by John Creasey
“No, no!” Curson whined. “I didn’t—that wasn’t me.”
Burke’s rage seemed to leave him. He hesitated for a moment, then strode grim-faced to the telephone.
Over his shoulder, he growled:
“Handcuff ’em, Miller. They’re slippery.” Then he dialed a certain Putney number, and waited.
“Bob?” he said, when the expected cheerful voice came on the wire.
Bob Carruthers sounded delighted, as he recognised Burke’s voice. He, also, was a member of Department Z.
“I was hoping something would happen, old son—it’s as slow as blazes out here!”
“It’ll change,” Burke told him, grimly. “Listen hard, my lad. Get in your bus, and go to the cottage——”
“Pat’s place?”
“Yes.” Burke hesitated. “Take the Kingston by-pass and then get on the Leatherhead Road. Watch all the way for Pat’s car—the Trojan.”
“I know it.” The cheerful voice was crisp, now things were happening.
“If you meet the car,” said Burke, “tell Pat to leave it at the nearest garage and complete her journey in your bus. She’s going to the Claycourt Hotel, Victoria. You’ll meet Tim at the hotel. Take him with you back to Byways. You’ll have a full load then—two girls, Tim and yourself. When you get to the cottage, wait until you hear from me.”
“All set,” said Carruthers.
“Fine. And let me know as soon as you’ve met Pat, old son.”
“At your flat?”
“If I’m not here, try headquarters.”
“Right—I’m on my way,” said Bob Carruthers, and the line went dead.
Burke turned round.
“Well, Mr ruddy Graydon,” he said coldly. “That’s spiked one of your guns, hasn’t it? You’re not having a successful day to-day.”
Graydon smiled, but there was less confidence in him now.
“You’re clever,” he conceded. “But we’ll see how it will end.”
“Look here,” broke in Miller. “What’s all this about?”
“Sorry, old son,” Burke said. “Point is, Curson followed me to Surrey this morning—I went to visit Pat. Someone shot at me: if it wasn’t Curson—and I’ll take a chance it wasn’t—there’s a gunman down there, near Pat’s place. Obviously, he’s watching Pat, because Curson followed me back to London.”
“Well?” Miller prompted.
“Graydon’s in a jam,” Burke reasoned, “but he reckoned this way. As soon as his trouble was discovered, his gunman pal in Surrey would counterattack. Through——”
“Pat,” supplied Miller, grimly. He knew Patricia well.
“That’s it,” said Burke. “But Carruthers will look after her. He’ll meet her before she gets to London, because Graydon’s pal can’t possibly learn of Graydon’s—er—misfortune, in time to reach Pat before Carruthers.”
Miller nodded, but it was Graydon who spoke next.
“You’re certainly clever, Burke.”
“Oh no I’m not,” said Burke, cheerfully. “I just put two and two together, and get my sums right. And that reminds me.” He was still smiling, but the grimness was back in his face now. “If by some freak of chance you and I are ever having a difference of opinion, Graydon—and you’re out of jail, which is very unlikely—don’t try tricks with Patricia Carris. It’s the surest route to a broken neck with a lot of unpleasantness first. Get me?”
Graydon licked his lips, and his creamy complexion was suddenly a pasty yellow.
“Let’s get them away,” Burke growled, and as Miller handcuffed Curson to Graydon, Sam opened the door with alacrity. There were a lot of things the Department man and the Superintendent had to talk about, but they were tacitly agreed that they wanted to get these two to the station first.
Miller was in the lead, the two prisoners behind him, and Burke brought up the rear. Miller was well-satisfied with the situation. It looked very much as if he’d got the man who had been attempting to murder Dick Lavis; they would soon learn the reason for those attempts.
They reached the landing, and started to descend the stairs. Graydon looked the sorriest spectacle, and Burke, with his bloody cheek and the bullet holes in his coat—one bullet was still lodged in a lapel—the most grim.
The front door opened as all four were on the stairs.
It was hardly surprising, for there were four flats in the building, all with the same front door. But Burke was annoyed. It was a bad moment for a tenant to appear—.
