by John Creasey
Mike was inwardly perturbed, outwardly amused.
“Well, I could sketch in the details,” he said. “I had a look through that charming cottage of yours, and covered you with a tablecloth . . .”
“So that was you, was it?” she said, and he knew that she was laughing at him. He was not pleased, but he said lightly:
“Guilty. And I didn’t go to the Cherry Club to meet you, I went by accident. Last night, that is. But how have you managed to get all this information, sweetheart?”
“The means are immaterial,” she said lightly, “but the fact that I have this information should really be enough to warn you.”
He pursed his lips. “Perhaps. But haven’t we rather strayed from the original point which is: ‘Why did you invite me?’ ”
“I wanted to tell you to go away.” She leaned forward. “Mike, don’t go on with whatever you’re doing.”
“It’s necessary, I’m afraid,” he said slowly.
“Necessary!” Her words held a touch of bitterness. “You’ll throw your life away, like others have done, like Arkeld did . . . ”
She stopped abruptly, the colour fading from her cheeks as she watched him. But she did not try to evade his eyes, and he watched her soberly for some seconds. When he spoke his voice was dry and expressionless.
“So you knew he was dead.”
She tried to speak, but the words either would not come, or were deliberately stopped. Her manner was so natural that he could not reach a decision easily. He could see no purpose for a sincere talk, for a genuine warning; the subject of what she was did not ring true, but the manner did. And to support the theory of sincerity there was her slip—if slip it was, and not deliberate, about Arkeld.
She said roughly:
“Well, what are you going to do now?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Mike Errol. “I wish I could make up my mind as to your real motive.”
She looked at him quickly, and something in her expression told him that he was wrong to trust her. But he could not see the trap, he had no idea what she wanted him to do.
Was she waiting for someone?
He said: “If this business were finished, what would you think about me?”
“What use is there in thinking about it,” she said fiercely. “This business as you call it isn’t finished, in any case. I suppose you’re worried because there was trouble in Arkeld’s food area.”
“How did you know that?”
“Because he told me—he was worried enough himself, for the last two or three weeks. He was even frightened. I don’t know what frightened him, but I do know he slept with a revolver at his side, and he insisted on going round and locking the doors and windows himself. He became a bundle of nerves, and I couldn’t stand it any longer. We had a quarrel, and I left him.”
“Yes,” said Mike, and his voice was expressionless.
“I wished I hadn’t afterwards. He was in a bad way, and it seemed a beastly time to let him down. So I went to the hotel last night.” She looked up, and her face was very white, while it was easy to imagine that it was horror that was reflected in her eyes. “I knew his room, and I went straight there. The door wasn’t locked, and I went in.” She shivered suddenly. “He was lying on the bed. I expect you’ve seen him.”
Mike was silent for a moment, and his hand closed over hers.
“I’ve heard about it,” he said. “What did you do?”
“I came away at once.”
“Did you see anyone there?”
“No—only a waiter. He didn’t see me.” She leaned back against his shoulder, and her eyes were closed. It might have been the shadows which made her look so tired and drawn. “You may as well know it all,” she went on. Her right hand sought his, and tightened about it. “Golt came to me a month ago. He wanted information from Arkeld, and he thought I could get it. I promised I’d do what I could, but though Arkeld talked a lot, he didn’t give any information away.”
Her voice faded, and after a pause Mike said:
“Yes?”
“Golt kept worrying me. I had to keep him off, I even made up one or two stories for him. Then there was the quarrel with Arkeld, and—well, I knew Golt had some reason for doing him harm. I believe that Golt killed him. I didn’t know what to think this morning, but I knew you were at the Cherry, and I had an appointment there with Golt. I arrived early, and arranged this meeting—I wanted to see you to tell you the truth.”
“Is it the truth?” Mike asked gently.
She nodded. “I can’t prove it.”
He noticed that she was shivering a little.
“What is it?”
“It’s a queer thing to know when one’s going to die,” she said.
She uttered the words quietly. They had a strange, disturbing effect on Mike Errol. Either her acting was superb, or she meant it. How was it possible for him to decide which was the truth?
“Who told you that?” he said.
“I know it. Golt doesn’t trust me. I gathered that this morning. I’m to be classified as dangerous—oh, I know he’s implicated in spying, and I should have strung along with him, but there it is. And you’ll get the proof of what I’ve told you when I’m dead.”
He said: “Do you intend to give up living as easily as that?”
She dropped on her knees in front of the fire. The gentle yellow light spread an aura about her, lending an ethereal touch to her loveliness.
“I havn’t any choice,” she said. “They’ll make sure of that. I meant to tell you all I could, that’s why I sent for you. Now if you’re wise you’ll go away.”
15
Night of Disaster
It was very quiet in the room.
The rise and fall of their breathing was the only sound, and that was barely audible.
He wanted to believe her.
He wished she would turn so that he could see her face, but something within him stopped him from speaking. When at last she moved it was quickly. She leapt to her feet in a single, graceful movement.
