by John Creasey
“He hasn’t reported yet.”
“What time did you reach London?”
“About half-past six.”
“What did you do?”
“I went to the Cherry. Max, is this catechism necessary?”
“I think so, yes.” His voice struck a harsh, metallic note. “How long did you stay there?”
“An hour.”
“Was anyone there?”
“None of our people. The place was practically deserted.”
“So you got to London at half-past six, and Skippy hasn’t reported yet? When did you last see him?”
“At the cottage.”
“You stayed there too long,” he said, and he began to pace the room. “What I want to know is who followed you—were they the police?”
“Skippy says they weren’t the type.”
“What does he know about it! Where’s Arkeld?”
“He came to London yesterday,” she said. “He’s getting quite a bore, darling, don’t you think we can get on to someone else?”
“There weren’t any papers at the cottage, were there?”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“And don’t get too quick with your answers,” he snapped. “I don’t like this business, and if Skippy doesn’t turn up soon there’ll be cause enough for worry. You’re ready to move at any time?”
She tightened her lips.
“I don’t want . . .”
“I don’t give a damn what you want. If you’re suspected then you’re leaving here and the cottage, and no arguing. There’s enough trouble as it is. Someone’s watching Mortimer—I can’t make out who it is, but he’s a clever beggar. There could be a connection between him and our men, but I hope to God there isn’t. The Special Branch never leave off once they get their teeth into a job.”
“I—see,” said Myra softly. “So you’ve come a cropper. I think . . .”
What she thought did not transpire then, for there was a sharp ringing at the doorbell. Golt hesitated, turned off the light, and opened the door. As he stood there in the half light a diminutive creature slipped past him.
Davidson and the Errols would have recognised “Topsy.”
5
Topsy Talks
The “child’s” red beret and dark blue mackintosh, and her general air of poverty and pallor, made an odd contrast in the luxurious room. But she moved to the fire as if she was used to it. Holding her hands to the blaze, she said sharply:
“They’ve got Skippy.”
The effect was devastating. Myra, her poise already a little disturbed, sat bolt upright. Golt swore; it was not a pleasant sound.
“Who’s ‘they’?” he demanded thickly.
Clearly and concisely the “child” explained what had happened, then moving to the cocktail cabinet began to mix herself a gin-and-Italian.
“Whose place did he go into?” rapped Golt.
She described Mark and Michael Errol quickly and graphically, but neither the woman nor Golt recognised them from the description. “They’re the man-about town type,” she went on, “but they’re used to trouble all right, and so is the big lout.”
Golt said sharply: “Who?”
“The one who stopped me from getting Skippy away,” she said. “I haven’t seen a bigger man for years.”
“My God!” said Golt harshly, “it sounds like the man who is watching Mortimer!” He gave a brief word-picture of Loftus, and the sharp eyes of the “child” narrowed. When he finished she nodded.
“That’s him, all right.”
“So they are on to Mortimer as well as you,” Golt said roughly to Myra. “The police . . .”
“They aren’t police,” said Topsy sharply.
“Oh, aren’t they? And who gave you that private information?”
“I just know,” Topsy snapped. “And don’t vent your rage on me.”
For a moment it looked as if Golt would strike her, but if that had been his intention it was quelled by the arrival of the waiter with dinner. Topsy left soon afterwards and the man and the woman were alone again.
They ate in silence. When the telephone bell shrilled through the room, Golt leapt to answer it.
He listened with tightened lips, then banged the receiver down violently.
“That was Barker. He tried to get these Errol people—he was watching Skippy at the same time—but they made him run for it. He doesn’t like it any more than I do.” He drummed his fingers for a moment and then appeared to come to a decision. “I’m going to see Kay.”
“Without an appointment?”
“I don’t have to have one for emergency, and this is an emergency all right. I’m going to tell him you’re trying to get a line on these Errols. Make what inquiries you can, and find out where they’re likely to be.” He leered. “One of them might be susceptible.”
Without another word he picked up his hat and scarf, and went out.
Myra sat for a moment gazing into the fire, her face expressionless. Then she shrugged her shoulders, and rang for a taxi. Slipping into a fur coat she went downstairs.
When she had passed the hall porter’s box, Thornton followed her.
Already Carruthers had followed Maximilian Golt, although that task might easily prove futile in the black-out. This might be easier, for the woman had phoned for a cab and Thornton had been able to arrange for another to be waiting for him. Once started, the driver seemed to have no difficulty in keeping his quarry in sight.
Golt’s private car, meanwhile, went on towards a house in the Regent’s Park area. He drove well and carefully, and the journey took him twenty-five minutes. He did not leave the car in the street but took it to a small garage nearby, where a night-mechanic was on duty. Then he walked back to the house, walking slowly up the steps leading to the front door.
He seemed afraid.
Twice he hesitated when he reached the door, but finally he pressed the bell sharply. There was a pause before the door was opened.
As the crack widened, Golt stepped through.
He saw a middle-aged man with snow-white hair cropped close. Apart from that fact, he was nondescript enough.
“Have you an appointment, sir?”
