by John Creasey
He saw nothing unusual.
Closing the door, he found the light-switch—but when he pressed it down, there was only a useless click: obviously the current was off. He found himself fervently wishing he were not alone—then as fervently telling himself not to be a damned fool: wishing would not help. More slowly, this time, he swept the beam of the torch around him.
And saw something—someone—at last.
Over by the wall, half-hidden by a large, hide-covered settee, he saw the legs and feet of a man. He strode across to pull the settee away—and the torchlight fell on the pale face of the porter.
He was very still.
Loftus felt for his pulse—and breathed more easily: the faint movement told him the man was at least alive.
And—from all appearances—simply asleep.
Slowly straightening up again as the significance of that fact struck home, Loftus hesitated again for a long moment. Then making up his mind, he quietly made his way towards the staircase to the first floor, where Tenby should be with his guards. As he climbed the stairs, there was only darkness and silence about him. It was like a house of death.
Death—or sleep.
Loftus hardly knew which he would prefer to find.
10
Guest by Night
He found sleep.
Everywhere he found men and women—nurses and patients and maids and porters—sleeping. In private rooms and in the wards, in passages and offices, in cloakrooms and the kitchen quarters, in the operating theatre and in the laboratories.
All of them, sleeping.
Forty people or more, stretched out on the floor in all manner of weird positions. Some propped against walls, others sprawled in or on chairs or beds, and still others simply stretched out in his path, where sleep had overtaken them. He found Tenby’s room empty, but made himself search every other before accepting the crushing truth:
Tenby had gone.
Less than ten minutes from the time he entered the place, he was reaching for the telephone in the Matron’s office. He called Craigie, first: then the Yard. As he replaced the receiver after the second call, Beecham arrived: predictably to report that the man on duty at the rear of the building had seen and noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No one had gone in or out, and with the complete black-out in effect, there was of course no way for him to know that the rooms themselves were not fully lighted.
With arrangements made for men to come at once, and a radio call out for Tenby or any trace of him, Loftus could do nothing more there. He left Cornish and young Beecham in charge, and set off again for Craigie’s office. Normally, the fact that he had done all he could would have left him reasonably satisfied. Now, he did not feel there was the slightest cause for satisfaction—nor for anything but the most urgent action.
But what action?
There was the faint chance that they would learn something from the woman Parnell, but he was not optimistic. He wondered how much more chance there was that the Errols would get the refugee safely out of the farmhouse near Abbeville—and not for the first time, wished he could have made one of the rescue party.
It was always the same: the waiting—the inaction—was the worst of it. But wait he must. Here, on the spot—where the information must come. But where the action that counted would also come, when the information did.
If it did.
Just let the Errols succeed, he pleaded silently. Just let them succeed!
————
There was in Mark Errol a capacity for complaint which his cousin almost entirely lacked, but there was no complaint that night from Mark—unless it was against himself. He had dismissed—however sympathetically—as of no consequence, the man who had babbled of an island and sleep; only to find that the babbling was of major importance. He had needed no telling what great anxiety the new gas, or whatever it was, had aroused in both Craigie and Loftus.
Nor, for that matter, were he and Mike in any doubt as to its power as a weapon. It was, they agreed that night, absolutely vital.
They had discussed it as they were flown to the airfield near an evacuated coastal town, from which they were escorted to the small motor-boat which was to get them across the Channel. Extreme precautions were taken against their being seen: the darkness helped.
Both were wearing the blue dungaree-type costume of the French farm-hand, with dilapidated berets and heavy hobnailed boots—although they were taking thick galoshes, too, so that silent progress would be possible when the need arose.
Both could speak French fluently, and knew enough of the local patois to deceive a Frenchman, let alone a German. And both were well aware that when they landed again on the French coast, they were in enemy territory—where the slightest slip could mean the firing squad; or a shot in the back. More likely, although neither voiced the thought, the latter.
The motor-boat’s crew of three were all regular Navy men, of whom a tall, grizzled veteran who answered to the name of Bennie was the obvious leader. His skin was the colour of teak, his eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, and his features looked as if carved by the weather from the bone of his face.
All concerned had already received their instructions, but the officer charged with preparing the expedition ran through them again with Bennie and the Errols, before they started. Bennie listened throughout, stiff and upright as a poker, his face expressionless. Finished, he turned to the Errols with a surprising:
‘It’ll be straightforward enough, if you do your part.’
He had no great regard, clearly, for land-lubbers of Whitehall-based officers with special instructions, and he only spoke again to tell Mike tartly that he was sitting too far forward. Had it been Mark there would have been trouble, but Mark—sitting in the bows and in close proximity to the side—was too preoccupied with the queasiness in his stomach, to hear.
‘Sorry,’ said Mike, shifting, and Bennie’s gaze returned to the stars.
The clouds that covered London had not yet reached the Channel—which struck Mike as fortunate, as it seemed Bennie steered by the stars; they were all he appeared to look at.
The faint droning of an aeroplane engine brought a sharp order from the chiselled lips, and one of the crew dived into the tiny cabin. Moments later, he came aft with a machine-gun, which he sat nursing as the intermittent throb-throb-throb of Nazi ’planes grew nearer. Although they were some miles from the English coast, they could see the searchlights stabbing out from the mainland—and the sudden glitter as they lit on a ’plane.
