Redhead (Department Z Book 2) Read online

  The next ship, they were assured, was the Hoveric, due to sail early next morning and as a safety measure the authorities had already booked two third-class steerage berths under assumed names. The authorities would watch Mr Storm and Mr Grimm very closely, but they were earnestly requested to keep out of sight as much as possible. The Captain of the Hoveric had instructions to keep a close watch over his two very important passengers.

  ‘So that’s that,’ said Storm, when they were left alone in the room of their hotel. ‘It’s no use kicking, Roger. But I’d like to have a little private interview with Redhead. To think we’ve got to suffer steerage from here to Cherbourg!’

  As with all things, the sufferings passed however, though leaving a deep-seated hostility to the unseen, unknown Redhead.

  To have rebelled against the official decree would have been impossible. The remorseless arm of the United States’ Authorities had closed down on them, and they did what they were told, willy-nilly. But their helplessness and the overpowering sense of impotency made them chafe. In the words of Storm, as they deserted the Hoveric at Cherbourg and returned ten minutes later as first-class passengers:

  ‘I’d like to have a shot at Redhead one of these fine days. I only wish the devil would come to England. I’d show him!’

  Which utterance, though he knew it not, was more than prophetic.

  * * *

  Sunning themselves on the sports deck, Martin Storm and Roger Grimm recovered quickly from the discomfort of their enforced journey by steerage. Idly they watched Ginger at his fancy tricks, the flaming red of his hair being a strong point against him.

  ‘What’s he up to now?’ Grimm queried.

  ‘Ask me,’ retorted Storm vulgarly.

  While the cousins were in ignorance of the next display of strength everyone else on deck seemed to know what to expect.

  From the small, and in the main, admiring crowd which had gathered round Ginger one worthy, gloriously bedecked in a suit of loud plus fours, swaggered to the chalk line drawn by an attendant steward. Raising his arms in the time-honoured fashion of prize fighters he grinned expectantly towards Ginger.

  Storm gave a snort.

  ‘I didn’t know Tiger Norse was travelling, or I’d have caught the next boat.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have caught anything of the kind,’ retorted Grimm mildly, staring at the pugilist and the waiting Ginger.

  They knew Tiger Norse as a professional, and as poor a specimen as had ever left England.

  The antagonists, both men of exceptional muscular development and both obviously kow-towing to popular approval, were grasping each other with the right hand above the right wrist. Locked in this fashion they began a strong but showy struggle, each striving to pull his opponent’s left foot over the thin white line.

  ‘Revolting,’ murmured Storm.

  ‘Disgusting,’ avowed Grimm.

  Nevertheless both men found it difficult to take their eyes from the combatants. Tiger Norse, with his training and seven years’ experience in boxing camps, should have found it a cake-walk; but the veins showed blue against his swarthy forehead as he pulled, and small beads of sweat decorated his battered face. Ginger, on the other hand, was smiling a superior and altogether objectionable smile. Beneath his thin tennis shirt the fine, rippling muscles of his shoulders moved easily. Tiger was puny in comparison.

  Again Storm admitted to himself that Ginger, for all his distasteful love of popularity, not only desired but demanded respect.

  Storm and Grimm found themselves staring fascinatedly at the display of brute strength. They felt the same pull as they would have done at a Test Match, experienced the same inability to think of personalities in the tenseness of the struggle.

  Slowly, inexorably, Tiger Norse’s right foot slid forward until it first touched, then crossed, the white line. Almost spontaneously a burst of clapping came from the crowd of spectators, with an extra exuberance from the delightful-looking occupant of a deck-chair immediately in front of the cousins.

  Storm looked at her with interest. By no means a Don Juan, he was highly susceptible to feminine charms, and the girl in the deck-chair was streets ahead of anything else on view.

  He could see her profile clearly, for she was leaning forward in her chair, and the glowing animation of her face made him realise with a mental frown that she was well and truly under the magnetic spell of Ginger. For a moment she looked away from the main crowd so that Storm and Grimm had a perfect full-face view.

