together again. You might be thoughtful of the dead, even though you’re careless about the living. Checkmate, mister?’
‘You’ve made the biggest mistake of your lives,’ snapped Branner.
Davidson heard him giving orders in an undertone.
And then very suddenly another voice came from downstairs. Davidson’s expression relaxed; Carruthers uttered a single yell, and would have been over the chair had Patricia not stopped him. While the voice of Dodo came cheerfully from the front door.
‘A tea-party, folk? Put your hands right up, little men; this will go off. How are you, Wally?’
Wally Davidson said gently:
‘I’ve never been better in my life, old son. How many are you holding up?’
‘Sum total, four. None of them looking kind-hearted.’
‘Four’s about their limit,’ said Davidson. The semi-darkness of the hall disappeared as he switched on a light.
Davidson saw Dodo Trale, as cheerful as ever, but looking untidy, a gun in each hand. Branner had heard his shot but had assumed the other two men would take care of him, not knowing Trale had handled them before shooting. The guns were pointing towards the stairs, where the gentlemen from Griceson were standing, for once completely flummoxed. At the foot of the stairs Beaumant was lying in a twisted heap, and there was a lot of blood on show.
Davidson, his gun in evidence, started downstairs. Patricia followed him, and Carruthers brought up the rear.
‘I’ll get their guns,’ Wally said.
The four crooks seemed unable to move. Davidson found their guns without the slightest trouble. And then he reached Branner.
That long, thin face with the gashed lips and the hooked nose, that livid scar—in fact everything about Branner that could look villainous did so. Davidson thought he was the nastiest specimen he had seen for a long time, and as the thought flashed through his mind Branner did his best to prove it.
He kicked out viciously, and his toe caught Davidson’s ankle. Davidson went flying, and Branner made a single dive—towards Patricia! He grabbed her by the waist, swinging her round so that she faced him, and was between him and the guns. His back was to the wall, and the breath was almost knocked from her body as he hugged her to him.
‘Now shoot and be damned to you!’
Davidson and Carruthers were appalled by the sudden change in the situation.
Both realised what this meant.
Branner—although they did not know his name—was prepared to take any risk to get away. He would make it, or force them to shoot Patricia in order to get at him. The thing had happened so suddenly that she was hardly aware of where she was, although she could see the thin, vicious face of the man who held her closely to him.
There was a dead silence now. The three crooks with Branner were staring at their leader as though they could not understand how a thing like this could have happened. Branner turned his head so that he could see the others, although the moment they touched the trigger he would get behind Patricia.
Patricia seemed paralysed, whether by surprise or fright it was impossible to say. She was not small, and Branner was on the small side for a man.
But Patricia’s paralysis disappeared surprisingly. She moved only a few inches, and then her head just went forward. Branner did not realise it was coming until her forehead cracked into his temple.
The man gasped, and his hold on the girl loosened. Patricia wrenched herself away, and Wally Davidson, nearest Branner, took two long strides forward. Branner was still wondering what had cracked against his head when Davidson’s clenched fist took him under the chin.
The second crack echoed loudly through the silence, and Branner’s head went back and hit against the wall. Branner gasped and slumped down, as Patricia said calmly:
‘I wonder if he knows where Jim is?’
Dodo Trale, the tension relaxed, chuckled, although he was still pale.
‘We’ll leave it to you to find out, sweetheart; Branner will have had more than enough of you when he wakes up. Now, sons, get busy!’
In a surprisingly short time the four men who had raided Rose Cottage were trussed hand and foot. Dodo Trale and Patricia were doing what they could with the wound in Beaumant’s back and chest. Neither of them was optimistic about the outcome, although they said little. Davidson was outside trying to find the place where the telephone wire had been cut, so that he could connect it. And Bob Carruthers, as he finished tying Branner, was feeling thirsty and wondering whether Patricia had been joking when she had talked of beer. Carruthers could think of nothing better than beer to fortify him for a journey to London and a talk with Craigie.
• • • • •
There were seven men in the attacking party altogether, and one was dead. The two unfortunates in the bus shelter were brought into the house and locked in a room. Patricia was proving that her talk of beer was not a myth when Davidson returned, beaming widely.
‘I’ve fixed the phone, friends. I’ll toss who uses it.’
‘That’s an idea,’ said Bob Carruthers cheerfully. He stepped to the telephone in the corner of the hall and lifted the receiver. ‘I’ve won. Pat, you’re an angel. Hallo? Yes, Whitehall one-two-one-two-one. Thank you. Wally, you blasted hog, bring me a glass.’
‘Yes,’ said Patricia, taking a glass of brown ale to him.
