by John Creasey
She looked up at him.
‘I wish to goodness,’ she said vehemently, ‘that we could go away somewhere until it’s all over!’
Devenish looked at her quizzically.
‘Did you say we?’
Marion coloured a little. Devenish went over to her, and rested his hands on her slim shoulders.
‘Did you?’ he insisted.
Marion nodded almost imperceptibly.
‘Then,’ said Devenish, slipping one arm round her waist, ‘I’ve a lot of things to say to you.’
They must have been pleasant, for when Pincher entered the room ten minutes later he was surprised to see Devenish sitting on the arm of Marion’s chair—and their heads were very close together.
• • • • •
Devenish telephoned Craigie after lunch and arranged for two agents to keep an eye on ‘Fourways’, in Barnes, and two more to watch the movements of Rickett—alias, so Devenish believed, Octavius Young—and Samuel Benjamin Martin.
‘Where are you going?’ Craigie asked him.
‘I need a rest,’ Devenish lied glibly. ‘You’re sending the boys to the Carilon at nine, aren’t you?’
‘Hm-hm,’ agreed the chief of ‘Z’ Department.
‘I’ll wait till then before I start again,’ said Hugh, grinning at his thoughts.
He replaced the receiver and went into the sitting-room, where Marion was amusing herself with a Butterick fashion book.
‘I was wondering,’ said Hugh, ‘whether you would graciously give me your company for an hour this afternoon. There’s a very attractive little tea-room...’
They didn’t hurry—a fact which Devenish bitterly regretted when they eventually returned to the flat.
Pincher, with an unerring instinct for the momentous, manœuvred his employer away from Marion.
‘I don’t know whether you would like Miss Dare to learn of this,’ the valet said discreetly, ‘but a lady called to see you an hour ago. She refused to give her name, but I had the impression, sir, that her call was not unconnected with the—er—affair on which you are spending so much time. She left this note…’
Devenish took the letter which Pincher slid from his pocket and slit the envelope open. From the paper, he knew that his caller had written her message in the flat.
‘What was she like?’ he demanded, scanning the note quickly.
Pincher turned his lips downwards in disapproval.
‘She was what one might call, without being dramatic, exotic, Mr. Devenish. Tall, and of majestic proportions. I thought that she...’
Pincher was about to say that he opined that the caller had been of foreign nationality, but he stopped abruptly, for Devenish cursed with sudden and unexpected vehemence.
‘Ring round for the car,’ snapped Devenish, ‘and tell them to have it here in ten minutes.’
He hurried into his bedroom as he spoke, and Pincher, who knew his moods perfectly, saw that he had had a jar, and a nasty one. Devenish’s eyes were narrowed and the glint in them was like steel. His lips were pressed together in a grim line.
He rapidly gathered his ‘tools’, strapping them to his body with the dexterity of long practice, and slipped a loaded automatic into his pocket.
Hurrying out of the room he came face to face with Marion. The expression in his eyes made her start in alarm.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked tensely.
Devenish showed her the note without speaking. As she read it her face paled.
In the round sloping hand of the woman whom she knew as Lydia Crane, although it was unsigned, was the brief, blunt statement that unless Devenish appeared, in person and alone, at Wharncliff Hall within the next three hours, the body of Lord Aubrey Chester would be found in London before midnight.
14
Trouble at Wharncliff Hall
Marion handed back the note tight-lipped.
‘You’re going?’ she asked, although she knew what his answer would be.
Devenish nodded.
‘If I’m not back before nine,’ he said quietly, ‘telephone this number, and tell the man who answers you to send help to Wharncliff. He’ll know what I mean.’
Afterwards he was thankful that he had given Marion Craigie’s telephone number, although she did not obey his instructions to the letter.
• • • • •
It was six o’clock when Hugh Devenish left the Clarges Street flat, and it was a quarter to seven when he pulled up outside the doors of the Bull Inn after a whirlwind drive over fifty miles of good-to-middling roads. That a dozen startled constables had made a guess—they could not be sure—at his number worried him not at all.
