The Island of Peril (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  Craigie nodded and Loftus went on, slowly, ‘The only other thing is the mystery of the youngster who called there, just after we left. According to Hargreaves, he’s been there frequently and the assumption is that he’s interested in the woman. But she’s ten years too old for him, and a long way from his type. Hargreaves—a useful man, very conscious of the need to be wide awake in every direction—heard of it because the lad was always driving around in his two-seater, and it looked like a case of someone getting more petrol than he should. His passport and papers were examined, and he had an American Embassy chit. Unfortunately, they didn’t take a note of his name.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Craigie. ‘Tell me more about Hargreaves.’

  Loftus shrugged.

  ‘The old-type village squire—and a rattling good sort, to judge from appearances. An ex-Army man, of course, but turned down this time because of an uncertain heart. He’s got the Hayling district worked up to a watertight little community, with L.D.V. men everywhere, and always in reach of their rifles. Within five minutes of the shooting, three men had arrived in a lorry: he had lorries or cars placed everywhere—with their keys and one essential part removed, as per orders, so the men can get moving at the slightest hint of trouble. Very efficient, our Colonel Hargreaves—and very peeved at the fact that Richards got past him.’

  ‘He couldn’t help that,’ said Craigie. ‘Well, Bill, it’s not a good situation. If Richards can be unsuspected and yet have a means of escape the moment he seems to be in danger—not to mention having gunmen at his beck and call—how many others are there, as well-prepared?’

  Loftus shrugged again.

  ‘A few hundred at the most. You’re not getting a complex about them, Gordon? I don’t believe it!’ But he was worried, for Craigie was not a man to be gloomy without good cause.

  Craigie shook his head. ‘No. I haven’t a complex, and I think we’ve got most of the possible leaks sealed up. But—well, read that.’ He pushed the solitary file across his desk. It was in the peculiar private shorthand that Craigie used for all reports he considered worthy of the precaution, but with the ease of long practice, Loftus translated as he read.

  ‘Nineteen members of the staff of a branch of the National Chemical Corporation at the emergency office in Blackpool report that they were drugged in some unknown manner during the early afternoon of yesterday. From immediately after lunch, served in a canteen, until the early hours of this morning, they were asleep. The manager reports that papers in his safe and private desk are missing, but none of essential importance.

  ‘The victims are now fully recovered except for three men, all of whom complain of stiffness and cramp in the legs—none of the trio could walk for an hour after recovering consciousness.

  ‘All report that they can remember nothing except extreme tiredness immediately after resuming work for the afternoon.’

  When he had finished, he pushed it slowly away from him and met Craigie’s eyes with new understanding.

  ‘So that’s what’s worrying you—and by God, it’s bad enough! Any other reports?’

  ‘Nothing else. But if the gas—it must be gas—can be introduced to that office, it can be used anywhere. While it’s effective, a thorough search of offices and safes can be carried out, and information taken away ad lib. I feel——.’ Abruptly, Craigie pushed back his chair and rising, began pacing across the room: a rare demonstration of concern. ‘I feel completely at a loss, Bill. I can’t see a thing we can do. Richards might have helped us, but——’

  Craigie broke off again, and Loftus felt something of the horror of the thing, knew what Craigie was experiencing—had the same sense of utter helplessness. How could they fight against the most insidious weapon yet devised?

  But he knew they would fight—as surely as Craigie would recover from the temporary effects of this blow. They would fight because they had to: and they must lose no time.

  7

  Back From a Mission

  While Loftus and Craigie were talking at Whitehall, and while Ned Oundle and Wally Davidson were assuring Yvonne de Montmaront that her sleep had been a record one—she had experienced the same symptoms of paralysis as Loftus, but was fully recovered, now—two gentlemen were driving along the Southampton-London road, resoundingly damning the absence of signposts.

  They had been out of England for some months.

