The League of Dark Men

by John Creasey

  ‘Not Kolsti!’ exclaimed Tim.

  ‘Yes.’ Loftus looked at the little diamond-shaped card which Tim had taken from his pocket. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I found it on the dead man,’ said Tim. ‘I’ve got the other stuff from his pockets here.’ He put everything on a table. ‘I don’t think there’s much. I can’t imagine he would carry anything incriminating, if he preferred to kill himself rather than be questioned.’

  Loftus was looking curiously at the card.

  ‘I don’t think Kolsti had anything like it,’ Loftus said. ‘It might be a cloakroom ticket.’

  Craigie was examining the other contents of the dead man’s pockets. They gave little away; not even the man’s name. He finished, and watched Tim Kemble.

  ‘Well, that’s another clue gone,’ Tim said at last. ‘I thought we had something on Parmitter.’

  ‘We were getting it.’ Hammond outlined the results of his talk with the man. ‘It’s not according to plan, but we’ve got to expect them to act like this now. There’s no longer any doubt that this business is well-organised. No wild man,’ he added, with a smile at Loftus. ‘What do you make of it, Bill?’

  ‘I’m wondering whether Tim really closed his mind to everything that happened at the Haymart,’ Loftus said, looking at Tim with a mild smile. ‘It’s almost too cold to think, Tim, isn’t it?’

  Tim looked startled and annoyed.

  ‘That’s right, blame me.’

  ‘Don’t be an oaf. Nassi’s still alive, isn’t he?’

  Tim stared at him, trying to see what he was driving at. Loftus was not rubbing salt in the wound, but challenging him to use his wits. They had been stultified after that suicide jump. Now he began to see things more clearly. Nassi had gone out, telephoned furtively and hurried back, and judging from his manner he had been going to take an urgent message to Parmitter. So Nassi might be able to tell them something, although he was a San Patino subject and, as a delegate to the Session, would expect more than usual consideration from the police. Yes, Nassi might be a fruitful line of investigation. There was Clarissa Kaye, too.

  They could search Parmitter’s rooms, question his friends, and check all his movements. A man of Kolsti’s brotherhood, presumably, had killed Parmitter; there was now no doubt that Parmitter had been associated, in some way or other, with the attempt on Virnov.

  He put his thoughts into words.

  ‘That’s better,’ said Loftus. ‘Yes, we’ve something to work on. Parmitter’s death is a help rather than a hindrance. Obviously he was killed to prevent him from talking. It followed so swiftly on Bruce’s visit, that it means that Bruce was seen to go there and known to have interrogated him. So there is someone watching in the hotel. It isn’t likely to prove to be Nassi, as he was in danger of losing his life, you say.’

  Tim nodded.

  Craigie, who often had periods of keeping in the background, suddenly pulled a telephone towards him and dialled George Henry George’s number. While waiting for George, he said to Tim:

  ‘Clarissa Kaye—what has she really got, besides charm?’

  Tim said: ‘Commonsense, I should say. I’ll be surprised if we have trouble with her.’

  ‘You see her, Bill,’ Craigie said to Loftus.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Who’ll take Nassi?’ asked Tim.

  Loftus nodded towards the telephone, where Craigie was saying:

  ‘Yes, George, tonight. Don’t do much between now and say ten o’clock. You’ll want to be fresh for the job. You’re not taking notes, are you?... Good. And don’t tell Polly. At ten o’clock I’ll tell you where Nassi is staying tonight. It will probably be the Haymart. You’re to tackle him as if you were a private individual... Take no cards with you... That’s right... Because if any officials have a go at Nassi, it would cause international complications. We don’t want formal protests, but we want Nassi so frightened that...’

  He rang off, to find Tim smiling almost sombrely.

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Tim. ‘Er—about Clarissa Kaye,’ he added, with a painstaking effort to appear casual, ‘it’s possible that she’ll be in some danger, isn’t it? Hadn’t she better be watched?’

  ‘We had men among the crowd at the hotel,’ Loftus assured him. ‘She’ll be all right now.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Tim. ‘Next orders?’

