by John Creasey
The poor blighter had been so confident of his arrangements, too. Kerr said tersely:
‘Gordon, Doriennet had made plans, and he went directly to Horn’s place. What does that suggest to you?’
‘That Horn was going to help him.’
‘Yes – but Horn denies it. Says he hadn’t expected to see the man, and had never seen him before.’
‘We’ll try and find out when Doriennet was last in England,’ Craigie said, tapping out his pipe. ‘I wouldn’t trust Horn too far. But the little fellow you managed to catch could be significant.’
‘Red Face.’ Kerr screwed up his nose. ‘We-ell – I’d put him down simply as a hired killer. Whoever sent him guessed I’d be in the Lane House direction soon after Doriennet’s death was discovered.’
Craigie nodded.
‘That suggests that they knew he’d been to see you.’
‘They knew that all right – or Mr Kryn did,’ said Kerr. ‘Unless I’m a long way out in my reckoning, Kryn knew I followed him, and knows he’s being watched now. Are you thinking of hauling him in and trying to make him talk?’
‘Not yet,’ Craigie said. ‘He might lead us to something useful. He’s better where he is, as Mr. Jacobs at the Riltaz. A pity Fencer won’t – or can’t – talk.’
Kerr’s face looked bleak.
He had spent half-an-hour at Lane House, with the little red-faced man in the blue suit, who had admitted to the name of Fencer. He was, he said a hired gunman. He had spent some time in America, been shot out, and wandered through the Continent before being hired to go to England. The letter hiring him had not been signed but the postmark had been Paris.
Thereafter, Fencer said, he took orders by letter or telephone. He had rooms in a small Bayswater Hotel, was paid a retaining fee and so much for any special job he did. He had no idea who had talked to him, and could not describe the voice of the man who always gave instructions although now and again a woman spoke, and Fencer described her voice as a razz; apparently he meant attractive. He had been ordered to burn all letters after receiving them, he had obeyed and swore he had committed no other shooting offences in England.
‘I’m prepared to swear he doesn’t know anything more,’ said Kerr.’ Nothing he’s done will help us – excepting that Kryn now lacks one gunman.’
Craigie nodded.
‘It’s disappointing, but we can’t expect too much. I don’t think you’d better go to Vallena yet – it looks as if there’s work to be done over here. But you might find out what you can about Adam Criff. I can tell you that he has booked an Airways seat for Poland, leaving tomorrow.’
‘It’s an odd fact,’ said Bob Kerr with a grin, ‘but I was thinking about Adam myself. Lois doesn’t seem to be known in this show yet. Now if Criff wanted a secretary –’
Craigie smiled and yawned.
‘An old, old trick, though it might work. But be careful, Bob. There’ll be another packet of reports in the morning, and if you phone through I’ll be able to pass the gist of them on. Goodnight.’
Kerr nodded briefly, pressed the button and let himself out. He went to his flat by the shortest route, and he was as sure as he could be that no one had followed him. That probably meant that, or that Kryn had no other attacking forces available at the moment.
Kryn – and Adam Criff.
Oddly similar names, thought Bob Kerr, and then he told himself he was getting too imaginative, took a weak whisky and soda, and turned in, an automatic close to his right hand. The time for taking chances had gone.
* * *
Mr. Adam Criff had not slept at all on Sunday night.
Nor had the two other gentlemen, obviously of non-English extraction, who were with him that evening in his Park Lane flat.
Gregaroff Shirin, as his name suggested, was a Russian. A White Russian, he allowed it to be said with some pride. For many years he had been very poor indeed, but the last twelve months – since Doriennet had started getting instructions and refusing to obey them – he had prospered. He was tall and clean-shaven, his hair close-cropped. Even dressed in an English-cut lounge suit, he gave the impresson of being a professional soldier. Gregaroff Shirin, in fact, could recall the days when he had been a Captain in the Imperial Guard, and a friend of the Tsar.
Karl von Hauf was an entirely different type of man. Fat, short, over-paunched, no one knew where the “von” had come from. He talked very little, and when he did he lisped.
