by John Creasey
‘Yes.’
‘Then Carfax, if he did that, acted for the best,’ said Marchant slowly. ‘He tried to save Parmitter.’
‘That seems likely,’ agreed Loftus. ‘And Parmitter was working with Wilkinson, with this ludicrous idea that it was possible for a small group of private individuals to deal with the matter. Possibly Parmitter took Carfax into his confidence.’
Marchant said: ‘That appears to be irrefutable. And yet...” he broke off, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘I will not pretend to be able to understand it, Mr. Loftus. I sympathise with the enormity of your task.’
Loftus asked: ‘Would it be easy to get a small quantity of explosive, small enough to escape notice, yet powerful enough to wreck the whole building?’
‘Quite easy,’ said Marchant.
‘I know it exists, but it isn’t easy to get,’ Loftus said. ‘There are plenty of such explosives, but most of them are in the experimental stage and all of them are closely guarded. Have you any samples here, Sir Hugh?’
Marchant said: ‘I do not keep experimental or dangerous explosives in London. They are kept in the laboratories up and down the country.’ He frowned, and looked at Loftus with a sudden gleam of alarm. ‘There is a little at Colston,’ he declared. ‘It is kept in the vaults.’
Loftus exclaimed, ‘Now we know what the dark men were after!’
‘But they didn’t get it,’ said Marchant, slowly, and added, ‘Does that mean they will try again?’
18
A Job for George
While Loftus and Marchant were talking in the City, a mild-mannered man named Jackson, recently enlisted in the Department’s service, meandered as if aimlessly about the streets of Westminster. About ten o’clock, he reached the street wherein there was the Great Hall. The Hall, beflagged enough to shame Oslam House, had an imposing domed centre, and looked massive and indestructible.
Jackson, who did not know why he had been given this task, certainly did not ponder over the effect of a highly powerful charge of explosive inside the Hall as he watched the delegates going in. They arrived by taxi, on foot and by private car. A surprising number alighted from buses at the end of the road and hurried importantly to the flight of steps which led up to the Hall. Most of them seemed in a hurry. Men of all shapes and sizes, and one woman to perhaps every twenty men, walked up the steps, showed their passes to the attendant police, then went inside.
The hubbub in the outer hall, which Jackson saw from the steps, was like Bedlam; literally like Bedlam. At the sides were the advisory bureaux and on one wall was a huge map of London and its environs. For the convenience of the delegates, places of interest were clearly marked in red, and included theatres, museums, assembly halls, the parks and the railway termini.
Beneath the map was a mob—the right word was mob, mused Jackson—chattering and milling in all directions at once. Only a thin trickle moved towards the assembly hall, for that morning’s main session did not begin until eleven o’clock.
Jackson had a forged card.
He showed it casually. A policeman checked it, and let him through.
Mixing with the throng, now and again Jackson heard a word or two and a few sentences which he could understand, but foreign tongues predominated. Everyone appeared to be talking at once. He wandered about until he reached the doorway of the assembly hall. Glancing inside, he saw what Craigie had told him to look for: the Shovian delegation was already in its place, with Pirani sitting aloof from the others. Pirani looked a sick man.
Talking to one of the other members of the delegation was a well-known British statesman, and, not far away, darting occasional hostile glances, was little Nassi, with two other members of the San Patino delegation.
Jackson wandered into the assembly hall, walked round it, nodded here and there and received casual greetings in a dozen tongues. No one took any particular interest in him.
At five minutes to eleven, the hall was full.
When the session started, Jackson, who had no right at all to be there except the authority of the forged pass, was sitting at the back. It would not be true to say that he was the only one who looked bored. A delegate from an obscure European state was addressing the meeting as if desperately anxious to be finished with his task, and sentence by sentence his words were translated into French and English.
Hakka, the Secretary-General, was tapping his desk with a gold pencil which glinted in the electric light immediately above him. Another light shone on the design of palm leaves on the great curtain hanging behind the chairman. The symbol of peace, mused Jackson...
