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

by Desmond Cory

  “We don’t complain,” said Annette. “But to-day you’ll have rissoles – and like ’em.”

  They walked round the back of the club and towards the smaller house that Johnny had noticed on his reconnaissance two days before. It seemed rather smaller than in the darkness, and, although barely twenty yards separated it from the end of the club, it appeared completely detached from it.

  “That your private house?” asked Johnny.

  “Yes, that’s right. Small but comfortable, or so I think. Do you like it?”

  “Fine,” said Johnny. “Nice site, too, huh? Near enough to be convenient, and far enough to keep most of the noise out when you want an early night.”

  “Um. You can always hear those cars starting up, though. We never have an early night round these parts. That’s one of the disadvantages of marrying a night club manager.”

  The front door was standing on the latch; she pushed it open and Johnny followed her in. He hung his hat on the rack behind the door, turned, and pushed the door shut.

  “Wait here a moment,” said Annette. “I’ll get one of Arthur’s suits, then you can go up to the bathroom and change.”

  “Mr Trevor in?” said Johnny. “I hope he won’t mind.”

  “Of course not; he’s got lots of suits. He’s over in his office now, but he’ll be back in ten minutes.” She started up the stairs, turned, and said, “Oh, if you want to use the ’phone, there’s one on that table.”

  “So I see,” said Johnny. “Thanks.”

  He walked over to the telephone, picked up the receiver and said, “Get me Cootsbridge 123 please. This is, er, Brighton 7771. Thanks.” He pulled up a chair, sat down and crossed his legs.

  Somebody said, “Police Station, Cootsbridge.” Johnny said, “will you put me through to Inspector Crashaw, please? The name’s Fedora.”

  There was a moment’s pause and then Crashaw’s voice said, “Hullo, Fedora. Crashaw here.”

  “Oh, hi, Inspector. Look, I’ve got some information for you – pretty important. I can’t discuss it over this ’phone, but I’ll be round to see you about three o’clock. Will you be in?”

  “Certainly,” said Crashaw. “Any time, for that matter.”

  “Good. Listen – I’m over at the ‘Three of Clubs’, an’ I think Malinsky’s somewhere in the neighbourhood. I’m tryin’ to find him, but I probably won’t an’ anyway that ain’t important. What you must do is get hold of Jack Harris as soon as he gets back from France. Arrest him if you like, but you’ve gotta get hold of him. All right?”

  “Hey, Fedora,” said Crashaw, “You —”

  Johnny heard Annette’s footsteps on top of the stairs and quickly replaced the receiver. He got up and went to meet her.

  “Made your call?” she asked.

  Johnny shook his head. “Line engaged,” he said. “I’ll try again later. Say, that’s a swell suit.”

  “Glad you like it,” said Annette, holding it out to him. “I think it’ll fit you all right. Come along up and I’ll show you the bathroom.”

  She began to walk upstairs again; Johnny followed two or three steps behind. About halfway up he stopped thinking about the way in which this affair was going to turn out and began, in an objective manner, to consider the way in which Annette was walking up the stairs. It was much more pleasant and it seemed the obvious thing to do; and it was also one of the things that Annette did really well. She had lovely ankles and beautiful poise; in fact, thought Johnny, she had very nearly everything a woman ought to have, and all in the right places. A very unusual and a very beautiful person, and she walked as if she knew it.

  They walked along the corridor and Annette opened the door at the end of it.

  “Here you are,” she said. “There’s plenty of hot water, so take your time. I’ll go and tell the maid to lay another place for lunch. Go through the door on the left of the hall when you’re ready, and make yourself absolutely at home.” She smiled at him, turned and walked away.

  Johnny closed the door and walked over to the washbasin, stripping off his coat as he walked. He turned on the hot water, glanced at his wrist-watch and took it off. He picked up the soap and began to wash.

  The time was now three minutes to twelve; Johnny thought that he had spent a full and a far from uninteresting morning. He tried to collate such facts as he had learnt while washing his face, but found it unexpectedly difficult; just when he was concentrating his hardest he found Annette coming up from underneath and distracting his attention.

