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

by John Creasey

  And then he had a shock.

  Arnold Serle was talking to Ronald Knight, the missing agent of Department Z!

  Kenyon’s mind worked rapidly. The blocked traffic was on the move now and he followed Serle’s taxi, at the same time beckoning the driver of another running alongside the Alfa-Romeo.

  ‘I’m going to leave this,’ he shouted, ‘and hop into your cab. See the blue one in front?’

  ‘Old Bill Hawk’s,’ the cabby obliged.

  ‘Follow it,’ Kenyon ordered.

  ‘O.K. with me,’ said the cabby, cheerfully.

  There was another slight hold-up a few hundred yards further on. At the first opportunity Kenyon pulled into the kerb, shut off the engine and hopped into the cab. A few pedestrians who saw the manoeuvre stared after him in amazement, but he was too preoccupied to notice.

  What on earth was Serle doing with Knight? And where had Knight been?

  16

  Treachery—and a Stag Party

  The taxi was driven first to Serle’s flat in Queen Anne’s Gate, where the cricketer—no longer in hiding, of course—went calmly indoors. Then it continued on to Knight’s home, in Park Place. Cabby Bill Hawk was paid off, and Knight entered the house.

  Kenyon’s driver, who had pulled up in a side turning with a good view of Park Place, slewed round in his seat.

  ‘Everything orl right, sir?’

  ‘I’ll go back to my car,’ said Kenyon, cheerfully. ‘Everything’s fine, thanks.’

  He reached the Alfa-Romeo less than fifteen minutes after he had left it, rewarded the cabby suitably, and drove to his flat. He was thinking hard of Ronald Knight; he expected soon to hear from that worthy, and he did not expect in vain.

  At eight o’clock that night, the Carilon Club was filled to overflowing with men; old, young and middle-aged. The last resort of the confirmed bachelor and the unhappy husband, the Carilon still kept its doors closed against the fair sex and was rapidly becoming the most popular place in town.

  Kenyon had booked a room large enough for his reception. As nearly every guest was a member of the Carilon, there was nothing untoward in the assembly. If the spirits of the crowd were higher and more boisterous than usual, it was put down to the fact that a certain favourite had romped home in the three-thirty.

  ‘And about time, too,’ said Timothy Arran.

  ‘Past time,’ grunted Toby.

  ‘Lose that gloom,’ commanded Robert Curtis, who seemed vaster than ever in evening dress. He looked at his watch. ‘Well, sons,’ he told them, hugely, ‘I’ve an appointment. The sweetest little thing in blondettes.’

  Even the Arrans looked interested.

  ‘Blondettes,’ explained the massive Curtis, ‘are crosses between blonde and brunette, with a difference. Now this little girl’s called Fifi. In the morning, her hair—she tells me…’

  Timothy looked sceptical.

  ‘Is yellow,’ went on Curtis. ‘At lunch-time today, it was Titian red. Tonight, I hope it’ll be raven black.’

  ‘Raving mad,’ opined Timothy, turning his back. ‘Leave him to Fifi…’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ said a large, untidy man who could successfully be called on to produce any small, moveable object from a piece of string to a tin-opener, at any moment of day or night without stress or favour. ‘The name, I mean. Fifi. Some call it Fyfy. But you ought to see Meemee, sons. The sweetest little—what’s the time, Toby?’

  ‘Five past eight,’ said Toby Arran, viewing the speaker, one Martin Best, with that abysmal contempt it pleased him to bestow on those of his friends he held in highest regard.

  There was a gleam in Best’s grey eyes as he straightened a deplorable tie which was badly aslant. Best was one of the richest young men in town, and could afford to look broke.

  ‘Meemee,’ he murmured. ‘Half-past at the Emblem. I’ll be seeing you, boys.’

  He moved away, followed by a still-smiling Robert Curtis.

  At ten past eight the Arrans reached the private room, entered, and almost fell over the genial Robert Curtis. They eyed him with acute disfavour.

  ‘Good evening, Fifi,’ said Timothy.

  ‘Lout,’ said Toby.

  ‘Any room, any room?’ demanded Martin Best, from behind them.

  ‘Mee…’ began Timothy, grinning.