At one o’clock, the session was adjourned for lunch.
At half-past one, Jackson had reported to Craigie that gaining entry was as simple as shelling peas.
Craigie went into consultation first with Hadley and then with Miller, and for the afternoon meeting fifty plainclothes men, in addition to those who were always on duty, packed the hall and the side-rooms of the Great Hall. Just before three o’clock, when the final rush for the afternoon session began, another, more experienced agent of the Department presented his forged card. He reported later that he felt that every movement he made was watched, but provided a man had no objection to dying with the rest, it would be quite easy to take in a small packet; after all, the delegates could hardly be searched one by one, could they?
Craigie had to admit that they could not.
• • • • •
By the middle of the afternoon it was established that the explosive which Marchant had stored in the vaults of Colston House was untouched. By then, too, Marchant had seen his son and Clarissa, who had returned to London. He made it abundantly clear that he was shocked by their decision to work without consulting the authorities, but beyond that bore them no hard feeling.
No trace of the little dark men still at large was found.
Nassi, Pirani, the delegates of the other suspect States, Virnov—for his own sake—and others were closely watched, but no one approached them. Since the murder of Carfax, a veil appeared to have been drawn over the affair. The fact that only twelve hours had passed since that murder, yet the lull already seemed unbearable, was a measure of the tension suffered by all who knew that something was amiss.
All Carfax’s secretary had been able to say was that a man had entered his outer office when he had started off for the post, and pricked him with a needle. The man had clapped a hand over his mouth, to prevent him from shouting. The next he knew he had been in the sick-room at Super-Steel, with a nurse and the Special Branch man who had been stationed with him to take his story on his recovery. His assailant had not been a little, dark man, but a stranger dressed in ordinary clothes.
The only detailed information which Wilkinson had been able to give them was the names of Parmitter’s would-be customers. But a list of those had already been found among Parmitter’s papers; all were from the States which were already under suspicion.
Loftus, Craigie, Tim Kemble, Hammond and George Henry George were gathered in Craigie’s office a little after five o’clock that evening. George, who had come in last, looked round and remarked breezily: ‘Just the brains of the party, eh?’
‘And nothing up our sleeves,’ said Tim, who looked much brighter than for some days past.
‘What’s on?’ asked George.
‘Nothing,’ said Craigie. ‘You’ll have your chance with Pirani tonight, George.’
George rubbed his hands. ‘Abracadabra and Open Sesame, I’ve had a chat with Massino, and he’s given me one or two hints. When we have a dinner I’ll give you a free show. But seriously—is it much use tackling Pirani now?’
‘What makes you ask that?’ asked Craigie.
George said: ‘Just a tickle in the cerebrum. I mean, isn’t it too obvious? Shovia for the Shovians might be a battle cry, but if Shovia is really behind this business, would they use Shovians who can be picked out a mile off? Wasn’t there some talk of making sure that Wilkinson was right about their nationality?’ he added.
> ‘He is right,’ Craigie said.
‘Little dark men all Shovians except Kolsti,’ burbled George. ‘The thing is, would Shovia use such obvious people? Or wouldn’t someone else be more likely to get hold of a few Shovians who have no love for their fatherland, and use them? I mean, there are different sects and factions in Shovia, aren’t there? Which particular part do the dark men belong to?’
‘They come from a northern province,’ Craigie told him.
‘Another disgruntled minority, perhaps.’
‘These are native Shovians, not naturalised Europeans or men of European descent,’ Craigie pointed out. ‘There’s no known movement for autonomy among them. Kolsti’s family is Shovian, too. There aren’t more than two hundred thousand left of the real natives in the country, which has a population of seven millions. From all reports, they’re keenly nationalistic.’
‘But there’s something in what George said,’ remarked Loftus. ‘It points a finger almost too obviously at Shovia.’
