20

Garth ‘Escapes’

Hammond went first to see the Errols; only to learn that the dead gunman had said nothing which might give any clue to his associates. And, the cousins protested, had he said anything of value, they would certainly have reported it.

‘Yes. Sorry!’ Hammond smiled. ‘I’m trying to do too many things at once, as usual.’

‘As usual is right,’ Mike dropped the mock-reproach and was unusually solicitous. ‘You look as if you haven’t slept for a week, old son. What’s the matter?’ he added, easily. ‘Conscience troubling you?’

‘No more than usual,’ grinned Hammond.

But as he left the flat, he reflected grimly that he was losing his grip; if the Errols could see he was so tensed-up, it would be obvious to others, also. The affair was on his mind; much more than most of the Department’s cases. The twin facts, that they still had no real idea of the men responsible for the campaign and could not be sure where the next blow would fall, worried him greatly.

Loftus and Craigie felt the same. Back at the office, he searched their faces: they, too, were showing signs of the strain. There had been too long a period without any definite step forward. The saving of so many of the American V.I.P.s had been defensive: they were chafing to get on the offensive.

Loftus said casually:

‘Back already, Bruce? Any luck?’

‘One or two odd things,’ Hammond dropped into an easy chair and leaned back. ‘Nothing from the Errols, but … what do you know about Aunt Mabel, Gordon?’

Craigie looked up from the desk.

‘Why?’

‘She’s been to see Garth in prison. Most upset! Did you ring her?’

‘I rang Mrs. Parmitter, I told her what had happened and asked her to let Aunt Mabel know. The indirect method,’ Craigie gave his slow, dry smile. ‘No mystery there, Bruce, although I’m surprised she went to see Garth off her own bat. Perhaps she’s developed a fondness for him.’

Loftus said flatly: ‘They’ve met only once.’

Craigie made no comment on that.

‘Anything else?’ he asked Hammond.

‘Yes …’ Hammond considered for a moment, then plunged into his story. He described, with new insight, the expression on Aunt Mabel’s face when she had seen Washington—and the way, later, she had broken down as she talked of her husband. Her conviction that Washington was a rogue impressed him even more in retrospect.

When he had finished, Loftus said slowly:

‘We knew all about her American contacts, of course.…’

And Hammond looked from one to the other, baffled at choosing such a woman to be openly linked with Garth.

Craigie rose absently from the desk, wandered across to the old winged armchair, and sat down again.

‘Lady Grey,’ he told them, answering their unspoken query, ‘is a close friend of Mrs. Parmitter’s—and therefore conveniently placed. And I liked her American connections: it was always possible that she would come across something which we couldn’t know.’ He smiled. ‘Sorry, Bruce—I should have told you before. I’ve had her in mind for some time, but this was the first opportunity we’ve had of using her.’

‘She knows nothing about what we’re using her for, does she?’ asked Hammond.

‘We’ve told her nothing. Her only connection with the affair is through Mrs. Parmitter and Garth—as far as we know. Putting Aunt Mabel aside for the moment,’ Craigie added: ‘Garth is our major hope, for the time being.’

‘Obviously,’ murmured Loftus.

‘Is it so obvious? Hammond objected. ‘I don’t know. If it comes off and Ryall takes him back he’ll have a chance. But I wish we had another way of getting at it. Something’s brewing—and a positive hell’s broth, by the smell of it! But …’

‘Steady!’ Loftus grinned, and Craigie’s dry smile echoed the protest.

‘We know it’s bad, Bruce. But there it is: we’ve no indication of what’s coming. We’ve got the Americans covered—and their English counterparts. We’ve brought in some of the Special Branch to help us and we’re all working at stretch. Ryall hasn’t made many mistakes yet, but…’

‘Gordon,’ Hammond interrupted, quietly. ‘I may be wrong, but if Garth doesn’t succeed, then I think we should detain Ryall and Russi.’

‘M’mm … You’re probably right. It won’t stop it, though … at best, it will postpone decisive action. Still, we’d gain time…. When is Garth going free?’

‘I thought perhaps in the morning?’

‘Good! And if we’re wise, we’ll all take it as easy as we can today and get a good night’s rest. We’ll get cracking in every way we can, of course.’ Craigie looked thoughtful: ‘That report of the air crash findings won’t tell us why Livesey and Washington happened to miss the plane.’

