by John Creasey
George set to work in a small room obviously used as a study.
He had no keys, but none of the locks was difficult. He looked through paper after paper, seeing that they were of no importance, the ordinary routine of the delegation’s work. There was a mass of cables from Shovia and documents signed by the President of Shovia, but all of them simply indicated the attitude which Pirani was to adopt at Uno. Soon there remained only one small, locked brief case, which he had not examined. There was only one way to open it—by cutting the lock from the leather. He found the leather tough and hard to cut. He broke the blade of his knife, scowled, and started to work again. He really needed a chisel, he decided; it would take him twenty minutes. As he had to damage the thing, it might be as well to take it away with him and finish the job outside.
But he persisted.
He heard a sudden outburst of applause from the big room, and hoped that did not mean that Massino had finished. There was no sound of movement, and Massino’s voice boomed out, as if he were announcing another trick. George turned to the case again.
In five minutes, he had it open.
Inside were several papers and a small box. He took out the box. It was made of blue plastic, and had a small lock. He looked at it carefully for a few moments. In such a box as this an explosive might be carried. He wondered if Pirani always carried this brief case with him to Uno.
Then he heard a movement.
He dropped his hand to his pocket, where he carried a small gun. He heard a whisper; it was Wilkinson, and then a giggle which might have been Susan’s. Then he saw the door opening gently.
He did not get a clear view of them before the explosion-came from downstairs. The floor seemed to heave and the walls to close in upon him. He heard a gasp from the woman outside, and then found himself flung against the wall, with plaster falling on him and pictures thudding to the floor.
Throughout it all, he clutched the little box.
19
Little Blue Box
The rumbling of the explosion died down. The floor still seemed to be swaying when George got to his feet. He staggered to a chair which had been flung on its side, righted it, and sat down. Something had struck him on the head, and he felt dizzy and dazed. There was a heavy drumming in his ears; his heart was beating fast. He took in great gulps of air.
Then he remembered hearing Wilkinson’s voice.
He got up, and crept to the door. By some freak of the explosion it had jammed, and would not open.
He could hear cries outside. Someone was screaming. There was a word which he could not catch being shouted time and time again.
He thrust the little blue box into his pocket, then put both hands to the door handle and tugged. It did not budge. He heard a noise which sounded like falling water; it was not water; it was a crowd on the move—stampeding! The cries were louder now, a dozen people seemed to be screaming at the same time. He heard the thud of running feet, and again one cry repeated, nearer and louder; and this time George distinguished the word.
Fire!
There was no window in this little room.
George wiped the perspiration from his forehead and, while he was getting ready for another assault on the door, looked about the room. It was a shambles. The lamp had crashed from the centre of the ceiling; that was probably what had hit him on the head. He felt his head gingerly; there was a nasty bruise, and when he looked at his fingers they had blood on them.
‘Oh well,’ he said, and pulled at the door again.
Nothing he could do would shift it.
There was no sound of movement on this floor now, but he could still hear the screeching, the one word was being repeated time and time again. Fire, fire, fire, fire! George felt hot, and thought absurdly that it might be because the fire was getting near.
He picked up a heavy chair, and crashed it against the door. The chair broke, but the outer door was hardly scratched.
George took out his automatic, wishing that it were a service revolver. He fired at the lock, but the lock itself was not holding the door, it was jammed far too tightly.
He wiped the perspiration off his forehead again. It was hotter than it had been a few minutes before. He could smell smoke, too. The noise of running people had stopped. Perhaps they had got out of the big room. That was, if anyone in the room had been able to move after the explosion. George remembered the crowded room, the people sitting shoulder to shoulder; and he recalled the rapt expressions on those faces. The golden-haired girl who had been sitting next to Pirani; was she all right? Was Pirani alive?
He picked up another chair and crashed it against the door, but it broke in his hands. He looked round, but needed no reminder that the room was windowless. There was just this door; the room had been selected, undoubtedly, for Pirani to work in absolute security.
The smell of smoke was becoming more pungent.
He thought he heard the roar of flames.
He called out, making his voice as deep as possible, but there was no sound in response. Everyone had flown; and only Massino knew that he was in this room. As Massino had been in the big room, there was little chance that he was in a fit condition to send help.
What was he thinking about? Wilkinson, Susan and possibly others of Wilkinson’s party had been outside the room. And they had gone, knowing he was inside. He went to the wall by the desk and felt it; it was hot to the touch. When he turned round again, he saw that a few wisps of smoke were creeping beneath the door. So the fire had reached the passage. The door was not hot.
He took off his collar.
He could think of no way out. No one heard his shouts, no one was likely to be in the upper part of the building. There was, perhaps, one hope; that Hammond or some of the others would try to get in when he did not show up. He thought again of the location of this room. It could only be approached through Pirani’s suite, and if the fire had started in the big room, after the explosion, no one could get through there. On the other hand, they could get into the suite through the windows.
He heard footsteps in the room beyond. A man came hurrying towards the door.
