by John Creasey
‘Mike!’
‘It was so characteristic of Carosi that it didn’t worry me at all,’ said Grant. ‘It was just part of his plan to get us on edge, and spoil everything for us—and strike to kill. At least we know everything now.’
Christine’s happiness seemed deeper, now, and less dreamlike. There were causes for fear, but no secrets from each other. That was how she had hoped it would be.
It was nearly three o’clock when they entered the hotel.
‘Do you know what?’ said Grant. ‘I’d like a swim. How about you?’
‘I’d love to.’
They were laughing and carefree as they passed a tall, fair-haired, good-looking man whom they had not seen before. There was something friendly and attractive about his grin.
In the bedroom, Christine commented: ‘He looked interesting, didn’t he?’
‘For the next week or two, no man may look interesting to you,’ declared Grant. ‘Rule one for newly-weds.’
‘Yes, dear,’ said Christine meekly.
Her swimsuit was royal-blue, and fitted snugly, and she caught sight of Michael eyeing her, as if he had never really seen her before.
‘There is a time and a place,’ she said.
‘This is the place,’ said Grant, and held and lifted her over the bed, and then dropped her.
‘Still want to swim?’
‘Later,’ she said.
They went out soon after four, wearing their raincoats, and carrying towels. They walked across the flagged courtyard towards the bathing-pool. In spite of the warmth and brightness, no one else was there. Mike took off his coat and began to run when a few yards from the edge. He dived in, as if born to the water, bobbed up and called: ‘Come on! It isn’t cold.’
Christine poised for the dive.
Even before she started, they heard a sharp report from a long way off. Next moment, something cracked against the side of the bath not a foot from where she stood.
Christine dived, in spite of it. When she broke surface Grant was standing at the shallow end, staring towards the distant woods.
He called: ‘Keep low, darling, and swim here.’
She obeyed. They crouched down so that only their heads showed above the side of the pool. By that time, the detective who was guarding them and another policeman had started to run towards the shrubbery.
‘So he’s still at it,’ Grant said, heavily.
He hoisted himself out of the water, and pulled Christine up. They stood watching the policeman, and trying to discern some movement among the trees. They failed, but heard the roar of a motor-cycle engine some way off.
Mike went to the spot where they had left their towels and coats, and brought them back. They wrapped the towels round their shoulders before going to the deep end. One of the surround tiles had a new crack, and a few tiny pieces had been chipped out of it. A little farther away, on the asphalt path which ran round the pool, they saw a shallow groove.
Not far ahead lay the bullet, with its squashed lead nose.
Mike bent down to pick it up.
‘Hallo,’ a man said, ‘found something interesting?’
Both Christine and Mike looked up, and saw the fair-haired man whom they had seen in the hotel.
‘I think it’s interesting,’ said Mike, closing his fingers about it. ‘Come on, Chris, we’d better get in.’
‘It is a bit chilly,’ said the new-comer. ‘For more reasons than one. Didn’t I hear a shot?’
‘Someone fooling about in the woods,’ growled Grant. ‘Excuse us, please.’
‘Of course,’ the other said.
‘We need a hot tub after that,’ Grant said, when he and Christine were in the room. ‘You first, darling.’ He was very matter-of-fact. ‘I hope that blond Adonis won’t go blabbing among the others at the hotel. It only wants one or two more attacks like this to cause a panic in the hotel. I’m going to make a genuine sacrifice in the cause of justice,’ he added, standing in the bathroom door. ‘I’m going to call Fratton, instead of helping you bath!’
Fratton was already at the bedroom door. He took the bullet, said that he hoped his man would find some trace of the man who had fired at them, heard about the young ‘Adonis’ and smiled rather grimly.
‘I don’t think you need worry about that,’ he said, ‘I’ll have a word with him. But there’s another fellow at the hotel who might really make things difficult—a London reporter, named Fingleton, a big fellow with curly red hair. If he tackles you, I should just say as little as you can.’
‘I’ll deal with him,’ Grant said, as if looking forward to it. Fratton gave his fatherly smile, and went to the door. As he opened it, a man exclaimed aloud.
Standing with his hand outstretched, and looking foolish, was a powerful man with an untidy mop of curly red hair -the hair of the newspaper man, Fingleton. And Fingleton recovered quickly, and actually stepped inside. ‘Mr Grant, if you could spare me—’
‘Not now, probably later,’ said Grant, civilly enough. ‘Just tell me this,’ begged Fingleton, not in the least put out. ‘May I say you’re packing everything, including your wife, and flying out of Carosi’s vengeful reach?’
Grant looked at him thoughtfully, then moved to the telephone and lifted the receiver.
‘Tivern 53, please,’ he said, and waited for at least two minutes, while the detective and the reporter looked at him. Then: ‘Hello,’ said Grant quickly. ‘Is that you Haydon? I want you to pack everything again and bring it to Uplands … Yes, the morning will do. Goodbye.’ He rang off. ‘That a good enough headline?’
‘Hero on Honeymoon,’ Fingle said, and his eyes seemed to smile and approve as he hurried off.
