by John Creasey
There was an eager note in Kemble’s voice.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, ‘but it’s not without cause. The hare, I think, is a big bad wolf.’
‘Have you really got something?’ Craigie pointed to another telephone, and Hadley picked it up, in time to hear Kemble say:
‘I found a man who came from France yesterday morning, at least he says it was yesterday morning. He was in Paris the morning before yesterday. I think we’ll find that he spent most of the evening before with Kolsti. Kolsti went straight from him to Oslam House, I got the dope from a porter. Hopeful?’
‘Very,’ said Craigie.
‘I need help,’ said Kemble. ‘There are two or three people concerned. Are you ready to take notes?’
Craigie had paper in front of him and a pencil in his hand.
‘My man’s name is Parmitter. Middle-aged, fairly wealthy, concerned with iron and steel—top salesman type. He covers France and other parts of Europe for Super-Steel. He had permission to go to Paris at the beginning of last week. When I asked him when he came back, he hedged nervously. With him are two other men whose names I don’t yet know, and a girl.’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Craigie.
There was a chuckle in Kemble’s voice. ‘Clarissa,’ he said. ‘It’s got a nice ring about it. Clarissa Kaye.’
‘What is she doing with the others?’
‘Working, I think. Secretary. There are all the signs of a meeting of conspirators at the Haymart Hotel. Curious fact, that’s where the San Patino delegation is staying. I’m speaking from a telephone booth near the hall, but I’m anxious to get back upstairs. None of our other chaps had better recognise me in public, by the way. I’m making remarkable progress with Clarissa.’
‘I’ll have someone over in ten minutes,’ Craigie said. ‘This looks the thing we’ve been waiting for.’
‘Always glad to help,’ said Kemble. ‘Oh, I don’t think I would be too heavy-handed with Parmitter yet. He’s quite a man of steel. He thinks a lot of himself, and the other two men do the kow-towing. I told him I was from the Gazette—you know the Editor well enough to see me through, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’ Craigie stretched out his hand for another telephone, and began to dial.
‘Thanks. I told Parmitter we’d heard a rumour that he had done a great deal in Paris for Super-Steel. He hasn’t committed himself. As a matter of fact,’ went on Kemble, ‘he doesn’t quite know what line to take with me. He doesn’t want to upset the Press, but would like to kick me out. He might be talking to the Gazette at any minute—I know he isn’t doing so just yet, there was a little accident to his telephone. An engineer’s up here putting it right now.’
‘Off you go,’ said Craigie.
As Kemble said: ‘Cheerio!’ Bruce Hammond spoke on the other telephone.
‘The Haymart Hotel, Bruce, to keep an eye on Parmitter of Super-Steel and the people with him,’ Craigie said crisply. ‘The only other name we’ve got is Clarissa Kaye. Tim is there, as a Gazette reporter, not as one of us. Just watch them for the time being. Take two men with you.’
‘Right,’ said Hammond. ‘Aren’t the San Patino crowd staying there?’
‘Yes,’ said Craigie.
He replaced the receiver and looked up, to find Hadley smiling with that rather shy expression; there was a hint of admiration in the Prime Minister’s eyes. Craigie made a few rapid notes in a shorthand of his own invention, and pushed the writing-pad away.
‘It may lead nowhere,’ he pointed out.
‘I find you and your men fascinating,’ Hadley remarked. ‘This over-hearty boisterousness...’
‘Just a defensive shield,’ Craigie said. ‘An affectation of facetiousness which comes almost naturally. They developed it quite soon in Department service, and it’s become...’
‘Traditional?’
‘I suppose that’s the word,’ said Craigie. ‘Hammond is less hearty than most, Loftus has quietened down a bit.’ He spread out his hands. ‘I don’t often talk about them,’ he went on, ‘but they are a remarkable group of men. I sometimes wonder if we realise how much we owe to them. Loftus and the Errols, Hammond and many others have been doing this work for over twenty years. Much of the time they are in acute physical danger.’
‘I don’t think they are under-estimated,’ Hadley assured him. ‘Certainly not by me. I really must go.’ Craigie pressed the bell-push and the door slid open. ‘Will you let me know as soon as you hear anything more from Hammond?’ asked Hadley.
