The Island of Peril (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘For us,’ put in Mark, not because he wanted to interrupt, but because it had become sheer habit, to help each other out in any explanation or conversation. ‘That implies men fairly nearby when we were attacked by the Heinkel, and——’

  ‘It wasn’t just a road-junction bombing,’ Mike contributed. ‘Hard though it is to believe, they apparently wanted to get us. Have we——?’

  ‘Convinced you?’ asked Mark.

  ‘I think so.’ Craigie glanced across to where Bill Loftus sprawled in an easy chair. ‘The question is, why?’

  ‘Aye, why,’ murmured Mike.

  ‘Don’t fool,’ Mark rebuked him. ‘This isn’t the time for it. Gordon, it would be easy to understand if we’d got anything for you, but we’ve had absolutely no luck at all.’

  ‘Sources of information in Paris non est,’ admitted Mike gloomily. ‘For special stuff, at all events. We sent through our usual reports, and we got a lot of information about sabotage and other things—the Nazis aren’t having it all their own way, in spite of Marshal Petain. But for——’

  ‘Stuff important enough to cause a shindy like this,’ declared Mark, ‘there wasn’t any.’

  ‘Mes enfants,’ said Bill Loftus, deeply and unexpectedly, ‘your trouble is that you’ve only eyes at the front of your head. Of course you found something of importance. Putting two and two together——’

  ‘Why?’ asked Mark.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Mike.

  ‘You find,’ went on Loftus, unperturbed, ‘that you were known to get to Southampton, seen there, and afterwards an attempt was made to crash you on the road, and to put the finishing touches to the job. That means good staff work, on the part of the Huns—but that’s feasible: there are plenty of the swines over here, although not in big enough numbers to matter. The point is—they wouldn’t have gone to this trouble for nothing. So you’ve learned something even if you don’t know it.’

  Mark looked baffled, but Mike said hesitantly, reluctant to waste Craigie’s time unnecessarily:

  ‘The only thing a bit out of the ordinary, was when we helped a poor devil who——’

  ‘Had escaped from a concentration camp or something,’ Mark filled in. ‘He was quite batty—crying and drivelling on; and from the way he grabbed food, starving. We were at a little estaminet near Versailles when we found him, and the Gestapo were on his trail. We cut and run, and just dodged them——’

  ‘That was why we had to come out, pronto,’ Mike explained. ‘They’d spotted us, and we had one or two close shaves—anyhow, we got away. I’m afraid this poor beggar was quite crazy—kept burbling about an island——’

  Craigie and Loftus stiffened, but neither of the Errols noticed the fact, as Mark automatically took up the thread of the story:

  ‘And sleeping all the time. Island, sleep—sleep, island. We couldn’t get another thing out of him, except that he was scared to death. But I mean—well, you don’t reckon to get a superfluity of sleep in a concentration camp. Or have the Gestapo found that kindness pays, after all?’

  But no one smiled. And suddenly the Errols realised that they had come near to causing a sensation.

  8

  Off to Another

  There was silence in Craigie’s office for some minutes. Then he leaned forward, his hands clasped together. His dry voice held no expression, but all three knew that he was speaking with a tense urgency.

  ‘Where did you leave this refugee, Mark?’

  The implication, Loftus knew, was that the Errols had not left their man to the mercy of the Gestapo: Craigie knew his men. Mark answered, this time without interruption from Mike.

  ‘We managed to get him out as far as Abbeville. We left him with a man called Pierre Blum—a farmer who has two cretins for sons. A third would fit in well enough, and our man was positively off his head.’

  ‘Is the farmer all right?’

  ‘The farmer,’ said Mark, ‘is one hundred per cent pro-British and absolutely anti-Boche, anti-Petain, Flandin, Weygand and all the rest of the Bordeaux crowd. He wanted,’ he added soberly, ‘to come away with us. We pointed out that he might do a far greater service to the cause if he stays put, and he agreed only after we’d promised our people would use him as often as possible.’

  Mike said, into a lull;

  ‘The farm’s no more than ten miles from the sea, Gordon, and there’s a little creek which comes within a couple of kilometres of the place itself. He has half-a-dozen barges for carrying potatoes and whatnot on the canals and along the coast. As Mark suggested, he could be used to get men in and out.’