  Take it easy for a few hours.’

  ‘I’m quite fit and ready for...’

  ‘Try the Palladium,’ suggested Craigie. ‘You can’t work at high pressure all the time, and you’re probably suspect among Parmitter’s friends. There’ll be plenty to do before this is over.’

  Obediently, Tim went out.

  He had not been gone five minutes before a green light showed in the mantelpiece of the office. Loftus pressed the control button, and they looked up to see Superintendent Miller. Miller’s dusting of flour had disappeared in a coating of snow, and his cheeks were a fiery red.

  They welcomed him warmly, and Loftus said:

  ‘You’re quite right, Dusty, things have been happening. And we’ve been flourishing S.B. cards more than usual. I suppose you’ve heard of the Haymart affair?’

  ‘Just,’ said Miller, in a ponderous way. ‘I’ve given up trying to keep pace with you.’ He took off his coat. ‘I found a little thing in Kolsti’s clothing which I thought you’d like to see,’ he added. ‘It was inside the lining of his waistcoat, there was a hole in it we didn’t notice when we first looked him over. Not that it should have been missed,’ he added, with a touch of severity, and drew his hand from his pocket. ‘It’s stiff enough.’

  He held out a small, red, diamond-shaped card, with the numeral 11 on it.

  7

  Shock for Loftus

  Miller had gone, and Hammond, Loftus and Craigie gathered round the fire. Craigie sat down in his armchair, while Loftus looked again at the two diamond-shaped cards. There were finger-prints on them; Miller had already checked those on Kolsti’s card and found only Kolsti’s prints. His next task was to try to identify the unknown suicide. That was a matter which the police could do much more quickly than Department Z.

  ‘We’re making progress, anyhow,’ said Loftus. ‘I’d better go and see Tim’s Clarissa Kaye.’ He waited, expectantly.

  ‘Tim seemed anxious that we shouldn’t misjudge her,’ remarked Hammond.

  ‘I don’t think we need worry about him,’ Craigie said. ‘He had a nasty shock.’

  ‘There are going to be plenty of those,’ Loftus said. ‘What’s your programme, Bruce?’

  ‘Gordon thinks it’s time one of us tackled Pirani,’ Hammond said. ‘I’m not too happy about it, but it might force him into the open. I felt much happier about seeing Parmitter. He was a British subject, there was no need to feel that the wrong word might precipitate an international crisis. If Pirani starts talking about diplomatic privilege...’

  ‘All the better,’ said Loftus. ‘The last defence of the guilty. I think Gordon’s right, we need to try to find out whether he is really nervous. You say that Parmitter was?’

  ‘So nervous that he lost his head,’ said Hammond. ‘If I were asked what was the most significant thing that he said I’d say it was his talk about piling up conventional armaments as the only way to secure peace. When that sort of talk comes from a man high up in the steel industry, it’s got a nasty ring of more dividends from death.’ Hammond spoke with no hint of flippancy. ‘I’m not a bit sure that I oughtn’t to leave Pirani for a while, and find out what I can about Super-Steel. With Parmitter’s death, we’ve every reason for making the inquiries.’

  ‘And just watch Pirani,’ mused Craigie.

  ‘George can try his little game,’ Hammond said. ‘You’ve fixed it with the Massino act, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘All right, Bruce! Try it your way.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Hammond gratefully. ‘I’ll go to the Head Office of Super-Steel first.’

  ‘You’re biting o
ff something there,’ Loftus said.

  Hammond laughed. ‘The great Marchant. But he’s a British national, and can’t threaten diplomatic action.’

  He let himself out.

  Anyone watching the others, unseen, might have thought that when alone, Craigie and Loftus took things very easily. In fact, they were thinking along the same lines, with the same single-mindedness which had helped them to establish the reputation of Department Z. They set themselves a task and carried it through; and though they had had their failures, there had been no catastrophe due to the failure of the Department; and many catastrophes had been averted.

  Both were thinking of Sir Hugh Marchant.

