by John Creasey
Three pairs of eyes stared at him with mixed expressions. In Marie’s heart was a feeling of overwhelming triumph; in Nikolai’s, a conviction that the blackmail would succeed, and that he and his family would, in any case, be in no danger.
Diana, whilst acutely aware of her own position, thought more of the infamy of Cunningham’s plans. And what worried her more than anything else was the statement, palpably true, that what the Ring had done once it could do again.
Who were the members of the Ring? She was as far from knowing as ever; unless Cunningham was lying, and he was the beginning and the end of that grim association.
‘Miss Woodward doubtless needs rest,’ said Cunningham suavely. ‘I have made arrangements for it, sir, if you will excuse me...’
In a daze, Diana walked into the stately passages of the Castle of Lakka. She felt the pressure of Cunningham’s hand on her arm as he led her into a small room. Two men, and the woman Emilie, were sitting there. Cunningham nodded at Diana.
‘Take her away, Emilie,’ he said, ‘and make sure she has no weapons. Have her door locked. I shall want to talk with her later. I—what is the matter with you?’
Emilie’s expression was scornful, almost sneering.
‘Another plaything?’ she demanded. ‘They’ll be your downfall, one day. The woman before this one is causing enough trouble.’
Cunningham went still.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She followed you here.’
‘She—followed?’ Cunningham’s hands clenched, as though he would strike Emilie, and then he snapped: ‘Where is she?’
‘In the next room.’
‘I see,’ said Cunningham, and there was venom in his voice. ‘Bring her in here. I will show Miss Woodward what happens to those who defy me.’
Emilie’s expression did not alter as she went to a door, hung with heavy curtains, and opened it. Diana heard her call out. A moment later, she stared in amazement at Ned Oundle’s companion of the Elegance Hotel—at Chloe!
There was rage in the blonde’s eyes as she swept in, rage Oundle would have recognised. She walked towards Cunningham.
‘You thought you’d shaken me off,’ she said angrily.
‘But you haven’t.’ As she spoke her right hand, buried in the folds of the fur coat she was wearing, lifted, and swung back as if to strike him.
‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Cunningham, and as Chloe stared at him, open mouthed, startled by a glint in his eyes she had never previously seen, he fired three times from his pocket. Still staring, her hand still raised, she collapsed at his feet.
‘A little demonstration,’ Cunningham murmured, and turned to Emilie. ‘Look after Miss Woodward very carefully, Emilie. She may yet be wanted.’
• • • • •
The arrival of three bombers over Lakka would have been noticeable by day or by night: Loftus knew he dared not risk landing on the island. But, twenty miles eastward, was a smaller island, part of Estonia, and there the aircraft landed, five and a half hours after leaving Hanworth.
A fast motor-launch, two dinghies roped to the stern, was waiting near the landing field, and in a very short time the Department men were moving rapidly through a calm sea.
Loftus and his companions had made their plans and radioed all necessary instructions during the flight from England.
Using the dinghies, an unobserved landing could be made. Then it would be a matter only of finding the whereabouts of Cunningham and the five prisoners.
Three-quarters of an hour after they had boarded the launch, the walls of rock of a fjord three miles from the city of Lakka rose from the sea. The pilot knew the coast well. He took them unhesitatingly into the mouth of the gap, stopped the engine, and ordered his crew to unfasten the dinghies. He spoke in German.
‘Ten minutes rowing, Herr Loftus, and you will be there.’
Loftus scanned the dark, unfriendly coastline, and suddenly a green light flashed, only to disappear again against the inky darkness of the wall of cliffs.
‘Is that the point?’ he asked.
‘Yes. The lamp will flash each minute. There is a stretch of sandy beach. The man waiting there will lead you into Lakka. It has been arranged.’
Silently they transhipped, speaking only in whispers, because they knew that death might come at any moment after they reached the island.
Kerr, Loftus and Best in one boat, Trale, Thornton and Oundle in the other, they began to row towards the light. Their oars were muffled. They rowed cleanly, strongly, until the wall of cliffs loomed to their right and left, but dropped away a hundred yards in front of them.
