The Terror Trap

by John Creasey

  He talked to Pullen, and got what he wanted. But all the time he was thinking that Burke was in the middle of hell, at the Granton field. For Craigie, time would not fly fast enough. It was one of the very few occasions in life when he was not only tensed up, but revealed it.

  21

  PIT-HEAD AND COAL-FACE

  Burke was unconscious for five minutes. He woke up in an impenetrable blackness, with a bursting head and a confused memory of squealing brakes, cursing men, and huddled bodies. He was squashed on the floor of the Bentley, and jammed between the rear and front seats so that he could hardly move. He didn’t know how long it took him to get out of the jam, but by the time he was leaning against the side of the car and gasping for breath, his body wracked with pain, he knew what had happened.

  They’d been held up by the American gunmen; and he being unconscious and on the floor of the car, had been overlooked. He hardly had time to be thankful for that. He knew instinctively why the hold-up had been made, why the others had been taken away. Detective Lloyd had reported Tommy Wigham’s return to the Granton field, and it didn’t need much imagination, to guess where Carruthers and the others had been taken.

  Wigham wanted them, to barter for his freedom.

  Burke didn’t care, for the moment, why Wigham had gone back to the field. He was intent simply on turning the tables—although he knew there would be hell to pay before he succeeded. Thank God he’d sensed the possibility of trouble at Granton’s field——

  But first, he must get help. Bleakly, he remembered Pickering’s words: the village was a quarter of a mile away. Ordinarily, that would have been nothing. But now every bone in his body ached with every step he took, his head was buzzing wildly, and his eyes were hot and watering. He could see nothing; the night was pitch-dark.

  “Curse me,” he said suddenly “for a born fool! Of course, the road goes up.”

  He walked a few yards until satisfied he was on a steady incline, and then started to run.

  It was worse than anything he had ever experienced. It seemed as if every bone he had was broken—in his ankles, his legs, his arms; and the pain in his chest was almost unbearable. He hadn’t the strength even to keep his teeth clenched. Mouth open and teeth and tongue aching, he forced himself on...

  But as he lumbered forward, the excruciating pain began to ease a little: the stiffness was going.

  Thankfully, he settled down to a laborious jog-trot—and with each step, the agony lessened. His ankles were numb, now, but his arms and legs moved without those shooting stabs of pain. He didn’t think about any of it, consciously: all that mattered was to keep going for the next hour or two—and he was sure he could, now.

  He could see lights twinkling in the village as he reached the manager’s office—and profoundly grateful, he saw the vague figure of a policeman loom out of the darkness.

  “Hallo, there—?”

  “How many police in the village?” Burke gasped, propping himself against the wall.

  “There’s six or seven, sir,” said the man, recognising Burke at once. “Not so many, what with—”

  “Listen,” Burke interrupted.

  Rapidly and obviously convincingly, he described what had happened. A shocked policeman acted with commendable speed, blasting on his whistle even as he shouldered open the locked office door to reach the telephone. Other dark figures loomed through the darkness, as he rang through to Police Headquarters at Swansea with an accurate résumé of Burke’s report.

  Burke had recovered his breath now, and snapped a question as the other men appeared.

  “Where’s Mike Cator’s cottage?”

  “Over there,” said a burly and worried sergeant. “I’ll take ye, Mr. Burke—I’ll just get the car.”

  The police car was a godsend. Burke sank back in the seat with a sigh of relief, during the short run to Mike’s cottage.

  Mike Cator looked vaster than ever against the dim light from the cottage doorway. As he exclaimed in surprise at the sight of his visitor, Burke said quickly:

  “Get my men together, Mike, will you?”

  “I’ll send me kid,” said Mike Cator.

  Thirty seconds later, a shrimp of a lad hurried out of the cottage on an errand of importance. He called at cottage after cottage, and tall men, short men, fat men and thin hurried towards Mike’s place. They were not miners, although they were dressed the part. They would have been recognised by a hundred people who matter, in London. They were all bachelors, and they were all members of the Carilon Club, Pall Mall. And they were, of course, agents of Department Z who had arrived at the village that afternoon, under the leadership of Toby Arran.

