The Satan Bug

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Eight minutes later the big police Jaguar braked hard to a stop outside Chessingham's house and for the third time in just under twenty-four hours I climbed the worn steps over the dried-out moat and pressed the bell. The General was close behind me; Hardanger was in the radio van, alerting the police of a dozen counties to be on the lookout for Gregori and his Fiat, to identify, follow but not for the present apprehend: Gregori, we felt, wouldn't kill until desperate and we owed Mary at least that slender hope of life.

"Mr. Cavell!" The welcome Stella Chessingham gave me bore no resemblance to the one I had received from her at dawn that morning. The light was back in her eyes, the anxiety vanished from her face. "How nice! I–I'm so sorry about this morning, Mr. Cavell. I mean — it is true what my mother told me after they'd taken him away?"

"It's perfectly true, Miss Chessingham." I tried to smile, but with the way I felt and with my face still aching from the hasty scrubbing away of the now useless disguise before leaving MacDonald's house, I was glad I couldn't see what sort of attempt I'd made at it. As far as our respective positions were concerned, compared to twelve hours ago, the boot was on the other foot now, and with a vengeance. "I am sincerely sorry but it was at the time necessary. Your brother will be released to-night. You saw my wife this afternoon?"

"Of course. It was so sweet of her to come to see us. Won't you and your — um — friend come in to see Mother? She'd be delighted I'm sure."

I shook my head. "What time did my wife leave here?"

"About five-thirty, I should say. It was beginning to get dark and — has something happened to her?" she ended in a whisper.

"She's been kidnapped by the murderer and held as hostage."

"Oh, no! Oh, no, Mr. Cavell, no." Her hand clutched her throat. "It — it's not possible."

"How did she leave here?"

"Kidnapped? Your wife kidnapped?" She stared at me, round-eyed in fear. "Why should anyone want—"

"For God's sake answer my question," I said savagely "Had she hired a car, taxi, bus service — what was it?"

"A car," she whispered. "A car came to pick her up. The man said you wanted to see her urgently…" Her voice trailed away as she realised the implications of what she was saying.

"What man?" I demanded. "What car?"

"A — a middle-aged man," she faltered. "Swarthy. In a blue car. With another man in the back seat. I don't know what kind except that — of course! It was a foreign car, a car with left-hand drive. Has she—"

"Gregori and his Fiat?" the General whispered. "But how in God's name did he know that Mary was out here?"

"Simply by lifting the telephone," I said bitterly. "He knew we were staying at the Waggoner's Rest. He asked for Mary and asked if she was there and that fat fool behind the bar said why no, Mrs. Cavell wasn't there, he himself had just driven her out to Mr. Chessingham's house less than a couple of hours ago. It would be on Gregori's way, so he stopped by to see. He'd everything to gain, nothing to lose."

We didn't even tell Stella Chessingham good-bye. We ran down the steps, intercepted Hardanger changing over from the radio van to the police Jaguar, and almost bundled him into the car. "Alfringham," I said quickly. "The Fiat. He took it after all. I didn't think he would take the chance—"

"He didn't," Hardanger ground out. "Had a report just now. He ditched it in the village of Grayling, not three miles from here, in a side street — and not twenty yards from the local constable's cottage. The constable was just listening to our radio broadcast, lifted his eyes and there it was."

"Empty, of course."

"Empty. He wouldn't have ditched it unless he'd another lined up. An all-station alert is out for stolen cars. It would be stolen in Grayling, hardly more than a hamlet, I understand. We'll soon find out."

We soon found out and it was ourselves that did the finding. Just two minutes later, running into Grayling, we saw a character doing a sort of war dance on the pavement and flagging us down with a furiously waving brief-case of sorts held in his right hand. The Jaguar stopped and Hardanger wound down his window.

"It's monstrous," the man with the brief-case shouted. "Thank God you're here. An outrage, a damnable outrage! In broad daylight—"

"What's the matter?" Hardanger cut in.

"My car. In broad daylight! Stolen, by God! I was just paying a call in this house and—"

"How long were you in there?"

"Eh? How long? What the hell—"

"Answer me!" Hardanger roared.

"Forty minutes. But what—"

"What kind of car?"

"A Vanden Plas Princess 3-litre." He was almost sobbing with rage. "Brand new, I tell you. Turquoise. Three weeks old—"

"Don't worry," Hardanger said curtly. The police Jaguar was already in motion. "We'll get it back for you." He wound up the window, leaving the man standing behind us, open-mouthed, and spoke to the sergeant in front.

"Alfringham. Then the London road. Cancel the call for the Fiat. It's now a turquoise Vanden Plas Princess 3-litre. All stations. Locate, follow, but don't close in."

"Blue-green," the General murmured. "Blue-green, not turquoise. It's policemen you're talking to, not their wives. Half of them would think you were talking about their Christmas dinner."

"It all started with MacDonald," I said. The big police car was hissing along the wet tarmac, the pine trees lining the road cartwheeling back into the pitch darkness behind, and it seemed easier to talk than to sit there going quietly crazy with worry. Besides, the General and Hardanger had been patient long enough. "We all know what MacDonald wanted, and it wasn't just to serve the cause of the Communist world. Dr. MacDonald had only one deeply-felt and abiding interest in life — Dr. MacDonald. No question but that he was a genuine dyed-in-the-wool fellow-traveller at one time — Madame Halle did not strike me as a person who would make a mistake over anything — and I don't see how he could otherwise have formed his contacts with the Communist world. He must have earned a great deal of money over the years — you'd only to look at the contents of his house — but he spent it fairly judiciously and wisely, not splashing it around too much at a time."

"The Bentiey Continental he had," Hardanger said. "Wouldn't you call that splashing it around a bit?"

"He'd that expense well covered, with a water-tight explanation. But," I acknowledged, "he got greedy. He was getting in so much money during the past few months that it was burning a hole in his pockets."

"Working overtime sending samples to Warsaw and information to Vienna?" the General asked.

"No," I said. "Blackmailing Gregori."

"Sorry." The General stirred wearily in his corner seat. "I'm not with you."

