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

by John Creasey

  ‘Yes, all of them. I was watching while Devenish was at the Jolly Sailor, and I saw every man who spoke to him afterwards. You’re getting nervous, Riordon. There’s nothing to fear from the over-rated “Z” Department.’

  Riordon grunted.

  ‘All the same, I wish we’d managed to get hold of the Dare girl sooner...’

  ‘Then why didn’t you?’

  ‘I had to wait,’ he said. ‘She’s been guarded like the Crown Jewels all day. But we’ll get her, don’t you worry.’

  • • • • •

  Marion Dare knew that she had been guarded like the Crown Jewels all day—but she did not know that, to the Hon. Marcus Riordon, she was worth nearly as much as those jewels.

  The Hon. Marcus was afraid of something she knew. And, ironically, it was not until it was too late that she remembered what it was.

  It had been twelve months before the raid on Bleddon’s Bank, that the Hon. Marcus and Sir Basil Riordon had bought the S.S. Mario. As secretary to Sir Basil, Marion had, despite their attempts at secrecy, learned of this purchase—had learned, too, of the highly skilled workmen who had worked for six months to turn the inside of the tramp into the most up-to-date ship afloat.

  The only person, now, who knew anything about Marcus Riordon’s connection with the Mario, was Marion Dare. And the Hon. Marcus knew that it was too dangerous a risk to let the girl remain in London for the first few weeks of his cruise. It was too dangerous, in fact, for her to be alive.

  Riordon’s plans were as cunning as they were thorough, but he dared not kill the girl until he had her on board.

  Just after eight o’clock on the day of Devenish’s illfated visit to Shoreham and the Madame X, Marion Dare was sitting in Devenish’s flat with Diane and Aubrey Chester.

  It had been, of necessity, a dull afternoon. Since Devenish had gone the only people they had seen were the police outside and inside the flat, a small army which Pincher bore with fortitude and the knowledge that they spelt safety.

  A car drawing up outside the house made Marion look up.

  ‘I wonder if it’s Hugh.’

  Aubrey walked across to the window and looked out. Marion followed him.

  She saw a medium-tall man, with silver-grey hair and a hard, set face, step out of a closed saloon car.

  ‘I-it’s Bill,’ grinned Aubrey informatively.

  ‘Who’s Bill?’ demanded Marion.

  ‘The Ch-chief of P-police, or whatever y-you like to c-call him,’ stammered Aubrey. ‘I w-wonder w-what he wants?’

  Marion also wondered, and felt anxious. Every hour since Hugh had left the flat had dragged out interminably, and with each one she grew more frightened at the possibility of bad news.

  The Chief Commissioner entered the room, and shook hands with Diane, whom he knew slightly. Aubrey introduced Marion. Fellowes’s face relaxed a little.

  ‘I wish I had met you under happier circumstances,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Not bad news, is it?’ Marion whispered.

  ‘It might be worse,’ conceded Fellowes, obviously perturbed with his tidings. ‘Devenish has been hurt—badly, but not, I think, fatally.’

  ‘G-good Lord!’ gasped Aubrey.

  Diane touched Marion’s arm gently as the younger woman’s eyes widened.

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Marion.

  ‘At Shoreham,’ said Fellowes, turning towards the door. ‘Icame along to fetch you myself, Miss Dare. The men outside wouldn’t have let you go with anyone else.’

  ‘Can I come?’ asked Aubrey Chester, forgetting his stammer in the excess of emotion.

  Fellowes shook his head.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said firmly. ‘You’d better stay here, Chester.’

  Something in that ‘Chester’ worried Aubrey. He had known the Chief Commissioner for a long time, and the familiar ‘Aub’ would have sounded better. Aubrey, however, forced himself to believe that Fellowes was badly hit by the news of Devenish’s injury—there might even be a greater calamity, he realised. So he said nothing as Marion threw on a coat, picked up her bag and followed the Chief Commissioner down the stairs and into his waiting car.

  But as the car slid towards Piccadilly, Aubrey turned worried eyes towards Diane.

  ‘I d-don’t like it,’ he muttered. ‘I d-don’t like it a b-bit, Di.’

  • • • • •

  At half past eight that evening Gordon Craigie was the most worried man in England.

