by John Creasey
The three men standing there waited to the last moment, to be surer of their aim—and their caution cost them their victim. For as the car drew level with them, Benson tossed one of his little phials—and his worries from that quarter were over.
He went out of the drive on three wheels, tyres screeching and engine roaring. A dozen police, bunched together, were waiting with their guns. Stabs of flame darted towards the car, but the tyres escaped. Two bullets struck Benson, but did little damage; far less, certainly, than the havoc caused as he flung another gas-bomb. And then he was on the main road, and could let the car all out. If nothing got in his way, he could make it. If something got in his way, it couldn’t be helped. In any case, Wimbledon Common gave him a fighting chance.
17
Kerr’s bright notions
Kerr came round with a head ready to burst, and suffered five minutes of retching that seemed to turn him inside out. By the time he had recovered from it he felt weak and fit for nothing but a long night’s sleep. His face was very pale, but his eyes were hard. He looked up at the faces of two or three strange men—and one solid, familiar figure.
‘How do you feel?’ asked Superintendent Miller.
‘Swinish,’ said Kerr, ‘Give me a hand up, will you?’
Miller glanced at a sober-looking man beside him, who nodded agreement.
‘He’ll be all right.’
‘Thanks, doctor,’ said Miller, and helped Kerr up.
He staggered as he reached his feet, and would have fallen but for Miller’s steadying arm. After a moment, he hobbled to a chair and sat down. They were in the front room of the house into which he had burst something under forty minutes earlier.
‘Well?’ he queried, drily.
‘Benson managed it,’ Miller said, with a gloomy smile. ‘He had one too many tricks in his bag. We’ve caught a couple of his men, though—and the chap who calls himself Colonel Piper.’ He grimaced sourly. ‘This thing apart, he’d be for the long drop.’
‘Like that, eh?’ said Kerr. ‘I wonder what Reynoldson will think of that.’ He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to pull himself together, and when he opened them again he seemed more alert.
‘Find me a spot of whisky, someone will you? What’s doing Miller?’
‘We’re turning the place inside out,’ Miller told him, as one of the local men went for the whisky. ‘But nothing’s been reported so far. I daresay one of the prisoners will talk, though.’
‘If they know anything, that’s fine,’ said Kerr.
He took the whisky, and felt a new man a couple of minutes later. Even his legs would bear him without tottering, although he was still a little shaky. For the first time he saw Carruthers, still unconscious, and cocked an enquiring eyebrow at the medico.
‘He’ll pull round, all right,’ said that worthy. ‘He got more of it than you. But it’s not lethal.’
‘Good. How about Trale?’
‘Shot in the leg,’ said Miller, with a ghost of a smile. ‘You can almost hear what he thinks about it if you listen. He’s on a couch in the other room. Nothing serious.’
‘So the damage might have been worse?’ Kerr suggested.
‘From our side, a lot worse. We’ve done more to-day than in the last month. Three prisonsers and a man dead upstairs. Or what,’ Miller corrected, with grisly precision, ‘there is left of him. What happened?’
‘He threw a bomb and I threw it back,’ said Kerr, offhandedly. ‘Does Craigie know about this?’
‘He’s on his way.’
‘Good! I think I’ll take it easy until he comes.’
The remark brought a smile from the doctor, who would have recommended that Kerr took it easily for the next ten days at least. Perhaps because they had been in the confines of the house, Kerr and Carruthers had suffered more from the gas than anyone else; Kerr had been out for twenty minutes and his friend was only now recovering. A round dozen of the police had been out for periods of five to fifteen minutes.
Kerr sat back in an easy chair, while Miller and his men searched the house and everything in it.
The Department Z man was resting physically, but not mentally. He regretted the fact that Benson had managed to get away, but he was thanking the fates that he and his men had suffered so lightly. It might have been a great deal worse; in fact, it was a miracle it had not been.
Several things puzzled him, especially after he heard how Benson had crashed through the dummy wall. Why had Benson and Marlin not made for the garage immediately, and tried to get away? Of course, from the moment when they had crashed into the window to the moment he had reached the head of the stairs, something under two minutes had passed. Benson hadn’t had much time.
