23

Nearing the End

Ryall, Garth knew, was upstairs: either in his own room or talking to Russi in his. Somewhere on the same floor, he also knew, was Olivia. Kent had gone up with Ryall—and a more frightened man Garth had never seen.

When he took the time to think of George Kent, he was filled with an anger and loathing which threatened to destroy all his self-control. It had been obvious, after he had been ordered by Ryall to summon him to the house by the river, that Kent was implicated.

Since then, what he had heard from both of them had made it clear that Kent had been working with Ryall for some time.

The theft of the papers had been a trick to make police and the Department look elsewhere—a simple trick which might easily have worked. Also it had been a means of putting him, Garth, further in their clutches. Had he himself made any admission to the police it would have cleared Kent of suspicion, since he would hardly be likely to arrange for an accomplice to steal papers to which he already had access.

Garth, who had heard of the destruction of the warehouses in the States, wondered what madness had allowed Hammond to let the papers be stolen. He could see no rhyme or reason to that particular tactic; and already appalled by the destruction of current stocks, he could hardly bear to think of the long-term effects, if these cold-blooded devils were allowed to go on.

One thing was certain, he thought bleakly: it was nearing the end.

Ryall had admitted by implication that he knew Washington to be the man ‘Brown’. And Ryall, he gathered, was planning a coup which would leave him in complete possession.

There was something else afoot, too: some other project on the very brink of success. Garth sensed it unmistakably, while gleaning no least idea of what it was about.

He considered the situation as dispassionately as he could.

Hammond would probably think he had done a worthwhile enough job, simply to have learned the true identity of ‘Brown’. But Russi and Ryall had been cock-a-hoop even before they had successfully lured Washington into the trap.

When Ryall and Washington—alias—Brown were together, he told himself, he might well have a chance to look through the house … perhaps get a word with Olivia.

That was the most difficult part of all: to make himself accept the logically obvious truth that the personal safety of Olivia was as unimportant as his own. Of vital importance, was the need to discover what other devilry they were planning—and do his utmost to prevent its taking place. And as time wore on, the necessity obsessed him.

If he had only been able to sneak away, he could telephone the number Hammond had given him. But the place was too closely watched by Ryall’s men.

He wondered anxiously whether Washington-Brown would fall so easily for the trick. He certainly hoped so: he had urged Olivia to make the call in the belief that one of Hammond’s men would follow the little American, if he came. But in Washington-Brown’s place, he knew, he himself certainly would not be likely to fall for it.

A car drew up outside: Ryall’s ‘taxi’.

The house by the river, like The Elms, was surrounded by tall trees and thick shrubberies. It was impossible to see anything save patches of roof, from the road.

Garth watched, grim-faced, from the window as the chauffeur opened the door, leaned inside, and lifted a figure he knew must be Washington’s out of the back seat. The little American was unconscious; his head lolled back against the driver’s shoulder, his hooked nose was pointing towards the sky, his mouth hung open.

The front door was opened by that soft-speaking, neat-looking, remarkably self-possessed but punctiliously-correct ‘maid’.

Garth stepped forward to the door of the room and opened it a fraction as Washington was carried upstairs. As Ryall’s voice boomed out and a door closed, he almost ground his teeth in frustration. Ryall’s arrogant self-satisfaction made him feel he would rather make a dash for it—take the risk of being shot at—than stay there, helpless, while that great brute got away with God knew what new crime. Hammond had to be warned!

Restlessly, he swung back into the room.

A car passed along the road. It slowed down, then went off. Sudden hope, just as suddenly dashed, he stared bleakly out of the window. It was hopeless: he would never reach a telephone alive. He could see stealthy movements in the shubbery: Ryall’s gunmen were everywhere.

Then he suddenly stiffened. A very small man with a puckish face—dressed in black and wearing black gloves—darted from the shrubbery to the door. Garth heard a key quietly inserted in the lock; then complete silence for several seconds, before the door of his room opened.…

Standing in front of him, the black cloth mask already over his face, was ‘Brown’!

And Washington was upstairs!

Garth recovered his composure quickly enough, conscious of the steady gaze from those strange eyes: he must not be found wanting, now. He took a step forward as the little man closed the door behind him, letting his amazement show.

‘Surprised, Garth?’ said the man, drily. ‘I did tell you I would communicate with you again.’

Garth exclaimed:

‘I thought … I thought you were Washington! They were boasting about trapping you! I tried to get out, to warn you … it wasn’t possible.’ He gulped: ‘I was going to telephone him! He … he’s upstairs, now!’

‘I know perfectly well that he is upstairs! Why else do you think I timed my arrival for this critical moment. Ryall imagines that he has me there, in his power! Poor, poor Ryall … he is such a fool. Many Germans are.’

‘Germans?’ Garth had no need to affect shocked incredulity.

