by John Creasey
‘See what you can arrange,’ Hammond said. ‘I’ll find out what the roads are like to Reading.’
• • • • •
An hour and a half later Tim Kemble, Mike Errol and ‘young Latimer’ started out for Colston. Hammond had told Loftus what he proposed, and Loftus had agreed that it was well worth trying. Lionel Marchant and his cousin might have been able to reach Colston, and might think that they were safe there from inquiries.
The Department Z agents took two jeeps, one of which Tim Kemble drove alone, and was piled with snow-shoes, skis, sticks and ropes, all the impedimenta which might be required for heavy work in the snow.
It was half-past three before they reached the outskirts of the village of Colston.
From the High Street, between the Norman church tower and the snowy thatch of the only inn, they could see the gentle Berkshire countryside buried deep under virgin snow that glittered in the sun which, for the first time that day, began to pierce the clouds. There was little wind, and everywhere an uncanny silence. Colston must be a sleepy place at the best of times, but on that particular day it seemed desolate. They saw only two people, both women, both coming out of a post office which was half-hidden by snow.
‘I’ll find out where the Marchants’ house is,’ offered ‘young Latimer’, and began to plough his way towards the post office.
He was a man of medium height, not particularly broad nor powerful. A friend of the Errols, he had been vaguely aware of what they did, and had suggested that he might prove useful. He had been with the Department for some months, and, like Tim, had yet to prove himself in an emergency. He had all the qualifications for success, although he would probably be one to receive rather than to give orders. Tim Kemble, on the other hand, had been marked out—as had George Henry George—for leadership.
‘Young Latimer’ had corn-coloured hair, a rather thin and not unhandsome face, and large, grey, tired-looking eyes. This tiredness was deceptive; so was his slow, drawling voice.
The fat woman behind the counter of the post office looked surprised to see him.
‘I didn’t expect no more strangers today, sir,’ she said. ‘I wonder how you managed to get here.’
‘Oh, this way and that,’ drawled Latimer. ‘It’s a bit nippy. Still, it’s worse at the North Pole.’
‘It is that, sir! I wouldn’t like to live up there.’
‘Not to be an Eskimo, no,’ murmured Latimer. ‘I’m looking for Colston House. It’s near here, isn’t it?’
Little eyes in a great red face stared at him in astonishment.
‘Well,’ said the post-mistress, ‘I never did!’
‘Oh,’ murmured Latimer.
‘No, I certainly didn’t,’ said the post-mistress, leaning her elbows on the counter and thus thrusting her face closer to him. She was a mighty creature, fore and aft. ‘Another gentleman wanted to find Colston House.’
‘Oh,’ murmured Latimer again. ‘It’s a popular place.’ He smiled. ‘The truth is, we started out in two sections and one of us got lost. So the others arrived first—how much did they win by?’
‘They came an hour ago,’ she said.
‘Three of them, weren’t there?’
‘I don’t know about that,’ said the post-mistress, ‘I only saw two. Will!’ she called, in a voice suddenly strident. ‘Will! Come in here a minute!’ She stared towards a door at the back of the shop, and a tall, bedraggled-looking man came in and stood waiting. ‘Will,’ repeated the post-mistress, ‘how many gentlemen were there in the other car?’
‘Four,’ declared Will, in a melancholy voice.
‘Oh, good,’ said Latimer, brightly. ‘So they all got here.’
‘Just lucky,’ said Will. ‘Passed the barn, they did, and then down it come.’
Latimer pressed more questions, and in his gruff, melancholy voice, Will told the story. The other carload of strangers had gone straight along the road to Colston House, a bad road at the best of times. It led over a small bridge which crossed the Coll River, and the river was in flood, although further up it was frozen nearly right over. Down here, at Colston, it was frozen at the edges but there was twice the normal volume of water.
Just after the other car had passed over the bridge, there had been a heavy fall of snow from an old barn near the bridge and the road. The snow had fallen across the road. Men were already working to try to clear a path, for milk- and bread-vans had to get through to outlying hamlets.
