Panic! (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  Wally’s lethargy had dropped away: in its place was an alert and catlike wariness which would have astonished any but his closest friends. He was staring towards the far end of Brook Street—towards Number 11g, in fact.

  ‘Doc, ‘phone Craigie—ask him to send three or four men to Loftus’ place, fast! ‘Bye.’

  Little stared after him as he covered the ground at surprising speed, while still managing to create an impression of general fatigue.

  Further along the street, two cars had drawn up. He saw two men climb from each—and all four head straight for 11g. And Wally recognised none of the four.

  He had no way of knowing that a certain Mr Abraham Korrel had been on the telephone to a remarkable house in Moorton Road, Kensington, and that immediately afterwards, the four had left that house for the address of William Loftus. Nor did he know that all four men were armed, and had very definite instructions.

  But as he instinctively quickened his pace, he was glad to feel the weight of the gun in his shoulder-holster.

  5

  Trouble in Brook Street

  Ned Oundle, his leg properly dressed and the medical report satisfactory, reclined on a settee with his leg stretched in front of him, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a tankard of beer at his side.

  Diana was pretending to read.

  Fay was pretending to sew.

  ‘My dear, sweet maids,’ Oundle grumbled, ‘what happened to the ministering angel bit? Why the devil don’t you entertain me? Dammit, I’m injured!’

  ‘The invalid must have quiet,’ said Di.

  ‘H’mm. Moping, eh? Just because Bill isn’t here! How that poor mug allowed himself to get tied up with an undesirable alien …’

  Diana grinned at Fay.

  ‘Isn’t he a pet? He can go on and on like this, you know—hour after hour.’

  ‘That’s a relief,’ said Fay. ‘I thought he was getting delirious.’

  ‘Pah!’ Ned Oundle drank deeply, smoked, and regarded them moodily.

  That they were at a high pitch of tension, he knew quite well. That Fay had even more reason to be worried than Diana, he also knew.

  Diana, a few months before, had worked with the American Intelligence Bureau on a case which had also occupied Craigie’s attentions—to put it mildly. War had, quite simply, been averted by a major miracle.

  But for how long?

  Wars and rumours of war abounded. Naked aggression stalked in Europe. Death, murder, pillage and worse ruled spasmodically, governed by loud-mouthed protestations of good-will by the perpetrators of outrages which, twenty years before, would have caused a European conflagration. To Oundle—as to millions of others—it seemed that the spirit of defiance, the spirit of freedom, had wilted. The map of Europe had altered vastly in the past year: altered with hardly a fight, altered under the aegis of a so-called axis—watched by democratic governments which had been bamboozled and confounded yet continued in office. Protests were lodged and ignored, elder statesmen looked grave. Cabinet Ministers made portentous speeches after each act of aggression and sounded grieved and hurt that the word of dictators was not as inviolable to the dictators as it was to the Cabinet Ministers.

  And the dictators grew stronger, the voice of Russia rumbled but at first was barely heard above the platitudes of other powers, small states trembled, three monarchs had been exiled by foreign invaders and appealed in vain for help. A desperate last-minute effort to retrieve the errors of a generation was being made in the name of Collective Security, in which the bigger democracies only partly believed, and indeed viewed with considerable suspicion.

  Most of the leaders, thought Oundle bitterly, appeared to expect a miracle—were hoping against hope that the German and Italian eagles would seek to devour no more tasty morsels. A blindness and paralysis was on the democracies, despite the warnings and predictions of men in the House of Commons with greater claims to knowledge than any in the Cabinet.

  All of which made the work of Department Z more onerous.

  It had not helped to have the press trumpeting stories of the ineffectual efforts of the Secret Service. Only Craigie, Loftus, Oundle and a dozen others knew how desperately they had presented responsible officials with facts which could not be denied—facts which were accepted, but of which it was said that there was no official confirmation, or that the position was still obscure—and which went with those officials on holiday, against the pleas of a negligible opposition …

  Just what part the League of the Hundred-and-One played in the activities of the dictator states, it was impossible to be sure. But it was considerable. The reason for the presence of so many League members in England was not yet known, but Craigie believed it was connected with the outbreaks of sabotage and senseless explosions which, for many months, had been rife up and down the land.

