by John Creasey
Roger said very slowly: ‘So Riordon’s very anxious to prevent me from knowing where that trunk was put on the bus?’
‘You think—’ began the Superintendent.
‘Is it reasonable to call it an accident?’ demanded Roger. ‘Much more likely he was killed to prevent him from talking. It isn’t likely that he could give anything away unless he took the trunk from someone he knew. That would surely be someone in this region.’
The Superintendent said: ‘Probably. I don’t like the way this is working out. What will you do?’
‘I think I’ll go and see that bus,’ said Roger. ‘Will the local people know the route it took?’
He was assured that they would, and then rang off.
He stepped away from the telephone, almost knocking against the little man in the green baize apron, who accompanied him as far as the door, walking almost on his heels and irritating him, although he forebore comment. The man told him in aggrieved tones that he was the host of the inn, and then: ‘What’s happened to the bus driver?’ he demanded. ‘He had some parcels to deliver for me, haven’t they turned up?’
‘They will,’ said Roger, ‘and—’
He stopped abruptly, and stiffened.
Marion and Mark, just outside the front door, were nearer him than Cartwright or the Yard men, and consequently they were just able to hear the sound which had so great an effect on him. They stared towards the house and the open door, while the little man looked round as if startled.
Very faintly but clearly came the strains of the Warsaw Concerto. It sounded as if it came from the same instrument as Richardson had used. It drew nearer, although it did not get very close to them, and it continued through the tense quiet to its end, then it stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
‘The Trout and the Fly’
‘Did you hear that?’ demanded the little man, standing with his mouth agape and his hands on his hips. ‘That toon?’
With an effort Roger said: ‘I heard it.’
‘Does it make sense?’ Mark put the question slowly and looked paler even than when he had peered into the trunk. ‘I’m sure that Richardson’s in there. Yet—’
‘It wasn’t Richardson, and it wasn’t his mouth organ,’ said Roger, trying to be matter-of-fact. ‘It might have been another dwarf and another instrument.’ He looked at the gaping landlord and said abruptly: ‘How many guests are staying here?’
‘Six or seven,’ the man said. ‘What are you getting at? What’s the matter with you?’
‘Landlord, this place is under police jurisdiction until further notice,’ Roger said. He took out his warrant card, half-expecting an outburst of indignant protest, but none was forthcoming, the little man simply looked dazed. Roger went on briskly: ‘I’ll need to search the rooms right away.’
‘Search my pub?’ the man gasped.
‘Here and now,’ said Roger, looking at the group of Yard men and motioning them towards the door.
They moved past Marion and Mark, and they were about to pass Roger and enter the hall when someone else spoke from inside the inn. Roger recognised the voice on the instant and with the first syllable. He swung round, stopping his men with a gesture, for it was Riordon’s voice.
Riordon said from inside The Trout and the Fly: ‘Searching won’t do you any good, West. You are not going to have the chance, anyhow. You have walked right into disaster. I knew you would, but you were a long time coming.’
Marion exclaimed: ‘Who—’
Mark put a hand at her mouth.
‘There was a time when I did not think you would stop me,’ Riordon went on. ‘I thought this place was nicely hidden, but when that misshapen beast’ – venom sounded in his voice – ‘walked out on me, I knew that would be the end. Well, it might. It will make no difference to me, you will never stop me although I cannot go ahead with this particular scheme. That is a great pity.’
Roger said slowly: ‘It’s going to make all the difference in the world to you.’
‘Oh no, it isn’t,’ said Riordon. ‘You are cornered, don’t you understand? You are covered from all directions. If you come into the place you will be stopped. If you try to leave by car you will be stopped. There are thirty-nine houses and cottages in Woodhill, and twenty-one of them are mine. I actually had them built. Understand me – this is my village. All the people do not know it, but it’s mine all right, and if there should be anyone who wants trouble, he can start interfering now. Richardson did not know about this, you see, I kept something from him. Never trust any man all the way, West.’
Roger said with an effort: ‘What would you like for an obituary?’
‘That is not funny!’ snapped Riordon. ‘That is not a bit funny. If you make more bad jokes you will suffer more than I intend at the moment. Then there is Lessing.’ The way he sneered the name made Mark flinch. The deep voice seemed to come from somewhere hollow as if the man was talking from inside a cave. Or, more likely, thought Roger, through a microphone. ‘Then there is Lessing,’ Riordon went on. ‘I told him that I would make him understand what pain was really like. And I will.’
‘There’s an old story about the long arm of the law, too,’ said Roger. ‘So you think you’ll get away with this?’
‘I know I will,’ said Riordon. He seemed to have no doubt at all, and there was something unnerving in his confidence. ‘Perhaps I will not be able to take all the guests away’ – something that might have been a ghostly laugh followed the words – ‘but I will make sure they are not any good to you or your damned country. Do you know that I have got German and Irish blood in my veins? That is a good mixture when it comes to hating the English. And I hate them so much I want to destroy their atomic power – all the industrial know-how from the atom. That is why I wanted the men I have got, the scientists and physicists and civil servants. They are key-men, but if you have to rely on halfwits like them for your programme you will not get very far. The United States and the Russians would gladly buy what I can offer.’
