by John Creasey
As he worked, his mind beagn to clear.
There was only one thing to do: kill her. Kill her, for the sake of her own ideals; do what she would be prepared to do herself.
“Come up alone, do you understand? Come up alone.”
Why had she asked that?
The decision made, what of the rest?
He had been allowed to move about the house unobserved, there had been no guard outside the girl’s room. Presumably Nieto, Neilsen, and Manuel were the only others in the house. And the fair-haired girl, of course! Why had she lain so still on the bed? What had caused such fierce alarm? Were the three men still with her?
He heard the lock click.
He went to the hand-basin and bathed his face, dried it on a soft towel, then groped for his cigarettes. He needed a drink more than anything else in the world. He couldn’t sit still, but paced the room. How far was he justified in the decision? He couldn’t keep away from that question, but every time he found the same answer: it had to be done.
Thank God he’d gone to see her.
Was he justified—?
Only one thing could justify a different decision; the possibility that all the information he needed was in the house. She knew it wasn’t. He knew about the paid delegates, and one of the motives for the present troubles; that was all logical and easily understandable. Marlene had made it more apparent than ever that he must consolidate his position here—not only for the next few days, but for a long time to come. These men had long-term plans, failure at the Congress wouldn’t stop them working.
Face facts!
A great task lay ahead, difficult, dangerous, sometimes dreary and monotonous—and every day of his life he would have in his mind a picture of Marlene as she opened her mouth so that he could stuff the handkerchief in.
How long were they going to leave him here?
Why had she begged him to come up alone?
He paused in his pacing when he heard the key turn in the lock. Neilsen thrust the door open.
“We are leaving here.” His voice was sharp. “We have little time. Come with me.”
“What’s all the mystery?”
“We are afraid that accursed girl got news through to the authorities,” Neilsen said. “She gave the Baroness the gun. And—but that is unimportant, hurry!”
He turned and walked rapidly along the passage to the stairs, and as he reached the top landing, he said over his shoulder: “We shall deal with the Baroness and leave her body here. That will be a great find for them!” The ugly, cruel twist was at his lips again. He took a key from his pocket and tossed it to Grant. “That door.” He pointed. “Don’t take long. She is tied up, she cannot protect herself.”
He went into one of the other rooms—every movement reflected driving urgency.
Grant held the key tightly—then pushed it into the lock, thrust the door open and strode in.
He stopped abruptly.
Horror surged through him, cold and gripping. Marlene wasn’t lying as he had left her. She had twisted round so that her right side was towards him. Her legs were drawn up into her stomach, and her back was arched. Her face was deathly pale, and part of her cheek was hidden by her dark hair. She lay utterly still.
He heard drawers opening and closing in the next room.
The handkerchief poked out like a white tongue between Marlene’s lips.
He went to the bed and bent over her, staring down, looking for the slightest indication that she was alive. There was none; she wasn’t breathing. He touched her hand, groped for a pulse; he felt nothing. He backed away from the bed, and a prickly numbness crept all over his body. He believed that she had made a supreme effort and had contrived to kill herself.
She had killed herself so that he would not have to murder her. That was why she had begged him to come alone; she had not wanted the others to see that she was already dead.
He heard Neilsen moving in the passage.
He bent over Marlene and placed his fingers round her neck. The touch of her cool flesh was like ice to his fingers; burning ice. His eyes were blurred with tears he did not know were there. When Neilsen came in, he appeared to be choking out Marlene’s life. He pressed lightly, but seemed to exert great pressure, and held on as Neilsen came over. If Neilsen looked closely into his face now, the truth would be out. He wanted to take Neilsen’s neck between his fingers and squeeze, see the fear of death spring into the man’s eyes, the pain of death wrack his body.
Neilsen touched Marlene’s limp hand, felt her pulse, then backed away.
“That is enough.”
Doubt sprang to Grant’s mind; why was Neilsen so easily satisfied? If he were in the Novian’s place, he would want more evidence that she was really dead. He would know that artificial respiration and oxygen could work the miracle of bringing the seemingly dead to life.
Then he smelt petrol. Just smelt petrol and was vaguely puzzled. The rage had died in him now; she was dead and he had work to do.
Neilsen said: “Go downstairs, Grant, the others are waiting.”
He turned round, went to the corner where a pint-size bottle stood on a chair. He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and tossed the liquid contents about the floor. The smell of petrol became overpowering. Grant was no longer puzzled.
Grant turned blindly from the room. As he reached the landing a tongue of flame leapt out from the open door of the room into which Neilsen had gone first. He heard the crackle of flames. Neilsen came out of Marlene’s room, bent down and lit a piece of paper. He tossed it on to the petrol on the floor. Flames began to lick about the carpet, then leapt up, vivid and bright. The stench of petrol and of smoke got into Grant’s mouth and nose, into his lungs.
“Hurry!” Neilsen said.
Grant turned and ran down the stairs with Neilsen on his heels. The front door was open and a car moved off. Grant caught a glimpse of Nieto at the wheel. Manuel sat at the wheel of a larger car, still stationary, its doors standing open. One corner was packed with luggage; the big luggage-grid heavily laden.
