by John Creasey
The telephone rang, and Loftus limped across to his desk-and picked up the receiver.
‘This is the Westminster Hospital,’ said a girl. ‘Hold on please.’ Loftus held on, hopefully; this was probably word from George.
Young Jackson came on the line almost immediately;
‘N-O-S...’ he began.
‘All right, Jacker,’ said Loftus. ‘How’s George?’
‘Well, not exactly at the top of his form,’ answered Jackson. ‘But he’s come round and he’s very anxious to see you.’
‘I’ll be there in two shakes,’ Loftus promised.
George was lying flat on his back. His face and head were unburned, but his hands were in great white bandages and there was a cage over his legs, suggesting that his legs were also burnt. Plump Polly George got up from a chair by the side of the bed as Loftus entered. Polly looked the type to burst into tears at such a thing as this, but instead she was cheerful; Polly kept her tears for lonely moments.
‘Bill, you must tell him that he’s to have a month’s complete rest,’ she said, ‘or else he will want to get up the day after tomorrow and play silly tricks.’
George looked at her with a smile that tried to be cheerful .
‘I’ll spend the month teaching you some tricks,’ he said. He watched her until she had gone out of the room before he looked at Loftus. ‘Hallo, Bill. Sorry about this. We can use able-bodied men just now.’
‘We’ll manage without our jester for a month or two,’ Loftus said. ‘But talk, George.’
The story took half an hour to tell. Twice during that time a nurse looked in and expressed herself forcibly. The third time she looked in, Loftus got up with alacrity.
‘All ready, nurse!’
‘So I should think,’ said the nurse. Ostentatiously she took George’s temperature; and it was true that George was flushed and his eyes were more feverishly bright than when Loftus had entered.
‘Don’t forget that box,’ said George, as Loftus reached the door. ‘It should be in my pocket.’
‘I’ll find it,’ said Loftus.
He hurried out of the room, told Polly that George would have as much leave as he needed, and then went to see the matron. Soon he was going through George’s clothes. When he saw their condition he marvelled that George had come through alive. His legs must be in a very bad way; his shoes were burned through so that only a little of the uppers was left.
Loftus pulled at the pockets. The burned cloth crumpled in his hands. On instructions, nothing had been touched, and he took out George’s wallet, which was scorched but in fair condition, and the other oddments. Among them was the little blue box. He slipped it into his pocket, took George’s identification card and passes from the wallet, and then asked the matron to see that his wife had everything else.
‘Better not let her see the clothes,’ he added.
Then he learned that Wilkinson was also able to talk.
Wilkinson had not escaped facial burns; the skin had been burnt from his chin, and he was heavily bandaged there. But his head and eyes were unaffected, and he could just manage to speak.
‘I’ll save you asking questions,’ he said. ‘We managed to get invitations to the show through Parmitter, last week. We’d not met Pirani, but were very interested in him so we went along to hold a watching brief. Silly of us perhaps, but you people haven’t exactly sparkled. I know we were followed, but...’ he broke off, and there was a smile in his eyes. ‘No one could follow us into the suite. You had guarded it too closely, but we were able to slip up. Susan and I went, after I’d recognised George and wanted to find out what he wanted. Also, I was looking for a little blue box which I thought Pirani had. Have you found such a box?’
Loftus looked blank. ‘Blue box?’ he asked. ‘No. What’s it like?’
‘Not much bigger than twenty cigarettes,’ said Wilkinson. ‘If you do find it, be careful. It’s dynamite!’ He even managed a ghost of a laugh, and added: ‘Well, not dynamite, a lot more powerful. I wish you’d found it.’
20
‘Dynamite’
Loftus did not get back to the office until after eleven o’clock, for he had gone to see Clarissa after talking with Wilkinson. All the time he carried the little blue box in his pocket, and he was conscious of it at every movement. Wilkinson had told him that the box contained some samples of a high explosive on which Super-Steel had been working. It had been entrusted to Lionel Marchant who had passed it on to Wilkinson, from whom it had been stolen.
When Loftus reached the Department Z office in Whitehall, he placed the box in front of Craigie with great care.
