by John Creasey
The second was tall, and pale-faced—and dressed in black.
Warncliffe licked his lips.
‘What—what the hell’s this?’
‘Don’t you recognise me, Warncliffe? There was a sibilant note to the man’s voice—he had a natural difficulty with the ‘s’ and because of it his voice would always be recognisable. ‘I’m Forster. I’ve come for you.’
In the bright light his face seemed even paler than it was, and against it his lips showed vividly red—unnaturally red lips for a man. His eyes, too, were bright and very vivid: they were light blue, not unlike Paul’s. His face was very lean and the features seemed carved from stone because of the regularity of the features.
Warncliffe was sweating.
His brown-plaid dressing-gown sagged, and his hands were in sight, clenching convulsively. He could not keep his eyes off the men in the doorway.
‘But...’
‘You made too many mistakes,’ said Forster. ‘You tried to work with me, and you were also working for the others. This syndicate!’ he snapped, and the sibilance grew more pronounced. ‘Understand, Warncliffe, I work for my country, not for money. You...’
‘I—I’ll do what I can,’ muttered Warncliffe, and his lips were unsteady. ‘I’ve done plenty for you. I didn’t know it was you in person but I’ve done it through others.’
‘For money,’ Forster said. ‘It has been useful, the Führer has found it worth paying for—but there is only one thing left to do with a man who works for two sides.’
He stopped, and raised a hand.
The man at his side raised the Tommy-gun—and Warncliffe jumped from his chair, screaming. Paul sat cowering back in his; a second passed that seemed unending.
And then the machine-gun opened fire.
Two bullets struck Warncliffe—but only two. The third went into the floor, like a dozen others. Then the man holding it dropped it and crumpled up—while Forster swung round towards the stairs, and Paul made a leap for the window in a desperate effort to get away.
Warncliffe lay on the floor, with blood coming from wounds in his chest.
18
Versus the Syndicate
At the head of the stairs, and facing Forster, was Wally Davidson with a smoking automatic in his right hand. Behind Wally was Mark Errol. Unseen, but in support, were Carruthers and Best.
There was a split-second of silence, broken only by the final clatter of the Tommy-gun. Then Forster put his hand to his face—and he moved swiftly towards the lights which were controlled by a switch close to his hand.
‘I think not,’ said Wally coolly.
He fired again—and a bullet cracked into the back of Forster’s hand. But it did not stop the German, whose almost nerveless fingers touched the switch. It went upwards—and darkness fell abruptly—darkness which meant nothing to Forster, for he was wearing the glasses which he had put on in that split-second.
His left hand pulled a gun from his pocket, and he kicked the door to. He fired twice towards the head of the stairs, and the darkness was split for a moment by the bluish-yellow light that spat out. He heard a shout as he went through into Warncliffe’s room, banging the door behind him.
He kept his injured hand pressed against his chest, to stop the blood as much as he could. In the clear-blue light ahead of him because of the glasses he saw Warncliffe, who was not moving but whose eyes were wide open, and who seemed agonised.
He stepped over Warncliffe’s body, reached the window and saw the ladder which was being pushed slowly against the sill. A split-second later the beam of a torch shone upwards, and he knew that the attack was coming from both quarters.
And then the door was flung open.
Another beam shot across the room, from the torch in Wally Davidson’s hand. Wally saw the man standing there, and fired—and then darted to one side. Forster pressed the trigger of his gun, and the bullet struck the torch from Davidson’s hand. Wally swore as the blackness descended again, and pitched forward. The second bullet from Forster’s gun hit the floor between his legs.
‘Steady!’ he roared, for Errol’s benefit.
Forster pushed out his free hand, lodging the gun in his coat, and heaved against the ladder. A torch-beam caught him, but he dodged back in time to avoid a bullet, and contrived to send the ladder backwards. Carruthers, who had been on the fourth rung, leapt for safety. The ladder crashed down, and there was an oath from Allison—the fourth member of the party.
