Cockran nodded, took the weapon and said “I think the rest of you ought to leave now.”
O’Reilly turned away from McBride, shrugged his shoulders and nodded to Sullivan in a signal to leave. Cockran turned back to McBride and didn‘t hear the door open behind him. He felt a gentle touch on his arm. Mattie was back, whispering in his ear. “You don‘t want to do this, Bourke. You really don‘t. Remember Aquinas. You don‘t execute prisoners no matter what they‘ve done. Not like this. Nora wouldn‘t approve. You know that.”
He knew that, he thought, but he cocked the automatic anyway. Then he stopped.
“Let me have it, Bourke,” Mattie said, grasping his arm tightly. “You know what Nora would want. Give me the gun.”
Slowly, Cockran uncocked the trigger, handed the .45 to Mattie and turned without a word and left the room.
“Take the damn thing, Bobby,” Mattie said, handing the gun back to Sullivan, “before I shoot the bastard myself. I always thought Aquinas was full of crap.”
69.
Now We Have A Hostage
Hollywood
Saturday, 24 August 1929
10:00 a.m.
Mattie waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive and take her up to Churchill‘s suite. Cockran had been more important, however, and her instincts had been correct. She had persuaded him for now but he needed more work. It wasn‘t over for him. Not while McBride was alive. Or Smythe. She turned left on leaving the elevator and headed down the long corridor. Smythe‘s room was the first one on the left. Number 910. She noted in passing that there was no one on guard as Rankin had told her. She thought briefly of knocking on the door but decided it was more important to advise Churchill of the new developments. She proceeded down the corridor and stopped twenty feet later when she noticed a smear of blood on a door marked “Linens”. She carefully opened the door and gasped at what she saw. Two bodies on top of each other, each wrapped in blood-soaked sheets. She stepped into the linen closet and looked at the two bodies, recognizing them both as colleagues of Joe O’Reilly. She knelt to check for pulses she knew weren‘t there. Both bodies were still warm to the touch. What to do? Continue to Churchill‘s suite? Find Robert Rankin or Inspector Thompson? Before she could turn, a large hand was clamped over her mouth and another arm was wrapped around her middle. The last thing she saw was the handle of a large revolver as it began its descent toward her head.
Mattie slowly regained consciousness. Damn it! Not again! Her hands and feet were tightly bound, her mouth was gagged and her head hurt like hell. Wyntoon had confirmed what she already knew. She couldn‘t bear being in a situation where others were in control. For a brief moment she thought that maybe she ought to be more careful in the future. But that wasn‘t going to help now. She changed her mind when she heard Smythe‘s voice from the next room. She decided to make no noise to alert her captors that she was conscious. She would be careful.
“You did the right thing, Geoffrey,” she heard Smythe say. “Killing her wouldn‘t have helped. Now we have a hostage and that may buy us more time. Has the air charter company returned my call?”
“Not yet, sir.”
Mattie heard a telephone ring and Smythe‘s clipped voice as he answered it. “Yes? This is Mr. Brooke. Right. I wish to confirm that the aircraft I have chartered for 6:00 p.m. is ready. Good. Please advise the pilot to be prepared to depart as soon as my party and I arrive. We may be there sooner than 6:00 p.m. Excellent. Now, if you would be so kind as to give me directions to your airfield from the rail station in San Fernando? My party will be leaving from there.”
“Everything is arranged, Geoffrey,” Smythe said when he hung up the phone. “Give us five minutes, then create your diversion. After that, join us on the afternoon train to San Francisco. We will leave it at its first stop and head back to the airfield. If Scotland Yard has half a brain, they‘ll check with the concierge and find out that I purchased two Pullman compartments on that train. They‘ll be so busy congratulating themselves on their cleverness that, by the time they get around to having the authorities stop the train, the rest of us will have already landed in San Diego and booked passage on the night train to St. Louis. We‘ll see you again, Geoffrey, when we‘ve finally returned to civilization—each of us, I might add, one million American dollars richer.”
