Dead or Alive (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  Ross sent for dinner from a nearby restaurant, after making arrangements with Craigie for Bray to be watched. Everything now depended on whether Bray managed to see the mystery man. Would the unknown fall for it?

  Ross doubted it.

  He did not enjoy his dinner.

  He’d just finished when the telephone bell rang again, and it was Brown, who had gone to join Williamson in the watch on Bray.

  “Peter?”

  “Bray had a drink at the Dive, left twenty minutes ago, met a man at the corner of Regent Street and Great Marlborough Street, and they went off together in a taxi. Tim’s following in a radio-equipped car. Be ready for a call.”

  “I’m ready,” said Ross, softly.

  “So’m I,” said Brown, and rang off.

  Williamson called over the radio, which was operated at Scotland Yard. Bray had left the other man after they had ridden for fifteen minutes. Bray was still in the taxi, the other man was walking along the Strand. Brown was walking after him, Williamson following slowly in the car.

  Ross caught up with Williamson’s car at the corner of Chancery Lane.

  “Along here,” Williamson said as Ross drew up.

  Ross pulled the car in, left it parked at the kerbside, and Williamson to deal with any police protest, and walked swiftly along Chancery Lane. Its narrow length was almost deserted. He saw a man pass beneath a lighted window, and again beneath a street lamp; then the man was swallowed up in the darkness. A car came along, its headlights blazing, and there was no sign of the man. Ross hurried, and as he passed the doorway of a building near Holborn, he heard Brown whisper:

  “Here.”

  Brown was inside the doorway of the building.

  “He came in here.” Brown’s voice was pitched very low, as Ross turned into the doorway. “He didn’t use a key for this door, and I heard him walk up the stairs.”

  “Good. Know the place?”

  “Not to say know it. There are several small firms here — nothing of any consequence.” Brown glanced up at a board with the names and addresses of the firms in the building. “I’ve read them.”

  “Back way?” asked Ross.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Will you go and see?”

  Brown nodded, and disappeared with his astonishing silence of movement. Ross went to the front door and tried the handle; the door was locked. He took out his skeleton key, but hesitated, then touched the keyhole lightly with the metal, half-expecting to get an electric shock; it wouldn’t be as simple as this.

  There was no shock.

  If he picked the lock, there might be an alarm.

  He worked on the lock, and found himself tense and cold. There was no way of being sure that this was the man who telephoned; no way of being sure that if he were, then Mae was here. He felt the key get a hold and turned gently.

  The door opened.

  Brown appeared as if out of thin air.

  “Only back way is the window, and Tim’s out there.”

  “Good.”

  Ross thrust the door open a foot, and squeezed through. There was no light beyond. He didn’t use a torch, but stood for long enough to get his eyes accustomed to the gloom. Then he moved forward, with Brown close on his heels. He could pick out the staircase and the pale-coloured walls, reached the bottom step and started up. They were wooden steps without any covering; no one could go up without making some noise.

  Even Brown made a few creaks, but so few that they couldn’t be heard unless someone was close at hand listening for them. As they reached the first landing, a faint glow of light showed through the window. Ross reached it and peered out; there was no sign of Williamson.

  Was this a waste of time?

  Brown was already half-way up the stairs. They saw no glimmer of light until they reached the next landing; then it came from the floor above — from the top of a closed door. Ross put his hand to his pocket and his gun. Brown was still in the lead, moving with uncanny silence.

  He reached the next landing.

  He stepped forward — and a bell rang, sharp and shrill, beyond the door.

  There was a moment of tense silence, and then a thud — and the light went out. Ross launched himself at the door, it creaked and sagged but didn’t open. Brown joined him, they strained at it together — and as it creaked there was another sound; a scream.

  The door crashed open.

  Brown staggered into the darkness beyond, and the scream was repeated; a woman was in there. Ross stood swiftly to one side and Brown called:

  “I’m okay.”

