Traitor's Doom

by John Creasey

  Were Stefan and Palfrey right when they took it for granted that the danger in the city would be greater because of what had happened twenty miles away? Was it not at least possible that the fighting had sharpened their awareness of danger? It would be different if they had been fighting the police or the military, but the Guarda Nationale was an outlaw organisation, and there was surely no need to fear authority’s hostility.

  Of course it was difficult for them to apply, now, for police protection. In any case they did not want to be followed everywhere by the police.

  Arriving in Orlanto he moored the skiff to a landing-stage where there were several other craft, and then walked past a long, low boat-house where people were sipping coffee or tea – or what passed for coffee and tea in Catania.

  He was about to turn away from the river and mount a flight of steps leading to a road, when he stopped abruptly. He heard a sound which was some distance off, and yet was familiar – a sound which had been echoing in his mind for a long time. It was a faint chattering, like badly-played castanets.

  He stiffened, and backed towards the trees lining the river bank. The crowd passed to and fro, and the thronged river grew yet more crowded.

  Then he saw a small yacht, sailing upriver. It carried at least half a dozen men, all clad in coloured shirts, with handkerchiefs as gaudy and gay tied like skull-caps about their heads. An air of leisureliness hovered about the yacht, and he saw that the name painted on its side was ‘da Silva’.

  Perched on the boom, chattering swiftly to a heavily-built man who held the tiller, was the grey monkey.

  Brian began to move along the river in the same direction. His mind worked swiftly, reaching the obvious explanation of da Silva’s presence there: it was going to the house-boat. He made a quick estimate of the character of the men on board. They could do a great deal of damage at the river rendezvous, and, of course, there was a chance that they would not be without reinforcements.

  Tension increased in Brian as he followed the course of the yacht. He had to stop it, but it was easier to contemplate than to do.

  ‘I’d give a fortune,’ said Brian, sotto voce, ‘for one hand-grenade. Just one little hand-grenade.’

  He had to walk faster, for the yacht was making fair progress, getting clear of the small boats and skiffs. The crew – or passengers – lolled lazily, as if thoroughly content with their lot.

  ‘If I could stove in a couple of planks,’ thought Brian, ‘it would be good enough.’ He glanced about him, seeing a path leading to the river from a field on the outskirts of the town, and catching a glimpse of a man moving beyond a hedge. He did not see more than the top of the man’s head, but he thought the other was crouching low. He felt a sudden flare of alarm, lest this heralded an attack, and put his hand to his hip-pocket. A voice came from behind the hedge, saying: ‘Brian, walk straight on.’

  ‘Stefan!’ exclaimed Brian.

  Involuntarily he glanced towards the Russian, and caught a glimpse of him half-hidden by the bushes. Then he looked straight ahead of him again. He did not know whether he had yet been observed by the da Silva, but his heart was beating fast at the realisation that he had support near at hand.

  ‘Walk straight on.’ The words echoed and re-echoed in his mind, and he tried to find a reason for them.

  Then he saw that some of the occupants of the yacht were staring towards him. He did not stop, but looked straight ahead of him and slowly took the automatic from his pocket. They could not see the movement.

  Suddenly the helmsman threw the tiller over.

  The yacht changed course, and came towards the bank. Two men jumped up, and Brian saw the guns in their hands. That they were after him was no longer open to doubt, and he brought his automatic into sight, prepared to fling himself down as he fired.

  He did not see what went into the air twenty yards or more ahead of him.

  It was small and dark and round. It went upwards like a cricket ball gently lobbed back to the bowler, and landed not a foot from the bows of the da Silva. Hardly had it splashed, and Brian seen the water shoot upwards, than there was a muffled explosion. A sheet of water sprayed upwards and completely hid the yacht from sight, but it did not hide a second round object which sailed gently through the air and dropped beyond the splash.

  Brian flung himself downwards.

