by John Creasey
‘We’ve things to talk about,’ he said. ‘Before that, we’ll get Quayle under lock and key. Bruce, will you——’
The bald-headed little food manufacturer stood back a pace. He was still trembling, but there was an odd dignity about him as he looked at Loftus and spoke.
‘You don’t have to worry about Quayle. He was getting nervous, so he’s gone. He was blown up in the mine, and the other fools with him.’
Loftus drew a sharp breath.
‘Is that the truth?’
‘It’s the truth,’ Hanton assured him. ‘Quayle knew you were watching him, and he got too nervous, nerves don’t pay in a thing like this. I’m beaten now, and I’ll admit it. I’ve arranged this thing, Loftus, and I’ve been watching you working against me. I didn’t think you’d win,’ he said simply, ‘but it got too complicated. Ainsworth went off the deep end, and we thought he knew something we had to find out. That started it. Then you got busy on Lannigan and Smith, the poor fools.’
Loftus said slowly: ‘They worked for Berlin.’
Hanton shrugged his plump shoulders.
‘So what? I didn’t. I worked for myself. So did Quayle and others. Quayle got the dope, I fixed it to be sent out from here, had a transmitter in the mine that could get anywhere, and no one could find it. Had it blown up because I thought I could still make it. I’d forgotten Rita.’ He looked at the woman dispassionately, and then went on: ‘Wondering why it didn’t come out that she was Quayle’s daughter, aren’t you? That’s easy—she had five thousand a year allowance provided she kept quiet about it. Ainsworth knew it, and tried to blackmail Quayle. Poor sap, he hadn’t any guts, couldn’t even do that properly.’
‘But why?’ demanded Loftus.
Hanton gave a quick, sardonic smile.
‘Ask yourself. Quayle’s been married fifteen years, and Rita’s twenty-seven, even if she doesn’t look it.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘I got her in with Lannigan so that he could watch her, and she thought she was watching her father. I pretended to be doing a deal with Lannigan, he didn’t know that Quayle and me were as close as that.’ He held up two fingers, tightly set together. ‘I had Lannigan and Smith and Berlin nicely foxed, Loftus. I sold out to Vichy for a big price, but I wouldn’t deal direct with the Boche, that would have been asking for trouble. I had a pretty good crowd working,’ he added detachedly. ‘Teddy Howe needed money badly, and Webber was in the same boat, with both of them knowing about the old workings. I had Ratcliffe with me to draw you off if you got as far as Lashley. I’d forgotten Rita,’ he added softly, ‘as soon as I knew Ainsworth hadn’t much on us, I forgot Rita. That was a mistake. I nearly left the other woman too late, too—Regina Brent, I mean.’ He paused, and looked steadily at Loftus.
‘Why were you after Brent’s papers?’ demanded Loftus.
‘That’s easy,’ said Hanton. ‘Quayle thought Brent had some damning stuff on him, and I fixed the accident in which Brent was killed. The papers we looked at last year didn’t give us what we wanted, so we put them back. But when you fellows started watching Quayle he got nervous, so I had another attempt to get at the papers. Anything else you want to know?’
‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘How did the messages get to Vichy?’
‘You’re not so good after all,’ said Hanton. ‘We had a transmitter in the mine, and Teddy Howe went over to collect the cash. You won’t get Teddy, he’ll be an English refugee in France!’
Loftus put his head on one side and regarded the little man. He felt a great sense of elation, for he had no doubt that he had heard the truth, and did not question the prospects of Brian Howe succeeding in the coming mission.
‘So you didn’t know that Edward Howe was dead,’ he said softly. ‘The team-work wasn’t very good, because Webber knew.’
Hanton drew up to his full height, a little over five feet, and peered at Webber, who was sitting against the wall with rough bandages about his wrist and leg.
