by John Creasey
Loftus said evenly: ‘It could be.’
‘It is,’ Hammond said with furious conviction. ‘We can’t play with “could-be’s” or “might-be’s” any longer.’ He hesitated and then went on more slowly: ‘It’s only my guess, of course, until Bill brings us proof. Isn’t that so, Bill?’
‘As I said, I’ve arranged for a ‘plane,’ said Loftus.
‘Good man, but I could use the Errols.’
Loftus said: ‘You’re still going to the Lamplighter?’
‘Of course. They want to keep us away from there, that’s quite obvious.’ He pushed his chair back irritably. ‘Bill, I’ve rather let my tongue run away with me——’
‘Don’t be an ass,’ said Loftus. ‘I won’t be any good in a shindy, and I may as well go up to Cavendish Hall.’
He moved towards the door, Hammond with him, leaving the others at the table. ‘Just one thing, Bruce.’
‘Hm-hm?’
‘Ought you to take the girl there tonight?’
Hammond said: ‘I have wondered, but on the whole I think yes. I’ve a hunch she will be useful.’
‘Your hunches!’ growled Loftus, but his eyes were a little brighter. ‘The odd thing is, they work.’
‘Have a good journey,’ said Hammond. ‘I’m not really worried about the body being Craigie’s.’
‘I hope to God you’re right,’ said Loftus fervently. ‘Now that the shock’s over, I’m inclined to agree with you. But whose is it?’
‘There’s no reason why the body should be that of anyone we know, but I could guess at one who wouldn’t surprise me.’ Hammond shook his head in answer to Loftus’s inquiring glance. ‘No, I’m keeping that idea to myself.’
‘Have I all the clues?’ asked Loftus.
‘Just as many as I have,’ said Hammond. ‘Happy landing!’
He watched Loftus enter the waiting taxi, and saw the car behind it; he did not recognise the man at the wheel until he climbed from the car. It was the tall and languorous Wally Davidson.
Hammond turned back into the Regal. His high spirits had gone, but his confidence was in no way affected.
The Lamplighter scoffed at war, morals, the law, and convention. It had, indeed, the same rather dreary mixture of gaiety, weariness and decadence that permeates most third-rate night clubs.
The too-high note of a girl’s hysterical laughter set the standard of the club. There was nothing soft or mellow about it. The band was made up of Negroes and half-breeds, amongst them an Eurasian with a yellowish skin, who beat the drums with the peculiar intensity of a drug addict. The light, coming from the tops of the lamp-posts, which made up the greater part of the decor, was brilliant enough to hurt the eyes. It made most of the women present look ravaged and over-painted.
Marion took in the scene with contemplative eyes. Hammond leaned towards her. ‘What do you make of it?’
She shrugged.
‘I used to think places like this spelt adventure,’ she said.
‘You might have been right at that.’
‘The real thing is never as romantic as the imagined,’ she said, a little wistfully. ‘Are your men here?’
‘Some of them,’ said Hammond. ‘Zero hour is nine-fifteen, and it’s hardly nine yet. They had to get feminine companions you know.’
Marion said: ‘Do you mean they had to contact pick-ups and bring them here?’
‘Just that,’ he assured her.
She was silent for a moment, and then said: ‘It makes a queer story. Neither you nor Loftus, nor Kerr for that matter, would enjoy it.’
Hammond shrugged. ‘A job’s a job. There’s no place for squeamishness in the Department.’
Marion said quietly: ‘Bruce, tell me one thing.’
‘Well?’
‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘Didn’t you want to come?’
‘Yes, but that’s begging the question.’
‘I’m not sure that I oughtn’t to let it pass at that,’ he said slowly. ‘There was a reason, of course. Not one that you might appreciate, Marion. It’s not one I appreciate all that much myself.’
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘I can take it.’
‘Well, here it comes! You’re not an average type. In a joint like this you’re unusual, you attract attention. If Fryer is here, or any of his men, you’ll be noticed. On my own, I might not be, and if I had a lady-for-the-evening I wouldn’t be. I want to attract Fryer’s attention. In short, you’re my bait for the evening.’ He was smiling, but did not look amused. ‘Does it sting?’
