Strike for Death

by John Creasey

  Roger reached the gateway a few seconds later.

  The little car was pulling up outside the front door, where a bright electric light shone on the car, the pillars of the porch, the red brick. The lights glowed crimson as Tessa Lee put on the brakes: faded as she switched off the engine. Her door opened first, but before she could get round to the other side, Munro’s opened.

  That was when Roger saw the three men appear from some bushes behind the little car; the moment when his lapse might have been disastrous. No wonder the Yard called him lucky! He switched off his car lights, thrust the door open, slid out and left it open, so as not to slam it. As he reached the gateway, the three men were within three or four yards of the couple who were now by the side of the little car; and the men were in shadow, neither seen nor heard by Munro or the girl.

  Tessa was saying: “No, darling, I won’t come in. I couldn’t face your father tonight, anyhow, and—well, it’s time you had some rest, you’ll be silly if you don’t go to bed right away. And you shouldn’t come into the office in the morning.”

  “Get two dozen wild horses, and see if they could keep me away,” Munro said. He was standing very close to her, and Roger saw his arms go round her – and saw the nearest of the three men now almost within striking distance; he had a weapon raised, shoulder high.

  “Look out!” Roger bellowed. “Look out!”

  Munro dropped his arms almost before the first word rang out, the girl swung round, the man with the upraised weapon also spun on his toes, while the others stopped as if by clockwork, and stared over their shoulders.

  “Get indoors!” Roger bellowed, and flung himself forward and grabbed at the ankles of the man nearest him. He wanted one prisoner, and it didn’t matter which. He caught the ankles as the man tried to kick, and tugged hard; the man toppled down.

  The others turned and ran.

  Roger felt winded and bruised as he lay on the ground, but felt a kind of exultation because he had the prisoner. The man was scrabbling the gravel, but his hands and face were on the grass over which the trio had been able to approach without being heard.

  Then the girl shouted: “Malcolm, don’t!”

  Was Munro going after the fleeing men?

  Roger let his victim go, and scrambled to his feet, confident that he could stop the prisoner from getting away, prepared to be really rough if necessary. He saw Munro hurrying towards him, not towards the running men; well, that was sensible, and any help would be useful.

  The man on the ground was starting to get up.

  “Watch him,” Roger warned, “he’ll probably try to kill you if—”

  He broke off.

  Munro seemed to trip up, but there was little doubt that he did it purposely. He fell squarely against Roger, and his weight was enough to send Roger reeling again, off his balance at the moment of impact, Staggering, he saw the man on the ground get to his feet; before he could steady himself the man had disappeared with the others.

  And Munro was saying: “I’ll get him, don’t worry, I’ll get him!” and he turned and rushed off, as if to make it look an accident

  “Malcolm!” the girl cried. “Don’t go!”

  Then the door opened and bright light flooded the carriage way. It shone upon Munro, who wasn’t running very fast, on the girl who was half way between the car and Roger, on the gravel, the bushes, the little car itself. And it threw a shadow.

  Roger didn’t know for certain who it was, but felt almost sure that this was Sir Ian Munro.

  Chapter Seven

  Cause Of Death

  Malcolm Munro did not get any farther than the gate; he stopped and swayed, as if unable to keep his balance. The girl ran towards him, passing within a foot or two of Roger and glancing at him without speaking. Roger could show his anger, but it wouldn’t help. Young Munro had said that he hoped the police would not catch any of his assailants for fear of causing a vendetta, and obviously he wouldn’t let much stand in the way of doing whatever he wanted.

  Had he any other reason for not wanting anyone caught? Tessa Lee reached him, put her arm round his waist, and turned with him as they walked towards the door.

  All this had taken only a few moments. During them, the man on the porch had stood still. Now he came stamping forward, and Roger recognised Sir Ian from a photograph. He was a head shorter than Roger, shorter still than Malcolm, but he was stocky and looked youthful; a bull of a man.

  He reached Roger.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?”

  “I’m Chief Inspector West, and I came to see Mr Munro got home safely,” Roger said mildly.

  “What’s going on?” Sir Ian stared at Malcolm, who was now prominent in the porch light, saw the bandages and the scraped nose and looked astounded; so no one had told him what had happened. “Didn’t you hear me?” He gave the impression that he was trying hard not to shout. “What’s going on?”

  The girl said: “Sir Ian, I’m terribly sorry, but Mr Malcolm must be taken to his room. He’s been hurt, and he’ll collapse if we’re not careful.”

  Sir Ian said: “So he’s been hurt,” and then proved to be more than a hectoring bully, for he took his son’s arm, and said in a quieter voice: “Yes, I can see. Go inside, Miss Lee, and ask any servant you see to get Mr Malcolm’s bed ready. Lean on me, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm muttered: “I’m all right.”

  But he wasn’t; or else he was only pretending to be in a state of collapse. He didn’t speak, and there seemed no doubt that he would have fallen but for his father; Roger saw that as he ran to his car, flicked on the radio, and asked the Yard to flash Division about the three assailants in this neighbourhood; it was probably too late, but he mustn’t miss a chance. He hurried back, anxious to study the Chairman of Munro’s, the throwback to the feudal age.

  The girl had hurried ahead.

  Roger reached Sir Ian in time to help the younger man up a flight of stairs which had a half-landing. The walls were painted white, and in each panel, up the staircase and in the hall, were small paintings; even the glance which Roger was able to give them told him that they were all good. He recognised a Gainsborough, thought he saw a small Rubens, was positive that a picture at the head of the staircase was by Constable. He put that out of his mind; he needed no telling that Sir Ian was a millionaire with an eye for art and a head for its values.

  Then, a manservant took over.

  “See that he gets to bed at once, Simm, make sure that he has everything he needs, and then come and tell me,” Sir Ian said, and eyed his son as if trying to make up his mind about him. “Good night, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm had no colour left at all, and was breathing heavily; almost as if he had been hurt worse than anyone at the factory had suspected.

  Like young Grannett?

  ‘”Night,” he said, and looked at the girl. ‘”Night, Tessa. Thanks.” He went with the manservant, and the girl watched every step he took, as if any pain that he felt, she felt also. Roger, deliberately silent, studied the old man’s brick-red and veiny face; but had little reward. He could not read Sir Ian’s expression, could not be sure what was reflected in his eyes. His voice was much quieter than it had been outside, and a little gruff.

  “Come along, Miss Lee, you’ll be collapsing yourself if you’re not careful. Better rest before I have you sent home. Drove my son here, did you?”

  She nodded.

  “Come along, then.” Sir Ian was brisk as he took her arm and led the way down the stairs. At the foot, he turned to look at Roger. “So you’re Chief Inspector West. I hope you’ve already established that the death of the young man this afternoon was an accident.”

  “I’ve established that there have been two murderous attacks on your son since this afternoon,” Roger said quietly, “and I want to make sure who committed them, and why.”

  Sir Ian stopped, stood very still, looked into Roger’s eyes, kept his hold on the girl’s arm, and said gratingly: “Friends of the dead youth did, of
course. It is all part of the general situation, the completely unjustified revolt of employees against their employers. I want everyone involved caught and punished to the absolute extent of the law. Understand that? Everyone of them must be caught and punished.”

  That was followed by anticlimax, for there was a sound on the porch, as of a man hurrying. The door was now closed. The big letterbox opened, and a letter was pushed through, looking very white. The letter fell to the carpet, the letterbox clicked, the footsteps sounded again, receding.

  Roger moved swiftly, reached the door and opened it, and the light fell on the face of a man who was looking over his shoulder as he hurried away.

  It was Michael Grannett.

  Roger said sharply: “Come here a minute!”

