Bluebolt One

by Philip McCutchan

  “All right” He saw Canasset’s shrug. “Go where you like.”

  Shaw’s mouth tightened and he kept all his senses on the alert, ready for anything that might happen now. Canasset was being just a little too co-operative, he fancied, too carefree, and he didn’t like that. He jabbed with his gun-muzzle, and Canasset moved on into the dark, holding a cigarette-lighter above his head to give a fitful, flickering illumination.

  Below the cellar in a close, airless room leading off a damp passageway at the foot of some old and foot-worn stone steps, a buzzer sounded and a big African with a fuzz of crinkly, greying hair reached out for a house-telephone. He was sitting at a couple of upturned packing-cases with planks laid across them to form a rough desk. The sleeves of

  his white silk shirt were rolled up. His left wrist carried an expensive gold watch while his right forearm showed a healed scar. . . the mark of the Black Widow.

  He said, “Sam Wiley here.”

  The voice—Verity’s voice—said, “They’ve gone down into the cellar.”

  “Very well. You are quite certain it is the man Shaw?”

  “From MacNamara’s description, yes.”

  “Ummm. . . .The African thought for a moment, his brow furrowing and the heavy lower lip jutting, fingers rasping at his cheeks. Then he said, “He evidently suspects very strongly—is that the impression you had yourself, Mr Verity?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact I had.” Verity’s voice was high, frightened. “I can’t make out why Mr Canasset didn’t take him down to the cellar at once—”

  Wiley’s tone was soothing, almost a croon. “He is doing so now, isn’t he? We didn’t want to have to do this, for it will draw more attention to the premises, but now I shall have to deal with him after all.” He paused. “After that, we’ll have to move out at once, I think. I’ll go up and watch Shaw now.”

  “Do we leave in the Jag?”

  “No, no . . . not the Jag. The tunnel. Will you please see to that, Mr Verity?”

  “Yes, of course.” The line clicked off and Wiley got up, moving quietly, cat-like. He patted the bulge in his pocket, moved over to a cupboard, and brought out a curious, bottleshaped object made of some flexible, opaque material. Gently he pressed the sides and a cloud of a powdery substance shot out. Wiley seemed satisfied. After this he opened a door leading off the room and looked through to where two more Africans were playing with dice.

  He said, “Stand by. If the worst comes to the worst we’ll be moving out—within the next ten minutes. Get the girl ready. Any trouble with her, you know what to do.”

  He slammed the door and went out of his own room and along the passage. Halfway along he stopped and took a heavy crowbar from some clips on the slimy wall, pushed it through a hole which looked as though it had once carried a large pipe, and bore down heavily on its end. Inside the crumbling brickwork of the wall something moved, and there was a slow gurgle of water. Wiley then pushed the crowbar right through the hole until it slipped from his hand and fell with a splash into the water. A filthy smell came through the hole, but Wiley seemed scarcely to notice it.

  He went quickly along the passage again and up the stone steps, moving very, very quietly as he had been accustomed to do when hunting as a young man in the West African jungle.

  As Shaw followed Canasset along a centre aisle he flicked on his own lighter and peered into each vat-like cubicle as he passed.

  Each and every one was empty—empty of everything save the filth and decay of years. Rats scurried ahead, their feet making a small clatter among loose bricks and stone and rubble. Reaching the end of the central alleyway, Shaw turned and came up another lane to the right. Still there was nothing out of the ordinary.

  He had reached the pool of light again by the foot of the steps when he heard the scream. It was dim and faint, muffled as though it was coming from a long, long way off or from behind thick walls, but it was quite unmistakable. It was a woman’s scream, the high-pitched, terror-filled cry of a young girl.

  Shaw stopped dead.

  He reached out for Canasset’s shoulder, grasped it, and swung the man round savagely, his lips drawn back. In the overhead light from that single yellowed bulb the man’s face was dead white and he was trembling. Shaw’s teeth came together with a snap. He said, “That settles it, Canasset. You’ll take me to that girl now or I’ll give you something you won’t forget in a hurry. I won’t kill you, Canasset, because you’ll be needed alive. But I’ll damn near do so—I swear that!”