  The blast from the first explosion nearly sent him off his feet; that from the second would have done had he not got down in time. It made him gasp for breath, and lifted him a few inches farther towards the hedge.

  The boom faded.

  There was a continual rumbling sound in his ears, but he straightened up slowly, peering towards the river. The yacht, covered by a pall of smoke, was listing heavily; water was already running over the stern. Two men were stretched out, unmoving, in the bows, three men were in the water, swimming towards the opposite bank. With them was the little grey monkey. Even as it went it was chattering wildly, and out-stripping the men.

  Stefan called from the other side of the hedge.

  ‘Get back, Brian. Nicely done!’

  ‘Nicely done!’ choked Brian. ‘I—’

  The temptation to try to pick off the three swimmers was strong, but he realised the folly of it when he heard the chug-chug of a motor-launch somewhere down river. He looked quickly about him, then took three quick strides and vaulted the hedge. He almost jumped on Stefan’s bent back, but landed between the Russian and Smith, who was also bending low.

  ‘I heard a launch,’ said Brian hastily, and bent so that he also was out of sight from the river. ‘Probably the police, I thought.’

  ‘It is,’ said Stefan, who paused long enough to look through a gap in the hedge. ‘And they will want to make a lot of inquiries, Brian. That was well done.’

  ‘Two Mills bombs, well and truly used,’ said Smith. He grinned. ‘Happy thought, bringing those.’

  Soon they came upon trees, and were able to stand up and walk more swiftly. They cut across the field and made for a road leading into the city. Before long they reached a car standing empty, with several small children near by, watching it curiously. Smith slid into the driving-seat, while Stefan and Brian climbed into the tonneau.

  Stefan told Brian that after consideration he and Smith had decided that they could not let him return to Orlanto alone and so had followed in the car, which had been hidden near the house-boat. They had waited on the path, knowing that he would have to pass them and expecting to be able to attract his attention, when they had seen the monkey.

  ‘In the car were these little pills, as Smith calls them. I called out to you to go straight on while he went back for the bombs. I confess,’ Stefan added with a gleam in his eyes, ‘that on the occasion you were used, as in your peculiar expression, as Aunt Sally! The occupants of the yacht, of course, were interested in you and did not worry about what might be happening farther along. Smith returned in time to prevent the shooting. So . . .’ Stefan shrugged his great shoulders.

  ‘It was done darned well,’ said Brian warmly. ‘Who are they, do you know? Or who were they?’

  ‘Smith appears to imagine that they are members of the German Advisory Staff to the Guarda Nationale,’ said Stefan. ‘Smith, and therefore presumably the Marquis, appear to know a great deal about the Guarda. When that conference takes place, Brian, we can ask many pertinent questions. For now’ – he shrugged again – ‘we are in Orlanto, and not far from Drusilla. We have been arguing, Smith and I, whether we should go immediately to the hotel or telephone Drusilla and tell her to stay in her room until after dark. What do you mink, my friend?’

  ‘I’m inclined to give her a warning and wait,’ said Brian.

  ‘Good! We had reached such an agreement.’ He raised his voice. ‘Smith, we are all agreed on what to do. We shall telephone.’

  Smith nodded, and after a f
ew seconds pulled into a side-street. They were near the centre of the city, and the crowds of people going home from work in the offices and the shops were thick. There was no hint of further rioting trouble, although to the practised eye the number of policemen on duty would have seemed excessive for normal needs; while the police carried guns, sometimes in holsters, sometimes held casually in their hands.

  Smith had stopped outside a post-office.

  Brian climbed out and went inside. He examined his money for the correct change, then stepped into a telephone box and called the Hotel del Roso. As he heard the receptionist answer him he broke into a sweat of relief, for he had just remembered that Drusilla had left the hotel and had returned only unofficially. She would be in Palfrey’s room, or his own, and would hear the telephone in either.

  He asked for Palfrey.