‘Do you know the penalty for treason?’
‘I know about everything,’ boasted Riordon. ‘Well, what are you going to do? How many of you are here?’ He began to count. ‘One, two, three . . . seven, eight, nine altogether, including Maid Marion.’ He sneered again. ‘You’re outnumbered three to one. Does that give you any of your bright ideas?’
Roger said: ‘I’m full of them.’
‘All right, then, demonstrate,’ sneered Riordon.
Very deliberately, Roger smiled.
He did not feel like smiling for he was completely at a loss. He was wholly convinced that Riordon was telling the truth, and that the police were outnumbered three to one; the possibility was too great to be ignored. He realised that Riordon was in an upstairs room and that the slight distortion of his voice came from a microphone: probably the Concerto had come from that, played very faintly to attract their attention. Riordon had far too many tricks up his sleeve.
That kind of reflection was a waste of time.
What was his best course of action? Was he to give orders to the men, whom he knew would obey without question, to rush the inn? If he did the danger of having them wiped out was considerable. But even beyond that immediate problem was something greater. Was the whole of this village owned by the man? Were the missing scientists and the whole party of officials actually in Woodhill? Were the missing women here? Some forty people, he thought, living here under duress; was it possible?
Sickeningly, he admitted that it was. One person to each house would cover it, and The Trout and the Fly probably had room for ten. He thought of the casualness with which he had first considered the inn, and then wondered again about Marion. Was she quite innocent of all complicity?
‘That doesn’t matter,’ he told himself. ‘It doesn’t matter. All that matters is to stop Riordon.’ He thoug
ht of the Newbury police who were waiting for him and of the Home Guards and military, doubtless ready to lend a hand if one were needed. It had never been more necessary, but he could think of no way of getting a message to them.
He might try to run the gauntlet of Riordon’s men. Even if they were as numerous as the man claimed there was a chance of getting away in one of the cars. One door was standing open, and he could see the controls: the seat looked very inviting. Two men were standing behind it, and the trunk containing Richardson’s body was already on the carrier.
‘Go on, take your time,’ sneered Riordon.
‘We can’t get outside help quickly,’ thought Roger. ‘We simply can’t get it. We’ve got to handle this ourselves.’ Helplessly he wondered which of the houses were under Riordon’s direct control, and he thought of the weapons which had been brought down. Automatics, a single tommy gun which was inside one of the cars, and not immediately available, and tear gas. He had a supply in his pocket, but little else that would do any good. The long inn, which seemed to stretch for a long way on either side of the front door, gave no cover at all from the three or four houses immediately opposite: only the trim cypresses could give even a pretence of cover.
‘Where’s the white flag?’ demanded Riordon.
After a long pause Mark broke his long silence. ‘Don’t you know?’ he demanded.
He was holding Marion’s arm. The girl was very pale, although her eyes were brilliant; too brilliant, thought Roger. Her lips were set, and obviously she was very much afraid. For that matter the tension amongst the other men was unmistakable: Cartwright was affected as well as all the Yard men. Small wonder in that, thought Roger, and then wondered why Riordon was waiting so long.
Was it just to increase the suspense?
‘Or isn’t he ready for us yet?’ Roger wondered, the thought flashing across his mind. ‘He’s probably waiting to get himself and his men into position.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Mark.
He spoke in a low-pitched voice, surprising Roger, who had not realised that he had uttered the words aloud. He saw the pressure of Mark’s hand increase on Marion’s arm, and yet was not really surprised when Mark suddenly released her and made a dive for the nearest car.
It was no more than five yards away from him. The open door was almost in his reach when there was a single bark of a shot from somewhere inside The Trout and the Fly. Mark looked as if he missed his footing. He went down heavily, half-rose, gasped, and fell back again. Roger did not know where he had been hit, but felt a sickening sense of futility. Marion half-turned.
‘Stay there,’ said Riordon harshly. ‘No one will move towards Lessing, or they will get the same as he did.’
‘We must help him,’ Marion exclaimed urgently.
‘Wait a moment,’ said Roger, staring towards Mark. ‘It’s his leg, I think.’ He could hardly hear his own voice, but could see that there was blood making Mark’s flannel trousers dark: the wound was halfway up his thigh.
He thought: ‘It’s not fatal, it shouldn’t have put him right out like that.’
A moment later he realised that it had not. He saw Mark move his head an inch from the ground, then saw the pressure he was putting on his hands. He was going forward, trying to crawl towards the car without being seen. Roger experienced a fierce temptation to join him, but repressed it. It would be far better if he did something to distract Riordon’s attention; that was far more important.
He spoke quietly but loudly enough to everyone to hear.
‘Stay there, all of you. Keep by the wall, Marion.’
‘Where are you—’ Marion began to ask, but stopped when she saw him step towards the open door. As he went the little innkeeper stepped in front of him and looked up at him with a leer.
‘No you don’t, mister.’
‘Don’t I?’ asked Roger.