‘Teddy’s dead? And that two-timing twister didn’t tell me?’ Hanton stared at Loftus, then threw his head back and laughed, a high-pitched hysterical laugh, which showed more than anything else the degree of strain under which the man was labouring. ‘Teddy’s dead! Webber didn’t tell me. Of course, he knew we couldn’t collect without Teddy, and I wouldn’t pay out unless the cash came from France. I thought I had him where I wanted him, but he double-crossed me. If I’d known Teddy was dead I would have been away from here forty-eight hours ago.’
The man stopped, thrust his hands into his pockets, looked at Webber expressionlessly, and then shrugged. He did not speak again, even when he was led out of the room.
• • • • •
The elation of the party of Department Z agents, and those with them, was tempered by the news, learned soon after they had left Heath Place, that Best had died from his wound.
Webber had confessed to shooting him, and had admitted all the charges: like Hanton, he saw no point in maintaining any other attitude. There was proof, too, that Quayle was dead; he had been near one of the mine-shafts just before the explosion, and by some freak blast had been flung clear so that, although he had been killed outright, his features were quite recognisable.
For some time the thought of Best’s death, and the knowledge that not once until the final act had Quayle been seen in the open, and then only casually, had weighed on Loftus’s mind. He admitted to himself (and later to Hershall and Craigie) that there had been far more luck than he liked about the affair; but that did not matter, since they had the results.
And they had Brian Howe.
Loftus was in the back seat of the Lagonda with Brian, while Hammond, Davidson and Graham crowded in front. Rita Ainsworth was staying for the time being with Regina at Beddiloe House. Mike Errol, Cartwright, the Ministry of Mines expert, and several other agents who had followed Quayle from London that day were packed in another car behind Loftus’s. Before they had left Lashley, an inquiry at the nearest hospital, where Webber and Pat Malone had been taken, earned the information that both men were ‘doing well’.
Hanton was under arrest at his own house, where he was assisting the police—under a superintendent sent out from the regional headquarters—to go through his papers.
Hammond, at the wheel, pulled up at Loftus’s Brook Street flat, and the two car-loads emptied. Three plainclothes policemen were on duty outside the flats, and Loftus smiled a little at that, the only outward sign that Hershall was nearby.
Craigie, who had been forewarned by telephone, was waiting at the flat when the party went in. He gripped Loftus’s hand warmly.
‘Don’t congratulate me,’ said Loftus. ‘The others have been showing me things. Where’s the P.M.?’
‘Waiting for you,’ said Craigie. ‘And Howe——’ he looked at Brian Howe as Loftus introduced them, and then added: ‘The Admiralty has released you for special service, and I gather from Loftus that you’re willing to do what you can.’
‘I’m willing all right,’ said Brian Howe quietly.
‘Good man,’ said Craigie. ‘Bill, will you come in next door with Bruce and Howe? The rest of you——’ he paused, and smiled a little, not so much at the disappointment evident on the faces of some of them because they were not to be present at the interview with Hershall, but at Wally Davidson, who was opening a cabinet and removing two bottles.
‘We’ll be all right,’ said Davidson with a drawl. ‘Go to it, soldier!’
Loftus, Hammond, Howe and Craigie went through the secret doorway connecting the two flats. It took them through a narrow passage and then into a comfortably furnished lounge. In there was Hershall and two secretaries, the secretaries perspiring freely, both in their shirt-sleeves.
Hershall was dictating, but broke off when the others entered. His round, pale face was enlivened, his eyes were gleaming, the innate forcefulness of the man had never shown to better advantage. He pushed his chair back, waved the secretaries away, and then looked at Loftus with a half-smile.
‘Incredible fellow, Loftus! You’ve managed it again.’
Loftus raised an eyebrow.
‘The others did it for me, and I won’t go into the way the luck ran, sir.’
‘Luck be damned!’ exclaimed Hershall. ‘You worked for it. Can’t be sure which way things will turn, you never can. I only wish you could guarantee anything, but—oh, never mind that, now.’ His eyes turned towards Brian Howe, who was standing stiffly to attention. His gaze lingered for some seconds, and then he said quietly: ‘Sit down, gentlemen. Now, Mr. Howe, you know what we’re asking of you?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘You’ve no reservations about accepting?’
