by John Creasey
Miller and Fellowes nodded.
Every cricketer at Godalming that night had, at some time or other, smuggled a small quantity of seed out of England.
The seed of Tallin had been carried to all parts of the world. For three years some plantations abroad had been growing the drug-plant; from time to time, touring teams had brought some of the yield back to England. The whole, worldwide traffic in Tallin had been carried on through cricketers; the last men to be suspected, or to be too closely examined by the Customs officials of the various countries.
‘It was easy,’ said Fellowes. ‘The whole scheme had that touch of simplicity that amounts to genius. No suspicion, no trouble. And Tallin’s growing everywhere. That means we’re faced with it abroad, as well as here.’
Craigie nodded.
It was past five o’clock. The sky was already greying, and the countryside was awake. Most of the cricketers in the White House were now drowsy with sleep. There would, Dodo Trale said cheerfully, be some nasty blots on the score-books on the morrow.
‘I wish Kenyon would come,’ muttered the Chief of Department Z.
‘He’ll roll up,’ grinned Trale. ‘He’ll probably have Serle by the scruff of the neck, Mary in his pocket, and the johnny we’re after on a short bit of string.’
Fellowes and Craigie exchanged smiles.
‘Nothing like seeing the bright side,’ Dodo wound up, cheerfully.
‘I’d like to know why these fellows were all in London this week,’ Miller remarked, recalling their attention to cut and dried evidence.
Craigie said quietly:
‘I think I can tell you. None of them is marked. All of them would have been, after this week. Their period of usefulness,’ he added wryly, ‘is over.’
‘I wonder,’ mused Fellowes.
Craigie shrugged, and looked towards the brightening sky. In his mind he was desperately anxious about Kenyon. Everything was set now. They knew how Tallin had been smuggled throughout the world; they knew beyond all doubt, now, that it had been spread in England through the New Age Party. It might have been introduced through cigarettes or beer, through tea or bread-and-butter. Once the organisation had been formed—the excuse provided for gathering people together regularly, throughout the country—Tallin had been only too easily distributed from place to place.
The only thing that remained, was to find the man who was backing Arnold Serle….
The minutes dragged by, and still Kenyon did not come.
The Arran twins and their party of agents were kicking their heels at Greylands village, three miles from the Manor. There were many things they would have liked to do, but they kept under cover as much as possible. If they were wanted, if a call came from Greylands, to carry any chances of success their attack would have to be a surprise effort.
Several of the dark-skinned men were in the village. A pub-keeper discussed them with Timothy, aggrieved at their paltry consumption of beer.
‘Seems they’ve no taste for it,’ he told Timothy. ‘But here they be. Theer’s zome farm or ither nearby—growing tobaccy, I did heer zay.’
Timothy said nothing, but he guessed that the ‘tobacco’ was actually the drug Tallin.
It was.
On the plantation near Greylands, thirty or forty dark-skinned men worked daily, although that day they were all in or about the Manor. They were prepared for trouble, and each man was armed. Serle knew they were there, and felt safe; Colonel Wyett knew of them, so did Denbigh Morse. Timothy Arran only suspected it, and was not over-happy to know that he was probably right: even a surprise attack would be a risky one.
23
And Plays a Losing Hand
For a month and more Mary Randall had been living on the edge of fear. There had been moments when the weight of her anxiety had lifted; moments, like those with Jim Kenyon, that had been precious beyond words. But anxiety for the safety of Mick and her father had never fully left her.
Now, after her hopes had been buoyed up by the strange behaviour of Colonel Wyett and the Rev. Denbigh Morse—when for a few hours the prospect had seemed brighter—she knew the blackness of real despair.
The promise in Denbigh Morse’s letter had been genuine. On the day before the midnight raid organised by Gordon Craigie and Sir William Fellowes—or more precisely, at three o’clock in the morning—the door of the room in which she had been locked had opened. No one had been outside, but a dim light had been burning in the passage. She had followed it to the front door of the house—the home of Ronald Knight’s parents, had she but known it—and hurried into the street. The car and the chauffeur had been waiting. Without hesitation she had entered the car, almost overcome by the tremendous wave of relief at feeling sure that her Uncle Denbigh, at least, could be relied upon to help….