  There were thirty men at the gathering. All of them, as Craigie had said, being acquainted with at least one of the others.

  Their spirits were high. They knew that they were starting something out of line with anything they had done before, and this held for them an underlying excitement.

  For the first hour or so they did little but eat, drink—far less than they appeared to do—and abuse their neighbours. At the beginning of the third, Kenyon stood up.

  They cheered him, once, twice, and many times. They sang that he was a jolly good fellow. They sang that he would wish he was single again.

  ‘Hold it,’ ordered Kenyon.

  They held it. None of them was even nearly drunk, and all of them sensed that they were going to hear what they called by various other names, ‘the goods’.

  Kenyon spoke for fifteen minutes, behind locked doors. He summarised his talk with Craigie and told them just what they were fighting—and just what they could expect if they failed. The exuberance died out of the gathering. Men who, it was reputed, had never been serious for five minutes on end, looked grim. Curtis’s usually bright eyes were hard. The Arrans winked at no one.

  The silence was broken only by Kenyon’s voice, and they listened to his crisp sentences with as much intentness as the New Age Party adherents had listened to Sir Joseph Scanling a few nights before. Finally:

  ‘Who’s for it?’ asked Kenyon, into the silence.

  There was a subdued roar of assent.

  Jim Kenyon’s smile was as wide as it had ever been.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘You’ll get instructions in the usual way, and in Code A3. And now, let it rip!’

  They let it rip—and the old stagers in the smoking, reading, and sleeping rooms of the Carilon were heartily thankful there would be only one stag party for James Kenyon.

  ‘You’ve done well, Serle.’ The distinguished-looking gentleman smiled genially at Arnold Serle, who was smoking a cigar and seemed thoroughly at ease. ‘You are sure,’ he added, a little sharply, ‘that Craigie has definitely called his men off?’

  ‘I’ve actually seen the letters,’ said Serle. ‘Gardener showed them to me.’

  The other nodded. There was a benevolent expression on his face, and a pleasant smile. He rubbed his hands together.

  ‘We won’t be long, now,’ he said. ‘I think we shall have the dissolution in three weeks’ time. Meanwhile, I count on you to take reasonable precautions. We mustn’t make the mistake of being too certain of victory, my friend.’

  Serle, comfortably sure of his position, could allow himself a moment’s philosophising.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s surprising how a man alters when his income’s affected, isn’t it?’

  ‘Meaning Craigie?’ The distinguished-looking gentleman spread his delicate hands in front of him and examined the nails intently. There were no marks on his nails; nor were there any on Arnold Serle’s.

  ‘Meaning Craigie,’ agreed Serle. ‘I had expected a little stronger fight from him—and from the Commissioner.’

  ‘You are an excellent cricketer,’ said his companion, ‘but you underestimate the power of red tape. How is our little cricketing section getting on?’

  He laughed, lightly, and Serle chuckled.

  ‘Beautifully,’ he said ‘Beautifully.’ He stood up, still smiling, the cigar jutting from the corner of his mouth. ‘Well, I’ll be going—unless there’s something else you want me for?’

  ‘Only one thing.’ The voice was gentle, with a gentleness that held no pity, no concession. ‘Remove Kenyon. You may be convinced that he is going to be married, but this I doubt. A very remarkable young man, Kenyon, and a very rich one.
’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Serle, and his eyes glittered. ‘He’s obstinate, too. It was lucky we caught Scanling in time. He might have named you.’

  ‘So might Forbes,’ said the other. ‘That fellow—Dickson, wasn’t it?—helped us a great deal there. And there are others whom we mustn’t forget.’

  Serle stopped as he reached the door.

  ‘In more ways than one,’ he said. ‘What about Scanling’s daughter, and…’

  ‘Her paramour,’ murmured the other. ‘I’m not quite sure, yet. On the whole I think it would be kinder to—er—dispose of them than to treat them with our preparation, don’t you?’

  ‘Much kinder,’ agreed Serle, with his wolfish smile. ‘But Kenyon—wouldn’t it be more satisfactory to treat him? We could give him a concentrated dose, and then withhold…’

  ‘I don’t think you like Kenyon,’ said the distinguished-looking man. ‘I remember that you told me of Wyett’s unhappy experience when the drug was kept from him. You would like to see Kenyon have an experience of the same nature?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no expression in Serle’s voice, but there was evil in his eyes.

