The Terror Trap

by John Creasey

  “He said he might be,” said Craigie. “How are things?”

  “Too bad for expression on the telephone.” Bitterly, Timothy outlined the situation. When he finished, there was a short silence. Then:

  “So they’re after Mary Brent,” murmured Craigie. “Watch her Tim. How many men have you got there, altogether?”

  “Three. B. took Carruthers.”

  “He told me he would,” said Craigie, and Arran could almost see him smile. “I’ve sent a replacement down—he should be there any time. And I think I’d better send some of Miller’s men.”

  “There’s safety in numbers,” Timothy agreed, grimly.

  “Yes. All right, Tim. Keep in or near the cottage, and ring through a report every hour. Good-bye.”

  “Chin-chin,” said Timothy.

  He very nearly broke all records from Dorking to Byways, and he was absurdly relieved to find Patricia talking cheerfully in the garden to Dick, from the nearby Riding School. The cottage was still a haven of peace—and, of course, a nursing home.

  How long would it remain peaceful?

  Timothy Arran went up to his bedroom and looked over a small case containing two automatics and a plentiful supply of ammunition. He didn’t know whether to hope for the best or fear the worst.

  Burke telephoned Craigie at eight o’clock that night.

  “Wigham’s booked for the night at the Railway Hotel, under the name of Smith,” he reported. “We’re at the Station Hotel, opposite, with a front window, but I think we ought to have someone watching the back. Wigham looks a slippery cuss, and he might know we’re watching.”

  “Yes,” said Craigie. “Get the local police, Jim. Now about Wigham, and those grapes ...”

  For several seconds, when he had finished explaining, Burke swore profusely. Then:

  “I thought it might happen.” Burke ended bitterly. “Thank the Lord I sat on ’em! I’ll watch Mr Wigham all right, after this.”

  “Handle things the best way you can,” said Craigie. “But remember—we not only want Graydon, and now Wigham; we must also find the real Katrina. There’s no scare about her disappearance yet, but it will start soon.”

  “H’mm,” Jim Burke agreed, thoughtfully.

  He was afraid the real Katrina was dead.

  “And what about the other end?” he asked. “Damn it, you’re keeping me guessing! Did they get O’Ray?”

  Craigie laughed a little, not with humour.

  “Yes, they got him, all right. And let him go.”

  Burke drew a deep breath.

  “The man Merridew identified him,” Craigie explained. “Although the moustache was awkward— O’Ray hasn’t got one—but it made no odds, anyway. O’Ray admitted he’d driven Mary Brent to London, and claimed he’d lied because he didn’t want to be mixed up in the scandal. He also offered bail, and a couple of dozen others offered bail for him. He’s out on two sureties of five hundred pounds.”

  “They ought to have kept him,” Burke growled.

  “I’m not so sure,” said Craigie. “Wally Davidson and Martin Best are on his tail. He won’t shake them off easily, and he might lead us somewhere.”

  Burke grunted, unconvinced. But he realised it was a real problem. O’Ray had friends everywhere. Until some more definite charge could be laid against him it was almost impossible to hold him.

  “Well, let’s hope he does,” said Burke. “Anyway, that seems the lot, Swansea 91836 will find either Carruthers or me, and I’ll ring you if anything turns up. By the way—you saw Toby?”

  “He brought your message.” Craigie gave a dry chuckle. “He should be down there by mid-day tomorrow.”

  “So with any luck,” Burke summed up, “we’re all set.”

  When he had rung off, he rejoined Bob Carruthers at his window table. So far, Bob told him, there had been no sign of Tommy Wigham.

  “Good,” said Burke. “Toby’ll be down tomorrow. Meanwhile I’m going to try and get a couple of good men from the local police—not that they’ll like it much, tonight.” He grimaced. “Where there are strikes there is trouble; and where there is trouble there’s a bobby. But we’ll get——”

  He broke off to peer through the window. For a distant babble of voices was growing nearer. Men were shouting, now, and twice a police whistle shrilled out. Trouble had come. It would come a hundred times in the next few days, Burke thought grimly. People would lose their tempers, some fool was sure to do something to infuriate the mob. And when the mob broke loose, there would be no sanity.

  Burke and Carruthers saw the trouble.