‘None at all, sir.’
‘I’ll go over some of the ground again,’ said Hershall, and took a cheroot from a case in his pocket. Loftus struck a match and Hershall leaned forward, drew on the cheroot, grunted his thanks and then went on: ‘You will go to Vichy and meet a man at an address Loftus will give you. Before you go, radio transmission of certain information will be broadcast for your contact man to pick up. You will reinforce that radio statement with information of an impending large scale invasion of the Continent and the assurance that you can give full details of it at a given time. Is that all clear?’
‘Perfectly clear, sir.’
‘You will have with you carefully prepared details of the “organisation” of which you are supposed to be a member—Craigie has been working that out for you. It will stand up to any investigation that the Germans can make over here, and I know of no one—and I speak from what Loftus and Craigie tell me—who can discredit your story, or distinguish between you and your brother.’
‘I see, sir,’ said Brian quietly.
‘You will return from France by a small motor launch used, we understand, by your brother. That part of the organisation has not been disturbed. You will report the success of your mission to agents who will contact you, and then you will take back to Vichy—or Berlin, as you may be summoned there—full details of the coming invasion. That invasion plan will, of course, be a false one. You don’t need to be told the implications of that, nor to realise that much of the success of our real attack depends on you.’
‘I don’t, sir,’ said Brian mechanically.
‘Any failure will possibly lengthen operations by six months or more,’ said Hershall. ‘I am being fully frank with you, Mr. Howe. You deserve that frankness.’
‘And I appreciate it, sir,’ said Brian. ‘I don’t feel that anything less can—can—make full retribution for my family’s treachery.’ His lips were set when he finished, but he looked squarely into Hershall’s eyes.
Hershall said quietly: ‘If you do this successfully, Howe, you will have done far more than that. As I see it, but for your brother’s misdemeanours, the opportunity would never have been vouchsafed us. Good out of evil.’ He raised his eyebrows, and smiled a little. ‘I have every confidence in you, and I hope I shall see you again afterwards. Be sure that full recognition will be made, in any event, and be sure also that the faith and trust of the country, as well as myself, are with you.’
Howe’s eyes were suspiciously bright.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Good,’ said Hershall briskly. ‘Good. Look after him well, Loftus. Who will be going to Vichy after him?’
‘Hammond and some of the others,’ said Loftus, ‘and there are plenty over there. I don’t think anything will go seriously wrong, sir.’ He hesitated, and Hershall snapped: ‘Well?’
‘Are you staying here much longer?’ asked Loftus.
Hershall looked at the end of his cheroot, and his lips curved before he chuckled.
‘No, Loftus, only an hour or two. I’m broadcasting at half-past eleven. A shock for the Boche, eh?’ He chuckled again, but then his face grew sombre, and he added very softly: ‘Not such a shock as he’s going to get, I think.’
Brian saluted, and turned to go. Loftus went with him. Hershall stared at the door as it closed, drew on his cheroot, cleared his throat, and then said gruffly:
‘Amazing war, Craigie. Never known so much depend on individuals. A war of machines, we call it. We’d be in a bad way if that were all. Well, I’ve got to get busy, I mustn’t be fuddled at the microphone tonight!’
He pressed a bell, and the secretaries returned. He nodded and smiled to Craigie, who went out and joined the others.
Brian Howe had gone with Loftus, but Craigie gave the party a résumé of what had happened. Finally, he told them that Hershall was to broadcast.
Over the radio throughout the land the news was being given out at ten minute intervals. ‘Listeners are reminded that the Prime Minister will be speaking at eleven-thirty tonight in both Home and Forces wave lengths.’ It was given out in the middle of dance programmes, in the midst of a play, several times during a symphony concert and as often during a variety programme. It reached the homes of England, the public houses, the cinemas and the theatres. It was carried from hand to mouth, the neighbours rushing from their hearths to make sure that it had been heard next door. It was shouted on buses and trams, trains and taxis, it was cried jubilantly in the streets. There was no second when the name of Hershall was not on a thousand lips, no face which had not brightened at this complete scotching of rumour. From a steady resistance against the depression that rumour had created, there grew a wave of elation like nothing that had ever happened in the country, from the beginning of war.