‘Sting?’ she said, and laughed at him. ‘Why should it? Your methods are not unknown to me. I’m glad there’s a chance that I can help, I’m glad——’ she paused.
‘Don’t overdo it,’ said Hammond. ‘That’s fine.’
They did not try to dance, but picked at hors d’oeuvres brought to them by an over-painted, over-dyed woman with an air of improbable youth. A small boy, little more than a child, offered them cigarettes and chocolates at ten times their normal price.
‘And the amazing thing is that they’re selling fast,’ said Marion. She sounded a little dazed.
‘They’re living in a dream world,’ said Hammond. ‘The real one is too difficult for them, so they’ve built another of fantasy. But you were right, Marion, it’s the cause that matters not the effect. These poor beggars want sympathy and treatment, but——’
‘Yessir?’ piped the boy.
‘I’ll have twenty of these,’ said Hammond, touching a packet of cigarettes.
‘Yessir,’ the boy handed one over, and Hammond gave him a pound note. The boy waited, without trying to find change.
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Another ten shillings, please, sir.’ Hammond paid up, and then asked for some chocolates; again he touched a box in a corner away from the others, and the boy said: ‘Fifty shillings, sir, please.’
Hammond paid; Marion formed a protest with her lips but did not utter it, for Hammond’s expression forbade comment. He opened the packet of cigarettes, took out one of the little white cylinders and, instead of putting it to his lips, tapped it on the side of his plate.
A fine white powder followed a few shreds of tobacco.
Hammond said in a tense voice: ‘My God, cocaine as easy as that! Why the hell aren’t the police watching the place?’
‘Are—are you sure?’ Marion spoke with an effort.
‘Even these people wouldn’t have the nerve to charge those prices for normal cigarettes and chocolates. It’s the effrontery of it that beats me. I think,’ he added, ‘you’d better open your box and pretend to eat a chocolate, but don’t swallow it. I don’t want you shedding clothes and doing fan dances.’
He was watching the door, which had opened to admit a party of four; he recognised the Errols with two ladies they certainly had not known before that night. They made for a corner table, and he felt satisfied; every vantage point was now represented by an agent.
Nothing else happened.
The wild cacophony of hot rhythm, harsh laughter, raised voices and clinking glasses went on without cessation, in a gradually increasing tempo. The din was almost deafening. Near them a party of eight or nine, each egging the other on, was screaming in hoarse monotony.
Suddenly Marion saw Hammond’s lips tighten, his expression go blank. A colossal man in a light grey suit had entered the room. With Esteven’s description in mind, it was impossible not to recognise him. Without appearing to look, Marion saw Fryer thread his way amongst the tables, a tall graceful woman by his side.
Marion said: ‘What happens now?’
‘I don’t quite know,’ said Hammond. ‘To a certain extent we must play it by instinct. We’ll see who visits his table, and how quickly he shows any particular interest in ours.’
Waiting, Marion noticed that already a marked deterioration was apparent in those around her. Masks were off, and few, now, were even trying to keep up a pretence of normality. The glassy eyes, the
strident voices, the more than occasional obscenities, all combined to create that effect. It was easy to imagine Hilary Crayshaw dancing wildly at the Lamplighter, easy to imagine her in such a mood, throwing all discretion, all decency to the winds.
On the crowded dance floor the dancing had changed subtly.
Hammond looked at Marion’s pale face.
‘It’s not good,’ he said. ‘I half wish——’
He stopped abruptly.
He saw Fryer stand up and push his chair back. The tall woman with him appeared not to notice that he was leaving the table. Fryer walked about the crowded dance floor and then approached Hammond’s table near the middle of the room. No one appeared to watch him. Hammond had no doubt that each Department Z man there knew precisely how long it would take to get a gun out and, if necessary, shoot.
Marion knew that Hammond was talking with easy flippancy to create the impression he wished to create. She answered lightly, gaily, feeling beneath the sophisticated pleasantries, Hammond’s increasing tension. It was an ordeal to sit there laughing, without once turning her head to see who was coming and what was happening. The band had now taken up a rhythmical chanting to which the diners were beating time with knives, glasses and plates.
