by John Creasey
Well, thought Craigie, it had been coming long enough, and there had been ample warnings. He ran over them slowly, in his mind. Starting from the absurdity of the Locarno Pact and the natural—the inevitable—secession of Germany from it, a hundred straws had shown the direction of the wind. The meteoric rise of Hitler, the gradual combination of the Italo-Germanic pact, the increasing number of countries with Fascist regimes yoked together under the term ‘Mid-European’, the natural strengthening of the armaments position of those few countries with more democratic sympathies, the inevitable re-arming everywhere—all these things had told him, and should have told the others. But there was madness in some countries, and blindness in others.
He reflected wearily on the appalling examples the world had seen in recent years.
The Italian crushing of Abyssinia, the inhuman fight between the military and the democrats in Spain; the Portuguese rebellions—following each other so swiftly that sooner or later the ruling Government must fall; the European uprising against Jewry—with its like in Palestine, where Britain was still trying without success to crush the revolt; Hitler’s heavy arms programme and the re-militarising of the Rhine zone: the Moscow Trial, indicative of the unrest in the Soviet and—perhaps worse than any of the others, although not fully appreciated anywhere—the bitterness that was growing apace among the black races, against the racial distinction, which Hitler and the other Fascist powers were driving hard. All these things spelled only one thing together—WAR. It must come.
And there were other things. Japan, after her shock when she had tried to raid Europe and had failed—when Burke had performed what was almost a miracle—was still ready to pounce on Western weakness. Craigie knew—and that was the reason why he was more worried than he had ever been in his life—that once the flare came, it would be world-wide.
The immediate cause of the war-fever, the sabotage and outrages organised by Marlin, must be eliminated if there was to be breathing space before the conflagration. If it could be eliminated, the rumblings on the Continent might yet die down... if...
Craigie sighed, tapped out his pipe in the fireplace, stood up and walked to his desk. He took out the map of England, with its marked locations of military and other bases, and studied it for a long time.
11
Mrs. Trentham talks
Carruthers and Beaumont were waiting at the Carilon for Kerr and Davidson, who had gone to the Lucretia Hotel ahead of the others. Kerr, with the habit of years, was able to forget the issues at stake and to concentrate exclusively on the matter of immediate concern. He wanted to find the man Mayhew, and he was convinced that if he could do so, he would be very near to finding Marlin.
The Manager of the Lucretia—one of the smaller, Victorian-style hotels—was a mild-mannered man of close to seventy. He was pleased to offer all the help he could to these special police agents, as Kerr and Davidson called themselves.
‘A Mr. Mayhew? Yes, he had had a Mr. Mayhew staying for a few weeks. That would have been immediately after Christmas...
‘Was he a tall man, Mr. Williams?’ Kerr asked.
‘No—only about five-nine, I should say. He had rather a stoop—nothing exaggerated, but there.’
‘Did he wear glasses?’
‘Oh, yes. Those very thick, horn-rimmed ones.’
‘I see,’ said Kerr, grimly. He had a mental picture of this man Mayhew, walking with a stoop deliberately to hide his true height, wearing glasses to hide his eyes and—with their thick horn rims—his eyebrows. ‘How did he dress, Mr. Williams?’
‘Oh, very well, sir. He was most particular about his clothes. He invariably wore dark grey.’
Another unobtrusive factor, Kerr noted bleakly. Then the manager added:
‘Oh, one thing I quite forgot, Mr. Kerr. He had a limp; a pronounced limp, on the right side. He threw his leg forward a little—you know how I mean?’
‘Indeed I do,’ said Kerr, his eyes gleaming. ‘Now, if you can tell me just when he first came here, and how often he visited the hotel...?’
Williams turned up his records, which showed that Mayhew had first stayed at the Lucretia for a week immediately after Christmas: he had gone away for five days and returned for two weeks, gone again for ten days, then returned for a final week. When he left, it was reportedly for a longish trip abroad.
‘Did he have any visitors, Mr. Williams?’
‘One man did come once or twice, I know sir, But I didn’t see him myself; my assistant mentioned it.’
‘Can I see the assistant?’ asked Kerr.