‘Wilkinson and Susan were sitting near the door,’ Loftus said. ‘According to Wilkinson, Massino had the rest of the audience enthralled with a trick which included a manifestation of ectoplasm—or smoke!’ added Loftus. ‘One corner of the room was temporarily hidden in smoke, and Wilkinson and Susan took their chance then.’
‘There was a smoke trick,’ Craigie said. ‘I’ve been told about it from several sources. Most of the people I’ve spoken to seem to think that Massino was responsible for the explosion.’
‘Is that worth checking, I wonder?’ asked Loftus.
‘Miller’s doing what he can on it. We’ve taken Massino and his friends for granted. I don’t think there’s much chance that they played a different kind of trick, but it’s as well to be sure. But the smoke certainly explains how Wilkinson and Susan got into the suite.’
‘Yes,’ said Loftus. He looked at the box. ‘Well, the only thing of real importance seems to be that little pretty.’ He picked the box up gingerly and inspected the tiny lock. ‘It’s secure enough. Notice anything odd about it?’
‘There’s no effect from the fire,’ said Craigie.
‘Yes—fireproof, fire-resisting. That’s probably just as well. We’d better find out if Lionel Marchant or the great Sir Hugh know how to open it.’ He paused. ‘They might also be able to tell us precisely what’s in it. It’s time I looked Marchant up again.’
Lionel Marchant had corroborated Wilkinson’s story, and it was evident that he had been easily swayed by Wilkinson’s stronger personality. Although like his father in appearance, Lionel lacked strength of will. Both Loftus and Craigie were uneasy about him. He had access to so many secrets of vital importance, although it was some time since he had left the firm to control the Colston Estate.
This was a good opportunity to see him again, and the interview should at least solve the mystery of the box.
‘Where were Lionel Marchant and his wife last night?’ Loftus asked, suddenly.
‘At Sir Hugh’s London flat,’ said Craigie. ‘So was Violet Wilkinson—apparently there’s been a complete rapprochement. They had no visitors, according to the reports. Take Tim along to see them, will you,’ he added. ‘Tim will have to take over outside for the next few days.’
Loftus telephoned Tim Kemble and arranged to meet him at the Super-Steel offices, made the appointment with Marchant and his son, and reached the Super-Steel Headquarters at noon. Nothing had changed in that throbbing, seething seat of power. As he went upstairs, Loftus reflected a little sententiously that it was remarkable that one man could have created such an organisation; that Marchant was the real power here everyone knew.
Lionel Marchant was in the big office with Sir Hugh.
The resemblance between them was marked; except that Lionel was much younger, he looked a copy of his father; his hair waved in exactly the same way. He smiled affably enough at Loftus, and Sir Hugh shook hands.
‘I hear that Mr. Hammond was hurt last night,’ he said. ‘My son and his wife were invited, but were unable to go.’ He spoke with feeling. ‘How is Hammond?’
‘Not badly hurt,’ Loftus told him.
‘Now, how can I help you?’ asked Marchant.
Loftus took out the little blue box.
He expected to see a change of expression on Lionel Marchant’s face. He expected the older man to exclaim. So he p
laced the box carefully on the great flat-topped desk while looking at the two men.
Both looked blank.
‘What’s that?’ asked Lionel Marchant.
Loftus said, ‘Haven’t you seen it before?’
‘No,’ said Marchant. He picked it up. ‘Fireproof plastic,’ he said. ‘It’s a neat little container, but it doesn’t mean anything to me. What did you expect...’
He broke off, startled, for Loftus swung round and snatched up the telephone.
‘Tim, go to the hospital, make sure that Wilkinson’s still there!’ He waited impatiently until an operator answered him and then said: ‘Get me the Westminster Hospital, and Scotland Yard. Hold the Yard on for me until I’ve finished with the first call.’ He held on, looking at the Marchants intently. ‘Don’t take any chances,’ he called to Tim, who was already at the door, and then looked grimly at Marchant and asked, ‘May I use the telephone?’
Marchant said, ‘What the devil’s got into you?’
