by John Creasey
‘I don’t believe,’ he thought, ‘that I’ve fallen for poison. I . . .’
But he felt a terrible conviction that somehow he had, that somehow the Black Circle had reached him.
He thought back on the food that Jolly had prepared, but his thoughts were muddled. Nothing was clear.
He walked slowly towards the telephone, looking at Anne, seeing the strain about her eyes. She was breathing hard, and with increasing difficulty.
The smile which he flashed towards her was a mockery.
‘We’d better – tell – the police about the plan,’ he muttered, and heard the pauses between the words as though he was listening to someone else speaking from a long way off.
The telephone, on a table near the window, looked a black blur. He wondered whether he would be able to speak coherently, then thought muzzily of the detectives outside. Perhaps it would be better to signal to them.
His fingers touched the telephone, but slipped along the shiny surface. He managed to get the earpiece off its hook, and tried hard to set his lips to the microphone, for he knew that he would never reach the window. His legs were wobbling – his arms went stiff.
His mind was just a mad medley. Nothing ran normally, nothing looked normal. Anne, struggling against the unseen horror in the room, looked a hundred miles away.
Then the room whirled crazily about him. The floor seemed to sway in front of his eyes; a roaring thunder filled his ears. He tried to speak – to shout – but the words were but a gurgle at the back of his throat.
Then everything went black. He thudded to the floor, an inert mass.
Anne Farraway tried to scream, but something caught at her throat. She tried to move, but her limbs were stiff. She saw, horrified, the still body of the Toff, the telephone – off its hook, but useless – and then she too felt the room swirling about her, and she dropped into a yawning oblivion.
In the newly tenanted flat next to the Hon. Richard Rollison’s, two men stood close together, peering through a small hole drilled in the wall. They saw the whole drama as they watched in silence.
Garrotty was holding a long gas-cylinder, with its nozzle inserted in a second hole in the wall. Through the hole the poison crept insidiously, striking the Toff and the girl into unconsciousness.
Dragoli was standing next to Garrotty. He turned away suddenly.
That is enough,’ he said smoothly. ‘Stop the gas, Garrotty. The quicker we get them out of there the better.’
Garrotty turned off the gas control of the cylinder and swung round quickly enough. Sight of the plan which the Toff had found in the girl’s shoe had made him uneasy. It had been a narrow shave. If the police had found it first a hundred policemen would have been in the neighbourhood of the ‘Red Lion’ within an hour. And Garrotty did not like the idea of being caught red-handed in the dope racket in England.
‘Sure,’ he grunted. ‘What about Rollison’s servant?’
Dragoli snapped at him.
‘You’ve got a silencer on your gun, haven’t you, and those two pugs have gone.’
‘Sure,’ repeated Garrotty placatingly. ‘I was only asking, boss.’
‘Then hurry!’ ordered Dragoli, leading the way to the kitchen quarters of the flat.
A door opened from the kitchen to a small square of iron grid which was part and parcel of the emergency exit at the rear of the houses. The fact that Dragoli’s temporary habitation was a corner house made it easy to get Rollison and the girl into his own flat, for the Toff’s kitchen door opened on to the same landing. After that it was only a question of getting the couple down the front stairs and into the car which was waiting outside. Dragoli did not mean the man or the girl to live for a minute after he had got them to the ‘Red Lion’, for the Pug would handle their bodies, would be prepared to work more freely now there was no fear of the Toff.
Garrotty went out of the kitchen first. His right hand, in his pocket, was fastened round a gun. He lounged across the iron landing carelessly, and then opened the Toff’s back door with his left hand.
Jolly was bending over the gas-stove. He looked round with a start of surprise, and his mouth opened.
‘Shut up!’ hissed Garrotty, and showed his gun.
Jolly’s eyes widened in fear. He backed away, his hands in front of his face. He hardly saw the gangster’s hand flash out before the butt of the gun crashed on his forehead. Jolly dropped down, a queer gurgle in his throat.
