The House Of The Bears

by John Creasey

  Drusilla was sitting up in bed, smoking. Palfrey sat in an easy-chair near the foot of the bed, warming himself in front of the fire which Ruegg had rekindled.

  It wanted an hour to dawn.

  McDonald and Whittle had found no trace of the man who had tried to get into Morne’s room. No one admitted knowing who had emptied Palfrey’s gun, and the bullets had not been found. No one admitted seeing Dinah Markham leave her room. No one had heard anything until that scream, which had awakened Ruegg and another footman who, at Morne’s orders, had slept in an ante-room that night.

  Markham was distraught; too distraught to be genuine thought Palfrey. He had reasoned with and tried to soothe the man, and eventually Markham had been persuaded to go to bed, after taking a sedative. Gerry had reacted oddly; he had not said a word, had just stood and stared, dry-eyed, at the broken body. He looked as if he had been paralysed by the sudden tragedy.

  Had Dinah been thrown over? Or had she jumped? She had been so unnerved by the explosion that suicide had to be considered.

  Her body had been taken back to her room. Mrs. Bardle and Rachel had stayed there. The house was now in fact a house of death.

  Hardy, awakened, had at first not realized that he could now see. He had jumped out of bed, giving orders, then suddenly stopped, and cried: ‘My eyes are all right!’ Afterwards, his vision had dimmed again, but Palfrey believed there would be no lasting ill-effect. Hardy had taken charge, marshalled the servants, given his instructions, taken over Palfrey’s self-imposed responsibilities. Now Palfrey sat pondering the question of who could have had access to his gun. He had not taken it out of his pocket, but he had taken off his coat when he had gone to bed for a spell of duty.

  He had heard no one enter the room.

  As a result, that stealthy figure had escaped unhurt.

  He did not accept it as proved that the man had forced an entry; it could have been Markham or Gerry or even Rachel McDonald. Any one of them could have run into the courtyard and got back into the house by a window or door left open for that purpose.

  ‘Hopeless,’ thought Palfrey, in the depths of pessimism. ‘Hopeless!’

  And then suddenly he was asleep.

  He woke up in broad daylight. Drusilla was shaking his shoulder.

  The events of the night flashed into Palfrey’s mind.

  ‘More police are here,’ Drusilla said. ‘Cartwright’s with them. Their cars woke me up.’

  She broke off as a tap came at the door.

  12: GATHERING OF FRIENDS

  Outside, the sun was shining and the morning was crisp and fresh; even the moor, seen from the bedroom window, looked bright and cheerful. But there was nothing bright about Cartwright. He was a man with a purpose, a hard purpose. He marshalled everyone into the great hall, from Morne himself down to the servants; all had to be there, including Gerry, who was still silent and whose mouth gaped a little, as if he had not really regained control of his muscles.

  ‘Why all this?’ wondered Palfrey.

  Cartwright stood by Morne’s side, threw back his shoulders and boomed: ‘The reason for this meeting is very simple. Sir Rufus has agreed that it is also essential. A man escaped from Wenlock Jail last night – a man who goes by the name of Kyle.’ He did not look at Palfrey; he appeared to be deliberately avoiding his eyes. ‘The man is either an American or pretending to be an American. He was arrested on a serious charge, and there is strong reason to believe that he came here.’

  Palfrey nudged Drusilla: ‘Identification parade,’ he said. ‘Not bad.’

  Cartwright said: ‘Inspector Wriggleswade of New Scotland Yard will scrutinize every one of you....’

  Kyle was not among the men and women in the hall, but Palfrey, seeing them all together for the first time, realized again how easy it would be for someone to hide at Morne House; there were twenty-three servants for the house itself, and many more for the grounds. When the scrutiny was finished, a sergeant came in and reported to Cartwright. Ruegg had taken him all over the house, but there was no sign of Kyle.

  Reluctantly, Cartwright dismissed the servants. Wriggleswade, a portly, rather pompous man, stayed behind, equally disappointed. Morne put himself at Cartwright’s disposal. Was there anything at all he could do?

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cartwright. ‘But I would like a word with you, Dr. Palfrey.’

  ‘I wondered when we could come to that,’ said Palfrey. ‘I suppose you do know that Lady Markham died here last night, and that there was a visitor who tried to break into Sir Rufus’s room?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cartwright. ‘We will go to your room.’

  What was the matter with the man? He was behaving as if Palfrey were a criminal, certainly giving the impression that he was under suspicion.

