by John Creasey
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1 / Death Dances Slowly
Loftus sat at a corner table in the great ballroom, wearing his party smile, glad that for a few minutes he was alone. Nearly everyone was dancing, and the floor was packed. Subdued lights made the colours of the women’s dresses soft, made creamy-white shoulders gleam seductively, gave the black and white clothes of the men a touch of distinction. The music was slow, mournful, rhythmic; the band, on a dais on the far side of the room from Loftus, kept perfect time.
At a few tables one or two people sat like Loftus, with set smiles on their faces—bored. At the great centre table, close to the dance-floor, two men and a woman were talking animatedly. The woman kept leaning forward, tantalizing Loftus whenever her lovely, pale face was hidden by a huge bowl of carnations. There was never time to study her. But he could see her glossy dark hair and the single white camellia in it.
It was warm—too warm for comfort.
Footmen in pale-blue livery stood about, erect, waiting to dart forward at the slightest provocation.
Loftus sensed that someone was approaching from behind, but didn’t look round. The woman with black hair fascinated him, and she was now in full view. Her dark eyes sparkled with animation as she shook her head in vigorous disagreement with a white-haired, white-bearded patriarch, a diplomat of great renown.
“Enjoying yourself, Bill?” A man spoke at Loftus’s side.
Loftus glanced round with a grin. “No! Hallo, Gordon! Sit down a minute and tell me everything.”
A footman approached and pushed forward a chair, and Gordon Craigie sat down. Loftus offered cigarettes.
“No, thanks, I’m not reduced to that yet. The biggest curse of nights like these is that I can’t smoke my pipe.”
“Or biggest blessing?”
Craigie smiled. “Please yourself. Have you seen any sign of trouble?”
“Not yet,” said Loftus.
Craigie said: “I feel uneasy.”
He was a man of medium height, with a long, lantern jaw and droll lips, a hooked nose and clear, keen grey eyes. His greying hair was going thin on top, and a bald patch glistened. He looked tired.
He was the leader of Department Z of the British Intelligence Service, counter-espionage branch; and Loftus was his chief aide.
Craigie wore his tails with a touch of distinction. Loftus, large and bulky, looked uncomfortable, flushed and a little untidy; he kept brushing a lock of hair away from his right eye.
“I don’t think there’s much to worry about,” Loftus said. “Everyone present is vouched for, certainly no stranger got in. All the peoples of Europe dancing together, a great and happy family. Wonderful!” He spoke sardonically.
“It’s a good start,” Craigie claimed. “You’re a bit sceptical about unity in Europe even now, aren’t you?”
“Of the ideal and the need, no. But before it’s really moving, someone is going to try to throw a spanner into the works. Look.” Loftus pointed to the floor, where the mass of dancers was moving, too close together for anyone to try fancy steps. “Old enemies dancing cheek-by-jowl. Everyone smiling and bowing and shaking hands; and a few years ago a lot of them throve mostly on hatred for one another. One really nasty incident might set ‘em at each other’s throats again.”
“Not all of them.”
“Get two or three scrapping properly, even over the Council Table, and your hopes will vanish into thin air,” Loftus declared.
“So you’ve a hunch,” said Craigie slowly.
“A damned uncomfortable feeling that we’re going to have trouble. Oh, not to-night. Not necessarily to-night, anyhow. But think of it, Gordon. Supposing some lunatic seized a chance. This is the first big social occasion after the appointment of delegates to the Congress of Europe. It’ll have the biggest Press publicity ever. Let one little thing go wrong and you’ll have it magnified a hundredfold, and all the cynics and sceptics rubbing their hands. The Congress goes into session in a few days and everyone’s on tiptoe. Between now and the opening session I’m going to be as jittery as fat in a frying-pan.”
“We’ve done all we can.”
