by Denis Hughes
When he reached the big building that housed the research laboratory he paused for a full minute, probing the shadows, seeking anxiously for signs of a watcher. There were none.
Using his own key—that key with which he had let himself in every morning for four long years when he worked with Brooking—he opened the door and slipped inside.
The little reception hall was dark and silent, chilly with the cold of night and bad central heating.
He moved quietly down the hallway, knowing exactly where he was going. Through a glass door at the end and up a straight flight of stairs. They were lino-covered, brass-nosed, cold and never very clean. He knew this place so well.
Outside in the road the police car went back the other way, moving more slowly. They were combing the district of course. He was lucky to have got this far so easily.
At the top of the stairs it was another world into which he stepped. At the end of a spotless white corridor was a lighted office. Opening off that was the lab. Brooking was working late, just as he had guessed would be the case.
The man in the corridor stared at the streak of light under the office door. Now that he was so near his nerve began to fail. There’d been so much mental strain these last weeks; he was jittery. Then he thought of Vivienne and found courage again. She hadn’t shown any weakness when he begged her to hide him. Even with a murder charge hanging over his head he was still her brother; that was how she had looked at it.
He walked firmly through the office and gripped the handle of the laboratory door. Faint sounds reached his ears from within. The slow smile of hate that was forming on his lips froze and faded. He turned the handle and flung the door open abruptly.
Brooking was stooped over a bench cluttered with tubes and retorts. The air was thick with the tang of chemicals. Brooking did not believe in fresh air.
At the sound of his visitor’s entrance he straightened up and swung round quickly, a metal spatula poised in his hand. Suddenly it slid from his fingers, clinking unmusically on the enamel surface of the bench.
“Conrad!” he gasped. “You!” Conrad moved in and closed the door behind him.
“Yes,” he murmured gently. “It’s me, Brooking. You didn’t expect me, did you? You thought I was cowering in some hole like a cornered rat!”
Brooking recovered his composure with an effort. He picked up the spatula from where it had fallen, his eyes not leaving his visitor.
“Aren’t you rather a fool to come back?” he said quietly. He was older than Conrad, older by twenty years, a grey man, grey faced, grey haired, not very big and imposing. Even his eyes were grey, a little on the small size, but shrewd and clever for all that. He was clever, as Conrad knew to his cost. Very, very clever…
“I was a fool ever to duck in the first place,” he replied. “Better to have brazened it out.”
Brooking smiled. He was quite himself again now. “You’d have been convicted and hung.” Conrad moved to the bench, close to Brooking. His eyes swept the big laboratory briefly. At any rate the Thing was not in sight. He was glad of that. “Hung for something I didn’t do,” he whispered grimly. “You’re the foulest of swines, aren’t you? Do you think I’d have associated myself with this work of yours if I’d had any inkling of what it would entail?”
Brooking shrugged. “You were enthusiastic enough at first,” he reminded gently. “And after all, you must have known we should need living tissue for vital organs. To say nothing of nerve ganglia and suchlike.”
Conrad closed his eyes. It was all too clear in his memory for comfort. He could still see that nameless girl’s face when Brooking struck. And he could still see only too clearly the fanatical gleam in Brooking’s eyes as he went to work on the still-quivering flesh. Brooking had never flinched. He needed human tissue fresh enough to preserve and form part of the Thing; the girl had supplied it.
“I wish I’d never agreed to the work,” said Conrad.
“If I’d had any guts I’d have told them all about it and cleared myself when you said it was I who killed her.”
Brooking smiled complacently. “Do you really think they’d have believed you?” he sneered. “You were seen when you disposed of the remains in the river. Seen and recognised, remember?” He shook his head slowly. “No, they’d not have believed you. And had you told them of our work you’d only have been laughed at for your trouble.”
Conrad rammed his hands in his pockets to prevent them from shaking. “Don’t call it our work!” he snapped.
