by Seb Spence
Before leaving Northampton, however, Barton felt that there was one thing he should do: he needed to apologise to Grace Harrison. He had effectively accused her of treason, an accusation that had proved to be completely unfounded, and he felt guilty. An apology in person was out of the question, in view of what Cheyne had said, but a written apology was possible. The problem was, he did not know where she was staying now. He knew Cheyne would not divulge this to him, so instead, on Monday morning, he had phoned the CID officer who had questioned him on Sunday and asked the man about Miller’s whereabouts. Miller, he felt, would be able to get a message to her. However, the CID man had said he had no contact details for Miller, though Barton suspected he was just holding back the information. In the end, Barton had written to her home address in the hope that it would be forwarded to her.
Consequently, Tuesday morning found him in a good mood: he was rested, he had discharged his duties, and he was looking forward to unwinding in the countryside with his friends. Just after 8am, as he was in the middle of shaving, there was a knock at his door and he heard Bronx call from the other side: “It’s me. Are you coming down to breakfast?”
Razor in hand and face still lathered, Barton went to the door and let him in. “Have a seat while I finish off. Won’t be long.” He returned to the sink, while Moncur, for want of something to do while waiting, went over to the window and looked up at the sky.
“The weather looks promising: there’s not much cloud about. If it stays like this for the next few days, you’ll be able to enjoy lots of outdoor pursuits with your country cousins: ratting, beagling – that sort of thing.”
“They’re not the blood-sports type. Besides, I prefer it when it rains – it’s a good excuse to stay indoors, drinking home-made wine and consuming country produce.”
The window of Barton’s room at the Star looked out onto a narrow cul-de-sac that ran down the side of the hotel, separating it from the next block. A boarded-up ironmonger’s store stood on the corner opposite the hotel and the room looked out onto its side wall: a windowless expanse of brick adorned with a few enamelled signs, rusting at the edges and advertising such desirable commodities as ‘Rinso’ and ‘Hudson’s Dry Soap’. An ARP warden in blue overalls and white tin helmet walked by. There was no-one else in the street and Moncur was about to move away from the window, when he noticed a nondescript grey car turn in from the main road. It drove by, did a three-point turn further down the cul-de-sac and then pulled up just below where he was standing. A black-haired man in a dark suit got out of the front passenger door and walked down the street towards the front of the hotel.
Having exhausted the possibilities of the window, Moncur turned away from it. “Hurry up Barton, I’m famished.”
“All right! I’m going as fast as I can.” Barton finished shaving and put on his tie and tunic. Since they were off the Cobalt case, there was no longer any reason for wearing civvies, so they were now both back in uniform. As Barton gave his appearance the once-over in the wardrobe mirror, there was a knock at the door. He opened it and Moncur, looking past him, recognised the man standing in the doorway as the one who had just got out of the car in the street below. Barton had told him about his encounter with the MI18 man and, remembering the description he had been given at the time, Moncur realised from the thick lips and effeminate face that this was Cheyne.
“What do you want?” Barton asked in a less than friendly tone.
“I’ll come in, if I may,” he responded, walking past Barton without waiting to be invited in. He stopped in the middle of the room and with an amused look eyed Moncur. “I take it this is your colleague, Flight Lieutenant Moncur.” Bronx stared back in silence, having taken an instant dislike to the man. “I suppose he might as well hear what I have to say too,” Cheyne continued and turned to face Barton. “I’m disappointed, Pilot Officer. I told you to drop this case, but you have ignored my instructions.”
“That’s nonsense! I’ve had nothing to do with it since seeing you on Sunday.”
“Then can you explain why I got a call from Northampton CID yesterday saying that you had been making enquiries about Roy Miller’s address?”
“That was nothing to do with the Cobalt case – I just wanted to send Miss Harrison a note apologising for what I’d done.”
The smile slipped away from Cheyne’s face as it hardened into a menacing expression. “From now on you will have no further communication whatsoever with Miss Harrison – you will not see her, write to her or phone her. Is that understood? This is your last warning, Barton, and it goes for your sidekick too. If you defy me on this, I’ll have you posted to the other side of the globe, and don’t think I can’t do it. Your friend Minton won’t be able to help you. We still have some dependencies in the South Atlantic and I’m sure they would be grateful for someone to look after their barrage balloons. Do I make myself clear?”
Barton and Bronx glared at him resentfully but said nothing.
Cheyne slipped back into his bantering persona and continued: “Don’t be too downhearted, Barton – she’s not worth it, you know. I could tell you a few things about the girls from the Silver Masque Club that would lift the scales from your eyes. As you might guess, the dancers and hostesses there are not exactly shy and retiring in male company; quite the reverse, in fact – they’re rather liberal with their favours, which makes them very popular with the customers.”
“So Grace is a hit with the clients. So what?” Barton said dismissively.
“The girls are always being invited out to parties and do’s, and they’re always happy to accept such invitations,” Cheyne went on with a smirk. “After all, why not: they’re often well rewarded for their services. The problem is, some of them are trying to formalise the arrangements, put them on a commercial footing so to speak.”
Barton did not like the turn the conversation had taken. “What are you insinuating?” he demanded aggressively.
