by John Creasey
‘In Europe,’ suggested Loftus. He shifted his position and stretched forward to the glass near his hand. ‘Ah, praise be for beer. It helps us to believe the impossible.’ He smiled, but without humour. ‘Cunningham can’t kidnap five men like that.’
‘He’s doing it,’ Craigie said, grimly. Mainwaring left three days ago for the Riviera, and he may be missing.
Arbor, I know, has gone for a fishing expedition somewhere in Bayonne. Tult—we know where he’s going; and Cunningham, you say, isn’t hurrying with Rioldi.’ He stared blankly at Loftus, but Loftus knew that the situation was being considered in his chief’s mind.
Craigie stood up.
‘We’ll see the Premier,’ he said. ‘It’s reached that stage. You’d better go and get yourself something to eat while I arrange a meeting.’
Half an hour later, as Loftus downed his second draught Worthington and prepared to do full justice to a T-bone steak, he pondered over the fact that so far Craigie had made no comment on Diana’s part in the affair, but had confined himself to Cunningham’s statements during his talk with de Casila.
What Loftus did not know was that as soon as he had left, Craigie had got into immediate touch with the American Embassy and had asked several pertinent questions. The answers were satisfactory, and remarkable only because of the amazement of the official on learning of Craigie’s knowledge.
‘I’d heard about Hyman,’ the official said, ‘and I’ve a call on the way from Miss Woodward—probably about the others. I don’t like the look of it, Craigie.’
‘No. Anyhow, leave it with me for a bit,’ said the Chief of Department Z.
Immediately afterwards he telephoned the Rt. Hon. David Wishart, and as soon as Loftus returned the two men took a taxi to Downing Street.
Wishart, tall, grey-haired, always walking with a stoop as though conscious of the burden he had carried for many years—he had been Prime Minister with only two short breaks for over twelve years—was one of Craigie’s greatest admirers. Now he listened gravely to Loftus’s second prècis of his discoveries in Paris.
‘And so,’ Craigie said when Loftus had finished, ‘we must find out whether Arbor and Mainwaring are really missing. I...’
Wishart interrupted.
‘We had a telegram from Mainwaring this morning. He’s going on a walking tour for a few days...’
Craigie looked startled.
‘Which might mean anything. Was the telegram in code?’
‘No, there seemed no need for that. So it might have been a false message.’
‘Can I leave you to find out?’ asked Craigie. ‘And to find out whether Arbor is really fishing in Bayonne?’
‘Yes. I’ll do it at once,’ said Wishart. ‘When will you be back at your office?’
‘In twenty minutes,’ said Craigie, and added quietly: ‘One other thing, Prime Minister. Shouldn’t Tult be warned?’
Wishart pursed his lips.
‘Yes, he’ll have to be. I’ll look after that, Craigie. Thanks.’ He shook hands with Loftus.
‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Loftus,’ he said.
‘I’ll have thanks enough if we scotch the trouble, sir,’ said Loftus.
The evening was fine, and he and Craigie decided to walk back to the Department Z Headquarters. Neither man had any thought of immediate trouble, so the car which had pulled out from the kerb as they had turned out of Downing Street was within twenty yards of them before Loftus saw it.
It was the hum of the super-charged engine which flashed a warning. He acted instinctively—putting his right arm about Craigie’s waist, he sprang forwards.
The weight of Craigie, slight though he was, dragged Loftus back, and for a second the headlamps of the oncoming car blinded him, but, half pushing, half lifting his companion, he managed to jump clear.
As the car flashed by, Loftus caught a lightning glimpse of Octavius Doom. Doom’s uninjured hand held a gun, and he fired four times in quick succession. Loftus heard the bullets thudding into the road as he dragged Craigie on to the pavement and the two men sprawled forward on their faces.
Passers-by came running towards them.
Some yelled loudly: ‘Murder! That’s what it was, murder!’
Another car screeched past, and Loftus, lifting his head, saw that it was a police-car; the chase after their attackers had started. A crowd quickly gathered, five or six deep, through which two policemen started pushing their way towards them.
Craigie did not move.
