The Department of Death

by John Creasey

  Neilsen said slowly: “You will have to tell us how you would improve our methods.”

  “Work less in the open and more in the dark.”

  “That would not give us the publicity we need.”

  “You’d get that all right,” Grant shrugged his shoulders, stood up—and moved his hand. His gun flashed out. Manuel’s jerked up—and Grant tossed his on to another easy-chair. “Feel happier now?” he asked. “Why did Casado kill Fiori at the Palace?”

  Only Manuel seemed impressed by that speed on the draw.

  Neilsen said: “He had orders to kill Fiori, he didn’t have any instructions where and how to do it. Fiori was an Italian Secret Service agent—didn’t the great Department discover that?”

  “Probably, but no one told me. I’m not in the Department’s full confidence.”

  “Casado thought it a stroke of genius to do the job at the ball, but we didn’t approve.” He looked as if he wished a reincarnated Casado could come back now, so that he could be murdered again. “I seldom misjudge my men, but I misjudged Casado. He was above all things an exhibitionist. His task was to kill Fiori. He chose that way—the most sensational assassination in history. He actually boasted of it. But such a man could not be trusted.”

  “I gathered that, or you wouldn’t have killed Casado afterwards. I was there just before you killed him, but Walsh made a complete fool of me.” Grant shrugged. “Did you mention tea?”

  Had he misjudged his moment for giving the impression that he did not think the story of Casado was really important? He was doubtful, until Neilsen smiled slightly, motioned to Manuel and said: “Bring it in.”

  Neilsen waited until his man had left the room, and then said mildly: “You are beginning to impress me, Grant.”

  “You take a lot of impressing.”

  “What did happen to Casado’s body?”

  “Other Department men were watching me, and came back and took it away. Walsh planned to frame me for the murder, but something went wrong.” He laughed. “Walsh was good—was, Neilsen, because you won’t be able to use him again. The last time I saw him, he was a complete physical wreck. I doubt if he’ll ever recover from what Craigie and Loftus did to him.”

  Manuel brought in a silver tea-tray, silver teapot, a plate of thinly cut bread-and-butter and rich-looking jam in a cut-glass dish.

  “It was a bright notion to frame a Department Z man for Casado’s murder,” Grant said. “That would really have given the Press something to shout about. The British Press wouldn’t have used it, but the rest of the world would have found plenty of space. For once I was very grateful for the zealous care of my friends.”

  “What else did you learn at Casado’s flat?”

  “Very little.” Grant put his hand to his waistcoat pocket and took out one of the cards with the serrated circle and the five-point star. He showed it. “I found one of these. It should satisfy some people that I’m a proper man to talk to.”

  Neilsen said softly: “Yes, you’re clever.”

  He sat down and began to pour out tea, like any handy family man.

  Manuel was on edge to know more, to set them talking again, but Neilsen used the next quarter of an hour communing with himself. He made a few casual remarks, but said nothing of importance. Grant piled jam on the bread-and-butter and enjoyed his tea. The distant dream had drawn nearer. If there was a chance to worm himself into this man’s confidence, he’d strengthened it. But the game was cat and mouse, and Neilsen as the cat had lethal claws.

  They finished tea, and Neilsen said: “Take it away and stay outside, Manuel.”

  Manuel protested with his eyes, but said nothing as he went out. The door slammed.

  “How did you become a member of Department Z?” Neilsen said abruptly.

  “I’ve had some years in the Intelligence Service, abroad, and they thought I could be used on the Home Front.”

  “What made them think wrong? What changed you?”

  Grant said sharply: “Changed? I haven’t changed.”

  The retort pierced Neilsen’s façade of calmness. The Novian wanted to believe him, also had his dream—of a spy inside Department Z. Satisfy him that he had reason to betray Craigie and he would be half-way home. Hilde had told him how to handle this when she had pleaded that her father’s motives were a form of distorted patriotism fanned to flames by a passionate zeal.

