by John Creasey
He saw the other move his gun a fraction, and then fire again. He rolled over, but there was no need to worry, for the gun fell to one side uselessly, not even a faint click reached Mike’s ears. It was hard to believe at first, but he peered towards the other and saw him stretched out, his hands inert. The man’s eyes were open, but it was clear that his gun was empty, and that the final effort had taken a great deal out of him.
Warily, Mike drew nearer.
Soon he saw that his bullet had struck the other in the chest. A gingerish sports jacket and a pale blue shirt were both stained with blood, and the stain on the shirt was getting larger. Mike was near enough then to hear the other’s heavy breathing, and to see the pain which filled wide-set grey eyes.
Mike stopped and looked down at the man, then went on one knee.
‘Not your day,’ he said. He lifted the empty gun, tossed it aside, and then pulled open the blue shirt.
Between tight lips the man said: ‘Let me alone.’
‘No, I’ve only just started,’ said Errol harshly. Memory of the way the fellow had driven over the man in grey was vivid in his mind, no pain nor punishment which the hatless one endured would be too great or undeserved.
The wound was above the heart, but he judged that his bullet had pierced the lung. It would be impossible to do anything but stem the bleeding and then leave the man there while he sent for an ambulance. The other was too weak to make further protest, and stayed quite still while Mike padded a handkerchief over the wound, then looked about for something with which he could bind it.
While he was taking off his tie and the man’s belt, he heard a scream from the road, so sudden and abrupt that it made him start violently. It came again, shrill-pitched and strident, high above the laborious breathing of the man on the ground.
11
Hollow Victory
As far as Mike could see the man he had shot was unconscious; his eyes were closed and his face set and strained. With the screams echoing in his ears he temporarily fastened the wad, then turned and ran across the golden stubble.
He did not try to leap the hedge this time, but searched for a low part and scrambled over.
He jumped down into the road.
It had been a false alarm: a woman was running towards the main Bath road as fast as her short, bandy legs could carry her. A basket was lying by the hedge near the body of the grey man, and groceries and provisions were strewn about, a tin of peas resting in a pool of blood.
The taxi driver had gone, but the cab remained.
He lost no time in getting into the cab, and starting up, heading towards Lashley. It nestled in a hollow fringed by thickly growing beech trees. The grey stone of the cottages and the buildings was mellowed by time and trailing creepers, some turned a glorious hue which he could not fail to notice despite the stress of circumstances.
Mike slowed down as he neared a small garage, a stone building with petrol pumps discreetly placed, doing all it could not to advertise its calling. Motionless beneath a long-nosed car lay a pair of legs in overalls.
Mike spoke quickly: ‘I say, can I use your telephone?’
He wanted to shout to the owner of the legs that not three miles away a man lay dead near another grievously wounded, but he controlled the temptation as the other, clambering to his feet with a considerable effort, answered him.
‘Aye, welcome, ye’ll find un in the office.’
The operator put Mike through without delay to the Bath police. A crisp, clear voice responded after he had asked for the Superintendent on duty.
‘Chief Inspector Webber speaking. Can I help you?’
‘Yes,’ said Mike. ‘Inspector, I haven’t much time and what I’ve got to tell you will be something of a shock, so get a pencil handy—good man.’ He drew a deep breath, and then went on: ‘A man has been killed, another badly wounded, near the Radstock–Bath road, on the by-road to Lashley. There has been gun-play, and one of the gun-men escaped on foot. He is short, rather small, and dressed in a shiny navy blue suit with a peaked cap. He picked me up at Radstock Station,’ continued Mike, thinking kindly things of the businesslike inspector. ‘He had a taxi, an Austin in good condition.’ He peered through the window of the office, saw the number of the cab, and read it out. Then: ‘There is an M.G. sports car in the hedge on the same road, and it’ll need a breakdown van before it’s shifted. That’s all, I think, except that my name is Errol——’
‘Errol?’ asked Webber sharply.
‘That’s right.’
