The Terror Trap Read online

  The Terror Trap

  A Department Z Mystery

  John Creasey

  About the Author

  Master crime fiction writer John Creasey's 562 titles have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages. After enduring 743 rejection slips, the young Creasey’s career was kickstarted by winning a newspaper writing competition. He went on to collect multiple honours from The Mystery Writers of America including the Edgar Award for best novel in 1962 and the coveted title of Grand Master in 1969. Creasey’s prolific output included 11 different series including Roger West, the Toff, the Baron, Patrick Dawlish, Gideon, Dr Palfrey, and Department Z, published both under his own name and 10 other pseudonyms.

  Creasey was born in Surrey in 1908 and, when not travelling extensively, lived between Bournemouth and Salisbury for most of his life. He died in England in 1973.

  The Department Z Series

  The Death Miser

  Redhead

  First Came a Murder

  Death Round the Corner

  The Mark of the Crescent

  Thunder in Europe

  The Terror Trap

  Carriers of Death

  Days of Danger

  Death Stands By

  Menace!

  Murder Must Wait

  Panic!

  Death by Night

  The Island of Peril

  Sabotage

  Go Away Death

  The Day of Disaster

  Prepare for Action

  No Darker Crime

  Dark Peril

  The Peril Ahead

  The League of Dark Men

  The Department of Death

  The Enemy Within

  Dead or Alive

  A Kind of Prisoner

  The Black Spiders

  This edition published in 2016 by Ipso Books

  First published in Great Britain by Melrose in 1936

  Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd

  Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HA

  Copyright © John Creasey, 1936, revised edition, 1969

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  1

  VAIN EFFORT

  For ten minutes there had been no sound in the room, and the darkness was profound. Just ten minutes before, the sudden sharp crack! of a revolver shot had echoed startlingly against the plain walls, a single stab of yellow flame had split the darkness and a single cry of surprise and pain had merged with the echoes of the explosion.

  Then silence and darkness; nothing more.

  Suddenly a rustle of sound came, and quickly upon it came the weak, gasping voice of the man who lay in the shadows. It was too dark to see the twisted agony of his face, too dark to see the little pool of blood on the polished floor.

  “Mary,” he tried to call. “Mary, Mary—!”

  Again and again, he repeated the name, but his voice never grew to more than a whisper and gradually the intervals between his attempts grew longer. Soon the murmured name was more like a sigh, quivering and long-drawn out.

  “Mary ...”

  Outside, the darkness and the silence remained. Inside the name echoed softly around the room, languishing in the corners, disappearing as it reached the open windows. A gust of wind rattled the door of the french window against its frame, and a piece of broken glass tinkled to the flagstones below.

  “Mary, Mary—!”

  The man’s body lay quiet now, inert and unstirring. His eyes were closed; only his lips still moved—pleadingly, again and again. Death was close to him, he knew. But he fought hard to beat it back just long enough to serve his purpose.

  Then, for five minutes, the sound did not come.

  Suddenly the silence that seemed to fold the house and garden in a muffling cloak was broken by the clear, ringing echo of footsteps on the flagstone path. A gate creaked open, then closed. The footsteps echoed again, getting nearer. They stopped, a key jarred in the lock, and the front door opened. There was the sound of a light step on the polished floor, and as the door closed, the low humming of a woman’s voice was audible in the room where the man lay dying.

  The footsteps passed the door, reached the foot of the staircase. No part of the man’s body moved, but he raised his voice, once again.

  “Mary!”

  It was louder than before. Was it loud enough?

  The footsteps on the stairs stopped for only a fraction of a second. Then they were flying back again across the hall, and the door of the room was flung open.

  “Dad! Dad—are you there?”

  Silence. Darkness. The girl stood irresolute for a moment, then as the wind set the windows rattling again, she pulled a wry face and switched on the light. A soft glow filled the room—and shone on the man on the floor.

  The girl’s eyes widened in shock and incredulity. Her lips opened soundlessly—then tightened, as she flew to his side.

  “Dad—Dad! What is it? For heaven’s sake, what—?”

  Then she saw the blood. Her knees were touching it, wet and sticky. With a strangled gasp, she lifted the greying head.

  “Oh, my dear, my dear!” she whispered. “Why wasn’t I here?”

  Her father stopped her. Somehow, he managed to move his right arm: the gesture seemed to dismiss the wound in his chest, the pain, the fact of approaching death.

  “Tell—Fordham—first!” he gasped out laboriously. “Tell—Fordham—first. Tell—”

  Then his head fell back on her supporting arm, and she knew that he had gone. A choking sob came from her lips, but her eyes were suddenly icy cold and quite dry.

  He was dead. Her father, dead. Dead!

  She clenched her fists as she rose from her knees, staring down at him. Then his words seemed to echo in her ears.

  “Tell—Fordham—first.”

  Fordham. Of course—if he had died, Fordham was in danger. That was what he had meant. Fordham—God, but this was terrible! Not Fordham, too? It couldn’t happen; it couldn’t!