“What tragedy!” she said. “One can’t stay on such a level for long. I’m going to make some tea.”
He stretched out a hand and took hers.
“Are you sure Golt’s as dangerous as you make out?”
“I’m quite sure.”
“Why?”
“I had a servant—a little man we called Skippy. I was in a circus once, and he did a turn with an absurd deep voice. It was he who followed you, and told me all that I know about you. You stopped him getting away, and Golt learned of it. I heard Golt giving instructions for him to be released or killed—it didn’t matter which. You see? Skippy was dangerous if he remained in your hands, and I’m dangerous now that I know Arkeld was murdered. There isn’t any argument about it. I wish I could think that what I’ve told you would keep you away from Golt, but that’s up to you.”
Mike let her go.
He leaned back on the settee, pleasantly aware of the fire’s warmth. He longed to believe her and yet there was doubt at the back of his mind.
When she returned, her mood had changed. Gay and brittle, she poured tea and offered small, inconsequential cakes.
Presently Mike put his cup down abruptly.
“Golt isn’t all-powerful. Come away with me, and I’ll look after you.”
“And drag you deeper into it?”
“That’s nonsense, I can’t get any deeper.”
She shook her head. “No, whatever it is, I’ll take it. I’ve told you all I can. I know that Golt has some way of contacting Berlin, though I don’t know how he does it. What will you do about him?”
“I’m not the boss,” said Errol.
She said wearily: “Well—I think it’s time you went. I’m seeing Golt at the Cherry Club again tonight, and I don’t think anything will happen until after that. It was—brave of you to come alone,” she added. “Do you mind going now?”
Still torn by doubts, he left her, glad of the cooler, clearer
air of the streets. He hesitated for some minutes by his car, then drove to the nearest telephone callbox. There he put a call through to Craigie.
“I’d have Myra Berne watched closely, Gordon.”
“That’s looked after,” said Craigie. “What luck did you have?”
“I’m coming over now,” said Mike, “but I thought I’d better lose no time about getting the girl watched.”
Craigie said:
“Go and see Loftus—I shall be out in a few minutes time. Give him the report, Mike.”
Mike replaced the receiver then re-entered his car. He drove blindly without thought or aim for about fifteen minutes, regaining a little of the impersonal calm so necessarily a part of an agent’s outlook. He did not know that his cousin had seen him enter and leave Byng Mansions, nor that two other Department men were also watching the flat.
They did not see Myra Berne come out.
Nor did they see anyone go in. In fact the watchers were prepared to swear that no one went into Number 32, nor came out. The first intimation of trouble came with the explosion. It rocked the walls of the flat in which an agent was waiting, hurling pictures and furniture crashing to the floor. It was virtually the same as the explosion which had so startled the conference and the Landon Hotel.
It was, however, more effective.
It came from Flat 32, and after the explosion there was a fire which made it impossible for anyone to get in, and which forced a state of emergency on the immediate neighbourhood. The other flats were hurriedly cleared, fire-engines came with their emergency crews, cordons were flung around the blocks, and for two hours the fire raged. By eight o’clock the worst was over, and a few of the tenants were able to return.
No one had entered Flat 32. Nothing was left of it—or of the beautiful woman known to Mike Errol as Myra Berne.
Golt did not visit the Cherry Club that evening.
Golt, in fact, had completely disappeared.
It was his own fault, Loftus told Craigie bitterly. A more careful watch should have been kept, but Loftus had been sure that for the time being Golt felt himself safe, and had advised giving the man enough rope to get himself nicely entangled. It was a trick which had served often enough in the past, but this time it had failed. The flat was deserted, but there were signs of hurried packing—so hurried that some things had been forgotten.
Beneath floor-boards were found three portable transmitting and receiving sets of the type used by spies and discovered too frequently up and down the country. There was nothing else, except that fact that the sets were German made, and left little doubt of Golt’s major activity—nor, as Mike Errol said, of the truth of Myra’s story.
Over Loftus’s flat there was a pall of depression.
The débâcle had come with such devastating suddenness. Loftus had not believed it possible that Golt would clear out so abruptly.
Loftus said, as if to himself:
“I warned him, deliberately, and I didn’t watch him. I let the swine slip through without any trouble, and . . .” his face was pale and gaunt as he broke off, and none of the others said a word. There was nothing to say—they had made a complete failure of a job which had once appeared to be going so smoothly. They saw no consolation in the fact that there remained lines of inquiry to be followed up. The disappearance of Golt and the explosion and fire at Byng Court seemed to cut the ground from under their feet.
There was worse to come.
The Prime Minister, irritated if not angered by Mortimer’s request for an inquiry, had called for a full report to satisfy the Director-General. Craigie made the report in person, and he was still at 10 Downing Street.
Moreover, Fortescue had disappeared.
The S.B. man watching him had also been lost. It was a matter only of a few hours, but the north-countryman had had an important dinner appointment, and he had not kept it. It was nearly half-past nine when Miller rang through, with the brief report that Fortecue’s shadow had been found dead on the Great West Road, the apparent victim of a car crash.