All that Craigie meant, all he had done for England and for peace, and all he would be able to do, flashed in a series of vivid pictures through Loftus’s mind. A fear he had never felt for himself now made his stomach heave.
He got up on his knees. Craigie, lying face downwards, still had not moved. A gruff voice came:
‘You all right, sir?’
‘Clear the crowd,’ said Loftus in a voice he hardly recognised as his own. ‘Get them away. And get a doctor...’ He knelt over Craigie, his hands exploring his Chief’s back. A second stab of fear, worse than the first, came when he found a damp patch on Craigie’s left side, near the heart.
No, not death for Craigie. It couldn’t be!
He looked up, and the policeman dropped back a pace, startled by the concentrated fury on Loftus’s face
‘Have you sent for a doctor?’
‘There’s one in the crowd, sir, I just called out...’
Loftus nodded, and a minute later the doctor was kneeling beside him.
‘A bullet in the back,’ said Loftus. ‘Near the heart.’
The doctor said nothing, but began to examine the unconscious man, whose breathing was now barely audible. A few moments later he stood up.
‘We must have him in hospital at once. He’ll have to be operated on straight away, but I don’t know...’
‘Lavasour. It’ll have to be Lavasour.’
‘Lavasour?’ The doctor looked surprised. ‘But he...’
‘Lavasour,’ Loftus repeated. ‘I don’t give a damn where he is, or what he’s doing. Get him.’
‘Very well,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course, he is a most famous surgeon, and he may not be free. But I’ll see what I can do.’
‘No. Do it.’ Loftus drew a short, sharp breath. ‘No mights or ifs, it’s got to be Lavasour. This man must pull through.’
‘All right, all right.’ The doctor hid his doubts about the possibility of saving the life of Gordon Craigie. ‘I’ll have him taken to the Westminster at once, and I’ll phone for Sir John.’
‘Tell him the Prime Minister wants him. No, no, I’m not Mr. Wishart, but he’ll agree.’ The clanging of an ambulance bell came sharp and insistent, and Loftus stood up. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The crowd was staring curiously at him. ‘Send any messages about him to Mr. Wishart. His name...’ he nodded at the inert figure of Gordon Craigie, who was being lifted on to a stretcher by two ambulance orderlies ... ‘is Craigie. Got that?’
‘Yes—where are you off to?’
‘Downing Street,’ Loftus said.
He pushed his way unsteadily through the crowd, followed by the two policemen, who as he rang the bell of No. 10, approached the detective on duty outside.
‘Seen him before?’
‘Yes, he just came out. Why? What was the row? It sounded like...’
‘Shooting. It was. We’ll want a statement from him, so I’d better wait.’ The man looked curiously at Loftus’s back as the attendant admitted him.
The Prime Minister, surprised at the call, entered the small room where he had seen Loftus only ten minutes before. He was startled by the look on his visitor’s face.
‘Why, Loftus...’
‘They’ve hurt Craigie. Badly. I’ve sent for Sir John Lavasour. Craigie’s been taken to the Westminster Hospital. At best he’s out of action for some weeks, possibly months. Can I carry on.’
Wishart looked grim.
‘Craigie! Good God. And only a few minutes ago...’ He pause
d, staring unseeingly out of the tall window. Then he turned back to Loftus. ‘Yes, I suppose you’d better take over,’ he added wearily.
‘The same privileges as Craigie? For—any emergency?’
‘Yes.’
Loftus drew a deep breath.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the job done for you. Or for Craigie. A bloody business, isn’t it?’ He laughed, and the sound was unnatural.
‘You’d best have a drink,’ Wishart said quietly. ‘And a rest. Don’t overdo it, Loftus.’
‘Overdo it?’ repeated Loftus tartly. ‘I can’t. They’ve got Belling. They’ve got Trale. They’re probably getting Diana, and—now they’ve got Craigie. No, sir, I won’t have a drink, I think I’d better go and see Fellowes straight away.’ He turned on his heel and left the room without another word.
To the policeman who approached him outside, he said gruffly: ‘Ask Superintendent Miller anything you want to know,’ then, pushing past him, he made for Parliament Street and Scotland Yard.