He knew enough of the Riordons to believe that they would act on their threat—and he would have risked many things for Lord Aubrey Chester.
The landlord of the Bull recognised him immediately, and acceded without question to a request for a quiet if brief talk.
‘Do you want to earn quick money?’ asked Devenish. ‘It’s risky.’
‘I’ll take a chance, sir.’
‘Good man!’ breathed Devenish. ‘I want to run this car into your shed, and I want you to lock the door and keep it locked until I come back. Is that clear?’
‘I’ve got that,’ said the man, pulling a bunch of keys from his pocket. ‘And the next, sir?’
‘That’s the lot, for the time being,’ said Devenish, ‘and if anyone gets an idea what you’re hiding, you’re in for more trouble than you know.’
He ran the car into the shed, and obtained a lucid direction to Wharncliff Hall, using the lane along which Marion Dare had walked three mornings before. Giving the landlord a fiver, he started the last lap of his journey.
It was still daylight, although heavy clouds were spreading across the sky and casting a dark shadow over the countryside. Devenish swung along the lane, walking with long strides which covered the ground at considerable speed, taking careful note of his route as he went.
The first mile was easy enough to negotiate, for the lane was bordered on both sides by thickly-growing bramble bushes, and ran straight, without any turnings. At the end of the mile, however, the land ended in a meadow, and the rest of the journey to Wharncliff Hall was across downland.
Even without the well-trodden footpath, Devenish would have been able to make a bee-line for the Hall. He could see its grim outline clearly against the grey sky, a squat, ugly building, set in a vale between two hills.
No sound came to him as he strode on, beyond the whispering of a thousand creatures of the fields, and the occasional whine of a gust of wind sweeping from the south. Once he heard the low, threatening rumble of distant thunder, and far away to the right the blackening clouds were forked with a vivid yellow streak.
He had no doubt at all as to the danger into which he was walking. The Riordons wanted him dead, and they would take all manner of risks to get rid of him. But there was one risk, Devenish believed, which they would not take—and he thought that he could bluff them into believing it existed.
It was not his first gamble with death; but it was very likely the most dangerous.
He walked on towards the Hall, a peculiar gleam in his eyes, a puckish twist on his lips. Anyone watching his expression would have judged that he was looking forward to the next hour—and they would have been right.
The storm clouds raced across the sky, with thunder rumbling nearer and occasional streaks of lightning splitting the heavens in two. No rain came, but the wind grew in strength, blowing behind him with the force of a hurricane, sending the leaves swirling down from the trees about him.
Probably, Devenish thought, the storm was keeping the Riordons’ underlings inside. As he approached the Hall he saw no one, and only in one window, on the second floor, was there a light. Without hesitating, he stepped from the fields across which he had walked into the garden of Wharncliff Hall. The grounds were neglected, he noticed. The grass on the wide lawns was uncut, and the rows of bushes had not been clipped f
or many months.
The front door of the Hall was approached by a short flight of steps, bordered by high, granite pillars.
Devenish was half-way up the steps when he had his first half-anticipated surprise.
The big, oak door swung open, without a moment’s warning, and at the same moment the hall lights flared up, dazzling, blinding him! He stopped dead still, narrowing his eyes against the light. Before he could see the men in front of him a voice rapped out.
‘Keep your hands in sight, Devenish!’
Devenish grinned blandly, and stepped forward.
‘Well, well, well!’ he drawled, peering into the hall, ‘if dear old Marcus hasn’t got another voice.’
The Hon. Marcus Riordon stood in the hall, scowling, with an armed man on each side of him.
‘You won’t feel so chirpy in a minute,’ he rasped. ‘Frisk him, you two.’
The two gunmen stepped forward, readily. In the threshold of the hall, Devenish stopped dead still and waited for them—and as he looked he grinned.
‘Well, well, well!’ he drawled again, ‘if you haven’t brought Rogers and Huggett to guard you—two boys who ought to know better ...’
He spoke the last words very slowly, but there was an edge to his voice which made the men hesitate for a split second. They were the two who had been struggling with Marion Dare, three mornings before, and Devenish recognised them.
