Carriers of Death (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  Davidson shrugged his shoulders, and Kerr grimaced.

  ‘There are reasons,’ he said, ‘but they’re best not talked about.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ Timothy shrugged. Then remembered: ‘Oh, and that reminds me, Mister Kerr. What the blazes do you mean by dodging off last night, after pushing me on to the man with a limp? He’s as innocent of intrigue as a new-born babe!’

  ‘He might not have been,’ Kerr hedged.

  ‘You know damned well you pushed me on to him so you could slide out after Penelope and her uncle!’

  ‘Did I?’ murmured Robert McMillan Kerr. ‘I don’t remember.’

  He would not be drawn further. He had followed Penelope because he wanted to assure himself that she and her uncle did visit the London home of the Potter Company’s solicitor. They had done so, and indeed had stayed until half-past eleven, before returning to the Éclat Hotel, from which Mark Potter had gone to his fiat. Kerr was still not satisfied about Penelope, but he could not bring himself to believe she was knowingly concerned in the campaign of madness that threatened to lead the way to world disaster.

  ‘Oh well,’ Timothy said, ‘if you won’t talk, you won’t. But harm a hair of that lass’s head, and I wouldn’t be in your shoes.’

  ‘I was worried before,’ murmured Kerr drily, ‘and I’m terrified, now. Tim, I want you and Wally to go to Dorchester. There’s a gas factory there, and a spot of trouble with our Communist friends. Halloway’s reported it. It might be a blind, but Benson could be behind it. The O.C. is a man named Carter. I know him slightly and you’ll find him a good fellow.’

  ‘Right,’ said Timothy. ‘We’re on our way.’

  Kerr stayed on for ten minutes or so, alone, and listened to a dozen conversations between members both young and, old. The same talk was here as was in the streets. Grey-beards and downy-chins wagged to the same refrain. It was bound to come soon. Inevitable. And the sooner—said some—the better.

  Kerr swung out of the room savagely. The blind fools couldn’t see what would happen if it did come!

  He was stopped at the main door by an attendant.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you know if Mr. Arran’s gone?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kerr, ‘ten minutes ago.’ And added, since any message for Timothy might well be connected with the job in hand: ‘Can I help?’

  ‘Well sir—there’s a lady on the telephone says she wants to get in touch with him urgently. You don’t know where he’s gone, sir?’

  ‘I’ve several ideas,’ Kerr told him. ‘I’ll speak with her.’

  He went to the telephone, seeing in his mind’s eye as he spoke to her, the fair face of Penelope Smith. Her pleasant voice strengthened the vision.

  ‘That’s not you, Timothy?’

  ‘Afraid not. But can I help, Miss Smith? Kerr here.’

  There was a moment’s pause before she answered, dubiously.

  ‘I don’t know... You’ll probably think me a fool, Mr. Kerr.’

  ‘Chance it,’ Kerr invited, and she did.

  ‘It’s about my uncle, Mr.—oh damn! I’m not going to call you “Mister”. Listen Bob. He’s missing.’

  ‘Who?’ Kerr demanded. ‘Mark Potter?’

  ‘Yes. I’d arranged to meet him here at eleven o’clock, for more of this business with the solicitors, and he hasn’t arrived. I know it’s only twelve, but he’s the most punctual man I know, and—well, after the affair at Preston, I’m worried.’

  ‘Yes—naturally. You’ve telephoned his flat?’

  ‘He left there at ten-forty. That would have given him just time to get to the Éclat by eleven.’

  ‘Yes,’ Kerr decided. ‘It’s worth looking into, Penelope. Can you meet me at his flat in, say, half-an-hour?’

  ‘At his flat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll be there.’

  Kerr rang off, then dialled Craigie’s number. A few minutes talk with the Chief of Z was enough, and within another five, he had collected his car from the Mall, and was on his way to Mark Potter’s flat in St. John’s Wood at a speed that shocked all who saw him—except the police, who knew the number of his big Benz tourer and had instructions not to stop it on any account.

  Kerr reached the flat fifteen minutes before Penelope was due, and spent them in trying to discover whether Potter had given any indication that he might not be going to keep his appointment with the girl, and whether he had had any unidentifiable visitors or telephone calls.