Loftus took the message, thanked Miller, and replaced the receiver.
“It needed just that,” he said, staring moodily before him. He told them what had happened, and again there was silence until Thornton said:
“Damn it, Bill, there are things left.”
“Tell me what,” said Loftus glumly. “Martin Best is checking up on Arkeld’s secretary, I know. Farrow’s record has been traced—he is a waiter, he has been one all his life. La Reine hasn’t seen Golt for five years—every Theatre Manager in London swears to it—even when she’s seen him at theatres she’s cut him. I’ve been playing with high-flown theories and not doing the work I should do. I’ve been setting Mortimer against the others, I’ve been creating a fine series of complications, while leaving the eseential jobs to look after themselves.”
“Damn it, it can’t be as bad as that,” said Mark Errol.
“It not only can be, it is,” said Loftus sharply.
It was rare that there was anything approaching discord amongst the Department agents, and Mark tightened his lips and refused to make the sharp retort that would have been excusable.
After another period of gloomy silence Loftus’s face began to clear and he gave a tentative smile. Immediately the atmosphere lightened. None of them had seen him in a mood of such complete dejection before; it had worried them more than they liked to admit.
“Sorry, Mark,” he said briefly. “Actually we’re so short-handed that we had to take some chances, and we took the wrong ones. There is an angle which we haven’t followed. It came to me a few minutes ago, but it’s not for airing until I’ve brooded over it pretty thoroughly. Gentlemen, I would be alone.”
It was a fine night, free from raids.
That unusual combination was not explained to the public, and in fact there was no official reason for the failure of the raiders to visit Great Britain. Yet there were people who did not think it was entirely a coincidence, when the morning arrived and the full truth was learned.
It had been a night of disaster.
First the news had come in from several areas on the South-Western region of fires and explosions at food depots. They had been on a scale similar to that in the thirty-ninth area, but were more widespread. By three o’clock, word was received of similar sabotage in the North and the Scottish regions. The methods of destruction varied—sometimes by flood, sometimes fire, sometimes explosion. There was of course some connection amongst them, but it was impossible to trace it. Not once during the night was anyone seen acting suspiciously. Not in one case amongst fifty-seven grievous acts of sabotage was there the slightest indication of how it had been contrived, or by whom.
It was as if nature had made a freak decision, and had acted on its own.
That, of course, was nonsense.
Loftus knew it when he was awakened at five o’clock by a call from Craigie, and was told to go at once to Number 10. Hershall knew it, when Mortimer presented him—a little before that phone call—with the full facts. It had been a diabolical contrivance to make each disaster—and they amounted to disasters—happen at the same time. There was no way of explaining them except by carefully planned sabotage on a scale which was frightening. More damage to food was done in that one night than by six months of German bombing. It was difficult to make a full estimate, but Sir Bruce Mortimer, pale and tight-lipped told Hershall, Craigie, Loftus and three other members of the War Cabinet that a food supply reckoned to last the region for two weeks had been destroyed in six hours.
Hershall took it as might have been expected—with a nod and a frown, and a few moments of concentration. Then he looked up at Craigie.
“You’ve got no information for me?”
“No,” said Craigie briefly.
“Nothing has come of your inquiries?”
“Nothing beyond the earlier report,” said Craigie.
“I see. Loftus . . .” the shrewd eyes were turned towards the big man. “You ha
ven’t failed us like this before.”
“I hope I haven’t failed you yet, sir,” said Loftus.
“Can you expect a further demonstration of inability to cope with a crisis?” snapped Mortimer. “I believed when I saw you this morning that there was some reason to think you had made progress towards the solution of a problem that was not then serious but only threatened to become so. Now . . .”
“Yes, yes,” said Hershall, cutting sharply through the verbosity of the Director-General. “What have you in mind, Loftus?”
“It’s not in the form of a report, sir.”
“I don’t want a report, I want your ideas.”
“If I may be permitted to interrupt,” said Mortimer icily. “Mr. Lofus inferred this morning that the trouble was caused by reactionaries, probably Communist, working in the depots and warehouses. Since then I have been able to get a full report on Communist activities, and there is no evidence in support of this theory.”
Loftus said evenly: “I was talking to six strangers. Sir Bruce, and I saw no reason to confide in them.”
“They were six fully accredited . . .”
“We really haven’t time for acrimony,” said Hershall sharply. “What do you think, Loftus?”
Loftus said: “Briefly, that Arkeld was murdered, and the explosion was staged at the Landon to give each member of the conference reason to be aware of personal danger.”
“The earlier belief was that the explosion misfired.” said Hershall. “You don’t think it was intended to kill them?”
“I didn’t at the time,” said Loftus. “Here is a thing carefully planned and executed. It has been going on for months. Arkeld was killed the moment there was some reason to believe that the leakage which affected his area was discovered. I stress the world leakage, gentlemen. Men who are afraid will do things which normally they would not consider.”