by John Creasey
“Yes, of course. Any idea where they might be?”
“Probably at the Cherry or the like.”
“Ah, ha! The beautiful damosel again,” said Thornton roguishly. “I’ll go there first.”
“Right. Carry and I are off to see Craigie,” said Loftus. He spoke hesitantly, however, and Carruthers knew that Oundle’s continued disappearance was on his mind.
Before they went to Whitehall, Loftus walked to his own flat in the hope that Oundle was there, but the rooms were silent and empty.
In twenty minutes from the time of leaving Thornton’s flat Loftus was making a full report to Craigie.
Until it was finished, Craigie made no comment, then he asked quietly:
“What made you think about Golt after you’d heard La Reine was at the Landon?”
“We-ell, all the people involved have been a little odd. There was the tiny girl, and the Shrimp with the unnaturally deep voice, and the dwarf at the Landon.” He paused. “Quite a circus.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Carruthers.
Craigie smiled.
“I don’t think I would have seen it, Bill, but you told the Errols something about it, didn’t you?”
“A hint or two,” said Loftus. “I hadn’t quite pieced it together then, but hearing of La Reine and remembering her early days, seemed to clinch it. In short . . .”
“We’re dealing with a circus,” finished Carruthers.
“I don’t see any doubt about it,” said Loftus crisply. “I think I ought to see Golt first, and La Reine afterwards. Right?”
Craigie nodded.
“And Carry can get to the Landon and keep an eye on the lady,” said Loftus. “We’ve a line at last, thanks be, and a clear one. Will you get all the information you can on Golt, Gordon? This Myra Berne girl—she’ll probably be connected with the stage or circus, and we might be able to blow them wide open in twenty-four hours.”
“Is Golt likely to be the leader?” asked Craigie.
Loftus shrugged. “Who knows? He’s a leader of sorts, anyhow. If it weren’t for Wally and Ned we’d be feeling happy enough over the affair. I . . .”
He broke off, for one of several telephones on Craigie’s desk rang sharply. Craigie lifted it, listened—and his knuckles went white as he gripped the instrument more tightly. He said “yes” three times at intervals, and then he replaced the receiver. His eyes were gaunt as he looked at Loftus.
“That was from Miller,” he said. “They’ve found Ned in one of the empty flats, and the report’s not good. He says he must see you, and he won’t be moved until he has.”
10
And of Myra
Loftus lost no time.
The Bentley was parked in a small by-road, and Loftus automatically took the wheel. For all appearances he might have been unaware of Carruthers’ presence, and the fair man knew that he was concerned only with two things. First, what news Oundle had; and second, what chance there was of Oundle recovering.
Carruthers hardly knew which would be the more important to Loftus’s mind. In fact, Carruthers reflected in the short and fast drive to Brook Street, that none of them knew a great deal about Loftus’s actual feelings. There were times when he appeared to be a perfectly normal man-about-town, when he enjoyed a night with friends yarning over the past and drinking copious quantities of beer. There were other times when he preferred to be on his own, and was not seen for days at a time. Yet his attitude towards his friends was always the same; even tempered, easily approachable, his emotions so well under control that it was impossible to gauge their depth or strength.
It was his ability to shut himself off from others, as he was doing in the car, which made Carruthers reflect that way, but there was not a lot of time for reflection. Loftus turned into Brook Street.
For the second time that day they saw an ambulance.
It was standing on the other side of the road, about three houses down from the Errols’ flat.
Almost before the car had come to a stop Loftus was out of the Bentley and approaching the open front door of the house. By it stood a policeman—one of those who had been on duty outside the Errols’ flat. The man saluted.
“Second floor, sir.”
Loftus took the stairs three at a time. A plainclothes policeman, a uniformed constable, the sergeant who had been on the other side a while before, and a short, square-shouldered man with grey hair, turned at his approach. The doctor, thought Loftus.
Beyond them, he saw Oundle lying on a couch. His eyes looked enormous. They were wide open and the only touch of colour in his face; even his lips were colourless and it was clear that he was in considerable pain. The doctor spoke.
“Are you Mr. Loftus?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I have a word with you in private?”
“No. Say it aloud, please, you won’t worry the patient.”
A faint, very weary smile showed on Oundle’s lips, but Loftus blessed the doctor, for he did not argue.
“It’s simply this, Mr. Loftus—he is in great pain and he refused a morphia injection. It is necessary to make one quickly.”
Loftus reached the couch. The thin man’s lips tightened with a grimace of pain, but it passed. Sweat crept from his forehead down on to his face.
“Easy does it,” Loftus murmured.
“Tummy trouble,” Oundle said, and grimaced again. “The—grey bowler. Found him—here.”
He paused, and there was a silence broken only by the two policemen leaving the room, and the doctor opening and closing his bag. Loftus rested a hand lightly on Oundle’s shoulder.
“He was—on the phone,” the sick man gasped. “Taking—orders. Called the other—Kay. Got that?”
“Yes,” said Loftus.
