Prepare for Action

by John Creasey

  ‘It’s Blaney!’

  Mike caught his breath: Blaney, whom he had wounded and whom Brian’s brother had tried to run down, the man who had escaped and evaded the police. Small wonder he had succeeded in that, but why was it that he was there, apparently unconscious?

  Voices were low-pitched and barely audible after that, until one of the men lifted Blaney and began to carry him. Mike gripped Brian’s hand, and together they followed. The noise of their progress was covered by that of the men ahead and the heavy breathing of the one carrying Blaney.

  Soon, a different light percolated through to them.

  It was not daylight, but a diffused glow from an electric bulb. The little party ahead of Mike and Brian were shown clearly, and they could even see Blaney’s head lying limply over the first man’s shoulder.

  It came through a door which led, it seemed, into a wide room. They could see chairs and tables, and the electric light softened by a shade which would have looked well in any living room. A smell of cigarette smoke reached them.

  They drew nearer.

  Mike was watching the door. He saw that it was a heavy one, but there appeared to be only an ordinary lock on it. He discovered that much when the others went through, and the door closed. Although it was shut they could hear voices, and one of the men said clearly:

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘He’ll come round,’ the second man said. ‘Banged his head, I shouldn’t wonder. That’s why the police didn’t get him.’ A pause, and then: ‘He’ll know what happened to Howe and Peterson.’

  ‘The police got them,’ said the first speaker harshly.

  ‘Don’t you believe it, Howe wouldn’t let himself be caught.’

  Brian was clutching Mike’s wrist: for Mike it was easy to understand something of what the other was feeling, but it was not in the forefront of his mind: he was thinking of that room beyond, of the fact that the search for them had been temporarily postponed, and that there was only a simple lock on the door.

  He pressed his ear close to the keyhole.

  He heard the key turn in the lock, but that did not worry him. There were various sounds, and they waited for what seemed a long time. Then there was a groaning noise, and a sharp question:

  ‘Can you hear me, Blaney?’

  A grunt, and then another question:

  ‘Where’s Howe?’

  Very softly, only just audibly, Blaney’s reply came:

  ‘He—ran away. The—swine, he—tried to run—me down. Killed—Peterson.’

  There was a gasp, and for a few moments silence in the room. Brian’s hand, gripping Mike’s arm, seemed like a steel vice.

  ‘If I ever get my hands on him——’

  ‘Take it easy, take it easy,’ said one of the others softly. ‘You’ll be all right. How’s your arm, does it hurt?’

  ‘Hurt! Why it——’

  ‘We’ll give you a shot to send you to sleep,’ one of the men said quietly. ‘You’ll be all right as soon as you come round. We’ll have a doctor look at that hand, too, it’s getting dirty. Easy, now.’ There was another pause, and a tinkling sound. Then a gasp, presumably from Blaney. Another wait, and one of the speakers uttered a low-pitched laugh.

  ‘He’s gone all right.’

  ‘Poor fool,’ said the second man callously.

  ‘He served his purpose,’ said the first.

  The only sound which followed was of footsteps and then the closing of a door. Silence fell.

  After a long wait Mike slid his hand into his pocket and drew out a bunch of keys, one of them long and slender, having a small piece at the end at right angles to the main stem. He pushed it into the lock, and there was a faint clicking. That lasted for a long time, but no other noise broke the silence.

  A sharp tinkling sound on the other side of the door made Brian jump.

  ‘I’ve pushed the key out,’ said Mike softly. ‘We won’t be long now, provided the beggars don’t come back. Are you carrying a gun?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Take this one,’ said Mike. He pushed his automatic, re-loaded since the shooting on the road, into Brian’s hand, and then concentrated on picking the lock. It took a long time, but at last the lock clicked back.

  He turned the handle, and the door opened. They stepped into the room with bated breath. It was dark. Standing still for a moment, Mike whispered:

  ‘You go right, I’ll go left. Keep to the wall, and grope for a switch.’

  They started slowly. A dull sound was followed by a soft oath as Brian stumbled against some object, and all the time the shuffling sound of their movements was audible.

