Secret Ministry: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 1

by Desmond Cory

  “Er – ta,” said Thaxter. “Maybe ’e could ’ave slunk out of that room – one I dragged you into?”

  “Not a chance. I was facing that way, almost, when I stopped one. He came in this way all right.” He struck a match. “Thaxter, just hop lightly out of this window and see what you can see, will you?”

  “Okay,” said Thaxter. He swung himself quickly out of the window and landed heavily outside. “There ain’t nothin’ ’ere, mate.”

  “What’re you lookin’ for – Betty Grable?” said Johnny sweetly. “Must be somethin’ out there. Swing your lamps to the right an’ tell me what meets your enraptured gaze.”

  “Just the verandah,” said Thaxter, “an’ you can see the light comin’ out of the entrance door. On the left – steps go down to the bar. Kind of ’andy for the odd drop o’ top an’ bottom, ain’t it?”

  “Can you see the car park?”

  “Too dark now the moon’s behind a cloud. A few cars near the door over there – see them all right.”

  “Um. Well, there’s one car less now. Malinsky musta made for home and beauty like a jack-rabbit bein’ closely pursued by a bullet,” said Johnny. “Okay, come on back, pal. We’ll give Malinsky’s room a once-over.”

  Thaxter scrambled back into the lobby and followed Johnny back into the little room. He closed the door behind him.

  “Not much ’ere to give a bloomin’ once-over,” he said.

  “We’ll have a look at his desk, anyway,” said Johnny. Apart from a large desk and a comfortable chair, the room was unfurnished. “Who’s this frail?” He picked up a photograph on top of the desk and surveyed it intently. “‘To – Frederic. I love you, darling. Anne.’ Know the girl?”

  “Cert’n’ly. That’s Annie Molloy – one of Ernie Mason’s bits of fluff.”

  “Not bad, anyway. Looks a bit of a hellcat. Might be useful. I think you’d better go round an’ see Miss Molloy to-morrow. If Malinsky’s around, bring him back alive. Okay?”

  “I’ll have a bash,” said Thaxter. “See what I can do.”

  “Though whether she’ll have anythin’ to do with the guy when she gets a good look at what’s left of his smeller,” said Johnny rudely, “I wouldn’t know. Nothin’ else but writin’ paper. This drawer – um. Locked.” He fished in his pocket for a piece of wire, found it, and began exploring the lock. Thaxter watched with interest. After a minute he tapped Johnny on the shoulder and bent over the lock. Five seconds later the drawer was open.

  “Easy,” said Thaxter, with pardonable pride.

  “Maybe – but it was wasted effort,” said Johnny. “These are boxes of tap washers, an’ nuts, an’ – hallo!”

  “Wossit?” said Thaxter.

  Johnny lifted up a box delicately. “Shells,” he said. “Tommy-gun cartridges. Looks as if Malinsky’s still carrying a Betsy.” He picked up a bullet and dropped it in his pocket. “It was bullets about that size that ironed Robson. I’ll keep that for Crashaw.” He closed the box, replaced it and shut the drawer. “Malinsky was definitely up to some funny business, anyway.”

  The second drawer pulled open in his hand. It was empty. The third, and last, was locked. Thaxter got busy with his spider, and after a brief pause stood up again. Johnny pulled the drawer open; then pulled it right out and put it on top of the desk. It contained several shirts, a bottle of Brylcreem, and a longish white box that contained a hypodermic syringe.

  “Ah,” said Johnny softly. “A link-up at last. Crashaw found one of these babies on Winthrop. And this one has something in it. Probably the contents of that little bottle nestlin’ deceptively inside that fake bottle of hair oil.” He lovingly wrapped up the Brylcreem bottle in his handkerchief and dropped it in his pocket, followed by the cotton-wool-lined box containing the syringe.

  “S’w’elp me,” said Thaxter. “That bottle dodge’s clever ain’t it?”

  “Wasn’t very clever to leave it in here,” said Johnny. He pushed the drawer back in. “That’s Malinsky’s all right. No German’d be so careless. Looks like we’ve found another Winthrop, an’ we’ve got to hang on to this one. We’ve got to find him somehow.”

  “Another Winthrop?”

