by John Creasey
Hammond said: ‘We were told that you were telephoned by Nassi at Super-Steel offices, that you warned Nassi, who told Parmitter.’
That’s not true,’ Wilkinson said. ‘Marchant and I are not on speaking terms, and I never go near Headquarters. But I don’t know that the minor mysteries count much. I’m worried about what they’re trying to do in England. I came down here because I heard they had set out for this place, and I thought I might learn more about their immediate plans. I think I have. One of them has talked quite freely.’
There was an absolute hush among the men when he stopped.
‘I think they plan to destroy Uno during the London conference. One powerful charge of explosive would be enough, wouldn’t it?’
17
Report
Someone dropped a spoon.
It struck the kerb of the fireplace and clattered noisily. There was no other sound. The two servants stood at the side of the room, looking on disinterestedly. All the Department Z men were watching Wilkinson. Ferguson and Mendicott, the one resting his maimed leg on a pouffe, the other with his hands thrust into his pockets, were the only two who seemed prepared for the bomb-shell.
At last Hammond said:
‘Yes, one would be enough. Getting one inside the hall wouldn’t be easy.’
Wilkinson shrugged his shoulders.
‘It would be almost as easy as losing an umbrella in a train. No one knows all the delegates. Any one of them might lose his admission card, or a card could be forged. There are Press, public and official staff, any one of whom might be impersonated, and as the only objective would be to leave a small packet under a seat or behind a curtain, the job could be done in ten minutes.’ Wilkinson’s sardonic smile had an edge of sombreness. ‘The man who did it would not necessarily try to escape. He might well be one of the suicide squad. He would probably feel that it was well worth while selling his life for that.’ Wilkinson turned to the little man with the bandaged head, and murmured, ‘Wouldn’t you?’
After a moment’s silence, the man opened his lips and said:
‘Yes.’
He did not give the word any particular emphasis, but he meant it; there was no doubt of that. It was the first time that any one of the little dark men had answered a question. He succeeded in heightening the tension which was already febrile from Wilkinson’s lucidly developed story.
Hammond spoke into the silence.
‘Is an attempt to blow up the Session being planned?’
The man stared at him blankly.
Wilkinson turned and approached the man.
‘Is it?’
The man spread out his hands.
‘I do not know what is planned. I just obey my orders. I have never failed before.’
‘Where do you get the orders from?’ asked Hammond.
‘I have nothing more to say,’ said the little man.
Wilkinson said, ‘We’ll see about that.’ A quick glance at Hammond seemed to say: ‘That’s enough velvet glove.’ Hammond nodded. Wilkinson raised a hand towards Mendicott, who stepped across the room and suddenly dragged the little man from his chair. He hoisted him over his shoulder, and walked out of the room.
Fordham followed him.
Wilkinson beckoned to the manservant for more soup. The tension relaxed a little, but in the minds of most of the men was the thought: One powerful charge of explosive would be enough.
Into Hammond’s mind’s eye there had sprung the scene at Uno when Virnov had been speaking. He remembered his deep feeling of satisfaction because they had saved the Russian from the attack, but none of them had seriously thought that it was an isolated incident.
‘Well, what next?’ asked Wilkinson.
Hammond said, ‘I think you and I will go and sort this thing out.’ He led the way. Graham and a Department Z man went out after them. Hammond had said nothing much, but in that moment he had established his ascendancy over Wilkinson. He had made it clear that Wilkinson must talk much more freely than he had done.
The first thing Hammond wanted to know was the real reason why he had come here, to Sir Hugh Marchant’s house.
• • • • •
Loftus and Craigie each had a copy of Hammond’s report.
They had not been able to get through to Reading or Colston House by telephone, but at half-past eight the morning after the battle of the house, George Henry George and Fordham arrived at the office. They had driven through the night from the village, where Hammond had sent the report. Everything was well at Colston House. One little dark man had withstood a lot of pressure but eventually had talked. Clarissa and Susan had been little the worse for their incarceration in the attics; and Wilkinson, in spite of what he had done, seemed useful.
‘Almost,’ George had said, ‘like one of us.’
These and the other obvious things had been passed on by word of mouth. Hammond dealt with the general theme of Wilkinson’s story.
‘Wilkinson tells me,’ he wrote, ‘that the dark men first showed an interest in Colston House two weeks ago, when there was an attempted burglary. He says he does not know what they were after. When we drove them out of Hatch End they made contact with Lionel Marchant, who had gone on ahead of them. Marchant had been approached by one of the dark men and threatened with violence unless he produced the key to the vaults at Colston House. From this, Wilkinson judged that something in the vaults was urgently wanted. He decided to try to get there first. The weather helped him.
‘From the explosives in possession of the dark men, it seems clear that they intended to force a passage into the vaults. At the moment no one can enter them except Marchant and his private secretary, Carfax. I have made no effort to force the doors, thinking it better for you to arrange for Marchant to come down here and open them.
