by John Creasey
‘Excellent, my dear fellow! Excellent.’ Smith’s hearty geniality oozed into the telephone. ‘First rate idea, there’s no doubt about that. Don’t take any unnecessary chances, though. Be careful!’
• • • • •
Best also reported the full sequence of events to Bill Loftus, at the flat, and added his belief that in a fit of hysteria or drunkenness, Rita might make an attack on Ainsworth.
‘That reminds me, have you heard the rumour that Hershall’s been shot? Damn, the business drove it out of my mind!’
‘Where did you get it from?’ demanded Loftus.
‘Rita started it, said he was dying. Seemed pretty sure of herself. Just a rumour, I suppose?’
Loftus looked at him thoughtfully.
‘Just a rumour, old son, and I started it.’ He smiled obscurely. ‘So Rita was very sure of it, was she? She went home after you left her this afternoon and stayed at Queen Street. We had the place watched back and front, and she didn’t leave until she left for the Cherry, and she didn’t speak to anyone on the way.’
‘My oath!’ exclaimed Best. ‘How did she know?’
10
Misadventures in Somerset
The two large men eyed one another for some seconds in silence. Loftus relaxed first, stretching out his hand for his beer, and swilling it round thoughtfully.
‘Of course, there’s a telephone at the house.’
‘Telephone?’ ejaculated Best. ‘I—yes, I suppose.’ He looked acutely disappointed. ‘Same old Bill. Simple explanation best. I’d worked myself into thinking we’d found something pretty hot at Queen Street.’
His expression suggested that he was something of a fool, and unimaginative to boot, and his manner of talking strengthened that impression; it was quite false, and there were few agents for whom Loftus had more respect.
‘So you started the Hershall rumour, did you? What’s the great idea, Bill?’
Loftus gave the other man a few more details and saw Best nod with warm approval.
‘The rumour spread so fast that it’s pretty obvious that hostile agents were watching, or knew about the attack,’ continued Loftus, ‘and the M.O.I. and the Press are being pretty canny, doing everything but scotching it.’
‘Bit of a blow to the great British Public’s morale, eh?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Loftus, ‘but it won’t be allowed to last too long. It doesn’t need to. Just how deep Rita is in the show we don’t know yet, but you might get plenty out of her if you handle her properly. Does she know your address?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. She might call you if she feels the need for more sympathy,’ smiled Loftus. ‘Anyhow, get back to the flat and also get a good night’s rest, in case she leads you a pretty dance tomorrow. The angle is Rita and Lannigan,’ he added quietly, ‘and a man named Smith. The thing we want from them is a lead to Sir Edmund Quayle. Do you know him?’
‘Know of him,’ said Best. ‘Knew a fellow who once worked for him. Pretty first-class swine, Quayle. What’s he up to?’
‘That’s just what we want to know,’ said Loftus.
• • • •
An alarm clock burred loudly in Mike Errol’s ears, and he started, shot out a hand to switch the thing off, settled down in bed, and then remembered where he was to go that day. He struggled up to a sitting position, rubbed his eyes, grunted, scowled at the clock, and then climbed out of bed, doing none of those things with good grace. But a bath and a shave both refreshed and cheered him.
The Jermyn Street flat, which normally he shared with Mark when they were in London, was a comparatively new one for the Errols; their first flat had been bombed while they had been abroad. The flat, although not unduly so, was small, and Mike disliked it. He disliked even more the fact that Mark was not with him, and while he prepared some toast and boiled an egg, since he knew he could get no food on the train, he brooded on it, and the beginning of this affair for him and for Mark.
Strange that Regina should have come to see them. That, added to what he had since learned from Loftus, introduced a degree of coincidence which worried him.
In a frame of mind which he would have called tetchy, he left the flat and was lucky in getting a taxi to Paddington.
He booked a first-class return to Radstock, the nearest station to Lady Beddiloe’s home, and looked about the crowded station. He realised gloomily that there was slim chance of getting a carriage to himself. He was fortunate in being able to buy a paper, and eventually found a corner seat in a carriage where significantly piled army kit showed him that the other three corners were booked.
