by John Creasey
Ralph Wenlock gave the ‘get ready’ signal to the garage hands and went into consultation with three rough-neck members of the inside staff. He went back to his own car, and an hour later the three gangsters slipped away from the garage. Treachery and vengeance were in the air.
* * *
Redhead watched his son disappear through the door of the small dining-room.
His quick mind was working tortuously and ruthlessly towards his objective. He knew, through those channels which cover the underworld as thoroughly as Reuter covers the globe, what plans Zoeman had made and how he was working towards his getaway.
Rumours and confirmation had reached America of the bandit organisation which was sending the usually imperturbable Scotland Yard into a frenzy of excitement. Redhead knew that the amount of the hauls must total close on ten million pounds – or nearly thirty million American dollars! The lure was tremendous and the chances of he himself snatching it from under Zoeman’s nose, great.
Redhead knew, as he sat at that table, that Zoeman would be preparing for his last effort and escape, and he set his smoothly working machinery into action. Gazzoni’s little eyes were fixed on him as he moved towards a cupboard and took out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He poured out a generous measure of neat spirit, then motioning Gazzoni to pour out his own liquor, tossed his head back, and swallowed it at a gulp.
His voice came startlingly: ‘We’ll do it tonight, Gazzoni. Is everything ready?’
The dago’s sleek head nodded.
‘Everything. ’Cepting – if yer kid don’t git fly agen.’
‘He doesn’t know the girl’s here again, does he?’
‘Nope. But he don’t like being bawled out an’ I’m wond’ring – ’
He stopped, seeing an expression in Redhead’s eyes which spelt ‘warning’.
‘Say, Boss! I didn’t mean nuthin’!’
Redhead’s hands, gripping the back of a chair with brutal force, jerked upwards suddenly and the chair crashed against the wall four yards away.
‘So! You don’t mean nulhin’, Gazzoni? Well, I’ll say you meant a lot! Reckon the kid’s likely to double-cross, eh?’
‘Say!’ Gazzoni’s little eyes narrowed. ‘I wouldn’t say that, Boss. You got me all wrong – ’
‘Quit lying, Gazzoni! You reckon he’ll make a break on his own. And by God, I’m not so sure you’re wrong. That’s why I sent him out. He’ll be through in half-an-hour and then we’ll see. Where’s that plan?’
Gazzoni pulled a leather case from his pocket. The small scale plan of the underground passages at Ledsholm Grange was slipped on to the table.
Redhead peered intently. He knew the plan by heart, but there were several points to square up before he finished.
‘The girl reckons you can get in by the wine-cellar, doesn’t she?’
Gazzoni nodded. He had spent half-an-hour with Letty Granville, and the threat of his cruel hands had sent fear into her heart.
‘She sure does, Boss. Zoeman’s been working at the back – that’s what the brother told you, ain’t it?’
Redhead nodded. His one interview with Frank Granville had been fruitful, and with the plan was well worth the big money that he had paid.
‘Meaning,’ rasped Gazzoni, ‘that he’s left the front of the place alone, using the dungeons for hiding in and keeping the sparklers. See that line there –?’
He pointed at the line showing the wall between the wine cellar and the first of Zoeman’s rebuilt vaults.
‘The girl says that there used to be a door joining the wine cellar to the other dungeons. But it was bricked up when she and her brother were kids. But you see what I mean, Boss? Just a stick or two of powder and the wall’s blown down. We’re right through before Zoeman knows it.’
‘Hump. Well – twenty men will be enough. We’ll send the rest down to Plymouth to get on the ship right away. You’ve got the hired hands for the garage?’
‘All ready,’ Gazzoni assured him. To make sure that no comment was caused by a heavy decrease in staff at the Utopia Garage, three dozen new workmen had been engaged, recruited from the sweepings of London. If any query was raised the others had gone on the Wenlock Corporation President’s cruise for his employees.
Redhead’s green eyes flared. Knowing nothing of Zoeman’s gas attack he thought that Storm and his men were still occupying the front of the Grange, and his hatred for the band of hectic young Englishmen had been simmering since their first interference.
