The Titanic Secret Read Free Page B

Tremayne was able to pick a spot where the undergrowth was reasonably sparse and where he was able to slide through with the minimum amount of noise and effort.
    When he’d done so, he remained in a crouch for a few moments before he moved off. He checked all around him, then strode swiftly across to the side wall of the property. Again he waited, using his ears as much as his eyes to ensure that nobody was anywhere near him. Then he walked around to the front of the farmhouse, stepped across to the door and rapped on it sharply three times with his left hand.
    For several seconds, nothing happened. Then Tremayne heard the sound of cautious movement inside the house, footsteps moving slowly along a corridor towards the door. Then silence for another brief period, before the man inside the house spoke.
    ‘Who is it?’ His voice was harsh and guttural.
    ‘I’m from the post office,’ Tremayne said, sounding bright and cheerful. ‘I have a package for you and I need you to sign for it.’
    There was a grunt from the other side of the door, then the sound of heavy bolts being withdrawn.
    The door opened a cautious six inches, and Tremayne found himself staring at an unshaven face. But that wasn’t what seized his attention. It was the object the man was holding across his chest. The blue steel barrels of the twelve-bore shotgun gleamed in the light from the hall, and he could see that the man’s right hand was wrapped around the stock, his finger resting on the trigger.
    Tremayne took a deliberate half-step backwards, and allowed an expression of apprehension to cross his face.
    The man opened the door slightly wider so that the whole of his weapon was visible. He’d obviously noted his visitor’s look of fear, and smiled slightly as he moved the twin barrels of the shotgun downwards, making the silent threat more obvious.
    ‘Where’s the package?’ he demanded.
    ‘Here.’
    Tremayne had been standing in a casual pose, his right arm tucked behind his back. As he spoke, he swung his arm around his body, his elbow locked as he brought the heavy calibre revolver up to the aim.
    The expression on the man’s face changed the instant he saw the pistol, and he reacted immediately, swinging the shotgun around to point it at Tremayne. But he was too late. For him, he was a whole lifetime too late.
    Tremayne’s finger was already resting on the trigger of his weapon, and the moment the sights settled on the centre of the man’s chest, he squeezed the trigger. The Webley Model WG – a popular personal defence weapon among army officers – kicked in his hand, and the .455 bullet smashed straight into his target.
    The man’s grubby shirt blossomed crimson and he staggered backwards a couple of steps before crashing heavily onto the wooden floorboards of the hall, the shotgun tumbling from his lifeless hands, his face still wearing an expression of shocked surprise.
    Tremayne reached down and seized the weapon by the end of the barrel, and tossed it behind him outside the door. He guessed the other man was probably still upstairs with the girl, but just in case he was somewhere on the ground floor, Tremayne didn’t want to leave a loaded weapon lying around where he could grab it.
    His ears were ringing from the noise of the shot, but the sound of movement somewhere upstairs was quite unmistakable. Above him, heavy boots moved quickly across wooden floorboards.
    Then the creaking of a hinge told Tremayne that a door had opened on the first floor. He had to assume that the other man would be armed as well, and the landing above him was so wide that he couldn’t cover all of it properly. He’d have to wait until the second man showed himself.
    Tremayne pushed open the door on his right and stepped inside, his pistol held out in front of him, just in case. The room was a parlour, worn wooden chairs, a rough table and a battered old dresser the only furniture. He flattened himself against the inside wall and looked up,