by John Creasey
He did not reach the door.
He was within two yards of it when it opened, and he saw the newcomer: a short, chunky man in a blue sports jacket, with a respirator in a canvas case slung over his shoulder. And for the first time, looked into a pair of eyes that were so light that they seemed neither blue nor grey.
Loftus stood staring, with Yvonne leaning against him, her weight growing more with every second.
And Loftus could not move.
2
And Gets His Wish—
His mind was active, although he knew that it was working slowly and he could not think at speed. He tried to get all the points of that hard, unknown face registered clearly, but except for those strange eyes, he had only a vague impression of the features. He stood quite still, without even glancing down at Yvonne, whose head was now resting against his shoulder.
And then he passed out.
There were a few people still awake, but none moved except the chunky man, who prevented Loftus from toppling over and eased the large body to the floor. He contrived to do the same for Yvonne, and his manner gave the impression that he had acted similarly often enough to be an expert.
Going down on one knee, he began to search through Loftus’s pockets. He took only the big man’s wallet, but first ran his fingers expertly along the seams of the coat and trousers, without result. Half-way through his search, a woman entered: tall and slight, and with a face that would have been pleasing but for its utter lack of expression. With the same detachment as the man showed with Loftus, she searched Yvonne, finally straightening up with only a note-case from her handbag.
‘That’s all,’ she said, and the chunky man nodded.
He stood looking down on Loftus, then deliberately reached a hand inside his coat.
The woman said:
‘Is it necesary?’
‘For Loftus, yes.’ The voice was clipped and metallic, and now in the hand the blue-grey steel of an automatic showed. He pointed it downwards, the rest of his body unmoving. The woman watched, still without expression, and two men who were awake tried to rise from their chairs, but could not. They were watching murder; they knew what was happening: yet they were helpless to move, beyond that first despairing effort.
Loftus’s chest was moving slowly up and down. Close to his shoulder was Yvonne, her hair dark against the pale grey of his coat. The tension increased: the gun was lowered, and it seemed as if even the chunky man could not bring himself to shoot at one so completely at his mercy.
Then, from the doorway, there came a voice.
It was a mild, apologetic voice, but it made both the man and the woman swing round.
‘Excuse me. . . .’
The speaker stood against the jamb of the door: a tall, lethargic-looking man, flaxen-haired and handsome—almost too handsome, except for a too-long and slightly irregular nose. Sleepy-looking grey eyes regarded the pair, and an automatic was levelled towards the chunky one’s stomach. Like the other man’s, his gun was fitted with the ugly snout of a silencer.
‘No, please!’ he exclaimed, as the other’s gun moved. ‘I don’t want to have to shoot; it makes things so messy. Don’t you think?’ He smiled, and the smile completely deceived the chunky one, who squeezed the trigger of his automatic. He squeezed a split-second too late, for the man in the doorway fired first. The bullet struck the other’s wrist, shattering it, and the automatic clattered to the floor. The strange, light eyes closed for a moment in agony, and blood streamed from the smashed wrist as his own bullet thudded harmlessly into the door.
‘I told you so,’ said the tall man reproachfully. ‘Little lady, turn completely around, will you?’
The woman obeyed.
‘And keep your hands in sight,’ he insisted, as she lifted her handbag to her chest. ‘After all, I don’t want to have to do it again. I say, what is the matter? Am I imagining things, or is it really as late as this?’
If he talked like a fool he did not act like one. He moved behind the woman, very swiftly yet without a sound, and took her handbag. His eyes widened as he felt it with his left hand, then stuffed it in his pocket.
‘In the circumstances,’ he said conversationally, ‘what would you do, little lady?’
She said nothing. Her complete passivity might have proved irritating, even annoying, but the fair-haired man—whose silver-grey suit was so immaculate that it put Loftus’s to shame—merely shrugged his shoulders. Then, calmly removing his gun’s silencer, aimed it at the floor, and pressed the trigger.
The roar of the shot shattered through the smallish room, and three of the sleeping people started. The woman jumped, but her face still showed no expression.
