by John Creasey
The florid-faced, bushy-moustached man who entered first was smiling unpleasantly. His hand came from his pocket quickly, revealing his gun, as he stepped into the hall. He was followed by two men, the last one closing the door behind him.
As Wally stood staring unbelievingly, the florid-faced man laughed.
‘Seen a ghost, Davidson?’ He chuckled again. ‘If you haven’t, you soon will do. Where’s the woman?’
Davidson’s eyes were very narrow: he needed no telling of the danger. He still could hardly credit the fact that ‘Kelly’ was here: the man who had been at Pockham—the man who had shot Toby Arran. The florid-faced man could be no-one else. The description fitted too perfectly.
Benson, sometimes known as Kelly—glared as Wally made no answer. He took two steps forward before the Department man could guess what was coming, and hacked viciously at his shins.
‘Talk, you blasted fool! Where’s Trentham?’
Wally Davidson was a man who looked tired—and often was—but who had never failed to give a good account of himself when it came to action. A split second before, he had been wondering what had happened to Inspector Moor and the three policemen still in the house; and the servants. The mystery baffled him, and he was already on edge.
As Benson’s toe-cap cracked into his shin, he saw red. And if the intruders had never seen a fighting-machine before, they saw one now.
The startling abruptness of it, the apparent madness of it—for Davidson could have been drilled half-a-dozen times in the first ten seconds—did more to help him than anything else. His first punch caught Benson full on the nose, so that he staggered back, tears streaming down his face. Davidson, his own face very white, smashed home two more punches—this time, to the stomach—to send a now unconscious Benson cannoning into the men behind him, neither of whom had dared shoot before because his back was towards them. Davidson swept on as though they were half his size. It was devastation. He sent one man crashing into the wall and the other sprawling on the floor, then went after the man against the wall and hit him three times, viciously, in the face. The man’s lips split as the blood welled up, but Davidson ignored his now lacerated knuckles and simply turned to the man on the floor.
The man on the floor raised his gun.
Davidson dodged the first bullet, but he had no time to prevent a second. The man touched the trigger—and for a moment Davidson thought it was the end. But before the bullet left the gun, something pecked into the man’s back. He groaned and started, and the bullet went wide. A second something pecked into his leg and he rolled over and over on the floor cursing, and shouting.
Davidson, standing very still and staring upwards, felt the red mist clear from his eyes.
‘Hello, Kerr,’ he said absurdly.
‘Busy?’ asked Bob Kerr, starting down the stairs, gun in hand. ‘Now I know why that little vixen’s been stalling. She’s been waiting for this. I think...
What Kerr thought at that moment was never recorded, for sharply across his words came the voice of another man. It came from the rear of the house—and fast upon it, the hurrying footsteps of several men.
‘I’m clear, Benson! Are you?’
Naturally, there was no answer. As naturally, Davidson reached for his gun. But before he touched it, Kerr snapped:
‘Upstairs, man!’
Davidson hesitated for a fraction of a second. As he did so, the door to the servants’ quarters opened wide, and on the threshold he saw three men—or possibly four. He also saw a tommy-gun in the first man’s hands, and leapt for the stairs. There was a volley of curses, then, suddenly and wickedly, the rat-tat-tat of the machine-gun’s bullets hitting the front door.
Davidson always swore that Kerr’s second sense must have warned him what was coming; certainly if they had been together in the hall, nothing would have saved them from the fusillade. He was at the head of the stairs by the time Kerr reached Mrs. Trentham’s door, and glanced over his shoulder. He saw the gunman skidding round the banisters so as to re-aim—and ducking, he raced for the door Kerr had entered.
In the room, Bob Kerr was reaching for the telephone with one hand, while Mrs. Trentham—that quiet, supposedly terrified little woman—was fighting like a wildcat to prevent him. Wally was in time to see her fasten her teeth into Kerr’s free hand—but she broke away as she saw him, and rushed for the door. He swung aside at the right moment and, without hesitation, swept her legs from under her. As she crashed down, screaming, there was the thunder of footsteps on the stairs.
It was bedlam.