He stopped thinking, and went cold.
For something other than a tenant appeared in the doorway. Two things, in fact. The first was of steel; the second wore a great-coat and low-crowned trilby hat, American-style.
The thing of steel was a Thompson sub-machine gun, and the thing in the trilby hat looked capable of using it.
“Put ’em up,” he growled, almost casually. “And stand right where yuh are, boys. Howdy, Boss?”
Graydon’s complexion had suddenly returned to normal.
“I was afraid you were going to be late,” he said.
Human thought runs along similar lines when the thinkers find themselves confronted, unexpectedly, by a man with a machine-gun. Miller and Burke wondered whether he would use it. Neither of them spoke, and both of them lifted their hands towards the ceiling. In their way they were wise men.
Graydon was suddenly talkative. Dragging Curson with him, he pushed past Miller and into the hall, out of the line of the gun. He was smiling, almost pleasantly—he looked at that moment very much the same gentleman with a gun who had first confronted Burke.
“This isn’t a shock,” he said, “I hope? A clever man like you, Burke, should have expected it. Miller—the keys.”
As he spoke, he lifted his hand, and jerked Curson’s arm, which was still painful from the wrench Burke had given it. As Curson cringed, Graydon’s smile changed, and was no longer pleasant.
“I’ll deal with you later,” he snapped. “Hurry, Miller!”
Miller hesitated.
There is a quality bred in the bone of the true policeman that makes him ready, if not willing, to face any odds. Superintendent Miller was a true policeman. He had two captives, and he was faced with the alternatives of letting them get away, or chancing bullets from the machine-gun—more bluntly, death. He was afraid, with the fear that freezes the vitals and makes the flesh creep. He had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. But still he hesitated.
“Hurry, damn you!” There was a threatening note in Graydon’s voice, now. But the second syllable had hardly left his lips when Burke spoke.
“Why not drop us,” he asked, almost casually, “and help yourself to the key afterwards?”
“I wish I could.” Graydon’s smile almost created the impression that he liked Burke. “But it wouldn’t be wise. Half an hour ago, Burke, I should have shot you cheerfully. You didn’t know me; it wouldn’t have mattered a damn. But now—but you can think for yourself. Miller—the key.”
“Let him have it,” said Burke.
Miller shrugged. Reluctantly, he took the handcuff key from his pocket, and handed it over. Had he been alone, Miller would probably have told Graydon to go to the devil—but Miller had remarkable faith that Jim Burke would do the right thing.
“Thank you,” said Graydon, politely.
Burke watched him fit the key in the lock.
“You preferred not to shoot,” he reasoned, aloud, “because you know you’d have a hell of a job getting away after killing a——”
“Flatfoot.” Graydon beamed on Miller as he shook the iron from his wrist.
“—policeman,” Burke finished, soberly.
“Thank you,” said Graydon. “Yes, that’s right, Burke. Killing you by yourself wouldn’t have mattered. But the man up in your flat knows me now—and we shouldn’t have time to go up and finish him, before getting away. In short, I’d be putting my head in a noose.”
“Again,” said Burke, coldly.
“
Suit yourself,” said Grayson, obligingly. “Anyhow, I’m not fool enough to risk killing you two and leaving a witness.
“Very wise of you,” murmured Burke, woodenly.
Graydon darted a sharp look at his expressionless face.
“I can’t quite make you out, Burke,” he complained. “You seem clever, sometimes—and at other times, a damned fool. Perhaps you’re a damned clever fool! Well, you can suspect what you like about the Fordham murder—and Brent’s. Suspecting isn’t proving, and you’d have a stiff job proving anything. Even,” he added, with a grin at Miller, “in the unlikely event that your admirable police ever succeeded in locating me. So the best thing I can do is to admit the impasse and—er—let things take their course.”
“Wise man,” said Burke, gently. “One would think you’d had a legal training.”
“Wouldn’t one?” retorted the solicitor, jovially.
“How do you propose to get away now?” asked Burke.
