by John Creasey
‘I am but one of a Council of Three.’
That sentence seemed to glow in front of Loftus’s eyes as he turned away from the dead man and went into Marchant’s room.
Tim had told the steel magnate.
Loftus said: ‘Did you know what he was going to do?’
Marchant said: ‘I was afraid of it.’
‘And you let him do it.’
‘He was my son,’ Marchant said, in a voice which was hardly audible. ‘He was my son.’
Loftus’s voice was harsh.
‘You were afraid that he would commit suicide. You allowed him to have the opportunity, although I telephoned to warn you. That was equal to helping him in his work.’ The industrialist’s eyes were narrowed and seemed to be filled with anguish, but he did not speak. ‘You know the issues at stake. You know what happened last night. You know of the threat to world unity, and yet you helped him to do it.’
‘He was—my son.’
Loftus said: ‘May it be ever on your conscience.’
He turned and left the room.
Tim followed him, and closed the door. Naylor was approaching, and looked at them curiously. Loftus waited until he had gone into his own room, and then said:
‘Go and get Jackson, Tim. I want Marchant watched.’
Soon Jackson came hurrying along with Tim.
‘Stay with Marchant every minute,’ Loftus told him in a low voice. ‘Don’t let him out of your sight.’
He opened the door, and saw Marchant looking at some papers on his desk. When he glanced up, there was a listless expression on his face. Hope had poured into Loftus but seemed to have drained out of Marchant.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘I am asking one of my men to see that you are safe until this is finally over,’ Loftus said.
‘I’m safe enough,’ Marchant told him.
‘As safe as your son?’ Loftus asked bitterly.
He went out and closed the door.
Tim walked with him to the landing and then down the stairs. Everyone who passed seemed to stare at Loftus, and it was not because of his ungainly bulk or the stiffness of his walk. Tim was still acutely conscious of the change in the big man. What had happened? How had the situation been worsened?
They drove in silence to the office, and found Hadley with Craigie. Hadley’s smile vanished at the sight of Loftus’s expression. Craigie started, and his meerschaum slipped from his mouth.
Loftus limped to the fireplace and sat down, then looked up at them. Tim was standing near the door, still puzzled, hardly noticing Hadley’s presence.
No one spoke.
Then Loftus took out his cigarette case and tapped a cigarette on it with slow, deliberate movements. When he had finished he began to speak.
‘It’s worse than we feared, Gordon. It goes deeper than we’d feared. And I don’t see any way to stop it. They mean to get Uno. They’ll get Uno unless we can work a miracle. There is to be a session this afternoon, isn’t there?’ he asked bleakly.
Hadley said: ‘Yes.’
Loftus went on: ‘Lionel Marchant is dead and appears to have made some kind of “confession”. The truth is that he was murdered and the confession written for him. Carfax was killed in the same office, in a different way but in that same office. It’s next door to Marchant’s.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Marchant killed them both,’ he said, abruptly. ‘I haven’t told Marchant that I’m sure. Our one chance is to watch and follow him. He will almost certainly give the signal for the big attempt.’
After a long pause, Hadley asked:
‘Are you quite sure of this, Loftus?’
‘If you ask for proof I can only give you circumstantial evidence. But have a look at it. Parmitter worked for Marchant, and discovered part of the truth. He told Wilkinson, who persuaded him to work as a spy in Super-Steel. Parmitter’s belief in armaments as the only way to security was a pose. Carfax also learned the truth about Marchant. Carfax took calls as “Wilkinson” to keep Parmitter in touch with events. Parmitter didn’t fully trust anyone. But he wanted to get in touch with Carfax and sent Nassi to telephone. Carfax had learned that Parmitter was to be shot that day. He warned Nassi. But Carfax was no fool. He knew quite well that his word was only hearsay and he could offer no proof. Proof was essential before he made any move. He relied on Marchant’s trust in him. Marchant learned the truth, and killed him, sending someone in to attack Naylor so that the murder appeared to come from outside. You remember the two different ways of attack—a knife, which we never found, and the hypodermic syringe. An unknown man drugged the secretary, but Marchant killed Carfax. And Marchant could only have known of the real objects of Carfax and Parmitter if someone working for Wilkinson told him. That spy might have been Abbott, or else Lionel Marchant.’
