by John Creasey
With luck, he would learn more about it in Baj, Vallena.
* * *
About the time that Kerr left Craigie’s office, a monoplane dropped down on to a private airfield on the outskirts of Baj.
One of the four passengers, a very tall man, would have been recognised by anyone in Craigie’s Department, or by the police. Mr Kryn was home again.
With Kryn was a young, pug-faced man, sometimes called Brown but more often known by the name of Herrod. Herrod was not too pleased with life: Kryn had not been entirely deceived by that story of Craigie’s lucky escape from a bullet in the back.
The third passenger was von Hauf, the fourth, Gregaroff Shirin.
The four men hurried to a waiting Rolls Royce and were taken as luxuriously as possible – for Vallena was an exceedingly hilly country, and the roads were bad – towards the centre of the city.
At a large house not far from the royal palace, occupied by the reigning Prince Renol, the Rolls Royce stopped.
They were admitted by a liveried footman. Shirin, von Hauf and Herrod were ushered into one of the palatial reception rooms, while Kryn went, unattended, up the stairs.
He reached a door painted black, and pressed a bell-push sharply, three or four times. There was a pause, and a click. Kryn opened the door, and entered the most depressing room, perhaps that he had ever been in.
It was windowless, the ceiling of painted glass, the floor carpeted a dull black. The luxurious furniture carried still further this sombre hue.
The room had only one occupant – a woman.
She sat at a black desk in a black chair, and she was dressed entirely in black. Not a shade of relief showed, apart from the dead whiteness of her face, and her hands, until one saw her hair. It was of Titian red, coiled about her head in a superb coiffure.
‘Well, Kryn?’
She spoke in English, her voice, rather pleasant and musical, completely free from the melodrama that might have been expected from such bizarre surroundings.
Kryn bowed.
‘I had your orders, Highness, and I have returned.’
‘The others are with you?’
‘Those you told to come.’
‘That is well, Kryn. You had a good journey?’
‘Excellent, Highness.’
‘And the situation in England?’
‘I think it can safely be said that no one suspects the truth, Highness.’
For the first time her face relaxed.
‘That is good, Kryn. You left evidence behind you pointing to the fact that you have come to Vallena?’
‘Your orders have been obeyed in every detail, Highness.’
She nodded again.
‘We are nearly ready, then. The woman Mondell – she is coming?’
‘She has not yet said so, Highness, but it is almost certain. We shall be advised by eleven-thirty, English time, tomorrow.’
‘And her husband?’
‘He will be cared for.’
‘I see. And now – Kerr. He is still alive. He has so many lives that man. I am almost convinced that he is as dangerous as I have been told.’
‘He is a man,’ said Kryn simply.
‘And mortal.’ She laughed.
‘Now that they will know where you are, Kerr will come. His injury is not serious?’
‘I do not think it will detain him more than two or three days, Highness.’
‘Will he bring others?’
‘It is likely.’
‘I should like to see Kerr,’ she said slowly, ‘before he dies. He sounds interesting. Well, Kryn, progress has been well-maintained here, you see. The tariff has gone through, much against the Prince’s wishes, but it has gone through. The first of many. And we are already estranged from Moscow. It was foolish of Moscow to allow Vonovitch to assassinate the unfortunate Sigmund, eh, Kryn?’
For once the man’s dark eyes showed a lurking smile.
‘Most unfortunate, your Highness. Russia, and soon England, will be offended. And then – ’
‘And then,’ said Katrina, Princess of Vallena, ‘we shall see, eh, Kryn, what those great countries can make of our tiny state? All right, Kryn, you may rest.’
Chapter 13
Lull
The lull that Craigie and Kerr had sensed, came, and Craigie, not knowing how carefully it had been arranged, had an opportunity for thinking even harder round the situation, and for tying up several odds and ends.
Helped in no small measure by the insistence of Lois Dacre, Kerr managed to spend a full twenty-four hours on a couch, with his foot up. The swelling was down considerably by the evening, and the doctor who had been summoned and ordered to get it right within thirty-six hours considered the thing possible: what he had not thought possible was to get Kerr resting for that stretch of time.
