Redhead (Department Z Book 2)

by John Creasey

  Cool and unperturbed, he looked at the Delage and then launched into a mild grouse against the chauffeur’s original way of coming out of a side street. The man had at least the grace to look shaken, but the old man huddled up in the back seat showed no sign whatever of rage, fright or injury.

  Storm’s voice hissed in Timothy’s ear.

  ‘Make the blighter wait for you, Tim, then let him get clear and follow.’

  ‘I mean,’ continued Timothy plaintively, ‘I’m in the deuce of a hurry. So if you don’t mind I’ll – thanks a lot.’

  The liveried chauffeur had by now recovered his nerve and lost his temper. Knowing the signs Timothy was prepared for a stream of Cockney invective, but Storm, knowing more, was waiting for the nasal tirade typical of the Bowery toughs.

  He would have staked his life on the chauffeur being one of Wenlock’s gunmen!

  But both Timothy and Martin were surprised. The huddled figure inside the Delage moved at last. Leaning out of the window his voice came, rasping with authority.

  ‘Be quiet, Vines. The fault was yours. Wait.’

  Timothy waved a carefree hand but Storm was leaning back in the car, strangely cold, chilled by the man’s green eyes!

  A brief line of hair beneath the hat was surely red?

  He might have been an older edition of Wenlock himself!

  But was he older? Those green eyes had glowed with all the fervour of youth. The car, dark and roomy, was an admirable shelter for a man to assume an effective and admirable disguise.

  Thankfully Storm realised that there was a sound chance that neither he nor Granville had been seen. They were sitting low in the car behind the twins, and neither the man in the back nor the driver could see through flesh and bone.

  In a trice two alternatives flashed through Storm’s mind. If he could get news of Letty Granville from the Park Street house it would be crazy to chase after the Delage. On the other hand, if the seeming ancient was Wenlock it was odds on a better reward coming from pursuit. His whisper to Timothy Arran told of his decision.

  Timothy had espied an opening twenty yards down the road. By the time he had reached it and turned his car the Delage was on the move.

  ‘After it!’ snapped Storm.

  The Bugatti snorted and lurched to the main road. Storm gritted his teeth as it narrowly missed the standard and, with that mad exhilaration for the chase surging through his blood, grinned round at Granville.

  But the younger man seemed to have gone mad. Heedless of the racing car he stood up, waving frantically to something on the right side of the road. His face was livid with excitement as he swung round on Storm.

  ‘Stop! Letty’s there! I saw her!’

  Storm’s grin faded as he touched Timothy’s hunched shoulder.

  ‘Whoa, Tim! Stop her, boy!’

  The big car pulled up dead a couple of yards from the end of the road. Arran turned furiously.

  ‘What the blazes are you tishying about? Do you want me to stop or do you want me to – ’

  The next thing the indignant Timothy saw was the massive figure of Martin Storm and the smaller one of Granville hurtling across the road. Timothy gathered, with Tobias, that something was up. Grabbing their guns but careful to keep them out of sight they brought up the rear after backing the Bugatti to a safer parking place.

  Outside number nineteen Storm was waiting for them.

  The girl,’ said Storm simply, ‘is up there. Granville saw her. I saw her.’

  ‘Hump,’ grunted Toby. ‘What now?’

  ‘Let’s get at that door.’

  On the surface of things it was crazy, but none knew more than Martin Storm the need for speed and the probability of a bold stroke coming off. There were many ways that Wenlock and his thugs might expect them to force an entry; knocking at the front door was most unlikely to be one of them.

  With one hand in his pocket around the butt of his gun he took a firm hold on the knocker with the other.

  His rat-tat-tat thundered along the narrow street. Once – twice – thrice. Then:

  ‘They’re moving,’ he muttered.

  He sensed the excitement consuming Granville and felt his own heart thumping against his ribs. A moment later he heard someone fumbling with the latch and his grip on his gun tightened.

  The door opened.

  The ancient standing there might have been a hundred. Wizened, yellow-faced, wrinkled by many criss-cross lines, a sharp-featured, piercing-eyed old harridan confronted them. Her voice was harsh and querulous.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Hum,’ mumbled Storm, ‘this rather alters matters.’

