by John Creasey
Mark handed the flask to his cousin, without comment. Mike took a sip or two, then stood up slowly. Between them, glances were exchanged, admitting a mutual course of action.
Watching the big man and his lovely companion board the launch, they were surprised to see that there was another man aboard. They were surprised, too, by the gentleness of the big man’s voice, as he asked:
‘Much damage, Ned?’
A new voice, taut with anger, answered.
‘If I don’t walk for a month, I’ll not be surprised—the blighters! Who the devil stopped you getting them? Blast it, I don’t mind being shot at if we get results, but …’
‘Shhh!’ said the gentle-voiced giant. ‘You’ll hurt their feelings even more, and that wouldn’t do. Now, let’s have a look at you heroes. Di, get the first-aid box, will you?’
The Errols glanced in baffled wonder from the launch and its occupants to the delightful little creature at their side. She smiled—and Mark had time to note another engaging flaw: her front teeth were ever-so-slightly crossed. In a quiet, almost husky voice, she told them:
‘It’ll work itself out, I think. Don’t take too much notice of them.’
Mark drew a deep breath.
‘Heaven forbid! Tell me, are they friends of yours?’
He was taken aback by her reaction.
‘They certainly are!’ she said, fervently.
‘Well,’ Mike was recovering fast, ‘we might have been shot and weren’t; you might have been a hag, and you aren’t …’
A frown wrinkled the girl’s forehead.
‘You might have had the sense to keep quiet, but you hadn’t!’
‘No, that’s a bit much!’ Mike protested.
‘Ingratitude is one word,’ murmured Mark.
She started to speak, glanced towards Loftus, Di, and the wounded man on the launch, then at the men on either side of her. Something in their expression eased her tension.
‘You might have a look at that fellow,’ she remarked, casually, nodding towards the inert figure of the man the two others had dumped at the sight of Loftus. The man was lying off the path, partly hidden by overhanging branches. Both Michael and Mark had completely forgotten him, and were duly abashed as they realised it.
Mike reached the sprawling figure first—and straightened up in a moment, his face pale. Mark did not bend down.
‘The rest of it might be a farce,’ Mike’s drawl was more pronounced than usual. ‘But this fellow’s dead, old son. It’s past time we had a showdown, I think.’
‘Odd,’ Mark remarked, quietly, ‘that the row’s brought no one else out?’
‘That can wait …’
‘Nothing can wait,’ said the big man, behind them. The Errols had not heard him approach. They turned about, grave-faced.
‘This man’s dead,’ Mark said, flatly.
‘I’ll say no prayers for him,’ Loftus retorted. ‘It’s past time he died, my friends—and the pity of it is that it’s only one and not all three of them.’
He pulled out his large, gold cigarette-case, and handed it round. ‘We’ll talk in a few minutes. Fay—if you’ll go to the end of the path and turn right at the road, you’ll find a telephone kiosk about three hundred yards on. Call Inspector Smythe of the Richmond Police, give him my name, and ask him to send three men and an ambulance along. You can say why—once you’ve mentioned me. He won’t get so worked up, then.’ With a quick smile, Loftus watched her turn and go. She walked easily, lithely, with a grace that seemed part of her.
Mike watched her, too—and sighed …
‘Let’s get to the launch,’ said Loftus.
They had to pass the dead man to reach the launch, and the feelings of the Errols could be judged from the fact that they made no comment on that half-submerged punt. The wounded man sat propped against the tiny motor-house of the launch. The Errols eyed him uncertainly: both had the impression that they had met him before.
Lean, spidery, with saucer-like eyes as blue as cornflowers, he sat with both legs stretched in front of him. His right trouser-leg was turned up to the knee, and the girl called Di was binding a wound half-way between his knee and ankle. There was blood on the deck, and on his trousers.
‘May you be forgiven,’ he greeted the Errols, with a look of bitter reproach.
Mike snapped:
‘Let’s stop fooling! A joke’s a joke, but this is long past it. If we got in the way, we’re sorry—but it looks to me as if you fellows botched your own game. If game is the word.’
‘We’d like to think it is,’ said Loftus, easily. ‘It saves us from taking life too seriously. Isn’t your name Errol?’
