by John Creasey
‘So we’re sure of Ratcliffe now,’ said Loftus. ‘Any news of Quayle?’
‘What a head I’ve got! I ‘phoned Craigie before I was knocked out, and he told me that Quayle was on his way down here; he got as far as Bath anyway.’
Loftus’s eyes narrowed.
‘Well, well, they’re all coming. We’ll keep more than a weather-eye open for Sir Edmund.’ He paused, and then added: ‘Is there anything you know about a man named Hanton, of Heath Place?’
‘Devil a bit,’ Malone assured him.
‘And Rita Ainsworth wasn’t mentioned?’
‘She was not,’ declared Malone. ‘Ah, I can see an ambulance coming, Bill, and I can do with a rest.’
Loftus smiled but was thoughtful as he turned to Webber, who had sent a man for another car as well as the ambulance. Webber looked ghostly pale as he said quietly:
‘I can hardly believe Ratcliffe is in this. And Hanton—surely Hanton can’t be?’
‘We’ll find out,’ said Loftus. ‘Malone says that Ratcliffe knew someone else was around to get us nicely on the mine before it caved in. We haven’t got ‘em all yet. But, thanks be, Brian Howe’s all right,’ he added softly.
The ambulance drew up, and was followed by an old Buick. Loftus climbed in next to Webber, the others crowded into the back. Webber was driving, and Loftus peered again towards the devastation wrought by the mines, but was somewhat happier because the village had not suffered, according to the men who had come from it. A small stream of people was on the move up the hillside, coming to see the chaos but kept away by two policemen whom Webber left on duty.
There was a nagging anxiety in Loftus’s mind.
Ratcliffe had left his house and gone elsewhere, presumably somewhere nearby. There was his evidence that someone else was working in the neighbourhood, the someone who had set the pretty trap which must have succeeded but for Malone’s wild drive. While there remained a man in the organisation, Brian Howe was in danger; but Loftus thought that Howe’s danger would last only until he had left the village, and it would not be long before he was on the way to London.
Afterwards——
Could Brian take his brother’s place successfully? Could he convince Vichy and Berlin that he would bring reliable information again and again? Were there any members of the Lannigan-Smith organisation at large who could send a warning to Berlin?
The whole plan stood or fell on the complete success of Brian’s impersonation of his brother, and the slightest whisper of suspicion about him would ensure failure.
What would that failure mean?
The death of Brian Howe; but that was a risk the naval officer would accept without question. There was little danger, now, of further genuine information getting out of the country, although while Quayle, and minor spies unknown to them, remained, there was always a chance. Loftus did not let himself brood too much on that, for it seemed clear that the organisation could not work again effectively. Most of it was smashed, and this quiet little village, its headquarters, would serve no further purpose. Odd, thought Loftus, that so much could have been planned and plotted in the tiny place, and that the knowledge of it would not have been discovered for some time but for Brian Howe’s anger because of his brother’s conscientious objection.
‘Nonsense,’ muttered Loftus sotto voce. ‘Mike started that trail.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Webber.
‘Sorry,’ said Loftus briefly. ‘I was talking to myself.’ He lapsed into silence again, and went on thinking: ‘Yes, Mike started it, after Regina. But it shouldn’t have been possible. It went far too smoothly.’ He turned to Webber. ‘What do you know of Hanton of Heath Place, Inspector?’
Webber pursed his lips.
‘He’s a reputable enough gentleman,’ he said. ‘He’s “new” to the district, as residents go here—he came not long after the last war.’
‘How did he make his money?’ asked Loftus.
‘Tinned food for the Forces,’ said Webber briefly.
‘H’m. Well, so did lots of others; I suppose we can’t hold that against him. Do you know whether Sir Edmund Quayle ever visited him?’
‘I couldn’t be sure,’ said Webber. ‘Quayle did call on Ratcliffe from time to time. Ratcliffe,’ he repeated under his breath, ‘I can’t believe that he’s in this.’
‘We’re past that stage,’ said Loftus quietly.
‘Well, there’s his house,’ said Webber resignedly.
