by John Creasey
Rescuers for the two attackers?
Jones bellowed: “Leave them to me, sir!” It was the police car, and driver Jones hurtled past Roger towards the head of the steps.
Roger saw him pause, and went forward.
One of the attackers lay at the bottom of the steps, body twisted in an odd position, neck bent at a strange angle. The other was picking himself up, slowly, easing his crash helmet off. His goggles were askew and he took them off. He was a youth, little more than a boy. He seemed dazed. Both Roger and Jones watched, while the gnome-like man appeared from his antiseptic cavern and stood staring.
“Tom,” gasped the youth, going slowly forward. “Tom,” he repeated brokenly, and he went down on one knee by the side of the other, taking off the gauntlet glove from his right hand. He felt for the fallen man’s pulse with his forefinger, the right way, and for what seemed an age knelt absolutely still.
His young face when he spun round was so distorted that it was satyrish; his tongue stuck, pointed-tipped, as he spoke. “You’ve killed him, you swine! Wait till I get at you, wait—” He went on and on, glaring up at Roger and backing away from his friend, who had not moved and certainly showed no sign of life. He mouthed threats and obscenities as he backed, obviously planning to get inside the convenience, where there was an emergency exit.
Roger felt a surge of alarm, for the gnome-like man.
“I’ll go—” Jones began.
As he spoke, the attendant grabbed one of the youth’s wrists and with a dextrous twist turned and thrust it up behind him. An obscene oath turned into a scream, and Jones rushed down, but the gnome needed no help, he had his prisoner in a grip from which there was no escape. Roger went down the steps more slowly than Jones, watching the man with the crooked neck.
If appearances told the truth, he was dead.
In half an hour, a great deal happened.
An ambulance came, with a police surgeon, and pronounced the assailant dead of a broken neck. Three men came from City Police Headquarters, and took the prisoner off. Roger talked to Information, who would pass on his report to the Commander; and finally, Roger went to the H.Q., an old building with narrow stone steps and an atmosphere, but for the open doors, of a prison. The Superintendent-in-Charge came out of a small office to make him welcome, provide tea, offer something stronger.
“No thanks,” Roger said. “Not now. I have to talk to the prisoner.”
“From what they tell me, he won’t say a word,” the Superintendent observed. “Except threaten to kill you. They were actually lying in wait for you, were they?” When Roger nodded, the burly man asked shrewdly: “Have you discovered something someone doesn’t want you to pass on?”
“That’s what I need to find out. Did the prisoner give his name?”
“He called himself John Smith,” answered the Superintendent. “And his left arm is full of hypodermic needle punctures. He’s hopped up about as high as he can be.” After a pause, he went on: “We’ve found two motorcycles, both Hokkis, with their fingerprints all over them.”
“Where?” asked Roger.
“In a car park round the corner, only a minute’s walk away from here.”
Roger went along to the cells to see the youth.
From a distance, he was a baby-faced boy with blue eyes; but as Roger drew nearer he saw the grey pallor of the skin, the tell-tale dullness of the eyes, all the signs of a young person on heroin; at sight of him the youth burst into a torrent of vituperation shocking even to the ears of men who had worked with the dregs of humanity.
It wasn’t only that he would not answer questions: he shouted and raved and threw himself about, and simply would not listen. To Roger, it was like listening to a mad-man.
He noticed that this man had a badge, a Japanese form of H – for Hokki? The dead youth had also had one. A moment later he had a shattering thought: how many more such youths were there?
Could there possibly be only the two?
In a curiously depressed mood despite the captures, Roger left Old Jewry for Scotland Yard just before six o’clock. Jones, back at the car, had picked up no messages for him; so presumably Venables had come up with nothing of importance. Sitting next to Jones, with the thick of the evening rush-hour traffic nearly over, Roger was aware of a sore head and increasing anxiety. He called Venables on the radio-telephone.
