Secret Ministry: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 1

by Desmond Cory

  “Uh-huh,” said Johnny. “You’d better make a noise like a carpet an’ beat it, then. Leave your telephone number in case I need you, an’, when you’ve got all the sleep you can use, slip off an’ keep an eye on this Annie woman every so often.”

  Thaxter drank his whisky and stood up. “Okey-doke,” he said, “I’ll dig in with a china o’ mine what lives down that way, then I’ll be more ’andy. Mile End, 1712, ’is number is.”

  “Mile End 1712,” said Johnny. “I’ll remember. Thanks a lot.”

  “Pleasure’s mine,” said Thaxter affably. He pulled his coat down firmly, winked at Johnny and went out. Johnny heard his footsteps clumping down the stairs and fading away down the corridor.

  The bottle on the table contained perhaps half a tumblerful of whisky. Johnny poured it all into his glass and drank it slowly, without noticing the taste much. Thaxter’s car started kicking up the hell of racket outside, subsided into a roar, and rumbled angrily off down the street.

  Johnny went downstairs, got his hat and went to the garage. He backed out his car and drove off after Thaxter. He did these things almost automatically because he was still trying to work some sense into the theories that he had told Crashaw he had.

  He had them, all right. Two of them. One concerned the murder of Murray, and the other concerned the method of transporting drugs that the Germans were using. There was little doubt in his mind as to which of these were the most important. Murray had been a good man, and it was hard to consider his death of little importance, but Johnny was now beginning to regard the whole of that set-up, if not exactly as a red herring, as merely a stumbling-block.

  He knew all about the actual murder all right. He knew how and why it was done, as he had told Crashaw; he didn’t know who had done it, but that was almost immaterial. What really mattered – what Murray had been doing before he had been drugged and killed – that was as much of a closed book to him as ever. He could only guess; and it was to investigate these guesses of his that he was now going.

  Johnny grinned as he drove. He could safely bet that even now the Boches thought he knew too much. In fact, if the gentleman who knocked him cold last night had carried some sort of lethal weapon, and had not been in quite such a hurry, Fedora’s not unsymmetrical measurements might have by now been perfectly well known to the undertaker.

  He decided not to think about it. Mistakes like that should be remembered, but definitely not thought about. They got you down.

  Johnny blinked and concentrated on his driving. Without noticing it, he had been travelling at an almost reckless speed and he had already reached the cross-roads where the road to the “Three of Clubs” branched off from the Brighton-Lewes highway. He turned the car and headed towards the Downs that were swelling gently in front of him. He kept his eyes on the left-hand side of the road, looking for the exact spot where Murray had crashed. The reconstruction of murders was not one of Johnny’s favourite outdoor pastimes, but right now it seemed to be a necessity.

  He turned the bend, driving slowly now, and saw the tyre-marks going off the road and over the edge of the short grass verge. In spite of the heavy rain last night, they were still fairly distinct. The remains of Murray’s car were well out of sight, down in the dip.

  Johnny drove on. His mouth felt dry; he lit a cigarette right-handed without taking his eyes from the road that was unwinding slowly in front of him. About three hundred yards further on, a cart-track led off on the right hand side of the road; chalky, narrow and deep-rutted, but wide enough to admit a car. The hedge that flanked the road on that side followed the cart-track uphill for some thirty yards before degenerating into a low stone wall. Johnny stopped the car and got out.

  He knew what he expected to find. He walked quickly over to the track and began to search the ground in the manner of an enthusiastic Boy Scout in search of spoor. The ground was still very damp, with puddles in the deeper ruts; Johnny swore as his foot slipped and half of an expensive pair of Florsheims splashed into a particularly deep cavity. Then he forgot all about such trifles as footwear as he saw, on the edge of the track, slight but unmistakable traces of a motor-car’s tyres.

  A slightly more detailed examination revealed that the car had, in fact, stopped there and been backed out again. That was the only explanation for the abrupt ending to the tyre-marks, and, as this behaviour was completely in line with the theories of which we have heard so much, Johnny straightened his back and breathed out a short, satisfied cloud of cigarette smoke. He then caught sight of something nestling among the brambles at the bottom of the hedge and, bending down again, picked up a sopping wet but otherwise excellent R.A.F. Officer’s cap.