The moment I hear,’ Craigie assured him.
• • • • •
Loftus had already obtained one piece of information. The news of the outrage at Oslam House had reached Fleet Street from a reliable source, a man named Gregory Wilkinson, who had once been closely watched because of his Fascist tendencies. Department Z were watching Wilkinson. At least there was some hope of results now, hope not only of retrieving his own mistake, but in finding out who wanted Virnov dead and an East and West again split right down the middle.
5
Nice Girl
Hammond reached the Hotel Haymart just twenty minutes after Craigie had finished speaking to Kemble. Mark Errol entered the other door of the hotel about the same time. A youthful-looking man, exquisitely dressed, walked up and down outside; his name was Graham.
Hammond recognised no one in the hall, and he went towards the stairs, glancing about him and taking in the layout of the ground floor.
The Haymart was an old, well-established hotel, catering largely for the provincial visitor. The lounge hall and the lounges were dark oak panelled, bedecked with palms. The reception desk was little more than a hatch into a cubby hole. Behind it sat an elderly woman on a high stool. A white-haired porter was talking to a spotty-faced lad in page-boy’s uniform beneath the shade of one of the palms.
The hall was stuffy, but the warmth was welcome.
The dining-room opened out from the hall, and Hammond glanced towards it as he walked up the stairs.
On the second floor landing, he saw lanky Tim Kemble, who glanced quickly up and down.
‘Quick work. Going to beard the lion?’
‘Is he fierce?’
‘Gently does it.’
‘Craigie warned me.’
‘Don’t forget that Clarissa Kaye is a nice girl,’ said Tim. ‘Did Craigie fix the Gazette?’
‘I expect so,’ said Hammond, ‘if you asked him to.’
Tim saw a door opening along the passage, and his smile faded. He looked disinterested in Hammond, and pointed towards the door.
‘I think you’ll find it in that direction.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hammond.
A little, dark man came out of Room 15, on the right of the passage. He had a quick, jerky way of walking, and looked about him with bright, suspicious eyes. Hammond recognised him as one of the San Patino delegates. Parmitter’s room was 21, only two doors beyond the delegate’s. Hammond reached Room 21 and tapped on the door.
Almost immediately, the door opened.
‘That’s okay, miss, that’s okay now,’ said a man in blue overalls. ‘You won’t have any more trouble with it. Good day, miss.’
He was a good-looking young man, with untidy hair and bright blue eyes, which looked with unfeigned admiration towards the girl who had opened the door. Hammond could understand it. She was not perhaps remarkable at first sight, for she was dressed in a simply cut navy blue frock, and she was rather too slim. Her complexion was remarkable, smooth and without blemish; she had nice fair hair, and her blue eyes were quite lovely. She had an attractive mouth, too, as if she found it easy to smile. As the admiring mechanic walked off, she smiled at Hammond.
‘Good afternoon.’
Hammond showed an ordinary visiting card.
‘I would like to see Mr. Parmitter,’ he said. ‘Ask him to spare me a few minutes on extremely important business, will you?’
The girl stood aside to allow him to enter. Room 21 was
, in fact, a suite of some size. Three doors led from the lounge hall, which was comfortably furnished, with dark and ornate loose-covers on a three-piece suite, dark flowered wallpaper, a heavy mahogany writing table. In that room the girl was light against shade.
One of the doors was ajar. The sound of dialling came from the room beyond, and as the door opened wider, a man said:
‘Is that the Gazette office?’ There was a pause. ‘Ask the News Editor to speak to me... Parmitter, Adam Parmitter of Super-Steel... Yes.’ Hammond could imagine him looking at the girl as she went in. ‘What is it?’ he asked. The voice registered clearly on Hammond’s ears. It had peculiar harshness, almost metallic, and immediately put Hammond in mind of Super-Steel products.
‘A Mr. Hammond says he would like to see you.’
‘Who is he? Hammond—Hammond—we don’t know him, do we?’
‘No.’
‘Then I’m too busy—I told you that I was busy,’ Parmitter said testily. ‘Send him away. Hallo?... Is that the News Editor? My name is Parmitter, Parmitter of Super-Steel. Did you send a young man to...’