“Had to—wait for you,” said Oundle. “Daren’t trust the others to get the message over.” He talked very swiftly as the doctor stepped forward and Loftus nodded. The doctor pulled the blanket down, to show a bared arm. “I saw the bowler first. When I got here. Coming out of this door. He saw me reach Mike’s place and dodged back. I came over. Back way. He was on his own—I thought. Heard him talking. Then someone else came in and let me have it. I got him—chest, I think.”
“Time?” asked Loftus.
“I came straight here. Call it—ten minutes—after I got to the other flat.” He tightened his lips again in a spasm of pain, but the needle had gone home with the shot of morphia, and it was not long before the lines on his face smoothed out a little. Loftus stayed there until Oundle at last closed his eyes.
Ambulance men were coming up the stairs.
“Well, Doctor,” said Loftus in a curiously soft voice. “How long has he got?”
“They were small bullets,” said the doctor. “Two of them—we might get him through.”
“Get Bartlett,” said Loftus, naming the foremost surgeon of the day. “He’s done one job this morning already I hope, on another friend of mine. Tell him it’s for Craigie—got that? Craigie.”
“I’ll arrange it,” said the doctor.
Loftus nodded, and the doctor hurried down stairs.
Carruthers had been talking to the sergeant, and had taken the man’s full report. Loftus looked pleased at that, and they walked across the road and to his own flat. There was a definite easing in the tension that had taken hold of Loftus; the possibility that Oundle would pull through seemed to be responsible for that. But he mixed a strong whisky-and-soda as soon as he reached the flat. Carruthers had not realised how pale he was until the colour flowed back to his cheeks.
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we had some food,” said Carruthers, and he telephoned the order to the restaurant that served many of the flats in Brook Street. That done he leaned back in an easy chair. Loftus was in another, toying with his whisky glass.
“What did the sergeant say?”
“Not as much as we’d like,” said Carruthers. “He was searching the empty flats, when he found Ned crawling across the floor o
f one of them, trying to get to the telephone.”
Loftus nodded. “He would.”
“He didn’t waste any time,” said Carruthers. “The sergeant, I mean. He got Gordon’s number for Ned and let him talk, and was getting the doctor and the ambulance on someone else’s phone. Well, Bill, what’s next?”
Loftus said: “We’re really waiting on the Errols, and the Myra angle, but we’ll get a dossier on Golt, La Reine, and an actress named Myra Berne. There should be a photograph of her at Arkeld’s place—he might even have one in his wallet. Get all those things done, and see what Miller can do to help you. Ask him for a full report on the explosion. Oh, yes. A Greek named Letaxa and an American named Rannigan, were both staying at the Landon. See what you can find out about them, without letting them know.
“And then?” asked Carruthers.
Loftus smiled a little.
“You’ll need some sleep,” he said. “But there is another thing. Someone ought to go down to see Arkeld’s secretary, in Bedford. Who’ve we got?”
“We-ll—Martin should be back.”
“Try him,” said Loftus.
A waiter brought their lunch. After he had laid the table and gone, Carruthers asked:
“What are you going to do?”
“First, to see Farrow, the servant at the Landon,” said Loftus. “Second, to see La Reine if I can’t get in touch with our Mr. Golt. Third—damn it, what does ‘Kay’ mean? Could be the initial or a Christian name or a surname, or even the name itself. That’s another thing to talk to Miller about. See if it means anything to him.”
“Right. What about the circus? Is Miller to start rounding that up? It will be Golt’s lot, of course.”
“Leave it,” said Loftus almost sharply. “We don’t want to disturb any of them yet. When we do, we’ll start from the top. Let Golt think we’re on the real track, and it will probably mean he’ll stop using the stunt-merchants. For the time being it’ll be enough to find out what we’re up against.”
Loftus left the flat first. There was no message from the Errols or from Spats Thornton. This was disturbing, but there was nothing he could do about it. He decided to seek out the address in Fulham of the servant Farrow. He hardly knew why he felt it was so important to see the waiter personally. It was a hunch and he was following it, not blindly but with his eyes wide open.
He drove his own car, a Talbot.
But he was worried when he reached Fulham, not because he was followed, but because he was not. Why was no one following him?
“Answer that, and you’ll answer a lot,” he said to himself, and he slowed down outside the small terraced house in a street off New King’s Road—the address of the waiter Farrow.
Mike Errol was unaware of tragedy.
He was, in fact, feeling at peace with the world, for his quest was a pleasant one, and offered no immediate danger—or so he thought. It was not difficult to remember Myra Berne, nor particularly difficult to go to the Cherry Club, which opened very early since the black-out virtually enforced an early closing-time.
He knew Anne, the attendant at the bar—not the blonde he had seen the previous night, but a short, dark, vivacious girl whom he privately thought should have found something better to do. She greeted him with a smile.
“You’re early.”
“I’m lonely, sweetheart. Are you always as empty as this in the morning?”
“And most of the day,” said Anne.
“Oh, well, I had better have a drink.”
“Isn’t that what you’ve come for?”
He looked at her with a chuckle. “I’m not sure,” he said, “but I think there’s something going on in that pretty head of yours. I’ll have a dry Martini, and you can tell me all about it.”
She smiled as she mixed the drink.
“You made it pretty obvious last night, didn’t you?”