That had been twenty-four hours before.
Now she was at Greylands, in the room that had been her bedroom for several weeks. She had thought she knew the house, its servants and its owners perfectly, but she had soon discovered that everything was changed.
What servants there were, were strangers. There was a silence about the house that seemed unnatural, frightening. From the moment she had entered it, after a long drive from London, she had seen no one but men; dark-skinned, silent-footed men who ignored her completely, and two servants who looked their parts and who brought her food and drink but never spoke. She had had every meal in her own room. Just once, she had tried to go downstairs—only to be stopped by one of the dark-faced men, whose silent approach had caught her unawares.
‘You must get back,’ he had said.
Mary had protested.
‘But that’s absurd. My uncle…’
And then the man had flourished an automatic. That had been her first intimation of the strange happenings at Greylands.
The sense of utter despair had descended upon her then.
She was back, doubting and sick at the very possibility that she could be right to doubt, if either Wyett or Denbigh Morse were all they seemed. And as the hours passed, she realised with cold certainty that it was no longer a question of doubt.
The fact that they were somehow involved with Arnold Serle, and not—as she had once thought of the Colonel, at least—his victims, horrified her. She had believed she could trust them with anything in the world. How could she rely on anyone, ever again? Mick might be tainted, the Chesters—even Kenyon!
If it was possible to be thankful for anything, she was thankful for the fact that she was left alone in the room.
When darkness shadowed the sweeping fields beyond the Manor, she tried to sleep. But she only managed to doze fitfully. Time after time, she looked at her watch.
It was half-past five when she heard the sound of Wyett’s voice outside her door, followed by the voice of Arnold Serle. She had not undressed, and she jumped up quickly as the door opened.
Colonel Wyett clicked on the electric light and smiled at her, but it was obvious that he was ill at ease. Arnold Serle, fatter than ever, flashed his very white teeth: he was clearly jubilant over something and her heart sank as she realised that if his plans were proceeding to his so-evident satisfaction, it could only bode ill for Jim Kenyon and his friends.
Serle was prepared to joke; even to be generous.
‘Well, my dear,’ he greeted her, advancing into the room, ‘we have taken the first opportunity of setting your mind at rest. The past few days must have been very trying…’
He stopped, and a scowl crossed his face. For Mary’s expression held a contempt he had never seen before. His voice took on an ugly note.
‘They have been trying,’ he repeated. ‘But not so trying as they will be if you’re not very careful, my dear Miss Randall.’
Wyett cleared his throat. He looked uncomfortable, as though he realised what his niece was thinking of him, and as though that realisation hurt.
‘That’s not in the agreement.’
Serle turned on him furiously.
‘Hold your ton
gue! This is my job and I’m handling it!’
Wyett said doggedly:
‘There’s no need to take that attitude. My niece has been promised safe custody by…’
‘All right!’ Serle stopped him. ‘But no names, understand?’ He turned to Mary again, and she could not have said whether she feared him more in geniality than in fury. ‘For some reason I don’t quite understand, Miss Randall,’ he said pleasantly, ‘you are to be allowed—er—freedom. There will, unfortunately, be certain conditions. You will have to forget the events of the past month, especially in the immediate future, and we are arranging for you to be taken out of England.’
‘You are wasting your time,’ Mary told him. ‘I don’t intend to leave England.’
Serle seemed to purr.
‘You have no kind of choice, my dear. I have been directed to tell you that your brother will be in the best of health, and that in due course you will see him. Also, it is hoped, your father.’
He stopped—and despite herself, the question came out: ‘And Kenyon?’
‘Kenyon,‘ murmured Arnold Serle. ‘I’m afraid you will have to forget him. He has been a very difficult man… the type who never knows when he is beaten.’
‘You’re not going to kill him!’ Mary protested, aghast.
