Terror Tower Read online

  The cracked bell in the church chimed out two, and as the sound faded away into the darkness of the night a figure came slinking down the empty High Street.

  It moved silently, with no sound of footfall, and might have been a shadow on the mist but for the glowing end of a cigarette that hung from its lower lip.

  Down the slope of the street it went, and vanished in the blackness at the end.

  Apparently it was not the only living thing abroad that night, for shortly after its disappearance other figures, moving as noiselessly as the first, began making their way from all directions towards the place at which the first had vanished.

  This nocturnal activity went on for nearly twenty minutes after the striking of the church clock, and then the streets of the old village became again deserted.

  But the lights no longer glimmered in the windows of the houses where they had before. Darkness now was everywhere. Darkness and the ever thickening mist that rose higher each moment, until at last it even blotted out the tower of Greytower.

  And yet the village was not entirely sleeping.

  At the bottom of the High Street, past the old forge, stood a low-roofed house, half-cottage and half-bungalow. And in the cosy living-room lights were burning brightly.

  Heavy curtains, however, masked the windows, and not a stray ray of light was allowed to penetrate into the misty night.

  It was a very comfortable room, this long low ceilinged apartment, with its polished refectory table and its easy chairs and loungers.

  Lit by shaded petrol-vapour lamps and warmed by the cheerful flames of a coal fire, it was comfortable but rather overcrowded, for there were eight people present.

  Lady Thurley, her sharp eagle-like face turned towards the fire so that the red glow outlined her thin cheeks and high bridge of her rather hooked nose, was seated in a low chair. She was still dressed in black, but a black that was slightly more festive than that which she had worn at the inquest.

  Facing her and smoking a cigarette in a long green holder, sat Mrs. Gordon-Watts, and now it was no longer obscured by a hat her hair showed the dye by which it retained its spurious gold. Her hands were thick and badly shaped, and the red enamel with which her nails were daubed did nothing to add to their beauty. She was dressed in an unnecessarily low-cut evening gown of a hard scarlet that fitted tightly to her plump figure, and on a low table by her side was a glass more than half filled with whisky, to which a very little soda had been added.

  On the rim of it was a crescent-shaped red smear where the crimson of her lips had come off.

  Her husband, his hands in the pockets of his velvet smoking-jacket, was perched on the arm of a deep settee, talking in a low voice to Dr. Grendon, who was sitting leaning back, looking up at him.

  The doctor’s fat face was sullen, his thick lips set in a petulant expression.

  On the other side of the room stood a group of three men, each holding a half-empty glass and carrying on a discussion in the same low tones as their host.

  The thin, almost emaciated Mr. Toogood was doing most of the speaking.

  Linney and Netherton were listening and were occasionally interposing a negative or an affirmative as the occasion demanded.

  Seated on his own was Mr. Japper, his eyes a little glassy and bloodshot, and rather obviously suffering from the influence of too much of the refreshment he dispensed at the Crossed Hands.

  It was not, apparently, a very happy party.

  The two women by the fireplace were silent, each covertly watching the other when she was not being observed, and then pretending that she was looking at something else altogether.

  Suddenly Mr. Japper’s husky voice broke the sibilant whispering that was the only sound in the room.

  ‘He’s late,’ he said thickly.

  Six heads turned towards him, only Lady Thurley remained staring into the fire, and took no notice of the remark.

  ‘Better tell him so,’ snapped Dr. Grendon, eyeing Mr. Japper disfavourably.

  ‘I will,’ answered the landlord of the Crossed Hands. ‘It shows lack of con — con — consideration.’

  He managed with difficulty to get the word out.

  ‘You’re in a fine state, aren’t you?’ said Gordon-Watts disgustedly.

  Mr. Japper shot him a venomous glance.

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘You mind your own business.’

  ‘Let him alone.’ Mrs. Gordon-Watts looked round at her husband and frowned.

  He shrugged his shoulders and continued his muttered conversation with Dr. Grendon.

