by John Creasey
“I’m trying to make Geoffrey Drummond’s wife – widow – recall any form of association between her husband and Storr. You received the report saying that Drummond appeared to be involved, and that there was a communicating tunnel between the shed in the grounds of his house and Sane Manor.”
“Yes.”
“There is another report, just in. Sane Manor has been destroyed.”
“Destroyed?”
“Blown up, with the whole village,” Palfrey said.
“So—Storr must have been deeply involved.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know!” Grace Drummond cried and the voice was magnified until it seemed to reverberate about the room. “I don’t know!”
“He must have told you,” Crabtree insisted.
“I don’t remember!” she cried again, and her head was turning from side to side and her eyes were rolling.
“Was he working with Professor Storr?”
“I don’t know!” she screamed.
“But you must know. You saw him every day, you must have talked with him about his work.”
“I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t!” she gasped.
“Sap,” said Stefan, “the report and the recommendation from Downing Street have been received and I am assured by Mr. Bretislov, who is with me now, that the Kremlin will give us full support in this investigation. Russia will recommend to the other nations in the Warsaw Pact that they do the same. However, there is great anxiety, for fear Professor Storr should escape.”
“There is no reason to think he will escape,” retorted Palfrey.
“But if he should, what other contact will you have?”
“None,” answered Palfrey. “But—”
“Sap.”
“Quiet!” Palfrey interrupted, for he saw the woman raise herself on her arms, saw her face working until her comeliness had turned to gargoyle ugliness, and she was gasping for breath, her breast rising and falling as if there was tumult within her.
“All right!” she screamed. “He did know Storr. He knew Storr, he hated Storr, he—was blackmailed by Storr.”
“What did Storr make him do?”
“He made him … he made him …” she broke off, and now her body was heaving and arching and there was streaming sweat on her forehead and on her lips.
“Did he know what Storr was doing?” asked Crabtree, and he turned to Palfrey and said in an anguished voice. “I can’t go on, if I do she will die.”
Now, the sound of harsh and agonised breathing was coming through the microphone, magnified to such an extent that it seemed as if Grace were breathing into Palfrey’s ear.
“Sap, I have to tell you this,” Stefan said with great precision. “The support from the Kremlin will be on the one condition: that Professor Storr is apprehended and questioned at once.”
Palfrey wiped his own wet forehead with the back of his hand, staring at the woman who seemed to be in some tormenting purgatory, body still convulsed, one hand in front of her eyes as if to shut out some demoniac vision, one arm stretched outwards towards the window in terrible accusation.
“No.” Palfrey made himself say.
“Sap—”
“No,” repeated Palfrey. “Our one hope is to find out where Storr goes.”
“The Soviet Government—”
“The Soviet Government has subscribed to the constitution of Z5—that the organisation’s actions, policy and methods shall not be influenced by any member State. Remind them.”
“I have reminded them! Sap—”
“He wouldn’t tell me. He was terrified of Storr, he wouldn’t let me know what he was doing. He only pretended to write, I knew he was doing some other work for Storr, I tell you I don’t know what it was.”
Palfrey said: “Hold on, Stefan. I may be some time. I’m going to talk to the woman. Have you got the amplifiers fully extended?”
“Yes.”
“Ask your friends to listen,” Palfrey said. He moved to Crabtree, who was almost crying, and took his place at the microphone. “Grace,” he said, “listen to me.”
She was throwing herself about as if possessed by demons.
“Geoffrey would want you to tell me,” Palfrey said.
“No, no! He said I must never tell anyone.”
“Grace, listen to me. Was Geoffrey loyal to his country?”
“Of course he was, he loved England!”
“Was he loyal?”
“Yes!” she screamed.
“Then he would want to help England now.”
“He wasn’t a traitor, he wasn’t a traitor.”
“Then what was Storr making him do?”
“He wasn’t a traitor!”
“Did he ever go anywhere with Storr?”
“No, no, he didn’t.”
“Did he talk to you about Storr?”
“No, no, no!”
“Did he ever talk about any other place than Sane?”
“No,he—”
“Grace, listen to me. Geoffrey is dead. You know he’s dead.”
“Oh, God, God, God,” she moaned.
“Please,” muttered Crabtree. “Please don’t—”
“Perhaps he died for England.”
“He loved England, he hated Storr.”
“Did he ever go away with Storr?”
“No.”
“Was Storr the leader?”
“He—he didn’t know. He thought there were others, there—” she broke off, and her breathing eased. She sank back on her pillows, and the agony of her body seemed to quieten. “He—thought—there—were—others?” Now, despite the amplification, the words were hardly audible.
“Were they American?” Palfrey asked.
“I—I think so.”
“Did they come from any particular place?”
