by John Creasey
Grant reached the back of the boxes as Neilsen appeared. One of the men who had been in the box earlier spoke to Neilsen, who shrugged his shoulders and said in clear, good English: “I shall not stay, it will not be good, now.”
He pushed past a solid phalanx of police and plain-clothes men who had gathered outside the royal box to protect the French Foreign Minister and his wife, and started down the stairs. A few people were leaving; three women and a man sat on the stairs, white-faced, one woman lay unconscious. At the foot of the stairs a child was crying, and a group of first-aid men were dealing with minor casualties caused by the crush and by the exploding fireworks. The foyer was crowded, some people saying they ought to go back, others that they wouldn’t enter the theatre again for a fortune. Everyone appeared to be talking at once. Neilsen was held up at one doorway; Grant went through another and was in the street before the Novian appeared.
Neilsen didn’t go by car, but walked to Leicester Square Station and stopped at the first set of automatic ticket-machines. Grant went to another and bought a six-penny ticket. As it snapped out in front of him, Neilsen passed; they almost touched each other. The Novian did not look at him. They went down on the long escalator, with half a dozen other people and a woman carrying a baby who was crying bitterly.
Neilsen went to the out-of-town platform, and an Edgware train came in. He got into a non-smoker compartment. Grant slipped into a smoker next door as the automatic doors closed behind him and a voice called belatedly: “Mind the gap!” He sat down where he could see into the next compartment. Neilsen leaned back, closing his eyes; the likeness between him and his daughter was uncanny.
He appeared to take no notice of anyone near him, and certainly didn’t look at Grant.
Grant himself hadn’t been followed.
Neilsen got up as the train ran into Golders Green, and Grant went to the door of his carriage. The exit was a little to the left—nearer the Novian, who showed no sign of haste. He strolled in a leisurely way along the platform to the stairs and walked quietly down while others pushed past him. Grant went ahead and was out of the station and on the other side of the road before Neilsen emerged. Grant was now quite sure that the Novian was alone.
Three taxis stood in a rank near the station.
Neilsen walked past them.
After five minutes he turned towards a large block of flats, entered by the second gateway and, as he disappeared into the lift, for the first time he looked round.
Had he noticed Grant?
It was difficult to be sure. You could take nothing for granted, he was as cunning and crafty as a fox. Grant waited at a corner of the big, pale-grey block. No one came out, but a little old man in an overcoat sat outside a doorway cleaning a pair of brown shoes.
Grant said: “Anyone come out lately, do you know?”
“What they wanter come aht this way for? Got the front, ain’t they?”
Grant fingered a two-shilling piece, tossed it in the air.
“Yes, but people do funny things.”
“You’re the only one doin’ anyfink funny,” said the old man, pocketing the coin and grinning. “No, cock. Ain’t seen a soul fer the last ten minutes.”
“Thanks.” Grant went back to the street and turned into the entrance cautiously. No one was about, and the lift was self-operated. There was no list of tenants on the wall, but a card with the name of the tenant was fitted into a small bracket on the wall of the nearest flat. The name meant nothing to Grant. He walked up carpeted stairs to the second floor, read the names, went to the third and then the fourth and top floor. The quiet was broken by dance music from one of the flats.
A card on the top floor read: Arthur Walsh. The number of the flat was 12a.
Grant went down in the lift this time, crossed to a telephone kiosk at a corner, and telephoned the office; Loftus answered. He said: “It’s T-N—”
“Fire away, Grant.”
“I’ve traced him to Walsh’s flat, 12a Kingham Mansions, Kingham Road, Golders Green. Five minutes walk from the station, turning right into the main road.”
“Nice work.”
“I’ll be seeing you,” said Grant.
He had been able to watch the entrance to the flats, and no one had come out while he was in the kiosk. Now he walked briskly across the road, and as he turned into the hall he fingered the automatic in his coat pocket. He listened, and heard no sound of anyone coming down the stairs. He used the lift again. He no longer hesitated, but pressed the bell of Flat 12a and stood close to the door.
