Dead or Alive (Department Z) Read online

  The bungalow was still in darkness when they got out of the car. By standing on one side of the road, they could see the red glow from the window of the other. There was grass at the side of the road, and they walked quickly, without making any noise. Perry and Brown would realise that they were manoeuvring, would stay under cover until there was obvious need for them.

  Everything was quiet.

  They reached the side of the dark bungalow, and Ross climbed over the low wooden fence which surrounded the garden. Williamson, nearly as tall as the man who was escorting Mae, made easy work of it. The walls were pale-coloured, and showed up in the starlight; there was a dark patch, of a doorway, almost opposite them. They reached it, then saw a flash of light through a small window.

  Ross held Williamson’s arm tightly.

  Neither man spoke.

  They reached the window, and stood to one side, peering in. A door was open slightly, and the light came from a passage or a room beyond. A man passed. There was a sharp ringing sound, as of a telephone bell.

  “Could be sweet innocents having an early night and disturbed by the telephone,” Williamson whispered.

  “Could be.”

  Ross stepped to the door — the tradesman’s door. There were two cement steps leading up to it, but there was no porch, and the door was of solid wood. He shone a pencil torch on the keyhole, and examined it closely, then took out a knife and picked a blade open; it was a skeleton key.

  Williamson stood some way off, watching the front door — the one facing the river.

  From his position Ross could see no light inside, and after the first sharp ring there had been no sound. Metal scraped softly on metal, yet seemed loud in the quiet. Ross felt the key grip, and turned gently; if it slipped and clicked loudly, it might be heard inside. He was on edge, and he shouldn’t be; normally, he took a thing like this in his stride.

  The lock clicked back, not loudly.

  He waited; nothing stirred in the bungalow.

  Williamson came back.

  “Nothing doing out there.”

  “We’ll go in.”

  Ross pushed the door gently, afraid that it would squeak; the only sound was from the bottom of the door, where it caught against a rug or a carpet. He opened it wide enough to step through. The faint light showed the tiles and the chromium plating of a modern kitchen; three gleaming taps were above the sink by the window. They stepped towards another door, in a corner; it was unlocked.

  From the other side, a man said, “Sure, that’s okay.”

  Were there two people in the bungalow?

  They waited, hoping to hear an answer, but there was none. Ross opened the second door, and a faint light shone through. He stepped into a narrow passage. Two doors led off this, and one was open; the light came from there.

  A man laughed, on a low note.

  “Don’t you worry.”

  There was no response.

  Ross slid his right hand into his pocket and crept towards the open door. There was a carpet, muffling the sound of his movements. Williamson was like a shadow, just behind him.

  There was a ting! as of a telephone receiver being replaced. The man laughed again.

  “They take some convincing.”

  “Well, we saw the beggars go, and haven’t seen them come back.”

  “We saw them all right,” said the first man, “and we’ll hear if they drive back. How’s the little lady?”

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  “Sure I’m going to worry about her,” the first man said. His English was good, he was undoubtedly a native. “She’s worth worrying about.” A shadow appeared in the hall, and then a man with his hand on the side of the door. “I’m just going to kiss her good night.”

  Ross had backed away, and stood, still as death, in a doorway. Williamson had backed into the kitchen. More light showed a burly man in his shirt-sleeves, who crossed the passage without looking right or left and stood by another door, with a key in his hand. Ross heard the key turn, and the man laugh again as he stepped into the room beyond. He switched on another light, and said:

  “Hallo, duckie, glad to see me?”

  There was no answer.

  He stepped inside, and pushed the door to, without quite closing it. Ross motioned to Williamson, who could now see him in the better light. Ross pointed towards the room from which the man had come, and Williamson went towards it softly, while Ross went to that where the burly man had gone. They made no sound, were at their respective doors without being seen.

  They kicked each door wider open, as if worked by a time switch; and there were guns in their hands.

