by John Creasey
Why Winchester?
It was on the Bournemouth Road, and not far from Southampton. Dora probably did not know of the mishap to Rogerson’s house—on the other hand, she might want to get something to the docks …
She was scared, he was sure.
As they moved towards the Lagonda, she looked over her shoulder, and up and down the street. Although her voice was steady, her smile vivid, and her laugh convincing, her hand was trembling on his arm.
Why?
‘I’d give a lot to know,’ thought Mark Wyndham Errol. ‘It’s beginning to look as if Morely brought news that wasn’t good …’
He heard nothing.
He saw a car, a Frazer Nash, disappearing along the street, and felt Dora’s fingers clutch his arm. He put a supporting arm about her, quickly, but the left side of her white-linen suit was already stained with blood …
She died without a word being spoken.
* * *
‘I didn’t get a chance of trying to stop it,’ said Mark, into the telephone. ‘Sorry, Craigie … No, not a word. All I know is that Morely called at her flat …’
‘Morely was killed outside his house, five minutes ago,’ Craigie told him. ‘Don’t let this worry you, Errol—we’re fighting desperate odds, and there’s no quarter either side. We’ve heard nothing from your cousin, which suggests he’s getting somewhere.’
‘Mike will, if anyone can. But what can I do?’
‘Not a great deal. You’d better stay outside the flats, and if anyone connected with the job calls, follow them. You’re speaking from a nearby kiosk?’
‘Yes. But the police …’
‘Stay outside,’ ordered Craigie. ‘I’ll see to the police.’
In fifteen minutes a sergeant of police, who had been more than suspicious of Mark’s story, apologised so convincingly that it was obvious he had had orders from Scotland Yard. That relieved Mark of an annoyance, but did not make him feel any happier.
He should have saved the girl.
He had known she was worried, had even told himself that she was afraid of an attack, and he had let it happen in front of his eyes—had been too shocked and startled even to shoot at the car which had flashed by.
He had let the girl down.
And the Department …
He felt flattened, useless. The task of waiting on the off-chance of someone coming along did not make it any easier. But he could hardly blame Craigie for giving him a job just to waste his time. He was as much use as a schoolgirl …
A Rolls drew up outside the block of flats.
From the driver’s seat stepped a big red-faced, hearty-looking man, whose name was familiar to many people, for he had recently given a quarter-of-a-million pounds to charity.
Lord Lore, in short.
Mark’s eyes narrowed.
Lore went inside. He spoke for two minutes to the porter, and when he came out he looked deathly pale.
He drove off at reckless speed.
That day, those few police not engaged on special duties were being harassed by small bands of hooligans—many of them organised, Craigie believed—who took the opportunity of having what they called a good time. So that at over fifty miles an hour, Lord Lore drove through the main streets of London, to pull up eventually outside the Magnolia Restaurant.
The Magnolia, in a small turning off Piccadilly, was high class in every respect, and a place where Lore might be expected to go. Mark, after a decent interval, followed him in.
And then had a shock.
For in the restaurant, which was no more than half-full, Lore was sitting at a table—deep in conversation with Fay Loring!
* * *
‘There isn’t,’ Mark told himself ‘a shadow of doubt. There might be others as pretty, but—this is absurd!’
He had parked himself in a corner table, where he could see Fay clearly, and Lore with some difficulty. Fay was doing more listening than talking. Twice she glanced up, looked straight at him, and appeared not to notice him.
Why Fay?
Did Craigie know that she was working on Lore?
A waiter approached the table where Lore was sitting, and Mark heard:
‘If you’ll order, Hubert, I’ll be back in a moment.’
She left her table, walked past Mark without looking at him, and disappeared. Mark scowled. Was she leaving Lore to him or …
He had not made up his mind when a waiter approached.
‘M’sieu—I ‘ave been ask to give you this.’
‘This, was a folded note, and Mark nodded, smiling a little in admiration for the way Fay handled things. He ordered a coffee and, while the waiter was away, opened the note.
