John Creasey Box Set 1: First Came a Murder, Death Round the Corner, The Mark of the Crescent (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘I’m walking,’ Devenish told him genially. ‘Look after her for me, will you?’

  He slipped a ten-shilling note into the man’s willing fingers, and turned towards Wharncliff.

  A quarter of an hour’s steady walking took him to the Bull. As he pushed open the bar door, the landlord welcomed him with a cheerful smile.

  ‘A fine morning, sir.’

  ‘A thirsty one,’ said Devenish, noticing the other two occupants of the saloon, a prosperous-looking farmer, and an old man with a beard. ‘Do you sell brown ale?’ he added blandly.

  The innkeeper laughed.

  ‘In quarts, sir, or gallons?’

  ‘Tankards,’ said Devenish, with emphasis. ‘Four in number, if you’ll join me.’

  He waved his hand comprehensively, and the company murmured their appreciation. With the speed obtained through long and accurate practice the landlord planted four tankards of foaming ale on the bar. The farmer and the old man moved from their seat by the window, and the four drank deeply.

  ‘A nice day,’ commented Devenish, after a pause.

  ‘Wonderful, for the time of the year,’ agreed the farmer jovially. ‘I was only saying to Will’um, here...’

  Devenish, who could take his drink with any man, was in no hurry. He knew the difficulty of turning rustic conversation into the desired channel, and experience had taught him that it turned best if it turned on its own accord.

  The farmer eventually inserted the thin edge of the wedge, with his inevitable sigh of regret.

  ‘Aye,’ he nodded portentously, ‘things aren’t what they were, sir, and they’re not likely to be, when moneyed folk hold tight to their holdings like they are doing. Prosperity depends on the money that’s spent. That’s my belief, and it always will be. Another, sir?’

  ‘It’s my turn,’ said Devenish, untruthfully.

  His error was allowed to go uncorrected.

  ‘As I was saying to Will’um,’ went on the discursive farmer, eyeing his second tankard of ale thoughtfully, ‘it’s us poor fools who’ve got nothing that spend everything. Such as have got it...’

  ‘Like the squire,’ inserted the old man, with a rueful shake of his beard.

  ‘’Tis ruination for the district, the way he’s going on,’ the landlord put in sadly. ‘Why, a year ago there were twenty families living on the estate...’

  ‘And now,’ complemented the farmer, pessimistically inclined after his second tankard, ‘there can’t be half a dozen cottages occupied, outside the village…’

  ‘One after another,’ said the old man, taking up the story as the farmer dipped his nose into his ale, ‘they’ve been given notice to quit. Ah me, sir, t’were a sad day when the new squire came.’

  The arrival of Sir Basil Riordon was not, obviously, a thing about which the locals were glad. He had, Devenish gathered, gradually emptied the cottages on the big Wharncliff estate, until the Hall itself was standing in the middle of the grounds in lonely grandeur.

  Why was Riordon deliberately making his home inaccessible? thought Devenish. Why was he deliberately forcing the cottagers out of his land?

  Although he posed the question to himself, he realised that the answer was a long way off, but his discoveries added considerably to his interest in Riordon; when he made his report, Craigie would be able to add several pages to his file on the mystery of the banker’s activities.

  Devenish’s companions fell into a brooding silence. There was little more, Devenish thought, that he could learn from them, and with a genial smile he prepared to take his leave. But as he opened his mouth to say goodbye, the words froze on his lips.

  From somewhere outside the Bull, shattering the pensive stillness of the bar, came a sudden cry.

  The high, shrill cry of a frightened woman.

  The three countrymen in the saloon bar seemed frozen into immobility. They stared towards the door, as though expecting it to open and admit the Devil himself, their eyes wide open, their lips parted.

  They saw Devenish move, like men in a dream.

  For a split second after that single cry, Devenish had stood like a man petrified. Then, one hand in his pocket, he leapt towards the door and flung it open.

  Outside, a scene which might have come from the high spot of a thriller film met his eyes. Twenty yards from the door of the Bull stood a long black car. A man sat in the driving seat, his hands on the wheel—the engine of the car was humming, the chassis quivering.

