Days of Danger by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ipso Books

CHAPTER XII

HOT WORK

BOB KERR was not a believer in superstitions; had he been he might have had some faith in sequences, particularly the popular sequence of threes. For on this affair, of which he knew so very little beyond action, he had already been surprised twice when he had been in a room to which he had no legal access; and this was the third room, and the trio of events was likely to be completed.

But if Kerr wasn’t suspicious he was observant, and he saw the way Mr. Julius Mort kept glancing towards the door.

He had reached one opinion since arriving in Paris; he didn’t believe Mort was the man he was looking for. He didn’t believe this financier could have been the inspiring genius of those deadly attacks any more than Frederick Mulling.

Very little had passed between them.

Mort had been in the first room when Kerr had entered. He had started up, and his face had slowly turned colour. Normally it was florid, but it had become a pale pink. He was very fat, and every ounce of that fat seemed to quiver.

But he kept glancing towards the door, and Kerr slipped his hand in his pocket. His left hand. The right was holding the gun which had been such an unpleasant surprise for Mr. Mort.

Kerr had spoken twice, Mort once. Thus:

“I’ve come,” Bob had said, “from England; I’ve just finished with Mannopoli, and now I’m after you.”

And Mr. Mort had muttered:

“I—I—don’t know what you mean. I——”

“You soon will,” Kerr had grunted; and then, following Mort’s gaze and seeing the hint of relief in the man’s fish-like eyes, he had realized the men were standing in the door-way. He took two steps from Mr. Mort and turned round. His gun was still in his right hand, and he drew his left, apparently empty, from his pocket.

The very large man and the very small man faced him. Neither of them was handsome, and neither of them looked pleased to see him. The Frenchman was furtive, narrow of eye and sallow of skin. The other man was a Dane or a Swede; so much Kerr was sure. He was a vast hulk of a man, and his brutishness suggested a certain cunning. There wasn’t any cunning about the gun in his hand.

“Hallo,” said Bob Kerr.

The big man grinned unpleasantly and took a short step forward. His English was guttural but good.

“Caught you, eh? Drop that gun, mister!”

“Mine or yours?” asked Kerr affably, and as he spoke he opened the palm of his left hand.

It was a simple gesture, almost that of a man who wanted to free his fingers from cramp. The big Swede—Kerr afterwards confirmed that guess—didn’t even look at it. Nor did the Frenchman. Neither of them saw the little phial that flew from Kerr’s palm, but they heard the tinkle as it broke at their feet and with one accord they swung round, convinced it came from behind them.

Kerr’s first shot took the Swede’s gun out of his hand without touching his fingers, and his second went through the Frenchman’s forearm.

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