by John Creasey
Three guns warned him, unwavering.
They passed each other in the doorway—and then Davidson back-heeled. His foot caught Kalloni under the knee and as the gangster staggered forward, he flung himself to one side and yanked out his gun …
Immobilised on the sofa, Ned was in more danger than Wally or Diana. But Kalloni, on the floor, was worse off than any. Wally fired—and took him in the right leg, below the thigh. Shooting almost wildly, his three henchmen made for the door, and Oundle fired twice to hasten them.
Kalloni’s fall, followed by his gasp as he was hit, completely demoralised them: they got the door open and fled.
Davidson stopped only to kick Kalloni’s gun out of reach, and was just starting after them when there was a tap at the window. He swung round—and saw Loftus!
The window went up with a bang.
‘Leave them,’ said Loftus calmly, climbing in. ‘There are two or three of our lads downstairs, and police each end of the street—they can’t get away. Any damage in here?’
‘N-nothing serious,’ said Diana, weakly.
‘How the devil did you get here?’ demanded Oundle.
Loftus grinned.
‘Fay called us from next door. Craigie was ‘phoning fast when I left and by the time I reached Brook Street, we were half-a-dozen strong. It looks,’ he added, drily, ‘as if things are really moving—and this time we haven’t done so badly. Was this the spokesman?’ He looked down at Kalloni.
Davidson nodded.
‘I winged him.’
The gangster lay without speaking, but there was a murderous glint in his eyes. Diana, still pale but steady enough, moved towards him.
‘Is he badly hurt? Perhaps I …’
‘Look out!’ roared Oundle, and Loftus leapt forward.
In one fluid movement, he caught Diana about the waist and thrust her aside—just as Kalloni whipped out the razor, and flung it. Had Diana still been approaching him, it must have struck her straight in the face. Instead, it struck the wall behind Wally and splintered, a piece grazing his hand as it fell.
Loftus turned on the gangster, and the expression in his eyes made Kalloni scream. Effortlessly, the huge man bent and hauled him aloft. Heedless of his wounded leg, he threw him into a chair. Loftus, at that moment was at his ruthless and merciless worst—and looked it.
Kalloni was screeching, now.
‘Shut that row!’ snapped Loftus, savagely. And when he went on screeching, struck him sharply across the face. The action was effective. Trembling, Kalloni lapsed into silence.
Davidson watched, gun in hand, as Loftus went through the man’s pockets. Diana, still shocked, watched with him. The last-minute attack had almost unnerved her: she was terrified that the man might yet manage to do some harm to Loftus.
She saw Kalloni’s eyes glint when Loftus took out his wallet, and fancied she saw an expression of disappointment when Loftus put it aside and continued in his search; She suddenly realised that Kalloni’s screeching was an act—had simply been staged to reduce the chances of getting badly hurt—and that Loftus and Davidson had known it.
Loftus finished at last and stood back, his grey eyes ice-cold as he surveyed Kalloni. Two envelopes found in his pockets gave his name in full—and also the information that he was a resident of the Naveling Hotel, Bloomsbury.
Quietly, he picked up the wallet.
The glint returned to Kalloni’s eyes.
Loftus tossed the thing into the gangster’s lap, and said with apparent casualness:
‘Open it, Kalloni.’
The man went rigid, his eyes wide with the shock of that unexpected move. Loftus waited a few seconds, then laughed harshly. He took the wallet back, half-opened it, pressed the spring to prevent the dart’s release and looked mockingly into the gangster’s eyes.
‘Nothing will go right for you, will it?’ He took out his penknife and cut the lining of the wallet, felt inside, and pulled out a piece of thin paper like the one found inside Benotti’s wallet. He opened it, and Diana, Wally and Ned saw the spidery writing, which was obviously in code, for the letters did not make sense. At the head of the sheet were the numerals: ‘51.’
Loftus said, still easily:
‘So you were twelve higher up than Benotti, were you? He was thirty-nine.’
‘You—you know that?’ gasped Kalloni.
‘That, and much more, about the League,’ Loftus assured him. ‘But a lot less than we’re going to know when we’ve finished with you.’