‘We’ll get inside the front hall if we have to blow it down, Gazzoni! When we’re through the cellar cut for the stuff and get it in the cars. Have two men at the back and two at the front so that we can get out both ways.’ He refilled his glass with neat whisky. ‘Don’t play with Storm. I want them dead!’
‘Reckon Zoeman’s got thirty million dollars there,’ muttered Gazzoni avariciously. ‘All in one kick and it ain’t cost us more’n a hundred thousand to do it! Some job, I’ll say!’
‘Some job all right, Gazzoni. But it’s not finished yet. Check up on that telephone and see what the kid’s done.’
He was relieved five minutes later to hear that the younger man had followed his instructions to the letter. The possibility of his son double-crossing him had made him hesitate. The job had to be done in one ruthless swoop. Before a whisper of the attack reached the authorities the gangsters had to be on board the Florida Moon, and an hour lost through treachery might prove fatal.
Taking the telephone from Gazzoni he rasped final instructions to the ‘manager’ of Utopia Garage. After an interval he was repeating his orders to the waiting men on the Florida Moon, through agents at a local hotel.
Large motor launches were waiting in readiness to take the gangsters to the yacht. If there were rumours after this last staggering coup it mattered less than nothing. The Florida Moon was going to founder on the first day out!
The plans were perfect. The ship had been carefully rigged by his own men so that within two hours it would change from a luxury yacht to a third-class South American liner which was registered at Lloyds. The liner would receive one despairing message from the Florida Moon.
S O S. Sinking fast. S O S.
And thereafter there would be silence. No-one would ever hear of Wenlock or his employees. No-one would know that a certain South American country was sheltering him, no-one would know that all his vast resources had been turned into cash and utilised in the establishment of his own little community, peopled by his men and prepared carefully and slowly for years in readiness for his getaway.
The world could know that Redhead was Saul Wenlock. For the world would think that he had been swept into oblivion, swallowed by the deep waters of the ocean.
Yes – his plans were perfect!
With the element of risk reduced to the absolute minimum, he felt that complacency which was his only weak spot. All that mattered now was the one mighty swoop at Ledsholm Grange.
He reckoned that the attack would take an hour. Timing his blow for three o’clock he could cut across country and be at Plymouth by half-past four at the latest. The Florida Moon would be on its way to oblivion by five o’clock.
It was colossal! It was perfect!
Redhead’s features were twisted into a gloating grin of complacent satisfaction. Gazzoni looked into his glowing green eyes and saw the animal ferocity in them.
‘Right,’ rasped Redhead. ‘Now – it’s nearly five. Better phone Fortnums for some dinner. Dinner for three at half-past six. No – make it six.’
Gazzoni’s foxy face showed his surprise.
‘Three, Boss?’
‘Three!’ rasped Redhead. ‘We’re having company, Gazzoni. The girl. Reckon she’s earned it, eh?’
Grudgingly Gazzoni lifted the telephone again, and gave the order.
‘Fetch her,’ Redhead ordered suddenly.
Gazzoni made his way up the narrow stairs on which Storm and the twins had been surprised by Ralph Wenlock on the previou
s evening, while downstairs Redhead congratulated himself on the astuteness of his move with the girl. Of course, he couldn’t have worked it without Granville and the fifty thousand pounds that he had paid for the plans. It was a lot of money, but he had preferred to pay it into Granville’s bank rather than chance a squeal to the police from the owner of Ledsholm Grange.
But he agreed with Gazzoni. The girl was dangerous. She would have to be got rid of.
Chapter 16
Shocks for Martin Storm
Pain danced behind Martin Storm’s feverish eyes. It jigged a tango across his forehead. He tried to stretch out his hand. A shock ran through him as he discovered that his arm wouldn’t move, that something bound his wrists together in front of him. His ankles, when called on, refused to function by the same token.
The overpowering, horrific realisation flashed through his mind that he was tied hand and foot. The aching, throbbing, sawing madness in his head faded as the full force of the devastating knowledge struck home.