“Sit next to Manuel,” said Neilsen.
A chill wind struck Grant as he stepped from the house. Above, the sun shone brightly out of a clear sky. He saw and heard nothing of the fire, but as Neilsen climbed into the back of the car and slammed the door a cloud of smoke drifted over the roof-top.
The first car had already turned out of the drive.
Manuel let in the clutch and this car moved off. They swung right, out of the drive gates. Grant looked behind him; the pall of smoke above the roof of the house was already black and ominous.
They reached the end of the road, and one passed them. They took several more turnings until they gained the main road. There was no sign of pursuit, but as they mingled with the traffic two police-cars, bulging with men, came from the opposite direction.
Neilsen said thinly: “We were only just in time.”
“What happened?” Grant asked.
He had to force his voice to sound steady, kept seeing Marlene.
“Those women nearly fooled us. The girl who brought you in last night became attached to the Baroness.” The edge to Neilsen’s laugh had the familiar, sneering cruelty. “She sent a message for the Baroness. Manuel caught her at it, and she swallowed enough aspirin tablets to kill herself. We tried to bring her round, but she was too far gone. How much she’s told the police, I can only guess.”
“Does it matter, as we’re away in time?”
Neilsen said: “It could matter.”
The car moved towards the fringes of the London suburbs and was soon speeding along the main road to the north.
They reached a small house after an hour’s drive. It was on the outskirts of a small village set in the midst of rolling countryside. From the front door Grant could see the dark ploughed land and the meadows, green and lush, cattle moving sluggishly, and not far off, two tractors working. The Norman tower of the village church looked square and squat and reminded him of Nieto. There was no
sign of Nieto or the other car.
Two men came hurrying out to help Manuel with the luggage.
Neilsen led Grant into the house. The grey brick of the walls had a bleakness which was lost once they entered the spacious, low-ceilinged hall. The walls were cream colour, and great oak beams, oiled and not painted, ran across them, while others supported the low, uneven ceiling.
There was atmosphere and charm about the room into which Grant went. There were small, latticed windows, and the room was dark, although the day was fine and the daylight bright. The furniture was old-fashioned, there were several fine antiques, the Persian carpet was a square of quiet colours.
Neilsen went to an old chiffonier, opened a cupboard and took out whisky and two glasses.
“A drink?”
“Please.”
Neilsen’s hands were very steady as he poured out.
“Soda?”
“Half-and-half.” Grant took the drink. “Thanks. You seem well prepared.”
“We have to be well prepared,” said Neilsen. “The Baroness—does she worry you?”
Grant said: “She had to go, that’s obvious.”
She filled his mind, his eyes—everything else was blurred.
“You have had excellent training for such work,” said Neilsen. “That is why I was not averse from using you, but I think Nieto and the others will be more cautious before they accept you. I was the only one who doubted Marlene’s good faith. Nieto was actually in love with her.” The twisted smile made his face almost ugly. “It is the first mistake he has made—he should now know that one cannot mix personal emotions with this business. You know that, don’t you?”
Grant said roughly: “I’m not a ball-boy. I know this game inside out. If I’ve got anything to say, I’ll say it. Perhaps a lot of it wouldn’t be justified if I knew the whole story. I don’t and you won’t be fool enough to tell me, yet. But let’s get one thing clear. I murdered that woman in cold blood because of the emergency and because I could tell that you and Nieto weren’t sure whether I’d the guts. But I’m not doing that kind of job again.”
“We shall see,” said Neilsen. “I think perhaps we shall have work more worthy of you.” How Grant would like to strangle him and silence that sneering voice! “You will agree that we have made sure that when the Congress meets to-morrow, there will be some bad feeling.”
Grant smiled—the swift, transforming smile, which seemed to suggest that he was delighted with whatever had just been said, which startled men and won their confidence more surely than any words.
“It’ll be a free fight! I wish I could be there to see it. After the first half-hour they’ll be bellowing at each other and probably shaking their fists and tearing their hair.”
“So we have not altogether failed,” said Neilsen suavely. “Perhaps, during the next hour or two, you will bend your great mind to considering how we can put the finishing touch to the success we have already had. You might also like to see the newspapers and read about the hunt that is on for you.”
He pointed to some newspapers, folded on a small table, and turned and went out.
Grant looked across the garden towards the village. Smoke rose sluggishly from a chimney, for the wind had dropped. He saw a different pall of smoke, a different roof-top.
He snatched up a paper and opened it.
23 / A Price on His Head
Huge headlines stretched across the front page, and beneath them were photographs—of M. Benot and his wife, and of Grant. Sight of his own photograph shocked Grant. He stared at it unbelievingly, then read the captions:
Jonathan Grant, renegade member of British Secret Intelligence, who assassinated M. Benot. The Inner Council of the Congress of Europe offer a reward of £10,000 for his capture, alive or dead.
He dropped the paper, picked up the next. There was the same photograph with exactly the same caption. He read the story slowly. It was a re-hash of everything that had happened, with the obvious conclusion—that he was a member of a dangerous gang using all possible resources. They were variously described as Anarchist and Communist.