Kerr was shouting into the telephone to make himself heard, the woman was screaming like a maniac, the footsteps were now clattering along the hall within yards of the door, and the machine-gun was providing a steady barrage clearly designed to prevent anyone coming out. Davidson kicked the door shut—and a split second later, the bullets were pecking into it.
‘Damn that woman!’ he swore fervently. And as if echoing the sentiment, Kerr banged down the telephone, strode across to the still screaming Mrs. Trentham, and yanked her to her feet. Her shrieks seemed to couple in intensity—from fear, or rage, or both—and he did the only thing he could.
A sharp rap to her chin knocked her unconscious and he let her drop with a thud as he sprang towards the desk. Davidson followed intuitively—and only later he had time to marvel at the speed of it all, as together they crashed the hefty desk against the door at the very moment it opened and the snout of the machine-gun was jammed through.
‘Keep clear of that,’ Kerr murmured matter-of-factly, and Wally gave a wry grin as the flames stabbed viciously through the two-inch gap, the bullets ripping a line of holes in the opposite wall.
Again in unspoken agreement, they turned to the only other piece of furniture that could help them: a seven-foot high, solid mahogany cupboard. Luckily, it was only bracketed to the wall and they wrenched it away with one heave.
‘Let it drop,’ Kerr advised.
It fell with a resounding crash, and the pictures in the room were still swaying as they lugged it across and jammed it hard between the wall at one end and the desk at the other. By this time, the door was some four or five inches open but at least not wide enough for a man to squeeze through.
For the first time since he had heard Davidson scrapping in the hall, Kerr relaxed. And Wally almost laughed aloud as he calmly proffered cigarettes with the comment:
‘Bit close, what?’
‘Close!’ Davidson echoed, accepting automatically. ‘I’ve never struck anything so ruddy warm in my life! What the hell are we going to do? What the devil has happened?’
‘Caught by that.’ Kerr gestured towards the inert figure on the floor. ‘She must have telephone the moment she got in here.’ He grimaced sourly. ‘Her friend—Kelly, by the look of him—has obviously got at least half a dozen men with him. God knows what’s happened to Moor, but I’m glad Trale’s still at large. Kelly,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘is the most direct man I’ve ever met.’
‘I could show you another,’ grinned Davidson.
He was amazed. Here was Kerr, discussing the thing coolly over a cigarette—and there were the gunmen still firing into the room, still thudding against the door. They would soon realise the barricade was too strong, but that didn’t prevent Davidson from realising that things could still go wrong at any moment. The possibility had not, apparently, occurred to Kerr.
‘We’re all right,’ Kerr said, as if guessing his thoughts. ‘I told the Preston police and they’ll be here in ten minutes or less. But it’s probably hoping too much, to suppose these fellows won’t have the wit to suspect it. If they...’
He broke off at the sudden cessation of the din outside. Then through the silence, they heard Benson urge:
‘That’s enough! Get clear while you can.’
Davidson looked at Kerr, who shrugged wryly.
‘So they’re going—ah, well! We can’t stop them. We’d be cut to ribbons if we tried to show our noses. We’v
e got her—’ he nodded grimly at the still unconscious figure—’and I daresay she can be made to talk. Although I’m not sure she’s sane. I’ve thought all along there must be someone mad behind this business, and she’s a start. Well...’
He shrugged again, then crossed to the window, taking out his gun as he went. Keeping well to one side, he peered out—and cursed as he realised that this was the rear of the house and he could see nothing of the front, nor of the road beyond. As he glanced around the grounds, he knew that with three or four men, he could have made some sort of a fight. But the odds were hopeless, now, and wishing would not alter them.
12
Mark Potter’s version
There were twenty armed policemen in the five black cars which arrived from Preston exactly twelve minutes after Kerr and Davidson had barricaded themselves in. They found none of the gunmen on the premises—but they did find other things.
Inspector Moor, shot three times through the chest and mortally wounded, was in the kitchen, where he had been talking with Oakwood. The butler had been cracked over the head but not shot—obviously the attackers had not considered him much danger. The five women-servants were crammed together in a locked pantry, four of them barely conscious by the time a policeman opened the door to have the nearest fall out at his feet. The other three menservants were missing.
