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

by John Creasey

  ‘My friends,’ said Sir Joseph, turning his caustic wit on the interrupter, ‘you will agree with me that the gentleman at the back of the hall possesses at least one idea, and apparently he has the mistaken impression that…’

  Sir Joseph stopped suddenly, and Kenyon saw that his eyes showed alarm.

  For the burly one was plunging towards the platform like an incensed bull. His rush took him halfway down the hall, but by that time the place was in uproar. A hundred angry members of the New Age Party made for him, and he was in the middle of a seething mass of people.

  Women screamed. Sir Joseph tried in vain to restore order from the platform.

  The audience lost control. There was an ugly, animal ferocity about it, giving Kenyon a sickening insight into the effects of the drug on its addicts. Men roared, women stopped screaming in fear and began to screech in sympathy with their men. At least a dozen little scrimmages started in the hall. Here and there a man bellowed a derisive challenge to Scanling. Before the words had left his mouth he was surrounded and fighting desperately. Kenyon needed no telling that the burly one had created the first diversion, angered the audience, and then his friends in the body of the audience had carried on with the ‘fun’.

  It had happened a hundred times before. The Nationalist Organisation, a small but active one, made a practice of breaking up meetings. The police had been taking strong steps against them—so far with very little success.

  At the first sign of trouble Kenyon had jumped up, flung his arm round Mary and half-pushed, half-carried her towards the door. At that moment the crush was not heavy. She had a clear passage to the street.

  ‘I’m in this,’ he said, cheerfully, as they reached the door. ‘Run like hell to the police-station, near the river—tell ‘em the tale and wait for me.’

  Mary squeezed his hand and sped off, and Kenyon swung back to the hall.

  The place was in uproar. Men and women were swearing, screeching, kicking and cursing—all filled with one murderous intent: to hurt.

  Suddenly Kenyon saw something that made his eyes glisten as he forced his way towards the crowd round the burly interrupter. Half-a-dozen of his friends were there; Curtis, away from Persian Sales, Dodo Trale and several others. Evidence enough that Craigie had been prepared for trouble.

  Curtis saw him—fought towards him.

  ‘Warmish, eh?’ He was beaming all over his face.

  ‘Is it?’ grinned Kenyon, swaying as the crowd hit against him. He saw three uniformed policemen trying to bring order, themselves in as much danger as the members of the Nationalist League. One man went down, and the crowd surged over him. A boot, from heaven-knew-where, hurtled across the room and struck a screaming woman in the face.

  Curtis grabbed her, and swung her over his shoulder.

  ‘Get her out,’ said Kenyon, ‘then tell the others to break up that middle bunch. The danger’s there. Then make a passage to the doors.’

  Curtis nodded. Carrying the woman high above his head, he forced his way to the door and left her in the charge of a policeman.

  ‘Awful, ain’t it, sir?’

  ‘Awful?’ said Curtis with a tremendous beam. ‘Why, it’s lovely, Robert. I haven’t enjoyed myself so much for years. How many on the way?’

  ‘We’ve sent for reinforcements, sir—I don’t know how many.’

  ‘A dozen of us in here,’ said Curtis, over his shoulder, ‘are making a passage. Lend me a hand when you can.’

  Curtis was swallowed up in the surging mass of people. He could see Kenyon, towering above the crowd and hitting out with a ruthless precision at every man in his way. The wave of madness cooled. There was fear on faces where a few moments before there had been hate and fury.

  Dodo Trale loomed up.

  ‘Into that crowd,’ said Curtis.

  Dodo weighed in.

  The burly man was still fighting, but in desperation now. He had unleashed a terrier and found himself attacked by a wolf. His clothes were torn, blood was streaming from his mouth and nose.

  Kenyon was getting towards the man slowly. The crowd was splitting into a dozen little sections, and in each section there was one of Craigie’s men. At the back of Kenyon’s mind there was amazement that Craigie should have anticipated the need, but he had little time for wondering.

  Slowly, almost imperceptibly, a passage was formed, leading from the platform to the door. Kenyon and Trale were forcing the people back. The half dozen policemen on duty in the hall were recovering from the fury of that first outbreak, and were adding their weight. The distinction between the trouble-makers of the Nationalist crowd and the supporters of the New Age had disappeared, but Kenyon, watching the hands of the men about him, saw that by far the greater majority of those who were helping to restore order were without the crescents.