‘Easy there,’ Loftus muttered, ‘let the others go ahead.’
Soon there was a grating of the first boat’s keel on the sand, and Trale, Thornton and Oundle jumped out, waders over their shoes and trouser-legs. They pulled the boat up on to the shingle. A dark figure came to meet them as Loftus and his two companions reached land, and a soft voice, also in German, called:
‘Herr Loftus?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. You are on time.’
They reached him, seeing a broad-shouldered, bearded man whose face was hardly discernible against the dark background.
‘I have two cars to take you to Lakka,’ he told them. ‘Herr Loftus, there is a man waiting there who says he is one of your agents. Is that so?’
‘It may be,’ Loftus said cautiously. ‘What name?’
‘He will not say.’
‘You’d better take us to see him,’ said Loftus.
A few minutes later they had reached the cars, which were waiting further along the beach. The first stage of the journey was rough, over an unmade road, but after five minutes they reached a better surface. Turning a bend, they looked down on the city of Lakka, a thousand lights staring fixedly towards the dark heavens.
In each man there was a feeling of excitement, steadied by the knowledge that they were not yet sure where to find Cunningham. But somewhere, somewhere among those thousand lights, he was here.
The cars went on, through the outskirts of the well-lighted town. No one looked at them more than casually, even as they turned into a wide side street, and pulled up outside a house which seemed to be in darkness. Their guide took them to the front door, and rang three times. A few seconds later, the door opened. They went inside swiftly, silently. In their minds was a single question: was this a trap?
The guide pushed open a door to the left of the front passage. Loftus stepped into a softly-lighted room, then stopped short in amazement, whilst behind him the others were as astonished as he.
Bob Belling, the report of whose death had first started the final act of the game against the Ring, leant back in an easy chair, his face gaunt and haggard, his eyes bloodshot.
‘Surprised?’ he asked faintly. ‘I’m not—not so easy to kill after all, Bill!’
19
Cunningham Laughs
Urgent though the situation was, the amazement that followed the appearance of Belling took several minutes to die down. For a while even Loftus was shaken out of that dogged purposefulness that was so natural to him; for finding his friend alive elated him in a way he had not experienced for some considerable time.
Belling had been badly shot and was obviously very ill, but between his bouts of delirium the others managed to piece together first how he had escaped, contacted the Estonian Service, and heard they were coming—then Cunningham’s plans. ‘Tonight,’ gasped Belling. ‘He—he’s putting the ultimatum up tonight. Two—two hundred and fifty millions....’
Loftus stared. ‘Two hundred and fifty what?’ He turned to the others. ‘We’d better get going. The castle, is it?’ he added, turning back to the wounded man.
Belling nodded, then slumped back in his chair, his face wet with sweat.
‘That’s all we wanted to know,’ said Loftus grimly. ‘Now take it easy, old man, and don’t try to talk any more. Do you think you can walk?’ He slipped a strong arm round B
elling’s shoulders.
‘Two hundred and fifty millions,’ muttered Oundle. ‘The man’s not sane.’
‘Sane or not, he’s got to be found, and quickly,’ said Kerr, and he turned towards the door. ‘I ... good God!’
For the door had opened.
Instead of their guide a tall smiling man with a glint in his eyes stood there. Loftus’s exclamation followed fast on Kerr’s; the others stood like men paralysed while Cunningham, with two men carrying automatics, entered the room.
‘Insane or not,’ repeated Cunningham smoothly, ‘here I am, gentlemen. You hardly expected, my dear Belling, that you would really be allowed to escape? Don’t do anything foolish, Loftus, you have a bare chance of living yet, but not if you jump forward. As I was about to say, I had Belling followed. I expected that you gentlemen might be calling. And now, my friends, it is time for us to leave.’
• • • • •
An hour later all six agents, with the exception of Loftus, were tied hand and foot to wooden benches fastened to the wall of an underground room in the Castle of Lakka. In one corner, huddled in a shapeless heap, was what looked like a fur coat.
Loftus, his hands tied behind him, stared at the bundle of fur.
‘Is that...’
