Redhead (Department Z Book 2)

by John Creasey

  Shoot to kill!

  Hemmings knew that ‘no killing’ had been the strictest order that Zoeman had ever given. His words, spoken coolly but with chilling intensity, meant that they were in the absolute last line of defence.

  He swung out of the room, snapping instructions to men who passed him as he ran up the stairs. A dozen men were crouching in the courtyard, taking advantage of every possible piece of cover. The five treasure-cars were being guarded to the death!

  Help, unless it came from the police and in vast numbers, was impossible. Redhead had got a stranglehold. The only possible chance was to tire the attackers and choose the right moment for a sortie.

  Darting about the courtyard the men – there were less than twenty at the Grange – were rigging up barricades to make sure that the vulnerable parts of the treasure-cars escaped damage. A hundred yards ahead, out of range of revolver fire, the slowly advancing monster of a car was creeping –

  A desultory fire of rifle shots kept them fully alive to the danger of revealing themselves. Three men had already been killed, and as Hemmings dashed towards the power-house a bullet flattened against the wall. From behind him a man gasped and threw up his arms.

  ‘Four,’ muttered Hemmings, and shuddered.

  He had never believed the monstrous stories of the ruthless killings which shocked the United States from end to end. He had scoffed at Redhead. He had known nothing of the machine-like devilry with which Redhead killed. He was hard-bitten so far as crime in England went, but the horror of this attack sent his blood to fever-heat.

  He realised that the very care which Zoeman had taken to lull suspicion was now reacting against them, and that nothing and no-one, could stop this mass murder.

  Quietly and placidly the countryside was settling down for the night, mildly titillated by the sounds they took to be those of a film battle.

  Hemmings felt the footsteps of the living walking over his grave!

  He issued orders quickly and effectively. The five cars with their load of wealth were ready for flight when the moment came for that desperate sortie. Glass splintered suddenly.

  Straining his eyes Hemmings stared towards the first of the armoured cars driven by a man whose face was barely visible.

  ‘Keep a close watch,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll tell Zoeman.’

  Zoeman heard Hemmings out without speaking. Then:

  ‘So they’re getting nearer. I’ll come up. Bring that last case with you and then send six men round to the front. Storm’ll be in a tight fix, I fancy.’

  Zoeman rushed up the stairs quickly. At the top he saw the desperate backward glances of the men manning the boarded window.

  ‘It looks mighty bad, Chief.’

  Careful not to show himself Zoeman went to the window. For the first time he saw the monstrous armoured car, and his lips tightened as he watched it moving forward like a great crab, its blunt nose turned towards the kitchen door.

  ‘No driver,’ muttered Zoeman. ‘I wonder what they’re up to?’

  Slowly, horribly, the great crab-like leviathan crept towards them. Like men paralysed they stared in chilled fascination and bewilderment.

  Then Zoeman saw it!

  Whipping round like a maniac he shouted to Hemmings:

  ‘Get all the men inside and down to the cellars! Hurry! Get them out of the power-house, the sheds, and out of here!’

  Befuddled but obedient, Hemmings swung round, but as he turned he caught sight of the car which had gained a sudden leaping momentum. He stood dead still, stiff with fear and a gripping horror. The fearful contraption was less than five yards from the power-house. As he watched it crashed against a corner stone.

  Something leapt out of the radiator. The great car reared up on its back wheels. Swinging round from the power-house it leapt towards the main building, and as the great bulk crashed into the wall a ghastly thunder of explosion roared into the heavens. Hemmings gave a strangled cry as he saw flame shooting from the fearful mass. Bricks, stones and mortar crashed downwards in a dust-raising bellowing medley, as the wall caved in with a thunderous roar. Hemmings, miraculously unhurt, went sick as he saw the mangled form of the man who had been standing nearest the window tossed high into the air.

  The shattered brickwork thundered about him as he staggered blindly towards the hole in the inner wall which led to the underground refuge. He came upon Zoeman suddenly, dishevelled and white-faced, appearing out of a cloud of thick, choking dust.

  ‘I’m going to tell Storm,’ gasped Zoeman. ‘Get below, keep the door open and shoot the swine down!’