‘Hallo, Craigie? Oh, sorry—E-I-G …’
The oth
ers knew that he was doing what Department Z agents always did when they talked together on the telephone—introducing himself by spelling Craigie’s name backwards. It was a simple code that prevented, as Carruthers said with dignity, misrepresentation.
At the other end of the wire Craigie listened keenly to the report, and for the first time he really felt that things were moving. He said very little over the telephone, but promised to send a closed van, in which the prisoners could be moved. The driver would have instructions where to take them, and would be known to Carruthers and the others.
It was some time after this that Sir William Fellowes and a Miss Lois Dacre arrived at Craigie’s office.
Miss Dacre would have been the first to agree that she had had a busy day, particularly since Lydia Crabtree had called at her flat. She had spent a couple of hours with Lydia, deliberately aiming for the Whitehall direction. Lydia had left her just before Kerr and Arran had started for Heston, and Lois Dacre had seen them. She had followed them, helped Kerr, and then talked to Fellowes.
It was unlikely that Miss Lois Dacre knew that she was only the second woman who had been in Craigie’s office. If she did, she seemed unimpressed by the honour, for Fellowes told himself she was the most self-possessed woman he had ever met.
Craigie smiled, as though inviting confidence.
‘Well, Miss Dacre, I’m afraid we’ve put you to a lot of trouble.’
‘On the contrary,’ said Lois Dacre, ‘I think I’m putting you out, Mr. Craigie. I’m by no means sure you’ll think my visit’s worth while.’
‘Supposing you tell me what’s caused it?’ suggested Craigie.
Lois Dacre leaned back in her chair. Her eyes did not move from Craigie’s.
‘Do you recognise me?’ she demanded, and Fellowes was amused at the expression on Craigie’s face. For once he seemed surprised.
‘I can’t say I do.’
Lois Dacre smiled.
‘We’ve lived next door to each other for five years,’ she said calmly. ‘That’s how I know you. And how I know Mr. Kerr.’
‘Good Lord!’ said Craigie, his lips twitching as he looked at Fellowes. And then his expression tightened. ‘But how did you know I was associated with Scotland Yard in any way, Miss Dacre?’
‘I’ve known Sir William call on you, during—troublous times.’ Her lips curved a little as she uttered the last words, but Fellowes was too taken aback this time to be amused. ‘But, Mr. Craigie, we’re wasting time. May I tell you what brought me here?’
‘Please do,’ Craigie said.
She told him quietly and without wasting a word that she had met Kerr in Chiswick High Street, and that there had been some trouble with a Rolls-Royce. Craigie did not reveal that he knew about the smash and of later things.
‘Well,’ Craigie said, ‘I appreciate what you’ve done, Miss Dacre, and——’
‘I have not quite finished,’ said Lois Dacre, and they could see that she was more serious now. ‘I recognised the driver of the Rolls, Mr. Craigie, and I thought you would be interested.’
‘Interested!’ Fellowes barked the word. ‘Then who——’
‘It was the third chauffeur to Sir Julian Crabtree,’ said Lois Dacre. ‘Please don’t say it’s absurd, because it’s true.’
‘Do you know Sir Julian’s household?’ demanded Craigie.
‘Fairly well,’ the girl said. ‘And I know Lady Crabtree very well. I need not hope that you will not divulge where you obtained the information?’
Craigie stood up, brisk, confident, anxious to be moving.
‘Your name certainly will not appear,’ he promised her. ‘And if by chance you want to consult me again, please ask for Sir William here, or Superintendent Miller, at the Yard. Without mentioning my name,’ he added.
Lois Dacre knew when she had been dismissed, and she stood up quickly, while Craigie helped her into a damp mackintosh. Her expression was as calm as ever it had been. Fellowes could not dismiss a feeling that she had not been altogether frank. Had it been pure chance that she had seen Kerr?
‘Yes, I’ll do that, although there is not much chance of my meeting Mr. Kerr again in like circumstances.’
Craigie pressed the bell that released the door, and Sir William stepped towards it, to see her downstairs. No stranger was ever allowed to walk alone from the office of Department Z.
‘Miss Dacre, I’m extremely busy with things of some importance,’ Craigie said with a sudden smile. ‘Forgive me if I’m a little brusque. You’ve been a tremendous help, and one day I hope to be able to thank you more fully.’
‘I’m glad I helped,’ said the girl.
Fellowes went downstairs with her, asking whether she would like him to get a taxi, and hoping she would not. Lois Dacre thanked him, and said she liked walking in the rain. Fellowes shook hands with her, watched her walking towards Whitehall, and then almost ran back to Craigie’s office.