  There was a pause, and he heard the buzzing tone, but there was no reply. He waited in a frenzy of impatience and growing anxiety, but the silence continued. After a pause the receptionist said: ‘I regret, señor, there is no reply.’

  ‘Then give me Room 15,’ said Brian, asking for his own room.

  Drusilla must be in, she would not have gone out until one or the other of them had returned, or van Hoysen reached the del Roso. But only the buzzing sound peculiar to the telephones in Orlanto reached his ears, and after a long pause the operator’s impersonal voice said again:

  ‘I regret, señor, there is no reply.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Where is Drusilla?

  Stefan and Smith agreed with Brian that they should take separate taxis and go straight to the del Roso.

  Brian hailed a taxi, and seemed hardly to have settled down in his corner when it pulled up outside the hotel, and a commissionaire opened the door. The man recognised him, and saluted. So far there had been no hint of trouble, and his feeling that they had looked on the dark side revived. He passed beneath a large coloured sunblind, glad of the coolness of its shade.

  The foyer of the hotel was normal enough, and crowded. Two or three acquaintances nodded to him, and the reception clerk bowed. Brian nodded and strode to the stairs, too impatient to go up by lift. When he reached the first floor he hesitated, realising that he needed to be cautious, that direct methods would be unwise.

  He moved his automatic from his hip pocket to his right-hand coat pocket, and then stepped along the passage. He slipped his key into the lock of the passage door, opened the door, and then flung it wide. As he did so he stepped swiftly to one side.

  Nothing happened.

  He waited for perhaps ten seconds, and then stepped through. The room was empty, and a brief glance into the bathroom and the bedroom showed him that nothing had been disturbed. The fears possessing him eased and his heart beat more steadily.

  Then he stepped to Palfrey’s door and tapped gently.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Drusilla,’ he called softly.

  There was no answer, and his heart beat fast again. He unlocked the communicating door, and the fact that it was locked at all worried him. Again he flung the door open and paused, on edge to catch the faintest sound. He heard nothing but his own breathing, and stepped through.

  The door of the bedroom was closed. The ante-room was empty, and as neat and tidy as his own.

  He reached the bedroom door, opened it, and repeated the manoeuvre. There was no response, no hint of danger, but the first glimpse he had of the room showed him a state of chaos which made him gasp.

  Two chairs were overturned, and he could see the drawer of a dressing-table pulled out, its contents strewn about the floor. The bed was even worse, piled with oddments, clothes, papers and - worst of all – the coverlet was stained with several large, dark red patches. At the foot of the bed the clothes were piled into a great heap, obstructing his view.

  He stepped forward swiftly, and then saw a woman lying across the bed.

  Her dress was rucked about her thighs, her hands were raised above her head, tightly clenched. There was an ugly wound in the side of her head, and another in her throat, and her face was set as if in great pain. There was a thick, congealing pool of blood on the sheet near her throat, and an ugly stain down the front of her white blouse.

  ‘My God!’ breathed Brian. ‘Drusilla, Drusilla!’

  But a moment later he knew that it was not Drusilla; the girl’s hair was fair. He reached her, clenching his teeth as he stared down, convinced that she was dead. He experienced a peculiar sensation of horror and relief; it was not Drusilla, but such a death for any woman was a wicked, vicious thing.

  There was no sound in the room but his heavy breathing.

  A hammering in his ears deafened him to outside noises, and the fast beating of his heart threatened to choke him. He was used to death by violence on the field of battle, but this was ghastly.

  I wish Sap were here,’ he said in a tense voice.

  Since Sap was not there, he forced himself to examine the girl more closely, and discovered that she was not dead. That made him straighten up in surprise; he had taken her death so much for granted that he was astonished. He went into the bathroom, ran hot water, collected a towel and a large jug, a sponge and a small pair of scissors.

  The fact that it was first-aid work of a kind he had done often enough steadied him; once he was working he felt more confident.