  Hemmings staggered towards the startled men climbing up the debris-strewn stairs.

  ‘Explosives!’ he rasped hoarsely. ‘Get back – ’

  Dazed and bemused he saw Ralph Wenlock’s sandy skin and flaming red hair as Redhead’s son darted out of the strong-room. But he was intent only on keeping the coming attack at bay and he brushed past the man.

  Wenlock swung round. The explosion had broken the electric control of the strong-room doors and he had dashed in fear to discover the cause of the trouble. For a terrible moment he realised that Redhead had come earlier than expected; Redhead’s awful green eyes seemed to glower before him. He saw the gaping jaws of certain death.

  His mind caught desperately to the one chance of escape from his father’s damnable vengeance. He hurried into the strong-room and spoke quickly to the three thugs who had joined him in the double-cross.

  ‘Redhead! He’s blown the top of the place to pieces. Go for the first man you see, get his gun. We can hold out now – for Redhead!’

  His men saw the cunning of the manoeuvre. Zoeman and his bandits would be between two fires once they were armed.

  The man Greenaway, hurriedly refilling his automatic, saw them when it was too late. Wenlock’s fist, clenched with the fury of fear and hope, crashed into his stomach. His gun dropped to the floor. Wenlock grabbed the weapon and touched the trigger.

  Greenaway’s last breath rattled in his throat.

  * * *

  Storm heard the urgent tapping on the door leading to the hall from the back of the Grange and darted towards it. Then he dropped back, aghast.

  Zoeman was there. Blood was streaming down his forehead, dust and dirt was in his hair and on his clothes; but the steely glint in his grey eyes was like granite.

  ‘Get your men downstairs, Storm. They’ve blown a hole in the wall. I’m afraid of fire!’

  Creeping carefully until they were out of range they made their way to the rear of the Grange. From there they watched Redhead’s men approaching cautiously.

  ‘Here’s a chance,’ muttered Storm. ‘One by one, you fellows. We’ll have a shy at ’em.’

  Keeping well back he took careful aim towards the dozen men creeping towards the breach in the wall. One man staggered back.

  Timothy Arran, the last of the five men, was halfway across the kitchen when Storm saw for a second time a hunched, wizened old man with glowing green eyes. He had seen him before in the Delage when they had rescued Letty Granville from the Park Street house. There was something sinister in those awful eyes, even at that distance.

  At last! Redhead! That old man with the satyrish eyes – Redhead!

  He took aim and fired. The flying bullet hummed towards its object. The satyr staggered backwards, his hands clutching his chest. Three or four gunmen crowded round him.

  ‘God!’ exulted Storm. ‘I’ve got him!’

  Then Redhead moved like a great ape, lurching out of the line of fire. Storm went cold. Was the man immune from death?

  He had fired at the gangster baron’s heart – but between the monster’s flesh and the lead-nosed bullet was a bulletproof steel chain!

  Storm cursed himself for a fool. He should have realised that the man would take this elementary precaution, and aimed for the head instead of the heart. But the damage was done. He had lost a golden opportunity.

  Zoeman spoke with an effort.

  ‘We sha
ll need a miracle to get us out of this.’

  ‘One never knows.’ Storm returned, breaking off as something pecked into his hand.

  He looked down, seeing it wet with blood.

  Three steps below them Wenlock, his automatic still smoking from the shot, was grinning upwards in malevolent triumph.

  ‘Come down, Storm. I’ve been waiting for this.’

  The very imminence of the danger steadied Storm’s nerves. He could laugh in the face of death.

  ‘What-ho! Ginger! Shouldn’t waggle that pea-shooter about too much, in case it goes off. How’s your father?’

  Before he could speak again he saw Zoeman’s white lips as the older man looked towards the gaping hole blown in the wall by the explosion. Swinging round he found himself gazing into the basilisk orbs of the hunched Redhead!

  ‘Redhead!’ he breathed, and his voice was cracked and dry.

  Saul Wenlock lurched forward. A dozen men behind him showed their guns, rendering him safe from attack. For the first time he was face to face with the man who had done most to thwart his plans.

