by John Creasey
But Frank Granville had assured him that there were no passages!
He looked round quickly at Roger Grimm.
‘Call the others off the hunt, Roger. And tell the twins to bring a couple of pick-axes; they’re in the tool shed.’
The twins responded with commendable speed. Within ten minutes of Grimm’s message the cement floor of the power-house rang under the combined assault of two picks heaved by Martin Best and Martin Storm, the strongest members of the company.
The new patch proved easy enough to get through. After the first crust of brittleness the picks bit deep. Over the heads of the watching men hovered a tense air of expectancy.
Discovery?
Storm, stretching upwards after a mighty smash, plied his pick again and the blunt point crashed against something much harder than the cement. There was no mistaking the ring of the contact; it was steel on steel!
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ he grunted. ‘Best – scrape it, don’t dig.’
He acted on his own words, scraping the half-dry cement from the steel sheet uncovered by their efforts. Gradually it took shape, revealing a square bounded by grooved lines, a square which was roughly a yard across.
‘Any handle?’ demanded Toby Arran, craning forward.
Storm shook his head.
‘Doesn’t seem to be. Probably works on the sliding system – there’s no hinge in sight. But we can get round that with a bit of patience.’
‘How?’ demanded Derek Milhowel.
‘Burn through it,’ said Storm. ‘How long will it take you to get into Lewes, Toby?’
Toby Arran deliberated.
‘Twenty minutes,’ he said finally.
‘You’re bound to find an oxy-acetylene outfit somewhere,’ mused Storm. ‘It’ll be safer using one of those than trying to dig through it or pump holes with our guns. If you can’t borrow one, buy one from a factory. And quick’s the word, old boy.’
Toby Arran swung round to the door.
‘Shall I take Tim with me?’
‘Better have two of you,’ agreed Storm.
He broke off in a sudden fit of coughing, feeling the tears burn in his eyes as he leaned heavily on his pick.
‘Damnation – ’
He broke off again, amost doubling up as a second paroxysm of coughing gripped him. Grimm stretched out a steadying hand, then something bit deep into his throat. He staggered into Milhowel, choking sickeningly. Milhowel, sensing the unseen horror which was creeping into the stuffy little power-house, tried desperately to get to the door, but before he had taken two steps his body, too, was gripped in a torturing paralysis starting from a fearful burning at the back of his throat.
Gas! The realisation struck at them with the icy hand of death!
Leaning helplessly against the wall the twins coughed sickeningly, feeling the horror of the ghastly gas which had been poured into the brick shed. It burned torturingly into their eyes, rasping their tongues and biting deep into their lungs, constricting them, strangling them, choking them!
Storm, further away from the door than the others, staggered drunkenly from side to side, then dropped in a sagging heap to the floor. Best, his last moment of consciousness filled with the dread of what might happen if any of them touched the live wires, lurched forward and grabbed the control switch. Wildly, desperately, he pressed it down.
Sick with pain, Grimm pointed towards the door which the Arrans tried desperately to reach as they staggered helplessly.
‘Tell – the – others!’ cracked Grimm. ‘Tell – ’
With a horrible paroxysm of coughing he crumpled up, striking his head against the thick end of Best’s axe.
Timothy Arran reached the door, seeing the blurred figures of Dodo Trale and Righteous Dane rushing towards the power-house. He waved frantically, trying to form words with his scorched lips but muttering only a senseless gabbling. Before they realised the danger Dane and Trale felt the gas biting into them. Too late, they swung round in a mad effort to get out of range.
Through a red mist Trale saw the podgy figure of Horrobin, backing with terror from a man whose dull grey automatic threatened him.
‘Zoeman!’ gasped Righteous Dane. ‘Zoeman!’
He plucked madly at his pocket but before his fingers touched the cold steel of his gun a wave of nauseating sickness swept through his body, sending him lurching to the ground a split-second before Trale, too, collapsed.
Horrobin gave a moan of terror as Zoeman moved towards him. He seemed to feel the lead-nosed bullet tearing through flesh and bone, seemed to feel the horrible warm ooze of his blood –
Then the butt of Zoeman’s revolver cracked against his temple, and he dropped like a stone.
