by John Creasey
‘Don’t touch it,’ Tim said, in a voice which he hardly recognised as his own. ‘Don’t touch it.’
‘Tim!’
In the fingers of his tender right hand he held the little red card.
‘Recognise it?’ he asked.
‘Tim, I—Tim! You don’t think...’
‘I know,’ said Tim. ‘It’s all over, Clarissa.’ He hesitated, he found words so difficult to utter. ‘A family affair, wasn’t it? The Council of Three. Get up, and leave that box where it is.’
She sat staring at him. There was no other sound in the room. He could just see the edge of the little box against her skirt. She put her hands on the arms of the chair, as if to steady herself.
‘I shall shoot you if you don’t do what you’re told,’ he said, and still he found it difficult to recognise his own voice. ‘Don’t make any mistake, Clarissa.’
Slowly, she got up.
The blue box, lodged against her thigh, fell flat on the chair behind her. She stood in front of it. He motioned her to one side. She obeyed without argument. There was the box, just a little square thing of blue, so innocent-looking.
He took a step towards it.
‘Tim,’ she breathed, ‘don’t interfere. Let me send it away, let us finish with it. Tim, you don’t understand!’
‘I understand that you’re in this awful business with your uncle.’
‘But you don’t know why! Tim, we’re not evil, we know this is the right thing to do. It must be done. All this talk of unity and peace, all this talk of disarmament again and of a world Council, it can’t really work, we must stop it before it gets too powerful. Great Britain must hold the power, we can’t trust others, we daren’t trust others.’
‘We’re not going to trust you,’ Tim said.
‘You don’t know what you’re doing!’ She backed away as he approached and stretched down his hand for the box. ‘Be careful!’ she cried. ‘Don’t bang it!’
‘So that’s the one with the explosive in, is it?’ asked Tim. ‘And your boy friend outside was going to take it to Uno this afternoon. He won’t. I think I’ve broken his neck.’
‘Tim, you must listen to me...’
‘I’m going to,’ said Tim. ‘So are the others.’ He slipped the box into his pocket. It rested against his side and dragged the lining of the pocket, for it was much heavier than he had expected. ‘You can start now, Clarissa. You can pick up the telephone and dial Whitehall 1212 and tell Superintendent Miller to ask Craigie to send his men here.’
‘Tim!’
‘All right, I’ll do it,’ he said.
She had backed towards the telephone. For the first time he wondered if she had been talking just to take him off his guard, whether she was trying to prevent him from reaching the telephone.
‘Stand aside,’ he said.
‘You mustn’t do it,’ she breathed. ‘You must let...’
And then she picked up the telephone and flung it at him, aiming at his side.
He knew that she had tried to fling it at the box. He dodged. The telephone went past him, reached the end of the flex and crashed on the floor. As it did so, she flung herself at him. He pushed her back, but she struck at the gun and it slipped from his hand. Next moment she was upon him again, scratching, biting, kicking. He backed away, but she held on. All the time the box tapped gently against his side.
Then he got his left hand about her throat, and squeezed; he had to squeeze hard. She scratched at his face and he could feel the blood oozing up, but he maintained the pressure until she relaxed. At last he released her. She dropped to the floor in front of him, gasping for breath, only just conscious. Tim turned and picked up the telephone. He held it to his ear, and found that it was working. He dialled Craigie’s number, and told Craigie what had happened.
‘I’ll have men there in twenty minutes,’ Craigie promised.
Tim put the receiver down, and stepped to the cabinet. There were bottles inside it, dozens of bottles and dozens of glasses. The glasses and the bottles clinked against each other as he drew out a whisky bottle and then a glass. He spilled a little whisky over the edge of the glass, but there was enough left for him to take a deep drink. He put the glass down, and stood quite still, looking at Clarissa. Her colour was better. She was trying to get up. He waited until she was sitting in the chair, clutching at her swollen throat. She did not once look at him.
Ten minutes had passed since he had telephoned Craigie, and there was no more danger now.
