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

by Desmond Cory

  There was a moment’s silence, then Smith said, “Cunning devils.”

  “They are,” said Crashaw soberly. “They didn’t miss a trick.” He filled his pipe slowly with tobacco, struck a match and lit it. He said, “Now somebody else is going to have a go. You, Smith. Go over Murray’s activities after he arrived there; don’t miss a thing out. I want to see if I’ve really got everything.”

  “Well,” said Smith. He pushed his chair back a couple of inches, tilted it back on its rear legs. “He arrived about 8.15 and from then on nobody saw him until 9.30, when Mrs Trevor says he joined her party up at the roulette room. He stayed there until just after ten, when he saw Fedora and slipped him a note, so before he came up he must have seen Robson – probably round at the garage and got information from him, just how we don’t know. Agreed?”

  Crashaw nodded.

  “Robson must have given him some sort of clue as to the position of the drugs, because after tipping Fedora off he went off and found the site in half an hour. He must have known roughly where to look, but not exactly or he wouldn’t have taken so long. He had to see Fedora before looking, because he had realized that somebody in the roulette room was implicated and he didn’t want Fedora to start anything by inquiring after Winthrop there. That’s the only explanation of the note he gave Fedora.

  About 10.20 he leaves the roulette room, goes out somewhere and there he finds the drugs. Now all we know about this place is (a) that it isn’t far, (b) that it’s open to entrance by a window, (c) that the stuff is buried underground.”

  Spencer suddenly sat bolt upright. He said:

  “By God! A greenhouse!”

  “Exactly,” said Smith. “A greenhouse.”

  There was another taut silence while they looked expectantly at Crashaw. To their amazement he began to grin broadly.

  “There’s two objections to that,” he said. “Firstly, there is no greenhouse at the club. Secondly, Murray never cut his wrist on a window at all.”

  “You’ll see that yourself in a minute or two,” he went on. “It’s just further proof of the danger of interpreting things too freely, and I’m afraid it was my suggestion originally. I see now I was completely mistaken. Leave that and go on, Smith.”

  “Well,” said Smith. He seemed rather perturbed by this rough reception of his carefully considered theory. “Well, he finds the stuff – and had to dig for it. That’s definite, isn’t it?”

  Crashaw smiled and said nothing.

  “And while he’s there he’s seen by one of the other side,” went on Smith.

  “His hands are dirty with all this digging, so he pockets some of the cocaine, goes back to the lobby and washes his hands. While he’s wiping them the fellow who spotted him slides in, socks him on the head and pulls him into Malinsky’s room at the side.

  “Now let’s look at this thing from the point of view of the enemy. They have here a bloke who definitely has to be killed, because he knows too much; but if they kill him they’re going to run up against the old question of disposing of the body. So they decide to fake an accident, well clear of the club, and get rid of him that way. So they inject him with so much scopolamine that he can only just stand and certainly can’t think straight; then Malinsky nips away and tells Trevor that a bloke in the lobby is really in a bad way and what shall he do about it.

  From now on we can go on Trevor’s statement. He says that he went straight to the lobby and found Murray on the floor, betraying all the symptoms of drunkenness. He says he reeked of whisky – which we know is true, because they spilt some on his tunic.

  They bring Murray round; he’s completely muddled and his one idea is to get out of the place as quickly as possible. He probably thinks he’s meant to be dead. He leans on Trevor’s arm and they go down to his car; he gets in and starts to drive off. But he doesn’t know that the fellow who hit him has slipped out of the window and is now lying in the back of the car.”

  Crashaw stirred and said, “How d’you know that?”

  Smith said, “That bit’s only guesswork.”

  Crashaw said, “Um. Well, never mind. It sounds good to me. But how did he know which was Murray’s car?”

  “Murray’s wallet had his car number in it” said Smith, “when we saw it.”

  “Good for you,” said Crashaw. “It didn’t occur to me that he might have gone out through the window, but I bet that’s what did happen. Exactly the same as what happened to Fedora.”