  As they entered, Sergeant Whittle straightened up from the dressing-table, and for the first time Palfrey felt angry.

  ‘What’s this, Cartwright?’

  ‘Your room has been searched,’ said Cartwright, harshly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Palfrey. There was nothing diffident about him then; he looked taller and a man to be reckoned with. ‘Arbitrary, aren’t you?’

  Cartwright said between his teeth: ‘Do you know what happened last night, Palfrey?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Half Wenlock was destroyed,’ said Cartwright.

  The shock was too great for Drusilla, who blanched and reached for a chair. Palfrey’s face paled and his eyes hardened. Half Wenlock destroyed. His own anger and indignation vanished before the horror conveyed by the words.

  Cartwright asked abruptly: ‘When did you last see Kyle?’

  ‘On the way here.’

  ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

  ‘No. Unless he was the man who was frightened away last night.’

  Cartwright said: ‘Palfrey, I put this to you: you knew that man was Kyle, yet you let him get away.’

  No sharp answer rose to Palfrey’s lips. He understood now what was driving the man, and felt no anger. He spoke gently.

  ‘No, Cartwright. That isn’t true. I hope you’re not making yourself unpleasant for the sake of it,’ he added.

  ‘I am doing what I regard as necessary,’ said Cartwright, and his voice was suddenly very weary.

  ‘What you need is a whisky and soda,’ said Palfrey.

  Cartwright did not refuse. He talked more coherently of the effect of the explosion, and then he said something which surprised Palfrey; the explosion had been somewhere out at sea.

  ‘Out at sea?’ asked Palfrey, startled.

  ‘Yes. I thought it was an ammunition ship, but I’m told there has been nothing in the estuary for weeks.’ Cartwright finished his drink, and then said: ‘Palfrey, what do you know about this man Kyle?’

  ‘Too little,’ said Palfrey. ‘Where did you find him last night?’

  ‘One of my men saw his woman,’ said Cartwright, ‘and she led us to Kyle. He was in the market-place. He made no fuss at all after the woman had escaped.’

  ‘Escaped from where?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘The market-place. Two men pounced on Kyle, two on the woman – Lee, doesn’t she call herself? Kyle created enough confusion to allow her to escape, and then behaved like a lamb. How he got away from the jail I don’t know – and I never shall know,’ went on Cartwright. ‘Two men on duty there were killed last night in the explosion. The police station itself is badly knocked about.’ He brooded for a few minutes, and then went on: ‘There’s one good thing about last night. Miss Morne wasn’t hurt and the sanatorium was practically untouched. It was sheltered by a hill. A few panes of glass were broken, that’s all.’

  ‘How is Loretta Morne?’

  ‘There’s been no change,’ Cartwright said.

  Palfrey was now itching to get into Wenlock, to try to find Kyle at the Rose and Crown. There was the possibility that the inn had been badly damaged in the explosion, as well as the possibility that Kyle would give Wenlock a wide berth in future.

  Cartwr
ight said grimly that he was leaving plenty of men at Morne House, whether Morne objected or no. He did not say that he thought there might be a connexion between the explosion and Morne House, but Palfrey knew that he suspected one.

  McDonald asked for a lift into Wenlock, on the excuse that he wanted to make sure that Loretta was all right. Cartwright had no objection. He left Hardy, now almost completely recovered, with a party of police eight strong, and followed Palfrey in his own car, with Whittle and two other policemen.

  On the journey, McDonald was unusually quiet, and Palfrey did not feel like talking.

  Palfrey thought that the explosion had unduly affected Cartwright. Damage there was in plenty, but it was mostly superficial. Only very few houses were uninhabitable, although glass had been blown out of many windows. The townsfolk were going about their normal business, but many had a dazed look.

  McDonald got off near the sanatorium; Palfrey saw one of Cartwright’s men follow him up the hill. Well, that was right enough. Cartwright must take no chances. He himself must; he had certainly not justified the new trust Brett had put in him.

  He wondered how soon he would be able to see Brett, and when the reinforcements which had been promised would arrive. After a call at the Rose and Crown, he decided, he would make for Corbin and find out whether anyone had yet taken possession of the furnished house.

  He left Cartwright at a house which had been taken over temporarily as police headquarters, the police station itself having been damaged – worse, it seemed to Palfrey, than any other building in Wenlock.