Bound hand and foot! Helpless!
Rolling over on his side to ease the rush of blood which had made him dizzy after his efforts to move, he thought back. Slowly but with startling clarity he recalled the investigation at the back of the Grange, the energy with which they had wielded pick-axes on the patch of new cement. He could almost see the bright steel of the concealed door and feel the exhilaration surging through him at the discovery.
Then he remembered the muzziness which had filled his head, the awful paroxysm of coughing which had shaken him from head to foot. He remembered the struggling figures of the others; Grimm, reeling from side to side, his face set with pain-wracked distortions of grotesque frightfulness.
There was no need to think much further. Whether Zoeman or Wenlock had been the agent of it, it had been a gas attack; thank God it had not proved fatal.
He swore coldbloodedly, gripped with fury at the ease with which he had fallen into the enemy’s hands.
‘Who the blazing hell is that?’ demanded Righteous Dane thickly. ‘What blankety use do you think that blankety outburst is likely to do, you blankety – ’
‘It’s me,’ informed Storm mildly.
‘You, is it?’ grunted Righteous. Then a new expression crept into his voice, giving it a sharp edge of new-born hope. ‘Are you free, Windy?’
‘The answer is no,’ murmured Martin. ‘However –’
Cursing the blackness and sending lightly winged but heavy hearted badinage across the intervening yards of gloom he worked with methodical thoroughness at the cords which bit deeply into the flesh at his wrists. Dane followed suit.
‘None of the others have come round,’ murmured Storm after several minutes. ‘Hope they haven’t got it too badly,’
‘No need to worry,’ said Dane optimistically. ‘I reckon you got the biggest dose, old boy. God! You did look a mess!’
Storm snorted.
‘I felt it. Wonder whether Wenlock or Zoeman was responsible?’
‘Zoeman,’ answered Dane with certainty. ‘Hallo – ’
Someone stirred.
‘Where the hell – ’
‘Best old boy,’ said Storm, ‘think back a bit. Power-house – Ledsholm Grange – pick-axes – ’
‘Got it!’ burst out Best in a hoarse whisper. ‘Oh, my – ’
‘We don’t know where we are,’ broke in Storm, ‘but we think that Zoeman’s the villain. It was gloves off, all right,’ he conceded. ‘But we’re bound hand and foot and we can’t get away. Do your bit, son.’
There was complete silence from the corner of the room in which Best sat. Storm, straining his eyes as much as he could, managed to distinguish the vague outlines of a body next to him, but only the white blur of the face was visible out of the darkness. Whoever it was was groaning in his enforced sleep, which suggested that he would soon be more lively.
‘Creepy kind of shanty,’ muttered Storm. ‘I reckon we must be underneath the Grange, boys. Here! What’s that?’
His query was directed at the invisible Best, who had muttered something fierce but unprintable.
‘Of all the blazing furies!’ stormed Best. ‘I managed to get my pocket knife open, Windy, and the darned thing’s gone half-an-inch into m’innards!’
Storm kept silent for a moment which might have been sympathy but was actually in thought. Then:
‘Righteous – you’re not so heavy as I am. Try and wriggle towards Best. We can do with that knife.’
After five minutes that seemed a year Dane’s voice, soft but triumphant, signalled the fact that he had reached the still suffering Best. Moving with extreme care he got a grip of the blade, drew it out of Best’s pocket and set to work sawing through the cords tying the big man’s wrists.
‘Lumme, but it’s tough!’ he muttered.
‘Do leave me a bit of flesh on me bones, old boy. Ah! That’s it! Give me a minute to make my wrists work and I’ll do the same for you.’
It was exactly ten minutes by the hands of Best’s illuminated watch when Roger Grimm, still only partly awake and the last of the party to regain consciousness, was freed. The wound in his cheek from the edge of the axe felt stiff but had not reached the bone. The others were standing about conversing in tense whispers, easing their cramped limbs.
‘Shh!’ snapped Storm suddenly.
A silence of the dead settled over the room as his voice faded. Footsteps could be heard.
