by John Creasey
Grant said: “You’re going to talk, if you know what’s good for you. You said you’d never met Fiori before the night of the ball. That was a lie, wasn’t it?”
Her tongue shot out and ran along her lips. She was fair and quite lovely and much too young to be involved in this murderous business. Her fair hair was fine and glossy and waved back from her broad forehead. Her wide-spaced eyes were blue and beautiful.
“That was a lie,” Grant repeated.
She nodded; that was half-way to telling the truth. Could anyone as frightened as she hold out on him?
“Where had you seen him before?”
“In—in New York.”
“When?”
“A little while before—before I left to come here.”
“Why did you pretend he was a complete stranger?”
She didn’t answer.
Grant moved forward, made his voice harsh and threatening.
“The only thing that will save you from a lot of trouble, maybe a lot of pain, is the truth. Understand? The whole truth. I won’t hurt you—nor will the others—if you tell me exactly what happened. You were in New York a month before you came to the Embassy in London, and you met Fiori there. Go from there. Was he alone?”
“No—no!”
“Who was with him?”
“I don’t know who it was. Please, I do not know! It was a woman, I—”
She broke off, because words wouldn’t come.
“Have you seen her since?”
“Yes—yes, I have seen her! She was at the ball.” Was she going to say that it was the woman in scarlet? “I did not know who she was. Fiori told me I must not ask about her. He would tell me nothing. She was—at the big table.”
The woman in scarlet—nonsense. Marlene had been with Fiori in New York. He’d felt sure that would be the answer when she had talked of a woman—yet he had put up a stooge. Why? What did it matter to him whom this girl implicated?
To make quite sure, Grant took out Marlene’s photograph and showed it to Hilde. She nodded eagerly. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, that is her.”
“What did the man and woman want with you?”
She closed her eyes and reminded him of the way von Barlack had behaved under such questioning as this. But he had no doubts about Hilde; there was no possibility of bluffing here; her nerves were raw.
“Answer me!”
“Some information!” she gasped.
“What information?”
“I had helped—helped to prepare some—documents.” Each word came out as if it hurt her. “I had—typed them. They were most secret. About—about military plans in Scandinavia. They required a copy of those plans. But why do you ask all this when you know?”
Grant said: “And you gave them the documents?”
“No!” She jumped up, staring at him in sudden bewilderment, perplexity driving back her fears. “No, I refused! I would not sell such secrets. I refused, they threatened me. That night Fiori threatened me with death unless I gave him what he wanted, but I refused.” She drew in a deep, whistling breath. “Who are you? If you do not know this, if you do not want the document, who are you?”
Grant gave the swift, transfiguring smile which so often served him well.
“More than one person can want the same thing, Hilde. Let’s go back to the incident in New York. Fiori and the woman tried to get these documents from you?”
“Yes—yes, it is true. They offered me ten thousand dollars. I—”
She broke off again.
“Are you sure that both of them tried to get the documents? Both bribed and threatened?”
“Yes! First one, then the other.”
“And the next time you saw either of them was at the ball?”
“Yes, it is true.”
“But only Fiori spoke to you then, the woman ignored you. Did Fiori talk about the documents when you were dancing?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else speak of them?”
“No.”
“Did you see who killed Fiori, Hilde? Did you see the man with the knife?” Before she could answer he moved forward quickly, and she shrank away as if afraid of the look in his eyes. Questions flashed out. “Did you plan to kill him? Was the murderer an accomplice?”
“No!” she cried.
“That’s a lie! You were frightened of the murderer, frightened of what he might do to you. You conspired with the killer, you manoeuvred so that Fiori was in a position where the killer could strike. You helped in the murder.”
“No, no!” she cried. “It isn’t true, it just isn’t true. He was dancing with me, smiling and threatening, and then—he was dead. I shall never forget it. He died while he was dancing in my arms.” She closed her eyes again and swayed as if she would fall; this time Grant did nothing to help her. She came up against a chair, and it steadied her. Her breast was rising and falling, and she found it difficult to meet his eyes.
He switched the subject abruptly, still glaring.
“Why did you go to see von Barlack?”
She didn’t answer and he took her wrist, gripped hard.
“Why did you go to see him?”
“Please—please, you’re hurting.”
“You’ll get hurt all right before you’re finished.” His grip on her wrist tightened. “You’ve lied to me, Hilde, as you lied about Fiori. You knew who the woman was. You went to see von Barlack because—”
“I had to see him!”
“Why?”
“I was at the Consulate in Marinburg two years ago. I knew His Excellency. He—” She coloured furiously, looking absurdly young. “He proposed marriage to me! He was so persistent, and I asked to be transferred from Marinburg. Oh, I liked him, but he is an old man. Just an old man, and I—”
Grant sneered: “So His Excellency the Baron von Barlack, Foreign Minister of Marinburg, proposed marriage to a chit of a girl in the Novian Legation. Do you think I’m a fool, Hilde?”
“It is true!”
He said: “I can see you are going to need rougher treatment.”
