by John Creasey
‘Guggleheim,’ said Loftus, shaking his head. ‘You aren’t making things any easier for yourself by not telling me the truth. I think—’
He did not see any movement, or any shadow, he did not hear a sound until there was a crack at the window, and looking round abruptly he saw glass breaking. He ducked but kept his eyes towards the window. He saw a man standing outside, and knew then there must be a fire-escape there. He saw the gun in the man’s hand, and he heard Guggleheim screaming:
‘No, no, I wasn’t going to talk, I wasn’t—’
He saw two flashes of flame.
He heard Guggleheim scream again, and then go very silent.
He saw the figure by the window turn towards him, gun in hand, but in those few seconds of concentrated action, Loftus had reached his own gun, and he fired through his pocket.
A sharp cry followed, and the man staggered to the edge of the fire-escape. Loftus saw him lurch heavily against the safety rail and then topple from sight.
Loftus reached the window.
Loftus heard his scream, loud at first, and then gradually fading.
He did not look over the edge, and did not hear the thud, although from below he heard the screeching of brakes, an occasional shout, and the shrill blast of police whistles.
He turned back to the room.
Guggleheim was lying quite still, with two holes in his forehead. They bled surprisingly little. Then the door opened abruptly to admit Oundle.
Loftus spoke in a low, hard voice.
‘I had him in front of my eyes, and I lost him, Ned. I think I must be losing my grip.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Oundle tartly. He took the situation in quickly, and began to close the window. ‘If there was a customer waiting there you didn’t have a chance.’
‘I should have looked outside the window,’ said Loftus. ‘Oh, well.’ He pressed a hand to his forehead as if wearily. ‘How’s the manager?’
‘He’ll come through,’ said Oundle. ‘He’s been moved to a hospital, Bill, don’t worry about him. Young Graham’s tagging Sell. Grey and Dunster are taking care of our friend with the steel box. And Carruthers is having a look round. Let’s see what he’s found.’
Loftus followed Oundle back to the sitting-room. The weariness, almost depression, which had so suddenly assailed him, had passed.
‘Dunster, you and Grey had better take this customer to Brook Street. I’ll be along as soon as I can.’
‘Right’ said Dunster. With Grey, he regarded Loftus with more than a degree of hero-worship, and he had learned to jump to Loftus’s orders.
As soon as the door had closed, Loftus and Oundle joined Carruthers in a systematic search of the flat. It was quick but comprehensive, and no trained police-worker could have made a tidier job of it.
Little was found. What few letters there were, Loftus discovered in a locked writing-case, the key of which was in a dressing-table drawer; three in a firm, masculine handwriting, with two-year-old postmarks, which he rightly imagined were the last letters Christine had received from her husband; a letter from Sell, asking her to call on him, and dated a week before; and two letters from her mother, in New York. Apart from a copy of a marriage certificate, that was all.
Loftus put them back, and relocked the writing-case.
‘Now we’ll try the box,’ he said.
That was a different proposition, for this time they were unable to find the key. Loftus spent five minutes prising at the lock with a skeleton-key, and had decided that he had either to take the box to Christine, or else have it forced, when there was a sharp ring at the front bell.
‘Open up, Carry, will you?’ Loftus was still bending over the box.
Carruthers opened the door, and a woman said:
‘Good evening. I wonder if I may come into my flat.’
16
Loftus gets a hunch
There was weariness in Christine Weston’s voice, but, although Loftus watched her closely, he could detect no sign of apprehension.
‘Forgive us, Mrs. Weston. I did tell you that I was coming and I hoped you realised I was worried about the safety of your shares. I had cause to be. We met two gentlemen who were coming away, one with your strong-box tucked under his arm.’
She sat down a little heavily on the arm of a chair.
Loftus felt he owed it to her to tell her just what had happened, and he did so without further waste of time. When he had finished, she looked at him, but did not speak.
‘As you know,’ said Loftus a little diffidently, ‘there’s plenty of room at my flat. Perhaps—’ He tailed off.