  Burke had recognised the possibility of real trouble, at the Granton field. So he had sent Toby Arran to Craigie, with the request to ‘mobilise’ the Department men and get them down to the minefield fast. Without the help of Mike Cator and the ‘mob’ of that morning, there would have been difficulty in getting the men safely hidden. The miner’s would have believed the newcomers the first contingent of blackleg labour and would have fought tooth and nail to bar them from the pit-heads.

  But now Mike Cator was a friend; so were most of the miners in that village. They were realising that they had been ‘stung’ by Mr. Smith—or Tommy Wigham—and they were willing to co-operate heartily in the effort to stop his game.

  Half the contingent from London waited outside the cottage, now, while Jim Burke conferred with Mike.

  “Do you know any pit that Wigham’s given particular attention?” he was asking. “One he knows well?”

  “Yep,” said Mike, promptly. “Pit Four. Near where you ‘ad the trouble with the car.”

  “That’ll be our meeting place, then,” Burke, told him. “Now get this in your head, Mike. All you’ve got to do is to look after my men. Let ’em surround that pit-head—and then make yourself scarce. My fellows are armed—and the other lot have machine-guns. Don’t get into the scrap—if there is one—or you’ll have as much chance as a pony in a mine explosion.”

  It was an illuminating example, and Mike realised its aptness. He promised he would do just what was wanted of him, and Burke climbed back into the car and said: “Pit Four, skipper.”

  They passed through crowds of men and women who obviously realised there was something afoot that didn’t directly concern the strike. To keep them out of the danger zone—for Burke had no illusions about the trouble that was coming—police reinforcements were being rushed from Swansea. Until they came, Burke was relying on Mike Cator and his mates to make the villagers see reason.

  Burke wasn’t in love with the situation.

  He didn’t know what Craigie knew, about O’Ray. But he knew the gunmen were here, somewhere, and he guessed Wigham was. He realised that Pit Four was not necessarily the place they wanted. Anywhere in this field, in a darkness unbroken by any beam of light, Wigham and his gunmen might be hiding.

  But Burke banked on Pit Four...

  And suddenly he knew that he was right.

  The blackness was suddenly pierced by a terrific shot of flame that seemed to flash like a meteor towards the sky. The driver of the police car gasped, and the sergeant swore under his breath.

  Half a mile away, something burning furiously lit the field with a lurid, yellow glare. Dimly, Burke saw the outlines of a pit-head. Then as suddenly as the first, a second glare came... a third... a fourth...

  “God!” muttered Burke. “Petrol flares!”

  “At Pit Four!” gasped the sergeant.

  Burke guessed what had happened.

  One of Wigham’s men had been among the mob who had chased him, that morning, and had reported back in time for Wigham to escape. Now, probably, the same man had told of the coming concentration around Pit Four. And Wigham was much too clever to risk being surrounded and attacked in the dark...

  So the petrol flares were burning. There would be no surprise attack.

  “At least,” said Burke, bleakly, “we know we’re heading right,
sergeant. You’ll keep your men out of the danger zone—they’re not armed. Mine are. Concentrate on keeping the crowd away, will you?”

  “Ay.” The sergeant looked troubled. “I don’t like the look of it, Mr. Burke. You know—”

  He hesitated.

  “Well?” Burke prompted.

  “I was thinking—Pickering and the Super—with those two friends of yours—will probably be at the bottom of the shaft, by now. Those devils on top would be able to barter their own lives for them—”

  “I’ve been thinking the same,” Burke nodded, “for nearly half an hour, sergeant.” He was very grim. “Tell me—there’s more than one shaft to a pit, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Cator will know where t’other is.”

  Cator was proving a blessing in disguise, thought Burke, peering about him. It was easier to see, now, and in the yellow glow, he could make out the figures of several men converging on Pit Four. Suddenly, he spotted the gigantic figure of the strike-leader.

  “Mike!” he yelled, and Cator came lumbering up as car stopped.

  “Cripes!” he gasped. “I’m stiffer than I’ve ever been in me natural! Want me, Guv’?”