‘Newspaper files will help us there,’ Hammond offered: ‘I’ll go over and see what the M.O.P. can dig out for us. Which reminds me … what’s Kent doing?’

‘Nothing. At least, he’s not been back to the office since the murder. He cracked badly then, of course, but he seems to be on the mend.’

‘Was it just the shock?’ asked Hammond.

‘Who knows?’ Craigie shrugged. ‘He’s being watched. Don’t worry about him.’

Hammond went out, knowing that Craigie’s last words had been in the nature of an assurance that none of the obvious things were being neglected. He hardly needed telling that, but knew he must have created the impression that he did. He knew that no one even remotely connected with the affair would be unwatched—and that some, like the Liveseys and their close associates, would be under strictest surveillance.

Russi and Ryall, too. But Russi in particular was a slippery customer who had twice evaded his followers—once, on the occasion of the shooting at Garth.

Everything reverted to Garth.

Too much, indeed, thought Hammond, depended on David Garth and on the mood Ryall would be in when he learned of Garth’s escape. Or rather—if he learned of it.

Russi returned to Wimbledon by a circuitous route, confident that he had not been followed. In fact, one of Craigie’s men was on hand to observe his return, but Russi’s self-assurance was not affected by the sight of a man on the roof of a nearby house, stolidly fitting new slates.

Ryall was in the study.

His bearded face was inscrutable as he looked up at Russi’s entrance, and he did not speak. Russi, who had telephoned earlier with a report of what had happened, dropped into a chair and moodily fished a cigarette-case from his pocket.

After a long pause, Ryall said:

‘Another failure, Russi?’

‘It was luck—just a bad break!’ snapped Russi. ‘I’ve never known Paul miss.’

‘He did miss.’

‘Well, what about it? Why pick on me? I didn’t do it!’

Ryall’s voice was quiet but steely-hard:

‘Garth is in the hands of the police. He has been there for two or three hours. He is being questioned. He is a frightened man—and the only question is whether his fear of committing an act of treachery is greater than his fear of being suspected of the Duval woman’s murder. And if Garth talks of us …’

‘He won’t talk!’ Russi protested sharply. But his voice lacked conviction. ‘He’s too yellow to talk!’

‘I see,’ said Ryall, with heavy sarcasm. ‘You have such remarkable foresight, of course, my friend. You can tell what will happen with a man as highly-strung as Garth. I have not such remarkable powers!’

‘He won’t talk!’ Russi insisted.

‘If it were only the police, I might agree with you. But Brown was quite sure last night that Department Z is engaged. Department Z agents do not stop where the police do. They have means of persuasion which could easily break Garth down. Had you thought of that?’

Russi stared, his babyish face suddenly pink, and damp with perspiration.

‘Then, then what the hell are we staying here for?’ he demanded, his voice rising querulously.

‘We are moving very soon,’ said Ryall. ‘And not to Kingston—it is too close. I have spent the whole morning making the arrangements. Brown is determined that we should make our final effort quickly—he simply cannot listen to reason!’ he added, in a snarl of resentment.

Russi licked his lips.

‘When do we start?’

‘We have started. The letters have gone out already.’ Ryall took a small sheet of headed notepaper from his desk and handed it over. Russi glanced quickly through the brief typewritten message: an instruction—unaddressed—to go to The Beacon, Staines, in two days’ time, at five p.m.

The letter appeared to be signed by the Foreign Secretary and was marked: ‘Highly Confidential’.

Russi looked up, sceptical: ‘Will they buy it?’

‘I have little doubt of it. And they must, Russi. If they don’t …’ Ryall paused, his eyes shadowed. ‘But we will not consider failure a possibility. I have done my part. The rest is up to you.’

Russi lit a cigarette, studiously casual.

‘I can fix it, don’t you fret. But I don’t like it! If just one of them talks …’

Ryall cut him short.

‘They have instructions in that letter to say nothing to anyone. And the signature will satisfy all of them.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ Russi grimaced. ‘Anyway, if they get there, I’ll sure as hell see that none of them gets away!’ He glanced uneasily at his watch. ‘How long before we go?’

‘Half-an-hour,’ Ryall eyed him sardonically. ‘I thought you were so confident Garth wouldn’t talk?’

