Menace (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  It came from behind him. He swung round, and as he did so a bullet hummed out. It smashed into the wing of the monoplane, but before the man lurking in the shadows could fire again, Loftus hit him twice through the chest.

  He toppled forward, into sight. Lois saw that it was the pug-featured man who had once pestered the Brigade Captain at the fire at Devennet Court. He was lying very still.

  And for the first time Matthew Horn seemed to realise what was happening and what he was doing. He muttered under his breath, and Kerr heard the same name several times. Sam – Sam – Sam.

  Who the devil –

  Kerr realised suddenly who it was, but Loftus had left the man, and was in the plane – it had an automatic starter and the propellers did not want turning.

  Freddie Kingham’s no-good brother Sam, of course. He had been in it, with his father and his uncle. It looked as if Freddie Kingham was the only member of the Camberley household with a clean record.

  The engines roared.

  Oundle nursed them for a few seconds, and then eased off the brakes. The monoplane staggered as it took off, steadied, and then went smoothly. In a few moments the ravaged city was beneath them, speckled with the lights of a thousand fires. Horror beyond words was down there.

  Horror they dared not think of.

  ‘Seven hours, with luck,’ said Ned Oundle suddenly. ‘Hope the lady put petrol in for a long hop, if not we’re sunk.’

  Kerr jerked his head round.

  ‘Look at the gauge, you fool.’

  ‘That’s an idea,’ grinned Oundle. ‘Two - no, three hundred gallons. Enough?’

  ‘Nearly enough for there and back,’ said Kerr.

  ‘Back?’ repeated Lois with her first sign of emotion. ‘Never!’

  * * *

  When Princess Katrina’s monoplane was flying over Prague, some two-and-a-half hours later, there was sensation in Berlin. The news had come through that the revolt had started in Vallena, that atrocities of unparalleled cruelty had been perpetrated by the Communists, that Russia was sending a strong force to support the Meggel Party. Wires hummed, troops were massed.

  At the same time, in Moscow, it was believed that the big chance had come at last. The revolt had broken out in Baj, atrocities beyond parallel were due to the Nazis, Germany was sending strong forces by air.

  Had Katrina lived she would have seen her triumph, even though her scheme to keep England out of the first upheaval might have failed.

  Instead it was Rene Mondell who heard what happened. It was six hours afterwards when the monoplane had landed at Croydon and the party had reached Whitehall, that the British Ambassadors to Berlin and Moscow had intimated in no uncertain terms that if Moscow would wait, proof would come. If Berlin would wait, proof would come –

  Would sanity prevail?

  * * *

  Sanity, Gordon Craigie told them, was prevailing. With the papers that had been brought over, the whole record of the coup from its inception would be available for convincing both Berlin and Moscow.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said Lois Dacre, ‘and now you’re for hospital, Bob. That arm must have attention.’

  Craigie nodded.

  He saw Kerr and Lois, with Rene Mondell and Oundle, go out of the room. He was left alone with Loftus – von Hauf and Horn were at Cannon Street – and he knew Kerr had been on his last job. Loftus was here though, young, receptive to ideas, capable, quick thinking.

  The work had to go on.

  It was four days before the alarms were finally over, and Europe settled down until the next threat of upheaval. In Vallena, neither Meggel nor Vonath had gained the upper hand, and the old patriarch, Nestal Silf, was restoring order. The bloodshed was finished, Katrina was dead, the truth was published.

  There were various odds and ends for Craigie to clear up in England.

  He learned that Matthew Horn had been the instigator of the ramp, but at the time of his arrest, and Kryn’s attempt to fasten the blame for Doriennet’s murder on him, Kryn had not known he had been working for some time with Katrina; Kryn had believed Horn to be an associate of Criff, and had planned to render him innocuous. Bennet’s remorse and suicide had saved Kryn from a gigantic blunder.

  Horn had put his finger on the one vital factor. With English commercial interests inimical to Vallena, pressure could – and would – have been brought to bear on the British Government to ensure non-intervention. Horn had known the powers of financial interest!

  Indirectly – through Criff – Horn had put the proposition to Kryn, who had found Katrina an easy listener.

