The Tick of Death (6 page)

Devlin had been right when he said Malone lived in style. The bedroom in which Cribb found himself was half as large again as any hotel-room he had been in before. He felt the pile of the carpet respond to the weight of his feet as he got up from the window-sill and crossed to an enamelled ash tallboy. The drawers contained clothes—collars, shirts and under-garments—and nothing to interest Scotland Yard. He tried the wardrobe and found two suits and an overcoat. The pockets were empty except for handkerchiefs.

He crossed to the bathroom. The luxury extended there in a gleaming chrome and enamel hot water geyser and a flawless white galvanised bath, but Cribb’s attention was claimed at once by a bottle on the shelf over the wash-basin. It contained a purple-coloured liquid. He removed the top and sniffed it: methylated spirit, without any doubt at all. He sniffed it again for pure relish—the virtual confirmation that Malone was the man Thackeray had met in
The Feathers
in Rotherhithe. And beside it on the shelf was a box containing an ivory-handled manicure-set.

There was one more room to examine: the sitting room. It bore more traces of its tenant than the others, a pile of copies of
The Irish Post
on a table beside a decanter of whisky; a number of books, including the
London Directory,
and a collection of sporting impedimenta—Indian clubs, chest-expanders, even two throwing-hammers—stacked in a corner of the room from which all furniture and ornaments had been cleared, evidently to provide a small gymnasium.

Cribb bent to examine one of the hammers, an item of personal luggage unlikely to be tolerated in less exclusive hotels, he thought, particularly when it belonged to a whisky-drinking Irishman. On picking it up, he was surprised to find it lighter in weight than the hammers he had handled at Lillie Bridge. There was half a stone difference, at least. As he turned it over thoughtfully in his hand, he noticed a join midway along the wooden handle. He twisted the two halves away from each other and felt them give, and unscrew. They were hollow. Inside, were four glass tubes he recognised at once as detonators. It might have been a throwing-hammer he was holding, but it was also an infernal machine. He did not need to prise open the head to know that it was stuffed with dynamite.

The moment when a man discovers that the object in his hands is a bomb is not the best to take him by surprise. It says much for Cribb’s cool-headedness that he did not drop the ‘hammer’ altogether at the sound of the lock turning in the door of the room. He swung round, still reassembling the handle, prepared to point out that any shot that felled him would surely account for his attacker too, and watched the door open. A young girl, not more than fifteen years old, marched boldly in, carrying a pillow-case.

‘Oops! I’m sorry, sir! Thought you was out. I’m only the chambermaid, wanting to turn back the sheet on your bed.’

Cribb nodded. ‘You carry on, young lady. Don’t mind me. Just taking my daily exercise. I was about to go out, anyway.’

She bobbed a small, blushing curtsey and scuttled through to the bedroom. Cribb replaced the hammer in its original position and moved just as quickly out of suite 206 and into the corridor. Stopping only to retrieve his hat and coat, he located the main staircase and passed rapidly downstairs, heartily relieved when he reached the bottom without meeting Malone coming up, but retaining sufficient presence of mind to raise his hat to the receptionist as he crossed the foyer. He had done it, by Heaven! Single-handed, he had run a dynamiter to earth within hours of being assigned to the case. Inspector Jowett was due for the surprise of his career!

He hailed a four-wheeler that had appeared in the square. ‘Great Scotland Yard,’ he told the cabman. ‘Make haste, man. Important business. Double fare!’

He climbed inside, sat down and found that he was not alone. Devlin was sitting opposite him. There was a gun in his hand directed at Cribb’s chest.

CHAPTER
6

THE WINDOWS ON THE right were covered. Devlin leaned forward and pulled down the blinds on the left without shifting gaze or aim from Cribb. A small rear window some six inches square admitted sufficient light for the two men to see each other, but it was impossible for Cribb to follow which direction the cab was taking without turning in his seat and craning for a view, a manoeuvre he decided in the circumstances not to attempt.

‘Now, Mister,’ said Devlin, as the cab began to move, ‘I’ll thank you to remove your jacket and waistcoat and put them on the seat here beside me. I shan’t hesitate to shoot if you try anything irregular.’

