The Terror Trap

by John Creasey

  “He’s a wise fellow,” murmured Burke.

  “You think so?” smiled the stranger. “It’s a matter of opinion, of course. He’s very good with a knife, but that won’t interest you. Er—you’re on the Fordham job, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “Good God—I didn’t think you’d admit it. But then, I’ve heard that you’re—different, shall we say?”

  “You know I’m working on the Fordham job,” said Burke, “or you know, as near as dammit. So there’s no harm in telling you.”

  “Hmm. Well, I shan’t argue about it, my dear Burke.” The stranger raised his automatic an inch. He was still smiling cheerfully. “Well,” he went on, “this is a sad life, Burke—Curson is always saying so, a little more colourfully. I would have liked to have known more of you, but—” he shrugged—” we can’t take these chances. Some people would, but I——”

  The gentleman with a gun moved his forefinger, and the forefinger was on the trigger.

  Something sneezed. A foot of flame stabbed across the room and a bullet bit at Burke’s chest. Burke grunted—and flung himself forward, the woodenness of his expression changing for the first time. His eyes blazed.

  The smile left the man’s face.

  “God!” he muttered, and he fired again—once, twice, thrice!

  The bullets bit—but didn’t hold. Terror surged across the gunman’s face a fraction of a second before Burke hit him. It was a single blow with all Burke’s fourteen stone behind it, and it caught the man under the jaw. He went upwards, backwards, downwards—and lay inert. Burke, breathing hard, leaned for a moment against the wall. A mirthless smile curved his lips, and he looked down at his chest. Two bullets were lodged in the lapels of his coat, and two in his waistcoat, each plumb over the heart.

  “A suit of armour,” Burke reflected, aloud, “is a priceless thing. But either I’m getting slow, or this fellow’s three moves ahead of me—which isn’t pleasant.”

  He walked over to the unconscious man, peering for a second time into his face. And then, very gently, Burke smiled.

  “So,” he murmured. “I——”

  He stopped at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Suddenly the front door opened, and he heard Sam’s voice:

  “In there, yer yellow-livered lump o’ coffin wood. An’ if yer tries any tricks——”

  Burke stepped across the man on the floor, and looked into the lobby. His hair was awry and he was still breathing hard, for he had been very close to death. If the gunman had fired at his head, it would have been finis.

  “Gawd!” gasped Sam, as he saw him.

  “Don’t mind me,” said Burke, gently. “Lever your friend into the room, and then get me a bucket of water.”

  “Friend?” snorted Sam, thrusting the thin-faced man ahead of him. “C’mon—march, or I’ll ‘ave the blinking ’ide orf yer.”

  The man who preceded him into the room could look only at Burke, and there was fear in his eyes. His lantern jaw had dropped, his mouth was open and his hollow cheeks quivered, stared as if mesmerised—until Burke looked away from him, to the man on the floor.

  And then Thin Face dropped back, against Sam Carter. His face was colourless, and his mouth gaped. Suddenly he groaned, and covered his face with his hands.

  “Go and sit down,” Burke ordered.

  “Let me sock ‘im Mr. B.?” pleaded Sam. Then for the first time saw the figure spread-eagled on the floor—and the gun a foot away from his limp hand. “What the hollerin‘ hell ’ave you bin doing? I—sorry, sir. Bucket o‘ water—right.”

  Sam jumped to the kitchen, but the grin that crossed Burke’s face didn’t linger long. Curson was drooping in a chair, his face still covered in his hands. Burke crossed to him and jerked the hands away. He looked down, incredulous, into a tear-stained face.

  “Good God,” he muttered.

  He stepped back, relaxed—and Curson’s right arm moved with incredible speed. The stanger’s words echoed again: ‘He’s very good with a knife, but that won’t interest you’.

  Snatched from some hidden pocket, the knife flashed now as Curson, his face ablaze stabbed out viciously. Burke couldn’t afford to take chances. He kicked sharply upwards at the man’s knife-wrist. Curson gave a high-pitched, agonised squeal and something cracked, sickeningly.