Kerr swore as he guessed why: they must have been expecting Kelly to arrive—as that woman had. Obviously, they had gone with him.
‘Of course,’ Davidson suggested, ‘they might have been forced?’
Kerr shook his head: ‘He’d have shot them out of hand, if they’d been in his way. They must have been his own men, working with—or against—Potter. We’ve a lot to learn about Potter yet.’
‘If they were Kelly’s men,’ objected Davidson, ‘why did they stay here as long as they did?’
Kerr laughed, without humour.
‘Because they weren’t worried about the police; the police would inquire about the murder, and that was normal enough. They were waiting for us to return: as soon as we did, their boss was told and he came for us. Kelly obviously doesn’t like Craigie’s men.’
His theories were not far wrong. Benson was indeed concerned with Craigie’s men. He—and Marlin, at Putney, where he had been informed by telephone—had been shocked by Kerr’s appearance at The Larches. They could have understood it had he arrived after the Potter murder was known: they were baffled by his arrival sooner—and very glad that Jeremy Potter was dead. He might have told Kerr a great deal...
Kerr telephoned a brief but full report to Craigie, and was told to carry on in the north while there seemed any chance of getting a clue. There must be a great deal of information somewhere in that area, he reasoned—if only they could find it. Of the Trentham woman, Craigie said:
‘Make her talk, Kerr. Don’t have any qualms, make her talk as you’d make Kelly talk, if necessary.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Kerr. ‘But if she really is unbalanced, we’ll be out of luck.’
‘Handle it as you deem best,’ Craigie told him, and Kerr grunted dry acceptance as he replaced the receiver.
Davidson, now back to his usual form, had managed to find a crate of beer. Reaction to the whole affair had caught up with Oakwood, who was now dazed and in a state of shock, and none of the women servants was in any state to prepare a meal. So the two Department men helped themselves to the beer, cold meat and bread.
Their hunger was at least checked, if hardly satisfied, when some minutes later a police-sergeant brought them news of a visitor: Mark Potter, brother of the late Jeremy.
Mark Potter proved to be a man of medium height, autocratic manner, and grim determination. His suit and high cravat might have suggested an era far removed from the present day, but he carried his silver-knobbed walking-stick as if he would use it without a qualm if the need arose.
‘And who are you, sir,’ he demanded stridently, as Kerr appeared, ‘to keep me waiting in the hall of my own house? It’s an impertinence, sir—it’s outrageous!’
‘I am so sorry.’ Kerr was at his most ingratiating. ‘But— well, sir, the circumstances are somewhat unusual. I...’
‘Unusual! My brother is murdered and you can find no better word than that! I wish,’ said Potter bitterly, ‘I had hurried here immediately the news came through. I might have been able to take control. As it is...’
‘Why didn’t you come immediately?’ asked Kerr, mildly.
‘Because some interfering busybody at Scotland Yard requested that I wait in London!’ snapped Potter.
Kerr smiled inwardly. Obviously Craigie had not wanted the investigations in Preston impeded, and had ensured that Mark Potter could not make himself a nuisance for a while, at least.
In the event, he was surprisingly easy to handle. The Preston Superintendent, Caldicott, helped matters along by letting him know just who Kerr was, and he clearly knew the famous airman by repute. He was quietened, too, by the news of the raid on the house, and the death of Inspector Moor: he seemed to suffer a bigger shock from that, indeed, than from his brother’s death. The fact puzzled Kerr, who disliked mysteries, and he asked a pertinent question:
‘Did you have any reason to believe your brother was in danger, Mr. Potter?’
The other’s eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips.
‘Well... Not exactly danger, Mr. Kerr. I—er—my brother and I were not the best of friends, lately. I, as you probably know, handled the export orders of the Mills, and he was—er—in command here. I did not,’ he elaborated, uncomfortably, ‘approve of the way he carried out his business. This is a difficult thing for me to say, Mr. Kerr, for I held Jeremy in considerable regard. The fact remains that he was associated with certain people whom I heartily disliked.’