‘Yes. Yours Loftus?’
‘Yes … How did you know?’
‘One of the brace mentioned it.’ Mike was still in bad humour: ‘I’ve seen you before …’
‘I’ve been trying to think where,’ agreed Loftus. ‘It could—dammit! Brook Street, of course! Yours is the Talbot with the cat and fiddle on the bonnet?’
‘Right,’ said Mark.
‘H’mm. Well now, let me tell you a story—find yourselves a pew.’ He waited till they were seated, then explained: ‘We had reason to believe Benotti, Dodge and Merkle would be hereabouts, and we knew Benotti was for the long jump. We wanted to catch the three of them, and we were coasting up and down. We saw them coming, carrying Benotti—but before we could start shooting, you two horned in.’ Again there was a glimmer of a smile on his lips, if none in his eyes. ‘It was shooting you, or holding fire, and we used discretion. They didn’t. Ned Oundle was hit, and the rest of us were lucky not to be. Got it?’
Mike nodded.
‘So Benotti is the dead man. Which is Merkle?’
‘The short, swarthy one.’
‘And Dodge is the one who puts the boot in,’ Mike said grimly. ‘But that hardly explains why you wanted to shoot them—you’re not the police, are you?’
‘We are not!’ Oundle snorted.
‘Shut up, Ned,’ said Loftus, easily. ‘Errol, you saw that girl just now—Fay Loring?’
Mike nodded again.
‘Well, the primary reason for our desire to put Dodge and company out of action was their keen desire to do likewise to her.’
‘Oh!’ For once, Mike was bereft of words.
‘It’s getting understandable,’ Mark murmured, reflectively, and Loftus grinned.
‘Fay does have that effect—I’ve noticed it before. Well, she’s gone for the police, which ought to convince you that we’re not scrapping off our own bat. For the rest, I can’t tell you a damned thing—yet. But I can introduce you—the lady with the fair hair and the bandages is Diana Woodward—curtsey Di! The injured innocent is Ned Oundle—just nod your head, Ned. Your turn, Errol.’
‘Michael, of that ilk.’ Mike identified himself. ‘And this is Mark. It’s more or less every day we see you in Brook Street, of course. We’re at 55c.’
‘I’m 11g,’ said Loftus. ‘So we’re neighbours. Now what brought you here this afternoon?’
The question was natural and seemed casual, but there was an expression in Loftus’s smoky grey eyes which suggested a sting in its tail. Mike grinned.
‘Are we suspect? It’s Mark’s fault—anything, to dodge Hurlingham!’
‘I don’t blame him.’ Loftus grinned back. ‘Well, the police can look after the body—although I’d better just see what Benotti had in his pockets. We’ll take you down to the boat-house—just send the bill for the punt to me.’
‘Right …’ Mike Errol frowned—then brightened. ‘The grey cells are beginning to work! Loftus of Department Z, isn’t it?’
‘A bane on all newspapers,’ growled Loftus. ‘But—yes.’
‘H’mm.’ Mike glanced at Mark, who nodded imperceptibly. ‘Want any recruits, Loftus?’
The big man hesitated.
‘It depends. How free are you?’
‘As the air,’ said Mike.
‘This isn’t a joke: it’s …’<
br />
‘If you’re asking whether we work for our living, we don’t. We’ve all the time in the world to spare—and a little arrangement whereby we take turns in choosing our occupation for the immediate future. And it’s my turn.’
Loftus grinned.
‘I take it that you’re making formal application for enlistment with the Department?’
‘We are.’
‘We’ll make you sorry,’ growled Ned Oundle. Diana had finished bandaging his leg, and now he tried to stand. He did so, with obvious difficulty, and she promptly fetched cushions from the cabin and insisted on making him comfortable.
If the Errols had doubted her perfection before, they could not do so now. Everything about her suggested that rare—to the Errols, non-existent—combination of flawless beauty and intelligence. The slightest of American accents gave her voice an added depth and warmth.
She smiled—and they were her slaves for life.
‘If the parley’s finished, Bill …?’ she queried, joining them.
‘All but—we’re just waiting for the police,’ Loftus told her.