  They could see his face in their mind’s eye, a middle-aged, handsome man, whose photograph often peered up at them from the pages of the daily newspapers.

  Loftus thought: ‘He isn’t far short of being the most popular man in the country.’

  Marchant’s popularity had begun when, during a period of economic crisis, he had performed prodigies in obtaining export orders. He had a faith: he believed in steel and in Britain. No politician, he had dropped out of the public eye immediately afterwards, only to come back on a wave of popularity when he had declared that, given the facilities, he could overcome the worst difficulties of the housing problem. The Government had supported him; using steel freely in the manufacture of houses, Marchant had been as good as his word. His popularity had reached a new high level.

  He always preached the gospel of the peaceful uses of steel, but there were the other uses, and Loftus could not get Parmitter’s words out of his mind.

  Craigie stirred.

  ‘Well, Bill.’

  ‘Let’s ponder a bit longer, until we’ve heard how Bruce gets on.’ Loftus got up. ‘It’s time I went to see Clarissa Kaye .’

  ‘I wish you hadn’t got to go,’ said Craigie.

  Loftus grinned. ‘Staff shortage!’ He limped to the cloakroom for his hat and coat and a stout walking stick.

  He was glad that the Haymart Hotel was not far away. The snow was still falling and making the ground more treacherous, and he slipped several times before reaching the end of the road. He did not often feel uneasy, but just then he had an uneasy feeling that he was being watched. He did not like to think that anyone knew which door he came from. The driving snow prevented him from making sure, and he walked slowly towards Trafalgar Square. No one approached him and, after twenty minutes, he reached the hotel. Young Graham was still outside.

  ‘Miller’s been here, and instructed the policemen on duty not to let anyone in or out of Parmitter’s room,’ he said. ‘The body’s been moved. All the stuff of interest to us has been locked in one room.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Nassi hasn’t been out again,’ went on Graham. ‘Oh—Mark’s following Pirani, who came out a quarter of an hour ago. We could do with more men,’ he added, hopefully.

  ‘None to spare,’ said Loftus. The shortage of active agents always worried him.

  He handed his coat to the white-haired porter, and keeping his stick went upstairs. He knew exactly how to reach Room 21 from Hammond’s description of the hotel.

  A policeman was on duty at the landing, another outside the door of Room 21.

  Loftus showed his card.

  ‘That’s all right, sir, thank you.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’ asked Loftus.

  ‘There’s only the young lady.’ The policeman opened the door.

  Clarissa Kaye was not in the first room.

  It had been tidied up, and there were no signs of the chaos. He remembered Tim’s vivid description of the girl lying on the floor, and called out: ‘Miss Kaye.’

  No one answered.

  He went to the door immediately opposite the passage. As he opened the door, he thought of the two men who had been with Parmitter, according to Tim’s first story. He had not thought to ask Tim more about them, which was careless. There was a quality about this case which seriously troubled him; he thought that it was perhaps the blind, reckless courage—and courage was the word—with which two men had committed suicide. It could only have been to make sure that they did not talk, and so betray...

  What?

  What was worth such reckless sacrifice?

  The room had been partly cleared of furniture but not tidied. There, on the floor by the desk, were dark spots of Parmitter’s blood.

  There was no sign of the girl.

  Loftus fought down his rising alarm, and hurried out of the room to the only other one not supposed to be locked. He tapped on the door, and got no answer. He tried the handle, but the door was locked.

  With hardly a second thought, Loftus put his shoulder to the door and exerted all his strength. The wood creaked and groaned, and he felt it sagging. He drew back, perspiring, and tried again. The door still held. There was a call from the policeman, who pushed open the outer door, and asked:

  ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Loftus. ‘Come and help me.’ As the man hurried to obey, he asked: ‘No one has been in here, have they?’

  ‘I’m quite sure they haven’t.’

  ‘And Miss Kaye’s in here?’

  ‘Well, I saw her,’ said the policeman.