  The knife flew up to the ceiling, smashed against a steel light-fixture, and came down in splinters. A piece caught Burke’s cheek and made an inch long cut, although he hardly noticed it. He snapped:

  “Stop squealing, Curson, or I’ll break your other arm. Who’s your Mend?”

  Curson stopped squealing, but he didn’t speak. Burke grabbed the man’s limp elbow and his fingers bit painfully into a flabby bicep.

  “Speak!” he commanded as Curson groaned.

  “I—I’ll—I can’t!”

  “No?” Burke smiled savagely. “We’ll test your limitations, Mister Curson.” He released the bicep and grasping the other forearm, wrenched it sharply. Curson screamed and half rose from his chair.

  “No—no—no!” he sobbed. “Please—no—”

  “You’d better talk.” Burke dropped the arm and stepped back a pace. “I’m not feeling soft-hearted, and you won’t have to annoy me much more before you get really hurt. Who is that man?”

  Curson gave up the struggle. His right wrist, broken he knew, wasn’t painful now, but it was very numb. His left arm, which wasn’t broken, was giving him hell. When he looked into the face of the big man he knew he would get no mercy.

  “He—his name’s Graydon,” he said.

  “Thanks. Where does he come from?”

  “He lives in—Chelsea. Grove Street—”

  “Number?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “What’s he do for a living?”

  “He’s—he’s a solicitor.”

  “Practising?”

  “Yes. His office is in Cannon Street—183g.”

  “What’s your job?”

  “I—I’m his clerk.”

  “Worked for him long?”

  “No—not long. A year.”

  “Who’d you work for, before that?”

  For the first time, there was a halt in the stream of questions and answers. Curson licked his lips nervously and darted a furtive glance at the figure on the floor. There was something familiar about the glance, and evocative. Burke said:

  “In jail, eh? What for?”

  Curson licked his lips again. His voice was a little stronger, now. He seemed to have made up his mind that there was no help for him—that his best bet was to answer the questions without trying to hedge.

  “I—I had a—connection of my own. Got five years for misappropriating clients’ money. Graydon gave me a job as soon as I came out. I’d known him before—slightly. I—I didn’t know what game he was up to, Mr. Burke—I swear I didn’t!”

  “Don’t bother,” said Burke coldly. “All right, Curson, you can nurse your arms now. The police will take a statement from you when they come.”

  Burke fancied the man looked relieved, rather than frightened at mention of the police. He saw him glance furtively again at the unconscious figure of the gentleman who had possessed and used a gun. Burke believed Curson was afraid of Graydon—and could understand why. He shivered, involuntarily, reliving his own brush with death.

  “Won’t be ’arf a jiff,” called Sam, from the kitchen. “They’ve ’ad the water turned orf fer an ’our, Mr. B.,” he added, coming in, a pail of water in one hand and a towel in the other. He glanced with satisfaction at Graydon, then looked at Curson. Curson’s ashen face, and the way he was holding his right wrist, told Sam a lot. So did the cut on Burke’s cheek.

  “Lumme,” he murmured. Then saw the splintered knife. “Blimey!” he said. “We ain’t ’arf bin busy, Mr. B.”

  “Haven’t we?” said Burke, heavily. “Bring the pail over here, Sam, and then telephone the Yard. Get Miller if you can.”

  Sam glanced once at the big m
an’s face, and jumped to it. There were times when he remembered the ungodly fear Burke had once driven into him, and always there was a frantic desire on his part to prevent its re-occurrence. The water slopped over the edge of the bucket as he plopped it down and shot to the telephone.

  Burke crossed over to Graydon, and now a faint grin lightened his expression. He dragged the man’s head and shoulders half-way through the door leading to the kitchen, so the water would miss the sitting room carpet, then picked up the bucket. As half a gallon of cold water splashed into Graydon’s face, he shivered and stirred. Another douche made him open his eyes and blink.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Graydon.” Burke’s voice was gently ironic, now, and Sam’s expression eased: the big man was clearly feeling better.

  Graydon shivered again, and dazedly raised a hand to his wet face. For a moment, he stared blankly; then a spasm of fear shot through his eyes. He struggled up to a sitting position, his eyes on Burke.

  “Like some more?” asked Burke, pleasantly.

