by John Creasey
‘I looked in every room and found no one,’ said Best, ‘so luck is with us. Lend me a leg...’ He knelt down and began to massage first Trale’s right ankle and then his left. Soon Trale was able to walk without difficulty.
The three men were searched, and an assortment of weapons taken from them, together with de Casila’s wallet. Best made an expert job of securing all three and, with no apparent effort, hauled de Casila over his shoulder and took him downstairs.
For twenty minutes Trale and Best searched, as only Craigie’s men could, but their total haul was a few dozen letters addressed to Octavius Doom, two account books, and a number of large maps of Europe.
‘Not very exciting,’ murmured Best. They were in the drawing-room, which was furnished in cheap-jack fashion, like the rest of the villa. ‘I...’ he stopped and frowned. ‘Odd.’
Trale followed his gaze.
‘What’s—well I’m damned!’
Best stepped to the wall where, among a small collection of indifferent water-colours of various views of the Louvre, was a dry-point of exceptional talent. It portrayed a striptease dancer in the penultimate stage of her act, her face grotesquely painted, a pair of horns bound to her forehead and had the unmistakable touch of Robert Belling.
‘Well, well, well,’ said Best, taking the picture down and staring at it thoughtfully. ‘A cheap frame, and a new one.’ He pulled another picture off its hook, and examined the top edge. There was twice as much dust on this as on that of the dry-point. ‘Recently acquired and displayed. Someone got it from Belling. What’s the news about him?’
‘Shot while trying to escape from Germany,’ said Trale grimly. ‘We’ll take it. Loftus will find more than a use for it, I fancy.’
Taking de Casila to the car, they laid him in the back seat and covered him with a rug; and a few minutes later they started along the road to Paris. Best, who knew the arrangements made since Trale had left England, told him that there would be a plane waiting for any emergency at the private airfield which Craigie usually used when his men were working in France.
‘That’s a help,’ said Trale absent-mindedly. Now that he was safe his chief concern was that he had found nothing likely to be of service to the Department except for the interesting fact that Belling had probably been at the villa.
• • • • •
Members of the British Cabinet and the French Senate were worried men during the next twenty-four hours.
In England, no news had been received of Charles Mainwaring, and Ministers did not need to remind each other that Mainwaring knew most of the secrets of the Government’s foreign policy, and the proposed alteration in the armaments programme. The Minister for Defence had left his hotel early one morning, and had later telephoned to say that he would be away some days. No one had doubted the identity of the caller. The detective whose business it was to follow Mainwaring at a discreet distance had disappeared.
Monsieur Gabriel Arbor, French Minister of Finance, had left his Paris home, ordering his detective to stay behind. A telegram had been received at Paris announcing his arrival at a village near Bayonne, but subsequent investigation proved that he had not arrived.
No rumour of the disappearances reached the Press; as far as the world knew, Arbor and Mainwaring were enjoying their brief vacations. But on the evening of the day following Hyman’s visit to the Chez Diable, two French and one English newspaper gossip columns published the news that Saul S. Hyman and the beautiful Miss Diana Woodward (a photograph of Diana appeared in each paper) were spending a short holiday together ‘somewhere in France’. The implication was obvious and was clear to the people it was aimed to attract. Loftus read it, and cursed.
To his surprise, he had, after making arrangements with Sir William Fellowes for Hugo Cunningham’s background to be closely investigated, slept well. He had slipped between the sheets just after one o’clock, and it had been nearly nine the next morning before his man—concerned by his appearance the night before—had awoken him.
Loftus, for once, was slow in waking, and it was several minutes before his mind cleared enough for him to remember the events of the previous day. Before leaving the Yard, he had learned that Lavasour had reached the Westminster Hospital, and would operate as soon as he considered Craigie strong enough. Now, as fact by fact gradually returned to him, he stretched his hand towards the telephone, and called the hospital.
Craigie was alive: the news made Loftus more cheerful, even though the report was merely ‘as well as could be expected’, and he reached the Department Z office at half-past ten feeling less troubled.