‘Wilkinson told me he got this box from your son,’ said Loftus. ‘I—hallo...’ he heard the hospital operator. ‘Casualty Ward, please,’ he said, and in a few seconds he was talking to Jackson. ‘Have you seen Wilkinson lately?’
‘No.’
‘See if he’s still there,’ said Loftus.
As he waited, for Jackson did not pause to ask whether he had taken leave of his senses, but went off immediately, he saw father and son exchanging glances. Was there a gleam of suspicion in the older man’s eyes, he wondered? Neither of them moved, and Jackson quickly came back to the telephone.
‘Yes. He’s fast asleep.’
‘Make sure he is asleep and not dead,’ Loftus said. The Marchants started, while Jackson was startled to protest.
‘I say, old chap...’
‘He might conceivably have killed himself or someone else might have managed to poison him,’ Loftus said. ‘Miller will be sending some men over in a few minutes. Stay in Wilkinson’s room until they arrive.’
‘Right.’
Loftus replaced the receiver, but the bell rang immediately, Superintendent Miller agreed to see that the hospital was watched.
Loftus replaced the receiver and wiped his forehead.
‘I’m afraid Wilkinson has put something across us.’ There was bitter note in his voice. ‘That is, unless you have, Mr. Marchant!’ He was looking at Lionel. ‘You didn’t give him that box, did you?’
‘Of course I didn’t,’ said Lionel, indignantly.
Sir Hugh asked: ‘What is supposed to be in it?’
‘A small amount of a powerful explosive,’ said Loftus.
Sir Hugh picked it up, and said thoughtfully:
‘We can easily make sure of that. We can take it downstairs to the engineer’s shop and get it opened. Would you care to?’
‘I certainly would,’ said Loftus.
They went downstairs together. Only once did Lionel speak, to assure Loftus that he had never seen the box in his life before. It would be necessary soon to put Lionel Marchant through a stiff interrogation.
A little, sharp-nosed man in the engineer’s shop looked at the box, sniffed, looked at his bench and sniffed, and said that it shouldn’t take long.
‘Handle it carefully,’ warned Loftus.
The little man sniffed again. ‘I know how careful I’ve got to be.’
Loftus smiled faintly. The man picked up a tiny saw. He put the box in a vice, without gripping it too tightly, and set to work. All of them watched him with close interest. He worked round the lock, getting the point of the saw in first and then making a neat cut. Soon the lock fell out. He took the box from the vice and handed it to Sir Hugh.
Marchant handed it to Loftus in turn.
Inside the box were several sheets of folded paper, but nothing remotely like an explosive.
Loftus supposed that Lionel ought to be forgiven the bleating laugh with which he greeted the discovery.
• • • • •
There was nothing written on the three folded sheets of paper, as far as Loftus could see. He took them to Craigie who immediately sent them to the Scotland Yard laboratory for examination. Probably something was written in invisible ink; and all known processes of bringing that to light would be tried within the next hour.
Loftus went to see Wilkinson again. The medical staff were difficult, saying that the sick man should not be disturbed, but Loftus insisted, although he had an uncomfortable feeling that he would achieve nothing, that the opposing forces were too strong and too cunning. The feeling of helplessness which that engendered weighed heavily on him.
Wilkinson woke out of a heavy sleep. He could not struggle up in the bed, but came to very quickly. Loftus wondered if he had expected this second call.
‘Not more trouble,’ he muttered.
‘That little blue box,’ said Loftus. ‘Who really told you about it?’
‘Lionel Marchant,’ asserted Wilkinson, promptly. ‘I’ve told you that once.’
‘He denies it,’ said Loftus.
He could not understand the expression in the other’s eyes. Something happened to Wilkinson, something in Loftus’s brief statement caused it. He was silent for a long time. Then he spoke in his low-pitched, uneasy voice:
‘All the same, he gave it to me. He’s lying, not I. And if he would lie to you about this, he lied to me!’