  Craigie leaned back, relaxing, and on Loftus’ face there was a faint, reflective smile. It was a smile often in evidence when he was about to attempt some incredible thing—which thing, more often than not, he achieved successfully.

  ‘And,’ said Craigie, ‘you left the refugee there? You didn’t get his name, did you?’

  ‘No—he was too much up in the air. I’d call it a good case of shell-shock, if it weren’t for the concentration camp bit.’

  ‘I see.’ Craigie folded his arms behind his head, regarding the cousins in turn. ‘Well, you pair, there’s another job for you. We must get this man.’

  Mike and Mark gasped their joint astonishment.

  ‘It’s essential,’ Craigie told them. ‘We can’t tell you much at the moment, but it is a fact that the “sleep” isn’t imaginary . . .’

  He spent some three minutes describing what had happened at the Dernier Cri, and the later remarkable occurrence at the Blackpool office of the National Chemical Corporation. Then:

  ‘We have de Boncour’s letter, describing the island, which de Boncour and I thought applied to England. It doesn’t. There’s a place somewhere: a place where—it seems reasonable to assume—they’re making this sleeping gas. What it is and where it is, we have no idea. But we must get all the information we can about that island—and we must get it fast. You two know where to find the refugee. We ought,’ Craigie glanced at his watch, ‘to have him here before dawn.’

  ‘Right,’ Mike said, as coolly as that.

  ‘Although, talking of sleep,’ said Mark, ‘we could use some.’

  ‘I’ll make the arrangements,’ Craigie said. ‘You can start at midnight, so you’ve several hours. I’ll have you called. But before you go, show me the exact location of the farm.’

  Craigie crossed to a filing cabinet and took out a largescale French ordnance map of that section which included Abbeville. The Errols had no difficulty in locating the farmhouse, which was some ten miles south-east of the coast at its nearest point.

  ‘Right,’ said Craigie. ‘If I don’t see you again before you go, good luck.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll be seeing you,’ said Mike, off-handedly.

  They went downstairs a few minutes afterwards, but not until Craigie had arranged for them to be shadowed to their home. Two of his men drove in their wake—they had used their own Lagonda after reaching London—and parked outside the Brook Street house which contained their flat. They had no manservant, but within twenty minutes they had made what preparations they needed for the coming trip, and slipped into bed. They were asleep very soon afterwards, while Craigie’s men watched the house.

  And from a discreet distance, two nondescript-looking fellows of middle-age watched Craigie’s men.

  ——————

  Loftus eased his large bulk out of his chair, and leaned instead against the mantelpiece. The fire was still out, for London was sweltering in the heat of a late summer.

  ‘The disquieting thing about it,’ he said, ‘is that they were followed from France. They might have been known at the farmhouse. The farmer might even have put it across them.’

  Craigie nodded.

  ‘It’s possible, but we’ve got to take the chance. It’s more likely that they were known to be trying to leave the country, and that the coast was watched for that reason. They got away in a dinghy, and were picked up eight miles off the coas
t by a sloop.’

  ‘Which sloop was attacked,’ mused Loftus. ‘Well, we’ll see. Are you going to send anyone else with them?’

  ‘No. But I’ll have someone in France waiting to keep an eye on them if they can get to Abbeville in time. Well now—we know no more about this island.’

  ‘And less about the sleep.’

  Craigie said: ‘As far as we can see, we can’t do a thing about that yet. As soon as we’ve the reports on the stuff in the phials we might get something moving, but the reports are so long in coming that there’s clearly some difficulty. I’ll have copies sent round to you,’ he added. ‘I’ve got to see Hershall in the next half-hour.’

  ‘Good luck,’ smiled Loftus.

  He left Craigie preparing one or two items of information to present to the Premier, who did the seemingly impossible and contrived to keep up-to-date with all developments in all departments. Craigie had one satisfaction, these days: no red tape was allowed to interfere with anything he was convinced was necessary, and the speed of action had tripled itself. But these advantages were countered by the difficulties of working not only under war conditions, but with the whole of Continental Europe dominated by the Hitler regime. . . .

