by John Creasey
‘Friends or foes, and I don’t think it’s foes. That you, Mike?’
‘Wally!’ exclaimed Mike hoarsely. ‘Wally, by all that’s holy. Wally!’
‘Hush, I’ve heard you,’ said Wally Davidson, his voice in no way flurried. Across his words there came another stuttering roar from the tommy-gun, but that faded into silence and he added: ‘Not nice people, are they? Is Howe here?’
‘Ye-es,’ said Howe uncertainly.
‘Hop back,’ said Wally. ‘Straight along, and you have to go through a spot or two of water. Keep your head high! Someone’s at the other end, and a rope’s dangling down from the summer-house. Good climbing.’ He paused as Brian hesitated, and then spoke with a touch of impatience. ‘Get off, man, you matter.’
Brian turned and walked hesitantly along the tunnel.
Davidson put out a hand to touch Mike’s shoulder, and then discovered that Bruce was there. Another burst of machine-gun fire followed, and after it Wally said:
‘I wish we’d brought one, we’d teach the beggars something. Only one rope back there, so far,’ he added inconsequentially. ‘Your turn next, Bruce.’ He gave a whisper of a laugh. ‘You matter, too!’ He paused, and then added: ‘Loftus said Howe first and you second, if I found you. Young Graham’s standing in the water, which you doubtless know of. Mike, I’ll toss you for the next place.’
‘Done,’ said Mike.
‘And that reminds me,’ said Davidson. ‘Intervals of three minutes. They’ve sent for another rope, by the way.’ He showed the illuminated dial of a wrist-watch, and said: ‘You go off in a couple of shakes, Bruce. Where’s that penny, drat it?’
As another burst of machine-gun fire came along the tunnel, he turned his torch on to a handful of coins, selected one with some difficulty since both hands were full, and put it between his lips. As Bruce Hammond started off unhurriedly Wally tossed the coin and caught it: it glittered in the light of his torch.
‘Heads,’ called Mike.
‘Heads,’ said Davidson a moment later. ‘Nice calling, Mike.’
‘You go next, and no arguing,’ said Mike quickly. ‘It’s been my show, and I’ll see it through.’ He grinned widely, and then went down on his knees again and loosed a burst of fire from another gun which Davidson had brought.
The answering volley from the machine-gun proved that he had not put the gunner out of action.
He had seen enough, moreover, to show him that the attackers were approaching slowly, and they were no more than fifty yards from the corner. Mike thought grimly that they would come in a greater hurry if they knew of the escape hole.
‘Better keep ‘em busy,’ said Davidson. He peered round the corner and sent two more shots towards the lights of the other party. He scored a hit, for one torch went out and an eerie cry as of pain travelled along the tunnel. The remaining torchlight showed a bright oval on the wall, for the corner represented a ‘T’ junction; and it grew gradually brighter.
Seconds dragged, and yet surprisingly soon Davidson’s time of departure arrived.
He went off at a leisurely rate, while Mike remained at the corner, seeing the glow of light from the torch growing larger all the time. He felt fascinated by it, knowing that if it grew too close it would be the end of what little chance remained to him, but that if he stepped into sight and fired at it, the tommy-gun would probably finish him in one burst.
He had Wally’s watch, and glanced at it. Thirty seconds had gone.
He thought he heard whispered voices from the tunnel, and his heart began to thump. The torchlight was so brilliant that he could see his hands and his clothes. He put the muzzle of his automatic round the wall, and squeezed the trigger; the answering fire came so quickly that a bullet struck the nose of the gun and wrenched it from his fingers.
At the acuteness of the pain he gasped, and let the gun clatter to the ground. There was a profound silence immediately afterwards and then he heard the whispers again, and shuffling footsteps.
A minute and thirty seconds had passed.
To Mike it seemed that he might as well have to wait an hour as a minute and a half, but it did not occur to him to hurry in Davidson’s wake. He heard heavy breathing then, while rubbing his wrist and backing a few paces. Without the gun he was helpless unless he could take refuge in the darkness. He thought of the water, which would slow up his progress, as well as that of the pursuers if they ventured into it. There was at least a chance that if he reached the water the others would assume that he and his fellow prisoners would drown.