  “Where’s the other shaft to Pit Four?” asked Burke.

  “Ruddy ‘ell!” swore Mike Cator, “I never give a thought to the blasted thing! Quarter mile furver up, Guv!”

  “Get hold of a couple of my men,” said Burke, “and jump in. We’ll have a look at it.”

  Nearly ten minutes later, Burke, Cator, the police sergeant and two grimy gentlemen who seemed to treat the whole affair as a lark, approached the second shaft of the pit that Wigham was holding. Burke expected what he found.

  The engine-room was smashed to pieces. The cage at the top of the shaft was wrecked. There was no chance at all of getting down it... Grim and silent, the carload headed back for the oil-lit pit-head. Not until they reached a group of Department agents, did Burke speak. Then:

  “Let’s get out,” he said. “Sergeant, you’ll look after the crowd. Mike—if you’re game?—stand by for a while.”

  “O.K. by me, Guv’,” said Cator.

  “What are you going to do?” demanded the sergeant.

  In the lurid glow from the flares, Burke’s face was lean, grim and gaunt.

  “I’m going to have possession of that pit-head in half an hour,” he said stonily. “Or I’m going to be measured for my box.”

  The sergeant started to speak, then thought better of it. As he drove off, Burke turned to Cator.

  “They’ll raise hell,” he said. “We’ll want something to use as cover while we get closer. Can you find anything?”

  Cator scratched his head, and spat.

  “Well, Guv’, the rails run right up. We could get ’arf a dozen trucks. Open ones, so yer’d ’ave ter duck, but yer O.K. if yer keep yer napper down.”

  “Get some fellows to move ’em as far as here,” Burke told him. “Don’t let anyone get nearer than fifty yards from the pit-head.”

  “Oke,” said Cator, and lumbered off.

  Before he was out of ear-shot, a voice rang out above the muttering of the crowd and the distant thudding of rail truck. It was a man’s voice, distorted by a megaphone, and Burke didn’t recognise it. But the first word brought him up with a start.

  “Burke! I want to talk!”

  Just for a moment, Burke hesitated. Then through the sudden, tense silence that the voice had brought he bellowed back:

  “Talk on, then!”

  “I’ve spoken to Craigie, Burke! I’ve told him what I’m telling you. I want a free passage from here—otherwise your men are finished. They’re at the bottom, now. I’ll block them in, unless I’m away in an hour. Did you hear me?”

  “I heard you!” Burke bellowed.

  Grim-faced, he glanced round quickly at a coal-truck being pushed along the rails by half-a-dozen men. Three or four sets of lines converged on the pit-head, and along each set trucks were now moving and clanging.

  “How many of you?” he shouted.

  “Five,” came the voice.

  “Thanks,” murmured Burke, with a taut grin. He swung round to his own men, who had grown to twenty-odd by now.

  “In the trucks,” he snapped. “Three in them—three pushing. Don t waste a second—just smash at them, and shoot to kill.”

  The seconds dragged, but in truth, things moved fast enough. The trucks were well on the way in three minutes flat, and running swiftly. The different sets of lines were about fifty yards apart where Burke was standing, but the distance narrowed with every yard.

  A truck rattled up. He waited till it was abreast of him, then jumped for it, and willing hands hauled him up and over. Then he turned his eyes towards the pit-head.

  The truck rattled on, faster, faster. They passed the oil flares with a rush, and Burke saw that three other trucks were as near the pit-head as his own. Forty yards away... thirty...

  Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  A machine-gun opened fire. Burke ducked but need not have done, for the bullets pecked into the thick wooden sides of the truck. None went over.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

  A second gun opened fire, and the night was alive with the sharp rattle of bullets, the clangour of the hurtling trucks and the bellowing of men. And over all, that garish yellow-glow still spread.

  The bullets were whining above them, now: the range had been shifted. It would be suicide to lift their heads. But there was a flap in the side of the truck: Burke snatched back the pin and the flap dropped down. Still crouching low, Burke saw their objective was less than twenty yards away. In the yellow glare, he could see the faces of two men: big men, with low-crowned hats and greatcoats turned up at the neck...