  He looked about him as he drove on, wondering if Cartwright would, after all, have him followed, but could see no sign of that. He asked a postman the way to the Rose and Crown.

  It was small and pleasant, standing back from the road. The only damage it appeared to have suffered was to the hanging sign, which swung by one hook only. Palfrey pulled the car into the side of the road two corners away from the inn, and sat for a moment looking at Drusilla. ‘It might be an idea for you to stay in the car. If I have to get away in a hurry, it would be useful. Not that I think anything will happen here. Kyle’s almost certainly gone.’

  The Rose and Crown was open, A murmur of voices came from the private bar, and someone laughed. There was a fire in the little office near the narrow staircase. There, a young girl with red cheeks and a snub nose smiled at him prettily.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Palfrey. ‘Is Mr. Pettigrew in?’

  ‘I think so, sir. I haven’t seen him go out.’ She slipped off her stool and went to the telephone behind her. ‘He’ll be down in a moment. Will you please wait in the lounge?’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Palfrey.

  He felt deflated. This did not square up with anything he had anticipated. Everything was far too normal. The inn was too attractive; the girl’s smile was too frank; Kyle had not disappeared without trace.

  Would Susan Lee be with him?

  There was one odd thing – odder than anything else, he thought. Kyle, apparently, took no precautions against an unwelcome guest. The police might have some reason to suspect ‘Pettigrew’.

  ‘He probably saw me coming from the window,’ thought Palfrey.

  Suddenly he heard footsteps on the stairs.

  “The gentleman is in the lounge, sir,’ called the girl from the office.

  There was no answer. The footsteps drew nearer. Palfrey waited, tensed, suddenly fully aware – as he had been subconsciously all the time – that the very normality of everything here was in itself abnormal.

  Then the door opened and a man stepped in, a short, broad shouldered man who most certainly was not Kyle, though there was a look of Kyle about the set of his lips and his dark, tanned face.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, hallo,’ said Palfrey, looking blankly surprised. ‘Are you Mr. Pettigrew?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then,’ said Palfrey, as if with a flash of inspiration, ‘the name must have led me astray. I’m so sorry; I won’t keep you, and―.’

  ‘No one led you astray,’ said Pettigrew. ‘Kyle told you to come here and ask for me.’ Then, with the twinkle in his eyes deepening, he went on: ‘Surely you didn’t expect Kyle to be here, with the police looking for him round every corner.’

  ‘Kyle is so unpredictable,’ murmured Palfrey. ‘Why let the police catch him and then put their backs up by getting away?’

  ‘We had been told that a gentleman of some importance in this affair was at the police station, and there was only one way of finding out. Kyle got himself arrested.’

  ‘That was pretty drastic’

  ‘Don’t you think that drastic methods are necessary after what happened last night?’ asked Pettigrew. The smile faded from his eyes, the words were only just audible, but he impressed Palfrey more in that moment than before.

  Palfrey said: ‘Yes, I do. But I doubt whether Kyle and you are the people to carry them out. All this rushing to and fro, cocking a snoop at the police, making difficulties where there are none, waylaying and shanghaiing –’

  ‘There was no other way,’ said Pettigrew. ‘Have you an hour to spare. If you have, I’ll tell you something about it. Or are the police lurking round the corner?’

  ‘No tricks this time,’ said Palfrey. ‘If they are, it’s of their own accord. I don’t think you need worry about that. But my wife is waiting not far away, in case I need to make a sudden bolt for it. She’ll get anxious.’

  ‘Supposing I send her a message that you’ll be a little longer?’ suggested Pettigrew.

  ‘All right,’ said Palfrey. ‘A note from me will be necessary, of course.’ He scribbled a note and Pettigrew took it. ‘Trusting fellow, aren’t I?’ asked Palfrey. ‘The truth is that I ought to make you come to see me.’

  ‘My dear fellow, I won’t do you any harm,’ said Pettigrew. ‘We’re after the same thing.’ He rang the bell and a boy came, shiny-faced and beaming.

  ‘You will find a lady in a car round the second corner on the right,’ said Palfrey. ‘Give her this note, will you?’ When the boy had gone, he pulled up a chair and sat down.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve done that, Palfrey. You’ve shown the one thing we have badly needed while we have been working – some measure of trust in us. You are a responsible person, and I was very glad when I heard you were down here.’

  ‘Are you Kyle’s employer?’ asked Palfrey.