He turned towards the telephone, in a corner, but before he had reached it she stumbled after him, clutching his arm. She pressed close against him, soft and yielding, trembling from head to foot.
“Please, please!” She almost sobbed. “It is true. He wanted me to become his mistress—”
“Did you?”
She did not answer, but released him and backed away. Now her body sagged as if she were aware of the deep shame of the past; yet could not lie.
Grant put his hand beneath her chin, pressed her head up and forced her to look into his eyes.
“You are still lying, Hilde.”
“I swear it is true. What more must I say? To confess—”
“True!” He sneered the word. “Knowing all this, hating him so much you had to fly from Marinburg, you come to see him at his hotel.”
“I had to see him! He was talking to the woman at the ball. To Fiori’s friend. He was the Foreign Minister of one of the countries in the Congress of Europe, and talking to her. What could she want but information—as she wanted it from me? He is a silly old man, and she is a lovely woman and so clever. I had to warn him—had to warn him!” She came near and clutched his arm again. “Can’t you understand? I had to tell him about the woman he had been with, to tell him what she had tried to get from me, to put him on his guard. And you—you were there when I went in.”
Grant said sharply: “Did you warn him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He was—kind. He told me that I need not worry, he was quite capable of looking after such an affair. I described the woman. He said that he remembered her well and already suspected her. He seemed so much older than he had been,” Hilde went on. “In Marinburg he was old, yes, but a fine man. Yesterday he seemed to be breaking up before my own eyes. That is all true, I beg you to believe me.”
“What did you do, when you left the h
otel?” Grant asked.
“I returned to the hostel. The Ambassador has been so kind. He is a friend of my father; that is why he takes care of me. I was told not to attend the Embassy for some days, and so I am free to do as I wish. I have been trying to tell the Ambassador what has happened to me but—”
Grant said slowly: “Yes, why didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
“If you had nothing to be ashamed of, why didn’t you tell him? He would have protected you.” Suspicion flared up again; there was still more that she could tell.
She raised her hands and whispered: “I could not tell him. I could not tell him everything.”
12 / “Everything”
The horror and the terror which had possessed Hilde merged together. She stumbled and fell before he reached her. Now, he could feel compassion. He lifted her into the chair and stood back. She buried her face in her hands and cried; silent, bitter tears. Her shoulders shook, her body trembled, but she made little or no sound. She was a picture of abject misery, and Grant watched her, stony-faced, forcing himself to remember that she might be lying—that after all, this might be an act put on to fool him.
She had lied so well before.
She had convinced everyone that she had never seen Fiori before the night of the ball.
Hilde stopped crying, but her face was buried in her hands.
Grant said harshly: “Look at me!”
She raised her head, and he saw the tear-stains on her cheeks. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, and her nose was shiny. This girl hadn’t been acting, she was completely broken by what had happened—and by her secret. Was it some further shame?
But he kept his voice harsh: “Why couldn’t you tell the Novian Ambassador—your friend and your father’s friend?”
“Please don’t ask me.”
“Tell me!”
“It is so—so terrible for me.” Her voice was a whisper. “So terrible for me. I believe—I believe that my father—”
She choked on the words, and tears flooded her eyes again, but this time she didn’t break down. Grant stood tense and expectant; what she said now would mean so much.
She said: “I believe my father told Fiori what I could give him. I believe my own father—to be—a traitor.”
The last whispered words floated about the room, and she sat with tear-filled eyes and parted lips, desperately unhappy in this greatest shame.
Grant turned to the cupboard and mixed her a whisky and soda, took it to her and thrust it into her hands. She sipped the drink mechanically. All the colour had gone from her cheeks—it was as if the blood had been drawn out of her. Grant waited until she had nearly finished the drink, then spoke gently—so gently that he surprised himself.
“What makes you think that of him, Hilde?”
“He has always opposed—the Congress of Europe.”
“In what way?”
“In every way he could. In politics; among his friends; in every way. He could have become a great statesman, a leader of my country, but he threw his opportunities away because he did not believe in unity.”
“But he could have opposed unity without betraying any secrets.”
Grant spoke slowly and pedantically, to make sure she understood exactly what he meant.
“That—that is so, yes.”
“Did he know Fiori or this woman?”
“I—I believe that he did.”
“Have you ever seen them together?”
“No!” she cried. “No. It was something that they said in New York. They were talking in the next room, before they told me what they wanted. The words were so clear they have burned themselves into my mind. The woman said: ‘No, it is better for us to do it, not her father.’ Fiori argued with her, and it was repeated. ‘No, it is better for us to do it, not her father.’ And so I knew that my father was working with them.” Her voice was hushed, and she looked straight in front of her, not into Grant’s eyes. “I remembered, then, all the efforts my father had made to prevent this unity. He and I have always argued about it, sometimes quarrelled. Before I left for New York there was one terrible night. He wanted me to give up my work, and I refused. He said that the unity of Europe was suicidal for Novia and that the unity must be broken. He said he would do anything to break it—anything. He would ruin himself—and he is a rich man. He would smash the Congress of Europe because he thought it was the proper thing for a patriotic man to do. Now—now do you understand why I could not tell the Ambassador?”