‘So you can’t go just yet,’ said the post-mistress. ‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea, sir?’
‘Nice of you,’ murmured Latimer. ‘The road might be clear by now.’
‘Take an hour, that will,’ Will declared. ‘Just come from it, I have. Have a cup o’ tea an’ welcome, sir.’
‘Perhaps the gentleman would prefer to go to The George and have a meal,’ said the post-mistress.
Will sniffed: ‘And p’raps they’d get one,’ he said. ‘Those new people...’ Latimer listened to him impatiently and yet eagerly.
Ten minutes later he joined Mike and Tim, who were pacing up and down the street. The engines of the jeeps were still running, and now two or three people were peering at them from behind curtains at cottage windows.
Latimer’s dreamy eyes were much brighter than when he had left them. There had been ‘one lady in the party, which made five people in all’. The car looked as if it had come a long way, and the man who had inquired the way had been impatient, saying that he had an urgent appointment at Colston House.
Mike said: ‘If it’s Wilkinson, then Clarissa...’
Tim broke in.
‘Clarissa wasn’t with them, or they wouldn’t have had to ask the way. You didn’t ask whether the fellow had his hair cropped, did you?’
‘He wore a hat all the time,’ said Latimer. ‘Well, what shall we do?’
‘Get after them,’ said Tim. ‘You get the thermos flasks filled with tea, we might find it useful later on, and catch us up. We may have to wait a while by the bridge,’ he added, ‘it depends how deep the river is.’
‘Will says it’s in flood,’ said Latimer. ‘Okay, I’ll be tea-boy. You go ahead.’ He hurried off.
The snow had been cleared from the centre of the road and from the front of The George, too. Tim glanced at the place then drove on. The road was narrow and there was only room for one car at a time; if they met anything coming down, they would be in queer street. After a while, they came to a hill and had some difficulty in reaching the top. From the top, they looked down upon a deep valley, snow-clad, a single sheet of white; even the trees were covered so deeply that branches were hidden. Nothing showed against the virgin sheet except the thin dark line of the winding river.
They could see that it was swollen.
A little further on, they passed a copse. Beyond it, at the foot of a steep hill, men were moving about, little dark dots. As the jeep drew nearer, Tim saw that there were close on a dozen of them, and all were shovelling snow. Two vans were drawn up in front of the bridge itself, and as the jeep pulled up, Tim saw that there was a bread-van and a milk-van.
They got out and joined the crowd. A red-faced man, muffled up to the ears in a pink Balaclava helmet, grunted a welcome, and said:
‘More hands, less work.’ Then he pointed to two spades sticking up in the snow.
Tim and Mike put their backs into it.
A few minutes later Latimer drew up.
There was a sudden cheer from the men at the far end of the group, near the bridge; they were through. A man hurried from the crowd and climbed into the bread-van, which was at the head of the little convoy. He raced the engine, then moved, the wheels chain-wrapped and clanking. The men stood back by the side of the path. The van slithered a little, but suddenly its front wheels touched the edge of the bridge.
There was a ragged cheer. Someone laughed. Someone else said, ‘What we could do with now is some beer.’
‘What a hope,’ said the man with the pink Bal
aclava. ‘Now last year...’
Tim and the others heard that exchange as they got into the jeeps. Tim let in the clutch of his and started off. The milk-van had reached the bridge, the bread-van was on the other side and crawling up the hill on the south of the valley. The jeep was crunching steadily through the snow, and Tim was thinking that the strangers ahead had only an hour and a half’s start.
Next moment, the bridge blew up!
13
High Explosive
Until then, the only sound inside the jeep was the roar of the engine. The end of the bridge was ten feet away, and Tim had accelerated. He saw the blinding flash, but had no time to think about it or to wonder what it was. A vivid red and yellow, it was followed by a great roar and then a blast which swung the jeep round and sent it skidding into the shallow ramparts of the bridge. Mike lurched against Tim as they skidded round. The roar of the explosion still deafened them, they could see and hear nothing else.
Then Tim saw the edge of the bridge.