‘Are you sure it was safe for Miss Loring to go alone?’ Mark sounded anxious.
‘Dodge and Merkle will be many, many miles away,’ said Loftus, with complete assurance. ‘Don’t start fretting about Fay, old son—she’s all right. Come with me, a minute, you two—I might need independent witnesses …’
There were the usual oddments, in the dead man’s pockets. A penknife, some loose change, a watch, comb, matches, cigarettes—and a wallet.
Loftus laid them on the ground, one by one, before opening the wallet. It came only half-open, then somehow jammed. Frowning, Loftus held it to one side, and jerked hard …
There was a clang! and something flashed from it, too fast to see: they heard it strike the trunk of a tree behind them.
There was a moment’s tense silence, then Loftus straightened up.
3
Interview with Craigie
There was, in Bill Loftus, an indefinable quality that lifted him at once from the ruck of ordinary men, something that in part at least explained his deliberate but complete control of any situation. From the moment he had returned from chasing the two gunmen, Loftus had been in control: the others—the girls and Oundle, as well as the Errols—had pivoted about him.
Now, the Errols began to see why.
Loftus looked round towards the tree, and his voice was easy and conversational.
‘Nice playthings, our late and unlamented friend enjoyed—don’t touch it, you fool!’
Mike, who was reaching for the small dart lodged in the tree-trunk, snatched his hand away.
Loftus went past him and, using a clean handkerchief, pulled the dart out. It was no more than two inches long and looked for all the world like a small diary pencil. But the long needle-point had gone half an inch into the tree. From his pocket he took a used envelope and dropped the dart into it, still wrapped in the handkerchief. Drily, he told Mike:
‘Both ends might be poisoned, y’know.’
As the cousins gasped, Loftus turned again to the wallet.
It opened without the slightest trouble, this time. They watched him glance through the contents, none of which he appeared to think important. Then taking out a knife, he slit the pockets of the wallet and ran his finger inside. His expression hardened as he brought out a small sheet of tissue-paper, folded in four.
‘That’s what I’m after,’ he said, with obvious satisfaction. ‘Well, now—still hankering after joining us?’
Mike swallowed hard.
‘Just what happened?’
‘Dope!’ snapped Mark. ‘There was a spring in the wallet, and forcing it open released the dart. Any idiot could see that.’
Mike glared.
‘Obviously one did!’
‘Now listen, little man …’
‘Peace on you, cousins!’ Loftus grinned. ‘But Mark’s right—it was a neatly-arranged dart. Here—’ he held out the wallet and they could see the small spring: ‘The dart ran inside the wallet and to the casual eye would look like a pencil. Only someone knowing the gadget would know to press the catch to prevent the spring being loosed. Oh, it’s a pretty idea—and worthy of Benotti. If a wallet refused to open, the normal reaction would be to bend over it—peer into it.’ His jaw hardened. ‘And so get the dart right in the face.’
‘What made you turn aside?’ asked Mark.
‘Habit—caution—’ Loftus shrugged. ‘When a thing doesn’t behave in a normal manner, it is open to suspicion.’
‘Rule one, sub-section B, general regulations—Department Z!’ Diana’s eyes were twinkling as she reached his side.
‘Quiet, America,’ growled Loftus, and she laughed.
‘Did Benotti invent it, Bill?’ she asked, more seriously.
‘I don’t know—yet.’ That little word was one of which Loftus was inordinately fond: it represented his belief that nothing was impossible. ‘The reasonable inference is that any member of the Benotti association might have a duplicate, and it behoves us to be careful. One of the gentry invented it, certainly,’ he added, grimly. ‘So by now there could be a hundred and one like it.’ He raised his head, suddenly. ‘A car’s coming, thank heavens! We ought to be on the move soon.’
Within the next three minutes, a car, an ambulance, four policemen and Fay Loring arrived. The middle-aged senior policeman, one Inspector Smythe, listened with some deference as Loftus made a sketchy but fairly comprehensive report. Fay called Diana on one side, and Mark tried not to stare as a powder compact was brought into operation.
Trust a woman! he thought, only hazily aware how much this utterly normal action reassured him, in the midst of so much that was so far from normal.
