by John Creasey
‘Did Dan get off at once?’ asked Palfrey, when they were sitting in a pleasant front room.
‘Five minutes after you’d called.’ said Bandigo. Two cars as instructed.’
‘Now,’ said Palfrey, ‘when we’ve seen Kyle and discussed his story, here’s the plan of action. Check on all the mines on Morne’s estate. Get plans of them. Find out which one is like the plan which I’ve already obtained. Having found it; put it out of action.’
‘Ah,’ murmured Bandigo. ‘Very simple. Especially the last part.’
Palfrey said: ‘They are experimenting somewhere on that estate with new forms of atomic energy, and they’ve got to stop experimenting. A large-scale raid will probably mean that they’ll blow the place up. The risk is too great. We’ve got to find a way of getting inside that mine, and you fellows must do it, because I’m already too well known. Sorry, but there it is.’
Carmichael laughed. ‘Why apologize, Sap?’
‘The job is elementary,’ declared Trollop. He had dark hair and a pale face, and his little finger was missing. ‘What about Dan and the others?’
‘Who will take over at Morne House?’
‘I will,’ said Palfrey. ‘I can work there without too much trouble, I think.’
‘When do we start?’ asked Carmichael.
‘Tonight,’ said Palfrey. ‘After Kyle’s been here; and I’m expecting him soon after seven o’clock.’
‘What are you going to do while you’re waiting?’ asked Trollop.
‘First have tea and then a nap,’ said Palfrey. ‘I can hardly keep my eyes open. Then the gathering of friends, and after that the dispersal of forces. Which reminds me,’ he added, thoughtfully, ‘someone will have to go to Bristol, but we’ll know more about that when Kyle reports.’
‘Do we look on him as one of ourselves?’ asked Trollop.
‘Yes.’
Palfrey went upstairs to rest. He felt he must have a couple of hours’ sleep if he were to be fresh enough for the coming session.
It was dark when he woke up, and only a faint light came into the room from the passage. ‘Hallo,’ he said, and sat up. Drusilla, who had been asleep on the bed next to him, stirred.
‘Telephone, Sap,’ said Bandigo, from the door.
It was Susan; she’ did not beat about the bush, but, once sure that she was speaking to Palfrey, said abruptly: ‘Nick’s disappeared, Palfrey. He was all set to come to see you tonight. We had one last look round Bristol. He went to the Theatre Royal – and didn’t come out again. Pettigrew was watching and was injured – not badly, but enough to put him out of action. He gave me your number.’
‘Oh,’ said Palfrey. ‘Anything else?’ ‘Yes,’ said Susan. ‘Gerald Markham was also near the theatre. I thought you were going to keep him at Morne House.’
14: THEATRE ROYAL
WELL, what was it?’ asked Bandigo. He was still standing by the door, and his head was bent a little because he could not pass through when standing upright. Behind him were Trollop and Carmichael.
Palfrey explained and added thoughtfully: ‘One night shouldn’t make much difference in the hunt for the mines, but if you fellows try Bristol and we don’t pull anything off, you’ll be recognized afterwards. You’d better carry on, I think. ‘Silla and I will go to Bristol. I’ll ask Brett to send some more men down there.’
Carmichael asked: ‘What about Morne House?’
‘Dan will have to look after it,’ said Palfrey. ‘It’s odd that Gerald Markham got away and Dan didn’t ring through to report it.’
Brett immediately promised to send men to Bristol, and Palfrey had finished speaking to him before Carmichael managed to get through to Morne House; Corbin Exchange was working under pressure because so much damage had been done in Wenlock. At last, Daniel Fayre came on the line to say that all of them had reached the house after an uneventful journey.
‘No,’ said Dan. ‘I haven’t seen Gerald Markham. This man Hardy told me that, as far as he knew, everyone except McDonald was still here. McDonald came in about three hours ago. But anyone can get out of this place without being seen.’
Palfrey and Drusilla started out a little after half past seven. Palfrey was low-spirited, almost hopeless. He felt that he had to go to Bristol, and yet it seemed such a waste of time. If Kyle had been outmanœuvred, it meant they were up against clever people. It was even possible that Susan Lee had been impersonated over the telephone.
