Trouble on the Thames (9 page)

After what seemed an interminably long wait the faint sound of footsteps suddenly reached his ears. Then from somewhere in the neighbourhood of the boat-house came a low rumble of voices, followed a minute or so later by the unmistakable splash of oars. Almost simultaneously a black, slowly moving object emerged into view from beyond the opposite bushes. So narrow was the intervening distance that the heads and shoulders of its two occupants could be clearly distinguished. The shorter of the pair, a middle-aged man in a jersey, was pulling away stolidly in the bow: the other sat erect and aloof, the occasional glow of his cigar shining out through the darkness as the boat swayed momentarily sideways under the force of the swiftly running current.

There was a longish pause at the landing-stage while the visitor disembarked, and then, pushing off with what sounded like a mumbled word of thanks, his companion started back on the return journey. In a few minutes he was out of sight again behind the curve of the bank, and after a brief interval the bang of a door, followed by more slowly retreating steps, testified to the fact that he had locked up for the night and was on his way home.

At the very moment Owen leaned forward to pick up his paddle a blurred yellowish gleam suddenly appeared in the centre of the island. As far as he could judge, it seemed to be coming from a window in the upper side of the house. Someone had apparently turned on a light in one of the ground-floor rooms, and in a flash the full possibilities of the situation came home to him with staggering clearness. Gosh, what a chance for anybody who had the nerve to take it! If one could only get across undiscovered and sneak round until one was close enough to see what was going on inside—a soundless whistle framed itself on his lips, and moving aside an obstructing branch, he dug in the paddle and pushed out stealthily into the open. Somewhere farther along the backwater an owl hooted dismally.

Keeping close to the bank and making as little sound as possible, he worked his way gradually upstream until he was abreast of the boat-house. Exactly opposite lay the tip of the island, protected from intruders by a straggling hedge which appeared to extend more or less round the whole property. Right at the extreme point a tangled cluster of trees and bushes jutted out into the water. As a possible landing-place its advantages had already been noted by Owen earlier in the day, and with a swift glance up and down to make sure that the coast was still clear, he swung round the nose of the punt and headed for its shelter.

The light was still showing as he pulled up alongside and made fast to a convenient stump. It obviously proceeded from somewhere directly ahead of him, and edging his way forward through the undergrowth till he arrived at the hedge, he discovered that his original guess had been surprisingly accurate.

He was looking across a lawn towards the side wing of the house, at one end of which a brightly lit french window stood out against the sombre background. In the room behind it, as though he were watching a picture on the screen, he could see a couple of men standing by a table helping themselves to drinks. One of them was wearing a dark suit, the other appeared to be dressed in flannels.

Swiftly but carefully his eyes travelled round the garden. Out to the left, except for a star-shaped bed of standard roses, there was nothing in the way of cover, but on the opposite side, in front of the stretch of hedge overlooking the weir, a thick array of ornamental shrubs ran up to within a foot or two of the window. To Owen they had the appearance of being a direct answer to prayer, and in less time than it takes to write the words he had scrambled successfully over the intervening obstacle and was squirming his way forward through the miniature jungle in front of him.

About ten yards from his goal the foliage became so dense that he was compelled to go down upon his hands and knees. Even then progress was not easy. Despite his utmost care twigs snapped and bushes swayed in the most disturbing fashion, and it was with unspeakable relief that he at last found himself peering out through a gap in the leaves with nothing between his hiding-place and the window but a small tub of flowering chrysanthemums.

His satisfaction, however, was short-lived. Apart from the quick beating of his own heart, all he could hear was a low, unintelligible murmur.

***

Von Manstein put down his glass upon the table, and helping himself to a fresh cigar, stared across at his host. Under their sharply cut lids his eyes looked like cold blue pebbles.

“Granville Sutton,” he repeated slowly. “So that is the name of the gentleman.” Very deliberately he struck a match. “What do you know about him apart from his being a friend of Medlicot?”

“Not very much.” Craig shook his head. “He's a good-looking guy who hangs around the West End and seems to be well in with the racing crowd. I guess he lives chiefly on women—anyhow, that's Casey's notion. Kids are his line, silly kids who fall for his man-about-Town stuff. Leads 'em up the garden till they tumble to what he's really like, and then makes 'em pay to keep his mouth shut.”

“He appears to be launching out into something a trifle more ambitious.” The German paused. “You are convinced that he is really dangerous?”

“Shouldn't have bothered you to come down here otherwise.”

“I presume not. It was extremely inconvenient.”

“There was no help for it. He wants an answer by Monday, and how the hell was I to act without consulting you? In a jam like this I take my orders from higher up.”

“That is quite correct. How much do you think he knows, and how far is he merely guessing?”

“Impossible to say. Medlicot spilt something, sure enough, and ever since then the bastard has been nosing about picking up little bits here and there. If he goes to the right quarter with this story of his—”

“He will never do that. The only point I am considering is the best way to deal with him. He can be removed, of course; but, on the other hand, it is possible that he might be more useful to us alive.”

“I doubt it.” Craig rose to his feet and paced restlessly across the room. “If I'm any judge, he'd take as much as you were fools enough to offer him and then double-cross you.”

“It is more than possible.”

“We should be stark, staring lunatics to give him the chance. Why, if he was to do the dirty on us—”

“There is no need to remind me that we are playing for high stakes. I am already aware of the fact.”

The smooth, ironic voice brought Craig to a sudden halt, and for a moment he remained eyeing his visitor in a kind of half-resentful silence. Little beads of perspiration were glistening on his forehead.

“What you say, however, is quite true,” continued von Manstein slowly. “A man like Sutton might have his uses, but with so much in the balance we cannot afford the luxury of experiments. No; on the whole, I think it would be wiser to eliminate him.”

“Same here. But it's not so darned simple, you know. This isn't Germany.”

Von Manstein raised his eyebrows. “You are afraid?”

“Hell to that! I'm game for anything so long as it's ne-cessary. What I'm getting at is that it'll need damned careful handling. If you're counting on my putting it through you've got to let me fix the arrangements.”

“Quite a reasonable condition.”

“I'd want help, for one thing. That guy Kellerman who's so slick with a knife—he'd be the right fellow if you've still got him around.”

“Yes, Kellerman can be produced. I was about to suggest that his collaboration might be advisable.”

“Could you send him down here by car as soon as you get back?”

“That can be managed easily. I should be interested to hear how you propose to approach the problem.”

“There's only one thing to be done—that's to stop the swine's mouth before he has a chance to open it.” Once more Craig wandered restlessly round the room, passing his finger along the inside of his collar. “Gee, but it's hot in here—hot enough to stifle one.” With an impatient jerk he unlatched the french window, and thrusting it open, drew in a deep breath of fresh air. “My idea is to pay him a visit Sunday night. His place isn't far from here. It's a bungalow called Sunny Bank about half a mile below Playford. Lonely sort of joint at the corner of a lane. Have to make sure there's no one around, of course; but if we wait till it's dark and watch our step”—his lips parted in an evil smile, and tossing away the stump of his cigar, he reclosed the window. “Well, how about it?” he demanded. “Got any suggestions, or are you ready to leave it to me?”

“It sounds an admirable scheme.” Von Manstein nodded approvingly. “You will find Kellerman an ideal colleague.”

“There's one other point.” Craig's eyes narrowed. “I take it that a job like this will mean special consideration from your people. I don't run the risk of shoving my neck in a rope unless I get something out of it.”

“You have no need to worry about that. You will be fittingly rewarded, and I will see that a report on your services to the cause is sent direct to the Führer.” The speaker paused. “We Germans do not forget. When the New Order is established those who have proved themselves worthy of our trust will be the first to enjoy its benefit.” With a short, grating laugh he leaned across and picked up his glass. “To a man who can appreciate the pleasures of power,” he added, “the prospect should be a singularly attractive one.”

***

Inch by inch Owen wriggled his way back into the shrubbery until the bright light that streamed out across the lawn was little more than a vague yellow blur. Then, rising to his feet and exercising the same care that had characterised his approach, he retraced his steps to the point where he had climbed over the hedge. The punt was still there, just as he had left it, and a few seconds later he had pushed out through the screen of overhanging branches and was paddling leisurely and silently in the direction of the backwater.

“Sunny Bank—Sunday night,” he repeated to himself. “Sunday night—Sunny Bank. Nice and easy to remember, that's one good thing about it!”

Chapter VI

Punting upstream, especially after a prolonged spell of wet weather, is one of those pastimes which bear an unpleasant resemblance to hard work. To Owen, pushing along doggedly and pausing now and then to mop his forehead, the distance seemed incredibly farther than it had appeared to be on his downward trip. It was a goodish while since he had handled a pole against a stiff current, and by the time he had accomplished three-quarters of his journey he was thankful enough to see the square tower of Playford Church standing up amongst the trees about half a mile ahead. Its bell was just beginning to summon the parishioners to evening service, and a rich air of sabbatical calm brooded over the still and peaceful landscape.

With a suddenly awakened interest he turned his attention to the neighbouring bank. According to the few words he had been able to overhear, the place Craig had been talking about must be somewhere in the immediate vicinity. He had referred to it as a lonely bungalow at the corner of a lane, and following the curve of the towpath, Owen's eyes fell upon a small red-roofed structure which exactly answered to the description. It was some little way back from the river, surrounded by a newly painted fence. This was bordered on one side by the lane in question, while on the other stood a thick plantation of sombre-looking firs which extended along the rear of the premises to within a few yards of the palings. The nearest house, a distressingly garish two-storey villa, was some considerable distance away and completely cut off by the trees.

Anybody wishing to approach the place without being seen would apparently find it a simple enough business. Somewhere farther back, the lane must obviously join up with the road between Playford and Thames Ferry, and by following it as far as the plantation and then taking cover one could negotiate the remainder of one's task in complete and comforting security. Compared with the problems presented by Otter's Holt the thing would be an absolute gift.

Highly satisfied with the result of his preliminary reconnaissance, Owen continued his way leisurely upstream. Now that he was acquainted with the lie of the land there was no point in over-exerting himself. Whatever the object of Craig's visit might be, it was not to take place until “after dark,” and although it would be advisable to arrive on the scene of action in good time, that would still mean kicking his heels about ashore for the best part of a couple of hours. Though some of this period might be profitably spent in consuming a meal at the village inn, he had no yearning to attract attention by loafing around the neighbourhood any longer than was necessary. His persistent if somewhat unsuccessful efforts as a fisherman might not have passed unobserved by the residents at Otter's Holt, and if by some unlucky chance the fact of his presence in Playford at this particular juncture should happen to be brought to their notice the coincidence might well strike them as being oddly and unhealthily suggestive. In dealing with gentlemen like Mr. Craig and Count von Manstein it would be suicidal carelessness to neglect the smallest precaution.

As he rounded the last bend and entered the short, straight reach that led up to the boat-house, he caught sight of Mr. Martin leaning forward over the edge of the landing-stage. The old man appeared to be fixing a cover over one of the skiffs, and it was not until the punt was within a few yards that he paused in his operations and lifted an inquiring eye. With a friendly nod of greeting Owen slithered in alongside.

“Oh, so it's you, sir!” The speaker tilted back his cap. “Hope you got on all right and managed to enjoy yourself.” Catching hold of the painter, he made it fast to an adjacent ring, and having thankfully shipped his pole, Owen stepped up on to the jetty.

“It's been gorgeous,” he replied cheerfully. “Done me a world of good. I've sucked in enough sun and fresh air to last me through the whole winter.”

“Aye, you were lucky in your weather. Just got here in time, though, from the looks of it. Wouldn't wonder if we had rain to-night, not from the way the glass is falling.”

“That's a nuisance. I don't want to turn it in just yet. Only came along to get a bit of exercise and look up some friends of mine. What I thought of doing was to camp here for the night and slip down to Thames Ferry again to-morrow morning.”

“Well, you please yourself, sir. Maybe it won't come to much, and even if it do you won't take no harm, not under that canvas o' yours. If you're in a hurry to be off I'll fix it up for you.”

“Thanks very much. Don't want to trail back in the dark and find everything floating about.”

“How about the fishin', sir? Did you have any sport down below the weir?”

“Not too bad, taking it all round. Spotted a couple of beauties, but these really big fish take a lot of catching.”

“Cunning as bloomin' monkeys—that's what they are.”

“So I've been informed.” Owen nodded gravely. “There's still time, though,” he added. “I'm hoping to have another cut at them before I go back to Town.”

Mr. Martin gave a rumbling chuckle.

“That's the spirit, sir,” he remarked approvingly.

***

Sally buttoned the collar of her thick, oiled-silk coat, and with a final glance at the drizzling rain outside turned away from the window.

“Well, if I'm to get down there by ten-thirty,” she observed, “I suppose I'd better be making a start. Not much good waiting for it to clear up—seems to have settled in for the night.”

Ruth, who was collecting together the remains of their evening meal, looked up with a frown. “If you take my advice,” she retorted, “you'll chuck the whole business.”

“But I can't. It wouldn't be fair on Sheila. Besides, the rain doesn't really matter. I shall be quite snug and dry as soon as I'm in the car.”

“I wish you'd change your mind and let me come with you. I simply loathe the idea of your going down there alone.”

Sally shook her head. “We have had all that out, darling, and it's no use arguing about it again. For one thing, I haven't got the time. It's a longish trip, and if I try to drive fast in the dark I always get the jitters.”

“Are you sure you know the way?”

“Oh, yes. Sheila told me in her letter. I take the Thames Ferry road just before I get into Playford and turn up a lane about half a mile farther on. The bungalow is right at the end, facing the river. She says it's perfectly easy and one can't possibly make a mistake.”

“She
would
.” Ruth scowled. “I still think the whole thing's utterly insane and that I'm a perfect fool to lend you the bus. Until I hear you come in I shall sit here worrying myself stiff.”

“Why not go to bed and get some sleep?” suggested Sally. “I'll promise to wake you up and tell you all about it.”

Ruth shook her head. “I'm staying put,” she declared stubbornly; “and what's more, if you aren't home by one I shall ring up the Playford police and ask them to go round and make sure that you're all right. I'm not joking; I really mean it.”

“Then I'd better not dawdle about on the road.” With a disarming smile Sally picked up her bag and moved towards the door. “Be good and don't eat all the chocolates,” she added. “After hobnobbing with Mr. Sutton I shall want something sweet to take away the taste.”

The garage in which Ruth housed her small Morris-Oxford was situated in a blind alley only a short distance from the shop. By the time Sally reached it, however, the rain was already beginning to trickle down her face, so it was hardly surprising that her resentment against the man she was setting out to visit increased steadily with every passing second. Indeed, as she climbed into the driving-seat and started up the engine her feelings attained a point of bitterness which could only find relief in some sort of verbal expression. “Pig!” she muttered to herself with a little half-comical grimace. “I wish someone would walk into your beastly bungalow and jab you in the back with a large, sharp carving-knife.”

Whether it was the effect of this slightly bloodthirsty outburst or the mere fact of having to concentrate her attention upon driving, it was comforting to discover that before she was half-way down the King's Road a calmer and more business-like frame of mind was already beginning to assert itself. After all, what was the use of getting rabid and venomous about a complete rotter like Sutton? It only confused one's mind and prevented one from thinking clearly. In order to carry off the interview successfully she would need all the coolness and resolution she had at her command, and now that the critical moment was so rapidly approaching, minor afflictions such as getting a trifle damp must not be permitted to intrude upon the main issue. Eyes on the road and thoughts on the job ahead—that was the correct slogan, beyond any shadow of doubt.

At Hampton Court the rain was easing off, and a faint glimmer of moonlight peeped out from between a rift in the clouds. For a Sunday night there was remarkably little traffic. The customary stream of revellers, who make a habit of running down for a final drink at some riverside inn, had apparently been disheartened by the weather, and freed from the usual procession of blinding headlights, she was able to push along at a considerably faster speed than she would otherwise have attempted. The swift motion seemed to be of help in still further steadying her nerves.

It was exactly twenty-past ten by her wrist-watch when she arrived at the crossroads where Sheila had told her to branch off to the left. With only another half-mile to go this meant that she would be in ample time for the appointment. A vision of Sutton's face when he opened the door and discovered that she had taken control of negotiations brought a momentary smile to her lips, and swinging round the corner in the direction of Thames Ferry, she began to keep a watchful look-out for anything in the nature of a side turning.

In a few minutes she caught sight of what appeared to be the entrance to a narrow lane, where a weather-stained signboard bearing the words “To the Towpath” was affixed to an adjacent paling. If her instructions were correct, all she had to do now was to follow this track until it brought her to the bungalow; a distance, according to Sheila, of not more than two or three hundred yards.

Driving forward slowly and carefully, she passed a couple of iron gates flanked by stone pillars, alongside of which stood a small, neatly kept lodge. Not far beyond rose a gloomy-looking belt of trees. As she advanced she discovered that they formed part of a railed-in plantation, some of the bigger branches stretching out over the lane like queer, fantastic shadows. In the fitful gleam of the moon the effect was curiously sinister.

It was not, however, until a green fence backed by a low, steeply pitched roof loomed up out of the darkness that the first real sensation of doubt and mistrust suddenly assailed her. If this were Sunny Bank—and it certainly answered to the description—a more cheerless place, and one that looked less like expecting a visitor, it would certainly have been difficult to imagine. There was not a trace of light anywhere, and the only sound that broke the inhospitable silence was the faint, steady ticking of her own engine.

Taking a torch from her bag, she climbed out of the car and walked across towards the wooden gate opposite. From here a short path led up to the front door, on either side of which was a small, square-shaped window. As she advanced the depressing stillness seemed to become even more pronounced.

With a slight quickening of her pulse she raised her hand to the brass knocker and gave a loud rap. To her surprise, the door immediately swung open. It was exactly like some rather uncanny conjuring trick, and so startling was its effect that for a moment she stood staring stupidly into the vague blackness of what appeared to be a goodish-sized sitting-room. Then, somehow or other, she managed to find her voice.

“Is there anyone here?” she demanded.

No answer was forthcoming, and suddenly remembering her torch, she pulled herself together and switched on the light. At the same instant her throat seemed to tighten, and before she could choke it back a cry of horror broke from her lips.

Directly in front of her, stretched full length beside an overturned table, lay the figure of a man. One arm was flung out at a grotesque angle, and sticking up between his shoulder-blades was a white object that looked like the handle of a knife. The carpet around him was saturated with blood, a long, straggling trickle of which had already worked its way almost to her feet. Its sickly, unmistakable smell permeated the whole bungalow.

A wild panic took possession of her, and with an involuntary movement she clutched blindly at the side of the door. For a moment or two her heart thumped at such a pace that she felt scarcely able to breathe. All she was conscious of was a frantic impulse to get back to the car, coupled with a horrible weakness that seemed to keep her feet glued to the floor.

Then, very slowly, her courage began to return. By a tremendous effort she forced herself to release her hold, and avoiding the dark sticky mess into which she had so nearly blundered, she moved shakily forward to where the body was lying.

The head was twisted slightly askew, exposing one side of the face. As she had expected, the features were those of Granville Sutton; and although only an hour before she had been wishing for his death, the sight of that white distorted mask sent a cold chill creeping through her veins. In some unreasoning way she felt as though she were responsible for what had happened.

She was still battling against this unpleasant sensation when a deep groan made her start violently. Once more the instinct to run away almost overcame her, but by sheer will-power she succeeded in thrusting it aside. Straightening up, she swung round the torch in the direction of the sound, and there in the farther corner, leaning back against the wall, was the huddled shape of a dark-haired young man, who had apparently just struggled up into a sitting position. He was nursing his head between his hands, and blinking at the light in what seemed to be a kind of vacant bewilderment.