by John Creasey
“I think I’d better. I can let you have the full Lavis story, then.”
“Fine,” said Jim Burke, already on the telephone. Having ascertained that Mary Brent and Timothy Arran were still at the hotel and that nothing untoward had happened, he allowed himself the comfort of a quick bath. As he changed, he noted—and showed to Miller—the blue bruises beneath his steel shirt. Miller conceded that two of the bullets would have pierced his pump, but still could not be persuaded to accept one of Burke’s protective vests. When Sam Carter had put iodine and sticking-plaster on the cut in his cheek, Burke re-entered the sitting room, which was now scrupulously tidy. The broken knife—or as much of it as Sam could find was in an envelope on the table.
Burke grinned at Miller.
“That’s what I call a useful man about the house—I wish you’d learn to love Sam.”
“Maybe I will,” Miller growled, unexpectedly. Sam, listening in the kitchen, fingered his nose irreverently in the direction of the Superintendent—in the commission of which undignified act Burke found him.
“Sam,” he chided, “you’re letting me down.”
Sam fell back on his last line of defence.
“Me name ain’t Sam—it’s—”
“Pete,” supplied Burke. “I know. Sam, be careful while I’m gone, and take a note of everything—callers, telephone calls, gentlemen in the street who look as if they might not be gentlemen; in fact, the whole darned caboodle.”
“Oke,” said Sam.
Telephoning the Claycourt Hotel again, Burke learned with relief that Pat and Carruthers had arrived. He knew that a man like Graydon would be apt to strike at the weaker links in his opponent’s armour, and Patricia could be called the weak spot. Kidnapping was not only old-fashioned; it was frequently effective, and Burke didn’t intend to take any chances he could possibly avoid.
Satisfied that things generally were under control, he led Miller downstairs again, and together they made their way towards Whitehall, by way of Scotland Yard.
In the fifteen minutes which elapsed between the time when Sam Carter had assured himself that the two men were alive, and the time when the same two men had sat opposite each other, licking whisky from their lips, things had happened.
Miller’s first move, after regaining consciousness, was to get in touch with the Yard, so that while waiting for Jim Burke, he knew the Yard was already busy. A general call was out for Graydon, solicitor, of 183g, Cannon Street and 14, Grove Street, Chelsea, and for his head clerk. Curson had a criminal record and, provided he was not using an assumed name, would be easy to trace at the Yard.
Miller was anxious to find whether there had been any developments, but when they called at the Yard, he learned that there had not.
“No news is good news,” quoted Burke, philosophically, as they proceeded on their way to Craigie’s office in Whitehall.
Five minutes later, they were sitting opposite him.
“One thing’s certain,’ Burke said, after they had exchanged greetings. “They were after me before they knew I was on the Fordham game. So whoever is working this stunt, knows me for what I am. Which means,” he added flatly, “that it’s one of our old friends.”
Craigie nodded.
He was smoking his meerschaum, and his hooded eyes were very alert. This affair had opened out with startling speed, and it wanted stopping quickly. The other side wasn’t wasting time, and it looked very much as if the murder of Fordham was a culminating point; that Graydon’s game was very nearly finished. It was certain that things had been happening underground. No whisper, beyond the affair of Richard Lavis, had reached the police or the Department. And that suggested in turn that whoever was running the affair knew his job, and knew what opposition to expect.
When Burke had said ‘one of our old friends’ he meant of course one of those gentlemen who worked frequently against the Intelligence Service. There were necessarily many games (to use the Department’s vernacular) which ended inconclusively. The task of the Intelligence was never finished: something was always happening, from minor cases of espionage to big affairs when war and worse was in the balance. It seemed certain that whoever was backing Graydon had played these games long enough to learn the rules inside out.
“So that’s a start,” said Burke, after a pause.
Craigie’s grey eyes twinkled.
“Let’s have it as you see it,” he invited.