‘Wise to humour the Press, I always think,’ Fratton murmured approvingly. ‘I think you’re right to stay, Mr Grant, although I’d be the last to blame you if you preferred to leave. No point in ignoring facts. I wouldn’t like to be positive that the staff here can be trusted. You fixed up to come here ten days ago, and in those ten days they’ve had three staff changes. We are checking on the new people, all of whom come from London.’
‘Thanks,’ said Grant, gruffly.
‘Every bit of food you eat is going to be carefully prepared by our chaps,’ said Fratton. ‘We’ll take no chances which can be avoided, and I’m sure you’ll be equally careful. Don’t drink or take any wine or spirits except out of a bottle you know hasn’t been tampered with. All that kind of thing.’
‘I hope your chaps can cook,’ Grant said dryly.
Fratton said: ‘Well, I admire your courage, Mr Grant, I really do. And Mrs Grant’s. We’ll do all we can but—’
They hadn’t been able to stop that shooting at Christine.
Grant didn’t go into the bathroom at once. The two visitors had made him even edgier, and he wanted to calm down. Soon he realised that he could hear no splashing, but then, Christine would be out of the bath by now. He looked at her clothes, spread out on the bed.
He called out: ‘Going to be long, Chris?’
She didn’t answer.
‘Chris!’ Grant strode across to the door, and turned the handle. She was teasing, of course, proving how …
The door was locked.
‘Chris!’ Grant called out, and there was an edge of alarm in his voice. ‘Chris, are you all right?’
She still didn’t answer.
‘Chris!’ he shouted, and rattled the door-handle wildly. ‘Unlock the door; let me in!’
There was no response at all.
He ran towards the passage door and hurried out, calling: ‘Fratton—Fratton!’
No one answered, although he caught a glimpse of one of the white-jacketed servants, at the end of the passage.
He went to the next room, which also had access to this bathroom, and was
part of a suite he intended to take for the rest of the stay here. He tried the handle, but that door was locked also.
He rattled it savagely, and shouted: ‘Fratton! Where the hell are you?’
Fratton appeared, hurrying. Two passing guests looked up, startled to see Grant in his swimsuit, standing and shaking the door like a crazed man. A servant hovered at the end of the passage.
‘My wife’s locked herself in the bathroom,’ Grant said. ‘I can’t get any answer. There’s another way in, through here.’
‘Well, don’t break the door down,’ said Fratton. He slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a master-key.
They stepped into a room which was furnished like the Grants’. The bathroom door was in the far corner. Mike ran across and turned the handle.
This door was unlocked, and he thrust it open …
The bathroom was empty.
Christine’s towel lay on the floor, in a heap near the swimsuit, which looked a darker blue because it was wet. There were damp footmarks on a cork mat by the side of the bath. The water was still in it, hot to the touch.
The only window was a small, high one, which could be pulled open or shut by means of a long cord: the only exits were through the bedrooms.
Fratton asked in a gruff voice: ‘Did she have any clothes with her?’
Grant looked as if he would go mad.
‘No. Just the towel—the costume. My God, they—’
‘She wouldn’t willingly leave the room stark naked,’ said Fratton, mildly. ‘She must have been forced to go, but she can’t have gone far. We’ll soon get her back.’ He hurried at last, hurrying out of the bathroom and calling over his shoulder: ‘Don’t touch anything, don’t open that other door.’
Grant didn’t answer, but stared at the door which led to their bedroom. Bolts at the top and bottom had been shot, but there was no key.
Yet someone had come in here through the other bedroom, managed to overpower Christine and carry her off.
Grant heard a sound behind him. He turned round slowly. Fingleton stood just beside him, pushing a hand through his unruly mop of hair.
‘Damnably sorry, Grant,’ he said. ‘I’ll help any way I can.’
Within half an hour of the discovery that Christine Grant was missing, every room in the hotel had been searched, but there was no trace of her. The staff quarters were subjected to the same thorough scrutiny. Members of the staff and all the guests who had been in during the afternoon were questioned. The outbuildings and the garage, the lofts of both the main building and the garage itself were all combed.
There was no trace of Christine.
At five o’clock, dressed in grey flannels and sipping a whisky and soda, Grant sat in his room, bleak-faced, hard-eyed.
The police had found nothing to help in the bathroom; no fingerprints, no footprints which they could photograph. A lot of water had been splashed on the bathroom floor, and there were damp marks on the passage carpet, probably made by a man’s footsteps after he’d left, but the marks were not plain enough to be of any use, Fratton told him.
At one end of the passage was the hall: at the other, a blank wall. A porter had been on duty in the hall most of the afternoon. He admitted that he had left the hall several times to answer the telephone, but had never been away for more than two or three minutes. Two of the telephone calls had been for guests; the other had been a wrong number.
‘It’s just possible that she was carried through one of the bedrooms,’ Fratton went on. ‘There’s one room—at the end of the passage—from which you can get by the window past a blank wall to the other wing. But even that only leads to the servants’ quarters. Most of the servants were off duty,’
Grant growled: ‘Where’s all this leading to? She’s missing. We’ve got to find her.’