  It was nearly half-past two by the jade clock on the mantelpiece when there came a soft knocking on the front door.

  The low hum of conversation between Gordon-Watts and the doctor stopped abruptly.

  ‘There he is,’ muttered Grendon, and rose to his feet.

  There was a footfall in the hall and the sound of a door being opened. A short silence, and then a tap on the door of the room in which the eight people were gathered.

  ‘Come in,’ said Mr. Gordon-Watts.

  A short thick-set man, apparently a servant, opened the door and ushered into the room a tall thin figure that wore a soiled mackintosh buttoned up to the throat and beneath the brim of whose hat showed a black expanse of silk.

  The newcomer advanced a few steps into the room, and as the servant closed the door began to speak.

  The voice was low and monotonous, pitched on one note, and sounded curiously inhuman.

  ‘I am late,’ he said briefly, but made no sort of apology, ‘and I can’t stay very long to-night, so let’s get our business over as quickly as possible.’

  Gordon-Watts pulled out a chair by the table, and the man in the mackintosh sat down, making no effort either to remove the hat he was wearing or to undo the closely buttoned coat.

  ‘Let’s hear from you first, Toogood,’ he went on. ‘You got that fellow White all right?’

  The emaciated man nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘it was easy.’

  ‘There was no hitch? Nothing went wrong?’ asked the other quickly.

  Toogood shook his head.

  ‘No, everything went according to plan,’ he said. ‘Smithson phoned me to say he had left London, and we waited for him by the ruined cottage.’

  The masked man gave a grunt of approval.

  ‘What do you want us to do with him?’ asked Toogood. ‘At present I’ve got him at my place.’

  ‘Keep him there for the moment,’ was the reply. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. But I think he may be more useful alive. He’s quite safe where he is; there’s no chance of his getting away?’

  ‘Not a hope,’ said Toogood cheerfully. ‘My house is pretty old. They built cellars well in those days.’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ The eyes behind the slits in the mask glanced keenly round, and fixed themselves on Japper. ‘Japper!’ The voice became harsh and metallic, and Mr. Japper jumped out of the semi-stupor into which he had sunk. ‘What do you mean by coming here in that state?’

  The landlord blinked and passed a stubby hand across his mouth.

  ‘I’m all righ’,’ he muttered thickly.

  ‘You’re as near drunk as doesn’t matter,’ snapped the other. ‘This is the second time you’ve turned up like that, and it’ll be the last. You understand?’

  ‘All righ’,’ growled Japper, but his eyes were angry and his mouth sullen.

  ‘And you can take that look off your face,’ said the masked man. ‘You’ve been drinking too much lately, and men who drink are dangerous. Cut it out — or there’ll have to be a new landlord at the Crossed Hands.’

  Mr. Japper’s heavy flaccid face paled until it looked like a bladder of lard.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he whined shakily. ‘I ’ad one or two extra drinks with the boys —’

  ‘Well, see that it doesn’t happen again,’ snapped the other. ‘We’ve got to be extra careful at the moment. The village is notorious — the very thing
we wanted to avoid.’

  ‘I’m afraid the North business did a lot of harm that way.’ Mr. Netherton passed a well-manicured hand across the top of his head and smoothed down his thin reddish hair. ‘But it was the lesser of two evils; in another second he would have squealed.’

  ‘You did the only thing that was possible,’ agreed the masked man. ‘And while I think of it, somebody must keep Lowe under observation always. You’d better fix that up amongst yourselves. It won’t, I hope, be necessary for long.’

  He turned and looked at Dr. Grendon.

  ‘Tell me,’ he went on, ‘did that woman — North’s wife — commit suicide or didn’t she?’

  ‘She did not,’ answered Grendon slowly.

  ‘I thought it was rather a lucky coincidence. How did you manage to silence her?’