  “That’s right,” said Smith eagerly. “And as soon as he’s clear of the club, this fellow in the car claps a gun to Murray’s head and tells him to stop. Then he pushes Murray over into the other seat, drives off and puts the car over the edge.”

  “First of all letting the petrol out,” said Spencer. “Yes. And at the same time puts the clock in the car three-quarters of an hour fast.”

  “And also,” added Crashaw, “Murray’s wrist-watch. By a fluke, Murray managed to fall without breaking it; and it stayed fast until the next morning. We should have seen the significance of that right away.”

  Smith nodded, took out a cigarette-case. “And there’s the whole set-up,” he said. “They seem a pretty thorough-going crowd.”

  Spencer sighed. “So many red herrings,” he said. “I begin to wonder if Murray really found the drugs at all, if they didn’t put the cocaine in his pocket to fool us into thinking that. I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Crashaw. “They killed him because they had to; they had no other reason. You’ve missed one important point, though.”

  “You mean the cut on his wrist?” said Smith puzzledly. “That’s right; I think,” said Crashaw, beginning to enjoy himself, “that that’s the most interesting factor in the case. If you really think about it it’ll tell you who killed Murray. I’m sure Fedora’s seen it – I hate to say it, but that boy’s got brains – and if you two can’t, then you ought to be shot.”

  He leant back, puffed at his pipe importantly and watched his deputies really thinking about it. The effort seemed to be almost killing them.

  “My God,” said Crashaw, delightedly. “You don’t learn the first thing at Hendon. It’s very simple really. Look… blast!”

  He stretched out a vast hand and engulfed the telephone, jabbing it petulantly up near his ear. “Crashaw here. Yes. Douglas?”

  He suddenly stiffened, and pulled the ’phone close to his ear. He said “Yes… when?… Hell, man! Why wasn’t I told before? You only… all right. Thanks.” He jammed down the receiver and said, “Now, I wonder how the hell that fits in.”

  “What’s the matter, sir?” asked Spencer.

  Crashaw looked at him. “Harris is the matter,” he said. “Jack Harris. He crashed into the sea last night, flying back from Paris with his boss. Crew of a fishing-boat saw the whole thing, but the ’plane’s sunk without a trace.”

  -----------------------

  Almost every journalist who works in the vicinity of Fleet Street knows the “Old Bell”. In a sense, it belongs to the newspapermen. Between the hours of one and two in the afternoon it resembles a press conference, crowded with reporters and columnists, drinking beer and discussing everything from Karl Marx to film stars’ cosmetics. On one side of the room there are a group of beer-stained tables, and here those unfortunates who are behindhand with their work sit pounding portable typewriters or frenziedly scanning notes, with a whisky by their right hand and a cigarette burning unnoticed between their lips. Although to-day was Sunday, the atmosphere was exactly the same as on any other day; the air was blue with cigarette-smoke and filled with arguing voices. All days are work-days in Fleet Street.

  Holliday, sitting hunched in the far corner and smoking a badly bent cigarette, was drinking pale ale. On the table before him were four or five pages of badly-written notes, exactly resembling those of the tall man on his left, who was correcting them with a large blue pencil and talking excitedly to himself. Surprisingly enough, they dealt with almost the same thing;
both were accounts of the Robson murder case, one written by the Crime Reporter of the News and the other – by Sean O’Neill Fedora – was unsigned.

  Holliday flipped over the last page and continued to read. Fedora’s literary style, though far from grammatical, certainly seemed to be holding his interest.

  “So if the injection was a scopolamine,” Fedora had written, “that is how I think they must of bumped Murray. I should be able to check this and let you know by to-morrow.

  “Tho’ I think I know how it was done I don’t know who it was that did it, but I think it must of been Robson because of the following reasons: –

  “(I) Robson knew Murray was up to something and probably thought he’d keep an eye on him.

  “(2) In order to hide the mark where he’d been injected they cut his wrist slightly with a razor. Well I know Robson carried a razor because he had one after he was bumped but I don’t know anyone else who has one.