‘But when we analyse what we know of these people, we’ve got to admit that they don’t behave as if they were being paid for the job,’ Craigie said. ‘It’s a cause to them, or suicides wouldn’t be so frequent. The most likely cause to appeal to a Shovian is Shovia. There might be a faction there hostile to the ruling Government, although we know of none. I’ve spent the afternoon with the Shovian consul,’ he added. He tapped his meerschaum against the side of the fireplace, then filled it carefully. ‘He assures me that the country is quite united, that the native population has full rights of citizenship and is completely satisfied. Shovia is worried by San Patino and one or two other states, thinking that they might have the backing of one of the big powers. There are the usual rumours of concentrations of arms and men along certain parts of the frontier, but he doesn’t seem seriously perturbed. He knows of no direct threat to Shovia, and the country is quite prepared to accept any Uno decision on all matters concerning its foreign relations. That’s the official opinion; and that’s also Pirani’s instructions from Shovia. It looks so innocent; almost too innocent. Anyhow, George, find out what you can tonight. You’ll have the freedom of Pirani’s suite, it will be a chance in a thousand. Shovian diplomatic language is French, and you’re good enough with it to get through.’
‘A last chance,’ murmured George. ‘Leave it to the magician!’ He took a match from Craigie’s ear, solemnly struck it on his thumb-nail and applied the light to Craigie’s pipe.
• • • • •
M. Antonio Massino was a tall, dark, slender man, with fiery black eyes and a pale skin. George had met him that afternoon, and been astonished to find that in private life M. Massino spoke with a fruity Cockney accent. It was particularly fortunate, said Massino, that he had been asked to find a place for George Henry George, because his brother was ill with influenza.
George went to Massino’s Chelsea house at about half-past six, and was received with open arms both by Massino and his wife and dresser, a surprisingly young buxom woman, who bubbled over with good humour.
‘You’re in good time, mister,’ said Massino, who seemed to take pleasure in his accent when he was not performing.
‘Royalty and all that,’ murmured George.
‘Royalty!’ sniffed Massino. ‘I ‘ave performed before Roy-’Cripes, wot a night! I wouldn’t turn aht for many people tonight, I don’t mind telling you.’
alty, but I don’t call a man like Pirani Royalty.’
‘Well, diplomacy’s the next best thing.’
‘Is it?’ asked Massino. ‘I’ll tell you wot I’d do wiv diplomats.’
‘Go on, tell me,’ urged George, curiously.
‘Drahn ‘em,’ announced Massino. ‘Look wot a mess they always make of fings. Look at Uno, nah. A lot’f cackling ole women, that’s wot they are.’ His dark eyes, not smouldering now, turned to George with a merry twinkle in them. ‘But don’t mind me. Before the Common Market I had a big French business. Spent most of our time in the South o’ France, eh, Lil?’ He appealed to his wife. ‘Proper spoiled my living. Nah, let’s run through your tricks agine.’
George’s sleight of hand was enough to bring an approving gleam to Massino’s eyes, although when he had finished Massino said grudgingly:
‘You’ll just abaht make it, George.’
‘High praise,’ murmured George. ‘You don’t know who will be at this show, do you?’
‘Ticket only,’ said Massino. ‘You oughta know, being a dick.’
‘You know what diplomats are,’ murmured George.
They left in good time. It was still bitterly cold, but transport was moving freely, and soon afterwards Massino’s car pulled up outside the brilliantly lighted consulate which, George saw with jaundiced eye, was beflagged.
The Shovian Consulate had once been a small hotel. It still looked like one. Structural alterations, partly due to air-raid damage, had been made so that Pirani’s private suite was in one corner, and extraordinarily difficult of access. It was on the floor above the big reception hall, which was to be used that night.
Massino had been given precise instructions on where to go and what to do, and a Special Branch man had for some days been on the domestic staff. Thus, George knew that no one was to have access to Pirani’s suite except through the reception room and the small ante-room which would be used by ‘The Massinos’.
George’s task was to search the suite while Massino held the audience.
