by Mike Dorrell
‘Suspicious it certainly is,’ Barton commented to himself. Then to the Detective Inspector: ‘Thanks, Jimmy.’
‘Any time, Mr Barton,’ Harrington replied.
Dick Barton turned away and began to walk back towards the gate. Snowey followed him.
Harrington called after him: ‘How are you involved in all this Mr Barton?’
The special agent turned, he had a smile on his face.
‘I’ll keep you informed, as they say.’
Harrington grinned back. ‘You’re a close one, you are.’
And all Snowey wanted to do was to go to bed.
It was the next day by the time Dick Barton and Snowey arrived at the East End garage where they had left the Riley Monaco the night before. Frankly, Barton didn’t hold out much hope that it would be ready, like everything else on the car, the carburettor was a delicate piece of workmanship, and skill was needed to repair it.
He walked over to the front of the workshop where the car was parked. A mechanic was standing over the open bonnet. He was small and wiry with sandy hair and a moustache. He was somewhere in his mid twenties.
‘How’s it going?’ Barton asked.
‘Och, just about finished,’ answered the mechanic. He had a Glaswegian accent.
‘That’s pretty good going,’ Barton commented.
The mechanic looked up. ‘Well – you know – it’s good to get your hands on a decent piece of machinery for a change.’
The man was obviously a craftsman, Barton thought. ‘You enjoy your work?’
‘Och yes,’ the Scot replied. ‘I just love machines. I was an apprentice at Derby before the war.’
‘Derby?’
‘Rolls-Royce,’ the mechanic said proudly. ‘That’s why they put me in REME for the war – taking tanks apart and putting them together again.’ He gestured towards the car. ‘I’ll give it a go now.’
He straightened up from bending over the engine, and went round to the driver’s door. Then, he reached inside, switched on the ignition and pressed the starter button. Quickly, the engine fired and began to run smoothly. However, the mechanic didn’t seem quite satisfied. He listened for a moment, and after reaching for a screwdriver, went around to the bonnet once more, and started to adjust the carburettor.
‘There,’ he commented when he was finished. ‘I couldn’t get a new carburettor for you, of course, but I’ve bodged up the old one – it’ll keep you moving for a few thousand miles while I get the spare.’
Barton was impressed. He always liked to see a skilled man at work. ‘You’re a pretty dab hand with a screwdriver, that’s obvious. What’s your name?’
‘John Anderson,’ said the Scotsman. ‘People call me Jock.’ He broke into a smile.
What is the meaning of the tobacco robbery that never was? Who is the man so desperate to attain his ends that he will attempt to kill for them?
Will Dick Barton succeed in finding Virginia Marley and her brother, Rex?
Read the next chapter of: Dick Barton – Special Agent.
Chapter Four
Rex Marley, crooner in the grip of drug addiction, and his sister Virginia have both been abducted. In his search for them Dick Barton finds the trail growing increasingly complex. An attempt is made on his life – and there is an apparently meaningless burglary from a warehouse from which nothing is stolen.
Now read on...
It was early afternoon, once more Dick Barton found himself sitting in an easy chair in the study of Sir Richard Marley’s home. He was feeling relaxed, but alert, and ready for further trouble. He was reporting to Sir Richard on the progress so far. Snowey stood silently behind him. Sir Richard was still agitated, he was pacing up and down in front of them.
‘It doesn’t make sense, Dick,’ Sir Richard said – and not for the first time.
‘It makes sense all right,’ Barton contradicted the peer. ‘It’s just that we can’t see it yet.’
Sir Richard appeared to be unconvinced. He continued his pacing. ‘But what has the warehouse robbery got to do with Virginia?’ His tone was one of exasperation.
Coolly, Dick Barton elaborated on the position. ‘The self same lorry that she was taken away in was used by the people who broke into the warehouse and who tried to eliminate Snowey and me.’
‘I don’t like this, Dick, I don’t mind telling you.’
