by John Creasey
‘You certainly are. Will our assassin? If he doesn’t, once his friends know he didn’t get Virnov, there will be another attempt.’
‘Bad,’ George said.
No one else spoke, because for the moment there was nothing to say. Even George’s high spirits were damped by the mood. He sat on the arm of a chair, and lit a cigarette. Almost with a sense of strain, he said:
‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
In fact, the room was remarkable.
The end near the fire was furnished as an ordinary sitting-room, with easy chairs, occasional tables, a small bookcase, a row of shelves where more books reclined lazily, none quite upright. The oak mantelpiece was heavily carved. There was a row of little glass buttons along the centre of it, and beneath them a row of bell-pushes; they were the only unusual things one could see at that end of the room—unless one looked into the cupboard, the door of which was ajar. The inside of that cupboard was certainly unusual. Never, in one cupboard, had there been such a miscellany of oddments. Once, no doubt, each shelf had been reserved for a particular thing, for food perhaps, or for tobacco and smoking requisites, another for spare shirts and collars and ties; and the bottom shelf, undoubtedly, had been reserved for boots and shoes and brushes and pans. Now nothing appeared to be in the right place. Packets of food, some opened, some new, jars and bottles, ties and handkerchiefs, stood cheek-by-jowl. It was the only untidy thing about Gordon Craigie, and his close friends believed that he refused to tidy it now, because it had become traditional.
The other half of the room presented a startling contrast.
Even that blazing fire could not soften its cold austerity. There were two large desks, a host of telephones, some filing cabinets and a dictaphone, as well as some tubular steel chairs. The furniture was all of steel, painted pale green in contrast to the light oak panels of the walls.
Loftus sneezed and grabbed for a handkerchief.
‘Open cupboard door, first shelf, round the corner to the right,’ said George, getting up. He went nearer to the fire and warmed his hands. ‘When I was a little boy...’
‘When?’ echoed Mark Errol.
‘I know it isn’t so long ago,’ George said. ‘But we were all little boys once. Even our chief. Weren’t you, Gordon? Or did you just come? Someone waved a wand perhaps, and this room was created, someone else said abracadabra and in you popped. Same lined Red Indian face, same frightful pipe, hair neither thick nor thin. After all,’ he added, looking at the little glass buttons and bell-pushes, ‘no one but a magician would have thought of those. Sliding panels and secret doors in the sacrosanct precincts of Whitehall—sheer melodrama.’
Hammond remarked: ‘They work.’
‘Oh, I like ‘em. That’s what I was about to say. When I was a little boy, I dreamed of secret tunnels, priests’ holes and sliding doors and things.’ He threw his cigarette into the fire. ‘Thanks for letting me thaw out. I can now be sensible.’
‘Without granting that,’ said Hammond, ‘what’s new?’
‘Not much, I fear. George Henry George wasn’t the right man for the job, perhaps. I talked to the killer. His conversation, even under persuasion, is limited. He does not like Russia. He thinks evil things of Russia. That’s the lot. He talks English fairly well but rather stiltedly. It wouldn’t really surprise me if he’s White Russian. Or he could be Trotskyist, both hate the Kremlin today.’
‘It’s too easy,’ said Craigie.
‘Complexity so often springs from the mind. Stop me if I burble. I jollied him for an hour. Dusty Miller gave me moral support with deep voice and threatening gesture. It all came back to the same thing. Lips turned back and teeth set in the good old-fashioned snarl. Hate Russia, hate Russia. He wanted to kill Virnov, and still thinks he has succeeded. Miller had a go at him, solo. Routine fashion, you’ve got to admire it. It ran something like this: Your name is Leo Kolsti. Yes. You climbed to the roof of the house last night, and spent the night in an attic which you reached through a rooflight. Yes. You carried with you a Thompson sub-machine gun. Yes. Where did you get the gun? Silence. Thunderously: Where did you get the gun? Silence. Miller kept it up like that for half an hour or more,’ went on George. ‘The fellow admitted that he had been there all night, that he had the gun, that his intention was to shoot Virnov, that he knew—or thought he knew—that Virnov would land at Heath Row about two o’clock and be at Oslam House about three. But where he got the gun, whether he worked for someone else, how he got his information—on these he was dumb.’
‘Thing is, what do we do if he stays dumb?’ asked Hammond.
‘We’ll have to try scopolamine,’ said Loftus.