  They were members of Craigie’s Department who operated at home and abroad as emergency called, and claimed that it was their habitual misfortune to be given work which did not yield major results. It was, they liked to say, as if Craigie continually put them up to be shot at while others did the stuff that mattered. Let it be said that their complaint was only partly justified: they had taken part in some of the most violent of the operations organised by Craigie and carried out by Loftus and the little band of special agents.

  They were cousins, their name was Errol, and they were large men of—they would assert—good appearance and some wealth. Michael Errol was a shade fairer than his cousin Mark, and normally better-groomed, although they had the same barber, and the same tailor. They were dressed in silver grey, wearing Old Carthusian ties, and Mark—head bare, hair tousled, and a frown on his somewhat tired face—was driving.

  There had been a time when they had contrived to do nothing for eleven months in every year, spending the odd month in feverish activity on some project for which one or both felt intense enthusiasm. They were frequently mistaken for twins: they had the same high forehead, the same generous lips, firm-cut chins with a cleft in the middle, and straight noses, of which Mark’s was slightly the shorter.

  ‘I thought you knew the way, drat you,’ he was grumbling, now.

  ‘We’ll get there,’ Mike soothed. ‘After all, London’s still London, and once we hit Winchester——.’

  ‘You’ll know the way blindfold, right? You knew it blindfold all the way, not long ago!’

  ‘You’ve driven along this road as often as I have,’ Mike reminded him.

  Mark chose to ignore that thrust. ‘And dammit,’ he complained. ‘I’m hungry!’

  ‘It wouldn’t worry me,’ said his cousin, ‘if you starved. Meanwhile, if you’ll just take the left fork, here, we’ll be in Winchester in five minutes.’

  They were.

  They stopped long enough for a cold meal of sorts, of which Mark complained without pause at almost every bite.

  Mike bore it all with fortitude. He was the more even-tempered of the two and suffered less from lack of sleep. Mark, more highly-strung, had experienced a bad journey on the small boat which had brought them from France, where for the past month they had been trying to find just what degree of help could be expected from certain pro-Allied bodies in that country.

  The escape, under cover of darkness, had been a perilous one, and in any case Mark was a bad sailor. Much, therefore, could be forgiven him.

  They finished their meal, and reached the car.

  ‘Care to drive?’ Mark growled.

  ‘Oh, you carry on,’ Mike told him.

  Mark stared, then chuckled unexpectedly.

  ‘All right. Sorry Mike.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said his cousin—and for the next five minutes, marvelled at what was probably the first direct apology to him that Mark had ever uttered. Half an hour’s driving, without once missing the right turning, completed the volte face. By the time they reached Basingstoke, Mark was actually humming a dated ditty, and Mike was dozing at his side.

  The car was a hired one, obtained only after considerable difficulty from a garage whose owner had viewed them with grave suspicion and reported them to the police. It was a fair car, as cars go, but on the flat stretch between Basingstoke and Camberley, the engine began to splutter. Mark eased off the accelerator and with surprising good temper nursed the engine back to reasonable performance. Peace was firmly established.

  ‘I wonder,’ mused Mike, ‘what’s happening in London?’

  ‘I wish,’ said Mark, ‘we�
��d been able to have a chat with Craigie, instead of just sending word. However, we’ll soon know what’s what. We haven’t exactly covered ourselves with glory, this trip.’

  Mike shrugged.

  ‘We did what we could. Queer business, about that refugee.’

  ‘Mmm. But we mustn’t give it too much importance—he’d probably had nightmares.’ He pulled up. ‘Take the wheel for a while, will you? I’d like a nap.’

  Mike obliged.

  He did not notice the odd appearance of the road some little way ahead. They were driving along a straight stretch where sixty miles an hour was possible and Mark undoubtedly would have attempted seventy, had he been at his best. On either side there were trees, well-clad in early Autumn foliage, not yet changing colour. The road itself was free of traffic: there had, in fact, been very few private cars all the way along, and only occasional solitary lorries. Convoys of lorries, and vans with an armoured vehicle behind and in front, had been fairly frequent, a new sight for the Errols but one which they took as it came.

