by John Creasey
“Yes, yes.”
“They’ve another job.” Burke surveyed the pasty, unremarkable face of the dead man, and wished that he knew who he was—or had been. “You’d better ask your men to come and see him,” he told Brown. “Someone might know him.”
None of them did; but Divisional-Surgeon Cramer, who entered the kitchen shortly afterwards, took one look and scowled in obvious surprise.
“Good Lord! Poor devil—”
“You know him?” asked Burke, quickly.
“Know him? Yes, quite well. The name’s Prettle—he’s well known in this neighbourhood.”
“Prettle?” Burke echoed, very softly.
“Yes.” Cramer glanced at him, surprised. “What’s up?”
But Burke had turned to Gordon Craigie.
“Did you hear that?” he prompted. “Prettle—the Registry Office man. We’re on something, Gordon!”
It was obvious that they were. Within two hours of giving Miller the information that he had supplied Katrina Fordham, through her secretary, with new servants, Prettle had died. So it was obvious he had known something more.
“And whoever shot him,” Jim Burke’s voice was hard, “guessed we’d be after him again—and didn’t think he could hold his tongue. Graydon didn’t trust Curson to keep quiet, either. They’re both dead.”
Burke and other people were busy for the next hour, but had very poor reward for their efforts. Prettle was a bachelor, living in a service flat. No-one had seen him leave Friday Street that night; and the only clerk of the Registry Office who could be traced knew nothing about new servants being supplied for Mrs Fordham.
“Our next stop,” said Jim Burke, just before twelve o’clock, “is Mr. Broomfield. And we won’t tell him we’re calling.”
Mr Alec Charles Broomfield had been secretary to Arthur Fordham for seven years, and he was now taking charge of his widow’s affairs. He had arranged everything smoothly, had kept callers down to a minimum, seen to the funeral formalities, and generally proved himself a boon.
Nevertheless, Katrina Fordham, Princess of Rania, did not like him. She knew, however, that her husband had had absolute faith in him, and she was pleased rather than sorry when he suggested changing all the servants. She was satisfied with the new maids, and indifferent to the new cook, for she had no appetite. She could think only of the man she had loved, and who was lost to her forever.
She had gone to the funeral. The grave had claimed its own. She neither cared whether she went back to London, nor knew what she wanted. She was assisted by Broomfield into her car, after the funeral ceremony. She was not crying; she thought she would never feel deeply again. Emotionally it was possible she was right, but physically she was not, for she felt the prick of the needle that Broomfield thrust into her arm.
She started, and looked at his hand, seeing the hypodermic syringe in it. Her eyes dilated. Her mouth opened——
“Keep very quiet,” he told her softly, and the blue-grey steel of an automatic shone in his left hand. “You’ll be all right, quite all right.....”
Even as he spoke, Katrina Fordham’s eyes grew very bright. She stared at him until they glazed over, then dropped back in her corner, unconscious.
To the new servants, who had seen her leave the flat for the funeral in the morning, she seemed a different woman when she returned. Before, they had been terribly sorry for her, knowing how she must have felt. Now, she seemed suddenly hard: not with the surface hardness that often comes with grief, but with a callousness that went badly with her beauty. She had dressed, as Jim Burke had witnessed, in a shimmering gown of gold. That had not been for Burke’s benefit; it was for the benefit of Sir Marcus O’Ray.
O’Ray had had a shock when he had seen Burke at the door of the flat. He could not place Burke properly, and O’Ray liked to pigeon-hole the people he met. Burke had acted like a particularly faithful student of the police regulations, but he had said very little at their one interview, and O’Ray had since experienced a vague disquiet.
There were many things receiving Sir Marcus O’Ray’s attentions that the police certainly should not discover.
He had still been thinking of the big man, and wondering whether that stolid expression could indeed cloak cleverness, when he was ushered into the room where, four nights before, Arthur Fordham had been found dead.
He stopped thinking of Burke quickly, as the new Katrina smiled at him.
