Carriers of Death (Department Z) Read online

  Marlin’s other house, known as ‘Common View’ was at the top of Putney Hill, near Wimbledon Common. He had bought it—under an assumed name—several years before, when he had dabbled in crime for the first time and been far-sighted enough to see the need for a hide-out. It was run by two middle-aged women and three men, all of whom were connected with Benson. He had been careful never to visit the house except in a closed car, and was reasonably certain none of his neighbours had ever seen him.

  They had seen a Mr. Benjamin Piper, ‘a retired gentleman,’ who let it be known that he had rented the place from a Mr. Peterson, who lived abroad. Piper had good reason to be thankful for the help of Marlin and Benson, and he was not likely to squeal: he had once committed a murder, of which Benson had ample proof.

  Benson, as Marlin had once said unpleasantly, could be described as gang-leader. He had a dozen or more gunmen on his books, and hired them out as and when required. Until his association with Marlin, most of his activities had been carried out on the Continent. His men had been shipped abroad, done their work, and returned without fuss—and he preferred it that way. But the bribe dangled in front of his eyes by Marlin had been too enticing. A hundred thousand pounds was a lot of money; even for Benson, who was considerably wealthier than most of his associates would have supposed.

  Until the failure of the attempts to kill the Arrans and Gordon Craigie, he and Marlin had worked together well enough. But since Marlin’s loss of temper, there had been a distinct coolness between them. Miller’s visit had made Marlin see how much he needed the other man, and when Benson called at the Putney house—about the time Craigie was introducing his new agent to Miller—he greeted him with disarming frankness.

  ‘I was annoyed,’ he said, by way of apology. ‘My dear fellow, you mustn’t take me seriously. But the morning papers show how well things are developing for us, we must work together even more closely.’

  ‘You’d better not get annoyed like that again,’ Benson said harshly, ‘or you won’t be working at all. There are limits to what I’ll take from you Marlin, and don’t forget it.’ Abruptly changing the subject he sat down. ‘The Geneva show’s just what we want. Have you heard from Northway, yet?’

  ‘No—not a sound.’

  ‘And Craigie flew over,’ grunted Benson. ‘He’s got something from Northway all right. Much danger there?’

  ‘Northway didn’t know enough to do any serious damage; only to make Craigie know I’m involved.’

  ‘Will it still take you three weeks?’ Benson asked.

  ‘We might do it earlier,’ Marlin said. ‘But I think we ought to keep quiet for a bit, Benson. Craigie nearly caught that car last night.’

  ‘That wasn’t Craigie.’ Benson had suspected from the first stop-press announcement that Kerr’s flight passenger might be Craigie. He had been at Heston for the ‘plane’s arrival and had followed the Talbot to Piccadilly after telephoning instructions to his men to watch for it and ‘look after’ its occupants. And he had witnessed the fire in which three of his best men had been killed. His only concern was that the efficiency of his organisation was impaired. ‘That was Kerr. I’ve met him, and if he’s working with Craigie, that means Craigie’s practically at full strength again.’

  He scowled. ‘I’ve run my outfit for seven years,’ he said, ‘and I’ve never learned a lot about Craigie. This is the first time I’ve ever come up against him, and I don’t like it.’

  ‘All the more reason we should lay low.’

  ‘Blast you, Marlin,’ Benson snarled. ‘You trying to teach me my job? Get them—or they’ll get us. A couple of days would be different, but too much can happen in three weeks. But you’re all right, now.’ The tinge of contempt in his words made Marlin flush. ‘You look after the money and I’ll do the rest.’

  ‘You haven’t done much, so far,’ Marlin snapped.

  ‘You can’t win every time. One of the Arrans is in hospital, but anyhow they don’t matter now. They just do as they’re told: the men we’ve got to get are Craigie and Kerr.’

  Some twenty minutes later, Marlin was talking on the telephone to a certain gentleman about money, and Jacob Benson quitted the Putney house. On the surface, at least, they were still good friends, and Benson was telling himself in his cold-blooded way that he couldn’t expect a man who’d never done a killing to be happy about it. But if the money was to come, the blood must run. And Benson was avaricious.

