Part 17 (1/2)

”Right. That'll be enough. The man who did this is a murderer on the run and we're police officers. Every second you sit and curse increases his chances of escaping. Tell us about it, quick and sharp.”

The attendant shook his head. I didn't have to be a doctor to tell that he was still pretty groggy. He said, ”A man, middle-aged, swarthy-looking character, came in here for petrol. Half past six, it was. He asked--”

”Half past six,” I interrupted. ”Only twenty minutes ago. Are you sure?”

”I'm certain,” he said flatly. ”He'd run out of petrol for his car, a mile, maybe two back, and he must have been hurrying some for he was pretty much out of breath. He asked me for a gallon in a can and when I turned to find one he let me have it over the head. When I came to I was in the garage in the back and tied as you saw me. I didn't let on I was conscious. The first thing I saw was another man with a gun pointing at a girl-a blonde. The other guy, the bloke who had crowned me, was just backing the boss's car out of the door and---”

”Make, colour and licence number of the car?” Hardanger snapped. He got them, and went on, ”Stay here. Don't move around. That's a nasty crack. I'll radio the Alfringham police and there'll be a car out here pretty soon.” Ten seconds later we were on our way, leaving the attendant holding his head and staring after us.

”Twenty minutes,” I said, half listening to the sergeant speak rapidly and urgently into the telephone. ”They'd have lost time pus.h.i.+ng the car off the road to fox us, then they had a long walk to the garage. Twenty minutes.”

”They've had it,” Hardanger said confidently. ”There's a half-dozen police cars patrolling in the next thirty miles or so and they know those roads as only local county policemen do. And once one of those cars gets on Gregori's tail- well, he'll never shake them off.”

”Tell them to set up road-blocks,” I said. ”Tell them to stop him at all costs.”

”Are you mad?” Hardanger said shortly. ”Are you out of your mind, Cavell? Do you want want your wife killed? d.a.m.n you, you know he'll use her as a living s.h.i.+eld. As it is, she's safe. Gregori hasn't seen a policeman-except that fellow on traffic duty-since he left MacDonald's house. He'll be half-believing now that we your wife killed? d.a.m.n you, you know he'll use her as a living s.h.i.+eld. As it is, she's safe. Gregori hasn't seen a policeman-except that fellow on traffic duty-since he left MacDonald's house. He'll be half-believing now that we have have called off the search. Can't you see that, man?” called off the search. Can't you see that, man?”

”Road-blocks,” I repeated. ”Set up road-blocks. Where are the cars going to tail him to-the heart of London? Where he's going to release his d.a.m.n botulinus. Once in London they'll lose him, they're bound to lose him. Don't you see, he has has to be stopped somewhere? If he's not, if he's let loose in London--” to be stopped somewhere? If he's not, if he's let loose in London--”

”But you yourself agreed--”

”That was before I knew for sure that he was headed for London.”

”General,” Hardanger appealed. ”Can't you make Cavell...”

”She's my only child, Hardanger, and an old man shouldn't be asked to decide life or death for his only child,” the General said tonelessly. ”You know as well as any man what I think of Mary.” He paused, then went on in the same level voice. ”I agree with Cavell. Please do as he suggests.”

Hardanger swore bitterly under his breath and leaned forward to speak to the sergeant. When he had finished, the General said calmly, ”While we're waiting, my boy, you might fill in a few remaining pieces in the jig-saw. I'm in no condition to fill them in for myself. The question the superintendent is always coming up with. The red herrings. All those red herrings. Why?”

”To buy time.” I was in no condition to fill in jig-saws myself, but what was left of my mind was still working just well enough to appreciate the reason behind the request- to try to take our minds off the car in front, the trapped and terrified girl at the mercy of ruthless and s.a.d.i.s.tic killers, to reduce the tearing anxiety, to ease the destructive tension that was slowly pulling tired minds and bodies to pieces. I went on, fumbling along mentally, ”Our friend in the car up front had to buy time. The more false leads we followed and the more blind alleys we blundered into-and there were plenty-the more time it would take us to get around to inquiring in the really dangerous places. He overestimated us, but for all that we moved faster than he bad expected-don't forget that it's only forty hours since the crime was discovered. But he knew that sooner or later we would get around to making inquiries in the one place he feared-MacDonald's. He knew he might have to dispose of MacDonald sooner or later. And the later the better for within a few hours of MacDonald's death a sealed envelope in a bank or police-station would be opened and then we'd be on to him like an express train. Whatever Gregori's ultimate intentions are he would obviously have preferred to carry those out while still a respectable member of the Alfringham community instead of a wanted murderer on the run from half the police in Britain.”