Hammond saw Fryer drawing nearer. The eyes behind large glasses were dark, the big face was expressionless.
Hammond looked up; the stare from the man was so direct and deliberate that it was absurd to pretend not to notice it.
The man drew near the table; Marion too, judged the time right to turn and look at him.
Fryer reached the table and stood looking into Hammond’s eyes. As a waiter hurried up with a chair, Fryer spoke in a low-pitched voice with a slight American accent: ‘May I sit down?’
‘I don’t see why,’ said Hammond easily.
‘You will.’ Fryer pulled the chair up, and rested his elbows lightly on the table.
‘In that case,’ Hammond said, ‘the quicker the better.’
Fryer said deliberately: ‘Mr. Hammond, I’ve wanted a word with you for quite a while.’
‘So?’
‘Since Esteven squealed,’ Fryer said, in the reasonable voice of one discussing everyday matters, ‘I have expected you and the boys.’
‘Very natural.’
Fryer shifted the cigar he was smoking from one side of his mouth to the other.
‘Your move,’ Hammond murmured pleasantly.
‘Sure, Hammond, sure. As you say, it’s my move, and that is when it suits me. Now, if you’ll forgive my mentioning it, this isn’t a place to bring a nice girl like Miss Caroll; maybe you didn’t think of that? I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Hammond, I’ll give you a break. You don’t deserve it, but I’ll give you one.’
‘Sounds delightful,’ said Hammond, with real interest. ‘Let’s hear about it.’
‘Sure. Listen now, I’ll let you and all your little boys go out without a Luger bullet amongst them, and I’ll let you and Miss Caroll do the same. That’s all I’ve got to say.’
‘Not quite,’ said Hammond, looking at the end of his cigarette, ‘you may as well finish the proposition.’
‘If you will have it,’ said Fryer, ‘then tell the police to lay off this joint; it’s profitable to me. Now listen, don’t start shouting “no”. You haven’t a chance. This mob of dopes will do what I tell them. If I shout “raid” they’ll rush the doors, and none of you can get out. See those ventilator slits?’ he added, motioning towards the ceiling. ‘It’ll make it easier for you to decide if I tell you there’s a tommy-gun on the other side of each one. Now what about paying your check and scramming?’
17
Full Value
Hammond looked down at the end of his cigarette.
The ceaseless beating of the drums and the wails of the saxophones sent wave after wave of weird oscillations against Hammond’s ears. If here and there a man or a woman looked disgusted, apprehensive, or worried, they made no more than five per cent of the total gathering.
Marion found the monotonous rhythm oppressive. It prevented her from thinking clearly, made her want to press her hands against her temples, to jump up and run from the room.
Instead she looked up at Hammond.
It was impossible to judge what he would do, whether he would tacitly admit that, for the moment, Fryer had bested him. Marion wondered fleetingly whether he had dreamed that any ultimatum like this would be presented; and then she remembered that he had expected to be seen and recognised, had even brought her with him to make sure that he was noticed; this could not be a complete surprise.
‘Don’t take too long thinking,’ Fryer said.
Hammond looked up from his cigarette. His lips were curved as if he were amused, and his hands were quite steady.
‘Fryer,’ he said deliberately, ‘I’m not paying my check until I’ve had full value. This joint makes a good profit for you, you tell me. After tonight, it won’t. Did you know that Esteven had named you as Ferdinand’s murderer?’
Fryer did not bat an eyelid.
‘You believe him?’
‘That question is hardly relevant. The point is, will twelve good men and true believe him?’
Hammond turned a mildly inquisitive gaze towards the ventilators. ‘You’ve eight slits, which, mathematically speaking, should add up to their equivalent in guns. Quite a party, Fryer.’
Fryer snapped: ‘You’ll find out. Stop stalling, and give me your answer.’
Marion saw that Fryer, possessed of a massive confidence when he had reached the table, was getting shaky; it could only be because he could not understand the assurance of Hammond’s manner.