He shot out a hand and pushed the little man aside, obviously taking the fellow by surprise for his victim went sprawling over a coconut mat outside the doorway. Ignoring him, Roger stepped into the shadowy hall.
His mind was working furiously. He saw the chance which might be taken. If Mark could get off in the car he would telephone for help from the nearest callbox. If there was one three miles away it would be ten minutes or a little more before the Newbury Police had the alarm. In their state of preparedness they would be ready to move, so they could arrive within the hour. There was even a chance that there was a military camp which could be warned to send men even more quickly.
The one essential was to have the village surrounded. There was no alteration in one inevitable fact: the initial work had to be done by the party in the village. Not the final round-up, thought Roger, but the delaying operations to prevent Riordon and his men getting away. It was possible; it had to be made possible.
‘If the men are in various houses he can’t do anything to them all at once,’ he thought.
These ideas flashed through his mind in the brief moment as he stepped swiftly to the right of the main door, going towards a low-ceilinged dining room: he could see the tables set for dinner, and the sun, coming through a low window, was shining on glasses and cutlery. As he reached the door of the dining room, the wall of the inn was between him and the road, and there was no direct approach to the spot from the inn itself.
‘That helps,’ he said.
He put his hand to his pocket and drew out a small, wooden case. He opened it quickly, revealing half a dozen small glass tubes filled with golden crystals: they looked like the crystals of Demerara sugar. He pulled one of the tubes out and tossed it towards the stairs, able to aim for it without doing more than show his hand.
He hoped that what wind there was would blow from the rear of the inn.
He heard the tinkle of breaking glass, and, after a few seconds, caught the first faint smell of the gas; his eyes began to irritate a little and to fill with tears. He stepped farther into the dining room, far less concerned with what was happening to him than with what was being done outside. One thing was remarkable; since he had moved Riordon had not spoken and nothing had been done.
There was nothing normal about it, thought Roger; it was fantastic, had been eerie from the very beginning. The material explanations must exist, but that did not make it easier to understand just then.
He disliked the quiet; there was something ominous in it, an unspoken menace which would surely be translated into action before long. Riordon’s silence began to get on his nerves: it seemed to tell him mockingly that he had failed in his main objective of distracting attention from Mark.
Then he heard the whirr of a self-starter, and fast upon it came the snorting note of an engine starting.
Although his heart leapt with the hope that Mark was making a getaway, and although the quiet was broken by the noise of the engine, at the back of his mind there was a sense of fear because of the strange immobility of Riordon and his men; he was tempted to leave the temporary cover he had found, for more reasons than one. The tear gas was getting stronger, and tears were beginning to trickle down his cheeks. He thought of the possibility that he would suffer more than Riordon for the gas attack. He had a premonition that the end was very near for him. Riordon’s self-confidence was not ordinary; there must be some unsuspected reason for it.
He was waiting there when he heard Marion cry out.
Then he heard footsteps and guessed that she was running across the cobbled yard. A moment later the rending crash of a car in collision drowned all other sounds. It seemed to last for a long time but gradually grew fainter; Marion’s footsteps grew audible again.
There was something else; there were heavy footsteps on the stairs, and the sound of a man coughing.
Pep Morgan Reappears
The footsteps told their story.
In spite of the way his eyes were watering and the i
rritation at his nose and throat, Roger felt a fierce exhilaration: those footsteps on the stairs were of a man who limped: one heavy, one light – the kind of footsteps that Riordon would make when hurrying. And there was a harshness in the coughing which seemed to come from Riordon.
Had the tear gas affected him?
Roger put his hand to his pocket and drew farther back into the dining room. He was within easy range of the houses on the other side of the road, but for the moment ignored that. He drew out an automatic, while the heavy footsteps drew nearer. Then he thought of the back entrance and the chance that Riordon would choose that way of escape.
Was Riordon smoked out and running away?
Roger stepped into the passage swiftly, and as he did so he saw Riordon at the foot of the stairs. The man’s face was covered with tears, and his mouth was wide open as he took in great gulps of gas-laden air. He looked ogrish and unnatural, for his face was red instead of pale; and his eyes were closed.
The simple things work, thought Roger.
Blindly, Riordon turned at the foot of the stairs and went towards a closed door. Roger kept his lips compressed, tried to hold his breath, and then fired towards the man’s legs. At first the shots took no effect. Riordon groped for the handle of the door, found it, and pulled it open. Roger fired again, and from the back of the inn came a soft wind, dispersing much of the gas and giving Roger a chance to gulp in the clear air. He moved forward, but before he reached the stairs Riordon stumbled and pitched forward on his face.
‘Got him!’ exclaimed Roger aloud. ‘We’ve got him!’
He began to cough, but could not stop himself from going farther forward. He was wary of Riordon whom he could see only vaguely through a film of tears. There was no indication of anything amiss outside, although he expected sounds of fighting very soon. He thought of Marion and Mark and the other man there, wondered whether they were covered by Riordon’s men. And why Riordon had suddenly stopped talking? Why had so much been allowed to happen?