  ‘She had — luckily — taken a dose of veronal to quieten her nerves,’ said Grendon, ‘and when Hartley unlocked the door she was asleep. I saw my chance and took it. I pretended that she was already dead and sent him downstairs. While he was gone I gave her a shot of dope from a syringe I had in my bag.’

  ‘H’m! That was risky,’ remarked the masked man, and Grendon grunted.

  ‘Not so risky as letting her talk,’ he answered. ‘She knew as much as her husband did.’

  ‘Well, the danger has been averted, and that’s something,’ was the reply. ‘What we’ve got to concentrate on now is to avoid any possibility of its recurrence.’

  ‘If you mean taking precautions against any of the men squealing,’ put in Gordon-Watts, ‘I don’t think you need worry. They won’t dare to think of it after what’s happened — it’s done that much good.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of the men,’ said the other. ‘I was thinking of this infernal Lowe fellow. We’ve got to get rid of him. He’s our greatest danger.’

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t be difficult.’ Mrs. Gordon-Watts removed the long holder from her lips and spoke in a soft husky voice. ‘Why not do the same as we did before — with the others?’

  ‘I have already considered that,’ said the man in the mask, ‘and I think that possibly it will be the best way. But if Lowe disappears we must provide some reason for his disappearance. A reason that will prove acceptable to the world in general, otherwise we shall only precipitate what we are so anxious to avoid and bring the police down here like flies.’

  He tapped thoughtfully with his gloved hand on the polished surface of the table.

  ‘Why can we not finish the whole thing?’ broke in the deep voice of Lady Thurley, speaking for the first time. ‘We have made a considerable amount of money. Why tempt fate by going on?’

  ‘Getting cold feet, Elizabeth?’ asked Mrs. Gordon-Watts with a sneer.

  ‘No, merely being sensible,’ retorted the other woman. ‘A pitcher can go too often to the well.’

  Mrs. Gordon-Watts took a long drink of her whisky and set the glass down with a bang.

  ‘There’s no need to start dragging quotations into the matter,’ she said. ‘I, for one, don’t see any reason why we should give up. We may have made money — we have — but it’s got to be split up among so many that we can still do with a lot more. Things are not so terribly desperate, anyway. Nobody suspects any of us; they just think there’s something going on, but they don’t know what, and I don’t see why they ever should know, if we’re sensible.’

  ‘I entirely agree with you.’ The man in the mackintosh shifted round in his chair. ‘To give up now, after the difficulties we have surmounted, would be ridiculous. We have succeeded beyond our original hopes, and there is no doubt that we shall do even better in the future.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lady Thurley, ‘I have merely offered my advice.’

  ‘I don’t require advice,’ snapped the other sharply. ‘We shall continue with our plans.’

  He turned to Gordon-Watts.

  ‘Now let’s get on with the business. You have all the reports for last week?’

  Gordon-Watts nodded and produced a small attaché case. Laying it on the table, he took a bunch of keys from his pocket and unlocked it.

  As he took out a heap of papers and placed them before the man at the head of the table the others gathered round, pulling up their chairs until they were grouped on either side of the oblong strip of polished wood.

  The whole scene was rather reminiscent of a board meeting, with the exception of the masked figure who presided.

  He carefully examined the documents which had been placed before him and for over an hour and a half he talked and issued orders, while the others listened and made occasional notes.

  Presently he collected the papers together and handed them to Gordon-White, who replaced them in the leather case.

  ‘That’s that,’ he remarked, rising to his feet. ‘We shall all meet again at the same time at your house, Mr. Linney, on Monday next. In the meantime, if you wish to communicate anything of importance to me, will you do so in the usual way? Good night!’

  Gordon-Watts accompanied him to the front door, while the others prepared to take their departure.

  ‘Watch that woman Thurley,’ whispered the masked man as Gordon-White half opened the door. ‘She’s getting restive, and she may be dangerous.’

  ‘She dare not do much; she’s too deeply involved herself,’ answered the grey-haired man.