  Since Devenish’s telephone call early in the afternoon, Craigie had had no word at all from Shoreham. He sensed that something had gone wrong, badly wrong, in the attempt to board Madame X, but there was nothing now that he could do to remedy it. The yacht would be watched, of course, from the sea as well as from the shore. There were others besides the agents of ‘Z’ Department keeping in touch with the movements of the Madame X. But, according to the latest reports the yacht had not moved, and Craigie became convinced that the Hon. Marcus had some other means of escape.

  Other things were worrying the Chief, too.

  For over a year he had used one of the Riordons’ accomplices as a stool-pigeon—paying for information which had been worth little enough, but had held promise of vital news to come.

  That afternoon the man had telephoned Craigie to expect urgent information at any time. Since then no word had come. Craigie was certain he would have got in touch had it been possible. Now he felt that the Hon. Marcus had trapped the spy in his camp.

  Yes, things were certainly black.

  There was no news of the Hon. Marcus, of Sir Basil, or of Charles Rickett. All three had disappeared completely.

  Craigie, knowing the resourcefulness of his adversaries, was beginning to be seriously afraid that they would get away with their haul.

  He knew now why the gold had been bought, and why there had been an abnormal amount of cash trading on the markets that day. And he guessed the reason for the sudden boom in precious stones. Completely at a loss about Riordon’s secret activities, he realised that the only thing that remained was to raid Madame X with a strong force of men.

  Even in that he had little confidence. The complete silence of his agents was nerve-racking.

  Some ten minutes after he had telephoned Scotland Yard, only to learn that the Chief Commissioner, William Fellowes, was not there, he had a further item of news which added to his fears.

  Fellowes and his chauffeur had been found in a quiet corner of Regent’s Park. Both men were unconscious when found, but had recovered, and had described how a car had run alongside them while moving through the park, and gas had been sprayed, by means of a gas-pistol, into their car. They had faded into unconsciousness, and the next thing they had known was a police sergeant and a doctor bending over them. Fellowes’s car was missing.

  Craigie was not surprised when on telephoning Devenish’s flat, he learned that a bogus Chief Commissioner had called and taken Marion Dare away.

  Craigie replaced his receiver quickly, then called the Home Secretary’s number. After a brief consultation, he sent for his car and drove hurriedly towards Heston, where he could catch an aeroplane to take him to Shoreham.

  Meanwhile a strong force of police and two fast-moving destroyers converged on the Hon. Marcus Riordon’s luxurious yacht, the Madame X.

  Almost at the same time, Marion Dare, unconscious after she had been drugged in the ‘Chief Commissioner’s’ car, was carried into an aeroplane and flown towards Portsmouth, where the Hon. Marcus, Rickett and Lydia Crane were waiting to board the Mario.

  About that time, too, Hugh Devenish, who had a notoriously strong constitution, was slowly recovering from the gas which had overcome him and his companions on the Madame X.

  23

  Hugh Devenish Hurries

  ‘Sure you’re all right?’ demanded the police surgeon who had boarded the Madame X with two dozen men from a police launch now riding easily alongside.

  Hugh Devenish nodded grimly.

  ‘Quite sure,’ he
muttered. ‘I’d give a hell of a lot to know where Riordon’s gone, blast him.’

  He turned away, a scowl puckering his forehead. On the deck in front of him, Robert Bruce, Dodo Trale, and the Arrans were also recovering. In the short time that they had had for talking, Bruce explained how a shot fired from a small boat alongside the yacht had stunned him, striking him slantwise on the temple. He had seen the boat just in time to shout the warning which had brought Devenish and the others on deck.

  There was no use now for recriminations. Devenish’s opinion of his ability had dropped a lot, but that helped little. The uncomfortable fact remained that the Hon. Marcus had completely outwitted the agents of ‘Z’ Department.

  It was a hard knock—but soft in comparison with the one which waited for him when he reached shore.

  Craigie reached the landing-stage as the police launch knocked against it. Devenish waved eagerly.

  ‘How are things in London?’ he demanded, as Craigie came up to him.

  Even as he spoke he saw the grimness in his Chief’s manner. Craigie hesitated a fraction of a second. Then:

  ‘Go easy, Hugh,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ve lost Marion.’