  Johnny knocked little drops of moisture from the cap and turned it over. Printed inside in neat white lettering were the words “Murray. Find your own.”

  Johnny would probably have thought this ironical if he could have remembered the word. He contented himself by grinning a trifle savagely, then tucked the cap under his right arm and walked back to the car… As he went, he saw the light reflected palely off the water in the ruts, gleaming with all the colours of the solar spectrum.

  So far so good, thought Johnny as he threw the cap on to the back seat. The routine must have been roughly as follows: – Murderer turns car off road, jumps out and unscrews the nut underneath the petrol tank. Out comes petrol in obedience to the laws formulated by Sir Isaac Newton a few centuries ago. Murray, stuffed full of drugs by the miserable Malinsky, takes his opportunity and throws his cap out of the window, presumably with the faint hope of providing a clue. Murderer hops back in, backs out the car, drives down the road and puts it over the edge, including Murray in the catastrophe. Then two days later, along comes the unspeakably dense Mr Fedora, who finds cap, tyre-marks, and what’s left of the petrol after a heavy fall of rain; draws various logical and soundly-reasoned conclusions and is frankly puzzled as to what to do with them now that he’s got them.

  Johnny let in the clutch somewhat morosely and allowed the car to move off down the slope. It picked up speed and went winding up the valley towards the “Three of Clubs”. It rounded the corner that revealed the building to view, half a mile away and huddled in a cluster of trees, and stopped. Johnny got out and surveyed the scenery with one foot on the running-board. It was the first time he had seen it in full daylight, and somehow it was rather different from his expectations. The road ran towards the club for about six hundred yards, a winding stretch of grey asphalt between the green of the grass; then it turned sharply right and out of sight, while a thinner grey snake parted from it and headed in a determined straight line for the cluster of trees that marked the club. That was the drive. To either side the Downs rose, dotted with clumps of trees that turned into sparse bushes on either side of the unfenced road. As a rural scene it was pretty good; in fact, the “Three of Clubs”, leaning unconcernedly against a whacking great wood, looked more like a farmhouse, or an unimportant country mansion, than anything else. Johnny, as a town-man pure and not so simple, was stumped.

  Well, he couldn’t leave the car standing on a bend, anyway. He got back in, started up and drove slowly down the road, which dipped almost at once and hid the “Three of Clubs” from view. Just before reaching the turning of the drive he found a space at the side of the road to park his car, drove carefully into it and switched off the engine. He pocketed the ignition key, opened the door and got out into an enormous puddle.

  He waded across this and set off across the wasteland, dodging the attentions of countless brambles that clutched at him, as at a palliative to the monotony of their existence. Johnny headed up the rise, topped it and found the “Three of Clubs,” was now a mere three hundred yards from him and slightly below.

  Searching the ground carefully, he found a narrow footpath led from the rear of the building across the wasteland and vanished somewhere behind him. This was what Johnny was looking for; his short acquaintanceship with the local brambles had convinced him that they would never be fr
iends and that path looked reasonably free from their tendrils. He walked across at right angles, collecting burrs at the rate of one a second, and finally hit the path some fifty yards higher up. From this coign of vantage he proceeded to walk up and down the path, searching the bushes to either side with a patience with which very few people would have credited him.

  Three-quarters of an hour later he was still searching the bushes, though by now he was doing it with a patience with which he would not have credited himself. His trouser-legs and shoes were soaked and he had long ago convinced himself that the rain had destroyed any tracks which might have assisted him. This, he reflected bitterly, was the side of detection that very few writers of detective fiction care to emphasize. Any mug can go around detecting in a tuxedo and tails, with dinner at the Dorchester between murders; but it’s another thing when you’re wet and bored and cold and tired, and you don’t know quite what it is you’re looking for. It’s a mug’s game, thought Johnny; definitely a mug’s game.