"It's not difficult," I said. "Gregori — the man we know as Gregori — had two things: a beautiful plan and a stroke of very bad luck. You will remember that there was nothing sub rosa about Gregori's arrival in this country — it sparked off a minor international crisis, the Italians being hopping mad that one of their top-notch bio-chemists should turn his back on his own country and go to work in Britain. Somebody— somebody with more than a smattering of chemistry and a fairly close resemblance to Gregori — read all about it and saw in Gregori's impending departure for Britain the opportunity of a lifetime and made his preparation accordingly."

"The real Gregori was murdered?" Hardanger asked.

"No question of that. The Gregori who set off from Turin with all his worldly wealth stacked in the back of his Fiat was not the Gregori who arrived in Britain. The original Gregori met with a very permanent accident en route and the impostor, no doubt with a few judicious alterations to his features to make his resemblance to the now dead man even closer, arrived in Britain in Gregori's car complete with clothes, passport, photographs — the lot. So far, so very good."

"Now the bad luck. Apart from the reports of his work, the original Gregori was completely unknown in Britain — as a person, that is. There was probably only one man in Britain who knew him well — and by a one in a million chance Gregori found himself working in the very same laboratory as this man. MacDonald. Gregori didn't know that. But MacDonald did — and knew that Gregori was a fake. Don't forget that MacDonald had for many years been a delegate to the W.H.O. and I'll wager anything you like that the original Gregori held a similar position for Italy."

"Which accounts for the missing photographs in the album," the General said slowly.

"The two of them — MacDonald and the original Gregori — standing arm in arm, no doubt. In Turin. Anyway, probably after weighing up the situation for a day or two, MacDonald told the spurious Gregori that he was on to him. We can guess what happened. Gregori would have produced a gun and said that it was just too bad but that he would have to silence him and MacDonald, nobody's fool, would have produced a piece of paper and said that that would be just too bad because if he died suddenly his bank — or the police— had orders to open immediately a sealed envelope containing a copy of that paper, which would contain a few interesting facts about Gregori. Gregori would then have to put his gun away and they would have made a deal. A one-way deal. Gregori to pay MacDonald so much per month. Or else. Don't forget MacDonald was now in a position to pin a murder rap on Gregori."

"I don't get it," Hardanger said flatly. "It doesn't make sense. Can you imagine the General here having two men working for him on the same project in, say, Warsaw, men who were not only unknown to each other but completely at cross purposes and potentially at each other's throats. I'm afraid, Cavell, that I have a higher opinion of Communist intelligence than you seem to have."

"I agree with Hardanger," the General said.

"So do I," I agreed. "All I said was that MacDonald was working for the Communists. I never once said that Gregori was or that this Satan Bug has anything to do with Communism. It was you and Hardanger who made that assumption."

Hardanger bent forward to see me better. "You mean— you mean that Gregori is just a raving crack-pot after all?"

"If you still believe that," I said nastily, "it's time you had a long holiday. There was a very powerful and pressing reason why Gregori wanted the viruses and I'll stake my life that he told MacDonald what it was. He would have had to ensure his co-operation. If he'd told MacDonald that he just wanted to take off with the botulinus I doubt if MacDonald would have touched the business. But if he'd offered him, say, £10,000, MacDonald would have changed his mind pretty fast, that being the kind of man MacDonald was."

We were fairly into Alfringham now, the big police Jaguar with its siren switched on, doing twice the legal speed limit, dodging in and out among the thinning evening traffic. The driver was an expert, the pick of Hardanger's own London men, and he knew exactly how much he and the car could do without killing the lot of us in the process.

"Stop the car!" Hardanger interrupted me suddenly. "That traffic policeman." We were closing rapidly on Alfringham's one and only set of traffic lights, apparently hand-controlled at what passed for Alfringham's rush hour. A policeman, white cape glistening in the lamp-lit rain, was still standing by a control box attached to a lamp-post. The car stopped, and Hardanger, window wound down, beckoned the man across.

"Superintendent Hardanger, London," he said abruptly. "Did you see a bluish-green Vanden Plas Princess pass this way this evening? An hour ago, slightly less?"

"As a matter of fact I did, sir. He was coming at a fair lick on the amber and I saw he would be on the intersection when it was red. I blew my whistle and he stopped just after he'd passed the second lights. I asked the driver what he thought he was up to and he said his back wheels had locked on the wet road when he tried to brake and when he took his foot off he was frightened to brake again, or brake hard, because his daughter was asleep in the back seat and might have been injured if he'd stopped too suddenly and she'd been flung forward. I looked in the back seat and she was asleep. Sound asleep, even our voices didn't waken her. There was another man beside her. So — so I gave him a warning and waved him on…" His voice trailed away uncertainly.

"Exactly," Hardanger roared. "Now you're realising. Can't you tell the difference between someone sleeping and someone being forced to fake sleep with a gun in her side? She slept on, forsooth," he said fiercely. "You miserable nincompoop, I'll have you drummed out of the Force!"

"Yes, sir." The policeman, eyes staring unseeingly over the roof of the Jaguar, stood at rigid attention, a dead ringer for a guardsman on parade about to collapse with the thumbs still at the seams of the trousers. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Which way did he go?" Hardanger demanded.

"London, sir," the policeman said woodenly.

"It would be too much to expect you to have taken his number, I suppose," Hardanger said with heavy sarcasm.

"xow 973, sir."

"What!"

"xow 973."

"Consider yourself reinstated," Hardanger growled. He wound up the window and we were off again, the sergeant talking softly into the hand microphone. Hardanger said, "Bit rough on him, I suppose. If he had been smart enough to notice anything he'd have been twanging his harp by now instead of playing about with his traffic light buttons. Sorry for the interruption, Cavell."