If Kerr hadn’t glanced up as the bomb had come, he and Carruthers would have been in perdition now, and both the crooks would have escaped. He guessed that only lack of time had stopped Benson from shooting him after the gassing. And he had tossed that bomb in the hope of destroying both Department men: Benson’s attitude to those who worked for Craigie was written very plain: ‘kill or be killed’.
But what now? If Marlin had been the prime mover in this thing, there was a good chance of stopping it now—and getting at the truth. On the other hand, Benson might know exactly how to proceed. And there was still the man whom they knew as Mayhew...
And—Kerr sat up sharply in his seat, as this thought came to him—there was someone else they hadn’t found yet. Mark Potter had been in the Daimler Penelope had followed before her accident.
Where was he now?
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Gordon Craigie.
He was sitting opposite Kerr in one of the upstairs rooms of Common View. Miller was with them, and Trale, his leg bandaged, was sitting on a couch and scowling. Bob Carruthers, still a long way from recovering from the effects of the gas, was sharing the couch.
Craigie had arrived twenty minutes before, and learned what there was to learn. Every paper found in the house was on a table at his side. There was nothing helpful as far as was known, but he proposed to take them back to the office and study them more closely.
He had taken the news of Marlin’s death coolly, but Kerr knew his man well enough to realise Craigie was relieved. Marlin, it was generally acknowledged, was the instigator of this game, and now he was gone there was a chance—if a slight one—of straightening the tangle out before it was too late.
So far, neither of the two men who had been caught while trying to escape from Common View had been persuaded to talk; but no-one as yet had tried to force them. Two others—the man in the hall and the man whose machine-gun Kerr had borrowed—were unconscious, the one likely to die without opening his lips, for the bullet had punctured his lung, and the other suffering from concussion. The Daimler in which Benson had escaped had been found abandoned five miles from the house.
Kerr broke a silence that had lasted for two minutes.
‘How’s the general situation?’ he asked.
Craigie’s mouth drooped.
‘Not good. There was an ugly scene at the American Embassy this morning—some of it “inspired”, of course. But too many American factories have closed. That’s taken the working man’s bread and butter, and he doesn’t like it. We’ve told the White House,’ he added, his face suddenly drawn, ‘of Fenway’s death. We couldn’t keep it quiet any longer.’
‘What did they say?’
‘Little or nothing,’ Craigie grimaced: ‘But if it once gets into the American Press, there’ll be no stopping them. Hopson has been more virulent than ever. Still, it’s Benson we have to think about. What’s our next step?’
Kerr smiled; Craigie had probably already planned the next move, but waited to hear what his agent’s ideas were first.
‘Search Potter’s place more thoroughly,’ Kerr suggested, ‘and see what we can find about his friends------’ He stopped suddenly. ‘Good God!’ he said softly, ‘and we haven’t seen it before. Craigie, we’re blind! We don’t want Potter’s fla
t, and we don’t want the Preston house—we want the factory!’
Craigie stared at him.
‘But------’
‘Oh, of course there are buts.’ Kerr jumped up. ‘I may be wrong. But ask yourself: Jeremy Potter must have been in this somewhere, or he wouldn’t have been worth killing. His Secretary was in it. His brother may or may not be; that doesn’t matter. But the only time Benson’s used any number of men was in the raid at Preston when Davidson and I were there. The men disappeared completely. Where did they come from? Somewhere in the Preston area, then Potter’s factory—the mills! An ideal place for sheltering men!’
Kerr had crossed to the door and now stood holding it open impatiently. Craigie was silent for thirty seconds. Then:
‘Will you fly up there?’ he asked.
Kerr’s expression changed and he smiled.
‘Yes. From Heston. You’ll telephone the Manchester people to keep the place watched? And a sharp look-out on the roads leading north for Benson or anyone like him! I wish,’ he added, ‘Tim and Wally could come, but they’re at Dorchester------’
‘They’re on their way here,’ said Craigie. ‘Should arrive at any time. They telephoned me just after I heard from Miller.’