  And then in the midst of these bitter reflections he saw something which was very nearly, but not quite, what he was looking for. Something caught firmly by one of those brambles which he had been cursing for almost an hour. A piece of black silk, ripped at the edges, about half the size of a pocket handkerchief.

  “Oh, God,” said Johnny, examining it tenderly. “Not another clue. Anything but that.”

  And as he put it gently in his coat-pocket something caught at his sleeve that wasn’t a bramble. “Whinnwhop!” it went, just like that. And Fedora, and his piece of silk, and his Hollyvogue tie, and his Florsheim shoes, and his navy-blue suit with the little hole in the sleeve exactly .303 inches in diameter – all these went into three inches of mud with the ecstatic speed of a stone leaving a catapult. It was lovely mud, soft and squelchy, and Johnny adored it. He rolled in it. Panting, he lay beside a large bush, covered with it.

  Just to his right was a depression in the ground, and Johnny decided to get there as soon as he had recovered his breath. Then he heard that sickening thump and crack again, and a shower of mud spattered him. Before the mud had finished falling Johnny was flat in the depression, even shorter of breath than before. He had come to the startling conclusion that somebody was shooting at him with a rifle.

  Funnily enough, this was one thing that Johnny honestly hadn’t anticipated. It was so funny that he laughed once, very softly. Then he raised his head very slightly, and he saw for the first time just what a hole he was in. And it wasn’t the one he was lying in, either.

  Quite simply, the sharp-shooting gentleman had Johnny exactly where he wanted him. There was absolutely no cover near; the brambles were too low. In this depression Johnny was moderately safe, but the moment he tried to get up he’d had it. To make matters worse, he only had the vaguest of ideas where the laddie practising for Bisley was hiding.

  Somebody took hold of Johnny’s guts with a hand that was colder than ice and began twisting them firmly from left to right. Johnny was for the first time since leaving Alverton, really scared. “Um,” said Johnny to himself. “Not so good.” Keeping his head as close to the ground as possible, he hunched up his shoulders and turned his head round. Five yards behind him he could see the footpath he had come up. Whether he would go back again appeared a doubtful question. There was no cover that way.

  “A waiting game,” said Johnny to himself, “is indicated.” He pushed a hand inside his coat, pulled out his revolver, and settled down to wait. Probably the marksman was by now shifting to a position where he would be enabled to place a bullet into the required position somewhere at the seat of Johnny’s emotions – or perhaps he, also, was just waiting. Johnny didn’t know which. He lay there with his back itching, and longed for a cigarette.

  Five of the longest minutes Johnny had ever experienced went slowly by. Four minutes more than Johnny really had any right to. Johnny wiped his tongue dry on his lips, pushed forward his arm and raised his head experimentally.

  Nothing happened.

  Johnny slid back a couple of inches and decided to try a short dash to the other side of the footpath. It was either that, or staying there and dying of heart failure. Once again he moved his head round and inspected the path. He was surprised to see, directly on his planned line of retreat, a pair of brown brogues from which sprouted a pair of silk-stockinged legs. Very nice legs, too. Following these objects upwards with interest, Johnny found that they were the property of his recent acquaintance, Annette Trevor.

  “Hiya, Annette,” he said cheerfully. “Come on down – it’s lovely.”

  Annette stayed standing in the path and continued to gape. “What the hell,” she said, “d’you think you’re doing?”

  “Rabbitin’,” said Johnny. “Whenever I get out in the country I get the urge… my mother was frightened by a ferret.” He stood up, holstered his gun and shook himself. The muscles of his back were still crawling; he didn’t think the fellow with the rifle would shoot him in the presence of Annette, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “You’re in a mess,” said Annette, almost angrily. “Covered in mud – what were you doing? What were those shots?” Her eyes suddenly opened very wide. “They weren’t…?”

  “Gosh, no,” said Johnny. “Nothing like that.” He surveyed his suit ruefully and grinned. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here – quick.” He took her arm and half-pushed her down the path.