After six o’clock Lois was finished for the day. She packed a suitcase for the coming trip to Baj, and then went on to Kerr’s flat.
‘Rene Mondell has had orders to go to Baj,’ she told him.
‘Good heavens! That needs thinking about. Anything else?’
‘Nothing worth reporting. Horn still sticks to his story, and so does Bennet. One of them is lying. Young Freddie Kingham was at the Yard today, trying to tell them it was absurd to keep his uncle. I rather like young Freddie.’
‘Anything of his sire?’
‘No, nothing from him. Should there be?’
Kerr looked thoughtful.
‘Well, someone in or around that place knows something. Bennet might be an accessory, but I can’t picture him in a leading part. That leaves young Kingham and his father, if Horn’s not guilty.’
‘Aren’t you rather holding a brief for Horn?’
Kerr laughed ruefully.
‘Perhaps I am. He seems a good type, and his record is excellent. There’s no breath of scandal in the trade against him. I was on the phone to Craigie this afternoon, and he says that every word is a good one for Matthew Horn.’
‘Yet all he’s done is to deny everything.’
Kerr looked up at her with a gleam in his eyes.
‘All, sweetheart?’
‘He could have – well – ’
Kerr leaned forward and ruffled her hair.
‘I know. He could have pitched some story about guessing what was coming to Bettin, about a dozen and one things. Instead he pleads absolute ignorance of the whole affair.’
‘And someone at Lane House was in it.’
‘We’re going round in circles,’ said Kerr, ‘we said that two or three minutes ago. Perhaps Joshua’s the man, but I doubt it. More likely I’m holding a losing brief, and Matthew Horn is a darker horse than I’ve been able to see. Light me a cigarette, will you, I feel lazy. I – oh, damn!’
It was Mold, at the door, and behind him Dodo Trale, smiling and lifting a hand in salute.
‘Sorry to disturb you, but blame Craigie. He tells me I’ve got to take you both to Baj. It was a blow, but I stood up to it manfully. Listen, Bob, be reasonable, I haven’t had a drink since ever.’
Mold was getting used to the ways of these hearty and thirsty friends of his employer. He arrived with beer and a tankard. Dodo Trale twinkled at Lois.
‘Disapprove?’
‘You fellows pass my comprehension,’ Lois admitted.
‘Only to be expected,’ agreed Trale, ‘as we frequently pass our own.’ He drank deeply. ‘Loftus is going over tomorrow, with young Oundle. That’ll be the four of us, and the baggage. Craigie’s keeping in touch with Baj, of course, but nothing seems to be reported out of the ordinary.’
‘Only a murder of a Foreign Secretary and the strangulation of our trade,’ said Kerr. He looked round sharply. ‘What the devil’s that?’
Dodo lifted his tankard and paused. From outside there came the unmistakable sound of a man, singing. It grew nearer, and the door opened.
Mr William Loftus stood on the threshold.
He was a tall man and wide, and had but one disadvantage as far as C
raigie was concerned: he was easily recognisable.
He announced solemnly that he was going to Baj with them and had decided to do so as a stocking vender.
Lois grinned.
‘Have you told Craigie yet?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, my God!’ moaned Kerr. ‘And I have to try and use you fellows. Listen, thick-head, trade relations with Vallena are at a standstill. Heard about that? Standstill. An Englishman can’t sell goods there. A German could. Can you speak German?’
‘Like a native,’ said Loftus, who was not by nature modest. ‘Spent four years there.’
Kerr was moving to the telephone. In ten minutes he had arranged with Craigie that Loftus could have his hair clipped very close, should be found a suit that did not fit him of German cut, and should travel as a representative of a certain Rhine wine establishment.
Loftus accepted it all meekly. He was, he said, always willing to learn. In the next few hours Craigie was in touch with his Berlin agent, the real name and address of a genuine Cologne firm was taken, and in the London–Budapest plane next morning – which went via Berlin – William Loftus travelled as Herr Gustav Schmidt, together with a passport and photograph, ostensibly German.