  “Never mind that. Thax, we can’t wait till to-morrow, pal. Get your car out and drive off to see this Molloy dame. Get her out of bed and find out all she knows about Malinsky. If you can find out anything about Robson at the same time, do it. Report to me at the ‘Woodcutter’s’ at eleven o’clock to-morrow morning – by the ’phone, if you have to. Will you do that?”

  “Suppose so,” said Thaxter. He grinned. “Thought this joint was too good for me. ’Ere I go chasin’ tarts down Shaftesbury Avenue again. I always knew this ruddy job was a shice.” He went out, closing the door behind him. Johnny looked carefully round the room and followed him out.

  He leant against the wash-room door for a few moments, dragging at the end of his cigarette and thinking deeply. Then he walked slowly over to the window, leant equally slowly out and finally slid through with the agile speed of a cat. He looked back into the room, trying to reconstruct what had happened. Malinsky had been crouching just at the end of the wash-basins, while he himself had been standing over him, with his back to the window. Johnny shook his head sadly at his own carelessness and moved slowly to the right and into the shadows.

  It was raining at a steady pace, heavier than before. The lull in which he had taken his eventful breath of fresh air had obviously been of very short duration. Johnny threw his cigarette-end off the verandah and walked down the steps towards the bar. He walked perhaps ten paces over the gravel with the rain thumping eagerly on to his hair and shoulders, then turned round and walked back, straight up to the window. He hesitated for a second, swung himself through in one easy movement and strode over to the wash-basins. He turned round and saw the indistinct, but definitely visible, imprints of his rubber-soled shoes.

  Johnny glanced hurriedly at his wrist-watch and went quickly out of the door. He went along the corridor and, entering the hall, made straight for the hat-check girl.

  “Hey, honey,” he said quickly. “Did you see anybody go out of the front door about eight minutes ago – or about the time you saw me and the other gentleman coming in?”

  The girl thought for a second, frowning prettily. Then she said, “The only person who went out since you came in was the gentleman that you came in with, sir. Two gentlemen did go out a moment before you two went by, but I don’t know who they were.”

  “Would you know them again?”

  “Yes – I think so.”

  “Um,” said Johnny. He patted her hand absentmindedly and walked off. She watched him go, fingering her hair into place and wondering vaguely just what he was after. She turned dreamily round and began to look for his hat.

  Johnny went up the stairs two at a time and, at the top, just missed colliding with somebody coming down. As he stepped to one side he recognized the other as Paul Gann, at the same time as Gann recognized him.

  “Evening, Fedora,” said Gann. He stared at Johnny’s face. “Have an accident?”

  “No, thanks; I’ve just had one,” said Johnny. “I went fifteen rounds with a door-handle, and lost on a trip-up.” He grinned. “Right now I’m looking for the manager.”

  “I’ve just left him,” said Gann. “He’s in his office. Up these stairs, tum left and take the second door on the right. You can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks,” said Johnny. He nodded and walked up. Gann watched him for a moment, shook his head thoughtfully and walked downstairs.

  Johnny arrived outside the door that was marked “Office” in neat white letters, knocked, and went in. The room was smartly furnished, resembling a modern sitting-room more than an office; the only executive touch was supplied by a large and lovingly polished mahogany desk, on which lay various papers and an adjustable reading-lamp. Trevor was standing on an expensive rug directly before a gas fire, apparently adjusting a vase of paper spills on the mantlepiece. He turned round a
s Johnny came in and smiled.

  “This is an unexpected pleasure,” he said. He walked towards Johnny and stretched out a hand. “Mr Fedora, of course. Take a seat, take a seat.”

  “Thanks,” said Johnny. He slid gratefully into the upholstery of an armchair beside the fire and waited.

  “Good Heavens,” said Trevor. “Your – er – face, Mr Fedora… have you had an accident?”

  “That’s what I came to see you about,” said Johnny. “If you can spare me ten minutes of your time.”

  “Of course,” said Trevor. “That won’t cost me anything.” He smiled. “But – can I do anything for that bruise? A spot of arnica, or something?”

  “No, don’t worry about that,” said Johnny. “It’ll be okay in the morning.”

  “Well,” said Trevor. He pulled at his trouser-legs and sat down in the chair opposite Johnny’s. He took a box of cigarettes from the table beside him and handed them to Johnny. “What can I do for you, Mr Fedora?”