  It was a face, Storm considered, which would not have suffered in comparison with the most polished star of Elstree and Hollywood. He had time to see that her eyes were blue and her hair almost raven black.

  Martin Storm’s hostility towards the redheaded braggart who was moving blithely towards the girl developed into a keen, urgent desire to punch him on the nose.

  Storm’s emotions were such that when he spoke he forgot to keep his voice low.

  ‘More than anything else in the world,’ he said, ‘I’d like to take the rise out of that kudos-collector.’

  ‘So would I,’ agreed Grimm, and then stared curiously at his cousin. There had been an asperity about that loudly expressed desire much deeper than Grimm saw any reason for. ‘Anything up?’ he demanded.

  But Storm had no opportunity to reply before a man who had been lounging a few yards away, turned to them impassively. He was pleasant enough, perhaps five or six years younger than Storm, who was thirty, but his well-cut features were, at the moment, darkened by a frown. Storm had an idea that he had seen him before.

  ‘I wish to heaven,’ he said almost desperately, ‘that you’d do just that!’

  In common with all well-bred Englishmen Martin Storm had a genial liking for putting the next man at his ease. He did not, therefore, show his surprise. The thought, for some reason an unpleasant one, that the sturdy youth was an unlucky swain of the girl’s passed through his mind as he answered cheerfully:

  ‘Well, one never knows. Ginger’s certainly asking for it.’

  The stranger smiled.

  ‘Ginger certainly cuts him down a bit. Let’s hope the brute hears it.’

  ‘Touchy, eh?’ queried Storm.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ asserted the other, in the ready tone of one who had been bottling up a dislike of Ginger throughout the trip.

  ‘We only joined up at Cherbourg,’ Grimm informed him. ‘It looks as if we missed most of the fun.’

  ‘If you can call it fun,’ grimaced the newcomer. ‘Up here, on the proms, any damn place in this rotten ship, Wenlock’s been lording it like a tuppenny royalty! And the trouble is that Letty – ’

  He broke off suddenly. Storm, who was eyeing him keenly saw that what he had mistaken for familiarity in the young man’s face was, in fact, a likeness to the girl of the deck-chair.

  ‘Might as well spill it,’ he said cheerfully.

  The other laughed, with an air of gratitude at having been helped out of an awkward situation.

  ‘Ah well, you see, Letty is my sister – my name’s Granville by the way, Frank Granville – and I’m pretty well convinced that Wenlock’s got her thoroughly under his thumb. He’s made a dead set at her ever since we left New York.’ He rubbed his chin ruefully. ‘Of course, Letty’s affairs aren’t mine, but I’ve taken such a dislike to Wenlock that I’d give a lot to see him pushed out of the limelight.’

  Storm chuckled, finding an echo in Grimm.

  ‘Admirable sentiments. By the way’ – the question came naturally enough but Grimm knew that it had been manoeuvred and grinned to himself – ‘Letty is the girl in the deck-chair, isn’t she? The one Ginger is talking to?’

  Frank Granville’s frown returned.

  ‘Yes. She couldn’t make it more obvious if she stood on a funnel and bellowed through a megaphone.’

  Storm tossed a half-smoked cigarette into the sea and watched it sink. Then:

  ‘So Ginger doesn’t like being called Ginger. And, I gather, no one
’s able to pull him over the white line?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Granville glumly, but with a sidelong look at Storm’s massive physique. ‘He staged a competition, and Norse was the other finalist. You saw how it ended up.’

  ‘Sure,’ murmured Storm, suspiciously mild. ‘I saw. Now, what about sloping back to the rails where you were. I don’t think anyone’s seen us talking, do you? Ginger or your sister I mean? Good. Then get back and answer anything I ask as loudly as you like.’ He winked jubilantly. ‘We’re going to have fun.’

  ‘And the game?’ demanded Grimm, as Granville acted on Storm’s instructions.

  ‘Unless I’m seriously miscalculating,’ grinned Storm, ‘I’m about to give Ginger a surprise packet and earn a certain amount of unspoken abuse.’

  He winked at the eagerly watching Granville as, with a sudden, cavernous yawn he stretched his massive frame until the chair creaked.