Standing two yards away from her, he smiled back. There was a hint of laughter in his voice as he said:
“You look more beautiful than ever, Katrina.”
She laughed. There was no dullness in her eyes, now; no lifelessness in her expression. Burke would have been amazed.
“Yes? But isn’t that what you want, Marcus?” She smiled again, then added more seriously: “But—the servants. You’re sure they are all right?”
“They’re all new,” O’Ray assured her. “Broomfield has seen to all that.”
The woman shivered a little.
“I could never stand that man, but I suppose——”
“My dear, you mustn’t be nervous. You’ve agreed to do just what I ask. You must rely on me to keep you out of danger. At least,” he said soberly, “to keep it from hurting you. The danger’s there, of course.”
She shivered again.
“I know. Don’t talk about it.”
O’Ray shrugged, and produced cigarettes.
“All right. But nerves won’t help you.” There was a hint of warning in his voice. “For now, we must be patient. It’s a matter of days, I think. We need not wait until the legal paraphernalia’s been finalised. Once we can prove conclusively that there is no will, we can get everything settled.”
She looked at him, measuringly.
“You’ve no room for sentiment, have you, Marcus?”
Sir Marcus O’Ray laughed, softly, and lit her cigarette.
“No businessman has—in business time. For that matter, you aren’t so squeamish, yourself, my dear.”
She shook her head quickly.
“It doesn’t matter—it’s happened, now. He’s dead——”
O’Ray stood up suddenly, and paced the floor. The thick carpet deadened his steps.
“Yes, he’s dead. So are others—you know that. I wish we were finished. It’s dangerous to wait. Tell me—what did you think of the man Burke?”
“You saw him?”
“Yes. I met him going out. He didn’t seem to think anything amiss. But what did you think—?”
“He seemed a fool,” said Katrina.
O’Ray’s fingers snapped nervously.
“Yes, he looked a fool. But that doesn’t necessarily mean that he is one, or again, that he isn’t. Ah, well, it’s unimportant, anyhow. A few days, and the thing will be through.”
It was just twenty minutes later that the door of the room suddenly opened. O’Ray jumped up from the settee he was sharing with Katrina—and frowned at the stocky-figured man who entered.
“Why didn’t you knock?” he snapped.
“Sorry,” said Alec Broomfield, perfunctorily. His almost black eyes held a calmness that was close to insolence. His swarthy skin and crisp black hair suggested a Negroid strain, and he had the smooth, pleasant voice of the educated Negro. “I’ve just had a call from Prettle, Sir Marcus. The police have been after him——”
Sir Marcus O’Ray went white and the woman gasped in alarm.
“The police? Why?”
“Somehow,” Broomfield murmured, “they’ve learned of the new servants.”
O’Ray said softly:
“That’s Burke’s work!”
“Burke or the Devil, it doesn’t matter,” Broomfield pointed out. “Prettle talked——”
There was absolute silence in the room for thirty seconds. Then O’Ray swore, savagely.
“The fool!” he exploded again. “And he knows more than we want the police to know. Telephone Graydon, right away.”
“Where?”
“At Hampstead. Tell him to look after Prettle—but to make sure the body’s safe.”
Broomfield nodded, and went out. The woman’s fear showed more plainly, now, and she reached out a hand to touch O’Ray’s arm. He shook it off, roughly.
“We’ve no time to waste!” he snapped. “Don’t go out from here, on any pretext. Understand?”
She nodded, eyeing him nervously.
“Where are you going, Marcus?”
“I’m going to entertain Prettle,” said Sir Marcus O’Ray, unpleasantly, “until Graydon’s ready. I’ll take Broomfield with me, in case of accidents.”
The time went slowly for Katrina, at the flat, but fast for all the others. O’Ray did not return to Brake Street, but soon after nine o’clock he was telephoned by Broomfield and told that Prettle would not talk again.
“How’s Graydon?” O’Ray asked.
“Graydon’s all right, but I don’t think he ought to go out too much. He’s got enough to do.”