Grant said slowly: “Yes, Hilde. Is that the only indication that your father is involved?”
“Yes.”
“Is he in Novia now?”
She shook her head.
“No, he is in London. I should not have known, because he did not tell me he was coming. After that quarrel we—we became estranged. It hurt so much, but he would not see me, he told me never to go home again. And I stayed away. I was in Piccadilly, on the day of the ball, and I saw him. He was with another man whom I did not know.”
Grant said sharply: “Not Fiori?”
“No.”
Grant turned to his desk, opened the drawer and took out an envelope. Inside were photographs of all the people so far known to be concerned and a copy of the photograph of the circled star. He looked at the faces of Walsh, Casado, the two workmen and Fiori, picked up the photographs of the workmen and Casado, and showed them to her.
“Was any of these the man?”
She studied them.
“No.”
He held out the photograph of Walsh.
“Was he—”
“Yes!” she cried, her eyes glowing. “Yes, that was the man! They were getting into a taxi. I believe my father saw me. He turned his head away and spoke, and the other man looked at me; I shall never forget him. That was the man.”
Craigie was alone in the office when the telephone nearest him showed a red light; when at the desk, he used the lighting system instead of bells. The caller was Grant. In very few words, Grant said plenty.
“One of the men we want is her father. I think she may be in danger. Will you see that she’s protected?”
Craigie said: “Yes. Bring her as far as Parliament Square, and I’ll have someone to look after her. Make sure you’re not followed, and then come and see me.”
“Right.” Grant rang off.
Hilde had washed and powdered her face. Her lovely blue eyes were still red-rimmed and swollen, and her cheeks were pale, but she was much calmer. She hadn’t asked who Grant was, and seemed now to take him on trust. She agreed that she might be in danger; she had been frightened all the time since the Italian had been killed—much more frightened than before. She was quite prepared to place herself in the hands of Grant’s friends; she had to, it was more fatalism than confidence. At a quarter past twelve, they left the flat. Craigie’s men would be waiting for her at Parliament Square by then. They went down in the lift, and the door jammed a little at the ground floor. Grant forced it open and held it for her to pass.
She stepped out—and cried in sudden, wild fear: “No!”
Three shots rang out.
Grant caught a glimpse of a man near the front door, a little man with his coat collar turned up and the gun in his hand. Hilde gasped. A bullet tore through Grant’s coat, and he felt a twinge of pain. Hilde fell back against him, blood streaming from the wounds in her throat and forehead.
She was dead before she reached the ground.
Another bullet passed between Grant and the girl. He darted back into a corner of the lift, snatching at his own gun. Outside in the street, someone shouted. Grant stayed where he was, ready to shoot on sight. The man in the hallway turned and ran, footsteps ringing out, men shouting after him.
Hilde’s blood spread slowly over the floor of the lift.
Grant looked down at her, stony-faced, hardly able to think. One moment, alive and anxious yet filled with new hope, perhaps more hopeful then than at any time for weeks past; the next, de
ad. One arm flung out, the other was bent beneath her. One shoe had come off as she had fallen; those lovely legs would never move again.
An elderly man came rushing up.
“Did you hear—” he began, and then saw Hilde and backed away in horror.
Grant telephoned Craigie again, from a call box, reported, said that he thought it better to meet Craigie or Loftus outside the office. The police had taken care of Hilde’s body, and his Z card had satisfied them about his authority.
The porter had been knocked out by the killer, and afterwards found in the basement.
Craigie said: “All right, Grant, one of us will meet you at Crane Court,” and rang off.
Grant went upstairs, undressed, saw that the bullet wound was hardly a scratch. He put on a fresh suit, went down, climbed into his car and drove towards Crane Court.
Craigie’s eyes were tired, but his alertness was as noticeable and as impressive as ever. He moved briskly, his lips were curved downwards, as if he were holding one of his meerschaums between his teeth. He nodded to Grant, took a case from his pocket, fitted the two ends of a pipe together and began to fill it with tobacco out of an oilskin pouch.
Grant growled: “Who’s the man on duty outside?”
“Plummer.”
“No wonder we’re making a hash of this if you use that type of idiot.”
Craigie said: “Plummer’s all right. You haven’t been with us long enough to get to know the general attitude of the men, you know.”
“I’ve been with you long enough to know that it’s a cockeyed organization. It might be all right at the Lyceum, but in real life it’s crazy. The way the fool babbled!”
Craigie sat on the arm of a chair. He lit his pipe and took his time over it. Then he sat back in the chair and settled himself comfortably.
“What exactly is under your skin, Grant?”
“The death of Hilde.”
“You’ve seen death often enough.”
“As such, I’m hardened to it. I’m not hardened to working for an organization which will allow that to happen. You knew I was going to see her. You knew I should probably take her to the flat. In any case, you must have known that she might draw fire; and yet you didn’t trouble to have the flat watched. I know I’m supposed to be working on my own. But I didn’t think you’d neglect the obvious precautions. It’s murderous. That girl would still be alive if you’d done your job.”