‘The truth drug isn’t infallible,’ Hammond remarked.
All of them looked at Craigie.
For many years Craigie had been used to receiving masses of information, sifting it, picking out what was relevant, and saying what it was. All of these men had come to expect him to answer questions for which they had no answer. Only Loftus and Hammond, the Errols and the few remaining agents who had been with the Department for many years understood the patient labour and painstaking zeal with which Craigie worked.
He stretched out a hand for a jar of tobacco, took another meerschaum from a rack which held half a dozen, and began to fill it. He gave no sign that he realised they were watching him so expectantly.
Craigie was recalling the circumstances which had led up to an attempt on ‘Virnov’.
Immediately it had been known that assassination might be attempted, Craigie had seen some Foreign Office officials, and learned that the Deputy Commissar was to spend one night in Copenhagen before coming on to London. Told of the likelihood of an attempt on his life, Virnov had agreed to come straight to London, but to keep out of the public eye until he was due to speak at Uno.
Two Department Z agents had impersonated him, flying first to Paris and then from Paris to Heath Row. The likeness between one of them and Virnov, after due application of make-up by an expert, had been enough to deceive most people, especially at a distance. Two other Department men had met ‘Virnov’ at Heath Row, and brought him to Oslam House, where the delegates from Moscow were being entertained.
And Leo Kolsti, hugging his machine-gun, had waited until the false Virnov’s arrival, and fired.
Kolsti did not know that Department Z carried melodrama to a fine art. Its agents had worn steel-mesh shirts, only one of them had been slightly wounded.
Craigie had first heard the rumour that the attempt was planned from a White Polish secret agent who was working in Paris. No one knew how he had got the information; no one was ever likely to know now. The Pole had given the information to an English agent, and a meeting had been arranged to discuss details, but the Pole had not kept the appointment. The following day his body had been washed up on the banks of the Seine, near Notre Dame. He had given no information beyond the bare details—Virnov was to be attacked.
At last Craigie took his pipe from his lips.
‘I don’t yet know what we shall do,’ he announced.
George widened his great eyes. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, inanely; ‘The master fails us. So everything depends on Kolsti.’
‘Too much does,’ admitted Craigie.
‘Bill had better have a go at him in the morning,’ George said. ‘He’s by far the most terrifying of the lot of us. Er—no new line through Paris and the Polish fellow, I suppose?’
‘We’re doing what we can about that,’ said Craigie, ‘but there’s nothing known yet. The Pole had his credentials. The Poles in the Conference Room seemed glad enough when Virnov appeared, didn’t they?’
‘Yes,’ said Loftus.
‘Did you see any indication of hostility?’ Craigie asked.
‘No, but after all, guilty men would be careful. There were poker faces, icy reception and evident dislike from some. All were small-country delegations. If I had had to pick one as showing more hostility than the others, it was the Shovian party. There was a tall, grey-bearded
man whom I did mark down. Who is he?’
‘Pirani,’ Craigie said. ‘His reputation’s good.’
‘Well,’ said George, ‘if he had toothache, it might make him look vicious. I know. Polly’s had it for three days.’ He grinned. ‘How many beavers at Uno?’ They looked at him curiously, Mark Errol’s expression showing impatience, for George behaved as if he were the Court Jester and there were times when Mark was a little more sober than the others.
‘Beavers?’ echoed Hammond, smoothing his moustache.
George beamed. ‘When I was a little boy, we used...’
‘You’ve been a little boy quite often enough today,’ Mark said.
‘Just once more,’ pleaded George. ‘We used to play beavers. On top of a bus, two or three giggling infants. A beaver was a man with a beard. Whoever saw him first and dared to say “beaver” scored a mark. Roars of childish laughter and a wild rush for the stairs. The very daring, spotting one, could score two marks by pulling at the beard.’ George was grinning inanely, now, but the others showed greater interest. ‘And if, as never happened in my experience, a beard proved false—ten points, all at one go. Pirani is a beaver, you say?’
‘Go on,’ said Craigie.
‘I mean, he’s got a good reputation. But who knows him well in England? Only his own fellow delegates, presumably. How many are there?’
‘Two others,’ Craigie told him.
‘Two could be a party to a racket,’ George observed. ‘As Mark has been so careful to point out, the eternal boy lurks in me. I wouldn’t mind playing beaver with Pirani, and trying to score ten points. If the beard did come off...’ he paused, and looked hopefully at Craigie. ‘May I?’