  Horn had sent that telephone message to Craigie and had, of course, sent for Doriennet, giving precise instructions for his journey. Horn had killed the Vallenian, but had been prevented from hiding the body. Freddie’s discovery had jeopardised the whole scheme.

  With a thorough knowledge of international espionage, Kryn had decided that Kerr and Craigie were the biggest threat. Had he not talked of Kerr when Jules Doriennet had overheard him, the whole thing might have ended differently. He had talked, Kerr had received Doriennet on that warm afternoon when he had planned an afternoon with Lois.

  In England, Kryn had put Criff up as the dupe, attracting all eyes and – he had hoped – suspicion on the man who had already played so important a part in international quarrels.

  The rest of the English gang had been assembled slowly, kept there for the emergency that might one day break out. Kryn had hoped to pick Kerr off quietly: Doriennet’s visit to Kerr had started the tide’s turn.

  Katrina’s idea of changing identities with Rene Mondell had been one of the ugliest facets of the affair, Craigie thought. It had been lucky that Rene had fallen in love with Falling. Well, Rene was free now: Sir Douglas Mondell had committed suicide when the news had been spread of the real Katrina’s death. Von Hauf – the financial wizard of the group – and Horn were to be tried by an international court, sitting in camera; there was little doubt as to the issue. Samuel Kingham had followed Mondell’s example, and Freddie Kingham would find himself Horn’s next of kin.

  Odd, thought Freddie afterwards. He would be pretty wealthy. Damn bad business Uncle Matt had been mixed up in that. Made the money stink somehow. That was an idea – he would feel happier if he pushed a lot of the boodle into charity. Feel cleaner. That police woman, Miss Dale, if he could find a girl like that, now!

  * * *

  Just three weeks after the flight from Baj, Kerr left hospital. He felt oddly deflated, and yet experienced a peculiar happiness. Lois was close to his right side and his left sleeve was empty. They did make decent artificial arms, thank God! But a one-armed man –

  Well, it finished him with the Department, and if Lois wanted to change her mind, he would face it.

  He said ‘if’ again when they reached 77g Brook Street, and Lois’s answer was more than blunt.

  ‘If you keep on, Bob, you’ll have me howling. Do I mind if you’ve one arm or two, one leg or two? Don’t I remember how you lost it? And – it keeps you out of the game, Bob. I don’t think I could stand it again. You’ll – you’ll miss it, but the Burkes were once in the same boat and they –’

  Kerr put his right arm about her shoulders. Mold, the perfect servant, coughed discreetly.

  ‘Mr Trale, sir, Mr Oundle and Mr Loftus. And – Lady Mondell, sir.’

  Trale had warned Sihilla, but had afterwards been unable to get into Baj because of the rioting. Consequently he had hung around, managed to see a lot and do a little and get a clout over the head. Dodo had been back a week, and had spent a lot of time at Marion’s Hospital. What with Carruthers and Davidson – both well on the road to recovery – and Kerr, sick visiting had been the order of the day.

  Mold brought in beer, professionally and with tankards.

  ‘Well folk,’ said Kerr some minutes later, ‘the toast is to the finest bit of acting I’ve ever seen or heard. Faita rienta!’

  When the toast had been drunk Rene Mondell looked from Ker
r to Lois, and said:

  ‘It’s absurd, but I still don’t know what it means.’

  Kerr chuckled.

  ‘I thought it meant: “it’s nothing” once. Apparently it’s more literal meaning is: “go and kill yourself”. When all’s said and done it’s lucky Katrina was feared and respected in her palace, but I hope the poor devil didn’t go and obey orders. By the way –’ He was still smiling but he spoke more seriously. ‘I had a letter from the other Doriennet this morning. He caught a bullet in the chest but he’s pulling through.’

  There was a moment’s silence, and then:

  ‘The toast,’ said Bill Loftus quietly, ‘is “the Doriennets” – the past and the present.’

  THE END

  An extract from John Creasey’s

  Murder Must Wait

  Loftus replaced the receiver, stared at a dry-point depicting two futuristic damsels entering a sea of black and white, and took a cigarette-case from his pocket. He struck a match sharply. Smoke curled about his nose, eyes and forehead.