It was opened almost immediately by one of the men who had been with Neilsen in the box at the Colladium; the man who had spoken to the Novian and had gone off before the arrival of the French Foreign Minister.
Grant looked into a pair of clear brown eyes; into a long, pale face, at a small, tight mouth and a long nose with pinched nostrils. The man showed no signs of recognition.
“Yes?”
“I want to see Neilsen.”
“You can’t.”
Grant put his foot forward so that the door couldn’t be slammed in his face, and said: “Your mistake.”
The other dropped his right hand to his pocket, a familiar, threatening gesture. He didn’t move back. Someone stepped out of one of the rooms; Grant saw a shadow, but the man who had moved didn’t come into sight.
“You can’t see Neilsen, because no one named Neilsen lives here,” said the man with the long, pale face.
“Perhaps he’s gone to join Walsh,” said Grant. “Or haven’t the police caught up with him yet?”
The man’s hand slunk into his pocket; Grant could imagine his fingers bunching round the handle of the gun. The shadow moved, but there was no sound inside the flat. He knew, now, that Neilsen hadn’t been suspicious; the visit was a complete surprise.
“Walsh is away,” the man said.
“A guest of His Majesty, I believe.”
The hand moved slightly, and came half-way out of the pocket. In a swift phantasmagoria of impressions, Grant saw the gun-fire in Green Park; the shooting at the Duke of York’s Steps; Hilde, falling dead at his feet—and heard Craigie’s quiet words; no member of the Department could be sure of getting round the next corner safely. He had a mental picture of Plummer, dying in a moment of modest triumph; but in spite of all that, he didn’t put his hand to his pocket for a gun.
“Hadn’t we better have a talk?” he asked.
Then the shadow spoke. “Let him come in, Manuel.”
The thin, pale face relaxed, the man named Manuel drew back into the small hall, kept his right hand in his pocket and held the door with his left. As Grant went in Manuel slammed the door, then kicked the bolt home. Grant glanced right, into Neilsen’s handsome face.
“Enjoy the show?” he asked.
Manuel said: “There’s only one way to deal with him. That’s to rub him out.”
“Then I shouldn’t be able to work with you,” said Grant.
A door, leading to a long, well-furnished room, stood wide open. He passed Neilsen and went into the room. No one else was present; he felt a ridiculous sense of disappointment because he had buoyed himself up with the belief that he would find Marlene von Barlack here. He went to the window and looked out, and discovered that he could see as far as the corner and the telephone kiosk.
“You like the view, perhaps.”
Neilson was suave, unperturbed.
“I didn’t like the scene in the Colladium, but I admired the organization behind it,” Grant said. He dropped his hand to his pocket for his cigarette case, and Manuel snatched out his gun. Grant laughed as he took out a cigarette. “All right, play your little game.”
“I’ve seen him before,” Manuel declared softly.
“Yes, I seem to remember his face,” said Neilsen. “Perhaps our guest would like a cup of tea?”
“Thanks.”
“Get some tea, Manuel.”
“Don’t stay in here with him alone,” said Manuel urgently.
Neil
sen waved his right hand impatiently, a man used to command. Manuel backed towards the door, left it wide open and went out, making it obvious that he thought this was a crazy risk to take. Neilsen opened a gold cigarette case, and lit a cigarette with as much deliberation as Grant had shown.
He was strikingly handsome at close quarters, and the family likeness to Hilde was even more remarkable. He had the same cornflower-blue eyes, the same blond hair, although it was turning grey. He stood six feet tall and hadn’t a spare ounce of flesh. His light-grey suit was perfectly cut, with padded shoulders, a slight waist. He had the trick of calm stillness which was also one of Grant’s great assets. They sized each other up, and it was Neilsen who broke the silence.
“So you were at the theatre?”
“Yes.”
“And you admire our organization?”
“Except in one little thing. The object of organization is success. You failed. You didn’t get M. Benot and you didn’t panic the audience.”
“I won headlines in every newspaper in the world,” Neilsen said smoothly.