“Oh, yes. The Department’s here, in full strength. Look at Grant.” Loftus glanced at a tall man in evening dress who was passing the big table and appeared interested in the dark-haired woman. “He’s suspicious of the lady! Yes; and Special Branch men swarm as footmen, too—hardly a diplomat is here without his entourage, which means his bodyguard. The signs are favourable, but—”
“You’ve got that hunch.”
“Probably had too much to eat,” said Loftus with a laugh. “Whisky or a liqueur?”
“I must get back to my table,” said Craigie.
Loftus made to rise as Craigie got up and went off, but he didn’t stand up. His left leg was thrust out rather stiffly beneath the table. He had lost a leg when on Department service and now had an artificial one.
He looked at the woman with the dark hair, who was now sitting upright and looking towards the dance floor. Grant, a Department Z man, was nowhere near now. The white-bearded patriarch was smoking a long cigar. If anything, the music became more mournful and the pace slower.
A footman hovered near Loftus—a man whom he knew as one of the brighter stars of Scotland Yard. “Trouble-free night,” he remarked.
“Looks like it, Mr. Loftus. I wouldn’t like trouble here.”
“Make sure no one poisons the champagne!”
“Oh, the champagne’s all right.” Trust the C.I.D. to take that seriously. “Anything I can get you?”
“No, thanks.”
The detective moved away. Loftus looked back at the dance-floor. There was a surging movement on this side of the room. Two couples lost their balance and fell against a table. Several others came staggering away from the floor.
The Yard man stiffened and watched. Loftus leaned heavily on the table, stood up, and stepped towards him.
“Someone’s fainted,” said Loftus. “Or—”
Then a woman screamed.
The scream rose high above the music, which stopped abruptly. Another scream came, high-pitched and piercing. A babble of voices surged about as questions were flung to and fro in a dozen languages. A little, pot-bellied, frightened man, holding on to an imposing woman in a snow-white dress, backed slowly away from the dancers. The crowd began to thin out as couples and small groups left the floor, backing away as if from some horror.
The band started playing again—a swift and lively thing of Strauss, played too loudly and jerkily. But it served its purpose, drowning the babble, relieving tension.
Loftus pushed his way through the crowd, past people who were just standing and gaping. His height, he was over six-foot-two, enabled him to see over the heads of the crowd. He saw two men kneeling, a third lying on his side. Next moment he had reached them, and saw the handle of the knife sticking out of the third man’s back.
He felt as if a knife had been thrust between his own ribs; his vision was blurred.
As it cleared he saw a young woman—a slight, pretty, fair-haired creature in pale blue, leaning heavily on the arm of an older man and looking like death. Probably she had screamed. Next, Loftus saw Craigie break through the crowd on the other side.
Another man pushed his way forward—Grant. He was both tall and powerful, had a cleft, thrusting chin, a shock of stiff, black hair and deep-blue, piercing eyes. He spoke to Craigie and nodded to Loftus, then knelt beside the injured man.
Grant felt for the victim’s pulse; unfastened button
s, pushed his hand inside the stiff shirt and felt for the heart. He didn’t speak as he withdrew his hand, but lifted the victim in a single, swift movement and stood with him in his arms, the knife hidden.
“Clear a path, please!” Loftus’s voice was sharp.
“Is he dead?” a man asked in broken English.
“He’ll be all right. Clear a path, please.”
Grant carried the victim through the thinning crowd and headed towards the nearest door. The band was still playing that lilting melody; like laughter at a funeral.
Loftus whispered to Craigie: “Shall I start on the girl?”
“Yes, I’ll see the others.” Craigie meant the other Department Z men. “Go easy with her.”
Loftus didn’t answer, but stepped in front of the girl in blue. She was leaning heavily against the elderly man and trembling violently.
Her companion said: “Are you a doctor? She was dancing with that fellow.”
“I’ll look after her. Who else was dancing close to them?”