  Oundle’s chief grievance, now, was that they had had such a chance, that afternoon, and had muffed it. One dead League member and two escapees was hardly a brilliant score. It was no one’s fault, but …

  He glanced across at Fay.

  Odd, the way Fay had come to join the Department—which rarely used woman members. That her life was in danger, that she was wanted by the League, was an established fact. She had let that be known to Oundle—who had relayed it to Craigie. Craigie had judged Fay in that quick, rarely erroneous way of his—and asked her to play the League along, while being watched by his own men.

  Fay had done so. The League, in time, had learned it. Three weeks before, there had been a minor battle in Surrey, with Oundle and Loftus and several other Department men against a dozen of the League’s lesser members. Fay, having escaped with her life, had asked to continue working for Craigie …

  He eyed her again—and found himself thinking, not for the first time, that girls should not be enlisted. Diana was different: she had been in the game before joining Craigie as a co-opted member from the States. But Fay …

  There was a ring at the front door.

  Diana put down her magazine, paused to leave her cigarette on an ash-tray, and went to answer it.

  ‘Expecting anyone, Ned?’ murmured Fay.

  But before he could speak, there was an abrupt exclamation from Diana—and then silence.

  Oundle slipped his hand to his pocket and felt the cold steel of a gun as he jerked his head towards Fay. Pale-faced, she rose at once and crossed the room into the main bedroom. The door closed noiselessly behind her as Diana demanded:

  ‘What on earth does this mean? Who …’

  ‘Shut up!’ snarled a rough voice. ‘We don’t want no talk out of you. Get back in that room.’

  ‘But …!’

  ‘Get back!’

  A gun reinforced the order, and Diana turned back towards the sitting-room. Her heart was beating fast: she knew danger when she saw it, and these four were distinctly ugly customers, and certainly all armed.

  As they crowded in behind her, a suave, new, unmistakably American voice came.

  ‘Just one moment, honey!’ The tallest of the quartet gripped her wrist. He had the dark, flashy good-looks of an Italo-American of the worst kind, and was dressed to suit. Holding an automatic against her side, he called:

  ‘Loftus—if yuh’re playin’ with the idea of shooting, don’t! The dame’ll go first.’

  Diana said evenly:

  ‘Loftus isn’t here.’

  ‘No?’ he jeered. ‘We’ll see. Go on, Luke.’

  The shortest man—red-haired, pug-faced and with a peculiarly elastic manner of walking—went to the sitting-room door, his gun showing.

  He saw Oundle.

  ‘Loftus ain’t around, Cy.’

  ‘Hidin’, mebbe.’ The man named Cy tightened his grip on Diana’s wrist, and shoved her into the room ahead of him. Oundle had taken his hand from his gun, for he could recognise a moment for action and this certainly was not one.

  Cy was in the middle of the room, now, still holding Diana. His instructions had been to kill Loftus first, and a
ny others with him afterwards. The strangely-named Cyrus Kalloni had served his apprenticeship in crime to a Chicago big shot who had recently gone to the electric chair, and the first lesson he had learned was obedience—to the letter.

  Kill Loftus first.

  ‘Check the joint, Luke.’

  Red-hair went into the bedroom where Fay had gone, looked round, saw nothing, and withdrew. The second bedroom yielded the same results. So did the bathroom and the kitchen.

  ‘He ain’t here,’ he announced, returning.

  Kalloni twisted Diana’s wrist, and she gasped with sudden pain. Oundle’s lips tightened. Kalloni flung her roughly towards a chair. She staggered and half-fell, but recovered herself. On her wrist, the marks of Kalloni’s fingers showed an angry red.

  ‘Listen, sister. I ain’t wastin’ no time. Where’s Loftus?’

  ‘He’s out …’

  Kalloni took a menacing step forward, and his eyes glittered.

  ‘You’re quite a looker, sister—but if you don’t come across, pronto, you won’t have no looks to speak of.’

