by John Creasey
It was Martin Best, heaved by two of the devils who worked for the satyr below. Best’s face cracked against the rubble as a second figure hurtled upwards.
‘Grimm,’ muttered Storm, and his tongue lashed the murky air of the car with a stream of invective which spat uselessly against the surrounding steel. ‘The ruddy devil’s sending them all up here – all of them!’
He was right. Downstairs the six remaining members of the party which had rushed cheerfully to the ‘beano’ two days before had been overwhelmed by the attacks from front and behind. One by one they had been hurled through the gaping hole in the wall, while Redhead savoured his insatiable thirst for vengeance.
Toby Arran was the last man up and he saw the inert bodies about him with a groan. Straining his head round he saw the haggard face of Martin Storm in the car.
The grin that he sent across the five yards of space between them was one of the bravest things he ever did. Storm saw it and felt a sudden crazy exultation.
He saw Toby’s lips move and saw Dodo Trale squirm over on his back, his face covered in blood. Still the curl of smoke rose from the spluttering fuse.
Would that last moment never come? The waiting was sending him mad, sending the blood racing like molten lava through his veins, bringing a ghastly lump to his throat which choked him – choked him –
Toby Arran was cursing, coldly and with blood-curdling intensity.
‘If I can get this blankety blank rope on that blankety piece of glass I’ll tear my blinking blankety wrists into blazing shreds but I’ll tear the scorching tongue of that redheaded, green-goggled cackle-throated he-devil and squeeze his foul breath out of his blankety body till he shrieks for ruddy mercy! Can I? Oh, my God! Can I?’
Dodo watched, the blood frozen in his veins. He could see the grey ash of the fuse and the glowing red spark less than an inch from the petrol tank. If it lasted another minute before sending hell into the heavens it would be a miracle.
‘One minute – fifty seconds – ’
Toby Arran was staring at the glowing red spark, his eyes blazing and his face working convulsively as he lacerated his wrists on the sharp-edged piece of glass beneath him.
The rope round his wrists sagged.
Forty seconds –
A wild exultation surged through him as the rope snapped! He squirmed round, grabbing that heaven-sent piece of glass and sawing madly through the ropes at his ankles. Once – twice – thrice – he smashed on to the breaking threads.
Thirty seconds. Half a minute –
Staggering drunkenly he reached his feet, swaying from side to side. The little red glow of the fuse seemed to surge backward and forwards before his straining eyes, a little red ember of fearful death. He lurched towards it, unconscious of the hope-tightened faces of Storm and Zoeman through the glass, crazily aware only of the fuse, forcing his mind to act, forcing himself forward.
Twenty seconds –
The white fuse showed a bare quarter of an inch from the petrol tank. His fingers searched shakily along the smooth surface, creeping with terrifying slowness towards the spark. His head was whirling, his stomach heaving, his whole body was stiff and cold. Then through the mist in his mind he heard Storm’s voice, firm and clear.
‘Good boy, Toby!’
Arran gulped and his mind cleared for a split-second. In that second his forefinger and thumb darted towards the red spark, caught it firmly and squeezed, heedless of the burning pain scorching through his arm, heedless of everything but the one overwhelming fact. He had pulled it off!
He waved his arms in crazy exultation for a mad moment before he dropped unconscious on the rubble-strewn yard.
Reprieve!
The thing seemed incredible! Storm gulped as he saw Toby’s blackened thumb and finger.
For the moment they were safe. But Toby was down and Dodo Trale was bound hand and foot. Dodo was dragging himself madly towards the lump of jagged glass. Tight-lipped and feverish-eyed Storm saw him repeating Arran’s manoeuvre.
Then he shouted a useless warning. Through the hole in the wall he saw the demonaic eyes of Redhead, green, fiendish, glowing with the blood-lust which possessed him.
Redhead was staring horribly at the moving Trale and the inert body of Arran. He realised now why the explosion had been delayed. His lips cracked open.
‘Get me a gun!’
Storm went cold. Toby’s effort – Dodo’s effort – all useless. Redhead’s spidery hand was thrust behind him.
Then the heavens seemed to split in a droning roar. Something dark winged across the sky, its engine roaring as it slowed down and the aeroplane searched for a landing place.
He saw a figure outlined against the gleaming metal of the plane, a man standing perilously on the wing, a man whose right hand was pointing downwards –
And he saw the sudden spit of flame from the automatic gripped in the airman’s hand.
A bullet hummed downwards. Staring upwards, Redhead seemed paralysed by this unthought of interruption. He hardly realised that a man was standing on the wing, hardly saw the tiny spurt of flame from the gun before something cracked into his skull, and he dropped backwards into the men who were crowding through a hole in the wall.
Storm felt a crazy exultation surging through him. He saw that spurt of red from Redhead’s splintered skull before he peered upwards again.
The dare-devil airman was climbing steadily into the cockpit of the double-controlled Moth, which swooped suddenly upwards. Storm had seen him, and one word spat from his lips with incredible joy, making him oblivious to the sudden roaring filling the air, the dozen fighting planes which were winging their way towards the Grange.
One word!