He paused, and tossed the cigarette into the glowing fire-place. No one spoke. He prodded the mantelpiece with his walking-stick before he went on:
‘Doesn’t it add up?’
Craigie said: ‘It adds up, Bill.’
‘Here are some more figures for the column. Marchant discovered that Wilkinson was working against him, not knowing who he was; and also that Wilkinson had first won Clarissa’s loyalty, then his son’s. Wilkinson undoubtedly suspected that Marchant was behind the League of Dark Men, behind the whole foul scheme. Who would benefit more? Who would be a more likely man than the virtual owner of the biggest steel corporation in Great Britain, with plants throughout the world? Who could want Uno to fail more than Marchant does? It’s so obvious.’
For the first time a bleak smile crossed Loftus’s face.
‘Of course, we don’t want to believe it,’ he went on. ‘You don’t want to believe it, you can see the terrible possibilities lurking in the background. But before we come to them, let me finish. You’ll say that Wilkinson accused Lionel of lying when he said that he knew nothing about the blue box. The truth is that in the end Marchant and his son were working together, but Lionel was weak and his father strong. Lionel might have cracked under questioning; Marchant will not. So Marchant killed him. All the time he offered us every facility, he even opened the box for us, he behaved irreproachably; and from time to time he killed, in order to make sure that nothing could be traced to him.’
‘Now—what?’
‘Now we know that Marchant is chiefly responsible we can see the full horror of it. If you want any telling, go to Super-Steel’s offices. Get a first-hand picture of the complex organisation which spreads throughout the world. North, South, East and West there are Super-Steel plants. There are hundreds of subsidiary and associated companies, the power of that organisation is so vast that it can hardly be conceived. There isn’t anywhere not affected. Super-Steel is wealthier by far than many small countries and it can still play on the passions of nations like Shovia, like San Patino. It can set one against the other, and it can also sow more than the seeds of discord among the big nations. It can help to create distrust.’
After another pause, he added abruptly:
‘The one hope is that Marchant hasn’t yet given his instructions for the final act.’
Hadley said sharply:
‘The Hall must be cleared at once, the next sitting postponed.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Loftus. ‘That’s one way of doing it. But it’s after one o’clock. You can stop them all going back this afternoon. You can stop them meeting again tomorrow and the next day. I don’t mean that there’s no hope of preventing complete disaster in the building. But supposing you do stop them from going back? What will happen? The world will know simply that the Uno Conference broke up. Isn’t that exactly what Marchant wants? Officially we can give the reason, but isn’t it too fantastic to expect the world to believe? Remember, it can only be done on our initiative. We can stop the session, but if we do we shall destroy Uno more effectively than a high explosive would. We know the danger; can we convince the other delegates? Can we convince Russia and the United States that we’ve been forced to do it?
I don’t think we can. I think they—the great masses of their peoples as well as many of their statesmen—will believe that we have acted because we don’t want Uno to succeed. Questions affecting us are being thrashed out; it is a remarkably convenient time for us to stop the session. Our delegates have made wonderful speeches, we’ve built up a reputation for wanting not only world peace but a form of World Government, but won’t the others be only too ready to believe that we have been putting out a smoke-screen to hide our real intentions?’ He brushed his hand across his hair, and added harshly: ‘Isn’t that right? Or have I gone crazy?’
Hadley moved quietly towards the door.
‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ he said. ‘You’ve forgotten only one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I can get in touch with the major Embassies and tell them the truth now. I can summon an emergency session of the Big Five and they can make the decision to postpone the next sitting. It will have to be a stop-gap decision. Their hands will be forced, but—well, it’s got to be attempted,’ went on Hadley, and he went out as Craigie pressed the button and the door slid open.
