The Terror Trap

by John Creasey

  Even as he had decoded it, he had wondered on its wisdom. ‘It’s all right so far as it goes,’ he had reflected, ‘but it’s very close to home.’ Then he had shrugged his shoulders; after all, the people at head-quarters knew their business.

  He knew Cross Farm. It was a small place with a rambling and unkempt farmhouse which had been empty for years before Thomas Loder, the man of the telegram, had leased it and lived in it. Loder had been in the neighbourhood for six months, but Quinion had never set eyes on him; the newcomer kept himself very much to himself.

  A sudden sound made the Hon. James stop in his tracks and strain his ears to catch a repetition. It was the combination of a bark, a snarl and a whimper, and it came from behind a small clump of bushes fifty yards to his right. Quickly upon it came the unmistakable voice of a man raised in that objectionable type of anger which finds expression in obscenity, and a swishing sound as of a whip cutting through the air; a yelp and a pitiful whimpering followed. Quinion broke into a run towards the bushes.

  Before he had sighted the man and the dog yet another voice reached his ears. Coming from some distance it was obviously a woman’s, and Jimmy caught the words: ‘Peter … Peter … come here, boy.…’

  There’s a woman there, thought Quinion, rounding the bushes. He came suddenly upon the man and the dog.

  The former looked round, his whip poised in the air.

  ‘Drop it,’ said Quinion.

  The man brought the whip down cruelly upon the quivering body of the dog, a large Alsatian whose coat showed a number of livid weals. Its eyes turned towards Jimmy in piteous entreaty; the spirit was beaten out of him and he was too weak to show any fight.

  In two strides Quinion was in front of the heavily-built, swarthy-faced man whose smallish eyes were blazing. The whip was suddenly snatched from his hand and sent flying into the clump of bushes. The man cursed, made as though to lunge at Quinion and then kicked viciously at the dog. Quinion’s leg shot out, locked for a moment in the other’s and then jerked upwards; thirteen stone of flesh and bone turned a half-somersault in the air and the man landed heavily on his back.

  Quinion knelt by the side of the dog.

  ‘I’ll give you two minutes,’ he said evenly, ‘to disappear. If you don’t, I’ll thrash you as you’ve thrashed the dog.’

  Kneeling though he was he expected the sudden rush which the other made at him. For a second time the man with the whip somersaulted through the air, landing this time on his face. Moving with great speed for a man of his build, Quinion retrieved the whip and was swishing it through the air as his opponent struggled to his feet. The small eyes seemed to burn.

  ‘I’ll murder you.…’ The voice was thick and the man had difficulty in speaking through lips that were badly bruised where they had hit the earth. ‘I’ll …’

  Quinion flicked the whip threateningly, and the other flinched.

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the kind,’ said Quinion. ‘You’ll … so that’s the game.’ He broke off suddenly, and closed on the man. There was a flash of steel in the red glow of the setting sun, and a knife dropped from nerveless fingers to the ground. The grip on the man’s arm was excruciating; he writhed, completely helpless.

  Before Quinion had decided what to do a girl’s voice from behind him made him turn round. The girl, or woman, was talking to the dog. Even at that moment Quinion noticed the undeniable quality of her voice.

  He released the arm, eyeing the man steadily and pointing towards a hedge which skirted a nearby road.

  ‘You can choose between going now or waiting until I have time to make you wish you were dead. Which is it?’

  His tone, and the expression in his eyes, were ice cold. A few people knew that at such a moment Quinion was as dangerous as any man alive. The other man, peering through half-closed eyes, seemed to sense it; he turned on his heel.

  ‘I’ll get you,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ll get you for this.’

  ‘Oh, go away,’ said Quinion. ‘You’re objectionable.’

  He watched the heavily-built figure moving quickly towards the hedge, and saw the man disappear. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised to hear from him again,’ he reflected.

  Turning round, he found himself looking into a pair of hazel eyes which were gazing at him questioningly. The girl was really something. Sun-tanned, clear-skinned, very attractive. She had auburn hair, a green cotton frock, nice legs and ankles.

  ‘Do you live far away?’ Quinion inquired. ‘Or shall we take him’—the Alsatian whimpered as though acknowledging the thought—‘into Runsey? I know Thomas, the vet.’

  ‘I think it better to get him home,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s not much farther than the village, and I can telephone for Thomas.’

  ‘Right,’ said Quinion. ‘Then hold his head and forelegs and ease him into my arms … slowly … that’s great.’

  He held the Alsatian close to him, and could see the red weals which the whip had made. He wished now that he had thrashed the man with the small eyes.

  The girl was talking soothingly to the Alsatian, and Quinion was content to listen to the clear voice, which held a husky hint of Sussex burr. Occasionally he glanced at the profile of his companion. When she returned his glance, she smiled with a frankness which greatly appealed to him.

  ‘We ought to introduce ourselves,’ he said. ‘My name is Quinn.’

  ‘I’m Margaret Alleyn,’ she told him. ‘And I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

  Quinion, not a particularly impressionable man, felt that there could hardly be a better start than that to an acquaintance.

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