  ‘What? What’s that?’

  ‘Sorry,’ murmured Storm. ‘I was wondering whether a friend of mine – ’

  ‘No!’ said the harridan with acid finality. ‘No friends of yours are here. Good-day.’

  Storm saw the sudden cattish fury on the lined face as he inserted his foot in the doorway.

  Her expression quickly changed as he showed his gun.

  ‘Where is she?’ he asked sharply.

  With some regrets he let Granville push open the door to which the old woman sulkily led them, opening it with a key taken from a massive bunch. Adroitly Storm took the keys from her and dropped them into his own pocket.

  She swore at him, almost spitting in her rage. Very gently Storm lifted her from the floor and heedless of her struggles, carried her to the nearest room. Opening the door he deposited her therein, kissed his hand airily and, making early use of the bunch of keys, locked the door.

  ‘Lord, Windy,’ murmured Timothy, ‘what a let down! Here we are all ready for stink bombs and battle-axes, and we get a reincarnated mummy and one beauteous damsel in – ’

  ‘Not so much of the beauteous damsel,’ growled Storm, looking towards the door on the third floor behind which Granville had disappeared. The handle turned suddenly and Granville’s face appeared, wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Sling me your mackintosh, Storm, will you? Good man. Thanks. Half a mo’.’

  Letty was obviously all right apart from the little matter of apparel, and the thought cheered Storm’s susceptible heart. He had ample opportunity, three minutes later, of seeing for himself.

  He leapt forward.

  ‘How are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Thanks to you,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘No damage?’

  ‘Only talk and more talk,’ answered Letty, and from the shudder which ran through her slight frame he gathered that Wenlock had used all his devilish ingenuity to scare her. Shadows beneath her eyes and a nervousness which she tried unsuccessfully to hide, told its own tale.

  Storm’s heart seethed, but he forgot Wenlock for a moment in realising that she presented an immediate and urgent problem. To take her back to Ledsholm was unthinkable. No, they had to find somewhere in London, somewhere that he could be sure she was safe.

  So far, thought Storm, so good. Wenlock might be thinking that even if the attack on the Grange had failed he still had the girl, but Wenlock would soon find that his card had been trumped.

  He grinned at the twins, who were leading the way down the stairs. Toby Arran had reached the bottom step ahead of the others when the front door was flung open.

  Toby’s hand slipped to his hip pocket but he didn’t touch his gun.

  On the threshold stood Ralph Wenlock!

  The gleaming gun in his hand was pointed unwaveringly at the party on the stairs, and his fanatical green eyes, glowing with all-consuming hatred, seemed to burn into them.

  He took a step forward, exposing the four brutal faces of the roughneck members of his gang who were behind him. Above him, spread out along the stairs so that they made a perfect mark even for an indifferent marksman, were Storm, Frank Granville, Letty and the twins.

  Storm’s blood ran cold.

  Chapter 11

  A Getaway and Some Discoveries

  Wenlock’s green eyes stared malevolently
at Storm.

  Into the minds of all four men on the stairs the same thought had sent the same dismay. One false move would be enough to make Wenlock fire at the girl. No matter how quickly they moved, Wenlock’s bullet, biting devilishly from the gun which was levelled at her heart, would start its hum of death.

  Storm’s brow was wet and his face grim. The situation was desperate. Then, dropping into that simulation of careful geniality which cloaked the hard purposefulness of his mind he grinned.

  ‘What-ho, Wenlock. How we do keep bumping into each other!’

  Wenlock snarled: ‘Keep quiet, Storm. Seltzer!’ He spoke over his shoulder. ‘Get their guns.’

  Storm could hardly believe his ears. Wenlock was giving him the one chance that he needed to make a fight, the chance which they had not had at the Grange. Defying armed men at ten yards distance was suicidal; trying it when one of them was near enough to be grappled was a different matter.

  Not for the first time Storm had a vague doubt about Wenlock. The gang which he led, the fear which he inspired in America as well as England, seemed to emanate from a personality a hundred times stronger than Wenlock’s. The red-haired man in front of him was evil, but he seemed to lack strength.

  Was Wenlock Redhead?

