Murder Must Wait (Department Z) Page 5

  Opening a door in the far wall, he found himself in a small but luxurious kitchen. Through yet another door he could see an electric generating plant, driven by a petrol engine.

  ‘A nice report for Craigie this is going to be,’ said Trale. ‘Headquarters of the Ring and a member of the same in one fell swoop. Bouquets and a brass band for Davidson and Trale. I suppose there’s nothing else?’

  ‘Taken by and large,’ said Davidson, ‘it’s to be hoped not. I have an urge to get back to Paris. What are we going to do with Octavius?’

  Trale frowned ‘I don’t know, Wally—Unless we get in touch with our Paris agents. They might help. Ought we to phone Craigie first? You’d hardly call this an emergency.’ Only in emergencies were the resident agents in foreign countries asked for help.

  ‘No.’ Davidson looked perplexed. ‘I suppose we’d better get Octavius trussed up properly, and then push him in the back of the car. A rug will cover him. One of us ought to stay here, though.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Trale. ‘I’ll toss you for it.’

  Davidson took a coin from his pocket, flipping it leisurely into the air. It was one of those rare occasions when neither man particularly wanted to stay.

  ‘Heads,’ called Trale.

  The coin dropped dully on to the carpet, and in the light the profile of the Queen gleamed upwards. Trale put both hands in his pocket.

  ‘On second thoughts, perhaps we ought to stick together.’

  ‘No,’ said Davidson. ‘You take Octavius away, and get through to Craigie as soon as you can. Suggest that Loftus and Oundle fly over, if they’re available.’

  ‘Right,’ said Trale. ‘Come and see me off.’

  Although they knew what to expect, the change from the luxury of the underground room to the dank mustiness of the rooms above the cellar struck them as very unpleasant. And, outside the house, the sight of Clement’s body lying beside the Renault came as a reminder of the deadly nature of the game they were playing.

  ‘We ought to put him into the car,’ said Davidson, ‘And park it somewhere up the road. We don’t want to draw attention to the house.’

  ‘Idea,’ admitted Trale. ‘I wonder why the cabby pushed off?’

  ‘Doom expected to stay for a bit,’ suggested Wally.

  ‘Ye-es. Which might mean the cabby would come back for him, unless he planned to use Clement’s car. However, I’ll get back just as soon as I can. Doom can keep for a bit.’

  Together they lifted the stiffening body of Clement into the back of the car he had been driving. Davidson took a large handkerchief from his pocket and spread it over the man’s face; then together they stepped to the shrubbery where they had put Octavius Doom.

  And they stopped short in surprise.

  For Octavius Doom was not there.

  The long grass was pushed down where he had been lying, but the man had disappeared. The feeling of apprehension which had been with Trale and Davidson inside the house came back. For Doom could not have moved by himself.

  ‘Damned queer,’ remarked Trale.

  ‘Someone’s been here all the time.’

  ‘I wonder.’ Davidson stepped back, so that he could see across the fields towards the distant hills; and there was the explanation of the mystery. Less than a hundred yards away was a small bi-plane, its nose pointing towards them. ‘The plane we heard!’ exclaimed Davidson. ‘Do we stay, or...’

  ‘We mightn’t have any choice.’ Trale grinned. ‘No bouquets after all, but a nice obituary.’ He had taken his gun from his pocket. Davidson did the same. Slowly, Trale edged towards the drive gates, while Davidson, just as cautiously, edged towards the house. The shrubbery through which they walked was thick, and they were reasonably safe from being seen.

  They heard nothing but the rustling of their movements. It was Davidson who saw the first sign of the newcomers. He caught a glimpse of a swarthy-faced man in the downstairs front room. The face remained only for a fraction of a second, and then disappeared. A door opened.

  They both heard the sound that followed.

  It was not a report so much as a sharp hiss! Something hummed past Davidson’s face. It came again, and a bullet buried itself in the trunk of a tree a foot away from him. He dropped flat, while the bullets hissed past him.

  From the drive gates he heard the report of Trale’s gun. Trale had fired twice; and Davidson, lying on his stomach, knew cold fear.

