by John Creasey
‘Trust no one here,’ said Bruton, with feeling. ‘Remember what Brett told us—avoid trouble in Sweden. I’ll get the grips. Don’t be too easy on this guy, Sap. He was one of those who helped to kill Neil.’
He flung out of the room, and Palfrey knew that he preferred to go, for if he had stayed he would have found it difficult to keep his hands off Matthew Lumsden.
Lumsden tried to speak. ‘I—I—I—’ he began, and then gave up, but looked at Palfrey appealingly, as if he were afraid of the physical vengeance to come and was desperately anxious to save himself. Palfrey remembered when he had seen the man for the first time, so full of self-assurance and so disdainful of him. He was surprised; and yet at the back of his mind there was a feeling that he ought to have expected this, that it fitted in somewhere with the mystery.
‘I—I didn’t—know—about—Erikson,’ Matthew gasped, and Palfrey could just understand the words.
‘Didn’t you?’ asked Palfrey. . He was not thinking of Matthew now. He was wondering what chance he and Bruton would have when the others realised what had happened. He had no doubt that he was right. Bane, Knudsen and Dias were in this together. Yet there was no actual proof of their part in the conspiracy, certainly no proof which would satisfy the Swedish authorities, and there was little doubt that Knudsen had the ear of the Government. He and Bruton were very much on their own: they, could not even safely appeal for help to the British Embassy. They could go there for temporary sanctuary, but there was far too much to do outside, and if they entered its portals now they would be unable to take any further part in operations on Swedish soil; all the time there was the nightmare of upsetting diplomatic relations.
Here was emergency, stark and clear.
Palfrey saw now why Brett had encouraged him to come as a private individual; had he been a member of Z.5 the Government must have taken some responsibility for his actions. Brett had been determined not to risk international complications. Yes, that was clear, and other things were falling into place.
Matthew muttered: ‘I—I tell you I didn’t.’
The door opened again. Bruton brought in two cases and dumped them down, then went out.
Palfrey said: ‘Bane has been staying here, hasn’t he?’
‘Y-y-yes.’
‘And Knudsen has visited you here.’
‘N-no,’ said Matthew.
‘Then you’ve been to see Knudsen.’
‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘Yes, I—’ He paused again as the door opened and Bruton brought in the one remaining case and their coats and hats.
Bruton locked the door. Matthew licked his lips and stared at the American, who stood with his feet planted wide apart and his hands at his waist, like a wrestler about to spring at his opponent. Matthew drew back towards the window fearfully.
‘What were you going to say?’ demanded Palfrey.
‘What—what are you going to do to me?’
‘That depends on what you’ve done,’ said Palfrey.
Matthew gasped: ‘I haven’t done anything. I—I was compelled to help a little, but I’ve done nothing myself, I’ve only taken a few messages from—from one to another. Bane—Bane got his hands on me a year ago; I haven’t been able to call my life my own. I tell you it’s Bane’s fault, not mine—it’s Bane’s fault! He said Erikson had to be killed; he said it, I argued, I tried to save Erikson, but they wouldn’t listen to me!’ He was sweating freely, and some colour had come back in his cheeks. He was still staring at Bruton, as if aware that the greatest danger was likely to come from him. ‘You mustn’t blame me!’ he cried. ‘It wasn’t me!’
Palfrey said: ‘Bane and Knudsen work with Dias, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Knudsen been working for Dias long?’
‘I—I don’t think so,’ said Matthew. ‘I don’t know a lot about the work, I’ve only travelled for them. I can tell you this: Dias didn’t know Knudsen at first, he was going to—he was going to kill Knudsen, then Bane came along. Bane’s the real leader, he—’
‘Bane and who else?’ growled Bruton.
Palfrey looked sharply at him; Bruton might make Matthew tongue-tied again; the man was now blue with fear. Matthew licked his lips and backed further towards the window, as if anxious to put as much distance as he could between himself and Bruton. Bruton stayed where he was.