“America,” she said, in a clear, still voice. “Geoffrey went there, ten years ago. That is when it began. He was working at Yellowstone. Yellowstone. He was working on the hot springs. Wonderful. He told me how wonderful. Geysers—everywhere. Beautiful. He loved it there. We were going to move there. And then—Storr. Storr came to see him. He knew Storr in Yellowstone. At first they were friends. Friends. Storr. Hated Storr. He hated Storr.” There was a moment of silence and the fury returned to her face and her body and she began to hurl herself about the bed, beating her breasts, tearing off her clothes, screaming, screaming. And words gradually formed themselves in that awful sound, three words which came over and over and over again. “Storr killed him … Storr killed him … Storr killed him.”
And then, with awful clarity, she went on: “And he killed my children. I hate him. I hate him.”
Then, she collapsed, on her back, her mouth wide open and her eyes staring, sightlessly. Almost at once the door opened, and Dr. Marak and a nurse came in. Crabtree moved away from Palfrey as if from someone unclean.
“Well,” Palfrey asked roughly into the telephone. “Did you hear that?”
“Yes,” answered Stefan. “The Presidium has withdrawn the condition, and we may proceed.”
Palfrey wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“As soon as we know Storr’s destination, you and I must meet there,” he said.
“I shall be ready to fly anywhere in the world,” said Stefan. “And at any time.”
Chapter Thirteen
Take-Off
Palfrey put back the telephone and turned aside as the two doctors eased Grace Drummond’s body into a more natural posture. Natural? It was almost as if she were dead. Palfrey went along to the elevator and to his own room. Joyce was at a filing cabinet.
She looked at his ravaged face, and then away again.
“Shall I leave you for a whil
e?” she asked.
“No, please stay. Did you hear Stefan?”
“Yes.”
“Conditions,” Palfrey said heavily.
“At least they withdrew.”
“Once they knew that Yellowstone—” Palfrey broke off. “Get me some tea, will you, and a snack.”
“Yes. Sap—”
“Yes?”
“Please get some sleep.”
“I’ll get some sleep,” he said bitterly. “Sometimes I almost hate—” he broke off, meeting her look of distress and pleading. He knew how much she loved him, and at moments of realisation he was touched with humility. “I know,” he went on. “One woman—and perhaps millions of people. A village or a town wiped out and you feel nothing, and one woman—”
“She may recover,” Joyce said. “They’ll do all they can.”
“Yes. Has Storr’s plane taken off yet?”
“It was taxiing to the runway a few minutes ago.”
Joyce did what she so rarely did, these days, and took Palfrey’s hands and drew him towards her, and for a moment they looked like lovers. Then he kissed her forehead, and she moved away.
Soon, she was back with tea and bacon and eggs, bread and butter – and on the tray was a card. It was headed: Prof. Stephen Storr
B.S.T., P.M.
5.41 Left Winchester.
6.09 Turn-off at Cadnam Roundabout.
6.13 Car turned off near Rufus Stone, New Forest.
There were other details, and then:
11.03 Boarded BO. 707. Shannon Airport.
11.09 Started take-off run.
11.12 Airborne.
11.15 Aircraft over Atlantic, normal northern route.
11.20 Aircraft maintaining normal altitude (32,000 feet), speed and direction.
There would be more reports, every five minutes or so, the normal flight contact first with Ireland, then with Gander, then with New York. Unless there were trouble during the flight Palfrey would not be informed of its progress until it was about to land at Kennedy Airport – in approximately seven hours’ time. That would be about six o’clock British Standard Time, two o’clock Eastern Standard Time in the U.S.A.
He put the card aside, and discovered another beneath it. This ran:
Mountview (City of), Wyoming, U.S.A.
Mountain Time U.S.A.
2.00 p.m. (B.S.T. 11.00 p.m.)
The latest figures following the release of carbon monoxide and smog show 1957 dead, 101 seriously affected. The whole city has been evacuated and military gas decontamination squads have taken over. Source of the gas now established as the local natural gas plant which supplies most of the city with normal domestic and industrial gas. Source of natural gas: a field in Montana, forty-five miles north of Mountview.
Military and civil authorities are checking.
2.40 p.m. M.T. Death roll now 1,996.
Now known that the distribution plant was fed with the carbon monoxide and smog through one of its main supply lines. It is a petroleum oil-driven plant. Contamination now ceased. All gas supplies to the city of Mountview and to all cities on the same pipe line discontinued for the time being.
Palfrey put this card aside, and, almost absent-mindedly, ate and drank. He had nearly finished when he pushed his chair back and went across to the telephone and dialled the hospital.
“Dr. Crabtree?” he asked when a man answered.
“I can get him,” the man said.
“Is that Dr. Marak?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is Mrs. Drummond?”
“She is surviving, sir.”
“Is there any indication of brain damage?”
“Not at this stage, sir. Do you wish to be informed at every development?”
Palfrey said: “I’ll check from time to time. Where is Dr. Crabtree?”
“I persuaded him to take some rest, sir. I—” Marak hesitated.