From below, there came a banging on the door, then the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Moments later, two men—one of them the chauffeur-doorman and the other a uniformed policeman—rushed in. They rushed, that was, as far as the body of Loftus.
The policeman was young, clear-eyed and armed, but without taking his revolver from its holster, he snapped:
‘Drop that gun!’
The gun dropped—after its owner had pushed on the safety catch—and the constable looked startled, as if he had expected a sterner fight.
‘See where he got it,’ he directed, and as the doorman bent over Loftus and Yvonne, he approached the tall stranger. But that languid-looking young man spoke first.
‘Davidson,’ he offered. ‘Wallace, Ogilvie. Address—7, Lambs Mews, which is just round the corner. And——’
‘Stop that!’ snapped the policeman.
But the man called Davidson had moved his hand to his pocket and away again while the constable was still taking out his gun, and now held out a small card.
The policeman stared, incredulous.
There was certainly nothing about the tall, fair man to suggest that he was more than a wealthy and probably work-shy man-about-town. Davidson, in fact, was to all appearances a type which existed in far too great a number in the West End. But the policeman found himself presented with a card—hand-signed by the Home Secretary himself—which allowed the bearer, one Wallace Ogilvie Davidson, to move when, as, and where he liked; and which instructed all members of the Police, A.R.P., L.D.V. and/or armed forces to give him all the help he might require.
The policeman knew all about those cards: there were not many in existence.
And here, regarding him somewhat owlishly, and looking as if he could not summon the energy even to make such a request for help, was the holder of one.
‘Have you read it?’ asked Davidson, mildly.
‘Er—yessir. Sorry, sir! I didn’t mean—I mean I didn’t know you——’
‘If you had eyes that could see through my coat and several millimetres of good English leather,’ said Davidson, ‘you would be a man of importance indeed, old son. All is forgiven, never fear.’
The constable swallowed hard. ‘Thank you, sir.’
At that moment the chauffeur-doorman spoke in a voice which clearly suggested that he doubted the evidence of his own senses.
‘They—they ain’t hurt, Bob.’
‘No,’ said Davidson. ‘Neither the lady nor the gentleman. The only injured party started this, Bob, and if you’re satisfied with my credentials I’d like——’
The next moment he had passed the startled constable with a speed which was hardly credible, to reach the chunky man just as his left, uninjured hand was at his breast pocket. There was a short struggle, hopelessly one-sided because of the chunky one’s wound. At the finish of it Davidson drew back, and in his hand was a small glass phial.
‘I’ll keep this.’ His voice was authoritative, and the policeman made no protest. ‘Handcuff the woman, constable, and don’t hesitate to take a tough line if she shows fight. Get them both to Cannon Row, and get medical attention for the man there. Advise Superintendent Miller or Sir William Fellowes immediately, even if it means getting in touch with them at their homes, and watch your prisoners as if they were Hitler and Goebbels themselves.
Got all that?’
The intelligence in the young policeman’s eyes was not imaginary.
‘Yes, sir—right away, sir. Sam, give me a hand.’
Sam, the chauffeur-doorman, jumped to it with the same alacrity, and Davidson knelt down beside Loftus and Yvonne. He tested their pulses and found they were a little sluggish but not remarkably abnormal. He lifted the lids of their eyes and saw nothing that worried him, but as he stood up and regarded the assembled company, he was scowling.
There are many things surprising to the average man, but to members of that remarkable Department called Z—the Department controlled by Gordon Craigie, with William Loftus as his chief agent—surprises are few and far between. They have been conditioned to expect the unexpected, and they have learned that few things are impossible. Department Z—or to be more exact, Secret Branch—used for its work only those who could accept surprise, difficulty, danger and even disaster with equanimity.
Wally Davidson, in fact, had been known to boast that nothing had surprised him in the seven years for which he had worked with Craigie. But he was surprised now.
Apart from himself, only the policeman, the doorman, and the two prisoners were awake. For a few moments, he stared about him at the unconscious men and women all around, then turned to the policeman.
