by John Creasey
A blaze of electric light illuminated the landing in a vivid yellow glare. Devenish narrowed his eyes against it, and stepped forward into the room beyond. The sliding door closed behind him as noiselessly as it had opened.
Then the silence was broken by a thin, dry voice, coming from the humorous mouth of a man who sat at a large mahogany desk, a desk empty of everything beyond a single telephone and a file of papers.
‘Hallo, Hugh,’ greeted Gordon Craigie. ‘Sit down a minute, will you?’
Devenish smiled, and lowered himself into an easy chair drawn up by a cheerful coal fire at the far end of the room.
He had never quite reconciled himself to the office of Gordon Craigie, that man whose name was rarely whispered, even in high circles, but whose reputation was second to none in the diplomatic circles of Whitehall.
The room was split into two parts, divided by an invisible line starting from the sliding—and to the initiated, steel-lined—door.
At the one end was Craigie’s desk, which never held more than one file of papers at a time. Two steel cabinets in the wall behind the desk completed the office furnishing.
At the other end of the room were two arm-chairs, drawn up by the fire which burned, day in, day out, winter and summer. A large wooden cupboard, whose door was usually wide open, revealed a clutter of domestic odds and ends. Collars, ties and handkerchiefs rubbed shoulders with a half-full jar of marmalade. A tea-caddy elbowed a half-pound tin of Four Square tobacco.
This office-cum-bed-sitting-room—Craigie often slept in one of the arm-chairs which was of the convertible variety—was all that existed of ‘Z’ Department at Whitehall.
The ministrations and ramifications of ‘Z’ Department were innumerable. It was the headquarters of that much-maligned institution, the English Secret Service, and it was said that nothing ever happened of importance in the affairs of any country from Soviet Russia to Timbuctoo which was not eventually reported, coded and filed in Gordon Craigie’s office—or his mind.
Craigie was a tall, spare man, with finely cut features set in a much-lined face. He looked like a great hawk, alert, watchful, and full of a latent strength of limb and an obvious strength of mind.
The agents of ‘Z’ Department loved this man who controlled their destinies. Craigie was a hard taskmaster, sparing in praise, but never condemning failure. The tasks which he set were mountainous, the help he gave in the carrying out of them negligible. If a man worked for ‘Z’ Department he knew that his chances of getting away with his life in the long run, were small—but when Craigie gave his orders, no one backed out.
On the night of Hugh Devenish’s return from Paris on a mission which had been accomplished with some success and a remarkably clean bill of health, Craigie was smoking his pipe—an inevitable meerschaum—as he worked quietly on the file of papers in front of him.
For ten minutes Devenish leaned back in his chair, pulling at an old briar. He heard Craigie push his chair back at last, and looked across the room.
Craigie came over, and the two men shook hands. There was a gleam in the Chief’s shrewd eyes, and a smile on his lips, but Devenish, who knew his man well, saw that Craigie was thinking hard about something that did not concern his most successful agent at that moment.
Craigie dropped into the other chair, and pulled his pouch from the capacious pocket of an old smoking jacket.
‘I suppose I’ve got to congratulate you,’ he said, stuffing the bowl of his meerschaum with lean, deliberate fingers. ‘You’ll want a rest, now, I suppose.’
Devenish grinned.
‘That means you’ve another game in the offing,’ he hazarded correctly. ‘Trot it out while you feel like it.’
Craigie lit his pipe thoughtfully.
‘I don’t know that I’m ready to talk about it yet,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ll send for you in a day or two, Hugh.’ His eyes bored into those of his friend. ‘What brought you along?’ he asked quietly.
Devenish slid further down in his chair, pursing his lips thoughtfully.
‘I don’t know,’ he acknowledged, ‘that it’s really a job for us. It’s probably more in the flatfoot’s line, by the look of it.’
‘Well?’ interrogated Craigie, who rarely wasted words.
Devenish took the plunge.
‘I was at the Carilon tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘The general topic was poor old Carruthers. Do you know anything about that, Gordon?’
‘I know he was poisoned with adenia, injected by a hypodermic needle in the neck.’