‘Go on, Matthew,’ said Palfrey. ‘What you tell us now will make all the difference to you later. This is a world-wide Black Market, with Bane as the guiding spirit, Dias his chief travelling agent and Knudsen his Swedish agent. Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re doing very well,’ said Palfrey. ‘Now—’
The glass of the window crashed in.
It happened without warning. Palfrey was in the middle of speaking when the glass broke with a crash and splinters flew about the room. Bruton leapt forward, Palfrey cried ‘Keep away from there!’ He dodged to one side, while Matthew Lumsden staggered away from the window, reeling drunkenly, horror in his face. Horror and pain, for at the side of his head there was an ugly wound, blood was already oozing from it.
He pitched forward on his face and lay still.
Bruton was close by the window, gun in hand, peering out cautiously. A bullet hit the wall near the door, opposite the window. After that there was silence except for Palfrey’s movements as he crawled on his hands and knees towards Matthew, keeping below the level of the window-sill. He turned the man over gently, then half lifted him and dragged him away from the window, towards the bed. He pulled a pillow from the bed and put it under Matthew’s head, but he did not think there was any chance that Matthew would regain consciousness; the wound had gone deep, scoring a groove across the side of his head, ending just above the left eye.
The pillow was soon soaked with blood.
Bruton said: They fired from the window opposite, Sap. They must have watched us. We’d better get out while the going’s good.’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘Take the small cases.’
‘Okay. Don’t waste any time.’
Palfrey said: ‘Go to the door and keep watch.’
Bruton hesitated only for a moment. As he moved out of the room, carrying one small case, Palfrey ran through Matthew’s pockets and took out all the papers he could find, the mail’s wallet, and – from his waistcoat pocket – a watch-chain charm in the shape of a black mask. He stuffed them all into his own pockets. He felt Matthew’s pulse, which was so faint that it was hardly noticeable; Matthew would probably be dead within ten minutes.
He hurried after Bruton, picking up his case as he went. Bruton was looking out of the room opposite, so placed that he could see either end of the passage. ‘Come on,’ he said, and stepped out into the passage.
‘Not the front way,’ Palfrey said. ‘Fire-escape.’
‘We’re heading for trouble whichever way we go,’ Bruton said.
As they turned towards the end of the passage, where there was an emergency exit, heavy footsteps sounded round the comer. They reached the exit, and Palfrey unbolted the door while Bruton kept watch on the far end of the passage. The footsteps drew nearer. A man turned the corner, a man whom Bruton did not know, but Charles Lumsden would have recognised as one of the men who had been in the house in London.
‘Don’t shoot if you can help it!’ Palfrey called.
The man at the other end of the passage drew a gun, but then another man turned the corner and banged into him; it was Lozana. Bruton backed on to the fire-escape and slammed the door, but it could not be fastened from the outside. Palfrey was already half-way down the fire-escape. Bruton went part of the way down the last flight of iron steps, then swung over the railings and leapt to the ground. He touched the courtyard before Palfrey.
The door above opened, and Lozana and his companion appeared.
‘Keep close to the wall,’ Palfrey said.
They kept close and ran, hampered only by their cases. They heard the iron steps reverberating
to the tread of the two men on their heels. As they reached the corner of the building, near the kitchen quarters, two other men appeared, dusky-looking fellows each of whom had his right hand in his pocket. They came out of a doorway at the side of the hotel.
‘That’s one way,’ Bruton said.
He flung himself forward.
He took the men completely by surprise, reaching one and sent him flying against the other. A gun dropped from one man’s hand, and Palfrey gave it a flying kick, sending it yards away. Bruton recovered and rushed in Palfrey’s wake. They turned along a narrow passage and raced towards the far end, where they could see the high brick wall which surrounded part of the Splendor. Beyond that wall was the main road. If they turned right they would get to the main entrance hall, through a side door, and there would be crowds of people in that entrance hall.
Footsteps were echoing on the stone flooring of the courtyard. The passage along which they raced separated one part of the hotel from another.
