Go Away Death

by John Creasey

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  1

  Loftus is delighted

  Standing by the window of his Brook Street flat, with a cigarette in one hand and a tankard of beer in another, William Loftus looked with interest at a telegraph boy cycling erratically along the road.

  Loftus was a large man, by no means handsome, but with a face which, when he smiled, could be extremely attractive. He had a full, sensitive mouth. His eyes, one a shade higher than the other, often narrowed as if with weariness; they did then.

  ‘Your trouble, Ned,’ he said, looking away from the window, ‘is congenital laziness allied to incurable romanticism.’

  Ned Oundle, sprawled full length on a settee, regarded him without reproach. He was painfully thin, so that his features at times looked gaunt, but they were relieved by his enormous eyes, round as with innocence, fringed with most unmasculine lashes.

  ‘What you mean is that I’m in love but too lazy to do anything about it,’ he said mildly.

  ‘A man in love is never too lazy to do anything about it,’ said Loftus. ‘Whoever the girl is—’

  A ring at the front-door bell interrupted him.

  Oundle closed his eyes, and heard Loftus say:

  ‘Well, young man?’

  ‘Cable-fer-yer-sir,’ said a piping voice.

  Oundle heard the tearing of an envelope, then a sharp exclamation which made him open his eyes abruptly. The possibility that there was bad news faded immediately, for Loftus uttered a sound that was very nearly a whoop, and said heartily:

  ‘Sonny, you are a bearer of good tidings! Here’s half-a-crown. No, no reply.’

  The door closed on the boy’s startled ‘ta!’ and Oundle uncoiled himself from the settee, saying severely:

  ‘Why the unseemly generosity? What—’

  Loftus smiled happily. ‘Di’s coming over.’

  ‘Did she say what’s bringing her?’

  ‘No. Here’s the cable.’

  Oundle glanced at it, finding only a brief statement that Diana Woodward was leaving New York that morning, hoping to be at London Airport about three o’clock.

  There had been a time when Oundle had resented Diana, for until her appearance on the scene Loftus had shown no serious interest in women, and had been well satisfied to work in his peculiar way, with Oundle as his often-present companion. A friendship of twenty years, thought Oundle, had been on the point of being broken, or at least damaged.

  But Oundle had reckoned without the requirements of Department Z—a department once held up to ridicule by the Press, and by others who turned up their noses at the thought of an ultra-secret service. The activities of the Department, however, had become so widespread and had so often hit the front pages of the national papers that now the scoffing was heard only in odd corners, and about Loftus and other members of Department Z there had sprung a legend.

  Loftus at that time was the leading agent in Department Z, which did not mean that he was its leader. That onerous, often thankless task was Gordon Craigie’s; but Loftus was the man of action, while Craigie held the strings, sitting in his large office in Whitehall and sifting the enormous multitude of reports from sources as far afield as China and the Far East, Lapland and Greenland.

  About the time that Bill Loftus was driving into London Airport to fetch Diana, Gordon Craigie was examining some reports which lay on a large, light-oak desk. It had several telephones, some manilla folders, and a blotting-pad, but nothing else except the papers Craigie was reading. He was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, a recent innovation, and one to which he was not yet fully accustomed; long, white fingers fiddled with the spectacles as he read.

  He was a man of medium height, thin, and lantern-jawed. His hair was grey, a small bald patch showing at the crown.

  He looked up suddenly.

  A faint click sounded in the otherwise silent office, large and, at one end, furnished with only the bare necessities of desk, filing cabinets and, by his side, a dictaphone. By the mantelpiece at the far end were several easy chairs, a small table, a bookcase and a cupboard, the door of which gaped open to reveal an astonishing miscellany of articles. A collar poked from one shelf; a jar of jam, half-empty, showed on another.

  A green light was shining on the mantel-shelf.

  Craigie pushed his chair back, approached the far end of the room, and pressed a button beneath the shelf, close to the green light. A faint whirring sound was followed by the opening of a sliding door, and into the room stepped the most-photographed figure in Great Britain.

