by John Creasey
So the message had got through, and his orders were emphatic: full speed ahead. That brought a momentary exhilaration, and when that had died down, all his uncertainty had gone. If he failed, all would be lost; the flames were as clear as Craigie’s voice.
Win or lose, he had to fight hard; fast; mercilessly.
The first obvious step: to find out what was happening between Neilsen, Nieto, and the unknown man.
He went to the door, but before he opened it another car turned into the drive. Footsteps on the stairs told him that it had been heard by those above.
As the front door opened Neilsen greeted a man: “We were afraid you were not coming.”
“I had difficulty in getting away.” It was an American voice. “Have the others arrived yet?”
“Yes, we’re all here, except him.”
“That’s fine. I won’t keep you waiting.”
As the two men went up the stairs the front door closed, which meant that a man was on duty in the hall. Grant waited until a door closed upstairs. He knew the meeting wasn’t taking place in the room directly overhead, or he would have heard the sound of movements.
Everything became quiet; hushed.
He opened the door.
No one appeared to be in the hall.
He crossed to the cloakroom, went in and flushed the closet, washed his hands, letting the water splash vigorously into the hand-basin. When he came out, a man stood at the foot of the stairs; it was one of the guards, small, compact, swarthy faced.
Grant said: “Nice night.”
The man looked at him blankly.
“Bit chilly, but there’s no wind now.”
The blank stare convinced him that the other did not understand English.
Grant offered him a cigarette; he took it.
“I’m going up to my room,” Grant said.
The man stood aside.
Grant went up to the bedroom he had been told was his. He heard a murmur of voices and saw a light under a door on the left of the landing. He went straight into his room, switched on the light, then closed the door loud enough for the guard to hear it. Next, he switched the light off and opened the door silently.
He heard and saw nothing. The hall lit up the landing. There was no movement. He crept to the top of the staircase and peered over the banisters. The guard now sat against the wall, looking straight in front of him. He didn’t glance up.
Grant went to the conference-room door.
The voices were distinct enough for him to know that the men were talking in English; one difficulty was gone already. But he heard only snatches of what was said—much as he had done at the house where Casado had been killed.
He went down on one knee and put his ear to the keyhole.
“If he cannot be with us, then we must make our own decisions.”
“We should wait.”
That was from the man who had arrived with him. He spoke with some heat, while Nieto’s voice was cold and dispassionate.
The American said: “I guess we can’t wait, it’s too near the time. If we miss that Congress we may have to wait a long time before we get another chance. Nieto’s right, we will have to make our own decisions.”
The first man said harshly: “He is perhaps able to see us to-night?”
“Most likely he just can’t get here,” said the American. “The last I heard of him, he wasn’t likely to be able to get around much for the next week, and if we miss to-morrow we’re going to miss plenty. I say we just have to reach our decision to-night. It isn’t as if he would disagree with us, we know he wants action right now.”
“No!” It was easy to imagine the hostility between the man who wanted to wait for the mysterious “he” and the other two. Only Neilsen had kept silent; now he spoke quietly.
“I do not think it will matter if we wait for a few hours. Everything is ready, we have only to give the instructions and decide who to use. That will not take long. It is now half-past seven. We are all hungry. I suggest that we have dinner, and then discuss this again. By then, we may have had word from him, or he may be here. I should not be worried by what you have heard about him, Harrison. He is a clever fox. Shall we dine?”
Three voices chimed together in agreement and with relief. A chair moved, and Grant got ready to stand up and move across to his room. And then he paused, waiting until the last moment.
“There is one thing,” Neilsen said suddenly. “What are we to do about Grant?”
The man who wanted to wait for “him” said sharply: “That was a good move, yes, but it is spoiled. He cannot spy for us within this Department X—”
“Z,” murmured Neilsen.
“X, Y, Z, what does it matter?” The man was waspish. “If he could be of use to us within the organization, I would say yes—use him. But he cannot. Be rid of him.”
“I haven’t met this guy,” said Harrison.
“Let him dine with us,” Neilsen proposed. “Then you can all—”
“No, that would be foolish!” The opposer was the same man; his tone suggested that he was the type who would always lead the opposition. “If he is with us, we cannot talk. He is of no use.”
“He can be a lot of use,” Neilsen said.
“Tell me how, if you please.”
Neilsen said: “Any man with courage enough to kill Benot is good. And he did more than that—he killed the Baroness for us. He hasn’t any nerves. And there is one thing we have not yet done with him.”
“What?” growled the gruff-voiced man.
“Questioned him fully about the Department. He knows a great deal about its working, and what has been done to discover us. He has told me a little, but not yet enough. We should not dispose of Grant yet.”
“I believe he is a spy,” said the gruff-voiced man.
“We just must not take more chances,” drawled the American. “I’ll confess the news about the Baroness gave me a big shock. We can take no one on trust.”
“What Grant has done speaks for itself,” said Neilsen. “We could use him, but—” he shrugged his shoulders. “Let him stay where he is. The men have orders to stop him from leaving the house, and to report if he does anything at all suspicious. When our leader comes, he can decide. He may know more about Grant.”