  The trouble-makers had realised the madness of their agitation, and were now trying to put it right. The members of the New Age Party, on the other hand, seemed incapable of acting sensibly. Their fury was replaced by a kind of sullenness.

  At last a large contingent of police arrived—some mounted, to prevent trouble in the streets. Less than half an hour after the attack, it was all over.

  ‘About fifty hospital cases,’ said a sergeant to Kenyon. ‘A mighty bad business, and it would have been worse if you hadn’t.’

  ‘It wasn’t him,’ protested Dodo Trale, plaintively. ‘ ’Twas I, Robert, with my little arrow. What time do the pubs…’

  Kenyon left him, and made for the platform.

  Most of the dozen men who had occupied it had left by a rear exit to the hall, but Sir Joseph Scanling still sat there; silent, frozen—a parody of himself, carved in stone.

  There was an expression in his eyes of deep, heart-searing hurt, as if he had suffered a blow from which he could never recover. It was obvious that he hardly noticed as Kenyon vaulted to the platform. His right hand lay outstretched on the small table by his side—and Kenyon tensed as he saw it. The crescent marks were there.

  He spoke at last, with some effort: ‘There won’t be any more trouble, Sir Joseph. These outbreaks always burn themselves out.’

  Slowly, Scanling turned towards him.

  ‘It’s not burned out,’ he said simply, his voice ringingly impressive by its very lack of emphasis. ‘It’s only the beginning! God, but I’m afraid!’

  ‘Don’t want to take it too badly,’ said Kenyon, with the forced good cheer of a man trying to return life to normality. He proffered his cigarette-case and Scanling took one absently.

  ‘You’re Kenyon, aren’t you? One of Craigie’s men?’

  ‘Got me,’ Kenyon admitted. ‘I was having a look round.’

  ‘Craigie’s men don’t just look round,’ said Scanling, with a short laugh in which the one ingredient missing was amusement. There was something inexpressibly sad about his eyes and his mouth. ‘There’s something I haven’t realised about this. I can’t understand, but I’m afraid…’

  ‘Of what?’ asked Kenyon, his pulse quickening.

  ‘I don’t know… There’s this party. It’s strong—far stronger than the official figures suggest, Kenyon. And tonight—tonight, there was something I don’t understand. I’ve addressed hundreds of meetings and I’ve never had an audience like this before. And I’ve seen plenty of free-fights, but there was something about this one…’

  Scanling shuddered. His face was very white.

  ‘I’m talking nonsense,’ he said. ‘Nonsense! It rather upset me, Kenyon. I…’

  And then it happened.

  Kenyon saw his eyes widen in alarm—and swung round, whipping his gun from his pocket as a scream started from Scanling’s lips. He saw a little man in silver-grey levelling an automatic: saw the wisp of smoke forming in the air above it. His own gun spoke and the little man’s wrist snapped downward, the gun clattering to the floor.

  As a dozen policemen ran towards the platform, Kenyon turned to Scanling.

  The bullet, fired with a silencer, had tak
en him through the neck. It was a horrible wound, welling blood. And now as he slipped to the floor, his eyes were already glazing over; his lips formed to the last sound he would utter.

  The little man who had killed him was surrounded by policemen. But Kenyon could see his face—and knew him for another of the dark-skinned agents of Arnold Serle.

  14

  Craigie Receives Instructions

  Kenyon telephoned Craigie.

  ‘Scanling was killed,’ he reported, ‘while he was talking to me. And I think he was killed because he was talking to me. He confirmed our ideas about the New Age, Gordon.’

  ‘That’s a help,’ said Craigie.

  ‘We’ll have to start watching it, somehow.’ There was a hint of weariness in Kenyon’s voice. ‘Ten thousand branches and a million members!’

  ‘We only want the top men,’ reasoned Craigie.

  ‘How are we to find who they are?’

  ‘We can only try,’ said Craigie, drily. And Kenyon laughed, in spite of himself.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ he suggested, ‘we’d better take Serle. Will you do that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘What charge do you want Miller to use?’