At last she spoke in a hoarse voice which only just reached him.
‘Why don’t you shoot me?’
‘You have a lot to talk about yet,’ said Tim.
She took one hand from her throat and held it out appealingly.
‘If I tell you everything will—will you shoot me? Tim, you won’t make me go through the trial, you won’t make me suffer like that. You won’t let them hang me!’
Tim said nothing.
‘I’ll tell you everything if you’ll only shoot me. If you don’t promise, I won’t talk, no one will ever talk! Promise, Tim!’
He drew a deep breath. He hated promising her anything knowing that he would not keep it, but he had to make her talk.
He said, ‘All right, Clarissa.’
‘You—you mean it?’
‘I’ll shoot you,’ Tim said.
And then she began to talk...
Ten minutes later, when Craigie arrived in person with his men, she had told Tim all that he needed to know and she screamed to him to carry out his promise. But he took her arm and forced it up into her back and made her go ahead of him, to open the door.
• • • • •
Hadley entered the Whitehall office at half-past five that afternoon, and with him were Virnov, Kellaby of the United States delegation, Matutin of France and Soo of China, Craigie and Loftus were there to greet them. Tim, after making his report, had gone. No one knew where. Craigie and Loftus had decided that it was best to let him go, for they knew that he would return.
Marchant was at Cannon Row Police Station. Miller and his men were now searching Marchant’s home and private office and Clarissa’s flat. He had twice reported that the necessary evidence was there. They had found the addresses of the little dark men, who were being rounded up by the dozen.
Hadley and his companions had just come from the Great Hall.
Solemnly, he presented the others. Craigie found his hand tender after he had finished shaking hands, and Loftus was flexing his fingers. It was an odd little scene, and the outburst of talking which followed was equally affecting. Virnov took the lead; when he had finished, Loftus laughed a little with embarrassment.
‘Don’t thank me,’ he said. ‘Kemble...’
‘Where is this Kemble?’ asked Virnov.
‘He’ll soon be back,’ said Craigie. ‘I have the full report of Clarissa Kaye’s confession here. You will not want to be worried with the details.’
‘Please!’ exclaimed Virnov. ‘I would like to be worried, if that is the word, with everything.’
So Craigie talked.
He told them what they had discovered up to that day, and of Loftus’s conclusion after he had left Marchant; and then he filled in the details with Clarissa’s story.
Clarissa had told how she had first joined Wilkinson because of the obvious activities of Warning, how he had trusted her and how she had told Marchant. That was when she had joined in the great conspiracy. The one purpose was to bring disaster to Uno. How it was achieved had not greatly mattered.
Marchant had thought of using the northern Shovians, all of whom had been recruited from a subsidiary plant which he secretly owned in Shovia. Pirani had been selected as the victim of the plot; he was, eventually, to be found guilty of the conspiracy, after his death. He had been frightened by threats on his life, coming anonymously; that explained his unusual manner at the Emergency Assembly. Suspicion had been directed towards him in San Patino and other small countries. The scheme had be
en cleverly planned to make it look as if Shovia were genuinely afraid of Russia, and suspicion had been planted in the minds of the San Patino Government suggesting that they had the support of Russia.
Loftus had been right in his general analysis of Marchant’s motivation and actions. Clarissa had admitted that first Wilkinson and later the Department had worried them and forced them to act too quickly and too carelessly. The attack on Colston had been arranged because Marchant was afraid that the Department was getting too close to the truth. An attack on his residence would suggest that he was a victim. The little blue box with the explosive was to be stolen. Then the replica, containing papers, was to be planted on Pirani—as it had been done, simply to mislead anyone who found it, for Parmitter had known of it. Lionel had ‘told’ Wilkinson to impress the man with his sincerity. Marchant had done everything he could to discredit Parmitter before killing him. He had sent Kolsti to see him before the day of the attempt on Virnov; if Kolsti were caught, Parmitter would be blamed for a part in the conspiracy. Marchant had hoped that Parmitter’s death would make the police ease off their inquiries. Then Wilkinson had been told by Lionel that he thought Pirani had stolen the blue box. That explained Wilkinson’s move on the night of the performance. Clarissa should have received a message from Marchant not to attend Pirani’s reception. She had told Tim that this message had been sent, but had gone astray.