  ‘I’m rather afraid it must be “no”,’ said his companion with gentle regret. ‘We must subjugate our baser selves, Serle; we must indeed. Pleasure is excellent, in its place—but Kenyon will be safer where he can look down and see everything that is going on. I refer, of course, to heaven. Your sense of perception isn’t so keen in this matter as in others. I must ask you to look after Kenyon for me.’

  ‘And his w—’ began Serle.

  ‘Save the poor child from the pangs of widowhood. If you really think they’re proposing to marry tomorrow, you must hurry. Have you any idea in mind?’

  ‘I was thinking of using Knight.’

  ‘Admirable. Admirable. Send a man in, will you?’

  Serle nodded, and left the room.

  Half an hour later, he visited the Park Place house of Agent Seventeen of Department Z. Ronald Knight, who lived with his parents, was not looking well. His air of gaiety was forced. On his face, once cheerful and good-natured, was an expression that held a mixture of loathing and pleading. There was something pitiable about Ronald Knight.

  Serle smiled at him as a maid closed the door of the library behind them.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ asked the fat man, and Knight nodded.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Serle, breezily. ‘Another little mistake like your last might be even more unpleasant.’

  Knight shuddered. ‘You won’t do that!’ he cried. ‘You can’t!’

  Serle eyed him, unmoved.

  ‘I’ve done it before, and I will do it again—if you give me any trouble. Listen to me, Knight: I want Kenyon.’

  Knight’s eyes flickered, but otherwise there was no change of expression on his face.

  ‘Through you,’ Serle enlarged. ‘I think Godalming will be the best place to make our—headquarters. Kenyon is suspicious of Godalming: he’ll be sure that you’re on the right track.’

  ‘Supposing he doesn’t believe what I tell him?’ Knight was ashen-faced.

  ‘He must,’ snapped Serle. ‘Otherwise you’ll have another spell like the last—but a great deal worse. You remember how your very stomach seemed to split…’

  ‘Don’t,’ Knight protested, shuddering. ‘Don’t!’

  ‘So you’ll find a way of convincing Kenyon,’ ordered Serle. ‘Tell him to be at White House by eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. He will have half a dozen of his friends, but we can take care of them.’

  He had remained standing throughout, and now he turned to the door. Knight’s voice called out in sudden fear.

  ‘Serle—the Tallin!’

  Serle laughed, and dipped his hand into his pocket. He drew out a small, white paper packet and tossed it to the Department Z agent. Knight caught it and held it as though guarding a crown jewel.

  ‘It’s all you’ll have until Kenyon’s been to Godalming.’

  Knight seemed not to hear him, and did not trouble to watch him go. He tore open the packet, gloating over the little heap of grey powder it contained. He took a pinch, laid it on the tip of his tongue and swallowed. Then he threw himself into an armchair and closed his eyes.

  His breathing grew softer and more regular. The look of strain, of fear, that had been in his expression a few minutes before, disappeared. He smiled, as though with some deep, secret satisfaction. After ten minutes he got up, his limbs buoyant, his eyes shining.

  The memory of the horror of being without the drug was gone. Tallin made one forget…

  Ronald Knight went to the telephone, and called up James Kenyon. The ringing tone was humming in his ear when he realised that he must call from Godalming, not from London. He replaced the receiver quickly.

  Three hours later, at half-past eleven on the night of the stag party at the Carilon Club, Kenyon’s telephone bell rang again. Kenyon had just returned home. He frowned as he heard Knight’s voice at the other end of the wire.

  ‘Kenyon…’ Knight seemed excited. ‘I’m at Godalming.’

  ‘Hmmm-hmmm,’ murmured Kenyon.

  ‘I was in town this morning,’ said Knight, going off at a tangent, ‘and I had a letter from Craigie. To drop the Serle game. Is that right?’

  ‘It is,’ Kenyon assured him. ‘But heaven knows why.’

  He spoke as though he had seen nothing of Knight that day, and not for a moment did Agent Seventeen realise the truth.