”It's difficult to threaten the Government-and the nation-with the law breathing down the back of your neck,” the General conceded. The old man's detachment, his iron control, was almost more than human. ”But why why did MacDonald have to die?” did MacDonald have to die?”

”Because of two things. Because he knew knew what Gregori's ultimate end was and if MacDonald had lived to tell it, all his, Gregori's, plans would have been ruined. And because of Mrs. Turpin. MacDonald was a pretty tough character and he might not have talked even when the police got on to him-after all, although he almost certainly had no hand in any killing, he was pretty deep in the mire himself. But Mrs. Turpin would have made him talk-if not, she'd have talked herself. Madame Halle gave me to understand in Paris that MacDonald was pretty much of a philanderer-and philanderers don't change their ways easily. Not before eighty, anyway. Mrs. Turpin was a good-looking woman-and her fiercely protective att.i.tude towards MacDonald was a dead giveaway. She was in love with him-whether he was with her I couldn't guess and it doesn't matter. If things had gone wrong she'd have had MacDonald turn Queen's evidence and lower the boom on Gregori by betraying his plans. I think, his evidence might have been so important, so vastly important, that either she or MacDonald or both would be what Gregori's ultimate end was and if MacDonald had lived to tell it, all his, Gregori's, plans would have been ruined. And because of Mrs. Turpin. MacDonald was a pretty tough character and he might not have talked even when the police got on to him-after all, although he almost certainly had no hand in any killing, he was pretty deep in the mire himself. But Mrs. Turpin would have made him talk-if not, she'd have talked herself. Madame Halle gave me to understand in Paris that MacDonald was pretty much of a philanderer-and philanderers don't change their ways easily. Not before eighty, anyway. Mrs. Turpin was a good-looking woman-and her fiercely protective att.i.tude towards MacDonald was a dead giveaway. She was in love with him-whether he was with her I couldn't guess and it doesn't matter. If things had gone wrong she'd have had MacDonald turn Queen's evidence and lower the boom on Gregori by betraying his plans. I think, his evidence might have been so important, so vastly important, that either she or MacDonald or both would be convinced that at the most MacDonald would have received no more than a light sentence. With all hopes of his money from Gregori gone, I don't think MacDonald would have hesitated between turning Queen's evidence-if it was important enough he might even have received a free pardon-and being held as an accessory to murder for gain, which still calls for a walk to the gallows in this country. And if he had,” I hesitated, ”Mrs. Turpin would have made up his mind for him. My guess-it's only a guess but we can check at Mordon-is that Mrs. Turpin phoned MacDonald at the lab immediately after I had left and that Gregori either overheard or was told what had happened. He probably accompanied MacDonald home to see how the land lay-and it didn't take him a couple of minutes to find out. The heat was on MacDonald and that could have been fatal for Gregori. To prevent that, Gregori had to make it fatal for MacDonald and Mrs. Turpin.” convinced that at the most MacDonald would have received no more than a light sentence. With all hopes of his money from Gregori gone, I don't think MacDonald would have hesitated between turning Queen's evidence-if it was important enough he might even have received a free pardon-and being held as an accessory to murder for gain, which still calls for a walk to the gallows in this country. And if he had,” I hesitated, ”Mrs. Turpin would have made up his mind for him. My guess-it's only a guess but we can check at Mordon-is that Mrs. Turpin phoned MacDonald at the lab immediately after I had left and that Gregori either overheard or was told what had happened. He probably accompanied MacDonald home to see how the land lay-and it didn't take him a couple of minutes to find out. The heat was on MacDonald and that could have been fatal for Gregori. To prevent that, Gregori had to make it fatal for MacDonald and Mrs. Turpin.”

”All neatly b.u.t.toned up, eh?” Hardanger said.His face was dead-pan, he was still a fair way from forgiving me.

”Net tightened and completely closed,” I agreed. ”The only trouble is that the big fish has already escaped and what's left is useless. But one thing we know. We can forget all this rubbish about demolis.h.i.+ng Mordon. If that was Gregori's plan it wouldn't have helped or hindered him in the execution of it if MacDonald had talked, for the whole country knew of it already. Whatever it is is something on a much bigger, much more important scale, something that might might have been foiled, probably have been foiled, probably would would have been foiled had we known of it in advance.” have been foiled had we known of it in advance.”