The door was opening, and Craigie was coming through, a trilby on the back of his head and a mackintosh of his inevitable grey drooping past his knees. Fellowes observed:
‘Crabtree can’t be in this, Gordon, but that Marency woman might be.’
Craigie nodded. He too had been thinking of Lady Crabtree, née Lydia Marency.
‘Yes, I know. Coming with me?’
‘To Crabtree’s?’
‘Yes, where else?’
‘I’m coming,’ Fellowes said. ‘Will you want Miller?’
‘I’ve ’phoned for him,’ said Craigie.
‘Any news at all?’
Craigie chuckled.
‘From Carruthers, at Burke’s place, an hour or so back. There was an attack and an attempt to get Mueller’s body. They won out, collected seven of Griceson’s men including one who seemed to be of some importance. Add to that the fact that we might get a line through Bradford-on-Avon, and the news that Miss Dacre has just given us. It’s not so bad now that I can feel things moving.’
‘No,’ said Fellowes. ‘It’s a queer affair. Where’s Miller going to meet us?’
‘He’s bringing his car round towards the corner,’ Craigie said, as they reached Whitehall. ‘What did you think of Miss Dacre?’
Fellowes shrugged his shoulders. He was a hard-bitten man and beauty or loveliness or grey eyes meant little to him.
‘Well—I don’t know. She had an answer for everything. You’ll make sure that she does live next door to you?’
‘She does,’ Craigie said with a smile, ‘but there’s no need for her to know I know it.’
Fellowes chuckled, immediately relieved.
‘Well, if her identity’s right, there’s no reason why her general story shouldn’t be true. She didn’t look a liar.’
‘The best liars don’t,’ admitted Craigie. ‘Well, we’ll just watch Miss Lois Dacre—a job for you, Bill. For my part, she seemed genuine.’
‘Ah, here’s Miller and the car.’
They said no more until they were in the back of the big Austin that Superintendent Miller, of Scotland Yard, was driving himself. The car slid forward into the stream of traffic, with St. John’s Wood its objective. And following it was a small M.G. sports car, with a girl at the wheel, and a man next to her. She was a demure-looking woman, whose grey costume was covered by a mackintosh, and whose calm grey eyes seemed to be smiling sombrely at some secret joke. The man at her side was looking very grim.
11: Discoveries
Superintendent Horace Miller, of Scotland Yard, was usually detailed to do the police work in connection with the activities of Department Z. He was a large, spreading man of nearly fifty, well dressed, yet one who never looked immaculate. There was an inevitable sprinkling of cigarette-ash down his clothes, and the creases were far from perfect.
Miller looked much more like the baker that his name suggested than a Superintendent of the C.I.D. He affected a large sandy moustache, which always suggested that it had been lately coated with flour, fresh from the mill. His skin created the same illusion, and hi
s pale-blue eyes, shrewd enough at times and yet sometimes appearing to be vacant, suggested the man of toil rather than of brains.
But Miller had few equals in his job. He knew Department Z well, and he was no stickler to rules and regulations, and with Craigie’s men he was popular.
Miller drove fast towards St. John’s Wood and Greytor Street. He had been on the fringe of the Shovian affair, and he knew tonight’s job concerned it. But Miller did not know where Mueller was—only Fellowes, Craigie and the Premier knew that, outside the men working directly on the case—but he suspected that Craigie knew more than he said.
The rain was coming down fast now, and the windscreen-wiper was working at full blast. The streets were almost deserted after they left Baker Street behind, and Miller—who had been asked to hurry—switched on the headlights. He was within a hundred yards of the home of Sir Julian Crabtree when the lights picked out something lying on the pavement, near the corner. Miller looked twice, and then braked so hard that Craigie and Fellowes were jolted forward in their seats.
‘What the hell!’ roared Fellowes, a somewhat fiery soul, but Craigie’s fingers gripped his forearm.
‘Easy—he has seen something.’
With his free hand Craigie was opening the door. He jumped out at the same time as Miller. Fellowes heard Miller’s grunt as the big Superintendent reached that huddled form, and heard Craigie’s sharp: ‘Arran!’
And at the same time Fellowes heard a car turning the corner. There was a sharp, almost involuntary hoot, and the car—a small one—slewed round, water spewing from its wheels and drenching Fellowes. Fellowes swore once under his breath, and then roared, in words that echoed up and down Greytor Street like a siren:
‘Craigie—down!’
Like two men operated by electricity, Craigie and Miller dropped flat on their stomachs beside the body of Toby Arran. At the same moment a speckle of flame burst from the man next to the driver of the M.G., and the sharp tap-tap-tap of bullets from a silenced automatic came ominously. Fellowes could hear them against the wall, and as the M.G. flashed by could see the figure of the girl next to the driver. That girl.
