by John Creasey
Freddie, who was not equipped for the ordinary trials of working life, had found it more than hard to endure. In time the quarrel between his father and Matthew Horn (his mother’s brother) had been patched up, and for nearly two years now Freddie had worked five days a week in the offices of Horn, Beddle, Graham & Co., importers and exporters, and spent the other two days at Lane House.
Full of cheer and well-being, he opened the door of the morning-room and had something of a shock: why, damn it, the girl was almost beautiful! The way she smiled at him for instance, made his heart flutter.
Freddie hurried forward.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me, Mr Kingham.’ He would have forgiven anyone who could smile at him like that. ‘I had to come unofficially, and could not give the butler my card.’
Despite his request, she was standing close to him. Her perfume, whatever it was, had a subtlety Freddie was experienced enough to admire. With the sun shining on her hair like that she – Good God!
For Freddie Kingham had glanced from her hair to the card she had given him, and he saw:
Miss L. I. Dale
Special Branch,
Scotland Yard, S.W.1.
‘S-Scotland Yard!’ breathed Freddie Kingham, groping for cigarettes. ‘I – smoke? No, I’ve got a match. But what on earth do you want to see me about?’
Miss L. I. Dale, whom Bob Kerr would have identified as Lois Dacre, of Craigie’s Department Z, smiled again as she sat down opposite the youthful member of the firm of Horn, Beddle and Graham.
‘Well, it’s not too easy to explain, Mr Kingham. I must say at once that I have to rely on your discretion, and not a word of this conversation must be repeated. Can you promise that?’
Freddie frowned unhappily.
‘We-ll. It rather depends what it’s about, you know –’
Lois Dacre changed her opinion of the man in front of her. Nine out of ten, at his age, would have promised to hold their tongues for ever, and afterwards blurted her questions out at the first opportunity. If this man promised secrecy he would maintain it: that was refreshing.
‘I quite understand,’ she assured him. ‘But before we talk, I wonder if you’ll make sure we can’t be overheard?’
Freddie looked startled.
‘Good Lord, that’s all right. Walls here are as thick as blazes, and the door’s curtained. Absolute privacy guaranteed. But look here –’
‘It’s going to sound absurd, and you’ll wonder why I’ve talked like I have, but I’m really anxious that your Uncle should know nothing of this for a while, Mr Kingham. No, it’s nothing criminal, it’s merely something we are investigating for another firm, and the trails happen to cross.’
Freddie licked his lips. Here was a peach of a girl and a spot of police inquiries, both things in which he had always specialised in a purely detached and independent manner.
‘Carry on, please.’
‘Thanks. You work at the offices of Horn, Beddle and Graham, don’t you?’
‘Yes. Have done for a couple of years, more or less. I’m a kind of liaison officer or tact merchant between departments and the customers.’
Lois Dacre laughed. Kingham was a refreshing youngster.
‘Then you’ve been overworked lately, haven’t you?’
‘Overworked?’ Freddie wondered if she were pulling his leg. ‘Well, hardly. Been a few spots of bother one way and the other, but generally I can’t say I’m put on. Folks are pretty decent on the whole, you know.’
‘I was thinking of the consignments of goods you’ve had recently from the exporters of Baj.’
Lois spoke guilelessly, yet watching for reaction; she found what she was looking for. Freddie started, and then frowned. She saw that he possessed a stronger character than she had supposed.
‘I see. How on earth you got on to that I don’t know, but it’s certainly been the bane of my life. Lost us a packet in orders, too. A messy business. Clocks,’ broke off Freddie with a grimace, ‘when we ordered tie-presses, and that’s a mild one. Soap for margarine once, and – but still, you seem to know all about it.’
Lois shook her head.
‘I don’t, but I’ve heard a little, and I want to learn more. As a matter of fact there’s one thing you can perhaps tell me right away, and another you might be able to get for me. First, how many Vallenian firms have supplied the right things lately?’