He tried to clutch the brakes; he could not reach them. Mike was sprawling over the front of the jeep. They crashed into the rampart, and their stomachs seemed to hit their throats.
The jeep overhung the broken rampart. Tim could see clearly enough now.
The racing, swirling waters below seemed to be leaping out to clutch at them. That was all he needed to see: just the water which looked like dark molten metal, flowing so swiftly; and he could feel the jeep swaying slightly downwards towards the water.
He heard voices.
He thought: They’re going to try to hold us.
Then, with a lurch, the jeep fell.
The fall was not far; one moment they had been hanging over the bridge, the next they were beneath the icy water, and the jeep was on top of them. Tim banged his head against the windscreen. For a dreadful moment he was afraid that he was going to lose consciousness.
The water closed over him. Biting cold, rushing like a torrent and dragging at him, it forced him against Mike and the far side of the jeep. He could not breathe, there was an awful pressure at his chest. He dared not struggle. He got a hand to the door of the jeep and tried to open it, but the pressure of the water against the door was too great.
He bobbed up, into the air!
The cold seemed to slash his face, but it was the air and he could open the door. He was still sitting in water; he would go under again any moment.
The door opened, and he eased himself out.
He did not know what happened to Mike, but kicked and struck out. He must have a chance. The water was running very fast, buffeting him right and left. Once it flung him upwards, next moment it sucked him down again. At the last moment he took in a great gulp of air; then the pressure at his chest was back again, like a great vice, crushing him, forcing him to let the breath out, and to draw in water.
He bobbed up again and felt something clutch at his shoulders. Thank God, thank God. He reached the surface, and the tugging grew stronger; he was being pulled against the current to the side of the river. Not until he reached it did he realise that Latimer and several men from the working party were pulling him. He could not see clearly, but he looked about desperately for Mike Errol.
Someone said: ‘Make him run.’
He found himself being dragged up the bank of the riven. The snow was a foot deep or more, he and the others could only move slowly. Then other people dragged him to the road. He could hardly move, he was so stiff; water freezing on his face was painful in spite of his numbness, his skin seemed to be cracking.
‘Run,’ a man bellowed into his ear. ‘Run, run!’ He tried to, but his feet slipped, and but for their hold he would have fallen. But soon he was running mechanically, blindly, and he felt warmth creeping back into him.
At last he managed to gasp, ‘The other—man.’
‘Never mind him—run!’
Tim kept running. He seemed to be on the go for a long time, pounding through that white sheet, his feet slipping this way and that. Now he was really warming up, the blood was throbbing in his ears. Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump. It was getting painful, he must have a rest, he must...
He heard a car engine.
At last they let him rest. He turned round and saw the jeep, with Latimer at the wheel. As it drew up he saw Mike Errol sitting at the back, his head lolling forward.
‘Hurry,’ said Latimer, and he was not drawling then.
Two men helped Tim into the back of the jeep. One climbed in by Latimer’s side, and soon they were moving rapidly towards the village. The man who had joined Latimer was a policeman; underneath his mackintosh Tim saw the bright buttons of his uniform. The policeman started to pummel Mike’s chest and stomach.
The jeep turned into the village, and outside The George, the rear wheels skidded. They swung round and struck the post which carried the inn sign. A flurry of snow fell from it.
The door of the inn opened as Latimer and the policeman helped Tim from the car. He staggered to the door while the others lifted Mike out. A burly man stood with his arms akimbo, as if to deny them entrance. Tim saw his expression, one of acute distaste, almost of alarm, when Mike was carried towards the door.
‘We want a bedroom, quick,’ said the policeman, and there was a note of truculence in his voice.
‘I haven’t got...’
‘Quick, I said!’
The burly man gave way, with ill-grace. He walked to the stairs, without offering to lend a hand. There was an awkward turn halfway up, and Mick’s head struck the banisters. The landlord led the way into a large, double room with twin beds. He pulled off a bedspread and turned down the blankets. The policeman dumped Mike on to the bed, and Tim saw the landlord’s lips tighten as he stood looking on. Any normal man would be eager to offer help.