Brooking shrugged again. “Why have you come here?” he demanded abruptly. “You can see you’re not welcome; what do you think the police would do if they knew you were here? I’m surprised you didn’t manage to slip out of the country.”
“You’ve never been hunted by the police!” he retorted. “I’m here because you can help me. You got me into this mess, you get me out! It wouldn’t be difficult with the amount of influence you carry.”
“Even certain friends would shy at the idea of getting a man like you out of the country,” said Brooking. “You know the name you made for yourself, of course…? The most sadistic killer in the history of crime, they called you. There was so much of that young woman missing when they fished the remains out. But they said it was queer because it hadn’t been a sex murder.” He smiled. “You might even have got away with a plea of insanity, Conrad.”
Conrad clenched his fists till his nails dug deep into his palms. “You’re going to help me, you devil!” he grated. “If you don’t I’m going to treat you like you treated that girl. You wouldn’t like that! You wouldn’t like it any more than she did, poor kid.”
Brooking put his head on one side. “It must be a terrible handicap to be sentimental,” he murmured. “Now I, for instance, never give a thought to what is necessary. Each fresh set of circumstances produces a different problem, you know. There is always a solution to fit. It’s only a matter of searching till you find the solution, then you go right in and get to work.”
Conrad succeeded in smiling. “You always did love to drivel!” he snapped. “I don’t want to listen to your lectures on surmounting obstacles. All I want is for you to get me out of this country and clear away.”
“Obstacles…?” murmured Brooking idly. “What an apt choice of word.” He frowned, apparently thinking over some obscure problem. Then: “You wouldn’t like to come in with me again, I suppose? The work isn’t finished yet…I can still use your brain, Conrad. Why not help me again? You could stay concealed in this place for years without ever being found.” His eyes were sharp, bird-like. “It might be worth it in the long run, you know.”
Conrad thrust his face forward’. He was very close to Brooking. “I’d see you in hell before lifting a finger to further your filthy efforts!” he said.
Brooking said nothing, but his eyes were eloquent. Then: “A pity,” he murmured. “I could use your brain, as I say.”
Conrad was still very close to him. Too close…
*
The telephone at Police Divisional Headquarters jangled. Detective Inspector ‘Happy’ Dutch leaned across and lifted the receiver, listening.
A voice said: “Doctor Brooking here. I’ve recently had a visit from Gregory Conrad. Yes, Conrad…The wanted man himself, I tell you!” A touch of impatience in the voice now. “Of course he’s gone! He made menacing demands of me, then knocked me out. Yes, he was gone when I came to. Several pounds in cash missing, and some clothes as well. He said something about leaving the country…You’ll be round? By all means. Yes, I was working late in the lab. Of course not! I often work late. Very well, Inspector, I’ll be waiting for you. Yes, just come in the front and up the stairs. I’ve left it unlocked.”
Dutch raised his head, clapped on a big brimmed hat and banged it over his head with the flat of his hand. He glared at the sergeant on the other side of the room.
“They missed Conrad by only a little!” he snapped. “Been to Brooking’s place. Come on, we may pick up a lead from th
ere!”
The car howled through the dark deserted streets. When it screeched to a stop outside the laboratory block all was quiet.
‘Happy’ Dutch opened the car door and got a foot on the pavement. “You wait here,” he told the sergeant. “I don’t want anyone snooping around till I’ve heard the yarn.”
The sergeant nodded. Dutch was closing the door when the sound of running footsteps caught his ear. He spun round and stared up the darkened street, eyes narrowed. Then he growled something under his breath as a figure came within his vision.
The figure was out of breath, slightly dishevelled. A snap brim felt hat obscured part of its face, and the flapping tails of a raincoat made a cloak round its legs.
“Hello there, Dutch!” the man called. “What’s cooking, eh? We serve the public. Murder by night makes news for breakfast. Did you catch up with Conrad?”
Dutch compressed his lips in a thin line. He disliked heartiness at any time, the middle of the night most of all. But he knew what a sticker Tern could be when it came to getting a story. And this young man with the impish grin was Tern.