Freddie scratched his chin.
‘We-ll, in point of fact, only Doriennet’s have been consistently on the mark, and we had a cable in today saying they’re going out of business. Looks as though we’ll have to close down with our orders over there. What’s the other thing?’
Lois Dacre hesitated before she spoke.
‘Mr Kingham, this inquiry is an unusual one, and we are anxious that no principals of the firms concerned should know of it. I’m trying to get a complete list of the wrongly-shipped goods, and all the firms concerned. Would that be possible, do you think?’
Freddie looked a little put out.
‘Without Uncle Matt knowing, eh? Well, it could be done, but I’m afraid I can’t do it. You must see that. He is my uncle, you know, and a pretty good sort.’
Lois nodded sympathetically.
‘Of course. I hardly expected you to say yes, and later on we shall probably have to get the particulars from other firms as well as yourselves. Don’t worry about it. Now one other question, and I needn’t trouble you again. Have you ever come in contact with a Vallenian – or anyone Vallenian – who is abnormally tall? I’m afraid that’s the only description I have of him at the moment.’
‘You mean Kryn,’ said Freddie with certainty.
‘Kryn?’
‘K-R-Y-N. He’s a kind of floating commission man, if you know what I mean. Doesn’t work for any particular firm, but often slides in with a bit of commission. For instance, we might want a dozen gross of clocks, and if we get half a gross extra – at his request – we can buy ’em for a much lower price than he could get a single half-gross lot. Following me?’
‘Yes, quite well.’
‘Good. Kryn gets us to order that extra half-gross, and we sell to him at the price we pay. No profit in it for us, but a bit later we might want a small quantity of a certain article, and he can get them from another exporter or importer at a low price – much less than we’d have to pay. It’s a bit complicated,’ said Freddie considerately, ‘but you get used to it.’
‘I think I’ve got it,’ said Lois, demurely.
Freddie did not know the jubilation that was filling Agent Eleven of Department Z. Lois Dacre had hardly expected to get information so promptly about the tall man whom the remarkable M. Jules Doriennet, of Baj, had mentioned. Moreover she had obtained confirmation in many ways of the Vallenian’s story, sufficiently corroborative at least to make it more likely to be true than false.
Freddie Kingham beamed. He had forgotten that it was half-past six, and that at six-forty-five he was due at the house of friends, fifteen miles away. He could not have said it in so many words, but he was experiencing a complete sense of contentment. He was reminded of the earlier days of his youth, when he had once met and spoken to the celebrated and god-like cricketer of the year.
‘Good work, Miss Dale! Not everyone gets into it as quickly as you do – it took me a month,’ he added with disarming frankness. ‘But I was never really bright. Look here, what put you on to me?’
Lois said that the caretaker of the offices had known Mr Frederick Kingham worked there and also lived with his uncle, the firm’s only remaining original partner. But she failed to say a lot that would have greatly interested Freddie.
* * *
In the three and a half hours since Doriennet had left 77g Brook Street, many things had happened with the speed and thoroughness that characterised the agents of Department Z at work. The agent named Trale had followed Doriennet as far as Heston, where the Vallenian had taken a private plane, and started for the Lord knew where. Trale had taken the numbe
r, make and description of the plane, discovered the name of the pilot from the offices, learned that Doriennet, who had booked the bus in his right name, was officially going to Scotland, and telephoned all this to Gordon Craigie, who had sat in his Whitehall office waiting for the developments to take on some pattern.
Bob Kerr, meanwhile, had passed an interesting hour.
The extremely tall man, whose name it later turned out was Kryn, followed Doriennet as far as the turning towards Heston Airport. Both he and Doriennet had used taxis: Kerr had commandeered the powerful car that Trale had left behind, and Trale had managed to get a small Frazer Nash.
Apparently Kryn had been satisfied that Doriennet needed no further following.
