John Creasey Box Set 1: First Came a Murder, Death Round the Corner, The Mark of the Crescent (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  He broke off, completely at a loss for words. Beresford, who had come across many varieties of opponents in the course of his existence with Department Z, regarded him as something unique, and yet as something infinitely dangerous.

  For the red-faced, plump-looking little man with the weak but bright-blue eyes was also Nicholas Williams, the scholar from Auveley Street! And Beresford knew, now, why the bogus policeman had seemed somehow familiar. He had had these same blue eyes, even though his manner had been different, and his confidence that night superb.

  Nicholas Williams, alias a policeman, alias Ruddy Face, wireless pirate! The possibilities behind those aliases were infinite. Beresford, thinking rapidly, told himself that he was on something hot, but that it must be handled carefully, even brilliantly. This man was an unknown quantity, and he had once used water as a weapon instead of lead. He was, too, a consummate actor.

  He aped fear so that he looked fear-stricken. Even the cheeks of his padded face—rubber pads reinforcing the teeth created the main difference in Ruddy Face’s appearance compared with Williams the scholastic—seemed to sag. But all the time, Beresford told himself, he was sizing his adversary up, reading, or trying to read his, Beresford’s, thoughts. So, thought Tony, with that twisted humour which occasionally seized him, the thing to do was to kid Mr. Williams, to lead him a long way up the garden.

  Beresford swung his arm, with an exaggerated gesture, to look at his watch. Ruddy Face flinched. Beresford grinned.

  “It is now,” he said, “ten minutes to one. In twenty minutes, barring blooming accidents, we shall be in the Paris airfield. Twenty minutes after that the ‘plane will go on to Lyons. I,” went on Beresford, emphasizing his words by poking Ruddy Face in his middle, which was so resilient that Beresford knew it to be reinforced by an inflated rubber cushion, “shall alight at Paris. You will go on to Lyons—without your little gadget. Do you follow?”

  “But——” began Ruddy Face.

  “No buts and no nothings,” said Beresford grimly, but patting himself on the back because of the unquestioned look of relief in his victim’s eyes. “I know you’re after me, and I think I know why, and if I had time, I’d fake up a charge of some kind at Paris and turn you and your precious crowd upside down and inside out. But I haven’t got time, only an appointment. I can just spare the twenty minutes to see you on your way, minus the suitcase, which I shall take with me as an interesting memento of the yellowest spot of humanity I’ve ever met in my life.”

  “I——” began Ruddy Face.

  Beresford swept his words away, well satisfied with the self-congratulation evident in Ruddy Face’s eyes. The man was sure, now, that his disguise had not been penetrated. He might not be able to send his precious messages to that mysterious recipient whom Beresford was itching to identify, but at least he would be undetected in yet another guise—or so Beresford guessed at his thoughts.

  Beresford let himself go.

  “When I say yellow,” he said, “I mean a deep orange. I’ve met some rabbits in my young life, but you’re the rabbitiest of the lot. You make me want to lose my faith in human nature. You nauseate me. Whoever sent you to watch me ought to shoot himself, back and front. You couldn’t deceive a traffic-cop, and you wouldn’t have the guts to say goo to a two-year-old. When I find out who’s paying you for air flights and Daimler limousines, I shall send him my sympathies for being the biggest mutt on earth. Do you,” demanded Beresford, with a sudden scowl, “follow me?”

  “Y-yes,” said Ruddy Face.

  “You have more intelligence than I gave you credit for. However—that’s five minutes gone, and we’ll be dropping soon. Let me just warn you, Rabbit, not to move out of my sight at the aerodrome, or I shall pulverize you on the spot. In fact, you’d better keep in the ‘plane until she starts off again.”

  A quarter of an hour later the liner swooped on to Paris, and Beresford, complete with his own and Ruddy Face’s luggage, climbed down to terra firma. Inside the scheduled twenty minutes, the ‘plane went up again, and the man of many aliases went with it. Beresford watched it, dark against the sky, and chuckled loudly and at some length. Then he turned towards the Customs shed, and, knowing that all Frenchmen were not excitable by habit, told a dour official a joke which was saucy without being salacious. The bearded veteran laughed, and for a moment appeared to be taken in by the quick interchange of suitcases which Beresford manipulated, in order to get the wireless contraption through the Customs. But it was only for a moment. The man’s beard stopped quivering, and his sharp eyes searched Beresford’s big body from head to foot. And then, although Beresford had already spoken to him in fluent French, he burst into a flow of broken English which made the big man go hot and cold!

