The Island of Peril (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  The woman laughed, without humour.

  ‘You are doing what Berlin does—interfering with others. I can handle Parnell quite well, given time. It isn’t the boy,’ she added off-handedly. ‘It’s the sister. She——’

  ‘It does not matter,’ said Richards sharply. ‘You want all the information from Parnell quickly—we shall be called to give full particulars soon, and I cannot afford to lose time. Now—let us go upstairs. Be friendly to Parnell. Give him anything he wants—you understand, Paula, anything—but obtain the information that we require.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ she assured him.

  ‘It is to be hoped. And now I have to find someone to replace Tenby—and his sister. It is bad.’ He rose. ‘Also, we need to get Loftus behind us quickly: I was given until midnight to-night.’

  ‘Why is there a fuss about Loftus?’

  Richards said softly:

  ‘He is a remarkable man, Paula, and a man who has ruined many plans. In this plan, this final conquest, nothing must be allowed to go wrong. One by one, quietly, the key men must be removed.’

  ‘If they’re trying to work to a date again,’ Paula objected, ‘they’re crazy. They’re always in too much of a hurry, and—oh, well!’ She shrugged. ‘I’m glad Tenby didn’t know much. He would be the type to talk.’

  ‘He would never open his lips,’ said Richards. ‘Go upstairs, my dear. And do not criticise Berlin too much. Remember: I am privileged to grumble; you are merely a servant of the Third Reich. It will be well to understand it.’

  The metallic note in his voice was frightening and the woman was plainly uneasy as she preceded him up the stairs. She reached the hall as someone rang the doorbell and a moment later Grey appeared, to answer it. Paula was by the drawing-room door and Richards peering short-sightedly at the shadow of the caller, against the frosted glass. Then the door was opened, and the shadow became a thing of flesh and blood. A large thing; ungainly, in fact, and certainly not handsome.

  Bill Loftus stood there, his lips smiling, his eyes coldly appraising; and rightly guessing at the way the woman’s heart turned over, and the man’s blood ran cold.

  5

  Shindy in Sussex

  They did not know that Loftus had been sent to sleep, nor that he had not recovered the full use of his legs until three hours before. They were unaware of the buoyancy which he felt because of his complete recovery. Nor did they know that his visit had only the flimsiest of pretexts.

  He gravely ignored Richards and the woman, although he had seen what there was to see in one quick glance, and addressed the hunch-backed Grey.

  ‘I should like,’ he said, ‘to see Mr. Richards, please.’

  Richoffen—by which name he had best be known—advanced promptly, his pleasing smile much in evidence.

  ‘I am Mr. Richards, sir. If you will be good enough to tell me your name?’

  ‘Loftus,’ said Loftus, and took a card from his pocket. It went from Grey to Richoffen, who peered at it closely. Paula still stood by the drawing-room door, openly curious. Loftus smiled at her, making no secret of his admiration. But the woman misjudged him: she promptly whirled out of sight, her head held high—a gesture which might have been expected from a young girl, but not from the woman of the world that Paula Duveen so clearly was.

  Suspicion hardened in the big man’s mind. Possibilities that had been only vague were suddenly strengthened and the long shot he had made in visiting Hayling appeared appreciably shorter. Paula did not know it, but her toss of the head undid all the good that Richoffen’s hesitant yet convincing manner might have achieved.

  ‘Loftus,’ pronounced Richoffen. He straightened up, his eyes wide behind his gold-rimmed glasses. ‘From Scotland Yard? A—er—detective, sir? I confess myself puzzled, but if I can be of any service at all——?’ Suddenly more confident, he exclaimed: ‘But perhaps, you wish me to identify a stamp—a collection? I——but come in, Mr.——er——Loftus. Forgive me—I was somewhat startled. Come in, come in!’

  He led the way into the drawing-room, where Paula was standing by the open French windows, her back to the door. She did not turn until Richoffen said with well-controlled agitation:

  ‘Paula, my dear, this is Mr. Loftus, from Scotland Yard. My step-daughter, Mr. Loftus—it is Mr.?’