"It doesn't matter," I said. I was glad of the interruption, glad of anything that would take my mind off Mary, Mary with a killer's gun in her side. "MacDonald — I was speaking of MacDonald. Money mad — but also a pretty shrewd character. Very shrewd — he must be to have survived so long in the espionage racket. He knew the theft of the botulinus — I'm certain Gregori never mentioned his intention of taking the Satan Bug as well — would start off an intensive probing into the past life of all the suspects — those working in number one lab. He may also have suspected that his own espionage activities were liable to start a re-check on all scientists. He knew that all the known details of his life were down on his security record card and he was pretty certain that one or more of those details, the ones referring to his immediate post-war activities, wouldn't stand up to rigorous examination. He knew the security chief, Derry, held those records. He told Gregori that there would be no dice, no co-operation, unless he saw that record first. MacDonald had no intention of being the fall guy in subsequent police investigations."

"So Easton Derry — or what's left of him — lies down in that cellar now," the General said quietly.

"Yes. I'm only guessing now, but they're pretty safe guesses. Apart from the records MacDonald wanted, Gregori also wanted something — the combination of number one lab door which was known only to Derry and Dr. Baxter. I think they arranged for MacDonald to ask Derry to call at his house, saying that he had something of importance to tell him. Derry came, and when he passed through MacDonald's door he was already as good as dead. Gregori, who would have been waiting hidden, gun in hand, saw to it that he did die. First of all they took the keys from him, the keys to the safes in Derry's house where the records were kept: the security chief had always to carry those keys on his person. Then they tried to make him tell the combination of number one lab door. At least, Gregori tried — I don't see MacDonald having any part in this, although he must have known — or seen — what was going on. While Gregori may not be a crackpot, I think he must be some sort of psychopath — a man with a streak of sadistic blood-lust a yard wide. Look what he did to Derry, to the back of Mrs. Turpin's head, not to mention my ribs and hanging MacDonald alive."

"And defeated his own ends," Hardanger said heavily. "He tortured and mutilated Derry so savagely that Derry died before he could talk. It shouldn't be too difficult to find out who this fake Gregori is. A man with his records and techniques is bound to have a record. Given his prints and cephalic index Interpol in Paris will identify him within the hour." He leaned forward, gave instructions to the sergeant.

"Yes," I said. "It won't be hard. But it's not important now. Having killed Derry before he could talk, Gregori had to find another way into number one lab. First of all they searched his house — and I would bet, incidentally, that they searched his private effects also and came across a photograph showing Derry as the best man at a wedding. My wedding. The General is in the photograph too, of course. That's why they kidnapped me, then Mary. They knew. Anyway, they unlocked the safe, abstracted the dicey page from MacDonald's dossier — and had a damned good look at the other dossiers while they were there. They found out about Dr. Hartnell's financial troubles — and decided he could be blackmailed into helping them by acting as decoy from the break-out from Mordon. For, having failed to get the lab combination from Derry, Gregori had to devise a new plan to get the viruses."

"Break-out?" Hardanger frowned. "Break-in, you mean."

"Sorry, break-out." While Hardanger sat there in the semi-darkness in the back of the car looking at me with an expression I didn't much care for, I told him the theory I'd expounded to the General in the early hours of that morning, about how two men had been smuggled into number one lab in crates, one disguised as the criminal 'X', the other as Baxter, both leaving at the normal time and handing in their security tags, while the real 'X' stayed there till eleven o'clock, first killing Baxter with the botulinus toxin, then Clandon with the cyanide butterscotch before breaking out, complete with viruses, through the wire fence.

"Very very interesting," Hardanger said at the end. Professional interest and pique were in voice and face. He said, "My God, and you spoke of Easton Derry playing it too close to the cuff. I suppose you got a kick out of leading me up the garden path, damn you."

"I didn't lead you," I said. "You went by yourself. We were on parallel paths, anyway." I tried to think how, but I couldn't. "The break-through came from you, not me. It was you who had the suspicions about the completeness of MacDonald's dossier."

The car radio crackled suddenly. The owner of the Vanden Plas, a doctor making a call, had gone to the local police station after we had left him and added the interesting fact that his tank had been almost empty. Hardanger curtly ordered sergeant and driver to keep their eyes open for the nearest garage, then turned to me. "Well, go on." He was only half-mollified by my last remark and I didn't blame him any for his annoyance.

"There's not much. Gregori not only found out about Hartnell's entanglements with Tuffnell, the money-lender, but he also made the discovery that Hartnell, as mess secretary, was embezzling mess funds. Don't ask me how. After that—"

"I can tell you," Hardanger broke in. "Too damn late as usual," he added disgustedly. "MacDonald was mess-president in Mordon and finding out the financial trouble Hartnell was in would have made him suspicious. As president, of course, he would have access to the books — and he checked."

"Of course, of course." I was as disgusted as Hardanger. " knew he was president. Just too damn obvious, I suppose. Good, old Cavell. Anyway, after that Hartnell was at his mercy — and knowing from Hartnell's dossier that Hartnell was bound to come under the microscope, he confused things still further by dumping the hammer and pliers used in the breakout in Hartnell's place, smearing some red loam on his moped for good measure. If not Gregori, one of his assistants. Red herring number one. Red herring number two-posing as a mysterious Uncle George he made payments into Chessingham's account weeks in advance of the crime. He knew, of course, that bank accounts would be one of the first subjects of police scrutiny."

"Red herrings," Hardanger said in bitter complaint. "Always those accursed red herrings. Why?"

"To buy time. I'm coming to that."

"And then the two killings in Mordon and the theft of the viruses just as you suggested?" the General said.

"No." I shook my head. "I was wrong on that."

The General looked at me, his face not saying very much but saying a great deal all the same, and I continued, "My idea was that one of the number one lab scientists killed both Dr. Baxter and Clandon. Every single thing pointed unmistakably to that. I was wrong. I had to be wrong. We've checked and re-checked and every single scientist and technician in that lab had an unbreakable alibi for the night of the murder— unbreakable because they were true. Two men were smuggled in all right — maybe even three. I don't know. We do know Gregori must have quite an organisation working for him. Three is possible. Say three. Only one of those men left at the usual knocking-off time — the one disguised as Baxter. The other two remained, but 'X' didn't — he also took off at the normal time and arrived home to establish a nice cosy alibi for himself. 'X', of course, was almost certainly Gregori — MacDonald was a sleeping partner in this business. Gregori may or may not have taken the viruses with him — probably not, in case he was caught in one of the occasional spot-checks. Anyway, he certainly left behind him one botulinus ampoule — and one cyanide coated butterscotch. You will remember that none of us has been happy at the idea of Clandon meekly accepting the butterscotch from a potential suspect in the middle of the night."