He had been warned a few days before the first of the Berlin purges, and he had very sensibly taken that warning; an Aryan mother not quite cancelling out a Jewish father in the opinion of the Nazi regime.
Gregaroff Shirin, then, a Russian who hated the ruling powers in his native country, and Karl von Hauf, a German who detested the ruling spirits in his own distant land, were consulting with that remarkably polished, handsome and persuasive gentleman known as Adam Criff. Criff loved all countries – he said – and hated none. Towards the end of that long, all-night sitting when policy in a dozen ways had been discussed, he was perilously close to hating representatives of Russia and Germany. The discussion was one involving risk, and Criff might have shown his irritation, for Shirin favoured wild chances and von Hauf excessive caution that was equivalent to stagnancy but for the announcement from a tired valet-butler that her ladyship had called.
Criff started to his feet in surprise.
‘Lady Mondell?’
‘Yes, sir, she –’
Criff’s man went no further, for Lady Mondell entered the room behind him without fuss or abruptness. She was a startlingly beautiful woman, as the expression of the three men testified.
‘My dear Rene –’
Lady Mondell waved her hand.
‘You’re a fine fool, Adam.’
‘A – fool!’ von Hauf gasped. Here was sacrilege of the type that would have meant a concentration camp in the Fatherland. Criff also looked taken aback; only Shirin saw an expression in milady’s eyes that told of alarm.
She stripped her gloves off slowly.
‘A fool, I said. Otherwise – there wouldn’t be one of Craigie’s men at the back and one at the front. Understand that, Adam. Craigie’s men. They’re watching you, they’ve found Doriennet, they’ve caught Fencer.’ She hesitated, her pose of coolness dropping. She took three short, sharp steps towards the trio, her hands outstretched and her eyes pools of fear. ‘What are we going to do – what are we going to do? They’ve caught us!’
Chapter 5
Milady Lies
The three men in the room of the Park Lane flat had been successful in entirely different mediums. Adam Criff was essentially an organiser: he might have been called the chief director of the trio, and its campaign, Gregaroff Shirin was the liaison officer, and Karl von Hauf manipulated the one thing for which he had a genius – money. None of these three mediums really called for courage.
Now, at Lady Mondell’s words, spoken with fear and appeal, Shirin’s fresh-coloured face went fresher, and his hands clenched at his sides, while von Hauf uttered a sound – half-squeak, half-groan – of horror. For both of them knew something of the power of Department Z, and the strength of which its agents were capable.
Criff knew as much if not more, and after the moment of strained silence following the woman’s words, his laugh came like a douche of cold water.
‘A very melodramatic entry, my dear Rene. I thought you had some bad news.’
‘Bad news? Why, my poor –’
‘Fool, you’ve said it twice,’ murmured Criff, ‘why boggle at a third time?’ He stepped to the sideboard, elegant, non-chalant and superbly self-controlled, and poured out a finger of whisky. The gurgle as it fell into the glass echoed clearly. He half-filled it with water, and carried it to Lady Mondell. She took it doubtfully.
‘Drink it. You need it.’
Rene Mondell drank it, pushing her head back and screwing her eyes up as it went down. It was odd that she had always made a habit of doing what Criff ordere
d. People did.
Von Hauf spoke jerkily, his voice higher than usual.
‘But Criff – Criff! Vat vill happen, I must say Lady Mondell seems vise, yeth, I –’
‘Be quiet,’ snapped Criff, and there was a difference in his expression and his voice which sent von Hauf back into his chair abruptly. ‘Do you want us to panic in a bad moment? Shirin, pull yourself together.’
The outburst did Criff good.
He had been startled and he was still perturbed by the news that Rene had brought him. It was disquieting, to say the least. He had no idea that the Department agents had got on to him. But he could confer as much as he liked with whom he liked: there was nothing the Department could do against him – yet.
Rene, of course, was always inclined to be hysterical. She kept up so far, and then gave way. One day he would have to teach her a lesson.
Shirin’s voice, was hoarse.
