by John Creasey
There was a pause, and then Craigie spoke again.
‘Gentlemen, if Shovia carries out her boast she will be attacking us within forty-eight hours. Oh, I know that it’s not an official statement, but it’s obvious enough and we all know it. There’s an anti-British wave in Shovia, and that’s all we can use as a guide. What was that, Scott?’
Craigie uttered, and the other ten members of the Cabinet looked, the question. For Scott had exclaimed explosively, and now his heavy face was brick red. He pushed his chair back from the table and it crashed to the floor behind him.
‘Man!’ exclaimed Jonathan Scott, struggling for words. ‘I’ve just remembered, Crabtree’s second wife was a Shovian. Crabtree spent eight or nine years over there, and he owned the Tiberran Hills, with as much iron ore in them as in the rest of Europe. It must be thirty years and more since he came back—he came just before the war, remember, Wishart, and the hills are still his. It’s the iron someone’s after, or I’ll call myself a fool!’
• • • • •
Kerr had given it as his opinion that Gordon Craigie did not need sleep, and there were others who held the same opinion. Craigie tried to live up to his reputation that night, and he earned the curses of several experts at the Foreign Office by dragging them out of bed and getting them to chase through the records.
During the First Great War, Shovia had been more or less inactive, and officially on the side of the Allies, but she had received little in the way of reward at the Versailles Treaty.
It was an established fact that before the war Sir Julian Crabtree—then plain Mr.—had owned the vast iron-smelting works in the Tiberran Hills. It was shown that Crabtree had officially sold out to a company called the Tiberran Iron Corporation, and within an hour Craigie learned that the Tiberran Iron Corporation had a large directorate board, with its chairman a man named Jeffs.
Jeffs, or Crabtree’s major-domo!
Craigie had heard a little about the man named Jeffs from Lois Dacre that night, and a little more from Burke. But he had not the slightest idea of the importance of Jeffs. From being Griceson’s gunman—as Burke had first seen him—Jeffs had gradually assumed a greater importance in this affair—by far the most trying Craigie had ever tackled. Nothing had gone smoothly, and now everything was happening at once. Craigie knew it was because the end was near.
Craigie felt cold when he thought of it, for he had sensed the pulse of the Cabinet that night. With one or two exceptions the attitude had been that Shovia had asked for it, be damned to them. Britain could afford to point to her arms and be prepared to use them. But Craigie was afraid of the results of war, afraid of the repercussions.
Craigie sent out feelers in a hundred directions. Whitehall was busier that night than on any night for years, and the theme of every inquiry was Jeffs, Mr. Cornelius Jeffs.
They had to learn his activities, discover what he had been doing recently in Shovia. The beginning and the end of the affair seemed to rest in Jeffs—that strange man with the wide brown eyes, the pug-face and the mellifluous voice. Craigie had seen him that night but he had not suspected his importance.
Craigie had another hope now.
The fact that Jeffs was in the affair and the figurehead in control of the Tiberran Iron Corporation seemed ample proof that the game was commercial more than political.
It looked like it, and Craigie worked almost frantically, not thinking of sleep. Yet he felt as though it would be too late to stop the flare-up. A great deal depended on Lois Dacre, and she must go alone to the Chelsea house. Only alone could she be useful, and Craigie dared not count the danger.
But twenty-four hours had to pass before she went to Trite Street, and there was the morrow.
16: Increasing Tension
Both Kerr and Burke were able to do with surprisingly little sleep, and five hours fully refreshed them. They awakened just after nine o’clock, and the fact that no one had disturbed them meant that nothing had happened to worry Craigie.
Kerr had a quick cold bath while Burke made tea. Clad in dressing-gowns, they tossed solemnly for the privilege of waking Lois Dacre, and Burke won. But Lois Dacre beat them at the post by coming out of her room, clad also in a dressing-gown, and asking what the noise was about. She looked a little tired and heavy-eyed.
They drank tea and talked. And all of them realised that the next twenty-four hours would probably prove all-important.
Kerr was dressed before either of the others, and he telephoned Craigie. Nothing of vital interest had happened. Carruthers and Wally Davidson, with Dodo Trale, were to be relieved of duty at the cottage that morning by other agents. One of the captured men—not Karl Branner—had talked, swearing that no one but Branner had known where the attack was to have taken place. Craigie believed the man had spoken the truth.