"But the botulinus, the cyanide. Why?" the General demanded. "They were completely unnecessary."

"Not the way Gregori saw it. He ordered them to tap Baxter on the head and break open the virus ampoule as they left. Once outside the lab one of them probably acted as decoy while Clandon, who had been watching the corridor from the house, came haring across gun in hand. While he pointed his gun at one of the men the other appeared from behind and took his gun off him. They then forced the cyanide butterscotch into his mouth. God alone knows what Clandon thought it was: he was dead before he could find out."

"The fiends," the General murmured. "The ruthless fiends."

"All done to give the impression that the killer was known to both Baxter and Clandon. And it certainly worked. The third major red herring and it put us completely on the wrong track. Buying time, always buying time. Gregori has a genius for deception. He fooled me, too, about the first phone call that was made to London at ten o'clock last night. He made it himself. Red herring number heaven knows what."

"Gregori phoned?" Hardanger looked at me, hard. "He had an alibi for the time the call was made. You checked personally. Typing a book, or something."

"You can't beat Cavell when it comes to hind-sight," I said sourly. "The sound of a man typing undoubtedly came from his room. He'd pre-recorded it on tape and switched on the recorder before he left via his ground-floor window. There was a peculiar smell in his room and a pile of white ashes in the fireplace when I visited him in his rooms in the early hours of this morning. The remains of the tape."

"But why all the red herring—" Hardanger began, when the voice of the sergeant in the front seat cut in.

"Here's a garage now."

"Pull in," Hardanger ordered. "Make inquiries."

We pulled off the highway, the driver switching on his police siren. A noise to waken the dead but it didn't waken up the filling-station attendant on duty. The sergeant up front didn't hesitate. He was outside and into the brightly lit office within five seconds of our skidding to a halt. He came out almost immediately afterwards and disappeared round the back of the filling-station, and that was enough for me. I piled out of the back seat, Hardanger at my heels.

We found the attendant in a garage at the back of the station. He had been expertly bound and gagged by someone who had not stopped to consider the price of Scotch tape. The same someone, for good measure, had also cracked him over the back of the head with something heavy, but: the attendant had recovered from that — more accurately he had regained consciousness — by the time we got to him.He was a burly middle-aged character, and what was probably a normally red face anyway was crimson from rage and his struggles to free himself.

We cut the tape round wrists and ankles, pulled it none too gently off his face and helped him to a sitting position.He had some highly homicidal observations to make and even in our desperate urgency we had to allow him that, but after a few seconds Hardanger cut in sharply.

"Right. That'll be enough. The man who did this is a murderer on the run and we're police officers. Every second you sit and curse increases his chances of escaping. Tell us about it, quick and sharp."

The attendant shook his head. I didn't have to be a doctor to tell that he was still pretty groggy. He said, "A man, middle-aged, swarthy-looking character, came in here for petrol. Half past six, it was. He asked—"

"Half past six," I interrupted. "Only twenty minutes ago. Are you sure?"

"I'm certain," he said flatly. "He'd run out of petrol for his car, a mile, maybe two back, and he must have been hurrying some for he was pretty much out of breath. He asked me for a gallon in a can and when I turned to find one he let me have it over the head. When I came to I was in the garage in the back and tied as you saw me. I didn't let on I was conscious. The first thing I saw was another man with a gun pointing at a girl — a blonde. The other guy, the bloke who had crowned me, was just backing the boss's car out of the door and——"

"Make, colour and licence number of the car?" Hardanger snapped. He got them, and went on, "Stay here. Don't move around. That's a nasty crack. I'll radio the Alfringham police and there'll be a car out here pretty soon." Ten seconds later we were on our way, leaving the attendant holding his head and staring after us.

"Twenty minutes," I said, half listening to the sergeant speak rapidly and urgently into the telephone. "They'd have lost time pushing the car off the road to fox us, then they had a long walk to the garage. Twenty minutes."

"They've had it," Hardanger said confidently. "There's a half-dozen police cars patrolling in the next thirty miles or so and they know those roads as only local county policemen do. And once one of those cars gets on Gregori's tail— well, he'll never shake them off."

"Tell them to set up road-blocks," I said. "Tell them to stop him at all costs."

"Are you mad?" Hardanger said shortly. "Are you out of your mind, Cavell? Do you want your wife killed? Damn you, you know he'll use her as a living shield. As it is, she's safe. Gregori hasn't seen a policeman — except that fellow on traffic duty — since he left MacDonald's house. He'll be half-believing now that we have called off the search. Can't you see that, man?"

"Road-blocks," I repeated. "Set up road-blocks. Where are the cars going to tail him to — the heart of London? Where he's going to release his damn botulinus. Once in London they'll lose him, they're bound to lose him. Don't you see, he has to be stopped somewhere? If he's not, if he's let loose in London—"

"But you yourself agreed—"

"That was before I knew for sure that he was headed for London."

"General," Hardanger appealed. "Can't you make Cavell…"

"She's my only child, Hardanger, and an old man shouldn't be asked to decide life or death for his only child," the General said tonelessly. "You know as well as any man what I think of Mary." He paused, then went on in the same level voice. "I agree with Cavell. Please do as he suggests."

Hardanger swore bitterly under his breath and leaned forward to speak to the sergeant. When he had finished, the General said calmly, "While we're waiting, my boy, you might fill in a few remaining pieces in the jig-saw. I'm in no condition to fill them in for myself. The question the superintendent is always coming up with. The red herrings. All those red herrings. Why?"

