At the present moment, however, Wilson’s eyes were gazing in the contrary direction. They were fixed upon a small, solitary, granite-built house, standing in an ill-kept kitchen garden about twenty yards from the near end of the bridge. Adjoining it was a low outbuilding that looked like a garage, and from there a roughly made gravel track, bordered by a row of stunted fir trees, ran down to a wooden gate facing the roadway. The whole property was surrounded by a wire fence, several strands of which were obviously in need of repair.
All day, except for a few odd intervals when he had fallen asleep through sheer weariness, he had been peering across hungrily at that lonely and somewhat forbidding homestead. An inhabited house, with its owner temporarily absent, was the very object that he had been yearning to come across ever since his escape from the prison. Now at long last it seemed as though his unspoken prayer had been answered. Twice during the course of his vigil he had seen a would-be visitor hammer on the door without evoking any response, and the belief that here, almost within a stone’s throw, lay the Heaven-sent chance of obtaining those two vital necessities, food and a change of clothes, had been steadily deepening as the long hours wore gradually on.
Several times, indeed, he had been sorely tempted to creep out of his refuge and investigate for himself. Being fully aware, however, that the whole countryside was only too anxious to assist in his recapture, the danger of attempting such a feat by daylight had been sufficiently obvious to restrain his impatience. From any one of those rocky crests keen eyes might be keeping watch upon the surrounding moor. A single suspicious movement would be enough to attract their attention, and once the alarm was given it would mean a speedy ending to his desperate bid for liberty. Before nightfall he would be back again in that cursed cell, with a bitter sense of failure and frustration added to the corroding hatred that already filled his heart.
Taking from his pocket the last of the sour and rather hard apples which he had filched from a cottage garden during the previous night, he settled down again grimly to await the oncoming darkness. Despite his hunger and fatigue he was obsessed by a kind of savage happiness. In the teeth of almost impossible odds he had at last succeeded in carrying through the first part of his programme, and now that Fate, in the shape of this deserted house, had seen fit to step in and lend him a helping hand, the chief problem that still confronted him appeared to be on the point of solving itself. To his half-insane mind, warped by interminable months of solitary brooding, such a state of affairs was in no way surprising. A passionate conviction that the longed-for hour of revenge would eventually arrive had never deserted him, and as he lay there chewing slowly and staring up into the dark-blue vista above, a wave of fresh and exultant strength seemed to come flooding back into his tired and aching limbs.
Very gradually the long streaks of crimson and gold faded out of the west, while one by one the more distant peaks became merged in the gathering dusk. High overhead an army of stars was already beginning to invade the sky. The moment for action was at last drawing near, and rising to his feet again with a purposeful deliberation, Wilson commenced to push his way stealthily through the tangled screen of brambles. Gripped in his right hand was the broken strip of iron railing which had been lying beside him in the grass.
He had advanced as far as the last bush, and was just straightening up to make a final cautious inspection, when the unmistakable hum of a motor-cycle suddenly broke the silence. His lips tightened and his whole body became tense and motionless. Almost simultaneously a yellow light swept up over the crest of the slope, and sailing down the road like some gigantic firefly, came to an abrupt halt exactly in front of the wire fence. In another moment the rider had dismounted and was pushing open the gate.
With a sickening feeling of disappointment Wilson stared across at the burly, leather-coated figure which had so shatteringly broken in upon his plans. Of all conceivable mischances, this last-minute return of the owner of the house had been the one which he had least expected. Only a minute ago everything had appeared to be perfectly clear sailing, and now—a whispered oath broke from his lips and the fingers that were clutching the rail tightened in convulsive fury.
Pursuing his way up the gravelled track and unlocking the door of the garage, the intruder wheeled his machine inside and propped it against the wall. The headlamp was still on, and from across the road he could be seen removing his coat and unstrapping a goodish-sized parcel from the luggage carrier at the rear. This he placed carefully upon a bench, and then, leaving the light still blazing away unchecked, stepped out again into the open and vanished up a narrow path which appeared to lead round to the back door.
Imminent danger, as Doctor Johnson has pointed out, has a remarkably bracing effect upon the intellect. After that first spasm of almost uncontrollable rage Wilson’s mind had been working at top speed. The sight of the motor-cycle had opened up a whole fresh world of possibilities, and as the figure of its proprietor melted into obscurity, a sudden desperate resolve crystallised in his heart. It was obviously a question of now or never.
Stealthily as a panther he slid out from behind the bush and keeping his head well down, darted across the rough stretch of grass that separated him from the road. In a few minutes he had arrived at the gate. On one side of the short ascent lay a belt of black shadow cast by the line of fir trees, and taking advantage of this to cover his approach to the garage, he tiptoed silently across the intervening path and flattened himself stiffly against the front wall of the house.
He had hardly taken up his new position when an indifferently whistled rendering of “Annie Laurie” began to filter through the night air. Almost at the same instant there was a crunch of approaching steps. Nearer and nearer they came, advancing leisurely along the narrow passage, and then, with the last unfinished note still issuing from his lips, the unsuspecting soloist suddenly made his appearance.