  “Tiens!” stuttered the Frenchman official. “But I suspected, when you shoke, yes. Zat ozzer case—it has not been open, n’est pas? But now—voilà! The wireless, just as ve haff been told! You zink you haff been so clevaire, m’sieu——”

  For the moment Beresford was incapable of thought. He hardly noticed the Frenchman’s sudden, “Pardonnez moi, m’sieu,” and saw without heeding the little bunch of high officials bearing down on his counter. The realization that he had been completely fooled by Williams, the man of many aliases, was like gall. For Williams, or Ruddy Face, was even at that moment speeding towards Lyons, laughing at the ease with which Beresford had been duped. And Beresford was in one of the most awkward predicaments of his life! It would be hours before he could convince the French authorities that he had no evil intentions with the portable transmitting set which he had tried to smuggle into France, which set had been deliberately planted on him.

  The next ten minutes of discussion with the more important officials confirmed the worst. A message, they said, had been telephoned from Scotland Yard advising that a dangerous criminal was making for France, carrying with him the portable wireless set. That said criminal, a very large man, must be held until Scotland Yard officials followed him to France. Every Customs shed had been warned, every official was lynx-eyed for an exceptionally big man with one or more suitcases.

  Wouldn’t they, asked Beresford, telephone Scotland Yard and confirm that the message had been sent from there?

  No, certainly not. The wireless was all the confirmation needed by intelligent Frenchmen.

  Would they permit him (Beresford knew better than to try to bully his men) to contact with the British Embassy? His business was urgent and his passport in order.

  That was a matter for even higher authorities.

  Would they permit him to telephone Inspector Piquet, at the Sûreté? (Beresford knew Piquet well.)

  No, Inspector Piquet was engaged on a matter of importance out of Paris. M’sieu Bere’ford had broken the law by smuggling, and moreover by smuggling a wireless transmitter. He must wait for the law to deal with him.

  But the thing was a hoax, a ridiculous hoax!

  That was for the law to decide.

  Beresford shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. He was caught in the mesh of French officialdom, probably the worst in the world. With luck and perseverance he might be released before nightfall, but time was precious, and Robert Lavering, with Timothy Arran, was waiting for him. Anything might happen in the intervening hours.

  He played with the idea of making a break from the flying-field, but rejected it as impracticable. He might get away, but the whole of the French police force would be on the look-out for him, and he was an easy man to see. If he could only persuade these obstinate devils to let him telephone the Embassy, he could get clear; anyone there would have vouched for him. But there was no mule, he told himself grimly, as obstinate as a Frenchman on duty. Williams, damn and blast him, had won his trick with a vengeance!

  Timothy Arran, debonair and immaculate and afflicted with his affected drawl—the affliction was mental—was also clever. He had reached Paris at ten o’clock or thereabouts on the previous evening, to seek Bob Lavering with no knowledge other than that American’s
name and appearance. He had set out, there and then, on a tour of hotels, from the Magnifique downwards. His seventh shot had been the lucky one. Lavering had stayed at the Hôtel Royale from the Friday until the following Monday. Thereafter Lavering had disappeared. The word was necessary, because Lavering hadn’t paid his bill, nor had he brought much luggage with him. But the management was not concerned, because the American had stayed at the Royale several times during the past few years, and in Paris there were attractions which the young and rich could not resist, and which might—er—delay them for several days. Was M’sieu ...?

  “Timson,” Timothy Arran had supplied for a name.

  The management was honoured to know M’sieu Timson, and hoped one day to be honoured with a protracted visit. Was he very anxious to discover M’sieu Lavering?

  Timothy had said very anxious indeed. A domestic matter.

  Ah! The management was full of understanding. It would willingly provide M’sieu Timson with a guide who could take him to the Rue des Coronnes, in Montmartre, where there was a certain attraction which had intrigued M’sieu Lavering. In fact that gentleman had been seen in the Côte d’Or, a little establishment so popular with visitors. Did M’sieu Timson so desire?

