The Terror Trap

by John Creasey

  Had he been wise to let her come here, by herself—or with Martha Dale, which was very nearly the same? He told himself he had. He had wanted to marry her after the affair had been cleared up and the danger averted. But if he had asked her she might have said ‘yes’, mistaking, in her generosity gratitude for love. Burke hadn’t chanced it.

  There were other reasons, of course.

  The ‘game’ was in his blood. He had been working for Craigie for less than a year, it was true. But he had played a lone hand many times before, and his was a roamer’s nature; or so he had believed, six months before.

  He had spent most of the intervening time in working for Craigie; and he had travelled most of Europe to do it. Each time he had returned safely Patricia’s relief had shown a little more clearly in her eyes.

  “I’ll see this year out,” he murmured to himself, now, “and then we’ll settle down.”

  “Must you see the year out?” asked Patricia, very softly.

  Burke turned. He did not jump, for he had schooled himself never to show surprise. There was a little smile on his lips, and a larger one in his eyes as he surveyed her.

  She stood in the doorway; dressed, now, for riding.

  “I think so,” he said. “I’ll tell Craigie, soon, though, that I’m leaving.” He smiled, gently. “A January wedding. Will that suit you, Pat?”

  She nodded.

  “And we’ll start here?” she asked.

  “Nowhere else,” said Jim. “I—damn!”

  He was just in time to rescue the egg-pan, which had almost fallen off the stove. The moment was gone; and they did not try to retrieve it.

  At half-past eight they were walking across the fields towards Dick’s stables. The proprietor of the riding-school there had another name on his letter-heading, but it had never been seen anywhere else by Burke or Patricia. He was a grizzled old man, with a perpetual grouch against the ‘gawks’ who thought they could ride, and sincere admiration for anyone who really could.

  The couple reached the yard, to find Meg—Patricia’s mare—and Bruno, the great chestnut hunter Burke always rode when he came to Surrey, saddled and ready.

  Dick came out of the stables as Burke called his name.

  “Morning, both of ye,” he greeted. “I see ye comin’ down the hill. Thought ye’d like the usual.”

  “Good man.” Burke grinned. “I suppose you still won’t sell Bruno?”

  “Mister Burke,” said Dick, scowling, “I’ve told ye a thousand times that Bruno’s being saved for a friend o‘ mine. Promised, he is, or ye could have him wi‘ pleasure.” He dismissed the subject with a cheerful: “Nice mornin‘, Miss Pat! Can I give ye a hand?”

  “I’m up,” said Pat, and suiting the action to the word, swung herself into the saddle and sat laughing down at them. Beside her, Burke mounted Bruno easily, and they moved off together.

  They walked for a few minutes, and trotted for a few more, then opened out. As the air whistled past them, Patricia’s hair streamed behind her and the thunder of the hooves echoed across the hillside.

  Burke pulled up at last.

  “Mustn’t overdo it,” he said.

  “Pooh! You’re getting fat. Come on—”

  “Fat, am I?” grinned Burke. “I’ll give you half-way to the woods, and still beat you. Come on!”

  Her voice floated back as Meg raced over the smooth turf. “You’re licked already—you couldn’t give me ten yards!”

  Burke kept the restless Bruno still as she galloped on. The woods were a good half-mile distant and as she reached the half-way stage, he started after her. Bruno entered into the fun of the chase.

  “Up,” Burke urged him. “Up, old boy.” For a big man, he sat his horse well, and Bruno was built to carry his weight. The distance between the two horses lessened. Burke was leaning well forward, smiling, confident, happy....

  Bruno stumbled.

  Burke felt the horse shiver beneath him, and knew a fraction of a second before the spill that it was coming. He loosened his hold on the reins and let himself go. Head-first, he went over the horse’s head, somersaulted, and landed on his feet—then went sprawling. The fall winded him and he lay there for a moment before he could screw his head back towards Bruno.

  The horse was struggling to get up. Burke forgot his own bruises as he hurried to him and helped him up, looking as he did so for the rabbit hole that had caused the trip.

  He didn’t see one, but he saw the cut across Bruno’s leg.

  “Hurt, old boy?” he murmured, stroking his nose. “Keep still—I’ll put it right.”