He watched the people on the platform with jaundiced eye, and as he surveyed them said, half aloud:
‘What the deuce is the matter with me?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said a cheerful voice from the door.
Mike glanced up towards the corridor, startled by the voice and in no mood for cheerfulness from others. He felt a twinge of compunction at the momentary annoyance he experienced at the sight of a short, plump padre, with a round face, pince-nez, and a ready smile.
‘Sorry,’ mumbled Mike. ‘Speaking to myself.’
The rotund gentleman surveyed him placidly for some seconds, made a mild comment about the weather, and then buried himself in his paper.
Mike breathed a sigh of relief, and continued to look out of the window to the platform and the people who were hurrying down the length of the train in an attempt to find a seat. Only five minutes were left before the time of departure. He saw a lieutenant walking more sedately than the others; the man looked into his carriage, then passed on. He had a piece of sticking plaster on his nose. He had grey hair and he looked much older than a junior officer should have been. Mike did not know at that juncture that the officer had been at the Cherry Club the previous evening, and had been instrumental in working Rita Ainsworth up to a pitch of hysteria which had ended in the scene and the chase.
All unaware, therefore, of the need for even greater wariness than he realised, he settled down in his corner. Then the corridor door opened again, this time to admit a porter.
‘Mr. Errol ‘ere, please?’
‘Eh?’ asked Mike, startled. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘Your magazines, sir,’ said the porter. ‘Your friend just managed to get them.’
He pushed a bundle of magazines into Mike’s unwilling hands, and departed, not waiting for a tip.
Mike stared at the magazines and then at the corridor, but there was little time for speculating. Two other officers entered, made no comment, and settled down in their corners. The guard’s whistle shrilled out twice, and the train quickened into motion.
‘So my friend just managed to get them,’ murmured Mike.
Glancing up, he was aware of the bright blue eyes of the padre peering at him over the top of the pince-nez. The man gave a half-smile, and then returned to his Times.
There were four magazines. He opened each in turn, half-suspiciously, and in the pages of the last saw a single slip of paper fastened to it with a pin.
Mike widened his eyes as he read:
I’m around, old boy, but so are some of the other side. Weather eye open! Pat.
Quite absurdly, Mike glanced up as if expecting to see the leathery features of Patrick Malone, an agent with whom he had never worked on a case, but whom he knew to be on Craigie’s staff and who had a good reputation. He did not know that Malone had been in the Cherry Club the previous night.
• • • • •
At Radstock, Mike left the train, and stood for some seconds looking up and down the platform. He saw Malone’s tall, rangy figure, a man so typically Irish that usually he was thus identified even before he opened his mouth to betray a fine, rich brogue. He stood idly by the side of the platform as Malone approached, not expecting the Irishman to make any comment.
In front of Malone, separated from him by several civilian passengers, was the thin-lipped lieutenant.
Malone passed without ba
tting an eyelid. Mike raised his eyebrows, let him get well past, and then sauntered towards the station exit. There were several taxis outside, and he was able to hire one just behind the thinlipped officer, who said: ‘Do you know where Colonel Ratcliffe lives, driver?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the cabby.
‘Take me there,’ said the officer curtly.
‘Mike, my boy,’ whispered a voice in his ear, ‘’tis that man with the mouth like a knife ye want to be wary of. Don’t look round, ye fool, I’m after him.’
‘Taxi, sir?’ asked a man smartly, as Mike watched Malone.
‘Oh, yes. Good,’ said Mike. ‘Beddiloe House, cabby. Do you know it?’
‘Of course, sir. Out at Lashley.’
He settled back in the taxi, his eyes half closed, and he did not notice the grey stone buildings or the colliery which seemed to be in the centre of Radstock. Nor did it occur to him then that Radstock, in the midst of the lovely Somerset countryside, was like a north country mining village which had been thoroughly washed and cleaned so that the enshrouding pall of coal and smuts was not apparent.