  Canasset’s tongue came out and licked at his lips. Shaw was bringing his left fist back to smash the man’s face to a pulp when he caught the small sound away to his left, as though a foot had dislodged a piece of rubble, and at the same instant a voice came to him out of that blank, impenetrable darkness of the vats.

  “Hold it, Commander!”

  Shaw stiffened, heard Canasset’s gasp of relief.

  “Please don’t move, Commander Shaw. I have a Luger in my hand and it’s lined up on your navel. I’ll split you like a piece of firewood if I have to. Throw that gun down. At once, please.”

  “You come and get it.”

  The voice came back like steel. “There is no time for foolery. You have three seconds precisely.”

  Shaw, his face livid with anger, did as he was told.

  “And the other man—quickly.”

  Pelly’s gun clattered on the stone floor. Shaw snapped into the darkness, “Who are you?”

  There was a laugh. “They call me Sam Wiley, Commander Shaw. Now, Mr Canasset, if you wouldn’t mind picking up those guns. . . thank you. And kindly stand back, away from the two men. . . that’s it, thank you again, Commander Shaw—”

  Shaw rapped, “Why are you so certain you know who I am?”

  The hidden man said, “You surely didn’t expect to remain invisible while you were going round the warehouse, did you? As it happens, just because you were on that Tube train the other night, I’ve gone to a good deal of trouble to find out more about you. . . but for now, there is no more time for talk. Listen. I am going to switch on a torch. You and the other man will walk singly and slowly towards it, with your hands above your heads. You first, Commander. Do you understand?”

  Shaw nodded, his face stiff.

  “Very well, raise your hands now. . . that’s right. Thank you.” A pocket-torch beamed out suddenly, slicing the vaults. “Now come towards me.”

  As Shaw moved he heard Felly’s soft whisper. “Stand by, sir—----” Almost in the same instant he heard Pelly move, saw his arm stretch up, swift as lightning, and jerk the electric-light bulb downward. As the flex parted, Shaw threw himself sideways. A split-second later there was a bone-crunching sound and a loud cry from Canasset; Shaw guessed that Pelly had got him. The torch was out now, but there was no firing. Pelly whispered, “I’ve got the guns, sir. Here.”

  Shaw felt his Webley being pushed into his hand; swiftly, he spun round and fired blind into the darkness. Then he threw himself to the floor and rolled hard to his left, but still there was no answering fire. Pelly whispered urgently, “What now, sir—fire again?”

  “No—sit tight. He doesn’t know where we are and we don’t want to tell him unless we can be sure where he is first. We’ll sweat this out for a bit.”

  He had barely finished when he heard a mocking laugh almost in his ear and then a pencil of bright light stabbed out into his face. Simultaneously there was a tiny whuff of air from close by, as though a plastic powdered-insecticide container had been discharged full into his face.

  Something, some cloud of minute, stinging particles like pepper, shot into his eyes.

  He dropped his gun, bit back the cry of pain, of shock, and tore at his eyelids. He couldn’t open them, a thousand bright lights danced, beat at his brain. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He stood up, lurching on his feet, scarcely knowing where he was. Near him, a sharp cry and an oath told him that Pelly had had the same treatment. A moment later his arms were seized
roughly and twisted behind his back.

  The voice was triumphant now, and full of hate. It said, “And now, Commander Shaw, you will walk where I tell you to walk. My methods are effective, are they not? And they leave no trace of wounds on the body.”

  “So what?”

  The man laughed again. “You will see.”

  Shaw was given a hard push in the back. He staggered into the wall, then dropped to the stone floor. Canasset, his face working, moved forward and kicked him viciously in the ribs—once, twice, three times. He gasped with pain, felt himself seized again and dragged upright. Wiley said something to Canasset and then Shaw heard the managing director walking away. One of his arms was twisted up behind him again and he was forced forward. A sweat of sheer pain stood out coldly on his forehead and his eyes seemed to be on fire and he was remembering that this man was called Sam, and that he’d had those ideas about Esamba, and that Esamba was the God Who Blows Out The Light Behind Men’s Eyes. . . .