  Bruno stood quivering as he held the right foreleg and examined the cut. Then concern for the horse disappeared from his expression. His eyes narrowed and he whistled, very softly.

  He heard the pounding of Meg’s hooves getting nearer.

  Meg, and an anxious Patricia, came up quickly. The girl dismounted and approached the man, wide-eyed with concern.

  “Are you all right, Jim? I saw the tumble.”

  “Right as rain.” Burke smiled ruefully. “Bruno came off worse, by a long way. He found a hole, and then cut himself on that stone.”

  “It’s not serious?”

  Burke patted the horse’s nose.

  “No—nothing much. But we’ll walk them back.”

  When they reached the stables, they could hear Dick somewhere inside, directing friendly curses at the horse he was grooming.

  “I’ll fetch him,” Burke said, and strode off, quickly.

  Inside the stable, Dick was sitting on an upturned pail and asking a bay mare whether she thought she was the ruddy Queen of Sheba, or what? He looked up as Burke entered.

  “Ever since Mister Bloomin’ Rogers started to ride Bess,” he grumbled, smacking the mare’s haunch resoundingly, “I can’t do a thing with her. The feller can’t ride, an’ he’s spoiled half the blinking horses in the yard. Pah!” Dick spat his disgust, and then grinned. “Ay, but he pays for it, the old money-bags—and he’ll keep on payin‘ more, till he stops coming. That’ll be the way to finish him.”

  Burke smiled. The Rogers in question, who lived nearby, was a stout man and reputedly a millionaire. He was apparently determined to achieve a country squire image, and was doggedly set on learning to ride. It was not the first time Burke had heard Dick calling down curses on the man and it would not be last.

  “Did I ever tell ye,” he began again, “how that feller—”

  “Hold up, Dick,” Burke cut in, quietly. “And get ready for a shock. Bruno—”

  Dick jumped from his pail like a rocket.

  “You ain’t hurt that horse—!”

  “Shhh!” said Burke, “you’ll frighten Bess. He’s had a tumble, but not a bad one. I—”

  “Bruno had a fall?” Dick glared his disbelief. “The surest thing on four legs I ever knew! You musta’ been playing him tricks—begging your pardon, but—”

  “Dick,” said Burke soberly, “when you come out, you’ll say she caught her foot in a hole, and cut her leg on a stone. Not a word more. Got it?”

  The old man stared, then nodded grimly.

  “Surely,” he said, and raised his voice: “Let’s have a look at the damage, then. Promised, that horse is....”

  “Getting careless, putting his foot in holes,” he was saying a few minutes later. “Meg’s got more sense than that, ain’t she, Miss Pat?”

  “There are riders and riders,” said Patricia.

  “Haw!” Dick chuckled.

  “Got you there, Mr. Burke.”

  “How long will he be out of harness?” Burke asked, patting Bruno’s neck.

  Dick shrugged.

  “Couple o’ days, maybe. Maybe a week. It’s nothin’ serious, thanks to you not riding him back.”

  “Good,” said Burke. “Well, Pat—?”

  He turned to Patricia, who was looking out of the stables, and smiled as he followed her glance and recognized the primly-dressed woman stumping along the lane: Martha Dale, Patricia
’s companion at the cottage.

  “I’ll just see what she wants,” Pat said, smiling at Dick as she moved off.

  “A good thing” he grunted, “that she’s keeping that creatur’ away—beg your pardon, Mr Burke, but I can’t abide the woman.”

  Burke smiled. Between Martha Dale and the riding-school owner there was a dislike too deep for words. Martha had not entered the riding school for years, to Burke’s knowledge.

  But Dick quickly grew serious again.

  “That was a funny thing, wi‘ Bruno, Mr Burke?”

  “How, funny?”

  Dick fondled the horse’s muzzle, thoughtfully. His honest old eyes met Burke’s.

  “I’m reckonin’ two things,” he said. “One you know as much as I guess, Mr. Burke. Two, I ain’t seen marks like that on a horse’s leg since my war days.” Diffidently, half afraid he’s said too much, he added. “Maybe I’m wrong, sir. Me memory ain’t what it might be. But by the look of it, it were——”

  He hesitated.

  “What?” asked Burke.