The door closed and shut out the sound of his voice.
Clarissa Kaye came towards Hammond with an apologetic smile.
‘I am so sorry,’ she said. ‘Mr. Parmitter is too busy to see anyone. He is usually available between ten o’clock and eleven o’clock in the mornings. If you care to make an appointment for tomorrow...’ she broke off.
Hammond looked almost sombre.
‘I really must see him now.’
‘I am afraid that is impossible,’ Clarissa said firmly.
Hammond startled her in two ways, first with a flashing smile which lit up his whole face, then with a movement towards the door.
Parmitter was still on the telephone, standing with his back towards the door. He kept fiddling with the telephone, and once or twice he drew in his breath sharply. At last he said:
‘Yes, yes, I will give you any information I can, of course, of course. Goodbye... Eh?... I don’t know. At least a week.... Yes, at the Haymart, goodbye.’ He banged down the receiver.
‘Mr. Parmitter,’ said Clarissa Kaye, ‘this gentleman insists...’
Parmitter swung round. ‘I told you to...’ and then he saw Hammond. He stood quite still. Hammond studied the handsome, rather florid face, the aggressive stare, the physical power of the man. Parmitter was not particularly tall, but he was broad and massive. His dark hair was flecked with grey; on his fingers and the backs of his hands there was a mat of dark hair.
Hammond saw something else; this man was nervous.
He thought that Parmitter would bellow at him, but the man made a palpable effort to control himself, and looked past Hammond to the girl.
‘Didn’t you tell this man to go?’
‘Yes,’ said Clarissa. ‘He refused.’
Parmitter turned to Hammond. ‘Get out.’
‘I am afraid...’ began Hammond.
Parmitter clenched his fingers and took a step forward; it was very obvious that he was not only on edge, but close to losing his temper. But the expression in Hammond’s eyes seemed to make him realise that violence would do no good.
‘Kindly have the goodness to leave,’ he said, in a high-pitched voice. ‘I am extremely busy.’
Hammond took another card from his pocket, and held it out. It was the card of a Special Branch man of the Metropolitan Police, and said nothing about Department Z. He held it so that Parmitter could read it.
‘I have nothing to say to the police,’ Parmitter said stiffly.
‘I won’t keep you long, sir, but...’
‘I have nothing to say to you! Get out!’
Hammond replaced the card. He glanced at the girl, and saw her bewildered expression. She seemed genuinely surprised, but he did not think that she was in any way alarmed at the discovery that he was a ‘policeman’. He stood staring at Parmitter, as if willing the man to change his mind; unexpectedly, Parmitter gave way.
‘It is an impertinence,’ he said. ‘You’ve no right to force your way into my room. What do you want?’
‘I believe that you were in Paris early this week.’
‘Supposing I was? All right, Clarissa.’ As the girl left the room, Parmitter went on: ‘There is no reason why I should not go to Paris on business, is there?’
‘None at all,’ said Hammond. ‘When did you return to London, Mr. Parmitter?’
‘Yesterday morning.’
‘By air?’
‘I flew to Paris on Friday, I flew back yesterday. I have extremely important business to attend to and I have no time to waste.’
‘What aircraft did you catch from Le Bourget, Mr. Parmitter?’
‘The ten o’clock flight. But...’
‘Did you land at London Airport?’
‘What the devil does it matter to you where I landed?’
‘That is the only way that I can check on your story, Mr. Parmitter.’ Hammond went to a chair and sat on the arm.
Parmitter repressed an angry comment and watched him. Hammond’s manner had changed subtly; he remembered Tim Kemble’s warning clearly. He had shaken the man, and had now reached the moment to soft pedal.
‘I’m sorry I forced my way in,’ he said, ‘but I am carrying out important inquiries, and you may be able to help. Have you a copy of the Evening Cry?’
‘No. I don’t read it.’
‘If you did, you would have read the story of an attack on one of the delegates of Uno,’ Hammond said. His manner now suggested that he was taking Parmitter into his confidence. ‘The attempt was not officially known until this morning. I am making inquiries about the man who carried out the attack—a man named Leo Kolsti. You know him, don’t you?’
Parmitter backed to the table and leaned against it.