  Thompson hadn’t been able to concentrate for long on his newspaper. He sat there in the driving-seat of the fish van, biting his nails and looking worried. He kept on glancing at his watch. The hands dragged . . . fifteen minutes, twenty, the half-hour. Three quarters.

  Commander Shaw wasn’t coming out. Unreasonably, perhaps, Thompson had that strong feeling of alarm again.

  But he must obey orders and wait.

  Ten minutes to go. Four, three, two . . .one.

  He stared ahead through the windscreen, his leathery face twitching slightly, big hands tapping on the wheel.

  Precisely on the hour the ex-P.O. climbed out of the van and banged the door shut. Strolling casually across the head of Calcutta Street and forcing himself not to hurry, he looked down towards the warehouse. Men and lorries moved in the yard but there was no sign of the Commander or Jim Pelly. Sucking his teeth Thompson went into the call-box and dialled the Admiralty, was put through at once to Room 12.

  Shaw and Pelly were marched stumbling through the cellar to Wiley’s guiding directions, the tears streaming down their faces still.

  Shaw said to Wiley, who still had a tight grip on his arm, “You realize, of course, I didn’t come here without letting some one know. It won’t be long before there are more people here—looking for us.”

  Wiley laughed indulgently. “I don’t doubt that, Commander. Of course they’ll come—but what will they find? A respectable firm of importers, that’s all, with workmen going about their ordinary, lawful, daily business. There will be nothing they can charge anybody with. They will certainly not find you or I or Mr Canasset or MacNamara—or the girl either. She is coming with Canasset and me.”

  Shaw stumbled on, feet slipping now on slimy, broken flagstones, his thoughts going round and round. He’d made such a mess of everything, had let that girl in for something that she might never get out of now. He would be morally responsible for what happened—and he could only guess at what their purpose might be in taking her with them. He was filled with remorse, with self-reproach and bitterness, and the thoughts crowded in on him and left his mind reeling.

  Suddenly Wiley snapped, “Stop. Turn to your right.”

  Shaw did so, heard Pelly’s heavy breathing close beside him. There was the snap of a torch. Shaw tried to force his eyelids open, had to shut them again quickly. He felt rotten boards under his feet now.

  Wiley said, “Bend down. You will feel a ring-bolt in the flooring. Pull on it.”

  Shaw remained where he was, upright, swaying a little. “Bend down and pull.”

  Still Shaw didn’t obey; he asked, “What’s all this for?”

  “Your disposal, Commander. I can’t risk leaving you and the other man, and I certainly can’t take you with me, much as I should like to. . . an extra man at this stage might block the pipeline, you see?”

  “Why don’t you just shoot us, then? Or is that what you mean to do?”

  “No, no. I am very sorry. I can’t make it so quick and easy, the point being that I must make your death natural-seeming as well as effective, so as to obscure the trail as far as possible. Hence the powder in your eyes just now, rather than the Liiger. Your death must seem to be accidental, a mere carelessness on your part while searching the cellars in a mistaken belief that you might find something. You must have no bullet-wounds in your bodies. Your men, when they come here, may never find this particular spot where you are standing—you did not find it yourself—for it is very well hidden. But they may, and if they do, Commander, they will find your two bodies, dead—from natural causes. Drowning—nothing else.”

  Wiley paused, then went on, “By the way, talking of accidental death and so on, you may be interested to know that MacNamara didn’t kill Handley Mason at all. I attended to that myself. Mason was killed just before the train got into Gloucester Road, which is where I left the compartment. After he was dead, had anyone got in, he would have looked like a drunk sleeping it off, and then as soon as the compartment was empty again, the guard would have pushed him out on to the track. As it happened, no one got in—as you know—so MacNamara was able to do his part as soon as the train was in motion again. It was rather neat, I think!” Wiley chuckled. “MacNamara’s presence had been arranged so that he could testify to Mason’s suicide. What we did not expect was that he would disappear before he had been questioned by the police and told the story he had been ordered to tell. When that happened we wondered how deep his loyalty to us really went, and when we found him again, we questioned him very closely. . . yes, very closely. You understand, of course, what I mean by that. We learnt some interesting facts, after much time had been wasted. Such, for instance, as that he had talked too freely in the past to the girl Gillian Ross.”