‘Granville!’
Then Zoeman, white-faced but with a tight-lipped smile, said softly:
‘Granville. And he’s brought plenty of support. God! Look at them running!’
Redhead’s men were scuttling madly, helplessly, hopelessly towards the Black Rock and the fleet of cars. But they stopped in terror as a vast explosion roaring through the air shot a mountain of blasted earth upwards.
Bombs!
Redhead was dead – and Redhead had failed!
Then Zoeman spoke again.
‘Yes, it was Granville. But did you see his pilot?’
‘No,’ admitted Storm tensely.
‘Also Granville,’ said Zoeman simply. ‘His sister!’
Chapter 23
Martin Storm Starts a Journey
‘Where,’ demanded a bandaged but spruce Timothy Arran who arrived last at a meeting of many cheerful, not to say boisterous young men at Martin Storm’s Audley Street flat, ‘is our heroine?’
Martin Storm was unable to suppress the mild flush which coloured his rugged face as he tried to look unconcerned.
Frank Granville, boisterously welcomed earlier in that evening ten days after the attack on Redhead, spoke for the silent Martin.
‘She’s gone for a rest cure, you men. Just outside Torquay, if you must know where.’
‘If she wants peace and quiet,’ grinned someone, ‘take a tip from me and don’t let Windy know where she’s gone.’
Storm, busy with a number of brightly gleaming tankards, had time enough to heave a cushion neatly into the speaker’s midriff.
‘Oi! Here – ’
Storm dodged its return with a grin.
‘Now then, comrades and brothers, collect your liquor and let’s get down to it.’
The barrel was rapidly emptying when there came a modest knock on the door.
‘A telegram for Mr Granville, sir.’
There was silence as Granville split the envelope. Then:
‘The Prime Minister,’ announced Granville, ‘says talk, but talk with discretion.’
‘Start at once,’ suggested Storm.
Granville, stuffing the telegram in his pocket, shrugged his shoulders.
‘When all’s said and done,’ he pointed out, ‘there isn’t a great deal to tel
l. But to start at the beginning – ’
‘It isn’t generally known that my father was prominent behind the scenes in diplomatic circles, and for a long time he worked in conjunction with “Z” Department. It was not an accident when he and my mother were killed; they were murdered by a pretty gang of scoundrels, and I had more than a suspicion of the truth. I got in touch with Gordon Craigie.
‘There wasn’t a great deal I could do, but unknown to Letty I sent despatches about various places and people while we were travelling. One particular job called for a nasty bit of handling and I was more lucky than clever. Anyhow, after it was finished I had orders to go to America and keep an eye on Redhead.
‘I had to give some excuse for being away from Letty for days, sometimes weeks, at a time, so I told her that I was playing the markets. Then trouble began to fall thick and fast. Redhead knew that someone was watching him, and I was given information about the gang outrages in London.
‘Gangs have to have headquarters. I advertised the Grange, and again with a large slice of luck got Zoeman’s reply. I fixed things with him – and then heard that Wenlock was also keen on getting the place. That put me in a spot, because only Letty could help me, and I was anxious not to let her know anything about “Z” Department. Wenlock threatened trouble unless I went with him to England – and fixed Ledsholm Grange for him. Again I had to make up a story to tell Letty – she didn’t know that I’d let the Grange – and I told her that I’d been losing heavily.
‘She took it well. But I didn’t expect Wenlock would cart her off when we reached the Grange, and when he did I was in a fix – I wanted to keep in with both Zoeman and Wenlock, of course, in an effort to get them caught in the same net. I’d already managed to interest Storm and Grimm, and I sent that wire, in the hope of keeping Letty out of danger.
‘But I didn’t reckon on them being quite so wide awake for trouble. I didn’t see a ghost of a chance of getting both Redhead and Zoeman together while they were at the Grange – Storm and Grimm, I mean – so I took a desperate chance and got Letty to give that note to Redhead instead of taking it myself. I was still expecting to get rid of you fellows by that stunt, but again it didn’t come off. You know that I had to look after her myself, and not only came precious near being too late but nearly missed learning that Craigie had been taken ill and that you were in a pretty serious plight at the Grange. As soon as I heard of this, I dashed off to Heston – Letty was in the Daimler outside – chartered a plane, which I knew Letty could pilot, and just managed to pull it off. The men at Whitehall had worked pretty quickly and sent a dozen bombers as well as a fleet of Flying Squad cars. Generally speaking you know the rest.’
He took a long swig at his beer. Storm grinned.
‘God! It was a sight seeing those johnnies dashing round. I’ll never be able to tell you how glad I was when you flew over, Granny.’
‘And me!’ said Dodo Trale fervently.
‘And Zoeman,’ put in Storm quietly. ‘A stout man, that. I’m glad he managed to escape.’
Granville eyed him quizzically.
‘I wouldn’t mind betting,’ he said airily, ‘that you know more than you ought to about that, Windy.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ mumbled Storm, burying his nose in a tankard.