‘Tell me,’ he said confidentially. ‘Are people still awake, outside?’
‘Streets are crowded with them,’ the constable assured him, keeping his eyes on the woman as he fastened the handcuffs on her wrists. To Davidson, she was uncanny. Throughout it all, he had seen no change in her expression.
‘Crowded, eh?’ Davidson echoed. ‘Didn’t any of your mates hear the shooting?’
‘Two are waiting downstairs, sir, and others should be along any moment.’
‘Good,’ said Davidson, and started towards the door. ‘Wait until some of them arrive, before you leave this room.’
‘Right, sir.’
Davidson went through the door, then paused on the landing to consider two other doors leading from it. One was marked, somewhat unusually for London: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen.’ Apparently the Dernier Cri adopted Parisienne methods for toilet services.
The other was marked: ‘Private.’
Davidson pushed against it, and went through. No one was in the small office, but on an untidy desk was a half-empty bottle of whisky, its screw-top off, and from an ash-tray a coil of cigarette smoke rose towards the ceiling. Davidson screwed up his nose: he disliked Turkish cigarettes.
He found what he wanted, however: a telephone. Lifting the receiver, he dialled a Whitehall number. He was answered promptly, in a crisp, dry voice.
‘Davidson here,’ he said, then proceeded to spell his name backwards. That very simple method of identification had been used by Department agents for years, and had not yet failed them, nor been copied by others trying to impersonate them.
‘Yes, Wally,’ said Gordon Craigie.
Craigie epitomised the spirit of the Department inasmuch as he was never surprised, and he never appeared to lose his equanimity. Loftus had once said of Craigie that if every office in Whitehall except his own had been bombed to nothing, his faintly Scots voice would remain crisp, dry, and slightly impatient.
‘Gordon,’ Davidson began, ‘have you ever seen a night club asleep?’
‘I don’t go to night clubs.’
‘That’s right, minimise the effect,’ complained Davidson. ‘It’s a fact, old man. I followed Bill to the Dernier Cri—do you know it?’
‘I’ve heard of it—go on.’
‘Well,’ said Davidson, ‘they’re all asleep. Bill, Yvonne, fifty or sixty would-be revellers—including members of His Majesty’s forces—plus waiters and other staff. I’d say Bill just toppled over—dead to the wide in a matter of seconds.’
Craigie said, very slowly:
‘You’re not playing the fool, Wally?’
‘No, damn it!’ protested Davidson. ‘I thought someone else might be, but I’m quite sure of it now. Send half-a-dozen of the lads over to help me look round, will you?’
‘I’ll see to it right away.’
‘You might even come yourself,’ Davidson suggested. ‘You may not believe in night clubs, but you’ll never have a chance of seeing another like this. I’m not sure that I believe it myself.’
‘Wait there,’ said Craigie.
Davidson replaced the receiver, eyed the cigarette which was burned no more than halfway through, then deliberately tilted the whisky-bottle and poured a drop on the glowing red end. As the cigarette fizzled out, he crossed the room and took the key from the door, then went into the passage and locked it.
More police had arrived when he returned to the main room, and the woman was being carried down the stairs. She held herself absolutely stiff, and it took two men to carry her. The chunky man was not to be seen; nor was the policeman named Bob. But in his place was a burly sergeant, an acquaintance of Davidson’s—and like him, well used to the unusual. For once, this worthy’s customary smile was missing.
‘Well,’ he greeted Davidson dourly, ‘this is a go, sir!’
‘It’s that, all right, sergeant. Even the band.’
‘That’s so, sir: even the band.’
His eyes followed Davidson’s bleak stare. The pianist was sprawled over the keyboard. The drummer had collapsed across his instruments. The leader was slumped across the back of the piano, his saxophone at his feet. At the tables around the room, several of the guests had slipped to the floor and others lay back on seats and banquettes, some with their mouths open and snoring loudly.
It was so bizarre that Davidson collected his thoughts with an effort.
‘You’ve sealed the place up?’
‘No one will get in without a pass, sir.’