He recalled enough of the countryside to remember that Lashley, the nearest village to his aunt’s house, was between Radstock and Bath, on the Wells side of the road, and was awakened from his reverie when the taxi driver turned left. For the first time he looked about him, and became aware of the brilliant green of the fields and trees, and the cloudless blue of the sky. A perfect day, thought Errol, and wondered how Aunt Bess was keeping.
Then, unexpectedly, the cabby stopped.
Mike leaned forward, mildly surprised.
‘What’s the trouble?’ he inquired amiably.
‘It won’t take a moment, sir,’ said the cabby, opening his door and jumping down. He threw up the bonnet of the taxi, and Mike, vaguely irritated by the delay, heard the rattle of tools. He decided to get out and stretch his legs, and was stepping from the cab when the driver swung round, snapping:
‘Stay where you are!’
Mike gaped at him.
He stared at the man’s sharp face, then down at the automatic held in a leather-gloved right hand. He was taken so completely by surprise that he obeyed the injuction without hesitation.
The cabby and a gun; no, it was preposterous.
‘Get back inside,’ the man said next.
There was an indescribably evil expression on a face which had suddenly become ugly. The expression, more than anything the man said, made Mike force himself to be more realistic—and the realism indicated by the situation was for him to obey and get back into the taxi.
‘Get in!’ the man snapped, and his voice took on a higher note, one which struck Mike as odd and made him eye the man narrowly. Then he saw that there was, after all, the faintest of quivers in the gun hand, and that the man’s lips were drawn tightly together and were trembling a little.
The gunman was afraid.
Mike sank into the rear of the taxi without grace, and turning his coat so that this right pocket was free but just out of the gunman’s sight—his own automatic was in it—he felt the cold steel and experienced a sharp sense of satisfaction. He did not need to ask questions to know that the taxi driver had instructions to stop here, and that others were expected soon.
He had climbed from the taxi and forced the issue more quickly than the man had anticipated, thus also forcing a crisis.
He did not shoot, although he could have done so through the window.
He wanted to see those others who were coming, and if he were in sole possession of the taxi they might not show up. He kept his hand about his gun and felt greatly comforted. The driver peered at him through the open door, glancing right and left once or twice as if afraid that someone he did not want would come. Suddenly and without warning they heard the ting! of a cycle bell. Both glanced involuntarily towards the right, where a girl cyclist was turning from the main road and gliding down a slight incline at a good speed.
‘Keep your mouth shut or I’ll shoot!’ the cabby hissed.
The girl sailed nearer, and then passed by, glancing curiously at the taxi. Suddenly she applied her brakes, and before the cycle had stopped, called:
‘Can I help you?’
‘No, I——’ began the driver.
Errol beamed at the girl as she stood astride her cycle and looked over her shoulder.
‘That’s very nice of you, but someone is bringing us a spare part.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ said the girl.
‘Are you going into Lashley?’ asked Mike, very sweetly.
He heard the intake of the driver’s breath, but knew that the man would not want to do anything to upset whatever plans he—and others—had in mind.
‘Why, yes.’
‘You might tell someone at Lady Beddiloe’s house that I’ll be along in about half an hour,’ continued Mike in honeyed tones and without looking at the taxi driver. ‘My name’s Errol.’
‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said the girl. ‘I work there, I’ll tell her ladyship at once.’
‘Thanks very much,’ smiled Errol.
The girl cycled on, and Errol looked into the vicious face of the driver, whose hand was trembling noticeably and upon whose forehead there was a beading of perspiration. It was novel to be held up by a man so obviously frightened, although there was the risk that if he tried the other too far, jumpy nerves would make him shoot.
‘Why, you——’ the man began thickly.
‘Now, come,’ said Errol. ‘I can’t keep my aunt waiting without sending a message, can I? And if I’m not there in half an hour,’ he added dreamily, ‘there will surely be inquiries.’
He hoped to sting the man into giving away some information, but failed completely.