  For a moment Devenish stared at him without comprehension, as he repeated blankly:

  ‘You’ve lost Marion?’

  Craigie nodded. There was nothing more he could say.

  Suddenly Devenish seemed to be looking a long way away from him. Craigie and the others had become part of a misty, unrecognisable mass.

  ‘My God!’ he muttered. ‘And you don’t know where she is? Where any of them are?’

  Craigie shook his head mutely. The havoc which his news had created in Devenish was appalling. The crowd on the jetty seemed to sense it. Devenish stood there, the cynosure of all eyes, imposing, unmoving.

  All at once he swung round, a fierce light in his eyes.

  ‘He’s left England,’ Devenish muttered. ‘I’ll swear Riordon’s left England ...’

  ‘Well?’ interrogated Craigie.

  Devenish jerked his thumb towards the Madame X, a vague blur on the grey waters of the sea.

  ‘There are five men on there,’ he muttered, between clenched teeth. ‘If I can’t get a squeak out of one of them, my name’s not Devenish.’

  Craigie grimaced.

  ‘Go steady,’ he cautioned.

  ‘Don’t be a ruddy fool!’ snapped Devenish.

  • • • • •

  It took half an hour—the worst half-hour that Devenish had ever experienced Third degree. The words seemed to dance in his mind, a horrible fandango. There had never been such a third degree.

  But he had to know—he had to know.

  And then, suddenly, unable to control his emotions any longer, he muttered Marion’s name.

  For a split second the man in front of him seemed to go dead-still. Then, with a convulsive heave, he craned his bullet-head forward, and his eyes stared into Devenish’s.

  ‘That’s it,’ he croaked. ‘Mario. Mario. Riordon bought a tramp—the Mario.’

  Devenish stood for a moment as though carved from stone. Then he uttered a short, harsh laugh, and cut through the cords which were stringing the men up to the ceiling. Bruce stopped the force of their fall as they dropped, half-conscious, to the floor.

  Fifteen minutes later the ether was humming with the name of Riordon’s cargo-ship. Portsmouth naval station picked up the message, and flashed a reply.

  S.S. Mario, laden machinery, cotton goods and tinware, bound for East Coast of Africa, weighed anchor off Portsmouth eight-fifty-five. Direction SSW.

  Gordon Craigie, hanging on to the telephone at the Jolly Sailor, had the message relayed, and passed it on to the half-frantic Devenish. Scotland Yard, acting on instructions received from the Home Secretary, contacted the Admiralty, and three destroyers, part of the Atlantic Fleet which was in the Portsmouth naval base, slid into the murky waters of the Channel and headed sou’-sou’-west in the Mario’s wake.

  It was not, the Home Secretary knew, a cut-and-dried matter of arresting Riordon and his accomplices. Something very much bigger was at stake.

  The four or five million pounds which Riordon had obtained from Bleddon’s Bank meant little. The Bank could stand the loss, and would, with care, make it up. But, thought the Home Secretary, if once Bleddon’s credit was publicly doubted, there would be a tremendous rush on all branches of the bank. Every depositor would clamour for his money—and even Bleddon’s would be able to pay little more than a ten per cent of the total call for ready cash.

  Unless Riordon were caught, Bleddon’s would be forced to close its doors.

  Craigie, like his superiors, realised the tremendous gravity of the situation. Grim-lipped, he stood beside Devenish on the deck of H.M.S. Dromore, a destroyer with a limit speed of thirty-three knots, hoping against hope that their quarry had not taken too long a start. He guessed that the tramp’s engines were tuned to immense speed.

  The Dromore was swinging round towards Spithead when the first radio news of the Mario came through.

  One of a dozen recce planes, which had left the base as soon as the news came through, reported a cargo-boat, forty-five miles west-sou’-west, cutting through the water at at least thirty-five knots. The ship carried only a fore and aft light.

  The captain of the Dromore, a hard-bitten veteran, grimaced at Craigie and Devenish, and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘If the Mario’s doing thirty-five knots now, I don’t think anything we’ve got will catch her.’