Craigie’s records, all written in code, were, as always, up-to-date. Loftus soon knew where all Department Z agents had been sent. Knowing the value of thoroughness, he made out his reports, also in code, on the Department files covering the affair of the Ring. Not until he had finished did he feel able to think clearly about the situation; and he had not started to sort out his data before a telephone rang.
It was the Prime Minister.
‘Good morning, Loftus. You’ve heard about Craigie?’
‘Yes, sir. Going on reasonably well, I understand.’
‘He asked me to warn Tult about the coming attempt to kidnap him. That has been done. Have you anything more to tell me?’
‘Not yet, sir,’ said Loftus. And after a few more remarks about Craigie, the Prime Minister rang off.
Within a few minutes, another bell rang, and Loftus began to understand why Craigie spent so many hours a day in the office. This time it was Martin Best.
‘That isn’t “C”, is it?’
‘No. He’s been hurt. Where are you speaking from?’ Loftus asked.
‘The Nursing Home. I came here straight from Paris, by plane. I found Trale last night. We brought de Casila back to Emsby with us. Pleased?’
‘Pleased!’ exclaimed Loftus. ‘That news is worth a million! Anything else?’
‘Some folk do like butter on both sides of their bread!’ said Best. ‘No, nothing else. Will you come and see de Casila?’
‘Sometime today, yes. How’s Dodo?’
‘Sleeping it off. Apart from two black eyes and other superficial bumps and bruises, he’s all right.’
‘Fine,’ said Loftus. He replaced the receiver, and sat staring at the grate. At long last, the fire in it had been allowed to go out and the office felt chilly. But Loftus hardly noticed. He sat there for perhaps three minutes, until...
Brrrrh-brrrrh! Brrrrh...
‘Damn the phone!’ he grumbled. He lifted the receiver off the cradle of another instrument—not knowing—as Craigie would have done—that it was a call from overseas. But he recognised Oundle’s voice.
‘Is that “C”?’
‘No. And the next man who asks is being struck off the rolls,’ said Loftus. ‘He had—er—a tumble, Ned.
But I think he’ll get over it. It happened last night, just after I arrived.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Oundle, and Loftus realised a little more how much Craigie meant to the other agents.
‘Anything to report from your end?’ he asked.
‘Chloe no longer loves me,’ said Oundle solemnly. ‘Otherwise nothing of importance! The chauffeur was followed to a house in Montmartre. He stayed half an hour, and then went to the Elegance, where the car was garaged. And then he went to bed. As far as I can tell, nothing’s happened at Rue de Mallet. No sign of Diana, or Cunningham. De Casila hasn’t been back...’
‘And isn’t likely to be. Martin collected him, with Dodo,’ said Loftus. He relished the surprise in the other’s exclamation. ‘A lot of things happened last night. Any sign of the woman?’
‘Emilie? No. Wrigham lost her.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Loftus philosophically, ‘it seems to be about the only thing that went wrong last night, Craigie apart. For the time being, I’m trying to do what Craigie would do. According to records, he confirmed what Diana told me. She’s working for Rushton.’
To Department
Z agents the name of Rushton meant a great deal: the American Secret Intelligence chief was somewhat of a legend. And in his bedroom at l’Hôtel Elegance, Ned Oundle opened his mouth and let it stay open.
‘I say, Bill, is that...’
‘Quite certain, yes. Pass the news along where necessary. And as I said before, watch her. I’m going to talk to de Casila soon, and we may get quite a lot more. By the way, have you ever heard of Hugo Cunningham?’
‘Estate in Wiltshire,’ Ned said promptly. ‘Claimant ten years ago to the extinct Mallaway earldom, but he was unlucky. Illegitimate descendant, in my opinion. So that’s the man?’
‘It is, and thank you,’ said Loftus. ‘Now, make friends with Chloe, and have your breakfast.’
He replaced the receiver, then turned to the other telephone and dialled a London number, deciding to get Superintendent Miller (the Yard man who worked with the Department) to deputise for him while he visited the Nursing Home. Half an hour later Miller had arrived.