In point of fact he had deliberately engineered the Englishman’s escape, and had even financed it. The man had lost everything that he had tried for – and no matter what his aims Storm had both admiration and respect for him; as he had for Frank Granville. He was still wondering at the cleverness with which the younger man had played his hand, although there was nothing he could blame himself for in his one-time views of Letty’s brother. He realised, too, that the only reason the affair at Ledsholm had reached its murderous height was the almost fatal seizure of Number One of ‘Z’ Department. Craigie had been desperately close to death’s door while the report from Granville – or Number Twelve of the Department – had been waiting for his attention.
But it was over. Redhead was smashed. Zoeman’s organisation was broken, and all but a little of the hoard of stolen wealth had been recovered from the wreckage at the Grange. Storm felt completely at peace with the world.
He swallowed his last drop of ale, and stood up.
‘Where are you off to?’ demanded Roger Grimm.
Storm’s beam spread.
‘That’s a secret, cousin of mine! I’ve fixed up with Horrors to give you lads a blow-out, and you can use up the rest of the barrelful. Just have a good time.’
Those members of the party who were still active spread in a pugnacious cordon round the door.
‘You can go,’ said Timothy Arran ferociously, ‘when you’ve told us where you’re going. Spill it!’
Storm grinned. Granville chuckled.
‘If you must know,’ said Storm, ‘I’m going for a rest cure. Just outside Torquay. And Granny’s coming with me in case I need a best man!’
An extract from John Creasey’s
FIRST CAME A MURDER
Anthony Barr Carruthers sat in the reading-room of the Carilon Club, Pall Mall, London West, and stared morosely at the Morning Star, which he held in front of him.
He had been some time locating the single line of information which he wanted, for although familiar with the sporting page, he was a complete stranger to that controlled by the City editor.
His trouble was simple. On the recommendation of a man who should have known better, he had recently purchased ten thousand one-pound shares in Marritaba Tin. Within a week of the deal, his ten thousand had sunk to five, in ten days it had been shaved to two and a half, and now it was somewhere in the region of one thousand seven hundred.
Carruthers glanced again at the damning figures in the City column, then tossed the newspaper to the floor.
His back was towards the door of the Carilon Club’s reading-room, and he heard it open, but did not trouble himself to look round. Even had he done so, he would have seen only the sober figure of Rickett, the Carilon Club’s secretary, and would not have been conscious of any immediate danger.
Rickett was a typical club secretary, a shadowy individual who was never obvious but always present, rarely speaking, but always having the last word.
As Anthony Barr Carruthers sank back in his armchair and cursed the name of the man who had advised him to buy Marritaba, Rickett moved silently across the room. His suede shoes made no sound on the thick pile carpet, and his breathing was soft and regular. His right hand was in his trouser pocket.
A sudden breeze, coming through the wide-open windows of the reading-room, carried a blast of sultry air into Carruthers’s face, and jerked him into irritable motion. He snapped his fingers viciously.
‘Damn Riordon!’ he muttered aloud. ‘I reckon he fleeced me.…’
Had he turned at that moment and seen the strange, unquestionably evil smile on Rickett’s face, he might have saved himself from the undreamed-of peril. For Rickett was within a yard of him now, moving silently, furtively, towards Carruthers’s chair. His right hand was half out of his pocket, and the slanting rays of the sun, coming through the open window, glinted on steel.
As he drew nearer, Rickett stretched out his hand. If Carruthers had thrown his head backwards, he would have felt the sharp prick of a needle in his scalp, and might yet have saved himself. But he kept still, unthinking, unsuspecting.
Then Rickett thrust his hand out, sharply, stabbing the needle of the hypodermic syringe into the fleshy part of Carruthers’s neck, pressing his thumb firmly on the lever.
Carruthers gave a sharp cry, and swung round in his chair. In his last moment of consciousness he saw the face of Rickett, twisted in that strange smile.
‘What the devil!’ gasped Carruthers.
He tried, desperately, to jump to his feet, but his limbs were paralysed—then, with one convulsive shudder, he slumped back in the chair.
Rickett moved quickly over the prostrate body of his victim. He felt Carruthers’s pu
lse, and found only the stillness of death. Without a second glance he turned away and hurried out of the room.
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John Creasey
Master crime fiction writer John Creasey’s 562 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages. After enduring 743 rejection slips, the young Creasey’s career was kickstarted by winning a newspaper writing competition. He went on to collect multiple honours from The Mystery Writers of America including the Edgar Award for best novel in 1962 and the coveted title of Grand Master in 1969. Creasey’s prolific output included 11 different series including Roger West, the Toff, the Baron, Patrick Dawlish, Gideon, Dr Palfrey, and Department Z, published both under his own name and 10 other pseudonyms.
Creasey was born in Surrey in 1908 and, when not travelling extensively, lived between Bournemouth and Salisbury for most of his life. He died in England in 1973.
ALSO IN THIS SERIES
The Death Miser
Redhead
First Came a Murder
Death Round the Corner
The Mark of the Crescent
Thunder in Europe
The Terror Trap
Carriers of Death
Days of Danger
Death Stands By
Menace!
Murder Must Wait
Panic!
Death by Night
The Island of Peril
Sabotage
Go Away Death