by John Creasey
* * *
‘Not quite the last trick,’ murmured Martin Storm, looking affably into the glinting grey eyes of Zoeman.
Zoeman’s lips curled.
‘What about a spot of lint and a bandage?’ Storm went on cheerfully. ‘Mind you,’ he added waggishly, ’a couple of inches more and I’d have been dead. And that’s murder, little man!’
Beneath the bright light of a new bulb Zoeman’s lined face showed up haggard and worn. The strain of the last twenty-four hours culminating in the escape of Best and Grimm was telling even on his iron nerve. The first half-dozen of his men had returned from their escapades but the main army was still to come. Thirty men had been sent out, travelling in threes and driving super-charged cars.
He knew that the telephone wires of a hundred police stations were buzzing furiously. Attack after attack had been made on banks and post offices. Money, jewels and negotiable bonds had run in a never ceasing and ever increasing stream into the hands of his armed bandits in this last final coup. It was the biggest, most complete and most successful outburst of perfectly organised crime that had ever been attempted.
Zoeman reckoned that at least two million or more pounds would be added to the millions that he had stored at Ledsholm Grange! Two million pounds in one great swoop in defiance of the police!
And not one of the bandit cars had been held up!
Nevertheless the slightest leakages of information would bring an army of police to the Grange. Grimm and Best had escaped, and even the twelve hours’ grace to be counted on before Storm’s letter would reach London had been snatched away! There was nothing to do but clear out with the colossal fortune already packed in small cases and ready for immediate handling when his men returned. The packages had been prepared during the past hour, and his call to action had caused the desertion of the rooms through which Storm and the others had passed. But he couldn’t move before they returned.
Zoeman had turned to crime after a life of careful effort to secure a position worth having in the business world. After four years of hell in Flanders, he discovered that the biggest sin in the eyes of the world is lack of money. For a long time he had played with the idea of crime but the element of risk and the odds against success stopped him.
As a branch manager of the English section of the Wenlock Oil Company he had an opportunity for a visit to America, and discovered accidently the identity of Redhead. It determined him. Steadily he formed his plans, building up an organisation of young, iron-nerved men, lawless, anti-social.
The idea of pooling the resources of the various hold-ups and storing all but that needed for immediate operations gave each man of his company of criminals something to work for and a granite reason for loyalty. Gradually he worked towards his great finale, a countrywide series of robberies, return to Ledsholm Grange and getaway. He was wise enough to realise that the longer the activities of his gang were drawn out the greater the chance of discovery and capture.
He was ready for the emergency when it came. Redhead and Storm had discovered his identity and knew his headquarters. He would have preferred more time, but on the morning of the gas attack his fleet of cars set out on the errands of pillage, still given the definite order of ‘no killing’.
But the recent developments had put his plans out of gear. Danger was imminent. Nevertheless, nothing in the world would have made him desert the Grange before his men returned.
They were due back at ten o’clock. They knew that the Grange would be evacuated by that hour and any who were unable to get home would make their own escape. Ten o’clock. There were three hours to go.
Storm, watching Zoeman’s harassed expression, guessed at the conflicting emotions behind the smooth brow.
‘Cheer up,’ he murmured. ‘You might get away with it yet. I have been known to fail. Hallo – this looks like trouble.’
Two men burst suddenly into the room. They had been running, for their breath came in great, quivering gasps.
‘The Bugatti, Chief. Crashed into Wenlock’s car. He’s hiding behind Black Rock with a parcel of gunmen!’
The men in the Bugatti were smashed up! Storm felt a queasy sickness in his stomach as the realisation struck more deeply. Smashed up! Smashed up! The only chance of rescue from outside gone, and Grimm and Best gone with it. What accursed idiocy had made him send that letter instead of a wire or a telephone message? If Best and Grimm were dead it was his fault! If the others were murdered it was his fault!
He took a tight grip on himself as he watched the lynx-eyed leader of the English gang.
‘Behind the Rock, are they?’ muttered Zoeman. ‘That means anyone coming in or going out will be under fire.’ Despair touched him. Redhead had attacked! ‘God! It will be massacre!’