And again there was fear in Kalloni’s eyes—and a look in Loftus’ own which augured ill for the man who would have slashed a razor across Diana’s face.
* * *
Outside Number 11g, Luke, Barney and Marker scrambled into the first of their cars. Luke took the wheel and let in the clutch. The car lurched forward, bumping on punctured wheels. Luke swore, and his hand dived for his gun, but before he could get to it, half-a-dozen young men, all carrying guns, surrounded the car.
‘If you know what’s good for you,’ a huge man named Martin Best said conversationally, ‘you’ll put your playthings away and come with us.’
One by one, they climbed from the car, to the audible disappointment of at least three of the half-dozen Z agents present. It was a coup as complete as any dictator’s. And no one in quiet Brook Street knew a thing of that wholesale arrest. Nor would any have dreamed that a man who was Number 51 in a League so far suspected by only a few, was shortly to be interrogated in a manner he would not easily forget.
* * *
The League of the Hundred-and-One possessed, as its name implied, a hundred-and-one members. Number 98, although Craigie did not yet know it, was Abraham Korrel. Nor did Craigie know the three High Members—as they were beautifully and dutifully known among the lesser brethren—and for that matter no one, not even Korrel, knew their identity.
Korrel was not even sure that they were in London.
Nevertheless they were. And they met, towards midnight on the day of the Errols’ acceptance in Department Z, in a houseboat moored on the Thames near Maidenhead.
As befitted the property of a multi-millionaire, the said houseboat was fitted with every imaginable aid to luxurious living and the personal comfort of its middle-aged, bearded English owner—and his many, many guests.
Inscribed in gold-leaf on its elegant stern was its name: the Luxa.
As well as the three High Members, there were on board a dozen lovely women, nearly as many presentable men and two or three who could hardly be called handsome, a crew of six and a service staff of fifteen—white-jacketed, in the thundery heat of that August evening.
In the silk-soft padded leather comfort of what was, in effect, a floating study, the three gentlemen sat facing each other, brandy at their elbows and cigars alight. All three were past middle age; all three were men of some note in social, political and commercial circles.
If physically they were at their ease, mentally they were not. The room was sound-proof, but instinctively they lowered their voices as they spoke.
Now, the shortest of the trio was saying quietly:
‘So Numbers 39 and 51 are dead, and three of the less important members in the hands of the police. They know nothing worth disclosing, of course.’
The tallest of the three pursed his lips.
‘Is 51 dead?’
‘He has not been charged, and there are two bodies at the Cannon Street morgue, being treated with more caution than the police usually display. We can call him dead, I think—but of course we will get further proof. For the moment …’
The speaker was interrupted by the third man: plump, florid and benevolent of face.
‘The police are difficult enough, but this Department Z …’
‘Forget it! I assure you—it is an elaborate but completely ineffective organisation, initiated more for effect than anything else.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I am sure,’ said the shortest man, confidently. ‘Now, to get o
n: as far as I can gather, Korrel was responsible for both these misfortunes. He must be rebuked—severely rebuked. However, they are not of major importance. Nothing need upset our arrangements. The explosions have been timed …’
‘For God’s sake, keep your voice down!’ snapped the florid man.
‘No one can hear us,’ retorted the first speaker, coldly. ‘Now, as I was saying: the explosions have been timed for midday tomorrow, and their effect—’ he gave a mirthless smile—’should certainly be far-reaching. The whole operation will be controlled by the lesser members, of course, if there are any accidents …’ He shrugged, eloquently. ‘The men can be replaced. The necessary arrangements have been made for arrests, too. Seven I.R.A. officers will be unpleasantly surprised, eight Palestinian Arabs, three Jamaican labour-leaders, and four supporters of the Indian Congress will also be unexpectedly arrested. There will,’ he added drily, ‘be many comments from the bench on the perspicacity of the police, many outbursts of indignation in the press—providing the international situation allows it enough space. And once we have observed the results, we can begin our next efforts.’
The florid man dabbed at his forehead.
