by John Creasey
Grant didn’t speak.
“I see you do. I know that you would have taken this packet, pretended to us that you would carry out our orders, but—oh, no, you will not be the emissary. All your efforts will prove futile. You see, I have great will-power. You know that I collapsed. It was a serious collapse, but I made it appear worse than it was. I had to come here. I learned that my wife had escaped and was ill. I know, too, about her catalepsy. I begged to see her. I had the ambulance manned by loyal servants—the original ambulance driver is dead—and I brought her here. She didn’t see me; no, she didn’t see me, and had she done so—”
He gave a little teetering laugh again, and raised one hand, then the other. He poked his fingers through his hair, and slowly, the beard came away; the wig came away; he was the man whom Grant had seen walking up the stairs.
“My little joke,” gibed von Barlack. “Oh, I had a real beard, and my hair was thick and unruly. Recently—just before coming to England—I had myself shaved, and the beard and wig made—no one suspected that it was false, why should they? So I could be two men at the same time. That explains how easily I fooled so many people. You also—I puzzled you, did I not? You wanted to believe in me. I knew who you were, I knew where my wife was, but I wished to be trusted by Craigie and his men. I made perhaps one mistake, I thought myself young enough to go on for a long time. But I shall fool everyone just once again. I have listened to my friends here, I know what plans they had made and how, thanks to you and my wife, those plans have failed. I know that the final move, to destroy the Congress, has always been held in reserve. The only problem is who shall take the explosive in? They thought you. Each one of them was afraid that the duty might fall to him unless they could find someone else. But they need not worry. I will take it in. I shall be welcomed—why, I can hear the cheers that will greet me when I enter, a little late. It is always good stage-craft to appear late. Then I shall stand up to thank them for their welcome and I shall throw the package. How simple. How quick it will be for all of us!”
“Afterwards—but. I have told you what will happen afterwards.”
The white packet looked so innocent. Grant glanced at it, then looked away. If he could reach it and toss it into the fire, that would be the end of them; the beginning of much else. But only the end of these men and this plot, not of the deeper plot behind it.
This mattered most.
He leapt forward, stretched and snatched the packet, and hurled it past von Barlack’s head into the fireplace. The logs fell and crackled, flames leapt up.
But there was no explosion.
“How courageous of you,” said von Barlack smoothly. “I salute a man of great courage, Grant. You have frightened all my friends, but really—would I allow this explosive to be handled by so many people? Even if I told them how cautious they must be? No, no! Only I can produce the real explosive.” He turned to Neilsen and the others, who were still pale from the shock. “Now, gentlemen, perhaps you will believe which side Grant is on.”
“The time to deal with Grant is right now,” said the American, and he took an automatic out of his pocket. “This very moment, I guess.”
Grant darted back, picked up the inkstand and tossed it at the window. The American fired, and the bullet seemed to tear Grant’s head in two, but he heard the window crash.
28 / Bound-Up
“That’s it,” said Loftus. “That’s the signal.”
He was with Faraday, a hundred yards from The Old House, when they heard the crash of glass, the report of the shot, and saw the curtains billow out. The house was surrounded, Loftus had held his hand only for a signal from Grant. He would have allowed Grant the fullest freedom, would not have raided without a sign; but as he spoke now he put a whistle to his lips.
“You go ahead,” Loftus said.
Faraday was already a yard in front of him. Two others turned into the gate. There was a shot from the drive, and a man cried out. Faraday saw the guard who fired, and levelled his own gun; the man fell. There was little sound but that of the steady approach of the men.
A man appeared in front of the window which had been smashed, then disappeared.
“Get ‘em all!” Loftus shouted.
He hurried up the drive as best he could. He expected heavy shooting, but there was very little. He heard his men thudding at the door, others smashing the downstairs windows. A light shone out as curtains were pulled aside, and he saw Marlene against the light. Faraday was climbing in to her. He pushed her aside, others followed him. Marlene dropped out of sight.
The front door opened.
Windows were being smashed all round the house.
Loftus went into the front hall. A guard lay on his face, groaning, a Department man stood near him. Faraday was already half-way up the stairs. Someone out of sight was bellowing, as if in fear. Loftus went after Faraday, who banged at a closed door with the butt of his gun.
The shouting was coming from there.
Faraday turned the gun in his hand and fired at the lock. It took three bullets to break it. The door sagged open, and Loftus saw Faraday duck and dart inside. Three shots rang out, bullets hissed past Loftus; and then Faraday, unhurt, emptied his gun. Other men, behind him, rushed into the room, ignoring all danger. Loftus stood and watched the mêlée, and saw von Barlack, without his beard and wig, sitting like an image at the head of the table. Neilsen reeled back, with blood dropping from his forehead; the American lay stretched out, prone across the table.
The squat Nieto put a gun to his mouth and fired.
The only other man was standing against the wall with his hands raised and his body quivering like a jelly.
Grant lay on the floor, with an ugly wound in his head.