He turned the car into the drive of a small Georgian house set in charming grounds and, like most of the better houses in the district, built on the brow of a hill commanding an admirable view of the surrounding countryside. Loftus had no eye for panorama or trees, but he did have eyes for a small wisp of smoke curling from one of the windows at the side of the house.
A fire was starting there.
As Webber stopped the car, Loftus opened the door and jumped out, rushing as fast as his stiff leg would carry him towards the smoke. Webber and the police followed, with Best close behind them. The door of the house was closed, but the Home Guards battered at it with the butts of their rifles. As they did so the smoke increased in density, the acrid smell wafting down from the side of the house.
The door crashed in. Loftus went through, with Best just behind him, and Webber at their heels.
Loftus was thinking that someone had stayed long enough at the house to set fire to the papers, vital papers if he was to get full information. He felt a fierce anger with himself for having waited so long before coming here, for it seemed that the fire had only just started. The smell inside the hall was not pronounced, and there was no sign of smoke.
Webber and Best passed Loftus and rushed up the stairs. All of them appreciated the urgency of the occasion, and Best was carrying an automatic in his right hand. They turned into a passage, out of Loftus’s sight, and then Loftus heard the thudding on another door.
He reached the passage in time to see Webber disappearing into it, and to hear Best shout: ‘Got you!’
A surge of hope raised Loftus’s heart as he limped along, and then entered the room. But as he was entering he saw Best leaning against the wall, a hand at his chest, which oozed blood, his eyes glazed. He saw Webber by the window, leaning out, and he forced himself to ignore the Department Z men.
Webber fired from the window.
His gun had a silencer, only a faint sound reaching Loftus’s ears. But he gained the window in time to see a man sprawling on to a grass lawn, a man whose head was holed with the bullet from Webber’s gun. A Home Guard, left on duty outside, was hurrying forward.
Webber drew back.
‘Ratcliffe was here,’ he said. ‘The fire—next room.’ Loftus turned and followed Webber out, sparing only a glance for the mountainous Best, who had slumped to the floor in an oddly twisted position.
A policeman was in the passage.
‘Look after him,’ said Loftus, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
The man went to obey, while Loftus reached Webber, who was putting his full weight against the next door. Smoke was curling from the floor gap in thin wisps, and the smell was much stronger. The door shook and quivered under impact, and then broke down.
A volume of smoke made Loftus and Webber choke as they staggered through. Near the fireplace, on the carpet, was a mass of flames leaping two or three feet into the room. There were signs of disorder and confusion, papers were all about the floor and littered a large desk. The smoke was so thick that it was possible only to see halfway across the room, and Loftus looked about desperately for something to quench the flames. He had found nothing when two policemen arrived with fire extinguishers, and the fight started.
To Loftus it all seemed extraordinarily impersonal, as if he were acting compulsively and without choice or volition. Disjointed thoughts and scenes flashed through his mind. Ratcliffe had come back and fired the papers on learning of the failure of his plans. Best had broken into the room and been shot. Webber had shot and
almost certainly killed Ratcliffe. But these were side issues, the papers were the things that mattered, and it seemed that they were being utterly destroyed. He watched the flames gradually dwindling, as the smoke increased and the unpleasant smell of the fire-extinguishing chemical became more insistent. He kept by the door, and after a while Webber joined him.
‘There won’t be a lot left,’ said the Inspector.
‘No. We’re just a little too late for everything. But we’ve got Ratcliffe. That’s something, I suppose. I’m going to Hanton’s place,’ he added abruptly. ‘Come with me, will you? And let your men salvage what they can from this.’
‘Do you need me there?’ asked Webber.
‘Badly,’ said Loftus.
That the fire had started too soon for him was a bitter thought, and he wondered whether the men who had gone to the unknown Hanton’s place would have any greater luck. True, there was no proof at all that Hanton was concerned in it, but he had to make as sure as he could that nothing else went wrong.
Then there was Quayle——
Quayle, suspected from the first but whom he had never seen, who had been watched for weeks by Department men and others but had not made a single slip, whose dignified portentousness remained a joke at the Ministry, who made his associates and subordinates hate him, who had the opportunity for co-ordinating the information passed on to Vichy.