  ‘Plain Mister,’ agreed Loftus. ‘I’m representing the Yard but in no official capacity, Mr. Richards.’ He beamed at Paula, who allowed herself to smile. She was, thought Loftus, making it clear to him that she was a cold and haughty beauty: too cold and haughty for a woman with those amber-flecked, tawny brown eyes which, with her full red lips, belied the frigid impression she tried to create. ‘Did you,’ added Loftus, ‘mention stamp collections?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Richoffen, and Loftus cursed the fact that he had come down here without fuller preparation. He had found among Tenby’s papers the name of Richards and this address: and he had come straight here, concerned more with the need for haste than caution. He acted often by instinct, and it rarely failed him: he wondered whether it had failed him here. ‘Of course,’ repeated Richoffen. ‘But—’ he looked bewildered—‘my small reputation has not reached you, obviously?’

  Loftus felt his way carefully.

  ‘You may be able to help us,’ he said. ‘It concerns a man who has been killed in a road accident, a man who carried your address with him. I am not in a position to divulge the nature of the inquiry, beyond that.’

  But for the expression in the woman’s amber-flecked eyes, and the mistake she had made, he would have been inclined to laugh at the stiltedness of his own words. Yet they suited the man he knew as Richards, although he had a vague impression that Richards was not all he seemed. The charming house—good imitation Elizabethan—the pleasant garden, the quiet village and smiling, azure-blue sky all tended to create a feeling of peace and harmony. Yet inside the house, it failed. He felt that there was tension here, far greater than was normal at his visit.

  The words ‘stamp’ and ‘collection’ had given him the first clue: Richards was a philatelist. And philatelists, thought Loftus, frequently had extensive foreign correspondence. He looked at the mild, pink-and-white countenance of ‘Mr. Charles Richards’, and wondered whether he was right in thinking the blue eyes held a frosty glint that belied his genial appearance.

  ‘You put me at an even greater disadvantage,’ Richoffen told him.

  ‘I hope not.’ Loftus threw formality overboard. ‘Do you know a man named Tenby, Mr. Richards? Arthur Tenby?’

  Richoffen stared, but his heart beat faster, and the woman turned abruptly towards the garden. Loftus knew then that he was right: there was tension here, and where there was tension there might easily be danger. He glanced instinctively towards the door, and saw the handle slowly turn. He recalled the servant who had admitted him: he was prepared to give the man full marks for villainy.

  ‘Tenby?’ echoed Richoffen. ‘I——but sit down, Mr. Loftus: please do sit down.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll stand, if I may. I mustn’t stay many minutes—my friends outside will be impatient.’

  ‘Friends?’ Richoffen sounded startled, and Loftus noted that the handle of the door stopped moving.

  ‘I didn’t come alone, Mr. Richards,’ he said gently. The words conveyed the warning he intended, and he thought he heard footsteps tiptoe away from the door. ‘But to get to business. Do you know Mr. Tenby?’

  ‘I don’t recall——’

  ‘Father, you remember the man.’ The woman turned to face them. Her voice was warm and husky: it suited those tawny eyes. ‘He comes from Dane and Company sometimes. A little man, who always dresses badly.’

  ‘Oh, that man,’ Richoffen’s voice suggested that much anxiety had been lifted from his mind. ‘Yes, I recall him, now—although I should not have remembered his clothes. So much like a woman, Mr. Loftus! But—I’m afraid I cannot give you much information about him.’

  ‘What do you know of him?’ asked Loftus.
<
br />   ‘Why, that he is a travelling representative of Dane and Company—a prominent firm of stamp dealers and auctioneers, Mr. Loftus.’

  ‘You have their address?’

  ‘Oh, yes. They are in the Strand—101G I believe. Is that right, Paula?’

  ‘Yes.’ Paula Duveen’s eyes were never far from Loftus, and he knew it.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘When was he last here, Mr. Richards?’

  ‘Who? Dane? He rarely comes, but——’

  ‘We are dealing with Tenby,’ Loftus reminded him gently.

  ‘Of course, of course! I’m sorry, Mr. Loftus. The man is no more than a messenger, you understand, and I have no real business with him. Let me see—why, he was here yesterday afternoon, I remember! He brought me a Blue Mauritius, but it was rather beyond my means, I’m afraid. I——Mr. Loftus, you’re not saying you suspect Tenby has made off with some of the specimens? I am quite certain Dane would not employ anyone who was not absolutely reliable.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Loftus dryly. ‘Well, I appreciate your help, Mr. Richards. His note-book had your name and address, as I have said, but no others—and we were very anxious to trace him.’