  “You appear to have changed,” Neilsen said.

  “Governments change—individuals don’t. I think this is a crazy business. Unity!” Grant sneered. “Where will it get us? What am I going to get for throwing away an Englishman’s birthright? I tell you, Neilsen, that when I discovered what this accursed Government was doing, I pledged myself to fight against it while I’d breath in my body.”

  Was it enough? Not too much?

  Neilsen said softly: “Yes, I think perhaps we have things in common, Grant.”

  “I know we have. I wonder how many feel like you and I? I wonder how many of Department Z would come in with me if I went against the Congress? I know some of them are restive. It is one thing to serve your country, another to serve a polyglot union. Many of them probably take my view—that their oath of allegiance was cancelled out when Great Britain went into the Union. There may be strong support where you least expect it.”

  Neilsen said, as if dreamily: “I wonder. I found little response in Novia. Here and there, a man who thought as I do was prepared to fight and pay for his beliefs, but most were converts. My own daughter was a convert. Killing her—” He caught his breath. “I shall never forget it, nor shall I ever believe that it was wrong to do it. The tragedy is that I did not know of you before.”

  Was this success? Or were the sharp claws ready to scratch? Not real success, it couldn’t come so swiftly; but speed was desperately important, you had to believe in miracles or you’d have no hope.

  “You had plenty of men at the Colladium,” Grant said. “Were they all loyal and reliable?”

  “Most were hired men. You may be right, there may be many who feel as you say you do, but how can we find out?” Neilsen put a cigarette to his lips, without lighting it. And the “say” was like a hammer on Grant’s head. “Do we need to find them?” The glint came back to his eyes and his lips parted in a smile—the thin, cruel smile. “We are doing well, in spite of your censure. This evening, the story of what happened at the theatre will be in all the newspapers. The idea that the countries within the Union are already at each other’s throats is building up quickly. Everywhere people are talking about it, shaking their heads ominously, saying it won’t work, saying they knew it wouldn’t work. And they’ll be doing that all over Europe.” He stood up abruptly. “We haven’t failed, Grant. We’re succeeding. We can make this Congress break up in confusion.” He gave a little soft laugh. “We can make it a cockpit for all the old arguments and squabbles, make the delegates a laughing stock. Do you realize that? Laughter can kill this warped union more effectively than any other thing. Laughter.”

  “But not violence.”

  “The violence was necessary to start the disruption,” Neilsen said. “The laughter will come afterwards.”

  The telephone-bell rang and eased the tension in Grant’s mind.

  Neilsen got up, crossed the room and lifted the receiver.

  “This is Neilsen,” said Neilsen. “Yes—yes, I am aware of it.” He laughed. “Yes, yes—it will surprise you, surprise you very much indeed ... I shall be very careful ...I am not a fool, Marlene.”

  Grant’s nerves became like taut wire.

  Neilsen glanced at him as he listened to the woman at the other end of the line. His expression didn’t alter, the tone of his voice remained exactly the same. Marlene talked for a long time before Neilsen said: “Yes, I will do that ... Yes, it is quite safe ... No, nothing at all. Good-bye.”

  He replaced the receiver slowly, rubbed his hands together and turned to Grant.

  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I have ev
er worked alone, Grant. I have powerful friends. Now! I have to decide what it is best to do with you. I think you might be a valuable recruit, but you could be still a spy, couldn’t you? Even I see that, but I wanted you to talk.” He laughed. “You will have to satisfy others as well as me that you are not a spy. Can you think of a way of convincing us?”

  Grant said: “You’re the judge.”

  “Yes, and I want much more evidence.” The frosty glint was back in Neilsen’s eyes, the cruel twist at his lips. It was not all suspicion of Grant; something else affected him like that, some plan, some plot suggested by Marlene, on which his quick mind was working. “You said when you first came here that you would have made a more successful job of the affair at the theatre. You would have assassinated the French Foreign Minister, with much less fuss. Whereas, we failed. Do you think you can succeed where we failed, Grant? Kill Benot, and we shall have reason to believe you.”

