by John Creasey
‘Put your hands up, all of you.’
Jeffs acted first. His hands went up, but he said no word as he moved silently forward. Griceson, half sobbing, looked frantically from Kerr to Marency and back again, and then his arms went towards the sky. Marency stood like a graven image on the edge of the roof.
‘Don’t stand there like a fool!’ snapped Kerr. He was sweating like a pig, and the leaping flames seemed to be licking the very roof; in five minutes the house would be ablaze. Now he could see nothing of the other side of the road but fire and smoke. In sixty seconds the whole of one side of Trite Street was a burning mass, and men, women and children were in those houses. Even now above the roaring of the flames he could hear the screams and cries of pain and fear.
Kerr went forward. Burke and Carruthers went towards Jeffs and Griceson, for there was nothing to fear from either of them. In Kerr’s mind there was only one thought. He must get Marency alive. He half expected the man to try to throw himself over the edge, and it had to be prevented. But Marency was backing, inch by inch now, and Kerr dared not move faster for fear of slipping. The heat was getting worse, the air so hot that he could hardly breathe.
But he heard Marency’s words: words shouted high towards the heavens, words that seemed to be coming from a madman’s lips.
‘So Craigie’s got me! And England’s finished. The Tiberran mines are full of this stuff—burning gas—it will destroy London in a day, England in a week; it’s hidden aboard your ships and in your aeroplanes, in your ammunition factories, everywhere! It’s only waiting to be touched off; you can’t stop it; understand, you can’t!’
There was less than two yards between them. Kerr was the only man to hear the words. And Kerr saw the intention in Marency’s eyes. The old man leapt forward, his arms outstretched. In a split second they would be about Kerr, and once that happened two men would crash together into the flames, and to the stones below.
Kerr touched his trigger.
He knew that he had only a split second to spare, but he had left it too late. He had waited for Marency to talk, or to catch the other alive and now as the bullets entered the old man’s chest he knew that he could not avoid the impact of his body. Marency was dying as he thudded into Kerr. Spasmodically his arms wrapped themselves about the Department Z agent. Kerr tried to take the strain, but it was useless. He stood there staggering for a moment on the sloping roof, then his feet started to slip; the dead weight was clinging to him, dead arms he could not shift. He felt himself falling to the end, but all the time there was one desperate thought in his mind.
Burning gas—stuff like this—was planted everywhere in England. Everywhere. England would be useless in a week—helpless, unable to fight. No wonder Shovia was confident!
But only he knew it.
He was slipping. Kerr could just see the edge of the roof with flames billowing upwards. Desperately he flung himself backwards, with the dead Marency in his arms. He went down, his head banged heavily against the slates. Then for a moment his heels hit against the guttering, and he stopped sliding.
But Marency was on top of him; he could not throw the man off without losing that precarious foothold. He tried, breathing hard, every muscle in his body working, but the dead man’s hands were locked behind his neck. Kerr could not get free.
And the guttering was giving way …
Kerr made a final effort, taking his life in his hands as he heaved upwards, trying to force Marency’s body off. For a moment he thought he had succeeded, but then he felt the weight of the man still on him, and he felt the guttering giving way. His ankles were over the edge. His knees, his thighs, he was falling.
Something gripped his hands, stretched out above his head. Kerr didn’t realise it for a moment; he knew only that he had stopped falling, that the guttering was cutting into his back as though it would break him in two. Then he felt Marency’s hands being loosened. The old man’s body slipped suddenly, and he knew that Marency’s body had gone down there into the inferno. Then, very slowly, he felt himself being hauled backwards. Kerr could hardly credit that he was safe, even when Jim Burke’s voice came to his ears, as inspiring as ever:
‘Come on, my Robert, make an effort.’
Burke was hauling him to safety.
Kerr did not know what happened in the next five minutes, for he went right out. When he recovered consciousness he was in a small room at the back of the house, a room darkened by the smoke-clouds but as yet untouched by flames. Burke was there working like a demon to bring the other man round. Carruthers was with him, but no one else.
Kerr struggled to a sitting position, although his back felt like breaking and the pain was enough to make him wince. Burke could do little to ease the pain, but Burke was saying tensely:
‘Did you get anything? Did you?’