  The realisation flashed across Storm’s mind like forked lightning. Redhead, the man whose identity had puzzled the police of two nations, was Saul Wenlock, chief of the Wenlock Oil Corporation!

  Loathsome, unclean, diabolic, all the sin in the world emanated from him, forming that fearful aura of frightfulness which hovered about him. Redhead, the foulest horror of America’s era of crime. Redhead, the man whose thin lips opened to spell death!

  He stared like a fiend from hell. The mocking coolness of Storm’s eyes seemed to infuriate him. His gross body shook.

  ‘So you are Storm. Well – you have just five minutes to live.’

  Storm felt cold. That was not a threat. It was a fact. Redhead had planned his death and the manner of it would be worse than death itself. His muscles tightened, but he was weak from loss of blood. As Redhead’s cruel lips opened again he staggered.

  ‘Get him!’ snapped Redhead.

  Something broke in Storm’s mind. He hurtled forward into the mass of gangsters, his great arms whirling like flails. Men gasped, fell back, shrieked oaths and returned to the fight. A dozen gunmen crushed on him, beating his resistance down, sending torture through his body.

  Zoeman leapt forward, but a bullet from Redhead’s gun took him in the thigh. Two men carried him towards the armoured car which was drawn up in the courtyard amidst the debris of that first terrific explosion and the wreckage of five treasure-cars which had gone up with the rest, scattering the wealth of a nation about the courtyard.

  Storm, and Zoeman too, were carried to a car, the door slammed and locked on them. Through the narrow window Wenlock’s ghastly cackle reached them.

  ‘Storm! Zoeman! Both where I want you! You’ll live long enough to see the first of the stuff brought up – the five million pounds that you thought was yours! It’s mine, all mine! But before it’s loaded you’ll split the sky! You’re sitting on dynamite!’

  Forcing his voice to a quiet strength Storm answered him.

  ‘So we’ll split the heavens, will we? So did your share of the money, Redhead! You’re treading on it now!’

  Slowly, devilishly, Redhead lit a match. The realisation that his coup had failed turned him to an ice-cold devil. His body shook as he began to wreak his vengeance.

  The flame caught the white trail of fuse leading from the petrol tank of the car and as it spluttered he drew back. It was Satan who glared madly through his eyes and passed sentence of ghastly death.

  ‘Five minutes, Storm!’

  Chapter 21

  Excitement in High Circles

  Sir William Divot looked at the Prime Minister and from him to the keen-eyed member of that little known but extremely powerful ‘Z’ Department.

  ‘I have just had a telephone message from Ledsholm village, Sir John. It is believed that a – er – film is to be taken at Ledsholm Grange tonight.’

  The Home Secretary who was also the Premier turned his iron grey head towards the ‘Z’ Department agent. He was more worried about Redhead than he cared to acknowledge. All day reports had been received of outrage after outrage. He could see no end to it.

  ‘Do you know about that, Number Twelve?’

  The young man nodded jerkily.

  ‘Yes, sir. The story was spread round in case of trouble. I’ve given a full report to Number One asking for immediate action. But there should be enough men down there to cope with it. My report went through early.’

  The Prime Minister committed an indiscretion. He mentioned the name of the chief of ‘Z’ Department.

  ‘Craigie is down with malaria. He’s had a bad turn.’

  He stared aghast at the leaping horror in the eyes of Number Twelve. The agent’s face was aflame with living dread.

  ‘My God! He’s not been working all day?’

  ‘He’s been unconscious most of the time,’ said the Prime Minister with considerable irritation.

  Number Twelve looked crazed.

  ‘God! Redhead’s down there – and the job’s been left! Storm – Best – Grimm – God! I thought it was all covered. We were going to mass forces outside Ledsholm – ’

  The Prime Minister looked scared.

  ‘I’d better get in touch with the Chief Constable. We weren’t expecting developments yet – ’

  Number Twelve crashed his fist down on the table.

  ‘There isn’t time for getting in touch! You’ve got to issue instructions! Damnation! It’ll be massacre!’

  ‘Steady,’ murmured Sir William Divot.

