The Day of Disaster

by John Creasey

  The man who had called himself Crayshaw seemed to have shrivelled. He backed slowly to a chair, peering at Hammond through eyes which were filled with dread.

  Loftus said: ‘He’s finished, Bruce, it’s over.’

  ‘Crayshaw’ muttered: ‘It’s over, it’s all over.’ He shivered, and then raised his voice. ‘You have defeated me, Hammond. I did not know that you were so near to the truth. I did not know.’ He raised a hand and dropped it, raised it again and put it to his waistcoat pocket. The fingers, fiddling there, came out with a cigar case. He extracted a cigar, groped again for a match. ‘You are right on every count, Hammond. Thanks to the accursed refugee you learned of the date.’ He struck a match, letting it burn slowly in his fingers. ‘It was so well arranged,’ he went on tonelessly, ‘every detail prepared. It was a blow when you took Fryer and closed the Lamplighter. I had hoped to keep you occupied with Fryer, he was there to draw the attention from me, he was——’

  ‘Crayshaw’ put the cigar to his lips again, then suddenly threw it from him.

  Hammond saw it hit the ground, saw also the wisp of vapour which came from it. The Errols swung their guns round, but ‘Crayshaw’ dropped to knee level. As he went down, he took a small gun from his pocket and fired at Mark Errol.

  Mark took the bullet in his shoulder.

  All were now coughing helplessly.

  ‘Crayshaw’ reached the hall.

  He went to the front door, pulled it open, and snapped:

  ‘Get away from here, tell everyone to get away!’

  There were men of his bodyguard, men of whom he had boasted, within hearing distance; but Davidson was there too. Davidson sent a high-pitched ‘hallo!’ echoing about the grounds, telling the waiting men to expect trouble, then he himself slipped into the Grange.

  He saw Hammond half-way across the hall, coughing violently, and he saw the man he thought was Crayshaw at the head of the stairs.

  ‘After—him,’ croaked Hammond. ‘Get—Craigie.’

  Davidson leapt after the bearded man. Hammond followed, more slowly. He was less affected than Loftus or Marion, having moved to the door more quickly; his aim now was to save Gordon Craigie.

  He reached the first landing, as Davidson streaked up the second flight of stairs.

  Then he heard a shot.

  He reached the top landing and saw Davidson reeling against the wall, one hand at his shoulder, his gun dangling uselessly.

  Hammond went on.

  He reached Craigie’s door as the man left to guard him came out. Two shots were fired almost at the same time. Hammond felt the wind of a bullet past his cheek, and saw the man fall.

  He pushed the door open.

  Fenn still slept, Craigie standing beside him, as the bearded man raised his gun.

  Hammond fired, and ‘Crayshaw’s’ gun clattered to the floor. He spun round, his eyes glaring. Hammond covered him, still coughing, unable to find words.

  The man who had played so long and desperate a game stood quite still, helpless and completely beaten, robbed of every prize he had hoped to win. He swayed for a few seconds, very slowly, his left hand groped towards his pocket, stopped there, and then fell to his side.

  Hammond said, ‘It’s really over this time.’

  ‘Crayshaw’ croaked: ‘If the refugee hadn’t arrived, if——’

  There was a moment of silence, and then Hammond said very slowly: ‘Tell me, before you go right out. Did you know Marion Caroll before you started this?’

  As he spoke, Marion reached the door.

  There was a long silence in that room.

  Craigie saw Marion, but made no sign. Hammond had no idea that she was behind him. Crayshaw’s eyes were closed, and he leaned against a chair; it seemed likely that he would collapse before he could speak.

  Then: ‘Curse you,’ he muttered. ‘God curse your soul!’

  Hammond said: ‘Answer that one question, will you?’ He stepped to the dying man’s side, leaned over him. Marion, watching, motionless, as if at a scene enacted a long way off, knew that it was the one thought in his mind. He wanted to know, he had to know. The streak of ruthlessness in the man had never been more apparent; he was not interested in ‘Crayshaw’s’ dying, or his pain. He had no more feeling for the bearded man than he had had for Fryer or Esteven. The one question burned in his mind, to the exclusion of everything else.