Kerr croaked:
‘We’ve got—to make terms. We must! Understand? We must—not—fight—Shovia!’
20: Scare!
Burke did not wait to ask more questions. He knew Kerr well enough to be sure that the words were gospel. From Marency, then, before that dreadful fall into the fire—Burke had not known of Marency’s prior death—Kerr had learned what Shovia was proposing to do.
Burke did not need to think much about it.
He had been stupefied by the speed with which the flames had spread, and he had realised what it meant. Shovia had a gas that could create fire like that in a few seconds, more powerful by far than liquid fire, a gas that ignited and spread with a lightning speed that could raze London in a few hours.
That was a fact.
Kerr had obviously learned that Shovia had enough to turn the scales, and now Burke was moving out of the house, across the back gardens, towards the High Street and then Victoria, Westminster. Still the pall of smoke was over his head, and the gardens and houses of the neighbourhood were covered with a thick film of soot and blacks. Burke looked more nigger than white as he climbed over a wall, scraping a quarter of an inch of soot from it as he went, and then hurried along an alley, with Bob Carruthers on his heels.
The roar of the flames was still in their ears, with the cries that they tried to shut out. And now, adding to the din, was the ringing of fire-alarms and the hiss of water as the hoses were turned on. Burke spared one glance behind him, and he saw the great spouts of water shooting towards the skies, not on Trite Street but on near-by houses. Trite Street was doomed. The great thing was to stop the fire from spreading—the fire that had come from a single cigar!
Burke reached the High Street and swore when he saw what was happening.
Crowds were flocking the streets, traffic was at an absolute standstill, police were forcing a path so that the fire-engines could get through. The clamour and the roar of voices was deafening, while every eye was turned upwards to the pall above them, the flames ahead, and the falling smuts that seemed like snow gone mad.
Carruthers grunted.
‘Take us a hell of a time to get through it.’
‘Bright, aren’t you? It’ll clear further up the road.’
‘As Kerr said,’ said Burke slowly, ‘we’ve got to make terms. By the way, how’s Lois?’
‘All right. Not badly injured, but still right out. We sent her in a hurry to Kerr’s flat. Best not to try a hospital.’
Burke nodded.
‘Did Griceson talk? Or Jeffs?’
‘Jeffs said he wanted to see Craigie. He knows us all. Griceson’s scared, absolutely helpless with fear. He couldn’t speak for the life of him.’
‘Somehow it doesn’t sound like the Griceson I knew,’ said Jim Burke oddly. ‘I wonder if there are two of the swabs?’
‘Keep it mild,’ pleaded Carruthers, ‘we’ve more than enough on our plates. Thank God the crowd’s thinning. Jim, if that came from a cigar, what the hell would come from Craigie’s meerschaum?’
Burke chuckled. He was shouldering his way ruthlessly through the crowd, pushing men and women aside without a second’s thought.
By the time they had reached Sloane Square the crowd was practically normal and Burke beckoned a cab. The cabby glared, and:
‘Not in them trousis, mister!’
‘Blast you and your ruddy cab!’ roared Burke, and the tension that was in him broke out suddenly. Carruthers had rarely seen a man so scared as that taxi-driver. ‘Brentham Street, Whitehall, and make it fast or I’ll break your blasted neck!’
There wasn’t a murmur of protest as he climbed in, with Carruthers, and the cabby broke all records to Whitehall. He even jumped out and opened the door when Burke bawled for him to stop, and the big man chuckled.
‘Thanks, George, I needed a rest. Keep the change.’
Burke was already striding towards the small door that led to Craigie’s office. In three minutes he was outside the door, and in three and a quarter he was entering the room. Craigie was by the sliding door, his hat perched on the back of his head.
‘Thank God you’re in,’ Burke said. ‘Heard of the fire?’
‘I was just going to see it. I’ve had two or three reports, but all telephone lines from the Trite Street district have gone phut.’
‘Small wonder,’ Burke said, and in a dozen graphic sentences he described what had happened. Craigie was fingering the telephone as Burke finished:
‘And Kerr said we’ve got to make terms. Which means the swine have got a load of this stuff ready for releasing. Get to it, Gordon.’
