The Department of Death

by John Creasey

  “They killed my father,” Corliss said.

  “So. How?”

  “It was during the war. He was a sick man and they knew it, but they sent him on a dangerous mission into Germany, because he could speak fluent German. He was caught and tortured and killed. It was not the fault of the Nazis but of the men who sent him.”

  “So,” said His Excellency. “How did you come to know all that? Your father, he was an intelligence officer, was he not? He did not talk of what he did, where he was going.”

  Corliss said: “I was informed of what had happened after his death.”

  “Who informed you?”

  “Some damned little pimp who sat behind his desk in an office while men like my father went out and did his foul work for him. He made me sick! He told me that my father had been a brave man—brave!—he was to be decorated posthumously.” Corliss fingered his waistcoat pocket. “I have the decoration here.”

  “Yes. How did you know that your father was a sick man?”

  “We had shared a week’s leave together, just before he left. He told me he was going on a special mission.”

  “Did he resent it?”

  “He was sick and tired—and afraid. He did not want to admit that he was afraid, and so he went. They killed him.”

  “Yes,” said His Excellency. “How did you learn of the fact that he had been tortured?”

  “The officer who told me hinted at it.”

  “Hinted?” The man at the desk repeated the word as if it were unfamiliar.

  “He told me enough, I could guess the rest.”

  “I understand,” said His Excellency. A note that might have been one of sympathy crept into his voice. “It is true that your father was a brave man, Corliss, and I am told that you have also proved to have courage.”

  Corliss did not speak.

  “That you, also, were decorated for a brave deed, when single-handed you took control of an important bridge, over a small German river. That is so?”

  “I suppose so,” said Corliss.

  “Suppose?” the other barked.

  Corliss started. “Yes—yes, of course. They made a big fuss of it, it was really nothing much.” He had relaxed and seemed much more English, now.

  “Is this the only reason why you hate England?”

  “The chief one,” said Corliss. “I hate the whole rotten setup. All this sham talk about democracy and freedom. It’s all sham. The politicians are liars and the statesmen fools. They give an idiot who sweeps the roads the same vote as they give me, and call it democracy. I’ve no time for the rabble. I’ve read a lot, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s only one man who knows how to rule a country.”

  He glanced up at the vivid eyes in the protrait, and this time could not look away. The whole face now held him fascinated; although it was a painting, it was as if he were sitting in the presence of an omnipotent being.

  His Excellency’s voice was very gentle.

  He handed an envelope to Corliss.

  “Have you seen these?” he asked.

  There was nothing to see but a plain white envelope.

  “What are they?”

  “Look at them,” said His Excellency in the same soft voice, and he sat farther back in his swivel chair, his hands resting lightly on the arms.

  Corliss pulled up the flap of the envelope and drew out three shiny photographs. They looked old. The corners were creased and worn, the edges were yellowing. They were pictures of a man—and Corliss stared at them, horror springing into his eyes. His hands did not tremble but the fingers seemed locked to the photographs.

  These were pictures of his father; a man, dying; and of a man who had been damnably tortured. The marks were there.

  His Excellency said gently: “Your father penetrated into Berlin, Corliss. Had we arrived a day earlier we should have saved him. We were too late. He was brave, as you have been and will have to be.”

  Corliss put the photographs down on the desk, but didn’t speak. His nostrils were distended, his lips parted, and he breathed as if he had been running.

  “You will serve?” asked His Excellency, and turned in his chair to look up at the portrait. “You will serve him?”

  Corliss licked his lips.

  “Yes.”

  “I will be frank with you,” said His Excellency. “For more than a year, we have been questioning and watching you. We have a task which you can do, but we had first to be sure of your reliability. We had to be sure of your hatred for England and your willingness to hurt her present rulers.”

  Corliss said: “You can be sure of that, all right.”

  “Yes,” said His Excellency. “I was sure, before you came in here. I am to give you your instructions. You understand that if you should try to betray us—betray him—you will convince no one. You might talk of this interview but it would be proved that it did not take place.”

  “I shan’t talk.”