“No. The matter is urgent.”
“I will see if Mr. Kay is free, sir.”
The man mounted a wide staircase and disappeared round the bend in a landing. The landing was large, its entire walls, as those of the hall, hung with portraits. If there was anything surprising about them it was that they were all of men; they were also valuable.
Golt, however, was not interested in portraits; he paced the floor impatiently, momentarily blind to the charm of the Sheraton pieces with which the hall was furnished, and the air of luxury and age which was in it.
He glanced repeatedly up the staircase.
Once a door opened and he heard the strains of music, and a gentle voice, sweet but untrained, perhaps that of a young girl. The door closed and the sound was cut off. A voice said:
“Good evening. Can I help you?”
Golt turned abruptly. The floor was thickly carpeted and thus had muffled the sound of footsteps. He looked into the pleasant, fresh-coloured face of a youngish man, whose brown hair was curly and whose hazel eyes held a look of faint interrogation.
“No, thanks,” Golt said. “I’ve seen someone.”
The young man smiled and went on up the stairs. He was of medium height, and lithe, although his shoulders were broad and powerful. Golt hardly remembered what he looked like, but it passed through his mind that it was another of the young fools Kay employed.
Footsteps again, and the servant returned.
“If you will wait for a few minutes, sir, Mr. Kay will see you.”
Golt opened his lips to protest that the matter was urgent, but knew it was useless. One could never hurry Kay, and it was not wise to question what he did and said. Golt disliked that fact particularly, since he himself had been used to giving orders and having them obeyed without arg
ument.
After ten minutes, the servant came again, and took him upstairs. From the room to which he was being led the young man appeared and passed him, nodding briefly. So he had been to see Kay—it was like the man to keep him waiting while he had word with a young secretary.
Golt entered the study, a room he had seen several times before, and which had at first impressed him by its opulence, and the Oriental manner of its furnishing.
The lighting was cleverly arranged by reflection, showing no lamps. It spread a palish lemon glow about the dark-painted ceiling and the draperies, and it gave to the man sitting at the ornately-carved desk a peculiar yellowness.
Golt never failed to be startled when he saw the man he knew as Kay.
He had not seen him in any place but this room, nor in any posture but sitting at the desk. He appeared to be immensely old, yet Golt had come to the conclusion that “old” was the wrong word: “ageless” was better.
Dark eyes watched him now, eyes which seemed not to move.
Above them the brows were well-marked, and quite white, as was the Van Dyke beard and the hair, the bleached effect accentuated by the wearing of a black fez. The fez gave a greater impression of height to his forehead, of contrast in light and shade.
Black—and white: that was Kay—for his skin, too, was of that colourless texture sometimes seen in albinos.
His voice was strangely out of keeping, strong and firm, cultured but in no way unusual. He addressed Golt. “Were you followed?”
“No,” said Golt.
But he was not sure, and he was afraid the other would know that. Kay always put him at a disadvantage, always took control of the situation. Golt tried to emulate him when with others, but it rarely worked; Myra was never impressed, nor Topsy—or for that matter Skippy and Barker.
“Why have you come?”
Golt, who had rehearsed his story half-a-dozen times, was suddenly unable to find words. The silence deepened, but the man at the desk seemed to be possessed with the patience of Job; he would do nothing to help the other out. Golt started at last; but as he continued, and as he dwelt on the carelessness of Myra, Skippy and others, he grew more confident. He was at pains to show that he was in no way to blame.
Kay made no comment on that, but asked:
“The large man. Describe him.”
Golt did so.
“And you do not know his name?”
“No, not yet. But I’ll find it, don’t worry. I thought I’d better tell you just how things are, we don’t want a slip-up now, do we?”
“We are not going to have a slip-up,” said Kay quietly. “I can tell you the name of the large man. It is Loftus.”
Golt stared. “Loftus? How did you know?”
“In a matter of this kind, Golt, it is necessary to have the measure of all possible opposition. I was quite aware that we might sooner or later be compelled to cross swords with the Department—Department Z, they call it; there is something childish in the minds of bureaucrats, Golt, they give a Department a letter instead of a name, and thus surround it with an aura of mystery, with the result that no one believes in it. However, Loftus is the man. He is the leading light in this Department, and as you appear to have realised, he is dangerous.”
“How he got on to us beats me,” said Golt.
“It would, and it is disturbing, but . . .” Kay shrugged. “I think it is clear at long last that all the trouble has been in Arkeld’s particular area. So Arkeld is watched, and thus it would be easy for them to see in Myra Berne a possible leakage of information. That is the A B C of such investigations. We are lucky that they did not get acquainted with Arkeld and Myra until the gentleman’s area had been satisfactorily covered. The first part has been carried out well, Golt, but there is much to be done.”
“You don’t have to tell me that,” muttered Golt.
“That is good. I thought that you perhaps considered that we had done enough.” There was a hint of menace in the words. Golt licked his lips, and looked away from the strange dark eyes of the man he knew as Kay.