“I was hoping you would call, sir,” Venables said. “The tyre prints in the car park behind Mr. Fellowes’s office were the same as the prints at Professor Clayton’s. But they’re not identical with prints made by the tyres of the two machines picked up near Old Jewry.”
“So there were probably four motorcyclists at least,” Roger said heavily.
“Well, sir, almost certainly four motorcycles, all Hokkis.”
Roger let the correction pass as he remarked slowly: “It could be a motorcycle club.”
“There are hundreds of them.”
“Yes. How many Hokki clubs?”
“Plenty, I should say,” answered Venables. “Shall I start working on clubs, sir?”
“Yes. We specially want clubs which have some members who take heroin,” Roger told him. “We want—” He broke off. “You know what we want. How will you go about this?”
“Ask all London divisions for Hokki club information by telephone, and take it from there,” Venables answered. “There may be some information by the time you’re back, sir.”
Roger said: “I’m going home for an hour or two first. If anything turns up, call me there. And call me if I’m not in the office before you leave.”
“Very good, sir,” said Venables.
It was absurd to imagine a note of reproach in his voice, yet Roger fancied there was one. Venables, a bachelor in his late twenties, thought nothing of staying at the Yard all night and once or twice, by inference, had shown that he felt a policeman’s first duty was to his job, not to his wife and family. And so it was. But there was no point now in leaving Janet on her own all the evening; no point in allowing tension to grow between them almost as soon as they had come back from a holiday intended to take away tensions which the demands of Roger’s job created.
He glanced at Jones.
“Bell Street,” he ordered. “I’ll pick up my car later.”
“Very good, sir,” Jones said, matter-of-factly. He cut through to the Embankment at Blackfriars, and reached Chelsea a little before half past six. As they turned the corner of Bell Street, a short thoroughfare of detached and semi-detached houses each with its own well-tended garden, he saw his son Richard appear at the front door of his house, looking up and down, presumably for him.
“Sorry,” Roger said, leaning across Jones and touching the car horn.
Richard looked quickly towards the sound, then came hurrying to the pavement, tall, lean, dark-haired, strikingly good-looking especially at a distance. His expression was more eager than anxious, and as the car pulled up he opened Roger’s door, said: “Good evening, driver,” and went on to Roger: “A Lady Fellowes is indoors, Dad, anxious to see you. Mother sent me out to give you some warning.”
Chapter Twelve
Hokki Club?
Roger stood by Richard’s side, leaned down and told Jones he could go, and walked with his son up the crazy paving path which led towards the detached, yellow brick house, mellowed by the near-thirty years the Wests had lived there, with a beautifully-kept lawn and a matured garden.
Richard was saying: “She only got here about ten minutes ago. Apparently she had telephoned the Yard and they said you were on your way here. She’s stunning, isn’t she?”
“How much has she said?”
“Very little. Mum offered her a drink and they’re in the front room – her back’s to the window, so just keep your voice down. She just said it was extremely urgent that she should talk to you.”
“Confidentially.”
“Good Lord! Yes.” Richard’s bright eyes flashed; he could behave as if he were the most naive young man in the wo
rld; although in some ways he was most sophisticated. “What’s on, Dad?”
“Her husband died two days ago and her only son was brutally attacked this lunchtime, and may be dead.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Richard again. “You’d think she hadn’t a care in the world. Er – can I help?”
“Have you got your car here?”
“Yes.”
“Stand by, I may need a lift.”
“Anywhere,” Richard replied expansively. “Husband and son – it would be like Mum losing you and – and Scoop.”
“Her only son,” Roger pointed out. They were at the back door now and he stepped into the kitchen, rinsed his hands and face at the sink and dried on a towel Richard held out, and went along the passage by the stairs to the front room. It flashed momentarily through his mind that it must seem strange to Lady Fellowes, used to luxury, to visit a small suburban house like this, but the thought soon passed. He heard Janet, his wife, say: “I’m sure I heard Roger.”