‘Branner won’t talk?’ Kerr asked.
‘Not a word,’ said Craigie. ‘Except for this fellow, no one’s opened his mouth. They all seem to be damned scared of the consequences.’
‘Good,’ said Kerr, and he meant it. ‘What’s the Shovian latest?’
‘Bad,’ Craigie said briefly. ‘They seem to want to scrap.’
‘Bloody fools,’ said Kerr. ‘Well, we can’t help it, I suppose, we’ve just got to keep pegging along. Any special orders for the day?’
‘No. You’ll follow up the Lydia Crabtree angle.’
‘Anyone else working on it?’
‘Not personally. Miller’s looking up all records, and they’ll be along to you by eleven. There’s just a chance that Marency will know where she’s likely to be.’
Kerr nodded to himself.
‘Yes. I’ll see him, of course, although I wouldn’t like to call it hopeful. Anything else?’
‘No,’ said Craigie. ‘But we’ve decided to publish the account of Crabtree’s murder. It might bring something to light. I’ve sent some men to the house in Wales, but somehow I can’t believe Crabtree knew much about this.’
‘He knew enough to die,’ Kerr grunted.
‘Yes, but that might have been the woman. Lydia Crabtree’s record didn’t seem to be bad,’ Craigie went on, ‘but I’ve been probing a bit. It’s not good. And there’s another angle.’
‘Spill it.’
‘Well—you should have guessed, for I expect L.D. told you of it. Lydia’s addicted to drugs, and was once living with Mueller.’
‘I know,’ Kerr said. He paused for a moment, then: ‘You mean Crabtree might have been in a position to put a spoke in the wheels of the Griceson bunch, and his wife was used to stop him?’
‘I can’t see anything else,’ Craigie admitted.
Kerr scratched his chin.
‘You’re assuming she lured—sorry for that!—both Crabtree and Mueller? Crabtree to “Red Acres”, and Mueller to Thornton Lodge.’
‘That’s what it looks like,’ Craigie said quietly. ‘And having done that, she goes into hiding. Remember she’s usually keyed up with drugs, and she might do odd things under its influence. Well, that’s about the lot, Bob. See Marency, but don’t scare him too much. We don’t know his daughter helped to murder both Mueller and Crabtree.’
‘We soon will if she did,’ Kerr said.
But he was no prophet that morning, for he was very little further ahead two hours later, when every possible angle in the search for Lydia Crabtree had been explored, with the exception of a visit to Arnold Marency. He had called at Marency’s Westminster house, but the old man had been at his club.
Burke, meanwhile, slipped down to the cottage and reassured Patricia, although she knew it was useless to try to stop him from continuing until this affair at least was over. Mueller’s body had been attended by a doctor, and was still in the dark-room in the garage. The fresh crowd of Department men down there were mostly acquaintances of Burke’s, and he knew that Patricia was safe.
It was nearly one o’clock when Bob Kerr finished a talk with Miller, at Scotland Yard, and went back to Marency’s house, just off
Victoria Street. Marency was back, and he welcomed Kerr cordially enough. Kerr hardly knew how to start. To question a man about his daughter when the daughter was suspected of complicity in two murders—one of her husband, the other of an ex-lover—was a delicate task.
But Kerr had one thing to help him, although he had not realised it. Marency had a hatred of newspapers, and had not looked at one that morning. Kerr learned of it, and then said slowly:
‘Then you haven’t heard, Mr. Marency, about Sir Julian Crabtree?’
No, Mr. Marency hadn’t heard. His eyes were disconcertingly wide.
‘It’s a nasty position,’ Kerr said frankly. He was sitting in a room furnished fifty years ago, and hardly altered. ‘And you’ll understand why I want to trace your daughter, Mr. Marency, when I tell you, very unhappily, that Sir Julian was found dead, shot in the back, late last night.’
Marency was standing up, fingering his gold chain. Kerr watched him carefully, and he was prepared to swear that the man’s shock was genuine. Marency’s eyes widened, his stare seemed incredulous, and after two false starts he gasped:
‘Julian—murdered! Murdered! Good heavens, it’s impossible, impossible!’