"To buy time." I was in no condition to fill in jig-saws myself, but what was left of my mind was still working just well enough to appreciate the reason behind the request— to try to take our minds off the car in front, the trapped and terrified girl at the mercy of ruthless and sadistic killers, to reduce the tearing anxiety, to ease the destructive tension that was slowly pulling tired minds and bodies to pieces. I went on, fumbling along mentally, "Our friend in the car up front had to buy time. The more false leads we followed and the more blind alleys we blundered into — and there were plenty — the more time it would take us to get around to inquiring in the really dangerous places. He overestimated us, but for all that we moved faster than he bad expected — don't forget that it's only forty hours since the crime was discovered. But he knew that sooner or later we would get around to making inquiries in the one place he feared — MacDonald's. He knew he might have to dispose of MacDonald sooner or later. And the later the better for within a few hours of MacDonald's death a sealed envelope in a bank or police-station would be opened and then we'd be on to him like an express train. Whatever Gregori's ultimate intentions are he would obviously have preferred to carry those out while still a respectable member of the Alfringham community instead of a wanted murderer on the run from half the police in Britain."

"It's difficult to threaten the Government — and the nation — with the law breathing down the back of your neck," the General conceded. The old man's detachment, his iron control, was almost more than human. "But why did MacDonald have to die?"

"Because of two things. Because he knew what Gregori's ultimate end was and if MacDonald had lived to tell it, all his, Gregori's, plans would have been ruined. And because of Mrs. Turpin. MacDonald was a pretty tough character and he might not have talked even when the police got on to him — after all, although he almost certainly had no hand in any killing, he was pretty deep in the mire himself. But Mrs. Turpin would have made him talk — if not, she'd have talked herself. Madame Halle gave me to understand in Paris that MacDonald was pretty much of a philanderer — and philanderers don't change their ways easily. Not before eighty, anyway. Mrs. Turpin was a good-looking woman — and her fiercely protective attitude towards MacDonald was a dead giveaway. She was in love with him — whether he was with her I couldn't guess and it doesn't matter. If things had gone wrong she'd have had MacDonald turn Queen's evidence and lower the boom on Gregori by betraying his plans. I think, his evidence might have been so important, so vastly important, that either she or MacDonald or both would be convinced that at the most MacDonald would have received no more than a light sentence. With all hopes of his money from Gregori gone, I don't think MacDonald would have hesitated between turning Queen's evidence — if it was important enough he might even have received a free pardon — and being held as an accessory to murder for gain, which still calls for a walk to the gallows in this country. And if he had," I hesitated, "Mrs. Turpin would have made up his mind for him. My guess — it's only a guess but we can check at Mordon — is that Mrs. Turpin phoned MacDonald at the lab immediately after I had left and that Gregori either overheard or was told what had happened. He probably accompanied MacDonald home to see how the land lay — and it didn't take him a couple of minutes to find out. The heat was on MacDonald and that could have been fatal for Gregori. To prevent that, Gregori had to make it fatal for MacDonald and Mrs. Turpin."

"All neatly buttoned up, eh?" Hardanger said.His face was dead-pan, he was still a fair way from forgiving me.

"Net tightened and completely closed," I agreed. "The only trouble is that the big fish has already escaped and what's left is useless. But one thing we know. We can forget all this rubbish about demolishing Mordon. If that was Gregori's plan it wouldn't have helped or hindered him in the execution of it if MacDonald had talked, for the whole country knew of it already. Whatever it is is something on a much bigger, much more important scale, something that might have been foiled, probably would have been foiled had we known of it in advance."

"Such as what?" Hardanger demanded. "You tell me. I'm done with guessing for the day." And I was through with guessing and talking for the day, except when necessity absolutely demanded it. Slumped back in the warmth and comfort of the deeply-cushioned seats, reaction was beginning to set in. The anaesthetising effect of the need for non-stop action and urgent thinking was beginning to wear off, and the more it wore off the older and more worn I felt. And the more pain. I thought of the widely-held belief that you can't feel more than one pain at one time and wondered what misinformed idiot had started that one. I wondered what part of me was causing me the most pain, my foot, my ribs or my head, and came to the conclusion that my ribs won, by a short head. Was that a pun? The driver was reaching over ninety on the longer stretches of wet road, but he drove so smoothly and skilfully that even with my fear and anxiety for Mary I think I was beginning to doze off when the loudspeaker up front began to crackle.

First came the identification sign then the message, "Grey Humber saloon, answering description of wanted car, number not identified, has just turned left from London road to 'B' road to avoid block at Flemington cross-road, two and a half miles east of Crutchley. Am following."

"Flemington cross-roads." The voice of the sergeant in the front seat, an Alfringham man, held a rising note of excitement. "He's on a blind road. It doesn't lead anywhere except to Flemington and then back on to the main London road about three miles farther on again."

"How far are we from what's the name of the place — Crutchley?" Hardanger demanded.

"Near enough four miles, sir."

"So that would make it between nine and ten miles to the junction where Gregori must rejoin the main London road. This side road through Flemington, the one he's on. How long is it, how long would it take him?"

"Five or six miles, sir. It's pretty twisty. Maybe ten minutes if he kept his foot down and took chances all the way. The road is full of blind corners."

"Do you think you could get there in ten minutes?" Hardanger asked the driver.

"I don't know, sir." He hesitated. "I don't know the road."

"I do," the sergeant said confidently. "He'll make it."

He made it. The rain was sluicing vertically down, me roads were slippery, straight stretches were at a premium and I think we all added a few more grey hairs to our quota that night, but he made it. He made it with time to spare. From the constant stream of reports pouring in from police cars pursuing Gregori it was quite evident that the man at the wheel was anything but a skilful driver.

Our car braked to a halt, parked broadside on across the Flemington road, completely blocking the exit on to the main London road. We all climbed quickly out of the car while the sergeant trained the powerful roof spotlight up the side road in the direction from which Gregori's stolen Humber would appear. We took up position in the pouring rain behind the Jaguar and, as a precaution, about ten feet back from it.

In that blinding rain a misted windscreen or ineffective wipers could prevent the driver of a car travelling at high speed from seeing the Jaguar until it was too late. Especially if the driver was as incompetent as claimed,

I took a good look around me. Dick Turpin couldn't have chosen a better spot for an ambush. The top and one side of the right-angle T junction were completely covered in dense beech woods. The third side of the T, illuminated by the still blazing headlights of the Jaguar, was open pastureland with a tree-lined farmhouse about two hundred yards away, and at less than half that distance, a barn and scattered farm-buildings. I could just make out a light from one of the windows in the farmhouse, blurred and misty through the heavy rain.