  Vicious tongues of death spat from the machine-guns in their hands as they swivelled about to rake all four trucks with the merciless fire. But the trucks came on...

  Fifteen yards... ten...

  Burke levelled his gun, and touched the trigger. Almost in the same moment, the men in the other trucks did the same.

  Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat——

  Suddenly, there was a choking cry and Burke saw the stabs of flame from one machine-gun waver, then curve in an arc like a gigantic firework—and go out. But the other kept up.

  Rat-tat-tat——

  It stopped, abruptly. The second gunman screeched just once—and his death cry was still echoing on the air when Burke’s voice came.

  “At them!”

  On the instant, men erupted from the trucks and streamed towards the pit-head, guns in hand. But they met with no resistance. Nothing at all happened. Grim silence reigned—until suddenly a deep, whirring noise blasted the silence like a buzz-saw.

  “God!” Burke swore. “What the hell’s that?”

  As the whining seemed to fade into the distance, Mike Cator’s voice answered.

  “They’ve gorn darn, Guv’.”

  Burke swung round.

  “You mean they’ve gone down the pit?” he demanded, half-incredulous. And when the giant miner nodded: “Can we get down after them?”

  “Sure, Guv’. When they’re darn, the other cage’ll be up. See?”

  Burke turned to see the cage-top rise a foot or two above the ground. As he sprinted towards the pit-head, Cator was on his heels.

  “Can you work the thing?” Burke asked him.

  “Like fallin’ off a log” said Cator. “Say—but yer’ve got guts, Guv’nor. Yer know what’ll ’appen if they starts any funny tricks darn there? ‘Specially near the coal-face?”

  “What?” asked Burke, stepping into the cage.

  “She’ll go up,” growled Mike Cator. “A coupla shots darn there—one, mebbe—and you’ll ‘ave a fall.”

  Burke knew what that meant: the ghastly possibility of being suffocated—crushed to death, beneath a fall of coal and earth.

  “Then they won’t be anxious to shoot,” he said, coolly. “Two of you—” he motioned to two Department men—“stay up here. The res
t of you come with me—if you’re prepared to. There’s no order about this. You heard what Mike said——”

  The two men stayed, reluctantly, in the shed. The others followed Burke unhesitatingly into the cage.

  “Lamps above yer ’eads, boys,” Cator instructed. “Electric, so yer got nothin’ ter worry about, there. O.K.—ready?”

  “All set,” said Jim Burke, and the cage started moving.

  They dropped, slowly, into the bowels of the earth, and not one of them remembered to light his lamp. Darkness swallowed them: deep and absolute. In the hushed silence, the blackness seemed a concrete thing; a sluggish, moving thing—a thing of horror. Every man there was gripped with the same elemental fear—a fear as old as life itself.

  And as the cage descended, the seven men, standing like carved statues, a strange, unearthly hissing noise seemed to fill their ears. It rose and fell, steadily, eerily...

  “God!” Burke laughed, in his relief. “We can hear ourselves breathing!”

  His voice echoed cavernously, and they knew he was right. The sound of breathing was magnified, as they descended further, into what could have been a frightening sibilance. Now, they laughed with him.

  “Get those lights on,” he told them. “And don’t let any mother’s brat think of a cigarette.”

  One after another the lamps were switched on, but their eerie glow hardly pierced the darkness...

  The cage hit the bottom with a jolt. One by one, they stepped out into a darkness beyond anything they had ever conceived. Here, the lamps seemed completely ineffective. For a moment, all seven stood dead still, straining their ears to catch the slightest sound.

  Then suddenly they heard the voice. The volume was loud, but with a queer, muffled effect, as if it came from a faulty loudspeaker. Yet Burke recognised that mellow. unmistakable tone...

  “The cage has just come down, Graydon. Now—!”

  Not until then did he realise the voice was near at hand. There was a scrape of boots, a rush, and then two—three—Burke didn’t know how many—figures rushed at the group of Department men by the cage exit. A fist crashed into Burke’s stomach; his lamp smashed and went out. So did others, one—two—three—four—