  “Miller ain’t there,” Sam announced.

  “Get Rogerson,” said Burke, without turning. “Well, Graydon?”

  The man shifted his position to support his back against the wall. He looked washed out; and although he tried to hide it, he looked afraid. He fingered his chin with a white, well-manicured hand.

  “It’s a bump, all right,” Burke assured him. “I put it there. And now you’ve had time to get your wits about you, Graydon, you can start thinking out some good lies. Because I’m going to ask you some very awkward questions.”

  Graydon still didn’t speak, but he darted one swift look at Curson. His eyes narrowed as fear gave way to fury.

  “Don’t get cross with Curson,” said Burke. “It was your own ruddy fault, and you’re lucky to be alive, old son. Ah!”

  He broke off, as footsteps sounded on the landing. Sam, who had finished with the telephone hurried through the next room to the front door as a sharp rat-tat-tat came. Burke, keeping a close watch on Curson and Graydon, grinned as he heard a gruff voice ask:

  “Is he in, Carter?”

  Only one man had that gruff voice, and only one man called Sam ‘Carter’. Superintendent Miller had thought Jim Burke mad to employ a jail-bird—but was honest enough to admit that the madness had, so far, been justified.

  “Why, yes, Superintendent,” Sam was saying, cheerfully. “I jus‘ bin ringing yer——”

  “Sam,” called Burke, “get back to the Yard and tell Rogerson I won’t want him after all. Come in, Miller.”

  Superintendent Horace Miller entered the room, stopped, stared, and:

  “My God!” he said.

  Burke smiled. “They’re presents for you, my lad. You can charge both with assault—or make it attempted murder, if you like.”

  “Yes,” said Miller. “I can see.” He looked harder at the man on the floor.

  Graydon did not, now, look quite the same affable gentleman that he had when Burke had first met him. His hair was plastered over his head, his once-stiff collar was wet and crumpled, and his remarkable complexion was very white. But he did not speak; he had not spoken since he had regained consciousness.

  Burke was dangerously good-humoured. A little more obstinacy from Graydon would make him boil over again.

  “This—” he pointed to Curson—”is a Mr. Curson, late of H.M.S. Keep-me-in. And that”—he pointed to Graydon, “is——”

  “My God,” said Miller, again, “Graydon!”

  Burke asked, expressionless, “You know him?”

  “Yes,” said Miller, heavily. “I know him, all right.” He looked at Burke. “Jim, this is—oh, damn it! I was coming to see you about a youngster named Lavis. The Fordham murder’s got him down. He’s been having trouble, probably from one or more of the directors of a company he’s interested in——”

  Jim Burke looked grim.

  “Lavis has been threatened with murder,” Miller added, flatly. Suspects are directors of a colliery company—Granton’s. The directors all seem clear, but the company secretary doesn’t.”

  Miller surveyed the tight-lipped, bedraggled man on the floor, and half-smiled.

  “Graydon’s the secretary?” Burke suggested.

  “He is.” Miller smiled broadly. “Now, Mister Graydon, what have you to say for yourself?”

  7

  ANOTHER GENTLEMAN WITH A GUN

  Graydon had nothing to say for himself.

  He sat with his back against the wall, water dripping from his hair and a sullen expression on his face. Some of his colour had returned, and his cheeks again possessed that peculiar feminine creaminess. As he sat, there was no mistaking the roll of fat beneath his waistcoat.

  In his chair, Curson sat very still, his eyes darting from Miller to Burke to Graydon—chiefly the latter. He was afraid of Graydon, and his fear superseded the pain in his arms, although his wrist was beginning to ache, now.

  Sam Carter stood on the threshold, trying not to stare; he would have been happier without Miller. The big policeman smiled again at Graydon.

  “So,” he said, gently, “you don’t feel like talking, Graydon? You will do—soon.”

  Graydon glowered at him in sullen silence.

  “Leave him to me for ten minutes.” Burke’s voice was grim. “I’ll make him talk—fast.”

