by John Creasey
A vague-looking man came ambling from the long bench.
‘Be as quick as you can with that,’ said the Yard’s photographic expert, Inspector Lloyd Williams. ‘I want three prints in ten minutes. Ten minutes be all right for you, Handsome?’
‘Fine,’ said Roger. ‘And another twenty or thirty prints soon. Can you fix it?’
‘Never known anything I can’t do in this room,’ repeated Williams, soft-voiced again. ‘I’ve some other prints for you. Charley!’ His voice boomed out again. ‘Those prints for the Inspector, at the double now.’ Williams pulled at his underlip until he revealed all his front lower teeth, and then added softly: ‘I never have a minute to breathe, never a minute. Photographs! I’m getting tired of the very word, and if anyone says “camera” to me I’ll throw one at him. Introduce me, Handsome, can’t you? Not to Mr Lessing, of course, we’re old friends. Still putting up with our Handsome, Mr Lessing?’ Williams did not smile, but spoke while pulling at his lips; his eyes were quite expressionless, a weak, watery grey.
‘Chief Inspector Cartwright, of the Dorchester police,’ said Roger. ‘Cartwright, this is the man who always gets things done when they’re wanted, and not half an hour later.’
‘I’m going back to Dorchester to fix things up there,’ said Cartwright warmly. ‘This is really first class, Inspector.’
From a cubicle on one side of the room came a tall, weary-looking man carrying several large prints. He put them down without a word, and turned away. Williams began to run through the photographs which had typewritten captions at the bottom.
Three were of Sergeant Sloan’s battered head, another of the room where he had been lying. There were photographs of Amy Groves, Banks, and Allen, of Lionel Michison, Commander Morris, and Sir William Bennett.
‘All right?’ asked Williams.
‘Can I take one of each?’ asked Roger.
‘What do you think they’re there for?’ demanded Williams.
‘Teddy, what the blazes is delaying you? Teddy!’
The first man came up, carrying three dripping prints from the darkroom. The map was reproduced in even greater clarity than the original printed drawing. Teddy apologised because they would need drying, but asked whether they were all right: he had the original with him.
Five minutes later, when the trio left the Photographic Department with everything they required, Cartwright said in some astonishment: ‘That’s one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Is it always like that?’
‘Pretty nearly,’ said Roger. ‘Williams is right on top of his job.’
So, it proved, were others; for a pale young man came from the Drawing Department with the necessary paper and impedimenta for making tracings of the map.
Palmerston arrived soon afterwards. He was a small, neatly-dressed man who gave an impression of shyness. He heard exactly what Roger wanted of him, said that he would do his best, and, with large-scale Ordnance maps of the Newbury district spread out on Roger’s desk, began his task. Roger decided that there was no need to sit and watch him, and ran through many reports that had come in. Eddie Day made some tea and dispensed it genially, while Mark took the opportunity of telephoning Marion at Woodhill 35.
Marion answered the telephone herself.
She had nothing to report except the presence of several men in the vicinity whom the landlord of the inn where she was staying declared to be ‘busies’ from Newbury. Mark assured her that it was not unexpected, and told her that he hoped to be there within three hours. He was smiling when he rang off.
It was just after four o’clock when Palmerston coughed to attract attention.
Four men, including Eddie Day, looked up and started to move at the same time.
‘Any luck?’ Roger asked eagerly.
‘I think I can identify the district,’ said Palmerston primly. ‘If I am right, then this rough map was traced over one half the scale of those I am using. I should say that the places indicated are Highclere’ – he pointed to one of the dots – ‘Whitway, Kingsclere, Newtown, and, right down here due south of Newbury, Lichfield. Of course, there’s no absolute certainty, but the distance between the places and their actual location are precisely the same, assuming that the map from which it was traced was half-scale to these.’
‘Good man,’ said Roger slowly. ‘So our place should be somewhere south or south-east of Newbury. Where is Woodhill, a little village not far away?’