* * *
The grim-eyed, suave-voiced man in the hall of Ledsholm Grange spoke quickly to the gunman who was pulling on a pair of motoring gauntlets.
‘Take Hibbert and Snelling with you, Kurt. Shoot up the whole village if you must, but get that letter!’ He swung round to the third man who was standing uneasily at his side. ‘If this falls through, Greenaway – ’
Greenaway opened his lips in a resentful protest.
‘You told me you were busy,’ he muttered.
Zoeman cut furiously across his words.
‘You crazy fool! Didn’t I tell you to report any move from the Grange above everything else? Did you think I was too busy to be told that Storm and the other idiot went into the village – and to the Post Office? Am I dealing with lunatics?’
Greenaway shrank back. Zoeman had never seemed so murderous.
The first man, Kurt, hurried towards the Bugatti which had been left outside the main door by Toby Arran. The Boss was obviously in a rage. Trouble was brewing. He drove ruthlessly over the soft green lawns on his way to the back of the house to pick up reinforcements.
Half-a-dozen men were carrying the inert bodies of Martin Storm and Roger Grimm out of the power-house. A three-yard stretch of the kitchen wall gaped open, showing a flight of rubber-covered stairs leading into the bowels of Ledsholm Grange. The other victims of the gas attack were already below, flung ruthlessly into a room immediately behind the wine-cellar of the great house.
The underground passages which Frank Granville had pooh-poohed to Storm not only existed but, under the direction of Zoeman during the two months in which he had been able to work unhindered, had been fitted up with rubber flooring and two silently moving steel exits worked by the elaborate system of electric control installed immediately beneath the power-house. There were five sizeable rooms as well as that in which Storm’s party were sleeping off the effect of the gas.
Zoeman had reckoned on having six months in which to work. The Grange had been leased from Frank Granville and there seemed no fear of discovery. But Granville, bearing warning of the approach of the dreaded American, Redhead, had returned quicker than he had expected, and Martin Storm with his pack of young idiots had caused more trouble than Zoeman would have dreamt possible.
Carefully he had set his plans. From all parts of England members of his organisation had brought off daring robberies, bringing the proceeds to Ledsholm Grange. In the fifth, electrically-controlled room which no-one entered unless he was there himself, the proceeds of the major jewel robberies of the past five months were stored.
But Zoeman’s master-stroke was to come, and with the interference of Storm and the threat of Redhead it had been jerked into operation before full maturity, and its success was now jeopardised.
It had taken him longer than he had expected to overcome the resistance of Martin Storm and his band of fools. He had been forced to wait until he had them altogether, to make sure that none of them had a chance to escape. Could he hold out long enough against Redhead? Redhead, the man who made even the crime-steeped blood of American gangsters freeze.
Cool, calculating, clever, Zoeman believed that it was possible. Ledsholm Grange was absolutely isolated, and he reckoned he could stand against an attack from the American.
But
Storm had dealt a crushing blow against him. Through the negligence of the man Greenaway, the journey to the village had not been reported. Zoeman, fearing an S O S to the police, sent Kurt and the others to hold-up Ledsholm Post Office and its spinster mistress.
There was a chance of trouble when the hold-up was reported certainly, but hold-ups were everyday affairs up and down the country, most of them connected with Zoeman’s organisation. There was no reason why suspicion should fall on the Grange.
Strangely, he felt an unrestricted admiration for Martin Storm.
Who was he? What part was he playing in the police and secret service efforts to get to the root of the bandit outrages which had startled and unnerved the country? Zoeman thought of the department at Whitehall – ‘Z’ Department – and pursed his lips. He was uneasy about ‘Z’ Department.
It was just after twelve when the post mistress of the village – one Jane Simms on whom Benjamin Cripps had for some time been casting an interested eye – heard a car drawing up outside the store.
A lean, sharp-featured man stepped quietly into the shop.