“You again!” he grunted. “I’ve nothing for you! We didn’t get Conrad, and by now he’ll be miles away. If there is any information for you the office will give it out in the usual way. Now hop it!”
Tern had his hands in his pockets. He had recovered his breath with surprising speed. And the grin was there in all its disarming humour. “You can’t kid me,” he said. “If there isn’t a story in this what are you doing outside Brooking’s lab? Conrad was connected with him. Conrad was last seen heading in this direction. Now you’re here! If that doesn’t smell like a net full of clues I’ll never write another word!”
The inspector eyed him sourly in the dim light. “There’s nothing for you,” he repeated. “I’m here on business.” He jerked his head to the sergeant, now standing by the car. “See Mister Tern doesn’t interfere,” he said grimly.
Tern grinned a shade more widely. “I’ll be very good, I promise, Inspector,” he said. “Let me come and see the mysterious Brooking with you. Be a pal and give me a break, can’t you?”
Dutch ignored him, turning his back and going in through the door of the block. Tern found the attentive sergeant right beside him.
“The Inspector meant that,” he murmured. “You’ll get no story tonight, son.”
Tern pulled a wry face, then shrugged his shoulders inside his raincoat. “So it seems,” he grunted. “Oh well…I’ll be around first thing in the morning, Sergeant.”
He turned away and walked dejectedly down the street. But his expression was far from dejected. There was something moving in the Conrad affair. He was sure of that, and if only he could get the story…With Jerry Tern the accurate reporting of news was almost a religion.
An alleyway went down off the street about a hundred yards from where he had left the police car. He glanced back, then ducked into it and started running. The alley joined another one running at right angles to it. Tern paused and listened, glancing about to get his bearings. A lighted window farther down gave him the rough location of the block he wanted. The alley backed it.
A storage yard opened off the alley behind the block. The gate, a not-very-strong affair, was low enough to climb. Inside the yard was a single storey building abutting the main one. The lighted window looked put on the flat leaded roof. Tern found a packing case and reached the roof, moving towards the window. Through the window he stared into an office. There was no one in sight, but he thought he could hear voices seeping through from beyond another door.
“Get myself hung for this!” he grunted, heaving at the window. The lower half went up with a scraping noise after he’d eased the catch back with a knife. Then he swung his leg over the sill and was standing in the office, closing the window quietly behind him. He slipped his torch back in his pocket and tip-toed to the closed door. The other door was open, revealing a long corridor beyond.
Just as he reached the closed door someone opened it from inside. He was caught now, he thought ruefully. No chance of eavesdropping!
“What the devil do you mean by this?” demanded Dutch. He glared at Tern belligerently. Beyond Dutch was Brooking. Tern ignored the inspector for an instant, taking in the other man. It was the first time he had been face to face with Brooking. What he saw he disliked at once.
“Sorry, Dutch,” he said soberly. “I had to find out what was going on. The story, you know…”
“I’ll give you story!” grunted Dutch. He turned to Brooking. “This man is a newspaper reporter, sir. You can charge him with unlawful entry if you like. They get too big for their boots sometimes. Have to curb ’em!”
But Brooking only smiled indulgently. “Far be it from me to stint news if it’s in the public interest,” he said mildly. “The young man shows remarkable determination in getting in. You left someone on duty, didn’t you?”
“I did! How did you get in, Tern?”
“I gave the sergeant the slip,” came the answer.
Dutch breathed heavily.
“It wasn’t his fault, honestly.”
Brooking said: “Never mind, Inspector. He might as well stay now he’s here. As I was just about to explain, this must have been the window Conrad used. When I came to I found it open.”
“You closed it again?” Dutch’s eyebrows arched. Quite plainly he disapproved. But the window was closed.
Jerry Tern held his peace. Something was humming in his brain, but for the moment the significance of it escaped him.
Dutch said: “You were struck on the head, sir?”