“You did,” Roger said, going into a room furnished comfortably but just as it had been twenty-five years ago. “Hallo, darling.” As Janet got up and came towards him, tall and attractive, dark hair only just flecked with grey, he kissed her on the cheek. “Good evening, Lady Fellowes. I am desperately sorry about the attack on your son. There’s no worse news, I hope.”
Janet showed no surprise, so Lady Fellowes must have talked a little.
“Neither better nor worse about him,” Lady Fellowes replied.
“At least, that’s hopeful.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Perhaps.” Richard was right, she was a stunning creature, with that grey hair sweeping down to her shoulders, and her great eyes with their silver grey; and her pallor. “Mr. West, I had to see you urgently. “
Janet, bless her, was already out of the room; she closed the door behind her. Roger, trying to reduce the tension which was undoubtedly here, went to the sideboard with its long mirror, and poured himself a whisky and soda; Lady Fellowes’s glass by the chair from which she had risen, was half-full.
“Why?” he asked quietly.
“Helen has been threatened,” came the answer, in a hard voice.
Roger held his glass halfway to his mouth, felt his heart thump, and made himself say: “In the same way as your son?”
“Yes.”
“Does she know anything about the blackmail and what caused it?”
“She says she doesn’t, but the man who telephoned her said he did not believe a husband would keep such facts from his wife. She’s—” Lady Fellowes closed her eyes as she had once that midday, as she went on: “She’s been ordered – ordered – to leave the country, and told that if she isn’t on her way by midnight tonight she will be attacked. Mr. West …” She opened her eyes and their brilliance seemed to dazzle. “Helen wanted to come and see you. I want her to leave the country. She cannot help Hubert, but if he recovers only to find her injured—”
“Lady Fellowes,” Roger interrupted. “Helen isn’t going to be injured. Is she at your apartment?”
“Yes.”
“I had a close guard put on it as soon as your son was attacked. While she is there she is in no danger at all.” He went to the telephone, an extension of which was in this room, called the Yard and asked for Venables, and ordered: “Have the watch on Lady Fellowes’s apartment and the block of flats doubled. If Mrs. Fellowes – Mrs. Hubert Fellowes – goes out, have her both followed and reported on wherever she goes.” He rang off on Venables’s eager “Right, sir!” and turned to the woman. “The other attacks took us by surprise. It won’t happen again.”
She asked, levelly: “Is this your way of saying you think Helen should stay in London, Mr. West?”
“It is entirely up to her,” answered Roger. “We shall give her all the protection we can if she does stay. I want to talk to her, but I can see her without anyone knowing we’ve met, if that would help.”
“It most certainly would. Mr. West …” Lady Fellowes paused.
“Yes?”
“Do you think you are nearer finding out who is responsible for these crimes?”
“Yes,” Roger said. “Your son was attacked by two motorcyclists. Two motorcyclists – not necessarily the same two – were caught red-handed this afternoon. One of them was killed. The other is in custody. It is at least conceivable that a gang is involved and these two are members of it.”
Those magnificent eyes seemed to glow. “Captures already?”
“These two asked for trouble,” Roger said, with a shrug. “We have indications about others. I don’t know how soon we shall get results but we’ve certainly made a start on investigating crimes we didn’t know had been committed until this morning. Lady Fellowes, did you come here simply to ask me to protect Helen?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I really don’t feel that I can bear any more, after today. But you have given me a great deal of reassurance. Will you get in touch with my daughter-in-law?”
“Yes,” Roger promised.
“Then I needn’t stay.”
“I would like you to stay until I’ve arranged for protection,” Roger said.
“I don’t need protecting!” She almost laughed, although on a nervous note. “No one would dream that I knew anything about the blackmail. After all, the pressure used against my husband was the threat to tell me.”
“You forget one thing,” Roger said.
“I don’t think so.”
“You forget that the blackmailers may think now that I’ve been to see you, your son might have told you some of the truth; and certainly if they think Helen has any knowledge, she may have confided in you.”