‘Talk – talk. What are you going to do? Here are agents – men after us – perhaps come for us –’
‘And then you’ll go for trial and perhaps to prison,’ sneered Criff. ‘It would be an excellent way of looking after you. Von Hauf, stop squealing!’
There was no doubt then that in their different ways the other three were afraid of him. Rene was sitting back with her eyes half-closed, her expression as she looked towards Criff far from friendly. The whisky, apparently, had cleared her mind, as well as steadying her nerves. She had suddenly seen something that was half-animal in this pleasant-voiced, smiling, indubitably handsome man with – it was reputed – an inconceivable fortune to make him still more eligible.
Von Hauf simply sat back and shivered. Shirin stopped pacing the room, for despite his half-hearted defiance, his fear was obvious.
‘Well – since you are so brave, so clever – ’
Adam Criff stared at him, and then he laughed lightly. The mask was back, and he looked, again, the man who was such a success in Mayfair drawing-rooms. His dark, short-clipped moustache, his handsome head with the crisp, almost black hair, the well-cut features with the rather sensitive-looking nostrils and the too-shapely lips, seemed to form again. The ugly glint left his brown eyes.
‘What idiots we are! You were right, Rene, I am a fool to get alarmed and sharp-tongued over a little thing like this. There is, in fact, nothing at all to worry about. Apologies, my dear! Shirin, help yourself – and von Hauf – to whisky.’
Peace seemed to fall over the quartette, a peace ruffled only by the knowledge in all their minds that the Department men were outside.
Lady Mondell broke the silence.
In repose she looked even lovelier than she had when she had entered. She had dropped her fur coat over the arm of her chair, and her legs, long, slim, sheathed in gossamer, seemed to fascinate Shirin.
‘So now we’re all friends again, Adam, what are you going to do?’
‘Well – it is not so hard. Fencer, you say, is caught. But he knows nothing, and can do no harm. Doriennet has been found. Why not? They had to find him somewhere – was he with Horn, by any chance?’
‘No. Fencer shot him near the garage –’ She broke off with a shudder, and Criff brushed the sordid matter of a murder to one side. Rene had never accustomed herself to the fact that murder, particularly when the stakes were high, was sometimes inevitable.
‘But on Horn’s premises, eh? Excellent work, excellent! Nothing at all points to us, so, apart from the fact that I am suspected of – shall we say? – interest in Vallena, what is there to worry about? You see how stupid it is to panic, my dear? I wonder – yes, I wonder how long they’ve been there?’
Lady Mondell tapped out the ash of her cigarette thoughtfully.
‘Since about three o’clock, as far as the night porter can tell me. I – I recognised them immediately, and I went round to the courtyard to see if there was anyone there. There was – a big man named Loftus. None of Craigie’s special agents are there, though.’
‘I thought so,’ said Criff, complacently. ‘Merely a matter of idle curiosity, and as Shirin and von Hauf came here with the utmost caution at ten o’clock last night, no one is likely to know they are here now. You both came the back way?’
He glanced towards Shirin and von Hauf, and they nodded with the alacrity of jack-in-the-boxes. Criff’s smile grew even more complacent.
‘You see, Rene? No cause for alarm after all.’
Rene Mondell was beginning to think so herself.
In many ways she was a remarkable woman. Not yet thirty, she had passed from the chorus to the position of leading lady on the provincial stage, and from there to espionage work; first in England and then abroad. Her backers, one of whom was Criff, had not found it difficult to make her a stage star. There were some thousands of people, among whom were certain dramatic critics, who believed her to be a good actress. Even those who did not, conceded that with her superb figure, a reasonably good voice and an excellent sense of mimicry she did well enough.
As a leading light of the West End stage, however, she had not shone for long.
Still in the pay of Adam Criff, on a strictly business footing, for despite contrary rumours she was not a lady of loose morals, she had gone to Berlin officially on a holiday – actually to work for Criff. Her object was to get information from a colleague of the Fuhrer’s, and she had failed. Criff had hardly expected anything else.
