Carriers of Death (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘Yes.’ Graeme, the Secretary for Foreign Affairs, spoke for the first time. He was a man of acknowledged ability and far-sightedness. That’s true enough, Craigie. The thing’s been building up for a long time. We’re in for real trouble, if world affairs don’t quieten down.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Gordon Craigie gazed around the table—and when he spoke again, there was in impassioned note in his words. ‘Gentlemen: Great Britain is waiting for an excuse to show force—or her people are, even if her Government blinds itself to the fact. Give us one concrete example of hostile action from any country, and the chances of avoiding war are negligible.’

  There was a brief silence after he had finished, and again, it was Wishart who broke it.

  ‘I don’t believe,’ he objected, ‘that responsible statesmen in this country or in America would commit such an indescribable folly as a declaration of war.’

  ‘I am not thinking of responsible statesmen, sir,’ said Craigie. ‘I am thinking of men in public office bowing to the storm of public opinion. You can believe it or not, gentlemen, but the danger is acute; I will even say imminent. Supposing, Yelding,’ he eyed the Secretary for War: ‘we had the Brittanica—our Akren—blown to pieces with a full complement of officers and men? Supposing these things happened, gentlemen—which of you could stem the tide? And already a dozen smaller things have started; the fire is smouldering and waiting for the spark. Twenty men were deliberately killed—murdered—at Pockham. Are you going to suggest this was simply some form of industrial espionage? Or had it some deeper motive? Ask yourselves, gentlemen—ask yourselves!’

  For several seconds, Craigie’s voice echoed in the stillness. Fellowes apart, he knew, there was hardly a man there who could say what he really thought.

  ‘There is undoubtedly,’ Wishart said, at last, ‘something profoundly disturbing in this latest catastrophe, Craigie. But when you ask me to believe it is the beginning of an attempt to incite war between the two English-speaking countries, it is more than I can accept.’

  ‘Why should they fight?’ demanded Cathie.

  ‘Any other power,’ said Halloway, ‘and I could understand it. The situation’s dangerous, I know—and God knows I’ve never stopped trying to strengthen our National Defences. But------!’

  He shrugged, and Craigie nodded. ‘I know: it’s absurd. I hope you are right gentlemen. But you are all convinced of danger of some kind. You asked me, some six months ago, to investigate the various occurrences of sabotage, and I have given you a considered opinion. You will no doubt expect me to continue to make every effort to find who is behind the campaign. So I want your help in at least one respect. I want all naval, air and military bases and ports to be protected as they would be in time of war—and I cannot be responsible, gentlemen, for the results if that protection is not afforded.’

  The Rt. Hon. David Wishart and the Home Secretary, Sir Tristram Davies, watched the other members of the meeting prepare to leave. Both men were deeply worried: in their hearts they both realised that Craigie, of all people, would never speak as he had done without good cause. No-one, not even Craigie, had much to say: they spoke their good-nights glumly. Craigie and Fellowes were talking quietly together near the door, and would have been the first to go if Wishart hadn’t called:

  ‘Craigie—give me five minutes, will you?’

  Craigie drew away as the footman opened the door, and Sir Charles Garney and Arthur Simmersley—two Ministers without portfolio—were the first to step into Downing Street. A gust of wind blew rain into their faces and Garney muttered ‘Brrr!’

  It was the last word he spoke. The car that moved forward—driven, the watching police thought, by Halloway’s chauffeur—suddenly roared into top gear as the driver tossed something into the porch. There was a single, blinding flash; an explosion that sent the windows smashing inwards, a splash of something wet across Yelding’s face—Yelding himself was protected by Garney’s body—and a blast of air that sent every man there staggering back. Then a sudden bellowing across the silence outside, the shrill piercing of police whistles, the backing of the high-powered engine and the screech of tyres as the limousine swung into Whitehall.