‘A relative of Lady Beddiloe’s?’
‘Also right,’ said Mike. ‘And listen, Inspector, this job is urgent. You’ll probably get a chit through from the Yard about it, but meanwhile will you look for that cabby—oh, I’ve just remembered his name. Blaney. And,’ went on Mike hurriedly, ‘one of the main things is that there’s another man wounded in a field near the M.G. He’ll need medical attention and an ambulance.’
He rang off and drove back to the scene of the attack.
• • • • •
Chief Inspector Webber was a man of medium height, well built, well knit, pleasant looking, with cool, appraising grey eyes. He had five men with him, including one with a pronounced limp, who hurried towards the body lying in the stubble.
The doctor, thought Mike, after introducing himself.
Webber said: ‘We shouldn’t be long getting Blaney, Mr. Errol. He’s well known in Radstock and around.’
The doctor, was returning, less hurriedly. He reached them as an ambulance arrived from the other direction.
‘How is he?’ asked Mike.
The doctor, a sharp-faced young man with dark brows, shook his head abruptly.
‘Quite dead.’
‘Dead!’ exclaimed Mike. ‘Why, that wound——’
‘Didn’t die from wounds,’ said the doctor briefly. ‘He took something. Poisoned himself. What’s happening here, Webber, another massacre?’
Mike leaned heavily against the wing of the taxi.
The man in grey was dead, and there was not much left by which to identify him. He had realised when he had first left to telephone the police that the most likely source of information of consequence was the bare-headed man, and he had taken it for granted that the other would be alive, and a fit subject for questioning once the bullet was out of his chest.
Webber continued to eye him curiously, and said without words but with a plain enough gesture that he thought Mr Errol should give him a little more information.
Mike took his wallet from his pocket and extracted a card signed by the Chief Constable of Scotland Yard and counter-signed by the Assistant Commissioner: it authorised Michael Errol to call on the help of the police in any district where he found himself, and stated that Mike was on special business.
‘Are there any more victims?’ demanded the youthful doctor sardonically.
‘Not yet,’ said Mike. ‘You might be busy during the next forty-eight hours, though.’
• • • • •
Beddiloe House loomed large as Mike pulled up, climbed out, and entered the wide, cool hall. It was a delightful entrance, which never ceased to soothe him, with its polished floor, skin rugs, large open fireplace, and oil paintings covering the high walls. The paintings were mostly of landscapes, although there were two portraits on either side of a doorway leading to the left.
Voices were coming from it.
‘Well, I don’t know, my boy,’ said a pleasant, rather lilting, voice, that of an oldish woman. ‘I really don’t know what to advise. Of course, Teddy was always different from you, and if he really believes in this objecting, well, there isn’t much we can do about it.’
‘Confound it!’ exclaimed a man, a young man, thought Mike. ‘He can’t keep it up, it’s a disgrace to the whole family. A ruddy conchie, my own brother!’
‘Do you know, Brian,’ said the woman gently, ‘I think you’re upsetting yourself unnecessarily. It’s a matter of conscience—his conscience, not yours.
So try not to worry about it. Teddy always went his own way, and I’m afraid we can’t stop him. How long are you home for?’
‘A week,’ said Brian gloomily. ‘Well, I won’t keep you now, Lady Beddiloe. I—er—I knew you’d understand if I did come. I thought you might have some influence with Ted. May I come and see you again?’
‘As often as you like, of course.’ There was the scrape of a chair, and then footsteps. A shadow darkened the hall, but the man inside stopped on the threshold and spoke again.
‘I still can’t understand it, you know. Teddy has changed, he’s secretive about everything, and he hasn’t written to me more than twice in the past six months.’
‘I expect he’s been busy.’
‘Busy! I’d think a lot of myself if I couldn’t find time to drop a line regularly to my twin brother!’
Aunt Bess spoke quietly and soothingly, and then the door opened more widely and a tall, good-looking man stepped through.
Mike stepped back a pace and gaped at him.