  On the dusty road, two men and a girl were struggling in a tangled whirlwind of twisting bodies and billowing clouds of dust. Devenish could see the girl’s face, white and tense as she fought against her assailants, and even in that hectic moment he saw that she was more than pretty. The two men he summed up in one quick glance. They were toughs of the toughest variety, big, powerful ruffians who could have overpowered their victim in a split second—if they had wanted to.

  He was ten yards from the bonnet of the car when the driver saw him. Devenish saw his right hand disappear from the wheel.

  Devenish fired from his pocket, on the instant. There was a sound of splintering glass, a sudden, agonised shout, and the driver dropped backwards in his seat, his hands clutching his shoulder.

  Devenish hurtled across the intervening space as the two remaining roughnecks dropped the girl and swung round towards the new threat. Both men darted their hands spasmodically towards their pockets. The moment which they lost in going for their guns gave him all the time that he needed.

  With every ounce of strength in his body, Devenish struck the first man’s chin. For a split second the man’s body seemed to leave the ground, then he sagged down with a thud.

  The second man tugged desperately at his gun, and the weapon glinted for a moment in the sunlight; but before he could use it, Devenish hit him also. A short cry started from the man’s lips, then he too dropped to the ground.

  Devenish, breathing hard, looked down at them.

  Then he looked across at the girl, who was leaning against the car. The sleeve of her coat was ripped open from shoulder to wrist, and Devenish saw an ugly red bruise on the white flesh of her arm.

  He stepped to her side quickly, with a reassuring smile.

  ‘Take it easy,’ he advised her. ‘No—don’t try to talk for a minute, young woman, it’ll keep.’

  As he spoke, he slipped one arm round her shoulders and the other beneath her knees, and lifted her bodily away from the car. He carried her easily towards the Bull, grinning cheerfully at the stupefied faces of his erstwhile drinking companions, and deposited her on a bench beneath the saloon window.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Now all you want is a spot of—that’s the fellow!’ he broke off as the landlord appeared by his side with a tumbler of neat whisky. ‘Open wide,’ he commanded.

  But Devenish did little more than touch the girl’s lips. She shook her head and spluttered as the fiery spirit burned her tongue, pulled a wry face, and struggled into a sitting position.

  ‘I’m—all right,’ she gasped. ‘Take that stuff away, for heaven’s sake…’

  The colour was gradually returning to her cheeks and lips, and she was breathing more steadily. Devenish saw a pair of grey eyes, a short, straight nose above a firm but well-shaped mouth, and a determined chin.

  A moment later, the smile which was curving the corners of her lips disappeared. As he stared at the girl he saw her freeze with sudden, inexplicable fear.

  She was looking past him, towards something along the road.

  Devenish swung round, hand at hip, ready for any emergency, but all he saw was a rather portly old man, muffled up to his chin in spite of the heat of the sun, walking towards them. The man walked with a decided limp, but it was his parchment-like face and his hard, compelling eyes that Devenish stared at with such amazement.

  The three men by the door of the inn seemed to stiffen as the old man limped towards them, and Devenish only just caught the whispered words of the landlord. />
  ‘Sir Basil himself,’ he muttered, turning his head away awkwardly.

  The name seemed to dance a fandango in Devenish’s brain, but deeper than his surprise was his realisation that the girl was watching the wizened old financier with eyes filled with despairing fear.

  6

  And Assumes a Responsibility

  Sir Basil Riordon looked as though he had been living in close confinement, away from the light of day, for years on end. The pallor of his face had a grey, unhealthy tinge.

  When he spoke, his voice was cracked and hoarse, like that of a man who has almost forgotten how to use his tongue. There was something unclean, something forbidding, about the gaunt old man.

  ‘I thought,’ said Riordon, harshly, speaking directly to the girl and ignoring the existence of Devenish and the others, ‘that I had asked you not to leave the Hall today, Miss Dare. May I ask why you did?’

  Devenish looked away from the speaker to the girl. The look of fear had disappeared from her eyes, which now seemed clouded, expressionless. Her whole body seemed to droop.

  ‘I’m sorry ...’ she began.