  Loftus was a large man. There were some people who called him fat, but what extra flesh he had was confined to his neck and shoulders, and the impression he created was one of bear-like strength. His eyes were grey and usually kind, but now they seemed smoky, as though likely to burst into a flame of anger at any moment. His lips were compressed. His lower jaw moved as though he were clenching his teeth.

  He stepped forward, rounded the table on which the telephone rested, and halted in front of the dry-point. Most orthodox judges, including the committee of the Royal Academy, dismissed the work of Robert Belling as that of a dilettante who could afford to ignore the accepted rules; but one or two people had admitted that Belling had a touch of genius, misused, but quite apparent.

  Looking up at the picture, Loftus had a vision of a pair of hazel eyes holding a mocking, attractive gleam. A face of absurd handsomeness, hair, lashes and eyebrows dark brown, lips curved, the square chin prominent.

  An echo of the words he had just heard over the telephone returned to his mind.

  ‘I’m sorry, Bill. It’s no use hiding it. Belling’s dead. The Ring got him.’

  Loftus suddenly turned on his heel, jerked a cabinet door open, and pulled out a decanter of whisky and a glass.

  His hand was steady enough as he drank, but the expression in his eyes was one of pain. Draining the glass, he hurled it to the floor, and as it smashed he muttered to himself:

  ‘I’ll break the swine. If it’s the last thing I do I’ll break them!’

  The outburst seemed to do him good, and when he rang for his manservant, and told him he would be out for a while, his face was more composed.

  Ten minutes later he was walking towards Piccadilly, down Haymarket, into Trafalgar Square and, some quarter of an hour after leaving his Brook Street flat, he entered a small doorway in a turning off Whitehall. A short passage led to a flight of stone steps: these he climbed, until, reaching a landing, he slipped his hand under the balustrade and pressed a small knob. After a slight pause, the apparently blank wall in front of him revealed an opening into a long, low-ceilinged room.

  Sitting in an armchair was Gordon Craigie, founder of Department Z, the ultra-secret branch of British Intelligence. Craigie stood up, a man of medium height, grey, thin-faced and lantern-jawed.

  ‘Hallo, Bill.’

  Loftus entered the room, and the sliding door closed noiselessly behind him. He sat down.

  ‘I suppose this is certain, Gordon?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Craigie looked distressed. ‘I’ve had the report from three different sources. Bob was suspected in Vienna, tried to get across the Czech border, but was shot down by guards, or fellows calling themselves guards.’ Craigie tapped his long fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Of course, he knew what might happen to him.’

  ‘We all knew.’

  ‘The Ring got on to him, although I don’t know how. Seltzer reports from Vienna that he was being followed by two Ring agents; and there’s no doubt the Ring reported him to the authorities. The only thing I can’t understand is why he ran for it.’

  Loftus shifted in his chair.

  ‘He hardly wanted a concentration camp.’

  ‘We’ve got men out of concentration camps in the past,’ said Craigie. ‘Bob knew it. Why didn’t he take a chance?’

  ‘He preferred to get it over.’

  ‘I wonder,’ said Craigie slowly. ‘When all’s said and done, the wise thing to do was to let the authorities get him. He wasn’t a man to take unnecessary chances. I’ve a feeling he wanted to get away to make a report.’

  Loftus stared. ‘A report?’

  ‘Which would mean,’ went on Craigie, ‘that he had discovered something of importance. Whether about the Ring we don’t know. This has cut off our only source of information, of course. We can’t move, until we get someone else over there. And another agent will have to start from scratch.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Loftus, and added: ‘I’m going myself. And this time we’ll smash the blasted thing to pieces.’

  ‘I wish I could feel as confident,’ said Craigie, slowly.

  A silence fell over the office of Department Z as the Chief and his newly appointed leading agent thought of the organisation that was called the Ring.

  One end of the room in which they sat was like an ultra-modern business office, furnished only with a desk, hard-backed chairs, steel filing cabinets, a dictaphone, and six telephones of the hand-microphone type. The other was reminiscent of a bachelor’s living room, with a couple of armchairs, a bookcase in which classics mixed with the latest thrillers, two tables—more serviceable than ornamental—and a cupboard filled with a heterogeneous collection of oddments. For fifteen years Craigie had used this room. A dozen leading agents had sat where Loftus was sitting, talking about affairs which, during those fifteen years, had threatened the peace of the world, of Europe, or of the British Commonwealth.

