by John Creasey
Davidson had thought, when he had first seen her, that it was criminal to allow a child to be out after dark, with London as it was, but he had stopped himself from questioning her. He was glad of that when he saw her illuminated again in the lights of another car. There was no mistaking the bright red beret, and the pale, thin face of the child.
But she was older than he had first thought.
There was, of course, the possibility that she had followed him for the sake of company, and so he walked the length of Piccadilly, strolled about the Circus, and then walked back on the other side. There was very little traffic, but three times he saw the red beret and the pinched, childish face.
Did she want to beg from him?
Deliberately he stopped at a tobacconist’s, buying cigarettes he did not want. When he came out, the girl was waiting, and as he walked on again, continued to follow him.
Davidson scowled in the darkness.
He had given her the opportunity of begging, or of asking the way, and she had neglected it. She could only be following him with an ulterior motive. She was not old enough for the streets—or he hoped not—and even had she been, that would hardly have explained her silent, faithful shadowing.
Could the fat man be using a child for a trailer?
It was a problem which worried Davidson. How did one deal with a child?
He hesitated outside the flat, and then went in.
Five minutes afterwards he came out again, and saw her standing quite still, close to the rails.
She was two yards away from him when he stepped forward.
“Now what’s all this?” he demanded, and he could not make his voice sound anything less than kindly. She was such a mite, and the darkness showed him no more than the blur of her pale face.
She did not answer. Davidson frowned.
“Is there anything you want?”
He put his hand out, but she shrank away.
“This won’t do, you know,” he said, hoping he didn’t look as big a fool as he felt.
He wished he could see her face plainly, but that was impossible.
He tried again.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, and for the first time she spoke, but not to answer his question.
“My—my Daddy went in there.”
“What?” demanded Wallace Davidson blankly.
“Yes, he did,” she said, and she had a sweet, attractive voice. “I saw him go there.”
“When was this?” demanded Davidson.
“A long time ago,” she said, and with the ice once broken she appeared to have found confidence in him, for a small hand stretched up and reached his. “Everso long. Nearly tea-time.”
“Oh,” said Davidson. “And did you have any tea?”
“No.”
“Did you have any supper?”
“No-o,” she said a little hesitantly.
“I see,” said Davidson. “Well, let’s get in, shall we, and see if we can find some supper and also your Daddy. Does he work here?” he added as she stepped trustfully with him into the house.
“Oh, no,” she said, “he works all over the place. He doesn’t come home much, you see. Mummy and him aren’t very good friends.” This information, spoken so simply, caught at Davidson’s heart.
“Yes?” he prompted her, as they reached the faintly lighted hallway.
“Well, sometimes he gives me a shilling, or even a half-crown,” she said, “so if I see him I always wait for him, you see.”
“Ye-es,” said Davidson. “But why did you follow me?”
“I thought you might know where he was,” she said.
“Then why not ask me?”
“I got frightened,” she murmured. “I thought you might be cross.”
“I see,” said Davidson.
It had dawned on him some time before that the child’s father was the Shrimp, but the belief did nothing to help him. How was he going to handle the situation when he reached the flat? He smiled somewhat grimly at the thought that here was a problem which would surely be beyond Loftus, and then he inserted his key into the door, urging her forward.
She hesitated a little, blinking in the stronger light of the front room, in which the Errols were busily at work on an impromptu meal. On the table were three bottles of beer, one unopened. A place was set for Wally.
The Errols glanced Davidson’s way. Davidson had the impression that they were suddenly so still that they might have been carved from wood or stone. The child eyed them with obvious concern. At last Mark said gravely: “Hallo.”
Both pairs of Errol eyes turned towards Davidson.
“She got lost, and . . .”
“No, I didn’t get lost,” the girl corrected him eagerly. “I saw my Daddy, and he came into this house. But he isn’t either of these gentlemen.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Mike.
Davidson watched the child take off her beret, scarf and coat, all of which she placed neatly on a chair. She could be no more than ten or eleven, he thought, but she had the poise of a young woman.
As he drew a chair up to the table for her, he wondered whether he could be wrong, and that the Shrimp was not her father. He was thinking how best to introduce the subject—at the middle or the end of the meal, which the child was eating with obvious enjoyment—when from the bedroom there came the cavernous voice:
“What erbout bringing me a drink?”
The girl started, and her face suddenly grew sharp and severe. It seemed to Davidson that there was unspoken accusation in her eyes—as if she were blaming him because he must have known someone else was in the flat.
She said: “That’s my Daddy’s voice.”
“Oh, is it,” said Wally, and he pushed his chair back. “He’s staying with us for a little while, I think . . .” he looked at the Errols, who nodded their agreement to an unspoken query, and then went on: “But I could let you see him, if you want to.”
“Yes, please,” she said, trustful again. “He goes to all kinds of strange places, I know.”
Mike Errol hid a grin as he unlocked the door, the child just behind him. The Shrimp did not immediately see her.
Then the man’s wide mouth opened in surprise, and his little eyes narrowed so that they were scarcely visible. The child stared at him calmly.