George shouted, ‘Get it open!’
‘Coming!’
The voice was distorted and he did not recognise it, but he did not think it was Hammond’s or any one of the Department men’s; he would recognise them soon enough. He heard a thud on the door, but no sound of breaking. It was getting unbearably hot. He pulled at the handle, straining every muscle. The door was quivering under the onslaught from the other side, but it did not give way. The thuds were coming repeatedly, but why was there only one man?
There was a pause, and into it the man said in that distorted voice:
‘Get away from the door.’
George hesitated, then backed to a corner. Smoke was creeping about the room everywhere, and he started to cough. He wondered why he was to get away; probably his would-be rescuer was going to shoot at the lock.
Something crashed against the door, with a louder thud than anything before; and the door sagged open.
Smoke billowed in as George went towards it. A fit of coughing shook him, but he forced himself to stagger on. He saw a large armchair just outside the door; the man had lifted it and brought it crashing down; the weight had been enough. He heard the man coughing between his own spasms. Still coughing, he climbed over the chair. He could see only vaguely. A tall man in a dress suit was standing near him, beckoning. A hand touched George’s arm. He felt himself dragged towards the next door, which led to the passage.
Now he could hear the roar of the flames.
They reached the passage where he saw a red glow in one direction; and in the other there was only a blank wall.
‘We’ll have to chance it,’ said his companion, after a bout of coughing.
Only then did George recognise Wilkinson.
Wilkinson said hoarsely, ‘This way.’
He led the way into a small bedroom. George realised why a moment later, for Wilkinson
went to a hand-basin and turned on both taps, then thrust two towels into the bowl. As he did so, he remarked:
‘The place is a death trap.’
‘Yes,’ said George. ‘Thanks.’
Wilkinson grinned. ‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said. ‘Where are your friends?’
‘Busy, I imagine.’
Wilkinson tossed a soaked towel to George, and took the other. All the time the roar of the fire was in their ears and there was a sickly smell, rather sweet and yet nauseating. George recognised it; and he thought again of the people in the room.
‘Now for it,’ Wilkinson said.
Keeping close together, they approached the flames. The walls of the short passage were blackened and crumbling. They heard a rending, crashing sound, as if a roof had fallen in; it occurred to George that it was probably the staircase. He put the towel over his face, and steeled himself to go forward.
Wilkinson went first. George gave him less than ten seconds’ start, then he lifted the towel to draw in a deep breath, and plunged forward.
The floor held.
The heat closed about him as if he were in an oven. He felt a sharp pain at his hands as the flames scorched them. He rushed on blindly, not seriously thinking that he had a chance. He could not take count of time, he felt the burning at his hands and his ankles. Then a floorboard gave way. He was still surrounded by flames, but knew that the staircase was ahead of him. It might have collapsed, but all he could do was to run.
Suddenly the floor gave way beneath him.
• • • • •
The first Hammond knew of the explosion was the roar; and then came the crashing of windows. Glass blew out all along the front of the buildings where he was standing and talking to Tim Kemble, Fordham and several Department men. Until then, the evening had been quiet and uneventful. They knew that Wilkinson, Clarissa, Susan and Ferguson were inside, but had made no attempt to interfere with them. George would be sure to see them. It was certain that the attendants inside would allow no one except the artistes to use the ante-room for dressing. That had all been carefully arranged, and Hammond did not see how anything could go seriously wrong.
Then came the disaster.
Hammond kept his feet, but Tim and Fordham were flung into the road. They came up against a bank of frozen snow. The fall shook them, but they were quickly on their feet again and soon inside the consulate. Alarmed attendants were already rushing towards the big room.
The crash of falling walls and ceilings thundered about them. After that there was an odd, unnatural silence, broken only by a rumbling sound which seemed a long way off. Suddenly people began to scream.
As Hammond raced up the stairs, with the thought of George uppermost in his mind, he was met by a solid phalanx of people rushing from the reception room. There was no question of women first; men and women, many of them bleeding from open wounds, many screaming—men as well as women—poured out like a torrent. Above the sound of the stampede came the screams and cries of helpless people behind.
Suddenly, there was a cry of ‘Fire!’
Hammond and the Department Z men had been swept back into the foyer, fighting desperately to keep their balance. Fordham was carried into the street. There was a crush in the doorway, and Hammond, pushed against the reception desk, began to shout for order, to try to stop the panic; but his voice was scarcely audible.
Tim managed to fight his way across the hall to join him.
‘We must get up,’ he shouted.
Hammond glanced up at the teeming staircase. A dozen people had already lost their footing and others were falling, put the landing itself was clear. The cries and groans from the big room seemed to grow louder; and now they could see the ugly tongues of fire shooting out in all directions.
Above them were the banisters which bordered the landing. Immediately beneath was a large chair. Hammond climbed up on it, stretched up his hands and touched the banisters. He pulled himself up. A wave of heat struck at him, and he started to cough.