‘Kolsti,’ he repeated. ‘Kolsti? I don’t recall—oh, Kol-sti!’ he exclaimed, as if he had suddenly remembered. ‘A little dark fellow, a Pole or something? Yes, I know him slightly. You don’t mean to tell me that Kolsti shot at anyone?’ When Hammond nodded, Parmitter burst out laughing. ‘It doesn’t make sense!’
‘Why not?’ asked Hammond.
‘He’s such a mild little man.’ Parmitter had quite recovered his composure. He moved towards the window and stood with his back towards it, his hands clasped behind him. ‘He claimed acquaintance with me because he was once in the same business—you know I’m Parmitter of Super-Steel, don’t you?’
‘I didn’t,’ lied Hammond.
‘Well, I am. How did you get on to me?’
‘By making inquiries among Kolsti’s friends. One of them told me that your name had been mentioned.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, Chief Inspector, this man was out of a job. I felt sorry for him. He’s a naturalised Englishman, I believe, but has the mid-European mentality. Not the kind of man we can employ. These days people who want jobs seem to think I can distribute them with the prodigality of a magician!’
Hammond nodded, understandingly.
‘Kolsti came to me several times,’ Parmitter went on. ‘He once travelled for Kruber’s, the Polish steel firm. I don’t doubt that he knows his job, but our European representatives are all doing an excellent job. I gave him one or two meals,’ went on Parmitter. ‘Didn’t altogether trust the fellow, but I can’t believe he would attempt murder.’
‘Well, he did.’
Parmitter turned to the desk, picked up a box of small cigars, and proffered them. Hammond took one. Parmitter struck a match.
‘He had a grudge against life, you know, because he couldn’t get a job. Now if you told me that he had committed suicide, I could have understood it. But you know what these mid-Europeans are like. May have had a personal grudge against the man he shot. Who was it?’
‘Virnov, of Russia,’ answered Hammond.
Parmitter gaped.
His gape was rather overdone. A start of surprise, followed by a word or two of astonishment, would have been enough, but his thunderstruck air c
onvinced Hammond that he had known about the attack.
‘Vir-nov!’ gasped Parmitter.
‘And I don’t think Kolsti had any acquaintance with him,’ Hammond said drily.
Parmitter waved his cigar in the air.
‘No. No doubt you’re right. I’ve no time for politicians. They’re always grabbing something that belongs to someone else. All they want is a ready tongue, a specious pretence at being knowledgeable, and cast-iron conscience. As for this conference...’ Parmitter waved his hand again. ‘Uno won’t get anywhere if it relies on politicians. They say they want to keep the peace, but in my view, and I don’t mind who knows it, there’s only one way of keeping this country out of war, and that’s to have armaments piled up so high that no one will ever dare attack us. I’m all for our own nuclear deterrent, and a big standing Army, Navy and Air Force.’ He broke off, and glanced at his watch. Then he went on: ‘But I’ve given you more time than I can spare.’
‘You’ve been very helpful.’
‘I’m glad to help. The truth is, I thought you had gatecrashed for a job.’ Parmitter moved towards the door, and rested a hand on Hammond’s arm. ‘There’s one little thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Actually, I returned from Paris the day before yesterday,’ said Parmitter. ‘The truth is that—er—a certain attractive young lady...’ he smiled knowingly. ‘I don’t want my wife to know. I had a feeling that you might be pretending that you were a C.I.D. man. One can’t be too careful. You do understand, don’t you?’
‘Perfectly,’ said Hammond. ‘When did Kolsti last see you?’
‘Let me see now, it would be three—no, four days before I left for Paris. Last Monday. Just a moment, Miss Kaye will be able to confirm that. I’m blessed with a wonderful secretary, Hammond, she is really first-class.’ Parmitter opened the door, and called: ‘Miss Kaye—oh, there you are. What day last week did I give that fellow Kolsti lunch?’
‘Monday,’ said Clarissa.
‘There you are, Chief Inspector—Monday. I hope you find the fellow.’
‘Oh, we’ve got him,’ Hammond said.
He left Parmitter gaping, and walked along the passage. If Tim were right, then Parmitter had lied about the last time he had seen Kolsti. It should be easy to check Parmitter’s movements since he had returned to London.