  ‘Hey-ho, Roger! Boring kind of life, this. Pity we didn’t join the ship at New York.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ demanded Grimm, following his cue and speaking well above normal.

  ‘We could have played some little games,’ continued Storm, as though taking the whole ship into his confidence and expecting the passengers to weep in sympathy. ‘I wouldn’t have minded a shot at that ginger fellow.’

  He was gazing through half-closed eyes at Wenlock, who was talking animatedly to Letty Granville. As the ‘ginger’ came out, rolled appreciatively round Storm’s tongue, Wenlock suddenly went red, a good, deep, beetroot red. He looked up, breaking heedlessly across a sentence from the girl, and Storm saw a glint of fury in his green eyes.

  Storm chuckled inwardly. The fish was rising to the bait. He stretched again.

  ‘Ah, well! It’s too late now, I suppose. I notice he hopped away pretty soon after the battle. Wonder who he was? You don’t know him, do you, Roger?’

  Grimm shook his head.

  ‘No, and I’m not sorry,’ he supported manfully.

  Neither of them was looking towards Wenlock, who rose slowly to his feet and moved towards them. Fifty pairs of eyes were fixed on Storm.

  He had staged an outrageous breach of good manners, but a sizeable sprinkling of the passengers felt sympathetic; Wenlock had made a number of very bad friends during the voyage. Tensely they wondered now what would happen.

  Storm and Grimm alone seemed oblivious of Wenlock’s cat-footed approach. The former waved a cheery hand at Frank Granville as his deep voice boomed out.

  ‘Who was the ginger cove, sonny? Any idea?’

  Someone grabbed Storm’s arm.

  His expression, carefully schooled to a look of natural surprise, met Wenlock’s furious stare. A few shrewd spectators wondered whether it was all quite as accidental as it appeared to be.

  ‘I hope you weren’t talking of me,’ Wenlock said softly.

  His eyes held a devilish vindictiveness, and under their glare Storm lost a little of the carefree exuberance with which he had started on the mild adventure. They were the eyes of a man not only heartless but soulless, and the realisation sent a cold thrill along Storm’s spine. Then:

  ‘Well I’m jiggered!’ he gasped. ‘I thought you’d gone to your cabin.’

  Wenlock’s queer eyes blazed, but he kept his fury well in hand.

  ‘Perhaps you will apologise, Mr – ’

  ‘Smith,’ supplied Storm untruthfully. Then ingenuously: ‘Apologise? What for?’

  For a moment he thought Wenlock would strike out, but before the other spoke again he grinned understandingly.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got you. Of course. Well, look here. Let’s have one of those little tug-o’-war games, and if you win I’ll bend the knee and if I do we’ll call it quits. Is it on?’

  Wenlock’s lips set in a surly line as he stepped back a foot. From half-a-dozen points along the deck came titters of amusement. Storm knew perfectly well that he had his man in a cleft stick. No matter how outrageously he had insulted the other, the fair and square offer to make amends gave the red-haired man no choice but to accept. But in accepting he was anything but gracious.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to,’ he said grudgingly.

  Storm beamed as blandly as ever. If Wenlock had taken the offer sportingly he would have felt more than a bit sheepish; after all, the calculated insult was enough to make any man wild. But there was something in Wenlock, something in the hard, ruthless expression which made him determined to go on with it.

  Wenlock, already halfway to the chalked line, spoke over his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s get the business over.’

  The pro-Wenlock element felt a little disgruntled. The least their hero could have done was to have offered time whilst the unorthodox challenger changed into rubber shoes.

  In spite of Storm’s earlier ill-mannered attack the challenger was gaining adherents. There was an infectious buoyancy about his genial good-humour which made it difficult to dislike him. The interest in the struggle between Tiger Norse and Wenlock had been mild compared with the tension which seemed to fill the very hearts of the passengers on the sports deck, and soon others came hurrying to the scene.

  Storm slipped his coat off, throwing it lightly to Roger Grimm before squaring up to his opponent. A volunteer referee murmured: ‘Back an inch, Mr Wenlock, please,’ and the two men grasped each other’s wrists.