He had taken the same taxi back to Piccadilly, alighted at the Circus, and then walked to the Riltaz Hotel. Kerr had taken the car by easy stages to the hotel, waited five minutes and then discovered – because he was known to the receptionist – that the tall man had booked a room in the name of Jacobs, and that he had never been to the hotel before.
This Kerr telephones at once to Craigie who detailed two men – a certain, long, weary-looking and well-dressed gentleman known as Wallace Davidson, and another almost as tall, named Robert Carruthers – to visit the Riltaz Hotel and watch ‘Jacobs’ or his visitors. He had also been in touch with Lois Dacre, who had visited Scotland Yard to discover what she could of Doriennet’s business associates in England.
The Yard had had little trouble in discovering that Messrs. Horn, Beddle and Graham of Tooley Street, S.E., had for some time been Doriennet’s best English customer.
Armed with Kerr’s knowledge of the tall man (through Craigie) Lois had visited Lane House, situated some mile and a half from Camberley High Street, and an hour-and-a-half’s run from London.
Here she learned what little Freddie knew of Kryn, and then, to Freddie’s sorrow, took her leave. She had hinted at the likelihood of needing his help again, had left her private phone number and her Audley Street address, and suggested that if anyone wondered why she had called, he should tell them that she was an old acquaintance of his.
Regretfully, Freddie watched her driving off in a small Morris. Halfway up the stairs he ran into Bennet.
Delighted with his diplomatic role he called out:
‘I did know her, Bennet – very old friend of my palmier days – quite O.K. if she should call here again.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Freddie went to his room, refilled his cigarette case, telephoned his friends at Farnham that he would be late, and went blithely out to the garage.
It was some way from the house, and he was whistling happily as he unlocked the doors. He hooked them back, and was about to slip into the driving seat of his Singer Sports model, when he caught sight of the thing.
Freddie stopped, and went very still.
At first glance it was a coat. An unfamiliar coat, of a lightish brown fur, bundled into a corner and difficult to see. But as he stared he saw feet poking from one end, and a head from the other – a head that it was difficult to recognise, for the top seemed to have been blown right off.
Chapter 3
Things Move
Freddie Kingham’s first reaction was to be sick.
His face had lost all colour, and he found it impossible to move. This odd, paralytic effect on his limbs scared him. He remembered feeling something like it when an army tank had crashed into his last car, and he had seen it coming without being able to do the first thing in self-defence. Then, as now, he had escaped with little more than shock.
But – but good God! It was ghastly!
He moved his right hand tremblingly. Somehow he disliked leaving the thing there, but he had to go. He turned his eyes away, and then caught sight of a maid outside the kitchen door.
His first call was a croak, and then his voice grew firmer. The maid heard him, and drew near; a young, chubby-faced little baggage always ready for an amorous approach.
‘Yes, Mr Frederick?’
She must have seen the pallor of his cheeks, for her hopeful smile disappeared.
‘Are – are you all right, sir? Shall I –’
‘Cut in, and tell Bennet to bring Mr Horn, at once,’ said Freddie, more steadily than he had expected. ‘Don’t lose a second.’
The girl was startled into acting promptly. Freddie saw her disappear, pushed his hand through his mouse-coloured hair, and lit a cigarette.
It tasted like blotting paper. Damn it, why didn’t the others come?
Then he saw Bennet and Matthew Horn striding from the house. Bennet showed no expression. Matthew Horn looked prepared to be annoyed or angered.
That, however, was his perpetual expression.
He was no taller than his nephew, but very thick-set. People seeing him for the first time were amused, until they looked into a dark, rather forbidding face with a wide, close-cropped moustache. The moustache gave his face a more ferocious expression than really suited it, and his surprisingly clear and pleasant blue eyes came as something of a shock.
His voice, when it came, was cultured, well-modulated and authoritative.
‘Well now, Freddie, what’s the trouble?’
Kingham lowered his cigarette with a hand that trembled.