  But it had happened already, to her father....

  Whirling around, she half ran from the room. Jerking open the front door, she closed it behind her with a bang. Then half running, half walking, she hurried along the garden path which she had trodden so happily and cheerfully, only minutes before.

  It was like a dream, a vicious nightmare. But she knew it was real enough. The ghastly, impossible, forever unacceptable truth persisted: her father was dead.

  Fordham’s address? She knew it—it was on the tip of her tongue. Brake Street, W.l. Seventeen. Telephone number, Mayfair 33221: an easy number—and one she was unlikely to forget.

  She opened the garden gate and raced along the lane. The house stood alone, a quarter-mile from the village, and there was no telephone nearer than the kiosk on the village green. Had she enough money for the call? Odd to think of money when he was lying dead—lying in his own blood, back there.

  She was shivering uncontrollably, she suddenly realised. It was a warm night, but she felt cold, frozen.

  Coins jingled in her handbag. She had a shilling-piece, and two sixpences. Quite enough for the call, thank heavens....

  She didn’t at first notice the man who was following her. It was more as if some sixth sense told her she was being followed. And as a fitful moon slipped from behind dark clouds, she dared to look behind her.
The man’s shadow was ten yards away.

  Who was he? Why had he waited until she had run from the house? Had he—had he killed her father?

  Sudden blind dread gripped her: dread that was close to terror—to panic. Yet somehow her mind stayed clear and coolly reasoning.

  She was being followed; the man could only mean her harm. Right—then at all costs she must reach the telephone before he caught up with her....

  She came to a familiar gap in the hedge. For years she had risked the owner’s wrath by using it as a short cut to the village. Dare she use it, now? But how could she dare not to? In the lane, the man must catch her. In the copse through which the short cut ran, he might lose her—he must lose her!

  In a flash, she had darted through the hedge and plunged into the copse. She heard nothing, for a moment. Then a beam of white light shot through the darkness, writhing in and out, up and down, through the friendly sheltering trees. But breathlessly, heedless of the light, she raced on. She could hear the man crashing through the thicket in her wake. But he’d get lost; anyone would get lost who didn’t know that copse the way that she did.

  On—on....

  The lights of the village appeared: three from cottage windows and one from the telephone kiosk—that ugly, red cage, the villagers had hated as much as she had, but for which at this moment she could not have been more grateful.

  Not until she was almost in the main village street did she see the low-slung car which stood there. Fear shot through her again. Whose was it? Did the man behind her know? Was the shadowy figure at the wheel a friend of his?

  She passed it, still running, and reached the kiosk. The ear-piece of the telephone was cool against her ear, the voice of the operator maddeningly calm.

  “A London call—urgent—please—!” she panted,

  “What number, madam?”

  “Mayfair—33221. Urgent—”

  “One shilling, please.”

  The shilling clicked into the slot. There was a pause. Then:

  “Your number is ringing.”

  “Thank you.” Thank God!

  Her hand pressed the receiver tightly against her ear. Tensely, she waited—for the sound of Fordham’s voice. Precious seconds passed. Half a minute. A minute. A minute? An age! She pumped the hook, desperately, and heard the operator’s calm voice again.

  “You’re still connected.”

  Another sound came, from outside the kiosk. The girl turned sharply—to see a car draw up directly opposite. Two men climbed from it, their faces dark and saturnine in the faint light from the booth. Fear flooded through her again.

  “I can’t wait!” she gasped. “Get through to that number—Fordham—tell him to be careful—”

  “I’m sorry, madam, but—”

  “And tell the police—Mr. Brent—Oak Lodge—urgent.”

  “But—”

  The girl dropped the telephone, and turned to the door. It was jammed, and the two men were only feet away. With a frenzied burst of energy she thrust the door open, and darted to the left. She could hear the men cursing, and the soft thud of their footsteps as they followed her. Bright-eyed, white-faced, she raced on for a moment before it even occurred to her to shout.

  “Help!” she cried, her voice shattering the silence. “Help! Help!”

  The two men stopped, startled and uncertain. A window at the Boar was flung up, and a tousled head appeared.

  “Hallo, there! You all right?”

  The two men turned, and ran. As they did so, a second car came roaring through the quiet village street. The man at the window called again, but now the girl had darted into the road to face the oncoming car, her arms held wide. Vividly clear, she stood outlined in the glare of the headlights, and the man at the window yelled:

  “For God’s sake!”

  Brakes screeching, tyres squealing, the car pulled up, hardly two yards short of her. Before it had stopped, she had darted round to the driver, a middle-aged man who greeted her with a tolerant frown.

  “Something the matter?” It was a deep, pleasant voice.

  “You’re going to London? Take me, please. It’s urgent!”

  “But—”

  He broke off, seeing the strained, terror-mask of her face, the bright, feverish eyes which were so at odds with the convincing steadiness of her voice.