”Such as what?” Hardanger demanded. ”You tell me. I'm done with guessing for the day.” And I was through with guessing and talking for the day, except when necessity absolutely demanded it. Slumped back in the warmth and comfort of the deeply-cus.h.i.+oned seats, reaction was beginning to set in. The anaesthetising effect of the need for non-stop action and urgent thinking was beginning to wear off, and the more it wore off the older and more worn I felt. And the more pain. I thought of the widely-held belief that you can't feel more than one pain at one time and wondered what misinformed idiot had started that one. I wondered what part of me was causing me the most pain, my foot, my ribs or my head, and came to the conclusion that my ribs won, by a short head. Was that a pun? The driver was reaching over ninety on the longer stretches of wet road, but he drove so smoothly and skilfully that even with my fear and anxiety for Mary I think I was beginning to doze off when the loudspeaker up front began to crackle.

First came the identification sign then the message, ”Grey Humber saloon, answering description of wanted car, number not identified, has just turned left from London road to 'B' road to avoid block at Flemington cross-road, two and a half miles east of Crutchley. Am following.”

”Flemington cross-roads.” The voice of the sergeant in the front seat, an Alfringham man, held a rising note of excitement. ”He's on a blind road. It doesn't lead anywhere except to Flemington and then back on to the main London road about three miles farther on again.”

”How far are we from what's the name of the place-Crutchley?” Hardanger demanded.

”Near enough four miles, sir.”

”So that would make it between nine and ten miles to the junction where Gregori must rejoin the main London road. This side road through Flemington, the one he's on. How long is it, how long would it take him?”

”Five or six miles, sir. It's pretty twisty. Maybe ten minutes if he kept his foot down and took chances all the way. The road is full of blind corners.”

”Do you think you could get there in ten minutes?” Hardanger asked the driver.

”I don't know, sir.” He hesitated. ”I don't know the road.”

”I do,” the sergeant said confidently. ”He'll make it.”

He made it. The rain was sluicing vertically down, me roads were slippery, straight stretches were at a premium and I think we all added a few more grey hairs to our quota that night, but he made it. He made it with time to spare. From the constant stream of reports pouring in from police cars pursuing Gregori it was quite evident that the man at the wheel was anything but a skilful driver.

Our car braked to a halt, parked broadside on across the Flemington road, completely blocking the exit on to the main London road. We all climbed quickly out of the car while the sergeant trained the powerful roof spotlight up the side road in the direction from which Gregori's stolen Humber would appear. We took up position in the pouring rain behind the Jaguar and, as a precaution, about ten feet back from it.

In that blinding rain a misted windscreen or ineffective wipers could prevent the driver of a car travelling at high speed from seeing the Jaguar until it was too late. Especially if the driver was as incompetent as claimed, I took a good look around me. d.i.c.k Turpin couldn't have chosen a better spot for an ambush. The top and one side of the right-angle T junction were completely covered in dense beech woods. The third side of the T, illuminated by the still blazing headlights of the Jaguar, was open pastureland with a tree-lined farmhouse about two hundred yards away, and at less than half that distance, a barn and scattered farm-buildings. I could just make out a light from one of the windows in the farmhouse, blurred and misty through the heavy rain.

There was a deep ditch on one side of the Remington road and I considered hiding myself there about the point where Gregori's car would be forced to pull up, then rising and heaving a heavy rock through the driver's window thereby eliminating fifty per cent of the opposition before they could even start anything. The only trouble was that I might also eliminate Mary-the fact that she hadn't been in the front seat when Gregori had pa.s.sed through Alfringham was no guarantee that she wasn't there now. I decided to stay where I was.

Over the sound of the rain hissing whitely on the tarmac and drumming heavily on the roof of the car, we could suddenly hear the steadily rising note of an engine being revved up furiously and far from skilfully through the gears. Seconds later we caught sight of the first white wash of its headlights, the barred beams s.h.i.+ning eerily through the boles of the beeches and the pale rods of rain. We dropped to our knees behind the shelter of the police Jaguar and I eased out the Hanyatti, slipping the safety catch.

Then all at once, to the accompaniment of a high-pitched grating of gears and mad revving of the engine what wouldn't have got its driver very far at Le Mans, the car was round the last corner and heading straight for us. We could hear it accelerating as it came out of the corner, just over a hundred and fifty yards away: then came the abrupt cessation of engine noise succeeded almost immediately by the unmistakable tearing hissing sound of locked wheels sliding on a wet road. I could see the headlight beams of the approaching car swing wildly from one side to the other as the driver fought to retain control and I instinctively tensed waiting for the crash and the shock as the car ploughed into the side of the Jaguar blocking its path.

