by J F Straker
“Not at all. Come on down.”
They went down a narrow and dimly lit tunnel dug out of the earth, the floor caked hard by the passage of time and many feet, the walls and ceiling shored with timbers; it was just high enough for Johnny to walk upright, but both Cooper and the guard had to stoop. After some twenty yards the tunnel turned sharply, and Johnny paused in astonishment. They were on the threshold of a vast underground cavern, its walls and ceiling embellished with a myriad tiny shells and pieces of coloured glass, pressed into the earth and reflecting slim needles of light from the cluster of electric light bulbs set high in the domed roof. Other chambers, smaller and ill-lit but similarly embellished, opened out from it. Beyond some of these were further chambers, their entrances shadowy, their interiors dark and remote.
“Pretty, eh?” Cooper said, and gave Johnny a push.
In a small chamber by the entrance to the tunnel (“The guard-room,” Cooper said), a man was seated at a switch-board. He looked up as they passed, and nodded to Cooper and the guard. Johnny he ignored. Two of the chambers had been fitted with doors; Cooper opened the nearer door and stood aside for Johnny to enter. It was similar to the others: packed earth for a floor, the ceiling and walls embellished with shells and glistening with damp. Two filing cabinets, three hard-backed chairs, and a large flat-topped desk with a swivel chair behind it provided the furniture.
“You might not think it, but we are now some twenty-five feet below ground level,” Cooper said. “You could shout yourself hoarse, and no-one up top would hear. As for escaping — that’s right out. You couldn’t open that door, not even if you were free to try.” He nodded at the guard, who left them. “I thought you’d like to know.”
“How kind!” Johnny said. “What happens now?”
“We wait for Gislap.”
Johnny did not bother to ask who Gislap might be. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and reviewed his position. By now Karen should have delivered his message, and presumably the Boozer had taken steps to ensure that every copper in the district was on the alert for the Hillman and the Morris van. And much joy would it bring them! The van was miles away, and so obviously efficient an organization as this was unlikely to forget the Hillman. If it were to be found it would be nowhere near the farm. Even the information that the van had headed north was probably misleading. After so many twists and turns they might well have landed up south of the town.
Sadly he decided that he was on his own.
Gislap arrived some ten minutes later. He nodded to Cooper, strode round the desk to seat himself in the swivel chair, and lit a cigar. Not until the cigar was well alight did he take notice of Johnny.
“Detective Sergeant Inch, eh?” He swung smoothly in the chair. “Got yourself in a pretty pickle, haven’t you?”
“It could be the other way round,” Johnny told him. “You can’t keep me here indefinitely.”
“True.” Gislap smoothed his beard. “Which is why we’d appreciate some information before you leave.”
“The hell you would!”
“Yes. So suppose you tell me —”
“No!” The brash assumption that he could be so easily persuaded to talk angered Johnny. “You tell me, Gislap. You’re the villain, not me.”
A slow smile spread across the farmer’s face.
“How typically English! The thin red line, the stiff upper lip, the innate belief in the sanctity of the law.” The smile blossomed into a laugh. “All right, Sergeant, I’ll do that. Where would you like me to start?”
This ready compliance with his defiant gesture surprised Johnny. He had not expected it, and he did not understand it. Why would a man confess when he so clearly held the upper hand? Or perhaps it wasn’t a confession. Perhaps Gislap was unable to resist the temptation to boast.
“Suit yourself,” he said. “But I must warn you —”
“Please!” Gislap raised a hand in mock protest. “No formalities.”
Johnny shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”
It was Cooper’s turn to smile.
Crime Co-operative, Gislap said, had started in a small way some years back; now it was an almost nation-wide organization, with a board of planners and himself as managing director. It consisted of a small body of administrators; the ‘heavy mob’, or disciplinarians; the informers, who provided information or openings for worthwhile jobs; and the craftsmen or technicians who carried them out — the ‘crews’, as they were called. These latter were often unknown to one another until they reported for briefing and to draw any necessary equipment. Proceeds from all jobs were deposited in a central fund, which was used to pay the salaries of the planners, administrators, and disciplinarians, and a monthly retainer to informers and technicians, according to their status. It also supplied money for the insurance fund, which covered pensions, legal defence for members arrested by the police, and care of a convicted man’s family while he was in prison. In addition, all those participating in a job received a percentage of the haul according to their respective contributions.