  On a square, rather pale face, the sensitive lips were twisted in an ironic smile. Wide-set eyes of intense blue looked at Craigie with the same amusement. Dark clothes covered a figure which would have been tall but for the hunched, rounded shoulders, shoulders befitting a young bull. The short neck increased the bull-like impression, as did the quick but sturdy movement of the man, none other than the Prime Minister, the Rt. Hon. Graham Hershall.

  Craigie pressed the button again, and the door closed behind his visitor, who pulled a flat silver case from his pocket and stuck a thin, dark cheroot into the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Why the deuce do you go in for these melodramatic trimmings, Craigie? Well, what d’you want to see me about?’ He sat down.

  Craigie said slowly: ‘American co-operation, sir. There is a growing movement in the States which believes that all we’re trying to do is to make sure America pays the cost of English defence. In the last two or three days, prominent industrialists who in the past have supported generous contributions to N.A.T.O., and the acceptance of British membership, are veering round. They’re big corporation men, they’re making good and reasonable profits out of supplying N.A.T.O. countries with arms, but they’re changing their attitude without any apparent reason. There must be a reason.’

  Hershall pursed his lips.

  ‘Ye-es. How many are involved?’

  ‘Five, to date,’ said Craigie. ‘And Washington is worried by it. One man, Cyrus K. Hoppermann, is flying from New York to England this morning. I expect he’s landed by now. Washington has sent an agent after him, and asked me to contact that agent, and to watch Hoppermann. He’s probably the most influential of those who have changed sides recently.

  Hershall was frowning.

  ‘Hoppermann, Hoppermann. President of the Nu-Steel Corporation. I hardly expected him to change his mind.’

  ‘No one did,’ said Craigie dryly, ‘but he has. He gave a television talk two nights ago, saying that he had information suggesting that America was being cheated, and that he was coming to England to see for himself.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Hershall.

  ‘Ye-es. But will he be fair—and even if he is, will he be allowed to remain so? So far,’ added Craigie, ‘there isn’t anything more to work on than the unusual volte face of Hoppermann and others, and Washington’s anxiety about it. But I’ve information from other sources over there. The men who have suddenly changed have, with the exception of Hoppermann, altered in other ways. One has been seriously ill. Another has hired four men as a bodyguard, will only sleep with two of them in his room, and is obviously frightened out of his wits—but neither has applied for Federal help. What’s getting at these men? Why are they afraid?’

  Hershall sat back, eyes narrowed, smoke curling slowly from his cheroot. He said nothing.

  ‘I can’t answer any of these questions,’ Craigie went on, ‘but Hoppermann’s arrival in England, and the purpose of his visit, might give us an idea. I propose to have Loftus and the others working on him immediately, and I
think you should know that I feel it essential that they get results, whatever the difficulties of the job. Hoppermann would not be inconvenienced in any way that would give him cause for complaint, of course.’

  Hershall widened his eyes.

  ‘What’s that? Your men work without giving cause for complaint? Don’t try to blarney me, Craigie, whatever else you do! Loftus will do exactly what he thinks should be done, and damn diplomacy. H’m. You’ve nothing else?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘All right.’ Hershall stood up, speaking crisply. ‘If you do anything to make a fool of me, or to jeopardise our relations, I’ll give up trying to rely on any of these pesty departments.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘No offence, and don’t take any.’

  After he had gone, Craigie sat silently in his chair for some seconds, shrugged, then picked up one of the telephones. After a short delay, he was speaking to Ned Oundle.

  ‘Craigie,’ said Craigie. ‘E-I-G—’

  ‘Go on,’ said Oundle, who had in any case recognised his chief’s voice, but waited to hear the name spelt backwards; by such a simple trick it was possible for all Department Z agents to make sure that telephone calls were genuine; the simplicity of the system probably explained its effectiveness, for no one had ever misused it.

  ‘Where’s Loftus?’ asked Craigie.