‘Whoa!’ broke in Storm suddenly, his mind working at top speed. ‘Wenlock doesn’t know about your show down here, does he? At least, he doesn’t know how to get in?’
‘I don’t think so,’ admitted Zoeman.
‘That means,’ said Storm quickly, ‘that he’s planning on attacking us at the front. Me and my merry men, that is.’
‘Well?’
Storm placed a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder and spoke with a note of confidence, making Zoeman even more acutely aware of the iron determination and the utter lack of personal fear which characterised the engaging, likeable, obstinate and resourceful Martin Storm.
‘Listen,’ said Storm. ‘We’ll merge for a bit. Let me go out and wave a white flag. I’ll tell him that you’re here, and that I’ve got a message through to London and a whole army of police are on the way to smoke you out. If he bites and vamooses I want a free passage for myself and the others – and I’ll undertake not to talk till, we’ll say, nine o’clock. That’ll give you three hours and more to get clear, because it’ll take the police an hour to get down here if not more. After nine o’clock I’ll be on your tail.’
‘We will call it an armistice,’ said Zoeman thoughtfully. ‘But nine o’clock isn’t late enough. Make it eleven.’
‘Eleven has it,’ said Storm.
‘What happens if Wenlock doesn’t see eye to eye with you?’
‘I’ll haul down the white flag,’ chortled Storm, ‘and sock him on the jaw. Suit you? Good. Send word to the others that there’s still a chance of beer tonight. No – I’ll leave the bandages till later. It’ll look more impressive if they think I’m half-dead, and it’s only a scratch anyhow.’
Ten minutes later Storm approached the drawbridge and through the gates could see the massive grandeur of Black Rock. No sound came from behind it and there was no sign of Wenlock and his men. With a step less sure than he would have liked – for he was feeling more pain from his wound than he confessed – he reached the centre of the road.
What was ahead? He knew, and grew sober at the realisation, that a bullet from Wenlock’s gun would probably spell death. But there was just a chance that he might be able to scare the other man and, setting his lips grimly, he pressed on.
He wished the men behind Black Rock would speak. The silence was uncanny, turning him cold. Then suddenly;
‘Keep still, Storm!’
It was Wenlock’s rasping, cruel voice. It went on;
‘What do you want?’
‘Just a little chat.’
‘Get back!’ snarled Wenlock. ‘Tell Zoeman I want to make a deal with him. Tell him that Redhead’s due here at nine and, if he knows what’s good for him, he’d better hurry.’
Storm swung round, chancing a bullet in his back. Wenlock knew that Zoeman was in possession of the Grange – but Wenlock wasn’t Redhead!
He had suspected it but for the first time he knew. But there was one urgent, inescapable fact. Wenlock was either trying a cunning manoeuvre or – Storm admitted that it was a thousand times more likely – he was double-crossing the all-powerful Redhead!
Chapter 18
Redhead Makes a Discovery
Sitting at a small table set for three the hunched,
green-eyed, horrible figure of the gangster overlord faced Letty Granville. There was something devilish about that wizened, inhuman old man, a ghoulish gloating triumph turning his rasping laugh into a mutter of unspoken threats.
A hundred times during the meal she had repented her undertaking. Only the thought of Frank and the dire necessity for money would have made her do it – and now that she saw the malevolent evil in Redhead her heart went cold.
‘Fifty thousand pounds, Miss Granville! A tremendous sum of money for a young girl and a lad.’
‘We need it,’ she said with an effort and looking at him squarely. ‘And if it wasn’t worth the money you would never have paid it.’
Redhead’s thin lips cracked in a cackle of laughter.
‘Sound logic, little lady, sound logic! Rare, too, in a pretty woman. And you made sure I didn’t defraud you, didn’t you?’
Letty knew nothing of the arrangements which Frank had made for the repayment of the money, but she took a chance.
‘It was a matter of business.’
Redhead cackled again. The Granville fellow had made sure of getting his money after offering the plan of the Grange; Redhead had been forced to pay; there was no time for side-shows, for Zoeman was on the alert.