“I’ll give the orders. What about his men?”
“They’re all right. They’re behaving very well.”
“They’re born to the game,” growled O’Ray. “That’s why we got them over here. Keep them happy—or tell Graydon to—and watch things carefully at the flat. You know what to do if there’s any sign of the police arriving.”
“I know,” said Mr Alec Broomfield, and hung up.
Sir Marcus O’Ray leaned back in a leather chair, and smiled. It was the same mellow smile that Burke had seen, and it covered similar thought to those O’Ray had had during that interview. In spite of Prettle, things were going well.
O’Ray had every reason to be pleased with himself.
He believed his part in the murders of Fordham and Brent was unsuspected. He knew no one had any idea of the real reason why there was trouble at Granton’s, or why Fordham had been killed, and he could see nothing that would disturb the smooth run of events. It was lucky, all the same, that Graydon was a good man, as well as Broomfield. Without those supposed friends of Arthur Fordham O’Ray could have done little. But both were activated by the same motive as himself.
In short, greed.
There was big money in this scheme, if they could bring it off; enough for all of them. O’Ray needed it badly, and the others would need it more—although they would not get so much. Graydon, for instance, would have to leave England; the country wouldn’t be big enough to hold him. Broomfield would probably leave, too. Neither of them minded that.
With consummate self-satisfaction, O’Ray selected a cigar.
It had been a master-stroke to import the two American gunmen—Graydon’s ‘men’. They killed without compunction, although in that respect they were a cosmopolitan rather than an American type; America merely provided the most up-to-date methods. But not only would they do the work well; they could serve, a little later, as an excellent blind.
Calmly, O’Ray considered the situation.
Fordham, Brent, Curson and Prettle had gone; the Americans had killed two of them. Of the men who were directly concerned, only Graydon, so far, had been recognised. Broomfield might be suspected but that would not be important. Of course, Katrina would come under suspicion....
O’Ray laughed, silently.
The big bluff at the moment was with Katrina, and the Ranian element, which he guessed was causing more than a flutter in the Foreign Office. The next bluff was to shift the attentions of the authorities from Rania to America—if it could be managed.
Ranian intrigue would cause a flutter; the possibility of an American complication would cause a furor.
Sir Marcus O’Ray laughed again.
Not until just after midnight did he leave his chair. He had thought round all the obstacles to his scheme, and could see nothing insuperable. Everything looked very satisfactory.
He might not have thought that if he could have seen the three men walking swiftly along Brake Street at that very moment. Burke, Craigie and Arran made no bones about their call at Number 17. Broomfield, watching them from a window, had no idea that two other agents were also in the street, and two more within easy call.
He turned away from the window, and his smile was not pleasant. Moving swiftly yet furtively, he left his room and hurried along the passage of the flat. As he went, he fingered the cold steel of the gun in his pocket.
He reached the door of Katrina Fordham’s room as the subdued front door bell sounded in the hall.
Katrina, in bed but awake, jumped up with alarm as she saw him outlined against the dim light of the passage. There was something in his smile that terrified her. She saw his right arm move, and screamed!
“No! No!”
“Keep quiet, you fool!” snarled Broomfield. “You know what’s coming—take it!”
As he spoke, he brought his gun out.
The woman’s eyes were wide with fear. Sobbing, she stumbled from the bed and tried to run. The soft light glowed on her satiny shoulders, the flimsy night things making no cover for her slim, white body.
Broomfield fired. Flame shot from his gun, and the bullets hummed. Twice the shots rang out, deafeningly in that room made for silence. With a gasp, Katrina dropped to the floor; a white, crumpled heap.
Broomfield grinned, turned, and ran for the kitchen and the rear exit. There was a thunderous knocking on the front door of the flat, but it would be at least a minute before anyone could get in. A minute was ample.....
Broomfield was in the courtyard at the back of the building when Burke hurled his great body at the door and broke the lock—the second time it had been broken that week.