  From the house there came a single shouted word: ‘Stop!’

  A reprieve, thought Davidson.

  A moment later the same voice, thick, oily, yet commanding, came again:

  ‘You mens—you show yourselves. You vill not be hairt!’

  ‘I wonder,’ muttered Davidson, and peered cautiously between two shrubs.

  With a shock of surprise, he realised that the bulky, florid-faced man now standing on the porch of the once-deserted house was Señor Juan de Casila.

  7

  Heroic Effort

  While Davidson peered through the gap, and de Casila and his bodyguard waited in the porch, there came from somewhere near the gates the barking of a dog. De Casila raised his voice, and said again:

  ‘You hear me?’

  Davidson was trying to see the situation in its true perspective. De Casila was many things, but he had no reputation for being a fool. He must feel safe, standing there.

  The barking was repeated, but further way, now. Davidson knew that it was Trale, signalling that he was going to make a break for safety. He was relying on Davidson attracting de Casila’s attention.

  He called out suddenly, as the two men with de Casila started to walk towards the shrubbery.

  ‘Keep where you are!’

  The men stopped. The Portuguese lowered his head, peering towards the direction from which the words had come. For the moment it was stalemate, and Davidson wondered how near Trale was to the gates and, what was more important, his car. Once Dodo had reached the Talbot the chances of his escape were very good.

  ‘You vill not shoot,’ called de Casila, ‘if you are wise men.’ He revealed a courage that Davidson had not expected, for he stepped towards the shrubbery. ‘I vish to talk!’

  ‘You can talk from there,’ called Davidson.

  ‘I do not vant that. You come here, you see me, I am friendly.’

  ‘Your friends don’t look friendly,’ retorted Davidson, easing himself cautiously to his feet and creeping towards the left, but maintaining his distance from the house and porch. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That matters nothing!’

  ‘To me it does,’ Davidson called. ‘Stay where you are. Unless you want a bullet.’

  ‘Dios! What nonsense you talk. Me, I am your friend.’ With the sun shining directly on his sturdy figure, and making the black hair of his brows and moustache look even blacker, de Casila was an impressive figure. His confidence that the others would not shoot was also impressive; Davidson could think of no reason for this confidence except the possibility that he—and Trale—had been seen and recognised as Department Z men. Who else would not want de Casila killed?

  ‘Most touching,’ he drawled. ‘I...’

  But his words were cut short by a sudden crackle of gunfire from the road. In a flash de Casila dropped back into the porch, out of sight; and his two companions started to run along the drive. The shooting was coming faster. Davidson fancied that at least three guns were in action; and in his heart there was a prayer for Trale’s safety.

  Once again he dropped on his stomach between the bushes, and as the men from the house flashed into sight he touched the trigger of his automatic three times in rapid succession. One man yelled, and pitched forward on his face, a bullet in his leg. The other ran on, apparently unhit.

  For a moment there was a lull in the firing.

  Springing to his feet, and dodging through the bushes, Davidson ran towards the sound of the shooting. As he came in sight of the gateway, he saw a flash of flame, and a split-second later heard the sound of anothe
r shot. Beside the gates three men were kneeling, firing a murderous fusillade.

  Davidson stopped, reloaded his automatic, and fired once. His bullet hit the gate an inch from one man’s back. His finger on the trigger for a second shot, he heard the sudden noise of a car engine.

  Trale had reached the Talbot!

  The engine back-fired, and then roared again, flashing past a gap in the hedge. In a few seconds it would pass the gate. Davidson dared not fire for fear of hitting Trale, but the man at the gate let his bullets fly. For a moment Davidson believed his friend had made it, but as the Talbot was lost to sight there came a loud report—the unmistakable sound of a burst tyre. Fast upon it came a shrieking of brakes, then reverberating crash as the car, out of control, smashed into the hedge. Dust rose upwards, like a pall.

  There was sickness in Davidson’s heart—he knew now that Trale would never get away. And with the thought was the knowledge that only he remained to get word of what had happened to Craigie.