Barton grinned wryly at his former employer. ‘None too keen on it myself, as a matter of fact, sir.’ Then he reached into his pocket. ‘We did find one clue, however – at least it may be a clue.’ When he had finished speaking, he handed the diamond ear-ring that he had found in the warehouse in Barking over to Sir Richard.
‘This is Virginia’s!’ exclaimed the peer.
Barton’s reply was crisp: ‘My thought exactly.’
‘It belonged to her mother.’ Sir Richard’s voice had a wistful quality.
‘We found it at the warehouse,’ Barton explained further. ‘Together with these scraps of paper.’
Sir Richard eagerly took the torn fragments and examined them closely.
‘Each seems to have been torn out with the purpose of drawing attention to one particular word,’ Dick Barton said as Sir Richard looked at the fragments.
‘Yes, I see that. “Chase” and “ever”.’
‘Does it mean anything to you?’ the special agent asked. Sir Richard looked at the torn scraps, then shook his head in puzzlement. ‘ “Chase”? “Ever”? Nothing. No! Wait a minute!’ He paused to think. ‘Of course – what a fool I am! Taken together with the ear-ring – Ever Ring Chase.’
Barton didn’t understand. ‘Ever Ring Chase?’
‘It’s the name of a house near my own place in the country. Been empty now for years.’
Barton looked up at Snowey, but ex-Sergeant White didn’t need telling. He was already making his way towards the door.
Ever Ring Chase was a decaying Victorian Country mansion in the Gothic style. There were turrets covered in lead sheeting that was now going green with neglect, porticos and balustrades in a bad state of repair. Plaster was peeling from the front of the house showing ugly scars in the brickwork. The house itself had a brooding, sinister atmosphere, that was echoed by the overgrown gardens. Laurels and rhododendrons were spreading over each side of the drive. Further back, there was a tangle of undergrowth and some taller trees that had once formed a well kept spinney.
Dick Barton stopped his car just inside the sagging gates that hung from two stone columns. He got out and stood for a moment, looking at the house. Snowey emerged from the other side of the car.
‘Not exactly Homes and Gardens is it, Snowey?’
‘More like Ghoulies and Ghosties,’ came the reply.
‘Shanks’s pony from here, I think,’ Barton suggested, as he moved cautiously into the undergrowth that flanked the drive. Snowey followed carefully.
They threaded their way through the dense mass of greenery, and made for the general direction of the house. The atmosphere was close and heavy. Dick Barton had a sense of foreboding, that somewhere in this evil environment, someone was up to no good. He hoped Virginia and Rex were safe.
Suddenly, from somewhere behind them, a twig snapped. They both stopped dead. Expectancy filled the air.
‘What was that?’ Snowey whispered.
Barton shook his head. Slowly, he turned to stare behind him. Snowey also looked in that direction. But there was nothing definite, only a tension that somehow seemed to come out of the environment itself. Snowey nervously licked his lips.
‘One of them wild animals, I expect,’ he said.
‘Such as what?’ asked Barton sceptically.
‘Lumme, guv, I dunno,’ came the reply. ‘Whatever they go in for in this blooming jungle.’ He breathed heavily. ‘Give me the streets of dear old London any day of the week. You know where you are with pavements.’
‘Well,’ Barton said seriously. ‘Whatever it was it seems to have gone to earth now. Let’s get a move on.’
Snowey was about to obey Dick Barton’s instruction when there was a vicious whir just above his head. A thump followed almost immediately. When he looked up he saw an arrow buried in an oak tree. It had missed the governor’s head by inches.
‘Quick, Snowey – get down!’
They hurled themselves to the ground.
‘The natives appear to be hostile,’ Dick Barton said as he lay on the ground.
‘Too blooming right sir,’ Snowey agreed. ‘Downright unfriendly, if you was to ask me.’
They waited for a moment. Then, Barton scanned the trees around them for evidence of any further movement. The undergrowth was so thick that he couldn’t see very far. Still, he was sure that if there was anything there, he would have spotted it. Satisfied, he got cautiously to his feet, and tugged at the arrow that was deeply embedded in the tree. After a moment, it came free. He looked closely at the arrow head.
