Murder, London--South Africa

by John Creasey

  “Good idea,” Roger said. He glanced round. “What time is it?”

  “Half past seven, baas. This is going to be very busy day.” Percival’s smile was enormous. “You like yo’ tea before bath or after it?”

  “After. In ten minutes.”

  “Yes, sah.” Percival went padding out. He had left a huge pink bath-towel hanging near the tub, and everything was in position, including a big loofah. Roger had a tepid bath followed by a cold shower, and was dabbing himself dry when Percival came in with the tea-tray.

  He put it down, appeared at the door and said, “Tea ready, baas,” and went out.

  Roger stepped into the bedroom, mother-naked, pulled on his cotton pants, and then remembered that he had raised the blinds the night before. The offices of the bank directly opposite his window seemed to be peopled by girls all glancing this way. He pulled on a vest behind the bathroom door, and then went into the bedroom for the tea – and as he lifted the milk-jug, he saw a letter.

  He picked it up, and read the printed words, ‘Cable & Wireless.’ It was addressed to him care of police headquarters, so they hadn’t lost much time sending it over. He poured out tea and then tore open the cable.

  It read:

  Joshua Bradshaw missing believed flying Johannesburg via Amsterdam stop. David Bradshaw had two banking accounts under assumed names totalling over fifteen thousand pounds Joshua one of eight thousand stop. First ten replies to police questionnaires in stop. Total commercial value of diamonds involved already over hundred thousand stop. Places involved so far Paris Brussels Amsterdam Madrid Stockholm Milan Dublin Lisbon London and Cairo stop. Signed Klemm.

  Very softly, Roger began to whistle. He was still whistling, and thoughtful as well as anxious for news of Faith, when the telephone bell rang. He was nearly dressed, and feeling physically and mentally on top of himself; it was as if the conflict with Faith had cleansed both his mind and body. When he thought of that, he chuckled at the obvious implication.

  “Roger West,” he said into the telephone. As he did so, he thought that this could be a message from or about Faith, that it might be of vital significance, and nothing at all seemed funny.

  “This is Colonel Wiess’ aide,” a man said in a deep, assured voice. “Colonel Wiess’ compliments, and he would like you to breakfast with him. He will be at your hotel at eight o’clock, and a room has been reserved.”

  21

  TACTICS

  ‘He hasn’t slept all night,’ Roger thought as Wiess entered the room. The sun, slanting through the Venetian blinds, shone full on to his face and into his eyes, and he blinked and turned away quickly. The brick-red face was that of a man who spent a long time in the open air; there were one or two little red marks, suggesting that he had shaved in a hurry. As he shook hands with Roger, his eyes looked very tired and red-rimmed, but his grip hinted at his physical strength.

  “I am sorry you had an anxious time last night,” he said. “And I am also sorry that there is no news of Miss Soames. It is most regrettable, although there is reason to believe that it is partly her own fault.”

  “Ah,” said Roger. “Why?”

  “It appears that she did receive the telephone call, the nature of which we do not know, and that she left the hotel by the kitchen exit, which was not under surveillance.” Wiess did not say whether he thought it should have been. “A street patrol saw her driving out of the parking place. The car was found near the telephone kiosk, abandoned.”

  Wiess stepped towards the window and adjusted the blind so that no direct light shone through. “You permit that?”

  “Of course.”

  “I am sorry also to ask you to a conference so early in the morning,” Wiess went on, turning towards the table, which was beautifully laid, silver glistening, damask shining. “However, I have urgent business during the day which I must attend. I am sure you understand.”

  “Yes,” Roger said. “Was the disturbance a bad one, Colonel?”

  Wiess looked at him squarely. His eyes suddenly seemed less tired, as if the question had put him on the defensive, and wariness drove weariness away. Before he answered, there was a tap at the door. A European head waiter with a French accent came in, followed by two Bantus in spotless white. The head waiter presented the menu with a flourish; there were seven courses.

  Wiess hardly glanced at it, but said, “Fish, steak, two eggs, sausages.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Roger decided.

  “Would you like your steak well done, sir?”

  “Medium well.”

  “Like the Colonel always has his,” said the head waiter; so breakfast-time sessions were not unusual. One of the Bantus came up with coffee, another poured out for Wiess and Roger; they were left to add their own hot milk. All of this Wiess took for granted, and he sipped the hot coffee until the waiters went out. The wariness had gone, and weariness was back.

  “Yes,” he said, “it was a bad night. Two Asians and three Bantus were killed before the police were able to quell the disturbance. It began over a dispute about seats on a bus. Why must there always be enmity and bloodshed?”

  He looked towards the window, and it was strange to see that strong and powerful face touched by an emotion which, if not grief, was certainly sadness. Then he squared his shoulders, and turned back to Roger. “But this will not affect our inquiry, Superintendent. I have told you all about Miss Soames. It is now obvious that someone whom she knew or whom she believed she could trust telephoned her, and she went to see them. Something alarmed her, and she tried to escape from them. Her car tyre was punctured by a bullet. We have the bullet, a .22 of Italian manufacture. That does not surprise you, does it?”