  Johnny came to the conclusion that women are awkward. Definitely. It makes it almost impossible to consider a case methodically and dispassionately when you have people like Annette and Davida Kane weaving in and out of it, like star centre-forwards slipping through the opposition. What those two didn’t have in the way of allure could be put on a plate and Strachey wouldn’t even ration it; but that didn’t make any difference. Davida was wild, bad and devilish and Annette —? Well, what was Annette anyway? Just a high-society girl gone temporarily to the good. And what had she really been doing up on the hills that morning – if anything? Why had she married Arthur Trevor, anyway? She could have done very much better for herself. Love, maybe? Love! Ugh! Johnny shuddered, dried his face on a fleecy towel and reached for one of Trevor’s herringbone pattern sports suits.

  It was a nice suit, cut by somebody who knew all the tricks of the art of drape. It was rather too short and too wide for Johnny’s lanky seventy-one inches, but it hung well and didn’t look too bad. He adjusted the braces carefully, buttoned the coat and began to transfer the contents of his pockets.

  He threw his mud-soaked suit over one arm, opened the door and went out. He walked along the red-carpeted length of the corridor, down the stairs and opened the sitting-room door. Annette was sitting in front of an open fire, warming her hands. She had taken off her coat and changed her shoes and she looked good enough to eat.

  “Oh,” she said. “Your suit… give it to me. I’ll get someone to send it to the cleaners for you.”

  She rose from the chair and came across the room. “That’s nice of you,” said Johnny. “An’ it would help. I’d feel a fool carting that around.”

  “That’s all right,” said Annette. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Or there’s a piano over there if you want to mess around.” She took the suit carefully and went out.

  It was a nice sitting-room, furnished with the sort of simplicity that comes very expensive. It seemed very typical of Annette; it had Style – with a capital S – and Johnny, who appreciated femininity in a room, liked the way in which it was set out. The mantelpiece held a beautiful walnut clock, candlesticks and a cut-glass ash-tray; he stood by the fire for a moment, looking round the room.

  The piano was standing in the corner of the room, away from the fire; behind it were rows of shelves. At first glance Johnny had thought them to contain books, but as he approached he saw them to contain record albums, carefully bound and arranged symmetrically.

  He sat down on the piano-stool beside them and surveyed them curiously. It was certainly an excellent collection. An entire shelf was devoted to the works of Beethoven and Bach, with a complete set of Society recordings on the right-hand side; the others contained a more or less representative selection of works from the greatest to the least-known. Johnny scanned the shelves enviously for several minutes; then, tiring of this occupation, he opened the piano, fingered the keys absently and played a few tentative arpeggios. The piano was beautifully tuned and Johnny, soothed, settled comfortably down on the stool and started to play; he put out a metaphorical tongue at the shelves beside him and improvised a blues, softly and experimentally. It fitted in with his present mood. The softly swelling notes began to flood the room, melting into liquefaction in the air; Johnny had an extraordinary gift for making his music harmonize with his background, and the very furniture seemed to take on the curious atmosphere that he was creating. It was something intangible and unexplainable; but those who knew
Johnny believed it to be the essence of his genius.

  Johnny heard footsteps approaching the door, stopped playing and stood up. The door opened and Annette came in, followed by her husband.

  “Hello, Fedora,” said Trevor, extending a hand. “Heard you playing outside, y’know; wondered who the hell it was. So you’re staying to lunch?”

  “If that’s okay by you,” said Johnny grinning. “Say, I’m afraid I’ve made myself pretty free with your clothes, Mr Trevor. I got into a bit of a mess on the Downs.”

  “My dear chap! Quite all right – I’ve got dozens of suits. Bought ’em in America… Annette tells me you’ve been shot at or something?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Somebody lookin’ for trouble. Didn’t come anywhere near me, luckily.”

  “Oh, no?” said Annette sweetly. “You’ve got a bullet-hole through your sleeve, Johnny, in case you haven’t noticed. And that wasn’t there yesterday.”

  “You don’t say?” said Johnny, rather wearily. “Maybe it’s a cigarette-burn.”