  Devenish peered through the darkness, vainly striving to see what he knew was not there. Since he had heard Craigie’s ‘We’ve lost Marion’ the iron seemed to have entered his soul. Not for a moment had even the suspicion of a smile dispersed the thunderous cloud over his brow. He had been tense-limbed, strained, grey and gaunt with his fears of what might happen to the girl.

  He had known, recently, a few days which would have been perfect but for the overhanging shadow of the Riordon affair. The few brief hours which he had had with Marion had been tempered by the knowledge that something might happen—to him. He had not worried about Marion’s safety, feeling completely confident of the steps which had been taken to look after her.

  And now his complacency had been blasted into smithereens. Marion was out there—with Marcus Riordon, crook and murderer.

  Fears for her safety tortured Devenish. Doubts, half-frenzied visions, shot through his mind. His heart was as heavy as the seas through which the destroyer slid so rapidly.

  He turned to the captain.

  ‘And you don’t think we can catch her?’

  ‘Not unless she has trouble with her engines. Once she’s away she can pretty well do what she pleases, and looking for a ship in the Atlantic is worse than the needle in the haystack.’

  Devenish looked at the man for a moment, grim-faced. And then suddenly, the tension of his big body relaxed a little.

  ‘We’re about ten miles from Portsmouth, aren’t we?’

  The captain nodded.

  ‘If a dozen of us put off in a motor-launch, we could be in Portsmouth in just over twenty minutes?’

  The captain nodded again.

  ‘Well, well, well!’ drawled Devenish. ‘A dozen of us could, and will. And,’ he went on, his voice tense with excitement, ‘we can hire enough speed-boats in Portsmouth to take us out to the Mario and back, before she’s a hundred miles off-shore. Can’t we?’

  Craigie snapped his fingers, as Devenish’s plan struck home. The captain frowned.

  ‘What good will speed-boats be?’ he demanded.

  Devenish almost smiled.

  ‘Leave it to me,’ he exhorted. ‘Leave it right to me, and now be a good fellow and let us have a couple of your boys and a fast launch.’

  Craigie broke in quietly.

  ‘Let him go,’ he said.

  The captain shrugged his shoulders and rapped out an order. Devenish’s idea seemed the shortest cut to suicide that he could conceive, but
Craigie’s agreement was tantamount to a command. Craigie was in full authority that night.

  Two minutes later Hugh Devenish, both the Arrans, and six other agents of ‘Z’ Department, all of whom were on the Dromore, prepared for trouble, crowded into the lowered cutter.

  And in Devenish’s eyes there was a grim purpose.

  • • • • •

  In the cabin on the S.S. Mario, Marion Dare sat on a chair staring defiantly into the evil eyes of the Hon. Marcus Riordon.

  No one else was with them. Rickett was on deck, and Lydia Crane was sleeping, or trying to sleep, in another cabin. Below deck, the Mario looked much more like a modern luxury yacht than a cargo-boat. Riordon had an eye to comfort as well as speed.

  The past few hours had been a nightmare to Marion, but until now she had clung desperately to her faith in Devenish. Hugh would find a way of rescuing her. If no one else did, he would.

  Now, however, she was beginning to realise the hopelessness of her plight. She had been on board the Mario for more than an hour. The ship was already many miles away from England, and every minute took her farther away from safety.

  For the last half-hour Riordon had been with her, gloating, mocking. With the Mario racing away from England, Riordon’s spirits were at high peak. Millions of pounds’ worth of gold and jewels were on the ship, and there was nothing—nothing!—to stop him from escaping from the long arm of the law.

  For a long time the Hon. Marcus had thought only of his campaign of crime. Everything was forgotten but that. Now the struggle was over—and he could appreciate other things.

  Like, for instance, Marion Dare.

  Something had seemed to snap inside Riordon when he had seen Marion, unconscious, with the shoulder of her dress torn during a struggle with her captors, lying in a bunk on the Mario. Compared with the dark exotic beauty of Lydia Crane, this girl was fresh, clean.

  His eyes glinted, and he ran the tip of his tongue along his small pink lips.

  ‘Of course,’ he murmured, ‘you don’t like the idea, Marion. Not at first. But you’ll get used to it, I can tell you.’

  He stood up from his seat and leaned towards her. Unconsciously Marion crossed her hands in front of her breast.