Satisfied that he had managed to provoke Barton, Cheyne adopted a mollifying tone. There was no point in starting a fight, he thought. “I’m not insinuating anything, Pilot Officer, I’m just saying that some girls are not worthy of the devotion they inspire.” He paused, smiling, and then added. “Please remember what I said about communication with Miss Harrison. I wouldn’t want us to fall out.” Without waiting for a response, he walked past Barton and left the room.
“Nasty piece of work,” Bronx commented when he’d gone. “What a damn cheek! Who does he think he is, threatening us like that? You should speak with your man Minton and put in a complaint.”
Barton’s good mood had evaporated. Like Bronx, he was feeling furious. Being cut off from Grace indefinitely would be hard to bear, though he realised that in all probability she would want nothing more to do with him anyway, which was fair enough after the way he had treated her. However, to be forbidden to communicate with her by the sneering Cheyne was intolerable. The anger began to rise in him. “You’re right, Bronx, I’ll have a word with Minton. The fellow deserves a reprimand.”
They continued to rail against Cheyne for several minutes, until Bronx, happening to look out of the window, noticed that the car was still in the street below. “You know, he hasn’t gone yet Barton – his car’s still outside. You should go down and give him a piece of your mind. You’ve let him off with far too much.” Barton went over to the window and looked down at the grey car parked below. “You’re right! I will.” He set off straightaway, anxious to catch Cheyne before he drove off.
The car was still there as he turned the corner and started down the side street by the hotel. He could hear its engine running as he approached. Cheyne was in the passenger seat and was staring straight ahead, no doubt trying to ignore him, Barton supposed. Maxwell was behind the wheel and seemed to be dozing – he was leaning back with his neck resting on the back of his seat and his eyes closed.
As he drew alongside the car, Barton observed that Cheyne was continuing to stare in front of him, so he rapped on
the passenger window with his knuckles. “Listen Cheyne, I want a word with you. I think you’ve got a damn ... ” He broke off for it was at that point he noticed the crimson stain on the back of the man’s otherwise immaculate white shirt collar. Barton opened the car door. “Are you alright?” he said, gripping his shoulder. Cheyne’s torso slumped forward revealing an extensive, blood-soaked area at the back of his head. “Christ!” Barton exclaimed and then leaned across and shook Maxwell, hoping for some response, but he, too, sagged lifelessly to one side. They were both dead.
Ashen and trembling, Barton looked up and down the street. It was deserted. There was no sign of the killer. He took a few moments to compose himself, then leaned into the car again to switch off the engine. As he did so, he noticed that Cheyne had a small black notebook in his left hand. Barton carefully removed it and flicked through the pages, wondering if it might somehow be a clue to who had killed them. An address caught his eye: ‘GH – 22 Inkerman Rd.’ It was the address of the boarding house where Grace and Miller had been staying in Northampton. A line had been drawn through it and a new address written underneath. This observation galvanised him. He closed the car door and ran back into the hotel.
#
Moncur had been watching the proceedings from the bedroom window but could not fathom what was going on. He saw Barton sprint up the street and expected he would soon appear back in the room to enlighten him on what had happened. However, five minutes passed before Barton, still pale from his gruesome discovery, burst into the room and announced breathlessly “They’re dead, Bronx!”
“Who is?”
“Cheyne and his partner.”
Moncur seemed to have difficulty absorbing this information. “What do you mean dead?”
“Someone has just shot them both.” Moncur looked stunned. “Come on,” Barton continued, “we’ve got no time to loose.”
“Where are we going?”
“We’re going to find Grace Harrison. I think I now know where she’s staying – she’s at another address in Northampton.”
“But what’s she got to do with this?”
“It’s probable that Cheyne’s been murdered by someone in Cobalt’s gang, and if they know about Cheyne, they maybe know she was working for him – she could be in extreme danger.”
“What about the police – shouldn’t we tell them what’s happened?
“I’ve already phoned Minton and told him. He said he would inform Special Branch and Cheyne’s superiors. We don’t have time to do anything more.”
A courtyard at the rear of the Star served as the hotel car park. It opened onto the cul-de-sac overlooked by Barton’s room and could be accessed by a door at the back of the hotel. Barton and Moncur went straight down to the Alvis, which was parked in the courtyard, and drove out into the side street. As they passed the bodies of the two Military Intelligence officers in the grey car, Barton remarked grimly, “I have a feeling we’re back on the case.”
#
It took less than fifteen minutes for Barton and Moncur to reach the street where Grace was now staying. As they turned into it, they saw a black Riley saloon approaching from the opposite direction. Barton was not paying much attention to the occupants of the car as it neared them: he was pre-occupied with the matter in hand, anxious about what he would find at Grace’s lodgings if they were too late. He was vaguely aware that the Riley was being driven by a woman and that there was a woman passenger in the front seat. As he absently regarded the driver, he realised with a start that it was Vivian Adair, and looking across at the passenger, saw it was Grace. They were both staring back at him. Suddenly, the Riley accelerated and, taking the corner with a screech of tyres, sped off down the road along which Barton and Bronx had just driven.