  A small, tough-looking man, with a wriggly nose and eyebrows which jutted out like a young forest, was standing by a table in the room where Williamson went. He swung round as the door opened, gaping, round-eyed. He made a gurgling noise in his throat — and then leapt towards the telephone. Williamson reached him in two strides, and struck him savagely on the side of the head. The man’s right hand clawed the telephone, but didn’t take off the receiver. Williamson hit him again, and he slumped to the floor.

  “Sorry,” said Williamson mildly. “Just pipe down, little man.”

  Ross stepped into the other room, a bedroom, as the burly man heard the kick and turned swiftly. The man’s right hand went to his pocket in a flash, but he wasn’t as quick as Ross, who reached and struck him with the butt of the gun. He caught the man on the temple, dodged a whirling blow from the other’s left fist, and hit him again, where it hurt. The attack was as swift and sudden as Williamson’s; and more thorough, for the burly man groaned as he hit the floor, and lost consciousness. His feet twisted for a moment, and the fingers of his right hand scrabbled on the floor, then became still.

  There was a girl on the bed.

  She was bound hand and foot, and her feet were also tied to a post of the single bedstead. A scarf was tied round her mouth, gagging her, and her blue eyes were wide open and staring at Ross, as if in terror. The light shone straight into them, and they had a bewildering blueness; her dark hair was almost black.

  She lay there, rigid.

  The man on the floor didn’t stir.

  “All right?” called Williamson.

  “Fine.”

  “I’m just going to have a little chat,” the other Department Z agent said.

  “Do that.” Ross smiled at the girl, suddenly; he relaxed for the first time for what seemed hours. “All over, you needn’t worry,” he said.

  He took out his knife again, and cut the cords at her wrists, then gently through the white scarf at her lips. When it fell away, she lay quite still; there were deep ridges on either side of her mouth, which stayed open, it was so stiff. That meant she had been there for some time. Ross cut the cords at her ankles, slid an arm beneath her shoulders, eased her up to a sitting position, and put pillows behind her. He kept smiling, and it wasn’t the hard, brittle smile which others knew. There was a softness in it, gentleness which Mae would have found unusual, because he was generally intent with her; or flippant.

  “No need to worry at all, or to talk until you’re easier,” he said. There was a full carafe and a glass at the side of the bed, and he poured out a little water and put the glass to her lips. These moved for the first time, but most of the water dribbled down her chin and on to her white blouse.

  She wore just a blouse and a light-grey skirt — her shoes were at the side of the bed, one upright, one on its side. A pearly brooch was pinned to the top of the white blouse — small and round. Her dark hair was a tumbled mass of unruly waves. She was very pale, and perhaps that heightened the blueness of her eyes; he had never seen such eyes.

  “Just take it easy,” he said.

  He glanced at the burly man, who hadn’t stirred.

  “I’ll take him away — be back in a jiffy.”

  Even his voice was more gentle.

  The burly man didn’t open his eyes when Ross took his legs and dragged him out of the room. Will
iamson was talking to the man in the other room, and as Ross backed into it, he heard the agent say:

  “So that’s the lot — three men and the Professor, next door.”

  “Yes!”

  The man with the wriggly nose was sitting on the edge of a chair, his lips parted, his eyes shadowed with terror. Williamson held his right wrist, but did not appear to be exerting any pressure. He glanced at the other prisoner, and gulped.

  “Doing all right?” Ross asked.

  “Not so badly, Peter. Our kind friend says that he and his buddy were watching to see if there was any trouble for the household next door. Conway’s there, with three boy friends. And the buddy has just telephoned to report that we’ve gone away, and that there’s no immediate danger. They plan to move out at midnight, we’ve plenty of time.”

  “Not bad,” murmured Ross. “Hold his arm still.”

  He took a small narrow box from his breast pocket, took off the lid — and a hypodermic syringe gleamed in the light of the small sitting-room. The man in the chair began to shout, and Williamson spread one large hand over his face, stifling the cry, and still held his wrist. Ross jabbed the needle in, then turned to the man on the floor. He turned up the shirt-sleeve of the right arm, and the needle went in again — he used half of the shot in each.