  “Somebody was shooting at you,” said Annette firmly. “I thought it was somebody poaching for rabbits but… What were you doing?”

  “Me? I was coming to see you,” said Johnny. “Just walkin’ down the path when somebody took a pot at me. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “Why? Who was it?” said Annette, staring at him. “Where did he go?… Anything to do with – what happened last night?”

  “Eh? What did happen last night?” said Johnny dazedly. “Don’t get so excited.”

  “My husband told me about it. You know, about Malinsky, and Evans, and you. I was – rather thrilled.” She smiled. “It is rather exciting, I think. Don’t you?”

  “Exciting?” said Johnny, feeling the hole in his sleeve. “Yeah… I guess so. What are you doing up here?”

  “Just out for a walk on the Downs,” said Annette. “Before dinner… I often do. I was going over the fields when I heard those shots. I thought I’d see what was going on. Did they come very near you?”

  “Quite near,” said Johnny. He was feeling safer now, and slackened the pace slightly. He even glanced round over his shoulder.

  “Gosh – what a thrill!” said Annette enviously. “Do you know who it was?”

  “No,” said Johnny, “an’ I’m danmed if I’m going up there to look. He must have gone by now – prob’ly thought he’d got me. All the same, I’m getting out of here – but quick.”

  “Don’t blame you,” said Annette. She suddenly became practical. “You must come straight down, and have a bath, and borrow one of Arthur’s suits. He’s about your build – you look disgusting.”

  “I feel disgusting,” said Johnny happily. “Isn’t it wonderful?” He stopped and lit a cigarette.

  Annette thought that he wasn’t paying a great deal of attention to the conversation. He was wearing the worried puppy expression that meant that he was thinking hard, and even the cigarette in his mouth hung downwards at a preoccupied angle. He had just come to the conclusion that he knew the identity of the little man who had a little gun, and he wasn’t at all sure that it was a good thing.

  It was Malinsky, of course. Johnny was as certain of that as he was certain of anything in this case. Taking pot-shots at gentry strolling on the Downs is a risky way of putting people out of business; and it was obvious that a good healthy hatred of the bloke who had scientifically kicked his teeth in had overcome Malinsky’s natural caution. On seeing the fellow who had done him wrong, he would only have hesitated to grab the family blunderbuss from above the fireplace before seeking redress in the good old-fashioned way. A perfectly natural impulse.


  And as one only has to put two and two together enough times to get sixteen, it might be safe to infer that Malinsky’s hideout was somewhere nearby. Which was not what Johnny had anticipated, but was, nevertheless, interesting.

  “It’s nearly twelve o’clock,” said Annette suddenly.

  “Are you going to stay to lunch?”

  “Um?” said Johnny. He looked up absently; saw the “Three of Clubs” standing a hundred yards down the track and suddenly stopped dead. He stared unbelievingly at the side of the building and then turned round to see the scrubland dotted over the hill behind him. Something seemed to click inside his brain as he saw for the first time complete and absolute confirmation of all he had guessed, standing before him with a blatancy that seemed almost diabolic. As he turned and stared at the club again his eyes suddenly shone with the same brilliance as when Murray’s pocket had yielded its tiny grains of cocaine. Annette caught a glimpse of them as he turned, and said:

  “Are you all right, Johnny?”

  “Dead right,” said Johnny, grinning. “Right all along the line… did you say something before?”

  “Yes. I asked if you were staying to lunch,” said Annette. She was still looking at him curiously. “You look a bit funny, y’know.”

  “Swell,” said Johnny. “Have a good laugh, then.” He started forward again. “Just doin’ my celebrated impression of a mudlark – good clean fun for all; bring the kiddies.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” said Annette. “I thought you’d gone potty. Staring like that, you frightened me.”

  “Oh, that. Just rehearsin’ my next film with Boris Karloff,” explained Johnny. “ ‘H’ certificate guaranteed with every purchase. Versatile, that’s me.”

  “Fool… you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “Oh,” said Johnny. “You’ve got a ’phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d love to. How’s the black market round these parts – plenty of eggs and bacon?”