‘We have established that the little dark men blew the bridge; that they coerced the landlord, Parker, into allowing them to use the attics of the inn; that they are natives of Northern Shovia; that there are probably another fifty somewhere in the country and—this goes without saying—that they are prepared to go to any lengths to attain their objectives. They receive orders regularly, and although the man from whom we hoped to get information has been stubborn, one of the other wounded men has talked a little. There is a Council of Three, the identity of whose members he does not know, which directs the operations. None of the active agents appear to know what they are to do until the moment when they receive their instructions. There seems little doubt of their hostility towards both Russia and Uno. Their headquarters seem to be somewhere in London.
‘They showed equal hostility towards Nassi. Certainly they have no love for him. Wilkinson has stated that Nassi did not get the warning about Parmitter from him. You may have checked this story by now. Abbott and Ferguson were the men with Parmitter in his room.
‘From what I have been able to judge of the personality of Wilkinson and his friends, including Clarissa Kaye and Lionel Marchant and his wife, I would say that they are reliable. They feel a bitter resentment at the conduct of international affairs recently, and are rebellious against the present Government in this country. Their contention is that certain powerful armaments manufacturers in this country and abroad are too strong for our own and foreign Governments, and that only disinterested people could hope to get results.
‘They have no particular affection for Russia, but do not believe that the Soviet Government wants war—or even a quarrel.
‘Their anti-Soviet activities, they claim, have been a blind intended to attract genuine anti-Soviet factions, and so get on the inside of the movement which they call The League of Dark Men. In this they appear to have succeeded hardly at all.
‘They insist that Parmitter was working with them but that Marchant was unaware of this. They knew that Marchant would have little patience with an organisation such as theirs, and, had he known about it, would immediately have reported to the authorities.
‘Lionel Marchant and his wife were persuaded
by Clarissa to assist them.
‘The young Marchants went to the Haymart to discuss the matter with Clarissa and Parmitter. Clarissa Kaye felt that it would be disastrous if the police did discover what they were doing, and therefore escaped through the window to avoid questioning. Lionel Marchant has been quietly getting information for Wilkinson.
‘Wilkinson knew that it was possible that the police would make inquiries at Hatch End but stayed there, throwing the party as a red-herring, in order to try to find out whether I was, in fact, a member of the Secret Service or the police.
‘Clarissa Kaye and all the others were sworn to silence and I think it unlikely that they would have talked freely without Wilkinson’s permission. All of them, including Mendicott and Ferguson, hero-worship Wilkinson, who has exceptional intellect and stature. They appear to regard him as the Leader. He says he fostered that illusion in order to make Warning appear to be just another Fascist organisation.
‘Wilkinson says that he has no evidence but thinks Abbott worked for the dark men. He quotes the newspaper story as an indication. He does not know whether Pirani is concerned but thinks it likely. He is sure that the delegate at Uno is Pirani, and not an impersonator.
‘He has offered all the help that he can give us and pledges the loyalty of himself and his friends.’
Craigie finished reading, and began to make notes on a fresh writing pad. Loftus ran through the report, and then turned over the things which George and Fordham had told him.
‘It will want a lot of checking,’ he said. ‘But we’ve got the Shovian angle proved, I think.’
‘We’ll soon find out for certain,’ Craigie said. ‘I think we’d better tackle Pirani at once.’
‘Openly?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘When is this show of magic being put on for him?’ asked Loftus. ‘Tonight, isn’t it?’ When Craigie nodded, Loftus said: ‘I think we might let George have a few hours’ sleep, then send him along to replace one of the Massinos. There’s one other thing we ought to do right away.’
‘Find out about this man named Wilkinson at Super-Steel,’ Craigie said. ‘When we’ve done that, tackle Marchant again. He ought to have a load off his mind when he knows what Clarissa has been up to.’
‘Is Uno meeting today?’ Loftus asked.
‘Yes.’
‘We might get someone to gate-crash, and find out whether it can be done,’ he said. ‘It’s a job we can give to one of the youngsters, and if he fails, try with someone more experienced.’ He shivered. ‘One small charge of explosive. It’s a crazy business!’
‘You go and find out what you can at Super-Steel,’ said Craigie. ‘I’ll fix the rest.’
Loftus took a photograph of Wilkinson with him when he left the office.
It was a little after ten-thirty when he reached Super-Steel‘s headquarters. He did not see Carfax or Marchant at first, but an under-secretary who had been told to put everything at his disposal. Loftus set to work among the commissionaires and the girls at the reception desk downstairs. None of them could remember ever seeing Wilkinson at the offices. Two recognised his photograph and were sure that they would have known had he ever visited Sir Hugh or any of the other directors. Then Loftus went to the switchboard. It was a big private branch exchange, with eight operators. Before getting to the real point of his questions, he inquired about the extent of the telephone system. Every office had a separate line, there were outside lines to every branch office in England to the main offices in Europe, and there was teletype contact with the American and Far Eastern plants. There was always two operators on duty who knew five foreign languages.
With every additional item of information, Loftus was more and more impressed.
He asked the dark-haired, efficient-looking supervisor if there was a Mr. Wilkinson on the staff.
‘We receive calls for a Mr. Wilkinson sometimes,’ she answered, and he thought she looked a little uneasy.
‘Who takes them?’
