by John Creasey
A constable approached him, and the light of the man’s torch shone full into Craigie’s face.
‘Good night, sir.’
‘Good night,’ said Craigie, still blinking from the glare.
He had to use a torch to show him the entry between the sandbags leading to his office, and consequently he saw the man who was standing there a split-second before he would otherwise have done.
It did not occur to him that it could be any other than one of his own men, waiting because he had been unable to get into the office.
‘Hallo,’ he said, and raised his torch.
It was then that the man hit him.
The blow was delivered to the jaw, a short-arm jab of considerable force. Craigie thudded back against the sand-bags. His hand flew automatically to the gun in his pocket. At the same time he felt the sting of acid biting into his eyes, his nostrils, as it seared through his breathing, penetrating to his very lungs. He tried to strike out but could not, nor could he make a sound except an incoherent whispering deep in his throat.
A second blow fell savagely on the back of his neck, and he lost consciousness.
Two men emerged from the shadows of the sandbags, half lifting, half dragging Craigie’s body to a waiting car.
The men bundled Craigie in, climbed after him, and slammed the door. The car moved off slowly, passing a constable who turned into the street. The constable passed the sandbags and, a few seconds afterwards, felt his eyes smarting. Tear-gas, he thought, or one of the nose and throat irritants.
It was odd, for there had been no gas test in the neighbourhood that day.
For safety’s sake he put on his mask, then went to the sandbags. He raised the face-piece of his mask cautiously. Here, undoubtedly, the smell was stronger. He went into the building, but no one was there, and there was no hint of the gas actually inside the hall or staircase. Never-the-less he was alarmed enough to telephone a report to the Yard immediately. When the investigators arrived, however, the smell of gas had gone.
Someone suggested that a trial tube of gas had been released by accident, and the matter was referred back for attention the next day.
Craigie, meanwhile, was taken out of London.
He came round while he was in the car, but found that his limbs refused to move when he tried to direct them. When eventually the car stopped outside a house which he could only just see in the darkness, he could not walk by his own volition, and was half-carried into the building.
The stairs were quite beyond him, and the man who had first attacked him carried him up. Craigie saw vaguely that the staircase was a wide one; he knew no more than that. He was taken into a brightly-lighted room, and dropped into an easy chair.
‘Excellent work, Blaker, excellent work indeed.’
Craigie only just distinguished the words and the muttered answer. He saw the man who had carried him go away, and heard the door close. He closed his eyes, then opened them gradually, in an attempt to get a clearer vision. A bearded face appeared before him, one moment seeming close to his face, another receding so far that he could see the whole of the man’s head. Presently the beard, the pale cheeks and high forehead, grew recognisable.
Craigie gripped the arms of his chair.
‘I think you will be much better here for a while, Craigie, don’t you? Besides, I think you can help me.’
Craigie was thinking: My God, it’s Crayshaw.
The idea, at first fantastic and turbulent, gradually settled to a grim acceptance. He did not doubt after the first few minutes that it was Sir Noel Crayshaw; beyond that he could not think.
12
Sensation in High Circles
Mike and Mark Errol, weary of work which showed little result, tired and irritable in consequence, regarded one another from easy chairs on either side of the fireplace at their flat.
Mark said gloomily: ‘This is a ruddy fine show. No sign of——’
‘Craigie, Hammond, Loftus——’
‘Or any of them,’ completed Mark. ‘Where the hell has Craigie got to, that’s what——’
‘The trouble is, in this show,’ said Mike, ‘that everything’s out of line. It would be better if Loftus was on the prowl.’
‘No, Hammond’s all right——’
‘Who said he wasn’t?’ growled Mike. ‘It’s just that he’s new, and that naturally upsets things. I can’t remember a time before when Craigie hasn’t answered in ten hours.’
‘I’d better ring him again,’ said Mark, hopefully stretching out his hand for the receiver. As he did so the telephone bell rang sharply.
Considerably startled he lifted the receiver to his ear. ‘Hallo... hallo...’