There was a deep ditch on one side of the Remington road and I considered hiding myself there about the point where Gregori's car would be forced to pull up, then rising and heaving a heavy rock through the driver's window thereby eliminating fifty per cent of the opposition before they could even start anything. The only trouble was that I might also eliminate Mary — the fact that she hadn't been in the front seat when Gregori had passed through Alfringham was no guarantee that she wasn't there now. I decided to stay where I was.

Over the sound of the rain hissing whitely on the tarmac and drumming heavily on the roof of the car, we could suddenly hear the steadily rising note of an engine being revved up furiously and far from skilfully through the gears. Seconds later we caught sight of the first white wash of its headlights, the barred beams shining eerily through the boles of the beeches and the pale rods of rain. We dropped to our knees behind the shelter of the police Jaguar and I eased out the Hanyatti, slipping the safety catch.

Then all at once, to the accompaniment of a high-pitched grating of gears and mad revving of the engine what wouldn't have got its driver very far at Le Mans, the car was round the last corner and heading straight for us. We could hear it accelerating as it came out of the corner, just over a hundred and fifty yards away: then came the abrupt cessation of engine noise succeeded almost immediately by the unmistakable tearing hissing sound of locked wheels sliding on a wet road. I could see the headlight beams of the approaching car swing wildly from one side to the other as the driver fought to retain control and I instinctively tensed waiting for the crash and the shock as the car ploughed into the side of the Jaguar blocking its path.

But the crash and the shock did not come. Owing everything to good luck and nothing whatsoever to good management, the driver managed to pull up less than five feet from the Jaguar, in the middle of the road and slewed only very slightly to the left. I straightened and walked up to the side of the police Jaguar, my eye screwed almost shut against the glare of the Humber's headlights. Sharply outlined though I was in that blinding wash of light, I doubted whether the occupants of the car could see me — the spotlight on the roof of the Jaguar was a powerful one and shining directly into Gregori's windscreen.

I'm no Annie Oakley with a gun but at a distance of ten feet and a target the size of a soup-plate I can hold my own with the worst. Two quick shots and the headlights of the Humber shattered and died. I walked round the front of the Jaguar, the others following, as a second car — the pursuing police car — pulled up behind Gregori's. I was still rounding the nose of the Jaguar when the two right hand doors of the stolen car were flung wide and two men scrambled quickly out. For one second and one second only I had the game in my hands, I could have gunned them both down where they stood and the fact that I would have had to shoot one of them through the back wouldn't have worried me at all, but like a fool I hesitated and was slow in bringing up my gun and then the second was gone and so was my last chance, for Mary was out of the car now, jerked out with a brutal violence that made her gasp in pain, and was held in front of Gregori while his gun pointed at me directly over her right shoulder. The other man was a squat broad-shouldered and very tough-looking Latin type with a pistol the size of a sawn-off cannon held in his hairy left hand. His left hand, I noticed. It had been a left-handed man who had used the wire-cutters to break out of Mordon. Here, probably, was the killer of both Baxter and Clandon. Nor had I any doubt but that he was the killer, when you've seen enough of them you recognise one instantly. They may look as normal, as happily innocuous, as the next man, but always, far back in the eyes, lies the glint of empty madness. It's not something they have, it's something they don't have. This was such a man. And Gregori? Another? He was the same Gregori as I'd ever known, tall, swarthy, with grizzled hair and a quizzical expression on his face but at the same time a completely different man. He no longer wore his glasses.

"Cavell." His voice was soft, colourless, conversational almost. "I had the chance to kill you weeks ago. I should have taken it. Negligence. I have known of you for a long time. I was warned of you. I didn't listen."

"The boy friend," I said. My own gun was hanging by my side and I stared at the barrel in that hairy left hand: it pointed straight at my left eye. "Left-handed. The killer of Baxter and Clandon."

"Indeed." Gregori tightened his grip round Mary. Her fair hair was wildly dishevelled, her face streaked with mud and there was the beginning of an unpleasant bruise above her right eye — she must have tried a breakaway on the walk between abandoned car and garage — but she wasn't scared much or if she was she was hiding it. "I was rightly warned. Henriques, my — lieutenant. He is also responsible for some other slight accidents, aren't you, Henriques? Including the slight damage to yourself, Cavell."

I nodded. It made sense. Henriques the hatchet-man. I looked at the hard bitter face and the empty eyes and I knew Gregori was telling the truth. Not that that made Gregori any more innocent. It just made him more understandable; master criminals of Gregori's class almost never touched the physical side of their business.

Gregori glanced quickly at the two policemen who had come out of the pursuing car and gave Henriques a quick jerk of the head. Henriques swung his gun and lined it up on the two policemen. They stopped. I lifted my own gun and took a pace nearer Gregori.

"Don't do it, Cavell," Gregori said evenly. He pressed the muzzle of his gun into Mary's side with such violence that she moaned with the pain of it. "I won't hesitate to kill."

I took another step forward. Four feet separated us. I said, "You won't harm her. If you do, I'll kill you. You know that. God only knows what it is that you have at stake, but it's something almighty big to justify all the work and planning you've put in, the killing you've done. Whatever that is, you haven't achieved it yet. You wouldn't throw it all away just by shooting my wife, would you, Gregori?"

"Take me away from this horrible man, Pierre," Mary murmured. Her voice was low and not steady. "I–I don't care what he does."

"He won't do anything, my dear," I said quietly "He doesn't dare to. And he knows it."

"Quite the little psychologist, aren't you?" Gregori said in the same conversational tone. Suddenly, completely unexpectedly, his back braced against the side of the car, he sent Mary catapulting towards me with a vicious thrust of both arms. I broke ground to lessen the impact, staggered back two steps before steadying us both and by the time I'd put her to one side and was bringing my gun up again Gregori was holding something in his outstretched hand. A glass ampoule with a blue sealed top. In the other hand he held the steel flask from which he'd just abstracted it. I looked at Gregori's impassive face then back at the ampoule in his hand and I could feel the sudden moisture between my palm and the butt of the Hanyatti.