One or two other things had happened meanwhile.
Mr Freddie Kingham, after a fruitless endeavour to soften the hearts of those at Scotland Yard, had returned to Camberley.
Mr Joshua Kingham had spent the previous night pub-crawling, and when Freddie returned he was in bed. Freddie rang for Bennet. But Bennet also was in bed.
Bennet, decided Freddie Kingham, who was more inclined to believe his uncle than the servant, would have to get up. He sent Browning, but Browning reported that Bennet’s door was locked. More determined than ever, Freddie Kingham discovered a master key to the bedroom, and unlocked the butler’s door.
He pushed it open and stepped inside, and then his fingers tightened spasmodically about the handle. The blood ebbed from his face, and once again he was seized with the need to be violently sick.
Browning, peering over Freddie’s shoulder, saw that Bennet had been shot through the head.
* * *
Kerr, hobbling on one foot and a stout stick, returned from Bennet’s bedroom some two hours after the discovery. The local police had locked and guarded the door until the arrival of the Department Z man, and Kerr had seen exactly the same thing as Freddie Kingham. With more experience, if not with less distaste, he had entered the room and made several discoveries that could only be called interesting.
Dodo Trale had come down with Kerr and Lois. When Kerr reached the morning room, Lois was saying to young Kingham:
‘We would like to see your father, Mr Kingham. Is he in?’
‘Why yes – that is, he’s supposed to be in bed. God!’
The awful thought that his father might be in the same position as Bennet – for it seemed to be his luck to discover nothing but dead bodies – sent Freddie, closely followed by Dodo and Lois – scurrying from the room. Kerr watched them go, ruefully. Had he had two usable legs he would have been at Joshua Kingham’s door yards ahead of the others.
But there were several things he could think about, and Craigie to be telephoned. He lifted the receiver confidently.
‘I think Horn’s cleared, Gordon.’
‘How is that?’
‘This fellow Bennet was shot through the mouth, and a 32 automatic with his fingerprints is by the bedside. No doubt at all. On his dressing-table he left the usual suicide note – with explanations.’
‘So it was Bennet, was it?’ Craigie, Kerr knew, was not greatly surprised.
‘It looks like it,’ said Kerr cautiously. ‘According to the letter he was approached on Sunday when he was at a pub, by a very tall fellow – obviously Kryn. He was told that the police would probably arrest Matthew Horn, but in any case when they came again from London, he was to hand that envelope and the notes – with forged initials – to Kingham. Apparently Kryn knew Freddie could not keep it from us. The payment was a hundred pounds. Bennet’s been betting – I’ll check up on that – and badly needed the money. Everything went off as planned, except his conscience.’
‘Hmm,’ said Craigie.
‘Apparently when Bennet realised the spot he had put his employer in, he couldn’t stand it. He’s also several hundred in debt, so he took the easy way out.’
‘Hmm,’ said Craigie again, a little doubtfully. ‘Will you check the betting and the debts?’
‘Yes, before I leave. On the face of it, though, we can’t hold Horn.’
‘We can watch him,’ said Craigie. ‘Well, get back as soon as you can, and mind that ankle. I’ve just had a wire from Loftus – he’s arrived all right.’
‘Don’t you mean Schmidt?’ murmured Bob Kerr, as he closed down.
While Kerr had been talking to Craigie, Lois, Dodo and young Freddie Kingham had been compelled again to use a master-key, and for some seconds Freddie had seemed likely to faint. But no grisly sight met their eyes. The bed had not been slept in, but there were signs of hurried packing. No message was left behind, but it was clear that Joshua Kingham had flown in the night.
‘I’m beginning to wish we’d paid more attention to Joshua,’ murmured Kerr, glancing at several water colours that did nothing to help the harmony of the drawing-room’s decorative scheme.
Lois’s disapproving eye swept round the room and came to rest on the obviously flattering portrait of a man. Her attention quickened.
‘See that picture, Bob?’
‘It’s not a picture, it’s a blot,’ said Dodo, scathingly.
Kerr screwed up his eyes and grunted.