‘Errol? ... This is Hammond, d—n—o——’
‘Call it said, old chap. What’s up?’
‘Have you heard from Craigie recently?’ Hammond demanded.
‘No,’ said Mark, and all facetiousness left him. ‘We rang him at midnight, and it’s now 10 o’clock. We’ve tried pretty well once an hour.’
There was a sharp and urgent note in Hammond’s voice: ‘Get in touch with as many of the others as you can. Ask them whether they’ve had word from him since midnight. Get Miller of the Yard to find where he was last seen. Got that?’
‘Yes,’ said Mark crisply. He replaced the receiver, turning a thoughtful face to his cousin. ‘Trouble. They can’t contact with Craigie either ...’ He dialled another number. ‘Hallo, Wally? Mark here ... have you tried to ‘phone Craigie recently? ... twice this morning, yes ... I don’t know yet, but Hammond seemed anxious... cheer-ho.’ He replaced the receiver again, and said: ‘Try the other ‘phone, Mike. I’ll have a word with Miller.’ He dialled the Yard while Mike started a round of calls on the other telephone. One after another agent said the same thing: they had called Craigie to report, but had received no answer.
The Errols regarded each other blankly. At last Mark said: ‘Well, we needn’t stop working. You’re following Hilary this morning, remember?’
Leaving Mark with the telephone literally at his finger tips, Mike went off to Audeley Street. A man reading a newspaper in the driving seat of a Lancing nodded. A few minutes afterwards he drove off, and the place by the kerb was taken by a taxi. This was driven by a second agent of Craigie’s, a man Mike would be able to use if there was need for leaving Audeley Street by road.
Mike was half an hour doing nothing.
Then the door of number 177c opened, and he saw the girl. She turned towards Piccadilly. Mike followed her as she walked rapidly towards Kensington Gardens.
There were enough people about to enable Mike to do this without much risk of being seen. He had wondered once or twice whether it would not be wiser for someone Hilary did not know to follow her, and with this in mind, kept the distance between them a good fifty or sixty yards.
He had little doubt that she was going to an appointment; there had been nothing hesitant about her manner; she knew just where she was going, and why.
Mike waited near a bridge over the Serpentine as the girl walked to the far side.
‘Place of appointment, otherwise the rendezvous,’ murmured Mike. Trees and shrubs gave him ample cover, and he was able to watch her without the slightest risk of being seen.
He saw her stiffen.
Half a dozen people were walking towards her. One of them, a man of medium height, wearing a light blue suit, stopped. Mike saw his rather heavy face, and mop of untidy reddish hair. Man and girl talked quickly for several minutes, Hilary gesticulating from time to time as if in protest.
Mike approached slowly, taking what cover he could behind trees and shrubs.
Hilary’s voice floated out to him, furious, outraged. ‘But I must have it, I tell you! I’ve paid for it, haven’t I?’
‘They didn’t give it to me,’ the red-haired man said sullenly. ‘It’s no use talking like that.’ He looked away from her evasively, and Mike glimpsed his expression. In it he caught something more than sullenness; it was as if t
he fellow was waiting for something, was on edge for a development which might come at any moment.
Footsteps passed Mike, but except for the girl’s voice raised in pleading there was no other sound; until Mike suddenly became aware of movement some ten feet in front of him.
He saw a man in a greenish brown suit, in colour barely distinguishable from the trees. He was taking what appeared to be a fishing-rod from a canvas case.
Mike started; and something of what Craigie had last told him flashed through his mind. He saw that the ‘fishing-rod’ was actually a bow, that the man was fitting a little gaily-feathered arrow into position.
There were ten feet and a small tree between Mike and the archer. The tree would prevent him reaching the man, and in any case what he knew of the dead dog warned him that he must not take the risk of being scratched by the arrow.
Slowly, being careful that a sudden movement wouldn’t catch the eye of the archer, he raised his gun.
As he did so the man fixed the arrow and drew back the string. The gesture, once the bow was fitted, was startlingly fast, so fast that Mike felt a sudden tearing anxiety lest his caution had made him too late.