‘Marency arranged this,’ Craigie said in a slow voice, ‘and he’s dead. How can we show Shovia that Mueller’s murder was non-political?’
‘God knows.’ Burke lit a cigarette, glancing distastefully at the black paper, for nothing he touched kept clean. We’ve got to stop the fight, Gordon, even if it means caving in a bit.’
‘I’ll ‘phone Wishart,’ Craigie said.
The Prime Minister listened with increasing anxiety and said nothing for a moment after Craigie finished. Finally:
‘I’ll call a meeting for one o’clock. Will you be there?’
‘Yes, I’ll come. Good-bye.’ Craigie looked round as he finished speaking, and his face was very grave. He could see the vista ahead of them more clearly, perhaps, than Burke or Kerr or Carruthers. He could see that if Great Britain had to make terms—and he was prepared to believe it—it would mean the greatest débâcle the Commonwealth had ever known. Shovia could dictate what conditions she liked—to England and every Power in Europe. For that matter, in the world. The mad dog of Europe was biting.
He could see no way out.
It was during that silence in the office, pregnant, it seemed, with death, that the little green light announcing to Craigie that someone was ringing outside showed brightly. Carruthers saw it first, and as he exclaimed Craigie released the sliding door. And Burke was on his feet in an instant, his eyes wide and black-rimmed.
‘Kerr!’
‘They told me I couldn’t walk,’ gasped Bob Kerr, ‘and they were damned nearly right.’ He staggered into the room. He was blackened from head to foot—worse, if anything, than Burke. ‘Craigie—you’ve heard?’ and there was a terrible anxiety in his eyes.
‘Not what you learned from Marency.’
Kerr drew a deep breath.
‘Marency said that the stuff’s planted everywhere. Everywhere. And that means, Gordon, that if war’s declared there’ll be outbreaks of fire like this by the dozen. That’s why I said we’ve got to stop it. We must!’
‘Easier said than done,’ Burke grunted.
Kerr said, as though off-handedly, although every word was an effort:
‘Jeffs is outside. I didn’t want him in for a minute, and Davidson’s watching him, so it’s all right. But listen, Gordon. All the time we’ve known one way of quietening Shovia. By proving to them that England’s not responsible for Mueller’s death. Right?’
‘Will it be enough?’ Burke asked. ‘If they know they can beat us, they’ll use any pretext.’
Kerr said simply:
‘We’ll have to chance it.’
‘But, damn and blast you!’ roared Burke, ‘we can’t prove anything about Mueller, unless Jeffs can help us, Griceson will not talk; he can’t.’
‘Griceson’s outside too,’ Kerr said, and the expression in his eyes was strange as he looked from Burke to Craigie. ‘We’ve got to prove it, old son. The Department’s swan-song, if necessary, but we’ve got to prove it.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Burke snapped, but Craigie’s eyes were widening. Craigie could see what was in Bob Kerr’s mind.
‘Just this,’ Kerr said. ‘If we can’t find who did kill Mueller, we’ll have to kill him ourselves. The Department. I’m the prime mover, and we’ve a patchwork to go on. Marency said this gas comes from the Tiberran Hills. We’ll say that we were a private syndicate, working to get possession of it. We reckoned that by kidnapping Mueller, we could force the Shovian Government’s hand. Then we found it was too big for us. A perfect lay-out, Craigie.’
Craigie said:
‘Yes. But anyone mixed up in it—you, Carruthers, Davidson, Burke—you’re finished. Whether it averts war or not.’
Kerr said:
‘Burke’s out of this, he’s married. He’s not one of us, anyhow. Follow the old Department rules, Gordon. Single men only.’
Three pairs of eyes were turned on Kerr, and it was not for ten seconds that the silence was broken. Then Carruthers said:
‘It’s the one chance, Gordon. I’m game.’
‘The others will be,’ Kerr said. There was a fleeting, ironic smile on his lips, for he knew just what it meant. A forlorn chance of stopping war, and the destruction of England—and a sacrifice that could not be bigger. Well, it was worth it.