Tim came up.
They forced their way over fallen bodies towards the main door and stood there, hardly able to think, unable to close their eyes against the horror. The fire had started on the far ide of the room. From there, apparently, the explosion had some. No one was near it. The explosion had blown the people way, but there were other things to see....
Hammond sought for the doorway.
It was out of sight; which meant that it was hidden by the ames. He hurried across the room, treading on dead or unconscious people. Once he slipped. He looked down and saw Pirani. The Shovian delegate was dead, and his beard was badly burned. Next to him was a golden-haired girl, her face set in a grotesque, unnatural smile. Probably they had been killed instantaneously by the blast.
The flames were getting fiercer.
Then Tim exclaimed, ‘Look!’
Near the door leading to the landing, trying to get up, hair dishevelled, dress torn and bare shoulders poking through, was Clarissa Kaye. She managed to get to her feet, and then began to look about her as if searching for someone. Then she moved towards the door, but stumbled and fell.
Hammond said, ‘Look after her.’
He took it for granted that Tim would do so, but Tim stayed by his side as he went towards the wall of flame.
Without warning, part of the ceiling fell in front of them.
One moment Hammond was stepping towards the door, just able to see the outline, and the next something struck him heavily on the head. The same piece of plaster caught Tim a glancing blow, but did not put him out.
Hammond had lost consciousness.
The roar of the flames grew louder.
Tim bent down and lifted Hammond, then staggered back-with him towards the door. More pieces were falling from the ceiling. He reached the doorway, and as he did so Fordham and several others of the Department men, with police men and S.B. men, came hurrying up the stairs.
It was impossible to get into the other rooms of the suite all they could do was to save as much life as they could there. As Tim carried Clarissa Kaye downstairs, he wondered what had happened to Wilkinson, Susan and Ferguson; but none of them loomed so large in his mind as George Henry George.
A quarter of an hour later, a man crashed down from the burning banisters into the hall; quickly after him came and other. Their clothes were blazing, they had towels over their faces, and they lay still where they had fallen. Police hurried forward to drag them away from the landing, which way likely to collapse at any moment, as the stairs had already done.
They were the last people to be taken out of the consultation.
• • • • •
There was no hope of keeping the story of the fire from the newspapers.
Over a hundred people escaped from the reception room, some of them only slightly injured. Reporters were there at the time of the fire, and the story spread first from mouth to mouth, then from headline to headline. In the early morning news, the B.B.C. solemnly announced that it was understood that the disastrous fire at the Shovian Consulate was preceded by an explosion.
Loftus was listening to the news.
His lips twisted wryly at that statement. He listened to the grim story of the casualties: it was feared that over a hundred people had lost their lives. The cause of the explosion was unknown. It was suggested in some quarters that a small H.E. bomb had sunk beneath the Consulate during the war; there had been several heavy raids in that part of London.
Finally: ‘Although eleven delegates to the United Nations Conference at the Great Hall were killed in the explosion, the sitting of the Emergency Session will continue this morning, when M. Virnov, Soviet Deputy-Commissar for Foreign Affairs, is expected to address the Conference.’
Loftus switched off.
He was alone in the office, for Craigie had been summoned early to Downing Street. He had before him a list of the Department Z casualties; mercifully, they were few. George Henry George was not so badly burned as had at first been fea
red. He and Wilkinson were in hospital. Hammond was recovering from the effects of his second blow over the head. He had medical orders not to get up for at least two days.
George and Hammond could be counted out for the next few days, George probably for weeks.
Fordham had also become a casualty; in escaping from the fire and the explosion, he had broken his leg.
Graham and Tim were fit, and, of course, there were recently re-enlisted agents and those who had not been on duty near the Consulate.
Loftus needed no telling that the view taken of this disaster at Downing Street would be such that the whole of the C.I.D. as well as the Special Branch would be called upon. It was possible that the Department would be given the task of directing operations, but equally possible that authority would be handed over to Scotland Yard. Because, thought Loftus, bitterly, the Department had not exactly shone. It was no consolation that no one else had made any progress, either.
Ferguson had died in the fire; so had Susan Harris. The only member of Warning to escape fairly lightly was Clarissa Kaye, and Loftus was expecting a call from the nursing home where she had been taken. He would visit her immediately she was in a fit condition to talk.
Two agents were with George Henry George, in the hope that when he came round he would be able to tell his story. Until then, none knew what Wilkinson had been doing at the consulate. Craigie had agreed with Loftus that there was at least a chance that Wilkinson was responsible for the explosion. It was difficult to reconcile that with the fact that two of his friends had been killed and Clarissa Kaye injured but it was possible that the leader of Warning had told a story to evade suspicion, and equally possible that its members were inspired by the same suicidal fervour as the little dark men.
Massino and his wife had died in the disaster, but the biggest blow was the death of Pirani. If Pirani had been concerned with the League of Dark Men, it was fantastic to think that they had been responsible for the disaster.