“In Curson’s cab,” said Graydon. “I’ll take Curson with me while my friend the gunman keeps you here. A good scheme? I always said that a successful man must be able to alter his plans at a moment’s notice.”
As he spoke, he was rooting in his pockets for something. He discovered it suddenly. He whipped his hand out of his pocket, and Burke caught a glimpse of a lead-weighted cosh——
Graydon used it.
It cracked on the back of Miller’s head, and the Superintendent grunted and dropped down. As he went, Graydon jumped a stair and rammed his clenched left fist into Burke’s stomach. As Burke doubled up, the cosh smashed on the back of his head and he fell like a log across Miller, on the stairs.
Graydon was still smiling as he drew back.
“You can put your gun away now, Tike,” he said, “And get outside, quickly.”
“Why not finish ’em?” The man named Tike looked reluctantly from his gun to the two unconscious men.
“You heard why not!” Graydon snapped, in obvious irritation. “It’d be asking for trouble. Now, get out.”
Tike got out. Curson followed him, and Graydon brought up the rear. In Curson’s heart there was a terrible fear; in Graydon’s there was an equally terrible intention.
The front door closed....
* * *
“Strewth!” said Sam Carter, hollowly, a few moments later.
He was watching from the window of Burke’s flat. He could see the American (whose gun was now under his big coat), Graydon and Curson. He could not see Miller or Burke.
“Strewth,” he muttered again, and his face went pale. “I ’ope to Gawd they ain’t—ain’t——”
He stopped talking to himself, and rushed out of the flat and down the stairs. At the bottom, he saw the oddly assorted heap of humanity. Miller and Burke made a crowd, anywhere. Unconscious, and looking dead, they made a mighty heap. Sam, his heart in his mouth, tugged Burke off Miller, and felt for the Department man’s pulse.
It was beating.
A smile that could only be called beautific crossed Sam Carter’s face. He straightened up, remembered himself and applied the same test to Miller, then raced up the stairs for whisky.
Fifteen minutes later, two large, limp men stared at each other from facing armchairs. The taste of whisky was on their lips—and Miller was licking his, rather too obviously.
“Have a drink,” Burke invited, weakly. He shook his head. “God damn him—but Graydon’s smart.”
“He will smart,” said Miller, ominously.
“He does now,” Burke grinned reflectively. “He’ll feel that bump on his chin for a long while to come. Well, Miller my lad, let’s have the other half—and then we’ve a lot to do.”
The glass was already in a grateful Miller’s hand when the telephone rang.
8
THREE MEN TALK
Burke was at the telephone and speaking into it before Miller realised he was out of his chair.
Burke’s ears were tuned to recognise the voice of the caller—provided he know it—at the first syllable. It came quickly, and his expression changed.
“Found her,” Bob Carruthers announced. “Just before she reached the Kingston by-pass. She’s all right, Jim.”
“Thank God for that.” Burke meant it. “Where is she?”
“Just outside this box.”
“Let me have a word with her,” said Burke, “but first, get this in your noddle, old son. There might be trouble. There have been developments—tell Tim that you’re both to watch the girls until you get other orders. All right?”
“Depends on the other girl,” said Carruthers, and Burke could almost see his cheerful grin.
“Jim?” Patricia was saying, a moment later.
“Pat,” said Jim Burke, simply but more tenderly than he knew. He waited a moment, so that the things he always meant but rarely said would be understood. There was a smile on his own lips—and he knew Patricia’s would be curved, deliciously, at the corners. At last he went on: “I’m afraid I’ve put you in the front line.”
“I thought so.” Patricia laughed. “Otherwise, Bob wouldn’t have turned up.”
“I suppose I ought to be sorry, but I can’t bring myself to say so,” Burke told her. “You’ll know why when you’ve seen Mary Brent. She’s had a bad knock. Her father’s—dead.”
Patricia was—Patricia.
“Murdered?”
“Yes,” said Burke. “It’s a nasty business, and it’s moving fast. The thing is, Pat, you must be careful. Bob and Tim can hang around the cottage for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, I’ll fix something else. But don’t trust anybody—unless you know them, and know that they know me.”