Wilkinson half rose from his pillow, and the nurse came hurrying across the room and pressed him back gently. She said something which Loftus could not catch, but Loftus was interested only in what Wilkinson said. ‘He lied to me!’ There was a load of hatred in Wilkinson’s voice. Into Loftus’s mind there sprang the earlier story: Warning had been founded in order to attract the real enemies of Russia in this country. Abbott had been one of them; now Wilkinson believed that Lionel Marchant was another.
Wilkinson said: ‘Get him before it’s too late, Loftus!’
‘He’s being closely watched,’ said Loftus, slowly. ‘I’ll get him all right.’
He hurried out of the room to Tim Kemble and Jackson, and he took them with him. From downstairs he telephoned Marchant, who said that his son was now in the next office. As they hurried downstairs and got into his car, many facts were racing through his mind. Lionel Marchant had been on both sides of the fence, his father’s and Wilkinson’s. He had been in a perfect position to judge the progress which each was making. He had not gone to Pirani’s reception, although he had a ticket for himself and his wife; possibly he had known what was going to happen, and had deliberately stayed away.
Loftus closed his eyes as Tim drove as swiftly as he could towards the Super-Steel offices.
Outside the offices were Special Branch men and one or two Department Z agents on guard, as they had been for days. Neither of the Marchants had left the building. Loftus and Tim hurried up to the first floor, while Jackson waited in the big hall. Loftus pushed the secretaries and their underlings aside and entered the great man’s sanctum without a by-your-leave.
Marchant looked up.
‘Now what’s the trouble?’ he asked.
Loftus said: ‘I’d like to see your son again.’
‘He assures me that he knows nothing at all about the box, and I think I would know if he was lying. You don’t seriously suspect...’
Loftus said: ‘I think he lied to me, Sir Hugh.’
Slowly, Marchant rose from his desk.
‘I suppose it is possible,’ he acknowledged. ‘But you don’t know my son. He is quite incapable of taking any part in such an affair as this. He is not even qualified to work here. I found that estate management was much more suitable for...’
He seemed to be talking for the sake of talking, and continued as Loftus went to the door of Carfax’s room. Loftus felt the heavy weight of depression upon him. Marchant was frightened. That seemed the only explanation of his manner, the nervous twisting of his hands, the way his voice rose. He might now have reason to suspect that he had misjudged his son’s quality.
Loftus opened the door.
Lionel Marchant was sitting at Carfax’s desk, slumped across the chair. In his right hand was a hypodermic syringe. When Loftus touched him, he fell forward.
In front of him was a sheet of writing-paper, covered with sprawling handwriting. Loftus motioned to the door and Tim went to watch Sir Hugh, while he read the note.
‘I can’t go on,’ Lionel had written. ‘It’s too much for me. Loftus and Wilkinson between them will find the truth sooner or later, from now on I shall be in constant danger.
‘Le me outline briefly why I have worked as I have done. I have never agreed with my father that armaments are a thing of the past. I believe in them. I believe that the difference between nations can only be settled by war. I believe that power should be to the strong and that the weak should fall. I have been—ever since I was able to think—afraid of what would happen if the power of Great Britain should be seriously challenged by other states. I have watched the growth of the U.S.S.R. with increasing foreboding. I have watched the way in which it has taken more and more control of Uno. I believe that eventually there should be a clash between Great Britain and Russia. I want to avoid active war for a long time to come, so that we can become really strong. For that reason, only for that reason, I believe that Uno is a danger to this nation and, in the long run, a danger to the world.
‘Therefore, I would have it broken.
‘I thought that if Virnov were killed, that would be enough. Since then I have come to realise that Russia is eager to help the consolidation of Uno. I believe that the only way it can be destroyed is physically. I am not alone in this belief. I am but one of the Council of Three. They will finish what I have begun. And they will finish it soon.’
Loftus read the letter twice, measuring its inconsistencies, the haphazard phraseology, the confusion of ideas. It was just such a letter as might be expected from a man on the point of suicide, a man weak in himself but envious of power. There was undoubtedly some truth in the explanation; although not in the premises. It was easy to imagine that Lionel Marchant had been used as a tool by others, his weakness forged into their strength because of his opportunities for evil-doing.