  The Department had heard little about the organisation known as the Ring. It seemed to have sprung up over-night; but Craigie realised it could have been established only with years of patient effort. He knew it had its branches in at least seven countries; so far, England had not suffered from its attentions, but the day might come when she could well do so.

  Craigie had first learned of it when the Ring had virtually delivered an ultimatum to a leading South American Government at peace with its neighbours. Fight, or...

  No one knew what the ‘or’ signified.

  When Craigie had first heard that this South American Government had been forced into action by a mysterious organisation, he had been sceptical. But since then the Ring’s influence had grown considerably. It had helped to inspire the Franco civil war. It had been responsible for the assassination of the Premier of a small Balkan state. It operated in America, Italy, Germany and France, setting one party against another, its chief purpose seeming to be that of universal trouble-maker. When Poland had virtually resigned from the League of Nations, it was believed that the Ring had instigated the move. And yet everything had been carried out in strict secrecy; only rumours seeped through, all vague, misleading, worrying. But by the January of that year the Intelligence Departments of four leading Powers had grown so disturbed that they had pooled their knowledge of the Ring.

  The total information was, to all intents and purposes, negligible.

  Craigie had adopted what had seemed to be a shortsighted policy; he refused to merge with the other Powers in their effort to crush this mysterious organisation. The Rt. Hon. David Wishart, the then Premier, had soothed a rebellious Cabinet with assurances that Craigie knew what he was doing. Wishart believed that Craigie suspected at least one of the Powers to be part of the Ring.

  And then three clues had appeared suddenly, from different parts of the world, and all pointing to one man. Señor Juan de Casila, a Portuguese of considerable wealth, believed to have remained in Lisbon throughout the year, had been reported in Bolivia during the exte
nsive cattle-war there, in Jamaica during the labour troubles and, soon afterwards, in Tokio when there had been an outbreak of hostilities between Russia and Japan over the Manchurian border.

  Craigie had investigated.

  De Casila had officially been at his Lisbon home all the time, but his identification in Bolivia, Jamaica and Tokio had been positive. Two years before he had been on the verge of a financial collapse: had he failed it would have been for half-a-million pounds. Now his credit was good, and outstanding debts had been cleared.

  His suspicions confirmed, Craigie had put agents to watch the Portuguese, and when de Casila had travelled secretly to Vienna, Bob Belling had tailed him. Belling had been known as Herr Otto Karlsad, for he could speak German like a native. Three days before this meeting between Craigie and Loftus, he had sent a coded report saying that he was watching de Casila but making no progress: and he believed he was being watched himself. Craigie had sent urgent orders for him to leave the country.

  All of these things flashed through Loftus’s mind as he sat, facing his chief, in the Department Z Headquarters. Suddenly he spoke.

  ‘Well, when do I start?’

  Craigie shook his head.

  ‘You don’t, Bill.’

  ‘I’m afraid you didn’t understand me,’ said Loftus quietly. ‘Bob and I...’

  ‘I daren’t let you go, for two reasons,’ Craigie interrupted. ‘Firstly, you feel too strongly about it. This isn’t a matter for private vengeance. And secondly, I’ve other work for you.’

  ‘Some damned nonsense to make me think I’m busy,’ said Loftus bitterly. ‘You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, Gordon. And...’

  Craigie leaned back, took a meerschaum from a piperack, and began to stuff it with a loose mixture.

  ‘If you go over there, Bill, it will be as a private citizen, acting entirely on your own initiative.’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘Every man who works for me knows the risks,’ Craigie went on quietly. ‘Every agent works willingly, and can resign without notice whenever he likes. Only by using volunteers who really want to help the Department can I get the service I must have. But while you’re working for the Department you’ve got to be controlled by me. It’s not personal at all. In your position I’d feel as you do. I might even resign. But...’ he broke off, and shrugged. He looked older than when Loftus had entered the room; a rather frail, pale-faced man. ‘Think it over, Bill,’ he added.