‘I’ll be at Emsby if I’m wanted in a hurry,’ Loftus told him, and strode quickly out of the office. His car was round the corner in Whitehall. So was a little man with watchful eyes, wrapped up in a very large overcoat.
Loftus paid the little man no attention. He let in the clutch of his car and started off. But Octavius Doom, intent on completing his work of the night before, stepped to a chauffeur-driven Daimler, and gave imperative orders to his driver.
14
The Nursing Home
Loftus saw the Daimler several times during the half hour’s drive to the top of Putney High Street. He was by no means sure that it was following him, for in heavy traffic cars going in the same direction would frequently keep within a few hundred yards of each other. But once on the clearer road, towards the Kingson by-pass, he watched more carefully; the Daimler kept pace with him, and was some two hundred yards behind him most of the way.
‘Curious,’ Loftus murmured. At the beginning of the by-pass he pulled into a garage and asked for oil. He was told he did not need any. He apologised to the garage attendant, tipped him, and started off again on his way to Guildford.
The Daimler had slowed down, and he passed it with ease. As he went by he glanced into the back seat, where he saw a little man huddled in a heavy coat.
Loftus had had only a lightning glimpse of Octavius Doom, but he was reasonably sure that it was Doom in the car, particularly as he had noticed the bandage on the man’s hand.
He pressed more heavily on the accelerator, and the speedometer needle moved towards the ninety mark, but the Daimler had little trouble in keeping pace. Both cars slowed down only in the speed limit stretches of road, and very soon they were within five minutes of Emsby.
All at once Loftus swung into a left-hand turning. The Nursing Home was to the right, but he preferred not to take too many chances, and any doubt as to the intentions of the Daimler was now gone.
Pulling in where the road widened near a field gate, he climbed out, made sure he had a gun handy, and pulled up the bonnet. He had hardly done so when the Daimler turned a corner, slowed down, and stopped. Loftus took a step forward, with the air of a man who was going to ask for help.
The chauffeur had jumped out of the driving-seat and opened the back passenger-seat door—and out got Octavius Doom, a gun in his bandaged hand. His eyes gleamed malevolently.
‘What the devil...’ began Loftus, with well-simulated astonishment.
‘Don’t try to bluff me.’ There was a vicious note in Doom’s voice. ‘Where are you going?’
‘I had intended to visit friends. Why?’ asked Loftus.
‘Which friends?’
‘Just friends?’ Loftus started as though he had at last realised why this had happened. ‘Hey! Do you know anything about a shooting in Whitehall last night?’
‘I do,’ admitted Doom; and he smiled: it was the smile of a spiteful child. ‘You were luckier than Craigie, Loftus, but now...’
‘You—you know Craigie?’
Loftus’s simulation of incredulous surprise was so good that Doom gave a high-pitched cackling laugh.
‘I know most things, Loftus. Now if you don’t want to die, quickly, tell me—where are you going?’
‘To see another agent. But how the devil...’
‘I will ask the questions! How did you learn about me; and my house in Paris?’
In Doom’s manner there was something which suggested that he had for a long time believed that the Z men were much over-rated. Loftus wanted to encourage this belief.
‘I...’
‘Talk!’ snarled Doom, ‘unless you want to die.’ He lifted the gun threateningly.
‘Pinari gave me the name, if you must know.’
‘Ahh-ah!’ That was what Doom wanted to hear. ‘So it was Pinari. The swine! Where is he now?’
‘I don’t know. I lost him.’
‘When?’
‘After he’d been to my flat. But look here, Doom...’
‘You know too much,’ Doom said. ‘A lot too much. Tell me—are you frightened, Loftus?’
‘You can’t try any funny business here,’ said Loftus coldly. ‘Why should I be frightened?’
‘You make a big mistake, my friend. I can try many things here, and I will, unless...’ Doom suddenly lowered his gun, and his manner became almost confidential. ‘I can make it a good thing for you if you will help me. Craigie is dead or dying. Your Department Z will not work well without him. Sell me information and you can have money as well as your life.’
Loftus paused before he asked: ‘How much?’