13
THE FIRST CAPTURE
Broomfield knew there was a car waiting for him, in case of emergency, in Bond Street. He needed less than three minutes to reach it, and to get away. He was still grinning as he turned into the alley leading from the courtyard. Ahead of him he could see street lights.
The tall man who appeared seemed to materialise out of the shadows.
“In a hurry?” he drawled.
Broomfield’s mind stopped working for a fraction of a second. He felt suddenly, terribly afraid. Then he reached for his gun.
Almost before he moved, something hit him. It was Wally Davidson’s fist, but he didn’t realise it. He staggered back, spitting blood, dragging at the gun. Davidson hit him again.
“Don’t act the ruddy goat, man,” he said, languidly. “You’re through. Know the word?”
As Broomfield made a last desperate dive for his gun, Davidson—almost casually—grabbed his right forearm and twisted. Broomfield gasped, his eyes rolling. He tried to use his feet, but Davidson swept them from under him. A moment later, a second man materialised from the shadows. An interested voice came:
“You all right, Wally?”
“Just,” grunted Davidson. “There’s a gun in his right coat pocket, Dodo. Get it out, will you?”
Dodo Trale, no longer in his chauffeur’s uniform, did the necessary. Broomfield, realising his chances of escape were nil, relapsed into sullen silence as he was marched back to the courtyard and helped up the fire escape which, only minutes before, had seemed a sure route to safety. But there was a hint of fear in his eyes. The methods of his captors had held a certain ruthlessness: they reminded him somehow, of Graydon’s ‘men’.
Sixty seconds later, he was looking into the hard grey eyes of a third man. In Jim Burke, that same ruthlessness was if anything plainer. He shivered....
“Any damage?” asked Davidson. With the others he had met Burke just outside the kitchen door. “I heard the shots.”
“So did all of Brake Street and most of Piccadilly,” grunted Burke. “Funnily enough—no damage.”
“Then what—?”
“That’s just the question,” said Burke, softly, “I’m going to ask Mister Broomfield to answer.”
He stared at Broomfield’s sullen eyes and set face; and he remembered the way Graydon, a few days before, had kept absolutely silent in the
face of questions. Broomfield was tarred with the same brush, he could see. But there were methods of persuasion.
“Bring him along,” he growled. “G.C.’s here.”
Craigie was in the room where, earlier that evening, Sir Marcus O’Ray and Katrina Fordham had sat and talked. So was the attractively ugly Toby Arran. Katrina Fordham was in a state of collapse, in her bedroom. Both bullets had smashed into the wall behind her; she had not been touched. A doctor—that Colossus of a man, Doc Little—was on his way to the flat, and for the moment Katrina’s new maid was looking after her mistress. The door was locked, and a large, untidy-looking man, by name Martin Best—leaned against the wall outside it, on guard. Burke knew Best slightly; Arran, Davidson and the others knew him well. Of late, however, he had not worked much for the Department, although on one occasion he had played a big part.*
In the big drawing-room, Burke took the lead.
“Broomfield,” he said flatly, “you’re going to talk and you’re going to tell us all you know. Get that into your head.”
The prisoner said nothing, but a half-smile twisted his lips as he looked Burke up and down, insolently.
“Another Graydon touch?” murmured Burke. “That won’t help you, Broomfield. You’re not being handled by the police, and we’re not soft-hearted. If you don’t start talking soon, you’ll suffer for it.”
Broomfield licked his thick lips, but he still kept silent.
“Take him to my place,” Burke told Davidson coldly, “and get him ready.”
The tone of his voice made Broomfield shiver and for a moment he looked as if he would talk. Then he shrugged, and his lips set hard.
“Walk,” Wally Davidson commanded, wearily.
Accompanied by Dodo Trale, Davidson led him out of the flat. In the five minutes’ walk to Burke’s place, they knew their captive would have time to stew over the possibilities of that ‘get him ready’. Several times, indeed, he glanced at the grim, set faces of the two men; and with every yard he grew more afraid.