‘It’s all very well for you to keep calm, but I’m not happy about that trouble today. I’m not so sure this Department Z can be dismissed so easily …’
‘If I am wrong, I shall be the first to admit it,’ said the short man, blandly. ‘But remember—you have prophesied errors in the past and they have never materialised. There is nothing, nothing whatever, to worry about. All being well, Anson will be at Moorton Road to-morrow, and we can then get a little further ahead. Well, shall we join the ladies?’
The florid man gulped.
‘Look here, how many people will get hurt in these explosions? Damn it, the idea of innocent people …’
‘Innocent nothing!’ snapped the short man, almost ferociously. ‘They’ll all be British won’t they? You’re getting too jittery—a great deal too jittery!’
The florid man forced a smile, murmured an apology and stepped out into the cool river air with relief. But the other’s manner had helped, with other things, to make him afraid …
None of the other people on board knew of the series of explosions in Britain’s key towns planned for the following day, at noon precisely. None of them knew that perhaps a hundred innocent men, women and children would be murdered. None realised that the three men who joined them just after midnight were organising—slowly, deliberately and terribly effectively—a terrorism aimed at the heart of the country.
Certainly Mr Richard Anson had no idea of it, nor any thought that he was wanted to play an important part in the arrangements of the League …
Anson, at that moment, was leaning against a rail close to the river, and smiling into the eyes of a lovely little creature whose red hair gleamed in the moonlight.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Dickie! I haven’t known you a week.’
‘A week, a month, a year—I don’t make mistakes.’
‘The perfect man!’ Sheila Cullen teased. ‘Please, Dickie—can’t we just dance, or sing, or …’ She broke off, laughing up at him. ‘Or if you really must get serious, there’s always Myra. She’s been eyeing me fit to kill, all evening.’
‘Damn Myra! I …’
‘She’ll be much more sympathetic!’
Anson’s eyes narrowed.
‘I’ve a damned good mind to take you at your word,’ he said tartly. ‘Damn it, not every girl has a chance of …’
‘Marrying perfection, I know! Dickie, if you weren’t the least bit sozzled, and if you hadn’t proposed to half the women on board, and if you could learn to forget the conviction that the one man who counts in this li’l old world is Richard C. Anson Esquire, I might take you seriously. As it is …’
Laughing, Sheila turned away and disappeared through a revolving door into the large dance-room. Lighting a cigarette, Anson scowled after her.
He was not by any means drunk—although the rest of the accusations, he was compelled to admit, were true.
The doors opened again, and Myra Clayton came through them. She knew she was right about Richard Anson’s preference for the light and fluffy and petite—into which category Sheila Cullen certainly fitted—but if she guessed his present mood aright, he would not be averse to sympathy.
Had Anson ignored her, it would—for the time being at least—have kept him out of the orbit of the League. But the moon was shining on Myra’s tawny hair and adding seductive, shadowy curves and hollows to her magnificent figure. Anson flung his cigarette into the water, and as it hissed and flowed away, Myra said gently:
‘Feeling lonely, Dickie?’
‘Too damn’ right I am!’ said Anson. ‘Look, Myra, do you know any place where we can get some fun, instead of staying on this floating morgue?’
Myra’s laugh did not reveal the exultation she felt.
‘Do I not, darling! Tonight, or …?’
‘Tonight, tomorrow—every damn’ night, if it’s fun!’ said the third richest man ever to come to England from Australia. ‘Just let’s get out of here—I’m stifling!’
‘I’ll show you round,’ said Myra, and laughed again.
* * *
The things which had first worried the Home Office, and eventually demanded the Department’s attention, were the deaths—in some cases murder, in others suicide—of five leading armament manufacturers.
That an arms racket existed was a fact known even to the man in the street. What perturbed Craigie and certain other highly-placed individuals in Whitehall was that the dead men had between them controlled a substantial quantity of all the armaments produced in Britain. The deaths of the five—all known to the public as leading industrialists—earned some space in the national dailies, but Foreign Affairs soon crowded them out.
Craigie and Loftus believed the deaths were very closely concerned with Foreign Affairs.