Grant tossed the papers aside and helped himself to another whisky and soda.
Suddenly, he smiled.
It was the first moment of real relief he had felt that morning. The burden lifted from his heart, for a moment he felt almost exhilarated. The sluggish smoke from the cottage chimney was no longer a dark reminder of what had happened earlier; it was just smoke from a cottage fire.
Neilsen was so sure of himself: the Congress would be a cockpit of fierce arguments, accusations, thrust and counterthrust, but—what would happen when it was discovered that Benot was alive?
He could imagine the shock which would go through the Congress. The electrifying effect on Neilsen’s guineapigs. The proof that the Service was fighting back hard, and—
His smile faded.
He sat on the arm of a chair.
He had fallen into a mistake, so dreadfully easy, of seeing only one issue at a time; each issue must be judged against the background of the whole situation. He had told himself earlier that he could not hope to get quick results, that this would be a long, weary business, almost a war of attrition, while he worked within the Neilsen camp. That couldn’t happen. The truth about the “assassination” would be divulged by to-morrow at the latest—and Neilsen would guess the rest.
He had a few hours left—until the next day, at most.
He must break the task down into small, attainable objectives.
First, tell Craigie what he had learned from Marlene.
Second, tell Craigie where he was.
Third, find some way of breaking through Neilsen’s resistance and finding out the real leaders of this movement of evil purpose.
One at a time—or rather, the first two at a time; tell Craigie. How? Walk out, telephone the office, report and walk back? Freedom was a strange thing. There was apparently nothing to stop him from doing that, except that it would destroy all his hopes of achieving the third objective. Still—he must get a message to Craigie now. He tried to imagine what it would feel like if he were able to speak to Craigie or to Loftus. He realized how utterly alone he was; how crushing was that loneliness—and the semblance of freedom of action made it worse.
Had Marlene’s body been burnt out of recognition? Had that sheer loveliness been brutally marred? Or had the police arrived in time to save her from the final desecration?
He tried to shut his mind to thoughts of her. A man turned into the short drive. Twenty yards from this window, the big wooden gate squeaked noisily as it opened. Why was he astonished to see the postman? Grant stared in puzzled surprise as a tall man with a woebegone face walked up to the house, pushing a heavily laden bicycle. He carried two letters in his hand.
Why be surprised by an everyday thing?
Grant stepped to one side of the window.
His photograph was everywhere; his face hadn’t been battered out of recognition, so he mustn’t be seen. He noticed that the postman kept looking at the windows—not at the front door—and he saw him rearrange the letters in his hand. There were three, not two. One long foolscap envelope, two smaller ones, and—
He held them together in the shape of the letter Z.
It was coincidence. It must be. It couldn’t be anything else. But the sight sent a quivering sensation through Grant’s body. The plodding footsteps of the postman as he pushed his bicycle, the deliberate rearrangement of the letters—was he wrong? Could this man be from Craigie? Had Craigie’s men followed the car to the house, after all? Or had Craigie discovered this new address through one of his other men? Grant, so used to working alone, hadn’t thought enough about the work the others were doing.
The postman disappeared, but the back wheel of the bicycle remained in sight where it rested against the porch.
The letters fell into the hall, the letter-box clicked. The postman appeared again, but instead of going straight off, he stepped nearer the window. He loo
ked hard at it as he bent down with his right foot on a large stone and began to re-tie his bootlace. His boots shone brightly; and suddenly he stopped and, with his right forefinger, smeared the toe-cap of the right foot.
When he moved his hand the smear showed up against the polish—a letter Z.
Grant watched, breathlessly.
The postman tightened his other bootlace, then stood up, stretched himself, and kicked the stone three times. There seemed no point in the movement; he looked as if he were getting some mud off the sole of the boot. He turned slowly, went back to the bicycle, then plodded with it down the drive.
So Grant wasn’t alone; not really alone.
At half-past three that afternoon Gordon Craigie sat alone in the office, looking across the room at the fireplace. There were several small note-pads on his desk, some of them with little paragraphs, mostly crossed through in pencil. He had been up there for the better part of three hours without getting up from the chair. Every few minutes the light on one of the telephones glowed and he received a message from an agent or from the police, noted it down and studied it.
In a curious way, Craigie was content.
He was always at his best and in his element at such a time as this. Over the years he had acquired a habit of work—the involved, tortuous activities of the Department all passed through here. Hundreds of tiny snippets of information which meant little in themselves were closely examined and sifted until those which formed part of the general picture became clear. Sometimes information came from various parts of England. The agents and sub-agents of the Department were always numbered by the hundred—and on special jobs like this, by the thousand.
All his chief agents were working on the Congress of Europe affair. He had discovered much which he hadn’t told Grant; other information had come in since Grant had left for his visit to Neilsen. Among them was the fact that Neilsen, under an assumed name, had recently rented a house at Buckley, near St. Albans. Immediately, Craigie had been in touch with the police. Within two hours the village postman had ‘fallen sick’ and one of Craigie’s men had taken his place. Another agent had taken over the simple duties of newsboy, to deliver morning and evening newspapers to the house, which was known as The Old House, Buckley.