  Shaw felt a thrill of horror at the African’s tone. He tried again to open his eyes. They were red and puffy and burning, but for a fraction of time he was able to see through the slits, and he saw the man who called himself Sam Wiley.

  As he had half expected, he was the Negro of last night, the big, greying man who had been with Canasset behind the ‘altar.’ Not that this information was likely to be much use to him now; but for what it was worth he had come straight to the heart of this business. Perhaps, with luck, Latymer’s boys would bowl these men out after he himself was dead, and then what he had done wouldn’t have been quite wasted . . . but they would have to get here fast, before Wiley and Canasset and any others involved had slipped away into the unknown. It must be well over an hour now since he’d left the fishmonger’s van; Thompson would have contacted the Admiralty.

  There was still a hope.

  He had only opened his eyes for that fraction of a second but it had hurt them badly. They were streaming with tears again now, and the searing pain was back. He heard Wiley speaking again. Wiley said, “Below this section of floor there’s a broken sewer. It is sealed off, of course, but the sealing has deteriorated over the years and the river tides cause the water-level to rise. The floor is very bad just here, as perhaps you can feel with your feet. After you have gone down through the trap-door we shall smash in the flooring and it will appear that you have simply slipped through the rotten woodwork. Now, Commander—for the last time. Bend down, and lift the trap up.”

  Shaw said, “Oh, no. You’ll have to shoot me after all, Wiley.”

  He heard the African give an angry nasal snort. He fancied from the breathing noises that Wiley was bending, and then he heard the rasp of the trapdoor as it lifted. A moment later he felt a slight, a very slight, movement of the air and he sensed the blow that was coming at him. Almost involuntarily, instinctively, in response to some deep habit of self-preservation, he twisted his body a little at the last moment and the savage blow, the fierce downthrust of lead piping, took him across the back of the neck instead of the head; nevertheless, he went down like a log, breaking some of the flooring in his crashing fall.

  Wiley laughed softly, turned and gave Pelly a similar blow. Then he picked up the two inert forms in his powerful arms, one
by one, dragged them to the trapdoor, and dropped them through like so much rubbish. They crashed down, and chunks of rubble fell in after them, and then dark, stinking waters closed over their heads.

  Up top, Wiley closed the trap and then smashed away at the floor. Within seconds the broken woodwork crumbled downwards, lay gaping in a jagged hole, a brand-new wound which could so very easily have been caused by the weight of two big men.

  Wiley walked away quickly, down the slimy stone steps to the underground room where Canasset was waiting. As he entered Wiley grinned and lifted his thumbs. Canasset took up the telephone, gave a few brief orders to Verity up in the office, put the phone down, got up, and slid back a big stone block in the wall. With Wiley behind him he squirmed through into a narrow passage whose walls dripped foul-smelling water, and he waited impatiently, his lips tight. Shortly after there was a sound from ahead and then a single flash of light. Canasset, his voice echoing along the passage, called out sharply.

  “Wait!”

  He went ahead and joined up with two more men—and the girl, whose face was pale and shadowed in the torchlight. She showed no outward sign of bad treatment and her clothes were neat and tidy; she would pass without comment inside a car. Canasset looked at her, his face working strangely, his cheeks flushed and his breath coming fast. He reached out a puffy white hand, fumbled with the fastening of her dress. She shrank back; the men behind her held her fast, helpless. Canasset’s shaking fingers pulled, groped, opening the frock to her waist. The pudgy hand was on her body, feeling the cruel weals which had reddened the white skin. ;

  He said softly, “This was why you screamed, then?"

  She nodded, her eyes bright with tears.

  Canasset stared at her, and then very suddenly his hand came up, struck like a snake, taking her twice across the cheeks with vicious slaps. He said, “There will be no more screaming when we leave here. If there is . . . I will allow these men to do as they wish with you. I think you understand. Now dress.”