8

The Errols Strike Lucky

Michael and Marcus Errol, their particular task with David Garth completed, had spent the night at the Regent Palace Hotel, Mark having objected to ‘throwing away’ the money already paid for the room. So they received the orders from Loftus there, and Mike relayed the gist of the call to Mark as they began to dress.

‘You going to shave?’ grunted Mark.

‘Need we?’

Mark rasped his fingers across his stubble and scowled.

‘I should, but you look all right. You go along first—I shan’t be ten minutes after you.’

‘Right,’ nodded Mike, and continued to dress with a speed many an actor might envy. Five minutes later he was on his way, a silenced automatic snug in his pocket.

Mike liked to claim that he was the optimist of the cousins. Mark like to say that he was the steadying influence; the one who made sure Mike did not go into crazy situations as blindly as he otherwise might. The truth was that while they bickered amicably between themselves, when there was criticism of either from third parties they defended each other stoutly.

As Mike went out through the main doors, a ghostly figure loomed up in the gloom.

‘Taxi, sir?’

‘Taxi?’ exclaimed Mike. ‘Is the Age of Miracles upon us?’

‘Taxi waiting, sir,’ said the man, stolidly.

‘You are a herald of good tidings,’ Mike told him. ‘Yes, please! In about ten minutes my cousin will be coming out and he’ll want one, too. If you can keep one up your sleeve for him.…’

‘How shall I know him, sir?’

‘Looks like my twin brother—just ask him if he’s Mr. Errol.’ Silver changed hands and he climbed into the taxi. ‘Queen’s Gate, this end,’ he told the driver.

At 27, Queen’s Gate, there lived Mr. Arnold K. Livesey, one of several representatives of the American Farmers Union currently visiting Britain, and one of the Allied Nations Committee discussing post-war food problems. Livesey was an exceptional man inasmuch as he had the ear of the farmers as well as farm-workers in the States and was equally popular with both. Trouble with the Farmers’ bloc in the Senate had been resolved largely with the assistance of the burly Middle West farmer, whose solution to the problem had satisfied the bloc as well as the President.

Mike knew no more about Livesey than he had read in the papers. Since he was often too busy to do more than glance at the headlines, he did not know that at 27, Queen’s Gate, there also lived Arnold K. Livesey’s daughter. Not that the fact would have interested him greatly. Mike was engaged and currently at the stage where there was only one woman in the whole world to be seen, heard or even thought about. He even spared a few minutes to day-dream of his Regina before the taxi drew up at the end of Queen’s Gate.

When the cab had disappeared, he picked his way slowly in the pitch-darkness along the wide pavement. There was no indication that he would see any action that night. His orders were to hold a watching brief with Mark until daylight, when Craigie would send someone else to take over their beat. But Mike, the undying optimist, lived in constant expectation.

When he had walked about a hundred yards, he shone a torch to check his position.

All the houses in Queen’s Gate were approached by a flight of five stone steps, and each porch was supported by tall pillars. In front of each house, a railed-off area served by a flight of steps led to the servants’ entrance and the semi-basement. Mike knew all of that well.

His torch-beam picked out Roman numerals in gilt on a painted pillar: XXVII.

‘Right first go,’ he told himself, with some pride.

Somewhere in the distance, a solitary searchlight swept across the sky and then went out abruptly, leaving the darkness suddenly more intense. There were no people about, and no traffic. Well, hardly surprising, he thought, as a clock not far away suddenly struck half past two: he had not realised it was so late. He was glad of his overcoat, for the night was chilly and a fresh wind blew from Kensington Gardens.

‘Livesey,’ he mused. ‘I wonder if …’

Across his murmured words there came a sound, faint at first but growing louder from inside Number 27! He stared towards the porch. Someone was approaching the door—the footsteps were unmistakable now. Hurrying, light—sharp heels on marble, he thought: or very hard wood. A woman’s footsteps. He stepped a little to one side, peering towards the door, catching only a glimpse of polished brass. The tapping sound drew nearer and he fancied he could hear someone breathing heavily.

Then: crack!

‘Holy smoke!’ he breathed.

It was a pistol shot; he had no doubt at all of that, as the sound echoed in his ears. Tensely, he stared towards the door as the footsteps continued: the heavy breathing grew more laboured. He stepped forward as a second crack came; nearer, this time, and sounding very loud. Then a crashing noise, as a pane of glass in the door shattered and flew in all directions.