  6

  A trip to Kent

  No one was more pleased than Bob Kerr that nothing happened on the surface for forty-eight hours.

  Craigie was more anxious for developments: he had no desire for Gregory Marlin to disappear completely and the mystery consequently to remain unsolved. But he was pleased enough with the breathing space. For one thing, it would give his new man a chance of getting to know those agents who would be working with him.

  For his part, Kerr wanted the rest. The Atlantic flight had been one of the worst long-distance hops he had ever tackled. On top of that, the shaking-up he had endured during and after the car chase had left his nerves raw and created a tendency to over-hasty decisions and action, and he was well aware of the fact.

  Robert McMillan Kerr had flown nearly a hundred thousand miles had rubbed shoulders with death a dozen times without actually dying; had scars and mended bones as souvenirs of crashes, and a mind that worked at mercurial speed in moments when a second’s delay might mean the difference between life and death. He was quiet to the point of taciturnity, completely indifferent to hero-worship and unaffected by success. He had a sense of humour, but it had its blind spot.

  Kerr had always been too busy to worry much about home life or women. The latter he admired but preferred to keep at a distance, although he could be a captivating companion and, if he put his mind to it, a reasonably good conversationalist. He remembered neither mother nor father, but had two sisters, whom he visited twice a year and was something of a favourite with an assortment of nieces and nephews. He had friends, practically all of them members of the Flying Club or their set, although he had met many men in his travels. He was rich enough to afford to frequent the Éclat and the Carilon Club if he chose, but rarely did choose. Most of his flights had been solo and consequently he had come to depend on himself alone and never hankered after companionship. Essentially an individualist, his one lurking fear was that he might find himself fettered by discipline; but he had seen enough of the Chief of Department Z to know that fear was groundless. In effect, Craigie had told him to do what he liked, how he liked, but to expect no obituary, and he looked forward very much to meeting the other agents.

  There had been a time when Gordon Craigie had not allowed his men to meet each other: when all of them had been known by numbers and frequently ate and drank with other agents, without knowing they were detailed on different branches of the same job. It had often happened, however, that Craigie had found it necessary to have half-a-dozen or more men at the same place and rubbing shoulders; consequently, a small coterie in London knew each other as Craigie’s men. There were dozens of smaller agents who still worked quite anonymously; on getting information. His picked men, including the Arran twins, Carruthers, Davidson and Dodo Trale, he used for serious action.

  Kerr remained alert as he walked to the Carilon Club: for if there had been one machine-gun attempt, there might be more. It was the first time he had ever walked on terra firma feeling that any moment might bring danger, and he rather enjoyed the novelty. Nothing happened, however, and he entered the Club—that male stronghold where women were only admitted, grudgingly, on two afternoons a week—and as Craigie had instructed, asked for Timothy Arran.

  He was taken to the billiards room, and he entered it conscious of the brief but none-the-less thorough scrutiny of four pairs of eyes, and a sense of being tried by his peers. As the attendant closed the door behind him, one of the four men came forward, hand outstretched.

  ‘Hello, there! Kerr, isn’t it?’ Timothy shook
his hand vigorously. ‘I’m Arran. And you might as well meet these other louts. They don’t matter much but they’ll probably get in your way some time or other and you’ll want to know who to shout at.’

  Bob Kerr grinned. But he was well aware that these were men who had worked with the Department for years—and that he, a newcomer, had been virtually put in charge of them. Not one of them, he noted, hinted or looked as if the fact was even remotely resented.

  The languid Davidson smiled his lazy smile. The spruce, fair-haired Carruthers sketched an amiable salute. And Dodo Trale, stockier than the others and not quite as tall, wondered if he could drink a beer?

  ‘Try me,’ Kerr invited, and they all grinned.