‘You’re sure about the neck?’
Craigie nodded.
‘Yes. The newspapers called it the wrist, and we—the Yard men, that is—haven’t bothered to correct them.’
‘Are you sure none of the dailies got hold of the right story?’ persisted Devenish.
‘Certain of it, Hugh.’
‘Hm-hm,’ muttered Devenish, wrinkling his forehead. ‘I met a man at the Carilon,’ he went on, ‘who knew that the hole was in Carruthers’s neck.’
It was, after all, startling enough information to make even Craigie sit up.
‘That’s worth knowing,’ he commented. ‘Who was it, Hugh?’
‘That’s the funniest part of it. In fact, if I hadn’t been nearly run down by his chauffeur half an hour ago, I’d say that it was a slip of the tongue, and that he said “neck” by accident.—’
Craigie whistled.
‘Nearly run down, were you?’
‘Just beneath the Admiralty Arch,’ said Devenish. ‘I didn’t have much time, but I managed to jump clear. Of course, it might have been an accident, but forty-five miles an hour in that part of the world takes some explaining. And I’d know that chauffeur’s face out of a million.’
Craigie took his pipe from his mouth, and tapped it against the fireplace.
‘Well,’ he inquired at length. ‘Who’s the bad man, Hugh? Anyone we know?’
Devenish smiled.
‘I should say that he’s one of the best known men in London, Gordon, and somehow my tongue sticks at naming him. Still—how does the Hon. Marcus Riordon strike you as a potential murderer?’
Devenish finished his words with the air of a man who has thrown a bomb and is waiting for it to burst. But Craigie had prepared himself for the unexpected—or so Devenish thought.
‘Riordon, was it?’ murmured Craigie.
‘Yes, it was the Hon. Marcus. If it had been his begetter, now...’
‘You’d think his father capable of it, would you?’
Devenish shrugged his shoulders.
‘Riordon Senior’s a queer cuss,’ he pointed out. ‘No one really knows much about him, apart from the approximate size of his bank balance, which is large even for the millionaire governors of big banks. But Marcus ...’
Devenish broke off, more perturbed than he admitted at the possibility of Marcus Riordon’s complicity in the attempted murder of him, and in the murder of Tony Carruthers. But his perturbation was lost in astonishment as Craigie, getting quickly from his chair and fetching the file of papers which he had been studying when Devenish had entered the office, opened the file at a page headed ‘Carruthers, Anthony Barr,’ and thrust it under his nose.
Devenish read the brief paragraph quickly, his eyes widening as he reached the end.
Carruthers was murdered (he read) in the reading-room of the Carilon Club at or about three-forty-five p.m. on Thursday, twelfth of September. Method—poison injected by needle in nape of neck. Poison used—adenia. Position of body suggests victim was attacked while sitting in chair. Reason for reference to ‘Z’, newspaper, the Morning Sun, near body was opened at City page, with pencilled mark against quotation for Marritaba Tin Shares. C.I.D. report Carruthers purchased ten thousand one pound shares in Marritaba Tin on twenty-seventh August. Shares valueless. Comments. …
Devenish put the file down, with a terse comment.
‘That’s the job I had in mind for you,’ said the Chief of ‘Z’ Department, wat
ching his friend closely.
Devenish whistled.
‘So it is our meat,’ he commented. ‘Damn it, Gordon—I knew Tony Carruthers for ten years, and I don’t remember that he ever touched anything on the Exchange in his life. Why on earth did the poor devil buy Marritabas?’
‘I can ask you a better one than that,’ said Craigie. ‘Why did he buy Marritabas with his last ten thousand pounds? What had he done with the two hundred thousand pounds that he inherited twelve months ago?’
Devenish scowled.
‘So he lost two hundred thousand in a year, did he?’
‘And only lived at the rate of five thousand for that year,’ complemented Craigie.
‘Damn it!’ exploded Devenish, roused out of his usual calm, ‘Carruthers wasn’t that kind of fool. He liked a flutter, but ...’
Craigie stood up slowly.