Cunningham laughed. ‘Oh, no, not Miss Woodward. A friend of mine who could not take no for an answer. I believe Oundle knew her.’ He stepped forward, stooped and lifted the collar of the coat. The mask-like face of Chloe Sawyer looked up, sightlessly, towards the single electric lamp. ‘She was in Paris trying to see me, Oundle. Strange that you should have been on the same quest. And now, Loftus, if you will accompany me upstairs...’
Loftus stared at the blood that had congealed over Chloe’s shoulders. His teeth grated, and every muscle in his body quivered, but he forced himself to walk from the room.
He was followed by Cunningham and his two guards, automatics still at the ready. Behind them, the cellar door banged on the six living men and the one dead woman.
Loftus walked stiffly up the steps leading from the cellar, into the spacious hall of the Castle.
In the room where Cunningham and Marie of Lakka had listened to the radio announcements, Diana was sitting, her hands fastened to a chair. Emilie was with her.
Cunningham smiled. ‘Sit down, Loftus.’
One of the guards pushed Loftus into a chair opposite Diana. Her eyes had betrayed a sudden dread as Cunningham had entered, but she was now composed, her face expressionless.
‘A meeting of old friends,’ murmured Loftus.
‘Admirably put,’ agreed Cunningham with false affability. ‘Well, there is little left to do or say. You can at least feel happy that war will be postponed—for a few days, at least.’
Loftus stared at Cunningham.
‘The Governments have accepted?’
‘So Belling did tell you what I had asked? I wanted him to. It will save time now. Yes, they have accepted. And documentary proof that it was the Ring who was responsible for the kidnappings is on its way to them. Unfortunately, however, when it arrives, and when I have received my commission, it will be found wanting. I would like to see the world at peace, Loftus, but the Ring—a hard task-master, I assure you—finds the two-hundred and fifty million pounds a mere bagatelle when compared with the profits that war could make.’
‘So its a double-cross,’ murmured Loftus.
‘Crudely expressed, but I am afraid true,’ admitted Cunningham. He was quiet and confident. ‘As you say, a double-cross, or even a triple-cross. Lakka is going to play an important part, as you will readily appreciate. Standing near so many neutral countries, the island is in a unique position, and with this as a submarine base—have you thought of the natural harbours, I wonder?—any combatants trading with those countries will find their shipping in considerable jeopardy. And so, when the Ring begins its major operations, and I have retired, I shall stay here, the husband of the only remaining member of the Lakka Royal Family.’
Diana’s eyes were shadowed.
‘But Nikolai...’
‘An old fool,’ said Cunningham sharply. ‘His son and daughter-in-law are no better. A quick, happy release for them from the trials of this life. Myself, a consort—but also a virtual dictator, able to offer the advantages of the island to—well, not to England, Loftus! I have good reason to hate England.’ There was savagery in his voice.
Loftus said: ‘Because they refused to admit the claims of an illegitimate son of the Mallaway family?’
‘So you know that,’ murmured Cunningham, softly, and in that instant Loftus realised that the man’s disappointment had grown into an obsession, an obsession so great that his whole personality had been warped and twisted. ‘Yes, because of that. But...’ Cunningham laughed harshly—‘what does it matter? A kingdom instead of an earldom! No mean advancement, even for an illegitimate son. The Princess Marie, you will be glad to know, is quite happy about the situation.’
‘Why tell me all this?’ Loftus asked.
‘Alas, I shall have too small an audience,’ said Cunningham. ‘You see, Loftus, after the money is received, Hugo Cunningham will disappear. A stranger, an unknown, will marry Princess Marie of Lakka. Only you and your friends below know who. Nikolai, and his son, will be dead. And, regrettably perhaps, so will you. I hope you appreciate the finesse of my plans.’
‘I know,’ said Loftus evenly, ‘that you’ll never get away with it. You can’t hoodwink the whole world.’
‘Oh, but I’m going to,’ Cunningham boasted. ‘Are you aware, Loftus, that there is no photograph of me in existence? And the Consort of the Grand Duchess of Lakka can be recognised only by the Ring—and the Ring will have good reason to forget me. Well...’
‘Supposing you tell me your immediate plans, as you’re being so obliging,’ Loftus said mildly.