  One of the most peculiar things about the Downing Street outrage was that Halloway’s chauffeur, Johnson, was later found—doped but otherwise unharmed—among the bushes in St. James’s Park. When he recovered consciousness, he told Craigie and the others that he had had Sir Kenneth’s permission to leave the car outside the house for an hour, while he slipped away to meet his fiancee. He had been overpowered by a man who had sprayed the stuff—ether-gas—into his face, and remembered nothing else. Halloway confirmed giving the permission, but his feelings were not helped when Cathie said audibly that the Under-Secretary was a damned sight too easy-going: that if he hadn’t been, this would never have happened.

  ‘You’re lucky they didn’t use your car,’ Craigie retorted sharply. ‘Your man went off without permission!’

  It was the truth; the sergeant of police on duty had reported it. Cathie was reduced to silence, but Sir Kenneth Halloway went home still plainly appalled for all that by the ghastly catastrophe.

  Kerr awakened at six o’clock the next morning, somewhat stiff but considerably refreshed. He looked round in surprise for a moment, realised where he was and that he had fallen asleep while protesting he was not tired, stood up, yawned, and went to the door. It was open and he heard Wally Davidson say:

  ‘Yes, I’ll get him.’

  ‘Craigie,’ Davidson told him, turning as he entered, and Kerr’s smile of greeting disappeared as he took the instrument. He needed no telling that something abnormal had happened, for Davidson looked like a ghost, and he spoke quickly into the mouthpiece.

  ‘I can do with you, down here,’ Craigie said, his voice sharper than Kerr had yet known it. ‘You’d better fly. Bring Davidson with you. Leave Trale there. You’ve found nothing, I take it?’

  ‘Nothing that won’t keep a couple of hours,’ said Kerr.

  He did not wait to ask what was the trouble, but rang off and spoke to Moor, who had just entered the study.

  ‘Can you find me a car, right away?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Moor, ‘it’ll be waiting.’

  Kerr smiled his thanks and turned to Davidson—and his mouth set tightly as he heard Craigie’s news of the Downing Street outrage.

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Moving fast. Are you ready?’

  Davidson nodded. They told Trale he was to stay, and left the Larches within five minutes of the telephone call. Both of them were silent until they were racing down the empty road.

  ‘Did you get a nap?’ Kerr asked, then.

  ‘Yes, thanks; a couple of hours.’

  ‘Good. Thank heaven for it,’ said Kerr, and a moment later, his lips curved in ironic amusement. ‘When you’ve been busy before, has it been as warm as this?’

  ‘Nearly,’ said Davidson.

  They did not speak again until they reached the airfield. Moor had thoughtfully telephoned to prepare the officials, who handed sandwiches and flasks of tea into the cockpit after the two men climbed in. Kerr said:

  ‘I can do with that, thanks. Pull those chocks away, will you?’

  The mechanic nodded and obeyed, and a minute later the little plane was moving along the ground. The storm that had raged in the south on the previous night had not reached the north, and the short flight passed without anything untoward, unless it was Kerr’s handling of the Hawk. Davidson called it suicidal, although as they neared London he realised that Kerr flew almost by instinct; his apparent carelessness was really inborn confidence.

  They passed over the green and brown countryside: England in the early Spring, and although neither man would have admitted it they were both thinking of the same thing. Someone—something—was trying to create chaos on these fair fields: disasters like the Pockham affair might come at any moment. Craigie and his men were fighting now more grimly, perhaps, than they would if the storm burst and they
found themselves at war. As they flew, it struck Kerr that they might actually be passing over Marlin, or the man named Kelly, and they realised afresh the desperate need of finding one or the other of those men.

  They spoke very little; Davidson’s natural discursiveness had been arrested after the news of the Downing Street bomb-throwing, and Kerr was busy with his thoughts. He saw a dozen roads open for investigation, and smiled drily to himself as he realised that he could only follow one of them at once. That was good enough if he followed the right road, but if he mistakenly chose a cul-de-sac, he would be wasting valuable time. He was beginning to see how Craigie worked, and why he needed so many men.