Fay’s writing was small but easily readable:
Get out, you mut. Don’t let him see you!
‘Oh, my Lord!’ muttered Mark Errol. ‘I’ve put another foot in it! This is not my lucky day.’
It was not.
Fay returned, and Lore stood up to move her chair back. Doing so, he glanced across the restaurant—and saw Mark. To the best of Mark’s knowledge, they had not exchanged a word in their lives; he knew Lore only by hearsay, and from photographs.
But the red, hearty face paled.
Lore sat down quickly, leaned across the table and spoke in a whispered undertone to Fay. Within three minutes they had left the Magnolia, and Fay’s sidelong glance at Mark Wyndham Errol had not been one of congratulation.
Miserable, Mark reported to Craigie.
‘No,’ said Craigie. ‘I didn’t know. But Fay’s been working on her own, and she’s probably picked up a useful trail. Again, don’t let it worry you, Errol. You’ve done no damage—although one thing’s interesting.’
Mark growled:
‘Yes—Lore recognised me.’
‘Got it in one,’ Craigie approved. ‘He recognised you as an agent, and that means that he’s not only learned that you are one …’
‘But has reason to be scared!’
‘Again, in one.’ Craigie sounded satisfied.
Bill Loftus was there, and listening, as Craigie added:
‘Go back to your flat, then, and I’ll send any further orders for you there. Better get some sleep while you can.’
‘If I can,’ said Mark gloomily, and rang off.
Loftus looked lazily across at his Chief.
‘Mark, I fancy, doesn’t feel too pleased with himself. Actually, he’s doing damned well, if only by accident. And Fay, the pet, is on to Lore.’
‘Yes … She’s done good work.’
Loftus stuffed a pipe.
‘I wish we didn’t need the girls. Diana’s after Frazer-Campbell, and he’ll be a different proposition to Lore, I’m afraid. Cold beggar, Campbell. You’ll have Lore watched?’
‘Of course.’
‘And then?’
Craigie hesitated, and it was some minutes before he spoke.
‘I don’t know any more than you do, Bill. The situation’s virtually unchanged. We’ve got to wait until we know what the League will do after this set-back. We’ve just got to wait, with what patience we can. Word ought to come in from Mike Errol before long …’
‘M’mm. Gordon, the thing I like least about this show is that everyone we get a line on is warned. Usually scared to death, or murdered. Gorton, Jaffrey, Morely, Dora—they’ve all died pretty soon after we got at them.’
Craigie pulled at his lower lip.
‘I know. I don’t like to think it, but …’
‘There’s a leakage of information.’ Loftus looked bleak. ‘In this damned business, we can’t call our souls our own. In a normal job, we’d know it was one of our own people, and it would be reasonably easy to find him. As it is …’
‘Forty people outside the Department are getting the reports,’ said Craigie. ‘I know. Permanent officials, the police …’
He broke off, and again there was silence. While in Bill Loftus’ mind an unpleasant thought was growing.
Were the Errols reliable?
Were they what they seemed?
* * *
Fifteen miles along the Maidenhead Road, Mike Errol took a chance. Letty had not given him the attention that he might have expected, in view of the manner of their meeting. She was more than preoccupied: she was frightened …
And, of course, with good reason.
Michael Errol did not know what it was like to fear that the police were following him, but just that fear was in Letty’s mind. She had twice urged him to go faster, and he had done so. But his own mind was seething with questions, and the most important was whether she wanted to go aboard the Luxa.
On that, he took his chance.
‘Know Maidenhead well, sweet?’
‘Eh? I—oh, yes, of course.’
Mike squeezed her arm.
‘Pretty hot, everything considered, in places. I’ve heard some astonishing stories about a houseboat old Neb owns. Don’t believe a word of it, myself …’
He felt her stiffen as he went burbling on, and when he stopped she was looking at him fixedly:
‘Do you know Lord Nebton?’