  He laughed again.

  “If the job’s worth doing, I’ll do it,” Grant said.

  Neilsen let him leave soon afterwards; that was halfway towards the miracle.

  And he had made a promise.

  16 / The Man to Kill

  Grant was followed when he left the flat, followed to the underground station, followed when he reached the West End and went to his flat. A light burned in the room opposite, where the man with the umbrella still sat at his desk, as if absorbed in his papers. The flat was in darkness. He knew that a man had come up the stairs after him—knew that he would be watched, wherever he went, that a single false move would condemn him. But there was a chance of success.

  He knew that the telephone at the flat might already be tapped. He could not speak to Craigie or Loftus from here. If he went to a telephone kiosk and made a call, he would be seen, Neilsen would be told.

  Now he really knew what it was like to be working alone; and he had never been more desperately anxious to talk to Craigie!

  He was to kill a man, and so prove himself to be worthy of working with Neilsen. That was the job worth doing. As he walked about the flat, his words and Neilsen’s hovered about his ears.

  “If the job’s worth doing, I’ll do it.”

  “It is worth doing, because if Benot dies, the spokesman for France will speak against unity,” Neilsen had said softly. “He is not one of us, but he will do more to set the Congress in uproar than anyone else. That is why we must kill Benot. And you will do it for us.”

  “All right.”

  Grant sweated, now, when he thought how casually he’d spoken. But the chance had been put into his hands, and had to be taken.

  If he failed, he would never be able to justify himself in Neilsen’s eyes. One door was closed between him and Neilsen and the organization’s other leaders—one heavy door, bolted and barred by the existence of M. Benot. Benot’s death would open the door, and he could walk straight in.

  Benot’s death.

  That very night.

  The Frenchman would be at another reception; a smaller one to be held at the American Embassy. It was to be a goodwill reception, where the U.S.A. would give its social blessing to the coming Congress. Neilsen had tickets; in any case, Grant could get in with his Z card, but he would be watched by Neilsen’s men. Every movement would be seen, every word he uttered would be overheard, every note he tried to write would be scrutinized. He could not get a message to anyone else in the Department, and it would be too late to get such a message through at the reception.

  There wasn’t much time.

  It was so easy to see how he could sit in at counsels of Neilsen and his friends without killing Benot; but to do that he must see Craigie. He must have ten minutes with Craigie, let his thoughts and the grand conception spill out of him. Ten minutes would do. Five. Yes, just five minutes alone with Craigie or with Loftus.

  He put on every light in the flat.

  No one was there; no one had been in since he had left for the theatre.

  The telephone mocked him.

  It was six o’clock. According to Neilsen, Benot would be at the American Embassy at eight o’clock; by eight-thirty, he must be there himself. The only way to gain time was by a subterfuge that might cheat Neilsen; he might say it was safer to attack after Benot left the reception.

  He must see Craigie!

  He looked out of the window into the darkened street. Only one light shone in the office opposite. A man sat at the desk—yes, the fellow who had followed him carrying an umbrella. Neilsen’s man, who—

  The man held up a sheet of paper—not to read it, he couldn’t read something that was held like that, facing the window. It was there only for a moment. The man looked at it casually, then put it down again—and after a fierce moment of suspense, something clicked in Grant’s mind.

  There was a letter cut out of the paper, still vivid on his mind: the letter Z.

  Grant stood stiffly by the window, and the paper was raised again; there was no mistake about the Z. He looked down into the street. The man who had followed him from Golders Green was lounging against a lamp-post on the other side of the road, watching his flat, not interested in the offices opposite.

  The paper was raised again, and the bright light in the office showed clearly through the cut-out.

  So one of Craigie’s men was a stone’s throw away, telling him he was near, telling him that he had only to signal if this was what Craigie would call a state of emergency.