“Go on,” said Palfrey.
“I should report, sir, that Dr. Crabtree is in deteriorating health.”
“You mean, you think he needs a long rest?”
“A very long one, sir. And he will not apply for leave.”
“I’ll make some arrangements,” Palfrey promised.
“Thank you, sir. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.” Palfrey put up the receiver and went back to his tray. He finished another cup of tea and then went to the door leading to Joyce’s office. She was at her desk, working; she was always working.
“Sauce for the goose,” Palfrey said.
She looked up. Her dark hair was loose and very thick about her neck. For a moment he was startled by her attractiveness.
“What did you say?”
“I said you need some sleep, too.”
“I’m going to bed soon,” she assured him, “after I’ve seen you take a sleeping pill.” When he hesitated, she went on almost sharply: “Sap, you haven’t really slept for three nights.”
“I’ll be good,” he promised.
She stood over him, twenty minutes later, as he sat on the side of his bed in a small room furnished with a few items of contemporary furniture in dark wood, sleeping pill in one hand, glass of milk in the other. She was in a dressing-gown with a high neck, and her hair fell to her shoulders. He was aware of her, not as his brisk and efficient secretary, but as an attractive woman.
“Sap,” she said in a husky voice, “you try yourself too much.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not human. If I were, I couldn’t resist you.” He put his hands out to her. “Joyce, my dear, don’t hate me.”
“Oh, you fool,” she said. “You fool!”
“I’m all of that,” he said wryly, “and more, much more.”
Two minutes later he was in bed, and she was closing the door on him. There was a very faint light from a window which seemed to be open to the night air. The simulation was so good that there even seemed to be a soft breeze blowing across his forehead, and across his vision of Joyce, and of Grace Drummond. Tantalisingly they were both just out of his reach, and do what he would, they eluded him.
Soon he slept.
In a nearby room, not unlike his, Joyce lay drowsily awake. On the dressing-table there was a photograph of Palfrey, one he had signed for her when she had first come to work for him, nearly fifteen years ago.
She fell asleep, before long.
The night staff at Z5 were awake, keeping track of events round the world.
In Moscow, Stefan Andromovitch slept while his branch office of Z5 was in constant touch with London.
In the aircraft, now nearing the point of no return in mid-Atlantic, Costain slept, and in the seat next to him Marion Kemble dozed. In front of them, Griselda and Professor Storr slept; across the gangway, young Philip was next to Arthur Harrison. Philip slept soundly, but Harrison was awake.
At seven o’clock, Palfrey was awakened by one of the domestic staff, with tea. On his tray were several reports and the one he seized with great alacrity was the one marked: Professor Stephen Storr. There was a kind of running commentary starting an hour before.
Aircraft preparing to land … Pilot given his landing beam … Aircraft losing height … Aircraft circling Long Island, Kennedy Airport in sight … Aircraft about to land … Perfect landing .. . Aircraft taxiing to Gate 17 … Passengers disembarking … Prof. Storr and party at immigration desk … Party at Customs … Professor Storr met by a woman who had been at the airport for two hours … Obviously the couple are on affectionate terms.
Palfrey poured out tea and read with almost frantic haste, turned the card and found it blank. He was about to call the Operations Room when another man appeared at his door, the bright-faced youth he had seen the previous night and who had told him about young Hill.
“Come in.” Palfrey waited only for the door to close. “What is it?”
“Professor Storr and his party, sir.”
Palfrey could hardly keep the tea-cup steady in his hand.
“Yes.”
“The whole party has taken off from Kennedy in a privately-owned Conquistador aircraft, a twin-engined jet with pilot and engineer aboard.”
“All six passengers?” echoed Palfrey.
“Yes, sir, and Costain appears to be very friendly with one of the women—Marion Kemble.”
“Are they being followed?”
“Of course, sir. And they are heading due west.”
“Due west,” Palfrey echoed, and he felt a strange easing of his panic, near satisfaction as he thought: Towards Yellowstone. “Good,” he said aloud. “What else has come in during the night?”
“Seventy-nine governments have already accepted the recommendations about a close investigation into the higher concentration of smog, sir—the only major power which has not yet accepted is Japan.”
“China has accepted.”
“She was among the first, sir.”
“Good. What else?”
“The whole of the area in the region of Sane Village is cleared, sir. The centre of the explosion was the cellar at Sane Manor. The one survivor is improving, and has made a report. The valley has been declared a danger area and is being guarded by further detachments from Fulton. Is there any other report you would like before I go off duty?”
Palfrey said at once: “Mountview.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. The death roll is now nearly 2,050. It has been declared a danger and a disaster area, also. The supplies of natural gas have been restored to other cities in Wyoming and Montana. No other outbreaks have been reported. The whole area is being reconnoitred.”
“Good,” said Palfrey. “That’s all I need. Unless—”
The eager eyes were so tired now.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you heard how Mrs. Drummond is?”