Then he saw a distorted shape on the wall, a grotesque shadow which chilled him. As he watched it growing larger his heart beat so fast that it seemed to echo about the tunnel. The whispered voices followed, and then he felt easier, for he realised what the shape was: the men attacking wore gas masks.
He backed further away.
Except that he had to go slowly, he did not think of time. The slower he went the greater the chance the others had of getting up the rope, although he was by no means sure that all of them would get through: once they realised that his only gun had gone the attackers would get bolder.
He stumbled when his foot went into the water.
He remembered vividly all that had happened from the time he had first fallen into the stagnant pool; and then he turned his back on the attackers, a necessity which cost him dear, for there was something horrible beyond words in expecting a bullet in the back. The feeling grew worse when the light played on the water in front of him, and he heard the crack of an automatic; at least the tommy-gun wasn’t yet in play. He floundered forward until the water reached knee-level, and then plunged into it bodily. He was not exactly swimming, for his hands and knees kept touching bottom, but he presented a more difficult target.
Then he wondered whether he could hope to get through, for bullets skimmed the water, while chippings fell sharply from the roof and from the sides. With the noise thundering in his ears, ten times louder now that he was immersed, he struggled on. His ears were drumming, his heart beating fast, but nothing struck him, and presently he heard a voice not far ahead.
‘Right, Mike!’
His heart seemed to turn over in relief.
‘Graham here,’ said Young Graham. ‘The others are up—ah! Here’s the second rope!’ Something splashed into the water near Mike’s face as he managed to get a foothold. He was only dimly conscious of what was happening, except that the shooting seemed further away. He felt Graham thrust a rope into his hands and heard him snap:
‘Tie it around your waist!’
Mike obeyed, his hands trembling and fumbling. As he made the knot he felt the rope jerk. There was a pause, and then he was lifted from the water and felt himself swaying to and fro in the shaft. Once he swung against the side painfully, then knocked into Graham, who was being hauled up on the second rope.
Neither man spoke, neither man could see, except that the light at the top of the shaft, only a pinprick from the bottom of it, grew gradually clearer. At last Mike discerned Graham’s face, turned upwards, while from below them there were rumbling sounds, none of them distinguishable.
‘More shooting,’ he thought. ‘They’re trying to fire up the shaft.’
The daylight above him was so strong then that he had to close his eyes. He heard voices, and someone said:
‘One more heave. Now then—one—two—heave!’
With an upward surge he was taken out of the shaft and over the edge of the summer-house floor. He did not see the crowd gathered near, policemen and Home Guards as well as Loftus, Hammond, and several others. Davidson was standing by the edge, while someone bent down to help Mike up.
‘You’re all right,’ said Brian Howe. ‘You’re all right—Good Lord, I can hardly believe it! I——’
Howe stopped abruptly, for someone else drew near. Mike turned towards the newcomer, his eyes so unaccustomed to daylight that he could not properly see her, although he knew that it was a woman.
‘Mike,’ s
aid Regina. ‘Mike!’
‘Gina!’ He shot out his hands and felt her responding grip as firm and eager as his own. For a moment they held hands and he burbled something he did not properly understand himself. Regina laughed. Her eyes were gleaming and he stared at her incredulously, unable to believe the message in her expression.
‘Gina!’ he exclaimed.
‘Friends,’ said Loftus dryly, ‘no time for interludes of tendresse. Plenty later, maybe, but for the moment we’ve got a job to do. Mike, take Brian to Lady Beddiloe’s, will you? And you go with ‘em, Gina, to vouch for the scarecrows!’
‘Where are you off to?’ asked Mike suspiciously.
‘The entrance Bruce discovered,’ said Loftus. ‘We want to close it up. Nothing for you just now. Our job’s nearly over, but look after Brian Howe as if he were a crown jewel.’
Mike took a short step forward as Loftus, Hammond, some of the police, Graham and Davidson started off. He had no desire to stay behind, except that he did not want to lose sight of Regina. But it was Regina who held his arm, thus keeping him back, and he shrugged his shoulders.