‘Well, not exactly “know.” We’ve met. Stunts and whatnot. I mean …’
‘I’ve been on the Luxa.’ Letty made an obvious attempt to sound casual. ‘It’s perfectly orderly—and I’ll prove it to you.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ll take you there,’ she said, firmly. And although Mike had been hoping to hear just that, although it seemed to prove the active participation of Nebton in the affairs of the League, he did not feel as pleased about it as he would have liked.
There was something intense about Letty that made her far more attractive than he had expected.
‘Steady,’ he warned himself. ‘Falling for fair ones is not in the agenda. Poor little devil …’
He took two wrong turnings on the way to the Luxa, and she corrected him immediately, confirming her knowledge of the place, and the fact that she had travelled to it by road. Mike remembered that the owner himself was missing, and found it hard to believe that they would find him on the river.
But as they passed the spot where Carruthers had been ‘stranded’ they could hear light strains of music coming from the houseboat. Letty’s pretty mouth tightened, and her small, lithe body was rigid. Mike found it difficult to appear casual while he felt so strung up.
Surely Craigie had men in the vicinity?
By design, he believed, a bush near the river-bank moved: beyond it he saw the head and shoulders of a man. Not one whom he recognised, yet one who seemed more likely to be a Department man than one of the cut-throats working for the League.
Would the Luxa be raided, now?
At the river bank car park used by Lord Nebton’s guests, a uniformed, middle-aged attendant stared hard at Mike and was about to speak, when Letty said quickly:
‘A friend of Mr Clarke’s, sergeant.’
‘Oh-oh.’ The attendant nodded: whatever question he had been about to raise was silenced.
But the name of Clarke had stabbed through Mike like an electric shock.
Carruthers’ friend, the stockbroker!
A man, although Errol did not know it himself, who had lately handled most of Lord Nebton’s accounts.
A key man, if of minor position—and Letty was either familiar with him, or knew that his name would be an open sesame to the Luxa.
They went on board across a pontoon bridge, and were shown to separate cloak-rooms. Mike washed hurriedly and was ready to rejoin Letty within three minutes of entering. He did not want her to make any contact without being observed.
But she, too, was in a hurry.
As he left his cloak-room he saw her hurrying from hers, to meet a sharp-faced yet good-looking young man. Mike knew Neil Clarke by sight, and knew also that this encounter would be of overwhelming interest to Gordon Craigie.
He felt on tenterhooks.
He saw Letty and Clarke start dancing, the girl apparently oblivious to the man who had brought her here. Clarke spoke at some length, and smiled frequently, but the smile seemed forced. The band stopped, at long last. Mike looked put out as he approached Letty.
‘I say …!’
‘I’m so sorry, darling,’ Her smile was ravishing, as she took his arm, pressed close against him. ‘Neil, this is a friend of mine …’
‘Delighted,’ said Neil Clarke, and thus smoothed over what might have been an awkward social moment.
Mike was out of his depth.
Letty seemed to have lost her fears, although he did not see that Clarke could have passed on her message to anyone.
The night was warm, and despite the open windows—curtained with mosquito netting against the river insects—the atmosphere was sultry and oppressive.
Oppressive …
Mike could not rid himself of a feeling that some kind of trouble was coming.
As far as he could tell, there was no one even remotely connected with the League of the Hundred-and-One present. Certainly no one named in his talks with Craigie and Loftus.
He had been there an hour, forcing laughter and simulating gaiety with increasing difficulty, when it struck him that the whole frame-up was absurd.
The hilarity was at its height.
There were thirty people present, mostly young, all wealthy, all—as far as he could judge—English.
Their country was under threat of God knows what domination.
Twenty-odd miles from where they were dancing and laughing and drinking there were stricken homes, thousands of dead and injured, emergency laws in operation—panic’s ugly face already leering, in London and the big towns. There was death and destruction, the threat of disaster, of the collapse of the oldest and soundest democratic Government in the world.