‘Fine!’ Kerr smiled. He felt completely fit again now. The prospect of further action had acted like a tonic on him. ‘Are you coming?’
‘No. I’m seeing Wishart this afternoon.’
‘Dodo’s out of it.’ Kerr grinned his sympathy at the rueful Trale. ‘So that makes four of us. Better see what Heston can do in the way of a six-seater cabin ‘plane. How many telephones in this place?’
‘One,’ said Craigie, ‘and I want it. But there are several next door.’
Kerr and Carruthers went next door, to the house of Mr. Reynoldson. The startled Town Clerk had hurried home after being telephoned about the damage done to his gardens. He took it well, however, and greeted the two men pleasantly enough.
‘Your suspicions seem to have been justified, Mr.—er—Kerr. A dreadful business. Dreadful!’
‘Beyond words,’ agreed Kerr. ‘I wonder—may I use your telephone?’
‘By all means, by all means...’
Kerr had little trouble in fixing for the six-seater plane to be ready at Heston in half an hour. He thanked Reynoldson, who had been trying all day to remember where he had seen the man before (and realised it, two days later, when he saw an old paper showing Kerr after his Atlantic flight) and went out. As he reached the grounds of Common View, via the smashed mock-wall, he saw Davidson and Timothy Arran talking with the police on guard, and apparently having trouble in convincing them they were on business.
Kerr called out; the guard recognised him and let the two men pass.
‘Next time,’ said Timothy pugnaciously, ‘you be a lot more civil, young feller-me-lad.’ He winked, and the middle-aged policeman’s annoyance melted in a chuckle.
Arran approached Kerr, his expression no longer cheerful.
‘What happened to Pen?’ he demanded.
‘Craigie said something, but I didn’t catch it.’
‘She’s doing fine,’ Kerr reassured him.
‘Have I time to pop over and see her? Where is she, by the way?’
‘You haven’t a spare minute,’ said Kerr.
Timothy eyed him witheringly.
‘Blast you,’ he said. ‘I’ll get even one day. Where are we going?’
‘Up north.’
‘I’ll be talking Lancashire before I’ve finished,’ complained Timothy. ‘And I suppose we have to fly with you?’
‘It would be an idea,’ said Kerr, equably, ‘if you stopped playing the fool you are and practised looking intelligent.’
The appearance of Craigie at the door of Common View put an end to these pleasantries. He had arranged for the Preston police to keep the roads watched and the Potter factories surrounded, although at a good distance; they were to do nothing that might make anyone at the mills suspicious.
‘You’ll go up right away?’ he asked.
They borrowed a police car for the drive to Heston, and en route, Timothy was avid for news. He asked questions, and learned that Kerr had given Marlin his quietus, that Kerr had played cricket with a Mills bomb, that Kerr had mooted the possible involvement of the Potter factories in this business, and suchlike, and generously informed him he was forgiven all his sins.
Of the four of them, only Kerr was thoroughly used to air travel. If it was not a novelty with the others, it was at least unusual to touch the two-fifty miles an hour that Kerr forced out of the Hawk Major in which they flew. Despite this, Timothy went so far as to say that the only safe place at the moment was in the air.
‘Benson can’t very well do any damage up here,’
‘No,’ said Kerr, slowly.
Timothy eyed him suspiciously.
‘Now what’s on your mind?’
‘Thoughts,’ Kerr told him. ‘Just thoughts.’
Timothy relapsed into understanding silence, and enjoyed the panorama of summertime England. It was a sunny day, with no wind, and with little actual flying to do, Kerr stuck at the controls without thinking of his companions. There was an idea seeping through his head; not perhaps a reasonable one, but then it was little or no use to think normally now. He had to try to get one jump ahead of Benson.
What then would Benson do?
Kerr couldn’t be sure; but the idea grew apace and he took a special air map from his pocket and studied it. He had an idea of the location of the Potter Mills, and he judged it would take them twenty minutes to get from the landing field to the factories. Twenty minutes was a long time.