“Most of the crews do very nicely out of it provided they keep their noses clean,” Gislap said. “Enough to live comfortably without working, if that’s their inclination. For the lesser fry —” He shrugged. “Pin money without pain.”
“And for the really big boys such as yourself, the fat profits, eh?” Interesting as Johnny found the disclosures, he was uneasy at the freedom with which they were made. It suggested invulnerability. “Wheeler and his gang didn’t do so nicely, did they?”
“They stepped out of line. Members are forbidden to engage in private transactions. And we’re strict on rules.”
“How did you get wise to them?”
“Last week one of our operators heard Goodwin hinting that big money was coming his way. But money didn’t go with Goodwin’s background, and the bank job made us wonder. Wheeler and Sinclair were known to be friends of his, so we investigated all three.” Gislap smiled. “But it was you who really spelled it out for us, Sergeant.”
“Me? Pull the other one.”
“No kidding. You told Whisper Pratt that the job had his signature written all over it. That made Whisper mad — with us, not with you. He trains some of our chaps, you see, and because they copy his methods you fellows always pick on him whenever one of them pulls a job. So we warn him in advance to fix an alibi. But this time there was no warning, and immediately you left he grabbed the phone to ask what the hell we were playing at. Goodwin being his latest pupil, that more or less clinched it.”
Johnny wondered if that made him an accessory to murder. If so he felt no guilt, and his interest was strictly professional as Gislap went on to explain how it had been done. Much was as Johnny had envisaged: ‘Charlton’s’ visit to Judith Wheeler, after her husband had been seen to leave the house, to discover if he had been home Saturday night and to strengthen her suspicion that he was having an affair with Beryl Sinclair; the telephone call, purporting to come from Beryl, to inveigle him out to the Common; the note, already typed and later found by Nicodemus in the Sinclairs’ grate, which Wheeler had been ‘persuaded’ to sign. Further persuasion had also made him reveal where his share of the bank haul was hidden.
“And then you killed him,” Johnny said.
“Not me. I wasn’t there. But according to those who were he tried to escape.” Gislap smacked his lips. “That was foolish of him.”
They had stripped Wheeler’s body, covered it with a raincoat borrowed from one of the gang, and had propped it in the Morris taken from the pub car-park while Sinclair was playing darts. Lorna Ellingwood, one of the few women in the ‘heavy mob’, had been instructed to remove it for disposal; it was not until later that night they had learned of the accident and Lorna’s death. “We’d rung Mrs Sinclair earlier to say that Wheeler would be picking her up, and we needed his car and clothes for one of our chaps to impersonate him,” Gislap said. “But then I guess you know about that, eh?”
Johnny said he did. He also knew
about the bogus canvasser, he said. “I suppose he dropped the note into Sinclair’s letter-box after his wife had left.”
“He did.”
“And later that night you tried to recover Wheeler’s share of the maggot.”
Gislap frowned. “I’m not thoroughly conversant with underworld slang,” he said. “But if by ‘maggot’ you mean money — yes, we did. Wheeler had told us it was in the kennels, but he had neglected to mention a bunch of savage Alsatians.” The ash dropped from his cigar to the desk, and he scooped it to the floor. “I’d give much to know what happened to that money. It irks me to be beaten by a bunch of blasted amateurs.”
“Amateurs?”
“Well, near-amateurs. None of them had been with us long. We trained Sinclair as a radio-operator, Goodwin as a peterman. That’s the correct term, isn’t it?” Johnny nodded. “Promising, but inexperienced.”
“Goodwin,” Johnny said. “How did he get his?”
“A rush of iron to the head, I’m told. Like Wheeler, he was reluctant to part with his goodies. They meant to make it look like suicide — hence the body thrown from the window — but the room was in such a shambles they abandoned the idea.”