  ‘Yes.’ There was no hesitation about the answer. ‘A better worker you won’t find anywhere, Palfrey. I can say the same about Susan Lee. You’ve guessed that they were in American Intelligence service at one time, I suppose?’

  The thought had passed through my mind.’ The air of unreality which Palfrey had felt earlier had returned. This short, powerful man with the friendly twinkle in his eyes was at variance with everything else he knew about the case – except, perhaps, with Kyle. It did not make sense, but perhaps it would do before Pettigrew had finished.

  ‘Well, now,’ said Pettigrew. ‘It all started with Garth. A most dissatisfied Garth. Brilliant fellow, of course, but peeved because his own ideas were passed over and other men’s were adopted. Rightly passed over, of course, but Garth isn’t the type of man to realize that He was ripe for exploitation. He had spent all his money on his experiments; there was no way of getting it back; the British Government was, as always in such cases, miserly in its treatment of him. Garth’s contention, from the first, was that the conception of atomic warhead development was too vast. He believed that it could be done without the great expenditure and the building of enormous plant. He envisaged manufacture on a small scale and in small quantities. I am speaking very generally, you understand.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Well, there he was in America, helping without much heart,’ said Pettigrew, ‘when he was approached by the man Fyson. At that time Kyle and Susan Lee were attached to Washington Intelligence Bureau and they knew Fyson as an agent of powerful reactionary forces in both England an
d America. Not a Nazi; not a Fascist; not an anarchist. If you want it reduced to political terms, you might say that he favoured a benevolent autocracy and worked for those who also favoured it. Several otherwise admirable people did. The conception in their minds was that no nations subject to ordinary democratic rule should have control of things like the atom bomb, but that control should be centred in a small group of individuals high-minded enough to be above politics, above nationalism, above failings, and consequently above the laws of mankind. This may sound fine theoretically. There were five of them, as far as Kyle knew, and four he was prepared to admit were high-minded and incorruptible people. Of the fifth, a man named Gorringer; he had his doubts, although Gorringer’s reputation stood high. When Garth returned to England and Fyson followed him, Kyle and Susan Lee were on the same ship. Kyle had been refused permission to go officially; when he disobeyed orders and came to Europe, out he went. You follow that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Palfrey.

  ‘Good! Kyle, then, was in England, foot-loose, chasing a hare. Fyson, and this man whom he knew and distrusted, had an interest in Garth. He wanted to find out what the interest was. Garth continued experiments, getting far more money than he had ever had before. Kyle suspected that Fyson’s employer was backing him, and began to press his inquiries. Garth fell ill. The substitution was arranged at the nursing home and Kyle lost trace of Garth, but not of Fyson and the other people – you met Frenchie, Sol Krotmann and one or two others, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Satisfied that trouble was in the making, Kyle sent a full report to Washington,’ said Pettigrew. ‘I have a copy of his report. Washington ignored it. Urgent representations were made, and it was found that certain officials in Washington thought Kyle was making a case out for himself in order to get his job back. Inquiries were made about Garth, of course. The impersonator was at the nursing-home, everyone was satisfied that Garth was suffering from overwork, and that was that.’

  ‘Remarkable official attitude to a thing like the Bomb,’ Palfrey murmured.

  ‘A typical official attitude, I’m afraid,’ said Pettigrew. ‘The very vastness of the subject prejudiced officials against believing him. How could one man, Garth, do what an army of scientists, tens of thousands of workers and limitless financial resources were doing? Garth’s project, you see, wasn’t considered practical. Kyle was wasting his time. A report was sent to Whitehall about his activities, and he was officially repudiated by Washington. That made it more difficult, but Kyle isn’t easily discouraged. His money was running short, but Susan helped there. She did a column for one of the American syndicates – a report on affairs in England – and they managed to carry on, chasing their hare, unable to find Garth. Then Susan lost her job. Possibly some pressure was exerted, I don’t know about that. They were flat broke, they hadn’t found Garth, and, although they had talked with Sol Krotmann, Frenchie and others, they could not learn a great deal. What they had learned was that these people sometimes visited Cheddar Gorge, that the little syndicate was still powerful and wealthy, and that an unknown sixth member had joined them. Fyson told them about that, boasting that it added to their resources. Now, Palfrey’ – Pettigrew leaned forward and took his pipe from his lips –’Kyle first of all assumed that only one of the original syndicate of high-minded humanists was of doubtful quality. This man Gorringer. You’ve heard of him, I suppose?’