“At the moment I am a little concerned with Loftus’s personal interest in Mortimer,” continued Kay. “We shall have to prevent that. Mortimer is very valuable—although, of course, he has no idea of that!” Kay widened his lips in a silent laugh, strangely uncanny. “However, all this is by the way. Now—you feel it wise to get your man Skippy away at all costs?”
“That’s right, I do.”
“Two attempts have failed—how much does he know?”
“He could blow my part of it,” said Golt gruffly.
“All of it?”
“If they get the low-down on him they’ll get us all—my people, I mean.”
“Ye-es. That is possible. However, we could prevent that catastrophe in more ways than one. Have you any particular affection for—er—Skippy?”
“What are you driving at?” queried Golt, uneasily.
“The possibility of preventing him from talking,” said Kay suavely. “It will be much easier than physical attacks on Loftus and the others—until you know the Department you cannot realise how difficult they can make a situation. A lot of young men work for Loftus and his leader, Craigie. They must be circumvented of course. But I don’t particularly want the hue and cry that would follow the murder of any one of them. It would do no good. I would much rather have Loftus and his friends very busily engaged in barking up the wrong tree, while I am happily pushing forward my own project. I will work something out, and you will think of a means of disposing of Skippy.”
Golt licked his lips.
“He’s pretty useful . . .”
“Not any more. They know him. He is now not only useless but dangerous. If he should get away we must have nothing more to do with him. The other way will be easier. All right, Golt, arrange it. And—what of Myra?”
“I’ve told her to get a line on these Errol fellows.”
For some seconds there was silence, and then Kay nodded very slowly.
“Yes, that might well prove useful.” Again came that silent laughter. “All right, Golt. Do not get in touch with me unless I send for you, and when you do come be sure it is after dark.”
“I’m not a fool,” said Golt irritably.
“I trust not,” said Kay pleasantly.
But when the door had closed behind Golt he lifted a telephone. His voice came sharp and clear.
“Follow Golt, and see if he is alone.”
It was half-an-hour later that the telephone rang, and he was assured that no one had been on Golt’s heels. For some minutes Kay sat brooding, with his eyes closed. There was no expression on his pallid face. Then suddenly he stood up.
He was surprisingly short; so short that any man seeing his head and shoulders and chest would have been startled, for his legs were under-developed in size, although they carried him surely enough. He made a grotesque appearance as he stepped to the door, opened it, and then walked quickly downstairs.
He passed no one.
He reached the room from which Golt had heard strains of music. A girl was softly playing on a Beckstein grand. A young man—the same one who had spoken to Golt—leaned against the piano watching her.
It was a light and lovely thing, a Chopin mazurka, and she played with feeling and a sureness of touch which would have given any Chopin-lover pleasure. She did not see the door open, and looked up with a start when Kay approached.
Her hands left the keys immediately, and the young man straightened up.
“No, go on, go on,” said Kay gently. “I came to hear you play, my dear, I have to compose my thoughts, and nothing encourages and soothes me more. Perhaps you could sing—just a little. Charles, bring me that chair up, will you?”
The secretary obeyed, the girl played and sometimes sang, and the man called Kay leaned back with his eyes closed and his fingers interlaced, his absurdly short legs tucked beneath him.
Who could have guessed that he was planning murder?
6
Shocks for Craigie
Loftus lay on his back, snoring gently. A patch of sun shining on the wall just touched the tip of his nose. One arm was flung over the coverlet, the other was snug inside the bed.
Oundle opened the door.
Theirs was a service flat, and next door to it was another—with a communicating door—where Diana Woodward, Loftus’s fianceé, stayed when she was in London. At the moment she was in America, and Loftus was afraid that she was likely to remain there until the war was over. The knowledge that she was at least safe from bombing attacks was no great comfort, for her work was as hazardous as his, and it was worrying to know that she might be in danger at a time when it was impossible for him to help her.
He had met her when the work of Washington’s Secret Service and that of the Department had merged, and they had made a bargain not to give up their work while the war lasted.
The sound of Oundle precariously balancing a tray on one hand, while at the same time kicking the door to with his foot, woke Loftus with a start.
Grumbling good temperedly, he sat up, while Oundle found a place for the tray, and began to pour out. “Thanks, Ned. Anything through?”
“Thornton kept on the lovely’s heels. She went back to the Cherry.”
“Yes?” Loftus sipped the hot tea, gratefully.
“She inquired a great deal about the Errols,” went on Oundle. “Her story was that she had been told by a friend to give them a message, or something to that effect, and she’d forgotten their address. Someone at the club supplied it.”
“Did she go there?”
“No. It was an errand of inquiry. Were they in the Army or this and that? Most surprised to find that they weren’t, but perhaps they were the wrong people—her friend had been rather vague about it. In short she gave herself a cover, and then nipped back to her flat, 34 Byng Court.”
“Hm-hmm. The address Mark gave me last night. Anything else?”
“A moan from Carruthers,” said Oundle with a smile. “He had the lady’s visitor to follow, and lost him in the black-out, so he went back to the flat. About an hour afterwards the man returned, and, I’m sorry to say, didn’t come out again.”