‘Business, eh? Cash against documents! Very clever, very clever indeed. Don’t you think so, Gazzoni?’
The Spanish-American forced a sickly grin and took his beady eyes from the slim beauty of the girl. The Granville dame had certainly ‘got’ him. It seemed a pity that she had to die.
‘Sure, Boss,’ he said without enthusiasm. ‘Reckon you kin handle the jobs better’n me. But say – ’ He leaned forward. ‘Time’s getting on. Nearly seven pips, Boss.’ But he could not resist another leer in Letty Granville’s direction.
Redhead’s smile disappeared with disconcerting suddenness.
‘Seven o’clock, is it? All right, Gazzoni. Phone through to the garage and make sure that it’s all okay. I’ll talk to the ship.’
In spite of the obvious devilry of his mind, Letty preferred Redhead in his rasping ‘business’ manner to his shuddering efforts at familiarity.
‘Up to your room, Miss Granville. The old woman will release you at seven o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He glowered down at her.
Gazzoni turned from the telephone as the door clicked behind the girl, his shifty eyes hooded.
‘Garage all set, Boss.’
‘Good. Go round and tell Rosselli I want the car.’
‘Okay,’ muttered Gazzoni. ‘What about the girl?’
Redhead laughed.
‘The old hag’ll take her up supper tonight – doped. The hag’s will be doped, too. Then Rosselli’ll dump ’em both in the Dartmoor Bog.’
Gazzoni gave an answering snigger.
It was a pity the girl had to go, but it was wise. Trust Redhead to do the right thing.
Murder lurked over Letty Granville in the Park Street house. Cold, soulless murder.
* * *
To separate fifty thousand pounds apiece from men of the calibre of Redhead and Zoeman bespoke cleverness, but a crooked cleverness. Granville was clever and his mind tortuous. It was a near miracle that he had got away with it.
He needed the whisky and soda that he ordered at The Four Bells. Kurt, impassive and unspeaking, was standing next to him, his right hand in his mackintosh pocket, the gun in that hand uncomfortably near to Granville’s stomach. His story, told briefly to the gaping Benjamin, went down well.
There was to be a war film taken in the grounds of Ledsholm Grange. And much though he regretted it the danger to spectators was so great that he would have to make sure that no-one from the village trespassed.
Mr Cripps understood very well, helped by the discreet passing, from Granville’s hand to his, of a pound note. The village would keep away from Ledsholm Grange that night.
Granville left The Four Bells thinking with some satisfaction of the ease with which he had outwitted both Redhead and Zoeman. Storm had been easy, too.
But Storm was able to look after himself.
Leaving The Four Bells Granville climbed into the Daimler, acutely aware that the man sitting at the back of the car was holding a gun and that there was not the slightest chance of a getaway. Zoeman would keep a tight hold on him until the evacuation of Ledsholm Grange had been accomplished.
Granville went cold as he wondered what would happen if Zoeman knew the truth.
But for a scoop like this, risks had to be taken. Providing Letty got out of it with a whole skin he would have no regrets. He settled back in his seat, hardly noticing the stretch of dusty road in front of him until there was a sudden screech of brakes and a muttered curse from Kurt.
‘What the hell – ’
Granville looked ahead, stiff with horror.
In spite of the terrific force of the impact he recognised both the Bugatti and the Delage. The radiators and front parts were smashed to smithereens and the wreckage was scattered to a radius of twenty yards. But Granville had eyes only for the two battered and bloodstained men near the debris.
He recognised Grimm in a flash and after a moment’s fear that the other was Storm, recognised the gravel-scarred face of Martin Best.
They had escaped and managed to get the Bugatti – only to crash into the Delage. And the Delage meant that Wenlock was about. Wenlock, who knew of the double-crossing!
Kurt’s sharp voice rapped out.
‘Do you recognise the other car?’
‘Wenlock’s,’ muttered Granville.
Kurt looked at him queerly. Granville might have seen a ghost. In point of fact he had seen the hovering spectre of death which would open its gaping jaws quickly enough if Wenlock and Zoeman talked together.