‘I think—’ began Palmerston, turning to the map, ‘that it’s – yes, here it is. Between Reading and Aldermaston, nearer Aldermaston, and about ten miles from Newbury. Is that all right?’
‘You couldn’t have done better,’ Roger assured him.
When the tracings were finished and more prints had come from the soft-voiced Williams, the names of the villages were hurriedly written in. That was done while Roger was interviewing Chatsworth, who followed the story keenly and looked more hopeful than he had for some time. Roger thought, as he looked at the AC, that Chatsworth was probably having an extremely difficult time with the Home Office, and perhaps with the Cabinet. The importance of a speedy solution had never been more apparent.
Only one thing seriously worried Roger, and he tried not to dwell too much upon it.
Deliberately, and with great cunning, Riordon had set out to draw red herrings across his path. The very existence of the map, as well as the play Riordon had made with it, might prove another of even greater proportions: if so, if they were being led into a trap, the possibilities were disturbing to say the least. He did not voice his suspicions to Chatsworth, but at the back of his mind thought that Chatsworth probably considered them.
‘Well, good luck,’ said the AC as Roger finished. ‘You’ll get all the support you need from the people at Newbury, of course, and I take it you’ve telephoned them to look around.’
‘Of course, sir,’ said Roger.
‘Good, that’s good. Don’t let them do too much on their own, mind you, I don’t want Riordon let loose amongst a lot of country cops.’ Chatsworth grinned unexpectedly. ‘That’s a bit hard on the Berkshire and Hampshire people isn’t it. Good chaps, I believe. Still, you know what I mean. How many men are you taking from here?’
‘Three or four will be enough, I think,’ said Roger.
‘All right. Er – but you might need stronger forces. Going to call in the Army if you think it’s necessary? You’d better, whether you want to or not. I’ll get in touch with them and see that you don’t have any difficulty. Er – you do understand the full importance of this, don’t you, West?’
‘I don’t think I underrate it,’ Roger said.
‘We must get those people Riordon’s taken out of his hands alive,’ said Chatsworth sharply. ‘Some of them don’t count all that much, but even they are human beings and it’s our job to save ‘em whatever kind of life they’ll have afterwards. But those nine or ten key-men – the nation needs ‘em, West. Needs ‘em. Well – Aldermaston,’ he added. ‘Nasty possibilities there.’
‘You mean, the atomic research station.’
‘Of course I do.’
‘I can’t believe Riordon would have his headquarters there if he was planning trouble in the vicinity,’ Roger said. ‘But I’ll alert the security forces there.’
Half an hour later two large cars left Scotland Yard. There were four men in each, and each man carried an automatic. There were supplies of tear gas and everything that Roger imagined might be needed if it came to a straightforward fight with Riordon’s unknown minions. He did not think that he was overdramatising the situation, and was filled with an intense anxiety to see the end of it that day.
Yet all the time the fear that Riordon had prepared an enormous booby trap worried him. To get to the nearest village, Newtown, it was necessary to go through Reading and to pass within a mile of Woodhill. It was
still very warm, although white puffs of cloud appeared in the sky, and there were cirrus clouds arrayed in superb symmetry high above their heads. They went past wooded land and meadows, over tiny streams, once they were off the main road and heading for Woodhill itself. It was a village right off the beaten track, and halfway up a wooded hill which they would see from the main road. The hill’s serried masses of trees, mostly beech and oak but with dark-hued copper beech breaking the restfulness of the deep green, drew gradually nearer as they went up the steep road. It was in bad repair.
Mark was smoking a cigarette, and Roger imagined something of the tension in his friend’s mind.
Then they turned a corner, and Roger, at the wheel, had the first glimpse of Woodhill. He saw thatched cottages cheek-by-jowl with small modern houses built by an architect who knew how to merge the new with the old. On either side of the road were attractive modern houses standing in gardens of half an acre or more. At the foot of the hill, which they could see well from the road, a stream meandered: and along the road walked two old men in waders, carrying fishing rods and baskets.