  “We will say that I am joking,” said His Excellency, and for the first time, he smiled. It was a slow smile, a slight curve of thin lips, and he did not show his teeth. “You have heard, Corliss, of the organisation in England knows as Department Z, which is actually a branch of Intelligence and which has the special task of countering espionage in this country.”

  Corliss nodded.

  “You will know the little that the public knows about the organisation. What would you say the public thinks about it?”

  Corliss laughed; the sound wasn’t mirthful, but ugly and harsh.

  “They think it’s wonderful! It’s almost legendary. No one knows who runs it or who the agents are, but—well, they think it’s foolproof.”

  “Yes, they think that,” said His Excellency, “and in some ways, let us admit, they are right. It is a remarkable organisation. It is led by a middle-aged man, one Gordon Craigie. He has many assistants—some we know, some are unknown. It is charged with making sure of the security of the realm. Like us, it has cells, dotted about the country. The most unlikely men and women serve it. All are loyal. It has achieved some remarkable results—what is the proper word?”

  “Spectacular,” said Corliss.

  “Yes, yes, spectacular. But like all espionage organisations, its most important work is done without sensation, quietly and day by day. Now! I can tell you this. The English are not fools, they are clever, shrewd and proud. They permit the political activity of the Party, because that is democratic.” The faint, sardonic smile curved his lips again. “But they are aware of some of the Party’s non-political activity. They know that we have, in England, strong cells of people who, when the time comes, will act swiftly against the Government. These are men and women in key positions in industry, commerce, the Civil Service, the Armed Forces. They know, or at least suspect, the existence of these inner cells. They are seeking them out. Craigie and his Department now have that task. At the same time, Craigie is strengthening his own organisation. For—and remember you English are not fools—they take into account the possibility that one day this country may be occupied.

  “If that day comes, they must have their underground forces, which will work against us.

  “So, Craigie has two tasks: to find where we are strongest; and to prepare against the day when we might become all-powerful here. But although we know these things, Craigie’s organisation is strong, secret, and cunning. We know a little. Our agent, who has informed us of these things, has disappeared. He must be replaced.”

  Corliss said softly: “By me.”

  “And not only must he be replaced, but the man who takes his place must become one of the Department,” said His Excellency evenly. “Its members are of two kinds. Those in the cells, who are numerous. It is known, for instance, that the owner of a small garage near London is one; a postmaster at a village shop, another; the manager of a large cinema in a Midlands town, a third—and there are many like them. They will form the background of the resistance, at a later date. Few of these do any active work for the Depart
ment today. The other members are not in the cells but are attached to the Central Office. That Office is somewhere in Whitehall, but I do not know where. The members are nearly all young or young middle-aged men, and there are one or two, but very few, women. These people are responsible for the spectacular successes which the Department has had. They are, I am given to understand, strange men. They have the British habit of being flippant in times of acute danger—they appear not to take any matter seriously. I need not tell you more about that.”

  Corliss said: “I know the type of idiot pretty well.”

  “Be careful not to under-rate their ability,” said His Excellency. “There is a great difference between the man who is a fool and the man who simply appears to be one. These men, however, have one thing in common—distinguished war records and a sound background according to Whitehall estimates. You have that background. You will, shortly, be given an opportunity to be on the scene when one of these agents is injured. Thus, you will be put in touch with the Department. There can be no guarantee that you will be drawn into it, but it is known that Craigie has great difficulty in recruiting his agents. The right type of man is scarce. The Department continually suffers losses, of men who take up dangerous work and are killed. It is known that several recruits have been enlisted, from ordinary people—like you. It is also known that before any man is taken into the Department, the most painstaking research is made into his past. That is why we have always been at great pains not to interview you in suspicious or noticeable circumstances. That is why you were brought to this house, from the country, in a closed car with the curtains drawn. That is also why you will be taken back in the same way. You will not be seen. You will return to your hotel, your inn, and stay there. Soon, you will have a visitor. He will call in most unexpected circumstances, and will say to you: ‘You are to act now.’ ”

  Corliss said: “Yes.”