She stared with sudden terror at the gun in the man’s hand, but her scream died on her lips.
‘Half a word,’ snapped Kurt, ‘and you’re for it!’
Helplessly she watched him empty the post box, saw him collect the registered letters, the loose change, and the postal orders.
Kurt worked quickly and effectively.
He wasn’t sure what to do with the woman. He was half-afraid that she might have recognised him, for he had been through the village from the Grange several times. But Zoeman had given instructions that there was to be no killing except in extreme emergency. So, killing was out.
Still keeping his gun trained on her, he stepped towards the fear-stricken woman. The scream which sprang to her lips died in a rasping gurgle as he brought the gun crashing on her unprotected head.
Dragging her body behind the counter, he hurried to the waiting Bugatti.
Benjamin Cripps, standing at the door of his hostelry, stared in disappointment at the car as it roared along the dusty road.
‘I had hoped,’ he said disconsolately, ‘that gentlemen ’ud be popping in agen. Mebee Jane knows where he’s gone.’
The patriarch to whom he addressed this remark shook his head.
‘Jane Simms ne’re did like being called in t’shop twix’ twelve an’ one. Leave it a bit, I say.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Benjamin, whose eyes had been on Jane since the decent period of mourning after his wife’s death had expired. ‘Aye, mebee ye’re right, gaffer.’
Zoeman saw the returning figure of Kurt with keen relief.
‘The letters?’
‘Registers and all,’ grinned Kurt. ‘Want me again?’
‘Get below,’ ordered Zoeman, ‘and close up every entry excepting the chapel one. And keep two men outside Storm’s place. They’re a good deal smarter than they look.’
Five minutes afterwards he stared stonily down at the twenty opened envelopes.
Storm’s letter was not among them!
Chapter 15
Redhead
Three men sat at a small table in the dining room of the house of Mr Sommers Lee-Knight in Park Street, Mayfair. One was Ralph Wenlock, son of the mighty oil magnate who ruled the worldwide organisation of the Wenlock Oil Corporation. His nervous face was twisted and his green eyes smouldered in ill-repressed fury.
‘Why the devil didn’t you warn me?’ he muttered. ‘You told me to lease Ledsholm from the Granvilles. I didn’t know Zoeman was there.’
The middle man of the three stared at him with a cold, demoniacal expression. Wenlock could never remember the time when he had not been frightened of his calculating, inhuman parent. Since he had arrived in England his fear had grown into overwhelming dread of this hunched, wizened old man whose horrible green eyes – eyes which had hypnotised Letty Granville less than eight hours before – were a thousand times more cruel than his own.
Saul Wenlock had carried out the double role of the worst-feared, most powerful gangster overlord in America and the chief of the Wenlock Oil Corporation for years. Cursed with a lust for money and power he had exploited both with the cunning of a distorted genius.
He had always carried out his illegal activities under the cloak of another man’s personality, and only three of the host of minor barons ruling with fear and being ruled by their legendary overlord with dread, knew Redhead as Saul Wenlock.
Two of them he had shot in cold blood, murdered as they had murdered others on his instructions. They had known too much – what was even more heinous, they had wanted too much. The third was Gazzoni the Italian, the man who had rented the house from Sommers Lee-Knight. Sleek, oily-tongued, swarthy-skinned, he sat with the Wenlocks at the small table.
Gazzoni’s finger on the trigger of a gun was quicker than a hawk’s swoop on its prey; and Gazzoni’s head for figures and diabolical ingenuity was second only to his subservience to Redhead. He was loyal – although treachery was bread and butter in the racketeer’s larder – because he knew that Redhead wanted to leave the racket, and that he himself would step into the man’s shoes, taking over the power which the fearful influence of the older man had created.
Redhead’s European coup was to be his last. His plan of action, swift, murderous, paralysing, would bring a colossal reward!
But for the moment all that mattered in that small room was the struggle between father and son.
Redhead’s voice, harsh, guttural and shiveringly cold, cut through the silence.