But the crash and the shock did not come. Owing everything to good luck and nothing whatsoever to good management, the driver managed to pull up less than five feet from the Jaguar, in the middle of the road and slewed only very slightly to the left. I straightened and walked up to the side of the police Jaguar, my eye screwed almost shut against the glare of the Humber's headlights. Sharply outlined though I was in that blinding wash of light, I doubted whether the occupants of the car could see me-the spotlight on the roof of the Jaguar was a powerful one and s.h.i.+ning directly into Gregori's windscreen.

I'm no Annie Oakley with a gun but at a distance of ten feet and a target the size of a soup-plate I can hold my own with the worst. Two quick shots and the headlights of the Humber shattered and died. I walked round the front of the Jaguar, the others following, as a second car-the pursuing police car-pulled up behind Gregori's. I was still rounding the nose of the Jaguar when the two right hand doors of the stolen car were flung wide and two men scrambled quickly out. For one second and one second only I had the game in my hands, I could have gunned them both down where they stood and the fact that I would have had to shoot one of them through the back wouldn't have worried me at all, but like a fool I hesitated and was slow in bringing up my gun and then the second was gone and so was my last chance, for Mary was out of the car now, jerked out with a brutal violence that made her gasp in pain, and was held in front of Gregori while his gun pointed at me directly over her right shoulder. The other man was a squat broad-shouldered and very tough-looking Latin type with a pistol the size of a sawn-off cannon held in his hairy left hand. His left hand, I noticed. It had been a left-handed man who had used the wire-cutters to break out of Mordon. Here, probably, was the killer of both Baxter and Clandon. Nor had I any doubt but that he was the killer, when you've seen enough of them you recognise one instantly. They may look as normal, as happily innocuous, as the next man, but always, far back in the eyes, lies the glint of empty madness. It's not something they have, it's something they don't have. This was such a man. And Gregori? Another? He was the same Gregori as I'd ever known, tall, swarthy, with grizzled hair and a quizzical expression on his face but at the same time a completely different man. He no longer wore his gla.s.ses.

”Cavell.” His voice was soft, colourless, conversational almost. ”I had the chance to kill you weeks ago. I should have taken it. Negligence. I have known of you for a long time. I was warned of you. I didn't listen.”

”The boy friend,” I said. My own gun was hanging by my side and I stared at the barrel in that hairy left hand: it pointed straight at my left eye. ”Left-handed. The killer of Baxter and Clandon.”

”Indeed.” Gregori tightened his grip round Mary. Her fair hair was wildly dishevelled, her face streaked with mud and there was the beginning of an unpleasant bruise above her right eye-she must have tried a breakaway on the walk between abandoned car and garage-but she wasn't scared much or if she was she was hiding it. ”I was rightly warned. Henriques, my-lieutenant. He is also responsible for some other slight accidents, aren't you, Henriques? Including the slight damage to yourself, Cavell.”

I nodded. It made sense. Henriques the hatchet-man. I looked at the hard bitter face and the empty eyes and I knew Gregori was telling the truth. Not that that made Gregori any more innocent. It just made him more understandable; master criminals of Gregori's cla.s.s almost never touched the physical side of their business.

Gregori glanced quickly at the two policemen who had come out of the pursuing car and gave Henriques a quick jerk of the head. Henriques swung his gun and lined it up on the two policemen. They stopped. I lifted my own gun and took a pace nearer Gregori.

”Don't do it, Cavell,” Gregori said evenly. He pressed the muzzle of his gun into Mary's side with such violence that she moaned with the pain of it. ”I won't hesitate to kill.”

I took another step forward. Four feet separated us. I said, ”You won't harm her. If you do, I'll kill you. You know that. G.o.d only knows what it is that you have at stake, but it's something almighty big to justify all the work and planning you've put in, the killing you've done. Whatever that is, you haven't achieved it yet. You wouldn't throw it all away just by shooting my wife, would you, Gregori?”

”Take me away from this horrible man, Pierre,” Mary murmured. Her voice was low and not steady. ”I-I don't care what he does.”

”He won't do anything, my dear,” I said quietly ”He doesn't dare to. And he knows it.”

”Quite the little psychologist, aren't you?” Gregori said in the same conversational tone. Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, his back braced against the side of the car, he sent Mary catapulting towards me with a vicious thrust of both arms. I broke ground to lessen the impact, staggered back two steps before steadying us both and by the time I'd put her to one side and was bringing my gun up again Gregori was holding something in his outstretched hand. A gla.s.s ampoule with a blue sealed top. In the other hand he held the steel flask from which he'd just abstracted it. I looked at Gregori's impa.s.sive face then back at the ampoule in his hand and I could feel the sudden moisture between my palm and the b.u.t.t of the Hanyatti.