His jaw was set as he pushed the joystick forward. The plane began to drop, and the landing-field loomed up before them. It was dusk, but they could see clearly enough. Timothy squinted over the side and reported three cars waiting:
‘With any luck,’ Kerr said drily, ‘one of them should be ours.’
He was within twenty feet of the ground, and seemed to the others an interminable time settling the wheels. He had just touched down when there was a movement in one of the cars—by the driver who had been sitting until that moment apparently dozing—and in a moment, Kerr had opened the throttle. Timothy, who had been near the window, was thrown off his balance. Davidson opened his lips to protest—then saw the thing. Carruthers, whose experience with Kerr in the last few hours had shown him a thing or two, had his gun out first.
‘Let ’em have it!’ snapped Kerr.
As he spoke, the first stabs of flame from the machine-gun in the car-driver’s hands split through the dusk. Bullets ripped along the side of the plane and into the wings. Carruthers blazed away at the car through an open door, although the wind almost knocked him off balance. Timothy was still sprawling on the floor and Davidson was already backing up with his gun, when the Hawk swooped upwards and out of range.
‘We’ll try and find the factories,’ Kerr said, as though being machine-gunned was a perfectly normal event. ‘It’s damned dark now, but we might manage it.’
‘Dead north from here,’ Davidson offered.
‘I know. A mile past the Larches, on the right of the Lancaster Road,’ said Kerr. ‘One thing’s certain; we’ve struck oil again.’
‘Nothing’s surer,’ agreed Timothy Arran. ‘Were you on the look-out for that, Bob?’
‘I was.’
‘Well, thanks,’ said Tim drily, and Kerr and the others chuckled. But after that, they were silent—a silence that would have told anyone who knew these men that they were ready for the next attack.
Five minutes flying took them across Preston and above the Lancaster Road. The grey ribbon stretched out in front of them, straight for the most part and an excellent guide. They were flying low now, and all of them were looking down. They flew over the Larches—which Kerr identified—two minutes later, and within another sixty seconds they had sighted the long, low buildings on the right of the main road.
The Potter Cotton
Mills...
‘Now I wonder,’ Timothy mused, ‘if they’ll be waiting for us there?’
‘I hope to God,’ Kerr said, ‘that if they are, they don’t start trouble in the place itself.’
The thought had a sobering effect, for all four men realised that there were several hundred men and women in the factory, probably none of them with any idea of the thing that might happen. If Benson was there and prepared to put up another fight, the casualties might be appalling.
The prospect of forcing the issue would have deterred most men. But Robert McMillan Kerr saw beyond the factory and the workers: saw the probability of war that would set the world alight. He had to take chances, even if it meant terror down here.
He put the nose of the plane towards the ground—and as he did so, saw the light on the roof of one of the buildings. There were a dozen of these—long, low sheds—and the lights streaming from the windows of these was what they had seen for the past three minutes. But this other light was different...
Kerr’s lips tightened as he saw the two figures scrambling on to the roof. He had already chosen his landing place, a small enough field but one he could manage, and he went for it quickly. As they flew over the roof, they could see the two men clearly; and even more clearly, they saw the stabs of flame shooting towards them, and felt the impact of bullets on the under-carriage.
‘Here we go,’ said Timothy Arran, tautly. ‘Anyone for Hades?’
It was the only sound save the rattling of the machine-gun and the humming of the plane as they went down to force the final issue.
18
Disasters
The Hawk lost height smoothly, and Bob Kerr judged his distance to a nicety. The wheels hit the ground, bumped a little and then steadied. He shut off the engine and taxied to a standstill. Timothy Arran and Bob Carruthers were by the door, guns in hand, with Davidson at the other side in case of accidents. But the trouble would be more likely to come, they reckoned, from the building itself.
On the ground the Potter Cotton Mills seemed considerably larger than they had done from the air. Through the windows, the Department men could see men and girls working: the noise of aeroplane and machine-guns had not penetrated the hum of machinery in the factory itself.