  Before she went further, Devenish sneezed. It was a good sneeze, if not a genuine one, and it startled the girl for a moment, making her break off and glance towards him.

  Devenish stepped into the breach, his eyes smiling good-humouredly.

  ‘I hope I haven’t put my foot in it,’ he said to Riordon. ‘I had the deuce of a job persuading Miss Dare to come out, but...’

  Riordon interrupted him coldly.

  ‘I was not aware,’ he said icily, ‘that I asked for your comments. Miss Dare ...’

  ‘As I was saying,’ persisted Devenish, with no alteration in the smile on his lips, but with a sudden glint in his eyes, ‘I was forced to exert what little authority I had over Miss Dare, and she came out entirely against her will. May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?’ he added, with a sarcasm which was lost on the trio crowding in the doorway of the Bull.

  Whether or not it was lost on Riordon, Devenish could not be sure. He was satisfied that the man turned his eyes towards him for the first time.

  ‘My name is Riordon,’ he said harshly. ‘Sir Basil Riordon....’

  ‘In which case,’ said Devenish, with an apologetic smile, ‘I owe you an apology for having persuaded Miss Dare to act against your wishes.’

  Riordon’s eyes glittered arrogantly.

  ‘That is a matter,’ he said, ‘which I can discuss with Miss Dare later in the day.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Devenish, ‘I doubt whether you will have the opportunity. Your...’ he took a chance—‘secretary has to run up to Town on urgent private business.’

  Riordon’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘I was not aware,’ he grated, ‘that Miss Dare had any business of a private nature important enough for her to absent herself without my permission.’

  Devenish smiled.

  ‘There are a lot of things,’ he said easily, ‘of which you are not aware, Sir Basil. I can only ask you to take it as definite that Miss Dare is coming to Town with me, and in the event of her non-return to Wharncliff I suggest that you communicate with me…’

  As he finished, Devenish pulled his wallet from his coat, flipped it open, and with a neat movement handed a slip of pasteboard to the financier.

  The card contained a simple statement of his name, and registered the fact that his postal address was 77a Clarges Street, W.l. It was not, normally, a devastating piece of information, but as Riordon read it, his eyes blazed with a sudden fury.

  ‘Devenish!’ he spat, glaring at the other’s face.

  Devenish bowed with mock courtesy.

  ‘At your service. And now, Sir Basil, may I suggest that you discuss the situation with your—er—friends on the pavement, and ...’

  He left the sentence in mid-air and turned to the girl who had risen from the bench and was looking at him with eyes which revealed a deep gratitude, but in which still lurked a shadow of fear. For a moment she seemed to hesitate; then she turned to her employer.

  ‘I am afraid I shall have to go with Mr.—Devenish,’ she said, pleasantly but firmly. ‘I will write to you, Sir Basil.’

  If Riordon heard her, he gave no sign of it. He was still staring at Devenish, who took Miss Dare’s elbow, and turned away from the old man’s scrutiny, as though forgetting his presence.

  The man with the wounded shoulder had got out of the car—a Chrysler—and was standing by one of the roughnecks who had now recovered from his brief contact with Devenish’s fist. The second bruiser lay sprawling in the dust, one arm bent under him, his head lolling unpleasantly on one side.

  With the girl beside him, Devenish reached the Chrysler and stopped in front of the driver, who twisted his face in an evil grimace.

  ‘I’ll get you for this,’ he muttered.

  ‘Get moving,’ said Devenish, with an edge to his voice.

  The man slouched reluctantly away from the car, still muttering threats under his breath.

  ‘Now,’ said Devenish to Miss Dare, ‘we can be on our way.’

  He opened the front passenger-seat door, and before she realised what was happening the girl was being helped into the car. Then Devenish hurried round to the other side, slid into the driving seat, and pressed the starter. The engine whirred, and Devenish slid the car towards the little group of men, clustering round the open doors of the Bull.

  Sir Basil Riordon was standing dead still, staring at him with eyes filled with cold hatred. But Devenish reckoned that he could get away with the manœuvre without any trouble—and he succeeded. Handling the car with easy mastery, he swung it round in the wide patch of road outside the pub, slid perilously close to the glowering toughs, waved them an airy adieu, and let the engine do its best. It had taken him twenty minutes to walk from the garage to the Bull; the return journey took him three.