  He washed the blood away, revealing an ugly, open wound. It was close to the jugular vein, but had just missed it. The wound in her temple was not so serious, but looked worse because it had bled so freely. He worked swiftly and with complete assurance, and it was not until he had finished, and the wounds were at least clean, that he stepped back to rest for a moment, grunting as he straightened his back.

  With the grunt came recognition of the girl, and he stared again, quite rigid.

  She was without make-up, and her hair was dishevelled, so it was perhaps not surprising that he had not recognised her at first. Now he saw that it was the American Red Cross girl of the seaplane, Clive’s lady friend.

  ‘And she came to see us,’ said Brian, sotto voce. ‘She thought Sap was here, of course. I wonder why she came?’ He grew aware again of urgent, worrying thoughts of Drusilla.

  Easing a pillow beneath the girl’s head, he poured a little water into a spoon and pushed it between her lips. After a pause he saw the muscles beneath her chin contract as she swallowed. He tried again, and was rewarded with a twitch of her eyelids. He stood back watching closely. Her breathing was undoubtedly stronger than when he had first entered.

  He felt calm enough then, and yet a sense of urgency impressed itself on him. He could do nothing more than he had done to hasten her recovery – recovery enough to talk at least – but he was on edge to find out from her what had happened.

  At the back of his mind there was the hope that she could give him news of Drusilla.

  Suddenly her eyes flickered open.

  Brian stood staring down. She looked up at him, dazedly, and her hands moved a little. Brian smiled, not knowing that all she saw was a vague blur of his face and his light clothes. He saw fear in her eyes, already heavy with pain, and he broke the silence gently.

  ‘It’s Debenham—you’re all right. Debenham. Remember? On the flying-boat.’

  Her lips moved; he lip-read: ‘Debenham.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I’m helping all I can.’

  ‘Debenham,’ she whispered, and then her voice grew stronger. ‘Get away from here, get away!’

  ‘Soon,’ said Brian. I—’

  ‘Now,’ she exclaimed, ‘now!’ Her voice was only just audible but there was no doubting its urgency. ‘They’ll be after you; they’re watching you like they watched me.’

  ‘I’m not alone,’ said Brian, to reassure her. ‘Tell me, did you see Miss Blair?’


  The American girl said: ‘Drusilla, Drusilla? No, she wasn’t here. I came to see her.’ There was a long pause, then in a stronger voice she said urgently: ‘Tell Drusilla that—that—’

  She stopped again.

  The words appeared to choke her, and she coughed. Brian gripped her hands, frightened lest the exertion did great harm, yet desperately anxious to hear what she had to say.

  The girl stared at him. Her eyes were wide.

  ‘Rollo,’ she said, with a strange inflection. ‘Rollo, he is dead. Of course he is dead. We all die. Tell Drusilla,’ she added again, and her voice gathered strength, ‘that she mustn’t trust—’

  She finished the sentence.

  She named the man, but Brian did not hear it, for he swung round and leapt to his feet, hearing another sound at the door. At first he thought that it was imaginary, but then the door swung open. He put his hand to his pocket for his gun but was too late, for he was covered.

  He stood by the side of the injured woman, hard-faced.

  She had mentioned a name, he knew that she had; but he had not heard it. Not that it would have mattered had he done so, for he was staring into the eyes of three men in the uniform of the Guarda Nationale. Two automatics were pointing towards him, and to have pulled his own would have been suicidal. He saw the ugly snouts of silencers on the guns of the others.

  He did not recognise any of the men.

  They stepped in and closed the door. One of them stood by it, the other waited by the door communicating with the next room; they were the men who showed guns. The third man was tall, thin, with dark moustaches, and dark hair showing beneath his hat. He was good-looking in a sharp, arrogant fashion, and was clearly a man used to command.

  Brian said nothing.

  The man approached the bed and glanced down at the American girl. He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders and said:

  ‘You are Brian Debenham, an English national?’

  ‘I am,’ said Brian, and the key to his attitude was thrust into