On the floor, Davidson hesitated—then caught the reflection of a light against the window, and saw Forster for a split-second.
He fired twice.
Forster’s answering fire came, and Wally winced as a bullet cut across his shoulders like a red-hot needle. But he kept his finger on the trigger, sending four bullets towards the German, who was against the wall and close to the window. The second and third bullets hit their targets, getting Forster below the knee each time. Forster crashed. From behind Wally came Mark Errol, switching on the light and firing as Forster made a final effort with his gun. Mark’s bullet struck the barrel of it, and Forster’s hand was wrenched away.
It was hard to believe that it had happened and that it was over. Mark Errol stood staring at Forster, who was wounded in three places. He looked like a man who had gone mad.
And Mark saw Warncliffe, stretched out, with blood at the corners of his mouth.
‘Not—so—good,’ said Wally Davidson.
‘What’s the trouble?’ demanded Martin Best.
He came in through the window, for the ladder had been picked up. Below, Carruthers was nursing a wrenched knee after the fall from the ladder, and Allison was making sure that Paul did not get away. On the floor of Warncliffe’s shattered lounge Davidson sat with a rueful expression on his face, mingled with pain.
‘Hold Forster,’ Mark snapped, and in that moment he assumed command of the situation, much as Loftus would have done. ‘Don’t try moving about, Wally, until we’ve had a look at your back.’ He knelt down, then, by Warncliffe’s side, and he eased the man’s head to a cushion which he took from one of the chairs. Warncliffe was breathing stertorously, and it was obvious that he had not much longer to live.
‘A—drink,’ he gasped. ‘Water...’
Errol glanced round, and saw a water-jug standing close to a decanter of whisky. He fetched it, and poured a little water into the man’s mouth. Warncliffe licked his lips, and his saliva was tinged with blood.
‘Tell Loftus—he was—right. I’ve been taking—Grafton’s—papers for—the syndicate. Passing ‘em—over. Know—the syndicate?’
‘Name one or two,’ said Errol.
‘Can’t,’ said Warncliffe simply. ‘Damned careful—and clever. Send messages to—Regal Hotel. That’s all.’
‘But the name...’
‘Smith—just Smith.’ Warncliffe’s lips twisted with a sudden spasm of pain, and when it was over he breathed more heavily and his eyes were closed. ‘Very clever, the—syndicate. I’ve worked for them—long time. Worked for Berlin, too. Up and down—Europe. Forster’s a big shot in their—es-es-espionage. I made the mistake of—playing on both—sides.’
‘Yes,’ said Errol. ‘But what about this man Smith?’
‘Never seen him. Only send letters. A. Smith. Cart—Cartwright’s all right. Damned—fool, that’s all. Only motive worth working for here is—money. All I’ve—ever done. I...’ He stopped short with another spasm of pain, and Errol doubted whether he would ever speak again. But he did.
‘You will—tell Jan—I—was all for—her?’
‘I’ll tell her,’ promised Errol.
‘Th-thanks. Advise her not—marry—Grey. Pompous—ass, Grey. Jan—Jan—Janice!’
That was the last word that he spoke.
• • • • •
Despite the explosion of the morning, those few people who had remained in Redfern Mansions were not easily disturbed. Those who were did not leave their room to investigate the disturbance, and thus
it was that only an A.R.P. warden on his nightly prowl showed any interest in what was happening—and when the curtain was drawn across the window from which light was streaming, he walked on.
Allison, his red hair dishevelled and his plump frame enveloped in a Teddy-bear coat, had brought Paul in. The servant looked scared—but it did not seem as if he would be persuaded to talk easily. Forster’s wounds had been cleansed and patched up, and Davidson was lying stomach downwards on a settee, while Mark Errol cleaned the wound that ran across his shoulder. Carruthers came in, limping. ‘Bill was there, and he’s flying down at once,’ he said. ‘Can you spare a moment?’
He hobbled to the door, and Best followed him out, with Mark Errol, Davidson groaned, and Allison shrugged. Obviously there was news, and Carruthers did not want Forster or Paul to know what it was.
He pulled the door which led to the dining-room close. ‘You’re to try to get what story you can out of Forster. We’re to have another cut at Garry Cartwright,’ Carruthers added quietly, ‘and we’re to see what Grafton’s daughter and the man say when they’re really under pressure.’
Allison took Paul along by foot, while Martin Best lifted Forster bodily into a car, and drove towards the Cliff Royal. Errol and Carruthers stayed behind at the flat for twenty minutes, searching every corner; they discovered nothing that would be of interest to Loftus.
That job finished, Mark contacted with the police.
Special Home Office orders had been received in the area, and there was no difficulty. A police-surgeon and an inspector, with the usual complement of fingerprint and camera men, arrived. Errol and Carruthers went in the latter’s car to the Cliff Royal, while the surgeon dressed Davidson’s back.
‘You’ll be all right,’ he said, ‘but you won’t be able to move in a hurry for a few days.’
‘I never do move in a hurry,’ said Wally sadly.
The others had been busy. Carruthers had spent twenty minutes with Garry Cartwright, and could not shake her story. Martin Best handled Janice Grafton. Disturbed in the early hours, startled but not frightened, she had sat in an arm-chair in her room, with a dressing-gown about her slim figure.
‘I told Mr. Loftus all I knew,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think you owe me some kind of explanation for this?’
‘A thousand explanations,’ said Best. ‘Loftus is the man for that. I hope we won’t have to disturb you again tonight.’
‘If you have to it can’t be helped,’ she said. ‘Mr. Best—is there no news of my father?’
‘None at all,’ said Martin honestly.
When he closed the door, he said sotto voce that he was glad he had not the task of breaking the news of Warncliffe’s death.
Mark had questioned Forster, with more results than he had anticipated. Paul proved sullen, and would not speak. Mark then went into Janice Grafton’s room. She was still sitting in the easy-chair. Her hair was in a net which somehow did not make it look too set: and she looked a delight.
Mark offered her a cigarette. She took one, and leaned forward to get a light. Her eyes were very clear, and her hand was steady. Mark cleared his throat as he flicked the match away.
‘You’ve some news,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘My father?’ Her voice remained steady.
‘No. Miss Grafton, you and Mr. Warncliffe between you told a story to Mr. Loftus this morning—and the story in many respects was not true.’
She stared, her eyes widening.
‘As far as I knew, it was true.’
‘You had no idea that Warncliffe was working for a syndicate planning to rob your father of whatever good there might be in his discovery.’
‘I don’t believe it!’ she said flatly, and stood up. ‘I would trust Jerry anywhere—anywhere! He told the whole truth, I know that.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Mark said. ‘He has confirmed that it was a lie, Miss Grafton, in front of several witnesses, and at a time when most men can be expected to tell the truth. He gave me a message for you. He asked me to say that he was “all for Jan”; they were his exact words. Do you understand?’
She stood quite still, the colour draining from her face.
‘When was this?’
‘A little more than an hour ago.’
‘I—see,’ she said, and he could hardly hear her words. ‘So you killed him. You—killed—Jerry.’
Mark said more roughly:
‘He was shot by Forster, a Nazi agent, and Warncliffe was dealing with him, and with other people who are after your father’s invention as well.’
‘What do you mean?’ Janice demanded.
‘We believed Forster had kidnapped your father. He denies this. I have every reason to believe him, and that suggests that Warncliffe may have been a party to it. And you,’ added Mark very soberly. ‘Do you understand? You and Warncliffe.’
19
Where is the Professor?
Loftus arrived at the Bournemouth airfield, at Hurn, just after six o’clock. Dawn was breaking when a driver met him off the plane, and he was driven to the Cliff Royal. As he entered, Martin Best greeted him cheerily, and Loftus lifted a hand in greeting.
‘Where’s Mark?’
‘His own room I think—Number 11. It’s been rather bad. Jan Grafton nearly collapsed soon after learning that Warncliffe had died, and she tried to kill herself.’