She hesitated.
‘Is that another way of saying you propose to keep an eye on me all the time?’
‘We’d have you watched, anyhow.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘Thank you. I’ll be glad to come. And I suppose you’d rather talk there?’
‘I think so,’ said Loftus. ‘If you care to pack a few things, and bring the key to the strong-box, we’ll get away.’
Once they were back in Loftus’s flat, the box was opened. The contents were intact.
Loftus frowned.
‘Guggleheim died just as he was about to tell me what happened at the office, that’s reasonably certain. It was vital that I shouldn’t know the whole truth of that episode, and so he was killed. If we can find exactly what your father is playing in this, we shall be at least half-way to the truth. We’re already one step forward. Sell wanted to buy the shares, but did he want them for your father or for someone else?’ He paused. ‘Mrs. Weston, do you know much of the Hoppermann company’s affairs?’
‘Not a great deal.’
‘How strong are they?’
‘If you mean are they on the rocks, you’ve started looking the wrong way, Mr. Loftus. The company was good even in the depression days, and since the big British and American war orders, it’s bigger and sounder than ever. I’d say my father was worth every penny of fifty million dollars.’
Loftus widened his eyes.
‘Is he, by George! Wholly in Nu-Steel?’
‘Practically all of it, yes.’
Loftus looked at her for some seconds, then jumped to his feet, ‘I’m going to see Craigie. Excuse me, Mrs. Weston.’
Loftus stepped into Craigie’s office, half-closing his eyes against the bright light. Craigie was sitting at his desk, and he looked up with a smile. ‘Hallo, Bill. I’ve got a message for you from young Graham. He says he’s tailed your friend Sell to 75, Fern Mansions, Victoria.’
‘Good work,’ said Loftus. ‘I’m beginning to think we might be getting somewhere.’ He explained what had happened, leaving nothing unsaid.
‘It could be an endeavor to get control of American steel, and other industries. Supposing—just supposing—that someone thinks there’s a good chance of getting control of Hoppermann Inc., and several of the other corporations? I’ve been thinking of the Committee of which Hoppermann is chairman. There’s du Pacq of Atlantic Coast Shipping, Inc., Stevenson of U.S.A., Brown—but I needn’t go into details, you know them as well as I do. Representatives of all the major industries—shipping, radio, steel, electronics—there’s at least one representative from all those trades on this Committee. Then there are some other angles we could look at with advantage. Guggleheim knew why he was sent to Hoppermann’s office, and he was killed to stop him talking.’
‘I’ve seen the importance of that,’ said Craigie slowly. ‘Hoppermann is the key, or the only one we can see.’
‘As Mrs. Weston and I decided. We must have great minds, we’re thinking so much alike. Well, I’ve made you au fait with the ideas that are running about inside me, and now I’ll get after Sell. One of the others tagged him. Young Graham.’
Loftus stopped, and frowned.
‘Now what’s the matter?’ asked Craigie.
Loftus said slowly: ‘I don’t really know, Gordon. I had a peculiar hunch, and we might call it a vision. Trouble between England and America. I wa
s just thinking that a good place to start trouble would be at the Embassy, and it might be an idea if the place were watched very closely. Hoppermann’s taking refuge there, remember. Supposing there was a shindy outside the American Embassy? A demonstration against the States? I think the American Embassy should be very closely watched, old man.’
Craigie was already lifting the telephone.
Loftus went out and hurried down the stairs, along the narrow street, and into Whitehall. He knew that Dunster and Grey would have taken their prisoner to the second flat at Brook Street—Diana’s old flat—and he telephoned it from a call-box. Dunster answered.
Loftus said: ‘Ask Carruthers to look after the prisoner, Dunster, and come along with Grey, to Fern Mansions, Victoria. It’s a big block, just off Victoria Street.’
‘I remember,’ said Dunster.
He worked with speed, for in twenty minutes Loftus saw his car pull up outside the entrance to that part of Fern Mansions where Flat 75 was situated. He paused for a moment, to allow Dunster and Grey to catch him up, and the three men walked into the building together.