Then they saw the inn, a low-roofed, stone-built place, with trim cypresses on either side, and a newly painted sign: The Trout and the Fly. Roger saw that, but Mark had eyes only for Marion Byrne who was standing on the cobbled yard outside. When she saw him she hurried forward, smiling and tense. Mark left the car before it had really stopped: and then, quite absurdly, the couple shook hands.
Roger heard Marion say: ‘Mark, it’s good to see you! You are all right?’ She looked into his eyes while his devoured her, and then added quickly: ‘Is that Roger West?’
‘It is,’ said Roger, approaching more leisurely. ‘This is a pleasant place to spend a holiday, anyhow.’
‘Holiday!’ exclaimed Marion with a grimace. She was very good to look at with the sun shining on her fair hair and her blue eyes very bright. She wore a fresh-looking green frock, and sandals.
‘Well, hasn’t it been?’ he said.
He felt a sense of anticlimax, and for the first time wondered whether it would have been wiser had he gone straight on to Newbury. But he wanted to make sure that she could tell him nothing else, and that within already known limits she could confirm what Richardson the dwarf had told them. Until they saw the Newbury police, moreover, there was little he could do.
‘No,’ said Marion. ‘But as Mark advised me to stay here I thought I’d better. How long are you going to stay?’ she asked Roger. ‘I should think you’ve sent luggage enough for a month.’
Roger stared at her. ‘What luggage?’
‘Well, if it isn’t luggage, what is it?’ demanded Marion. ‘A cabin trunk came for you this morning, marked “To await arrival”.’
‘I sent no trunk,’ said Roger.
‘Well, it’s here,’ said Marion.
She looked puzzled, while Mark and Roger exchanged glances and Cartwright appeared very thoughtful. ‘It’s standing in the hall. It wasn’t taken upstairs in case you wanted to move it again.’
They went in a bunch towards the low doorway of the inn, and entered quickly. It was dark and shadowy inside, but there was charm about it not unlike that of the cottage. By the foot of the stairs was a large trunk covered with green canvas and with leather at the corners; it had passed its first youth. Painted on it were the initials ‘R.W.’, and the label read as Marion had said.
‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Marion demanded.
Roger said slowly: ‘Yes. But I don’t know that I’m keen about what we’re going to find.’
Then he went down on one knee, taking out a key case as he did so. The thing that disturbed him most was that it was his trunk. There was no doubt about it, and it should have been in the loft of the Bell Street house.
Contents of a Trunk
Roger did not know why he wished that Marion was not standing near him, looking so eagerly at the box. Several thoughts flashed through his mind but he had actually put the key in the lock when he had a mental vision of a radiogram at the Michisons’ flat, the one which had exploded without warning. The chance that this was another such infernal machine loomed large in his mind’s eye. He took the key out and said quietly: ‘On second thoughts we’ll open it outside. And as there’s just a chance that there’s a catch in it I’ll do it myself.’
‘What kind of a catch?’ demanded Cartwright.
Roger said: ‘Riordon dabbles in pyrotechnics.’ He sounded vague as he motioned to two of his men to lift the trunk, telling them to handle it carefully. They stepped outside, and placed it gently on the cobbles. Then, at Roger’s instructions, they moved back. Several villagers, intrigued by what was happening, joined the circle.
‘You’d be wiser to move, too,’ Roger said to Mark.
‘I never was a Solomon,’ murmured Mark. ‘Get it over.’
‘Right! Here goes,’ said Roger briskly.
He inserted the key again, and turned it; the lock moved easily. He took one corner of the lid, and Mark took the other. They were conscious of Marion, Cartwright, and the Yard men craning their necks to get a better view of the contents when the lid was pushed back, as they lifted it gently. At first there was nothing at all, and they could see only the dark void inside; the trunk was not filled to the top.
Still gently, still fearful of a trap and even expecting an explosion, Roger eased the lid right back and peered inside: Mark did the same, and it was Mark who uttered the first exclamation. It sprang from his lips in a mingling of shock and surprise.