Whack!
The iron rail thudded down on to the thick leather cap, and crumpling at the knees, its wearer slumped forward like a pricked bladder. As he fell the top of his head struck against the low stone parapet that bounded the garden.
It was obviously no moment for dawdling about, and in any case indecision was not one of Wilson’s failings. Dropping his weapon and grabbing hold of the prostrate body by the ankles, he hauled it unceremoniously across the gravel and dragged it into the garage. The heels flopped down upon the concrete floor with a dull clatter, and in less time than it takes to write the words he had swung home the heavy, stoutly hinged door and was leaning against the bench panting for breath.
As soon as he had sufficiently recovered, the first object to which he turned his attention was the large square package beside him. It consisted of a wooden box covered by a thick layer of brown paper, and on wrenching away the latter he found himself confronted by what appeared to be the fruits of a day’s marketing in some neighbouring town. For a moment he could scarcely believe his eyes. With fumbling haste he pulled out two loaves of bread, a slab of cheese, a tin of biscuits and a carton of lump sugar, and then, resisting a clamorous urge to satisfy his hunger straight away, picked up the discarded coat which its owner had also flung down upon the bench.
A hurried search through the pockets brought to light two more heartening discoveries. One was an unopened packet of twenty cigarettes, the other a tattered wallet with five new, crisp, clean one-pound notes tucked away in a separate compartment.
A trifle dazed by this staggering rush of good fortune, he stepped forward and peered down at the sprawling figure in front of him. By the light of the lamp reflected from the end wall he could see that the man was still alive. Thanks to the thick cap, the blow which would otherwise have fractured his skull had apparently only succeeded in stunning him, and with a grunt of relief, for he no longer felt the faintest animosity against his victim, Wilson turned quickly to examine the motor-cycle. To his unspeakable joy the tanks proved to be nearly half full.
; II
“So!”
Von Manstein removed his eyeglass and polished it carefully with a silk handkerchief. Then, replacing it in position, he once more picked up his evening paper and concentrated his attention on the double-headed paragraph at the top of the right-hand column.
MURDER AT A THAMES BUNGALOW
Well-known Sportsman Found Stabbed
Early this morning the body of Mr. Granville Sutton, a familiar figure on the racecourse and in the West End of London, was found lying on the floor of his riverside bungalow which is situated about half a mile below Playford. Mr. Sutton had been stabbed between the shoulders, and death must have been practically instantaneous. The discovery was made by a lad named George King, who was engaged in his customary task of delivering milk. King immediately raised the alarm, and within a few minutes Superintedent Fothergill, of the local police, had arrived upon the scene and taken charge of the investigations. The disordered condition of the bungalow points to robbery as having been the probable motive of the crime. There were signs which suggested that the murderer arrived and escaped by car, and it is considered not unlikely that this clue will be of considerable assistance in establishing his identity. Anyone who may have noticed a motor-driven vehicle either entering or turning out of the Playford-Thames Ferry Road between the hours of ten and midnight is requested to communicate with the police at the earliest possible opportunity.
“Mr. Craig.”
Frederick, the wooden-faced manservant who had opened the door, moved stiffly to one side, and following close on the announcement of his name, Mark Craig walked into the room.
“Sorry to be late. Had a spot of trouble with the car.” The visitor glanced back as though to satisfy himself that the door had been properly closed, and then, with an abrupt change of expression, advanced towards the easy chair from which his host had made no attempt to get up. “You have read the evening papers?” he demanded.
Von Manstein nodded. “It appears that you are to be congratulated. You seem to have handled the affair most successfully.”
“Glad you think so.” Craig sat down heavily on the big ottoman that jutted out from the corner of the fireplace. “There’s a lot more to it, though, than they’ve got hold of yet.” He paused. “Something has happened that no one on God’s earth could have possibly foreseen.”
“Indeed!” The Count raised his eyebrows. “Nothing that might lead to any unpleasant consequences, I hope?”
“On the contrary, it may turn out devilish useful.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. You had better help yourself to a drink and tell me the whole story.”
Accepting the invitation, Craig turned to the small inlaid table at his elbow, where the necessary ingredients, in the shape of a syphon and a decanter of whisky, had already been set out. There was a brief silence, and then, relinquishing his half-emptied glass, he looked up again to face the cold, watchful stare of his companion.
“Wasn’t any fault of ours: the plans I’d made worked out perfectly. We got there soon after it was dark, and I’ll take my oath no one had spotted us. It had been raining like hell for the last two hours. Sutton opened the door himself, and I guess from his face he’d been expecting someone else. I’d got my piece ready, though; and as soon as he tumbled to the idea that we’d come over to talk business he made no trouble about letting us in. I could see he was carrying a gun in his pocket, but it was about as much use to him as a sick headache. That guy Kellerman is as quick as a cat. Never seen a smarter bit of work in my life.”
“What did you expect? We are not in the habit of employing bunglers.”