They found Graham on a settee against the wall of a landing. Flat 75 was only a few yards along a carpeted passage. He straightened up when he saw Loftus, and Loftus asked quietly:
‘Has he been here all the time?’
‘Yes, he hasn’t stirred since he came back.’
‘Has anyone called on him?’
‘No,’ said Graham. ‘Neither back nor front. After I phoned Craigie I phoned for some help. The flat’s watched back and front, and I just had word that it’s all quiet at the back.’
There was no reply to Loftus’s first ring, nor his second, and he frowned. Dunster and Grey were waiting a little way along the passage, in case of emergency. Loftus rang again, and then turned.
‘Slip down to the porter, one of you, and get a master-key,’ he said.
Graham returned with a grey-haired porter who did not appear to have much regard for anyone, Special Branch policemen or not, who wanted to get into a flat with a master-key. He would have developed his theme to some length, but Loftus cut him short.
‘Mr. Sell came in some time ago, and hasn’t left since.’
‘Well, supposin’ ’e don’t want visitors?’
‘Supposing you want to save yourself from a charge of obstructing the police?’ snapped Loftus.
The man sniffed.
‘You ain’t got no uniforms, ’ow do I know ’oo you are?’
Despite his argument, however, he produced a master-key, and Loftus opened the door.
He stepped into a small, empty hall-way.
Three doors led from it, and all three were closed. He looked about him for a moment, and then said to Graham:
‘Watch the outer door, old man. You two stay put.’ He spoke to Grey and Dunster as he opened one of the doors, looking into a lounge-cum-dining room which was furnished with a slightly flamboyant taste, not surprising in Mr. A. J. Sell. In fact, Loftus thought, the only thing surprising was the air of affluence, and the fact that Sell could apparently afford a large flat in a block where rents would run very high.
Could Hoppermann’s London manager afford a luxury flat?
He shrugged, closed that door, and opened the next.
He stood quite still, staring at the body which was lying face-downwards on the floor, one leg twisted beneath the other. There was a very faint smell of almonds in the room, a smell Loftus recognised immediately; it was the characteristic odour of potassium cyanide.
Sell looked as if he had lain like that for a long time.
17
Death of Sell
Loftus kept still, until Dunster called:
‘What is it, Bill?’
‘It’s all right,’ said Loftus slowly. ‘Stay where you are for a moment.’ He stepped forward and approached the window; it was open a few inches, and the smell of cyanide was no more pronounced near the body than it had been by the door. It was reasonable to believe that the potency had gone, that there was no danger to any of them. But he opened the window more widely before turning back to Sell.
He held his breath, and went down on one knee.
When he turned the man over he saw the distorted features, the terrible contortions of the lips and cheeks. Sell had died quickly, but in dreadful pain.
His right hand clutched a glass, which had not broken when hitting the carpet, in his fingers.
Loftus straightened up, and looked about the room. Sell was lying in front of the fireplace, and on the mantel-shelf was a tin of effervescent salts, with the lid open, and by it a spoon covered with a white powder. Loftus tightened his lips.
There was no doubt of what had happened.
Sell had come back from Bay Court, taken his saline, and had, at one gulp, swallowed enough cyanide to poison a dozen men.
He had been killed, moreover, by someone who knew his habit of taking the salts regularly; someone who had known that Loftus would probably be after him, and who had therefore made sure that he could not talk. The same someone had killed Guggleheim, and who had wanted to make certain that Loftus did not learn who had tried to buy the Nu-Steel shares.
Loftus went back into the hall.
The porter was standing by the outer door, glaring ill-temperedly at Loftus.
‘Well, yer satisfied?’ he demanded.
‘Quite satisfied,’ said Loftus shortly. ‘Graham, go downstairs with this fellow, and telephone the Yard. If Superintendent Miller can’t come himself, get someone who can.’ He turned away as the porter opened his lips to make some further protest but changed his mind.