“What, me?”
“She was lovely,” said Anne. “Is, I mean.”
“So it’s got around, has it,” said Mike gloomily. “I knew the day would come when you would find me out, darling, but I didn’t think it would be so soon. What are you drinking?”
“It’s too early, thanks.”
“Principles or beauty conscious?”
Anne laughed: she was undoubtedly a pretty thing. She liked Mike Errol, and his cousin, and the men who came in and out with him from time to time. She thought wistfully how happy she would have been if it had been she who had been singled out by one of them and not Myra Berne.
She said abruptly: “Are you serious?”
“What about?”
She laughed a little awkwardly. “Why, Miss Berne of course.”
“We-ell,” said Mike thoughtfully, “if I thought there was a chance of getting past the others in the queue, I might think about it. But for the moment I’m just curious. How much can you tell me about her—I don’t mean her morals.”
“They’re all right,” said Anne unexpectedly.
“Are they, by Jove!” He played with his glass, but his eyes were serious as he looked at her. “Anne, I’m relying on you. They tell me that it’s dangerous to rely on a woman, but I’m going to chance it. The lady—Myra Berne—seemed anxious to meet me last night. I heard a rumour that she was inquiring for me. Yes?”
“Grace told me so,” said Anne. Grace was the blonde of the previous night.
“Does she come here often?”
“Well, quite often.”
“Always alone?”
“Oh, no. It varies. She’s with a man she calls Max quite a lot.”
“What’s he like?”
“Tall and dark—I don’t like him.”
“Nor do I,” said Mike promptly, and she laughed. “Anyone else?”
The girl hesitated. “At one time she used to come here quite a lot—but only to meet someone.”
“Pick-ups?”
“Oh, no. I’ve told you she isn’t that type. She knew them all right, but they never left here together. She was on the stage, you know,” she added.
“Was?”
The girl shrugged.
“She may still be acting in the provinces for all I know, though she’s here too often to have a regular job with a touring company. The people she meets are certainly the stagey type.”
“And that’s all you can tell me about the lady?”
“If I can remember anything else I’ll let you know.”
“Good girl, and if she should come in, you’ll tell her how interested I am and all that, won’t you?”
“No, darling,” said Anne shrewdly. “I won’t. You know you can rely on me not to say anything.”
“Not even to Grace.”
“Not even to Grace. And I’m not going to ask you why you are asking so many questions . . .” she hesitated, and then broke off. Over the rim of his glass Mike looked into the mirror behind the bar.
In it he saw the reflection of Myra Berne entering the bar. The morning did nothing to disappoint a student of beauty. In fact he thought that she was, if anything, improved. She wore a dark, well-cut suit, her accessories were expensive, and in the best of taste.
Pausing for a moment by the door, it was clear that she, too, had seen a reflection in the mirror. It flashed through Mike’s mind that she might decide to postpone the meeting, but she came on after a moment, and sat at the bar several stools away from him. He looked over and smiled.
“Good morning. What’s it like out?”
She returned his smile. “A little warmer, I think.”
“Oh, good.” Mike stood up. “Have you a party coming, or can you drink with me? And please don’t pretend you don’t recognise me from last night.” His smile was amiable, a little rueful, but in no way apologetic. “I was a little over the top, I’m afraid, but I’ve recovered to muse on my sins.” He took the stool next to hers. Anne waited for the order.
“I’m expecting a friend,” she said, “but thanks very much. May I have a dry sherry?”
“Good Lord!�
�� exclaimed Mike. “A teetotaller!”
She had to laugh at him; people did. And when she laughed she showed her lovely white teeth. It occurred to Mike that she would be very pleasant to kiss.
“No, just temperate,” she said.
Anne served them, and moved to the other end of the bar; he appreciated her discretion while he smiled into Myra’s eyes, and said:
“Health and all that—not that you seem to need any more.”
“More perhaps that you think,” she retorted. She hesitated for a moment, and then added slowly: “You might, too.”
“Good,” he said. “Wish me all I need.”
“I’m not sure that I want to,” she said.
He looked as if he did not understand her. But he knew quite well that she was aware that he was interested in her, that she believed he had been following her, that he had been to Bedford. She deliberately gave him the impression that she knew of that, and he badly wanted to know why.
11
An Invitation
She drank slowly, keeping her eyes on him all the time. He continued to smile and to pretend that he had not taken the inference, although he wondered whether it was worth maintaining the pretence.
“We-ell,” he said at last, “I suppose I’m still in disgrace over last night. A pity. As a matter of fact I thought I’d kept myself within bounds, but Mark . . .”
“Who is Mark?”
“My not-so-amiable cousin. He told me that I’d—oh, well, why go into that?” he demanded.
She looked at him intently.
“I wonder if you are just a fool,” she said, and the directness of her words startled him. “Mr. Errol . . .”
“Hal-lo! But if I am to be known, why not as Mike?”
“You know that I know you,” she said, speaking very quickly, “and was enquiring for you last night. What I’m not sure about is whether you realise quite how dangerous what you are doing might prove to be.”
Mike chuckled.
“Danger and I travel together, my dear—didn’t you know?”