  Did he have a chance?

  A slim one, Davidson knew, but he acted on it without hesitation. Turning on his heel and crouching low, he ran as fast as he could through the shrubbery towards the barren-looking field where the bi-plane was standing.

  His lips were set, his eyes agate hard as he made his way, fearful every second that a bullet would hone behind him. He heard voices raised, excitedly, but did not recognise de Casila’s voice.

  Once he moved away from the cover which the shrubbery offered him, he would be an easy mark for anyone with a gun. The bi-plane was less than a hundred yards from the edge of the field, but in the course of that hundred yards death could strike a dozen times.

  The shrubbery ended in a five-foot hedge, too thick for Davidson to break through. He drew a deep breath, went back a couple of yards, and made a running leap, his knees drawn up beneath him. His feet touched the top of the hedge and almost threw him off his balance, but he landed feet first, staggered, and then started to run again.

  The shooting began on the instant—so he had been seen.

  Bullets were going too far ahead of him to be dangerous, but they might find the range at any moment. His lungs were bursting with the terrific effort he was making, but he still grasped the automatic, ready to shoot if he saw anyone in front of him.

  A man moved, from the side of the bi-plane.

  Davidson saw the sun glinting on the gun in his hand, and he fired twice in quick succession, trusting that if he missed his target he would hit no vital point of the machine. Luck, which had deserted them that morning for so long, came back. He saw the man stagger, and the gun drop to the ground.

  But the bullets fired from behind Davidson were unpleasantly close to him. Once he felt something kick at his heel, and he knew the leather had been shot away.

  Perspiration was streaming down his face, but his pace did not alter. Ahead of him the bi-plane and the man on the ground beside it were no more than a vague, indistinct blur.

  A bullet nicked his ear.

  He felt the pain but dared not stop. Every moment was vital. And the hundred yards had dropped to fifty.

  Forty—thirty...

  He saw the man on the ground more clearly now—he was moving, on his knees, towards his gun. Davidson touched his trigger, twice, and the man grunted and rolled over.

  But bullets were now rattling against the plane, as though de Casila’s men had determined to make sure that it would be out of action before Davidson could reach it. He was drawing in great gulps of air, his heart was thudding like a trip-hammer, there were moments when his legs seemed to go stiff, threatening to pitch him forward.

  Ten yards...

  He felt the bullets, two of them, slam into his shoulder. His left arm went numb, and his automatic dropped from his hand. He stumbled, almost fell, recovered himself and, with a leap that sapped the last of his energy, reached the open door of the plane.

  Making a superhuman effort he hauled himself up, and banged the door behind him.

  The machine was facing the house. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Davidson saw that breaking through the shrubbery were four or five men, their guns raised.

  The engine roared as he opened the throttle, and eased off the brakes. A sudden fear filled his mind that the chocks had been placed in position: if that had happened the machine would overturn before he had gone a few yards. But the wheels moved freely.

  Slowly, unsteadily, the machine lifted. For a bad moment Davidson thought that its right wing would tip too much on one side, but it straightened, and the land fell away from him. Ahead, there was a panorama of fields and hills and wooded land, but no houses were in sight. It was one of the most desolate spots in that part of France. But as his altitude increased Davidson saw the ribbon of the Versailles road, and in the distance, the town of Versailles and the great Palace.

  Keeping the machine at three thousand feet, he forced himself to reconnoitre his position, calling on his memory to work out the right course for England. He glanced once at the petrol gauge: as far as he could tell he had enough petrol to get him home.

  He knew that the possibility of reaching safety was slight: one moment he looked at the compass, seeing it clearly, the next moment, it disappeared in a hazy mist that floated in front of his eyes. He locked the controls, stood up, and staggered across the cabin searching vainly for whisky or brandy. Nothing! Making a great effort to get back to the pilot’s seat, his knees bent under him. He lurched sideways, and then collapsed, his head resting against the back of the seat.

  As he fell, the plane, with its locked controls, flew steadily towards the sea.