Palfrey knew that from a room opposite they had been seen; the bullet which had killed Matthew Lumsden had been fired across this passage. He could not now think how it had happened that they had been seen in that ‘borrowed’ room, but turned into the doorway, grateful for the revolving doors.
‘We’ll stay in here a moment,’ he said.
Bruton, just behind him, grunted a response. They stood inside the partition hidden from outside as well as from inside. Palfrey smoothed down his hair and his coat, and then someone pushed the door from the inside.
He staggered out; Bruton came a moment later, almost pitching forward at the feet of a middle-aged woman who drew back with an exclamation of alarm.
‘Sorry!’gasped Bruton.
They were too closely pursued for finesse. They raced across the crowded entrance hall, scattering people right and left. As they reached the main doors, Palfrey glanced over his shoulder and saw Lozana. Much now depended on whether Lozana would make it obvious that he was in pursuit. Palfrey dashed out of the hotel and banged into a commissionaire.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Taxi, quickly!’
Training won the day; the commissionaire was obviously startled by Palfrey’s appearance and his breathlessness, but turned to get a taxi. There was one drawing up, disgorging passengers who were apparently in a hurry, and did not wait for change. Palfrey held the door open, the commissionaire was left grasping the air. Bruton hurried into the taxi, and Palfrey called in a loud voice:
‘The United States Embassy—hurry!’
Many people were staring at them, and on the steps of the hotel, his hands in his pockets in an endeavour to look unconcerned, was Lozana. He was not taking any chances of being delayed by the police, he showed no outward signs of malice, but the man who had been with him was beckoning another taxi frantically.
Bruton gasped: ‘Why the Embassy?’
‘We’ll change directions later,’ said Palfrey.
He looked out of the small rear window. Lozana was stepping into the second taxi and his companion was giving orders. Two more men, those whom Bruton had delayed, hurried from the hotel, and climbed in as the taxi moved off. The first taxi had a start of thirty or forty yards; it would have been greater but for the streams of traffic. There were traffic lights at crossroads immediately ahead.
Palfrey leaned forward and spoke to the driver.
‘Go straight ahead—then turn right and right again.’
Unthinkingly, he spoke in English. The Swede turned and gave him a vast, reassuring grin, and said: ‘Yes, sir!’
They were among the last vehicles over the cross-roads before the traffic lights changed. Bruton relaxed for the first time, and took his turn in looking out.
‘They’re well behind,’ he said, ‘but where does the first right and the first right after that take us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Palfrey. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and continued to speak in English. ‘We want to get away from a taxi which is following us—do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir!’ roared the driver. ‘I see him!’ He roared with laughter, and people stared at him from the sidewalk. ‘Leave it, please, to me.’
He trod on the accelerator and swung right, then right again, then left and along a wide thoroughfare with shops on either side. A few hundred yards further he turned to the left again, and after a mile or two they were on a road which led uphill, past smaller shops, and with a church on the summit of the hill immediately ahead of them. When they reached the top they saw another road junction; five or six roads converged there. The taxi, rattling along at a furious pace, turned into one of the roads, and soon they found themselves in a residential suburb. Some way along the main road the driver turned into a garage outside which two or three other taxis were standing. He pulled over to the side of the garage, jumped out of his seat, raised a warning hand and went towards the door.
Palfrey and Bruton watched him breathlessly.
‘I think we’ve lost them,’ Bruton said.
‘I hope so,’ said Palfrey.
The driver was away for at least five minutes. When he came back he was beaming broadly and had his thumbs up. Palfrey got out of the taxi, smoothed down his hair, and said: ‘You’ve been very good.’
‘I am glad to help,’ said the Swede, cheerfully. ‘I have a great admiration for the English. Where are you going, please?’
‘That’s a poser,’ Palfrey said. ‘Poser?’ The man looked startled.
‘A problem,’ said Palfrey.