The bark of the A.A. guns, carried by a light wind, came clearly to their ears, as willy-nilly, they were spectators of a night-battle of the skies. The tracer-bullets streaking across the blackness, the twisting and turning of ’planes trapped in the searchlights, the distant, scarlet glow of parachute flares—and the final spectacle: the sudden burst of fiery red—and then the trail of fire, streaming from the heavens to the sea.
An explosion, muffled by distance, seemed to Mike to rock the boat.
Bennie snapped another unintelligible order to the crewman, who promptly replaced the machine-gun and came back to sit and do nothing.
Sight and sound of the battle died away, leaving almost unbelievable silence.
The sea was smooth, but there was enough swell to keep Mark sitting rigidly, and cursing inwardly. The journey was not a long one, but it seemed to him an age before Bennie suddenly cut the engine’s speed.
‘Almost there?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Ay,’ said Bennie. Then volunteered, grudgingly, ‘Less than half a mile.’
‘Good,’ said Mike. ‘Is the dinghy ready?’
‘Ay,’ Bennie nodded to where his crew had been inflating the collapsible boat: it was now floating alongside.
It was fitted with oars, and had ample room for four men, Mike knew. And determinedly, he crushed his doubts as he clambered inboard and then gave Mark a hand to join him.
‘I’ll be coasting up and down till dawn,’ Bennie reminded them gruff
ly. ‘A green light shown twice will fetch me. One quick blink in return will identify us. Understand?’
‘Ay,’ said Mike dryly, and pushed off.
With Mark taking directions from a tiny luminous compass, he began to pull for the shore. East-south-east for something under half a mile, Bennie had told them. It had sounded a long way, but before they expected it, Mike struck bottom with one oar. Slewing the dinghy round, he rowed on in shallow water, careful to make as little noise as possible. The inshore wind helped enormously—rising and falling in a screeching wail from one moment to another—and they were on land within fifteen minutes of leaving the motor-boat.
‘If we’ve travelled straight,’ whispered Mark—a new man, now that he was back on solid ground: ‘we’re just by the creek leading up to the farm.’
‘And somewhere very near, there must be that old boat with its bottom staved in,’ supplied Mike. ‘I wish it were lighter.’
‘Don’t be a fool!’
Mike grinned. Mark was right back on form, clearly.
In five minutes, they had the dinghy weighted down with rocks, so that it lay just submerged and quite invisible from any distance. In another five, by the light of the stars alone, they had found the dinghy with its staved-in bottom pointing skywards. They had noticed it when they left and had kept it in mind for a landmark. It gave them their bearings: to get right for the farmhouse, they had only to follow the bank of the creek nearby.
There was no sound but the shrieking wind and the pounding of the waves on the shore. The sand dunes were awkward to negotiate. They were slowed down from time to time by patches of barbed wire in the gaps between the dunes—preparation against just such sorties as these, but above all against the British attack which at heart the Nazis feared.
‘No guards,’ Mike whispered.
‘Yet,’ grunted Mark.
The words were hardly out of their mouths when a light stabbed through the darkness, the long beam of a searchlight sweeping the coastline. They flung themselves into one of the dunes and for five breathless, choking minutes they crouched there with the light sweeping over them. Then as suddenly as it had come, it disappeared.
‘All right,’ Mike murmured unnecessarily, and they started off again.
The walk seemed unending, but in fact lasted only half-an-hour before they came to a point in the creek which they had last left by rowing-boat. They found another waiting—as the farmer had promised they always would—and climbed into it, even more thankful for the wind that covered all sound of their progress.
Mark was happy enough away from the sea, and it was he who rowed them up the creek. No lights showed anywhere, and when the searchlight played again, it was behind them.
The dinghy grounded at last where the creek became too shallow for any craft: from here, they had to walk to the farmhouse. They stepped ashore on the right bank, moored the dinghy, and started on foot along a well-trodden path they could just discern in the starlight.
The stutter of a motor-cycle startled them.
It came from nearby, and with one accord they flung themselves downwards. The shaded headlight of the cycle passed near them and in the reflection they saw a uniformed Nazi pass by going inland.
‘Could he have seen us?’ Mark whispered.
‘I doubt it. He was on patrol and took an illicit rest, at a guess.’
‘I’m hoping.’
They had to hope, and to keep on but as they neared the farmhouse they could hear in the distance the rumble of a convoy moving towards Abbeville or Calais. They could see the dimmed lights as the traffic moved, and they knew it was no more than a mile away.
‘More fodder for the next invasion,’ Mike muttered.
‘If our boys see ’em, they’ll cause trouble.’
It was Mark’s night to be prophetic, for the drone of approaching aircraft was soon added to the deep rumble of the convoy. There was an abrupt cessation in the rumble, and the lights went out, but too late. A ’plane came from the sea and a parachute flare dropped down, showing the whole countryside in a garish glare.
Mark and Mike slumped down.
‘They might,’ groused Mark, ‘have given us a clear passage.’