“Careless of them. Who are all these pugnacious gentlemen?”
“I told you. The heavy mob. We call them in when we need them. Between whiles they carry on with their normal occupations. We all do. Me, I’m a farmer. This is just for kicks and cash.”
“Do they report here?”
“Heavens, no! The rendezvous varies. We don’t want to draw attention to the farm with a lot of comings and goings. Only a few even know this place exists.”
Johnny wondered how much of what he had heard was true. Most of it, probably; it was too fantastic to be lies. Yet it was inexplicable that even a braggart should hammer so many nails into his own coffin.
“Why are you telling me all this?” he asked.
The other spread his arms wide. “You asked, didn’t you?”
The telephone rang while Johnny was considering whether to accept this answer. Gislap’s frown deepened as he listened to the caller. “I’ll be right up,” he snapped. He put down the receiver, ground out his cigar, and stood up.
“It seems your colleagues are either smarter or luckier than I anticipated,” he told Johnny, coming round the desk. “They’re up at the house now.”
“Most crooks tend to underestimate the police,” Johnny said, concealing his surprise. How had the Boozer managed to close in so soon? “That’s one reason why our prisons are overcrowded. But don’t worry. We’ll find room for you and your friends.”
“Cocky, eh? Don’t fool yourself, Sergeant. They won’t find their way down here.” Gislap turned to Cooper. “Put him in with the others.”
“How about me?” Cooper asked.
“Stay here. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to leave.”
Cooper had spoken little during the interview, and then only when referred to by Gislap. His demeanour towards the farmer had been respectful, even subservient. But as the door closed he once more became Cooper the journalist — large, red, rabbity, and brash.
“You know something? It’s hell for a reporter having to sit on a story like this. And I do it all the time.” Cooper stood up. “Well, let’s go join the others.”
As he went past, Johnny hit him solidly in the pit of the stomach. Cooper was soft, and he folded, gasping for air. Johnny hit him again, a heavy blow on the back of the neck with the side of his hand, and Cooper stopped gasping and fell flat, his forehead hitting the floor with a loud ‘crack’. He twitched a little, and then was still.
Rubbing his fist, Johnny smiled in grim content. This was what he had been waiting for: a chance to be alone with one of them and catch him off guard. He turned Cooper over and felt for his heart. Satisfied that he still lived, he stripped him of trousers, jacket, and tie, gagged him as best he could with the trousers, and used the sleeves of the jacket to tie his ankles. Then he turned him back on to his stomach and bound his wrists with the tie.
Thankful for the rubbers on his shoes, he went out into the main chamber, closed and locked the door, and pocketed the key. From his right came the sound of voices; he went left, found the second door locked, and set off to explore the maze of interconnecting chambers that formed the gang’s headquarters. Many of them were in use as store-rooms; there were cases of tinned and packaged food, boxes of ammunition, radio and other technical equipment. His hopes rose at the sight of the ammunition. But he found no weapons; no doubt caution dictated that these should be kept elsewhere. If I were a hero in thriller fiction, he reflected ruefully, I could do something ingenious with all that ammo. Being me, I’d either fail miserably or blow up the whole bloody shebang.
In a long outer chamber he came to what appeared to be a sliding metal door let into the earthen wall. It had no handle and no visible lock, and he assumed that, like the cellar door which gave on to the tunnel, it was controlled by some secret and elaborate mechanism. He could not move it, and he ventured farther into the chamber. It was dark here, and the floor descended steeply, so that he was forced to tread warily. It was as well that he did. As he put a foot forward he felt the ground give beneath him, and he drew back quickly. Going down on his knees, he took out a match and lit it.
He was at the lip of a deep hole that blocked the end of the chamber: some eight feet in diameter, the earth treacherously loose round the rim. A well, he thought. As the match went out he picked up a small stone and, leaning forward, dropped it. There was no answering splash, no sound at all; it was as if the stone had fallen into space. Scrabbling in the dirt he found a larger stone, and tried again. It fell as silently as the first, and he got to his feet and went back down the chamber to continue his exploration.