The newcomer stared in surprise. Mike made a noise in the back of his throat, and the other said:
‘I say, are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘Er——’ started Mike, and then swallowed hard, with difficulty keeping himself from blurting out that he did indeed feel that he was looking at a ghost: for this youth was the image of the driver of the M.G. who had first killed another, and then, himself.
12
Not Easy For Twins
Mike continued to stare, so taken back that he could think of nothing to say that would be cruel or ludicrous. He moved only when Lady Beddiloe appeared in the doorway, apparently attracted by the voices. A short, slim, woman, she looked at him mildly before she exclaimed:
‘Michael!’
‘Hallo, Aunt Bess,’ said Mike, and turned to allow himself to be embraced.
If the old lady realised that there was anything strange in Mike’s manner she made no comment on it, quietly introducing the two men.
‘Mr Michael Errol, Brian Howe.’ She smiled at them both. ‘I’m so glad you two have met. I’ve always hoped that you would one day. Brian is the son of a very old friend of mine, Michael, and——’
She went on for a few seconds, while Mike recovered himself and had the inspiration of arranging to meet Howe later in the day for a drink. He imagined that the young naval officer’s expression was clearer when he left the house and walked smartly down the drive.
Mike followed his aunt into a tall, airy room of quiet greens and yellows, Louis Quinze furniture, and gilded chandeliers. A handsome room, full of grace and friendliness, like Lady Beddiloe herself.
She wanted to know whether he was all right, and how was Mark? Had Regina visited them, and could they help her? She, Aunt Bess, was inclined to think that there was something strange in what had happened, but she had not encouraged Regina to think so, in case it frightened the child. Not that anything would easily frighten Regina.
He told her the story quietly. He made it clear that the man who had poisoned himself had been a spy: of that there was no reasonable doubt, and he did not raise any. He did not give any details of what had happened on the road, but made it obvious that if Brian Howe learned the whole truth he would feel much worse than if he had just believed his brother to be a pacifist with strong views.
When he had finished, she said:
‘Teddy Howe and his brother were never alike in anything but appearance. Teddy was worried all through his life, restless, anxious, uncertain of himself. He was brought up in a wealthy household, and then the family lost its money. It wasn’t easy for him, Mike. Brian was always the more placid; nothing really worried Brian. I liked them both, but I was afraid that Teddy would one day do something so foolish that it couldn’t be forgiven. And now, if you’re right, he has.’
‘He has indeed. Nor can I work up even sympathy for him. You wouldn’t, if you’d seen what I saw. But that’s by the way, Aunt Bess. Where did he live?’
‘At Lashley Cottage.’
‘That’s not far from here,’ mused Mike, the shock of his experience wearing off as his mind worked more clearly. ‘He’d have all the opportunity in the world for getting a look in that box, wouldn’t he? The cabby, Blaney, might have worked with him, of course. Who else lives at the cottage?’
‘No one all the time,’ he was assured. ‘Brian goes there when he’s on leave, of course, but they’re the only members of the family left. There’s a daily woman and an odd-job man, but neither of them lives at the cottage. Why, Mike?’
‘I’d like to look round there,’ said Mike thoughtfully.
• • • • •
After lunch his aunt went to rest, but first showed him Regina’s room and the storeroom where the box was kept. She gave him the keys of the box, and Mike spent an hour looking through the relics of James Brent’s life, finding papers and sentimental souvenirs, photographs, birth certificates—those and a dozen other things which must have given Regina a lot of pain to look through. He found nothing which might connect with Quayle, or the uncertainties Brent had experienced, and doubted whether there was anything there. Possibly the thieves had wanted the diary, and nothing else. He examined the box for a false bottom or a secret cavity, but finding nothing to indicate either, relocked it and went downstairs.
A few minutes afterwards Webber arrived. He was as quiet and capable as ever, and announced immediately that he had telephoned Scotland Yard and confirmed Mike’s bona fides. He wanted to know whether there was anything he could do to help.
‘Have you found Blaney?’ asked Mike.