“It’s so easy to make an excuse for failure,” Grant said. “Second best never got anyone anywhere.”
“You think you would have done better?”
“I know I should.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Grant.”
For the first time Neilsen’s composure broke; that showed in the merest narrowing of his eyes and the slight pursing of his lips. Then he smiled lightly, and Grant didn’t like that smile; behind it there was cruelty—the kind of cruelty which would allow this man to give orders for the murder of his own daughter.
Why that flashed into Grant’s mind there, for the first time, he didn’t know or care. But he felt instinctively that he was dealing with the most dangerous type of all—the fanatic. There weren’t many of them in England. Neilsen had steeled himself to suppress emotion and sentiment, to disregard the blood-tie with his own child. The smile betrayed all that; so did the icy glint in the blue eyes.
“And what do you do for your living, Mr. Grant?”
Grant said: “Several things. As a hobby I work for Department Z.”
The gleam of surprise came again—while in the hall Manuel uttered a sharp exclamation; tea-things rattled on a tray. Neilsen turned his head, impatiently.
“Keep out, and shut the door.”
“But—”
“Do what I tell you!”
There was a clatter as the tray was dumped on a table, then the door closed with a snap. Neilsen went across to it and tried the handle, then turned slowly on Grant.
“So you use new, bold tactics, Mr. Grant.”
“So far I’ve just answered questions.”
“You work for Department Z, and”—Neilsen shrugged his shoulders—“they are working against me. I should be much happier if they weren’t, if they had not discovered as much as they have.”
“You’d have reason to be happier,” Grant said grimly. “They’re good.”
“And, of course, you are one of their best men.”
“They think so.”
“Why have you come here?”
“To find out what you’re after.”
“I see. You expect me to tell you promptly, of course. Very simple and very subtle. What makes you think I am such a fool?”
“I don’t. I think you employ fools, or they wouldn’t have bungled the Colladium job like that. Yes, it was bungled. The police and the Department were all prepared for trouble. Your organization was too painstaking and elaborate. You would have got your publicity and better results if you’d arranged for one man to slip into the auditorium and shoot the Frenchman. I think you work on too big a scale. A job like that is basically simple—why complicate it? Was it a show of strength? Were you just trying to persuade Department Z that they’re up against a powerful group, with ample resources and reasonable man-power?”
Neilsen didn’t answer, and Grant went on in the same easy voice: ‘You’ve done that all right. You’ve told them clearly that it’s a fight to the death and invited them to put every man they’ve got into the field. You’d have done much better to limit the offensive, and husband your forces for the final showdown. It isn’t likely that you’ll ever pull off a big coup now. They’ll have two men to your one every time, wherever you might gather to attack. You showed your hand too soon, Neilsen.”
The Novian leaned forward and tapped the ash from his cigarette.
“I have been wondering,” he admitted thoughtfully. “It was a good opportunity, and yet you are right, we failed in the main task—we missed Benot.” He shrugged his shoulders, and the glint in his eyes betrayed his real feelings—anger with that gunman. “Now that I have listened to your little homily, why did you come to see me?”
This was the moment to shake him; so Grant smiled. He had startled von Barlack and reassured Hilde with that smile, and now he puzzled Neilsen, who stood still and erect, frowning at him, on his guard all the time for a possible trick. Grant went to a chair and sat down slowly, adjusted his trousers, leaned back and placed both hands on the arms of his chair.
“I wanted to see the man who was prepared to murder his own daughter for an ideal,” he said.
Neilsen’s head jerked up.
“What makes you think—”
“It must be a burning idea—an ideal—an obsession. There aren’t many men in the world who would do it, very few who believe in anything strongly enough to warrant it. I was there when Hilde died. She fell at my feet. One minute, a vital, eager, living creature with all her life before her; the next—a corpse.”
Neilsen breathed through his nostrils, his lips were drawn into a thin line, two spots of colour burned on his cheeks.