‘I told you to follow the Granvilles to London, and make arrangements for renting Ledsholm Grange. And you didn’t even discover that Granville had already let the place to Zoeman! You fool! Did I tell you to kidnap the girl? Did I tell you to fight? Did I tell you to set Storm and his fools on the alert? You damnable fool! Three months I have been watching Zoeman. I knew that he was at Ledsholm Grange but I didn’t know he had rented it. I have been waiting for the moment to strike – and you – ’
Ralph Wenlock cowered back as the old man’s eyes, blazing with fury, seemed to leap towards him. He was stiff and cold with fear.
‘I – I – ’
‘Be quiet!’ hissed Redhead. ‘Telephone to the ship and make sure that we are ready for immediate sailing. Collect the men and be in readiness at the garage. If you do a thing without permission – I’ll kill you!’
The younger man slunk out of the room, too cowed to show fight. Yet he was angry and resentful. Redhead, damn him, meant what he said!
He had known nothing of the state of affairs in England. His father had called him from the United States, telling him to follow the Granvilles and to get possession of Ledsholm Grange. He had also told him to watch out for members of the English Secret Service –
He had heard rumours and had acted on them. Rumour said that Martin Storm and Roger Grimm were members of the dreaded ‘Z’ Department – and Wenlock had put the great machine of the gangster organisation into action against them.
And he had failed! Both of them had escaped, both of them had laughed him to scorn! They had even avoided injury on the dock at Southampton; and they had brought Redhead’s devilish wrath on his head by the defence at Ledsholm Grange.
But for Storm he would have won through. But for Storm he would have gained possession of the Grange, frightened Granville out of it and sent his report to Redhead with the smirk of success. But for Storm –
All the hatred which the imperturbable Englishman had stirred in him on board the Hoveric burst into flame. As he took the wheel of the car standing outside the Park Street house his malevolent fury, his capacity for treachery and vengeance, blazed. Vengeance on Martin Storm, on Zoeman, on the Granvilles –
Treachery to Redhead!
But he followed his instructions. The ship which was waiting in readiness for the getaway of Redhead and his gangsters when the master coup – the attack on Zoeman and the seizure of the vast store of sto
len money and jewels secreted at Ledsholm Grange – was completed, was on the alert.
He had telephoned to Plymouth from a garage on the Great West Road just outside Chiswick. The Utopia Garage was the last word in up-to-date equipment and luxury. It was owned, according to the registered particulars at Somerset House, by a group of Americans, and on the list of names could be read that of Saul Wenlock, President of the Wenlock Oil Corporation.
Of necessity there were a great number of engineers and garage hands there day and night, and for the greater comfort of his staff Mr Wenlock had built a special wing to the garage in which they could eat, sleep, amuse themselves and reflect on the generosity of their employers.
Those members of the staff who came into direct contact with the general public were English; those who kept in the background were American – and tough Americans. It was not generally known that ten of the hire cars were never let out on hire, nor that they had super-charged engines and that their structure was reinforced with bullet-proof steel.
But that part of the business was kept under Saul Wenlock’s hat.
The plan was simple. On the chosen day and at the chosen hour the signal would go forth. The ten cars would set out on supposedly innocent jobs and converge on Ledsholm Grange. Zoeman would be attacked, his vast store of illgotten wealth would be removed to the cars, and the homeward journey would commence; but not to London.
Just outside Plymouth Sound the Florida Moon, Saul Wenlock’s luxury yacht, was waiting with the ostensible purpose of giving employees of the English company a sea voyage. The happy employees would arrive at the port and embark with the morning tide. Actually the ‘employees’ would be the gangsters, and their suitcases would contain not clothes but valuables.
It was a clever scheme and there was no reason why it should fail, although the need for quick action – due to the interference of Storm and his men – certainly created an element of risk which would have been eliminated if the plans had been allowed to mature slowly. Redhead, however, was confident of success; callous, inhuman, utterly ruthless, he had seen the advantage of the isolation of Ledsholm Grange. It would be hours before the attack was discovered by the authorities – and there was the possibility that Zoeman, in fear of the police, would exert every effort to keep it secret.