He could; and five minutes later, had more reason than ever to know that Mayhew was his man. For the caller—who had given his name as Smith—had been tall, scholarly-looking, and with a peculiarly sallow skin. Kerr had not seen Marlin, but he knew the description fitted well enough.
It was impossible, unfortunately, to ascertain the actual dates on which ‘Smith’ had called at the Lucretia; Kerr gave up trying, and pressed for still more information about his visitors. There had been one or two who had called briefly, it seemed, but the assistant manager and the reception clerk had no clear memory of them.
Kerr described what he could of the man he knew as Kelly; but the instigator of the Pockham outrage had not, so far as the Lucretia management knew, visited the mysterious Mr. Mayhew. Disappointed, Kerr prepared to go.
‘No lady visitors, I suppose?’ he added idly.
‘Only on two occasions, sir, when he had a secretary call here. I forget the woman’s name. A Mrs. Trenchard, or Trentham, or------sir! Is there something wrong?
Without a word, Kerr had reached for the telephone.
‘Trunks?’ he was saying now. ‘Get me Preston 09317. Official business, please.’
Craigie had told him that once the Cabinet had realised the real danger of the situation, all telephone exchanges had been instructed that the words ‘official business’ were to earn callers immediate priority, and he was certainly connected with The Larches in record time.
‘Trale?’ he asked, recognising the voice.
‘Yes,’ said Dodo. He recognised Kerr, too, but automatically following the ritual Craigie insisted his Department men use in telephoning each other, he spelt his name backwards.
Kerr followed suit, then added quickly:
‘Is Mrs. Trentham still there?’
His relief when Trale said ‘Yes’ was enormous.
‘Fine! Don’t let her out of your sight—let her go out if she wants to, but follow her yourself. That woman’s not all she seems. Don’t lose her, or you’ll lose your neck! I’ll come up right away.’
‘By air?’
‘How else?’
‘All right, all right!’ Trale laughed wryly. He was a good Department man—one of the best—and no-one had Craigie’s interests more at heart. But his supreme imperturability was not matched by an ability to think and act on the instant. On the other hand, he had yet to fail in any job he was given, and he was a match for most men with fists or gun.
‘I’ll be waiting, Bob,’ he promised.
‘Good man,’ said Kerr, and rang off.
Williams was obviously a little breathless to find himself caught up in such dramatic happenings, and clearly impressed by the famous flier’s abrupt but casual:
‘Another trip, Wally. Call Heston, will you, and tell them to have that bus ready? Now, Mr. Williams—before we go: you can’t tell me of any other visitors?’
‘None at all, to my knowledge, sir.’
‘And nothing that might help us to locate Mr. Mayhew?’
‘I’m so sorry—I have no idea at all where he was going.’
Kerr smiled mechanically, his mind already darting elsewhere.
‘Thank you, Mr. Williams—I may telephone you a little later in the day. Good morning.’
The two men reached Preston in something under two hours, and entered the porch of Jeremy Potter’s house at an interesting moment. For Mrs. Trentham was about to enter the drive.
They had left the airfield by car, and Kerr had seen the woman, with Trale following unobtrusively behind, walking sharply up the Lancaster Road.
He was in the hall before the others, and when Mrs. Trentham entered, he smiled and bowed. Davidson followed suit, remarking that it was a nice day—and Mrs. Trentham gravely agreed, then she excused herself to go to her room. She was dressed in black, Kerr noticed, and the quiet clothing gave her a prettiness she had not possessed when he had last seen her. She seemed more self-assured now, despite her outward display of mourning, and Kerr wondered what she would say when he asked how often she had visited London—and Mr. Mayhew.
Before he questioned her, however, he wanted to talk with Trale; he was curious as to that morning’s walk;
Trale couldn’t be sure there was anything in it.
‘She went to the North Country Bank,’ he reported, ‘and then to a hairdresser’s—funny how these women put hair before anything else. Stayed there about an hour, and walked straight back here. That’s the lot. I have the addresses, in case you want ’em.’
‘I might,’ said Kerr. ‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea if you inquired at that hairdresser’s right away.’
‘Telephone, you mean?’