Dragoli pushed past his satellite towards the inner door. He jerked it open with his left hand – his right hand was wrapped in bandages, the result of the Toff’s shooting.
‘The girl first,’ snapped the Egyptian.
In a trice both men were across the small hall and in the Toff’s sitting-room. The Toff was lying by the table, on his back, and breathing torturously. Anne Farraway was in a huddled heap three yards away from him.
‘You take her,’ said Dragoli. ‘I will drag Rollison towards the door.’
Garrotty picked the girl up and swayed towards the door, carrying her with hardly an effort, her limp form over his shoulder. He was on the landing outside before Dragoli had pulled the Toff as far as the first door.
And then the Egyptian heard something which made him loosen his hold of the Toff and dart towards the window. It was the sound of a high-powered car which drew up outside the house.
The murmur of voices floated upwards - one, a gruff, authoritative voice.
‘Is everything all right up there?’
‘Nobody’s been out, sir,’ came the answer.
‘Good.’
Dragoli stared out of the window, hidden from view by the curtains. He saw Chief-Inspector McNab stepping out of his car, and saw one of the watching detectives draw near him.
Dragoli swore vilely. He swung round, darting his left hand to his pocket for a gun. The Toff would have to be left behind – but he would be dead.
Then the Egyptian cursed again, for the gun wasn’t there. He remembered taking it from his pocket in the next-door flat, and the chance was gone.
He thought once of smashing a chair on the Toff’s skull, but it would take time, and time was precious. McNab’s heavy footsteps were sounding on the stairs. In less than half a minute the detective would be outside the door.
Dragoli stepped over the Toff’s prostrate body and sped along to the kitchen. It was a matter of seconds now. He heard the policeman’s heavy tread on the top stair, and a sudden gasp of consternation.
McNab had seen the Toff!
Garrotty appeared suddenly on the landing, and the Yank’s eyes widened at the fear on Dragoli’s face.
‘What’s up, boss?’
‘The police,’ hissed Dragoli. ‘Get down to the car.’
Again the position of the house – on the corner – was invaluable. The car, with a uniformed chauffeur sitting at the wheel, and the inert body of Anne Farraway lolling back in the rear seat, was outside. The watching detectives had seen it, but being in a different street it had not occurred to them that it was concerned with the Toff.
One of them heard its engine whirring, but a second later was startled out of his wits by McNab’s stentorian bellow from the window of the Toff’s flat.
‘Simpson, blow your whistle! Get round the corner!’
The detective jerked into motion. He saw the big car – a Daimler – sliding along the kerb, and with a sudden flash of intuition realized what it meant. He broke into a run, gesticulating wildly.
McNab saw him and swung round, cursing. If he had been five minutes earlier he would have arrived in the nick of time. Now the girl was missing – the Toff unconscious.
With a speed surprising in so sturdy a man, the Chief Inspector raced down the stairs and burst into the street. The police car was already on the move, and he jumped into it, rapping instructions to a policeman who was hurrying along the road, summoned by Simpson’s whistle. Farther down the street a second whistle blared. Footsteps thudded on the pavement.
‘Get a d
octor up there!’ snapped McNab to the patrolman, and thudded into the seat next to the driver. ‘After them, James – like the devil!’
The engine roared, and the police car swung round the corner. Detective Simpson made a flying leap for it, caught the door and managed to open it. He dropped back in the seat.
McNab screwed his head round.
‘Use the wireless,’ he ordered. ‘Instruct all police cars to follow the blue Daimler, number double X seven-three-five-four-one, and police car seventeen.’ He turned round to the driver. ‘Is that Daimler number right?’
The driver nodded. He had just been able to get the number as the police car had swerved round the corner. By now Dragoli’s Daimler was a hundred yards away, racing along the road at a frantic speed. The pursuing police car would never overtake it unless there was a traffic block.
But McNab was not worried about that. In a dozen places police cars and Flying-squad cars were looking out for the blue Daimler, helped by the directions which Simpson radioed second by second. Unless the Daimler was lost somewhere in the rabbit-warrens of the East End, it would never get away. The police net was closing round it minute by minute.