He fired at the man’s legs.
The bark of the shot, the twang! of the bow, the whirring of the arrow as it sped towards the man and the girl, all merged together. The man in green turned round, with a sudden fury; Mike knew the bullet had struck his leg, but for that split second the pain appeared to have no effect. He saw the man snatch another arrow from a sheath, and fling it towards him.
Mike ducked, and fired again.
Something brushed his hair, scraping along his scalp. He was afraid as he had never been in his life, but he saw that his second bullet had taken the archer in the chest. The man toppled slowly forward; as he went down, the point of one of his arrows scored a line of skin from his hand.
Mike left him, breaking from his cover towards Hilary Crayshaw, who stood staring down at her companion’s face, distorted in agony. His arms and legs were lashing out, while from his cheek stuck the little arrow with its gay feathers.
The girl seemed hypnotised.
Slowly but deliberately she put a hand towards the arrow, but before she touched it Mike reached her, and flung her to one side. She fell against the railing of the bridge, all the breath knocked out of her.
From somewhere not far off a police whistle was blowing, while a woman stood at the far end of the bridge, screaming. The monotony of her cries, rending the air, acted like a jagged saw on Mike’s nerves. A group of auxiliary fire service men were running from the banks of the Serpentine towards the bridge, while several policemen were making a good speed towards the fallen men.
Mike gripped the girl’s arm.
She stared at him, recognising him. She had been afraid before, but not so desperately as she was now. Mike said harshly: ‘Leave all the talking to me.’
She did not answer by word or sign, and before he could speak again the police had arrived.
Mike put a hand gingerly to his head.
The poison had worked with such speed on others that he did not think there was any serious chance that he had been affected, but he started when he touched something in his hair. He drew out one of the feathers, stared at it, and then raised his voice: ‘Don’t touch a thing.’ His command was so urgent that the policemen who had arrived stopped dead. ‘Not a thing,’ he repeated, and went towards the shrubs.
He could just see the man, moving less violently now; he of the sullen face was not moving at all.
A sergeant approached Mike, who said more quietly: ‘There are arrows about, Sergeant, tipped with poison. Don’t let your men touch them. If I were you I’d even be careful about touching the bodies.’ He took out his wallet and extracted a card, signed by the Chief Constable of Scotland Yard. ‘I’d like a full report sent to Superintendent Miller as quickly as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I think I’d better have one of your men to come with me and the lady,’ said Mike. His suggestion was shrewd, for he did not imagine the sergeant would be too easy about allowing him to remove Hilary. ‘He can stay with us until you’ve had the all clear from the Superintendent.’
‘Thank you, sir. You’ll want a cab?’
‘Yes,’ said Mike, ‘but it must be a man you know.’
The police found a taxi driver, and through a quickly gathering crowd Mike hustled the girl away. He knew that the dead men would be taken to Cannon Row; that he—or Craigie or Hammond—would have access to anything found in their pockets. His main task was to get Hilary Crayshaw to talk.
He had little doubt of what had been intended.
The furtive anxiety in the sullen eyes of the red-haired man had been evidence enough that he had known of the presence of the archer, and that the arrow had been intended for the girl. The explanation appeared to be simple enough, although horrible beyond imagining.
An appointment with the girl, so that she could be shot while talking; yes, that made sense.
Other things did not. For instance, why had that particular place been chosen? Mike asked himself that question as the girl sat back in the cab with closed eyes. She had lost all colour, and was breathing heavily.
Mike thought, I suppose it was as good a place as any; excellent cover, too, for the fellow to get away.
He noticed that the girl’s eyes were now open, and that she was regarding him without expression; the terror she had evinced earlier appeared to have lost itself in something akin to stupor. He offered her a cigarette, and, rather surprisingly, she took it.
‘One way or another,’ Mike murmured, hoping to raise some spark, ‘you aren’t having too good a time, are you?’
She stared at him sluggishly, and then spoke very slowly and deliberately.