  The woman screamed again, as if in agony — and then her voice gurgled away into silence — an uncanny and frightening silence.

  No one spoke.

  Brown shifted his position slightly.

  A man said in the familiar telephone voice:

  “Let me go, or I’ll kill her.”

  There was no noisy menace, just the simple statement — of a man who meant exactly what he said. Ross didn’t answer, and tried to pierce the gloom. He could make out the shape of another door, but there was no glimmer of light.

  “Understand, Ross?” the man said.

  Ross didn’t answer.

  “You needn’t think you’ll break my nerve,” said the man. “Let me go, or I’ll kill her. Come in — with your hands in sight.”

  Ross kept silent.

  The man said: “Listen,” and after a pause there was another scream, so close to them, so agonised, that it sent a palsy of cold fear up Ross’s spine. It was choked off into a gurgle, and there was a sound, as of a body falling.

  Then a light stabbed out from a torch. It shone through the other door, which had been opened, Ross could see only the bright orb and the beam. He couldn’t even see Brown, who had moved to one side.

  “Do what I tell you, Ross,” the man said.

  Ross took his hand from his pocket and his gun and stepped forward. The light was shining on to his chest, and the glow spread to his face. Apart from that, there was blackness. He took another step — and then darted to one side. A shot roared out, flame stabbed. Ross hit the wall, lost his balance, and the man in the dark room rushed forward, firing again.

  Ross heard a gasp from Brown — and Brown fell against him, stopping him from getting at his gun. The gunman jumped to the head of the stairs, fired twice again, and then raced down.

  Brown gave a curious rattling sound in his throat.

  Ross turned, in pursuit.

  17

  RESCUE

  ROSS fired as he reached the top of the stairs, and the flash showed the running man, half-way down the next flight. He was turning, with his gun pointed upwards. Ross lost precious seconds flattening himself against the wall. A bullet thudded close to his head. The man ran on. Ross took a chance and swung himself over the banisters, landed on the edge of a step, and fell. He didn’t hurt himself, and was up in a flash. The running man fired again, but aimed too high. Ross fired at the flash.

  Then he trod on the edge of a step, and fell heavily.

  He heard the other’s thudding footsteps, but no other sound. Even that faded. He picked himself up, and hurried down. A cool breeze came in at the open door, and he saw the dim lights of Chancery Lane. Two or three people were hurrying towards Holborn, and stood back when they saw him.

  The man had disappeared.

  “What’s up?” a man asked.

  “What’s that?” cried a girl.

  A car turned into the street, and its bright lights shone on spots which glistened bright red — blood. There were several of them on the white step, close to Ross; so he’d winged his man.

  “Say, what is all this?” a man asked, nervously.

  “Police,” said Ross, and turned and ran towards Holborn, breathing more easily. A policeman loomed up as he reached the corner.

  Ross showed his card.

  “Special Branch. Did you see a man running from here just now?”

  “I did, sir, he got into a taxi, and we
nt that way.”

  The constable pointed.

  “Call the Information Room, tell them about it — the man’s wounded. He’s wanted for murder.”

  Ross didn’t give the man time to react, ignored the gasps of the little crowd that had gathered, bored his way through it, and went back to the building. As he reached the entrance, Williamson appeared from the other direction.

  “Luck?”

  “Some,” said Ross. “Brown’s hurt.”

  Williamson made no comment, and they went upstairs, switching on the lights as they went. From the first floor landing downwards there were spots of blood; the man seemed to have been wounded badly. The lights shone on the unpainted walls and the white-painted doors, all of which were closed. There was no sound upstairs.

  Brown lay in a huddled heap, with a bullet hole in his forehead.

  Ross motioned to him, and Williamson stopped; Ross didn’t see the tall man’s face. He went into the rooms from which the man had run, and switched on the light. The first room was an office with two desks in it, several filing-cabinets, and a large cupboard. He opened the cupboard doors; there were shelves, papers, and books inside, no one was there. He set his teeth as he stepped into the next door, and the scream from the girl seemed to echo about him, even now. He groped for and pressed down the light.