“Don’t worry,” Patricia told him, quietly. “I’ll be careful. I wish you were as safe as I.”
A vision flashed through Burke’s mind of a man with a low-crowned trilby and a Thompson sub. He grinned.
“I’m all right,” he said, “and likely to be. Now you’d better hurry. The sooner you get to the Claycourt, the better.”
“In Bob’s car and with Bob driving,” Patricia said lightly, “the sooner, the safer. When shall I see you?”
“I’m not sure.”
Patricia smiled, and Burke guessed it.
“Until—later then,” she said. “Oh, Jim—do you want me to—to try and get anything from Mary Brent?”
Burke smiled, a little ruefully.
Before the affair of Graydon and the gunman he had had that matter all worked out.
“Yes,” he said. “Don’t press her too much, but find what you can about her father’s business connection with Fordham. And one other thing. You might get a call from a pugnacious little man named Wigham. I’ll leave you to handle him as you like—or as Mary Brent likes—but if he looks like becoming a nuisance, tell one of the others to move him on.”
Patricia chuckled.
“I’ll look out for him,” she promised. “Good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” said Burke.
He replaced the receiver and turned, to see Miller finishing his whisky-and-soda.
“It’s all right, the Patricia end,” he announced.
“So I guessed,” Miller grunted. “I wish it was all right our end, Jim. I don’t like to think Graydon’s got away with it.”
Burke grinned, and rubbed his chin.
“He called it an impasse,” he pointed out. “And for once, a solicitor put it plainly. He’s a very wise man, his friend Graydon. How many gentlemen with his killing habits do you think would have had the nerve to hold his hand, on the stairs?”
Miller shrugged.
“I didn’t understand it,” he admitted. “I still don’t. He had time enough, dammit—and the opportunity. He’s not likely to get another chance like that, for a long time.”
“If ever,” said Burke. “But he was wise. Oh, he was very wise——”
“Stop talking in riddles,” growled Miller, gesturing with his empty glass towards Sam Carter. Sam jumped to it, and took the glass away for ref
illing.
“Listen,” said Burke. “If Graydon had shot me—or killed me, because he shot all right—and got clear away he’d have had the Department on his tail, but apparently he expects that; and the police, as in a normal murder. But because I’m a Department man, there wouldn’t have been an outcry. Don’t blink at me—there wouldn’t! When Craigie’s men go, it’s hush-hush all the way. It has to be. So Graydon was prepared to take a chance.”
Burke cocked an eye at Sam, who responded splendidly with just the right mixture of whisky-and-soda. “But if he’d killed a Superintendent of the C.I.D., Horace—Lord, what a yell! The Press would have been like mad dogs. Every rag in the country would have slapped his photograph on the front page, and there’d have been one of the biggest man-hunts ever. Stands to reason. And friend Graydon didn’t want to lay himself open to that kind of hunt.”
“No—o,” Miller admitted, cautiously. Then: “Proper little wise guy, isn’t he?”
Burke grinned. “He certainly is. Anyhow, he didn’t take the chance and we’re alive—although we can’t take much credit for it.”
Miller nodded soberly, and his glance went to the holes in Burke’s coat and waistcoat.
Drily, he asked: “When did you start wearing steel underwear?”
Burke grinned again.
“As soon as I realised it had started. I’ve told you before, old son—I’ve three chain-waistcoats. Like one?”
“No, thanks.”
“You’re not a wise man,” said Burke sadly. “Other things apart, the steel shirt had a lot to say for itself. If I hadn’t been wearing one this afternoon, you’d be making arrangements for my funeral—and you’d have hated that.” He grinned again. “It’s a peculiar fact, Horace, that even the best crooks always pot-shot for the heart and not the head. Perhaps they think the heart of an honest man is bigger than his noddle.”
“When you’ve finished being funny,” Miller growled, “what’s your next move?”
Burke stood up, thoughtfully.
“The very next,” he said, “is to telephone Claycourt and find whether Mary Brent’s all right. After that, to wait until Pat’s called there. The third, to see Craigie. Coming?”