  According to Potter’s man—whose name, by some quirk of coincidence was Clay—nothing at all had happened out of the ordinary. Mark Potter’s life was a well-ordered one, and Clay had served him for fifteen years without knowing it any different. Of course, he did not keep regular hours, but he always told Clay when to expect his return.

  At twelve-thirty Penelope had not appeared; at twelve-forty Superintendent Miller, big and capable-looking as ever, arrived with two plainclothes men, for Kerr did not propose to take chances again. There was just the possibility that Mark Potter did know something about this business, and that there would be records to say so in the flat or in the London office of the Potter Mills.

  At one-twenty, Miller reported there was nothing at all to suggest that anything was amiss. But Penelope Smith had not arrived.

  Penelope Smith had left the Éclat Hotel at twelve-five. She felt like walking, and knew that if she found herself late, she could take a taxi when she was nearer the flat. She had been walking for ten minutes and was near Marble Arch when she saw her uncle.

  Mark Potter was sitting in the rear of a Daimler saloon. He was not alone, and she only glimpsed him for a moment before the car was past. But she was already on edge: she didn’t believe he would have missed their meeting deliberately, without letting her know, and on the spur of the moment she beckoned a taxi. As it pulled up, she asked quickly:

  ‘Do you think you can keep that Daimler in sight?’

  ‘I’ll try, lady,’ said the cabby, and Penelope stepped in. She realised ruefully that Bob Kerr would feel he had more reason than ever for disliking her, but she was far more concerned with the possibility that Mark Potter was somehow mixed up in a business which had already proved fatal to his brother.

  The Daimler stopped outside the Chelsea Town Hall, and its driver went into a small tobacconist’s shop nearby. Penelope told her cabby to drive past, but to get at a corner where he could turn either way in a hurry. For twenty minutes the man was busy in the shop. The thing seemed queerer than ever, and she watched impatiently. If she got out and telephoned Kerr, she might lose the Daimler, and she had no desire to do that. It was twenty minutes later—at five to one—when the driver returned to the big saloon and started off again. This time, it moved towards Fulham—and very soon it was travelling over Putney Bridge.

  The Daimler obligingly did not make much speed, even in unrestricted areas. At the top of Putney Hill it turned right, and at Roehampton village it stopped at a garage; again the driver got out and again kept the occupants of the car waiting for several minutes. Penelope knew what Mark Potter would have said about that, in normal circumstances—and liked the look of this whole business less and less.

  ‘I’m being a fool,’ she scolded herself, ‘but what else can I do? Oh thank goodness, it’s started again!’

  Again, the Daimler moved off, and the cab followed. Penelope knew that part of London well, and frowned when she saw that it was taking a different road, but heading back towards Putney. Trying to make sense of it all, she sat back and closed her eyes.

  When she opened them, she knew that what was about to happen was inevitable.

  A large, black car was coming towards them. It had passed the Daimler in which her uncle was riding, and was within twenty yards of the taxi when Penelope looked up, and she was in time to see it swerve towards them and its driver jump out. She opened her mouth in a silent scream and shrank back against the cushions for what seemed like an age.

  Then the
crash came. She felt the terrific impact, felt something smash against her head: and then, oblivion...

  15

  Fears for Penelope

  The call went out for Penelope Smith at one thirty-five, for Kerr was now very anxious indeed to find her. The reply came more quickly than he had expected, and certainly in a very different form. He was at Scotland Yard with Miller when the telephone rang, and Miller took the instrument.

  ‘Yes—I do. What’s that?’

  Kerr needed no telling that this concerned Penelope Smith; a single glance at Miller’s face was enough, as he grunted a final: ‘I’ll go there,’ and hung up.

  ‘She’s been in a smash,’ he said simply. ‘At Wimbledon. She’s in hospital there, now. Concussion—and still unconscious. Driver of her cab dead.’

  Bob Kerr drew a deep breath, his expression grim.

  ‘An accident, eh? I wonder. And I wonder what she was doing at Wimbledon?’