‘Fryer,’ said Hammond gently, ‘you make me tired. You’re through. You were through the moment you came here tonight. If you had one tenth of the sense you think you have, you’d have kept away. But the Lamplighter was too valuable, wasn’t it? A profit-maker, and a good rendezvous.’
Fryer half-rose. Hammond put out a hand and gripped the man’s wrist.
‘You’re covered from every corner!’ snapped Fryer. ‘Take your mitt off me!’
‘You also are covered,’ murmured Hammond. ‘Quite a number of my boy-friends came along tonight, but they didn’t do what I did. They didn’t bring a companion so obviously new to the place that they couldn’t be missed. Marion——’ he put his free hand to his pocket, while for Marion the tension grew almost unbearable. Hammond pulled out a wallet, keeping a steel-like grip on Fryer’s right wrist. ‘In the buff envelope there are photographs.’ He waited while she took them out. ‘You will find all the originals sitting round the edge of the room,’ he went on. ‘Tell them about the ventilation holes, and Fryer’s idea of making the crowd mob the doors, will you?’
Fryer snarled: ‘Keep where you are, you little——’
Hammond twisted his wrist; whatever epithet was intended died on Fryer’s lips, while Marion pushed her chair back, and, a little dazedly, moved away, gliding from table to table, while the mad medley continued.
She felt that eyes were watching her from the ceiling.
She believed Fryer when he said that the men there held tommy-guns. She did not know how her legs carried her round the room, although she delivered her message without interruption, wondering how long her immunity would last.
Once or twice she looked towards Hammond and Fryer, still facing each other across the table.
Fryer said thickly: ‘Hammond, you don’t know what you’re doing. Let me go!’
‘I’m cleaning up the Lamplighter,’ said Hammond lightly. ‘But that’s only a preliminary, after that there’s another little matter to settle. If you try to move your wrists any more,’ he added contemplatively, ‘your arm will break. Bones have a peculiar reluctance to be twisted beyond a certain point.’ There was sweat on Fryer’s forehead, and his upper lip.
Hammond added: ‘She’ll be back in a moment, Fryer. When are you doing something about it?’
Fryer said nothing, while Marion neared the ta
ble, and heard Hammond go on:
‘It couldn’t be because you know quite well if the tommy-guns go into action they’ll get you as well as me, could it? You made a mistake there, you know, but I expected it. You couldn’t very well do anything else. If you’d just shot the party up without trying to get me out, nothing would have stopped the police from acting, and keeping the place surrounded. There would have been no way out.’
Fryer said thickly: ‘You’re right about there being no no way out—for you.’
Hammond shrugged.
‘Marion, how quickly can you put on your gas-mask?’
Marion stared at him blankly.
‘I’m serious,’ he said, while Fryer gasped as he tried to free himself, but failed. Marion picked up her Civil Duty respirator, and glanced across the room.
The Errols were doing the same.
She began to put it on, and Hammond’s voice came dully to her ears.
‘You see, Fryer, you gave us safe conduct by coming here; the tommy-gun merchants just can’t do a thing, in case they shoot you.’ He half-rose from his chair, and then Marion saw his free hand draw back, the fist clenched.
He drove it towards Fryer’s chin. There was a dull thud, as the fist met the point of Fryer’s jaw. Fryer went sprawling backward, his chair crashing to the floor. There was a scream from nearby, but the orchestra went on playing, only too used to the flare-up of violence and collapse; a mêlée was not likely to attract much attention.
Hammond turned sharply to Marion: ‘Get down on the floor!’
She obeyed, automatically, crouching below the clouds of gas that were rising towards the ventilators. Shrieks and oaths filled the room as the gas began to take effect.
Hammond was by her side, saying: ‘Tear-gas, it’s all right.’
She realised that the crowd was milling for the three huge doors, all of which stood open. Hysterical, drug-sodden, mad with fear, they battled their way.
Fryer was lying motionless; he had cracked his head on a table and been knocked unconscious.
Marion looked at Hammond, wondering what his reaction was behind his expressionless mask. She saw that the Department Z men were forcing some kind of order; lifting the fallen, supporting the injured, marshalling the chaotic stream of near-maniacs.