  After settling the girl in the Aston Martin, he conferred for a moment with the garage proprietor, who listened carefully, rubbed his hand against the seat of his trousers and split his lips into a wide grin of understanding. A pound note changed hands, and Devenish got into his car.

  The garage proprietor watched the Aston Martin disappear from sight round a bend in the road, looked quickly in the other direction, saw that he was unobserved, and picked a small axe from a medley of tools, lying about the floor of his shed.

  With two heavy swings, he pierced the petrol tank of the Chrysler with the axe, and jumped away quickly to avoid the petrol which spurted out with a hiss. Then he dropped the axe, shrugged his shoulders, and prepared to wait until the owners of the damaged car arrived.

  It was, he opined, easy money. And if he was any judge, the man with the Aston Martin was fully justified in his animosity towards the three men who had passed the garage in the Chrysler a short while before.

  • • • • •

  ‘And so,’ said Devenish, explaining his manœuvre with the roughnecks’ car to Miss Marion—he learned later—Dare, ‘if your little friends feel like following us, they’re right in the cart. There isn’t another garage for two or three miles, and I doubt whether they’d be able to hire a car there anyway. So we’re safe for the next couple of hours.’

  He grinned sideways at her.

  ‘And now,’ he went on, ‘I suppose I’ve got to apologise for rushing you away like this.’

  ‘Apologise! Good Lord, there’s no need to apologise,’ she exclaimed. ‘I—I really don’t know how to thank you for the way you handled Sir Basil.’

  Devenish grimaced at the mention of the financier, and pressed his foot down on the accelerator. The wind swept into their faces as the speedometer crept towards the sixty mark, and the countryside flashed by.

  ‘That,’ said Devenish, ‘was nothing. And now...’ he paused for a moment—‘might we have a sketch of events before you sent out the S.O.S., and I tumbled to it that something was wrong?’

  Marion Dare nodded.

  ‘It’s
difficult,’ she said slowly, ‘but perhaps I should start by saying that I’ve worked for Sir Basil for nearly three years, and...’ she laughed a little ruefully, ‘there hasn’t been much spare time. When I discovered that he would be away for the morning, I couldn’t resist the temptation to come out for a walk.’

  She broke off for a moment, as Devenish negotiated a farm cart, and she noticed that he gave the horse and driver plenty of warning and ample room.

  ‘We were saying?’ he prompted.

  ‘I reached the main road,’ Marion Dare went on, ‘just as the Chrysler drew up near the Bull. All three men knew me—they are servants at the Hall—and when the car stopped, one of them came along the road towards me...’

  ‘You were walking towards the Bull?’ queried Devenish, who wanted the narration as vivid as he could get it.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the girl. ‘There’s a footpath leading from the road to Wharncliff Hall, which comes out about fifty yards this side of the inn. I wanted a drink—it was hot for walking, and it’s nearly two miles to the Hall—and the car was drawn up between me and the Bull. I was within a couple of feet of the man—his name is Rogers, the man you hit first—when Tomlinson, the driver, called out, “he’s coming.” I didn’t know what they meant,’ Marion went on quietly, ‘but I guessed that they meant someone inside the Bull, and when I looked, I could just see you through the window, turning towards the door ...’

  She broke off for a moment, looking at Devenish, sensing his body stiffen.

  ‘Well,’ she said, with an effort, ‘I thought at first that they knew you, and you knew them. But I happened to glance down at Huggett’s hand—Huggett was your second victim,’ she explained, ‘and I saw that he was holding a gun. He didn’t mean me to see it, of course, but before I could stop myself, I had cried out. And then, somehow, I seemed to be in the middle of them, and I hardly knew what was happening, when you came flying out of the Bull.’

  Devenish knew now that he had been within a few seconds almost of perdition. If Fate had not inspired Marion Dare to take a walk in defiance of her employer’s instructions, it would have been a hundred to one on his falling into the ambush laid by Riordon’s hirelings. The thought was not a pleasant one.