I turned my head and looked at the General, Hardanger and the two policemen behind me — both the General and Hardanger, I saw, with heavy pistols in their hands — faced front again and looked at the other two policemen under Henriques' gun. I said slowly and distinctly, "Don't do anything, anybody. That ampoule in Gregori's hand contains the Satan Bug. You've all read the papers to-day. You all know what will happen if that glass breaks."

They all knew, all right. We'd have made the figures in any waxworks look like characters with the St. Vitus's dance doing the Twist. How long would it be, Gregori had said yesterday, before all life in Britain would become extinct if that refined polio virus escaped? I couldn't remember. But not long. It didn't matter much, anyway.

"Correct," Gregori said calmly. "The crimson top for the botulinus virus, the blue top for the Satan Bug. When Cavell was gambling with his wife's life just now there was an element of bluff involved. I would beg you to believe that I am not bluffing. To-night I hope to achieve something that I have set my heart on." He paused and looked at us all individually, his eyes glittering emptily in the glare of the police searchlight. "If I am not permitted to go unmolested then I cannot achieve this object and have little wish to prolong this life of mine. I shall then smash this ampoule. I would beseech you all to believe that I am in the most complete and deadly earnest."

I believed him implicitly. He was as mad as a hatter. I said, "Your lieutenant. Henriques. How does he feel about your casual attitude towards his life?"

"I have once saved Henriques from drowning and twice from the electric chair. His life is mine to dispose of as I see fit. He understands that. Besides, Henriques is a deaf mute."

"You're insane," I said harshly. "You told us yesterday that neither fire nor ice, seas nor mountains, can stop the spread of the Satan Bug."

"I believe that to be essentially correct. If I have to go it matters nothing to me if the rest of mankind accompanies me."

" But—" I paused. "Good God, Gregori, no sane man, not even the most monstrous criminal in history, would ever dream of such, of such— In the name of heaven, man, you can't mean it."

"It may be that I am not sane," he said.

I didn't doubt it. Not then. I watched him, gripped with fear and fascination such as I had never known, as he handled the ampoule carelessly then stooped swiftly and laid it on the wet road, under the sole of his left shoe. The left heel was still on the ground. I wondered briefly if a couple of heavy slugs from the Hanyatti would drive him over backwards, jerking his foot off the ampoule, but the thought died as it came. A madman could juggle carelessly with the lives of his fellow-men, but I had no justification of madness. Even had there been only one chance in ten million of being executioner instead of keeper, I could never have taken it.

"I have tested those ampoules in the laboratory — empty ones, I need hardly say," Gregori went on conversationally, "and have discovered that a pressure of seven and a half pounds is sufficient to shatter them. Incidentally, I have taken the precaution of providing concentrated cyanide tablets for Henriques and myself: death from the Satan Bug, as we have observed from experiments on animals, is rather more prolonged than death from botulinus and most distressing. You will each come forward one at a time and hand me your guns, butt foremost, at arm's length. You will take the greatest care to do nothing that might upset my balance, so transferring my weight to my left foot. You first, Cavell."

I reversed the gun and handed it to him slowly and deliberately at the full extent of my arm, taking excruciating care indeed not to upset his balance. Our complete defeat, the fact that this madman and murderer would now escape and almost certainly achieve what evil and desperate ends he had in mind, just didn't matter a single solitary damn then. The only thing that mattered was that Gregori's balance should not be in the slightest upset.

One by one we all handed our guns over to him. After that he ordered us all to line up while Henriques, the deaf mute, passed along behind us searching swiftly and skilfully for further weapons. He found none. Then, and not until then, did Gregori carefully remove his foot from the ampoule, stoop, pick it up and slide it back inside its steel jacket.

"I think conventional weapons will serve us now," he said pleasantly. "One is so much less liable to make mistakes of a — well — a permanent nature." He picked up two of the guns that Henriques had piled on the bonnet of the Humber, checked that the safety catches of both were off. He beckoned to Henriques and spoke rapidly to him. It was a weird sight — because there was no sound — Gregori doing his speaking with exaggerated lip movements, in complete silence. I know a little lip-reading but could make out nothing: possibly he talked in a foreign language, not French or Italian. He stopped speaking and Henriques nodded comprehension, looking at us with a queer anticipation in his eyes. I didn't like the look one bit: Henriques struck me as altogether a very nasty piece of work. Gregori pointed one of his guns at the two policemen who had been in the pursuing car.

"Off with your uniforms," he said curtly. "Now!"

The policemen looked at each other and one said through clenched teeth, "I'll be damned if I will!"

"You'll be dead if you don't, you fool," I said sharply. "Don't you know what kind of men you are dealing with? Take it off."

"I won't take my clothes off for any man." He swore bitterly.

"It's an order!" Hardanger barked savagely, urgently. "It won't give him much more trouble to remove your uniforms when there is a bullet between your eyes. Take it off," he finished with slow and heavy emphasis.

Reluctantly, sullenly, the two officers did as they were told and stood there shivering in the cold heavy rain. Henriques collected the uniforms and threw them into the police Jaguar.

"Who operates the short-wave radio in this Jaguar?" Gregori said next. I felt as if somebody had run a skewer through my middle and given it a twist: but I had been expecting it, all the same.

"I do," the sergeant admitted.

"Good. Get through to headquarters. Tell them that you have taken us and are proceeding to London. Tell them to call all police cars in the area back to their stations — except, of course, those on routine patrol duties."

"Do as he says," Hardanger said wearily. "I think you're too intelligent to try any fancy stuff, Sergeant. Exactly as he says."

So the sergeant did exactly as he was told. He didn't have much option, not with the muzzle of one of Gregori's pistols grinding into his left ear. When he had finished, Gregori nodded his satisfaction.

"That will do very well." He watched Henriques climb into the stolen Humber. "Our car and the one belonging to our two shivering friends here will be driven into the woods and their distributors smashed for good measure. They won't be found before dawn. With the search called off, the other police car and those two uniforms we should have little trouble in clearing this area. Then we switch cars." He looked regretfully at the Jaguar. "When your H.Q. catch on to the fact that you are missing this car is going to become very hot property indeed. That leaves only the problem of what to do with you."