  A Daimler saloon turned into the lamplit station approach, travelling slowly because of the white-faced men and haggard-looking women surrounding it. Most of them were grimly silent, but here and there men were shouting and brandishing sticks. Once, Burke saw a stone bounce from the side of the Daimler.

  And then the police came.

  They walked through the mob without much trouble, their truncheons drawn but not used. A line of them cleared a passage for the car and the man who stepped from it.

  The man was old, and bearded. Obviously nervous, he bolted from the car into the station. As he disappeared, the crowd began at once to disperse.

  Burke nodded grimly as Carruthers murmured:

  “I wonder who that was?”

  “The police will know,” he said, and returned to the telephone.

  When the police station answered, he asked for the Superintendent and introduced himself. His request for two good plainclothes men was coldly received until he mentioned that the job certainly concerned the strike. And then he related the episode of the Daimler.

  “A white-bearded man?” said the Super. “Yes, that would be Granton. Sir Joseph, the owner of Granton’s collieries. Between you and me, Mr Burke, I’m glad he’s gone back to London. He’s the type to cause trouble.”

  “H’mm.” Burke looked at his watch. “What time does his train go?”

  “Eight-fifty.”

  “I’d like to see him, and I’ve got a quarter of an hour in which to do it. Well—you’ll let me have those men, Super?”

  “I’ll see you get them,” the Super assured him. “And Mr Burke—I’m not trying to interfere, but are you holding a watching brief?”

  “On the strike? No. But I think my man’s got a lot to do with it.”

  “H’mm.” The Superintendent hesitated. “Look—why not come round here, after my men have arrived? I think we might be able to help each other.”

  “I’ll be there,” said Burke. “The Central Headquarters?”

  “Yes. And thanks. I shan’t keep you now.”

  Burke replaced the receiver, told Carruthers where he was going, and hurried out. There was a door leading from the hotel to the station approach and in five minutes, he was entering the compartment where Sir Joseph Granton sat frowning.

  Burke was no mean judge of man. He knew Granton was badly hit, and he did not think it was entirely because of the demonstration of dislike he had just witnessed. He looked as if he were worried by something a great deal more substantial.

  He did not seem surprised to see Burke; nor did he look, or sound, pleased.

  “I’ve got nothing for you,” he snapped, unpleasantly. “Don’t pester me!”

  As Burke laughed and sat down opposite him, Sir Joseph continued to glare.

  “I’m not the press,” Burke told him.

  Sir Joseph wasn’t mollified.

  “Then what are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Burke offered cigarettes, and watched his man carefully. He recognised the type: the arrogant, old die-hard who was, nevertheless, probably well-meaning. Sir Joseph Granton lived in a world that had been very pleasant before the war, but had gone mad after it.

  “Thank you, I don’t smoke them,” he said now, a little less abruptly. “And what, may I ask——”

  “Sir Joseph,” Burke interrupted, easily, “I have no official business, but I have the co-operation of the police. If
I hadn’t, I could not have reached your compartment. I am trying to get at the root of the trouble here and—you will take no offence, I feel sure—it seems obvious to me that Granton’s colliery is the kicking-off point.”

  “Well?” Granton peered suspiciously at the big man. He wasn’t wholly convinced this wasn’t a press-man.

  “Do you know of any special reason why the strike should have started there?”

  Sir Joseph’s answer came sharply.

  “Yes. Paid agitators.”

  “Paid by whom?”

  “Good heavens!” snapped Granton. “How do you expect me to know that? The usual Communist gold, I presume. It’s been the ruin of English mining, sir, the ruin of it! I can tell you——”

  He told Burke several things that mattered very little, and only convinced him that Granton certainly did not suspect there was anything unusual about this affair. It was the old, old story: Russian gold—insubordinate workmen.

  Yet Burke was quite sure it was not.

  “This will be the ruin of me, sir!” Granton went on fiercely: “Not only the company, but me personally. I could have sold out a month ago if that fool Fordham hadn’t stood in the way! Oh—I know he’s dead. Perhaps I shouldn’t talk like this. But it’s true! And now I’m suffering for Fordham’s obstinacy. Fordham should have let coal alone. Oil’s enough for one man——”

  He broke off and looked up sharply as the guard’s whistle shrilled.