Loftus glanced about the people near, eyes probing, face after face registering clearly on his mind. Some he recognized; most were strangers. He saw a slight, willowy man with sleek dark hair edging his way out of the crowd. Something in the way the man moved caught his attention.
Another, short and fair, touched Loftus’s arm.
“I’ll cover that chap.”
“And get someone else—Grant, if you can.” Loftus turned again to the girl. “You’d better come with me, I’ll look after you. Have you any friends here?”
She was too distraught to answer.
A tall, distinguished man wearing many medal ribbons came forward and began to talk swiftly. Loftus didn’t know the language, but placed it as Scandinavian. A woman with him touched his hand and began to talk as swiftly in good English. The girl was on the secretariat of the Novian Embassy; that was His Excellency the Novian Ambassador; the girl had been invited because she was so new to England and knew few people, and her name—
Loftus couldn’t get hold of her name.
“I wonder if you will be good enough to come with us, Your Excellency?”
“Yes, yes.” The Ambassador’s English was much better than his wife’s. “Yes, we will come; there is nothing else we can do. We will come.”
In every corner of the room, as they went on, questions were being asked tensely and answered nervously. Newspapermen were already at the telephones calling their Night Desks.
Who was the injured man?
Was he dead?
2 / The Victim
As Loftus and the Ambassador reached the open door of an ante-room, two well-groomed, blond and youngish men appeared and began to speak in Novian. The woman took the girl into the room, the Ambassador heard both men out, then answered in English.
“I shall be in here with Mr. Loftus.”
“But, sir—” began one.
“And I shall be quite safe,” said the Ambassador impatiently. “Let us go in, Loftus.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“They will embarrass me with an excess of zeal,” said the Ambassador as they went inside. He smiled faintly and offered Loftus a cigarette from a gold case with a jewelled monogram. “But I have both heard of and seen you before. Do you know the poor fellow?”
“No.” Loftus looked at the girl, who was lying on a sofa. The Ambassador’s wife sat in front of her on a low chair, and a maid held smelling-salts under her nose. The older woman took them and whispered; the maid hurried out.
“Hilde, you are not to worry.” The Ambassador’s wife had a low-pitched, reassuring voice. “You are just to rest and not worry. I will talk to this gentleman.” She looked up at Loftus. “What is it you wish to know?”
“May I know this lady’s name?”
“Hilde Neilsen, and she is on the staff of the Embassy.”
“Did she know the man with whom she was dancing?”
“I cannot be sure whether—”
“No, no!” The girl tried to sit up, but the other pushed her down gently against the cushion. “We are introduced only just before we dance, I forget his name.”
“And you hadn’t met him before?”
“No!”
“That will be the truth,” said the Ambassador.
“I’ve no doubt about that,” said Loftus, pushing back the lock of hair. “Does Miss Neilsen remember noticing anyone dancing near them?”
“No!”
“She is shocked now, perhaps she will remember later,” said the Ambassador.
“I know no one!” Hilde was sobbing.
Loftus smiled easily and reassuringly. “Supposing I had been near you, would you have noticed me?”
“I—yes, yes, but of course. Of course!” Hilde closed her eyes, pressed her hands against them. “I will try to think. Yes! There was the tall man, I believe a Frenchman, yes—I saw him. And the German, also, with the eyeglass—he was near. There was also the lady in the bright-red dress, her face I do not remember. I can remember so little.” She took her hands away and leaned forward; this time no one made any attempt to stop her. “It was so terrible. We—we were dancing. Just dancing! He was a nice young man, smiling, so happy—oh, he was very happy. And he could dance! I tell you his dancing was wonderful! It was the second dance we had together, one after the other. One moment he smiled at me, and then—his face changed. The smile disappeared, he cried out in a low voice, and then—he collapsed.” She turned haunted eyes towards Loftus. “He was killed—killed, while he held me in his arms. I shall never forget it, never!”
“Now, Hilde—”
The Ambassador touched Loftus’s arm.
“I should like to see her again later,” Loftus said, and turned away.