‘It’s happened, sir,’ said Kerr.
Marency gaped and swallowed hard. Kerr could see the horror slowly disappearing in a tremendous indignation.
‘Murdered! Why—what’s happening? Are you a policeman? Mr. Kerr, I demand that every effort be made to find the murderer! Julian was a man who would do no harm to anyone. And he was my daughter’s husband! The murderer must be found!’
‘We’re doing our best,’ he said, ‘but Sir Julian’s recent movements are not known. We’re hoping that Lady Crabtree can give us some information.’
Kerr waited, half expecting an indignant denial that Lydia could do any such thing, but Marency’s expression showed nothing more than horror and indignation, alternating evenly.
‘She will—she’ll tell you all she can, I’m sure. She told me last night she was spending a few days in the country, but she didn’t say where. When this news reaches her, she will come to London immediately. I’ll advise you the moment she arrives, Mr. Kerr, I promise you. Julian—murdered! I still can’t believe it!’
Kerr said slowly:
‘You’ve no idea at all where Lady Crabtree is?’
‘No, not the faintest. She doesn’t advise me always, Mr. Kerr; modern daughters, you know.’
‘I wonder if you can let me have a list of addresses of her friends? She may not see a paper if she’s gone to the country for a rest.’
Marency drew a deep breath.
‘Oh, she will, she keeps up with the news, but I’ll give you the names and addresses—all I can remember, of course. But, Mr. Kerr, what are the police doing? I’ll consider it a favour if you will advise the Commissioner that unless the murderer is apprehended quickly I shall make complaints to the Home Secretary. And—and who are you, Mr. Kerr?’
‘I’m working for the Commissioner of Police,’ Kerr said smoothly. ‘Sir William did not feel it was fitting to send one of his usual officers to you, Mr. Marency, in view of your position.’
‘I should think not!’ Marency was able to take pride in that, but Kerr could not help wondering whether he was being deliberately vague. ‘Take that message, Mr. Kerr! Every policeman must be concentrated on this matter—it’s an affair of national importance!’
Marency, Kerr knew, was twenty years behind the times. Apart from this particular affair, Crabtree was of no importance to the nation, no matter what he had been a decade before. There was something almost pitiful about Marency, and yet …
Kerr could not rid himself of the thought that the man was on his guard. As a result, Craigie put two men to watch Marency. He might lead them to his daughter, and Craigie was more anxious than ever to interview her.
The rest of the day was equally unproductive.
Burke returned from Surrey. Carruthers, Davidson, and Trale spent half an hour at the flat, resting—as Burke said—on their laurels. All of them were preparing for the next day, all of them were aware of the importance of Lois Dacre’s part in it, and afraid for her. Lois Dacre seemed the only one unperturbed by the prospect. More, she gave Kerr a dozen names of Lydia’s friends who had not been on Marency’s list.
At ten o’clock that night Craigie had a negative report to make to a small meeting of the Cabinet. Campion was raving, and the Home Secretary was irritable. Mr. Arnold Marency, among other people, had telephoned him several times. Carrington had not known until that night that Crabtree’s murder was connected with the Shovian affair. That knowledge made him more testy.
Craigie said as little as he could. He was hoping desperately that the next day would bring results, but he was by no means certain, and he privately agreed with Wishart and Jonathan Scott that the outlook was black. Blacker, although they could not know it, than any of them suspected, although Craigie—as well as Kerr—would have had higher hopes had they known that even at that moment Lydia Crabtree, née Marency, was in a small bedroom at 28 Trite Street, Chelsea, waiting almost in a frenzy for time to pass, and for the next day’s visit from the ringleader of the Griceson party.
17: Mr. Jeffs
Kerr had set an alarm to call him at eight o’clock. He felt something move at the foot of his bed, and he was awake and alert on the instant, but hardly opening his eyes. He could see that daylight was filling the room. But there was someone near, someone who had no right there, for Jim Burke was still stretched on the bed, one arm above his head, and his gashed face looking a bigger fright than ever.
And then Kerr saw her.
The sudden tension that had been in his mind disappeared, and for the second time he felt a ridiculous relief and a sense of contentment. He smiled.