It must be Quayle.
But there were others. Ratcliffe had talked of those who were preparing the trap for Loftus and the rest of the party, but even without Ratcliffe’s outburst, it was obvious enough that there must be someone else in the vicinity. Who could it be? Rita Ainsworth was a possibility, just a possibility and no more. The devil of it was that he did not know everyone in the district. He was plunging on the man Hanton because he seemed as likely as anyone; but that was no method of working, it was not even following a hunch.
They drove through the village, passing the gates of Lady Beddiloe’s house. Loftus thought fleetingly of that charming old lady, and her calm endurance throughout all that had happened, and then set thought of her aside and went on, with Webber driving, down a steep hill and then on a flat road towards Heath Place. The name of the big house of the tinned food manufacturer, who had made a fortune out of the last war, was justified, for the heathland about it was covered with heather, just then fading, while there were gorse bushes, some still showing a few yellow blooms, although most of them were dark green and flowerless.
Massive gates, upheld by pillars of Bath stone, stood at the entrance of the main drive to the house. A constable was standing outside, and saluted as they passed. The drive seemed inordinately long, but soon it was possible to see the big, red-brick house, which even twenty years had not mellowed.
Outside was the Lagonda, and another policeman.
There were voices coming from the hall, and as Loftus limped in with Webber at his side he heard Wally Davidson’s low and drawling voice.
‘Now come, no offence meant or intended. Grim times, you know, we must ask questions.’
‘Questions be damned!’ exclaimed a little, bald-headed man with a red face; his colour, Loftus judged, being mostly due to anger. ‘I won’t have young ruffians coming ‘ere—here—and asking me a lot of dam’ silly questions. That’s flat. I’ll have the police after you, and——’
The bald-headed man, presumably Hanton of Heath Place, running out of threats as the others arrived, turned and saw Webber, and pointed a fat, quivering finger towards him.
‘Now then, Webber, send these fellas out of my ‘ouse.’ In his rage his aspirates failed him, a music-hall joke in which Loftus felt no amusement. ‘Do I know this? Are my friends all right? I’ve never heard such a lot of nonsense!’
‘I think you’ll find that they have full authority to ask questions, sir,’ said Webber thinly.
‘Authority. Authority! Whose authority? Yours? I’ll see that you’re reported. Webber, I’ll talk to the Chief Constable myself if you don’t clear them out!’ He was truculent, confident of his ability to send the visitors packing. He ignored Davidson, who looked faintly bored, and Young Graham, who was obviously not pleased. ‘Ain’t it bad enough to ‘ave such a disaster without a lot o’ flummery nonsense. See that ‘ill? See it!’ He took three steps to the door on short, podgy legs, and pointed across the parkland surrounding the house towards the scene of desolation, while wiping the perspiration from his neck and forehead. ‘Look at it! All my land, all my——’
Loftus broke in sharply:
‘Let’s discuss that later, sir. Do you know Sir Edmund Quayle?’
He had no idea what questions Davidson and Graham had asked, and wanted only to break through Hanton’s stream of pompous absurdities. He succeeded, for the little bald-headed man swung round on him, a fist clenching.
‘What do you mean? Do I know Sir Edmund! Of course I know Sir Edmund, a better man there never was! I—why——’
He broke off abruptly.
Loftus turned to look out of the door, for another car came along the drive, and he saw Bruce Hammond at the wheel, with Mike Errol, Brian Howe, Regina and another woman with him in the car. The other woman was Rita Ainsworth, who was next to Bruce. As the car drew nearer Hanton peered short-sightedly towards it. His colour faded; he half-turned and would have made for the stairs had Loftus not stretched out a hand and gripped his arm.
‘Let me go!’ snapped Hanton. ‘Let me go!’
‘Shortly,’ said Loftus quietly. ‘We’ll see what this is about first.’
He felt the man trembling under his grip as the carload of people climbed out, Bruce Hammond and Rita in the lead. They hurried into the house, and as they came Rita cried:
‘That’s him, that’s him!’