“Hallo, Daddy. Didn’t you see me this afternoon?”
“I—I don’t remember,” said the Shrimp.
The whole episode was so unusual, so innocent that when the little man stepped towards the door, Davidson did not stop him from entering the larger room. For once, no conceivable danger could be threatened.
The danger came from the child.
As her father—if the man was her father—moved forward, she skipped aside, much as a child would do from someone of whom she was afraid. She reached the door, and from the chair on which she had folded her coat and scarf she took a small automatic pistol. She held it steadily, pointing it towards Davidson and the Errols, while the Shrimp stepped towards her.
He was smiling, but with no appearance of amusement.
“Well, that’s gotcher,” he said and his voice echoed about the room incredibly low. “Thought you was clever, all of yer, but—gimme that gun, Topsy.”
He took the gun from her, and the Errols knew that he meant to shoot for they read murder in his eyes.
4
Enter Loftus
It was a bad moment.
Not one of them had dreamed of this development, not one had suspected that behind the thin, pretty face of the child there could have lingered such cunning and trickery.
At least one of them would get hurt.
It was a recognisable rule in such a situation that all of them should go for their guns, and always at the same moment, determined by the first word any of them spoke.
The little man himself was now speaking with a sneer. “Like ter know why I follered yer. Well, lemme tell yer this—I follered becawse I never wanted yer to stick yer noses in anyone els
e’s business, see, and I ain’t gointer take any chances. I’ll teach yer!”
There was a pause, and then:
“Will you?” asked Davidson.
Three things happened at once, or so quickly upon one another that there was no noticeable time-lag.
The Shrimp fired.
The trio moved towards their guns, in their hip-pockets.
And the door opened.
Asked afterwards, none of the trio could say which had really happened first, the shooting or the opening of the door; but it was logical to assume that the door had the honour, for it knocked against the gunman’s back and spoiled his aim. Even then a bullet whizzed between the Errols, and each man felt the wind of it. The Shrimp swore, and swung round in an attempt to shoot at the interrupter: but a hand shot out and gripped his wrist. The gun dropped.
Like lighting Topsy ducked beneath the large man’s arm.
She was so small and thin that she did this easily enough, moving with a speed which was really startling. It was Mark Errol who recovered first, rushed past the newcomer to the door and thundered downstairs.
When he reached the street he was greeted by two things; the pitch darkness of the night, and the first wail of the sirens. He could hear nothing, for the girl ran silently, and he had no idea which way she had gone.
The Shrimp found himself flat on the floor, looking up at a large man with an expression which certainly did not indicate any degree of affection. Ignoring him, the large man looked round at Mark, his lips curving into a smile.
“Now we’re all together,” he said pleasantly, “what’s it all about?”
“You tell it,” said Mark to Mike.
“Your turn,” said Mike promptly. “I told the P.M.”
“Wally shall talk,” declared the large man with the air of one who had arbitrated in such decisions many times before.
Davidson grimaced and took out his cigarette case.
“Bill,” he said, “we’re glad to see you, but you’re an hour or so too late.”
“Well, really,” said William Loftus amiably. “You do surprise me. It looked to me as if I were just in time. Midgets flying through the air, little men letting off pistols.”
He turned to the man on the floor, bent over him, and there followed the click of handcuffs. He took a handkerchief out next, and made it into an effective gag, while Mike Errol—after a hurried trip into the bedroom—came out with a small roll of cotton wool, which Loftus packed over the Shrimp’s ears. That done, he picked the man up and dropped him on to a couch, sat himself in an easy chair and began to fill his pipe.
He was a large man, six-feet four and broad in proportion, with packed shoulders and a depth of chest which was awe-inspiring. He did not look overtly intelligent, and this fact, in the dangerous work which he undertook, could, by lulling his opponents to a state of false security, be a distinct advantage.
The Errols, looking at him with the eyes of affection and respect, saw that his clothes bore the look of having been slept in for several nights, that he needed a shave, and that he looked tired.
Loftus met their look of concern with a smile. It was a transforming thing, robbing his face of all suggestion of dullness, bearing instead a vitality and animation, that inspired either confidence or fear, according to the degree of friendship towards him.
Davidson was nearing the end of his narrative.
“Well, I ask you, what else could I do? She was only a kid, and she looked both nervous and hungry. I would have staked a fiver on her story being genuine.”
“She took us all in,” said Mike Errol.
“Well, there isn’t much more,” Davidson went on: “I thought it might be an idea if we let the—er—father see her, and so we opened the door. She dodged away and grabbed her gun.”
“Quite a circus,” said William Loftus. He yawned. “Sorry, chaps, but I can’t do anything before I have a sleep. I’m so dog-tired I feel I shall hit the floor at any minute. I’ve phoned Gordon, and the general idea is that we all stay here together. Thornton and Carry are looking after Mike’s lady friend, and this and that has also been arranged.”
“What about Sir Bruce Mortimer?” asked Mike.