‘Good morning, Miss Dacre. You’re up early.’
‘Not so early,’ said Lois Dacre. She was dressed in the dark costume that Kerr had seen before, and Kerr saw that she was powdered but not painted. He knew, for the first time, the real meaning of the term ‘Fresh as the dawn’.
She was holding a tea tray. Kerr struggled to a sitting position.
‘Sleep well?’ he asked.
‘Very well, thanks.’
‘And the time is?’
‘Just on eight. I’ve switched the alarm off.’
‘That’s what roused me,’ Kerr said, leaning over and poking Burke in the ribs. Burke grunted. They were remarkable men, these two, and she had become astonishingly fond of them in a very short time.
‘It’s all safe,’ she assured Jim Burke, and the big man started, opened his eyes, stared and chuckled.
‘My dear, you’re a treasure, and I wish you both well. Who’s pouring out the tea?’
Kerr gave them no inkling of what the next words cost him, for he said suddenly:
‘Lois of course.’
‘For first thing in the morning, that’s moving fast,’ opined Burke, who had an incurably romantic nature where others were concerned. But Lois Dacre said nothing, poured out the tea, and left them with the warning that breakfast would be ready in half an hour. Kerr and Burke eyed each other as the door closed behind her, and Kerr suddenly nodded.
‘Oh, well. Thank God Craigie O.K.’d her.’
‘Other things apart,’ said Burke as he sipped his tea, ‘she made a hell of a bloomer not naming Lydia Crabtree.’
‘Yes,’ Kerr admitted. ‘You can’t expect them to look at every angle in quite the way we do.’
‘I can expect it of Lois Dacre,’ said Burke. ‘It was a mistaken sense of loyalty to the dear Lydia, but it can’t be helped. Hop out and telephone Craigie, will you?’
Kerr grunted, jumped out of bed, grabbed a dressing-gown and went into the living-room. The door of the kitchenette was open and he could hear the sound of crockery being moved. He called Craigie’s office.
Gordon Craigie was there, and obviously he had been awake when the bell rang, for he answered promptly. But he sounded tired and
more than a little nervy. Kerr said quietly:
‘How are things?’
‘Not so good,’ admitted Craigie. ‘I was at the Cabinet meeting last night, and the atmosphere was heavier than ever. I’ve just seen this morning’s papers, and things are noisier than they were last night. In general, Kerr, we have today to work in, or it will come.’
‘Hmm! Anything developed?’
‘Well—that man Jeffs seems to be in it neck-deep, but come round here as soon as you can and I’ll go through the whole thing with you. Is Miss Dacre there?’
‘She is,’ said Kerr. ‘Getting our breakfast. You’re a dark horse, Craigie; I meant to say so yesterday.’
‘I had to keep that secret,’ Craigie said. ‘Now, about the house in Chelsea …’
‘Yes?’ Kerr’s voice was tense.
‘Let her go alone,’ said Craigie. ‘We’re not having anyone within fifty yards of the house, for if they smell a rat and think she is spying on them I wouldn’t like to say what will happen. And Kerr …’
‘Hmm?’ Kerr grunted, and yet he felt his heart quickening. It was rarely that Craigie called him Kerr these days; and there was obviously something very grim coming.
‘We’ve lost Arran and Beaumant,’ Craigie said.
Bob Kerr seemed to hear nothing, be aware of nothing, but the meaning in those words. They had lost Arran—Toby Arran, that happy-go-lucky, ugly little man who had all the courage in the world. Arran, who had worked with Kerr for two years and with whom Kerr had formed a friendship rare in his life. Arran was dead.
And Beaumant.
Kerr’s face was white.
Craigie went on slowly:
‘Are you there?’
‘I’m still here,’ said Bob Kerr with an effort. ‘Right-ho, Gordon, thanks. It’s a devil.’
‘I know,’ Craigie said, and Kerr could understand why there was the weariness in his voice. ‘There’s nothing else until you come round. Davidson, Carruthers and Trale will be here at nine-fifteen. I’ve heard from Lucas, at “Red Acres”, and told him to hang on in case anything develops, although I don’t think it’s likely. Get round as soon after nine as you can, will you?’