The frightened jelly of a man talked freely; they found the explosive, packed in a special container to prevent jarring, in von Barlack’s room.
Loftus got out of his car and walked slowly towards the Congress Hall. He was late, and the first session had already started.
Not a seat was empty.
Thousands of delegates sat in the tiered rows, and behind a little group at one end was a vast canopy covered with flags—the flags of every nation present. A man was speaking: the President of the Congress.
The President was making an appeal for calmness, for unity in the face of danger. All evidence showed that great forces were striving to defeat their purpose, and they must be strong enough to withstand the shock. They all grieved for France in her great loss, but they must not lose sight of the final objective.
No one stirred.
But here and there men scowled or frowned, and as he went on, many began to shake their heads—many, too, who had earphones on.
As if he sensed the mood of the concourse, the President began to raise his voice.
Beneath him, in a small crowded space, sat men at desks—translators turning the speech into several different languages and conveying it almost as fast as it was first delivered to those who did not understand English.
Loftus whispered to Craigie: “When?”
“Any time.”
“Doesn’t the President know?”
“No idea. Not our job now, thank God!”
“Only one regret,” Loftus said. “Grant—”
“Shh!” came from people nearby.
Loftus fell silent, thinking of Grant. He wasn’t dead; surgeons had operated on him late last night for the removal of the bullet; he might die before the day was out.
Marlene was in the small public gallery.
The President went on, his voice rising as he was affected by the fire of his own oratory, and then suddenly there was a stir in the gangway leading to him and the others on the platform. Heads were turned, two or three men hurried towards the platform. The President hesitated, went on, broke off again and turned to look—
M. Benot walked down the gangway, smiling, sprightly.
The great hall was hushed; then a sigh went up, a sigh that was like the wind. The Preside
nt swayed, gripped the desk in front of him and lost all vestige of colour. Benot reached him and, with a strange, gay solemnity, held out his hand.
The President touched it—
A roar sprang from thousands of throats. In that instant everyone jumped up, some shouting, some cheering wildly, some waving. It was bedlam; and it went on and on, the hall rocked to the sound.
Then Benot began to speak into the microphone.
He told them what had happened.
He put a sheet of paper into the President’s hand, bowed, and stood aside. The roar came again, but was soon hushed, and in a voice which quivered and broke from time to time, the President read the brief report: that this bitter group of the enemies of unity was smashed, that all their objectives were known. He wasn’t allowed to finish, uproar beat upon his words.
With his hand bandaged and his face pale, Grant sat in an arm-chair in Craigie’s office. It was dark there. Only Craigie and Loftus were with him. One wall of the room was covered with a white sheet, and Loftus was working a small cinematograph projector.
The scene at the hall passed before Grant’s eyes and the tension of it came into him, into the room. It lasted for a long time before the lights flickered and died.
Now there was only the firelight.
“Pity you missed it,” Loftus said. “But this is next door to the real thing.”
Grant said: “Missing it didn’t matter. Everything went well, you say?”
“Well! They made more progress that week than they’d made in years. European unity is here to stay for keeps. They’ve made it clear that Russia isn’t involved. Even the Kremlin had a little to say about it. Things are looking much, much brighter, old chap! Thanks to—”
“Hold it!”
Craigie filled his meerschaum.
“I don’t see why we should, Grant. If ever there was a one-man job, this was it. True, we might have raided that house, although Bill swears he wouldn’t have done unless he’d seen some sign of trouble. It was your job, Grant, and no one will ever be able to say thanks often enough.”
Grant shrugged.
“Well, we won’t argue.”
“Queer how things settle down to normal so quickly,” Loftus remarked. “You know that von Barlack passed out that night—the shock was too great for him. Nieto killed himself. The other three have been tried and sentenced to death by an international court. We found all the documents in the vaults at von Barlack’s home in Marinburg. Incidentally, we found some notepaper stuffed in a flowerpot at the Buckley house. There were impressions of notes—no writing, just impressions—about what they planned that night. You put ‘em there, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
“There was a time when I didn’t think we’d make out,” Loftus said after a pause.
Grant smiled. “I should have been certain you would if I’d known more about the Department. How I used to rage against you! I thought you’d really left me on my own at my flat until the umbrella man showed me the Z sign.”
“Tactics,” said Loftus cryptically. “We wanted someone watching, without letting you or anyone else know he was there. The Department doesn’t really rely on miracles, you know. We try to cover every loop-hole; and so a lot of chaps kick their heels and do nothing, but in an emergency, someone always pops up. Well! In spite of the success of that Congress, they’ll start squabbling again, but it’ll be just a family squabble; no ill feelings.”
Grant said: “Talking of families, I’m getting married.” He smiled, faintly, happily. “And talking of queer things, it wasn’t until last night that I asked Marlene if she knew why the police didn’t raid the Mayberry Avenue house. She was to have dialled 999 earlier, but waited to give me time to get away.”
“No puzzle, now,” Craigie said and added prosily: “I’m delighted, Grant.”