‘Go and see them,’ Kerr advised. Adding, as Dodo seemed about to protest: ‘We’ve got to try everything, Trale. Everything. Timothy’d better go with you.’
‘Sorry, sergeant!’ Dodo grinned, sketching a mock salute. ‘So long.’
He went out with Timothy Arran, and Kerr smiled as he looked at his watch. It was half-past two, which explained why he was feeling hungry. Now he came to think of it, he hadn’t had much in the way of breakfast. Nor had Davidson, who offered to go and see what he could persuade Oakwood to rustle up.
‘I suppose,’ he added, ‘you don’t think it wise to leave Mrs. T. for a few hours? She might pay some more rewarding visits, while if you talk to her she’ll be wise to the trouble and stay at home.’
‘I can’t lose time,’ Kerr objected.
‘Well, good luck!’ said Wally philosophically. ‘If you feel as hungry as I do, you’ll hope she won’t keep you too long.’
Kerr nodded wryly, and turned towards the stairs. He knew where Mrs. Trentham’s room was, and wondered what her reaction would be.
Her ‘come in’, in answer to his knock, was cool enough. But he obeyed, and closed the door behind him. Mrs. Trentham was sitting at a desk, an accounts book open before her. She was particularly well-groomed, and even a less observant man than Kerr could have seen that her hair had recently been dressed.
‘Hope I’m not butting in?’ he enquired, with his widest smile. Perhaps it was the knowledge that she could have told him a great deal more than she had about the mysterious Mr. Mayhew, that made him think she looked more capable, this morning, and—although the word was absurd—dangerous. There was a sharp glint in her eyes he could not fathom.
‘There’s a lot to do,’ said Mrs. Trentham, ‘and I don’t think I ought to stop because—well...’
‘I know.’ Kerr had a sudden vision of Jeremy Potter, lying outstretched on the hearth-rug with that dreadful circle of crimson around his neck, and reminded himself of the woman’s terror—which he was sure had been genuine. He did not believe anyone could have acted as convincingly as that. ‘Mr. Potter’s solicitors have been along, I take it?’
‘Yes; but only for a few minutes. Is there anything I can do for you?’
She glanced at the book pointedly, as if to say that if Kerr wanted no more than a few minutes’ idle conversation, she wished he would go elsewhere for it. He smiled again, answering her:
‘Yes, there’s one little thing: Why didn’t you tell me you had been to see Mr. Mayhew at the Lucretia Hotel, Mrs. Trentham?’
He had spoken as easily and lightly, as though enquiring about her general well-being. But as he finished, she was staring at him—with something of the previous night’s horror in her eyes. Her whole body was rigid, and for a full minute after he had stopped, she couldn’t speak. Kerr watched her closely, and with deep satisfaction: he was on to a warm trail, at last.
‘But—but,’ Kerr’s voice hardened.
‘It’s useless to say you didn’t. I’ve been busy, Mrs. Trentham, and I know a great deal. Particularly, that you lied last night when you told me you didn’t know Mayhew well. That looks suspiciously as though you have reason to wish to shield him.’
She was still staring at him, but made an effort to answer rationally.
‘I—I don’t know what to say.’ She was very pale now, and again Kerr noted how her looks suffered when she was under stress of emotion.
‘I think,’ he said grimly, ‘you’d better tell me all you know about the man, without further prevarication.’
He was standing between her and the door: solid, impassive—a man who clearly could and probably would go to any length to make her talk—and in sudden panic, she pushed her chair back from the desk.
‘I can’t tell you! Mr. Potter sent me to London to take notes and he made me swear I’d never talk...’
‘Don’t lie,’ Kerr snapped. ‘I want the truth.’
‘I’m giving it!’ She was almost wild with alarm now. ‘You can’t make me tell what I don’t know!’
‘I can make you tell what you do know.’ His eyes bored into hers. ‘I think you had better change your mind, Mrs. Trentham.’
‘I can’t, I tell you! Oh, I can’t stand this! What are you trying to do; what are you trying to say? You’ve no right to ask questions without someone else here, you...’