Was
there anything more irregular than disrobing in a public carriage? Cribb obeyed without comment, leaving his top hat conspicuously in position. He wanted there to be no misunderstanding of his movements. Devlin had the look of a man who was not bluffing; he checked the pockets of each surrendered garment with his left hand, but the gun in his right remained steady.

‘I’ll have your braces and boots as well,’ he told Cribb. ‘To discourage you from trying anything foolish.’

He got them.

‘Now, Mister. I think certain explanations are due. When you left me last you were going back to Lillie Bridge to watch the shot-putting. Instead, you took the first cab available to Malone’s hotel and when you came out you were in a devil of a hurry to get to Great Scotland Yard. But first things first. What’s your name?’

‘Sargent.’ It was the first time Cribb had resorted to a false identity, but he had more than once speculated on the possibility and decided this was the most convenient name to adopt. It had the advantage of being unlikely to catch him out in an unguarded moment.

‘Well, Mr Sargent, it’s time you accounted for your interest in Malone.’

‘Might I first inquire where we are going?’

‘Not Scotland Yard, anyway,’ said Devlin. ‘I’m taking you to meet somebody who’ll be interested to hear about the goings-on at Lillie Bridge and Arundel Place this afternoon.’

‘Mr Malone?’

‘Somebody more important than that, Mr Sargent. Now, then!’ He waved the gun in a menacing way. ‘What do you want with Malone?’

This time, Cribb did not make the quick response expected of him. Without realising it, Devlin had just forfeited the chance of extracting information from his prisoner. He had told Cribb the purpose of the journey, admitted the existence of a ‘more important’ person. This at once diminished his own status. Before, the threat he represented to Cribb was limitless; he might have been judge, jury and executioner himself. Now, he was revealed as a humble escort, whose first duty was to deliver the prisoner to his superior.

‘I’ll explain it all when we get there,’ said Cribb, good-humouredly. There was nothing to be gained from baiting Devlin. He would do what he could to keep the conversation on a civilised plane. ‘There’s a lot to tell, and I wouldn’t want to have to repeat it all when we got there. Might miss something out the second time, and that wouldn’t do, would it?’

Devlin frowned, unprepared for this development.

A siren sounded outside.

‘Ah! Steamship on the right,’ said Cribb. ‘This must be the Embankment. Am I right? The surfaces of these new roads produce a most distinctive sound when carriage wheels pass over them, don’t you agree? The Strand just now had quite a different resonance.’

Devlin had the uncomfortable look of one who had lost the initiative without understanding how. He gripped his gun until his knuckles whitened. ‘Right turn, then,’ said Cribb, so patently ridiculous in top hat, shirtsleeves and unsupported trousers that Devlin’s capitulation appeared pathetic in the extreme. ‘We’re crossing Blackfriars Bridge. See if there isn’t a whiff of whelks from the stalls on the other side.’ As self-appointed guide, he launched into a commentary on the route, using whatever information reached his ears and nostrils. And there appeared to be so many identifiable breweries, leather-markets and gasworks south of the Thames that Devlin might as well have put up the blinds and abandoned the pretence of a secret destination. As they crossed the wind-swept expanse of Blackheath, Cribb actually went so far as to suggest a halt. ‘There’s Shooter’s Hill to come, and I’m beginning to fear for the health of the horse. These old hacks ain’t used to ten mile journeys, you know. Even the buses change animals to get up Shooter’s.’

Devlin’s eyes had suddenly become redder and distinctly narrower at the edges. ‘Sargent, it ill-becomes an Irishman to stifle conversation, I know, but if you don’t stop that bell-clapper of yours this minute I’ll blow your bloody brains out.’

It seemed a strong response to a mild inquiry on behalf of a dumb animal, but Cribb judged it prudent not to pursue the point. There was quiet satisfaction a few minutes later when the driver made an unprompted stop.

‘Don’t attempt to open that door, Sargent,’ Devlin warned.

A pained look appeared on Cribb’s face. ‘Dressed like this?’