‘Perhaps if I say,’ suggested Kerr, ‘that it is possible this investigation will be rather more far-reaching than the straight-forward discovery of the murderer, you will feel more at ease?’
Mark Potter darted him an inquisitive glance.
‘Yes—yes, I will. I hope later you will be able to amplify remarks that might be considered—er—ambiguous? But to proceed. The result of my brother’s friendship with these men was that export orders were invariably late for delivery and had serious adverse results on profits; you will understand why I feel so strongly on the matter.’
Kerr did understand, and smiled to himself a little ruefully. He was even more rueful five minutes later, when he heard that the ‘certain people’ consisted of a group of industrial firms who, in Mark Potter’s opinion, offered absurdly low prices for material. For the sake of formality, Kerr took their names and addresses—only to recognise them all as manufacturers of materials which had no connection with armaments.
But if Mark Potter had blown and then pricked one bubble, he had another to come.
‘Of course, the Mid-European Entente’s boycott on the import of manufactured cotton goods, last year, had a very serious effect on Jeremy. I suffered from the loss of a large annual turnover, but the thing seemed to make Jeremy bitter. Then Halloway left our board...’
Which Halloway?’ demanded Kerr.
‘Sir Kenneth, the present Under-Secretary for Defence. Of course, Halloway’s father and ourselves were very good friends. Young Halloway—’ Kerr smiled at the ‘young’; Kenneth Halloway was nearly fifty—’was never a wholehearted supporter. He much preferred politics. And as soon as our profits began to decline, he resigned.’
‘Purely because of decline in profits?’ Kerr could not see the Under-Secretary deserting a sinking ship.
‘Well—to be honest, Mr. Kerr, I think Jeremy put his back up. A rough colloquialism, but in this case true. I seem,’ added Potter a little awkwardly, ‘to be painting a very black picture of my brother, and I have not the slightest desire to do so. But facts are facts.’
‘Yes,’ said Kerr, ‘I appreciate that.’
He believed he appreciated other things, too. The Potter Mills, despite tho
se Government contracts, were not flourishing as they should have been. Jeremy Potter had been accepting orders at low prices, and the loss of a substantial mid-European trade must have been a severe blow.
It did not seem too long a jump to assume that Jeremy had found himself losing money heavily, and has listened to Martin—or ‘Kelly’—and agreed in some way to help in their campaign. It was not a far cry from that to the assumption that ‘Kelly’ and Potter had fallen out—but not before Jeremy’s secretary and some of the servants had been bought over by Marlin—and Jeremy had died.
In some ways, perhaps, it had been as well for him.
‘And now, if I may,’ said Mark Potter, ‘I’ll go upstairs. There are doubtless a lot of things to be done and—’ his voice hardened suddenly,—’the less that Trentham woman has to do with it, the better. I shall dismiss her.’
‘Why?’ asked Kerr, suddenly alert.
‘Why? Good God, Kerr, there are a dozen reasons! She used to be Halloway’s secretary, until he dismissed her. I can never understand Jeremy employing her—he was a good Conservative, if nothing else. No amount of efficiency,’ added Mark Potter emphatically, ‘can compensate for blatant Communism. And Mrs. Trentham has strong Red sympathies. She went to Russia for a holiday some years ago, and seemed a different woman when she returned.’
Kerr lost no time in telephoning Craigie. For the first time, there appeared to be a direct line leading from ‘Kelly’ to Russia—or at least to Communism. Was this to be a case of crying ‘wolf once too often? Was this series of crimes in fact instigated by the Soviet Union? Or was there something even more subtle behind it?
Craigie could be no more certain of the answers than Kerr himself. But he did have one item of interest to impart: the man Kerr knew as ‘Kelly’ was in fact a close associate of Marlin’s, by the name of Benson...
It was half-past three before the police gave up the hope of getting immediate information that would help locate the attackers. The Larches was a large house, standing back from the road—along which a great deal of traffic passed. There were several other houses near, but all of them were hidden by trees from the Potter drive.