He looked through the rear window.
The car which came into sight was an M.G. Sports, a little car with chromium glistening in the sun, and the metal of half a dozen club badges on the radiator and the bumper. It was driven by a hatless man in flannels, and had there been no passenger Mike would have taken it for granted that it was another casual passer-by. But there was a man in the back, a man dressed in drab grey, one whose face Mike was never likely to forget.
It was the man who had shot Mark.
The M.G. snorted and then came to a standstill a few yards behind the taxi. The driver did not get out, but the man in grey hurried to the road and approached the taxi driver.
‘Any trouble, Blaney?’
‘The swine told a girl he’d be at the house soon,’ muttered the taxi driver. ‘He’s too damned fresh, and——’
The man in grey ranged himself alongside the driver. He had both hands in sight and empty, obviously relying on the cabby for armed support. His thin, lantern face was expressionless as he said:
‘He’ll learn. Get out, Errol.’
‘What, again?’ asked Errol, as if injured. ‘I’ve been out once and he sent me back.’ He half-rose from his seat and the taxi driver’s gun was thrust forward warningly. ‘Misadventure in Somerset, we call this, don’t we? Sorry about it, but you have rather laid yourself open.’
He fired twice from his pocket.
His first bullet struck the wrist of Blaney’s gun hand, and sent the gun flying; the second took the man in grey through the thigh, making him stagger backwards with his arms whirling in an attempt to save himself.
There was a brief moment of startled silence, and then the engine of the M.G. throbbed into violent life.
Mike kept low, with the gun in his hand.
He expected to hear the car change gear to reverse, but the driver came on towards the taxi. Mike saw nothing until its nose reached the open rear door. The gunman was backing desperately towards the hedge, and the man in grey was sprawling out on the road, quite helpless.
The M.G. went over him.
The hatless driver was looking straight ahead, tight-lipped. His was a youthful, handsome profile, the fair hair blowing in the breeze created by the speed at which he travelled. There
was an ugly, sickening crunch as he passed over the man in grey, and then he cleared the taxi and started to increase his speed along the road towards the nearest corner.
Mike spent no time in horrified exclamation. He swung himself sideways so that he could fire along the road, emptying his gun towards the rear of the M.G. He heard the whang of bullets striking the wings and body, and then the car screeched round a corner.
Mike jumped to the ground.
As he reached the road he swooped down, picking up Blaney’s automatic, and with it ran forward at speed. He reached the corner in time to see the M.G. perhaps sixty yards away, scorching towards another turn. He fired twice, but had little hope of doing enough damage to stop the car when he heard the loud report of a tyre-burst and saw the M.G. swerving violently to one side.
‘That’s got you,’ muttered Mike with satisfaction.
He continued to run, filled with a savage anger at the realisation of the cold ruthlessness with which the man had run down his confederate. He thought of nothing else as he neared the M.G., the nose of which was now buried in the bank. The driver, apparently unhurt, was standing beside it. He glanced behind him, saw Mike, and put his hand to his pocket.
Mike missed him with another shot.
A bullet whirred past his head in turn as the hatless man fired at him and then made a standing jump over the hedge. Mike saw him disappear, hands flung upwards to keep his balance, and looked at the hedge to find the lowest part for a jump from the road. It would take some doing, for the driver had been two feet from the ground. Tight-lipped, Mike judged his distance.
As he sailed over the hedge he saw the killer running over a field of stubble.
Mike stood quite still and fired.
The bullet struck the man, who pitched forward in the middle of a stride, tried to save himself by pushing his hand to the ground, failed, and then collapsed. Mike began to run. The hatless man was not unconscious, for he turned on the ground and Mike saw the glint of the sun on his automatic.
‘Here it comes,’ Mike muttered sotto voce, and flung himself down. He heard the whine of the bullet over his head, but he was not hurt, although the other now held the advantage. Winded, his face rasped on the harsh stubble, Mike lost his grip on his gun. He held his breath as a bullet pecked the ground close to him.