There was Loftus, who had hoped to kill or capture three men … Fay Loring, whose life was in danger … Merkle, Dodge, the dead Benotti … the wounded Ned Oundle … the obvious respect of the police … his own and Mike’s still hardly-credible involvement in the whole incredible business … That powder-compact was reality, comfortingly mundane …
Trust a woman! thought that erstwhile misogynist, Mark Errol …
Loftus broke across his reverie.
‘Come on, recruits—we’ll get back to Richmond!’
Quickly, and in orderly fashion, they boarded the launch. Loftus had left everything but the wallet and its contents with the police, who had obviously had instructions to render him all possible assistance. He handled the launch as expertly as he did everything else, and soon the chug-chug-chug of its engine was echoing across the water.
The Old Deer Park on one side, and Isleworth on the other, looked serene and peaceful. Yet someone must have heard that shot, Mark thought.
‘The Great British Public, much-maligned,’ Loftus remarked, as if he had voiced his bafflement aloud, ‘has to be known to be believed. I daresay a hundred people heard the shooting, and put it down to a car back-firing. Use a machine-gun in Piccadilly and no one will believe it, unless they’re hit. What do you know about Department Z, Mark Errol?’
Mark had been envying Mike, who was sitting with Diana on one side of him and Fay on the other, obviously thoroughly at home. But even the lovely Fay could not compete with the fascination the mysterious Department Z had always held for both cousins.
‘Oh, the usual bilge,’ he said, awkwardly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve always thought it had a pretty melodramatic ring to everything it does. You know—if anything unusual happens, blame it on Department Z—the public’ll forget it in a week. That’s about the lot.’
Loftus eyed him through drooping lids for a moment, then grunted. He seemed to condemn the Errols and the Great British Public with that grunt.
‘As one might expect. All the same, you linked me up with it. Why?’
‘Well, your name did get into the Press a few months back—over that Lakka business.* I was in Biarritz at the time and didn’t see much about it, but the name stuck.’
‘Goo
d memory?’
‘I can’t complain.’
‘Try not to be modest,’ said Loftus. ‘I want to find out if you’d be any use to us.’
‘Well—yes, things do stick. Although I’m not a patch on Mike—he’s a ruddy marvel, that way.’
Loftus grinned.
‘Cousinly loyalty, eh? Can you use a gun?’
‘Yes.’
‘Married?’
‘Heaven forbid!’
Loftus squinted over his shoulder at Mike.
‘Susceptible?’
‘I’ll have you know,’ Mark informed him, ‘that we’re neither of us even remotely likely to make fools of ourselves over women—if that’s what you mean.’
‘Good—too good to be true, in fact.’ Loftus nodded ahead: they were almost level with Richmond Bridge. ‘Which is your boat-house? You’d better arrange for them to salvage the punt.’
He turned inshore.
Mark did not try to bargain with a startled boat-house owner, who wished all clients doing damage proved as generous …
A little further down-river, they moored the launch and walked back to Richmond Bridge, near where the Errols had parked their Talbot—and Loftus his big green Bentley.
Oundle hobbled, supported by his massive friend. At the Bentley, Loftus stopped.
‘I’ll have to risk letting you drive her, Di—but scratch an inch of my paint and I’ll sue you! Fay—in you get. Right? Ned, get in the back and make yourself as comfortable as you can. Take him to the flat, Di—and get Little over.’
‘I don’t need more doctoring,’ protested Oundle.
‘You’re having it,’ said Loftus. ‘Errols—will you wait while I make a call?’
They assented, watching with mixed feelings as the Bentley drove off, with Fay smiling and waving till the big car turned the corner. As they disappeared, Mike shook his head suddenly, and gave Mark a wry grin.
‘Is any of it true?’
‘I started it,’ Mark admitted, gloomily, ‘but I’m damned if I know where it’s going to end.’
‘I suppose there is a Department Z?’
‘We ought to find out, pretty soon,’ commented Mark, drily.
Loftus rejoined them at last, apologetic but preoccupied. He stood eyeing them both for so long that it seemed certain he must have bad news to impart. He spoke at last: