by John Creasey
Closer to them was a line of tall and stately beeches, their leaves rustling a little in the slight breeze. A long way off, in sight only when they reached the summer-house itself, was Heath Place, the big new house which Mr. Gregory Hanton had built.
‘Some view,’ said Brian briefly. ‘Often spent hours here. See that cricket pitch?’ He pointed towards a green patch in the midst of the cultivated land, near Hanton’s house. There was a small pavilion there, and a fence ran about the ground itself. ‘Often played on it, wonderful pitch. I——’
He broke off abruptly, and turned to the summer-house.
Built of rough wood-facings from felled timber off the estate, it was decaying in places and badly needed a coat of oil or creosote. A large building for its purpose, it was raised from the ground by supports of Bath stone. The door was locked, but there was a key on the ring which Brian brought out.
The interior of the summer-house was dark after the brilliant sunlight outside, and Mike narrowed his eyes as he stepped within. Brian joined him. There were a tiled table and several garden chairs, but nothing else; the place was empty.
Mike took a step towards the door, and then the floor opened beneath his feet and he fell through the yawning cavity.
One moment he was standing and looking at Brian, seeing the taut expression on the man’s face; the next he was dropping down what seemed to be a bottomless pit. His stomach heaved, all sense of disappointment disappeared in a surge of overwhelming, instinctive fear. He did not even know whether Brian was coming after him, did not think about the other man, only just recovered himself in time to bend his knees to take the inevitable jolt as he hit the bottom.
He fell into water and then mud.
As he plunged downward, he took in a deep gulp, coughing and retching as the noisome water went into his mouth, dank and evil-smelling. Then he broke the surface, and as he did so something struck him heavily on the shoulder and pushed him under again.
His head reeled, and for a moment he thought that he was going to lose consciousness. Recovering, he straightened up dazedly, over waist-deep in the water.
It was surging violently to and fro from the impact of the fall. He could see nothing; there was only a Stygian darkness about him. But he heard a floundering movement, then realised that Brian Howe’s body had followed his own, and struck him as it fell. He groped about beneath the water, and touched something which moved. Drawing a deep breath, he tightened his hold, and found that he was grasping Brian’s wrist. In a few seconds he altered his grip and took the other’s waist, then pulled him upwards.
He knew then that the man had been doubled up beneath the water, probably unconscious from the fall.
He stood upright, gasping for breath, supporting the sagging body. High above him there was a tiny circle of light, the entrance to the hole. Beyond that he could see nothing, and the water in which he was standing might well have been the Styx itself. He began to feel cold striking at him, and suddenly shivered. He knew that he dared not move until Brian had regained consciousness, if he ever did. Clumsily he felt for his pulse, and discovered that it was beating.
Howe stirred.
He grunted, moved his arms, and then went still again. After what seemed a long time his voice broke the silence, harsh and croaking.
‘You there—Errol?’ He paused. ‘Didn’t know—the workings—extended as far as this.’
‘What workings?’ Mike asked sharply.
‘Mines, of course. Knew they were about.’ Brian’s breathing grew more laborious, but Mike’s heart leapt with the realisation that he had fallen down a shaft leading to the old coal mine which the Howes had owned.
‘It’s time we started exploring a bit, isn’t it?’ he said.
It took them some time groping through water about the wall, their feet embedded in mud, to find the gap which both knew must exist. Once they found it they began to move along the passage to which it led. At first they had no idea of the width of the passage, but by standing side by side and stretching out their arms they found that by keeping at full span they could touch the wall.
They went on slowly, and after a while found themselves walking on a dry floor. But the darkness remained; their footsteps made echoing sounds which worried them, and they could hear the squealing and scuffling of rats. They did not know how long they had been underground; although they had matches the water had made them useless, and their watches were invisible.
They went on and on, turning corners, stumbling, speaking rarely; and with every passing minute their hopes grew fainter.
13
A Search Begins
The fact that both Mike Errol and Brian Howe were missing was suspected by seven o’clock that evening, and presumed by nine. Lady Beddiloe called the police at half-past seven.
By ten o’clock Loftus heard of the disappearance.
He was in Craigie’s office at Whitehall, thinking far less about Mike than about news which Craigie had brought from Hershall that evening. Hershall had convinced his colleagues that the rumour need not be scotched for a few days, and by then it was all over the country. It had been spread with such lightning speed that Loftus and Craigie were worried: the agents who had carried the news from London must have been numerous, the recipients of the news equally so. For the first time both men were forced to face the possibility that there was a wide-spread subversive organisation of which they had known nothing.
‘Too little is happening,’ Loftus said, sitting in an easy chair at the fireplace end of Craigie’s office, and looking across at his chief, who was smoking his meerschaum with a deceptive air of peace and satisfaction. ‘Gina hasn’t got any more out of Ainsworth, except one rather odd comment. He told Regina that it would be a blow if anything happened to Hershall, especially “just now”. That “just now” worries me, Gordon. I wonder if it would be wise to put our cards on the table with Ainsworth?’
‘I should give Regina another day or two,’ advised Craigie.
‘You’re probably right.’ Loftus took a large-bowled pipe from his pocket and began to fill it. ‘What about this small raid on the French coast?’
‘It’s coming off tomorrow night,’ Craigie assured him.
‘Good. We’ll need to tell Bruce.’
By then he had heard from Bruce Hammond of his safe arrival in Vichy: the channels of information and messages to and from France were many, and all of them were reliable. For Loftus and the Department communication with the occupied countries was nearly as straight-forward as that with the neutrals, and in some cases easier.
Consequently before the night was out Bruce Hammond and the agents whom he had met in Vichy knew for certain that the raid was planned for the following night, and also knew where it would be.
A short, dapper man with waxed moustaches, Tallboys left for the coast to find whether any special preparations were made beforehand against the attack. Stewart, a Scotsman who looked in some miraculous way like the most typical of French peasants dressed in new clothes and obviously flourishing—and therefore presumably in Nazi pay—stayed with Bruce Hammond in Vichy.
Like Loftus and Craigie in London, and Tallboys near Boulogne, where the raid was to take place, they felt on edge and impatient for zero hour...
The telephone rang.
It was Superintendent Miller of Scotland Yard, the liaison officer between the Yard and Department Z. Miller had heard from the Bath police of Mike Errol’s disappearance, and thought that Craigie ought to know at once.
‘Yes, I’m glad you rang,’ said Craigie quietly. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘Nothing you don’t already know about,’ said Miller, and rang off after a brief exchange of opinions.
Loftus looked at Craigie with one eyebrow raised half an inch higher than the other, and asked quietly:
‘For me?’
‘Yes,’ said Craigie, and explained what had happened.
‘Now I wonder what that means? D’you think Mike has seen a trail and started off
on it?’
‘Without sending a word to anyone?’ Craigie looked doubtful.
Loftus said, ‘So you take the dark view?’
‘Don’t you?’ countered Craigie.
‘I wish to God I could get down there! Pat Malone is busy with the cove who’s gone to see Ratcliffe, Martin Best’s busy on Rita—most of the fellows are busy, if it comes to that.’
‘Wally’s free,’ said Craigie thoughtfully. ‘And Graham is all right, although he’ll be tired.’ He returned to the desk and lifted the telephone, then gave orders to one Wally Davidson, and an agent who was known to the others as ‘Young Graham’. They had instructions to go by road to Lashley that night, and were told that above all things Department Z wanted Mike Errol and Brian Howe found. They received their orders with evident satisfaction, and Craigie was smiling a little when he replaced the receiver.
‘Nothing will ever put Wally off, will it?’
‘I hope not,’ said Loftus fervently.
• • • • •
Craigie had little news of consequence when later on he came to the flat. His reports had come in from various quarters, including a telephone call from Best to say that Rita had stayed at the Queen Street house all day. Agents watching both Smith and Lannigan had nothing to report, and there had been no visitors to either house.
A point of interest was that Sir Edmund Quayle had been confined to his home all day, officially indisposed. Agents of the Department and of other sections of British Intelligence were by then working at Quayle’s office, but the reports which came through contained nothing to confirm that it was the source of the leakage.
‘You know, Gordon, we may be chasing a hare. Quayle isn’t in a position to know about the raids.’
‘Not necessarily,’ returned Craigie, ‘but he co-ordinates the information needed for the troops when they land, and prepares a plan of the vicinity for the Admiralty as well as the War Office. Quayle started off by being in the Economic Warfare Ministry, but all his men know the Continent so well that they’re really a special Department which works between the Ministry and the fighting services. Quayle and some of the staff in his office prepare the first maps for any area about to be attacked, and therefore know at once what area is under consideration. From there they don’t have to go far to get the date and time of the actual assault. They don’t even need to know as much as that; if they’re sure of the actual place where the raid is to take place, they can send word and the Germans can make their defensive preparations accordingly. Quayle’s in a position to find out what’s happening. He’s persona grata at all the Ministeries, and so are some of his men.’
‘We could round up the whole mob, Quayle and his entire staff.’
‘You’re getting tired, Bill! The whole idea is to fox them, didn’t you say it yourself?’
‘All right, all right,’ said Loftus lugubriously. ‘But it’s getting on my nerves a bit, Gordon.’
He was a long way from convinced that Mike would be all right: too often agents had gone out on lone missions and failed to return. The only records of that fact were in a card-index in Craigie’s office, and in the memory of Loftus, Craigie, and those who knew the men and what they had done. Loftus brooded on that for a while, but eventually they went to bed.
Although Hershall remained in the next flat he sent no message that night, while by then the German radio was plugging the assassination sensation on every wave-length in Europe and the world.
The air quivered with rumours. Hershall was dead, or was dying. The Arch-Criminal of Europe had at last received his desserts, cried Hamburg; Hershall the War-Maker was dying, bellowed Radio Paris. On it went in a mounting crescendo, and as no denials were issued by the B.B.C. the tone of the Axis-inspired reports grew stronger and more circumstantial, the howl of joy which went up in Germany stretched to every corner of the world.
Next morning some of the reports were brought to Loftus’s flat while he and Craigie had breakfast. They read them with increasing perturbation, and were fully expecting to be told abruptly by Hershall that the deception would have to stop, for the people in the streets were getting worried.
‘Well, I can’t say I haven’t caused a stir,’ said Loftus ruefully, later in the day. ‘I’ll begin to believe he’s been hurt myself, soon. We should be hearing from Vichy any minute now.’
Quayle was back at the office.
He was closely watched, but did nothing to arouse suspicion. Towards the early evening, when he left the office, he was followed by two agents, but went straight to his Regent’s Park home, and was received by his wife, a tall, majestic-looking woman and an admirable match for Quayle’s large, florid, and portentous personality.
There was no news from Vichy at seven o’clock; the raid was timed to start at ten.
• • • • •
While Loftus and a dozen others waited on tenterhooks for word from Hammond or their confederates in France, the dapper Tallboys was talking to a farmer ten miles from Boulogne, a rumble of military transport filling the air. A hundred yards away, on the main road, a cloud of dust told of the movement of the column. Tallboys, whose mastery of the French language was indistinguishable from that of a native, and who, moreover, possessed a beautifully forged special permit allowing him to go within ten miles of the coast of Occupied France, let the farmer do the talking.
The farmer’s hatred for the Nazis was ill-concealed, but not being sure of the man to whom he was talking he did not allow himself to utter it too openly.
‘Sometimes, M’sieu, I think they are frightened, they move their troops so fast. Perhaps one day the English will come.’
‘Who knows?’ asked Tallboys, and shrugged.
‘It will be a real fight this time, M’sieu.’ The farmer watched his caller narrow-eyed, obviously suspicious that he might be yet another agent of the accursed Gestapo. ‘I am told that the English now have great armies, and all the arms that they need.’
‘We are told!’ shrugged Tallboys. ‘M’sieu, it is for us to do what we are asked by our masters, and work ourselves until we are but bone, to sweat and never to curse, to go hungry and never resent a Boche eating too much. Nom d’un nom, what do they think we are? But—the day will come, M’sieu, the day will come when we shall show them!’
The farmer’s eyes lit up.
‘Well said, M’sieu! We are in full agreement, and who knows’—he looked towards the moving cloud of dust—’who knows that it will not be sooner than we expect? They are frightened tonight, the dogs, they will be more frightened at another time. Five thousand troops, not one less, have moved into the Boulogne area today, I swear it.’
‘They have had word of an attack, perhaps?’
‘Some dog of a spy.’ The Frenchman spat. ‘But it will not always avail them, M’sieu.’
Tallboys agreed, and left soon afterwards, travelling by train in an overcrowded carriage.
He would have been in good time to get to a radio-transmitting station where he could send word to Hammond but for a delay on the line while a troop train went through. Seeing it, Tallboys was more than ever convinced that the Germans were prepared for the raid, and he was desperately anxious to get word through to England.
He reached the transmitter at last, one in a small village near Arras. He travelled to the village by cycle from Arras station, and was four times held up by German soldiers who demanded to see his papers, which were reasonably safe from being suspect. Each delay put him into a greater ferment, and he was late when he arrived at the estaminet.
There were Germans in occupation, but almost the first thing that greeted him when he reached the cellar where the transmitter was built was a whispered:
‘They have mostly all left, M’sieu, there is talk of the invasion starting tonight.’
‘Talk!’ exclaimed Tallboys. ‘The Boche is ready for whatever is coming.’ He threw his hat into a corner, sat down in front of the transmitter, sweating freely. He had some trouble in getting a reply from Englan
d, for the ether was jammed as he had not known it to be for months. He managed to make contact at last, and sent out his message in morse. He was starting again when he heard a thump upstairs, turned, and saw the little keeper of the estaminet standing quite still, his face deathly pale.
‘They have found us,’ he whispered, ‘they have found us.’
Tallboys swung back to the transmitter, snapping:
‘Hold them for two minutes. Two minutes!’ He began to talk swiftly, no longer using morse. ‘England, can you hear me? England, can you hear me——’ he heard a faint response, just distinguishable amidst the confusion in the air, and hurried on: ‘Attack expected—got that? Attack expected.’
The faint, ghostly voice of the receiving station came to his ears, and then was drowned by a rattle of machine-gun fire from upstairs. He heard the estaminet keeper cough and saw him stagger back, firing from an automatic even as he fell. Tallboys snatched a gun from his pocket, fired three times into the apparatus, smashing the valves. Then he jumped round as a figure in field grey appeared in the doorway, the gun in front of him.
Tallboys shot him through the chest.
As he fell another took his place, a machine-gun blazing. Bullets carved through Tallboy’s chest and he hardly coughed as he slumped down, his hand gripping his automatic, his face splashed with his own blood.
As he died, a man in London was saying:
‘Message from XL 201, saying “attack expected”. Send word of that through at once, will you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said an orderly smartly, and a few seconds later the telephone on Loftus’s desk began to ring.
14
Sacrifice For What?
Under the cover of the darkness, and helped by smokescreens from small craft which swept close to the coast near Boulogne, the special troops landed. They went at speed and with a fierce determination, the greater because they knew that the attack was not a surprise. The covering fire from the defending positions was withering, cross-fire came from all directions, and dive-bombers began to scream above them.