  “You’ll have to hurry, sir——”

  The next moment, Sir Joseph Granton was convinced he was dealing with a madman. For the massive, somewhat dull-looking man stood up, clasped Sir Joseph’s right hand, and wrung it, hard.

  “Sir Joseph,” he said, “you’ve done me a great service, and many others a great service. I’ve been a blind fool! Thank you, Sir Joseph, thank you.”

  “Good God!” Sir Joseph protested. “You’ll get carried on, man—we don’t stop until——”

  Jim Burke gave his hand a final wring, then relinquished it. The train was already in motion as he opened the door and jumped. Shaken, Granton darted to the window and looked out. But the big man had landed safely on his feet and was waving after the departing train and smiling hugely. He looked delighted.

  “God bless my soul!” Sir Joseph Granton collapsed in a corner, then looked at his hand. There were little ridges of flesh where the big man had gripped it. “God bless my soul!” he said again. “I’m sure he was mad.”

  Less than ten minutes later, Burke was on the telephone to Craigie.

  “Gordon, raise heaven and hell to find out the full extent of Fordham’s holdings at the time of his death, and O’Ray’s holdings now. Everything. Between ’em, they must be listed on the boards of a couple of dozen companies. Get ’em all. And not only in England—try the Continent, America, every ruddy place you can think of.”

  “You’d like it all,” said Gordon Craigie drily, “tonight, I suppose?”

  “What a humorist you are,” grinned Burke, and Craigie could tell that the big man was in the very best of tempers. “Tonight would do fine, but tomorrow night should be soon enough.”

  “I’ll try,” Craigie promised. “But what’s it all about?”

  “Remember the great words of Sir Joseph Granton,” Burke chided him, mock-sententious. “‘Oil’s enough for one man’.”

  “Good Lord!” Gordon Craigie whistled. “So that’s it? And we had to be told——!”

  “The only good thing about it,” said Burke, more soberly, “is that even if we’d known before, we couldn’t have done much. And now we do know, we’ll be able to scotch it. You’ll ring me?”

  “Yes, from time to time.”

  “Fine. Right, then, Gordon—oh, by the way, how’s Dodo?”

  “He’ll be all right,” said Craigie. “I rang the hospital ten minutes ago.”

  “What the hell’s got you?” Carruthers demanded as Burke rejoined him, grinning broadly.

  “The whole works,” said Burke. “I think. But mum’s the word, until I know. No sign of Tommy?”

  As Carruthers shook his head, the telephone rang. Two gentlemen were asking for Mr Burke. Would he care to speak to them?

  “Just send them up to my room please,” said Burke.

  “They’ll be from Superintendent Lewis,” he told Carruthers, as he hung up.

  They were, and they not only seemed good men, but did not look like plainclothes policemen: they looked like successful commercial travellers. Burke gave the taller man a vivid description of Tommy Wigham, and the man departed to watch the rear exit of the Railway Hotel. His colleague waited at the Station Hotel with Carruthers, watching the front entrance of the rival establishment. Burke made his way to Central Police Headquarters.

  He was thoughtful, as he walked through the streets.

  He believed he knew the cause of the affair, now, and if he was right, he could stop it. But he doubted very much whether anything could stop the strike spreading.

  Gaunt-faced men were gathered in little groups, their women conversing in strident Welsh from their doorsteps. But there was no trouble, that first night of the strike, apart from the hostile reception given to Sir Joseph Granton’s car. It seemed as if the population of Swansea was tightening its belt, ready for the struggle to come. There was a grimness about the groups Burke passed, and all the men had the pale faces of men who work in the dark.

  Burke noticed that he passed few public houses doing any trade. Was it a portent? There was, he knew, a mob rule at the beginning of strikes, which ran ‘let’s get drunk tonight and damn them tomorrow’. It was natural. To lay down tools was the biggest step in these men’s lives. Their work, for them, was the beginning and end of existence. And if they had brought themselves to the pitch of offering a challenge, more often than not the reaction brought a desire to forget, temporarily, the thing they had done.

  But there was little forgetfulness in Swansea that night, and later Burke knew there was little elsewhere. Oft-talked of, the thing had come. There was none of the madness of the suddenly conceived idea; there was the solemn determination to make a fight of it.