  “I’d better explain,” said Johnny, taking a cigarette and reaching up for the vase of spills, “that I’m working for the British Security Service in collaboration with Scotland, Yard.”

  Trevor raised his eyebrows. “I see,” he said. He watched Johnny put the spill to the fire and light his cigarette from it. Johnny went on:

  “Your chauffeur, whom you knew as Evans, was in fact wanted by the police under his real name of Robson. You knew that, I suppose?”

  “I was – ah – informed of that by the police this morning,” said Trevor. “I understand they discovered it while engaged in, er, investigating another matter in which I myself happened to be concerned. It was, I need hardly say, a great shock to me, as I’d always found Evans – or, Robson – to be a most reliable driver. The testimonials he brought me were excellent.” He sounded rather self-conscious, as though making a statement in a criminal court. Naturally, Johnny thought, he’s all out to prevent his club getting a bad name. Naturally.

  “Tell me, Mr Trevor… did you make any sort of effort to contact Robson after you had learnt this from the police?”

  “None whatsoever,” said Trevor promptly. “I gave the sergeant his photograph and address, and I was told the police would handle the entire matter. They phoned through again shortly before lunchtime to check the address.”

  “Does your wife know about this?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Um. What complicates matters,” said Johnny carefully, “is that some time this morning Robson was murdered.”

  Trevor’s mouth suddenly opened and the cigarette dropped to the floor.

  “Murdered!” he said. He bent forward and picked up the cigarette. “Who by?”

  “I don’t know,” said Johnny. “But I have a very good idea. By another of your employees – the cloak-room attendant, Malinsky.”

  “Good God!” said Trevor. “This is terrible.” He jumped to his feet and began to walk nervously to and fro. “Nothing like this has ever happened before. I don’t know – what do you want me to do?”

  “There’s not much you can do,” Johnny told him. “I’m just telling you the facts. Malinsky’s got away; laid me out and vanished. What I suspect is that your club is being used as a meeting-place for some sort of gang; all the indications point that way. What you’ve gotta do, Mr Trevor, is resign yourself to a pretty careful police examination of both your staff and your customers.”

  “Gahhh!” said Mr Trevor. “This is terribly bad for the club – terribly bad.” He waved a cigarette to and fro as he paced. He seemed very worried.

  “We consider it an odd coincidence,” said Johnny in a voice surprisingly similar to that in which he had conversed with Malinsky, “that you should have employed two men, one of whom was wanted by the police for robbery, and the other bein’ an ex-gunman, who is now – probably – a murderer. If I were you, Mr Trevor, I should prepare the references an’ credentials of those guys for examination by the police – ’cos if they get the impression that you’ve been kind of careless in pickin’ your staff, well, I couldn’t be less surprised.” He grinned and leaned back in the chair.

  Trevor stopped pacing and stared at Johnny. “You mean to say,” he said hoarsely, “that the police think I’m – implicated in this?”

  Johnny nodded and crossed his legs. He drew at his cigarette and stared at the ceiling.

  “I have the references in my file,” Trevor said. “Mr Fedora – perhaps you’d like to see them yourself?”

  “Look,” said Johnny. “Officially, I’ve got no right to see ’em, because I’m not a policeman. On the other hand, as a Security agent I’ve got a certain amount of pull in this case, an’ if I say that you let me examine these credentials of your own free will it may help you a bit. That’s how it is.”

  “Then you must certainly see them,” said Trevor. “You do appreciate my position? I really must avoid all the publicity I possibly can.” He moved over to the desk, took up a key-ring and unlocked a drawer. His voice sounded muffled behind the desk. “Ah, here we are. This is it.” He lifted a grey file on to the desk, and began to flip through it. “E for Evans. These are Robson’s credentials. The police have already seen these, Mr Fedora, and have probably checked them. And – Malinsky – this is his.”

  Johnny glanced casually at the typewritten sheet and said, “Royal Hotel, Kensington. Yeah… Grand, Brighton, 1944. Um… mind if I use your ’phone?”

  “Please do,” said Trevor. He sat down on the chair behind the desk and puffed at his cigarette.

  Johnny scooped up the receiver and said, “Operator?… I want the Grand Hotel, Brighton. Yeah… an’ put me through to the manager.” He sat down on the edge of the desk and regarded Trevor quizzically. He said, “Don’t take this to heart, Trevor. I don’t really believe you’ve got a thing to worry about.”