  Miller shook his head. Burke’s method of persuasion would not be in accordance with police regulations, and there was just a chance—a slight chance—that Graydon could disprove his connection with the Lavis business. At this stage in the affair, Miller didn’t want to take chances. Moreover, he guessed what Burke was feeling like, and he knew Burke’s capabilities.

  “No,” he said. “I’ll take him to the station, and we’ll get it out of him there.”

  Burke shrugged.

  “All right. But you haven’t been very clear, yet, about this man—Lavis was it?”

  “Yes. Well, this Lavis has been threatened a lot, lately, and attempts have been made on his life. He’s a director of Granton’s Collieries, and he’s been told to resign—or he’d be forced to resign by ceasing to live.” Miller was flowery of speech, at times. “I’ve told you, I’ve suspected all the directors of the company, but I haven’t done much with the acting-secretary—friend Graydon. Well, I will do. And here’s where you come in, Jim. Another director of Granton’s is—or was—Fordham. When Lavis heard of Fordham’s murder, he just went to pieces. And I don’t blame him. Apparently he and Fordham were the only two directors of the Company who were opposed to selling out to another combine—the Cropper-Gordon group.”

  Burke nodded. The Cropper-Gordon group of colliery companies was the largest in England, controlling most of the Durham and Scottish fields. The recent amalgamation of the Cropper Coal Company and the Gordon Collieries Company had, in fact, been of sufficient news-value to transfer from the city page to minor headlines on the front.

  “Well,” Miller smiled again, cheerfully. “We don’t know much about the whys and wherefores of the business with young Lavis, but we soon will.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Graydon, unexpectedly.

  Miller’s good-humour dropped from him like a cloak.

  “Oh, you don’t? You’ll soon change your tune, Graydon—and you won’t like the process. Get up!”

  He didn’t wait for the other’s reaction, but crossed the room and yanked him up by the collar. Graydon made no kind of protest, but now his sullen glumness had gone and he was smiling a little; it was not the smile of a man who feels he is facing a long stretch in jail.

  Miller took a pair of handcuffs from his pocket, and spoke to Sam Carter.

  “Fetch the other fellow over here.”

  Curson was trying unsuccessfully to hide his fear. Sam laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “C’mon, son,” he grinned. “They won’t ‘urt yer.”

  “Just a minute,” said Burke, suddenly. “Graydon won’t talk but perhaps Curson will.” He smiled, without humour.
Curson shivered, regarding the big man nervously.

  Burke’s smile widened.

  “When did you first start trailing me?” he demanded.

  Curson hesitated. Unexpectedly again, Graydon spoke.

  “Tell him, Curson,” he said softly. “Don’t keep anything back.”

  Burke saw the fear shoot through Curson’s eyes, and he looked swiftly at the solicitor. Graydon was smiling, with his lips alone, and there was a dangerous quality about his voice that Burke didn’t like. Graydon, in fact, was not behaving like a man under arrest.

  “That’s good advice,” said the big man. “Out with it.”

  Curson took a deep breath. His eyes searched Burke’s.

  “I’ll tell you,” he said at last. “But—he’ll get me. He’ll get me! Keep him away——”

  “Don’t talk like a ruddy fool,” Burke snapped. “Graydon’s under arrest. It will be a long time before he has a chance to hurt you.”

  “Will it?” asked Graydon.

  Burke ignored him and looked at Curson. The latter shivered, but spoke up.

  “I started last night,” he said. “About twelve o’clock—”

  Burke’s mind switched back. At twelve o’clock on the previous night he had left the Carilon Club, beloved of men, and walked from Pall Mall to Brook Street.

  “From the Carilon Club?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And what then?”

  “I hung about all night. I was really on night duty—”

  “A well organised business, this,” said Burke, with deceiving lightness. “A tribute to Graydon’s powers, I suppose.”

  Curson licked his lips nervously.

  “I—I saw you leave here this morning. Just before I was to be relieved. I—I followed you to Surrey.”

  “The devil you did,” said Burke, very softly.

  The atmosphere of the room was suddenly tense.

  “And what then?” he roared suddenly, devastatingly. “You shot at me on the horse!”

  His face was white with rage and Curson cowered away from him. Miller was looking thoughtful. On Graydon’s lips there was a little smile.