‘I’m having a hell of a time.’
‘It often comes in patches,’ said Mike. ‘Anyhow, when we’ve been to the flat and you’ve had a pick-me-up, we can see what can be done about putting it to rights.’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t do anything else. But—why should they kill Eric? First Ferdy, and then Eric.’ Mike saw that she thought the arrow had been intended for her companion. It might be wise to let her continue thinking that way. He wished he could ‘phone Craigie. Without Craigie he was like a ship without a rudder.
Loftus and Hammond would have helped, but he had no idea how long they would be in the country.
The cab pulled up outside his Brook Street flat, and the policeman who had been sitting next to the driver jumped down.
‘Unless there’s anything you want, sir, I’ll wait down here.’
‘There’s nothing at the moment,’ said Mike. He searched his pockets for the key, but before he had found it the door opened and Mark appeared. Together they helped the girl up to the first floor landing. The door of his flat, marked ‘2’, was standing ajar, and he urged the girl through.
Then Mike started.
‘Great Scott!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bruce, are you welcome! But—damn it, you were in Weymouth an hour ago.’
‘An hour and a half,’ said Hammond quietly. ‘I flew up. I’m worried about C.’ He paused. ‘What’s been happening?’
Mike said briefly: ‘Leave it for a couple of minutes, will you?’ He stepped to a cabinet and poured Hilary a stiff whisky and soda; she took it eagerly. It brought a little colour to her cheeks, and a good deal more animation to her manner.
She turned to Hammond. ‘I was meeting a friend and he was killed.’ She paused, then went on, furious at Hammond’s lack of astonishment. ‘Don’t you understand? He was killed!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Hammond said simply. ‘I can’t say much more, I’m afraid. Are you feeling better in yourself?’
‘I’m feeling damnable,’ she said, and then laughed on a high-pitched note; the effect could surely not be wholly due to the whisky. ‘Everything’s damnable, it’s hellish! I don’t even know where I am, what I’m doing, all my friends are getting killed, and he—he h
ates me.’ A look of shrewish cunning crossed her face. ‘He hates me; sometimes I think he’s driving me mad, mad, mad!’ She screeched the last word, and then swung round.
Standing motionless in the doorway Hammond saw Crayshaw. He was surprised enough himself to start; but he was not prepared for the effect on the girl. She began to laugh, horribly, erratically, the pitch going higher and higher as it shook her whole body.
‘Now Eric’s dead, dead dead!’ The words were just distinguishable. ‘You always hated him, always. I’m not coming back to the house. Never again, never again!’
Crayshaw’s voice broke through, quiet, authoritative.
‘All right, my dear, if you don’t want to come back I’m not going to press you.’ He shot a glance towards Hammond, as if asking for co-operation. ‘But there’s always a home for you, when you want it.’
‘I don’t want it!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t want to see you again; I won’t see you!’
Crayshaw’s shoulders appeared to droop, an immense resignation touched his features.
‘All right, Hilary,’ he said. ‘All right.’
He began to walk down the stairs, Hammond following. Once on the pavement he looked at Hammond, and Hammond saw, or thought he saw, behind the droop, the resignation, a gleam of calculation, as if Crayshaw was thinking: is this man deceived? Have I succeeded in deluding him?
Crayshaw said: ‘This is most distressing, Mr. Hammond. I can’t understand how she should be with your friends again, but since she appears to place some degree of confidence in you and them, can I ask for your help? Can I rely on you to make sure that she gets into no more trouble?’
Hammond said: ‘I think so, Crayshaw.’
‘I cannot say how much I appreciate that! I wish——’
‘My friends were concerned for Hilary, Crayshaw. An attempt was made on her life.’
‘On—her—life?’
‘Another attempt,’ said Hammond. ‘It’s quite impossible, even if it were advisable, to keep the matter from the police this time.’
Crayshaw pressed a hand across his forehead. ‘I see. Very well, Mr. Hammond. I will arrange an interview with the Home Secretary. I must not let her be placed under arrest, or charged.’