  He pulled a small, ebony cut-throat razor from his waistcoat pocket. He flicked open the blade, and the hollow-ground steel glinted in the light. There was a cold, deliberate callousness about his manner that was worse than any loud-voiced threats would have been.

  ‘Get me, sister? Now—where’s Loftus?’

  Diana drew a deep breath.

  ‘I’m expecting him any time.’

  ‘That so?’ He brought the razor up, suddenly; and petrified, she seemed to feel the sharp incision of the blade across her cheeks. But it flashed past, an inch from her face.

  Kalloni was a third degree specialist of a high order.

  ‘That’s so,’ Oundle spoke up, in a surprisingly steady voice. ‘Any time, wop. And I wouldn’t like to see what’s left of you, if that pen-knife touches Miss Woodward.’

  As Kalloni turned—slowly, negligently—one of the others went to stand over Diana.

  Still toying with the razor, Kalloni approached Oundle.

  ‘Smart guy, huh? How’d you like a turn?’

  ‘You damned fool,’ said Oundle, dispassionately. ‘Haven’t you learned the first lesson, yet?’

  Kalloni stopped waving the razor.

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  ‘You’ll find out—if you use that plaything.’ Oundle turned to look at Diana. His heart was thumping: there was ‘killer’ written all over Kalloni’s face, and a cruelty which might mean a lot of suffering before death came.

  Oundle had no idea when Loftus would get back—or whether he would be alone, when he came. So it seemed to him that the most important thing was to give his friend a warning. Did Fay know Craigie’s number? He couldn’t be sure. He had to stall—and Kalloni would not be an easy man to bluff.

  But Oundle’s confident manner—and Diana’s too, now—baffled Kalloni. Life, to him, was simply a matter of making himself feared. For a moment he had seen fear in the girl’s eyes, but now he read something more akin to contempt. It puzzled him—and with the absence of Loftus, on top of it, nothing was going as he felt it ought to go.

  ‘Mebbe I will,’ he grunted. ‘Listen, you—an’ you, sister! One crack outa either of you, when Loftus comes—an’ the dame gets the razor. An’ you, smart guy, get lead where it hurts most.’ He patted his stomach with his free hand. ‘Barney, you stay by the front door. Marker, you watch the window. Luke, you keep your eye on the wise guy—I’ll watch the dame.’

  One-handed, he took a case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, lit it with a lighter attached to the case and blew smoke into Oundle’s face. He was watching the door out of the corner of his eye, and he saw the man named Barney stiffen.

  Diana and Oundle watched, too, hardly daring to breathe, their only thought the need to warn whoever was coming. Diana was desperately certain that it would be Loftus, but she would have been little relieved had she known it was Wally Davidson, for whoever opened that door would get a bullet.

  And if she or Oundle cried out, there was no guarantee that it would serve any useful purpose—but plenty of reason to believe that Kalloni would carry out his threats.

  Then, sharp across the tension, came a rat-tat-tat at the door.

  6

  Wally Walks In

  It is often said of Craigie’s men that they have no regard for danger—which is absurd. They are more susceptible to moments pregnant with trouble than ninety-nine people out of any hundred.

  Wally Davidson, for instance, had never been ashamed to admit—in the right company—that his knees still felt weak, every time he handled a gun. But danger was their life. They had learned to face it, coolly and equably, until it became a regular and natural part of their existence.

  In the affair of the League of the Hundred-and-One, none of Craigie’s leading agents doubted the ruthlessness of their opponents. There would be quick work, and fast killing—and withal, no quarter.

  Which did not mean that any man should go bull-headed into trouble. So Davidson, to make it appear that he was unaware of the four men in the flat, knocked loudly on the door.

  The move disconcerted Kalloni.

  He hesitated a moment, then said in a low voice:

  ‘Open up, Barney! Luke—keep the door covered.’

  Barney slipped his gun into his pocket and reached for the door-knob as Luke moved swiftly to a better vantage-point, and Kalloni exchanged the razor for a Luger from his shoulder-holster.

  Davidson, languid of manner and immaculate as always, started with apparent surprise at the thick-set uncouth-looking Barney.

  ‘Is—er—Mr Loftus in?’