He started with the others to walk to Beddiloe House with a bodyguard of policemen and Home Guard. At the nearest point that a car could come into the grounds of Lashley Cottage, one was waiting, and he clambered into it with the others. He was on edge to have word from Loftus, not knowing where he had gone or what had been discovered. He remembered that Bruce Hammond had talked of seeing someone he had not expected, someone who had guided him, unwittingly, to the entrance of the old mine. At least Hammond would know where it was.
But what about Quayle?
And what of Ratcliffe and the thin-lipped man, whose name he did not know. He had glimpsed the thin-lipped man once, but had never seen Quayle or Ratcliffe. Odd business, not knowing the people you were fighting.
The car pulled up outside Beddiloe House, and he climbed out, helped Regina down, and suddenly stopped worrying about other things. He was about to say something foolish, prevented himself, hugged her shoulders with one arm, and then turned towards the door.
Regina stopped short, while Mike stared at the tiny creature who stepped on to the porch, a lovely lady in a flowered dress whose eyes lighted up at sight of Regina.
‘Rita Ainsworth,’ breathed Regina. ‘What on earth is she doing here?’
20
Considerable Progress
Although Mike had seen a photograph of Rita he did not recognise her until he heard Regina’s exclamation, and saw her startled expression.
The question found an echo in Mike’s mind, while Brian Howe looked at the little woman in some bewilderment. Mike’s thoughts were swift, as Rita hurried down the steps and reached Regina, holding out both hands and gripping the other girl’s.
She breathed: ‘Where is he? Oh, please tell me, where is he?’
Regina drew a deep breath.
‘Who—who do you mean?’ she asked, and Mike saw that she was playing for time in an effort to collect her thoughts before answering the question.
‘Oh, please don’t pretend,’ said Rita quickly. ‘If only you knew how sorry I am for what I’ve done. I—I know what a beast I was to you the other day, but you must believe me when I say that I was excited. The main thing, the only thing that matters, is, where is he? I must see him!’ Her fine, bold eyes were staring tensely at Regina, and Mike—not knowing that Ainsworth was dead—wondered why Regina was so taken aback. ‘If only I can make him understand how sorry I am, and what a fool I’ve been!’
Regina said slowly:
‘We’d better go inside.’
‘Oh, why must you be so unkind?’ demanded Rita hotly. ‘I know I was beastly rude to you, but I wasn’t myself, I tell you. I’ll apologise, I’ll do anything you wish, but tell me where Martin is. I must see him!’
Regina repeated: ‘Let’s go inside.’ She went forward, and Rita followed her.
Mike and Brian stared at them and then at one another. The naval officer shrugged his shoulders, as if saying that it was beyond his comprehension, and then they followed the girls.
In the spacious hall, so steeped in tradition, Lady Beddiloe was standing by the drawing-room door, trim and delightful to look at, charmingly vague as to what was happening, but with her blue eyes showing understanding and compassion. Even Rita’s tension eased a little at sight of her.
She came forward with a hand outstretched towards Mike.
‘Michael, I am glad to see you. But my dear boy! You must have a bath! And—why, Brian! I didn’t recognise you. I’ll tell Harris to get baths running at once, and——’
‘Leave it for a few minutes, Aunt Bess, will you?’ Mike’s voice was a little strained. ‘I think I need to talk to Regina and Mrs. Ainsworth.’
Regina turned to him swiftly.
‘Mike, leave this to me, will you? We won’t be long.’ Her glance succeeded in conveying a message which made it clear that she was really serious. A little uncertain, but anxious to do nothing to perturb Regina, Mike shrugged his shoulders and forced a smile.
‘Right! And a bath isn’t such a bad idea, eh, Brian?’
‘Not bad at all,’ admitted Brian.
‘Ah, here is Harris,’ said Lady Beddiloe. She gave instructions to the butler quickly, with details of the room they were to have and orders that some clothes be found for them, and arrangements made for the clothes they were wearing to be cleaned. She did not fuss, but the orders flowed so smoothly from her tongue that events seemed easy and natural.