Loftus thought it probable that Marchant had deliberately let her go, in case she should not be strong enough to withstand interrogation.
The explosion at Pirani’s had a double motive. First, to suggest that Pirani had the explosive in his possession and, afterwards, for Shovia to stand convicted. Second, to kill Wilkinson and the others of Warning as it was known that they would be present.
Faced with Wilkinson’s accusation, Lionel had done the thing any weak man might have done: he had lied. From there the danger to the Marchants had increased in tempo. The explosive itself was to have been planted that afternoon by a man—the man Tim had seen—with forged papers. He had to leave the box, and get away.
Marchant had always arranged that Clarissa or Lionel should negotiate with the dark men. Craigie thought that Marchant had always intended first to try to blame his son and then, if necessary, his niece. At every step, he had planned to protect himself.
‘How much was sincere; how much was vanity; and how much was evil,’ said Loftus, ‘no one was ever likely to know. The trial of Marchant and of Clarissa Kaye might answer some of those questions. Certainly it would focus the attention of the world on the desperate need for Uno.’
Virnov took off his pince nez, and nodded gently.
‘Yes, my friend,’ he said. ‘It has been absorbing. And it is a great tribute to you, Mr. Prime Minister.’ He smiled gravely at Hadley. ‘Such a department as this Z, now—almost it is worthy of a different country!’
• • • • •
The Prime Minister presided at a dinner party, held four months afterwards, a few days after the trials. At Hadley’s request, Tim Kemble sat on his left. Wilkinson and Mendicott were also there. It was a gay gathering; for once Polly George and Christine Loftus and the wives of other agents were present at an official Department Z gathering.
Tim proposed the toast of Virnov.
George put on an act...
Hadley proposed, with quiet eloquence, the health of Department Z.
The Department of Death
John Creasey
1 / Death Dances Slowly
Loftus sat at a corner table in the great ballroom, wearing his party smile, glad that for a few minutes he was alone. Nearly everyone was dancing, and the floor was packed. Subdued lights made the colours of the women’s dresses soft, made creamy-white shoulders gleam seductively, gave the black and white clothes of the men a touch of distinction. The music was slow, mournful, rhythmic; the band, on a dais on the far side of the room from Loftus, kept perfect time.
At a few tables one or two people sat like Loftus, with set smiles on their faces—bored. At the great centre table, close to the dance-floor, two men and a woman were talking animatedly. The woman kept leaning forward, tantalizing Loftus whenever her lovely, pale face was hidden by a huge bowl of carnations. There was never time to study her. But he could see her glossy dark hair and the single white camellia in it.
It was warm—too warm for comfort.
Footmen in pale-blue livery stood about, erect, waiting to dart forward at the slightest provocation.
Loftus sensed that someone was approaching from behind, but didn’t look round. The woman with black hair fascinated him, and she was now in full view. Her dark eyes sparkled with animation as she shook her head in vigorous disagreement with a white-haired, white-bearded patriarch, a diplomat of great renown.
“Enjoying yourself, Bill?” A man spoke at Loftus’s side.
Loftus glanced round with a grin. “No! Hallo, Gordon! Sit down a minute and tell me everything.”
A footman approached and pushed forward a chair, and Gordon Craigie sat down. Loftus offered cigarettes.
“No, thanks, I’m not reduced to that yet. The biggest curse of nights like these is that I can’t smoke my pipe.”
“Or biggest blessing?”
Craigie smiled. “Please yourself. Have you seen any sign of trouble?”
“Not yet,” said Loftus.
Craigie said: “I feel uneasy.”
He was a man of medium height, with a long, lantern jaw and droll lips, a hooked nose and clear, keen grey eyes. His greying hair was going thin on top, and a bald patch glistened. He looked tired.