It did not take him long to discover that Cooper had been right, that there was no way out except through the tunnel by which they had entered; and even if he were able to slip past the guardroom unobserved there was still the steel door to bar his way. If he were to escape it could only be with Cooper’s co-operation. Cooper would not give it willingly. But perhaps he could be made susceptible to stern persuasion.
He found Cooper on his back, wriggling furiously but still bound and gagged. His shirt had ridden up, his pants down. Johnny thought he looked obscene.
“Listen, slug,” he said, placing a foot on Cooper’s stomach. “I’m going to take the trousers out of your mouth. Shout, or raise your voice above a whisper, and I’ll kick you good and hard in the what’s-it. Understand?”
Cooper glared at him from bulging eyes. Johnny pressed harder on his stomach, and Cooper gave a strangled cough and nodded frantically.
“Good.” Johnny untied the trousers and moved to a position advantageous for executing his threat. Cooper’s mouth moved bovinely, restoring the saliva, but he made no sound. “I’m getting out of this hole, and you’re going to help me. So where do we start?”
“We don’t, damn you!” He kept his voice low, but the menace was there.
“Oh yes we do.” Johnny raised a threatening foot. Cooper winced, and drew up his knees. “Who operates the doors? The chaps in the guardroom?”
“Not without permission from the farm. They can’t. There’s a dual control.”
“Then you’ll have to see they get permission, won’t you?” Johnny considered the position. “This is what we do. I’ll open the door a few inches, and prop you up so that they can see your face. Then you call them, and tell them you have to see Gislap immediately, that it can’t wait. Don’t take any backchat. You’re the big noise down here, aren’t you?” He picked up a chair. “And watch it, Cooper. If either of those fellows gets nosey I’ll wrap this round your damned bonce. Get it?”
Still glaring, Cooper nodded. Johnny gripped him under the armpits and tugged him to the door. But Cooper was heavy, and lifting him wasn’t easy. Johnny guessed he was deliberately making himself a dead weight and, in a fit of petty temper, he kicked him sharply in the side.
Cooper let out a yelp, quickly muffled, and Johnny waited for the men to come running. But they did not come. With Cooper deciding to co-operate, Johnny lifted him and propped him against the door-jamb.
“Right.” His side was giving him hell, but he ignored it. “Do you know their names?”
“One’s Adnett.”
“Then call him when I open the door. And no funny business.” Johnny lifted the chair. “Not if you like the way you part your hair.”
Even as he moved the door ajar Johnny knew that he had lost. Perhaps he had known it from the start, and the look on Cooper’s face as he called the guard was unnecessary confirmation. But it was too late to plan afresh, and he could not chicken out now. Chair poised, he waited for the man to come.
He did not hear him. The first intimation of his presence was of the door being kicked violently open to send him staggering. Before he could recover both men were on him, and he went down in a flurry of legs and arms to crack his head on the floor.
They were efficient without being brutal. They hauled him to his feet, and he stood, dazed and sore, while one held an arm twisted behind his back and the other untied Cooper’s wrists and ankles.
Cooper put on jacket and trousers and came up to him, hand raised as though about to strike.
“Like Gislap said, you’re a fool, Inch.” He let the hand drop. “‘Adnett’ is our code word for trouble.” He moved to Johnny’s back, took over the guard’s grip on his arm, and brought his knee up into the rear of Johnny’s crutch, jerking him forward. The arm was twisted tighter, and Johnny clenched his teeth against the pain. “Move.”
They went out. One of the guards unlocked the second door, and Cooper released Johnny’s arm and pushed him into the chamber. It was larger than the one they had left, with a hessian screen across what Johnny assumed to be the entrance to yet another chamber, and furnished with a trestle bed and a few wooden chairs. There was a shelf containing paperbacks, a small table, and a mirror. On the bed a blonde woman lay with her back to them. Mark Sinclair sat on a chair, staring at them open-mouthed.