‘What’s more, they mean business,’ he said to Snowey. ‘Take a sniff of that.’
Barton held the arrow out towards Snowey, who took a step forward and was about to grasp it.
‘No! Don’t touch it.’
Snowey leant forward and sniffed at the point. ‘Phew! Smells as if something died and forgot to get itself buried.’
‘Curare,’ Barton said knowingly.
‘That poison stuff?’
‘Got it in one,’ Barton commented. He added warningly; ‘One scratch from that and you’re a goner.’
‘Yeah –’ Snowey said. ‘I read about that stuff in the Sunday Pic. Paralyses you, don’t it?’
Carefully, Barton deposited the arrow in the ground. ‘That’s right. We’re dealing with a toxicological toxopholite.’
‘Oh – yes,’ Snowey grinned. ‘We had one of those but the wheels come off.’
But the moment of humour didn’t last long. Suddenly, a terrible cry came from behind them. They whirled around to see a grotesque and frightening figure. An apparition of evil dressed in a full set of fifteenth century Japanese armour, with a grimacing mask on top. The figure was seated on a galloping horse and carrying a naked Samurai sword. A bow was slung on his back.
‘Wait for it, Snowey,’ Barton said coolly.
The moments ticked by. An eternity passed right there on the track as Barton and Snowey waited for the galloping figure to come nearer. And nearer.
When the horseman was only ten yards away Barton shouted his command: ‘Scatter!’
They moved in opposite directions leaving the horseman only an empty space to ride through. Snowey felt the rush of air as the Samurai sword whished by his ear. And then, as suddenly as it had come, the figure was gone. From what seemed far away, they heard him crashing into the undergrowth.
‘Phew!’ Snowey said as they regrouped.
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Barton said as he pushed his hair back into place. ‘Come on.’
They only stopped again when they came to the edge of the spinney. It was on a slightly higher level than the house, which was down in a dip. From where they were standing, they could see the remnants of what had once been the front lawn. Wanting to stay in cover, they turned back into the spinney once more.
They found their way at an angle from which they could not be seen from the house. Barton led the way as they sprinted across the yard which fronted the stable block at the back of the house. He stopped at the comer, looked around, and seeing nothing, he jerked his head for Snowey to follow.
Cautiously, they made their way towards the back of the house.
‘Look, Mr Barton,’ Snowey said. He pointed to a set of tyre marks on the ground in front of them. ‘There’s been a lorry up here recently.’
‘You’re right,’ Barton replied. ‘Good work, Snowey.’
Following the direction of the tyre marks, they turned a comer and found themselves facing a different part of the large stables. A lorry that Barton recognised was parked outside.
‘The old familiar meat wagon again,’ Barton commented.
They crossed over to the Leyland, but found no one inside the cab. Snowey then went around the back of the lorry. The door was open but there was nothing inside. He reported back to Barton.
‘Let’s have a look in here,’ Barton said. He opened the large door that led into the stable itself.
The stables had once been whitewashed, but now there were only a few flakes still clinging to the walls. There was a cobbled floor with a channel for drainage, and along the far wall, wooden compartments divided the place up into about twenty stalls.
Barton stood in the doorway for a second or two. Then, satisfied that there was no one around, he crossed to one of the stalls and peered over the rail.
Snowey heard the governor let out a long, low whistle. He walked across to join him. Inside the stall, he could see two large bales covered with sacking.
‘What’s that, sir, do you reckon?’
‘I’m not sure, Snowey – but I’ve got a darned good idea.’ When he had finished speaking, Dick Barton opened the door to the stall and went in. Then turning to Snowey, he said: ‘Got your knife, Snowey?’
From his pocket, Snowey produced the large clasp knife that he always carried. It had seen him through the War. Once, he’d nearly lost it on the beach in Normandy, and had to knock out a Jerry machine gun nest before he got it back. He was fond of it. He handed it to Dick Barton.
Barton took the knife, opened the blade, and, with one upward sweep of his arm, slit through the sacking. ‘Yes,’ he said to himself after he had examined the contents.