  “Providing,” Timothy had said with the air of a conspirator, “M’sieu le directeur will promise absolute discretion.”

  “But certainement, m’sieu. Discretion of the very highest, and a guide who could be trusted with one’s life!”

  The guide, a ferrety-faced man of middle age who looked as if he could be trusted to save no one’s skin but his own, led Timothy to the Côte d’Or, after a circuitous journey through the Soho of Paris, Montmartre. Timothy, who knew the district as well as he knew Piccadilly Circus, suffered in silence, because he wanted to be taken for a very green Englishman looking for a misbehaving friend.

  The Côte d’Or, however, surprised him. It was a comparatively new establishment, it was clean, it was brilliantly lit, and its wine was as good as its cabaret, which was excellent. The star of that particular firmament was a snake-charmer of ability and considerable beauty. Her name was Corinne, and she fondled her snakes with soft, painted hands while eyeing her patrons, until they felt that their own skin was being subjected to those entrancing caresses.

  “Is this who M’sieu Lavering came to see?” demanded Timothy Arran of his guide.

  “Oui, m’sieu. A gentleman of excellent taste was M’sieu Lavering. Corinne had liked him, it was said.”

  Timothy ordered white wine, sat at a corner table for twenty minutes, with his eyes glued to the sinuous body of the dancer, and finally sighed, so heavily that the French guide from the Hôtel Royale smirked.

  “I shall ask Corinne to see you?” suggested the Frenchman.

  Timothy looked dubious and a little awkward.

  “Well—er—she mightn’t like it perhaps. I’ll tell you what, Albert. You go back to the hotel, and if I’m not back in three or four hours, come back for me. N’est pas?”

  Albert grinned again, and said yes. Whether he was amused by Timothy’s sudden outburst into execrable French, or whether it was because he had fallen so quickly and so obviously to Corinne’s charms, worried Timothy not at all. He wanted the guide to think him a fool, and the guide did so, more especially after a tip worthy of a mad millionaire.

  “M’sieu is a gentleman of the highest,” congratulated the guide. “He has but to call and I serve. Bon soir, M’sieu Timson.”

  “Bong jour,” said Timothy absently.

  He gave his guide ten minutes to finish his drink and wend his way towards the Royale, and then absent-mindedly opened his wallet in full view of the company. It was well filled, and it attracted Corinne’s dark eyes like a magnet. The snake-charmer had finished her turn and she disappeared for a while; but when she returned, semi-clad, she made for Timothy’s table with a disarming directness.

  Timothy winked. It was an English habit, reckoned to install confidence in the fluttering heart of the dancer.

  “M’sieu has enjoyed to-night?” Corinne’s voice was soft and pleasant.

  “I’m about to,” said Timothy, in flawless French. “What do you drink, ma chèrie?”

  “I do not drink—I eat, m’sieu.” Corinne’s smile was ravishing.

  “Better still,” said Timothy, still in flawless French. “It takes longer.”

  An hour later, it took considerable tact on Timothy’s part to convince the dancer that his business only partly concerned herself. Overcoming Corinne’s disappointment, he led the conversation cunningly into the realm of dancing, and told Corinne that he believed she was better—much better—than the renowned Adele Fayne. Timothy Arran knew that a fundamental difference between the French and the English was that the former responded easily to flattery and the latter for the most part laughed it off.

  “And I know Adele Fayne,” he said, toying with his wineglass and looking quizzically into Corinne’s eyes. “She is to marry Bob Lavering——”

  He paused, ostensibly because his cigarette stuck to his lip, but actually to watch Corinne’s reaction to the name of Lavering. He saw the sudden contraction of the dancer’s nostrils, the tightening of her rosebud lips, the narrowing of her eyes. For a split second Corinne the dancer stopped breathing. When she went on, her breath came quickly, as it might after unexpectedly running a few yards uphill. Timothy Arran felt exultant and yet sorry; mention of Lavering had made this girl afraid!

  “But yes? La Fayne is to marry?” Corinne’s words dropped into the temporary silence tensely, spoken for the sake of saying something, anything at all.

  Timothy Arran, alive to the temperamental reactions of the Frenchwoman, knew that if she was frightened money would not bribe her to talk. A greater fear than she already had would loosen her tongue more effectively than the contents of his wallet, although a few mille notes might help, afterwards, to compensate her for her fear. Timothy Arran leaned forward, touching Corinne’s slim arm with his hand and pressing hard. His face was no longer genially smiling, and his eyes were narrow and hard as steel.

  “Corinne,” he said, “you are playing with bigger things than you know. Lavering is missing. He is an American of great importance, and his country is demanding the Government to find him. The Sûreté is looking, secret agents are looking, every gendarme you see is searching for M’sieu Lavering. And I am looking for him, and I know what the others do not—you can tell where M’sieu Lavering is!”

  Timothy did it well. Inflexion, expression, the pressure of his hand, all had a telling effect. The fear which he had seen in the snake-charmer’s eyes increased until it was sheer dread. Corinne opened her lips, but the words would not come. She passed her painted hand across her forehead, worried, alarmed.

  “Where is he?” Timothy demanded, pressing home his advantage.

  Just for a moment he thought that she would defy him, deny all knowledge of Lavering’s whereabouts. But the grimness of the Twin’s eyes and the tightness of his lips seemed to sway her. She leaned forward, her voice unsteady.

  “Come with me,” she said. “M’sieu Lavering is ill, but if you ever say who told you, it will mean my death!”

  “Corinne,” said Timothy, using the colourful expressions of idiomatic French with a gusto, “your secret shall go with me to the grave, and for your trust you shall be rewarded. But quickly, Corinne!”

  “You cannot visit the Hôtel Divante like that,” Corinne said, with a quick glance at his immaculate serge suit. “The hotel is being watched, m’sieu. Your friend has powerful enemies. Will you trust yourself with me?”

  “With my life!” said Timothy with relish.

  Nevertheless it was not without a tremor of apprehension that he followed the dancer from the cabaret house. He was surprised, too, when she led him quickly into the Côte d’Or by a back entrance, and introduced him in rapid French to the manager, a formidable-looking Frenchman capable of giving even Tony Beresford a run for his money in a rough-house. A man to dislike and d
istrust, Timothy thought.

  “M’sieu my friend,” said Corinne, “would look round Montmartre without being seen as an Englishman. M’sieu Franchot will permit him to disguise, n’est pas?”

  M’sieu Franchot, the manager, would, for a consideration. A mille note changed hands, and Timothy Arran followed the snake-dancer and her manager to a dressing-room bestrewn with costumes for all shapes, sizes and sexes.

  “Tiens!” Franchot exclaimed twenty minutes later. “You are an apache to the life, m’sieu. No one would dream!”

  When Timothy surveyed himself in a full-length mirror he was glad that no one would dream. A check cloth cap pulled low over his eyes hid their colour, and grease-paint had turned his face a sallow, thin-cheeked countenance full of villainy. A dirty muffler comprised his neckwear, a ragged coat and a pair of black, soiled trousers his suiting. His shoes were a bright yellow, pointed and down-at-heel.

  “Charming,” said Timothy, with a villainous grin.

  “Vilement!” urged Corinne, flinging a heavy coat over her shoulders and slipping her small feet into a pair of low-heeled shoes. “And whatever you do, m’sieu, say nothing in English. Speak as little as you can.”

  Timothy did not reveal the fact that his argot was equal to any emergencies, but followed Corinne through the labyrinth of streets and alleyways leading, he hoped, to Bob Lavering and the Hôtel Divante. Throughout the journey, which lasted for over half an hour, they passed a dozen furtive figures, prowling vermin looking for easy money, and twice they passed the majesty of the law—two pairs of gendarmes, who knew better than to patrol that district singly. The smell of garbage reeked through the night air, and the cobbles of the roads were strewn with refuse and covered with a greasy slime—the mixture of dirt and a light rainfall. Timothy had thought he knew his Paris, but without Corinne he would have been lost a dozen times.

  “How much further,” he asked, as they dived down the hundredth—he thought—turning since leaving the Côte d’Or.