  Then: ‘Got it!’ Brian exclaimed, and pressed down the switch.

  The light which flooded the room was so bright that it not only dazzled them but hurt their eyes. For a moment they could not see, and stood facing one another, their eyes narrowed. It was a full minute before they were able to pick out items of furniture. Blaney’s body was on a settee in a room furnished like a lounge.

  Brian drew a deep breath.

  ‘So they did kill him.’

  ‘Shot of morphia, probably. There’s the puncture.’ Mike looked at a round, red spot on Blaney’s forearm, and then added as he glanced at the swollen, discoloured wrist: ‘I think he would have been in a bad way anyhow. I shot him two days ago and the wound’s gangrenous. I wonder how the deuce he got down here?’

  After a while, they decided that it would be better to put the body outside in the tunnel, and did so quickly.

  There was a small room adjoining the larger one. Modern plumbing was too much to expect, but there were two barrels of water standing by an enamel bowl, towels, soap, and everything they required. They washed in turn, expecting to hear sounds of approach at almost any time, but no interruption came.

  A search disclosed a stock of tinned food, water and sweet biscuits, and some boxes of cigarettes. The provisions were in a cupboard in the wash-room, and as they opened some of the tins with a tin-opener obligingly handy, Mike grinned across at Brian, whose tension was also easing.

  ‘This isn’t going to be so bad.’

  ‘At least we’ll be fed,’ said Brian.

  To their amazement there were no interruptions for the rest of the day. They knew the time from a small clock ticking on a cabinet in the room. The ventilation was excellent, and towards midnight Mike won, by the toss of a coin, the privilege of being the first to sleep. They arranged that he should be called at three o’clock.

  Mike took his spell on watch, and let the younger man sleep until eight o’clock. To him the prospect of getting out seemed bright, but it dimmed when he found that the door leading into the unknown was proof against his efforts. He tried everything, even shooting at the lock, but could not make the door budge.

  ‘So we just have to wait,’ commented Brian slowly.

  They waited for the rest of that day and went through another night, still taking turns on watch. Nothing transpired, and the morning of the next day dragged past. They opened more tins, and had finished a snack meal when Mike looked up at Brian with a crooked grin, and said:

  ‘Taken by and large, we’re not doing too well, Brian.’

  ‘We’re doing damned badly,’ said Howe sharply.

  That was about the time that Loftus was driving between the grey walls and houses of Radstock, and nearly an hour before Loftus and the others started for the summer-house.

  • • • • •

  Mike was lighting a cigarette, and Brian filling a pipe with tobacco taken from cigarettes in the store which was large enough to last them for several weeks, when they heard a sharp noise outside. They stopped abruptly, and stood up. Mike approached the door, his gun in his hand. He stood behind it, while Brian waited near him. Instinctively they realised that if the door opened their one chance was to attack swiftly; whoever opened the door would see and smell the smoke, and know there was something amiss. They waited tensely, and then a key grated in the lock.

  ‘Wait for
it,’ Mike said steadily.

  There were four bullets left in the gun, and he was wishing then that he had not wasted any on the lock. He watched the handle turn, and saw the door open. The man who entered was obviously pushed violently, for he sprawled into the room and struck against a chair.

  It was Bruce Hammond.

  Brian Howe exclaimed aloud. There was a split second of startled silence, and then the man outside ripped out another oath and pulled the door shut in obvious alarm. Hammond was in Mike’s way, and prevented him from getting to the door: it closed with a bang, and the key turned in the lock.

  Hammond sat up dazedly.

  Brian drew a deep breath, and exclaimed:

  ‘That pretty well finishes us. They know we’re here.’

  ‘Easy,’ said Mike. ‘There’s a long time yet, and the fact that Bruce is here suggests that the other boys aren’t far away.’ He put out a hand and helped Hammond to his feet, then said with absurd gravity: ‘Lieutenant Brian Howe, Mr. Bruce Hammond.’