“I’d say not!” Craig picked up his tumbler and took another long gulp. “Next job was to go through the bastard’s papers, but before I started in I sent Kellerman outside just to make sure that I wouldn’t be interrupted. I told him that if anyone came snooping around he was to lay him out with that rubber cosh of his. We’d left the knife in the body on purpose. It was one I’d specially fixed up—cut some initials on the handle so as to give the cops something to get busy on.”
“An admirable idea.” The speaker nodded approvingly.
“Well, I was just about through when I heard the bump. Seems that a guy had come sneaking out from some trees at the back and got over the fence. Meant to have a squint through the window, I guess. Kellerman had fixed him right enough, and it didn’t take us long to cart him inside. He was out to the world, and I’ll lay odds he never even knew what hit him.”
The listener frowned.
“Describe his appearance to me. It is possible that I may know him.”
“He was a biggish guy, over six foot, I’d say. Might have been out abroad from the way he was sunburned. Looked a bit like Gary Cooper and had a small scar on the corner of his forehead. I’d put his age at about twenty-six or twenty-seven.”
“I do not fancy I have the pleasure of his acquaintance. You searched him thoroughly, of course? Was there nothing in his pockets which would help our people to identify him?”
“Only a cigarette case with the initials O.B. on it. If you ask me, I’d say he was the fellow Sutton was looking out for, and that he’d called round to make himself mighty unpleasant.”
“Is that a mere guess, or have you any definite reason for thinking so?”
“Wait till you’ve heard the rest and you’ll be able to judge for yourself.” Craig paused. “Seemed like the best notion was for me and Kellerman to clear off and leave our pal to do the explaining. So I grabbed up the stuff I’d collected and we slid out quick. As I told you, there’s a whole lot of trees at the back, and we’d just got in amongst ’em when we suddenly saw the lights of a car coming round the corner. Put the wind up both of us for a moment. It stopped dead opposite the bungalow, and the next moment out hopped a skirt. Just the sort of smart-looking kid Sutton used to trail around with. Must have got the surprise of her life when she shoved open the door and walked in.”
Von Manstein’s eyes narrowed. “And what happened?”
“We heard her let off a squeal, and then after a bit—six or seven minutes, I reckon—out she comes again with that big stiff holding on to her arm. Guess his skull must be made of cast iron. She helps him into the car, nips in herself, and before you could say Jack Robinson they were chasing away back up the lane. She’s got guts, that kid, whoever she is—”
“A very interesting development.” Von Manstein stroked his chin, meditating. “What do you make of it yourself?”
“I’d say that Sutton had been doing the dirty on her, and that this guy had come down to beat him up. Like as not she tumbled to what was going on and thought she’d better butt in and stop the rough stuff.”
“That is possible. Let us hope you are right.”
Craig glanced at his companion a trifle uncertainly. “You don’t figure that he could have been one of Greystoke’s bunch?”
“It is a point that we must keep in mind. I certainly cannot place him by your description, but there is always a chance that the worthy Captain may have been enlarging his staff. You are positive you left no finger-prints?”
“Is it likely? Never took off our gloves the whole time.”
“Well, we must trust that your private vendetta theory will turn out to be correct. In any case, Mr. Sutton has been successfully eliminated, and that is the matter with which we are chiefly concerned. You have brought the papers with you?”
Diving into his side pocket, Craig produced a square packet tied up with string which he handed over to his companion. “That’s all I could find. There’s a sort of diary there that might be helpful. Tells what he was up to and puts down one or two names and addresses. They may mean something to your crowd.”
“In a case like this the more information we can get the better.” Von Manstein laid the packet on the table beside him. “Permit me to congratulate you again. You have acted with enterprise an
d judgment, and you may rest assured that the Reich will not be unmindful of the fact. I will make it my business to see that your services are suitably recognised.”
Craig’s heavy-lidded eyes brightened, and finishing his drink, he hoisted himself up off the ottoman.
“O.K., Count,” he drawled. “I guess that’s good enough for me.”
***
“Mark!”
Olga Brandon started up abruptly, spilling the ash of her cigarette on to the carefully polished parquet floor. With a reassuring smile her visitor closed the door and came forward to where she was standing.
“Couldn’t make it any sooner. Been having a talk with von Manstein.” He took her hands, and giving her a quick kiss, drew her down beside him on to the sofa. “You got my message from the Club?”
“Yes. Florrie told me as soon as I came in. I have been waiting for you ever since.” She drew in a long breath. “I have read what it says in the paper, Mark. What does it mean? Has it—has it anything to do with you?”
Craig patted her arm. “It’s all right, honey. The whole job’s finished, and you can take it from me there’s no call to get rattled. That bastard Sutton just got what he was askin’ for.”
The girl stared at him for a moment in silence.
“Did you kill him yourself?”
“Would it put the wind up you if I had?”
“You know me better than that. It’s you I’m thinking about.” She laid her hand on his sleeve and gripped it fiercely. “Tell me, Mark—tell me the truth. I’d never give anything away, not even if I was tortured. I’m all for the Germans. I’d love to see them smash hell out of these stuck-up swine.”
Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1) Page 11