  ‘Crayshaw’, sitting in a chair and gasping for breath, opened his eyes and looked into Hammond’s.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t—with me.’

  Hammond straightened up. Then he bent over the man again, in an effort to make him more comfortable.

  Marion looked past him towards Craigie.

  Craigie shook his head. She saw it, hesitated, and then understood. She moved from the doorway and out of sight. She went blindly down the stairs, and as she did so she heard the shouting and the shooting from the grounds.

  She knew vaguely that Hammond’s men were having what they probably considered a good time. She knew that the men ‘Crayshaw’ had gathered about him were helplessly outnumbered, that it was unlikely any of them would get through.

  She recalled, in a vague, distant fashion, everything that had happened. She remembered the ruthless application with which Hammond had treated everything that had happened, from the clearing up of the fifth column squad in the Home Guard. She realised with a vivid clarity the fact that Hammond had seen through the side issues utterly and completely. He had conceived the motive for the organisation, he had been proved right not once but a dozen times.

  He had let nothing influence him; and he had suspected her. Acting as if she was in his complete confidence, he had kept her close to him so that he could watch her. The hurt was a physical pain, something she could not bear, that struck so deeply that she was detached from all that was going on about her.

  Through the open door she saw flashes of light, occasionally the beam of a torch-light, and frequently she heard shooting.

  She walked unsteadily down the stairs and reached the porch. Not until she stepped into it did she know that two men were standing there. Nor did they at first see her.

  ‘By George, Loftus, your fellows are having the time of their lives!’ one of them said.

  The other one answered: ‘The odds are too easy, sir.’ He paused. ‘Lord, you gave me a shock when you came up the drive.’

  Hershall chuckled.

  ‘I gave myself a shock, I can tell you. Had an idea that it might not be Crayshaw, and thought I’d better see what you and Hammond were up to. When I turned into the drive, this shindy began. Well, I don’t think there’s much more to worry about. An odd business. Queer fellow, Hammond.’

  Loftus said: ‘Yes and no, sir. He——’

  Loftus stopped abruptly, seeing Marion appear. Her expresson was enough to make him, look at her in astonishment, while Hershall glanced at her casually enough, and then with greater attention.

  Hershall took her arm, guiding her into the sitting room.

  ‘We’d better get inside, my dear,’ he said. ‘There may be a stray bullet.’

  Abruptly she turned to Loftus: ‘Bill, how long has he suspected me?’

  Loftus drew a deep breath and then, bracing himself, said quietly: ‘In the first place, Marion, it was I who suspected you. I wondered how the news about the boots leaked out, and wasn’t sure that Brice was the real explanation. I suggested that Bruce watched you carefully. He called me a fool, had you transferred from Emile to Hilary, from Hilary to himself.’ Loftus paused. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘He was asking Crayshaw,’ Marion said in a low voice.

  As she spoke, Hammond entered the room. He went straight to her, and put an arm about her shoulders. ‘I had to know,’ he said gruffly. ‘I couldn’t let there be even a shadow of doubt. I told Loftus that he was talking through the back of his neck, but——’

  Hershall gave a little cough.

  Marion said: ‘It doesn’t matter, Bruce, it doesn�
�t matter.’

  ‘It matters a lot,’ said Hammond quietly. ‘I could have had you left with Emile, you know, or even Hilary, and could have made sure that you were watched—by someone else, I mean.’

  He was looking at her, and she could not evade his gaze. ‘I wanted to watch you myself. I still do, I always shall. I wanted you around, Marion, I even made excuses for taking you to the Lamplighter, I even took it quite for granted that you’d come here tonight.’

  She felt a weight lifting from her heart.

  ‘Is that the whole truth, Bruce?’

  ‘The whole of it,’ he assured her.

  Hershall gave a second louder, more assertive cough. He beamed on Marion, then turned with obvious relief to Hammond. ‘Well, well, now that that little matter is settled to at least two people’s satisfaction, I want to hear how you pulled the Crayshaw business off.’