  The twins, standing motionless, sensed the opportunity as well as Storm and were in a better position to make use of it. Timothy was in front of the girl, with her brother and Storm behind. More gentle than cooing doves the twins, with studious regard for the guns gleaming in the hands of the men just inside the door, allowed Seltzer to give them the onceover. Two automatics slipped into Seltzer’s pocket.

  The gangster leered into the face of the girl. With an irrepressible shudder of revulsion at the brutal, unclean stare, Letty backed towards the bannisters.

  Seltzer’s thick lips parted in a guttural laugh, but Wenlock’s voice cut across it.

  ‘Get to it, Seltzer!’

  ‘Exactly,’ murmured Timothy Arran. Then: ‘Duck!’ he bawled madly.

  As he bellowed he swung round like a miniature cyclone. Seltzer, secure in the thought of the guns supporting him, was unprepared. He found his left arm twisted excruciatingly and he stared into the wicked green eyes of Wenlock as he was swung round so that his fleshy body gave the party on the stairs good cover.

  As Timothy moved, Storm shot out two massive arms, thrusting Letty down so quickly that any shot Wenlock might have chanced would miss her.

  But Wenlock’s gun was silent. For a moment he was nonplussed by the whirlwind speed of the manoeuvre, and for the fatal fraction of time which mattered he hesitated to use his gun for fear of hitting Seltzer. Before he decided to chance it, the gangster was flung bodily at him. Wenlock staggered back, crashing into the men behind him. A struggling, cursing heap made up all that was left of the attacking party for the precious minute that Storm and the twins wanted.

  Storm’s gun was in his hand as he leapt downwards, kicking ruthlessly at Wenlock’s wrist as the latter tried to train his gun. It went flying out of his numbed hand.

  ‘Our turn,’ grunted Storm.

  Diving downwards he grabbed at the guns from the struggling gangsters. Seltzer, winded and bruised, yielded up those he had taken from the twins as well as his own.

  There were many things which Storm would have liked to have done, including a comprehensive search of Number 19, Park Street, but with the girl on their hands and the possibility of reinforcements arriving at any moment, discretion was called for. With the help of the twins he bundled Wenlock and his thugs inside a nearby room and locked it. Heedless of the red-haired man’s stream of blasphemies wafted to him through the keyhole, he flung open the front door.

  Timothy Arran was out in a flash. Within sixty seconds the Bugatti was backed outside the house and Letty carried out and deposited within.

  Storm’s mind was working at top speed. He had to get the girl away and he wanted to be back in time to make a complete search of the house. That meant two of them staying behind to keep an eye on Wenlock and the prisoners.

  Timothy Arran, his fingers on the wheel, felt Storm’s hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Get back inside, Tim, will you? Hold them there until we get back. Bust out if any extras come along and drop in at the Carilon Club. Toby’ll keep outside and if there’s anything that looks like trouble he’ll give you a shout. I’ll handle the car.’

  Timothy hated, more than anything else in the world, letting the car out of his hands, but for the time being Storm was handling affairs. He slipped out of the driver’s seat.

  ‘How long’ll you be?’

  ‘Half-an-hour at the outside.’

  As Storm swung the Bugatti round the corner of Park Street he grinned cheerfully round at Letty, whose white face lifted in a smile.

  ‘Now we won’t be long,’ he managed over his shoulder. ‘I’m running you round to some friends – stout folk who’ll ask no questions.’

  As the great car swung into Philmore Crescent Martin Storm looked as cool and collected a young man as existed in London. Not even the shrewdest member of the C.I.D. would have imagined that he had faced death three times during that hectic day.

  A stately and slightly disapproving man-servant opened the front door. If he was outraged at the sight of the two men and the weary, tousled girl clad from head to foot in a gigantic mackintosh he gave no sign.

  Summoned, Sir Joseph and Lady Grimm greeted them pleasantly. They were used, and fairly tolerant, of the unorthodox adventures of their son and his cousin.

  ‘Sorry,’ explained Storm cheerfully, ‘but I’m in a bit of a fix. One damsel is in need of shelter and sustenance. Haven’t time now, or I’d give you the yarn. D’you mind?’