  ‘We’ve the murderer here,’ Kenyon told him. He was speaking from the police-station to which Mary Randall had taken the message. ‘We can say he’s accused Serle of paying him for the shooting. That won’t be far out.’

  ‘I’ll see Fellowes,’ said Craigie.

  For a second time, Kenyon fancied that Craigie spoke as if dubious of police co-operation. And at ten o’clock at night, it needed something of unusual significance for Craigie to contact the Police Commissioner.

  Puzzled, and vaguely uneasy, he replaced the receiver. He found himself wishing suddenly that he could have gone to Godalming in person—been in at the death figuratively speaking, of Arnold Serle.

  He told himself he was being an ass: he could safely leave that job to Righteous Dane and the other agents who had followed Wally Davidson. But the vague sense of apprehension persisted as he took Mary home to Regent’s Park….

  The Chesters were in, but Mick Randall was still out.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ said Kenyon.

  ‘He’ll be back,’ echoed Mary. ‘Jim…’ Her voice was suddenly very anxious; the tremor in it thrilled him: ‘You’ll go carefully, won’t you?’

  ‘I haven’t had my licence endorsed yet,’ said Kenyon. ‘Goodnight, my love.’

  Sleep, Kenyon believed, was nearer to godliness than was cleanliness. He could manage with a few hours nightly over a short period, but in the long run he liked to average his eight hours.

  That night, he was dog-tired. He reached the Gresham Street flat at half-past twelve to find Stinger still waiting up; a Stinger miserable in the making of the new home. The old flat, seven doors away, was still a blackened mass, and in the ashes were the records of Jem Stinger’s reformation.

  ‘I suppose you’d like coffee,’ he offered glumly.

  ‘If you feel like that,’ said Kenyon, ‘go to bed and I’ll make my own.’

  Stinger became noticeably brighter.

  ‘Heverything going all right, Mr. K?’

  ‘Well,’ said Kenyon, dropping into an armchair as Stinger endeavoured to switch on the electric kettle and hand him his slippers at the same time: ‘I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, Jem. How’s the eleventh commandment?’

  ‘Oke,’ said Stinger, sadly. ‘Ain’t ‘ad a caller, Mr. K. Only a bloke from the electric light…’

  ‘Jem,’ murmured Kenyon, ‘were not electric light gentlemen in the commandment?’

  ‘This one was O.K.,’ said Stinger, with a reminiscent grin. ‘I told ‘im to ‘op it. ‘E ‘opped. ‘E came again the next day and I told ‘im to skip. ‘E skipped. Then he came wiv ‘alf a dozen Roberts, including Jowkes and Charlie, what I’ve known for a couple years, so that’s all right, Mr. K.’

  Kenyon made allowances for a little exaggeration, but inquired how Stinger had made his man hop, and then skip.

  ‘Arsk no questions,’ grinned Stinger, rubbing his hands on his trousers. ‘And you hears no…’

  ‘Kettle’s boiling,’ said Kenyon.

  He was reluctant to get out of the chair and make for bed but he knew he would rest better at full length.

  ‘What time in the morning?’ Stinger asked.

  ‘Six—I’ll use my alarm.’

  At half-past nine next morning Stinger—armed with tea, morning papers and a conciliatory smile—called his lord and master. Kenyon grinned, stretched, reached for the tea and saw the clock.

  ‘Half-past…!’ he began, and then offended Stinger’s new-found profanity scruples.

  ‘ ’Ere!’ that worthy protested. ‘All this ‘cos you looked like a coupla mornings after, last night. Have a heart, Mr. K.! And I’ll remind you that…’ And duly reminded him that he was now reformed, that he himself did not swear, and that he did not approve of other people swearing.

  Kenyon shaved, bathed, and dressed quickly—and then for the first time, he glanced at a paper. He saw the great headline and the name of Sir Joseph Scanling, and knew what to expect.

  Then stared at the headline again, hardly able to believe his eyes. It read:

  SIR JOSEPH SCANLING KILLED BY FALL TRAGEDY AT MEETING

  Killed by a fall!

  Gordon Craigie, who needed less rest than any man whom Kenyon had ever known, looked as though he had not slept a wink for a week.

  ‘I know,’ he said, wearily, as Kenyon entered the office. ‘It’s a blow, Jim, but we can’t do anything. It’s been officially condemned as unwise, to reveal how Scanling died. There were only one or two people in the hall at the time of the murder, and the truth won’t spread. It’s being hushed up.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Kenyon, tonelessly.

  ‘For the same reason that Serle wasn’t touched last night.’

  ‘He wasn’t?’

  Five minutes before Kenyon would have been staggered by the news. Now, he had half-suspected it. For over a week he had recognised that sense of oppression; that feeling that he was fighting against something much deeper, much stronger, than he had hitherto conceived. The truth of that impression was striking home.

  ‘Fellowes is all right,’ added Craigie, with a sudden, cheering smile. ‘But he can’t do a thing. He’s being stopped. I’m being stopped. The Powers That Be are…’

  ‘Marked,’ said Kenyon.

  ‘Marked,’ agreed Craigie. ‘I was at a conference this morning. I was told that my efforts to re-open the old Rensham scandal were considered unnecessary, and I was asked to submit all my future plans to the Cabinet.’

  ‘You might as well shut up shop!’ Kenyon experienced a sudden and intense surge of dislike for the politicians who ruled, or thought they ruled.

  ‘All of them—with three exceptions—had the mark of the crescent,’ Craigie told him, and Kenyon nodded.

  The mark was everywhere, he thought bitterly. And its effect, in the first stages, at least, was like some hypnotic drug. Certainly, under its influence, its addicts did as they were told by…

  By whom?

  That was the question. By whom? Serle was not a big enough man to be at the top of this nationwide organisation. There was someone else, someone leading him, leading all the others.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ said Kenyon, suddenly. ‘I’d started to think, last night, that the New Age Party was an attempt to gain political power. But if the present Cabinet’s tainted…’

  ‘Cabinet, not Parliament,’ Craigie reminded him. ‘Not even the Government. And it’s surprising the amount of power a single Cabinet has. It takes months to get past it. You’ll have questions in Parliament; I might even get a question asked about the Scanling hush-hush. But what happens? The Government promises to investigate. The Cabinet advises such and such course of action. It’s taken. The question’s forgotten. It happens hundreds of times every session.’

  ‘But if they’ve infected the Cabinet,�
� murmured Kenyon, ‘why stop there? Why not run through the whole House?’

  Craigie smiled as his hand strayed towards his meerschaum.

  ‘It’s easier to get at a dozen men than several hundred, Jim. One man in the Cabinet could influence them all; he might use cigarettes, he might hold a luncheon-party—there are a dozen ways it could be done. But to get at the whole House is a different matter. And anyhow, supposing they managed to drug everyone at Westminster, and forgot the man in the street? The man in the street would turn his Member out, and the job would have to start all over again. No’—Craigie stuffed his pipe—’it’s been diabolically well arranged, Jim. This hush-hush won’t be needed for long. Just for a few weeks. There’s agitation for an appeal to the country within two or three months. That means Parliament will break up inside a month, and the Government isn’t averse to an election. The rank and file don’t realise what’s in store for them, but they do know that the Government stock is falling fast. In another six months the Socialist vote will sweep the country. A fight now might bring the present crowd back with a majority, even if a slender one.’

  Kenyon drummed his fingers on his chair.

  ‘So we’re going to have a general election, and the New Age Party is going to top the poll. That’s it, eh?’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ said Craigie, cautiously. He was looking less tired. ‘Of course, this Cabinet disapproval is making it awkward. Fellowes can’t move much. Nor can I—or so they think.’

  ‘Think?’ Kenyon prodded, eagerly.

  ‘We’ll work that out in a minute,’ Craigie assured him. I want you to see the whole thing clearly, Jim. You’ve a pretty thorough idea of what’s happening. A strong effort to gain control of the country by constitutional methods is being made. So far as the rest of the world is concerned we’ll still be under a normal Government, if the New Age Party tops the poll.’

  ‘I see.’ Kenyon’s face was pale.

  ‘I don’t believe,’ Craigie went on, drily, ‘in the man who wants power for power’s sake. I’m not thinking that we’re going to be presented with a dictator. For one thing, the G.B.P. won’t stand for it.’