by John Creasey
He was within a yard of the man when Riordon moved.
Until then the man had been lying face downwards, with his arms above his head. His hands, as far as Roger could see, were empty. The next moment he turned, a monstrous figure seen through the tears, and rose to his knees in a swift, twisting movement. He put his right hand to his pocket.
Roger fired at him; but at his chest. As he did so he remembered what had happened to Mark’s hand after punching at Riordon, and thought of the steel waistcoat. The bullet would be wasted. Certainly it had no effect. The man took something from his pocket. Roger could not see what it was, but before he could fire again Riordon flung it. Something struck Roger on the side of his head, making him stagger back. His eyes closed and he could see nothing, but he heard a grunt as if Riordon were making a supreme effort.
Then the man closed with him.
Had he been able to see the way Riordon flung himself upwards from his knees he would have marvelled at it, for it seemed impossible to do. As it was he felt the weight of the man’s body bearing him down. He thought fleetingly that Riordon had foxed him right to the end, for the man could not have been hit. Then he felt the man’s great fingers closing about his throat.
There was a drumming noise in his ears, but other sounds penetrated from outside. He thought he heard the staccato bark of a machine gun or a tommy gun, but could not be sure. Then awareness of anything but his own immediate plight faded. Riordon’s harsh breathing was close to his ears and he could feel hot breath on his face. He remembered the twisted features, knew that Riordon was fighting against the effect of the tear gas, just as much as he. But it did not seem to rob the man of any strength; the grip of his fingers increased, blackness surged over Roger, and he felt weak and helpless. He tried to struggle and to bring his knees up into the pit of his adversary’s stomach, but failed. He felt the dreadful pressure increasing remorselessly, his head was swimming, his thoughts were incoherent. Then the grip relaxed without warning.
He could not understand it, and did not hear the gasp as Riordon let him go. Nor did he see the little, shiny-faced man who stood behind Riordon and struck at his head with the butt end of a revolver. He fell to the floor, aware of nothing, certainly not realising that Riordon was also on the floor again, not gasping but with his features twisting and his body twitching.
Roger felt someone pull at his legs, but could not try to prevent himself being dragged away. His head went over soft carpet, then over something cold and shiny, then bumped against what seemed like stone. After a few seconds of that the man stopped pulling him.
He was aware of clearer air; the stifling effect of the tear gas was gone, although he still felt ill and was seized with a paroxysm of coughing which shook his whole frame. After the bout he was limp and exhausted but grew aware of light in front of his eyes. He knew that he was alive, and, for the first time since Riordon had tried to strangle him, his thoughts were coherent. He heard more sounds, that of heavy breathing and of something heavy being dragged from the inn: and he heard two words in a familiar voice.
‘Not bad.’ It was Pep Morgan, the inquiry agent who had already helped in the investigations. ‘Not bad.’
‘Pep!’ croaked Roger.
‘Don’t you start talking yet,’ said Morgan. ‘You’re in no shape for talking, Handsome.’ The words sounded as if they were spoken a long way off. ‘Nor is this customer. We’ve got him, we’ve got him. You did wonders, absolute wonders.’ There was a pause, and then in a sharper voice: ‘Are you all right, sir?’
Someone else had loomed up, a vague figure which Roger could not see clearly, and again he identified a man by his voice.
‘Yes, Morgan, don’t worry about me. How’s West?’ A pause, and then: ‘So we smoked Riordon out, did we. Very nice indeed. But I don’t think West will be very pleased with us, do you? He’ll feel that we put one over him.’
Roger thought incredulously: ‘That’s Chatsworth!’
Roger soon learned that Morgan and Chatsworth with a strong force of police were near at hand, and that soon the village was filled with khaki-clad figures. He knew, too, that Riordon remained unconscious and there was a gaping wound in his head where Pep Morgan had hit him. He had no idea how Pep had managed to get into the inn, nor how Chatsworth had appeared on the scene. The only consideration of importance was Riordon’s complete rout; it did not matter how it had happened.