‘My God!’ he exclaimed, and jumped up. Marion, moving forward, said: ‘What is—’
‘Don’t go any nearer!’ Mark ordered sharply. He had lost his colour, and when his hand touched her wrist it was very cold. Roger continued to look inside the case, at the naked, terribly mutilated body of a little creature whose face was untouched.
It was Richardson the dwarf.
The only thing to be done Roger thought as he straightened up, was to find who had delivered the trunk and trace them. He felt sickened by the sight of that dreadfully treated body: it looked as if the instrument used to kill Parker and injure Sloan had been used on the dwarf, except his head. His face, no longer red, was set in lines which suggested that he had been conscious while most of the injuries had been inflicted.
‘We’ll have it taken into Newbury,’ he said half to himself, ‘and get it photographed there.’ In a loud voice: ‘Strap it on the luggage carrier of one of the cars, will you?’ As he spoke he pulled the lid down and relocked the box, then went straight into The Trout and the Fly and asked a man in a green baize apron and shirtsleeves for the telephone. He called the Newbury police. When they were on the line he called the man who stood near his elbow.
‘What time did the box arrive?’
‘Be about ten this morning, sir.’
‘Ten?’
‘That’s it – no, wait a minute! That was time the carrier came. It wasn’t delivered by him, came by the bus. Heavy case it was for the bus, sir. About two o’clock, that would be.’
‘Whose bus was it?’
‘Why, the local from Newbury, to be sure.’
‘Thanks,’ said Roger. By then the Superintendent at Newbury was on the line. He asked for the local bus driver to be interrogated, and efforts made to trace the way the trunk had been delivered to it, and then went on to ask: ‘Have you any news for me?’
In a deep voice, the Newbury man said: ‘I don’t know that I have, Handsome. I’ve had a list prepared of all the possible houses, and except for one they’re either occupied by their owners, or tenants. The other one is derelict – it was burned down years ago. It’s hardly worth it, I’d say, to bother to repair it. It’s in a pretty bad state.’
Slowly, Roger said: ‘And there’s nowhere else at all?’
‘I know every man and woman in the district who li
ve in houses that size,’ said the Superintendent. ‘I can vouch for each one. I’ll guarantee that there’s no one in that district you’ve detailed who would have anything to do with the Riordon business. Mind you, I’m having inquiries made for comings and goings, but I’m not very hopeful.’
Half-desperately, Roger said: ‘What about hotels or private guest houses?’
‘Since I first had a description of Riordon I’ve had a lookout kept for him,’ replied the Superintendent. ‘He hasn’t been seen in the vicinity, and if the description I’ve had is accurate he isn’t a man who would be easily mistaken.’
‘Oh, he’d be recognised,’ Roger said gloomily. ‘Will you mind trying a bit more? I’ll be in your office within an hour. I’ve a job for your photographers, too. By the way, does Woodhill come under your area, or Reading’s?’
‘Mine.’
‘Then you’ll want to know more about that cabin trunk I’ve been making inquiries about,’ said Roger, and passed on the news.
Obviously it was something of a shock, and the Superintendent promised very prompt action. Roger was reluctant to hang up the receiver, for some reason which he could not explain, but he was about to do so after saying ‘goodbye’ when he thought he heard the Superintendent shout. He put the receiver to his ear again.
‘West, are you still there?’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘I thought you’d gone,’ said the Superintendent. ‘Just a moment, there’s a report about the bus driver.’
‘That’s quick work!’
‘It’s not part of our inquiry,’ said the Newbury man. ‘We don’t deal in thought reading yet. Ah, here’s the chap.’ Roger heard him speak to someone else in the office. ‘What! You’re sure?’ Another voice sounded, too far away for Roger to hear what was said, and the wait seemed a very long one. Then the Superintendent spoke again; his voice had lost something of its depth because of excitement. ‘West, are you there? . . . That bus driver. The bus didn’t get into Newbury when it should, and has been found ditched not far from Woodhill. Over the other side of the hill. The driver’s dead. He was smashed up when the bus crashed, as far as I can tell you.’