‘Now telephone for Dr. Arden,’ said the policeman.
The landlord went out of the room.
‘And bring the gentlemen a spot of whisky!’ called the policeman.
The landlord went heavily down the stairs. The policeman seemed to know what he was doing. While he knelt astride the bed, and pressed firmly on Mike’s ribs, Latimer began to pull off Mike’s fur-lined knee boots. It was like a farce, thought Tim. If only Mike were not in such a bad way...
Latimer looked round. ‘Take the other one, Tim.’ He tapped the policeman on the shoulder. ‘I’ll have a turn.’
Ten minutes passed before the landlord returned with a tray, whisky and a syphon. The policeman had taken over again.
The landlord put the tray down, and did not offer Tim a drink. As Latimer went over and poured one out, the landlord watched him almost suspiciously.
‘Doctor coming?’ asked Latimer.
‘Ten minutes,’ he said.
As the whisky warmed him, Tim began to feel much more himself. The meaning of the explosion was all too clear. A deliberate effort had been made to prevent anyone from reaching Colston House: a time-fuse had been set to a high-explosive.
Soon the doctor came into the room. There seemed no change in Mike’s pallor, nothing to indicate that he was alive.
After a quick examination, the doctor said:
‘We’ll have those clothes off him, get him some hot blankets and a hot bath as soon as he’s round. Some coffee, too,’ he added. ‘As sweet as you can make it, landlord.’
The surly man nodded, and went out.
Tim went to the door and watched him. The man glanced at the door of the room opposite, which Tim noticed was ajar. Why had the landlord looked at it so intently? Who was in there?
He stepped into the passage; further along, another door closed with a snap.
Tim was conscious of being watched, and that and the landlord’s behaviour increased his disquiet. But he forgot all that when he saw Mike’s face twitch.
The doctor said cheerfully:
‘We’ll have him all right in a jiffy!’
Mike was already stripped. The doctor put a blanket over him and Latimer started the artificial respirat
ion again. Tim went into the passage, and as he did so he saw the landlord creeping up the stairs, glancing over his shoulder as if he too were afraid of being watched.
Tim slipped back out of sight.
The landlord went into another room, closed the door behind him, and then began to talk. Tim could hear his voice but nothing of what he said. He was tempted to go close to the door, but the landlord came out again, and closed it sharply.
‘Get a hot bath ready,’ called the doctor.
The landlord went into a bathroom, and water began to run.
A maid came upstairs, with coffee.
It was a quarter of an hour before the policeman, Latimer and the doctor took Mike into the bathroom. He was conscious and fully aware of what had happened. Tim, still curious, and in need of a change of clothes, sought out the landlord.
He found him in a small office, poring over a book. He jumped up when Tim coughed.
Tim beamed. ‘We’re making an awful nuisance of ourselves, but—could I borrow a dressing-gown? Or a spare suit? Any old clothes will do.’
The landlord got up without a word, and led the way upstairs. Ten minutes later Tim was pulling on an old serge suit over rough woollen underwear. Throughout the procedure of selecting the clothes, the landlord had not once spoken; he seemed more surly all the time.
Tim beamed at him.
‘Thanks very much,’ he said. ‘My friend will have to stay the night, I’m afraid.’
The landlord drew in a deep breath.
‘Only fools would travel in weather like this. We haven’t got any room here.’
‘Are you often so full?’
‘Any law against it?’ demanded the landlord, and moved off.
Latimer came out of the big bedroom, where Mike had been taken again. He was smoking a cigarette and smiling ruefully.
‘Odd show,’ he said. ‘Landlord very mysterious, officer of the law very uppish, generally we aren’t welcome. What have you been prowling about for?’
‘Doors will open and close,’ Tim told him. He lit a cigarette. ‘You know, we’ve still got to get out to Colston House tonight. I wonder what the other routes are like?’
‘Non-existent, probably,’ said Latimer. ‘And this is not the home of the Bailey Bridge. The villains got ahead of us. Lucky thing you and Mike weren’t twenty yards further on.’