No one opposed that.
Another chair moved. He heard the American say something, and it was followed by an outburst of laughter.
Grant straightened up. Pain from the stiffness shot through his knees and legs; and disappeared when he saw Manuel just behind him, dark eyes glowing with hatred.
In Manuel’s right hand was a gun. Give him a split second’s warning, and he would use it. Grant leapt, driving his clenched fist into the malevolent face. He caught Manuel squarely, sent him reeling back. The gun rose in the air, but there was as much danger from a bullet in the ceiling as a bullet buried in him. Grant snatched at his arm, twisted viciously, felt the gun brush against his coat. He got the gun and struck again before Manuel had recovered.
Grant grabbed him, preventing him from falling against the banister rail. Manuel’s eyes rolled, the whites showing. The carpet had muffled most sounds, but had there been enough to alarm the men in the other room?—enough to attract the guard’s attention? Grant felt that he had lost almost before he had started; but he didn’t stop trying. The conference-room door was still closed.
He lifted Manuel bodily, carried him into the bedroom, struck him beneath the chin and lowered him to the floor.
Manuel fell in an inert heap.
Grant stood in a darkness relieved only by the diffused light from the hall. The door of the meeting-room hadn’t opened yet; no one seemed to be coming up the stairs.
He went to the landing and looked over the hand-rail; the guard was coming out of the cloakroom.
The American laughed again, the sound came clearly through the closed door; so did his words, uttered loudly; “I like it on the rocks; I can’t get along without ice in my drinks.”
Grant went back into his bedroom, closed the door and switched on the light. Manuel hadn’t moved. Manuel, alive, would give him away; dead, he would be almost as great a threat unless he were safely hidden.
If he disappeared—
Grant went down on one knee and felt for the man’s pulse. It was beating sluggishly.
Manuel, alive, couldn’t be made to disappear; dead, he could be hidden.
If Grant could kill Marlene, he could kill a hundred men.
Where should he hide the body?
Not in this room; it would be the first place to be searched when the man was missed. Not in any of the other rooms. When the body was found, Neilsen would not look far for his killer.
Where could he hide the body?
He went to the window. It faced the side of the house, and a light streamed out from the room beneath. He saw no sign of a guard out there. There was one man downstairs and another on the drive—where was the third? Inside or outside? Grant stared into the garden, but saw only the gentle movement of the leafless branches and of the evergreen bushes.
Voices, now much louder, sounded on the landing.
Grant picked Manuel up and rolled him under the bed, then sat on the bed and smoothed his hair down.
Neilsen came in.
“You will dine on your own, Grant. We want to see you afterwards.”
“All right.”
“Have you seen Manuel?”
“No.” Grant stood up. “I hope you’re right about Manuel. I don’t trust him.”
“If I am right about anybody, I am right about Manuel.” Neilsen went out and closed the door. Grant waited until he heard his footsteps on the stairs, then crossed and locked the door. Next, he went to the window and thrust it open. He leaned out and looked up—the roof overhung, immediately above his head. If he wanted to cut and run for it, this would be the way.
He drew back.
He could be absolutely sure that his room was watched. He had probably been seen already, looking out of the window. He went there again, this time smoking a cigarette, and stood staring into the night; he saw the shadowy figure of a man just inside the light which shone from the room below.
He closed the window and backed into the room, hurried to the landing and entered another room, nearly opposite—next to that where the men had met. This was a bedroom. He didn’t switch on the light, but crossed to the window and examined the wall outside. He moved silently, keyed up to the limit.
Beneath the window was a porch-roof, over a side door. The roof jutted out three or four feet from the wall and was six or seven feet across. Immediately above his head was a guttering, kept up by strong brackets.
“This will do,” he said under his breath, and went back for Manuel.
The door of the meeting-room was locked. Would it be worth taking a risk to force it and search? Marlene had assured him these people believed in dispersal, kept few important papers in any one place. But there might be just sufficient here to give him a clue to the identity of the man for whom the others were waiting.
Grant took out his knife and set to work on the lock. It was comparatively easy to open. The fact that they did not fit special locks confirmed all Marlene had said about their method of dispersal. But if there were papers of importance here, they would be inside the room now.
The lock turned.
Grant went in, closed the door and switched on the light. The room was a large one; a narrow refectory table stood in the middle. All the rest of the furniture was old, and two of the walls were lined with books. It looked a comfortable, restful study.
There were four writing-pads on the table, in front of four slung-leather arm-chairs. Two half-smoked cigars rested on ash-trays; another ash-tray was littered with cigarette ash and ends. A gold propelling pencil lay on one of the pads.
The top sheet on each pad was blank.
Grant looked under the table and in a small waste-paperbasket for any sheets which had been thrown away. There was none. In the large fireplace, where a log fire burned sluggishly, was a heap of charred paper. The men had destroyed all their notes. They were always careful.
Grant picked up one of the pads.