“Drat you,” said Burke, who always hated talking unless he was worked up, as he had been worked up at the fiat that afternoon. “All right—here goes.”
He summarised the affair quickly.
First, Lavis had been threatened; attempts had been made to frighten him off the board of Granton’s, and to kill him. This has seemed an isolated case until Fordham’s murder. It looked as if Fordham had been murdered to cancel out his vote against the Granton Company. Richard Lavis, whom Miller had seen that morning, certainly held that view. To back it up, there was the fact that Graydon was the secretary of the Granton concern.
“He’s been practising for years,” Miller put in, at this juncture. “There’s never been a rumour against him, so far as I could find. He’s got a lot of big-name clients. According to Lavis, some of the company’s recent activities have been—well, pretty close to the wind. Graydon was called in to straighten things out—apparently there’s been a lot of legal complications.”
“Why Graydon?” asked Burke.
Miller shrugged.
“I expect it’s because he’s always handled Sir Joseph Granton’s affairs. Granton was in difficulties, so he’d naturally call on Graydon.”
“Why not the company’s regular solicitors?”
“According to Lavis,” Miller reported, “the regular legal advisers went out of business over two years ago. Granton didn’t like their successors, so Graydon was called in.”
“One thing’s fortunate,” said Craigie, his pipe drooping on his chest: “you know the Graydon-Granton end fairly well. We don’t have to waste a lot of time, digging into it.”
The others nodded. It was fortunate in several ways that Miller had already been investigating the Granton Company’s directors and affairs. It helped them to get a better grasp on the situation.
“Well,” Burke picked up the thread of his summary: “So much for the Lavis-Graydon-Granton angle. Next, we have Fordham’s position on the Company’s board, his murder, and John Brent’s. At first sight, there isn’t anything to connect them. Mary Brent tells us about the concession business. It looks on the surface as if Fordham and Brent were killed because Fordham took the oil concession from Rania. But why kill the chemist?”
Neither of the others spoke.
“I don’t know, either,” he went on, lighting a cigarette. “I can’t think Brent or Fordham were killed entirely because of the oil concession, although that might have something to do with it. In other words—I don’t think they were killed by anyone from Rania.”
He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette.
“Let’s assume, anyhow, that they weren’t. Now we can only theorise, and the obvious theory is that Fordham and Brent knew-something, perhaps connected with the concession, that was dangerous to the Graydon crowd. There’s one thing I know, to make me fairly sure of that—and incidentally sure that the murders aren’t just because of the concession. Mary Brent overheard her father and Fordham talking—she told me this to-day. She told me also that Brent had been worried since he returned from Rania—so seriously that he tried to bury himself in that Hampshire village. And Fordham said: ‘another couple of months and we’ll be out of the woods.’ That’s worth knowing.”
Miller whistled softly and Craigie said:
“It certainly is. She’s sure of the words?”
“She seemed absolutely certain.”
“So.” Craigie tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth. “Fordham and Brent were both expecting trouble—and at that time thought it would last another two months. If the trouble was si
mply from some Ranian source, because of the concession, there’d have been no time limit.”
Burke nodded as Miller grunted agreement.
“That’s my view of it,” he said.
“When did this conversation take place?” asked Craigie.
“The Monday after Fordham returned from his honeymoon. I don’t know the date——”
“Half a mo’,” Miller put in. “I remember the day he came back—we had to send a special force to Waterloo, to deal with the crowds. It was a Saturday—September the fourteenth.”
It was indicative of the seriousness of the others that they made no humorous capital out of this feat of memory. Burke said quickly:
“So Monday was the sixteenth. It’s now the thirtieth of October, which makes it just over six weeks since Fordham estimated two months to see the end of the show. If that’s a reliable basis, there’s at best a fortnight to run.”
“It can only be approximate,” Craigie agreed. “But it’s certainly something to go on. Did you get anything else from Mary Brent?”