  Trevor stared at him curiously and made a soft hurrumphing noise. He said, “This anything to do with the feller Malinsky?” He seemed to show a certain amount of diffidence in mentioning the name.

  Johnny said, “I wouldn’t know. I’m still lookin’ for him, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Oh?” said Trevor. “No good, that feller. I always thought so. Er… anything new?”

  “No, nothin’ new.”

  “Oh,” said Trevor again. “Well – let’s sit down, shall we?”

  They moved over to the fire and seated themselves round it. There was a moment’s silence, then Annette said:

  “What were you coming to see us about, Johnny?”

  “Um?” said Johnny, taken by surprise.

  “You said you were coming over to see us when you were – y’know. When someone shot at you.”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Johnny. He had forgotten all about that one. “I just wanted a little chat with Mr Trevor about things in general an’ Malinsky in particular. Strictly business, though. We’ll talk about it after lunch, or else I might put you off.” He grinned, felt in his pocket and said, “Dam. I’m out of cigarettes.”

  “I’ve got some,” and “Have one of mine,” said Annette and Trevor simultaneously. Trevor produced a packet of Craven and handed it to Johnny; Johnny leant back in the sofa, dug out a cigarette-lighter and they lit their cigarettes. Johnny breathed out cigarette smoke and said, “Well, how’s tricks? I hope you’re not having any trouble with the cops?”

  Annette laughed, sat back and crossed her legs.

  Trevor said seriously, “No, no. That young man last night – you know him, I suppose. Decent sort of chap, quite understanding an’ all that. Went to my college at Oxford, funnily enough.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Johnny. “I didn’t know you were an Oxford man.”

  “Oh, rather; Merton, to be exact. This young feller – well, as I say, very efficient an’ pleasant. Knew what he wanted all right.”

  “Good,” said Johnny. “I’m glad.” He turned on Annette and said, “I was admirin’ your record collection when you came back. At least, I suppose it’s yours?”

  Annette smiled. “Oh, yes, that’s mine. It represents years of labour; I’ve been collecting them since my deb. days. You think it’s a good collection?”

  “It’s marvellous,” said Johnny frankly. “One of the best I’ve seen. But —” A worried expression suddenly crossed his face and he looked into the fire.

  “But what?”

  “But you never have time to play them all.”

  Annette laughed and said, “Oh… I don’t know. I have a lot of time on my hands, with Arthur always over at the club.”

  Trevor, hearing his name mentioned, made the slight alteration of the features that, to the human race, is equivalent to pricking up the ears. “Er,” he said, turning hesitantly to Johnny. “Sorry to keep harping on the old theme – but do you think this lad’s going to have another pop at you when you leave?”

  “Maybe. But I wouldn’t build up any hopes on that if I were you. Personally,” said Johnny, “if I were him I’d lie so low I’d have to sink a new coal mine an’ disturb the output records of the entire country.”

  Trevor nodded sadly. “I suppose this means the police will be round again, hunting for this dam’ pest. He couldn’t have got far, after all; probably hiding in the woods – good cover, I should think, all those trees. Hope they find him before he causes any more trouble.”

  “Oh, yes. They’ll find him.” Johnny rose to his feet and said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll see if I can get through on your ’phone now. The line should be clear.”

  Trevor said, “Phoning that police bloke?”

  “No. I’m not bothering,” said Johnny. “They’d only laugh. The prospect of the great Fedora wrigglin’ in the mud would amuse ’em no end.” He grinned and walked towards the door. He heard Trevor say, “’Straordinary thing. Ought to tell the police, y’know.”

  Annette’s slightly bored voice answered. “I expect he knows what he’s doing, darling. There’s no accounting for this professional pride.” There was an edge of derision to her voice that, to Johnny, meant that he was intended to overhear that remark.

  He picked up the receiver, dialled a number. He leant against the wall and waited, drawing at his cigarette.

  He heard Davida say, “Hello? Miss Kane here.” He wondered if anybody else ever sounded so good on the telephone. She was really wonderful.

  He said, “Hiya, blondie. Guess who.”

  Davida sighed and said, “I can’t. Unless it’s Winston Churchill.”

  Johnny said, “You’re wrong again. Look, honey – you got the boy friend there?”