‘I don’t like this talk about Department Z!’ Russi snapped. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Where else but Chertsey. So convenient for Staines! We shall be on hand for the great events and have no difficulty in getting away afterwards,’ he smiled. But there was no humour in his expression or in his voice.…

Two hours later, in a small house near the river at Chertsey, Ryall, Russi, the maid and the ‘taxi’ driver were gathered in a small room. The maid and the driver went out when Russi complained that he was hungry and a snack meal was soon forthcoming. They spent the afternoon and early evening in their respective rooms.

There were no alarms during the night.

They did not go to The Beacon: a large house, not far away. Nor did they know that two soldiers and a pretty girl, who paddled downriver in a canoe towards evening, were actually in Craigie’s employ. But there was tension at the riverside house; in Ryall’s room the light was on into the small hours.

Russi was up early and restless, wandered along the tow-path to fill in the half-an-hour before breakfast. Ryall did not come down to join him for the meal. He was growing increasingly edgy when, at a few minutes after ten, the telephone rang. There were two extensions, but the main instrument was in Ryall’s room.

Russi lifted the receiver of the hall extension to hear Ryall say sharply: ‘Who is that?’

‘Don’t worry,’ came the soft voice of ‘Mr. Brown’. ‘It is no one you would not wish to hear from. My friend, I have news of importance for you.’

‘What is it?’ asked Ryall, and Russi’s hand tightened on the receiver.

‘Very cheering news, I think you will find,’ ‘Brown’ expanded. ‘I have had word—reliable word—that your friend who was so awkwardly situated last night and yesterday morning, has excelled himself. He did not like the place where he was staying and so he—left.’

‘You mean … he escaped?’ Ryall sounded incredulous.

‘From the web of circumstances which surrounded him, yes,’ said ‘Brown’ softly. ‘A most fortuitous happening, as I know you will agree. True, he may find it difficult to remain free from certain … attention. But at the moment, there is no danger at all that he can harm your … project. Are you satisfied?’

‘If you’re sure …’ Ryall began, doubtfully.

‘I am quite sure!’ ‘Brown’s’ voice grew sharper. ‘I have satisfied myself completely, as to the manner of his leave-taking. It is not my habit to be vague about such things! Moreover, my friend, he was in no way careless, while he was away from you. He disclosed nothing which might cause concern. A most worthy young man!’

‘What … what do you think we should do with him?’

‘Use him,’ said ‘Brown’, promptly. ‘Use him to the best advantage. I think he might be most helpful, skilfully handled. I don’t know, but I imagine that he will be at Brookside, by now. You might care to investigate.’

Then Brown rang off.

Russi banged down his receiver and raced up the stairs. His eyes shining, he burst into Ryall’s room. Ryall looked up from his chair by the telephone and smiled: there was deep satisfaction in the expression.

‘So you heard that, Russi?’

‘I sure as hell did! We’re out of that jam!’

‘We may not be, if Garth is found at Wimbledon,’ Ryall warned him. ‘You had better go and fetch him, Russi—or send someone for him. We do not want him recaptured. I wonder,’ he added gently, ‘how he contrived to get away?’

‘Why should we worry?’ demanded Russi.

David Garth stood on the porch of The Elms, his finger on the bell-push; but not expecting an answer. No one had answered his knocking and ringing for the last five minutes and he felt sure Ryall and Russi had left the house. A feeling of helplessness surged over him, followed quickly by a mounting tension.

Hammond’s voice seemed to echo in his ears.

‘A lot depends on this, Garth. Perhaps more than you realise. Remember—they can’t know that you’ve escaped unless they get it from Queen’s Gate.’ Then had added, easily: ‘Would you be happier if you had a gun?’

‘No. No!’ Garth had repeated, emphatically. ‘It’s all or nothing. I won’t stand a chance if it comes to a shooting-match—I hardly know how to use the things.’

He wondered, now, if he had been right. A gun might well have given him confidence. But good God, a gun, here....!

It was a little after eleven o’clock. The perfect Indian summer had continued: the sun was already warm and there was not a cloud in the sky. A little traffic hummed on the road by the common; a few strollers passed the gates, invisible through the mass of shrubbery and trees.

Then someone turned into the drive.

Garth heard him and spun round. It was a cyclist; a short, thickset man who needed a shave. He did not appear to notice Garth until he drew up at the porch. Garth stood quite still.

He would not have been surprised had the man attacked him then. He was expecting an attack. He could not believe that Ryall—even if he had learned the story of his faked escape—would believe it safe to get in touch with him. And if he did not, he would certainly believe him safer dead.

Then the newcomer looked up at him and spoke.