They passed through Bexley and Dartford before the sameness of Watling Street was exchanged for a more winding route in the direction, Cribb estimated aloud, of Gravesend. Whether he was right he did not discover, for after three-quarters of a mile the carriage left the tar macadam for a cart-track. The jolting in consequence was not only extremely uncomfortable; in Cribb’s position, it was downright dangerous. The trigger-mechanism of an American Smith and Wesson revolver, he kept assuring himself, required strong pressure from the finger. The things didn’t
usually
fire involuntarily, but then they weren’t usually handled by hammer-throwers in agitated carriages. The relief after this of moving on to a stretch of level gravel was so exquisite that when the carriage presently stopped, his hand went unthinkingly to the door-handle.

‘Don’t touch it!’ Devlin almost screamed. ‘Pick up your things and wait until you’re told to move.’

He obeyed, wishing there were some way of conveying that he had not the slightest intention of escaping. Now that he had got over the shame of being taken by surprise in Arundel Place, he could see advantages in his situation. It was uncommonly decent of the dynamiters to have arranged a cab for him. Goodness knows how long it would have taken otherwise to locate their headquarters. He needed only to keep his nerve, give a plausible account of himself, and the secrets of the dynamite conspiracy were there for the taking—among them, of course, the mystery of Thackeray’s disappearance. Indeed, the only points of outstanding concern to him were those on which he would shortly have to put his stockinged feet; but even that anxiety proved to be shortlived, for the cab unexpectedly began to move again, and he shortly felt the wheels move off the gravel on to a smoother surface, and stop.

Devlin let up one of the blinds to reveal a dazzling, whitewashed wall. He kept the gun trained on Cribb, and felt for the cord on the other side. The blind went up with a disquieting snap. Cribb glanced outside. They were drawn up alongside a gig, in what appeared to be a coach-house of considerable size. ‘Open the door and get out,’ Devlin ordered. ‘And go carefully, Mr Sargent. The gun will be pointing at the middle of your back.’

Cribb turned the handle and pushed open the door. With one hand gripping the waist-band of his trousers and the other supporting his bundle of clothes, he stooped to descend from the carriage without dislodging his hat, a singularly difficult manoeuvre.

‘I’ll render some assistance,’ Devlin’s voice volunteered from behind him. He felt the silk hat lifted gently from his head, followed at once by a staggering impact on the back of his skull. He pitched forward like a felled tree. There was no shock of pain, no frantic reaching out with the hands to break the fall. His one immediate reaction was to conclude— with extraordinary clarity and conviction—that he had not convinced Devlin of his willingness to co-operate. Damned unfortunate, that. He hit the ground and lay still.

The pain soon took over, the sensation of a clamp tightening turn by turn on his skull, a soreness in his left shoulder, which had struck the ground first, and a throbbing in his side, where Devlin had savagely kicked him after he fell. Instinctively he remained immobile, feigning loss of consciousness. More than once, as a young constable, he had been compelled to use this stratagem in public house brawls; the secret of a long career in the Force was recognising the moment when to retire from hostilities, and knowing how.

He heard Devlin talking to the driver, instructing him to unstrap the horse and water it. The man and his four-wheeler were evidently installed here at the disposal of the dynamiters. Devlin, presumably, had been driven to Lillie Bridge for the hammer-throwing, and had decided after his conversation with Cribb to drive round to Arundel Place. The carriage had looked like any other growler plying for hire in London’s streets—which was perhaps convenient if you were interested in depositing infernal machines about the metropolis.

The sound of the horse’s hooves receded. Devlin’s footsteps approached to within a yard of Cribb. Lying there under inspection, not knowing whether to expect a bullet or another brutal kick, tested his self-discipline to the limit. He heard the movement of cloth close to his ear and knew Devlin was crouching for a closer examination. Under his closed eyelids he rotated his eyeballs upwards, a sensible precaution, for within seconds he felt a thumb on the right lid, pulling it up to check the state of insensibility. This must have satisfied Devlin, for he stood upright again and walked across the coach-house.

Cribb fractionally opened his eyes and watched his captor select a length of rope from several, coiled and suspended on nails in the wall. So Devlin had decided to tie him up. It would be interesting to see how he managed
that
with a gun in his hand.

The footsteps returned. Cribb took stock of himself, his head still singing from the blow that had floored him. It must have been the butt of the Smith and Wesson that Devlin had used, though it had felt like one of his throwing-hammers. The pains in his shoulder and side had eased somewhat. It was difficult to be sure, but things felt bruised rather than broken. If the chance he was waiting for materialised, he would assuredly take it.

Devlin reached him, stood pensively over him for a second or two, and then squatted by his feet and passed the rope underneath them, the revolver still in his right hand. Cribb watched this through a triangle formed by the underside of his right forearm, his chest and the ground. As a means of observing what was being done to his feet, it was both convenient and safe, for his arm shielded his eyes from Devlin’s view. The disadvantage of the position was that his closeness to the ground robbed him of the ability to judge distance accurately. If Devlin put the gun to the ground, it would be infernally difficult to grab it in one movement. Cribb had something extra in mind.

The rope was now bound tightly six or seven times around his ankles. Devlin paused, ready for the crucial tying of the knot, his broad hands holding two loose ends and a gun, assessing the difficulty of manipulating all three. He passed the gun from the right hand to the left, held it thoughtfully for a second, and then put it on the ground beside him.

Cribb allowed him time to begin the process of tying the knot. Then he moved. In a sequence of actions so rapid as to seem simultaneous, he reached behind his head and fastened his hands on a carriage-wheel for leverage, wrenched his bound legs from Devlin’s grasp, drew his knees up to his chest and thrust his feet back at Devlin with all the force he could muster. It bowled the man off balance, and Cribb had dived for the gun and got it safely in his hand before Devlin lifted his head from the ground.

‘Keep your distance, Mr Devlin,’ he warned. ‘It’s a queer thing: since that knock on the back of my head, my fingers have started to twitch. Nasty affliction to have if you’re holding a Smith and Wesson.’

Devlin lay as he had fallen, like one of the petrified inhabitants of Pompeii, while Cribb considered his next move. Things seemed to happen with embarrassing speed in the Secret Service. Masterly as his counter-plot was, and brilliant in execution, it had ended with possession of the gun. Now that he had a moment for reflection, he could divine certain difficulties in winning the confidence of the dynamite party with a loaded revolver in his hand. Still, he would not have made much of an impression either, tied up in the coach-house in shirt-sleeves and socks. There was at least the opportunity now of making himself presentable. So, one-handed, he retrieved his braces, draped them over his shoulders and fastened them at front and back, a not inconsiderable feat. The waistcoat and jacket followed without fuss, and the hat, lodged firmly in place, and given a slight tilt as an afterthought. By George, he was ready to meet the dynamiters now! Or believed he was, until a slight coolness under the soles of his feet reminded him that he was still standing in his socks. Fortunately, the boots were of the button-fastening type, and quite quickly fixed. That done, he ordered Devlin to his feet. ‘You were going to introduce me to somebody,’ he told him. ‘Isn’t it time we went inside? There is really no need to hold your hands above your head like that. I didn’t ask you to do that, did I? Just walk naturally ahead of me and don’t try anything irregular on the way. I should greatly prefer it if you were still alive to make the introductions.’

With a nod more indicative of co-operation than comprehension, Devlin pushed open a door in the whitewashed wall on his left and led the way up some stairs and through a carpeted passage, Cribb keeping within two paces of him. A second door opened on to the entrance-hall of what was undoubtedly a house of considerable size. They crossed a tiled floor to an oak door, Cribb thoughtfully removing his hat meanwhile. Devlin tapped deferentially and pushed open the door.

Cribb followed him into a spacious, sunlit room, unexpectedly light after the panelling of the hall. In front of the mantelpiece, observing their entrance in a large gilt-framed chimney mirror, stood a young woman with copper-coloured hair formed into a tight bun on the top of her head. The moss-green silk of her tea-gown, a dress cut with such severity of line that the bustle seemed a subversive presence, betrayed not the slightest rustle of movement as she spoke. ‘You have brought us a visitor, Patrick Devlin?’