“Hilde told me about you,” said Grant. “But for her, I shouldn’t have known you existed. You had her killed because you were afraid of what she might say to Department Z if once they got hold of her. It was a waste of a life, Neilsen. I decided then to come and talk business with you before I confided in anyone else. I think we may have some things in common.”
Neilsen said thinly: “How did the Department know what was being planned at the Colladium?”
“Walsh is a prisoner.”
“Walsh wouldn’t talk.”
“I don’t think you understand Department Z.” Grant murmured. “It is quite ruthless. It will use any methods to make a man speak. I’ve seen some of them at work. They’ve nothing to learn from the Nazis or the Russians. If a man has information, they get it. You’re not dealing with men who bide by the rules of police procedure, these men are as completely sold on their ideal as you are. Walsh talked, Walsh knew something of what was being planned, and so the Z-men were there in strength, ready for anything you could produce.”
Before he finished, he knew that he had convinced Neilsen of the source of the leakage; and he knew that the man was puzzled, half-afraid and yet half-hopeful. He was wondering what Grant meant by talk of common ground between them. If Craigie and Loftus had done their job well, then the rumour that Grant might be a renegade was already spreading; Neilsen hadn’t yet heard of that.
He would soon.
“And you were at the theatre on behalf of Department Z?” said Neilsen thinly.
“No. I’d traced you, on my own. It wasn’t difficult. Hilde saw you the other day and followed you. She knew you were with Walsh, and—”
He’d made a slip.
Neilsen’s eyes narrowed, dangerously, warily, making it difficult for Grant to go on with what he was saying. But he managed without a change of tone, without showing that he had noticed that sudden change.
“—and it wasn’t difficult to trace you then.”
Neilsen moved to the door, and called: “Come in, Manuel.” The door opened quickly, and Manuel stepped in, his right hand still at his pocket. “Watch him very closely,” said Neilsen, “and if he looks like going for a gun, shoot him.”
“Safer to take his gun,” Manuel said thinly.
>
“Never mind that, for a moment. Mr. Grant thinks himself very clever. He thinks he can convince me that he is not really loyal to Department Z. It was a very fine performance, but he tells me that he traced me through Hilde. He doesn’t realize that Hilde never came to this flat, and didn’t know where Walsh lived. That day, we did not come here. Little things can throw the cleverest plan out of gear, Mr. Grant, can’t they? Stand up, and turn round, Manuel, now you can find out where he keeps his gun.”
15 / Counter-Trick
Grant didn’t get up.
Manuel came towards him, on his toes, his gun in his hand. Neilsen’s eyes were like little blocks of ice. Grant knew that he was very near death; Manuel would need little provocation to shoot. Yet he sat quite still, and as the smaller man drew within a few feet of him, he smiled again—and the smile startled Neilsen, even made Manuel pause.
“I didn’t come here to have a shooting match,” Grant said, and crossed his legs. “Hilde didn’t tell me where Walsh lived. And the Department doesn’t know; if Walsh had told them that, they’d have been here by now. Apart from you and your friends, I’m probably the only one who does know. Doesn’t that answer some of your questions?”
Neilsen relaxed.
“Don’t listen to him,” Manuel breathed.
“Casado told me where Walsh lived,” Grant said.
That was a big risk, it might rebound upon him heavily, might be the one thing that would convince Neilsen that he was lying. But the first reaction was good.
Neilsen said: “So.”
Manuel licked his lips, turned, and began: “We ought to have silenced that—”
“Be quiet,” ordered Neilsen “When did you see Casado in order to find this address out, Grant?”
“At the ball.”
“And how did you persuade him to talk?”
“It wasn’t difficult. He was always a ready talker—one of the many fools you employed. Manuel’s quite right. You ought to have killed Casado much earlier. He did a lot of damage. The craziest thing he did was to kill Fiori at the ball. I don’t know whether he had orders for that or whether he was carrying out a personal feud, but if you gave him orders—” Grant chuckled. “Well, I’m not playing ball! That’s one of the things I want to find out—who really gives the orders, who directs this business. I don’t think the direction has been very good up to date.”