  As they put their shoulders to the door, Loftus had a fleeting vision of Kolsti, jumping in front of the bus. The girl was not in the outer rooms; she must be in this one, and yet his calling and the thudding on the door had brought no response from her. He had felt confident that she was safe from attack, but in spite of what had twice happened in this case, he had not given a thought to suicide.

  The door sagged and swung open.

  Loftus stumbled forward, and the policeman saved him from falling. The room was a bedroom, heavily furnished like the rest of the hotel. The bed was made, and empty.

  The room was empty, too.

  Loftus limped towards the massive mahogany wardrobe, catching a glimpse of his own face in the long mirror. The policeman hurried to a corner, where someone might be hiding behind the dressing-table; there was no other hiding place in the room.

  The wardrobe contained women’s clothes, as far as Loftus could tell, all expensive. There was a faint, attractive perfume.

  The policeman, on his knees, was looking under the bed. He straightened up, and grunted.

  ‘Well, that’s a caution!’

  ‘It’s more than a caution,’ Loftus said, coldly. ‘If you were on duty all the time, it’s a miracle. How long did you leave the passage?’

  ‘But I didn’t, sir! It—it’s just possible that she’s in the locked room, there might have been a spare key.’

  The constable had the key, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open, and Loftus went in first.

  The room was filled with oddments, many piled on the bed and a small writing table pushed just inside the door. There were suitcases, men’s clothes, a small cabin trunk, all the paraphernalia a traveller would have with him.

  But Clarissa Kaye was not there.

  ‘I just can’t understand it,’ said the constable. ‘I was outside every minute, sir, I didn’t move more than a couple of yards either way. Superintendent Miller spoke to me himself, and told me how important it was to let no one in without a police pass, and to see that the young lady did not leave. She couldn’t have got out.’

  A loud bang startled them both.

  ‘What—what’s that, sir?’

  A rumbling noise followed, and then a tapping. It was coming from Clarissa Kaye’s room. Yet Loftus had seen for himself that the girl was not there.

  Another bang followed.

  He relaxed. ‘It’s a window,’ he said, and they hurried into the bedroom.

  The window had opened in a gust of wind, and snow was already drifting in, spattering the dressing table. It had been open all the time, Loftus realised, but had been closed by the wind, opening when caught by a sudden gust because he had left the door open.

  He looked across at a blank wall, for
the window overlooked the narrow street where the unknown man had fallen to his death. Immediately beneath this window was a small balcony. Loftus brushed the snow out of his face as he peered down, leaning so far out that the constable called:

  ‘Careful, sir.’

  Loftus thought he could see faint impressions in the snow on the floor of the balcony and its front ledge; it was not smooth, as it was on the side ledges and on the balcony of the next room. He withdrew his head and turned round.

  ‘Come on!’ he said.

  He had not moved so quickly for a long time, but as he half-ran along the passage, thumping with his stick, he counted the doors. Number 21 was the fifth from the corner of the landing. He hurried down the stairs, and turned into the passage which ran immediately beneath the one outside Parmitter’s room. As he approached the fifth door, a maid came out, carrying a bundle of linen untidily clasped to her big bosom. She peered over the top of it.

  Loftus pushed past her and went inside.

  It was a suite exactly like Parmitter’s, but rather better furnished; and it was empty. The beds were stripped, there was no luggage. He hardly needed the indignant maid to tell him that the suite had been vacated.

  ‘When did they leave?’ Loftus demanded.

  ‘Half an hour ago, sir,’ said the girl, who looked scared now that she had a clear view of his face. ‘They didn’t say a word to anyone it seems, just paid their bill and went off. I didn’t think there’d be a suite to do this afternoon.’

  Loftus said: ‘Have you taken anything a way yet?’

  ‘No, sir, this is the first lot.’

  ‘Have you emptied the wastepaper basket?’

  She protested: ‘Give me a chance, they haven’t been gone more than half an hour.’

  Then Loftus beamed upon her, and she was more startled by his smile than by his frown.

  ‘Put that stuff back and leave the rooms just as they are,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it right with the manager.’

  ‘But I’ve got...’

  ‘Do what the gentleman says, miss, if you please,’ chimed in the policeman.