‘Of course.’ Cunningham’s mocking contempt had never been so obvious. ‘You, your friends below, Miss Woodward, and our five hostages, are to leave Lakka in a small yacht—a yacht carrying a cargo of high-explosive. Representatives of each of the five countries to which our hostages belong, so anxious to meet their missing VIPs, will—under the conditions I have imposed—board the yacht, to take off the hostages. At which moment an electronically-controlled detonator will operate, and they, the hostages, you and your friends, will all be blown to kingdom come.’
Loftus was sweating.
‘You mad fool...’
‘Insults, Loftus—what do they matter? It is the end that counts, not the means. Imagine what will happen when that yacht has disappeared, when those men have been blown to eternity. No one will ever know who was responsible for their deaths. No country will ever again trust another. A world gone mad...!’ he stopped, crossed the room, and flung back a heavy curtain. The low window enabled Loftus and Diana to look out on to a single, gaily illuminated yacht anchored on the still water. ‘There is the ship, Loftus. The cargo is already loaded, waiting for the passengers!’
Cunningham began to laugh, a high-pitched sound that echoed eerily about the high room.
‘Look, Loftus, look!’
And he laughed again, with the crazy mirth of a madman.
• • • • •
Only one light still glimmered in the underground room in whch the Z agents were imprisoned, unable to move no matter how they tried. Hardly a word had been spoken in the half hour since Cunningham had taken Loftus away. From time to time their eyes turned towards that fur-covered bundle on the floor. There was a dreadful fascination in the set, mask-like face.
As each minute passed, so the tension increased. It was like living with an unexploded bomb which might go off at any moment. Of them all, Kerr was the calmest. But now, all at once, he strained forward.
‘She’s—she’s not dead!’
‘What!’ exclaimed Oundle. ‘Chloe! Chloe! For God’s sake!’
Her eyelids moved, or seemed to move, a second time. A sound that might have been a sigh trembled on the still air.
>
‘Chloe! Chloe!’
Now it was unmistakably a sigh the listeners heard. Slowly her eyes fluttered open. One arm moved feebly.
‘Chloe,’ said Oundle desperately, ‘just one effort, my love, and we’ll have you out of here.’
The glassy eyes turned towards him. And then her lips moved.
‘Hallo, Ned....’
Her voice was weak and uncertain, but now her eyes seemed to focus. Her mouth twisted in the mockery of a smile.
‘Chloe,’ Oundle said. ‘You’ve got to listen.’
‘I want—a drink.’ The whispered words were barely audible.
‘I’ve a flask, in my pocket. I can’t get at it. But you can. You can, Chloe.’
Belling was slumped back on his bench, apparently unconscious, but the remaining five agents were staring at the girl with almost painful intentness. Could she understand? And if she could, would she be able to untie them?
‘Why?’ she mumbled.
‘We’re tied up. Cunningham...’
The name did what nothing else had done. Her eyes became more alert, and for a moment it was hard to believe that only a few minutes before they had taken her for dead.
‘The devil,’ she said, almost strongly. ‘He—he shot me.’
‘We’ll get him,’ Oundle said, ‘if we can get free. Can you...’
‘I can’t—get up.’ Chloe tightened her lips as she spoke. She gulped, as though stifling a cough. ‘I’ll—try—again...’
She began to edge herself towards Oundle, sideways across the floor. Three times she stopped. But at the fourth attempt she reached him. She said, in a very low, weak voice:
‘My—bag...’
Five pairs of eyes turned from her, looking about the floor for her handbag. They could not see it. Just bare boards.
‘Try to reach my wrists,’ Oundle muttered.
‘There it is!’ shouted Best suddenly, the words bursting from him. ‘On the coat—brown leather bag!’
‘Near—near your right hand,’ Oundle said tensely.
Moving very slowly, Chloe found the bag, and tried fumblingly to open it. It seemed to take her an age. But the clip unfastened at last, and the bag gaped open, showing some of the contents—a compact, lipstick, a wad of notes, a small notebook. Her fingers crept inside. Another age passed, and then she drew out a small leather case. She opened it, revealing a manicure set, complete with nail scissors.