  “Of course somebody must have told him what to do and that’s what I don’t know, who told him I mean, but I shall try to find out this and let you know. I shall also check the scene of the crime for clues again, like his hat and the petrol they let out. If I find them I shall try the other part of my theory.”

  “Aha!” said the tall man with unimaginable ferocity, crossing out an entire paragraph. “Rubbish! Rubbish!”

  Holliday glanced up, looked at his watch and across to the bar: then returned to the report.

  “After he had done the murder Robson goes back so as to confirm his alibi. He reports to his boss, and I think he must do something silly. Because he and Malinsky are only stooges in this show really. Well I think he’s found out a lot he didn’t know of from Murray, and he maybe thinks he can act tough. He says he’ll squeal or something unless he gets paid big, which is silly but of course he couldn’t of known what he was up against. Anyway they stall him off and next morning they send Malinsky round and he gets his.

  “That’s about all for now so I am sending this off by one of your messengers and I will let you know what happens next. It is now nearly three o’clock and I am going to bed.”

  Holliday grinned, folded up the notes and put them in his inside coat pocket. He walked away, whistling softly.

  He went slowly down towards Ludgate Circus, whistling as he went. He turned left up St Bride Street; walked about half-way up and turned into a book store on the left. He nodded to the assistant at the counter, walked upstairs and through a door marked “Private: Manager.” In one corner of the room was a tall, blonde girl sitting behind a desk and knitting some unmentionable garment; in the middle was an enormous desk of great antiquity, backed by two filing cabinets. Holliday seated himself at this relic, opened a small tin box and took out a cigarette.

  “Got anything for me, Joan?” he said.

  “Yes, Mr Holliday. The Birmingham call came through; I left the message on your tray. And Mr Melvyn has arrived.”

  “Good-oh,” said Holliday. He picked up the message and surveyed it dispassionately. “Send him up.”

  The blonde girl picked up the nearest telephone of the four on the desk and said, “Eve? Send Mr Melvyn up, dear.” She replaced the receiver and continued knitting. She wasn’t in any hurry; she worked four hours on and eight off for weeks on end and she had two more hours to do before her relief arrived. Holliday’s secretaries were a curious crowd; calm, dispassionate people resigned to hours of boredom, spells of intense activity and responsibilities that might have over-awed a Cabinet minister.

  There was a tap on the door; Holliday said, “Yep!” and Melvyn came in. He was a good-looking man of about thirty-five; had been invalided out of the Air Force in 1943 and had since been doing less spectacular but quite surprisingly dangerous work in Holliday’s department.

  Holliday said, “Ah, hullo, Melvyn. How’s life?”

  “Quite a puzzle,” said Melvyn cheerily. He pulled a chair up before Holliday’s desk and sat down. “It has me worried at times.”

  Holliday smiled. “Well, well,” he said. “I hope to cheer you up with a small job. A trifling matter, but somebody’s got to do it.”

  Melvyn yawned. “I always get that sort of job,” he commented. “I never feel really indispensable. Well, what’s the lay-out?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Holliday. “Cigarette? Lighter on the desk. Right. Well, last night a chap called Harris crashed into the Channel. He’s a private pilot – was, I should say – and flew an Auster for a chap named Deveritt. Mainly over to France and back; Deveritt owns a couple of hotels in Paris and flies over every fortnight to have a look-see. Everything’s in a bit of a mess owing to the Occupation, you understand.

  “Well, as I say, he crashed last night and drowned himself. Very sad. He didn’t have many friends, in fact only two that I know of. One is a very beautiful young lady named Davida Kane; the other is you.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Melvyn. “This sounds interesting.”

  “It is. Well, before he flew to France early on Saturday morning Harris had a curious idea that something might happen to him. Anyway, he wrote Davida a letter and told you that if anything happened to him you were to take her that letter. Well, something has happened to him – it’s in to-day’s paper – so to-night you’re going to do that very thing. Still interested?”

  “Oh, definitely,” said Melvyn. “Beautiful – young – lady, you said? Rather. Proceed with your narrative.”