He let the two men run their hands over his body, as far as his thighs, gazing mockingly into Riordon’s face the while. Rogers felt the automatic in his coat pocket, grabbing at it with a snort of satisfaction.
As the gun came out, Devenish swung both arms round with concentrated force. His clenched fists caught the unfortunate gangsters beneath the chin within a fraction of a second of each other, and both men went sprawling. As they fell, Devenish hurled his twelve stone of bone and muscle forward. Marcus staggered backwards, and Devenish whipped a second automatic from his trouser pocket, leapt back to the door, and covered his men easily.
It had all happened in the space of ten seconds.
Devenish closed the door with his free hand, still training his gun threateningly, and flashed a swift glance round the big, magnificently furnished hall. Directly ahead of him was a wide, curving staircase, thickly carpeted, leading to a second floor on which he could see three closed doors. On his right, he could see into a library, on his left another door was closed, leading into one of the front rooms. A wide, panelled passage led beyond the foot of the staircase to the right, ending at a heavy tapestry curtain. To the left of the passage, beneath the stairs, was a door leading into the room without windows—Aubrey Chester’s recent prison, but this Devenish did not yet know.
Looking at the doors, he saw that there were four directions from which reinforcements could come—from upstairs, from the rooms to the right and left (there were probably doors leading out of them away from the hall) and from the rear of the hall, beyond the tapestry curtain.
But with his back to the front door, Devenish could see them all. There was little chance of a surprise attack.
On the other hand, he admitted freely that his advantage might well be only short-lived. If half a dozen or more of Riordon’s roughnecks rushed him at once, he would be overwhelmed. It behove him to act, and talk, quickly.
He looked evenly at the Hon. Marcus.
‘So you’ve got Aubrey here, have you?’ he opened tentatively.
Riordon was beginning to recover his wits, and there was an evil glitter in his eyes.
‘And I’ve got you here,’ he said sneeringly. ‘You won’t get out so easily as you got in.’
‘I don’t intend to get out easily,’ said Devenish softly.
‘You won’t...’ began Riordon, but Devenish cut him short.
‘Because,’ he pointed out, ‘I shall take Aubrey with me, and I’ve an idea that you will object.’
Riordon made a big effort to control his temper.
‘I shall object, all right,’ he said tightly. ‘You’re in a hole, Devenish, smart though you think you are.’
‘Not smart!’ implored Devenish. ‘Clever, if you like, but not smart. Now, Rogers,’ he went on, as the tougher of the two gangsters struggled into a sitting position on the floor, ‘no games, in case this gun goes off.’
Rogers stood up, swearing beneath his breath.
‘I’ll get you ...’ he started, but Devenish stopped him.
‘You told me that yesterday,’ he said, ‘or whenever it was I saw you last. Keep quiet, my friend, and look after Huggett—he needs looking after.’
Riordon moved back against the marble of the huge fireplace. His flabby face was pale.
‘You can’t get away with this,’ he said harshly. ‘I’ve got a dozen men in the house, and others outside. I...’
‘I don’t care how many men you’ve got,’ said Devenish. ‘I came to get Chester, and I’ll get him. And I’m taking him away with me.’
‘And what am I going to do while you’re taking him?’ sneered Riordon.
He half turned, and slid his right hand into his trouser pocket. Devenish appeared not to notice it.
‘I don’t know,’ he drawled gently, ‘but if you can’t do any better than you’ve managed so far—ah, would you!’
As he spoke, Riordon swung round, gun in hand. Two little stabs of yellow flame spat out almost simultaneously. Two wicked zutts! of silenced automatics hit the air, and two bullets hummed. Devenish hurled himself sideways as Riordon’s bullet whistled harmlessly past his head. Riordon tried to dodge, but Devenish’s bullet scared across the back of his hand, making him drop the gun.
‘You’ll get more than that if you try being funny,’ Devenish warned. ‘So will you,’ he added, as Rogers dropped his hand to his pocket. ‘Throw your guns on the floor,’ he ordered.