‘Carruthers was that kind of fool,’ he said quietly. ‘I think you’ll find, Hugh, that he gambled, under assumed names, through various brokers, until he lost pretty well a quarter of a million. And I believe, too, that he bought shares on advice that seemed sound... Riordon’s advice. And I think Riordon killed him, so that he couldn’t spread his story around. You’d better have a shot at the job, Hugh. It’s part of a bigger one, unless I’m mistaken, but I’m darned if I can find where it’s really starting from.’
Devenish frowned.
‘Riordon seems pretty near the spot,’ he commented.
‘Father or son?’ demanded Craigie cryptically.
4
Sir Basil Riordon, Bart.
The wealth of Sir Basil Riordon, Bart., was as well known as his identity was something of a mystery. But for some years he had rarely appeared in public, choosing rather to remain in the background, a legendary, rather frightening figure, a Midas of the Moderns, controlling Bleddon’s Bank and its innumerable subsidiaries through his puppet directors and managers.
Bleddon’s Bank flourished as it had never flourished before. Financial undertakings which had been large before Sir Basil Riordon had retired into obscurity, now became colossal. Bleddon’s financed some of the greatest ventures in the Near and Far East, in Russia, and in South America. Rarely a day passed when the City page failed to announce some fresh venture, and never an appeal for funds failed to receive the support it needed.
Hugh Devenish knew of these things vaguely, as a City clerk hears of the adventures of heroes in the Arctic regions, of dare-devils over Everest. His own fortune, which showed him a comfortable three thousand a year, was as yet untouched by the ramifications of the Riordon companies, and he had never worried himself to keep up to date with the City page.
On the evening of his return from Craigie’s office, however, he studied a welter of facts and figures. He wanted a general understanding of the extent of the Riordon financial undertakings.
It was half past two when Devenish finished his reading, and three o’clock when he eventually slid between the sheets, dead tired, but with the tight-chested feeling of the man who knows that he is on the verge of momentous happenings.
How close to the verge even Hugh Devenish did not know.
• • • • •
The Hon. Marcus Riordon picked up the speaking tube in his car, and spoke briskly to the ex-bruiser who was driving along the Haymarket.
That’s enough, Huggett,’ he said. ‘Put me down at Brook Street.’
Ten minutes later, just as Hugh Devenish was entering the office of ‘Z’ Department, the Hon. Marcus opened the door of his Brook Street flat and walked along the well-carpeted passage, whistling under his breath to conceal a certain mental perturbation.
He knew that he had made a bad gaffe when he had let slip the word ‘neck’—and what was worse, he knew that Devenish had noticed it. The estimation which he held for Devenish’s capability was demonstrated by the speed with which he had endeavoured to send him out of the land of the living.
The fact that the attempt had failed made Riordon ill tempered. Devenish would be on the qui vive for him now, whatever happened. The Hon. Marcus knew that he would have to hasten the completion of the plans which he had been maturing for some years past.
As he turned into his sitting-room, a little surprised that the blue-shaded light was glowing, someone stirred.
Riordon snapped his fingers irritably as he saw the woman who was waiting for him. He had forgotten that Lydia would be there.
As she saw his frown, the woman’s face twisted in an unpleasant smile. Lydia Crane knew him too well to keep up a pretence of affection, or even liking.
‘You seem pleased,’ she drawled sarcastically, as he dropped on to a settee and lit a cigarette. ‘Forgotten me again, Marcus?’
‘Yes,’ he said harshly, ‘I had. I wish to heaven I could get rid of you altogether.’
Without his mask of bonhomie, Riordon’s speech lost its breathless rush. His voice grated at the back of his throat, and his eyes, so often beaming with affected good will to all men, were like pieces of granite.
Lydia Crane laughed mirthlessly.
She was taller than Riordon, full-figured and possessing an exotic fascination which, five years before, the Hon. Marcus had found irresistible. Her black hair coiled luxuriously round her smooth-skinned, oval face. Her beauty was unquestionable; Riordon would have found her an admirable companion but for one thing—her knowledge of his activities. As he stared at her, irritated, he found his pulse quickening, even while she was laughing at him.
He snapped his fingers again.