The crowd had been moved on, and there was now no sign to show that the attack had taken place. The incident had happened with the suddenness of an explosion, and Loftus had still not recovered from the initial shock. He welcomed the fifteen minutes wait at the Yard, after a Chief Inspector had telephoned Sir William Fellowes, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, who was at his club, but who promised to come back to Scotland Yard without delay.
As he waited. Loftus wondered what kind of figure he had cut with the Prime Minister. But that was a small matter: his chief concern now was discovering all he could about Hugo Cunningham, and the kidnapping—accomplished or planned—of influential citizens from five of the big Powers.
• • • • •
As Sir William Fellowes walked stiffly up the steps of the Yard—his right leg was two inches shorter than his left as a result of a shrapnel wound during the war—the Prime Minister was replacing the receiver on the telephone in his study, and staring blankly at the portrait of a past Premier in front of him. The call had come from Paris. Monsieur Gabriel Arbor was not, after all, in Bayonne. Nor was the English Minister, Charles Mainwaring, on a walking tour of the hills beyond the Riviera.
Both these facts Wishart now knew; What he did not know was that Gabriel Arbor and Charles Mainwaring were on board a small yacht bound for Lakka.
13
Ordeal for Trale
Juan de Casila had left 18, Rue de Mallet in a state of mind bordering on panic. Only those few people who had long been associated with Hugo Cunningham—the name by which he was known, although de Casila doubted whether he had any right to it—realised to the full the effect of his icy manner, the way in which his threats were always carried out, and the particular refinements of suffering which he reserved to punish men who disobeyed or failed him.
De Casila knew him as a representative of the Ring, but that was all. The Portuguese knew no more than Craigie or Loftus of the present aims of the Ring, although he could have explained some of the past activities of that mysterious, powerful and trouble-making organisation. Had he done so, Cunningham would have had short shrift—if he had been caught.
De Casila doubted whether anyone living would catch and convict him—even if one of his confederates could be persuaded to give evidence against the Ring. Certainly the Portuguese, in whom loyalty for loyalty’s sake was not particularly pronounced, would remain faithful, because of his fear of Cunningham.
He had seen certain men after the Englishman had finished with them...
He was ruled by fear, strongly backed up by avarice. His one-time experience of poverty, or a near approach to it, had taught him the value of money, and when he had been given the opportunity of earning it, not in thousands but in tens of thousands, he had gladly taken the chance.
For through the Ring he had been able to see ahead, in many of the disputes, national and international, of the past few years. To know a month or more in advance what was going to happen, and to be able to judge its effect on the stock markets of the world, was as good as a formula for making gold out of iron ore. So with the combined urgings of both avarice and fear, de Casila did as he was told; and although there had been times when he had felt that the tasks expected of him were too difficult, he had been forced to admit that Cunningham provided him with first-rate help as he had done in the kidnapping of Saul S. Hyman.
De Casila had no idea why Hyman was wanted by the Ring: though Cunningham would, in time, give him information and he, in turn, would advise his many brokers, and his already considerable fortune would be further increased.
But there was no thought of money in the Portuguese’s mind as he hurried—not knowing that a Department Z agent was tailing him—by car through Paris along the Calais road. Three miles outside the city he turned left, finally pulling up outside a small modern villa, on a rise that commanded a wonderful view of the French capital. The glittering of a million lights made a kaleidoscope of pleasant fantasy against the surrounding darkness, but de Casila looked neither to right nor left, and rang the front door bell impatiently.
A burly, broad-shouldered servant opened the door, and de Casila took off his heavy coat and flung it over the man’s arm.
‘How is the prisoner?’
‘He sleeps.’
De Casila’s lips curled as he went heavily up the stairs to the second floor. Outside a door in a narrow passage sat another tough-looking character. He stood up and offered de Casila a key. The Portuguese took it, and pushed it into the keyhole.
He entered a small attic room a shade too late to see Dodo Trale’s eyes open and close.
Trale had not been seriously hurt in the smash near Sèvres, nor had he suffered a great deal since his capture. But he was dishevelled, dirty and tired; and he disliked the glimpse he had of de Casila. Bound hand and foot, and tied to a truckle bed, he disliked still more the heavy blow that de Casila delivered to his cheek.