  “How long will it take to slug them?” asked Williamson. “Five minutes. Will you stay?”

  Ross went out, and waved to the girl on the bed, then went through the other rooms; there were six in all, and no one else was in the bungalow. It was cheaply furnished, as a week-end chalet might be, with hair carpet on the floor.

  When he finished, the man in the chair was leaning back with his eyes closed.

  “Nearly bye-byes,” said Williamson. “And the boys next door think they’re sitting pretty for the moment. Shall I tell Brown and Perry?”

  “Will you? We’ll close in at” — Ross glanced at his wrist-watch — “eleven o’clock. Mine says twenty minutes to, check yours and the others, will you?”

  “Right, sir!”

  Williamson patted the head of the man with the wriggly nose, who took no notice of it and was more relaxed than when Ross had returned. Ross lifted his right eyelid; there was no doubt that the injection had taken effect.

  They would be unconscious for at least two hours.

  Ross brushed his hair back, smoothing it from his forehead, and turned round. The two doors were open, but the girl couldn’t see into this room because the head of the bed was in the wrong position. Ross could see her legs — slim and shapely; she wore silk stockings, not nylon. He caught himself out smiling as he went across and stood in the doorway. He raised his hand.

  “Feeling better?”

  “Yes — thank you.”

  Speaking was obviously painful, but the terror had faded from her eyes.

  “Fine! We’ll soon have you out of here.”

  He went towards her, smiling, asking himself who she was and what had brought her into this. She looked — good. There was some colour in her cheeks now, and he had been wrong; pink cheeks made the blue in her eyes much brighter and clearer; he reminded himself that he had never seen such eyes. She was slim, too, with a lovely figure.

  “Who are you?” she asked hoarsely.

  “Police. Who’re you?”

  “I’m Alice Conway. I think they’ve kidnapped my father.” She spoke jerkily, and fear flared in her eyes. “Is he — is he here?”

  6

  THE PROFESSOR

  “NO,” said Ross, promptly and gently, “but he’s not far away, we’ll soon get him back. I’ve some colleagues, they’ll be here in ten minutes. Just take it easy, and don’t worry about him.”

  He found it hard to add that rider, because there was plenty of need to worry, and he didn’t want to lie to the girl. It was because of her eyes, their colour and the brightness of their intense and anxious gaze.

  “Are you — sure?”

  Ross smiled. “We dealt with two of them, and the others don’t know we’re here, it will be easy. When did you get here?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “How come?”

  Ross poured out more water and handed it to her.

  “I had a message to meet Father at Green Street, Chelsea, that’s on the Embankment, near his office. I often meet him there in the car, and we go for a drive. A man came up, and — he had a gun. I had to drive where he told me.” She seemed astonished at the ease with which it had been done. We came here, and — I’ve been on this bed ever since.”

  She moved her legs slowly towards the side of the bed.

  “There’s no hurry,” said Ross.

  “I want to see if I can walk.”

  He took her arm, and she put her feet on the floor, wincing; he could imagine the pain in them as the blood began to circulate. She leaned against him heavily, and couldn’t help herself. He put his right arm round her shoulders; she was warm, soft. Her hair brushed against his face, and he moved his head back.

  “Leave this until later,” he advised.

  She took two faltering steps and stopped; she would have fallen but for his help.

  “Are you sure you’ll get my father?”

  “That’s my job.”

  “But...”

  “We found you, didn’t we?” asked Ross. He still didn’t like lying to her, and couldn’t imagine why, if ever there were a white lie, this was it. Then he realised it was because he would hate the task of telling her, if they should fail to get Conway alive.

  She didn’t look at him, was concentrating on her feet.

  “If you must try to walk, look at the wall,” said Ross. “Haven’t you ever ridden a bicycle? If you stare at the front wheel, you wobble.”