Marion was all right: Mark, Pep told him as he hurried through the little yard at the back of the inn, had been knocked about a bit when the car had crashed. Someone had fired at it from a window and struck the steering wheel. Cartwright and the other Yard men had not been hurt, although they had been kept immobile by a tommy gun poking from a window opposite. Then, when Cartwright and two others had taken a chance, the shooting had prevented them: they had taken cover behind the remaining car.
Other thoughts crowded Roger’s mind. Did Chatsworth know that Riordon had owned the village, had he any knowledge of the occupants of the various houses? It was time he moved and took more interest in what was happening.
He was sitting on a wooden bench at the back of The Trout and the Fly, his eyes much better, his breathing steadier, and his limbs more biddable. Beyond him was a peaceful scene, of apple and pear trees, a well-dug vegetable patch, and, beyond that, a hen coop outside which a dozen fowls were pecking at the grass of their enclosure. Very peaceful, thought Roger; too peaceful, and holding a touch of fantasy like the rest of the case. Riordon was on the ground, still unconscious. Someone had tried to bathe his head but the matted hair was bare to the wind, and the bleeding continued. He could see the man’s chest heaving as he tried to breathe. Near him was a heavy piece of wood, with several spikes sticking from it. There were brownish red stains on it, and he realised it was a particularly nasty truncheon; the wounds in Parker’s head, and Sloan’s, had probably been caused by it.
‘Why leave him like this?’ Roger thought. ‘What are they playing at?’
Then, from a window, he heard Chatsworth’s voice again. ‘West, don’t raise your voice. Can you hear me?’
Roger turned, startled, and saw Chatsworth’s face half-hidden by net curtains at a window which was open a few inches at the bottom. Roger gulped, and nodded.
‘You’re well covered,’ Chatsworth said. ‘He won’t get away. But I want to pretend that he has a chance. If he thinks that he’s alone with you he might talk. Try to make him. Understand?’
Roger whispered: ‘What do you want to know?’
‘We’ve found the kidnapped women, but not the men we’re after,’ said Chatsworth briefly. ‘Don’t know where they are, either. Thought they were all here, but he’s managed to get them away. Sure you understand?’
Very slowly, Roger said: ‘Yes, I get you.’
So it was not over, and it had not been as easy as it appeared; Riordon had managed to outwit them again. Helpless and surrounded, Riordon still exerted that strange influence, still managed to hold a trump card. The men, who were absolutely vital, were still missing.
He felt very weary as he looked away when Chatsworth disappeared from the window.
A long time seemed to pass before Riordon stirred again.
Roger saw the man’s eyes flicker; they opened for a moment, and closed again. His body moved convulsively. There was blood on his trousers just above one knee; from the bullet wound which brought him down, thought Roger.
That did not matter: all that mattered was finding the men.
Then Riordon opened his eyes and did not close them again. He was looking at Roger, and continued to stare, the basilisk gaze not dimmed by the swollen, red-rimmed eyes but looking more evil because of them.
Riordon said: ‘So you’re still here.’
Roger said nothing.
‘Where are the others?’ demanded Riordon. His voice was thick but had little strength. ‘W
here are the others? The unspeakable swine deserted me. They promised to see me through, but they deserted. And they put me in this plight, too. Men I have worked with for years, curse them. For years! If I could reach them—’
He stopped, and Roger said as if very wearily: ‘Shut up.’
‘Where are the others?’ demanded Riordon. ‘Your idiots – where are they?’
‘Chasing off somewhere,’ said Roger. ‘After your friends.’
‘And left you alone with me?’
‘I’m no more important than you are,’ said Roger. At least his mind was working well, and he saw a way of getting this man to talk more freely. ‘We’re the has-beens in this case. But you’re cleverer than I thought.’
‘You’re telling me!’ sneered Riordon.