Dunster and Grey eyed Loftus keenly. He explained, briefly, and then said:
‘We’ll look through the flat while we’ve the chance, but I doubt if we’ll find much. Someone was here in time to put the stuff in the tin, and I don’t doubt he cleared out all the papers which might be interesting. Get a pillow-case, or something of the kind, Grey, and wrap that spoon, glass and tin, will you. Don’t touch more than you need, there may be prints. Be careful with the powder, and don’t let water touch it.’
Loftus and Dunster started to search the flat, and Loftus discovered a safe, hidden behind a water-colour picture. The door was not locked, but the safe was empty of everything save twenty-two pounds in one-pound notes, and some bank pass-books. Loftus glanced through the latter, not surprised to find that they showed several recent payments to the credit of A. J. Sell, each of five hundred pounds. Sell’s salary payments, of fifty pounds a month, were also recorded. The five hundred pound items doubtless represented graft; but from whom?
It was not going to be easy to find out.
After the arrival of the police, to take charge of the flat and to go through the routine which was not only necessary but might, through finger prints or other clues, give results that would help the Department, he went with a sergeant from Scotland Yard to the house of the manager of Sell’s bank, and, after some trouble, arranged to be taken to the bank for a full examination of the history of the account.
At one-fifteen a.m., Loftus learned that the five hundred pound payments, paid quarterly over a period of one year, had been in cash, and one pound notes at that.
Loftus pursed his lips.
‘There isn’t much chance of tracing them, I suppose?’
‘Virtually none, sir,’ said the manager, a prosy man and one who behaved very well, in view of his having been dragged from his bed in the early hours.
Loftus smiled.
‘Thanks very much. I thought that was about the position.’
‘May I know why these inquiries into Mr. Sell’s account are necessary?’ demanded the manager. He paused, expectantly.
Loftus said: ‘Mr. Sell was murdered to-night, sir, and we want to find out by whom. Many thanks for your help. Good-night.’
He turned up the collar of his coat, then went out into the darkness of the Strand. The offices of Hoppermann, Inc., were not fifty yards away. He wondered whether it woul
d be wise to visit them immediately, then remembered that the others would probably be getting tired.
He went into a kiosk and made arrangements with Craigie for the Errols to be relieved, for two other agents to replace Dunster and Grey, and for two more to be at Loftus’s flat so that Carruthers and Oundle could get a few hours sleep. Then he asked Craigie to send Wally Davidson and Martin Best, two of the Department’s oldest agents, to join him at the Hoppermann offices.
He waited in the doorway of the main building until they arrived, then opened the door with his skeleton-key, and all three men ran up the stairs to the second floor. Hoppermann’s general office door gave Loftus no more trouble than the other had done.
They looked about the office where, by day, the typists and Jimmy Mayo sat at their desks. Loftus turned to Best. ‘See that the door’s locked, Martin, and put a booby-trap of some kind by it, in case others get interested. Anything will do so long as it’ll make a noise if the door opens.’
He walked through the room and into Sell’s office, producing a bunch of keys from his pocket.
Davidson followed him. ‘What’s that you’ve got?’
‘The key to the safe, I hope,’ said Loftus.
‘How come?’
‘I found them at Sell’s flat,’ said Loftus, twisting one of the keys off the ring. ‘Try that bunch on the desk, will you?’
He tossed the remaining keys to Davidson, who busied himself finding the key which fitted the desk. Best came back with a grin on his face and smoke curling from a cigarette between his wide lips. He appeared to be amused by the earnestness with which Davidson worked, but his smile grew more tense as Loftus pulled open the door of the safe.
There were several files, some loose cash, and some bundles of share certificates. Loftus looked at the last first, and widened his eyes when he saw that they were not all of the Nu-Steel Corporation. There were some of the Atlantic Coast Shipping Company, of U.S.A. Steel, and the Mid-West Electrical Corporation, and of the Texan Oil Company. The totals were comparatively small—each, in fact, represented one thousand ordinary shares, a small drop in the oceans of shares in the various companies.