When at last they saw the city in the distance, lights twinkling on the Severn hills and deep in the great valleys, it was barely eleven o’clock, so they had made good speed, but the Theatre Royal would be closed. They drove straight to the Grand Hotel, and hurried through the swing doors and into the large, bare reception hall. Susan Lee jumped up from a chair near the grillroom.
‘Hallo,’ said Palfrey. It was a relief to see her safe and unhurt. ‘Situation unchanged?’
‘Yes.’
Palfrey glanced at the tiny cubicle where the night porter was standing at his desk.
‘Let’s get upstairs,’ he said, and they walked up the stairs to the lounge, which was dimly lit and nearly empty.
‘Everything that has happened has been near the Theatre Royal, and Nick went in. I’m sure he went in.’
‘During a performance?’
‘Yes, and he didn’t come out when it was over. I was watching. Even had he wanted to avoid me, he would have made sure that I saw him. Palfrey, in all the time that I’ve worked with Nick, this has never happened. I almost went to the police.’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘We can now. They’ll do what we want without asking us questions. First job, police, to get the place surrounded. That shouldn’t be difficult, except that it might be noticed. We’d better impress on them that we don’t want to attract attention. Then I’ll go in.’
He was not surprised that the police were prepared for his call; and when he got back to the hotel from the police station three men were sitting with Drusilla and Susan in the lounge. They were men of the same character as Carmichael, Bandigo and Trollop. Susan had already explained the situation, and they got up as Palfrey entered.
Palfrey said: ‘It’s all set. ‘Silla, you and Susan will stay here.’
‘But –’ protested Susan.
‘Sorry,’ said Palfrey. ‘Stay, please.’
He drove with the others towards the Theatre Royal, but stopped at the end of the street. Few people were about, but there was the sound of traffic on the main road. A man came out of the shadows of a doorway.
‘Is that Dr. Palfrey?’ The man was in uniform, Palfrey had already seen him at the police station. ‘Everything set?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thanks,’ said Palfrey. ‘Bill, come along with me, will you?’
He and Bill walked quietly along the street. A few yards from the theatre, he turned and looked round. No one was in sight; the street was dark and empty. It was not likely that anyone watching had observed the police.
They reached the door.
Palfrey’s companion shone a torch on it, made a quick examination, and said: This shouldn’t take long.’ Palfrey had chosen him for the first sortie, for Bill Wyatt was reputed to be able to force any lock and open any door. He used a small tool, working swiftly, with little sound. Soon they stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind them.
The foyer was pitch dark. They stood listening to their own breathing, and then Palfrey shone his torch. The beam travelled down the long passage towards the auditorium. Near them were the electric light switches. Palfrey pressed one down, and by good chance a light at the far end of the hall came on, one that would not be noticeable from the street.
They walked along the passage. A staircase led up on the right, and there was a closed door marked ‘Gallery’. Together they went up the stairs. The wood creaked under their footsteps, and Wyatt whispered: ‘How old is this place?’
‘Early eighteenth century, isn’t it?’ asked Palfrey.
‘T
hey do say it’s the oldest in England.’
They looked into several offices, all tidy and clean, then found themselves outside a door marked ‘Circle’. They put out the light in the office, crept into the circle and stood listening. There was no sound, nothing at all to suggest that anyone else was there. The dark void of the auditorium was immediately in front of them; they might have been standing on the edge of a black chasm. Palfrey shone the torch backwards, saw a light switch and pressed it. Several lights came on at the back of the circle, showing the array of green plush seats. The stage looked tiny; the scenery, a drawing-room, looked like a large doll’s house.
Above them was the gallery, and they could just see the ceiling there, but not the ceiling of the auditorium, which was lost in the darkness.
‘I think we ought to have more light,’ said Palfrey.
They walked back up the steps, pressing down all the light switches they could see as they went along. The upstairs passage and the stairway were well lighted now and they went downstairs, putting on more lights.