‘Horse food?’ Snowey asked.
‘No,’ came Barton’s crisp reply. ‘Tobacco.’
‘Tobacco!’ Snowey echoed. ‘You mean – ?’
‘Yes.’ Barton stood up. ‘That’s exactly what I mean – from the warehouse robbery.’
‘But they said nothing was missing.’ Snowey had a bewildered expression on his face.
‘Bit of a conundrum, isn’t it?’ Barton came out of the stall, and peered over the rail into the next one.
‘And more.’
He looked into the one next to that.
‘And more.’
Snowey stood there watching as Dick Barton went down the whole length of the building looking into each stall as he went. When he’d finished, Barton turned around and began to walk back slowly.
‘Twenty in all,’ Dick Barton announced. ‘Now just what is our friend up to, Snowey?’
‘Maybe he’s a heavy smoker, sir.’
‘Maybe.’ Barton smiled back. Then he stopped talking, and held up his hand to indicate that they should be quiet. ‘What’s that?’ he asked softly.
From some way away, they heard the sound of voices.
Still keeping his voice low, Dick Barton made a suggestion: ‘Let’s have a dekko, eh?’
They went out of the stables, quickly across the yard, and disappeared into the undergrowth once more.
Barton and Snowey could see the front of the house from the vantage point they had chosen in the shrubbery. There was a large Rolls-Royce parked at the bottom of the steps which led up to the house. Dick Barton recognised the model. It was a 20/25 of 1934 vintage. A fine car. But the action that was going on around it was of a different quality altogether.
An elegantly dressed man was watching as a woman, and a man in a chauffeur’s uniform, whom Barton recognised as Curly Cohen, were supporting a semi-comatose figure as they descended the steps. Barton also recognised the figure they were helping – if that was the right word. It was none other than the missing crooner and drug addict – Rex Marley.
Rex didn’t look in too good a shape, Barton thought. He was unshaven and his hands were tied behind his back.
The elegantly dressed man spoke: ‘Get Mr Marley into the Rolls.’
‘Righto, Mr Hetherington,’ Curly Cohen replied.
The man called Hetherington broke into an angry retort: ‘Don’t use my name! I’ve told you a hundred times.’
Hidden in the shru
bbery, Barton and Snowey exchanged glances. It was very clear that some dirty business was going on.
‘If we was to jump them now, sir,’ Snowey suggested in a whisper.
Dick Barton shook his head. ‘We still don’t know where Virginia is.’
There was a slight pause before Snowey spoke again. ‘Who’s this Hetherington bloke?’
‘I don’t know,’ Barton replied. ‘The name seems familiar.’
They turned their attention to the front of the house again. Now Curly and the woman were busy bundling Rex Marley into the back of the Rolls, and Hetherington was standing nearby, issuing more instructions.
‘Curly – you take Marley to the other place. Melissa and I will bring his sister in the lorry.’
‘Righto, guv,’ the thug in chauffeur’s uniform replied.
Barton and Snowey were still watching as Curly Cohen slid into the driving seat of the car.
‘Snowey,’ Barton ordered. ‘Get down to the car and follow the Rolls. I’m going back to the lorry to await developments.’
And with that, the special agent and his aide de camp edged back into the undergrowth. Snowey glanced back as they went. He saw Curly Cohen start the engine, and Hetherington and Melissa, whom he was pretty sure was the girl with the gun in her muff, go back up the steps to the house.
From this point, the team split up. Snowey hurried back through the spinney towards Barton’s Riley.
Meantime, Barton himself had arrived in the front of the stables where the lorry was parked.
And, in a room in the house that had once been elegant, but was now empty of furniture and crumbling with neglect, the progress of the special agent was being watched.
Hetherington turned away from the window. ‘It’s working, Mr Melganik,’ he said.
The man called Melganik was sitting in the only chair in the room. He was about fifty five years old, with a bearing that would have been elegant except for the hideous vertical scar that ran down from his eyebrows to his chin. When he spoke it was with a voice that Sir Richard Marley, had he been present, would have recognised.