  ‘Large or small, Kerr?’ drawled Wally Davidson. ‘Good!’ There was a brief pause, while he dispensed the beer expertly into the tankards standing ready on a side-table. Kerr guessed that this was a kind of Department Z initiation, and his heart warmed to the four: they were, he felt, men after his own heart.

  ‘Here’s how,’ said Timothy Arran as the tankards were raised. ‘And may Mr. Marlin die a nasty death.’

  Kerr took his beer like a man of long practice, but drew a cry of protest from Davidson when he refused a second pint. Arran informed Davidson that he was getting to be an officious bounder and would he kindly keep quiet? Carruthers supported Wally warmly and Dodo Trale claimed that he had the deciding vote—and offered to sell it to the highest bidder. All in all, Kerr was almost sorry when, twenty minutes later, the party broke up, and he found himself with Davidson and Arran in the former’s Lagonda on the way to the latter’s Auveley Street flat. They were safely there and Kerr had been introduced to Heggson as a man who was always welcome, before there was a suggestion of seriousness in Timothy’s manner.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said when the door closed behind Heggson, ‘other things apart, I’m damned glad to have you with us, Kerr. I heard’—there was a twinkle in Timothy’s eye—’about the little do last night. Nothing like working fast. What do you make of things?’

  ‘They look awkward,’ Kerr suggested.

  ‘Damned warm,’ admitted Timothy. The trouble is, you know, the Department’s becoming known. This Marlin customer must have learned a whale of a lot to have started in on us when he did.’

  ‘Doesn’t look as though he’s going to stop at much.’

  ‘He isn’t,’ Timothy said bleakly. ‘My brother caught a packet, but I suppose you know that. Well...’

  The three of them talked around the situation at considerable length, and Kerr returned to the Flying Club happily certain of the support he could have for the asking, and wondering just when and where the next move would come.

  It came from Superintendent Miller, via Toby Arran, forty-eight hours later. Toby was making an unexpectedly speedy recovery, and when Miller called at the hospital he found Toby able to give a reasonably good description of the man who had shot him. Timothy entered the ward a few minutes later and was jubilant at the great improvement of his twin. He told him about Kerr, and passed the opinion that their new colleague was the goods, before leaving the hospital to report to Craigie.

  Miller, meanwhile, circulated the description of the gunman. It was towards evening when a report came in that the man had been seen near Dover. The constable concerned had been about to flag the car down when it was driven at him, forcing him to jump for safety. He had taken the licence number, but although an order to stop a dark blue Morris 20 saloon, number 9 ZY 213, had been flashed throughout the country, it was not reported.

  ‘So our man might be in the Dover neighbourhood?’ said Kerr. ‘And if he’s changed the number of course, he might be anywhere. If he’s looking for a chance of getting abroad he’ll use some kind of a disguise, I suppose. The trouble with a man who’s used to it—and he seems used to it—is that he’ll be able to disguise himself well enough for general purposes, and he’ll be prepared with passports.’ Kerr pursed his lips after this comparatively long speech, and hunched his shoulders.

  Craigie waited for him, and Arran silently proffered cigarettes. Kerr said: ‘No thanks. Craigie, have you a map showing the situation of all naval and military bases? Aviation, munitions and so forth?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Craigie, answering both questions. As he rose and made his way to the files at the far end of his office, he added: ‘You’d better come over here: we can spread it out on the desk.’

  Moments later, the three men were pouring over it together. It was completely straightforward as far as the charting of rail tracks and roads went. But scattered all over it were heavy dots in a variety of colours, and Kerr and Arran were soon intently studying the key provided at the foot of the map.

  Red: Naval ports.

  White: Army encampments.

  Blue: Air Force bases.

  Green: Munitions factories, various.

  Pink: Petrol stores over 5,000 gallons.

  Mauve: Aeroplane factories (military).

  Yellow: Heavy gun manufactories.

  Grey: Gas manufactories (including protection).

  Black: Shipbuilding yards.

  Brown: National Defence bases.

  Buff: Various subsidiary departments.

  Government-owned: marked (1). Privately-owned: marked (2). Government-subsidised: marked (3).