Mattie heard someone move into the room from the outer chamber. She kept her eyes closed until she felt the cool splash of water thrown into her face. Though already alert, she feigned grogginess as she opened her eyes.
“Geoffrey, remove the bindings from her ankles,” she heard Smythe say.
Soon she was sitting upright on the bed, her hands still bound in front of her. Smythe was standing directly over her holding a silenced automatic pistol. “Miss McGary, I regret you have seen fit to interfere in my affairs. Nevertheless, you may be useful. You will accompany us to the train station. If you cry out at any time, I will shoot you on the spot. Are we clear?”
Mattie nodded her head in acquiescence and felt the gag being removed from her mouth. Smythe lifted her to her feet and guided her by her elbow to the next room.
“My men will be on either side of you. I will be directly behind you with my weapon pointed squarely at your spine,” he said and placed an overcoat over his arm concealing the weapon. “I‘ll only have time for one shot but if it does not kill you, it will certainly cripple you.”
Mattie watched as Smythe carefully propped an envelope on the writing desk beside the telephone addressed to “Inspector Walter G. Thompson, Scotland Yard”. Mattie‘s hands were then untied and she was given a towel to dry her face before they led her out of the room and down the corridor to the elevator.
As they walked through the lobby to the entrance, Mattie noticed the elegant profile of Hazel Lavery talking to the concierge, the shorter figure of Joe O’Reilly standing beside her. Heeding Smythe‘s warning, she said nothing. Smythe‘s men did not know either of them but Mattie had taken care, on Winston‘s instructions, to point out Smythe to Hazel at the zeppelin luncheon. It was a long shot, but it was her only hope. That somehow Hazel saw her leave.
70.
Take Care of McBride
Hollywood
Saturday, 24 August, 1929
11:00 a.m.
The faint echo of gun shots came as a surprise to McBride. He was pleased to see that, judging by the blank expressions of panic that washed over his captors, they had been surprised as well. The bearded Scot left the room quickly with one of the Apostles and met that bloody Cockran just outside the door. Just minutes ago, he thought he was a dead man—and at the hands of that arrogant, self-righteous American traitor. But he should have known. The dumb bastard didn‘t have the balls. No wonder it had been so easy for him to roger his sexy wife. A real man would never have let that happen. Tommy thought he might get out of this jam yet.
The door cracked open and McBride saw the head of his sole guard peek in through the opening in the doorway. He was just a kid. They made brief eye contact, long enough for the kid to shoot him a nasty look, when the kid‘s body suddenly lurched with a loud crack. A second shot followed, exploding the kid‘s skull and sending his body crumpling into the room. The door pushed all the way open, and filling the frame of the doorway was the figure of a well-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar.
“Who the fuck are you?” McBride mumbled through the blood-soaked rag in his mouth.
“Now, now, Tommy. Is that any way to greet your liberator?” the man said. Moving to the chair, he flipped out a sizable knife and cut McBride‘s bonds. Before McBride had a chance to take the rag from his mouth , the man yanked it out for him. “Shut up and get moving,” he said. “This is all the help you get. Make your own way to that godforsaken bog you call home.”
With that, the man left and disappeared down the hall. Tommy McBride did the same.
11:15 a.m.
Churchill had been safe so Cockran, Rankin and Sullivan quickly searched the nearby room of David Br
ooke Smythe—Blackthorn—and discovered nothing but severed bindings, a blood stained carpet and a note addressed to Inspector Walter Thompson:I return to England. You had no authority whatsoever to place me under arrest. You are in this country purely in a private capacity as a body guard for Mr. Churchill. MI-6 has complete authority over the operation of British agents abroad and I was specifically placed in charge of this mission by the Prime Minister himself. I will stress in my report to my superiors in no uncertain terms that you deliberately interfered with my mission.
I am particularly offended that you would order my arrest solely on the word of an Irish assassin whom you would not let my men and me interrogate. Notwithstanding that he had almost successfully carried out the assassination of the man whom you were allegedly guarding.
My agents and I are leaving as previously arranged. Do not compound your mistakes by attempting to interfere. I am authorized by my superiors to use deadly force if I deem it necessary to the success of my mission. I so deemed it necessary with respect to those incompetent Irishmen you left to guard me. I shall not hesitate to do so again if the need arises.
Miss McGary has kindly consented to accompany us on our journey and to bear witness to your incompetence and malfeasance.
David Brooke-Smythe
Cockran‘s heart sank when he heard two more sharp reports from the floor below. Damn it! He knew immediately what had happened. The initial shots were meant to lure them away from McBride and Cockran had fallen for it. Sullivan was already half-way down the hallway, running towards the stairwell when Cockran moved into action after him, dropping Smythe‘s note on the floor.
“Robert, keep Winston safe!” he shouted back over his shoulder as he sprinted after Sullivan. He arrived at McBride‘s room three steps behind Sullivan to find a dead body and an empty chair. Cockran couldn‘t believe what was happening. McBride was just another decoy put in play by Smythe. But it didn‘t change the fact that Nora‘s murderer was free. McBride was hurt. Badly. His torture and beating made him easy prey. Now, having escaped the custody and protection of Scotland Yard, Cockran had all the pretense he needed to kill him when he found him. Smythe had Mattie but McBride was his for the taking. McBride or Smythe? Who to seek?
Cockran caught up with Rankin back in Churchill‘s suite.
“Mrs. Lavery and Mr. O’Reilly saw Smythe and another man entering a taxi with Mattie,” Rankin said. “I made a few inquiries and learned from the concierge that Smythe purchased some tickets on a morning train to San Francisco.”
“When does it leave?” Cockran asked as O’Reilly and Bobby Sullivan entered the room.
“There are two trains. One is the Coast Line. The other the San Joaquin Valley. Both are Southern Pacific. One leaves at 11:15; the other at 11:45.”
Two weeks ago, Cockran might have hesitated, so deep was his desire to avenge Nora by killing McBride. He had learned a lot since then. From many brave people who all had proved him wrong. He knew whom he could depend upon. He knew what Nora would want.
“Joe,” he said, “You and Bobby keep the Big Fella’s promise. Take care of McBride. I’m going to San Francisco after Mattie and Smythe. I can‘t be sure which train Mattie is on so I‘m going to the airport and hire an airplane from Hearst or someone else. I‘ve got to be there before either of those trains.”
O’Reilly looked him straight in the eye and simply nodded. As he headed to the door, Cockran realized that Bobby Sullivan was no longer there.
71.
The Rules Of The Railroad
North of Hollywood
Saturday, 24 August 1929
11:45 a.m.
Mattie McGary’s hands had been tied again as she sat in the Pullman compartment, staring out the window, deliberately avoiding the gaze of her guard, whom she knew only as Geoffrey. Outside, the sun was shining brightly, the train gathering speed as it passed through the golden brown countryside moving north through the Hollywood hills toward San Fernando. She knew that Smythe and his men would be leaving the train at San Fernando so she hadn‘t believed Smythe‘s assurances that he would release her unharmed in San Francisco.
Mattie tensed when she heard a sharp rapping on the door, followed by the muffled voice of a conductor. “Tickets, please.”
“Try the next compartment,” Geoffrey replied. “My mate has them for both of us.”
Mattie breathed a sigh of relief. She had been seriously contemplating seeking the conductor’s help. It was a long shot, but if she shouted and at the same time attempted a sideways kick at Geoffrey‘s head...no, it wouldn‘t have worked. They would find her body sooner than if she did nothing because the conductor‘s absence would have been noted. But she would be no less dead. The conductor, too.
It would be another thirty minutes before they reached San Fernando. If she could make it to the door and into the corridor, they might not shoot her. Another rapping on the door. “‘Tis the conductor, sir. And aren‘t I needing to see your tickets? The gentleman next door says that you have them.”
“Well, I don‘t. So just bugger off,” Geoffrey replied.
“Sir, I must insist. If I must, I‘ll unlock the door myself. ‘Tis the rules of the railroad.”
Geoffrey rose reluctantly to his feet, walked two paces to the door and turned the knob. The door burst open with considerable force, slamming into Geoffrey‘s face causing him to stumble and fall awkwardly back onto the compartment.
Mattie watched as Bobby Sullivan, dressed in a conductor‘s uniform, stepped into the compartment, closed the door with his left hand, raised and extended his right hand, in which he held a silenced Colt .45 automatic. Geoffrey attempted to struggle to this feet while reaching inside his jacket for his own weapon but he was far too slow as Sullivan fired two muffled shots, both of which found their target in the middle of Geoffrey‘s forehead.
“Bobby! How‘d you get here?”
“No time for that,” Sullivan replied. “Let‘s get you out of here first. We can talk later.”
Sullivan carefully laid the .45 down on the bench beside Mattie and pulled a pocket knife from his jacket, opened the blade and cut her bonds. He picked up the .45 and, holding it at his side, opened the compartment door, stuck his head out and looked up and down the corridor. He motioned over his shoulder to Mattie with a nod of his head. She came over to stand beside him. She noticed the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the inside of the compartment door and slipped it off the knob. Following Sullivan into the corridor, she put the sign on the compartment‘s handle.
Moments later, they were seated in Sullivan‘s own compartment, two cars down.
“Smythe and the other man may try to search the train once they find their companion dead,” Sullivan said. “but the odds are they won‘t want to draw that much attention to themselves. It cost me a hundred quid to rent the conductor‘s spare uniform. It’s not a particularly good fit,” pointing to the cuffs of his pants which were several inches short.
Mattie smiled. “Thanks for rescuing me again. So you saw me back at the hotel?”
Sullivan shook his head. “Not me. Joe and Mrs. Lavery. They saw you leave with Smythe and two of his men and knew he was up to no good.”
“Look, Bobby, we‘ve got to get off the train as soon as possible. I must call Winston. Scotland Yard undoubtedly assumes Smythe is on his way to San Francisco. I heard him say he secured tickets through the hotel concierge. But they‘re not going there. He and the other man are getting off the train in San Fernando and flying down to San Diego.”
“They won‘t be going anywhere,” Sullivan said. “Leave them to me. I know all about Blackthorn. McBride was first on my list but I‘m flexible when it comes to scum like him.”
Mattie shivered as Sullivan‘s cold blue eyes stared into hers. He was the single most cold and frightening man she had ever met. Smythe and even McBride paled in comparison.
“You wait here. Keep the compartment locked. This won‘t take long.”
Mattie sat there for a good five minu
tes before Sullivan tapped softly on her door.
“There‘s only one man in Smythe‘s compartment and he‘s as dead as the one I killed.”.
“Good. You got him. Was it Smythe?”
“T’was not Smythe. Nor was it me who shot him. He was dead before I arrived.”
“Where‘s Smythe?”
“In the club car. With a tall gin and tonic in his hand and a leather valise at his side. The club car is too crowded for me to have a clear shot. Not while he‘s seated.”
“Then we‘ve got to get off the train now,” Mattie said, “so I can call Winston. Our first stop is San Fernando but we can‘t wait that long.”
Sullivan nodded. “I agree, but how do you propose stopping before San Fernando?”
Mattie grinned. “Can‘t you persuade your friend, the conductor, to stop at one of the smaller stations before we reach San Fernando?”
Sullivan nodded. “I‘ll try me best,” he said and picked up a pile of clothes neatly folded on the seat. “I‘ll go down to the loo and change my clothes and return the conductor’s uniform.”
Sullivan returned a few minutes later with a large floral print dress and veiled hat..
“What‘s this?” Mattie asked.
“Our ticket off the train. The conductor‘s wife is traveling on the train to visit her sister. The only safe way to stop the train before San Fernando is for a medical emergency. Put this dress on and stick a pillow underneath. He‘ll tell the engineer a pregnant passenger has gone into labor.”
Mattie nodded, grabbed the dress, slipped it over her head and put the pillow in place. “So the conductor is doing all this for an extra hundred pounds?” Mattie asked.
The DeValera Deception Page 36