Roger said: ‘I don’t know how you managed it. I thought we’d get all of you, but there’s only you and a few of your roughnecks. At least we got the women,’ he added very slowly. ‘They won’t suffer any more.’
Softly, Riordon said: ‘What about the men? Your precious geniuses.’
Roger shrugged, but said nothing.
‘So they have been taken away,’ said Riordon, his voice growing stronger. ‘They have got them away, have they?’ There was a long pause, and Roger expected a vituperative outburst against the unknowns who had escaped with the hostages and left Riordon to his fate.
There was no such outburst.
A queer expression, hardly a smile and yet obviously intended for one, crossed Riordon’s face. The intensity of his gaze increased. He looked nowhere else but at Roger, and after a long pause he said softly: ‘Now that is what I call clever. They persuaded you and your police halfwits to concentrate on me, and escaped away with the prize which really matters. That is clever, West. I did not think they’d have the sense to do it. It is worth dying for,’ he added, and the words struck a chill through Roger. ‘And now I know what your hope is,’ went on Riordon more harshly. ‘You think I will talk. You are not good enough at this game, you want to retire and keep chickens.’ He laughed, explosively. ‘I thought I was the leader, I thought that they were helpless without me, but they are clever, they have foxed me but they have foxed you, too. And you thought I would betray them! You thought I would tell you where to find them. You thought I would care what happened to me! You damned fool! I am a bigger man than that, West. All I am interested in is defeating you and your big-headed Government. If I can do anything to twist the tail of the British Lion, it is as good as done. What else do you think I have been working for? I have concentrated on crime for years, I have developed a reputation carefully, I planned it so that there is no single loophole. I worked it so that you thought I was interested only in blackmail, and I took those women to make you think it was even more abnormal, a man who had lost his mind. That is what you thought, you and Chatsworth.’
Roger said nothing, but watched tensely. There was no point in interrupting, he could not make this man say anything that he wanted to keep to himself.
‘Only recently have you realised there might be something bigger in it,’ said Riordon. ‘Well, there is! I made this village, I financed the builder who put up all the new houses, I bought this inn and put my own landlord in, I have held the women and the men here, all at the instigation of Moscow. Do you understand?’
‘Yes. Go on,’ Roger said very slowly.
‘I had helpers, West. I did not think much of them at the time, but they were able to tell me what men to take, what key-men would do the nuclear effort most harm if they were taken away.’ He paused and an incredibly cunning gleam entered his eyes. ‘At the Home Office, the Service Ministries, and the BBC, I thought I had been betrayed by one of them, but I found I had not. Amy Groves and Banks and Allen all did their best, they took their money and told me what was necessary, but the time came when they had to be killed. And my colleagues? They will go on even with me dead. Even when dead I shall go on turning my sword in England’s heart. You can try for a year, for a lifetime, but you will never find them. They have outsmarted you, and if they used me to do it what do I care? Let me tell you something else. They were coming here to see me. The map was prepared for them, but I thought someone had stolen it. I didn’t know you had it. And they didn’t come. They are safe. They go scot-free with the biggest prize – access to all Britain’s secrets. I do not care a single damn for anything else. I know who they are, West, and I can name them. No one else can. Just me, you understand?’
He paused, and his voice fell very low.
‘Do you think I will talk? Do you think you can make me even if I lived? But do you think I want to live, now. You have more than one murder proved against me. I killed Parker and Sloan, and the dwarf Richardson, and you can prove it. The weapon’s here, with my prints on, and I am wounded so that I cannot get away. The thing I threw at you, killed them, and it has Richardson’s blood on it, too. But you will not hang me or shoot me, you will not try to make me talk, because I am going to kill myself. While I was free, while I had a chance, I wanted to live and to go on fighting you, but I am better out of the way, now. They call it hara-kiri in Japan. Perhaps you have a better word for it. Watch!’