  “Here’s the letter,” said Holliday, “in a sealed envelope, marked “Davida”. It’s in Harris’s handwriting all right; done by one of the best hands in the business.”

  Melvyn grinned and said, “I see.”

  “Miss Kane,” said Holliday, “works as a vocalist in a club to the north of Brighton known as the ‘Three of Clubs’. You’re to find your way there at about seven o’clock to-night, about the time the crowds are arriving for dinner. Go up to the roulette room and ask there for Miss Kane, and it’s very important that you let the maximum number of people there know that the letter you’re giving her was written by Jack Harris. Got that?”

  “Well, as soon as you’ve done that you’re through; just get out the way as quick as you can.”

  “Oh, hell,” said Melvyn. “I thought you wanted this girl investigated.”

  Holliday smiled and shook his head. “If I were you I’d thank your lucky stars you can get away from her,” he said. “Listen. That envelope contains a forged confession by Jack Harris to drug-smuggling activities; it’s got everything except the names of the top people, because that’s what we don’t know. The point is, these people weren’t trusting Harris at all and if they know he wrote a letter before he died they’ll do something to get it. Now you see why you have to broadcast this letter throughout the land.”

  Melvyn shifted his feet and said, “If that’s the way they feel, they’re not going to be particularly gentle to this girl, are they?”

  “No, but they’re going to move,” said Holliday. “The first thing she’ll do when she gets that letter is to show it to one of my best operatives; and I’m banking on his being just good enough to get them before they get him. You see, I think they’ll try to make Fedora talk before they kill him; and that time limit may give him some chance to tell us who they are. We may even get there in time. Only remember to get out quick yourself, because they may think it worth while to finish you off as well.”

  Melvyn nodded thoughtfully. “Fedora?” he said. “Not Johnny Fedora? I’ve met him once. Y’know, if I was Miss Kane I’d like to have old Johnny around. I’ve never seen shooting done the way he does it. Billy the Kid isn’t in it.”

  “Yes?” said Holliday. “I’d heard he was good. He’ll have to be to-night.”

  “Okay,” said Melvyn. He stood up. “That all?”

  “Yes, that’s all, Michael. I think you’d better wear the uniform of some air line to-night, to add verisimilitude. See Sid, will you? He knows what you want.”

  “I know what I want,” said Melvyn. “But
I can see I won’t be seeing her to-night. Well – cheerio, Peter.”

  “Cheerio, Mike. Good luck.”

  “Thanks,” said Melvyn. He closed the door behind him and the tapping of his shoes on the floor stopped.

  Holliday picked up a pen and began to write. The pawns were almost all in position; the chessboard was set. The time had come to move the queen.

  “Joan,” he said, without looking up. “Get this message to Mr Fedora at Cootsbridge. If he’s not in, read it over and then ring up every hour to check if he’s received it. When he has, let me know.”

  “Yes, Mr Holliday,” said Joan. She took the message over to her desk, picked up a receiver and began to speak, softly and unemotionally.

  Holliday chewed the end of his cigarette, looked out of the window. Black storm-clouds were beginning to gather in the east; hard-edged, jagged pillars buffeted by an angry east wind. It was going to be a stormy night for the chessmen.

  Chapter Twelve

  HARRIS

  THE hands of the heavy ormolu clock on Crashaw’s mantelpiece pointed to three o’clock; Crashaw, Smith and Sergeant Douglas were seated round Crashaw’s desk in varying degrees of despondency. Crashaw was slouched over the desk, writing furiously in a large green exercise-book; Smith was staring at the ceiling and smoking a Woodbine; Douglas was examining a thin file that bore the typewritten heading “John Eric Harris”. The ashtray on the desk was filled with cigarette stubs, and pipe dottle; there was a really shocking fug.

  Crashaw looked round as he heard a car draw up outside; he said, “Here he is.”

  “About bloody time, too,” said Smith savagely. Crashaw surveyed the clock benignly. “Oh, he’s punctual,” he said. “I’ll say that for him.”