‘My dear,’ Serle said, very softly. ‘James Kenyon is already dead. Such a pity, but there it is. It would have been a matter of time, in any case, for he was wanted for murder. Happily…’
‘Dead!’ Mary echoed, and the word was like a moan. ‘Oh, dear God, it can’t be true!’
‘It is,’ murmured Serle.
‘It isn’t,’ said a voice, from the window.
For an infinitesimal part of a second, there was absolute silence. Then Mary uttered a little cry. The Colonel’s face whitened. Arnold Serle swung round, his hand already in his pocket.
‘Take it out,’ advised Kenyon, and the muzzle of his automatic hovered in line with Serle’s stomach.
‘You!’ gasped Serle.
‘Even I,’ agreed Kenyon, gently.
He climbed through the window, but his gun hardly wavered. He crossed to Mary and put his left arm around her shoulders.
‘All right,’ he said, very softly. ‘It won’t be long, now.’
‘How…?’ began Wyett, a slow, yellowish tinge creeping into his white cheeks.
‘I saw you in London and followed you. For the first time in my life I’ve done the journey in five hours, and I’d like to know what kind of an engine you’ve got in that Austin.’ He turned towards Serle, whose eyes were narrowed to slits. ‘You don’t seem to be having the best of luck, fat one.’
‘Whereas you have,’ Arnold Serle retorted, and there was no quiver in his voice. His confidence, shaken by that one stupefying shock, had returned, and it made Mary Randall afraid. ‘Until now. You managed to get away from Godalming, but this time…’
‘Don’t try to frighten me,’ said Kenyon, cheerfully. His arm was still round Mary’s shoulders. ‘The window, my dear. There’s a ladder…’
As he spoke, Colonel Wyett moved. Kenyon’s eyes blazed.
‘You traitorous hound!’ he snapped. ‘Keep still, or I’ll shoot you as you stand. Wyett, I’ve met some double-crossers in my time, but never one I’d so cheerfully wipe out as you! You and your precious Denbigh Morse—I’ll see you both hanged, if it’s the last thing I do.’
There was a tense silence. Wyett’s face showed no expression. Mary, halfway to the window, caught her breath. Serle’s eyes flickered.
‘An admirable suggestion,’ he murmured, at last, ‘but you forget that my friends are—er—shall we say, above the letter of the law? In fact, it wouldn’t surprise me, looking down the next Honours’ List, to find them suitably rewarded for their services during the—how shall I put it?—bloodless revolution.’ The fat man’s voice hardened suddenly. ‘Did you know, Kenyon, that you were wanted for murder?’
‘I daresay I shall be,’ Kenyon said, cheerfully, ‘if this little breeze dies down, and you get out of it alive. I…’
He broke off as Mary gave a cry of alarm and turned from the window, her eyes wide with fear.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
Serle laughed, and Wyett’s breathing grew more regular as Mary gasped:
‘Men are coming up the ladder. They’re coming up it!’
The fact registered itself on Kenyon’s mind and in the same moment, he moved. The butt of his gun crashed on Serle’s head. The fat man uttered one grunt and dropped down. Wyett gasped and turned away, but Kenyon swung a wicked right to his neck and he crashed against the wall.
Pressing Mary’s arm, he said:
‘Serle’s got a gun. Get it, and stay close to the wall by the door. If the door opens, shoot.’
She nodded, and he sprang towards the window.
As he reached it, a man’s hand and wrist appeared on the sill. Kenyon’s eyes glinted as he grabbed the wrist and the man on the ladder shrieked in sudden agony.
‘That’s only half your luck,’ grunted Kenyon.
He twisted and pulled. The man screamed again, then seemed to fly through the window into the room. Kenyon steadied him, and glanced outwards.
Three men, dark-skinned members of Serle’s bodyguard, were on the ladder, and several were waiting at the foot of it. As he showed his face a bullet hummed past Kenyon’s head.
He ducked back and grabbing the still sobbing man by the neck and trousers, heaved him out of the window and hurled him downwards. They heard the scream as he crashed into the first man on the ladder, who lost his hold and fell. Those below him tried to keep their grip but went down.