  Davida said, “Which boy friend? Sometimes you puzzle me, darling.”

  “Like hell,” said Johnny. “I mean the current crush. Little Jack Harris. Is he back yet?”

  “If he is,” said Davida severely, “then I am most annoyed with him. He hasn’t phoned me or anything, and you know how I worry about him.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Johnny. “You worry all the time, except when you’re thinkin’ about something else – an’ you do that all the time too. I think you’re wonderful.”

  “Well, thanks,” said Davida. “But you might ring up and tell me all that later. I’m doing my hair.”

  “Hey, hold on. No, this is serious. The boy wants to see me an’ I really want to see him now. Now listen. If you hear from him in any way whatever, ring up – write this number down – Cootsbridge 123 and tell me all about it. If I don’t get hold of him soon I’ve got a feeling something’ll happen to him that ain’t nice, an’ you don’t want that, do you?”

  “Not particularly,” said Davida. “I’ll do that.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say so,” said Johnny, “because you sound as if you couldn’t care less. Anyway, if he should come round to see you, for God’s sake hold on to him. Don’t let him out alone; don’t let him out at all if you can help it. It’s for his own good. Just – ’phone, that’s all.”

  “You make this sound awfully thrilling,” said Davida. “But it’s okay. I’ll do anything you want, Johnny.”

  “Anything?” said Johnny.

  “Yes,” she said. “Anything.” And hung up.

  “That was not what I wanted,” said Johnny to the receiver. He dropped it on to the rest, stubbed out his cigarette and walked back to the sitting-room. He felt that he could use some lunch.

  Chapter Eleven

  HOLLIDAY

  AFTER Johnny had left the room Crashaw remained seated at the window, sucking at his pipe and swinging his revolving chair to and fro. Then he picked up the papers on his desk, placed them lovingly in a draw, and reached for the ’phone. He said, “Tell Spencer and Smith to come in right away.”

  He replaced the receiver and resumed his impersonation of a broody hen, tapping the top of his desk with nicotine-stained finger-nails. There was a knock
on the door; he grunted pleasantly and Smith and Spencer came in.

  “Morning, sir,” they said.

  “Morning, boys,” said Crashaw. “Conference. Grab a chair each and gather round.”

  “Right,” he continued. “Well, Fedora’s been here and I’ve given him all the latest stuff. He’s gone off to muck about round the ‘Three of Clubs’, which, I take it, means that he’s worked out about the same theory as I have.

  “What I want to do is to go over Murray’s death as carefully as we can and see if anything fresh shows up. This new information we have may give us a lead.”

  He pulled a fountain-pen from his pocket, grabbed a blank sheet of paper and began to scrawl hurried hieroglyphics on it.

  “Now let’s see. We know he arrived at the club at about 8.15. Fedora saw him at about 10.15; and we know that by this time he had recognized Robson and found out from him something about the storage of the drugs. At 10.45 exactly the trouble begins. He goes to the lobby to wash his hands; he gets slugged by Malinsky, filled with dope, and is escorted out to his car by Trevor. This may not mean Trevor’s implicated; he may have thought, like everyone else, that Murray was tight and had passed out. At some time between 10.15 and 10.45 he’s managed to find the drugs, and that means we’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along because we’ve assumed that he went somewhere else after leaving the club. Well, he didn’t. The way I look at it, somebody must have driven him off and crashed the car almost straightaway.”

  He paused, knocked the ash from his pipe and laid it on the desk. Spencer said:

  “What about the clock in the car, though? That smashed at five minutes to twelve.”

  Crashaw surveyed Spencer sadly. He said “You’re off form today, Spencer. Any fool can put a clock on three-quarters of an hour.”

  Spencer snapped his fingers. “Ah,” he said. “To prove an alibi.”

  “Partly that,” said Crashaw. “That’s why they let the petrol out of the tank; nobody would hear a crash in that deserted spot, but if the thing caught fire somebody might see it. I can think of another reason too; to distract attention from the club by making us assume that Murray had been somewhere else since, and that’s exactly what we did do. We still would be if Fedora hadn’t discovered that scopolamine.”