  Hammond said, almost shyly: ‘Oh, once the pieces began to fall into place, it was easy enough. The great thing is that Craigie’s all right. He’s actually started a search of the house!’ Hammond chuckled. ‘When he knows that you’re here he’ll get a shock.’

  ‘You didn’t seem particularly surprised,’ said Hershall.

  Hammond looked at him amusedly.

  ‘I wasn’t,’ he said. ‘I knew quite well that if I told you what I thought, you’d want to do something about it yourself, and——’ he shrugged.

  Hershall eyed Hammond curiously, then gave a deep laugh.

  ‘Yes—es. I’m not sure that I envy you, Miss Caroll, he’s an unpredictable young man.’ He took out his cheroot case. ‘We may as well stay here the night, I suppose?’ he asked with the relish of a small boy.

  ‘The service will be a bit of a problem,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Oh, we’ll manage. I’ve no intention of going to sleep, anyhow. Fetch Craigie, and let’s talk the whole thing over.’

  By the following day the fact was established that the real Crayshaw had been kidnapped and that a certain Baron von Linth, educated at Oxford and resident for some time in England before the war, had essayed the great gamble. By then, too, Emile was assured that he had nothing more to worry about and that thanks to him a Nazi plot had been uncovered. Hilary Crayshaw, in the nursing-home and much improved, learned of the truth and did not appear surprised.

  Hammond wondered what would happen to her eventually; he heard a few months afterwards that her cure had been successful and that she had joined the W.A.A.F. It pleased him.

  Before then, at Crayshaw Grange, was found a supply of the poison used on the arrows. One by one the men who had helped ‘Crayshaw’ were rounded up. Hammond and Loftus admitted not only the thoroughness of the organisation but the amazing ingenuity of its methods of attack.

  At Hammond’s flat, the following evening, Loftus said as much.

  ‘The whole plot might have succeeded but for Bruce’s damned obstinacy.’

  ‘I was running round in circles half the time,’ Hammond protested. ‘It just worked out my way.’ He yawned then lit a cigarette. Examining it, he said slowly: ‘Are you going back to the nursing-home for a few days, Bill?’

  ‘I’d thought of it.’

  ‘We’ll join you, and make it a six-some,’ said Hammond. ‘Is that all right with you, Marion?’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ said Marion.

  Prepare for Action

  John Creasey

  1

  A Cousin Has Charm

  There was little doubt that Sir Edmund Quayle was frightened; his plump face and little blue eyes betrayed it, although he tried hard to hide the fact from Mr. Gregory Hanton, who liked to be known as Hanton of Heath Place.

  ‘My dear Hanton, I can’t be satisfied with that, it’s preposterous,’ declared Quayle. ‘If Brent did know that we worked together, if he even so much as suspected it and put his suspicions on paper, think of what would happen to me! And I am positive that I am being watched. I no longer feel safe. You must be aware of the tremendous risk I take every time I send information along to you.’

  As he drained a whisky-and-soda he peered anxiously at the short, bald-headed figure of Hanton of Heath Place. That gentleman, who was wealthy enough to want more money, and had long since sold his soul in its pursuit, pursed his full lips and regarded Quayle without favour.

  ‘I know, I know,’ said Hanton testily. ‘You’re on the spot and I’m sitting pretty. That’s what you think.’ He lit a cigarette and broke the match in two, eyeing Quayle all the time. ‘But you’re right one way,’ he admitted at length. ‘We’ll have to see Brent’s papers again. We may have missed something last year. Listen, Quayle, I’m going to be clever. I’ll fix it with Lannigan, he can get the dirty work done.’

  ‘I strongly suggest you don’t do that! Lannigan doesn’t know I’m in it, and he mustn’t learn! Find a man who won’t talk.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. I’ll get it done. You watch your step, and don’t contact me any more until it’s over. Is that clear?’

  Furtively Quayle left Heath Place, near the Somerset village of Lashley, between Bath and Radstock. Hanton watched from a window; so did another man from the end of the drive; both agreed, shortly afterwards, that Sir Edmund had not been followed.