  It was Mae.

  She was tied to an upright chair, lolling forward, fully dressed although her blouse was torn at the shoulder and one sleeve had been ripped out, showing her long, bare arm. She didn’t move.

  Ross tried to relax as he went towards her, but he couldn’t. He felt a surge of hatred and of anger with himself — that he had let the man go. He raised Mae’s head, gently. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted. She was horridly pale, had on practically no lipstick — he’d never seen her look anything like this. He cut the cords at her wrists and legs; this was the third time he’d done that, the man was an expert in tying up his victims.

  Mae slumped forward.

  Ross lifted her bodily and carried her across the room to a large arm-chair; this was a private office, furnished with some comfort. He pulled up another chair and rested her legs on it, and pushed a pillow behind her head so that she could lie comfortably. He touched her wrist, hesitated, and felt for the pulse; then smiled grimly at himself, for there was no need for that, she was breathing. He felt her head, gingerly; there was no lump, nothing to suggest that she had a head wound. He took out his flask and forced a trickle of brandy between her lips. She gulped at once, and swallowed most of the brandy; her eyes flickered.

  Ross stood back, lighting a cigarette.

  Williamson was talking on the telephone in the other room, presumably to Craigie.

  Ross went out, and looked at Brown, although he knew that Brown was dead. Williamson put down the receiver and stretched out his hand for a cigarette; Ross gave him one, without speaking.

  “How’s the girl? Was it Mae?”

  “Yes. She’ll do.”

  “I heard the shout.”

  “I don’t know what he did to her,” said Ross, “but I know what I’ll do to him.”

  “That trail of blood should help.”

  “Yes. Gordon sending a doctor?”

  Williamson nodded.

  “And Loftus is coming himself, I think.”

  Ross shrugged and went back into the inner room. Mae was still leaning back, but her lips were closed, there was a tinge of colour in her cheeks, her eyes flickered. Ross took her hand and squeezed gently, and her eyes opened wider. They were surprisingly clear and lovely, but dazed. She didn’t seem to recognise him at first, but when she did, she moved her right hand towards him.

  He took it, and pressed.

  “You’ll be all right, my darling.”

  “Peter!”

  “Just take it easy.”

  “That man ——”

  “He’s gone,” said Ross.

  “Did you — catch him?”

  “We will, soon.”

  She closed her eyes.

  “So you let him go,” she said, and there was bitterness in her husky voice. “You let him ——”

  “Take it easy, darling.” He poured out a little more brandy, and she took it eagerly. She couldn’t have been tied up for long, there were no marks at her wrists, and she seemed to be in no pain from the blood re-circulating. She gasped as she finished the brandy, and held out her hand. He lit a cigarette for her, and put it between her lips. “We’ll soon have you home.”

  “Yes. Peter, I — I’m sorry.”

  “Forget it.”

  “I didn’t mean ——”

  “I said, forget it.”

  She smiled slightly, and closed her eyes again. He did not attempt to make her talk for a few minutes, but when he judged that she had recovered sufficiently and that the brandy was doing its work, he pulled up a chair and sat astride it, leaning forward on to the back.

  “Better?”

  “Much.”

  “How long have you been here, Mae?”

  “Only — a few hours.”

  “Did he bring you?”

  “Yes. Those two men yesterday took me to a house in the East End. I was locked in a room, a tiny room without windows, I could hardly breathe. They didn’t — hurt me. Then he came this evening, and took me away. At the point of a gun. Peter, it’s hard to believe that it happened to me.”

  “It won’t, again.”

  She shuddered.

  “He sat here most of the time, with the gun in his hand.”

  “Was anyone else with him?”

  “No.”

  Ross asked: “You sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure!”