‘Who?’ asked Loftus, forcing himself to keep a grip on the situation, bewildered by the woman’s manner, but keeping Hanton in a tight hold. ‘Who, Mrs. Ainsworth?’
‘The man who was always at Queen Street,’ shouted Rita, ‘the man who was always giving Lannigan orders. That’s him, Hanton!’
‘Well, well,’ said Loftus. ‘We are having a time.’
‘I—I don’t know what she’s talking about,’ gasped Hanton. ‘Who’s Lannigan? Who——’
‘You know who he is!’ Rita shrieked at him. ‘He’s the man you paid to kill my husband. You’ve always hated me, ever since I married Martin you’ve always hated me!’ She swung round on Loftus and went on in the same high-pitched voice: ‘He used to pretend to be a friend of mine, a fine friend he was. He wanted to marry me. My father wanted me to marry him, too, the pair of them thought I’d do what I was told, but they were wrong, damn them, I left home and I haven’t seen them since, except when Hanton’s come to Queen Street!’
‘I—I don’t know what she’s talking about,’ mumbled Hanton. ‘Silly little chit, lot of nonsense. I—I don’t know her.’ He turned to Webber. ‘Inspector, you——’
‘Don’t know me!’ screamed Rita. ‘You double-crossing liar, you know me all right! You know my father, too, and I know what you’ve been doing now. If you’d let Martin alone I wouldn’t have told on you, but I’ll tell them everything I know, everything!’
‘Shut up!’ Hanton shouted at her.
‘Don’t you think——’ began Webber, to be cut short by Loftus’s quiet:
‘Just a moment, Inspector. Mrs. Ainsworth, who is your father?’
‘Don’t you even know that?’ The woman looked at him contemptuously. ‘Sir Edmund Quayle, of course; when I married Martin he disowned me. But that didn’t matter, even if I left him I loved Martin, I——’ She stopped, looking sharply from Loftus to Webber.
She opened her lips, but before she spoke Webber suddenly kicked out at Loftus, and sprinted to the door.
‘Stop him, stop him!’ screamed Rita. ‘He was at Queen Street too!’
22
An Englishman Goes North
It was Wally Davidson, so lethargic of appearance and slow of movement, who first drew h
is gun from his pocket and fired at Webber’s legs. He hit the policeman, who pitched down the few steps of the porch, tried to get up, then snatched at a gun in his pocket. With the same easy speed Davidson fired and struck Webber’s wrist. Webber gasped and fell back, while Hanton turned and ran towards the stairs.
‘I don’t think,’ said Young Graham.
He caught the man without difficulty, grasping him by the scruff of the neck and leading him back to the centre of the hall. Loftus had picked himself up, with Bruce’s help, while Davidson and two Home Guards were bending over Webber.
Loftus drew a deep breath.
‘Of course, Webber,’ he said like a man in a dream. ‘I’d missed him completely. O.C. police around here. Suspicious characters frequently at the cottage, a cottage owned by a conchie and a suspect. Couldn’t “believe” it of Ratcliffe, couldn’t he?’ He paused and then went on in the same dazed voice: ‘Ratcliffe was quite right, you led us on, Webber. You fell down pretending you were hit before the rush on the cottage started. That should have told me. Then you got to Ratcliffe’s house first. My God, it was you who shot Best, and then Ratcliffe—Ratcliffe, to stop him from talking. Best, because he suddenly suspected you.’
Webber glared at him, but said nothing.
Loftus turned to Rita Ainsworth, but before she spoke Bruce Hammond said quietly:
‘I found that she didn’t know of her husband’s death, Bill. She was pretty worked up about it, and I asked a few questions. She knew something was brewing, knew her father and Hanton were in some rogue’s game together. Presumably that’s why Hanton wanted to marry her, to keep it all in the family. When she married Ainsworth it really started the trouble between Ainsworth and Quayle. She told me that Hanton had been to Queen Street quite often.’
The girl was standing by the wall, and Regina, who had not spoken, had an arm about her. Loftus brushed his hair back from his forehead, looked at them both, and then turned to Hanton.