Brooking nodded. “Just there,” he answered, lowering his skull for inspection.
“A nasty bruise, sir,” murmured Dutch. “Very nasty.”
They moved to the window through which Conrad was alleged to have made his escape. Outside on the flat lead roof there were no footprints visible.
The inspector clambered out, flashing his torch round,
“A perfect escape route,” he grunted. “The man might be anywhere by now.” He glanced back at Tern, vaguely suspicious. Tern grinned in the flashlight. He knew now the significance of what had previously escaped him.
Dutch came back off the roof, dusting his hands and closing the window again, snapping the catch across. “Nothing difficult about getting in this way,” he commented. “Someone used a knife blade on the catch.”
Tern didn’t like the way he said “someone.” There had been just that shade of accent on the word. Then Dutch was saying; “Thank you, sir. We’ll let you know if there are any developments. Conrad is pretty hard pressed, but I doubt if he’ll come back again.” He hesitated. “Keep the doors and windows securely locked in case.” He was moving across the office, heading for the corridor and stairway.
At the top of the flight he turned and shot a glance at Tern. “You better come with me, young man,” he said grimly. “A word or two of advice wouldn’t come amiss in your case.”
Tern grinned. “Anything to oblige,” he answered. He nodded affably to Brooking. Brooking smiled a little. The two men went on down the stairs to the front door. Out on the pavement the sergeant was standing guard, He showed surprise at seeing Tern, as was only natural in a sense.
Tern got ready to run. But the inspector’s voice was very gentle. Even his detaining hand was light.
“Now,” he said softly, “tell me, was that window undone when you got in through it?”
Tern did some rapid thinking. “No,” he replied. “I had to use a knife on the catch.”
Dutch’s eyes were veiled in the gloom. “Thanks,” he said. His voice hardened. “If you pull anymore tricks of that sort when I’m around you can look out for trouble!”
Tern said okay, that was fair enough. They parted on more or less amicable terms.
The car was whining away in the distance. For a long ten seconds he stood on the edge of the pavement, watching its red gleam of tail light till it disappeared. Then he turned to the doorway aga
in, reaching for the handle. But Brooking had locked it after their departure. Tern frowned; it would have to be the back window again, he decided. A pity…He started off down the street for the alleyway once more. When he reached the corner and glanced over his shoulder there was another figure walking down the opposite pavement. He knew that the figure must have stepped from one of the doorways not far from the laboratory entrance. Curious…
CHAPTER 2
MONSTROUS NIGHT
He knew the other person had not been coming down the street because the street had been empty only a few seconds before. Whoever it was just had to have stepped from one of the doorways across the street from Brooking’s door. The time was two-thirty a.m. And the hurrying figure was that of a girl. Yes, it was curious, he decided. Because it was curious he slid down the alleyway and waited just out of sight. A moment or two later the shadow of the girl fell across the ground, hesitating. Then she turned down in his wake.
“Hello,” said Tern. He flashed his torch full in her face. She gasped and tried to back out quickly. “Don’t go yet, Miss Conrad,” he said. His fingers were tight on her wrist. At the sound of her name she seemed to stiffen. “You’re looking for your brother, aren’t you?” he murmured. “No, I’m not a policeman. If it’s any consolation he’s supposed to have got away.”
He still kept the torch on her face, counting the freckles and thinking that a girl as decent as Vivienne should never have been plagued by trouble of such grim proportions as mixing with murder. But that was life…
“He got away?” she breathed. “Who are you?”
“Jerry Tern,” he answered. “It’s time you went home to bed. Your brother isn’t here; I was with the police when Dutch called on Brooking.”
She relaxed a little. He switched off the torch and let her stand away slightly. She shuddered, making a queer little sound in her throat. “Greg was a fool to walk out,” she said suddenly. “He—he thought it wasn’t fair on me.”
“You’ve been hiding him of course. Only natural— especially when you were convinced he wasn’t guilty.”