Loftus pursed his lips.
‘Did she, then.’
He went up the stairs two at a time, and tapped on the door of Number 11 before going in. Janice was lying in bed, her head propped on pillows, two spots of red on either cheek. Garry Cartwright was sitting at her side, and putting a cold flannel on her forehead.
She looked dully at Loftus. ‘Go away, please.’
‘I won’t stay long,’ Loftus promised, but he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Miss Grafton, I must ask you two questions. Are you sure that your father had failed to perfect his lens?’
‘As far as I know, yes.’ Her voice was utterly weary and dispirited.
‘You can’t be positive?’
‘No—not absolutely. But I think he was more worried than ever by the papers that were stolen last night.’
‘You know some were stolen?’
‘Oh, yes. I pretended there hadn’t been because—because I didn’t want...’
She stopped, and her expression was piteous as she looked into Loftus’s face. Garry exclaimed:
‘Must you?’
‘Miss Grafton,’ said Loftus in the same dead-level voice. ‘You didn’t want Warncliffe to be suspected.’
‘That’s—right.’ They could hardly hear her answer.
‘What made you think he would be?’
‘Jerry was always short of money, that was why I helped him to get what he could! The lens was father’s idea, but he would never have made money out of it. Teddy would make sure of that. Teddy’s shrewd where money’s concerned, he...’ She paused and went on more quietly: ‘What does it matter? I’ve come to hate Teddy, he’s always so right, he’s so clever with money, and he had Father just where he wanted him. It was Teddy who put Father against Jerry in the first place. He was always saying that Jerry was—was an adventurer. If Jerry was helping Forster, he believed it was right!’
‘Yes,’ lied Loftus soberly. ‘I’m sure he did, Miss Grafton. I’m sorry it’s been necessary to worry you, but there’s only one more question. Warncliffe was in touch with other people besides Forster. Do you know them?’
‘No—I’d no idea.’
‘Right,’ said Loftus. ‘I needn’t worry you any more. Mark, will you spare me a minute?’
Martin Best and Carruthers were in the lounge, which looked like the morning after a stag-party. Loftus took a chair near a fire which had been neglected, poked it a little, and looked across at Mark.
‘Well?’
Mark gave him a résumé of what had happened, and the results of the various interrogations. Only Grey now seemed a doubtful quantity, and Mark said:
‘He was marking time,’ said Carruthers.
‘Let’s go and see if I can make him run,’ said Loftus. He reached the door of Grey’s room, and turned the handle. He pushed—and the door did not open. He pushed again, and he stared at Mark.
‘Was it locked last time?’
‘No.’
‘Huh!’ said Loftus, and put his shoulder to the door. At the second attempt the bolt on the other side of the door gave way, and he staggered into the room. Mark followed swiftly, gun in hand.
But he did not need it.
The grey light of early morning filtered through the drawn curtains, showing that the room was in utter disorder. Clothes were strewn everywhere, a table was overturned, and the wardrobe was pulled away from the wall.
But what mattered most was the man on the bed.
Mark recognised Grey—and a Grey whose face was turning colour, for about his neck was tied a scarf, drawn cruelly tight. His chest was heaving in the effort to breathe.
• • • • •
Within half an hour Grey was sitting up in bed. He could remember nothing, he said, except that he had felt someone fingering his throat, had awakened and been chloroformed. There was the faintest of odours of chloroform about his mouth and nose, and a tiny purplish stain on a pillow.
‘After that—you came in,’ said Grey. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Mr. Loftus. I’m deeply grateful, believe me.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Loftus breezily. ‘Why was the attack made, Mr. Grey?’
‘It’s all a part of this outrageous interference with Professor Grafton. Warncliffe arranged it, I’ve no doubt of that—or someone for whom he worked.’
‘Do you know he had associates?’
‘Of course he had!’ snapped Grey. ‘The man was in the pay of some country or other, I never doubted that.’