Burke said:
‘I’m in this, Gordon. They’ll know I’ve been floating round, anyhow. But there must be someone else besides Marency who knows the truth. Someone, whether here or in Shovia. The gaff would be blown.’
‘We’ll have to chance it,’ said Kerr. ‘All we can do. Unless Jeffs …’
‘Jeffs,’ Craigie said, ‘will probably only confirm your story. What I’ve heard of Jeffs, he will not talk. Slip down and get him, Carry.’
Carruthers went out. Craigie looked at Burke and Kerr, and there was a smile on his lips, but he did not speak. There was no need for words, although Kerr was trying to think up some way of stopping Burke joining them.
It was Davidson who entered the office first, with Griceson at his side. Griceson, with that alabaster face so odd and unnatural, Griceson with his unnatural light-grey eyes showing all the fear in the world. And then Jeffs entered, with Carruthers behind him.
And Cornelius Jeffs was smiling!
There was a gleam in his brown eyes, and he looked more top-heavy than ever as he spoke. He gave neither Craigie nor the others a chance of talking.
‘Well, gentlemen.’ Even Kerr was startled by the even voice. ‘The thing is nearly on us, and we know at last what Marency knew.’
Craigie frowned. Burke swore. Kerr, sitting down, for his back was still aching so much that he could hardly move, snapped:
‘Jeffs, talking will not get you out. What do you know?’
‘That’s what I’ve come to tell you,’ said Cornelius Jeffs, ‘and the trouble is that it’s little more than you. Oh, Kerr—Marency gave me orders to kill Lois Dacre. I didn’t. You’ll understand why, Craigie, when I show you these.’
Jeffs took some papers from his pocket, although his movement brought three guns to bear on him. Craigie took the grimy documents, glanced at them and then at Kerr, hardly able to speak for a moment. Then:
‘Good God!’ And Craigie was a man who rarely blasphemed.
Jeffs smiled, completely at ease.
‘Operator Thirty-one of the American Secret Service, gentlemen, at your service. And as Operator Thirty-one I have sent reports to my London office. There is all the information there to prove Griceson and Marency—although I can’t say they know his name, for I did
n’t manage to get it—killed Mueller, with the deliberate object of causing trouble between Great Britain and Shovia. The trouble now, as far as I can see, is whether it’s good enough. If Shovia really wants to fight.’
Again there was a deathly silence in the room, for all of them knew that there was a chance that Marency had been working for Shovia; that Shovia had fought hard to get this chance to show her hand, and the new gas. That thought prevented them from feeling more than a moment’s astonishment at Jeff’s disclosure.
An American agent!
Burke broke the tension slowly, and it was surprising how calmly but quickly Jeffs was accepted as Operator 31.
‘Kerr,’ he said, ‘your offer’s refused with thanks, and this will do fine. Jeffs, it’s nice to know you. Craigie, what now?’
But it was Kerr, not Craigie, who answered; Kerr who jumped from his chair despite the pain in his back; Kerr who for once was excited out of all reason.
‘Jeffs, you were working with the Tiberran Iron Corporation?’
‘A figurehead,’ Jeffs said. ‘Sir Julian was really the leading light, but he knew nothing about this gas, he was in it purely for the iron.’
‘Yes, but you know the works?’
‘Very well indeed.’ Jeffs talked no more like an American than a Siamese.
‘Then we can get there,’ Kerr said, ‘and find the stuff! If we’ve got some, we can fight back, and that’ll stop the game. Craigie, it’s our one chance. Get the same weapon, threaten to use it—but can we get there in time?’
Burke snapped, his eyes afire.
‘Is there any need, man? There must be stuff in England somewhere. You’ve no idea where, Jeffs?’
‘No, but Griceson …’
They all turned towards Griceson. The man had not spoken once since he had entered the office, and now he was cowering back, a different being from that whom Burke had first met. Kerr took a short step forward, his gun in his hand.
‘Griceson,’ he said very slowly, ‘there’s a supply of that gas in England. Where is it? Marency’s dead; no one can harm you. You’ve just a chance of safety if you’ll talk. Where is it?’