  There were no convoys in sight as Mike started off. He was driving at twenty miles an hour, with his foot well down, when the front wheels skidded and, a split-second later, the rear wheels followed suit. The car swung completely round, but did not stop at that. In continued to turn as if on a revolving stage, increasing its speed although Mike’s foot had come off the accelerator, and the engine had stalled. Both men were hanging on like grim death as it swept around, only slowing down at last as it gradually veered to one side of the road.

  Mark gasped:

  ‘What the hell——were you——doing?’

  ‘I——wasn’t,’ jerked Mike. ‘It——the road——.’

  He stopped abruptly.

  The roar of an aero-engine had been loud before, but it grew louder and now that the car was only moving sluggishly towards the side of the road they could see the dark shape against the light blue sky. Both of them recognized it, just as they recognized the drumming note of the engine. It was a Heinkel 109, and it was swooping towards them as if preparing to unload a cargo of bombs.

  ‘Get out!’ snapped Mike.

  They hit the road at the same time, with the roaring of the twin engines above and the dark, menacing shadow of the Heinkel sweeping in a straight line along the road towards them. They knew that it was after them, although they had no idea that it was actually after Mark and Mike Errol, not just any two motorists on the quiet English road.

  They hit the road—and they slipped !

  They had dived in opposite directions, for they had experienced enough bombing to know that the rules were rigid. They had to separate, make for what cover there was, and the cover offered them was a ditch on either side of the road. But their feet refused to stay on the surface and they crashed down, with the shadow looming nearer. Mike fell awkwardly: Mark sprawled over on his back and when he looked up, he could see the head and shoulders of the bomber pilot.

  The drumming note grew louder, and then Mark saw the bombs falling, and heard the scream of their noise-producing sirens at full pressure. He managed to fling himself round and to cover his ears with his hands, but even then he slithered helplessly about the road.

  Crrrr-ump!

  It came three times in quick succession, and each explosion sounded nearer than the last. Mike was lifted into the air and flung into the ditch: Mark was lifted, but struck against the wheel of the car, suffering little damage. Vaguely, he heard the splash as Mike went bodily into the ditch, but he was hardly aware of it: he was concentrating on the bomber, which he could see again. It was turning, as if preparing for another swoop.

  He tried to get up, but the greasy road would not let him.

  He stopped trying and slithered across to his ditch, tumbling in as the droning grew louder and the dark shadow swept over the car. He did not see the bomb which dropped, but he did hear the crash on the car. The pieces fell in all directions, some splashing into the ditch in front of him. He heard a queer roaring sound, like distant thunder, and he felt a scorching heat.

  The car was on fire.

  He could not move easily and stayed there, still crouching, knowing the ’plane might come again. It did. Its shadow actually passed over them both, and then Mark heard the tap-tap-tap of the machine-gun, and the thud of bullets in the road and hedge.

  It passed in a flash, and it was then that he heard another sound, and a welcome one—the droning of other engines, without the throbbing note of the Nazi ’plane. Had he needed more telling that British machines were on the way, he would have had it from the fact that the Heinkel made no further attack, but swept around and headed south.

  He saw that, and lifted his head.

  He could not raise even a half-hearted cheer when he saw two Spitfires hurtling across the heavens in pursuit of the murder-plane. His mouth was filled with mud, and he was drenched from head to foot; as dishevelled a sight as he was ever likely to be. His ears were drumming and his head aching, and he found it difficult even to clamber into the roadway.

  The car was burning itself out, now, and throwing off considerable heat—and the surface of the road was sizzling, giving off a dark and evil smelling smoke. The affected stretch ran for perhaps fifty yards, but there was a narrow strip near the ditch which did not appear to be touched. He walked along it cautiously, looking across to the far side anxiously and hoping to see Mike’s head bob up.

  It did not.

  He passed the stretch of oil or grease or whatever it was, without thinking why or how it had got there, concerned only with Mike. He saw the four craters in the roadway, and knew that the bombs had been small ones, probably hundred-pounders: that was as well, or he would not have been alive to tell the tale.

  Then he saw Mike.

  Mike brought about the impossible: for despite himself and the dirt in his mouth, Mark laughed. He could not help it.

  Mike was on his hands and knees in a ditch which had slime so deep that it reached almost to his armpits and his hips. He had lifted his head, from which the brown slime was dripping, and his hair was plastered with the stuff. That he was unhurt was shown by the grimace he made as he spewed out the foul liquid and then levered himself up on to the bank. With his ears filled with muck, he could not hear Mark’s laugh, and Mark managed to check it before he could.

  He reached him in time to give him a hand up. Mike would have stepped on the greasy patch, but Mark stopped him.

  ‘Straight on,’ he said.

  ‘Ugh?’

  ‘Just walk where I tell you.’ He gripped Mike’s waist and pushed him ahead, making sure he kept to the clear strip by the hedge until they were past the grease. When he released him, Mike groped for a handkerchief. He succeeded in cleaning some of the dirt out of his eyes, but the general effect was not beautiful and Mark had to swallow hard to suppress a fresh attack of laughter.

  ‘Let it dry on and then wash it off,’ he suggested.

  ‘Ugh-ugh?’ grunted Mike, and resignedly, Mark brought out his own handkerchief and helped clean his ears and lips. He was still at it when the hum of an engine sounded and he saw a motor-cyclist making fast towards them. He was in khaki, with a rifle slung over his shoulder: Mark signalled him to stop, and he did so—staring hard.

  ‘Yes, have a good look,’ said Mark, touchily.

  ‘I—er——’ The private swallowed hard, then left the cycle propped on its support, and approached them. ‘There’ll be an ambulance along in a minute,’ he volunteered. ‘They’ll have a towel and water in that.’

  ‘That’s the first sensible word you’ve said,’ said Mark.

  ‘Well, I haven’t said much.’ The private, smaller than average and although little more than twenty, looking a hardbitten veteran, wiped a grin off his face. ‘Neither of you hurt, are you?’

  ‘Only in spirit,’ said Mark.

  ‘Spirit be damned,’ said Mike, speaking clearly for the first time. ‘I’d like a gallon of beer to get the taste of that filth out of my mouth. Where’s
the nearest pub, old son?’

  ‘You’ll have to go back to Basingstoke,’ said the private, ‘the ambulance won’t get past this lot, in a hurry.’ He meant the craters, which had torn the road up badly, and from contemplation of the craters he regarded the two large and mud-stained men with real respect.

  ‘They came pretty close, didn’t they?’

  ‘They did,’ agreed Mark. ‘But do you mind if we don’t talk about it until we’re less thirsty?’ He rooted in his breast pocket for a wallet, and handed it to the private. ‘You’ll find my pass there.’

  Time and trouble, he knew, would be saved by the showing of his credentials, but he was secretly amused when the private promptly snapped to attention and saluted.

  ‘Thank you, sir. All in order.’

  But, thought Mark, all was a long way from ‘in order.’

  The ambulance took them back to Basingstoke, where they were provided with hot baths and a change of clothes while their own were cleaned—and even beer. By that time, a Repair Squad had already gone out to make good the damage to the road, and—after a telephone call to Craigie—a Staff car had been put at their disposal.

  Craigie had been brief and to the point. They were to get to Whitehall without delay.

  ——————

  Mike Errol, resplendent in a fresh suit of silver-grey—for the cousins had insisted on calling at Brook Street to change—finished speaking and let Mark, equally resplendent in navy-blue, carry on their report to Craigie:

  ‘So you see, Gordon, it seemed to us that we’d been singled out for the attack. The road was greased deliberately, that’s certain—the police found a man who’d driven past it three or four minutes before us. There was nothing the matter, then.’

  ‘Implying,’ said Mike, ‘that we’d been expected, and the road was greased——’