  ‘All the same if we do,’ grumbled Sir Joseph good-humouredly. ‘Well, bring her in, my boy.’

  But Sir Joseph had hardly started to speak before the kindly and attractive Lady Alicia was in the hall.

  Storm smiled. The two women would get on well.

  He waved thanks and an airy farewell, his eyes holding Letty’s with an unspoken promise of many things to say and many more to happen. Then he turned to Granville. ‘Coming or staying?’

  ‘Coming,’ said Granville without hesitation.

  Storm saw the sudden flash of fear in Letty’s eyes, but she fought it back. He felt ridiculously light-hearted. They were the goods, the Granvilles!

  For the moment that lurking doubt at the back of his mind concerning Frank was forgotten.

  They were back at Park Street well within his half-an-hour time limit, and he breathed a sigh of satisfaction when he saw Toby Arran standing beneath a lamp post lighting a cigarette.

  ‘All clear,’ he said as the Bugatti drew up. ‘And from what I can gather, one of the boys in the parlour got nasty, and Timothy improved the shining hour by swiping him one. There was noise but little else.’

  ‘Seen him since the shindy?’ demanded Storm.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tobias with unkind humour. ‘Difficult not to, with that black eye!’

  ‘But it was worth it,’ said Timothy, when Storm confronted him. ‘Better put a rope round ’em, Martin. There’s some in the car.’

  Exactly a quarter-of-an-hour later the four men closed the front door of Number 19, Park Street, and clambered into the Bugatti. The whole house had been ransacked for information, but little had been forthcoming beyond the fact that Mr Sommers Lee-Knight was an eminently respectable barrister who was honeymooning abroad and had let his house for six months to a gentleman named Gazzoni.

  The name Gazzoni was interesting, but not informative. They hoped that it was the beginning of greater things. For the time being they had been in the house as long as wisdom suggested, for if another batch of Wenlock’s thugs arrived it was unlikely that they would get away with it as easily.

  With some justification the twins believed that Wenlock should be carted away with them. He would probably talk. And, they said, if he was the Big Boy of the party operations from the gangste
rs would be nil.

  ‘I have very serious doubts,’ said Storm reflectively, ‘whether Wenlock is Redhead. In any case, my reasoning is that if we cart Wenlock away with us the others will start a counterattack at the Grange, and for the time being we could do with a few hours for looking round. There’s a lot of things about Ledsholm Grange that might prove interesting.’

  ‘But,’ protested Tobias, ‘big fish lead to bigger fish. If we take Wenlock with us –’

  ‘Wenlock’ll do us more good here than at the Grange,’ reasoned Storm. ‘We can afford to wait for their next move, and while we’re waiting we can look around the Grange. What we want more than anything else is breathing space, and now we’ve got the girl back we’ve nothing to worry about but our own skins.’

  ‘I suppose you’re right,’ admitted Tobias dubiously.

  ‘Step on it,’ grinned Storm. ‘If you hurry there’ll just be time for one at the Carilon.’

  Arriving at the Carilon, Storm wrote a brief but urgent note to Sir Joseph and Lady Alicia Grimm. He was wide-awake to the possibility of their having been followed from Ledsholm by some of Zoeman’s men, and he wanted to make sure that the knight viewed his new charge with due importance. It had been impossible to talk too much in front of the Granvilles.

  It’s just possible, he wrote, that an attempt will be made to get Miss Granville out of the house by herself. Please take no notice of anything or anybody but Roger or myself, in person. And it might be as well to keep an eye on gas-fitters and electric-light johnnies. Sorry and all that.

  It was just after midnight that the Bugatti swung round by Black Rock and hummed over the disused drawbridge. As they caught sight of the mansion Storm realised more keenly than ever the loneliness of the Grange, and its perfect suitability for criminal enterprises.

  Every possible light in the house was now blazing. Grimm had reduced the chances of a surprise attack under cover of darkness to a minimum.

  He greeted them exuberantly, and the success of their sortie was passed on with admirable brevity and considerable enthusiasm. They felt that the first trick had been turned to their favour, and there followed a hectic and entirely amiable set-to, in the course of which the best part of a tankard of beer was poured over Storm’s trousers.