He did not look back.
Tim spoke as the door closed.
‘Surely we can force the truth out of Marchant? There’s a Council of Three, you say. Lionel’s gone. If we get his father, there’ll only be one left. Marchant must talk.’
Craigie spoke mildly.
‘There is a chance that you’re wrong about Marchant, Bill. It’s a slender one, but it’s possible. You know that if you tackle Marchant and he is innocent, there’s absolutely nothing that anyone can do to help you from the consequences, don’t you?’
‘I’ll chance it,’ Loftus said.
Tim said in a low-pitched voice: ‘It’s just possible that Clarissa can help us in some way or other. And it’s even possible that Wilkinson...’
‘You can cut out Wilkinson now,’ said Loftus. ‘Oh, we can tackle his wife and we can tackle Lionel Marchant’s wife. We won’t get anything from them. It’s just possible that Clarissa knows more than we realise. I don’t know whether you’re the right man to tackle her.’
Tim said: ‘May I see her, Gordon?’
Craigie nodded, then pressed the control button and the door opened for them to go out.
21
Final Act
Tim Kemble watched Loftus drive off, and then turned to his own car, which was parked near the entrance to the Department’s office. Two or three agents were in sight, walking up and down because of the cold, making sure that no attempt was made to raid the Department. Tim could have taken any one of them with him, but he preferred to go alone.
As he drove towards Clarissa’s nursing home, he thought ‘My first big show.’ He was only just beginning to realise the enormity of it. Loftus had seen that so quickly, Hadley and Craigie had picked it up at once. Tim remembered Loftus’s expression on the way from Super-Steel and he remembered the effect of the big man’s entry into the office. He seemed to see Hadley’s face, and Craigie’s, as the full truth dawned upon them. Uno must meet or die. There was the issue, in simple enough terms. Lives could be saved; but if they were, in the dim, bleak future there hovered the threat of disaster greater by far than anything that had happened before. Unless there was unity there must be disunity.
Uno must meet.
Tim’s mind was as blank as Loftus’s had been about what could be done to find the final, damning proof against Marchant, to remove both dangers. If the assembly were once postponed...
The car pulled up outside the nursing home.
Tim hurried up the steps, which had been cleared of snow, and was admitted by a trim maid.
‘I think Miss Kaye’s left, sir,’ she said, when he asked for Clarissa. ‘She wasn’t badly hurt, and I think she went half an hour ago.’
‘Make sure, will you?’ asked Tim.
The maid went off, to return very quickly with the matron. Yes, Miss Kaye had left at half-past twelve. A car had come for her, and she appeared to have been expecting it.
Clarissa had a small flat in Mayfair, a pied à terre near Wilkinson’s West End flat. It was only a few minutes’ drive away. Tim pulled up, and saw the familiar face of a Department Z agent who was walking up and down the street. He was annoyed with himself; of course Clarissa had been watched, but he had not noticed that no one from the Department had been outside the nursing home.
The agent came up.
‘Is she inside?’
‘Well, she was,’ said the agent. ‘Tommy’s at the back, and he would have reported if she’d gone out that way.’ He frowned at Tim’s expression. ‘Not more trouble, I hope?’
Tim said: ‘Trouble enough. Thanks.’
A maid opened the door, and took him into Clarissa’s room. It was small and charming. Clarissa was sitting in front of a coal fire. She was dressed as Tim first remembered her at the Haymart, in a simple frock of navy blue. Her hair was singed a little, but she had escaped the worst of the flames after the explosion, and although her right hand was bandaged, she got up promptly enough and smiled a greeting.
‘Hallo, reporter!’
‘Hallo,’ said Tim. ‘How are you?’
‘Counting my blessings,’ said Clarissa, and her eyes grew shadowed. ‘How’s Gregory?’
‘Who? Oh, Wilkinson. He’ll pull through.’
‘And your friend—George, wasn’t it?’
‘He’ll be all right, too.’