‘Oh, yes! Ryall is a German. He is working for Berlin. I am not, Garth: I draw the line at treason. I am prepared to prevent absurd agreements being reached on food and commodity prices, but that is all. I used Ryall, not knowing what he was, but I have learned now. We have to act quickly, my friend.’

‘I’m ready,’ Garth said grimly, and meant it.

‘Of course you are! And I shall be very soon. We shall have to be careful, however. My taxi will have been seen by one or more of their guards, and that will have been reported at once. So they will know that someone is here … but they will not know who! Is Olivia Livesey also here?’

‘What don’t you know?’ demanded Garth, unsteadily.

‘Very little.’ The black lips actually parted in a smile: ‘I was told that she telephoned Washington.’

‘But who.…’

‘I have a very good friend at Queen’s Gate,’ said ‘Brown’, gently. ‘So I am usually advised of what is happening. But I am concerned by something which has nothing to do with Ryall or the Liveseys. I am concerned with Department Z. You remember the man Hammond, who interrogated you?’

‘The plainclothes man.’ Garth nodded.

‘He is no policeman,’ ‘Brown’ told him. ‘He is a Secret Service agent—and a very able one. I have had to work behind the cover of Ryall and Russi to ensure that Hammond and his colleagues did not find me. I have more respect for them than for any other body of men in the world! But it will soon be over—they will have Ryall and Russi and their whole organisation and they will be satisfied there is no one else. They will, of course, be convinced that Washington, who will be dead, was the mysterious “Mr. Brown”!’

He laughed: a ghostly, almost inaudible sound. ‘I talked with Russi a very little while ago. His arrangements for their joint great venture are all made. His apprehension will make no difference to the final success of what I am planning. Don’t you find that reassuring?’

‘I find the prospect of their apprehension reassuring!’ Garth said bleakly. ‘I’m sorry … what are you planning? What’s going on?’

‘You will find out,’ murmured ‘Brown’. ‘I wish …’

He broke off abruptly as a high-pitched scream came from somewhere outside.

The window was open only an inch or two at the top, but the cry sounded clearly. It was a woman’s voice and Garth’s thoughts sprang to Olivia. He darted to the window, but before he opened it ‘Brown’ said sharply:

‘Do nothing impetuous, Garth!’

‘But someone …!’

‘Your loyalty is to me!’ snapped ‘Brown’. ‘Haven’t I made that clear enough? The sound came from outside—so if you are thinking of Olivia Livesey …’

‘Never mind who I’m thinking of!’ Garth rasped.

He pushed up the window and climbed through. He could not be sure whether ‘Brown’ would not shoot him. But he had to take what would probably be his only possible chance. As he stood in the garden, he saw what had happened.

Three people were in the river.

A small boat, upturned, was floating downstream and he saw two men swimming strongly towards a third person—a girl. Her long hair floated on the water for a moment—as fair as Olivia’s was dark—then darkened as it submerged, waterlogged. The two men reached the girl and pushed her towards the near bank. He was half-way down the garden when they climbed ashore, all three gasping and the girl beginning to wail accusingly at the two men.

They were in uniform—Army subalterns—he noticed with relief: at least there was no chance of their being a couple of Ryall’s thugs off-duty.

He reached them, and took the opportunity for a covert glance at the house.

‘Brown’ was not at the window, but he had no doubt that he was under observation. Still, unless they were prepared to shoot all four, neither Ryall nor ‘Brown’ could very well afford to shoot him, there.

‘Listen, chum!’ he said urgently, as he neared the first man. ‘This is terribly important! Can you get a telephone message to …’

He was about to quote the number which was burned in his mind, and to give his name, when the man turned to the girl, ignoring him. As he stared—astonished for a moment and then indignant—the man turned back, scowling belligerently. But his voice in no way matched the scowl as he murmured:

‘You’re Garth? I’m from Hammond. Anything up?’

Garth gasped and then pulled himself together.

‘Get him here!’ he said, urgently. ‘Tell him “Brown” is here … he’s the man Hammond wants. It’s hellish important … so is speed!’

‘Right!’ said the other, promptly. ‘We’ve men nearby. Lend a hand with the girl, will you?’

The upsetting of the boat, the girl’s cry … Garth suddenly realised, had been part of a deliberate ruse to let Hammond’s men into the grounds to make contact with him. The relief of it swept over him as one of the men plunged into the river to retrieve the upturned boat.

The girl was sobbing hysterically, now, and the second man was bending over her, reasoning with her. Then with a show of sudden impatience, he slapped her cheek sharply. Her loud sobs changed abruptly to a whimper—just as the chauffeur and maid appeared in the garden.

‘We’ll have to get her into the house!’ said the man with her, sharply. ‘She’ll catch her death of cold in those things … can your maid lend her something?’

The chauffeur cut in, quickly: ‘I’m sorry, sir, but…’

Then Ryall came blundering from the house. The driver and the maid drew aside as he took charge of the situation, declaring himself most distressed by the accident. It was very inconvenient, he confessed, since he was due at an important conference, but a room and a change of clothes must be put at the lady’s disposal. He quelled his driver’s unspoken protest with a glare, and was most gracious and helpful.

He left the driver and the young officer to carry the hapless girl into the house and went ahead with the maid on one side and Garth on the other.

‘We must get her out of here as quickly as possible,’ he muttered, urgently. ‘A damnable thing! But we could not have turned her away … it would have attracted attention, which we must avoid! Ethel, go to Miss Livesey and make her undress, quickly … then give this girl her clothes. Garth.…’

They had reached the small passage at the side of the house. The far end was in shadow—but it was just possible to discern something—someone—even blacker than the background. Ryall froze in his tracks and the maid exclaimed, incredulous:

‘Brown!’

‘A slight miscalculation on your part, Ryall,’ murmured ‘Brown’ mockingly. ‘And a most unfortunate little interruption. Hush! Don’t talk now, And don’t be foolish enough to try to shoot me—the young couple coming in will want to know why!’

Ryall leaned against the wall: even then he looked as if he was staying upright only with a tremendous effort. The maid’s face was deathly pale and she was trembling—the first time Garth had seen her discomposed.

‘Hurry!’ exhorted ‘Brown’. ‘They will be here in a moment! When we have disposed of them, I am sure your ingenuity will not be found wanting. We can talk, my friend … about Washington, and other of your peculiar delusions.’ He moved towards the stairs.

‘Disposed of them,’ thought Garth. And aloud, he warned quietly: ‘There’s another fellow … he went after the boat. He’s taking it back to the hirer’s … he’s expecting them to meet him …’

Ryall, breathing heavily, straightened up with an obvious effort. The young officer who was helping to carry the girl reached the door and called out to ask was it all right to come in? Then did so, and deposited the girl on a hall seat as Ryall muttered:

‘Get… those … clothes! Do nothing else, Ethel … understand? Do nothing else, yet!’

They were still standing in the hall, like actors in a dramatic tableau. The influence of ‘Brown’ was about them all: uncanny, and uncannily effective. Even Garth was so affected by his remarkable knowledge of events that he felt it was only too possible the man would have seen through the mishap on the river.

Then the sitting-room door was suddenly flung open and a man burst into the hall—the ‘gardener’ from beneath Olivia’s window. His face was strained and he saw only Ryall as he gasped out:

‘Several men … four or five ... coming fast!’ He was clearly almost frantic: ‘Excellency! You …’

The gutturals in his voice betrayed his nationality. Yet his words came so unexpectedly that for a moment, Ryall only stood and gaped at him. The ‘taxi-driver’ started for the stairs and the ‘maid’ shrank back against Ryall. And the next moment Garth was as startled as the others as the laconic voice of the young ‘subaltern’ drawled:

‘How very interesting … a luvverly bunch of little Nazis!’

They turned with one accord—to see the automatic in his hand, the smile on his lips. On the floor beside him was the gun’s water-proof holster. The girl who had screamed so realistically was sitting up and smiling widely. And before anyone could move, the hall was suddenly filled with men. Footsteps sounded, windows crashed in, as more approached from all directions.

Garth recognised the Errols and Hammond; the rest were strangers. Two of them held automatics at the ready; others started to put theirs back in their pockets. There was a languid air about them all; Garth had an absurd impression that on the whole they were disappointed at achieving entry without a fight.

Then he though of Olivia.

He whirled towards the stairs as footsteps thundered in the passage above. A man started to scream; the cry was cut short. A thud followed—and the men who were putting their guns away thought better of it. Hammond and the pseudo-subaltern kept Ryall and his party covered, while Garth started up the stairs with the rest in his wake. With three or four yards’ start he was the first to see ‘Brown’ at the stairhead … with something in his hand.

‘Look out!’ he roared, over his shoulder. ‘Look out!’

The missile was small and round: a Mills bomb, or the like. ‘Brown’ tossed it over Garth’s head towards the hall, then turned to run. Garth followed; afraid for the rescuers below, afraid for Olivia. George Kent lay stretched out in the passage, a knife sticking up from his throat, his sightless eyes wide open.

‘Brown’ disappeared into one of the rooms.

As Garth sprinted after him, the explosion came. The floor shook, pictures crashed, smoke and dust and flying debris filled the air. He heard cries and curses and the sound of falling bodies, but dared not pause or look back. But as he pounded into the room after ‘Brown’, a second door on the far side snapped shut and he heard a key turn in the lock.

Then he heard a voice calling … Olivia’s voice.

‘David!’ she cried. ‘David Garth! David!’

He found the room, easily enough. She was hammering on the door, which was locked. But the key was there. Gasping and choking, he turned it, fairly sure she would be unhurt in there: fearing what had happened in the hall.