The Toff was sprawling across his bed when he came to, and his first sensation was a violent pain in his stomach. He lay back gasping for a minute, while the pain gradually dulled. Then he struggled into a sitting position, feeling a firm hand on his arm.
‘Steady,’ said a quiet voice. ‘Don’t overdo it.’
The Toff managed a feeble grin. He felt as though every atom of strength had been drained from him, and the thought of overdoing anything was ironic, to say the least of it.
He looked into the face of the man who was bending over him and grinned again.
‘Hallo, Doc! Getting quite good friends, aren’t we?’
The doctor, the same man who had attended Anne Farraway on the previous evening, smiled grimly. He had forced a violent restorative down the Toff’s throat, but only at the urgent request of the tall, iron-grey man who was standing by the window, staring anxiously at the Toff.
The Toff saw the man, and frowned. He recognized him vaguely, but his mind was cloudy – nothing seemed clear. He could not even remember what had been happening.
Then he saw something in the iron-grey man’s hands, and a flash of understanding went through his mind. The grin left his face. For the man was holding a shoe, and the Toff remembered what had been in the shoe.
He recognized the stranger too. It was Sir Ian Warrender, an Assistant Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard, and that meant business.
Warrender took a step towards him.
‘Did you get ‘em?’ snapped the Toff.
‘No,’ said Warrender, and his voice was harsh. ‘We lost them in Shadwell. McNab’s hunting through the docks.’
The Toff slid off the bed quickly, and his mouth was grim. He waved the doctor aside.
‘I’m all right,’ he said briefly. ‘Thanks.’ He looked at Warrender. ‘Dragoli’s gone to earth at the “Red Lion”, and I know the way to the place blindfold. Is your car outside?’
The Assistant Commissioner smiled grimly.
‘There are three cars outside,’ he said, ‘with a full complement of men, waiting for you to come round.’
The Toff was at the door.
‘Let’s get to them,’ he said laconically. ‘And, by God, if Dragoli’s hurt that girl I’ll tear him to pieces!’
8: TROUBLE AT THE ‘RED LION’
The three police cars tore through London towards the East End. The Toff was at the wheel of the leading car, with Sir Ian Warrender sitting next to him. Behind them they could hear the tapping of the radio signals which were being flashed.
‘All police cars meet at “Red Lion”, Shadwell. All cars to radio arrival and situation at “Red Lion”.’
Time and time again the message went out. Every few minutes the Assistant Commissioner turned in his seat to see if there was any message from other cars. The operator, sitting upright, with the earphones pressed close to his head, made no signal at first.
The Toff, his eyes on the road in front of him, zigzagging the powerful police car, was not thinking of the wireless messages. He was thinking of Anne Farraway in Dragoli’s hands, and the thought of what that Eastern degenerate might do to her made him writhe mentally.
The car was roaring along the Mile End Road when Warrender touched the Toff’s arm.
‘Well?’ rapped the Toff, missing the tail-board of a lorry by a hairbreadth.
Warrender’s voice was thin with excitement.
‘McNab’s at the “Red Lion”, with a dozen men,’ he said. ‘They’re raiding now.’
‘Good!’ snapped the Toff, hurtling the car between the kerb and a moving tram. A hundred yards ahead lay the turning which he would take to get to the ‘Red Lion’. More than anything else, he wanted to be in at the death.
Then Warrender spoke again.
‘There’s been shooting,’ he muttered hoarsely. ‘The “Red Lion’s” barricaded. McNab’s drawn away.’
The Toff said nothing, but his eyes were very hard. Those terse sentences carried a picture to his mind with startling clarity. He could almost see the dingy building of Harry the Pug’s public house. He could see the police approaching the closed doors, the sudden revolver-fire from the barricaded windows – and machine-gun fire, more than likely.