Tim found it surprisingly difficult to talk. Perhaps Loftus had been right, and this job was not for him. It would not be easy to tell any girl that her uncle was suspected of such a plot as this, that among his crimes was the murder of his son. And, at the back of Tim’s mind, there was the little demon of doubt, the bare possibility that Loftus was wrong.
‘You look sombre,’ said Clarissa. ‘What else has happened?’
Tim told her, quietly. He told of Lionel’s death and the virtual certainty that his father had killed him. Of Carfax; of the consequences if Uno failed to meet. Words came out clear and precise. Clarissa listened intently, making no comment, showing no particular sign of shock or horror. At last he spread his hands out before the fire, and finished:
‘So you see, anything you can remember, any trivial thing about Sir Hugh, might help us.’
She did not speak for some time, but took a cigarette from a box, forgetting to offer him one. And then she said a strange thing:
‘Was it Loftus who first thought of this?’
‘Yes.’
‘I should never have thought him capable of it,’ said Clarissa. She looked at him again with a curious expression in her eyes, and then she said: ‘I wish you hadn’t come, Tim. There is so little I can do.’
It was the first time she had used his Christian name, yet he hardly noticed it.
‘I don’t understand you,’ he said.
She leaned forward. ‘Well, what can I do? It’s shocked me more than you realise. I just can’t think.’ She stood up, restlessly. ‘I’ve been working with Gregory and the others to find out the truth. We’ve so often been near the truth. We learned about Kolsti’s attempt just too late to do anything about it. Sometimes I’ve been almost afraid that it would turn out like this, but I’ve never let myself believe it, I’ve always...’
She broke off, for there was a tap at the door.
‘What is it?’ she called out.
The maid said: ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Miss.’
‘He must wait,’ said Clarissa, and added in a low tone: ‘I can’t see anyone now.’
‘He says it is urgent. He wants...’
‘I suppose I’ll have to see him,’ said Clarissa.
She touched Tim’s arm and hurried to the door, moving with that supple grace which had attracted him from the first. From the door, she glanced over her shoulder with a smile which was too bright, too radiant; it did not fit in with her words. Her manner was so different from her words in every way. She was not as shocked as she
pretended. She could not even successfully pretend to be.
Tim got up.
He heard a murmur of voices and stepped to the door. Who had come to see Clarissa, who had been able to make her get up like that? He opened the door. He saw a man standing in the small hall, putting something back into his pocket. Tim caught a glimpse of something red—a red card. Into his mind there flashed a picture of the little red cards with the numerals on them, that had been carried by the little dark men. This man was not small or dark, but he was obviously a foreigner. Tim thought he had seen him before, but could not be sure.
A door opened in the flat.
Tim stepped into the hall. The man looked up with a start of surprise.
Tim said: ‘Let me see that card.’
‘I—I do not understand you, sir.’ The man spoke in halting English, but he looked more than startled. ‘My card?’ He took a white visiting card out of his pocket. ‘That...’
Tim held out his hand.
‘Not that one.’ He took the man’s wrist and twisted it. The man staggered helplessly against him. Tim slipped his hand into the waistcoat pocket where the red card had disappeared. He felt it, and pulled it out.
It was one of the diamond-shaped cards, and the number on it was 5.
The man had shown this card to Clarissa.
He drove his clenched fist into the man’s jaw, an uppercut delivered with all his strength. He heard the man’s teeth snap together, then let him fall. The blow had hurt his wrist and forearm, he rubbed them as he turned towards the room into which Clarissa had gone. He dropped his hand to his pocket, took out his gun and transferred it to his left hand. Then he stepped towards the door.
Clarissa was bending over a cabinet, and pushing it towards the wall. On the top of the cabinet was a little blue box, a replica of the one which George had obtained from Pirani’s room.
Tim covered her with the gun as she finished with the cabinet and took the box. She turned at last. When she saw him, she backed so violently that she knocked against a chair and sat down in it involuntarily. The box nearly fell. She clutched it again, but it slipped to the side of the chair.