The imprint of a pen or pencil showed clearly, where the writer had used pressure. The second sheet showed similar, fainter marks. He tore both off, then tore the first two sheets off each of the other pads. He folded them, went to a bow-shaped Queen Anne desk and found a foolscap envelope. He folded the sheets carefully, tucked them inside, and slipped it into his pocket.
There was nothing of interest in the desk.
He went out of the room, spent a few nerve-racking minutes locking the door, and then turned to the stairs.
One of the guards was coming up.
Grant gripped the banister rail tightly and gave a smile; it was like a grin. This was the man to whom he had spoken downstairs, a compact, swarthy-faced individual without any particular expression. There was nothing in his manner to suggest that he had noticed which room Grant had come from. He raised his hand and beckoned, turned, looked over his shoulder and beckoned again. He waited for Grant in the hall, and pointed to the downstairs room in which Grant had spent most of his time.
A small table was laid for one.
Such simplicity!
“Thanks! I’m ready for that.”
It was like talking to a dummy.
The papers in his pocket stuck against Grant’s arm as he sat down. He wanted to put them under the stone, but there would be a grave risk of the guard in the drive seeing anyone come to fetch them, and anything he did would be noticed. Let well alone. He looked round the room for a hiding-place, selected an ornamental metal vase near the window, which was filled with artificial flowers, then had dinner.
A telephone bell rang.
He stood up, and approached the passage.
He heard the door of the dining-room open, and a man run upstairs. So the telephone was in the meeting-room. He stayed near the door until the man came running down again, and he judged from the hurried movements that it was news of importance.
He opened the door an inch.
Neilsen was crossing towards the dining-room door, which was wide open. Grant saw Nieto, a lanky man with a bald head whom he took to be the American and a short tubby man whom he had seen at the ball. Neilsen waved to the others.
“He is coming—he will be here between one and two o’clock, so all is well.”
Grant was alone in his bedroom.
Neilsen had told him he would be called about one o’clock and might not get any rest after that—and suggested that, like everyone else, he got what rest he could before. He loosened his collar and tie and took off his shoes, but didn’t undress. No alarm had yet been raised about Manuel; he was expecting an outcry at any moment.
If the bedroom across the landing were used, and a man looked out of the window—
He was startled by thudding footsteps, and heard Neilsen call out: “Manuel—Manuel!” A moment later: “Where is the fool?” But there was an undertone of excitement in the Novian’s voice. He ran downstiars. There was a confused murmur of voices, followed by a sharp exclamation from Neilsen. Grant didn’t catch the actual word; but alarm, incredulity, and fear were all blended in the sound. Grant jumped off the bed and hurried to the door.
A man said in a jovial voice: “Yes, a miracle, is it not? A miracle! Look after her well, my friend; don’t let her trick you again!”
Grant opened the door, so that he could see on to the landing. Two men came up the stairs—the American and another. The light was poor, and Grant caught a quick view of his back, saw only that he was elderly, big and burly, and walked heavily. The American hid him from Grant.
The two turned into the meeting-room, and Neilsen shouted again: “Manuel!”
One of the guards spoke. The American and Nieto came up the stairs, and Nieto looked as if his world had crashed.
“Manuel!” cried Neilsen.
The guard spoke again.
Neilsen said: “Be careful with her,” then realized that the man did not speak English, and repeated the phrase in a tongue Grant didn’t know.
Grant didn’t understand anything of this, but felt a queer nervous tension. He was going to be as astounded as the others; it would take a lot to shock Nieto.
“Manuel!” Neilsen came hurrying up the stairs, and then called: “Grant, come here!” Grant went out at once. “Have you seen Manuel?”
“He was here when I came upstairs.”
“He’s never about when I want him! Go downstairs and wait for him, will you?”
There was a curious look in Neilsen’s eyes, but Grant didn’t try to understand it. He felt the suspicion kindling in the other’s mind. He started down the stairs, and knew that Neilsen watched every step he took. No one was in the hall, but the door of the sitting-room stood open and light streamed through.
The guard stood just inside the room.
Marlene stood behind him.
26 / The Miracle
The sight of her struck Grant like a bullet from a gun. He raised his hands and backed away, feeling as if all reason had been blasted out of him. The guard, the room, and Marlene danced in front of his eyes.
Only the pounding of his heart broke the silence.
Then Neilsen called down to him, and the spell was broken.
“Don’t you believe in miracles, Grant?”
Grant turned and looked at him. Neilsen’s twisted smile was at his lips, and cruelty in the man had never been more evident.
Grant said thickly: “But—she was dead. She was dead! You felt her pulse, you—”
“Oh, we thought she was dead,” said Neilsen. “Now you know what you’re dealing with—a woman who can rise from the grave! Don’t let her out of your sight. If she throws another fit, send for me. I know how to cure her now.”
Someone called out to him from the meeting-room, and he turned and disappeared. Grant drew his hand across his damp forehead and stepped unsteadily into the room.
Marlene did not smile, just stood there. She was pale and there were dark shadows beneath her eyes. She wore no hat; the glossy sheen of her hair was gone, it looked dull and lifeless.
The guard went outside and closed the door.