‘They always go to Mr. Carfax’s office.’
‘Do you know when the last call was put through to him for Mr. Wilkinson?’ Loftus asked.
‘I think I can find out, sir.’ The woman went away and spoke to a fair-haired, peroxided slip of a girl sitting at a switchboard. There was a whispered colloquy, and then the supervisor came back.
‘It was Monday afternoon, sir, in the middle of the afternoon. The speaker was somewhat excited. He spoke in both English and French, and the operator who took the call believes that it was a M. Nassi, of San Patino. He has telephoned Mr. Parmitter on several occasions, and his voice was easily recognised.’
‘Did he speak to Mr. Carfax?’
‘Well, the call went through to Mr. Carfax’s office.’
‘Can you find out whether he did speak to Mr. Carfax himself?’
‘Only by asking him or his secretary, sir.’
‘I’ll go and see him,’ said Loftus.
‘I’m not sure that he’s in,’ said the girl. ‘Several calls have been put through to his office this morning and none of them has been answered. Usually his secretary is on duty at nine-thirty, it is most unusual.’
‘I’ll go and see,’ said Loftus.
None of the three commissionaires had seen Carfax come in that morning, but one of them had seen his secretary, a Mr. Naylor. There was nothing surprising in not seeing Carfax, it appeared; there was a small private entrance which he sometimes used, especially if he came in with Sir Hugh.
‘Is Sir Hugh here this morning?’ asked Loftus.
‘Oh yes, sir, I’ve seen him upstairs.’
Loftus went up in the lift, intending to go into Marchant’s office without being announced, but an army of secretaries and underlings prevented that. Marchant did not keep him waiting long, however.
‘Well, Mr. Loftus, what progress are you making?’
‘Just a little,’ said Loftus. ‘Just now I’ve another worry, and need Mr. Carfax’s help badly. Do you know whether he is in?’
‘Oh yes. He came in with me.’ Marchant pressed the switch of the talking box and waited. But the cultured voice of the secretary did not answer. Marchant frowned and turned another switch; there was still no answer. ‘That’s unusual,’ said Marchant. ‘Most unusual. Either Carfax or Naylor is always there.’ He went to the door and opened it, calling: ‘Carfax, are you...’
He stopped abruptly.
Loftus strode after him, his stick thumping on the floor. Marchant was standing quite still and staring into the large office beyond. Loftus looked over his shoulder.
Carfax was sprawled on the floor by the side of his desk. Through a further door, which stood open, Loftus could see another man sitting back in a chair, his eyes closed and his face deathly pale.
He needed only a moment to find out that Carfax was dead; Naylor, the secretary, had been drugged, and would probably recover before the day was out.
• • • • •
Marchant was completely shocked by the discovery. He seemed to go to pieces. Loftus watched his handsome face set in the agony of grief. He did not question Marchant immediately, but handled the formalities. A doctor was sent for, and Miller arrived in person. Nothing was said outside the office until the doctor had confirmed Loftus’s opinion.
Carfax had been stabbed to the heart. Naylor had been drugged by an injection of morphine. There was no trace of a weapon.
‘It’s odd that they used two different methods,’ Loftus said to Craigie.
‘They may not have been able to get hold of a powerful enough drug to kill Carfax quickly,’ said Craigie.
‘The little dark men at Colston village poisoned themselves,’ Loftus pointed out. ‘I can’t make it out. No one was seen to enter Naylor’s office this morning. Naylor himself fetches the mail for Carfax and for Marchant. It’s true that the offices are really a self-contained suite, with a separate entrance, but Marchant himself was in his office from the time Carfax arrived until Carfax’s body was found. He says
that he heard nothing.’
‘It sounds like a job for Miller,’ Craigie said.
‘He’s already here. Anything else turned up?’
‘No,’ said Craigie. ‘You haven’t told Marchant what we’ve learned, I suppose?’
‘I’m just going to,’ said Loftus. ‘I’ll ring through again if I’m going to be long.’
He replaced the receiver, and looked at Marchant, who was staring out of the window. The sun shone through one corner of the window. Outside the brightness of the morning was a welcome relief from the leaden skies of the past few days. There was some improvement in the road conditions, but the frost was severe.
Emotion had faded from Marchant’s face, now, except from his eyes. He smiled grimly.
‘I am afraid that shocked me badly, Mr. Loftus.’
‘I can understand that,’ Loftus said. ‘Has Carfax ever told you that he was afraid of anything like this?’
‘No, there was no inkling of such a thing.’ He smoothed down his wavy hair, and lit a cigarette. ‘I am very worried because of what it might mean. Carfax was in my full confidence.’ His voice hardened. ‘Have you any reason to believe that he might have been disloyal?’
Loftus told him what he knew.
He went through the whole story, putting in details which seemed to have no immediate bearing on Carfax’s death—or the apparent fact that Carfax had talked to Nassi as ‘Mr. Wilkinson’. To the story of Clarissa, his son and Wilkinson, Marchant made little response, but he seized on the telephone call from Nassi.
‘Do you say this “Wilkinson” is supposed to have warned Parmitter that there was to be an attack on him?’