  • • • • •

  A boom of thunder rumbled, and soon afterwards the dark clouds were split in two by a jagged flash of lightning, which was too far from the bank of the stream and the two men resting near it to affect either light or shadow.

  Both men were large. Both were dressed in flannels and tweed jackets, light blue shirts and Old Carthusian ties. Moreover, both were smoking pipes of the same pattern.

  No stranger passing them could have distinguished one from the other. Friends and acquaintances knew that Mark Errol’s hair was, perhaps, a little darker and a little less tidy than Michael’s, his cousin, that Mike’s eyes were grey flecked with blue, and Mark’s flecked with green, but the difference was clear only to those who looked closely at them.

  For many years their world had considered these two men inseparable, and certainly they were fast friends, sharing a flat in London and a cottage near the stream where they were now sitting.

  Together they had ‘enlisted’ in the service of Department Z, an Intelligence Department which made great calls upon them. Perhaps the greatest was that from time to time it entailed their separation, but ten days before, when they had returned from Spain on a mission of considerable importance, Gordon Craigie, their Chief, had dispensed his blessings, told them that they looked worn out, and sent them to their cottage for a rest.

  ‘All being well,’ he had said, ‘you can have a couple of weeks, and I’ll make it longer if I can.’

  Another roll of thunder broke much nearer, and this time the flash of lightning preceding it brightened the darkening countryside ominously. The clouds were almost above their heads.

  ‘We’d better be moving,’ said Mike.

  They walked briskly towards a small copse near the stream, passing through it before reaching the cottage. It was neither particularly old nor picturesque, but the half-acre of garden surrounding it was a sight worth seeing, the front blazing with flowers set against a velvet lawn, the back heavy with crops.

  A few spots of rain were falling as the Errols reached the front door. Inside, a flurry of white told them that one of their domestic helpers was there, preparing the evening meal. They had been walking since tea, after spending much of the morning and afternoon on Old Totton’s farm.

  Once in the narrow porch, Mike said abruptly: ‘Hello, there’s some post.’

  ‘Craigie?’ Mark put a great deal of expression into the name.

  ‘It doesn’t look like it.’ Mike picked up an envelope from a table near the door, and Mark stared at it over his shoulder. ‘It can’t be anything interesting, anyhow, or it wouldn’t be addressed to both of us. I’ll put the light on.’

  The room was in shadow, darkened by the gathering storm. Its low ceiling, crossed in places with oak beams,
forced Mike to duck low as he stepped to the light switches, put by some ingenious country electrician as far away from the front door as was inconveniently possible. A clatter of crockery came from the kitchen, but neither the clatter nor another flash of lightning followed by a torrent of rain and a blare of thunder distracted Mike’s attention from the letter.

  Neither cousin had looked towards the far corner of the lounge-dining-room, nor seen anyone sitting there. But as Mark slit open the envelope someone stirred. Both men were unaware of it, and Mike said, ‘It couldn’t be from Aunt Bess, could it?’

  ‘In fifteen seconds I’ll tell you,’ said Mark, unfolding the letter.

  ‘I can tell you sooner than that, that it isn’t,’ said a girl from the corner. ‘It’s from me.’

  Both men started, and turned swiftly about.

  The electric light revealed the girl. She was tall, and dressed in tweeds, her hat pulled down a little over one eye, Tyrolean fashion, and with a feather sticking from it.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Mark, recovering himself quickly.

  ‘How do you do,’ said Mike, not to be outdone.

  ‘I’m very well, thank you,’ said the girl. She was smiling a little, and they liked her voice.

  ‘You might have addressed it to me,’ said Mike reproachfully.

  ‘If you’ll be quiet a minute,’ said Mark testily, ‘I’ll read the letter. That’ll save a lot of talk and explanation.’

  Mike scanned it over Mark’s shoulder, conscious of the steady and rather amused gaze from the girl.

  The letter began, rather unexpectedly, Dear Mark and Michael. It went on:

  Coming out of the blue like this, you’ll be surprised to hear from me. It is a long time since we saw one another, and you may not even remember ‘Gina’ with a ‘G’ as in ‘George’—or does it strike a chord?