  ‘She might be able to talk when we get there,’ said Miller. ‘If you want to come?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ Kerr jumped up. ‘And the quicker the better. But wait a minute...’ He was frowning as he tried to fathom why he had felt instinctively that he had missed some vital clue. Then remembered: ‘Wimbledon! I knew it had been mentioned the car Marlin escaped in was found there, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was indeed!’ said Miller.

  Kerr gave a lop-sided grin. ‘We’re jumping to some pretty broad conclusions,’ he warned. ‘But will you send out a call for the Wimbledon area to be specially watched? I’ll get Craigie on another line.’

  It was typical of the situation that Craigie agreed with Kerr that immediate action was necessary. In many cases, the facts would have been considered no more than coincidence; now they were looked on as likely evidence.

  ‘Who’ve you got in London?’ Kerr asked.

  ‘Carruthers,’ said Craigie. ‘He’s at his flat at Putney. Came back from the north last night. I’ll telephone him to meet you at the Bridge.’

  ‘And you can pick Trale up at his flat. And Beaumont. That enough?’

  ‘It should be,’ Kerr thanked him ‘with some of Miller’s men.’

  Miller used a police Talbot, taking three plainclothes men with him. Kerr, in the Benz, called for Beaumont—a languid soul with some affinity to Wally Davidson; but like Wally, very useful in a scrap and always ready for trouble.

  Trale was awakened from what he claimed was his first sleep for weeks, but when he heard of the accident to Penelope Smith he forgot his tiredness and urged Kerr to hurry. Bob Carruthers was waiting on the far side of the bridge in his Singer two-seater, and the three cars sped up Putney Hill towards Wimbledon, passed the house called Common View, without seeing Benson, Marlin or Mayhew—who was also present—or Mark Potter. And without being seen, which was probably more important.

  They reached the hospital to find Penelope in reasonably good shape. A gash across her forehead was heavily bandaged, but she had escaped lightly. The Lanchester which had smashed into the taxi had torn the front to bits, but would have done considerably more damage had the driver not slowed down to jump, thus lessening the impact.

  ‘Can you tell us anything, Penelope?’ Kerr asked.

  ‘A bit.’ She felt too ill even to try to smile. She already knew of the taxi-driver’s death and felt herself to blame for it. ‘I saw Uncle Mark in a car—a Daimler—and I followed it. It stopped once or twice------’

  ‘Can you tell me where?’

  ‘Yes...’She sighed and closed her eyes, and the nurse who was watching frowned and wondered why this interrogation had been allowed: it could set her patient back a week or more. ‘A small tobacconist’s next to Chelsea Town Hall. And—a garage in Roehampton.’

  ‘Good girl,’ Kerr approved. He was torn between a burning anxiety to get all possible information, and a wish that he need not harass her. He made a mental note to get one of Miller’s men to telephone a message to Tim’s manservant as quickly as possible, as he asked easily: ‘Anything else?’

  ‘No. I just saw—the car------’

  She shuddered. Bob Kerr, surprisingly, put a hand over hers and pressed it gently.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he soothed. ‘And thank you, Penelope. You’ve been a brick.’

  Miller arranged for telephone messages to the Chelsea police and also to the Arran flat, while Kerr, Carruthers and Trale started for Roehampton. A somewhat envious Beaumont waited at the hospital in case Penelope said anything that should be relayed to Craigie.

  There were two garages at the Roehampton side of the Common. Kerr tackled one; Trale and Carruthers the other. It was Kerr who had the luck.

  A grimy lad in a once-white suit of overalls was surprised and annoyed by Kerr’s brusque:

  ‘I don’t want any petrol, thanks. Have you had a Daimler here this afternoon?’

  ‘Supposing I have?’

  Kerr inwardly cursed himself, outwardly smiled, and showed a ten shilling note.

  ‘Have you?’ he asked again.

  The lad’s eyes brightened.

  ‘Well, sir, now you come to mention it, we did ‘ave a Daimler. Took six gallons: Driver used the phone, too—and mighty fussy no one could hear what he said.’

  ‘Was he, then!’ After three weeks without clue of any kind, Kerr perhaps felt more cheered than the statement warranted. ‘You didn’t recognise him, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, he looked kind of familiar.’ The lad was in possession of the note now, and prepared to call on imagination as well as memory. But the arrival of the garage proprietor saved the day. ‘Gent here been asking about that Daimler, Bert,’ the lad explained, as Kerr nodded pleasantly to the newcomer. ‘The one as used the phone, remember?’