‘In other words it’s a portrait of Joshua painted by himself.’
Lois said tersely: ‘I’ve seen him before. At Rene Mondell’s flat. He called himself Smith and offered her terms to work for Kryn – and you, Dodo, followed him!’
* * *
Dodo Trale had followed Mr Smith, or Joshua Kingham, to a studio in Chelsea. But Kingham, with the astuteness that seemed born in those who worked for Kryn and the Princess of Vallena, had managed to slip away.
It seemed clear to them now that the man they had seen as an indifferent artist, a useless wastrel sponging on his brother-in-law, was rather more than this.
But there was one thing still puzzling Craigie.
He had been telephoned from a Camberley call-box, and had assumed it was by the man controlling the Lane House end of the affair for Kryn. But about the time the call had come through, Kingham had been in London, with Lady Mondell.
‘So there’s someone else,’ he said, when he visited Kerr that evening, ‘although they might have gone there intentionally, hoping that the call would be traced. Does the Bennet affair really look like suicide?’
Kerr nodded.
‘I’m prepared to swear it was, Gordon. There’s no doubt that he was in a devil of a mess financially. The kind of mess that would make him do anything for a hundred quid, and when he lost that – he was ripe for a gas oven, or suicide of any kind. What have you done with Horn?’
Craigie laughed.
‘For once I managed to get someone else to do it, Bob. Wishart saw him at Downing Street, apologised for the mistake, explained it was connected with Bettin’s murder and stressed the need for absolute secrecy. Horn seems to have taken it very well indeed. He should be home in an hour. As our brighter men aren’t available, I’ve asked Fellowes to put a couple of really good sergeants on him, and he and Freddie Kingham will be well watched. What time’s your train in the morning?’
‘Nine-fifteen, from Liverpool Street. We should be at Baj in forty-eight hours – unless you think we can go by air. It’s not only quicker, it might be safer.’
Craigie thought for a moment and then nodded his head.
‘All right. Once you’re over there, you’ll find emergency planes in the usual places.’
Kerr was more than thankful for Craigie’s care. In most foreign countries agents
of Z had arranged for private planes to be kept under cover, so that in the event of an urgent job they could be used promptly and with no questions asked.
‘Right. Then unless there’s something exceptional, I won’t call you again.’
Gordon Craigie left the flat as Lois entered it. She was staying there for the night, in order to make a quick start in the morning. Trale had arranged to be with them at eight o’clock.
‘So we’ll be in Baj,’ Lois said thoughtfully, ‘soon after lunch tomorrow. I wonder – ’
Kerr said seriously: ‘Don’t wonder too much, Lois. We’ll get through or get put out, and all the wondering in the world won’t help us to see which.’
Chapter 14
Baj
When Kerr’s monoplane left the small private airfield near Heston, with Lois and Trale on board, it had an English registration and identification number. As it flew over the North Sea towards Holland, a Dutch numbering was substituted, by means of a sliding panel arrangement operated simply from the control-seat.
As the crow flies the flight from London would have been just under a thousand miles. Diverging from the straight course to take advantage of wind conditions, and again when they neared Vallena and were flying over the lower ranges of the Carpathians, they travelled just over eleven hundred.
Kerr was flying a de Havilland Comet, with a range of seventeen hundred miles, and an average speed of a hundred and eighty. As he had told Craigie, who knew little about aeroplanes, excepting their performances and possibilities, his foot was needed very little, and then only for the rudder bar. The Comet, in fact, almost flew itself, and in less than seven hours after leaving Heston, Kerr nodded towards the observation glass in the cabin floor.
‘Baj,’ he said simply.
Dodo Trale and Lois Dacre jerked into wakefulness. They had been talkative for the first hour, silent for the second and sleepy for the rest, and Kerr had decided that they needed all the sleep they could get – Lois in particular. There were moments when he wondered whether he had been wise to bring her: but she worked for Department Z, and she would be mightily useful. When he had urged Craigie to sign her on as a regular agent it had been understood that personalities must not enter into it: Lois was prepared to stand by that bargain, and Kerr could only do likewise.