The driver looked a little less happy as he glanced from one to the other, and rubbed the flat of his hand along his trousers. Palfrey knew that it was dawning on him that they had fled from the police. Palfrey was wondering how far they could use the taxi and take advantage of the driver’s obvious friendliness. A few words would set his mind at rest about the police, but would they be justified? Matthew Lumsden was dead by now; it was possible that Bane or Knudsen would accuse them of the murder. The police might already be hunting for them; if Bane or Knudsen succeeded in putting the machinery of the law into action it would move rapidly.
Bruton said: ‘Sap, I wonder if Neilsen is at home. The Marquis said he lives in Bikka Street.’
‘Bikka Street,’ said the driver. ‘That is in Haga.’
‘Where are we now?’ asked Palfrey.
‘Rorstrand.’
‘Are we far from Haga?’
‘It is north,’ said the driver, ‘a long way north.’
‘Can you take us there?’ asked Palfrey.
‘I can,’ said the driver. He hesitated, looked from Palfrey to Bruton and back again, and then said decidedly: ‘Yes, I will take you. It will cost one hundred krone.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Palfrey.
The driver was obviously still a little uneasy. He hustled them into the taxi, exchanged a few words with a colleague who was washing down another taxi, and then drove off at high speed. They did not touch the centre of the town, but drove along a fine road, through wooded tree-clad country, with glimpses from time to time of a vast stretch of water which shimmered beneath the bright sun and tree-clad islands raising rocky heads clear from the surface. It was cold, and Palfrey began to feel it for the first time. Now and again he shivered.
Haga, the residential suburb on the shores of the Brunnsulken, had a position of such beauty that, had he had more time to look about him, Palfrey would have been enthralled. Now he was filled with burning anxiety. Neilsen had been a resident agent in Stockholm at the beginning of the war, had been injured and put on the retired list. The Marquis had specifically mentioned him, but he might not be at home; if he were, he would joyfully help them.
They reached the top of the hill leading to the suburb, and looked down on more tree-clad slopes, dotted with white houses, their red and blue roofs catching the sun. It was a modern fairy-land. Beyond the shores the tiny wooded islands which starred the lake appeared in sharp relief.
‘Bikka Street,’ said the taxi-driver, al
oud. He slowed down and called to a woman, who directed him. Soon they were in a winding road with houses of pleasing aspect on either side, set in trim gardens, with rows of great trees between each garden. Every house had a number.
‘Neilsen’s number is 36,’ Bruton said.
‘We are near,’ said the taxi-driver, and pulled up outside a white house with a finely built rockery, and stone steps leading to the front door.
‘You’ve been very good,’ said Palfrey. ‘We hope to find friends here.’ He took out his wallet and put two 100-krone notes into the man’s hand. He smiled. ‘Don’t believe what you might hear about us, please—and say nothing!’
‘I have a silent tongue,’ said the taxi-driver. He saluted and made off, and Palfrey and Bruton stood watching him. He disappeared round a bend in the road, their last link with the immediate past. They looked at each other, unsmiling, and then Bruton grinned and took out a cigar.
‘We’ve been lucky so far. Maybe we’ll get another break. Come on.’
They walked side by side up the steep path to the front door. Palfrey rang the bell. There were two doors, and between them a glass-enclosed hall, one side with painted wooden shelves where plants grew in profusion.
The interval before their ring was answered seemed unending but Palfrey did not ring again.
He was trying to weigh up the situation, to calculate their chances. Much had happened so swiftly that there had been little time to think. Knowing that Bane, Knudsen and Dias were in league with one another was one thing; proving it another. If they had managed to escape with Matthew Lumsden their task would have been much easier, but now the immediate prospects were bleak. He admitted that he thought it unlikely that Knudsen would keep away from the police, it was almost certain that the hunt was on. And there was Lozana and his bunch of thugs; they would not give up easily, and they would not take chances.
The door opened and a trim-looking woman stood there.
Palfrey said, in English: ‘Is this the home of Mr. Neilsen?’