  Hammond’s clothes were rucked about him, his face was dirty, his hair dishevelled. Slowly and deliberately he straightened his coat.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘We’ve got half the country out looking for you, and you’re making yourselves at home here. I came down to join the other searchers, and struck someone I didn’t expect to see. I followed ‘em, and they came into an old colliery working. I got too close, and they shanghaied me. It’s as simple as that,’ he added, but then went on quietly: ‘They’ll get on to us soon, but I think we’ve a fifty-fifty chance.’

  ‘We can use it,’ said Mike. ‘When did you get back from Vichy?’

  ‘Vichy!’ exclaimed Brian sharply.

  Bruce leaned back in his chair and regarded the young naval officer thoughtfully. Although all of them knew that there was a chance of an assault coming from outside at any moment, and knew that the assault would be in force, none of them appeared to be thinking about it, all were more concerned with other things. If Mike kept to a position in which he could see the door and be sure that it did not open unexpectedly, neither of the others seemed to notice it.

  ‘What the deuce do you mean by Vichy?’ insisted Brian.

  ‘I’ve a story to tell you,’ Bruce told him.

  The telling took a little more than twenty minutes. In the beginning it did no more than astonish Brian, but as talk of his brother’s periodical visits to Vichy to collect the blood-money was broached, he lit a cigarette and stared bleakly at Bruce, who, making no attempt to dramatise his story, slowly approached the subject of using Brian in place of his brother.

  ‘There’s a certain amount of danger in it,’ he said. ‘You don’t need telling that. But the fact remains that the Boche believes that your brother can tell them just how the leakage is arranged, and they want to contact him. There’s no evidence yet that anyone knows he is dead, and in any case no one in official quarters in Vichy or Berlin will be able to be sure whether you’re yourself or your brother. What do you think of it?’

  ‘I’ll do it, if it can be done,’ said Brian slowly.

  ‘You’ll get a thorough briefing, of course,’ said Hammond. ‘When we get out of this dump we can arrange that. Mustn’t forget to let the Admiralty know, either!’ He smiled fleetingly, and then added in a voice low-pitched and suddenly impressive: ‘It’s difficult to assess the importance of it, Howe. We can fox the Boche if it goes through all right. We can convince him that we’re striking on the continent at a certain spot, and get started at another before he knows the news is false.’

  Brian drew a deep breath.

  ‘It—it’s hard to believe.’

  ‘Anything unusual always is,’ said Bruce, and smiled again very briefly. ‘Bill Loftus is fond of saying that it’s difficult for the individual to realise that everything can depend on him at a given moment. A hell of a lot depends on you, Howe—little short of an easy success in landing in France.’

  Brian swallowed.

  ‘I suppose I’m not dreaming.’ He paused, and then went on in a sharper voice: ‘But we haven’t much chance of getting out of here. They’ll come at any time——’

  ‘Don’t play your luck too low,’ said Hammond. ‘The others are about, and what I struck at the first go, the others will find in good time. I wish——’

  He stopped abruptly, for there was a sound at the door.

  Mike moved then, going so quickly that Brian started as he passed him. Mike pulled an easy chair forward and jammed it under the door, pressing it home and grunting:

  ‘We ought to have thought of that before, but it will serve.’ He grinned. ‘More the merrier, folk, and remember we’ve a back way out if it really comes to a push.’

  ‘Where?’ demanded Hammond.

  ‘The other door’s open, isn’t it? We don’t exactly want to withdraw,’ he added quietly, ‘but if it comes to it we can fox ‘em in the workings. There are a brace of torches on that cabinet, you’d better grab one apiece.’ He waited, but although they expected the door to open and the effort made to push the chair away to start at any moment, nothing transpired.

  ‘There was a noise,’ Brian said softly.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ whispered Mike. ‘I don’t like the show a bit, it’s getting uncanny. It could be a nerve-war,’ he added half-jocularly; and then he sniffed.

  His head went up, and his eyes narrowed. He stared towards the door for a moment, then approached it and went down on his knees. He did not speak until they heard him say:

  ‘Geraniums.’

  ‘Geraniums!’ exclaimed Brian. ‘What the devil are you doing there? Get up! I——’ he paused abruptly, and then turned to Hammond, his voice taking on an entirely different note. ‘Geraniums!’ he repeated softly.