He waited until Henriques had disposed of both cars, gazing out with empty disinterest under the dripping brim of fedora, then said, "Is there a portable searchlight in this Jaguar? I believe such equipment is standard. Sergeant?"

"We have a battery-powered light in the boot," the sergeant said stolidly.

"Get it." Gregori's eyes and mouth crinkled into a smile, the kind of smile a tiger trapped in the bottom of a pit shows when the man who dug the hole trips and falls in beside him. "I can't shoot you, though I wouldn't hesitate if that house were not so near. I won't try tapping you all on the head because I doubt if you would submit quietly to that. I can't tie you up for I'm not in the habit of carrying on me sufficient ropes and gags to immobilise and silence eight people. But I suspect that one of those farm buildings there will offer all I require in the way of a temporary prison. Sergeant, switch off the car headlamps and then lead the way with your light to those buildings. The rest will follow in double file. Mrs. Cavell and I will bring up the rear. The gun in my hand will be pressed against her back and should any of you try to run for it or otherwise cause trouble I shall merely pull the trigger."

I didn't doubt him. None of us doubted him.

The farm buildings were deserted — of human life, that was. From the byre I could hear the moving and slow champing of the cows, but the evening milking was over. Gregori passed up the byre. He passed up the dairy, a stable now converted to a tractor shed, a large concreted pig-sty and a turnip shed. He hesitated over the barn and then found exactly what he wanted. I had to admit that it certainly suited his purpose.

A long narrow stone building with head-high embrasured windows that made one instinctively look for the crenellated battlements above, it looked more like an old-time private chapel than anything else: its true function couldn't have been more different. It was a cider house, with a heavy old-fashioned oaken press at the far end, one long wall lined with duckboard shelving for apples, the other with bunged casks and covered vats of freshly made cider. The door, like the press, was made of solid oak and once the drop-bar on the outside was in position it would have taken a battering-ram to break it down.

We'd no battering ram, but we'd even better, we had desperation, resource and, between us all, a fair amount of intelligence. Surely Gregori wasn't so crazy as to think that that cider house could hold us indefinitely? Surely he wasn't so crazy as to think that our shouts wouldn't be heard eventually either by passers-by on the road or the occupants of the farm itself, not much more than a hundred yards away? With a sudden dread conviction and heart-chilling finality that momentarily paralysed all reasoning I knew that Gergori was indeed not that crazy. He knew we would be making no assaults on the door, he knew we wouldn't be shouting out for help because he knew beyond all question that none of us would ever be leaving the cider-house again except on a bier and covered by a blanket. Somebody with super-chilled icicles in lieu of fingers started playing Rachmaninoff up and down my spinal column.

"Get to the far end and stay there while I lock the door from the outside," Gregori ordered. "Time does not permit of elaborate farewell speeches. Twelve hours from now when I've shaken the dust of this accursed country from my feet for the last time, I shall think of you all. Good-bye."

I said steadily, "No magnanimous gestures towards a defeated enemy?"

"You beg, Cavell. I have time for one little thing more, time for the man who cost me so much, so nearly ruined all my plans." He stepped forward, jammed the automatic he held in his left hand into my stomach and with the sights of the pistol he held in his right deliberately and viciously raked both sides of my face. I felt the skin tearing in thin lines of white-hot pain and the warm blood trickling down cold cheeks. Mary said something unintelligible in a high voice and tried to run to me, but Hardanger caught her in powerful arms and held her till her futile struggles ceased. Gregori stepped back and said, "That is for beggars Cavell."

I nodded. I didn't even raise my hands to my face, anyway he couldn't have disfigured it much more than it had been before. I said, "You might take Mrs. Cavell with you."

"Pierre!" Mary's voice was a sob, anguish in it, a cruelly hurt and stricken despair. "What are you saying!" Hardanger swore, softly and viciously, and the General looked at me in dumb incomprehension.

Gregori stood very still, dark expressionless eyes looking emptily into mine. Then he gave a queer little duck of the head and said, "It is my turn to beg. Forgive me. I did not know that you knew. I hope when my turn comes—" He broke off and turned to Mary. "It would be wrong. A beautiful child. I am not, Cavell, devoid of all human sentiment, at least not where women and children are concerned. For instance, the two children I was forced to abduct from Alfringham Farm have already been released and will be with their parents within the hour. Yes, yes, it would be wrong. Come, Mrs. Cavell."

She came instead to me and touched my face lightly. "What is it, Pierre?" she whispered. No reproach in her voice, only love and wonder and compassion. "What is so wrong?"

"Good-bye, Mary," I said. "Dr. Gregori doesn't like to be kept waiting. I'll see you soon." She made to speak again, but Gregori had her by the arm, already leading her towards the door while the deaf mute, Henriques, watched us with mad eyes and a pistol in either hand, and then the door closed, the heavy bar dropped solidly into place and we were left there staring at each oilier by the light of the spot-lamp which still burned whitely on the floor.

"You lousy filthy swine," Hardanger ground out savagely. "Why—"

"Shut up, Hardanger!" My voice was low, urgent, desperate. "Spread out. Watch those embrasures, the windows. Quickly! For God's sake, hurry!"

I think there was something in my voice that would have moved an Egyptian mummy. Quickly, silently, the seven of us started to space out. I whispered, "He's going to throw in something through a window. He's going to throw in an ampoule of the botulinus toxin. Any second." I knew it would take moments only for him to unscrew the top of the steel flask that held the ampoule. "Catch it. You must catch it. If that ampoule hits the floor or the wall we're all dead men."

Even as I finished, we heard a sudden movement outside, the shadow of an arm fell across the side of an embrasure and something came spinning into the room. Something that glittered and flashed in the light from the lamp on the floor. Something made of glass, with a red seal on top. A botulinus ampoule.

It came so swiftly, so unexpectedly and thrown at such a deliberately downward angle that no one had a chance. It spun across the room, struck at the precise junction of stone wall and stone floor and shattered into a thousand tinkling fragments.