  ‘All the same, watch her,’ said the other, and passed out into the misty night.

  The figure of a man who had been crouching under the window of the living-room straightened up as his footsteps crunched softly on the gravel path and noiselessly began to follow him.

  He followed him as far as a car, which was standing without lights in a lane near the house, watched him get in, and was still watching when the car moved away and vanished in the white fog.

  And when he turned away his face was very grave and thoughtful, for with the help of a small chink in the curtain and a microphone which he had pressed against the glass of the window he had both seen and heard everything that had taken place in the White House that night!

  Chapter Eighteen – A Conference at the Yard

  The Chief Commissioner leaned back in his chair at the head of the long table in the conference room at Scotland Yard and surveyed the men he had summoned to this meeting.

  Three of the four chief constables who each control a different area of London were present — grey-haired elderly men who knew everything there was to be known about police work and who had mostly graduated to their present positions from the ranks — and a scattering of lesser lights in the persons of Chief Inspector Watling and Superintendent Lane — both of the Big Four — Detective Inspector Murley and Detective Sergeant Rawling.

  It was ten o’clock in the morning, and outside over the river the fog hung greyly, making the tugboats hoot monotonously as they warned each other and other craft of their approach.

  It was just possible to see across the wide thoroughfare of the Embankment, but that was all.

  ‘I’ve no doubt, gentlemen,’ began Sir George Chapple, after a preliminary cough, ‘that you have all of you guessed the reason for this conference this morning.’

  He paused and looked from face to face, and one of the chief constables nodded.

  ‘It’s in connection with this increasing outbreak of crime,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘Yes,’ the Chief Commissioner sat forward with a peculiar little jerk and rested his wrists on the edge of the table in front of him ‘I have all the reports here’ — he tapped a pile of bulky folders at his side — ‘and I have been going through them carefully. During the past eighteen months there appears to have been a successful attempt at organised crime on a scale that has not hitherto been known, and a serious attempt must be made to check it.’

  Chief Inspector Watling looked up from the pencil he had been rolling up and down his blotting-pad.

  ‘Are you referring to the increase in the dope traffic, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Not entirely, Chief Inspector,’ answer
ed the Chief Commissioner. ‘I am referring to crime in general. There has, as you know, been a marked increase in the traffic in dangerous drugs. It has been the more marked since we were on the point of stamping it out altogether. We had, or we thought we had until lately, succeeded in preventing opium, cocaine, and similar preparations being illegally imported into this country. But recently somebody has contrived to do this on a large scale, in spite of the vigilance of the police. But that is not all’ — he drew a folder towards him, opened it, and flicked over the typewritten pages it contained. ‘From all over the country there have been complaints of spurious notes in circulation; Bank of England and Treasury notes so skilfully forged that only an expert can detect them from the genuine article. During the past year there has been a succession of large robberies, the perpetrator, or perpetrators of which have so far escaped detection, and in several instances we have become aware of a systematic attempt to levy blackmail upon the most important people in the land. Naturally, we only know the few cases who have had the courage to come forward and make complaints, but there must be a greater number who have suffered, and paid, in silence.’

  ‘You are of the opinion, sir,’ asked Watling, as Sir George stopped speaking, ‘that these things are connected?’

  ‘I am,’ said the Chief Commissioner. ‘I have considered the matter carefully, and I have come to the conclusion that there is an unknown and carefully organised — er — gang at work.’

  ‘You are not suggesting, surely,’ said one of the chief constables, ‘that the master criminal beloved of fiction has made his appearance in real life?’

  Sir George shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I am only suggesting,’ he replied, ‘that this sudden flood of crime is due to systematic organisation. Who is responsible for that organisation I don’t know.’

  ‘There is certainly no doubt, sir,’ put in Superintendent Lane, ‘that this drug traffic is being handled very smartly. I’ve been in charge of the matter and I haven’t been able to find a vestige of a clue as to who is distributing the stuff.’