  She made a funny little sound, which might have been a laugh, then took several steps fairly steadily. After two or three minutes she was able to walk without his assistance. He stood watching her; she was good to look at. She brushed her hair back from her forehead. She had more colour, and the ridges at her mouth had largely gone, leaving two angry red patches. She wasn’t beautiful in the sense that Mae was beautiful, but striking; if striking was the word. She had a heart-shaped face and a rather large mouth; too large. Her nose was small and her upper lip very short, and her eyes — he hadn’t realised before how large they were, and how the dark lashes curled, the lower ones sweeping her cheek.

  There was something the matter with him, he ought to be thinking of her father.

  “That’s more like it,” he said.

  “I want to help.”

  “Eh?”

  “I want to help you to get Father.”

  “Sorry,” said Ross. “It’s our job. I want you to stay here, in this room, and do ——” He broke off. “Wrong! I want you to leave the place and walk towards the main road — just walk, until you come to a car about half a mile along. It should be back by now. There’ll be two men in it. Tell them that P.R. would like to see them here as soon as possible, but they are to see you to a place of safety first.”

  “That’ll take ages!”

  “They’re just reserves,” said Ross. “Here’s the first eleven.”

  Williamson came in, smoking a cigarette. He waved his right hand negligently, and although he didn’t stare at the girl, Ross knew that he was startled by her looks; or her eyes.

  “All set,” he said. “Five minutes to go.”

  “Right.” Ross put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Do exactly what I ask, it’s important. It could make a big difference.”

  She nodded; obviously she didn’t want to go, but he thought she would obey the instructions to the letter. He kept a hand on her arm as he went along to the back door, which Williamson had left wide open. Then he watched her walk up the path and turn towards the main road. She was soon hidden from sight, even the pale mark of her white blouse was gone.

  “Ready?” asked Williamson.

  “Yes. Guess who that is.”

  “All I know is that you’d norm
ally give her a shot of sleeping-mixture, and make sure she wasn’t fooling you,” Williamson said. “Who is she?”

  Ross felt annoyed, but didn’t show it; Williamson was right.

  “Conway’s daughter.”

  “Well, well!” breathed Williamson. “I take it all back. Nice little filly, too.”

  Ross felt more annoyed; and hid it. He was letting his emotions run away with him, wallowing in sickly sentiment, and that wasn’t any use for a Department Z man. He had started off on the wrong foot all the evening. Craigie had made a mistake in sending him, someone else ought to have been in charge to-night, he was ...

  “Now fix Conway as neatly as you did this, and everything will be hunky-dory.”

  Ross chuckled, and his annoyance faded.

  “Thanks, pal,” he said lightly. “Now, where are the others?”

  They were moving across to the garden of the second bungalow.

  “Brown on the far side, opposite this, Perry with the river at his back. I thought I’d take the wall facing the road and you’d take the side entrance, you seem good at picking locks. The rest of us will select a window in advance, and if there’s any need, we can smash the window and be with you in a brace of shakes. All this,” added Williamson, “because we know you’ll want to go in alone. You’ve three volunteers if you want company.”

  “I think it’s a solo job for a start,” said Ross. “Keep your eye on the road, I told the girl to send Wally and Lee along, with luck they’ll be here in half an hour. If there’s any real trouble, I’ll yell — or make sure you know about it somehow.”

  “We’ll be all ears.”

  Ross nodded, and went towards the side door. This one had a porch, the bungalow was larger and looked more pretentious. He knew that he could be sure that the others would be at their posts and keyed up for any call; they were highly trained, and they would have but one objective: getting Conway alive. He couldn’t plan in greater detail; he didn’t like a detailed plan, if it went wrong in one respect, it could upset the whole manœuvre.

  He started work on the lock of the door. It was a better lock and would take longer to open; it might not be possible to open it. The place next door had been used in the emergency, this was the real prison-house, and there would be more precautions here against burglary. But the people inside were reassured, and felt sure they’d get warning of possible danger.