At the door a policeman asked for their invitation cards. While his was being scrutinised, George looked about him. He saw Graham and Fordham walk past. He caught a glimpse of Hammond in the foyer of the consulate, and there were several other Department men present. That cheered him. He was also cheered by the reception accorded to him and Massino. Bepowdered and bewigged flunkeys, who looked as if they had stepped out of an earlier century, met them.
George passed the big hall where the official reception was taking place, and the first surprise of the evening came then.
Clarissa Kaye was there.
George went into the room set aside for the Massinos, wondering whether Wilkinson had also been invited. He changed into tails. Nothing could make George imposing, but he looked neat in his dress clothes, and his heavily made-up face was likely to spread cheerfulness everywhere. Massino looked sombre. Since he had reached the consulate he had said very little; and when he had spoken it was in a booming voice very different from the Cockney drawl which he used in an aside to George.
They set up their tables in an ante-room, and, at a quarter to nine, were ready for the performance, which was to begin at nine o’clock. If they were lucky, said Massino, it wouldn’t be surprising if they were kept waiting for an hour. Promptly at nine o’clock, a steward came into the ante-room.
‘His Excellency would like to have you announced now. Are you ready, gentlemen?’
‘Massino is always ready,’ boomed Massino.
Three minutes later, George was with him in the reception room.
There were over two hundred people present, with the bearded Pirani, a picture of dignity, sitting with a slim, golden-looking young woman in the centre of the front row. A small platform had been erected for the performers, and from that eminence Gorge could see everyone there. He felt reasonably secure behind his make-up, but he wished Clarissa were not there.
He saw Wilkinson, Susan and Ferguson.
It was not surprising that they should stare at him, for he was to perform first and then leave the stage to Massino. The polite murmur of applause made him grin; he saw that Wilkinson and his party joined in it, and seemed to be interested in him no more than in the others. Pirani, looking tired, was sitting back in his chair.
Massino was declaiming resonantly:
‘You are now about to see, Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, you are now about to see a performance of magic from the great, the greatest performer in the world. I do not make that claim lightly. Watch! Try all you can to see what he does, to discover the sec
ret of his mastery. I ask only for one thing; during the performance, the actual performance—silence, please.’
Massino bowed portentously.
George beamed about him, and pushed back his cuffs in time-honoured fashion. He picked up a pack of cards, went through a few elementary tricks, and then saw that Pirani was looking at him with narrowed eyes and an expression of impatience. Cards were not good enough for Pirani! George beamed still more broadly, and called for a volunteer to assist him.
Wilkinson was up in a flash!
‘Oh, well,’ murmured George.
‘Okay?’ whispered Massino.
‘I’ll take him,’ said George.
Had Wilkinson come because he suspected the truth? Was this a challenge? If it were simple chance, would his disguise be foolproof at such close quarters? That was unlikely. He gave Wilkinson a hand up to the stage. There was a polite round of applause. Wilkinson smiled sardonically, and George felt sure that the truth was out.
He produced an egg from Wilkinson’s ear.
Pirani, obviously a simple soul in his amusements, sat up.
George began to perspire as he worked. Wilkinson also perspired. Massino stood just out of sight, and now and again George thought that he was whispering caustic comments. Wilkinson seemed too bewildered by the speed of the tricks to pay much attention to George, who quickly dismissed him and called for a helper from the fair sex. Neither Clarissa nor Susan came up. He went on for twenty minutes, and a stream of oddments were tossed to the floor, all manner of things which brought gasps of astonishment from the audience. No, thought George, he wasn’t bad, but Massino...
The applause was thunderous when he went off.
Massino patted his shoulder.
‘Not bad,’ he said, patronisingly. ‘Now watch me.‘
‘Not my job,’ said George. ‘You hold ‘em.’
‘I’ll hold them all right,’ promised Massino. He went forward, booming forth, and George cooled off under the blandishments of Madame Massino and a beer.
The rooms of Pirani’s suite were deserted. With police and his personal servants outside the suite, there appeared no need to watch it. George knew that police also watched the windows, there was no chance of anyone breaking in, and the only way into the private rooms was from the big room or from the ante-room where he had changed.