  Grant turned from the window, hurried to the front door and opened it. Another of Neilsen’s men stood outside. “I thought I heard a knock,” said Grant.

  “No one called.”

  Grant went back to his study, pulled paper and pen towards him and began to write swiftly. Thoughts had never flowed more freely. He kept glancing at his watch, and after ten minutes, he went to the front room again.

  The man still sat there.

  Grant opened his window, saw the man glance towards him and lean forward, touching the sheet of paper with his cut-out Z, but not raising it this time. Grant raised his hand, fingers making the old, familiar victory sign, and went back to the desk.

  He finished writing, screwed the paper into a ball, and weighted it in his hand. It was too light to carry across the road. He picked up a round paper-weight and wrapped the paper round it, another large piece round that; then he stuck on some gummed tape.

  When he reached the window next time, he saw that the office window was wide open. Craigie’s man stood at the far end of the desk. He touched the telephone as Grant came within sight. Grant shook his head; he was far enough back from the window not to be seen by the watcher in the street. Then he weighed the message up and down in his hand again, trying to give it significance, and made a throwing action. The other was a floor lower than his, the gap about thirty yards. It wouldn’t be easy to judge that perfectly. Easy! If he threw his message and it crashed against the window, then the watching man would hear and see the missile and—

  He mustn’t smash any glass, it might give the game away.

  If he tossed it through the open window it would fall on the desk and bounce to the floor, and the man in the street would be none the wiser.

  He stepped back into the room.

  There was a beading of perspiration on his forehead and his neck felt clammy, but his hands were cold. You couldn’t throw accurately with cold hands. He rubbed them together briskly, putting the paper-weight down. Then suddenly he picked it up, took aim and threw the missile.

  It headed straight for the window.

  God! It was too far to the right, would hit the frame and drop down into the street. He’d lost the only chance, thrown it away, he’d—

  It struck the frame loudly on the extreme inside edge, its path was diverted, it fell to the desk and bounced to the floor.

  The watching man was still lounging against the lamppost, and glanced up as if puzzled.

  Craigie and Loftus were together in the office of Department Z at half-past seven on that cold January night.
The coal fire blazed brightly, the far end of the room was as jumbled and untidy as ever. The two leaders of the Department sat at their desks, studying Grant’s message. When coal fell in the grate it seemed very loud, but neither looked up. There were two sheets of paper—Grant’s and a copy Craigie made. Craigie handed the second to Loftus and waited with his hand on a dark-blue telephone.

  Loftus finished, looked up and nodded.

  “Who have you got in mind to do what Grant wants?” Craigie asked.

  “Mason.”

  Craigie lifted the telephone which had no dial; it was a private line to another narrow street off Whitehall, but on the other side of the road.

  “They might send someone beside Grant to do the job.”

  “Not likely, is it?”

  “Quite possible. They might have the other man there to make sure that it’s a killing.”

  “Mason will have to take the risk.”

  “Get him on the move,” said Craigie. He spoke into the telephone as a man answered him. “This is Gordon Craigie. I want to speak to the Prime Minister.”

  “If you will wait a minute, Mr. Craigie.”

  This wasn’t by any means the first call he’d made to the Prime Minister, certainly wouldn’t be the last; but it had to be a desperate emergency to justify it. Craigie held on while Loftus dialled a number on a different telephone; soon they were both speaking simultaneously.

  “We’ve a special job for you, old chap,” said Loftus.

  “I’d very much like to see you,” said Craigie.

  “Yes, sticky. You’ll need make-up.”

  “At once, if it’s possible ... yes, or I wouldn’t ask you to come.”

  “I’ll come and see you,” Loftus said. “You tell Maria to come along—yes, she’s got to come to you.”

  He replaced the receiver as Craigie said: “Thanks very much—in ten minutes, then.”

  “Okay?” asked Loftus.