With Granville’s help the unconscious bodies of Grimm and Best were levered into the Daimler, and the car slid onward, its hawk-eyed driver keeping careful watch. Past the gleaming Black Rock they were in full view of Ledsholm Grange.
Granville felt like ice.
Zoeman was at the top of the steps, with Storm – and Wenlock!
Kurt turned the Daimler’s nose towards the back of the house. Coming to a standstill in the courtyard he called out to a man on guard by the secret entrance to the underground quarters.
‘What’s happening, Hemmings?’
‘Seems the Boss wants you, Kurt,’ responded the other. ‘And he wants Granville. Pow-wow of some kind.’
Granville was still in the Daimler, sliding from the seat next to the driver’s to the open door. Kurt, looking round at him and watching Hemmings and another man lever the inert bodies of Grimm and Best from the back seats, snapped impatiently:
‘Hurry, Granville.’
‘Coming,’ muttered the younger man, trying desperately to hide the panic in his eyes.
If Zoeman learned from Wenlock of the double-dealing there would be hell to pay! The tremendous efforts of the months, the scheming, the planning, the death-risking talk with Redhead all leading to the success which was within his grasp was trembling over the precipice of disaster.
Unless he could get away he was as good as dead. Zoeman could be as ruthless and merciless as Redhead.
Kurt was halfway to the kitchen door. Hemming and the second man had their hands full with Grimm and Best. There was one perilous chance – but the risk was better than certain death!
His hands pressed suddenly on the controls, sending the great Daimler into motion. If only he could get out of range before the tyres were pierced!
Driving like a man possessed he stepped on the accelerator, bent on the one desperate object – getaway. A bullet cracked through the bodywork at the back of the car. The bones of his hands shewed white through the skin.
Like spitting death the bullets streamed out, cracking against the wings, the bodywork, the lamps. Zig-zagging like a maniac he sent the car hurtling over flower beds and lawns on to the smooth surface of the drive. Steadying now that it was on a good road the Daimler leapt forward. Black Ro
ck loomed up like a gaping monster but he wrenched his wheel round and skirted it by a fraction.
On the straight road he set the engine the biggest task of its short life. Seventy miles an hour! Eighty! Ninety! The shivering needle of the speedometer quivered like a mad puppet as the car raced on, a roaring monster of escape!
* * *
Kurt was one of the few men in Zoeman’s organisation not in fear of his leader, but as he walked along the rubber-covered passage to the Chief’s room his face was white and grim.
Zoeman was sitting at the table, with Wenlock opposite him and Storm on his right. The three American gunmen comprising Wenlock’s bodyguard were in the room beyond, watched by silent but dangerous Englishmen.
Kurt lacked nothing in grit. He spoke quickly.
‘Granville’s made a break.’
Zoeman’s eyes narrowed to mere slits.
‘Didn’t I tell you – ’
‘He didn’t budge until we got back,’ said Kurt quickly. ‘We picked up a couple of Storm’s men – alive but unconscious – and lugged them in the car. Granville must have seen you and Wenlock on the steps. He waited until we were getting Storm’s men out, then raced off in the Daimler.’
Zoeman’s fingers drummed on the table.
At first sight the getaway seemed the last straw, but on second thoughts it was for the best. Granville had ratted, had been playing a double game all along, and he had asked for death. But Zoeman had kept his hands clean of blood and he wanted to keep them that way.
Kurt saw the relaxing muscles of his face and breathed more freely.
‘All right,’ said Zoeman. ‘Now listen to this.’
Kurt listened to the offer which Wenlock had made, and his lips curled. Yellowness and double-crossing were outside his range, and displays of it in others made him sneer.
He knew nothing of the hatred which the cunning, arrogant Wenlock had for Redhead. Wenlock had played second fiddle to his father and Gazzoni for years and all the repressed fires of his hatred boiled over. He wanted money and he wanted to save his own skin. The money he reckoned he could get from Zoeman for the sake of his knowledge of Redhead’s plans. The safety he could get by informing the police of Ledsholm Grange. Zoeman would never conceive that he would squeal, but he knew that squealing was the only way of getting through without becoming a fugitive from the law for the rest of his life.