  —————

  Loftus, meanwhile, went straight to his flat.

  It was some fifty yards from the Errols. Outside their door he saw Graham and White, two youthful but capable members of the Department—young men who, in fact, were considered by many to have found a way of avoiding the Conscription Act, and were consequently unpopular. It did not worry them. Graham was a pleasant-looking youngster with fair, curly hair: White was almost swarthy, with long, somewhat gloomy features.

  ‘Anything?’ Loftus asked, as he reached them.

  ‘Nothing,’ said White, ‘Unless you think those two johnnies on the other side of the road are anything. They’ve been in sight—one or the other of them—since we arrived. And they arrived after us.’

  ‘Describe,’ Loftus requested, without looking round.

  ‘Middle-aged, plump, striped-trousers-cum-black-coat, hatless, respirators in brown cases.’

  ‘Respirators,’ repeated Loftus, thoughtfully. ‘In brown cases? I’ll have a look at them.’

  The rear of the flats, he knew, was also under Department Z survey. But the possibility that the two middle-aged men were watching the Errols, carried with it the inference that they were wanted very badly by the gentlemen who had already attempted to kill them. He reached his own flat, let himself in with a key, and heard Yvonne talking animatedly to Oundle and Davidson.

  As he entered the drawing-room, she jumped to her feet: a vision in a flowered frock that could only have come from Paris. Her dark hair was unruly, which was unusual, and her violet eyes sparkled.

  ‘Bill, stop these fools!’

  She still called him ‘Beel’, and she was more amused than perturbed. Oundle’s long frame was spread comfortably on a settee: Wally lounged on a window seat, gazing outwards. Only an expert would have realised that the arrangement of the curtain was deliberate: Wally could see out, but no one could guess he was there.

  ‘We’re telling Yvonne,’ he explained lazily, over his shoulder, ‘that the effect of the sleep stuff is cumulative. She’ll feel it again tonight and sleep far longer. To-morrow night it will get worse. And then——’

  ‘Two middle-aged men with brown respirator cases,’ said Loftus, putting an arm about Yvonne and pulling her to his side with a bearhug which made her gasp—and also rendered her speechless.

  ‘Ah,’ murmured Wally. ‘I’ve been wondering.’

  ‘We could do with an interview,’ said Loftus, and Oundle slipped immediately from the settee while Davidson pushed his chair back and stood up.

  ‘We’ll be seeing you,’ Ned told him. ‘Here?’

  ‘It will do as well as anywhere,’ said Loftus.

  Yvonne watched them go: not through the front door, but through a bedroom and into the adjoining flat which was used—when she was in England—by Diana Woodward, who was Loftus’s fiancee. An American, Diana, and working through various consulates where America was still able to have representatives. She had been loaned to Craigie by Washington; and she had met Loftus in the remarkable affair of the Ring, during the strenuous days of an uncertain peace.*

  ‘Of course,’ said Yvonne, in a small voice, ‘you’re all such fools, Bill. But you do amazing things. I didn’t realise there were men like you. In France——’ The smile in her eyes faded for a moment; then she went on: ‘In France they were always more serious. But no more successful.’

  Loftus said easily:

  ‘France isn’t dead, cherie. Try to get that bee out of your bonnet. Which is a colloquialism,’ he added, ‘for poison out of your system. Look——’

  He gripped her forearm and led her to the window, being careful to ensure he did not disturb the curtains. She could see Davidson and Oundle walking in different directions, each towards a middle-aged, nondescript man in City clothes that were too hot for that morning, and with respirators sticking out at acute angles from their hips. Loftus frowned when he saw that.

  Yvonne lost sight of Davidson, but Oundle remained in her line of vision. He reached his man, and stopped. She could see his smile, and the unlighted cigarette in his mouth. The man started, hesitated, then put his hand to his pocket. Oundle did precisely the same thing, and for a split-second the nondescript-looking man went rigid.

  Yvonne saw the way his face drained of colour.

  And then, with Oundle at his side, he commenced to walk back towards the flat. A moment later, Davidson came into sight, also with a man at his side. It was so funny, the expressions on the faces of the two captives so ludicrous, that Yvonne almost laughed.

  Loftus did not.

  A head taller than her, he could see further along the street—and he saw the way the small saloon car parked at one end suddenly moved off. The sound of its engine came clearly through the open window, and it had a high-powered note which so small a car would not ordinarily possess.

  Thrusting Yvonne aside with one sweep of his arm, he leaned out of the window. The sun gleamed on the gun which had leapt to his hand—and she saw the stab of blue flame as she heard the soft zutt of the automatic.

  In quick succession, came the roar of a punctured tyre, then a greater roar with a blast that sent Yvonne sprawling into a nearby chair. But for the protective plastic on the glass, it would have been shattered: as it was, two panes crackled close to Loftus’s ear.

  As the car swerved towards the kerb, he saw something drop from it—or from the driver’s hand. He realised what was coming, and swung back from the window, covering his ears with his hands.

  In that last moment, he had seen Davidson and Oundle fling themselves to the ground, taking their prisoners with them.

  And then came the explosion. It blasted up and down Brook Street with the detonating roar of a high-explosive bomb, and after it came the noise of falling debris: the distant roar of flames.

  Loftus straightened up, his ears ringing. Yvonne’s chair had been blown backwards and all he could see of her was a pair of trim, silk-clad ankles and neatly-shod feet waving helplessly at the ceiling. The sight was not without its humour—nor, indeed, its attraction. But Loftus merely leaned over, grabbed her by the waist, lifted her to her feet, and asked calmly:

  ‘All right?’

  Tugging her dress back into place, Yvonne nodded, equally calm.

  ‘But what was it, Bill?’

  ‘Our friends,’ said Loftus heavily, ‘are more careful than we thought. In fact they’re too damned thorough by half.’ He crossed to the door. ‘Sit tight—I shan’t be long.’

  Down in the street, a dozen curious and half-scared spectators had already gathered, as well as several policemen, two Fire Service men, and an air-raid warden.

  There was little left of the car or its occupant. In fact, it was impossible to be sure whether there had been one man or two in it. What was certai
n, was that it had contained a load of high explosives; and that some of the explosives—in the form, Loftus guessed, of a hand-grenade—had been intended for Davidson and Oundle and their companions.

  But the only injury to the quartet was a minor cut across the hand of the man held by Oundle.

  ‘That,’ the latter announced acidly, as Loftus joined them, ‘was not in the bargain. What happened?’

  Loftus grinned. ‘I saw the car—and it had a wrong note in its bowels. Get those beggars up to the flat.’

  The nondescript men looked so innocuous that they might easily have slipped through the crowd—and one of them tried. Davidson tripped him almost automatically, then lugged him to his feet. The crowd was rapidly growing, but there was no difficulty in getting away: the police in that area had instructions for prompt obedience in anything Loftus and his men might ask of them.

  Loftus had a word with a police sergeant he recognised, then returned to the flat. Yvonne had disappeared, which surprised him. He had expected her curiosity to outweigh her discretion, but he gave it little thought.

  The two men were surprisingly alike.

  They were clearly frightened; their eyes blinked behind their glasses, and their hands were unsteady. Oundle was washing the cut hand of one with an air of clinical detachment, and Loftus said roughly:

  ‘Stop wasting time, Ned!’ That was to jolt the two prisoners, and Oundle knew it. ‘Now, you—why were you watching Number 55G?’

  The slightly plumper of the two quavered:

  ‘But——but I assure you——’

  ‘Don’t waste time lying!’ snapped Loftus. ‘Do you or don’t you realise that your precious friends came near to blowing you up, to prevent you from being taken? They care as little for your lives as I do—but they employ you. Are you going to talk? Or do I have to——’

  ‘But I assure you——’

  Loftus’s lips tightened, and the cold glitter in his eyes—not entirely assumed—was frightening. He raised a hand and slapped the palm hard across the speaker’s cheek. The blow was not as devastating as it could have been, but it sent the man staggering backwards. He would have fallen but for Oundle, who grabbed him and thrust him forward again.