He was the leader of Department Z of the British Intelligence Service, counter-espionage branch; and Loftus was his chief aide.
Craigie wore his tails with a touch of distinction. Loftus, large and bulky, looked uncomfortable, flushed and a little untidy; he kept brushing a lock of hair away from his right eye.
“I don’t think there’s much to worry about,” Loftus said. “Everyone present is vouched for, certainly no stranger got in. All the peoples of Europe dancing together, a great and happy family. Wonderful!” He spoke sardonically.
“It’s a good start,” Craigie claimed. “You’re a bit sceptical about unity in Europe even now, aren’t you?”
“Of the ideal and the need, no. But before it’s really moving, someone is going to try to throw a spanner into the works. Look.” Loftus pointed to the floor, where the mass of dancers was moving, too close together for anyone to try fancy steps. “Old enemies dancing cheek-by-jowl. Everyone smiling and bowing and shaking hands; and a few years ago a lot of them throve mostly on hatred for one another. One really nasty incident might set ‘em at each other’s throats again.”
“Not all of them.”
“Get two or three scrapping properly, even over the Council Table, and your hopes will vanish into thin air,” Loftus declared.
“So you’ve a hunch,” said Craigie slowly.
“A damned uncomfortable feeling that we’re going to have trouble. Oh, not to-night. Not necessarily to-night, anyhow. But think of it, Gordon. Supposing some lunatic seized a chance. This is the first big social occasion after the appointment of delegates to the Congress of Europe. It’ll have the biggest Press publicity ever. Let one little thing go wrong and you’ll have it magnified a hundredfold, and all the cynics and sceptics rubbing their hands. The Congress goes into session in a few days and everyone’s on tiptoe. Between now and the opening session I’m going to be as jittery as fat in a frying-pan.”
“We’ve done all we can.”
“Oh, yes. The Department’s here, in full strength. Look at Grant.” Loftus glanced at a tall man in evening dress who was passing the big table and appeared interested in the dark-haired woman. “He’s suspicious of the lady! Yes; and Special Branch men swarm as footmen, too—hardly a diplomat is here without his entourage, which means his bodyguard. The signs are favourable, but—”
“You’ve got that hunch.”
“P
robably had too much to eat,” said Loftus with a laugh. “Whisky or a liqueur?”
“I must get back to my table,” said Craigie.
Loftus made to rise as Craigie got up and went off, but he didn’t stand up. His left leg was thrust out rather stiffly beneath the table. He had lost a leg when on Department service and now had an artificial one.
He looked at the woman with the dark hair, who was now sitting upright and looking towards the dance floor. Grant, a Department Z man, was nowhere near now. The white-bearded patriarch was smoking a long cigar. If anything, the music became more mournful and the pace slower.
A footman hovered near Loftus—a man whom he knew as one of the brighter stars of Scotland Yard. “Trouble-free night,” he remarked.
“Looks like it, Mr. Loftus. I wouldn’t like trouble here.”
“Make sure no one poisons the champagne!”
“Oh, the champagne’s all right.” Trust the C.I.D. to take that seriously. “Anything I can get you?”
“No, thanks.”
The detective moved away. Loftus looked back at the dance-floor. There was a surging movement on this side of the room. Two couples lost their balance and fell against a table. Several others came staggering away from the floor.
The Yard man stiffened and watched. Loftus leaned heavily on the table, stood up, and stepped towards him.
“Someone’s fainted,” said Loftus. “Or—”
Then a woman screamed.
The scream rose high above the music, which stopped abruptly. Another scream came, high-pitched and piercing. A babble of voices surged about as questions were flung to and fro in a dozen languages. A little, pot-bellied, frightened man, holding on to an imposing woman in a snow-white dress, backed slowly away from the dancers. The crowd began to thin out as couples and small groups left the floor, backing away as if from some horror.
The band started playing again—a swift and lively thing of Strauss, played too loudly and jerkily. But it served its purpose, drowning the babble, relieving tension.