Loftus leaned back in his chair, and said slowly: “I’m as pleased as Gordon. Everyone will be.”
Grant said: “Thanks. Well, I think I’ll get along.”
Marlene was waiting for him in the car outside. Her eyes lit up when he appeared, their hands touched as he climbed in.
The Enemy Within
John Creasey
Chapter One
Orders
THE room was long and narrow, with a high ceiling. The walls, panelled and bare on two sides, were dull light brown, almost yellow. There was one desk, at the far end of the room, and behind the desk were two closed doors. On the wall between them hung a portrait of a man. The face looked pale, but for the eyes it might have been the face of a dead man; but the eyes gave him life. They were a piercing blue. They looked like real eyes placed in the portrait, and made the picture uncanny. Most people would have recognised the heavy features, with the large, dark moustache, drooping downwards at the corners; few would have recognised the eyes.
These were the first things Charles Corliss saw when he entered the room for the first time. He saw them before he noticed the man sitting at the desk; before he glanced about the room. They drew his gaze as a magnet draws steel.
The door through which he had entered closed softly, finally. He was alone with the man at the desk and the portrait—and the eyes. The eyes were the most vital living things in that room. Corliss stood still, and looked at them. Were they real? Was a man standing behind that portrait and looking at him through holes cut in the canvas?
He forced himself to look away but remained conscious of the eyes.
The plain wooden walls had no significance. Because of the length of the room, the far end where the man sat at the desk seemed narrower than this end. The man did not look at him, but continued to read a manuscript on his desk. Except for a telephone and a writing pad, the manuscript was the only thing there.
Corliss saw, for no one could fail to see, the great map which stretched almost the whole length of the right-hand wall, and nearly from floor to ceiling. In front of it were two library ladders, made of the same wood as the wall panels. The map was of the world, and was divided into sections, each section showing a continent. Parts of each, even of the American continent, were coloured bright red—a crimson much more vivid than the red that appeared on British maps and showed the Commonwealth. The whole of Eastern Europe, great tracts of Asia and smaller tracts in other continents, were of the same colour. Dotted about the white, empty spaces of the rest of the map, were crimson-headed pins.
The man at the desk looked up.
“Come nearer,” he said.
Corliss drew himself sharply to attention and obeyed, as if he were on parade. The dull, brown, fitted carpet deadened the sound of his footsteps.
There were no windows in this room.
Corliss reached the desk, and stood to attention. On his right was a chair, the only other chair in the room besides that of the man at the desk.
There was no likeness between the man and the portrait. He was sallow-faced and had dark, brown eyes—not beady, not clear; smoke seemed to curl and writhe in them. He had hair of chestnut brown, dark, bushy eyebrows, a long upper lip with a deep groove beneath the nose, a long, narrow, pointed chin. His cheek bones were high and it was possible to imagine that his eyes slanted; a Slav?
“You may sit down,” he said. His voice was flat, emotionless and slightly accented.
Corliss sat down—and glanced up again, at those eyes.
“You are an Englishman,” said the man at the desk. “Your name is Charles Marvin Corliss. You are twenty-nine years of age. You were educated at a public school and at the University of Cambridge. You are unmarried. You have neither mother nor father living and you have no close relatives. All that is so, yes?”
“Yes, Excellency,” said Corliss. He did not know this man’s name and had been told to call him Excellency.
The man at the desk was sitting back and speaking as if reciting a well-learned lesson.
“You spent two years with the British Army, in Europe, fighting. You were in the Arnshire Regiment. You speak French fluently, German well, Swedi
sh a little, Italian a little. You have travelled of recent years, representing a British firm of manufacturers.”
“Yes, Excellency.” Corliss glanced away from the brown eyes to those in the portrait; and both men seemed to be looking at him, appraising every feature, piercing through his flesh and blood and seeing into his mind. Absurd? That was how it seemed to him. He was tense and stiff, numbed and a little cold.
“One year ago, you inherited from your grandfather a large fortune, and since then you have not needed to work. You have travelled extensively during the past twelve months, spending in England only one month or two. All that is so, yes?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“You hate your own country.”
Corliss said slowly and with more feeling than he had yet shown: “I do, Excellency.”
“You will tell me why.”
He did not need telling why; he knew; it was all in the manuscript which he had been reading. That was a dossier about Corliss, and Corliss had seen it before. He had helped to prepare it, had seen other, less important men than this one, writing in it in a clear, bold hand. Nothing was typewritten, everything was set down in ink, and he did not think there was another copy in existence. He knew that it was comprehensive; they had questioned him searchingly, over a long period and in various places. They had often asked the same question in a different guise, and, because he was no fool, he had realised that they were trying to make him contradict himself. He had avoided doing that because he had always told the simple truth.
Yet the man at the desk asked him why he hated his own country. That was because the other wanted to penetrate his thoughts in that uncanny way he had; he was a kind of human lie-detector, who would be able to distinguish a truth from a half-truth and know the moment that Corliss uttered a lie.