They looked into the auditorium again; the perspective was different from the stalls. The stage seemed very high; no stage lights were on, but they could see the set much more clearly.
‘Let’s go back-stage,’ said Palfrey.
‘What are those doors neither on the stage nor off it?’ asked Wyatt. Although he whispered, his voice seemed to echo.
The proscenium doors,’ Palfrey said. ‘Interesting survival, I’m told.’ He smiled, ‘Nothing very sinister, is there? But I have heard it said that there are passages leading to other buildings. We’ll see.’
There was a narrow doorway and a flight of narrow wooden steps. Palfrey found a light switch, and they walked down, pausing for a moment to look at the complicated wooden machinery under the stage. There was no one there.
‘Well,’ said Palfrey, ‘that leaves only the gallery.’
They were on the stairs. His arm was outstretched to push the door wider open. He had heard a movement, perhaps a footfall; and then the door pushed against his hand. Someone was trying to close it from the wings. He stiffened his arm, moved the other to support. Someone gasped on the other side of the door. The pressure grew greater, and Wyatt squeezed up to help him. They pushed until at last the door gave way. It banged back and they lost their balance. Footsteps sounded on the stage, echoing noisily. One of the proscenium doors slammed.
‘After him!’ snapped Wyatt.
This way!’ called Palfrey. He ran across the stage, pushing the furniture out of the way, and saw the figure of a little man running up the side passage of the auditorium.
Then the lights dimmed.
Palfrey thought he saw the man reach the central doors and rush out. A door slammed and there was silence. Palfrey measured the distance between the stage and the floor of the auditorium; it was a long one, over the orchestra pit. He drew back, ran and leapt, making it with only an inch to spare. Actually his heel scraped against the curtain of the pit.
He raced up the side, hearing Wyatt scrambling into the stage box of the circle. He could hear footsteps now on the stone floor outside. He went into the cold passage but could see no one. He thought he heard movements above him, as if someone was going up the stairs.
Wyatt came hurrying after him. ‘Oughtn’t we to fetch the others?’ he whispered.
‘Not yet. Let the beggar think we’re on our own,’ said Palfrey. ‘The gallery, I think.’
The gallery steps were narrow, and made a hollow noise as they walked up, approaching each corner cautiously. They reached a little bar which smelt of beer. Together they went out into the gallery and looked down into the dim auditorium. Wooden seats, which looked centuries old, were on either side of them.
‘Supposing we do find these beggars, what can we do on our own?’
Palfrey said: ‘If they think we’re on our own, they’re more likely to get reckless. We want them reckless.’ He withdrew to the narrow wooden staircase of drab light brown. There was still no sound save their own breathing. There were several doors and one more flight of steps, much narrower than the others. He went up them, and found himself in a tiny loft.
Wyatt cried: ‘Palfrey! Pal –’
And then his voice broke, and there was a gurgling sound. Palfrey swung round, dropping his hand to his gun. As he touched it, a shot rang out, echoing and re-echoing through the theatre. He backed down the stairs, fearful of being shot in the back, but nothing happened. He saw Wyatt leaning against the wall, gun in hand and blood streaming from a cut in his cheek. Wyatt was pointing down the stairs.
A man said: ‘You won’t find it so easy to get down, Palfrey.’
Wyatt straightened up, without speaking. He walked to another door, just behind Palfrey. It was little more than a hatch, standing about as high as his waist and fastened by an ordinary catch – a cupboard, probably. As Wyatt bent down, blood dropped from his cheek, and he padded his handkerchief and held it against the wound while he explored. Palfrey went to Wyatt’s side.
‘Anything in there?’ he whispered.
‘An empty cupboard,’ muttered Wyatt.
There’s another on the other side,’ said Palfrey. ‘I think we might find them useful.’ He was whispering, and the man on the stairs certainly could not hear them. ‘Can you squeeze in there and sit down for ten minutes. Then he’ll probably come up to find out why we’re quiet.’
Wyatt squatted down and Palfrey helped him to squeeze into the cupboard. It was dusty, but fairly clean. The door closed on him.
Palfrey crept towards the cupboard opposite Wyatt’s. It was about the same size. The door faced the head of the stairs; and, if he crouched inside, he would be able to watch the stairs and cover them with his automatic.
He did not think he had a great deal of chance to outwit his opponent. They were above the gallery; that was the worst of it. At gallery level they would have had a chance to climb over, drop to the balcony, and then into the stalls.
‘Palfrey!’
‘Hallo,’ said Palfrey. ‘Are you still there? I’m just patching up my friend.’
‘You’ll want patching up before long.’
‘Oh! Threats!’ said Palfrey, disparagingly.
He was puzzled by the hidden man. What kind of man would talk like that? What manner of man would use those brave threats, threats uttered almost as if he were intent only on keeping up his own spirits? Not a particularly clever or resourceful one, thought Palfrey.
‘Yes, threats.’ It was getting absurd.
‘Well, good-bye,’ said Palfrey. ‘Come on, Bill, let’s get out. Mind your head!’
Palfrey squatted inside the cupboard. It was more difficult for him than for Wyatt, who was so much shorter, but he managed it and looked out over the top of the door. He had his automatic in one hand and Wyatt’s in the other. He could see the head of the stairs; and after a few tense seconds he saw a hat, a trilby hat, moving upwards. Then he saw the man’s eyes, narrowed, and darting to and fro. Was the man entirely alone? It seemed like it.
He came further up the stairs until Palfrey could see his head and shoulders. He was peering across the tiny room and looking straight at Palfrey, who did not move. The man took another step upwards.
Palfrey shot him through the shoulder.
The noise of the shot was deafening inside the cupboard. The smell was pungent. Palfrey choked as he flung open the door. The man on the stairs had toppled backwards, but was trying to hold on to the hand-rail. He fell as Palfrey reached the head of the stairs. The crash reverberated about the landing, but as it died away there was no other sound except a call from Wyatt.
‘All right, Sap?’
‘Yes. Come out,’ called Palfrey.
The man on the floor was staring at him in bewilderment. His face was blank and nondescript – the face of a man with little intelligence. Why had he been left here alone? What had he been doing? He was so thunderstruck that he did not speak nor utter a protest as Palfrey ran through his pockets
and took out a knife and an automatic; the knife was stained with Wyatt’s blood.
There was no time to look at the wound on his shoulder.
Palfrey lifted him and carried him up the stairs, took off his tie and knotted it about his wrists, with his hands behind him. Then he bundled him into the cupboard from which Wyatt had come. The man endured all this without protest.
Wyatt was trying to smile. ‘Not bad,’ he said.
‘Not good yet,’ said Palfrey. ‘Can you manage to get down the stairs on your own?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘We’ll have the others in,’ said Palfrey. Palfrey watched Wyatt going unsteadily down the stairs. He himself went on to the gallery, looking about him. He thought he heard a sound of movement, but could not be sure.
Suddenly he saw the proscenium door open!
It opened slowly, and Palfrey stood tense, well in the shadows, to avoid being seen. A man appeared – someone whom he had never seen before. The man peered about him, then turned and beckoned.
A second stranger appeared.
They stole across the stage towards the door leading to the under-stage machine room, and then disappeared. Palfrey peered over the gallery rail, wondering what were his chances of climbing down. He might easily fall, but he desperately wanted to follow these men, and if he went down by the staircase he would have little chance of catching them,
He swung himself over.
He hung at full length, his feet a little way above the balcony of the circle. He was close to one of the reeded pillars; with one arm about it, he slid down. For a moment he thought he would topple over, but he regained his balance and stood on the balcony, with his back to the auditorium, breathing deeply.
There was a sharp crack; someone was firing at him!
He did not look round, but moved forward, reaching the circle floor, and dropped out of sight. Two more shots were fired, but neither touched him. He crawled along a few yards and then peered over the balcony. The man who had fired at him was standing by the side of the curtains, looking towards him, a gun in his hand. He was a short, dark, sturdy man; from a distance he looked rather like Markham.