  “I’m serious—please believe me. It’s life and death—”

  “Come on,” he said, and opened the door.

  As she jumped in, the other car passed. She shuddered as she saw it, and, following her gaze, the man said:

  “Not a chase, is it?”

  “No—I don’t know! It’s just urgent I get to Brake Street, Mayfair. I’m sorry, but—”

  “All right,” he said mildly, adding, with the suspicion of a laugh in his voice: “But, it’s fifty-odd miles, you know—we’ll be an hour and more.”

  “I know.”

  She was sitting upright beside him, and staring at the disappearing red lights of the other car. “Please—will you just drive, as fast as you can? In a minute I’ll talk.”

  He nodded, giving her a brief glance as he started up. God, she looked like a ghost!

  After ten minutes, he spoke again.

  “The other car’s turned off, on the Andover Road.”

  “Has it?” She seemed to rouse herself with an effort, and for the first time she looked at him. Her hands were trembling now, he could feel her body quivering.

  “Cold?” he asked.

  “No. Just—frightened. I’m sorry, but it’s been so horrible. It just doesn’t seem—doesn’t seem real.”

  “It had better be,” he laughed. Then wished he hadn’t for her anguish was pitiable.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated dully. “I’ll explain, but you won’t believe it. I reached home, just now—and found my father dead.”

  She was speaking calmly, and the very steadiness of her voice sent a shiver through him.

  “Good Lord! I—”

  “Murdered,” she elaborated. “Shot, I think. He told me a friend of his was in danger, before he died. So I’m going to warn him.”

  “But—the police,” he said.

  “I telephoned them. Told the exchange to tell them the number of—of my father’s friend. I rang him, but there was no reply. Then those men came. They did it, I know—they were after me. I shouted, and someone looked out of the Boar—the village pub—and that scared them. You saw them moving off.”

  He had seen them moving off. His lips tightened, and the needle of the speedometer went from fifty to sixty—sixty-five.

  “You say you telephoned the police?”

  “Told the exchange to ring them. I gave the name and the house. Oh!” She shivered. “It was—dreadful. Dreadful!”

  He took one hand from the wheel and slipped a flask from his hip pocket.

  “I always travel prepared,” he said lightly, passing it to her. “Take a sip—not too much—and then sit back. I know Brake Street. What number?”

  “Seventeen.”

  She put the flask to her lips, and sipped. The spirit bit, and she shuddered. But she swallowed it. Then sat back obediently, the flask in her lap.

  The round disc of a ‘30’ sign shone in the headlights; she was only vaguely aware that the driver ignored it. Bagshot went past, and Sunningdale. They roared along deserted roads, down into Esher, through Staines, on and on. They were on the Great West Road when she spoke again, roused by the lights of a town flashing by.

  “I’ll never be able to thank you. Never.”

  “Don’t try.” He smiled. “We’ll have to slow down a bit, here, but I’ll make up where I can.”

  She nodded, dumbly grateful. Chiswick went by. Hammersmith. Kensington. Hyde Park. Very soon, they were humming up Piccadilly, and the man was cursing a driver who was baulking him of a quick turn into Bond Street. But he turned at last, and then went right, into Brake Street.

  “This end?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She was sitt
ing up, alert and wide-eyed, her hand already on the door. “There it is—he’s on the second floor. Oh, please God!”

  “Steady,” he soothed, pulling up at the house. “Oh, Constable—please! “

  A policeman was strolling sedately along, only yards away. As he hurried towards them, the driver climbed out of the car.

  “Constable—there’s been trouble on the second floor of Number Seventeen. A matter of life and death. We must get in.”

  The man took little persuading, but every passing second seemed to tug at the heart of Mary Brent till at last they entered the house, and climbed to the second floor. The flat door was locked, and no answer came when they knocked.

  “Better break in,” said the man.

  The policeman hesitated. Then with a glance at the white, strained face of the girl, he grunted agreement. He was a big, solidly-built man. The second time he thudded against the door it gave way and he staggered into the room. The driver of the car followed him quickly, trying to keep the girl back. But she slipped in behind him.

  And then she gave a little moan, and went still. A moment later she dropped down, and neither man was quick enough to save her. The driver, his own face white, murmured:

  “Perhaps it’s as well, Constable.”

  “God!” the policeman said hoarsely, even as he nodded. “My God!”

  For both of them were staring at where the body of a red-haired man lay sprawled across a deep, pile carpet that was damp with drying blood.

  2

  THREE PEOPLE THINK OF DEATH

  On the morning following the murders of John Richard Brent and Arthur Fordham, three people thought of death, in very different ways. They were so widely apart in mental outlook that normally their views would have differed on every subject under the sun. But in the Fordham affair, they were united in one respect at least. They had all three been afraid that Fordham would die.

  Or more correctly, two of them had been afraid. The third had been hopeful, although he had had no idea that violent death would remove a very grave obstacle from his path.