  They reached Whitehall via Heston Aerodrome two and a half hours after leaving Preston. Together, they walked past Great Scotland Yard towards that small, unimportant-looking door on the right. They saw a dozen men and women passing along the street and each of them wondered if yet another attack was coming. They were probably being watched, for Marlin would stop at little to get rid of Craigie’s agents: Kerr had a brittle feeling that any minute might be his last.

  They gave the necessary signal, on the bell, and the door opened. Both of them breathed more freely as it closed behind them. Davidson smiled and produced cigarettes as they mounted the stairs towards Craigie’s room.

  ‘We’re doing well,’ said Kerr, ‘Thanks. This is an infernal trick of Craigie’s, keeping us waiting here.’

  ‘That man doesn’t go wrong often,’ said Davidson.

  They had reached a landing from which a single door led; it was shut tight and they knew it would not open until Craigie had pressed a switch in his office. Craigie took no chances of being attacked in his room. The chances of any unauthorised person getting in were small, but not impossible; moreover, Craigie was prepared for trouble from all directions, both in and outside Whitehall.

  The two agents waited for perhaps three minutes before he opened the door. He stood on the threshold, his meerschaum in his hand, an expression that defied description in his eyes.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I was on the telephone. Come in.’

  Kerr passed him, appalled by the greyness of his face, and his obvious weariness. Davidson whistled to himself; he had seen Craigie worried, but never anything like this.

  ‘What’s the trouble?’ Kerr asked, as they sat down, Craigie in his own chair by the fire. When he was worried, he invariably hugged the warmth.

  Craigie shrugged.

  ‘Nothing; everything. We’re close to a panic, and I don’t like it. Have you seen the papers, this morning?’

  ‘Haven’t had time.’

  ‘There they are,’ Craigie said simply, motioning to his desk.

  Davidson and Kerr rose together and walked to the desk. A dozen papers were there: all the national dailies and the more important provincials. Kerr read the headlines and could understand something of the burden under which Craigie was suffering.

  Only one paper—the comparatively unimportant Weekly Workman—did not carry headlines that were a virtual demand for war. Even the Left Wing—and usually pacifist—papers stated in their leaders or front pages that the situation was ominous; that once the perpetrators of the outrage at Pockham and the murder of Sir Charles Garney and Arthur Simmersly were discovered, the act of reprisal must be severe.

  The Clarion, usually one of the more excitable papers, had a leader that was more considered than most of the others, but which summed up the general opinion of both the left and right wing press. Craigie, watching the two men, smiled a little as he saw Kerr pick up the Clarion: Kerr had a habit of getting at the right thing without wasting time, Kerr took in every word rapidly. The leader ran:

  ‘The two outrages reported on the front page, of equal importance from a political and international viewpoint and both equally tragic, both demand the most rigorous steps the Government can take. The Clarion voices the opinions of the people when it says that we have no desire for war. But if these outrages were instigated by foreign influence, then the countries or country responsible must be taught a sharp lesson. The declaration of war is a grave step, a terrible step when one pauses to consider the dangers and perils of gas and modern armaments, but if Great Britain is to retain the respect of the world there must be no hesitation now. A quick step and a decisive one is imperative.

  ‘The responsibility of the Government is greater now than it has been for years. There can be no two sides to the question. England is virtually living in a state of war. There is no guarantee that further outrages on an even more terrible scale than that at Pockham will not be perpetrated. The Clarion, with all the knowledge of the gravity of the responsibility on the shoulders of the country’s leaders, solemnly charges them, in the name of the people, to discover without delay who is responsible, and to act in no uncertain manner when they know. No one who does not deliberately blind himself can deny that foreign influence is at work; it is not for the press, but for the Government, to identify that influence and destroy it.’

  Kerr put the paper down and walked slowly back across the office. Davidson followed him and Craigie surveyed them, both without speaking.