  ‘Oh, Dane will help you,’ said Richoffen. ‘I wish I could be of more assistance. Please call on me at any time you may need—er—anything I can do for you.’

  ‘I will,’ Loftus assured him.

  He said it almost too heartily, for there was no doubt, now, that in Richards’ eyes there was a frosty glint; no doubt that the woman’s lips curled in a sneer.

  He was shown to the front door by Richoffen. There was no sign of Grey, but drawn up in front of Paula Duveen’s cream Hispano was a Talbot with its bodywork camouflaged in grey-green. In it, sat two hatless young men: Oundle and Davidson, had Richoffen but known it.

  ‘And thanks again,’ boomed Loftus. ‘Many thanks indeed, Mr. Richards. Good-day, Ma’am.’ He lifted a hand, then turned abruptly and strode off towards the drive gateway. But he knew that he was being watched.

  ——————

  As the door closed behind Loftus, Grey emerged from the niche on the landing where he had hidden from view, and Richoffen stood quite still for perhaps ten seconds.

  Finally, Paula spoke. ‘Well? What are you going to do?’

  ‘God—damn—that—man!’ Richoffen ground out, with cold venom. ‘To carry my name—my name!—in his pocket. To let Loftus come here——’

  ‘That won’t help us now,’ Grey told him, sharply.

  Richoffen took two sharp steps towards the hunch-back, who stood his ground and did not flinch even when the older man struck him savagely across the face.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Paula urged, completely ignoring his action.

  ‘Ach, what would you?’ snapped Richoffen. ‘All the plans have been prepared: we must put them into action. You——!’ He glared at Paula, suddenly remembering: ‘To act like a virgin, when you look a cocotte. Loftus would never be fooled—would never leave us alone, after that! Downstairs, Grey!’ The hunch-back turned obediently.

  He was at the head of the stairs, with the others close behind him, when there was a sharp ring and then a knock, at the front door. All three of them started, then Grey continued as if there had been no interruption. Richoffen nodded to the woman, who moved slowly towards the door.

  There was a narrow slot of plain glass on one side of it, and she looked through. She caught a glimpse of Roy Parnell’s profile, and her tension eased.

  ‘Who is it?’ Richoffen’s voice just reached her ears.

  ‘Parnell. Shall I——?’

  ‘Wait until I am downstairs,’ said Richoffen, ‘and then admit him. I do not think, my dear, that you will have much time to spend with him today. Unless, of course, he should have information.’

  She shrugged, and after he had disappeared silently down the stairs she opened the door. As Parnell greeted her with a warmth that suggested he was quite helplessly in love, she looked past him, and inwardly cursed as she saw Loftus’s car moving off. But to Parnell, she said smoothly:

  ‘Why, Roy—it is good to see you. You’ll come in?’

  ‘Try to keep me out,’ Parnell joked. ‘Paula, my dear, I was afraid you’d be out again. I——’

  He stopped, frowning, for her preoccupation was obvious. And at once she smiled—briefly, artificially—and led him into the drawing-room.

  ‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ she said. Parnell stared at the door as she went out, then shrugged his shoulders and lit a cigarette. When she returned, five minutes later, his boyish face lit up.

  ‘Finished? That’s fine. Now——’

  ‘Roy,’ she said slowly: ‘I’d like to talk to you downstairs. Will you come?’

  ‘Why, surely.’ Parnell followed her out and along the hall, worried: and the door leading to the underground shelter closed behind them.

  ——————

  ‘Well?’ said Oundle, as Loftus climbed in.

  ‘He’s as phoney as hell,’ murmured Loftus. ‘He put up a good show, but he’s our man—or one of them. We’ll move quickly, Wally—thanks be for Special Regulations. Let’s get out of sight swiftish, and call the Lewes people.’

  Davidson nodded and started up—just as a two-seater swung round the near corner. He braked sharply, not hiding his annoyance.

  ‘Sorry—my fault!’ The driver’s voice was faintly American and his smile boyishly disarming: Wally’s anger melted and he started up again as the young man pulled up outside Fourways and hurried up the drive.

  ‘Hold it,’ said Loftus, quietly.

  Davidson braked again.

  ‘If you’d make up your mind——!’