  ‘Smell thereof,’ said Mike rising to his feet and backing slowly. ‘They’re pumping lewisite through to us. Not a bad idea, but they can’t fill the whole workings.’ All of them went towards the second door and opened it. The smell of geraniums was growing stronger, and Hammond started coughing and could not stop. They went outside and closed the door behind them. There was a faint chance that they would not be gassed; they saw none at all of getting out.

  19

  Both Ends Meet

  Although one of the two torches was on, the darkness seemed to drop upon them. They could imagine the hiss of escaping gas, and what it would be like in the room which had so lately given them harbourage. They did not stop to think of the men who had loosed the gas and tried to kill them: they thought only of the slim chance of their own safety.

  They went forward slowly but steadily.

  ‘All in all, it’s about what we had to expect,’ said Mike. ‘The odds aren’t so good as we made out, Bruce. The beggars will know what we’ve done, and come after us. Not much doubt of that.’ He sniffed. ‘No geraniums here, anyhow.’

  ‘How far ahead is the water?’ asked Brian.

  ‘Another couple of hundred yards, I’d say,’ said Mike. ‘Listen for it.’ They reached a corner, went round it, and then waited. They heard shouts from the far end of the tunnel, by the room they had left, and then the clear report of a shot reached them.

  ‘Shooting to make certain,’ said Mike. ‘Not long now.’ He grinned briefly. ‘Well, we can rely on the others to spike Quayle’s guns, and stop the leakage. Half a loaf is better than no bread. I wish,’ he added a little too casually, ‘that we had three loaded guns apiece instead of one and four bullets.’

  Neither of the others spoke.

  There was a silence which seemed to last for a long time, and then they heard footsteps. Sounds travelled far in the underground passage and were deceptive, but they knew that the hunt was up, that it would soon be a case of retreating as far as the water, and it made little difference whether they went back so far or stayed here and fought it out.

  Mike said again:

  ‘We could try a sortie.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking just that,’ said Hammond slowly. ‘Howe, you count in
this show, we don’t. When the shooting starts try to get through them. Just run for it if the light’s too big for you to keep in the shadows. We’ll draw their fire.’

  Howe said nothing, but grunted.

  ‘Go to Bill Loftus, 55g Brook Street,’ said Mike casually. ‘He’ll know all about you. Failing that, ring Whitehall 4141, and ask for him. Now this is important: spell your name backwards.’

  Brian said in a harsh voice:

  ‘Loftus, at 55g Brook Street, or Whitehall 4141, and if I ring there I have to spell my name backwards.’

  ‘Nice work,’ said Mike. ‘He’ll make quite a boy, won’t he, Bruce?’ He stopped as the footsteps drew nearer, and a glow of light showed. He peered round the corner, and then drew back swiftly. ‘Here they come, wait for it.’

  The crash of a shot spat out, reverberating round and about the tunnel, bringing down chippings upon their heads. They waited tensely while the noise of approaching men drew nearer. Mike held the gun, then went down on his stomach and squirmed into the main passage. The light from several powerful torches shone on him. He fired at one of them before shots came his way, and the glowing orb went out.

  ‘One,’ he said sotto voce.

  He felt as cool as he sounded. If he could put the lights out in time to give Howe a slim chance of escape among the attackers, that was all that mattered. Odds-against chances had to be taken, there was none other. He wondered in a vague, detached way whether it was possible for them to break through, when a new noise came, the sharp stuttering sound of a tommy-gun. A wave of bullets swept across the mouth of the tunnel, but the aim was too high.

  He fired again, and missed.

  He drew back, and his lips were twisted wryly. There was, now, not even a slim chance; at their slightest movement the attackers would again open fire with the machine-gun. He felt a queer sense of frustration, and wondered what the others were thinking.

  And then a low-pitched voice came from behind them.

  ‘Friends or foes, folk?’

  Upon Bruce Hammond and Mike Errol there fell a sudden silence, an abrupt blanketing stupefaction of amazement and incredulence. Brian Howe swung round, seeing only the darkness, while the low-pitched, rather tired voice repeated: