The Terror Trap by John Creasey

Author:John Creasey [Creasey, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Agora Books

13

THE FIRST CAPTURE

Broomfield knew there was a car waiting for him, in case of emergency, in Bond Street. He needed less than three minutes to reach it, and to get away. He was still grinning as he turned into the alley leading from the courtyard. Ahead of him he could see street lights.

The tall man who appeared seemed to materialise out of the shadows.

“In a hurry?” he drawled.

Broomfield’s mind stopped working for a fraction of a second. He felt suddenly, terribly afraid. Then he reached for his gun.

Almost before he moved, something hit him. It was Wally Davidson’s fist, but he didn’t realise it. He staggered back, spitting blood, dragging at the gun. Davidson hit him again.

“Don’t act the ruddy goat, man,” he said, languidly. “You’re through. Know the word?”

As Broomfield made a last desperate dive for his gun, Davidson—almost casually—grabbed his right forearm and twisted. Broomfield gasped, his eyes rolling. He tried to use his feet, but Davidson swept them from under him. A moment later, a second man materialised from the shadows. An interested voice came:

“You all right, Wally?”

“Just,” grunted Davidson. “There’s a gun in his right coat pocket, Dodo. Get it out, will you?”

Dodo Trale, no longer in his chauffeur’s uniform, did the necessary. Broomfield, realising his chances of escape were nil, relapsed into sullen silence as he was marched back to the courtyard and helped up the fire escape which, only minutes before, had seemed a sure route to safety. But there was a hint of fear in his eyes. The methods of his captors had held a certain ruthlessness: they reminded him somehow, of Graydon’s ‘men’.

Sixty seconds later, he was looking into the hard grey eyes of a third man. In Jim Burke, that same ruthlessness was if anything plainer. He shivered....

“Any damage?” asked Davidson. With the others he had met Burke just outside the kitchen door. “I heard the shots.”

“So did all of Brake Street and most of Piccadilly,” grunted Burke. “Funnily enough—no damage.”

“Then what—?”

“That’s just the question,” said Burke, softly, “I’m going to ask Mister Broomfield to answer.”

He stared at Broomfield’s sullen eyes and set face; and he remembered the way Graydon, a few days before, had kept absolutely silent in the face of questions. Broomfield was tarred with the same brush, he could see. But there were methods of persuasion.

“Bring him along,” he growled. “G.C.’s here.”

Craigie was in the room where, earlier that evening, Sir Marcus O’Ray and Katrina Fordham had sat and talked. So was the attractively ugly Toby Arran. Katrina Fordham was in a state of collapse, in her bedroom. Both bullets had smashed into the wall behind her; she had not been touched. A doctor—that Colossus of a man, Doc Little—was on his way to the flat, and for the moment Katrina’s new maid was looking after her mistress. The door was locked, and a large, untidy-looking man, by name Martin Best—leaned against the wall outside it, on guard. Burke knew Best slightly; Arran, Davidson and the others knew him well.

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