‘I think,’ said Kerr, in a dangerously quiet voice, ‘you’d better get this straight, Mrs. Trentham. You may or may not know that Mr. Potter’s murder is incidental to a larger inquiry, and that the situation is serious enough for us to forget that there is a law in this country to protect the accused...’
‘I’m not accused of anything! How dare you say I am?’
‘Whether they are innocent or guilty,’ Kerr went on, as though she had not interrupted. ‘There are police downstairs, and they have had instructions to close their ears to anything they might hear from this room. There is no limit, Mrs. Trentham, to the methods of persuasion I can use. I don’t want to use them, but I must know all you know of the man Mayhew. Now—are you going to talk?’
He saw the increasing horror in her eyes, and he hated his job more than he could have said. After all, she was probably mixed up in this business without knowing quite why. On the other hand, she knew something about Mayhew; might even be able to tell him what the man was doing and where he was.
And suddenly Bob Kerr realised the importance of Mayhew in the mystery of the sabotage.
He was amazed that he had not seen it before—and that Craigie had missed it, too. Because Mayhew was known to have travelled from one country to another. Mayhew was probably the travelling agent for Marlin...
‘Come on, talk!’ he commanded, harshly. ‘I’ll give you two minutes.’ He had a sudden sharp awareness of what this whole thing meant: a sudden memory of that explosion at Pockham, and all its victims. ‘Talk, damn you!’
‘No, no!’ she almost screamed. ‘I don’t know anything—how could...’
Kerr took one step forward. His right hand closed around her forearm, hard enough to make her wince.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he warned.
He wasn’t prepared for what came. With one jerk, she had wrenched her arm away and jumped from her chair, pulling her bag off the desk. More quickly than he would have credited, she had a gun out and was standing by the window, glaring fanatically at him, the gun trembling in her shaking fingers—but pointing straight at his chest.
Robert McMillan Kerr had often been surprised, but never had he been taken so completely off his guard. For a moment, he stared at the gun almost stupidly. Then he looked up, into the woman’s eyes.
‘As bad as that, is it?’ he said gently—then sprang sideways. There was a stab of yellow flame and the sharp zutt! of a si
lenced automatic—but even before the bullet had hit the door, Kerr had kicked out with his right leg: this was no time for niceties. He caught her ankle and she cried aloud in pain and alarm as she staggered, the gun dropping from her fingers.
Kerr swooped on it, then stood up slowly.
‘That didn’t work exactly to plan,’ he remarked conversationally, and if his expression had frightened her before, it seemed to terrify her, now.
She was breathing quickly, her breast heaving. Her eyes did not leave his for a moment.
Then suddenly, ridiculously, she demanded: ‘Well, what are you going to do, now?’ Her voice was high, artificial: ‘You—beast!’
Kerr almost laughed. It was an act, and a poor one. She was putting on a show. For whatever reason, she was playing for time.
‘Come along, Mrs. Trentham—don’t drag it out any more. I shall have to...’
‘How dare you cross-question me like this! Who do you think you are? Get out of my room!’ she screamed, suddenly. ‘Get out! If Mr. Potter knew you were pestering me------’
‘Wally!’ he shouted, over his shoulder. ‘Come up, will you?’
Davidson raced up the stairs. He had been waiting at the foot of them, curious as to what her hysterical shouting might connote. As he reached the landing, Kerr called:
‘See if you can find a dog-whip—or a length of rope. This fool thinks she’s clever.’
Wally grinned. ‘There’s a thing in the hall—a long thing------’
‘I remember,’ said Kerr. ‘Just what I want. Tell Moor to ignore her shouting, will you?’
‘Leave it to me!’ Davidson almost fell down the stairs with laughter. For Kerr to speak of whipping a woman------!
He reached the hall, still chuckling, and took the whip—an ornamental silver-mounted one—from its bracket in the wall. He cracked it once, and turned towards the stairs.
It was then that the front door opened.
Wally hardly realised that was strange, for a moment. He should have done, for he had heard Moor give instructions that no one was to enter with a key. Oakwood had, indeed, surrendered all the keys on the previous evening. But the door was opened with one—and as he saw the three men in the porch, he realised it was all wrong. His hand dropped to his pocket, but he was a fraction of a second too late.