  Dick went red, and blurted it out:

  “Well, save us—it looks like a bullet score. I don’t mean to cause trouble, Mr. Burke—but facts are facts.”

  “And stubborn things,” said Burke, quietly. “You’re right, Dick: it’s a bullet crease. The problem is, how did it get there?”

  4

  WHY DID THEY DIE?

  “What field were ye in?” asked Dick.

  “The big one, near the woods.”

  “With the road running by, not a hundred yards off?” the old man muttered. “There isn’t much doubt, then, Mr. Burke. The bullet was fired from the road, surely?”

  Burke nodded. He was tempted to say it might have been from the woods, where a man could use a rifle without fear of being seen, but footsteps outside the stable stopped him. “Yes, I suppose so. A nice man,” he added, more loudly.

  “A blasted murderin‘ son of a...” Dick began, suddenly overwhelmed with the realisation that Bruno had not only been hurt, but shot at.

  “Steady,” warned Burke. “Not a word.”

  “Yes,” said Dick, and creased his face into a wrinkled grin as Patricia entered.

  Patricia wasn’t pleased, Burke judged from her expression.

  “There’s a call for you, at the cottage,” she told him.

  “Martha brought the message down. It’s urgent.”

  Jim Burke stood very still, looking at Patricia, but not, she knew, thinking of her. She could always judge when he was thinking of things that should not be. His expression was—well just wooden.

  “Thanks,” he said, and smiled suddenly. “That means no more riding to-day, Dick. I’ll see you later in the week, probably.”

  “When ye like,” said the old man, cheerfully. “Bruno’ll be better, soon enough.”

  “Look after her,” said Burke.

  “I’ll do that, all right,” said Dick. “And a lot of other things,” he added, with a grin. “’Morning, Miss Pat. ‘Morning, sir—and good luck to ye.”

  Burke grinned, and led Patricia out. They reached the road to see Martha Dale—a sturdy, middle-aged woman who combined virtue, virginity and a sense of humour—striding along ahead of them.

  “She’s being discreet,” Burke said.

  Patricia grasped his arm.

  “Oh, Jim! I’d hoped there’d be nothing until the end—until you’d dropped out. Each time you go, I’m afraid—”

  “I’ll be all right.” He squeezed her arm. “It might be a false alarm, anyhow.”

  “Not from Timothy Arran,” said Patricia. Then smiled, suddenly, her head up. “Sorry, darling. I shouldn’t pester you. You wouldn’t be happy if you backed out——”

  “Not this time,” Burke said. “But it’ll be the last”

  “You mean it?”

  “I always mean what I say to you.”

  “I know.” She smiled again. “You’ll tell me if you’re going abroad?”

  “I’ll ring you, as soon as I learn anything,” he promised.

  They walked quickly up the hill, but now they were only half aware of the beauty of the morning, and for once they failed to smile as they saw Byways, the cottage, nestling there with the hills beyond it adding dignity to the scene.

  They were thinking of different things.

  Patricia was thinking that Jim’s luck could not always hold out. She knew he worked for Gordon Craigie, and she knew the nature of the work. Her brother had died for the Service, not so long ago. And each time Burke was sent off on a strange mission she was afraid it would end as her brother’s had ended. But she was sorry, now, for her outburst. It wasn’t fair to Jim. He had a job to do, and it was up to her to help him, not worry him.

  Burke was thinking:

  It was a big field, well away from the trees, and there isn’t a chance that the shot was accidental. It was fired at me, and hit Bruno. And now there’s a job on hand. I wonder whether it’s connected with this morning’s do?

  “Here we are,” said Patricia, unnecessarily.

  They reached the door of the cottage. Martha was already inside and she looked at Burke with a half-smile on her weather-beaten face. Her grey hairs were more numerous than her black ones, and her mannish tweed coat and knee-length skirt, above riding-boots, made her look more man than woman.

  “Good morning, young ‘un,” said Burke cheerfully. “Sorry to drag you out so early.”

  “You’ll be sorrier if you don’t learn to behave yourself,” said Martha, downrightly. “Telephone your friends, my boy, and have a respect for your elders.”

  “It’s lucky for you,” said Burke, “that you’re not a daughter of mine.”