The door opened.

Instinctively, he drew back against the side of the porch and reached for his gun. He could not understand why there was no cry of alarm, no call for help.

Then someone fell headlong down the steps.

The white-clad figure was on a level with Mike before he realised what was happening. He shot out his left arm and something soft struck against it—soft and light and perfumed, but heavy enough to send him momentarily off-balance. He recovered in time to break the worst of her fall—then let her go in a flash, as he saw the shadowy figure on the threshold: a man, his face just visible as he fired again.

This time, a flash of yellowish flame heralded the crack, and fast upon the shot, the smack of a bullet hitting a step or pavement. Mike had no idea whether the girl had been hit. She fell to the ground and the man came after her.

He drew level with Mike, who calmly put out a hand.

‘Going places?’ he murmured.

As he grabbed the man’s wrist, he touched the cold steel of the gun. He pushed it sharply downwards and a fourth shot echoed clearly as the bullet wasted itself. Mike had dropped his own gun back in his pocket and now aimed a clenched fist at the other’s chin and as he staggered against the opposite wall, the pistol clattered to the steps and bounced down them.

Mike was anxious about the girl, but his first and most important task was to render the man hors de combat.

He pulled out his torch and flicked it on.

The dazed face of the sprawling man was caught in the beam of light. The punch had landed squarely and a trickle of blood came from the thickish lips. It was the face of a thug. The forehead low, the face heavy. A hired gunman, at a guess.

Mike bent forward and jerked the man’s head up. Vacant eyes peered at him for a moment—then the face suddenly took on an expression of sheer terror and the man tried frantically to get to his feet. Mike let him rise to his knees, then put in an uppercut which rattled his teeth as he reared back and then flopped down in a crumpled, unmoving heap.

‘My night out,’ murmured Mike, happily. ‘I wish …’

But he was enjoying himself too much. He realised it even as he was turning to the girl. His immediate concern was with Mr. Arnold K. Livesey. He spun round and strode in over the threshold of Number 27.

His torch-beam played over a large but sparsely-furnished hall. For a moment, he stood there, straining to hear some kind of sound, unable to understand the quiet. He thought he heard footsteps in the street and the sound of a car engine as he moved towards the sweeping staircase. Then as he reached the foot, he heard a movement above his head—and looked up to see an evil face staring down and a gun pointing straight towards him. Pressing himself back against the wall, he fired from his pocket. A bullet buried itself in the floor a foot away, but his own shot went equally wide.

Yet it served one purpose, for the gunman turned and ran up another flight of stairs.

Then the footsteps behind him drew nearer, and someone ran into the hall. Voices sounded outside, too: and he swung round, prepared to deal with another attack. He was suddenly blinded by the glare as a huge chandelier was switched on and a voice came urgently:

‘What’s doing?’

‘Mark!’ He grinned his relief. ‘Strangers upstairs, I think!’

‘Upstairs?’ echoed Mark, and raced for the staircase.

He had reached the first landing when Mike, a few steps behind him, heard a door slam below and looked down to see a policeman and a warden gaping up at him.

‘Look after the girl! and guard that man—he’s dangerous!’ he yelled, and raced on, pulling out his automatic.

Footsteps came from above him now: the house seemed to be full of noises. He thought he heard the bark of a gun, but could not be sure. He did hear a high-pitched cry.

The landing light was on, and as a brighter light shone from an open door on the far side, Mark came running from the room, his face set and gun in hand. He turned right into a passage and as Mike raced in his wake, he glimpsed through the open door a big man in pyjamas stretched out on the floor, and bedclothes in a heap by his head.

‘A night for deserting the injured!’ he muttered aloud and ran on.

At the end of the passage, Mark was putting his shoulder to a locked door in a futile effort to force it open. As Mike drew level, they hurled themselves at it together. But it was much too solidly built and they did no more than shake it.

‘It’s a waste of time,’ said Mike and Mark grimaced, rubbing his shoulder.

‘Yes, confound it! Did you see him?’

‘Not after you arrived.’

‘He came out of the room back there and I let him go,’ growled Mark. ‘I thought I’d better see what damage he’d done, and whether anyone else was there. There was only the man knocked out—no more than knocked out. Our merchant came through this doorway, which probably leads to another staircase.’

‘We could find the back door?’ Mike suggested, but Mark shook his head.