  Number Twelve swung round furiously. Statesmen meant nothing – hell was brewing at Ledsholm.

  ‘Steady? We’ve got to act! Get the Flying Squad – get an armed force! Redhead’s armed to the teeth – machine-guns – bombs – armoured cars! We were only waiting for the time to strike. I gave it in my report. Good God, sir, can’t you – ?’

  The Premier’s hand was touching the telephone when the bell burred out. He went to a second instrument as Sir William Divot lifted it to his ear. A moment later he swung round in livid fear.

  ‘It’s Number Seven speaking, sir, from Ledsholm. Redhead’s there! He’s cut the telephone wires in the village – he’s shooting –’

  ‘Give it to me,’ snapped the Premier. ‘Hallo – hallo – ’

  He pumped uselessly at the telephone, the blood draining from his face. There was no voice at the other end.

  Number Twelve read disaster in that white face.

  His voice trembled as he spoke.

  ‘I’m going down there. But for God’s sake hurry with help – armed forces!’

  He raced out of the room and down the steps of Number 10, Downing Street, heedless of the startled policeman on duty as he leapt towards a waiting saloon car containing a solitary passenger. His fingers were on the self-starter before he spoke hoarsely.

  ‘Craigie’s ill – and it’s started!’

  His passenger went icily cold as the great car raced through the streets of London, making for the Great West Road at a speed which brought a dozen policemen’s hands to their notebooks before they noticed the all-important number-plate which signalled the Flying Squad sign in emergency. For the first time ‘Z’ Department’s plans had fallen through!

  At Number 10, Downing Street, a white-faced Premier was talking urgently to a Man Who Mattered at the War Office.

  Chapter 22

  Toby Arran Takes a Chance

  Death hovered in the courtyard of Ledsholm Grange.

  The terrible chaos created by the terrific explosion of the first hell-loaded car held the torn limbs of men and the shredded papers of half-a-million of money. And it held the awful Redhead. Storm shivered as he looked through the small window of the car.

  The thought uppermost in his mind was that the devil had netted Letty Granville into his campaign of money-lust and blood-letting. If he could only get his fingers round the thick neck of that red-haired, green-eyed mon
ster he would laugh in mad glory as the life was choked out of him.

  It was his helplessness which sent his blood to fire and his heart like a battering ram against his ribs. His face worked convulsively and for a while he kept his eyes from Zoeman. He could realise the ghastly horror of the other man’s mind. Zoeman was living in the hell of his own creating yet he had created it unwillingly.

  It was impossible for them to escape from that armoured car of death in which they were imprisoned. The windows, fitted with unbreakable glass, were mere slits; they were imprisoned in their tomb of steel.

  For the last time Storm saw the basilisk green eyes of the monstrous Redhead, saw the evil leer on the wizened, sinstained face, heard the maniacal cackle from the thick throat. Then Redhead stepped out of sight into the safety of the underground vaults.

  Storm knew that the devil could never get away with it. His enormous vanity and near insanity would prove his undoing. But when help came it could spell only retribution. It would be too late to stop the evil he had done.

  Storm stared backwards, through the glass slit in the back of the car. Above it a light spiral of smoke curled from the burning fuse which was creeping with terrible slowness towards the dynamite-filled petrol tank. If only he could break the glass!

  In a sudden frenzy of helplessnes he crashed his fist into the unyielding panel, feeling nothing. Madly he rammed, madly, helplessly, frenziedly.

  Zoeman’s strained voice stopped him.

  ‘It’s no use, Storm. I’m – sorry – ’

  Storm gulped and the cloud of frenzy cleared from his brain, swept by an ice-cold blast of sanity. He looked down on his bruised and blood-red hand with a half-foolish grin.

  ‘Darned silly, what? Oh Lord, don’t worry, Zoeman. I wouldn’t mind scrapping with you again.’

  Zoeman opened his lips to speak but before the words came gave one startled gasp of horror.

  ‘My God!’

  Storm, his face working, saw the demolished door of the secret passages filled for a moment with an unrecognisable bundle. Then something was hurtled into the courtyard – something human!