  “Blether,” said Martha, using her strongest epithet. “Let’s leave the fool....”

  Alone in the hall, Burke picked up the telephone and called Mayfair 91326. He waited a moment or two, then heard a weary-sounding voice say:

  “Let it come.”

  ‘That’s Toby, for a pound,” said Burke.

  The voice at the other end of the wire grew stronger.

  “Oh, is it, you lout? Well, it’s not. If you’d got a couple of pennorth of sense more than you need to keep you this side of—”

  “What’s the trouble?” asked Burke.

  He knew that the speaker was Timothy Arran, for only one man in London had that weary drawl, on the telephone or off it. He knew also that if there was one thing that would jerk Timothy out of his drawl, it was likening him to his brother Tobias, Between the Arran—or as Department Z men knew them, the Unholy—Twins, there was very real affection. But it was not frequently displayed to others.

  The Arrans were Craigie men. So this message was, indirectly, from Craigie. Burke knew that. He also knew that Timothy would not tell him what the trouble was, over the telephone, although he might be able to drop a word that would convey a great deal.

  Timothy sobered up.

  “You’re wanted, P.Q.,” he said. “And read the papers on your way up.”

  “Thanks,” murmured Burke.

  “And,” said Timothy, drawling again, “curse you! I was in bed when he” (and ‘he’ meant Craigie) “rang, and of course it was my turn for answering the blazing telephone. You would be in some besotted country barn, wouldn’t you? Next time——”

  “Pull the sheet right over your mouth,” Burke suggested, “and sleep it off. I’ll see you later.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Timothy, bitterly, and rang off.

  Burke replaced the receiver thoughtfully and wandered into the kitchen, where Martha was pouring boiling water into a tea-pot. Patricia looked a question.

  “You were right,” Burke told her.

  She smiled; a cheerful, encouraging smile. Burke’s heart warmed.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, young fellow,” Martha snapped. “Rushing about the world like a madman. Tea?”

  “Well,” said Burke, “seeing you made it——”

  “Bah!” sai
d Martha.

  Ten minutes later, Burke and Patricia walked along the path together. Burke opened the door of the Talbot, and climbed in. The engine hummed.

  “Be careful, dear,” Patricia said.

  “And you.” Burke grimaced up at her. “The usual conditions, lass—no dashing away after funny ‘phone calls, or——”

  “I know the rules,” said Pat.

  And she did, thought Burke. She was—well, she was Patricia. She’d take no chances: she’d stay there and wait for news of him, and he guessed her waiting would be torture. Not for the first time, he wished he had given the Department up, months before.

  But by the time he was in Guildford his eyes were gleaming and his blood tingling. He was thinking still of the shot that had brought Bruno down, and wondering if it could possibly be connected with this call from Craigie. Probably it was. Probably someone who suspected Craigie would be called in on the job—whatever it was—had started early to try and hinder the Department by hampering its agents. And too many people in England knew, unofficially, that Jim (James William) Burke was a Department agent.

  He stopped in Guildford, at the top of the High Street, and bought a paper. The headlines seemed to leap out at him as they had leapt out at Sir Joseph Granton and Dick Lavis. He didn’t need to waste time looking through the pages to know what job he would be on.

  Fordham.

  Burke glanced at a photograph beneath the headline, and his face went grim.

  “Poor kid,” he said, and immediately thought of Patricia.

  The photograph—even for a photograph in a national daily—was a poor one, but the beauty of its subject could not be denied. She was young, dark-haired, her eyes large and well-set, her features very nearly perfect.

  She was—she had been, Burke thought—Fordham’s wife.

  A few months before, she had been Katrina, Princess of Rania. Her marriage to Arthur Fordham had caused a spate of sensationalistic reporting in the press. First, Fordham had brought to England from Rania an oil concession that had set the world talking, arguing, and very nearly quarrelling, for other countries besides England wanted that concession. Next, the Ranian Government had refuted Fordham’s claim and then, after telephone communications, had confirmed it. The King of Rania, it appeared, had had other ideas about the concession, and had tried to upset it. The King, who was an eccentric gentleman, had stated in a public speech that a certain Englishman had, by error, been allowed to enter his country and behave in a manner that warranted his arrest for spying. Moreover, he had virtually robbed Rania.