  ‘Didn’t you know? Diana’s flying in from New York this afternoon, and he’s gone to fetch her from the airport. But he’ll be back any minute—her plane was due in at three o’clock.’

  ‘Three o’clock,’ echoed Craigie. ‘That’s the ’plane Hoppermann took; an American V.I.P. we’re anxious to have a word with. So Diana actually travelled with him? I’ll be over in half an hour or so.’ He hung up without saying goodbye.

  At the other end of the line, Oundle heard the click of the replaced receiver, and he too hung up. A moment later he heard the front door open, but no sound of voices. Loftus came in, alone, his face set.

  Oundle waited, and Loftus said at last:

  ‘Diana didn’t get here. Nor did the ’plane. It exploded in mid-air—no one was saved. No one,’ he repeated slowly, and in his eyes there was a pain which Oundle hated to see.

  2

  No survivors?

  After a pause, Oundle held out his cigarettes, and Loftus took one and lit it mechanically, flicking the match into the fireplace.

  Oundle found words difficult to utter.

  ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘No-one knows,’ said Loftus harshly, ‘but it looks like deliberate sabotage.’

  Oundle frowned. ‘This might be something to do with Hoppermann.’

  ‘Who’s Hoppermann?’

  ‘An American big-shot who was travelling in the same ’plane—’

  He went no further, for there was a ring at the front door, and Craigie was admitted. He must have heard what had happened for he stepped towards Loftus, and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘I would rather anything than this, Bill.’

  Loftus managed a ghost of a smile—bleak, unnatural.

  ‘Well, we can’t undo it. You lost your man, didn’t you?’

  ‘Ned’s been talking, I can see,’ said Craigie. ‘Yes, Hoppermann was on board, and it wouldn’t surprise me to know that it was brought down to make sure he was killed. And,’ Craigie went on slowly, ‘he was coming to England to ascertain certain facts for himself, about—’

  He talked for ten minutes, going through most of what he had already said to Hershall. He knew that Loftus was hardly listening to him; Loftus was seeing Diana, who had been coming to visit him for the first time in two years.

  There was only one thing that would help him.

  A period of inactivity would be disastrous, Craigie knew; but one of urgent action, such as appeared to be brewing, would ease his tension and, would help make the shadows recede. As he finished, he said quietly:

  ‘Washington told me they were sending someone over with Hoppermann, Bill. It would probably be Diana.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Loftus bitterly. ‘Damn them, why didn’t they let her stay there? And what are we going to do about it? Isn’t there any angle in this country at all?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I suppose we’re looking for one?’

  ‘Everywhere,’ said Craigie, rather relieved by Loftus’s abrupt manner. ‘There’s a Hoppermann office in London, of course, and I’m having it watched. We may get a lead from that.’

  Loftus looked at him narrow-eyed.

  ‘Who’s watching?’

  ‘The Errols.’

  ‘I think I’ll see them,’ said Loftus. He stepped towards the door, then half-turned. ‘Sorry, Gordon. I needn’t tell you that I’m only half answerable for my actions. You’ve no reason why I shouldn’t try the Hoppermann London office, have you?’

  ‘None at all,’ said Craigie, ‘we need a line on this side badly, Bill. But take this before you go.’ He took a photograph of Hoppermann from his breast pocket.

  ‘If there’s a clue at that office we’ll find it,’ said Bill Loftus, taking the photograph. In a few seconds he was out of the flat and hurrying down the stairs.

  Except for a certain oddness in voice and manner, the Errols did not notice any difference in Loftus.

  They were cousins, both tall and good-looking, and possessing a remarkable likeness which often caused them to be mistaken for twins. Michael Errol was fair-haired, had a high forehead, a straight nose, full and well-shaped lips and a massive chin. Mark Errol was not quite so fair, and his hair was never so well-groomed as his cousin’s. That, even to those who knew them well, was the main difference between them.

  Loftus found Mike walking outside a large office building in the Strand. Mike was smoking, and he looked bored, but his eyes widened at the sight of Loftus.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘What’s brought you along?’

