Jack Higgins - Brought in Dead

“Thanks very much, George.” Craig ruffled the dog’s ears. “What time’s your next round — nine o’clock isn’t it?”

“That’s right, sir. Will you still be here?”

“The way this thing is going I’ll probably be here all night.”

The door closed behind George and Craig stood there listening to his footsteps move along the corridor outside. When they had finally faded away, he went into the washroom quickly and closed the door.

When he reappeared five minutes later he presented a strange and sinister picture in dark pants and sweater, and wearing an old balaclava helmet, his face darkened by a brown make-up stick. In his left hand he carried a canvas hold-all. He dropped it on the floor beside his desk, picked up the telephone and dialled a number.

The receiver was lifted instantly at the other end. “Yes?”

“I’m leaving. I’ll ring you again in thirty-five minutes.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

He replaced the receiver, picked up the hold-all and opened the door, listening for a moment before moving into the corridor.

He took the service lift down to the basement, walked through the work’s garage, helping himself to a jerry can full of petrol on the way, and left through a small judas gate. It was raining slightly and he crossed the yard, keeping to the shadows, scrambled over the low wall and dropped down onto the grass bank that sloped into the canal.

He crouched at the water’s edge, opened the hold-all and pulled out the collapsible dinghy it contained. When he activated the compression cylinder, the boat inflated with a soft hiss and he dropped it into the water and pushed off into the darkness.

He’d kept Gibson’s Furniture Factory under careful observation for three days now from the top floor of his own factory, even going to the lengths of obtaining a ground-floor plan of the place from the City Engineer’s Department, for most of the area was scheduled for demolition and municipal development.

It was no more than four hundred yards up the York Road from Gulf Electronics and an approach from the rear via the canal had seemed obvious. He grinned as he paddled out into mid-stream to pass the barge and moved back into the shadows again. Just like the old days — other times, other places when to live a life like this had seemed as natural as breathing.

He passed the coaling wharf of the steel plant, dark and lonely in the light of a solitary yellow lamp. The furniture factory was the second building along from there and he paddled in quickly, scrambled out onto a narrow strip of mud and pulled the dinghy clear.

The brick wall above his head was about nine feet high, but old and crumbling and in spite of being encumbered with the jerry can he found no difficulty in scaling it. For a moment he sat there peering into the darkness and then dropped into the yard below.

A light glowed dimly through the dirty windows and he moved round to the front of the building keeping to the shadows. The whole area was enclosed by a crumbling brick wall. The main gates were of wood, ten feet high and secured by a massive iron bar which dropped into sockets on either side.

In one corner of the yard was a jumbled mass of packing cases and rubbish which had obviously accumulated over the years and it was for this that he had brought the petrol. He emptied the jerry can quickly, scattering its contents as widely as possible, and then returned to the gates and removed the holding bar.

He checked his watch. It was exactly fifteen minutes since he had left his office. From now on, speed was essential.

He hit his first snag when he reached the main door of the factory. It was locked. He hesitated only for a moment and then tried his alternative route up an old fire escape to the second floor. The door at the top was also locked, but several panes of glass in the window beside it were broken and it opened with little difficulty.

He stood in the darkness listening, aware of voices somewhere in the distance, and moved along a short corridor. There was a door at the end with a broken panel through which light streamed. He opened it cautiously and was at once aware of a strong smell of whisky.

He was on a steel landing. The hall below was crowded with crates, and a large six-wheeler truck, which certainly didn’t look as if it belonged, was parked a yard or two away from the main doors.

The voices came from his left and he went along the landing, passing a small glass-walled office which stood in darkness. There was a light in a room at the very end of the landing and he peered round the edge of the glass partition and found three men playing poker.

He withdrew quietly, went back along the landing and descended the iron stairs to the hall below. The truck was loaded with crates of whisky consigned to London Docks and when he looked inside the cab, the ignition key was in the dashboard.

The main doors were the real snag. They were chained together and secured by a large padlock. He examined it carefully, turned and went back upstairs.

He crouched in the darkness of the little office, the ’phone on the floor beside him, and dialled the number he wanted carefully.

The reply was instant. “Police Headquarters. Can I help you?”

“Central C.I.D. — Detective Sergeant Miller,” Craig said in a hoarse voice. “I think you’ll find he’s on duty tonight.”

Miller was sitting behind his desk listening to a well-known housebreaker indignantly deny the offence with which he was charged when the ’phone rang.

“All right, Arnold, you can take a breather,” he said and nodded to Brady, who leaned against the wall cleaning his fingernails with a penknife. “Give him a cigarette, Jack, while I see what we’ve got here.”

He picked up the telephone. “Detective Sergeant Miller.”

The voice at the other end was strangely hoarse and completely unfamiliar to him. “Gibson’s Furniture Factory on the York Road — interesting place — they even make their own booze. You’d better get round here quick and bring the Fire Brigade with you.” He chuckled harshly. “I do hope Vernon’s insured.”

Craig replaced the receiver and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He was running late, but there was nothing he could do about that now. He waited exactly four minutes, went back downstairs and climbed into the cab of the truck.

He pulled out the choke, pressed the starter and the engine burst into life with a shattering roar. There was a cry of alarm from the landing above his head and he rammed the stick into first gear, let in the clutch sharply and accelerated. The doors burst open and the truck rolled out into the yard. Craig swerved sharply, braking to a halt near the outside gates, switched off and jumped to the ground taking the ignition key with him.

He struck a match quickly and tossed it onto the stacked crates, picked up his jerry can, turned and ran into the shadows. Somewhere in the night, the jangle of a police car’s bell sounded ominously.

When he drifted into the side of the canal below the wall of his own factory yard five minutes later, there was already a considerable disturbance in the vicinity of the furniture factory and a red glow stained the darkness, flames leaping into the night from the stack of burning crates.

He took a knife from his pocket and slashed the dinghy in several places, forcing out all air so that he was able to stuff it into the hold-all again, then he tossed it over the wall with the jerry can and followed them.

He left the can with a stack of similar ones on his way through the garage and returned to the tenth floor in the service lift. The moment he was safely inside his office, he reached for the ’phone and dialled his home. As before, the receiver was lifted instantly at the other end.