  ‘So there’s a large petrol store near Dover?’ Kerr mused. Adding, as Craigie nodded approval of his line of thought, ‘How many men can I have?’

  ‘Four,’ Craigie told him, promptly. ‘You know them all.’

  ‘That’s great,’ Kerr thanked him. ‘Can you get them together?’

  ‘I’ll arrange for them to meet you at the George Hotel, Dover, in three hours: you won’t get there much before that.’

  ‘If Arran’s free right now,’ smiled Kerr, ‘We’ll be there in under two.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Kerr to Arran, who was at the wheel of his Frazer Nash and doing justice to that prophecy, ‘it isn’t likely that our man’s trying to flee the country right now. He wouldn’t have gone to such trouble to make himself invisible here, unless he wanted to stay—or needed to. Which suggests that he still has unfinished business to carry out.’

  He was silent for several seconds, and Tim invited: ‘Well, go on—don’t stop there.’

  Kerr chuckled. ‘Yes, well—we know he won’t scare easily: no one who uses guns the way that customer does is going to have much fear of the law. But he’ll know pretty fast, if he doesn’t already, that the Department is hard after him, so he’ll be in more of a hurry now to finish what he’s started. It’s only then that he’s likely to try a getaway.’

  ‘So we’ve got to look out for fireworks?’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Kerr. ‘Hey—slow down! We take the next left.’

  A few seconds later the Frazer Nash turned down a second-class road which a signpost told them led to the village of Pockham. The petrol base was a mile and a half from the village, between Dover and Folkestone, and about a mile inland. Both men grew silent as they drew nearer. If they were right and their man was interested in the base, they could run into big trouble.

  They reached the place without going in. It was a comparatively large encampment and probably a hundred men were inside the high, steel-mesh fence that marked its boundaries. Warning signs abounded. A few tin buildings in the centre showed them where the petrol was stored—in underground tanks, for the most part—and a series of smaller sheds close against the fence looked like living quarters.

  ‘We’ll fetch the others,’ Kerr said, ‘and then come back.’

  Arran nodded as they finished a complete circle of the fence, and returned to the road. It took them fifteen minutes to reach Dover and locate the George Hotel, and eager not to be long away from the Pockham base, Kerr grunted his relief as Timothy said: ‘There’s Wally’s bus!’

  Parking the Frazer Nash beside it, they entered the lounge and spotted Davidson’s tall figure at once.

  Trale was there, too—an
d someone else Kerr didn’t know. He was naturally surprised at Timothy Arran’s sudden:

  ‘The little devil!’

  For he had never met Miss Penelope Smith.

  7

  Trouble at Pockham

  Timothy was really taken aback. He found it momentarily impossible to reconcile Penelope’s appearance here with the fact that she had boarded the Calais boat at Dover.

  ‘And what are you doing here?’ he demanded, ungracious in his astonishment.

  ‘I followed you,’ she told him, simply.

  As Timothy gaped, Wally Davidson murmured drily:

  ‘Penelope—meet a friend of ours, Bob Kerr. The famous flyer. Kerr—Miss Penelope Smith.’

  ‘How do you do?’ said Penelope, her eyes widening as she realised why the man was familiar. She had told herself the moment she had set eyes on him that she had never seen him before, and that he looked the most disagreeable man she had ever met—for one, that is, who looked as though he could be affable.

  ‘How do you do?’ Kerr echoed distantly.

  He was certainly the most aloof man she had ever met, Penelope thought, and if this was the result of fame she would rather meet people of whom the world knew nothing.

  ‘But look here,’ Timothy broke in at last: ‘It’s too bad. Pen! You ought to be in Cannes. What on earth brought you back? And what the deuce,’ he added, suddenly realising it, ‘do you mean by saying you followed me?’

  Penelope smiled and sighed. This was proving more difficult than she had imagined, for although Davidson and Trale had been friendly enough, they had shown no real pleasure at her presence there and clearly considered her return a breach of faith, to say the least.

  ‘I wanted to know how Toby was,’ she said obstinately.