Opening his eyes, he stared into the face of the Portuguese.
‘So, you are awake. Sit up!’ De Casila pulled at Trale’s coat collar, and hauled him into a sitting position. ‘Now, talk,’ he growled. ‘Who are you?’
‘Haven’t we discussed this before?’ asked Trale, receiving, for an answer, a second vicious blow.
‘Talk,’ snarled de Castila, ‘or...’
‘Wrong shop,’ said Dodo. ‘And that’s a bad habit. You’ll learn it sooner or later.’
‘So,’ said de Casila in a voice pitched on a higher key, ‘you are still ze obstinate. Yes, yes, my friend, and you are ze fool. I give you once chance more. Who—are—you?’
Trale saw the leering face very close to his, perhaps six inches above him. If the pain and sickness had eased, his rage had increased, and he lunged forward, butting his head upwards. The back of his skull struck de Casila under the chin, sending lower and upper jaws snapping against his tongue. De Casila dropped back, bellowing like a stricken bull, his oaths attracting the attention of the two guards, who hurried into the room to see what was amiss.
Trale knew he had destroyed any chance he had of escape, but he watched de Casila clutching his jaw with a savage satisfaction. It had been a blow in a thousand, and the Portuguese had all but lost consciousness. But slowly he regained his control, his eyes fixed on Trale with a malevolent glare.
‘It’s coming,’ Trale thought, and tried to harden his nerves to stand it. De Casila stood up. Behind him were the two men, both holding guns, a precaution that seemed unnecessary. De Casila took two slow steps towards his prisoner, and slipped his hand slowly into his trousers pocket.
He pulled out a knife.
Carefully, deliberately, he opened it. A small blade glinted in the shadeless electric lamp. Stealthily, he moved closer to Trale. He did not speak, but his breathing was laboured.
Now he was less than a yard away.
And a voice came casually from the open door.
‘Busy, folk?’
In the second that followed Trale saw the newcom
er, as big almost as Bill Loftus, but of a more ruddy complexion. Hope surged through his mind as the two men with de Casila swung round.
Three shots rang out, the reports sharp and clear. The man at the door did not move. Only the smoke rising from his gun showed who had fired, that and three cries, as de Casila and the two guards fell heavily to the floor. The newcomer moved across the room with surprising speed. He was in evening dress, yet somehow looked untidy, for his starched shirt front was poking out.
‘ ‘Lo, Dodo,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Life in the young dogs yet, I see.’ He grinned. His fair hair was ruffled, as though with the wind. He stooped down, retrieved de Casila’s knife, and proceeded calmly to cut through Trale’s bonds.
Trale’s forehead was glistening with sweat.
‘Martin, I’m glad to see you!’
‘Rather,’ said Martin Best engagingly. ‘Cousinly love reviving? Blood proving thicker than water? Prisoner, rub yourself!’ He looked down at de Casila. ‘Ugly customer, our Juan. I’d say it was lucky I chanced my arm.’
‘I’d say so too.’ Trale was rubbing his chafed wrists. His right eye was so swollen from de Casila’s blows that he could hardly see out of it. ‘How’d you get here?’
‘De Casila and some others had a conference at Doom’s house,’ said Best, who was one of the agents who had travelled to Paris with Loftus and Thornton. ‘He left and I followed. Some five minutes back I heard a yelling that sounded like trouble, so in I came. The place is empty, I think—apart from this room, which is already overcrowded.’
Trale continued to rub his wrists.
‘If you happen to have a drop of whisky, I could use it. Do you know if Wally...’
Best handed over a flask.
‘Wally is safe and nearly sound,’ he answered. ‘He pinched a plane...’
‘I saw him. Damned good work.’ Trale’s one good eye glinted. ‘Anything else turned up?’
‘Bill Loftus learned something, I fancy. At least, he did if he got away from Doom’s house, which is open to some doubt, although knowing Bill I’ll give him a fifty fifty chance. What’s the best thing to do with these bastards?’
‘Truss them up,’ said Trale, promptly. ‘We’ll take de Casila along with us. That is if you’re sure the rest of the house is empty.’