  ‘Yeah, come in,’ grunted Barney, and Davidson stepped into the large lobby. He saw Luke, and guessed why he was positioned opposite the door. He could not see Diana, but he caught a glimpse of Kalloni, of Oundle on the settee, and of the other two gunmen, and his expression remained the same: he did not bat an eyelid.

  ‘Hallo, Ned! Entertaining?’

  Kalloni glanced away from Oundle, which was a foolish thing to do. All four gunmen were eyeing Davidson, baffled at his attitude and wondering whether he represented danger. Oundle slipped his hand to his pocket and eased himself over so that he could fire through his coat; then as Davidson caught his eye, nodded imperceptibly.

  Still out of Davidson’s sight, Diana crowded against the wall, behind a book-case, as he drawled:

  ‘Well, well—I didn’t know such a collection lived in London!’ and slipped his hand to his pocket.

  ‘Keep your mitts in sight!’ snapped Kalloni. ‘And …’

  With the air of a conjurer, Wally produced a cigarette-case.

  ‘Worried about something?’ The complete disingenuousness of his manner had the four men gaping—introduced a note they would never be able to understand—which was one of the reasons Department Z was so often successful. Putting a cigarette to his lips, he beamed around. ‘Four little Mafia boys, is it?’

  Kalloni flushed. He pushed a hand into his pocket.

  ‘Listen, wise guy, just cut the talk.’ He jerked his head. ‘Get over by the dame, and …’

  ‘We don’t seem to understand each other.’ Davidson picked up a lighter from the hall-table and flicked it into flame, then streamed grey smoke towards Kalloni. ‘I shouldn’t move, handsome. The first mistake you make, you’ll get hurt.’

  ‘Why, you goddamn …!’

  ‘The gun being here,’ said Ned Oundle, gently.

  Kalloni swung round, and the eyes of all four men were suddenly riveted on the gun in Oundle’s hand.

  ‘Awkward, isn’t it?’ He smiled, and his sorrowful eyes looked more innocent then ever. ‘If I shoot first, one of you gets hurt. If you shoot first, you get hurt anyway—my friend here also being a crack shot. One way and another, it hasn’t worked out quite as you expected—has it?’

  ‘Why, you …’ snarled Kalloni.

  ‘Come, come!’ Oundle taunted. ‘Think of the lady!’

 
It had happened with the speed, silence and efficiency of the Department. The tables, if not completely turned, were at least half-way towards it. The four gunmen might win in a shooting match, but not now without loss.

  Diana, as coolly as either of the men, picked up her bag from the table and extracted a small, pearl-handled automatic. She was smiling, although her heart was thumping. If the shooting started, there was no telling where it might end—certainly there would be little chance of them all escaping alive. Almost certainly the gunmen would make a fight for it. The swiftly-altered situation, the tactics of Oundle and Davidson, had taken them off-guard; but already Kalloni was recovering.

  At least he could not use the razor, now, thought Diana, and shivered.

  ‘Listen, wise guy,’ he snarled at Davidson. ‘You start anythin’, an’ we’ll pump lead so fast you won’t know what hit you!’

  ‘Ah,’ said Davidson. ‘But we’re not going to start anything. Unless you try to get away.’ He beamed.

  Luke’s face twitched.

  ‘Open up, Kalloni—we got no time!’

  The tension was increasing, growing unbearable. One move of a trigger finger, and flame would stab from those guns: death would claim some of them, at least. Davidson had been hoping against hope that Doc Little had reached Craigie in time—that help was already on the way.

  But less than ten minutes had passed since he had seen Little: if the showdown came now, it would be too late.

  The paid killers stood motionless, guns poised in their hands, simply waiting for Kalloni’s command. Only the ticking of the clock was audible, above their heavy breathing. Then:

  ‘O.K., wise guy—you’ll get in there.’

  Kalloni had moved to the sitting-room doorway. He jerked his head, and the other three backed into the big lobby, their guns trained on Davidson. Kalloni, obviously, was aiming to get away without shooting—if he could.

  Should they let him?

  ‘Thanks,’ drawled Davidson, and stepped forward. For a split-second, he was alongside Kalloni. His shoulder brushed against the man …