It spread like wildfire, bringing cheers and shouting, and dancing and singing. It was announced from the footlights and from screens, it set the populace talking and humming and buzzing with the news; it breathed new life into the old and the young, the tired and the disheartened.
Eleven o’clock came; eleven-fifteen.
There were few receiving sets in the land not tuned in at twenty-five past eleven, and faces grew tense as the minutes went by. Then at eleven-thirty precisely Hershall was on the air; and over the land there was a breathless hush as his clear, deliberate voice greeted them.
He began:
‘They thought they had killed me, my friends, but they were wrong, and I am here. I have not a long message for you tonight, I will not remind you again of what has happened in the past, nor what is happening now. I need not recount stories of the enormous forces of our aircraft which deliver terror to the Nazi people each night and every night, I need not tell you that Germany is already reeling under our blows.
‘But you have been waiting for other news.
‘You have asked for “attack”, land attack.
‘And such an attack there will be, before very long, a blow such as Hitler cannot withstand, a devastating blow which will send his armies back, armies already weakened by hardship and lack of support from the Home Front. Already they are reeling under the blows from Russia, mighty blows which are gaining weight; and tonight I send a message to our Russian allies, and to the Americans who are with us and will fight with us. The day is approaching. We will and shall attack, and we shall win. I have never prophesied before, but I prophesy now: we shall set foot on the Continent, and we will not be driven back. Whether the final victory will come in weeks or months I cannot tell. I do not think that it will take years.
‘You have asked for an offensive, you have worked and fought for it, and to every man and woman and child some part of the preparations are due, no one need think that he or she is doing nothing. You have played your part gloriously, and you will continue to do so while the Army and the Navy and the Air Force does its work.
‘Be of great heart, for the hour is approaching.’
He stopped: there was a long pause before another voice came to the microphone. In that pause there was hardly a voice raised in Great Britain. Men and women and children eyed one another, echoing the glorious confidence of the speech that they had prayed to hear. In some eyes there were tears, but in all hearts there was a great resurgence of hope.
In Regina Brent’s and Lady Beddiloe’s, at Lashley.
/> In the agents’ at Loftus’s flat, gathered about the microphone; Loftus was back with them, but Howe had left for Vichy, and Hammond soon after him.
Soon the news was being sent to the Continent, a Continent waiting to rise to strike and to help. Over the land of Europe and further afield there was the great upsurge of belief in victory, early victory.
In Vichy, Brian Howe met the man who had last seen his brother, a man who had already been told that the news of the big plan for invasion had leaked out. From Vichy Howe went to Berlin, from Berlin, after a nightmare stay, he returned to Vichy and thence to England. He was burning with the desire to take his task through successfully, while the whole of Craigie’s department were waiting or working, on tenterhooks for the great day. Many were in the occupied countries, many in Germany, preparing the enslaved peoples for the blow they would strike to help their own deliverance.
Few knew of Brian Howe’s lone task.
Few knew that he reported the success of his first visit, but Loftus, Craigie and Mike Errol knew, knowing also that in England Howe was shadowed by Nazi agents but obtained the ‘information’ through a contact the Nazis could not connect with the Department or the Government. They knew, too, that he went back with the information for the location of the attack; and then reports came through that the Nazis were massing their men by night to counter it.
The people waited, with Hershall’s message still alive in their hearts. A matter of weeks, they said, or days——Attack!
It came so swiftly that even the people whose hearts and lives were dedicated to that hour were taken by surprise. It came with a ferocity which made the Germans gasp in dismay. It went on furiously, with the Nazis fighting their desperate battle, the battle which might last for weeks or months but could have only one end.
If there is a sorrowful thing in the hearts of Loftus and Mike Errol, Craigie, Hammond and the other agents, it is that no news ever came from Brian Howe after his signal that the ‘plans’ had been delivered.