  And to fight, in that language, meant to hold out.

  Burke bought a paper from a newsboy and immediately the headlines hit him:

  * * *

  COAL STRIKE SPREADS MIDLAND AREAS AFFECTED SCOTLAND EXPECTED TO STOP WORK TO-NIGHT

  * * *

  And the thing that had put the flame to the smouldering discontent, Burke thought, had been the murder of Arthur Fordham and John Brent.

  18

  AGITATORS AND OTHERS

  Superintendent Gwiliam Lewis was a Welshman from the ‘north.’ by which he meant North Wales. But he had spent twenty-five years in the mining districts of South Wales, and he had lived through dozens of strikes. His opinion of the present one was reasoned and reasonable.

  To look at, Lewis was tall, rather sharp featured, with a pointed nose and chin. His eyes were blue, his hair between-colours, and he was clean-shaven. His lips were full, and his voice bespoke his nationality; many of his words and all his sentences ended in an upwards lilt.

  Burke was surprised, when he was ushered into the super’s room by a sergeant who obviously came from Bow, or near it, to find a second man there who looked more Yorkshire than Welsh. He was a rugged, ruddy-faced man with a rough voice and a downright manner. He had a bushy moustache and bushier eyebrows above alert, grey eyes.

  Lewis stood up with a smile as the sergeant ushered in the big man.

  “I’ve been hoping you’d come soon,” said the Super, as they shook hands. “Meet Mr Pickering.”

  Burke shook hands with Mr Pickering.

  “I thought you’d like to meet him.” Lewis pushed an open tin of cigarettes across his desk. “He’s manager of Granton’s.”

  Burke looked at Pickering again, and liked him. He sensed in this office, too, the same grimness there was outside. It was as if the very air knew of the trouble; as if the long, bleak days ahead
were already having their effect.

  “Well,” Burke began, taking the seat Lewis indicated, “I’m very glad to be able to talk to you both. But first, I ought to say this: I didn’t come here, primarily, because of the strike. I’m working on a case that led here—and I know there’s a connection. So far, I can’t say just how.”

  Pickering stuck his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat.

  “We’ll help ye all we can,” he offered.

  “That goes without saying,” said Lewis.

  Burke nodded, smiled, and took a cigarette,

  “I’m not going to ask ‘What’s caused the strike?’. I know. It’s old-standing trouble, and it doesn’t come within my province. But there’s an immediate cause, gentlemen, starting I think from Granton’s. That’s all I know. But I suspect——”

  Pickering sat up, abruptly. His face was a genuine ruddy colour, now, and his voice was very thick.

  “Aye, the trouble started wi’ us, Mr Burke, and Ah’m telling ye now, Ah’m not surprised. Ah’ve had to do things no man would willingly do. We’re here, Ah take it, for straight talk—we’ll reach nowt wi’out it. Ah’ve been forced to work my men on bad rates, Mr Burke. Ah’ve been forced to introduce non-union men—which is worse than a red rag to a bull, as ye may know. Ah’m not saying there’s not some excuse for it. Granton’s are doing badly. But it’s bad management, Mr Burke, that’s made them do worse than others. And because of that bad management, we’ve had to cut down expenses here. And when ye start cutting a tree wi’out branches, ye’ve got to start on the tree itself. And that’s caused the trouble.”

  It was an honest statement from an honest man, and Burke figuratively took his hat off. There was something refreshingly blunt about Pickering.

  “But Ah will say this,” went on the manager, “We’d have held out, gentlemen. My men here know me, and Ah’ve promised them better things, at end of year. They’d have had ’em, or Ah’d not be manager longer. Maybe ye’ll know, Mr Burke—Lewis, here, does—that the Ministry of Mines has a commission working on it, and Ah really think things would ha’ changed for the better. Not all the men’d want. Not even what they’d deserve. But ye can’t get these things all at once, and the men know things aren’t so good with t’owners, right now. They’re reasonable men, Mr Burke. Ah’ve worked with ‘em. Ah’ve worked as a driver and a putter—and that before Ah were fourteen—and Ah’ve hewn my share on t’coal face. Rock-bottom, they’re good, sound men who want nowt more than a living wage. Ah tell ye, they’d have stayed until after the committee’s report—but we had trouble with agitators.”