  ‘That’s how I feel,’ said Knight. ‘And I’ve struck something on Serle, down here.’

  ‘The White House?’ demanded Kenyon.

  ‘Yes. You know it?’

  ‘I know of it.’

  ‘Well…’ Knight hesitated. ‘I’m stuck. I can’t ask Craigie for help, now, but I’m pretty sure the thing’s worth following.’

  ‘I’m with you,’ said Kenyon.

  ‘Can you get down here?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Well—there’s nothing happening tonight. Serle’s meeting one or two of his friends at eleven in the morning.’

  ‘I’ll be there. Who are the friends?’

  ‘One of them is Colonel Wyett. I don’t know the others—yet.’

  ‘You seem to have been busy,’ said Kenyon.

  ‘Always trying,’ said Knight, with a return to his old casualness. ‘I’m staying at the Blue Boar—a nice little pub.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ promised Kenyon again, ‘soon after ten.’

  He replaced the receiver and frowned. There was little doubt as to what was happening. Knight was selling out on him.

  Selling out? Kenyon dismissed the idea. Knight was comparatively well off, and the Arrans had voted him as one hundred per cent reliable. It wasn’t a question of buying; Serle had used some other kind of persuasion.

  ‘He’ll have the mark,’ Kenyon told himself with bitter certainty. Then smiled grimly: Arnold Serle would undoubtedly be expecting him to walk into a trap….

  At the Blue Boar, Godalming, Ronald Knight was looking at the pinkish crescents round his fingernails, and wondering what caused them. He did not connect them with Tallin.

  After a little, he forgot them as his thoughts veered to something far more fascinating. Laughing suddenly, he took the little packet of grey powder from his pocket. As he placed a pinch on his tongue, he thought of the trap Serle was preparing.

  Just for a moment, his face went pale. A little whisper seemed to rise inside him: ‘You can’t sell Kenyon; you can’t!’ And then he reminded himself of the agony of the two days when Arnold Serle had kept him without the drug.

  Shuddering, he closed his eyes. Then, deliberately, he took another shot of the grey powder.

  Each time, he knew, he needed a little more. Every day caught him faster into the grip of the drug. But he couldn’t give it up. Life without it was agony; worse than agony. He sweated as he remembered those two days. Every muscle in his body had seemed to be tearing, his very vitals had seemed to spli
t….

  Slowly, now, the drug worked through his body. Slowly, the haggard, drawn expression disappeared from his face and the smile came to his lips.

  The landlord of the Blue Boar, entering the bar parlour half an hour later, noticed that his nibs was having a nap—and didn’t he look good-tempered, even in his sleep?

  17

  The Girl Who Screamed

  Apart from the trilling of birds, the rustling of a light wind through leaves, there was nothing to disturb the quiet of the country around White House, near Godalming. It was half-past ten on the morning of the day that, officially, was Kenyon’s wedding day.

  Kenyon had arrived at ten o’clock, and had talked with Knight, carefully not asking any questions which might make Agent Seventeen suspicious. The two men walked from the pub towards the house: a large Georgian building, set on the side of a hill overlooking the sloping woodlands of the most picturesque part of Surrey. The sun was high in the heavens and hard on the skin.

  ‘What do you propose doing?’ asked Kenyon.

  He guessed that as they approached the house through a stretch of woodlands and across a bridle path they were being watched. The trees hid Serle’s men, those dark-faced foreigners who could use gun or knife with such accuracy.

  Kenyon was too old a hand to pretend that he knew nothing of fear. Though there had been many times when his heart had thudded against his ribs—when his breath had come in gasps that might, any one of them, have been his last—he had never had a more nerve-racking walk than that from the Blue Boar to the White House.

  He felt sure that the purpose of the enticement to Godalming was the simple one of getting rid of him. But he didn’t know how Serle proposed to do it. At any moment a bullet might hum out of the surrounding woods. Or a knife.

  He saw the house suddenly through the trees, and for a moment he caught sight of a face outlined in one of the top-floor windows. He looked at his watch.

  ‘Eleven,’ he said. ‘The others ought to be coming.’

  Knight nodded. ‘There’s a place here,’ he muttered. ‘We can hide. You’ll see the drive all right.’