Kenyon was very cool as he looked at the fallen bodies. The three men on the ladder were badly hurt, twisting and writhing on the ground. One of the others was stretched out, unconscious. There were only three who were uninjured.
Levelling his gun, he fired three times; the three men threw up their arms, pirouetted queerly, and fell.
The back of his neck was clammy as he drew back. But he had no time to think. He must get away. That was the only thing that mattered, now; he must get away with Mary.
He had heard Serle tell her she was safe; he didn’t believe it. He didn’t believe that anyone who had fought against the New Age Party would live—if that party lived.
But there was a chance, now, of smashing it—if he could just get away, with Mary.
He swung towards the room—and groaned as he saw that the chance was lost.
Mary was lying on the floor, unconscious. Near her was her gun; near the gun was a little patch of a clear-coloured liquid that gave off a slight, whitish gas. Near the liquid were the broken fragments of a phial.
The door was half-open. Three men were just visible, among them the Rev. Denbigh Morse. Kenyon touched the trigger of his gun, but as he did so a bullet struck his forearm. The pain went through him excruciatingly. His gun clattered to the floor from nerveless fingers.
Smoke coiled upwards from the gun of one of the three men in the doorway. All of them rushed into the room.
It was hopeless, Kenyon knew, but there was a madness in him. He swung his left arm in a crashing blow at the gunman, and although the man dodged, the blow caught him on the side of the face. Kenyon saw him go down. A red glow filled the soul of Kenyon; he hardly knew what he was doing as he rammed out with his left, thudding on bone, thudding on flesh.
Then something crashed on the back of his head, and he pitched forward into oblivion.
At half-past six that morning, four men faced each other in the library at Greylands.
Arnold Serle, his head bandaged, was seated opposite the distinguished-looking man whom he knew so well—and feared so much. The Rev. Denbigh Morse stood by the window overlooking the cricket field. Colonel Wyett was smoking a cigar, looking completely washed out.
The leader was speaking.
‘We’ve had a lot more trouble,’ he told Serle, ‘than we should have done. You haven’t handled this
as well…’
‘I’ve done everything possible…’ Serle began sharply.
Then stopped, for the other’s eyes seemed to bore through him.
‘You should know,’ that gentleman said very softly, ‘that I won’t take talk of that kind from you, or from anyone else.’
‘I—I’m sorry,’ muttered Serle. ‘I’ve had a lot of…’
‘Worry and trouble,’ interrupted the other. ‘I know. That is why I am complaining. How did Kenyon get here this time?’
‘He followed us from London.’
‘Which means that you didn’t trouble to have a car following you? I warned you only the other day to take no unnecessary chances.’
Serle said nothing; it was wiser not to.
‘However, it might have been worse,’ the other continued. ‘Where is Kenyon now?’
‘In the kitchen,’ said Serle.
‘Adequately secured, I trust?’
‘He’s tied hand and foot.’ Serle rubbed his nose as though tracing the little red veins. ‘And he’s tied to a bench fixed in the wall. There are three men with him, all armed.’
His leader smiled, thinly.
‘That should be enough,’ he murmured, ‘even for Kenyon. I think I’ll go and see him before you dispose of him. And the girl?’
‘In her room.’
‘I’m afraid,’ said the distinguished-looking man, very softly, ‘that she will have to go with Kenyon. It seems a pity, and it is very distasteful, but she will never be anything but a worry to us.’
The Rev. Denbigh Morse spoke for the first time.
‘Are you sure that it wouldn’t be wise to question Kenyon first? He might have something…’
‘Up his sleeve,’ murmured the other. ‘Yes, perhaps. We’ll see—ah! Answer that, Serle.’
Serle picked up the telephone, which rang suddenly.
For a moment there was silence. Then the three watchers saw the fat man’s face blanch. He muttered ‘hold on’ and then looked up and away from them all, moistening his drying lips. His voice shook:
‘They’ve—they’ve taken the cricketers.’
‘Taken them?’ The leader’s voice rose. ‘Taken them where? Give that to me.’