‘Too late,’ he said, briefly.

‘Now!’ demanded a heavy voice, behind them: ‘What is this?’

Mike turned to see the outraged face of a policeman—who glanced with some apprehension at the gun in his hand. Mike promptly put it back in his pocket and as Mark followed suit, the man seemed distinctly relieved.

But Mike’s thoughts were in too much of a whirl to attempt an answer. There had been an attack on Livesey and the girl, obviously : but there were other stranger things to be considered. Why had the girl run out without saying a word? Why was the huge house deserted, save for the injured man? It was the headquarters of the Agricultural Committee and be knew that many of those who worked there lived on the premises.

‘The quicker,’ he said, thinking aloud, ‘Bruce knows about this, the better.’

‘The quicker I know something about it, the better!’ growled the policeman, as Mark nodded and went in search of a telephone. ‘Who are you?’

Mike treated him to the disarming Errol charm.

‘Oh, yes. I’m sorry, Constable, but it’s been rather a scramble.’ He took out a card like the one Hammond had shown to Garth, and the policeman’s suspicions melted miraculously.

‘I see, sir!’ He handed it back. ‘Then I am of course at your service.’

‘Good man,’ said Mike. ‘Now, did you see to the young lady?’

‘Yes, sir. The warden’s looking after her—and we’ve got the man locked in a cloak-room—I picked up his gun, sir.’

‘Good! Well, there’s a man, also unconscious, in one of the bedrooms. We could do with a doctor—will you send for one, right away?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And how many men can you raise, immediately?’

‘Well … if I include firewatchers …?’

‘Include all able-bodied men.’

‘About a dozen, then, sir.’

‘Not bad,’ Mike nodded crisply. ‘Have the back door watched, will you? And put a sprinkling of chaps in the house—say, two to each landing. Then there’d better be a thorough search of the house. There should be people in residence, surely?’

‘There certainly should be, sir!’ the man said, startled not to have thought of it sooner.

Both he and Mike were relieved by the arrival of the P.C.’s sergeant, who put the work in hand promptly after one glance at Mike’s card.

Mark was coming from a room off the big entrance-hall when Mike returned downstairs.

‘I’ve phoned Hammond,’ he said.

‘Is he coming over?’

‘Yes. So is Bill.’ Mark frowned. ‘Livesey’s still out cold, unfortunately. What about his daughter?’

Mike looked puzzled.

‘The girl I nearly tripped over, coming in,’ said Mark with a touch of impatience. ‘I only had a quick glimpse, by torchlight, but I’m sure it’s her. She’s been pictured with him often enough—and she’s his right-hand man, in a manner of speaking. So if she’s able to talk.…’

The girl had been carried into a small lounge across the hall, and the A.R.P. warden stood guard at the door. Beyond him, the Errols could see her head, propped on a cushion: presumably she was lying on a settee.

As they made to go in, the elderly warden barred their way.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he demanded.

‘In there,’ said Mike, drily.

‘Oh, no, you’re not!’ the man told him. ‘Is there another lady in the house, do you know?’ And as the Errols stared, he added firmly: ‘Because if not, you just go upstairs and fetch a blanket. We’ll see about you going in afterwards.’

Mark and Mike exchanged glances as the truth struck them. They could just glimpse one of the girl’s shoulders, bare save for the strap of a flimsy nightdress. There was something touching, as well as funny, about the man’s concern for the girl who was an utter stranger to him.

‘I’ll get her something,’ Mark assured him, and hurried off.

As the warden pulled the door to and stood square across the front of it, Mike proffered cigarettes and they both lit up. Then the front door suddenly opened and two policemen, more wardens, and half-a-dozen steel-helmeted fire-watchers crowded into the hall, all showing excitement and curiosity. But the police sergeant gave orders and the hall was soon deserted again.

‘Is she hurt?’ Mike asked.

‘Not much,’ the warden reassured him, thawing. ‘She’s been bruised, and cut about a bit but she won’t come to no harm. Not that she mightn’t have, if I hadn’t brought her in,’ he added self-righteously. ‘What she was doing, lying out on the pavement with nothing on but a night-dress almost torn to ribbons.…’ Words failed him.

Mark came hurrying down at that moment, carrying a blanket, and the man took it and went in. Then returned almost at once to say that it was all right for them to enter. And as they stepped inside together, the girl on the settee opened her eyes.