  Bradshaw had been killed by a similar bullet.

  “No,” Roger said heavily. “It certainly doesn’t. Have you any idea who the men were?”

  “One was a small man, according to the witness.” Wiess gulped down another cup of coffee, and broke a roll and spread half of it liberally with butter. “That does not surprise you, either. It has not been possible to get a detailed description, but what we do know tallies with your description of the man who murdered David Bradshaw. This, I understand, was probably one of two Italians, named Severini and Galli. Several men answering their descriptions have entered the country in the past forty-eight hours, some by air to the Jan Smuts Airport, some across the border with Southern Rhodesia, at Beit Bridge. These two men may be in the country. We cannot jump to conclusions, but neither can we ignore possibilities. You were about to say something?”

  “Did you see the cable which reached me this morning?”

  “I know nothing of it.”

  “Bradshaw’s brother has left England and the Yard thinks he’s on his way here, via Amsterdam,” Roger said flatly.

  Wiess made no comment, just stared. Roger took the cablegram from his pocket and handed it across the table.

  Wiess took a long time reading it, and then said, “You had no reason to suspect the brother, did you?”

  “Not until now.”

  “They do not say when he left, and it is possible that he will be here on the morning’s KLM flight,” reasoned Wiess. “It is not likely to arrive until midday or afterwards; there is good time to make sure this man does not enter the country.”

  “I wonder if it’s a good idea to hold him at the airport, or even to let him know that we’ve any idea who he is,” Roger suggested, very thoughtfully.

  Wiess made no comment, but waited to hear more. The door opened and the two Bantu boys came in, each bearing a silver salver. The hand which placed the fish on Roger’s plate was as black as ebony.

  When they had retired, Roger went on, “Did you have a chance to discuss Nightingale with the Minister of Justice?”

  “Yes. I am to use my own discretion,�
�� Wiess told him. “Until the disappearance of Miss Soames I was inclined to agree with you that we should allow him to have freedom of movement in this country. Now . . .”

  He shrugged his powerful shoulders.

  “You suggest that Joshua Bradshaw should have the same freedom, of course. It could be very dangerous. There are many ways out of this country, many borders which it is impossible to control thoroughly, places where those who know the country can slip across into Southern Rhodesia, even into Bechuanaland and South-West Africa.”

  “If Nightingale and Bradshaw are going to take such a lot of trouble to get into the country, what makes you think they’ll be so anxious to get out?”

  “They will certainly be anxious to get out when they have achieved their objective, whatever it may be,” Wiess said drily.

  It was impossible to argue against that.

  “If we were looking for Nightingale, or simply watching him, we might lose him,” Roger conceded. “If we watched Bradshaw as well, the chance of them both getting away would be pretty small.”

  He watched Wiess fork the white fish, and ate a little himself; it wasn’t particularly tasty, but went down easily enough.

  He finished, forced a smile, and went on, “I know, it’s easy for me to suggest the best course of action; I’m not familiar with the kind of problems you know you’ll run up against.”

  Wiess still did not comment, but finished his fish and pushed his plate back.

  “There’s one fairly obvious thing I didn’t see until you were telling me what happened to Faith Soames.”

  “What is that?”

  “If Nightingale is telling the truth, he was framed so that you would prevent his moving freely about the country. Now an associate from The Globe is lured out of her room and then kidnapped. The same people could be involved for the same motive.”

  “What motive?” demanded Wiess.

  Roger shrugged. “That’s one of the answers we’re looking for. One possibility is that they want to find out what she knows – and they wanted to find out what Van der Lunn knew.”

  There was another tap on the door and the two waiters came in, this time with enormous silver dishes laden with more food. Roger watched as the black hand placed a large steak with two large sausages, some strips of bacon, two eggs, and some tomatoes on his plate, then placed the tray by his side; there was at least as much left on it.

  “We’ll help ourselves,” Wiess said, and the boys went off, long white gowns rustling slightly. Wiess ate solidly for several minutes, paused, and asked, “So you would release Nightingale, allow Joshua Bradshaw to enter freely, and follow both in the hope that they would lead you to Faith Soames.”

  “And the rest of the answers,” Roger said.

  “Ah. Yes. It would need a large force of men, there would have to be no chance of either of them disappearing. Ach.” Wiess reminded Roger a little of Hardy in that moment; it was the first time he had thought of Hardy since he had arrived in South Africa. He did not try to persuade the Colonel, who was no more likely than Hardy to be persuaded about anything against his better judgement.

  Suddenly, Wiess said, “We will try it. Both men must be here for a purpose. Yes, we will try it.”

  He looked pleased that he had made the decision, and tucked into the rest of the food, helped himself to another steak, and ate that with as much relish as he had the first; Roger gave up after a fourth sausage. The Bantus came in with fresh coffee, and Wiess watched them pour out, then waved them away.

  “You understand, of course, that you will not be able to take any part in following them, for you would be recognised at a glance. We shall keep you fully informed. Captain Standish will be in charge here. We shall use Bantu detectives, for we find that people from England take Bantus for granted in our country. They do not suspect they are detectives!” Wiess gave the faintest of smiles. “I wish I could take personal charge, but it is not possible today or tomorrow. And in that time it is possible that there will be some results.”

  “I hope so,” Roger said. “One thing.”

  “What is it?”

  “If the time comes when I can do anything, will you make sure I get the chance?”

  This time, Wiess smiled quite broadly.

  “Yes,” he said. “I shall weigh up the balance between allowing a senior officer from Scotland Yard to be in danger, and of losing the services of a very capable man. Remember, we are as anxious as you to find the answer to our questions.”

  The smile faded.

  “In some ways we are more anxious. We have had a message from Scotland Yard this morning, about Mr Van der Lunn. He is neither better nor worse, and is still on the danger list. The consequences could be very serious if he were to die, especially if this mystery is unsolved.”

  He paused, broodingly, and then went on, “To start with, you may wish to see Nightingale again and to tell him that he will not be detained, although we shall hold his passport until we have satisfied ourselves that he has told the truth.”

  “I’d want to tell him that the girl is missing, too, and what happened to her,” Roger said.

  “That is permissible.” Wiess stood up, tall and very erect. “We shall need a little time to make sure that the arrangements for watching Nightingale are completed. It will also be advisable for you to be at the airport when the KLM plane arrives, so that you can identify Joshua Bradshaw. You see, we shall not allow you to laze your time away.”

  22

  LIE?

  Nightingale looked much more rested and untroubled than Wiess had. A newspaper was open at the foot of his bed, which was made; he had shaved, and there was impatience in his manner as Roger appeared by the cell bars, but he restrained this impatience until the door had opened, Roger was inside, and the door was closed and locked again.

  “One way of telling me you didn’t do a good job,” Nightingale said harshly. “I wonder if you really tried. I wrote that statement exactly as I told the story to you, and—”

  Roger interrupted, “How well do you know Faith Soames?”

  Nightingale took a moment or two to adjust himself to the change of subject, and then asked sharply, “What’s she got to do with it?”

  “Just answer my question.”

  “She’s got as keen a mind as her uncle, she doesn’t know how to say no or how to allow anyone else to say no, and she has a memory like an electronic computer. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes. Did she know what you were coming here for?”

  “No. West, what’s all this about?”

  Roger said, “She decided she ought to come and hold your hand. She came, she tried to be clever, and she got herself kidnapped. No one knows where she is. Do you know where she might be?”

  Nightingale breathed, “My God.”

  He backed to the bed, and sat down.

  “My God,” he repeated. “Faith.”

  Roger asked sharply, “Do you know who might have kidnapped her and where they might have taken her?”

  Nightingale gulped.

  “I—” he began, and then his eyes narrowed, and it seemed to Roger that something jelled in his mind; the shock was over, and he was beginning to think again, was probably beginning to lie.

  “No,” he said, and then in a louder voice, “Why the hell should I know who would do a thing like that?”

  “You came here to look for someone – who was it?”

  Nightingale said, “I came here to see if I could pick up any more information about Van der Lunn. This was one time when he couldn’t stop me. That’s all.”

  His mouth seemed like a trap as he went on, “What are the bloody cops doing to find her?”

  “Scouring the countryside.”

  “If anything happens to her—”

  “If anything happens
to her it will be her own fault, just as it will be your own fault if anything happens to you.”

  “Nothing can happen to me in this bloody place.” Nightingale moistened his lips. “My God, what will old Soames say? He worships her. Why the hell did he let her come? Why—West!”

  Nightingale gripped Roger’s shoulder.

  “Does he know she’s missing?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He’s got to be told. Do you hear? He’s got to be told – and I’ve got to get out of this place.” His voice grew louder. “If you’ve any influence at all, get me out of here so that I can talk to Soames, and so that I—”

  He broke off, gritting his teeth.

  “It’s like being in a cage. I can’t take it. Understand – I can’t take it.”

  “You’ll have to take a lot worse for a lot longer if you play the fool again,” Roger said. “They’re holding your real passport so that you can’t leave the country until they’ve checked on your story – and if you leave illegally you’ll never be able to come back. Is that clear?”

  Nightingale said wonderingly, “You mean they’ll let me go?”

  “Yes.”

  Nightingale frowned. “Well, that’s something. That’s certainly something.”

  After a pause he asked sharply, “Am I restricted to Pretoria?”

  “No.”

  Nightingale gave a fierce grin, and slapped Roger on the shoulder. The power in his arm was very great, the slap was almost painful.

  “So you did your stuff. I won’t forget it.” New life seemed to be pouring into him even as he stood there, and suddenly he clapped his hands together with a resonant bang. “Will I be glad to move about again! This has been hell.”

  He broke off.

  “When are they going to let me out?”

  “Now.”

  “How soon can I get through to Soames?” demanded Nightingale.

  Standish, back on duty, put a small office with two telephones at Roger’s disposal. It was a little after nine o’clock in Pretoria, six o’clock in London. Nightingale had given Soames’ home number, and complained bitterly when he was told there would be an hour’s delay.