‘No,’ said Webber, ‘but he can’t have got far.’
‘I hope not,’ said Mike. ‘I don’t like some of the things that are happening in this show, especially down here. You recognised the dead man, of course?’
‘Edward Howe, yes.’
‘Were you surprised?’
‘Howe hasn’t been popular in the district,’ he said. ‘I mean amongst the police, I think he was well enough liked by the villagers in spite of his beliefs. The family has been nearby some hundreds of years, and both boys were accepted unquestionably. But his pacifist views have been pretty strongly expressed in some quarters, and he’s given us a little trouble.’
‘He didn’t make his views known too freely locally, surely?’
‘No, further afield,’ admitted Webber.
‘I’m going to have a look through the cottage, Inspector, and it might be an idea if you could put a couple of men somewhere near at hand for me, in case of emergency. I’m going to take his brother into my confidence,’ he added. ‘You’ve no objection?’
‘Brian Howe’s all right,’ said Webber with assurance.
‘Did Edward have any close friends?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, no. He had a part interest in one of the old collieries near here. His family owned a seam where there was a disaster some ten years ago, and it was closed up soon afterwards. The company failed, and he was on his beam ends. He had acquaintances amongst the other colliery owners here.’
‘Business acquaintances, not friends,’ suggested Mike briefly. ‘Who would you name as the most familiar ones, Inspector?’
‘Mr. Gregory Hanton, of Heath Place,’ said Webber, ‘and Colonel Ratcliffe, at——’
‘I know Ratcliffe’s address,’ said Mike. ‘No one else?’
‘I don’t think you could name anyone else,’ said Webber slowly. ‘Of course, they haven’t had a great deal to do in common recently, although I’ve heard rumours that Howe was trying to sell his mine. There may be a few seams left there that could be worked. The only likely man to buy is Colonel Ratcliffe, so they’ve seen one another several times recently.’
‘Ratcliffe’s all right, I suppose?’
‘Perfectly all right,’ Webber assured him emphatically. ‘You needn’t worry about the Colonel.’
Mike watched the Inspector go with mixed feelings. He felt an empty depression withi
n him, as if he were falling down on his job; another thing on his mind was the task of telling the truth to Brian Howe.
He telephoned Lashley Cottage.
• • • • •
After a long pause, Brian said harshly:
‘You’re sure of your facts, I suppose?’
‘You know the relevant ones,’ Mike told him. ‘You have to take my word that I’m down here on counter-espionage work, but you can get it checked with little trouble.’
‘Oh, I’m not doubting that,’ said Howe. He stood up and paced the room restlessly. ‘There’s been something odd. I’ve sensed it for a long time. He did his damnedest to prevent me from coming home this time. Tried all manner of excuses. When I got here he tried to be pleasant, but it was a bad effort.’ Brian shrugged. ‘It all fits in now. It’s hard to take, Errol.’
‘I want to look through the house,’ said Mike quietly. ‘Particularly his rooms.’
‘We’d better get cracking,’ Brian said abruptly. ‘Come on.’
They spent two hours in a study on the first floor and a bedroom opposite it. The furniture was old, but the rooms were kept much better than the garden. The search was not arduous, although it was disappointing, for they found nothing. They did discover a metal filing cabinet in the study, with the bottom section locked, but when they opened it, Mike using a screwdriver to force it, the drawer was empty.
‘Well, we’d better get downstairs,’ said Brian in an abrupt voice, one which held a hardness doubtless induced by the shock he had received. As they reached the hall he turned on his heel and said quickly:
‘There’s one spot where we haven’t looked. The summer-house—an old place in the garden. He did a lot of writing there. Tosh about pacifism!’ Brian shrugged, leading the way along the gravel path through a shrubbery and an orchard, where the fruit was hanging ripely on the boughs, beyond which stood the summer-house.
The view was superb, the land dropping away to a deep, fertile plain, dotted with trees. The clearness of the day and the blueness of the sky which formed the distant background made the scene one of incomparable beauty.