‘Shut up! We can see the farmhouse.’
They kept their ears covered, after that, for the drone of engines grew louder and now a second flare was floating to the ground. On their left they could see the farmhouse, and cattle among the trees: to their right was the convoy, tanks and lorries and light artillery drawn up in the road and mercilessly revealed by the flare.
Crrrruuump!
There was a ditch, and they found it, while the earth shook beneath them in the bombing and the A.A. guns opened fire. For five minutes there was bedlam, with dirt and debris flying everywhere, and often falling perilously close. Then at last the bombing stopped, and the A.A. guns followed suit as the invaders flew out of range.
They broke out again with redoubled fury, moments later, when two parachute flares dropped from high-flying reconnaissance ’planes to illumine the damage. The Errols saw a dozen trucks on their sides, the smashed remnants of weapons and vehicles strewn all around them. They could hear the moans of the wounded and see the search parties making their way along the strafed column.
‘Results,’ grunted Mark.
‘They might,’ Mike murmured, ‘come to the farmhouse for water.’
‘That’s right, be cheerful!’
They did not speak again but continuously made their way towards the farmhouse; circling it, first, to ensure there was no one up and about. It was always possible that it might be being used as a billet for German troops. It would not be evacuated: the Nazis would not stop a single farmer tilling his soil, if it could be avoided.
They reached the back of the house, and Mark climbed on Mike’s back to reach the window where they had been told to knock if they—or their friends—returned. He tapped, and the sound seemed exaggeratedly loud in the silence. It was followed by a creak inside the room, and then another.
The window opened a fraction, and a faint light showed.
‘Qu’est ce qu’il y a?’ A man’s voice whispered the question; evidence enough that he knew the wisdom of quiet, yet was prepared to acknowledge night callers. Mark said in the patois:
‘It is those who promised to return.’
‘M’sieu?’
‘Those who two days ago brought with them a refugee.’
‘M’sieu!’
The warmth in the whispered word was unmistakable. There followed hoarsely-muttered explanations to someone in the room. Then the light went out, a bed creaked again, and the window opened more widely—to show the old farmer’s head, a white blur in the darkness.
‘Entrez, m’sieu!’
Mark climbed through, and the window was closed and shuttered before the candle was relighted. Madame Blum—a vast-bosomed woman in a flannel nightdress and crocheted lace cap—gazed bright-eyed but unafraid at the unexpected visitor. Pierre Blum himself, as thin and spare as his wife was plump but nothing like so grey of hair, was regarding Mark with unconcealed delight.
‘But you are not alone?’ he remembered, suddenly.
‘My cousin—he is downstairs.’
‘The two, together? Ah, but this is wonderful! And it is safe here still, m’sieu. There is no one.’ Pulling trousers on over his nightshirt, he added: ‘The refugee—he is still here.’ The dark head shook in puzzlement. ‘A strange one, that. He works—how he works! But—always he sleeps outside, never in the house.’
‘You have been of great help in giving him refuge, m’sieu. It is for him that we have come—he is a person of great importance.’
‘That one?’ C’est incroyable!’
His bewilderment was understandable enough, Mark thought wryly, as they descended the stairs with the old man leading the way, candlestick in hand.
Mike was waiting by the back door, and received the same warm welcome. Then the pair of them were plied with homemade bread and fresh goa
t’s cheese and slightly sour but very welcome local wine. Their host’s gratification at knowing himself to have been of real help was obvious; the more so when they assured him that it would not be the last time. He had pulled on boots and a coat as they talked, and when they had eaten their fill he led them from the kitchen across the cobbled yard to the outbuildings.
Inside a barn which stank of cow’s dung and worse, he called softly:
‘Mon ami? Attendez, mon ami!?’
There was a short, breathless hush. Then a mutter of uncertainty, even of alarm, from a corner of the barn. The Errols went forward, Mike shining a dimmed torch on his cousin’s face—and they were recognised. The voice of the refugee stammered a greeting:
‘Messieurs! I am enchanted—enchanted!’
An odd word, thought Mike, in such a situation. In the dim light, he could see the dung and straw which hung about the man. His clothes were little better than rags, but when the light shone on his face the Errols saw that it had lost much of its haunted look, and already in two short days was fuller and a healthier colour.
Mark said:
‘We have come for you, m’sieu—a boat is waiting to take you to England.’
‘M’sieu—it is not possible! It cannot be true?’ The man’s voice rose with incredulity, but he fell silent at once when Mike hushed him. As they moved towards the door Mark said:
‘We shall come again, M’sieu Blum.’
‘You will always be warmly welcome, my friends,’ said the old man. ‘And now, let me see you safe to the creek.’
The refugee had nothing to take with him, and followed them from the barn with alacrity.
But they did not get far.
They had heard, and welcomed, the distant rumble of the convoy on the move again. But it had drowned the approach of an ambulance escorted by military trucks, which were on the farm before they realised it; their dimmed lights sweeping over the barn and just missing the four men.
Brakes squealed and tyres screeched on the rutted road. And while the Errols, Pierre Blum and the nameless refugee stood temporarily paralysed by the imminence of discovery, a soldier jumped from the first truck and hurried towards the house.