“That was them Bronx! Grace and the Adair woman. We need to follow them – turn the car, turn the car!” Moncur swerved the Alvis to the right, did a rapid three-point turn and raced back round the corner after the black saloon. As they turned into the road, they just caught a glimpse of it making a left into another side street a block away.
For several minutes they pursued the Riley through a labyrinth of back streets, gaining slowly on it.
“She’s driving like a maniac,” Bronx observed. “Totally reckless. There’s going to be an accident unless she slows down.”
The Riley was just half a block ahead of them when it screeched around a corner onto what looked to Barton like a main road. However, as they sped towards the junction in pursuit, a brewer’s drey began to pass slowly across the end of the street, making them brake hard and come to a halt for several seconds to let it get by. When they eventually turned onto the main road, they could just see the Riley in the distance, apparently heading out of town. They took up the chase again, and within minutes they had reached the city boundary.
As far as Barton could tell, the road they were on was leading in a north-easterly direction. They seemed to be gaining slightly on the Riley, but he wondered whether they would ever be able to catch up with it. If they had the misfortune to be held up by another obstruction, they could well lose it altogether.
“She’s fairly belting along; do you think we can catch her, Bronx?”
“That’s a Riley Kestrel she’s in. If it’s the 12/4 version, then it shouldn’t be a problem – it can’t go much more than 70. The Alvis’ll do 85, although I’ve never had it up to that speed.”
They were driving through open country now, and Barton was relieved to see there was no other traffic around. Steadily, they closed the gap and were within fifty yards of the Riley, when suddenly it veered off into a side road.
“Where the devil is she going now?” Bronx demanded in frustration as he turned off after her.
“I don’t think she’s heading for anywhere in particular. My guess is that she knows she can’t outrun us on the main road, so she’s going to try and lose us in the country lanes.”
It was a fairly narrow road they had entered, slightly less than the width of two cars. Bordered by hedgerows, it meandered its way between fields, passing through the occasional copse. At one point shortly after they joined the road, they could see that ahead there was a sharp bend to the left and as the Riley careered round it, its rear skidded onto the verge, creating a cloud of dust and spraying gravel onto the roadway. It was the first of a series of sharp bends, and Vivian Adair negotiated them all in the same way.
Barton noticed that, in contrast, Bronx slowed down as he approached each bend and was careful not to go off the road. At first, Barton put this down to his friend’s superior driving skills, but as the Riley began to gain ground on them, it occurred to him that Bronx was being overly cautious, probably to protect his precious Alvis. He felt he needed to address this: “Correct me if I’m wrong, Moncur, but do we not need to be going faster than they are in order to catch up with them? I know you don’t want to chip the paintwork, but there’s a lot at stake here.”
“Yes, thank you Barton, I understand the concept of the car chase,” Moncur replied testily, “but she’s driving far too fast for this road. She’s going to come a cropper, mark my words. She’ll be ending up in a ditch at the side of the road any minute now.”
However, Vivian Adair did not come off the road: she seemed to be fairly adept at high speed driving under rally conditions. Instead, she gradually increased her lead until she was several hundred yards ahead of them. In fact, she was so far in front now that wherever the road zigzagged, they lost sight of the Riley and it only came into view if they happened to be on a straight stretch. Barton began to worry that on one of the occasions when it was out of sight, Vivian Adair might decide to try evading them by pulling off onto some track or farm road and hiding there until her pursuers had gone by. She might then emerge and double back. By the time he and Moncur realised their quarry had turned off, it might be too late to catch up with them.
Coming out of a series of bends, they entered a long straight section that ended in a steep incline up towards a wood t
hat ran along a ridge ahead of them. As they began to accelerate along this stretch, they could see the Riley near the top of the incline. It reached the summit and swung round a bend to the left, disappearing from view among the trees. In less than half a minute they, too, were at the summit and passing round the bend at the top. It was the first of a long series of bends through the wood. Barton began to lose hope: if the road went on winding about like this, they would never catch up.
As they approached the edge of the wood, Barton could see through gaps in the trees to their right that the road was meandering along the rim of a shallow valley, at the bottom of which flowed a small river. He noticed that the water was not very deep, since he could see the river bed, and rocks were protruding through the surface. When it emerged from the wood, the road began to descend diagonally down the side of the valley, sloping gently towards the river. At the bottom of the incline, the road curved sharply to the right and crossed the river at a ford.
And there, stopped just beyond the ford, was the Riley.
“What did I tell you!” Bronx exclaimed triumphantly. “She’s conked out – gone across the ford too fast, got water in the engine and stalled it.”
As they drew near the ford, Barton saw that there would not be room to pull up behind the Riley since it was standing just beyond the edge of the water. There was no room to get round it, which meant that they would have to stop on this side and one of them would have to walk through the ford. Barton was not keen on getting his boots full of water and felt there should be some discussion about who went across. “So, who’s going over to them, bearing in mind that I have a gammy leg?”
The same thought had occurred to Moncur, who was equally reluctant to get a booter. He had his answer ready: “Sorry, Barton, it will have to be you. I can’t drive in wet shoes – my feet would keep slipping off the pedals.” He brought the Alvis to a halt at the edge of the water.