“No. Nothing beyond the fact that she knew her father was worried, Fordham was worried, and she put it down to the concession. She doesn’t think much of the concession,” Burke added.
“Nor did Staren of Rania,” said Craigie, drily. “And others I could name. Well?”
Burke shrugged.
“Well—we’ve been through the things that we know, or can reasonably assume. Now we’ve got to try and guess others. First—who is Graydon working for?”
“I think—” began Miller.
“Hold it a minute,” said Burke. “We can be pretty sure Graydon threatened young Lavis. Graydon ordered the murders of Fordham and Brent——”
“That’s going too far,” the Superintendent broke in again.
Burke looked at ‘Dusty’ Miller with eyebrows raised in obvious question.
“You’ve nothing to go on—except suspicion—to suggest that Graydon knows anything about those murders.” Miller rarely granted a point unless he was sure he could offer no concrete argument against it. “It looks like it, I’ll grant you, but—”
“Horace,” Jim Burke announced: “you’re deaf.”
Miller went a dusky red.
“Don’t fool,” he growled. “This is no time for acting the goat.”
“Because,” Burke went on, unperturbed, “you missed an earful, at my flat—spoken by Graydon, bless him. You ought to write a book on Murderers Who Make Mistakes.” He grinned at Miller’s bafflement. “When did the Brent murder get into the papers?”
“It hasn’t yet,” Miller said, impatiently. “You know it won’t get in before the six o’clock editions—it’s been kept pretty close.”
“Exactly,” said Burke.
Miller sat up with a jerk and went an even duskier red.
“Darn it,” he grunted. “Sorry, Burke. Of course—Graydon said we might try to tie the murders of Fordham and Brent on him. And Brent! So he knew——”
“What no honest citizen ought to,” Burke agreed. “So you’ll grant me the point that our little solicitor threatened Lavis and ordered the other two murders— which came off.”
“Yes,” Miller conceded gracefully. “That’s good enough.”
“For theory,” cautioned Craigie.
“There spake the Scot,” Burke grinned. “Anyhow, we want to know who Graydon’s working for. The big shots or shot wouldn’t take such an active part as Graydon’s taken, so we know there’s someone behind him. Someone who knows me——”
“Ah,” said Gordon Craigie.
He took his pipe from his mouth and leaned forward, his hooded eyes gleaming.
“That’s the first big puzzle, Jim—how do they know you? They’d guess the Department would take up the job, after Fordham’s death—but why start on you, first?”
“Well?” prompted Burke, while Miller stared, suddenly alert.
“But Jim,” said Craigie, “You told me why, this morning.”
Burke looked very hard at his Chief, and thought very hard. But a full minute passed before he realised what Craigie meant. And then he swore.
“What a ruddy fool I am! Of course—I told you I’d been in Rania—I know King Staren well enough. I have; I do. I was clearing up after the Krotz job, four months ago——”
Miller snapped:
“The same time as Fordham and Brent were there, on the oil concession?”
“Just that.” Burke grimaced at his own obtuseness. “The Ranian Intelligence men knew me for an agent; that’s certain.”
“They’d also know you’d be the first man called in for a big job like Fordham’s killing and its repercussions,” said Craigie. “It’s no use blinking facts. There’s a Ranian contact on this job, somewhere—and the Ranian Intelligence would know you’re the man to get rid of, if there’s a chance of trouble.”
“Which brings us back to the oil concession,” grunted Burke. “Blast it.”
“I suppose,” Miller suggested a little heavily, “Graydon couldn’t be working on two different jobs? The Granton affair and the concession business?”
Burke grinned at Craigie.
“Man,” he said, “give the policeman a drink.”
“Don’t be funny,” Miller growled. “I don’t mean the two things aren’t connected. Even you,” he said witheringly, “can see that. But—who handled the legal angle of Fordham’s concession?”
There was silence for a moment. And then Burke smiled.
“Horace,” he said, “I’m sorry. Have two drinks!”