He did not need telling that Dragoli and his satellites were making a desperate effort to keep the police at bay while they made their escape through an unknown exit. That part of the East End was a regular rabbit-warren of alleys, little-known passages, short cuts to the river and the main road. More than likely there was an underground chamber at the ‘Red Lion’, like that of the ‘Steam Packet’s’, where the dope had been stored.
The Toff swung the police car round a corner, and it lurched violently as the near-side wheels bumped up on the pavement and then sped over the uneven cobbles of the narrow road. Warrender grunted, but he knew that the Toff had complete control of the car. And speed was vital.
The car swerved again – into a second, longer turning. The road was empty, and the Toff looked at the Assistant Commissioner for a second.
‘We’re getting near,’ he said. ‘And I’ve an idea how to break through the barricade. It’ll mean smashing the car up.’
Warrender looked at him. The Toff’s lips were set very tight, and his eyes were like agate.
The Assistant Commissioner knew what the other meant, and was silent for a moment. Then he nodded.
‘Do what you like,’ he said.
Thanks!’ snapped the Toff. ‘You’d better climb into the back seat, Sir Ian.’
‘I’ll stay with you,’ returned the Assistant Commissioner.
The Toff said nothing. One more turning, and they would see the ‘Red Lion’ in front of them.
As the car swerved round the corner the Toff saw three police cars drawn up on the opposite side of the road to the ‘Red Lion’, which was built on a corner site, with a cobbled parking-place in front of it, and a drive for cars.
Farther up the road was an ambulance. At one spot a little crowd of men bent over a prostrate form on the ground. Dotted along the pavement opposite the pub were a dozen or more detectives, all crouching behind the cover of their cars.
An occasional bark of a revolver-shot coughed through the air on top of a little yellow stab of flame. And as the car raced nearer the scene the Toff saw a policeman’s helmet lying in the courtyard – obviously belonging to one of the men who had been shot when McNab had started the raid.
The Toff set his lips very tightly. He was less than twenty yards away now, and in a few seconds he would succeed – or fail. And failure would be too fearful to contemplate.
They reached the first of the police cars lined up opposite the ‘Red Lion’. A man stood up, waving his arms wildly, and the Toff recognized McNab.
Warrender shouted something, but McNab probably never heard it. He was dumbfounded at
the Toff’s sudden manœuvre.
For as the big car reached the drive leading to the courtyard the Toff swung the wheel round fiercely. The car slithered round madly, its tyres squealing, its brakes grating as the Toff applied them to prevent the car from overturning. Then, crouching slightly forward, with his eyes glinting like steel, the Toff set the radiator towards the big saloon doors of the ‘Red Lion’.
From a window above came the bark of shots, and from the rear of the police car a detective gasped as a bullet seared like a red-hot dagger through his shoulder. Another pierced the sleeve of the Toff’s coat, but the Toff’s lips were curved in a mad dare-devilry, and Warrender, next to him, gripped the sides of the car, waiting for the smash.
Then it came!
The nose of the car loomed up against the barricaded doors, and then crashed into them. Wood splintered and groaned under the impact. The radiator of the car crumpled, the engine spluttered, coughed, and went still as the car lurched sickeningly on one side.
Would it turn over?
For a horrible second the Toff thought that it would. He wrenched madly at the wheel, putting his whole weight behind the effort. Slowly, like a giant tortoise, the car righted itself.
And its nose was through the barricade! The door of the ‘Red Lion’ swung open, and the Toff caught a glimpse of the bottles and glasses on the shelves behind the bar.
The Toff jumped from his seat. He grabbed his gun from his pocket, spared a split-second for a glance at Warrender, who was pulling himself together from the force of the smash, and then tensed the muscles of his calves as he swung open the car door and jumped to the ground.
A bullet hummed past his ears, fired from somewhere inside the pub. But the Toff took no notice of it. He vaulted over the radiator of the wrecked car and stood for a second in the doorway. Behind him Warrender and the uninjured detective were climbing through the opening.
The Toff pointed behind the bar and shouted over his shoulder.
‘You can get upstairs through that door,’ he told the others. ‘Once the front rooms are cleared of the brutes, McNab’s men can get across.’