‘Sorry – Uncle. It’s pretty – beastly. In the garage.’
‘My dear boy –’
‘A dead man,’ Kingham said faintly.
Bennet’s mouth gaped, and he started back as though he was about to be assaulted. Horn’s only change was a narrowing of his eyes.
‘All right, old boy. Where is it?’
‘In the corner of the – garage,’ Freddie muttered. ‘I really can’t – can’t face it again. Shall I – phone the police?’
‘Stay just where you are,’ said Matthew Horn.
He walked forward, surprisingly sprightly for a man of his bulk and age. Bennet lagged behind him. Freddie saw them disappear into the garage, one after the other. They did not disappear for long, and when they came out Bennet’s pallow had increased, while Matthew Horn’s face was grim.
‘Stay here, Freddie – no need to go nearer the garage – and make sure no one approaches. I’ll send for Browning, and then telephone the police.’
He started off at a jog trot, Bennet following him, to the house. In a couple of minutes a tall, ungainly looking man dressed in a loose tweed suit considerably the worse for wear, arrived. This was Browning, the Lane House odd-job man.
Browning had been the gardener’s boy until the outbreak of the war. Six months of Flanders had given him six years in hospital with shell-shock. Matthew Horn had afterwards taken him back in his employ. Although Browning’s nerve had been shattered for some things – he could not drive a car, for instance, and he hated any kind of gardening calling for knives or shears – when there had been a fatal accident near the house he had shown no more than the normal reaction to the sight of death and mutililation.
‘Bit o’ trouble, sir?’
‘Looks like it,’ Freddie agreed. ‘Don’t go in. You haven’t seen any strangers about, have you?’
Browning scratched his chin.
‘Well, yes an’ no, sir. They comes orf that footpath by the fence rather a lot, sir – arter the apples. No saying who might have come in or gorn out, come to think.’
Freddie remembered that there was a small gateway leading from the side of the garage to a public footpath. The gate was easily opened, and the gardeners had a running feud with the local lads bent on rifling the orchard. Certainly anyone could have entered the garage.
But how had the man in the fur coat got there?
His nerve steadier, Freddie began to think out whys and wherefores. And then suddenly he remembered the woman from Scotland Yard. She was a complete stranger, and she had been at hand.
No! He was going crackers, a woman of that type would not have done a thing like murder. Anyhow, she was working for the police. By Jove, inquiring about Doriennet, too! This looked hot! When the lo
cal police arrived he could –
Freddie suddenly remembered that he had promised not to talk of her visit. He was a man of his word, and he did not persuade himself that it would be justifiable to break it now. Pity she would not be home yet, but he could leave a message. She had been gone half-an-hour now, and ought to be in London before eight o’clock.
* * *
At a quarter to eight, Bob Kerr was sitting in a roomy office just off Whitehall.
It was barely furnished, particularly at the far end, where a few filing cabinets – increasing year by year – a table with several telephones, and a dictaphone were standing. At the other end, clustered round a slow-burning coal fire, were two easy chairs, several hard-back ones, a cupboard with the door closed but containing a remarkable collection of oddments from foodstuffs to clean collars, and two small tables.
It was the office of Department Z.
Gordon Craigie, sitting back now in the easiest of the easy chairs, spent so much time there that he needed a section to serve as living quarters. Craigie’s coffee – he drank it throughout the day – was famous, but Craigie himself was known as the Chief of Department Z only to a few. In recent years the few had increased. He had conducted various campaigns, in international and national affairs, that had brought him unwelcome publicity: to foreign powers even a certain notoriety.
In England, however, he was little known.
The Cabinet knew him, and some of its members cursed him for the frankness of his comments on their actions. Craigie sometimes said that for every mistake they made he had a week of sleepless nights. But he was essentially non-political, and the more honest members of changing cabinets appreciated his frankness, and liked him.
So did the agents of Department Z.