  Almost before they had gripped Storm felt a fierce tug and was dragged remorselessly forward by a colossal heave which it seemed impossible to resist. In a flash he was within an inch of the white line, dragged by that first calculated heave. But he was in much better training than Tiger Norse, and the split second gave him time to set his muscles. Without changing the mildly amused expression of his rugged face he threw all he knew into keeping on the right side of the line. Wenlock might have been pulling against the side of the Hoveric itself for all the impression he made.

  Still smiling, Storm saw the change in the other’s manner. Probably for the first time since he had boarded the ship Wenlock was up against an opponent whose strength matched his own. He was taking it badly, and the spectators were beginning to show a certain restiveness and disappointment at this lack of sportsmanship.

  Storm maintained his pressure, sliding his foot back inch by inch until he had regained his lost ground. Fraction by fraction he dragged his man forward. He saw the sweat rising from Wenlock’s forehead and felt a dampness about his own.

  As the seconds dragged into minutes and they strained against each other like great bulls, he knew that Wenlock was weakening.

  Throwing every ounce of strength that he had into the long drawn-out effort, Storm leaned backwards, dragging his man remorselessly forward. He was staring into those glowing green eyes when something jabbed sharply into his forearm. Glancing down he saw the white nail of Wenlock’s thumb breaking into his flesh.

  He grunted, swearing beneath his breath. He could lose with any man, but foul play enraged him. Once – twice – thrice! He pulled sensing the unspoken, overwhelming hatred of his antagonist.

  Wenlock slipped forward an inch. His bones cracked and his muscles rippled as he pulled, but that relentless strength gripping his wrist and dragging him remorselessly forward could not be denied. With the third pull he stumbled into defeat.

  Storm steadied him before letting him go, and as he stretched his arms with relief grinned cheerfully.

  ‘Mine, I think. Thanks.’

  Wenlock said nothing, but his green eyes burned with a fire which sent a chill through Storm’s veins. Beetroot red, the loser swung away, looking neither right nor left nor sparing a word even for the expressionless Letty Granville as he made for the cabins. Storm’s eyes hardened for a moment before he shrugged his shoulders and turned to Roger Grimm.

  ‘A nasty cove, Roger, but we’ve taken the rise out of him. Where’s my coat?’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Grimm as he helped the other into his jacket, ‘to hear more about it.’

  ‘Nor me,’ agreed
Storm.

  And for a second time the cousins had been unwittingly prophetic. The evil spirit of Wenlock was hovering about them, and the air was thick with coming thunder.

  Chapter 3

  Startling Developments

  The introduction which Frank Granville – very quickly ‘Granny’ to Storm and Grimm – effected between the cousins and his sister Letty was not a great success. Letty, in spite of her startling beauty, proved that she could be cold if not definitely unfriendly. These things worried the genial Martin not at all, for a modest bit of detective work on his part revealed the fact that her coldness to him was as nothing compared to her coldness towards Ralph Wenlock. He realised that the smashing of an idol with feet of clay was likely to bring a certain torrent of wrath on the head of the smasher, and he suffered his period of cold-shouldering amiably.

  Two things perturbed him in some measure, the first to be brushed aside, and the second to lurk at the back of his mind for several days.

  After a stroll on deck with Roger Grimm he had dived below for a fresh packet of cigarettes and had seen Wenlock and Frank Granville in what appeared to be close consultation. Unwittingly he heard sufficient to gather that they were quarrelling. The whys and wherefores of the quarrel interested him not at all; it was the fact that they were talking with more than a touch of intimacy that surprised him.

  The second perturbing thing was that Letty Granville appeared to be worried. The anxiety he felt over this he had the sound sense to keep to himself. But during a conversation with Granville just before Southampton was sighted he learned of a possible explanation.

  A road smash, nearly five years before, had ended fatally for Sir Frank and Lady Granville, leaving their son and daughter well-provided for. Granville and his sister, putting their heads together, had decided that travel was the thing for them, and they travelled.

  Storm discovered that they were now making the voyage home six months before schedule. He could understand that an unsettled homecoming might cause a certain amount of anxiety.