9
ONE MAN DIES
It took Craigie ten minutes on the telephone with Somerset House to confirm that Claude Marchbanks Graydon had acted as legal adviser to Arthur Fordham in the Ranian oil concession business. It took the three men another ten minutes to conclude a talk that was necessarily inconclusive, but which had cleared the air a great deal. In the course of it, they had discussed the possibility that a member of the Cropper-Gordon group was behind Graydon—at least where the effort to get control of Granton’s was concerned.
There was one big argument against that; if Granton’s didn’t sell, they would go bankrupt. If they went bankrupt, it was almost certain that the Cropper-Gordon group would have the job of straightening out the mess. So the big group would get control, eventually. There seemed no reason why it should be in such a desperate hurry as to kill Fordham and try to kill Lavis in order to cancel out opposition from Granton’s.
But it was admitted there might be some urgent reason, and Cropper-Gordons were, necessarily, suspect.
Craigie telephoned Somerset House again, to discover that Graydon was in no way connected—from the records—with the big group, and to get a list of the directors. It proved comparatively small. Five men controlled the activities of the biggest colliery combine in England, and all of them were public figures: men who would be difficult to handle. Miller, for one, didn’t like the idea of trying to get information from them.
“Don’t try,” Burke advised. “Leave it to us.”
“I’m not shirking it,” grunted Miller.
“It will be better for us to deal with them,” Craigie assured him. “If you dig into this man Curson’s past, and see if you can find anything from Graydon’s office or house, you’ll be pulling your weight I promise you!”
Miller, well pleased, left almost immediately to set these tasks in train. Burke stayed behind for a few minutes.
“The programme is?” his Chief asked. Craigie liked to let his men think they were not only working on, but controlling, an affair. Burke, who knew his methods, smiled as he rose to go.
“Check up on these people,” he said, tapping the list of names and addresses of the Cropper-Gordon group. “See young Lavis, and have another shot at seeing Mrs. Fordham.”
“Leave her till last,” suggested Craigie, and Burke nodded and went out.
As he walked down Whitehall, he was conscious of the newsboys shouting, as they always shouted, and of
the thousands of people scurrying to and fro. Jim Burke was one of those men who perpetually marvel at the insignificance of human units and the vastness of the universe; but he never allowed himself to try to probe the reason for it. His job was with the units. Any one of these men or women might, for all he knew, be watching and waiting for him, and ready to follow him.
“And then again, they might not,” he told himself with a grin.
He decided to buy a paper, just to check that nothing had yet reached the voracious press about the Brent murder. But as he walked towards a newsboy, he saw someone else—and he whistled.
Some hours before, he had seen the man enter a train at Victoria, ostensibly on his way out of London. Why, then, was he walking along the pavement in Whitehall?
The man was coming towards him. Burke bought his paper, and waited. The man came up, saw him, and stopped dead, obviously startled.
“Why—why, it’s—you!” As he spoke, his confusion grew worse.
“So you didn’t get back to Hampshire?” Burke grinned. “Couldn’t keep away, eh?”
The smile on the face of Mr. Tommy Wigham was decidedly sheepish.
“N—not for the life of me,” he said. “So darned sorry for that p—poor kid. It’s the devil—it really is!”
Burke nodded, amused. Doctor’s orders (or what Wigham thought were doctor’s orders) had not stopped him from hoping to see Mary Brent.
“H—how is she?” he demanded, automatically falling into step with Burke as they strolled on towards Parliament Square. “She—she’s still at the hotel?”
“Gone to a nursing home,” Burke told him straight-faced. “The doctor thought it best”
Tommy Wigham stopped short, half-way across Whitehall, and grasped the big man’s arm. His eyes glittered angrily.
“B—b—but look here! Mary’s all right, isn’t she— isn’t she? Not ill?”
“Wigham,” Burke removed his hand with a jerk: “Don’t be a damned fool! If you must get cross, get cross on the pavement. Move, man.”