‘Interested, eh?’ Doom seemed pleased. ‘I thought you might be. A shock, losing Craigie, wasn’t it? Shall we say five thousand pounds?’
‘For what information?’ asked Loftus.
Doom came nearer. But for the gun in the chauffeur’s hand, Loftus might have thought that the little man was anxious enough to be careless. ‘About Cunningham,’ he went on. ‘I know that you were at my house last night, and that you overheard Cunningham talking with de Casila. Cunningham.’ Doom’s lips twisted; and Loftus realised that the little man hated the other Englishman.
‘He was most annoyed. I should not advise you to meet him again.’
‘How’d you know it was me?’ demanded Loftus. ‘I wasn’t dressed like this. No one...’
‘I had you watched,’ interrupted Doom. ‘But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is—what did Cunningham tell de Casila?’
‘He was annoyed because someone had escaped from a house near Sèvres.’
‘Yes? And what else?’
‘There wasn’t much else...’
‘Do you think I’m a fool, Loftus? Of course there was! You heard Cunningham’s orders, you know where they are going. What country was mentioned?’
Loftus hesitated. ‘How much did you say you would pay me?’ he asked slowly.
‘Five thousand pounds, Loftus, five thousand pounds. Out with it, damn you. What country is Cunningham taking Hyman to?’
‘How am I to know you mean what you say?’
‘You know this means what it says,’ snapped Doom, lifting his gun.
Loftus pursed his lips, and slowly his expression altered. He looked at Doom, and smiled as though greatly amused. It was a startling transformation, and even the chauffeur noticed it, while Doom stared uncomprehendingly.
‘Loftus...’
‘Easy with that gun,’ said Loftus amiably, ‘or another one might go off. You’ve under-rated me, Doom, and you forgot my friends behind you.’
Doom swung round sharply.
The chauffeur, more experienced in hold-ups, kept his gun aimed at Loftus, expecting a trick. But there was no trick. Behind the Daimler stood Best, his reddish, genial face wreathed in smiles. And looking over the hedge, near the field gates, was a battered but cheerful Dodo Trale.
Trale wagged his automatic at the chauffeur.
‘Drop the gun,’ he said. ‘Pronto!’
The gun was dropped. Do
om stood rigid, like a figure of stone, staring at Best. The silence was broken by the song of a bird perched in a nearby tree. Doom’s breathing suddenly grew more laboured.
‘You bastard!’ he screamed, swinging round on Loftus.
But Loftus, stepping forward, put out his right hand, the palm flat against Doom’s face. As he staggered back Doom dropped his gun, and Loftus picked it up.
‘Never take Craigie’s men for granted, my friend, there’s apt to be a boomerang effect. And now you’re coming with me. There’s the little matter...’ his voice hardened ... ‘of last night’s shooting to account for. Did this man drive you then?’
The chauffeur stepped forward, fear in his eyes.
‘Listen, boss, I...’
‘Later,’ said Loftus. ‘Now, let’s get a move on.’
With swift effectiveness, Doom and the chauffeur were neatly coshed and bundled into the Daimler, which Martin Best drove back towards the main road, closely followed by Loftus. Two hundred yards along the lane he pulled up, and Trale, who was sitting beside him, got out of the Daimler and into the car in which he and Best, acting on last-minute instructions, had followed Loftus down from London.
Twenty minutes later all three cars turned into the drive of a small, pleasant, country house at Emsby, known to the local inhabitants as ‘Three Gables’, but to the members of Department Z as the Nursing Home. The leaves were beginning to sprout on the trees bordering the drive, and early shrubs were already in bloom.
A middle-aged man opened the door.
‘Good morning, Mr. Loftus.’
‘Well, Mold, how’s life?’ Loftus nodded, as Kerr’s man drew back a pace. ‘Mr. Kerr in?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Are the patients all right?’
‘Perfectly, sir.’ Mold smiled. He had been with Kerr for several years, and although he had never accompanied his employer on his missions for Gordon Craigie, he had, when Kerr had decided to run the Nursing Home, begged to be allowed to stay on. All the other servants in the house, except for two maids, were ex-soldiers.