Craigie was coming towards the room as Loftus stepped into the wide passage. The two blond young men stood by, talking earnestly.
“Can she help?” asked Craigie.
“A tall Frenchman, a German with a monocle and a woman in a bright-red dress were near at the time,” Loftus said. “She says she didn’t know the victim until to-night. Do you know who he is, yet?”
“An attaché at the Italian Embassy. It’s already being said that he was killed by a Frenchman. Everything you feared is on the doorstep, Bill.”
“Then we’ve got to brush it off,” Loftus said dryly.
Jonathan Grant, although a comparative newcomer to Department Z, had been in the Intelligence Service for years. He was, also, “something in the City”, where his shock of black hair and his piercing blue eyes were well known and he was greatly respected. On the ‘Change it was generally agreed that if one followed Grant, one wouldn’t go far wrong.
He was in the middle thirties, young to have a reputation on ‘Change, and he was unmarried. It was said that he had never sown wild oats and was never likely to. He had a small flat in the West End and a small cottage in Surrey, and he lived a life of luxury if not of leisured ease. He did a great deal of travelling, ostensibly on business, spoke several languages, but was not, even in the opinion of his closest friends a ladies’ man.
After carrying the dead man out of the ballroom and handing him over to the Special Branch men, Grant had hurried back, seen Loftus looking about him and noticed the willowy young man, who had avoided Loftus’s eye and edged away. It wasn’t the first time he had noticed a kind of mental telepathy between himself and Loftus; and wasn’t surprised when he was given Loftus’s message.
The band was overdoing the gay music, only a few couples had started dancing. Little groups stood about, and Grant heard the rumours as they were born and as they began to grow. An Italian—killed by a Greek. An Italian—killed by a Frenchman. An Italian—killed by a Swiss. The rumours grew and multiplied, but one factor remained constant: that the dead man was an Italian.
Grant hovered about the door nearest the willowy man.
He could see him sitting at a table for eight, smiling at an elderly grey-haired woman and occasionally nodding to people at other table
s. He looked suave and courteous, but couldn’t hide his preoccupation. His gaze kept straying to the centre table, with its great display of flowers, and the distinguished company there. These were the Foreign Secretaries, and there were seven at the reception. The willowy man kept them all under survey. Grant found himself studying the men and their ladies, particularly the woman with the dark glossy hair and the white gown. Beauty seldom fascinated him; hers did.
Now and again she glanced across at the willowy man.
A footman came up and said in a whisper: “Anything I can do?”
“Yes.” Grant knew this Yard man. “Third table from the floor, fifth row from here, opposite the third pillar, sitting with a grey-haired woman.”
“Sleek, thin chap with dark hair?”
“Willowy, yes.”
“What about him?”
“Can you find out who he is?”
“I will.”
The footman moved away. A statuesque blonde with a pair of monumental shoulders and ultra-fashionable décolleté passed with an older man. A woman in a bright red dress—so bright that it stood out even among the many reds—walked past, obviously searching for someone, as obviously pretending to be quite casual. She went towards the willowy young man and sat at his table. He stood up, bowing low over her hand.
Too many people were standing about—some singly, looking lost and forlorn, others in parties—so Grant was not particularly noticeable. He stood in the same place for at least ten minutes before the footman returned.
“Placed him?”
“Yes. Jaun Casado, attached to the Portguese Embassy. He’s been over here for several years.”
“Highly placed?”
“They say he’s due for promotion and will soon get a small Embassy. Want him watched?”
“No, thanks.”
The footman went off, and Grant joined a short, fair-haired man who was sitting at a nearby table with two other men and two young and pretty women.
“Spare a minute, Jim?”
“Of course.” Jim stood up. “My hat, what a show tonight!”
“Yes. I’ve got a job for you and one other. Have you noticed the black-haired beauty sitting with the mighty? Her name is Marlene von Barlack.”