“Oh,” Lady Fellowes exclaimed, in a low-pitched voice. “I hadn’t thought of that. You are quite right, of course.” She watched as he went towards the telephone, and when he dialled a number she went on: “You are used to being right aren’t you?” Roger only half-heard as the Yard operator answered. “Is Mr. Coppell still in his office?… Yes, try him … Ah! Commander, this is West. I—”
“What’s this about you getting your head bashed in?” demanded Coppell, at his gruffest.
“Exaggeration,” Roger answered. “I’ve reason to believe Lady Fellowes may be in grave danger of physical attack and I’d like your confirmation of detailing two men and one woman to watch her closely throughout the emergency.”
After a pause, Coppell said: “That’s nine officers, in eight hour shifts.”
“Yes, sir.”
There was another, longer pause before Coppell growled: “I suppose you know what you’re doing. All right.”
“Will you give the instructions, sir? I’ll see her to her home, and after that I’d like to be sure the personal protection is maintained.”
“I’ll fix it,” promised Coppell.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What about this youth you killed?” Coppell demanded.
“He fell down the steps and broke his neck. The policeman’s action was in simple self-defence,” Roger replied.
“I hope the Press agrees.”
“Have they been at you, sir?”
“Of course they have. And it won’t be long before they’re after you. I … well, see me first thing in the morning.” Coppell rang off, leaving Roger – as he did so often – with a feeling of disquiet. Sometimes Roger thought it was the nature of the man, at others he thought it was deliberate policy, to keep him on tenterhooks all the time. Schooling himself to show nothing of his feelings, Roger turned to Lady Fellowes, and said: “That’s all done, there’s no problem. Would you like to go home now?”
“Yes,” she answered promptly.
“I’ll come with you,” Roger said, “and my son Richard will drive us. Will you have another drink?”
“No, thank you.”
“Then I’ll just have a word with my wife,” Roger said.
Janet and Richard were in the kitchen, and Richard’s eyes lit up at the prospect of chauffeuring. Janet seemed t
o understand and to approve, and dinner, it proved, was a casserole, so it could wait for another hour. She looked rested and sun bronzed and quite lovely as she hurried along to say goodbye to Lady Fellowes. Richard went out to fetch his car. In five minutes the throb of the engine of his supercharged Mini sounded. Roger took Lady Fellowes out to the car with Janet, who had obviously taken to the other woman.
Richard stood by the open door; in the gathering dusk. Suddenly, the air seemed to be filled with a different roaring – not the car but a dozen, dozens of engines; and as suddenly motorcyclists turned into the street from each end, and some actually appeared from behind parked cars in Bell Street. One moment it was a quiet, pleasant street with a few house-owners still in their gardens despite the near darkness; next, the street was filled with the roaring and the reverberating of the motorcycle engines as the motorcyclists converged on the scarlet Mini. There was no doubt of their aggressive intent.
Richard had no time to get to the wheel.
Roger was by the side of the car, Lady Fellowes bending to get inside.
“Run to the garage!” Roger ordered, close to her ear. “Run for your life!” He raised his voice. “Janet! The garage!” By now three or four of the motorcyclists were within twenty or thirty yards of them. Every one of the riders wore a crash helmet and goggles, it was as if visitors from another planet were swarming in Bell Street on their lethal machines.
Richard yelled: “I’ll break their necks!”
“Garage!” Roger rasped.
“Garage be damned!” Richard bent double and disappeared into the car and the engine roared, the car started off at shattering speed, heading straight for the nearest motorcyclists. They swerved, hurling what looked like tennis balls at the car. First the windscreen, then the side window shattered. Other motorcyclists drew close to Roger’s house and hurled missiles at the windows, which crashed in one after another. Janet ran desperately towards the garage where Lady Fellowes already stood. A motorcyclist jumped the kerb with his front wheel and drew back his right arm to hurl something at her. Roger raised his right leg and kicked the rider off; man and machine went crashing. Richard was halfway along the street, a trail of motorcycles and riders behind him, but others surrounding him, one dragging open a door.