Mike and Brian went upstairs, Regina and Rita into the drawing-room. As Regina entered it, Lady Beddiloe asked: ‘You won’t want me, dear, will you?’
‘Not for a little while, thanks,’ said Regina.
She closed the door, appreciating the older woman’s thoughtfulness, but more concerned with the task ahead of her. Whatever she might have thought of Rita Ainsworth, she had come to the conclusion after the visit to Chenn Street that the woman had been in love with her husband; only love could have explained such an intensity of jealousy.
Breaking the news of his death would not be easy.
‘What are you holding back?’ demanded Rita swiftly. Her breathing was laboured, her voice held more than a hint of anger. ‘What are you so secretive about? There is something between you and Martin, I was right, I——’
‘Please be quiet,’ said Regina. She brushed her hair back from her forehead, and her expression kept Rita silent for a moment, although her eyes were filled with suspicion and her hands clenched. ‘This isn’t going to be easy, Mrs. Ainsworth, and it will be a shock.’
‘What do you mean, a shock?’
Regina hesitated. Further evasion would serve no purpose, and the tension was growing unbearable. She had suffered from the strain of waiting for news of Mike more than she realised, and it entered her mind that someone might have had to break similar news to her about him.
‘What is it?’ snapped Rita tensely. ‘Where is Martin?’
Regina said quietly: ‘I wish I hadn’t to tell you this, but he died yesterday.’
There it was, as blunt as it could be but perhaps kinder because of it. She saw Rita’s eyes narrow and then widen. The other woman backed a pace, clenched her hands and raised them to her breast. She did not speak immediately, although her lips parted and then closed several times. The room was very silent, except that birds were chattering outside, making a background of sound to this strange, almost macabre interview.
Then Rita emitted a low-pitched breath before she exclaimed: ‘You’re lying to me.’
‘I wish I were,’ said Regina.
‘But you must be; he was as well as I am, he was perfectly all right when I saw him!’
‘Yes,’ said Regina with an effort. ‘He was—killed.’
Rita backed another pace, struck against a chair, put a hand down to steady herself. Her lips were working, her eyes grew suddenly very bright. The quiet between them lasted for a long time, until Rita spoke in a lower, steadier v
oice.
‘Who killed him?’
‘You know the man,’ said Regina. ‘Lannigan.’
‘Lannigan didn’t know him.’
‘He did,’ insisted Regina, wishing that she could tell the other more, but uncertain how much Craigie and Loftus would want her to say. She went on, as Rita made no comment: ‘Lannigan wanted some information from your husband, and didn’t get it. So he killed him. Lannigan is under arrest now, in London.’
It was then that Rita broke down, turning blindly to the window and beginning to cry, staggering towards a settee and falling on to it, burying her face in her hands and uttering sobs which racked her body, and which Regina could do nothing to help. Regina stood looking at her, feeling deeply for her, yet amazed that she was so strongly affected.
For the next half-hour Regina forgot that Loftus and the others were on an urgent mission of inquiry, and that Mike was upstairs bathing and changing. Nothing but Rita’s crying seemed to matter, and the paroxysm did not seem to be nearing its peak but threatened to go on and on indefinitely.
• • • • •
Bruce Hammond and the others went through the village to the other side, up a short hill, and then across the fields of a farm, the house of which was old, picturesque, and well-kept, like everything on the Beddiloe estate. Bruce and Loftus did most of the talking, and amongst other things Bruce said:
‘There’s probably nothing much in it, Bill, but I saw her walking along here, and followed. I lost her and went up past the farm to a little cottage, and was shanghaied there. The cottage is just beyond that copse of trees,’ he added, and glanced at Chief Inspector Webber. ‘Do you know it?’
Webber rubbed his chin, and a constable, the local Lashley constable, said quietly:
‘I know it, sir. Belonging to Lashley Cottage. Mr. Edward rented it out to a friend.’
‘What’s the name of the friend?’ asked Loftus.
‘Smith, he did say.’
‘It’s all “Smith” in this business,’ growled Loftus, not in the best of tempers. ‘What was he like?’