It had been good fortune to find in the daughter of one of the victims—Fay Loring—a woman who was prepared to help in the fight against her father’s killers. Fay had been their most valuable informant to date, and much that they had learned from her had been confirmed by reports reaching Craigie through diverse channels ever since …
Richard C. Anson was primarily interested in the manufacture of arms in Australia, but he also had extensive interests in other companies, in England and elsewhere.
Anson, in short, was in considerable danger if he were not well-disposed towards the League.
And Myra Clayton was going to show him round.
7
At Midday
Mr Robert Carruthers, who had dropped the message for Davidson as he followed Myra’s taxi to 10, Moorton Road, Kensington, was a young man of considerable determination. He did not think Myra had seen him at Moorton Road, and since his hair was not only fair but fine, he was singularly suited to the wearing of wigs. Disguised in a dark brown one, he had followed Myra from London to the small landing stage from which a launch carried guests bound for the Luxa.
There, most men would have been stuck.
But not Bob Carruthers.
He parked his Frazer Nash at the end of the road leading to the landing-stage, lifted the bonnet, removed his wig, and began to tinker and curse. In five minutes, four cars passed him, all chauffeur-driven. The alley was so narrow that the chauffeurs had to go at a slow speed to get past Carruthers, with the result that he was able to see all their passengers.
It was by no means sure that there would be anyone but Myra aboard the Luxa to interest him, but he had a photographic memory for faces, and he just might see something useful. His real hope, however, was that he might see someone he knew.
There were, in fact, three familiar faces in the first four cars, but no one on whom he could count for help. The fifth car-load arrived after a five minutes’ interval and was an open tourer, not chauffeur-driven. As Carruthers straightened up, the man at the wheel glanced at him in annoyance.
&nb
sp; Carruthers beamed.
‘Neil, old son! Of all the luck!’
The brakes went on with a jerk, and the man at the wheel smiled. His companions—two girls and a second man—did not know Robert Carruthers, but were used to being jolted when Neil Clarke was driving.
‘Carrie, you damned nuisance! If you’ve got to break down, why choose this spot?’
Carruthers spread oily hands in comic dismay.
‘You ask me?’ he said. ‘In the first place, I was told this would lead me to the Reading road, and it obviously goes to the river. In the second, I was almost reversing when the damned—I beg your pardon.’ Carruthers beamed upon the two girls, who looked young and innocent—and intrigued by Carruthers. ‘What I mean is, something went wrong. Joking apart, Neil, I’ve been tinkering with the bally thing for an hour. I’m hungry, tired, weary—I’ve been glared at by every car that’s passed. What’s going on here, anyway? Do the cars go straight into the river, or …’
‘Or,’ said Clarke. He was a youthful and decorative member of the Stock Exchange. Like Ned Oundle, Carruthers knew everyone who mattered. ‘We’re going to Neb’s houseboat.’
‘Oho!’ Carruthers grimaced. ‘Drink, I suppose? Food, wine, women—and I’m stuck here …’
‘You’d better come in with us,’ Neil invited, with a laugh. ‘They’ll let you pass, in spite of the oil—it’s a dress-or-not night, anyhow. Unless you’d like to borrow the bus to get you to a garage?’
‘I will later, thanks,’ said Carruthers. ‘But if I don’t get a glass of beer within ten minutes, I’ll be homicidal!’
‘Right—hop in.’
To the displeasure of the second man—a youthful and passionate gentleman who had been holding hands with a platinum blonde and enjoying it—Carruthers squeezed into the back with them and was driven to the special car-park provided for parties on the houseboat.
‘Neb’ was the nickname of no less a person than James Montague Nebton-Hart, first Baron Nebton. A shipping magnate of fabulous wealth, he persistently claimed he was in fact on the border-line of insolvency.
A house in Mayfair, another in Surrey, a third in Scotland, a fourth on the Riviera, managing-directorship of the Nebton-Pyxe Line—which consistently paid big dividends—and a marked ostentation in entertainment, did nothing to encourage that gloomy view.