  Williamson reached the room, nodded to Mae and Ross, and went out; soon they heard him talking to one of the men who was coming up the stairs. Someone gave an order crisply, to force each office door. Ross turned back to Mae, and sat down again.

  “What did he do?”

  “When the burglar alarm sounded, he went out,” said Mae. “He kept me covered with the gun, and I — Peter, I hate myself! I was so frightened. I could have cried out, but I let him do what he wanted.”

  “You shouldn’t hate yourself,” said Ross gently. He knew that someone else had come in — and from the deliberate and heavy footsteps, judged that it was Bill Loftus. He didn’t look round, and Mae only glanced up. He could imagine the big man standing in the doorway, listening, deciding not to interrupt. “What happened then?”

  “He knew you were there, came back, and — twisted my wrist. It was — agony. He hardly seemed to touch me, but it was as if my arm was on fire. I couldn’t help screaming — Peter, I couldn’t help it!”

  “Now take it easy,” said Ross. “I know that grip.”

  “And so do I,” said Loftus.

  He moved forward, looking burly and ungainly, smiled at Mae — and transformed himself. Smiling, he didn’t look the same man, became human and likeable, like a big boy. He sat on the corner of a small desk, which tipped up a little, and he sat farther back on to it.

  “Nice to see you again,” he said mildly. “Thank Peter, it was his idea.”

  “I know,” she said. “I knew that if anyone rescued me, it would be — Peter.” She looked tired now, her head seemed heavy. “You’re all right, aren’t you?”

  “I’m fine,” said Ross. “Now, what did the gent look like?”

  She hesitated.

  “A rough description will do,” said Loftus.

  “Rough! I could pick him out of a thousand men,” said Mae. “He’s rather tall and thin — nearly as tall as that man who was here just now.”

  “Tim,” said Ross.

  “I don’t know what you call him. He’s very dark, going grey at the sides. His face ——” She hesitated, and closed her eyes again.

  The others didn’t speak.

  She said: “He has a long face and a high forehead, and his hair recedes at the front. He has big eyes, dark brown — they seemed uncan
ny. Smoky eyes.” Her voice rose, she seemed almost hysterical. “I can’t help it, but they seemed to smoke as if they were on fire.”

  “Take it easy,” Loftus said.

  “I — I’m sorry. He has a short nose and wide nostrils, distended at the sides. You know what I mean — nipped just above the nostrils and very wide. And thin lips, a pointed chin — a very long chin.” She raised one hand. “It doesn’t sound anything, but the effect ——”

  “We’ve got the effect,” said Loftus. “It’s fine — we’ll soon have him. How are you feeling?”

  “I’m all right,” said Mae. She tried to get up, but collapsed. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

  “Will you take her home, Peter?” asked Loftus. “We’ll look after things here.”

  “Yes. Mae, was there anyone else at this place in the East End — where you were first held?”

  “Only — an old woman.”

  “Not another girl? A young girl, early twenties?”

  Mae looked puzzled.

  “No — no, I didn’t see anyone like that. Why?”

  “Forget it,” said Loftus. “Did you know what part of the East End this was in?”

  She shook her head.

  “I hardly noticed anything. They stopped me at the side of the road, bundled me into a car, and made me sit back — it was a big car, I couldn’t see much, because the blinds were down. I know it was the East End, I saw a drab little street of small houses. There was a garage, I remember, but I only caught a glimpse of it.”

  Ross said tensely: “Just a garage? Did you see another big building?”

  “I — I don’t think so. I was so frightened, Peter. I couldn’t help it, I was anxious to do just what they told me, I was afraid of them. I used to think I could stand anything, I’ve never been frightened like that before. The garage was a large tin shed. They took me into a house nearby.”

  “Any ideas?” Loftus asked.

  “I’m full of ideas,” said Ross. He took Mae’s hand and pressed it tightly, then brushed her forehead with his lips. “I’ve another little job, darling. One of the others will take you home and look after you until I get back. I won’t be long.”