  ‘Anything to report?’ asked Loftus briefly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Mike. ‘A lot of people have gone in, and a lot have come out. Mark’s inveigled himself into the good graces of a girl in an office on the same floor as Hoppermann’s suite, and he’s alternatively making eyes at her and watching the passage. He’ll have a better idea of who’s gone in and out than I have.’

  ‘Good,’ said Loftus, and he walked into the building, while Mike looked after him in some surprise. Then he assumed that the case was more important than events had so far made likely, and prepared for sudden action. Loftus and action had a surprising habit of going together.

  Loftus, finding that Hoppermann’s office was on the second floor, ignored the lift and walked up. There was only one other firm on the second floor landing, and the door of its general office was standing open. The door was marked in black:

  Leathercraft Journal

  A. J. Makin, Editor and Manager.

  Suddenly the door swung open, and Mark Errol appeared. He turned to say something to a girl whom Loftus glimpsed behind a counter piled up with, presumably, copies of Leathercraft, then closed the door and walked towards Loftus.

  ‘I’ve been wondering how long it would be before you got here.’

  ‘Well, I’m here now,’ said Loftus shortly. ‘Anything out of the ordinary happened?’

  ‘He’s arrived,’ said Mark.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘He’s arrived,’ repeated Mark. ‘The big-shot. He’s been here about an hour.’

  Loftus took the photograph of Hoppermann from his pocket.

  ‘Do you mean this fellow?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Mark. ‘Aren’t I waiting to see him, and to follow him when he comes out?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Loftus, and he brushed a hand across his forehead. ‘Yes, of course. Stay here, and don’t be surprised at ructions.’

  He went past Mark, towards a glass-panelled door on which was printed:

  Hoppermann’s Inc.

  He did not trouble to knock, but opened the door and stepped into a large, airy and well-furnished of
fice. A staff of five or six women were sitting at desks or typewriters. No one looked up as he entered, although from one corner a diminutive boy with a mop of ginger hair approached without diffidence.

  ‘Yessir?’

  ‘I want to see Mr. Hoppermann,’ said Loftus.

  ‘Only by appointment, sir.’

  ‘I see,’ said Loftus. ‘Which is his room?’

  ‘He’s in Mr. Sell’s room, sir.’ The boy eyed Loftus steadily, and even straightened his shoulders, as if to offer resistance should the visitor attempt to defy him.

  ‘It’s most urgent, sonny. Will you take a message?’

  ‘Mussent,’ said the boy promptly. ‘Got orders.’

  Loftus turned as if to leave, then suddenly swung round and strode towards a door on the left hand side of the office marked ‘A. J. Sell.’ The boy gasped, in ineffectual astonishment.

  Loftus turned the handle, and the door opened.

  He had a vague impression of a short, thick-set man smoking a cigar, a tall, lean, willowy man standing by a desk, and an equally tall but much heavier-looking man whose back was turned towards a window overlooking the Strand.

  It was on this man that Loftus’s eyes focussed.

  He was middle-aged, his thick hair heavily streaked with grey, lending a distinguished touch to an already distinguished appearance. A fresh, healthy-looking face, a pair of blue eyes just then very frosty, a long nose with a high bridge, a square jaw. Loftus recognised him immediately; the photograph in his pocket was an excellent one.

  The lean, willowy man spoke.

  ‘Kindly go, at once, whoever you are.’

  Loftus smiled, then addressed Hoppermann. ‘You are Mr. Hoppermann?’

  ‘I have nothing to say to the Press,’ said Hoppermann coldly.

  ‘You’re going to be surprised,’ said Loftus. ‘I have news for you; I am not asking for a statement. You’re dead. You died when your aeroplane crashed. Didn’t you know?’

  3

  Danger for Hoppermann

  It was a trick, and a well-tried one. Loftus had rarely known it fail him, and it did not then. Prejudice against him, refusal to receive him, faded away because of the sensation he caused.