  • • • • •

  Bill Loftus was not a man who could keep his spirits up by song; in fact any musical outburst from him was usually a sign of pessimism or dissatisfaction. The dirge which he hummed on the morning when Trale and Davidson had followed Octavius Doom to the deserted house near Sèvres was inspired by the weather. It was a wet day. Upturned coat collars and a mushroom growth of umbrellas met his jaundiced gaze as he drove into Piccadilly and finally reached the entrance to the Carilon Club, Pall Mall.

  Growling under his breath at the sight of several women waiting in the reading-room, he made for the grill. Henry, a white-haired head-waiter who deplored the changes and the feminine invasion as much as the oldest members, greeted him.

  ‘Good morning, sir. You are well, I hope.’

  ‘Well? I’m ill. Sick to death. Everywhere I go, women. I shall resign.’

  Henry beamed commiseratingly.

  ‘Ah, sir, a matter of economics. Most clubs would fail if the ladies were not allowed in now and then.’

  Loftus scowled. Not only was it raining, not only did he find women in the club, but three days of inaction, what Craigie called ‘standing by’, had depressed him unutterably. But Henry, doyen of the table and the cellar, knew how to cope. A bottle of particularly fine Montrachet and one of the best cooked filet steaks in London lifted his depression considerably. And he began to think of Diana Woodward.

  Diana had left the Éclat on the morning after the adventure at Ferring-on-Sea. Craigie assuring Loftus that she was being closely watched, and that she was staying in Bath. The temptation to ignore Craigie and go to Bath had been resisted several times, but only by the strictest self-discipline.

  Loftus, in short, was a man in love. And he was in difficulties.

  Pinari, a fanatic, and therefore probably sincere, had dismissed Diana with contemptuous scorn. That had stung Loftus because Pinari’s estimate of her morals was probably accurate. A nasty thought for a man in love. Yet not, Loftus had discovered several times, spoiling the memory of those hours at the cottage.

  Loftus frowned down at his plate, and for a moment the influence of Henry, of good wine and good food, was set at naught. His depression might have lasted longer but for the approach of another club member.

  Reaching Loftus’s table, the newcomer helped himself to a chair. Loftus eyed him dispassionately.

  �
�Go away,’ he said. ‘Disappear, Spats.’

  ‘Hangover?’ inquired the stranger—he was known as Spats because his parents had dubbed him Sidney Peter Athelstan and his surname was Thornton—in a voice so deep that those who heard it for the first time wondered where it came from.

  ‘Aches all over. And you’re not helping.’

  ‘So sad,’ murmured Spats, in a whisper that reached members several yards away. ‘You should go abroad. I used to feel like you do, with more reason. No one ever loved me. Someone will love you.’

  Loftus scowled.

  ‘She is,’ Thornton added, toying with a glass, ‘very lovely. The beautiful Diana. What a pity she can’t...’

  Loftus lifted his head, an angry glint in his eyes.

  ‘That’s enough, Spats.’

  ‘Thousands of apologies,’ declared Spats. ‘Merely my way of expressing sympathy. And knowledge. As a matter of fact, Bill, it was deliberate. I just wanted to be sure how you felt about her. Rumours are flying around, you know...’

  ‘Damn rumours!’

  ‘Damn them, and they grow. Ignore them, and in time they disappear. Do you mind if I have a glass of that wine?’

  ‘Help yourself,’ growled Loftus. He was annoyed with himself for his momentary burst of anger; and he was uncomfortably aware that, on this job, he was not vindicating Craigie’s reliance on him. First over Belling’s death, then over Diana’s part in the affair of de Casila and the Ring, he was allowing his personal feelings to interfere with his work for the Department. The knowledge that he was not playing the game as it should be played worried him.

  Spats helped himself to wine, nodded, half-closed his eyes, and said:

  ‘Would Staps, not Spats, interest you?’

  ‘What?’ Loftus stared.

  ‘Staps. Or, if you prefer it, S-T-A-P-S. I’m told that all Department members spell their names backward when introducing themselves.’

  Loftus stared at Thornton in amazement.