  “Thanks,” said Trevor. “It’s the publicity, you see… it makes or ruins a place like this. Might result in our getting quite the wrong sort of people. Or no people at all, which is nearly as bad.”

  Johnny grinned sympathetically and transferred his attention to the ’phone. He said, “Yeah… the manager? Mr Toshack? Great. I’m just checking the credentials of a fellow named Malinsky; I understand he was employed by you from 1944 to 1945 in the capacity of – er, yeah, cloak-room attendant. Would you be good enough to – yes, to verify it?”

  There was a knock on the door. The door opened and in came an enormous overcoat. Inside it was Detective-Inspector Crashaw. Behind it was Detective-Sergeant Spencer. Johnny grinned at them and waved cheerfully.

  “That’s correct, eh? Record reliable…? Good. Good. Thank you, Mr Toshack – just a little routine matter. That’s right.” He replaced the ’phone and switched his grin to Trevor.

  “Well, those credentials seem to be genuine,” he said. “Now I want you to meet Detective-Inspector Crashaw and Detective-Sergeant Spencer. Mr Trevor… Now I’ll be pushin’ off.” He tapped Crashaw on the chest and said, “Come and see me as soon as you’re through. I think I’ve got Robson’s murderer for you.”

  “You have?” said Crashaw. “Here – Spencer – you take Mr Trevor’s statement. Fedora’s got something. Evening, Mr Trevor.”

  He opened the door and followed Johnny out. As soon as the door closed behind them he said, “Well, Fedora? What is this?”

  “Hey, don’t rush me,” said Johnny. “Let’s slide down below an’ I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”

  “Fine,” said Crashaw. “What are we waiting for?” They went downstairs and into the restaurant. A waiter showed them to a table and they sat down.

  “Mind if I eat?” said Johnny. “I could use a spot of grub.”

  “Mind?” said Crashaw. “I’ll join you. I haven’t eaten since lunch… wonder you can eat with that jaw of yours. Looks a bit blue to me.”

  “And feels it,” said Johnny, reaching for a menu. “I’ll have to see a dentist.” He ordered steak for two, without asking Crashaw what he wanted. Crashaw was definit
ely a steak man.

  “Is it all right to talk here?” said Crashaw, as soon as the waiter had gone.

  “Sure,” said Johnny. “Nobody ever listens to anyone else, an’ if they did they couldn’t hear anything with that band playin’. Anyway, I’m beyond carin’… Here. Grab hold of these; they’re ruinin’ the cut of my coat.”

  “What the heck?” said Crashaw.

  “That box contains a hypodermic syringe,” said Johnny. “That bottle has another bottle inside; what’s in it I don’t know, but I bet it’s got a mean kick. You’d better check it for fingerprints. This bullet might be of the same sort that killed Robson.”

  “Offhand,” said Crashaw, staring at it, “I should say it definitely was. Robson was shot with a tommy-gun, you know.”

  “I thought as much,” said Johnny. “It’s the only thing that explained there being three bullets in him when one would have done the trick. I’ve got the murderer all right – at least, I know who it was.”

  “Well, who?” said Crashaw.

  “I’ll tell you,” said Johnny, “but first of all pocket those things and get the Forensic Department’s report on ’em as soon as you can. Thanks… now listen to this, an’ button your ears well back.”

  He went swiftly over the events of that evening, unhurriedly and concisely. When he had finished Crashaw sat back, took a deep breath and said, “Good going, Fedora. Now all we’ve got to do is get hold of Malinsky.”

  “More than that,” said Johnny softly. “We’ve to get hold of him before he’s killed. Don’t you realize someone else may be after him now?”

  Crashaw was still staring at him when the waiter arrived with a steaming tray.

  “This Thaxter,” said Crashaw, with his mouth full, “seems a useful man. I doubt if we’d have spotted Malinsky; in fact the name’s new to me.”

  “He’s got a clean record,” said Johnny, wincing as the hot food touched his loose tooth, “Been workin’ steady; I checked up his credentials. Patient so-and-so.”

  “Let’s hope Thaxter managed to pick him up again,” said Crashaw.

  Johnny sighed. “He won’t,” he said. “The Boches are looking after him now. They’ll have him salted away by now.”