‘Stop that row,’ he snapped. ‘I’ll put my hands round your neck one of these days, damn you.’
Lydia’s lips curled.
‘You’d never keep them there,’ she taunted.
A moment later, she felt an inward rush of fear. There was a gleam in Riordon’s eyes which she had never seen before—an animal ferocity which made her forget his rotund figure, his round, red face.
‘I’ve warned you often enough,’ he grated. ‘You’d better clear out.’
They stared at each other in silence for a full minute. Riordon’s eyes dropped first.
‘I’m sorry, Lydia,’ he muttered. ‘Things aren’t going as well as they might—I’m worried out of my life.’
After a moment of strained silence, Lydia Crane shrugged her white shoulders—she was dressed in an evening gown of black velvet, daring and effective, the only flash of colour a deep red rose pinned to the moulded bodice.
‘All right, Marcus,’ she said quietly. ‘Only—it wouldn’t harm you to be more reasonable.’
Riordon bit back a hot retort.
‘That’s the girl,’ he said lightly. ‘I’ll be good, my dear!’
‘Good enough to come out?’ queried Lydia. ‘I’ve been waiting for hours, and I’m bored to tears.’
Riordon patted her shoulder.
‘Yes, we’ll go out,’ he promised. ‘You can ring for a table at the Golden Dawn, while I’m phoning my father. I won’t be long.’
He went into his study, the only room in the luxuriously appointed flat which was always kept locked, lifted a telephone from a niche in a large, plain oak desk in one corner of the room, and dialled a number.
A man’s ill-tutored voice answered him promptly.
Riordon spoke quietly into the mouthpiece. The gist of his instructions was simple.
‘Get Devenish,’ he instructed, ‘and get him quickly.’
Five minutes later, Riordon called Wharncliff 39. A woman answered him.
‘Is that Mr. Marcus?’
‘Yes,’ said Riordon irritably.
After a brief wait, the woman’s voice came again.
‘I’m sorry, Mr. Marcus,’ she said quietly, ‘but Sir Basil is not available. Shall I ask him to ring you back?’
‘I’ll ring later,’ said Riordon, replacing the receiver sharply.
As he went out of the study, locking the door behind him, there was a cruel twist to his lips, a gleam of evil humour in his eyes.
&n
bsp; 5
Devenish Gets a Shock
On the morning following his intensive studies of Sir Basil Riordon’s activities, Hugh Devenish breakfasted at nine-fifteen. He glanced through the Morning Star, and learned that the police expected to make an arrest at any moment in the Carruthers Case.
Half an hour later, he was slipping in the clutch of his Aston Martin, and sliding out of Clarges Street into Piccadilly. Several passers-by looked with undisguised interest at the bronzed face and ruffled fair hair of the man at the wheel. Had they been told that he carried a loaded automatic in his trouser pocket, a second gun of minute proportions strapped to the calf of his left leg, and a thin-bladed knife, a curved electric torch and a number of long waxed matches tied to his right calf, they would have been incredulous, but the particulars would have been true. In addition to this armoury, Devenish carried a thin length of rope twisted around his waist, and a delicate but effective glass-cutter in his breast pocket. A small but powerful camera rested on the seat next to him.
He was aiming for the village of Wharncliff, which nestled between Horsham and Cuckfield in the county of Sussex, and he planned to take a preparatory survey of Wharncliff Hall.
The Hall, a century-old mansion set in the midst of a thick belt of woodland two miles from the main road, had been purchased, three years before, together with two hundred odd acres of downland, by Sir Basil Riordon. It was there that the financial magnate now lived, cutting himself off from all public contact.
At half past eleven Devenish stopped outside a garage.
‘How far are we from Wharncliff?’
The proprietor rasped his thumb across his chin.
‘Two miles, mebbe, mebbe three.’
‘Straight along the road?’
‘As straight as you can go,’ nodded the man affably. ‘Turn right by the Bull, and left at the fork a couple of hundred yards further on. You can’t go wrong…’
Devenish grinned at this definition of a straight run, opened the door of the car and stepped out. The garage man widened his eyes.