  “You will kill that man,” said His Excellency. “You will break his neck. You know how.”

  Corliss looked down at his hands.

  “Yes.”

  “Afterwards you will act on your own initiative, knowing that by then you have had an introduction to the Department.”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “You will get in touch with us only on important matters. We shall often get in touch with you. The envoy will show a card or a metal symbol—like this.” The man held out a small badge, of a hammer and sickle. It was polished; and at the edges were two tiny flaws. Similar flaws showed in the printed sign. “A hammer and sickle with two flaws,” said His Excellency. “Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  His Excellency leaned forward and pressed a bell-push fitted to the side of his desk.

  “Good,” he murmured. “You will, of course, remember my joke.”

  Corliss said: “I’m with you, all the way. Just give me the chance of getting inside this Department, and—you’ll see.”

  His Excellency nodded. Then he did an unusual thing—and this was noticed by the man who stood, outside the room, and looked in through a narrow aperture in the wall. He stood up and shook hands with Corliss, who backed three paces, saluted smartly, turned and stepped briskly away. As he reached the door at the far end of the room, it opened. No one appeared at the doorway. Corliss knew of no way in which he could be observed; but he felt, all the same, that he had been watched.

  He turned.

  He did not see His Excellency, who was at his desk again, and reading, but he saw the vivid, luminous eyes in the portrait. They seemed to hold his gaze; it took a physical effort for him to turn away and go out of the room. The door closed behind him. A dark-clad man stepped from the side of the passage and, without a word, accompanied him to another part of the building.

  As that door closed behind Corliss, another opened—on the right of the wall behind His Excellency. A small, thin-featured man wearing thick lensed pince-nez stepped silently into the room.

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  John Creasey

  Master crime fiction writer John Creasey’s 562 titles (or so) have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages. After enduring 743 rejection slips, the young Creasey’s career was kickstarted by winning a newspaper writing competition. He went on to collect multiple honours from The Mystery Writers of America including the Edgar Award for best novel in 1962 and the coveted title of Grand Master in 1969. Creasey’s prolific output included 11 different series including Roger West, the Toff, the Baron, Patrick Dawlish, Gideon, Dr Palfrey, and Department Z, published both under his own name and 10 other pseudonyms.

  Creasey was born in Surrey in 1908 and, when not travelling extensively, lived between Bournemouth and Salisbury for most of his life. He died in England in 1973.

  ALSO IN THIS SERIES

  The Death Miser

  Redhead

  First Came a Murder

  Death Round the Corner

  The Mark of the Crescent

  Thunder in Europe

  The Terror Trap

  Carriers of Death

  Days of Danger

  Death Stands By

  Menace

  Murder Must Wait

  Panic!

  Death by Night

  The Island of Peril

  Sabotage

  Go Away Death

  The Day of Disaster

  Prepare for Action

  No Darker Crime

  Dark Peril

  The Peril Ahead

  The League of Dark Men

  The Department of Death

  The Enemy Within

  Dead or Alive

  A Kind of Prisoner

  The Black Spiders

  This edition published in 2017 by Ipso Books

  Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd

  Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HA

  Copyright © John Creasey, 1949

  All rights reserved

  You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage

  Contents

  1 / Death Dances Slowly

  2 / The Victim

  3 / The Man Who Didn’t Go Home

  4 / Second Killing

  5 / Escape

  6 / Assignment for Grant

  7 / Threats

  8 / Von Barlack

  9 / Appointment

  10 / The Frightened Foreign Minister

  11 / Hllde

  12 / “Everything”

  13 / Next Move

  14 / Neilsen

  15 / Counter-Trick

  16 / The Man to Kill

  17 / The Assassin

  18 / Failure

  19 / Neilsen Is Pleased

  20 / The Trap

  21 / To Kill in Cold Blood

  22 / Death?

  23 / A Price on Hi
s Head

  24 / The Vital Question

  25 / The Bonfire

  26 / The Miracle

  27 / The Final Effort

  28 / Bound-Up