Roger jumped to his feet. At the same moment a man came out of the back door, windows went up and men started to climb through. Riordon flung his head back and bellowed with laughter as they rushed towards him.
Before they reached him he put a gun to his open mouth.
‘Not a Bad Idea,’ says Chatsworth
The last laugh was cut short, even before the roar of the shot.
Roger was nearest the man, and saw exactly what happened. He drew up short, then turned away as Riordon fell back.
Riordon was dead, but had never created greater horror than in the moment of his dying.
It was some time afterwards when night had fallen and lights were on in the little lounge of The Trout and the Fly, that Chatsworth, Roger, Pep Morgan, Marion and two police superintendents had gathered. Before then Morgan had explained a little, but the story had little effect on Roger, whose concern was for the missing men and who cared little that he had been deceived by Chatsworth and Morgan as well as Riordon.
In some ways it was simple.
Chatsworth had outmatched Riordon in cunning in one way at least. He had nursed the idea that Roger was the focal point of the investigation, had stressed his dependence on him – and had worked with others, including Morgan. Riordon’s attention had been diverted to Roger, while Morgan and Chatsworth and others had gone at high pressure. Roger had not even been told of the discovery, some days before, that Riordon ‘owned’ Woodhill – inquiries which Chatsworth had set in motion after the first mention of the village had proved that.
‘So he had two men sent down here – you thought it was on your suggestion, Handsome, but he wanted them to fox Riordon. Chatsworth’s got a mind nearly as bad as that man had.’ Morgan had smiled as he said that. ‘Then I came down with some others, and we kept our eyes open. We managed to catch a glimpse of Riordon once or twice. He let Marion Byrne stay down here because he thought we’d think he wouldn’t be such a fool as to allow her to stay at the very place where he was working. It nearly came off, but not quite – he let himself be spotted, you see. And then I was near Hinton this morning and I saw Riordon heading away on his motorbike. I was able to follow him. I saw him kill that poor little dwarf,’ Morgan had added with a twist to his lips. ‘He was mad.’
‘Three parts, anyhow,’ Roger had admitted slowly.
‘Four parts, in my opinion,’ Morgan had said. ‘Well we expected he would expect you, and guessed he had plenty waiting for you. But he didn’t know that we’d got at the innkeeper, who had worked for him for a long time. Proper old lag, but that didn’t matter. We got at him, told him we wouldn’t proceed with any charges if he helped us. He hid me in the place, and Chatsworth and the military were not far away – the m
ilitary were on ordinary manoeuvres, nothing surprising in that. We knew he’d concentrate on you. He had men in those houses, the way he said, and the thing they didn’t know was that the military were coming in to attack, and had put a cordon round the village. You following me?’
Roger had nodded.
‘We had to let things go on for a bit,’ Morgan had continued, ‘we had to wait until the military were all ready. Remember that explosion? That was the signal, we knew we could get going then. You threw that tear gas and it helped all right, but I released some more upstairs. It smoked Riordon out. He was alone in the pub, you see, except for the innkeeper – or he thought he was. He thought you were the only one with tear- gas, and that he would be all right when he got outside. But his men didn’t start shooting properly because they weren’t given time. There wasn’t much trouble.’ Morgan drew a deep breath, then smiled somewhat apologetically. ‘I hope you don’t feel too bad about it, Handsome. I had to do what the Assistant Commissioner told me.’
Roger had wrinkled his brow. ‘My feelings don’t matter, and they’re not particularly sore. We wanted results and you got them. But we still haven’t got the men who matter.’
Morgan had rubbed his chin, as if gloomily.
When Chatsworth and the others came in it was clear that he was feeling glum, although he said little about it. There was a sense of anticlimax which Roger found maddening. It was not relieved by the news that Mark, not badly hurt, was already in Newbury Hospital. There were men as dangerous as Riordon, perhaps more dangerous because they were not known. And they still had the prisoners, there was no indication of the whereabouts of the prison itself.