By a process of linking hands and creeping steadily round the walls, the imprisoned men located the door. There were no windows, thus giving colour to the belief that they were below Ledsholm Grange. Next to the door was a lighting switch which worked. Storm turned the brilliant white glow out as soon as they had taken a brief look round the bare walls of the empty vault.
For a moment he was half-afraid that the light had been noticed, but a voice from outside reassured him.
‘Reckon they’re still asleep,’ said one man – the unfortunate Greenaway who had failed to report the sortie into the village. ‘Think we’d better look in, Browning?’
The second man’s voice came cryptically.
‘He told us to, didn’t he?’
Scarcely daring to breathe the seven prisoners heard the key inserted in the lock. Taking position with a soft-footed caution, Storm made sure that when the door opened he would be able to reach his man in the first second.
On tenterhooks they heard the key turn and a brief rattle as the handle was twisted.
A dazzling beam of light shot into the gloom of the vault as the door opened, revealing the bare patch of floor where there should have been men! Greenaway, holding the light, jumped back as something rammed towards him, but Storm’s clenched fist caught him on the point of the jaw, sending his man down in a senseless heap. The torch dropped to the floor and for the first time Zoeman’s precaution of lining the walls and floors with rubber reacted adversely for him. Instead of clattering there was only a dull thud.
Storm’s free hand shot out suddenly. Before the startled Browning realised what was happening the shout of warning in his throat died with a rasping gurgle. Staggering back he took the quick-footed Timothy Arran’s pile-driver in the middle of his stomach. With a sickening ouch! he doubled up.
Stooping down Storm dragged him into the room which was fast emptying of the members of Storm’s party. Grimm helped to shift the first man and Dodo picked up the torch.
‘Get back inside a minute,’ said Storm urgently. ‘Hurry, men! Now show a light, Dodo.’
Muttering instructions Storm began to tie short ends of cord together, and within three minutes both of Zoeman’s underlings were bound hand and foot.
‘Take their keys,’ grunted Storm. ‘Got ’em, Best? Good man. Anything else?’
Best, with a grin, revealed a brace of automatics.
‘Now we’re moving. Out in the passage, all of you, and lock the door.’
In single file the seven moved cautiously along the narrow passage in the direction from which t
he ill-fated guards had come. In the lead, Storm came to the first step of a staircase.
‘Two of you stay here,’ he muttered, ‘in case anyone comes from behind. Keep one of the guns and give a shout if there’s any trouble.’
Leaving the reluctant twins behind them the remainder of the party pushed cautiously on.
‘Corner here,’ Storm muttered. ‘Righteous, keep here with Dodo. You’ll have to do without a gun, though.’
‘What’re fists for?’ demanded Righteous grandly.
‘Stout fellow! Three shouts if you’re in trouble, so that we’ll know where to go. And don’t move singly whatever happens.’
Five yards along the passage Storm, with Grimm and Best close behind him, stopped dead.
Ahead of him, round another sharp bend, a narrow pencil of light showed the outline of a partly open door.
‘Quiet, boys,’ murmured Storm. He took a firmer grip on his gun and stepped forward.
Outside the door he crouched low, straining his ears for the slightest sound. For a full minute all three men waited with a tense expectancy, their ears cocked for the lowest whisper.
But none came. The room ahead was silent.
‘We’ll take a chance,’ muttered Storm. ‘Roger, hold the gun. I’ll go in first, on my hands and knees. If there’s anyone inside pot ’em without asking questions. Ready?’
‘All set,’ whispered Grimm, touching the trigger.
Silent as a mouse, Storm crept through the door. No one was there. A glance sufficed to tell him that the room was in general use by a large number of men, and he frowned as he wondered where they were.
Overcoats and an assortment of masculine oddments were scattered about, while on each of five baize-topped tables were packs of cards, some newly dealt and others thrown down in obvious haste in the middle of a game. It was easy to see that there had been an urgent call to action.
Storm pressed out a half-smoked cigarette thoughtfully. At most it had been left five minutes before.