Three automatics clattered down, and Devenish chuckled.
‘I will say one thing,’ he admitted generously, ‘you boys know how to take a hint. Now,’ he said, eyeing the Hon. Marcus Riordon grimly, ‘we’ve played enough. Where’s Chester?’
Riordon was dabbing his hand with a handkerchief.
‘You’ll find him—when I send you to him,’ he muttered.
Devenish tightened his lips, and his eyes were hard.
‘I’ll give you two minutes,’ he said evenly, ‘to tell me where Chester is. After that...’
He left the sentence in mid-air, but there was a nasty edge to his voice which made Riordon feel cold.
‘Well?’ queried Devenish, after a tense moment of silence, while the three men glared at him.
Riordon’s lips twisted evilly.
‘In two minutes,’ he said, ‘I can bring a dozen men out, Devenish.’
‘How would they help you?’ queried Devenish, with brutal meaning. ‘One bullet...’
Again he left the sentence in mid-air, and again Riordon felt his blood running chill.
‘You wouldn’t dare to shoot me,’ he muttered. ‘They’d tear you to bits!’
‘They might try,’ murmured Devenish. ‘You’ve had a good half of your two minutes, let me tell you.’
Riordon flinched.
‘You daren’t do it,’ he repeated. ‘You’d never get away...’
Devenish brought out his trump card, playing it easily, almost carelessly, but with his eyes gleaming.
‘I would get away,’ he said evenly. ‘You’ve forgotten, my dear Marcus, that I never was the fool that I looked. Have you ever heard of the Bull Inn?’
Riordon’s eyes flickered and narrowed. He said nothing.
‘Because,’ went on Devenish, ‘at the Bull there are a number of seeming rustics who are not rustics. They are waiting until’—he consulted his wrist-watch with a flourish— ‘until,’ he repeated, ‘seven forty-five. It is now seven thirty-five,’ he added meaningly. ‘Have you ever heard of the Wayside Garage?’
The name of the garage at which he had parked his car three days before had flashed into his mind as he spoke.
Riordon paled.
‘You’re lying!’ he gasped.
‘At the garage,’ went on Devenish relentlessly, ‘there are six men in a Daimler which has officially broken down. It will start up again at exactly seven forty-five, and the six men will come here. So you see,’ he added with a delighted smile, ‘I did not come alone, Marcus.’
It was bluff. Riordon might guess this, but he couldn’t be certain, and Devenish’s manner was very convincing.
Riordon felt a nasty sensation in the pit of his stomach. He was playing for high stakes, and had evolved a scheme which he had considered completely foolproof. He had not reckoned on the scheme going wrong.
For the first time, Riordon wished that he had not lured Devenish to Wharncliff Hall. But he stifled his fears as he took a step forwards, staring into Devenish’s steely eyes.
‘You’re lying,’ he said harshly.
‘Now, now,’ murmured Devenish. ‘You really shouldn’t...’
And then he stopped, his mouth open, his eyes filled with sudden horror.
Right across his words, shivering into the big hall in a blood-freezing echo, came a high-pitched cry of human agony! A man’s voice, raised in the absolute height of physical suffering.
‘My God!’ breathed Devenish. ‘If that’s Chester...’
As he spoke, he moved. As he moved, the three men drew away from him. Rogers made one half-hearted effort to grab a gun from the floor, but before his fingers touched the butt, Devenish brought his gun down with tremendous force on the back of his head. The man gave one stifled groan and sank down in a senseless heap. Huggett, his eyes wide in terror, turned to run, but Devenish sent him flying against the stairs with a vicious right swing. Huggett’s head cracked against the balustrade, and he sagged to the floor.
Devenish hardly noticed him—nor did Riordon.
The crook swung round as Devenish started his attack, and bolted up the stairs, from whence the cry had come.
Devenish, grim-lipped, trained his gun after him—but his fingers seemed to freeze on the trigger.
Once again that terrible cry rang out, high-pitched, long drawn, horrifying. And as its echoes died away, there came another scream—a woman’s voice raised in terror.