  ‘Well,’ said Kerr. ‘What will happen?’

  ‘What can happen?’ asked Craigie wearily. ‘War, Kerr. I don’t see how we can stop it. I’m waiting for one of those—’ he motioned towards the papers irritably—’to come out with a flaring accusation against America, or Russia—anyone. When it comes there’ll be a general demand for action and...’

  Craigie stopped for a moment, and drew a deep breath. Then he went on more incisively:

  ‘But talking like this is nonsense. I drummed it into the Cabinet last night, before poor Garney went; you don’t need telling. We’ve got to find Marlin and Kelly. I’ve called a dozen men and they’re waiting any time you like, Kerr. But first, what happened up in the North?’

  Kerr explained, briefly. Craigie nodded, and was not surprised by his agent’s final:

  ‘Have you the list of Marlin’s clients handy?’

  Craigie had. Kerr took another sheet of paper from his pocket and compared the two. The second list was that supplied by Mrs. Trentham of Jeremy Potter’s regular callers: Not until they reached the ‘M’ sections did Kerr see what he wanted, and then his eyes glinted.

  ‘Mayhew,’ he snapped. ‘There’s our man, all right. He quarrelled with Potter, he’s taken a lot of trouble to cover his movements, and he’s on both lists. His address on this—’ he waved the list of Marlin’s clients—’is the Lucretia Hotel, Bayswater. A call there might help. I think I’ll go myself.’

  ‘I should,’ Craigie agreed. Now he was dealing with the more routine work of the Department, he seemed more like his usual self. ‘And there’s another man you might look up, Kerr. Potter’s brother.’

  ‘And Potter’s niece,’ Kerr added grimly. ‘I telephoned from Heston to have that young lady watched. Miller said he’d look after it. What stopped Miller from coming north last night?’

  ‘I decided to keep him here,’ said Craigie slowly. ‘He’s more useful in London; he knows it better.’

  Kerr nodded, and smiled wryly as he stood up:

  ‘And Timothy?’

  ‘I sent him to Pockham, to replace Trale.’

  ‘Good,’ said Kerr. ‘Well, Davidson and I ought to be able to tackle the Lucretia and Miss Smith, although if we could have a man or two following us, in case of emergency, it would help.’

  ‘Go to the Carilon,’ said Craigie, ‘ask for Carruthers and a man named Beaumont; they’ll be all right. Carruthers knows you, so there won’t be any difficulty. Telephone me if anything at all develops, and don’t take any chances.’

  ‘What are chances?’ asked Bob Kerr gently.

  Craigie felt better when the two men had left. There was something comforting in the way Kerr approached the situation. Craigie told himself he had never known a man who took things so calmly, or was less likely to be knocked off-balance. It was a refeshing thought that Kerr was working
with the Department, and it made up a little for the general grimness of the situation.

  That was bad. Craigie had said no more than the truth on the previous night when he had told the assembled Cabinet that the country was seething, and the morning’s papers made the position much more grave. Over London—and over England—there was a poorly suppressed excitement; the country knew that it was only a matter of time, now, before war broke out.

  And Craigie knew every eye was directed towards Russia.

  The squalling of the Fascist press in Germany and Italy and the mid-European states, was stronger than ever. England, according to these, was at long last suffering from the results of its tendency to sympathise with the Soviet regime: unless England was careful, it would fall under the heel of the Soviet and—the identical statement recurred again and again—if that happened, Fascism would unite to ‘combat the terror’.

  The international complications worried Craigie. He waited anxiously for the first wireless reports to come from the States, ready any moment to hear that a similar outrage had occurred over there. The trouble was that it seemed impossible to predict where the flare-up would start. It might—and he was inclined to believe this, although he knew that on the surface of it the idea was absurd—come between Britain and America; on the other hand the dictator-countries’ outcry against Russia might force Britain’s hand against the Soviet. And there were other possibilities...