Politicians were in a frenzy.
The Army, the Navy and the Air Force were standing by.
Even at that moment, more dreadful attacks on innocent people might be in progress— ‘Operation C’ might have started …
Yet these people laughed and joked and danced …
Why?
‘You—damned—fool!’ Mike Errol swore at himself. ‘They know what’s coming. They want it! They’re celebrating it!’
He felt suddenly very hot.
Letty had caught the eye of a young man in evening-dress, and he claimed her for a dance. Sick at heart, Errol forced a smile as he let her go and, getting a drink from the luxuriously-appointed bar, went to a window.
The mosquito-net blew upwards a little, and he looked out.
And kept looking, hardly knowing what to think, what to do. It seemed incredible, for he had had not the slightest warning.
The Luxa was in mid-stream, and moving rapidly!
21
Down River
Mike stood by the open window as the houseboat glided down river, his face expressionless, his heart hammering.
He had not been aware of any motion, but now he realised that the band had been playing hot music for some time past, that the ‘Lambeth Walk’ and the ‘Green Apple’ had figured prominently and noisily in the programme.
To hide the movement?
It that were so, it suggested that the majority of the gathering present were also unaware of the movement. He doubted that, and in doubting it, wondered whether the noisy pieces had been deliberately arranged for his benefit.
If so, it meant that he was at least suspected as an agent of the Department.
He did not realise that his body was rigid, his chin set, and his eyes very narrow. But he jumped when a suave voice came from behind him.
‘Mr Errol …’
He swung round.
Neil Clarke was there, smiling without humour. In that moment, Mike knew two things: he had not succeeded in passing himself off as a casual acquaintance of Letty’s, and Clarke was involved in the League.
He steeled himself to keep his temper.
‘Right in one, but …’
‘My name is Clarke,’ the stockbroker informed him.
‘You will hardly need telling that, however—Loftus and Carruthers must have warned you.’
Mike frowned.
‘Loftus and who?’
‘We need not be quite so elementary,’ said Clarke. ‘I know just who you are, and just why you picked Letty up. She has told me the whole story, and I’ll admit it was extremely ingenious. Tell me, have you managed to get a message to Craigie? That you were heading for Maidenhead, for instance?’
Mike drew a deep breath, then threw subterfuge aside.
‘I wish I had!’
‘So.’ Clarke smiled thinly. ‘It is as well for you! Now, let me be frank: all of us aboard know that we are moving to a place of safety. Believe me, such a place will be necessary. You, also, can be with us, if you give me your parole not to try to escape.’
Mike’s eyes held cool contempt.
‘Parole,’ he said, ‘is a question of honour—between gentlemen.’
Clarke coloured.
‘Let me be even more frank, Errol. If you give me your word not to try to escape, you may stay here, mix with the crowd, enjoy yourself. Later, you will even have an opportunity for serving the new régime. If you refuse …’ he emphasised, ‘you will be held in a small room, tied hand and foot, until we decide to kill you.’
Mike Errol grinned.
‘Clarke,’ he said, calmly: ‘I don’t believe you. If you took my word, I wouldn’t take yours. Why don’t you want to kill me right now?’
‘Because,’ Clarke said coldly, ‘you may be more useful to us alive than dead. However, let us say the issue is between your immediate comfort, and discomfort. Have I your word?’
‘No,’ said Mike gently.
So gently that Clarke was quite disarmed—the bigger man’s arm moved with surprising speed and force. His fist connected with Clarke’s chin and sent him rocketing backwards.
He sprawled against two dancers, and a woman screamed as he slithered across the highly-polished dance-floor. Mike snatched an automatic from his pocket, and stood with his back to the window. His eyes glittered, and there was murder in his manner.
‘Stay where you are, the lot of you! The first to move will get more than he bargains for!’ As he spoke, his left arm moved behind him, searching for the window, trying to make sure that it was open to its widest. There was just the faint chance that he might manage to get away through it.