Nor had he expected her to meet Sir Douglas Mondell in Berlin.
Mondell, on the young side of middle age, was the most accomplished liar, lady-killer and dilettante related to the British peerage. He had never served in diplomacy, although his older brother was at that time a temporary attaché to the Berlin Embassy. Mondell had fallen in love with Rene, and believing everything he said, she had married him.
Criff had heard of this with mixed feelings.
He knew Rene remarkably well, and he was sure that her loyalties would not be divided when she was married. He might have been right in this had Sir Douglas, after his marriage, chosen to lead a life of righteousness. He had not so chosen. Three years brought them to the point of a legalised separation.
Mondell, who depended for his money on an elder relative who would undoubtedly have cut his allowance had matters gone to the length of a divorce was pleased enough to let it rest there.
As a consequence Rene, with time on her hands, looked round for something to do.
Stage work was hardly becoming for the wife of a baronet, and when Criff had approached her again she had willingly enough agreed to operate for him. At first her task had been simply to get information from wealthy industrialists in various countries, but it had slowly widened its scope. In the course of it, and with Criff’s help, she had come to know by sight most of the agents of Department Z. Because other things had made it essential, she had learned a little of Criff’s intentions in regard to them.
In short, that he looked on one or two as dangerous, and planned to remove them.
Criff had long foreseen the need for having complete control over her. There was only one way. Criff sent her to France on an unimportant job which he assured her was of vital importance. During the course of it a man had died violently. He had seen to it that circumstances pointed to Rene Mondell. Through his agents Criff had rescued her from a particularly nasty predicament, planning – should she show any inclination to desert him – to bring pressure to bear on the strength of this unsolved French crime.
Rene Mondell had a certain astuteness, but not a great deal of intelligence. If she was told exactly what to do and how to go about it, she could be an unqualified success, but if she had to start thinking seriously for herself, disaster was almost sure to follow. Gradually Criff’s hold on her tightened until she honestly believed that she had to do what he told her.
Familiarity, even with violence, brought a measure of indifference towards it. Criff believed that she was too frightened to disobey an order. One day perhaps she would be too frightened even to obey, and then there would be an ac
cident, but for the time being she was as fully in his confidence as anyone else – on the same level, in fact, as Shirin and von Hauf.
The measure of her fright could be judged from her manner when she had rushed into the flat with the news. She had her own flat in the same block, and there was no one to say she had visited Criff, unless the Department Z watchers had followed her. There was not the slightest reason to believe that they had.
No one had seen his two visitors, for they had come through the servants’ doors.
Now, about to depart, Criff saw no danger.
‘Excellent,’ he said and not for the first time. ‘Von Hauf, you will go first – the back way. Shirin, you are better known in London, and you will go next. Should – yes, should anyone question you, say you have been with Lady Mondell! It is an excellent idea!’
Rene Mondell sat up sharply.
‘It – ’
‘You will do exactly what you’re told,’ Criff said to Shirin. ‘Should there be questions – even friendly questions – say that. Perhaps it would be a good idea to visit the all-night café, in Oxford Street. You might be followed, and asked questions. Rene, surely you have the good sense to realise that we must make absolutely sure that Shirin and I are not known to be associated?’
She frowned: Criff decided that it might be wiser to concede the point, for it was not of vital importance.
‘All right – make use of it, Shirin, only in emergency. And tomorrow – there must be no more mistakes with Kerr. He is dangerous, I do not know of a man I fear more. Strike quickly, and the danger is over. Delay, and we may find ourselves in trouble. You understand, all of you?’
Shirin nodded. Von Hauf was by the door, and at a nod from Criff he pushed through, worried and trembling.
‘Have you any ideas on how to deal with Kerr?’ asked the Russian.
‘Have I? That is your task, Shirin, and you surely have plenty of people to help you. Remember, use them only one at a time.’ Criff chuckled as the door closed gently behind Gregaroff Shirin. But there was something animal in the sound. However, he was courtesy himself as he turned to Rene. ‘And now, my dear, you must be tired. You have been a long time getting back from Surrey.’