‘We shall do everything we can,’ Fratton said, but the promise sounded empty. ‘Everything, Mr Grant, I assure you. There’s just one thing I must say. You may hear from Carosi about this. You mustn’t lose sight of the fact that he’s after you, and Mrs Grant is only incidental to him. Don’t leave the hotel without telling us, will you?’
Grant put his cup down.
‘I shall do exactly what I like,’ he said.
Fratton stood up, looked about to speak again, but changed his mind. He went out, closing the door softly behind him.
Chapter Seven
Missing Bride
The water in the bath had been hot – rather too hot. Hitching herself forward in the bath, Christine had turned on the cold tap, and the splashing had drowned the sound of the door opening, and of the man behind her, who stepped into the room, leaving the door open. She ran her hands through the water to distribute the new patch of cold, then turned the tap off.
The man crept nearer.
He held a large, thick bath-towel in his hands, spread out.
Christine reached forward for her sponge.
The man moved forward again, and with a single sweep brought the towel over her head, pressing tightly against her mouth. She tried to scream, but could not. The pressure eased from her mouth, and tightened on her neck. She couldn’t breathe, and the pressure grew worse. Her head began to swim, she felt great pain at her chest, and it was as if she was going to die.
Then everything faded.
The man released his pressure, and, supporting her with one hand, backed away. The lower part of his face was covered with a brown scarf, and he wore a light-coloured raincoat. He removed the towel from her head and shoulders cautiously. Her eyes were half-open and glazed, her lips were parted, and the tip of her tongue showed between her teeth.
He dropped the towel on to the floor, lifted Christine out, and dabbed her body to get most of the water off her skin.
Then he laid her on the floor, on her back, went to the communicating door and shot the bolt quietly, using a handkerchief to prevent fingerprints adhering. Next he took off his raincoat and put it on Christine with quick, rough, impersonal movements. He buttoned the coat high at the neck, made sure that his prisoner was still unconscious, then left her and went across the smaller bedroom, opened the door, and looked into the passage.
The young waiter with dark hair and a long face stood near the entrance hall.
He beckoned. The stranger went back into the bathroom, lifted Christine, and carried her to the room at the end of the passage. French windows led to a small loggia with a blank wall on one side. He went across a small hall and through another doorway which led to the scullery, empty, as it always was at that time of the afternoon.
Outside in the yard, behind the garage, stood a small tradesman’s van, with the name Frost – Fruiterer & Florist painted on the sides. The doors at the back of the van were open. The man lifted the girl inside, then climbed up behind her and closed the door.
He hadn’t seen the driver, who was at the wheel, but the van started off immediately, coasting downhill so as to make little sound.
The man took the scarf from his face, wiped the perspiration off his forehead, and turned his attention to Christine. He laid her face downwards on the floor, and began to apply artificial respiration. It wasn’t easy, with the van swaying on the poor road, but after ten minutes, Christine stirred. The man kept on until Christine uttered a little groaning sound. Then he stopped, helped her up, and sat her on an empty crate resting against the side of the van. Her eyes flickered open.
The van reached a small quarry, where a large black limousine was parked just off the road. The man at the wheel of the car waved, the van stopped, and Christine was carried to the car.
‘She all right?’ asked the car driver.
‘She’ll do. When I get her in, I’ll give her a spot of brandy. Got any car rugs?’
‘They’re in the back.’
Soon, Christine was sitting up, her head lollin
g against the upholstery. The man forced a little brandy between her lips.
‘It’s okay, sister,’ she heard her kidnapper say. ‘Just go to bye-byes for a bit longer.’ He took a hypodermic syringe from his pocket, plunged the needle into her forearm, and pressed his thumb on the plunger.
Fratton was not told of the tradesman’s van which had left Uplands until after his talk with Grant. Then a kitchen maid mentioned it to a policeman. She hadn’t thought it worth worrying about, because the van came so often, and the driver was usually the same.
Had she seen him?
No, but that didn’t mean anything; he always took the flowers into the scullery and left them in a pail.
Fratton put a call out to all police patrols and AA and RAC scouts.
By six o’clock, the florist was discovered, bound hand and foot in a quarry, and the van was found parked just off the road.
No one had seen the black car there.
Fratton left the telephone in the small room that had been set aside for the use of the police, and went into the entrance hall.
Roger West was talking to the porter, but broke off when Fratton arrived.
‘Finished?’ he asked in a sharp voice.
‘As far as I can be,’ growled Fratton.
‘Yes, it’s a pretty poor show,’ said Roger, bleakly. ‘I know the one about not crying over spilt milk, but this is enough to float a battleship.’
‘Don’t rub it in,’ Fratton growled. ‘They did a damned good job, too. Couple of strangers were near the gate, distracting my man there. He made the van stop, and actually looked in through the back windows. If there was anyone beside the driver, he must have crouched under the driver’s seat. But clever or not, it’s hell for us.’