“The Director-General of Food Conservation is in deep consultation with people of importance,” said Loftus, “and he’s not likely to leave London for twenty-four hours. I’ll get along to my flat, I think, Ned ought to be there by now.”
“What about this?” demanded Wally, looking at the prisoner.
“For the moment it can’t hear a noise or make one. We’ll leave it that way until morning. It might persuade him to loosen up.” He rose, stretched, yawned, and smiled about him. “Yes, quite a circus you’ve been having.”
Wally went down to the street door with him. His flat was a hundred yards along the street, at 55g, and he was there almost as soon as Wally was back with the Errols.
Ned Oundle, another of the Department agents, and Loftus’s closest friend, rose to greet him. He was tall and thin with an air of childlike, but deceptive, innocence.
“Hallo, Bill. You look all in.”
“I am all in, and in two minutes flat I shall, I hope, be tucked up in bed.”
Ned Oundle followed him to his bedroom.
“Nothing to report?”
“Well, that’s something. Heard anything of a lovely called Berne—Myra Berne?”
“Not a thing.”
“Pity,” said Loftus, flinging clothes to right and left. “Thornton and Carruthers are trying to get something on her. They may ring through, but don’t wake me unless it really won’t keep.”
He pulled on his pyjamas, slid between the sheets and, to all appearances, was asleep before Oundle put out the light. The thin man stood staring at his friend for a moment, a worried expression in his eyes. Loftus would not have been as tired as that without some very good cause—and if he had needed to work for so long without sleep, then there was serious trouble brewing.
Undoubtedly she was lovely. She was dressed in a dark green evening gown, and that made her unusual, for evening gowns were rarely worn in London those nights. Since being at the cocktail bar of the Cherry Club she had been to her Westminster flat, and changed.
Outside the flat two men were waiting—Thornton and Carruthers, Craigie’s men. They cursed the black-out because they could see so little, but by arrangement with the hall porter of the block, Spats—a nickname earned by his initials—Thornton had a seat in his office, while Carruthers consoled himself as best he could in the darkness outside.
A man had entered the foyer.
He had walked straight to the lift and gone up, but the hall porter, who believed he was helping a private detective, nodded towards Thornton, an unspoken “that’s him”. Thornton had a vivid mind-picture of a tall, heavy-jowled man with a prominent nose—a man who would not easily be forgotten.
This man went to Myra Berne’s flat, and neither rang nor knocked. Like her, he was in evening-dress. Inside the small hall of the flat he took off his silk scarf and his overcoat. The woman called to him:
“Is that you, Max?”
“Yes, my dear.” His voice had a metallic timbre but was not otherwise unpleasant. “How long have you been here?”
“An hour or more.”
“I see.” He pushed open the lounge door, and went in. The room was furnished conventionally and luxuriously. There were many such interiors owned by those who could afford them.
The woman reclined on an over-cushioned settee, the lighting effect showing up her lovely face, her great green-grey eyes, and the smoothness of her skin.
Maximilian Golt stood quite still for some seconds, and then his heavy-jowled face broke into a smile. But there was nothing in his smile which had the transfiguring effect of Loftus’s. It showed pleasure, perhaps a touch of lust; but it was confined to his lips.
Beauty, Mike Errol would have said, and the Beast. The description, though trite, was apt, for there was a touch of uncouthness about the man
which civilised garb could not wholly disguise.
“And you contrived it safely?” he said.
“I think so. Come and sit down.”
Ignoring her invitation, he took a quick step towards her, his eyes harsh and dangerous.
“You think so. What does that mean?”
She smiled and shrugged.
He stuck doggedly to the point. “Why only ‘think’?”
“Because I’m not sure,” she said. “Please don’t lash about the room in that disquieting way. Drinks are where they always are, and I’ve ordered dinner. It will be up in a quarter of an hour.”
He glared at her, and his lips tightened, but before he spoke again he opened a cocktail cabinet, took out whisky and soda and poured himself a drink. Her teeth, very fine and white, showed in a vaguely malicious smile.
“Aren’t you going to ask me to join you?”
He drew a sharp breath, but his first drink had loosened his tongue and he spoke roughly.
“This isn’t a game, you know. If you were followed from Bedford that’s going to mean trouble . . .”
“It might mean trouble,” she corrected.
He handed her a drink so sharply that it nearly spilled over her gown. The accident was averted, but the little incident appeared to worry her more than anything else had done, and there was a sharp note in her voice.
“Now listen to me, Max. We’ve been working for three months, and this is the first time anything has even looked like going wrong—we can’t expect miracles. And we’ve practically finished with Arkeld, anyhow. Skippy told me that there was something the matter in Bedford—I was being followed.”
Golt drank again, but said nothing.
“So I made arrangements to leave for London, and then doubled back to the cottage. Someone was there. I didn’t see them, but on the other hand they didn’t see Skippy. He kept them in sight all the time.”
“And then?”
“I came down here,” she said. “I don’t think I was followed after that—there was a tall man who showed some interest but I think it was strictly personal.” She laughed lightly. “In its way it was quite an adventure.”
“You think so? Where’s Skippy?”