  “Too busy,” Grannett said, in a cold voice. “I’ve brought a note for the Chairman. I just want him to know that even though his son is a murderer, the pay claim is going to be dealt with on its merits.”

  Roger could have stopped him, but allowed him to hurry away; a moment after there was the sound of a motor-cycle engine, a two-stroke which seemed uneven. Roger turned back to the hall, where Sir Ian stood with the opened letter in his hand, and Tessa stood by the door looking at him almost in despair.

  “May I see?” Roger asked, and took the letter when Sir Ian didn’t answer. It was written in a bold hand, without flourishes, and it said simply:

  Your son may be a cold-blooded murderer, but that makes no difference to the merits of the wage claim. I hereby formally notify you that the Management’s answer is expected by 5 pm on the Friday of this week, and if there is any delay the responsibility is entirely that of the Management

  Roger looked up into Sir Ian’s eyes; shocked yet angry eyes.

  “Was that Grannett himself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I will not have that man in my factory or on my premises a moment longer than I must,” Sir Ian said gratingly. “I shall dismiss him at the first opportunity, and after that he will be refused admission. If he tries to force his way in it will be trespass, and I shall charge him. I look to you to see that the law is obeyed, Mr West, and to establish the facts. The facts are that young Grannett’s death was accidental, that he struck the first blow, and so began the fight.”

  There seemed hatred in the tone of his voice and in his glittering, pale-grey eyes.

  Roger stayed at the house for nearly ten minutes, using every opportunity to study Sir Ian. He telephoned the Division and arranged for this house to be watched back and front, making it clear that he was preparing against the possibility of another attack on Malcolm, but Sir Ian made no comment. The Lee girl looked harassed and tired. Of one thing Roger became sure: Munro might be a throwback, might have all the qualities of an industrial dictator, but he was certainly a strong man. He had probably known exactly what he had wanted all his life, and driven ahead for it – and got it. Yet he could be gentle; he was, with Tessa Lee.

  “I’m perfectly well enough to drive home myself,” she said, “nothing’s going to happen to me.”

  “I intend to make sure,” Sir Ian said briefly. “I shall send—”

  “Let me drive Miss Lee home,” Roger offered. “You can have her car sent on later.”

  Sir Ian raised no objection, and Tessa’s protest was perfunctory. She was anxious to leave, apparently, as if a little ill at ease in the old man’s presence.

  When they were outside, at Roger’s car, she looked up at a lighted window, knowing that Malcolm was there.

  Roger closed her door, went to the other side, and spoke to two men who got out of a police car: the Division was good and quick. There was no trace of the three assailants, he was told, before he got in beside Tessa, and said: “They’ll make sure there’s no more trouble, Miss Lee. Do we go anywhere near the hospital?”

  “I live only five minutes’ drive away from it.”

  “That’s fine, I can call on my way back.”

  The girl didn’t comment, and Roger waited until they reached the end of the road, and she told him which way to go. “Miss Lee,” he went on very quietly, “before tonight, did you know of anyone with reason to want Mr Malcolm Munro dead?”

  She seemed to be taken completely by surprise. “No, of course not.”

  “Do you think that these two attacks are the result of what happened this afternoon?”

  “I—I’d taken it for granted that they were,” she said. “Surely you don’t think—” She broke off, as if struck by a new horror.

  “All I can do is collect facts,” Roger pointed out, quietly, “and it’s a fact that I wouldn’t expect two murderous attacks like this because of what happened today. A spontaneous outburst of anger, yes. One or two youngsters with a grudge, ready to throw stones and beat Mr Munro up, yes. But there were a dozen men in the factory attack, weren’t there?”

  “At least.”

  “And three here, too. Do you know why Mr Munro deliberately helped the man I’d caught to get away?”

  He sensed the way she looked at him in the darkness, caught a glimpse of the glint of her eyes as they passed a street-lamp.

  “He can’t have done.”

  She probably believed that. There was no way of being sure. She was tired and scared, and was never likely to be in a more amenable mood for being questioned. Roger had to keep reminding himself that his job was to get at the facts, to seek out criminals, to try to make sure that no more crimes were committed. He turned into the brightly lit High Street, near the Post Office where he had met Charley Coombs, and pulled up.

  “I—I can get out here,” Tessa said. “I’ll get a bus.”

  “I’ll drive you right home,” Roger insisted, “but I may want to take you to the police station first.”

  “Oh, no! Surely—” she began, and broke off. She was fumbling in her bag for something. A cigarette? Roger did nothing to help her as he asked: “How long have you known Mr Malcolm Munro?”

  “On—on and off for about four years.”

  “Socially?”

  “No, hardly at all until he—he took his uncle’s place, and I became his secretary. I don’t think that it matters. I’m only his secretary.”

  “Listen,” Roger said, and felt like a machine. “We have to have facts. His life is in danger, and it’s got to be saved. He prefers to let his attackers go free, and I’ve got to find out why. Have I made it clear enough?—his life is in acute danger.”

  She said in a subdued voice: “Yes, I know.”

  “And you’re in love with him.”

  “Yes.” This time Roger hardly heard the word.

  “So you know him well, and—”

  “Not really well,” she asserted. “I don’t know many of his friends outside the factory. We—we aren’t—”

  She broke off.

  She might have been going to add ‘engaged’ or’ lovers’.

  “All I want to find out is whether he has enemies, whether other attacks have been made on his life, and whether what happened this afternoon is just an excuse for these attacks, or whether they’re the reason,” Roger said. “Will you find out all you can, and report daily to me, until he’s out of danger?”

  She took the cigarette out of her case, at last, and put it to her lips. Roger lit it with his lighter, and belatedly she offered him a cigarette.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Do you think it’ll drag on and on?” she asked, almost wearily.

  “The sooner I know all the facts, the sooner it will be over. Has he always had this fierce temper? “

  “He’s had a reputation for it.”

  “Has it been worse lately?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Has he been living under any unusual strain?”

  “I wouldn’t have said so.”

  “I want you to find out, Miss Lee,” Roger said. “It might be instrumental in saving his life.”

  She didn’t argue, but seemed to take it for granted that Roger was right. That could m
ean that she had reason to believe it, or that he had convinced her. But he hadn’t made her talk, and hadn’t eased her fears. He was quite sure she was keeping something back, as sure that it was frightening her.

  She had lodgings in a big, old house, five minutes’ drive from the centre of Elling. Roger saw her to the door, and as she took out her key he said abruptly: “Don’t make any mistake, Miss Lee. The police want to help, and need your help to do it. What are you keeping back?”

  She wasn’t even surprised.

  “Nothing that could make any difference,” she said, and thrust open the door, on to a lighted hall, tall, dark furniture, and a tall mirror which reflected them both.

  Tessa heard the door close on the Scotland Yard man, and heard him walk to his car. She stood quite still in the hall, as if physically numbed. Outside, a car door slammed and a car engine started up.

  Tessa went slowly up the stairs. The landing was dark, and so was her large, high-ceilinged room. She stepped in and locked the door behind her quickly, a measure of her nervous fears. Then she saw a moving shadow, close to the wardrobe, and opened her mouth to scream; but it was the shadow of a bowl of tulips and wallflowers moved by the wind of the opening door.

  On her winged dressing-table, with all the oddments of makeup and powder and creams, was a photograph of Malcolm taken only a few months ago. Across the corner it was signed: Love, Mal.

  Love, Mal.

  She wondered if he really had any idea, even now, how much she loved him. Amory had, now. Charley Coombs had, too. A lot of people would be told, but not necessarily Malcolm.

  He was smiling, in that photograph.

  If the brutes who had attacked him had been allowed five more minutes he might have been disfigured for life; maimed; or even dead. Yet it was the second attack which frightened her still more, with its evidence that they were likely to try and try again.