  Bert did, and Kerr could hardly believe his luck. For the driver had been so anxious to have the office to himself, while making his call, that the proprietor had thought it just possible the till was the real object, and had gone outside to make a note of the Daimler’s number. And there it was, where he’d scribbled it on the back of an old envelope: EXL 8013.

  ‘A black saloon, it was, sir: 1936 model. I’ve seen it about this way several times.’

  ‘Thanks—you’ve helped a lot,’ Kerr told him, with real feeling, and Bert grinned as he took the famous flyer’s hand.

  ‘Proud to know I have, Mr. Kerr,’ he said. ‘Knew you the moment I saw you!’

  The young attendant stared after the Benz a moment later, his face twisted in awe.

  ‘Blimey!’ he said. ‘Reckon he thinks he’s flying the ruddy thing. Ever see anything move like that?’

  ‘I’ll see you move like it, if you don’t run a rag over those pumps,’ his boss informed him. ‘Get a move on, and mind your own business.’

  And neither of them ever knew just how vital a part they had played in the affair that was even at that moment making the whole world tremble.

  The three Department Z men had arranged to meet Miller again at the Wimbledon police station, and Carruthers and Trale came in as Miller was telling Kerr that EXL 8013 was a Lancashire number. Which meant that the Daimler—if genuinely registered under that number and not fitted with a false number plate—must have started its career in the north. While Miller telephoned the Yard to start a nation-wide search for it, Kerr talked with the station sergeant.

  A half-hour passed—with Kerr conscious at every moment how often he had previously traced Benson just too late to prevent some further outrage—before they were able to meet and question two beat policemen, who had seen a car with that number-plate in the area quite often. But when they did, both men agreed that it came from one of the larger houses lining the Common.

  Kerr waited with what patience he could find as the pair rapidly changed out of uniform. Then with Miller beside him, and Carruthers and Trale following on, he drove off with them along the Wimbledon-Putney road. And as they passed the gates of Common View, the younger constable broke the silence.

  ‘That’s the place, sir, I’
m sure!’

  Miller grunted, and addressed the other man:

  ‘Recognise it, Ramage?’

  ‘I think it’s the place, sir.’ Ramage was cautious: he was an older man, and knew what harm misplaced confidence could do. He turned to peer back at the tree-lined drive. ‘Yes... Yes, I’m sure that’s the one, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Miller. ‘What do you want to do, Kerr?’

  ‘Well, you’re top priority, right now, so I’ll get you back to the station, pronto. But Carruthers and Trale can keep watch from the Common, meantime—we’ll stop them a bit further along. Then while you’re organising things your side, I’ll dig out what I can on this “Common View”. Can one of you tell me,’ he added over his shoulder, ‘Where I’ll find the Town Hall—and whether they keep the Rating department there?’

  ‘They do, sir,’ said Ramage. ‘And we can both lead you there blindfold.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kerr.

  He stopped a couple of hundred yards up the road, and Trale and Carruthers pulled up behind. They were well pleased at the prospect of action and went off eagerly to begin their vigil. Kerr drove Miller to the Wimbledon police station and left him arranging for a strong cordon of men to be thrown around the house, while he himself made his enquiries at the Town Hall. His temporary police agent’s card assured him immediate attention, and he learned that the registered owner of the house was a Mr. Peterson, but that a Colonel Piper lived there. Piper, it seemed, was well known in the neighbourhood and if considered by some to be a little starchy and military, was liked well enough. The rates of the house were paid promptly, and nothing in the nature of suspicion had fallen on the man.

  ‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ said the Rating Officer who gave him this information, ‘Mr. Reynoldson—the Town Clerk—lives next door to the Colonel. He might be able to give you more information.’

  Kerr thanked him with a dazzling smile. He could still hardly credit that the luck was at last breaking his way. ‘Where is his office?’

  ‘The next door along, sir, on the right. But...’

  ‘I’ll be back in five minutes,’ said Robert Kerr.