‘Good man. Well, I’ll get back to the office and look around. Er—No one gets out without a pass, either?’
‘That’s understood, sir.’ The sergeant looked reproachful.
‘Better to be understood twice than never understood at all,’ said Davidson amiably.
Returning to the office, he locked himself in. The manager’s swivel-chair was comfortable: he used it while searching the desk’s several drawers, glancing through the papers in them in apparently cursory fashion but actually alert for anything at all unusual. He had found nothing, and was just stifling a yawn, when there was a tap on the door.
‘Who’s that?’ he demanded.
‘Me,’ said a deep voice.
‘Oh, well,’ he complained loudly. ‘I suppose we must expect to be littered up.’
The man to whom he opened the door was remarkably tall and thin, with a pale face enlivened only by a pair of enormous blue eyes. He was neither dark nor fair and his only other notable feature was his prominent Adam’s apple.
Thus Edward Oundle.
He was, of course, another of Craigie’s men, but he was more than that: he was Bill Loftus’s oldest friend. It was through him that Oundle had enlisted in the Department’s service, and they worked together except where circumstances forced them apart—which was not often.
Since Loftus’s great bulk and packed shoulders would have made two of him, Oundle was in more ways than one a shadow of the large man. He disliked Loftus going about on his own when there was no work on hand, for he believed many people knew Loftus who would be glad to see him dead. He never queried Loftus’s instructions: indeed, in some weird way, he seemed at times able to predict just what Loftus would ask him, and acted before the request was uttered.
Which does not mean that they never disagreed.
Only that evening, Oundle had told Loftus darkly that if he insisted on spending the evening with Yvonne de Montmaront, he was inviting trouble—and he meant no reflection on Yvonne. Loftus had opined that this was simply one more indication of the pessimism which coloured Ned Oundle’s thinking. To which Oundle had retorted that he might be a pessimist, but he was not wholly a fool.
Now, his large blue eyes
registering query and anxiety together, he entered the room, sniffed, swallowed—making his Adam’s apple perform remarkable convulsions—and waited.
‘Well, Ned?’ Davidson greeted him.
‘Well, nothing,’ he growled. ‘How’s Bill?’
‘Sleeping peacefully, I think.’
‘Don’t fool, blast you—what’s been happening?’
Gently, Davidson explained—then wished he had waited. For within five minutes, three other Department Z men had joined them.
Spats Thornton was a short man with a Punch-like chin, a mighty forehead, a rosy complexion, and a tendency to blink a lot. His shoulders were massive for his size and permanently rather hunched, but he dressed so perfectly that this was seldom noticed.
With him, came a vast mountain of a man. The only one in evening dress, Martin Best still contrived to look untidy—his normal state. The starched front of his shirt stuck out from his cummerbund, the lining of one pocket was actually half out, and his fair hair was as usual ruffled. But his wholesome-looking face and candid, grey-blue eyes held even more than their permanent suggestion of surprise. His appearance would hardly have suggested it, but Martin Best was in fact the most mechanically-minded of Craigie’s agents, with a positive genius for—to quote Loftus—doing odd things with pieces of wire.
The third man was Carruthers. He was tall and fair and very handsome, and would not easily have been taken for the ex-amateur heavyweight champion that he was. At thirty-two, he was the youngest present, although there were many younger men in Craigie’s department.
Davidson repeated his account for the three of them.
‘Believe it or not,’ he wound up, dryly.
‘We believe you, friend.’ Spats Thornton’s voice was very deep, for so small a man. ‘What we want to know, is—how did you come to be here?’
‘Actually, I followed a man who was following Bill,’ said Davidson, blandly. ‘Look—supposing you help me look round, now, and leave the whole story for when Craigie gets here!’
Oundle’s brows rose.
‘The great man’s coming in person, is he? Does that mean——?’
‘Questions later,’ Davidson insisted. ‘The manager of this dump, or someone else who smokes Turkish cigarettes, was here a few minutes before I arrived, and thereafter made himself scarce—for whatever reason. But it’s too much to believe that he knew anything about it.’