  ‘He who changes his mind at the right time may well live to change it more often,’ Loftus informed him. ‘And one can change one’s mind without altering one’s opinion. . . . Ned, hop out and keep that youngster in sight. Beg, borrow or commandeer a car as needs be—but don’t lose him.’

  Ned Oundle, long accustomed to doing what Loftus said and thinking about it afterwards, clambered from the car and found shelter behind a cottage which hid him from the house. Loftus was still watching the front door of Fourways, where the newcomer was waiting: by the dashboard clock, he had been waiting sixty seconds.

  ‘Which suggests,’ said Loftus aloud, ‘that friend Richards and his step-daughter have other things to do than open doors. Not to mention the servant. All right, Wally. Go through the village, and then take a long way round.’

  Davidson nosed the car forward.

  ‘You’re not forgetting there are no signposts, these days?’

  ‘No,’ said Loftus. ‘And I don’t mind getting lost in a good cause.’

  Davidson drove through the village, then turned left, although to get to the main Lewes-Horsham road he knew he should have turned right. The twists and turns in the road compelled him to go slowly, and he peered ahead as they neared another fork.

  ‘Right or left?’ he asked.

  ‘I think,’ said Loftus, ‘it would be a good idea if we stopped, old man.’

  Davidson braked hard.

  ‘There’s one thing,’ he announced, ‘just one thing I’ve never been able to understand—and that’s why we stand you. If you must fool about, at least say why.’

  Loftus smiled thoughtfully.

  ‘That’s the problem,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know why, Wally. But I do know that Richards and the lady didn’t welcome me, that they lied to me, and then when I left were so busy that they ignored a ring at the door. There were three people at least in that house, and unless they were remarkably busy they would not take a full minute to open a door they had just closed. What, then, were they doing?’

  ‘What’s your guess?’

  ‘Either going into a huddle,’ said Loftus, ‘or arranging to prevent me from making my report. And that’s not a guess; it’s a probability. Get out your weapons.’

  ‘That,’ admitted Davidson, ‘is differe
nt.’

  He leaned over and pulled up the back seat of the Talbot. Opening a long, cloth-covered box, he revealed that grim product of man’s science—a tommy-gun. Screwing first the drum and then the barrel into position, he pressed down the safety-catch, then restored the seat to position, and placed the machine-gun on it. That completed, he touched his hip-pocket and then his coat under his left arm-pit.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘We may not have to use ’em,’ Loftus reminded him. ‘But if we’ve scared Richards as much as I’m inclined to think we have we’ll be glad of the precaution.’

  ‘Well, when the sparks begin to fly, the Local Defence gents will be out in their thousands—or dozens, all depending how many there are, here. But Bill—you are expecting a hold-up?’

  ‘It’s possible. Ostensibly, we’re not sure of the way and we’re waiting here to be told. I must make that call, too—’

  From a concealed pocket beneath the dashboard, he took the miniature radio-transmitter with which most Department Z agents and many others of the services were equipped. Only those directly concerned knew the heights of achievement to which radio-transmission and reception had risen, but Loftus used his set automatically, tuning-in to the Horsham wave-length and then making his call.

  ‘Z-2, calling Horsham. Z-2 calling Horsham.’ He repeated it several times, until the answer came:

  ‘Horsham calling Z-2.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Loftus, and went on impersonally: ‘Darkest night, brightest day. Received that, Horsham?’

  ‘Proceed,’ came the voice over the ether; a voice of the Sussex Special Home Security Department.

  ‘Approach and surround from a good distance the house of Charles Richards, known as Fourways, Hayling, Sussex,’ Loftus instructed. ‘Endeavour not to be seen. Follow any member of household. In event of necessity, detain. Do not allow—repeat, do not allow—any to escape. All understood, Horsham?’

  ‘Instructions taken,’ said the Horsham speaker. ‘Closing down, Z-2.’

  ‘Closing down,’ echoed Loftus. Switching off, he shut the set into its hiding-place. ‘And so,’ he added, ‘we sit parked in the wilds of Sussex, with Richards perhaps sending his hordes to the attack, and perhaps not.’ Reflecting back, he mused: ‘She was a bad type of woman, Wally. But she had the sense to ensure Richards didn’t deny all knowledge of our Tenby. Getting that name and address was a lucky break, and——’