Craigie smiled. ‘We’ll have to do some spade-work first, but if the beard has to be singed, you can singe it.’
‘Eternal thanks,’ said George.
‘It’s worth checking,’ Loftus agreed. ‘But we want another angle, and it’s got to be through Kolsti.’
‘Hal-lo!’ exclaimed George. ‘The great man has been doing some brainwork. It’s a marvel to me how it ticks over so regularly, Bill. Disgorge.’
Loftus was now the centre of attention, and he laughed somewhat ruefully.
‘It’s an old, old trick,’ he said, ‘but when we’re so empty of ideas as we are now, an old one might be worth trying. We could let Kolsti go,’ he declared, ‘and watch him closely. Later, we could pull him in again and try him with scopolamine.’
3
Kolsti’s Goodbye
No one scoffed at the suggestion. It was agreed next that the following morning Loftus should question Kolsti, try to get the information, and then take him from Cannon Row Police Station, where he was now in custody. In the street, Loftus would be careless. Agents would be watching, on foot, in cars and in taxis, to follow Kolsti wherever he went.
‘Anything else, Gordon?’ asked George.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Craigie. ‘You go and rest. Office work isn’t your long suit. You’d better get some sleep, Mark, too.’ He paused. ‘Did Mike do much damage to his ankle?’
‘Only wrenched it,’ Mark answered. ‘He’ll be all right in a day or two.’ He got up. ‘What time will you want us again?’
‘About midnight,’ Craigie told him.
‘What’s all this?’ asked George.
‘Action stations,’ said Craigie.
George and Mark went for their coats and hats as Craigie leaned forward and pressed one of the buttons. The door slid open. The two men went out, and walked quietly down the stairs. At the foot, a gust of wind struck them, and made George cannon into Mark. With the wind came swirling snow. There was magic in Whitehall, the magic of white crystals falling and piling up one upon the others, lit brilliantly by the street lights.
‘Arctic welcome for Virnov,’ murmured George. ‘Two ways.’
‘I wonder if they will have another shot at him.’
‘Bound to. Who’s watching him?’
Mark grimaced. ‘He’s brought his own bodyguard, and there is a gang of Miller’s men on duty. We’re not due for the silent watches of the night.’
‘What are we likely to be wanted for?’ asked George.
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
They had not far to walk, however, for both lived in Brook Street, only a few doors from each other. In Mark’s flat Mike and his wife would be waiting; and in George’s, his wife, Polly. They reached Brook Street, and parted, and George shook the snow off his hat and coat and hurried upstairs.
The door of his flat opened, and a rather anxious-looking, buxom girl appeared on the threshold.
‘Is that you, darling?’
‘Your ownest own!’ declared George, springing forward and hugging her. ‘What’s Pretty Polly getting worked up about? I’ve never been lost in the snow yet!’
‘Idiot,’ said Polly George. ‘Darling, you look frozen!’
‘Frozen I may look, but it’s starved that I am,’ declared George, and sniffed. ‘It smells good.’
‘Just frying onions,’ said Polly.
They entered the living-room. In front of a bright coal fire were George’s slippers. He squeezed Polly’s waist and kissed the nape of her neck.
‘I don’t deserve it,’ he said. ‘How long before dinner?’
‘Ten minutes,’ said Polly. She took his damp shoes to the kitchen, where the maid was cooking the evening meal. George lit a cigarette and leaned back. A smile not far removed from fatuous was on his face. It was a plain but expressive face; when his eyes were closed it looked extremely ugly, but Polly, coming back from the kitchen, looked upon it with much affection.
George opened one eye.
‘Did anything happen?’ Polly asked.
‘Oh, everything. But the great man is all right. Triumph for D.Z again.’ He glanced at the kitchen door, but Polly had closed it. He leaned forward, stretching his hands out towards the fire. ‘Really worried, darling?’
‘I suppose I am,’ said Polly.
She looked more than pretty, with the firelight dancing on her clear blue eyes. There was a healthy, wholesome quality about Polly, who was always worried about her figure, but in all things was extremely difficult to deceive. George made no attempt to deceive her about the seriousness of the task which faced the Department.
They had met at the beginning of such an affair as this, and fallen in love. Polly had become one of the few women actively engaged in Department Z. She did not pretend to enjoy the danger, but accepted and faced it.
‘It might fizzle out,’ George said. ‘We can hope.’
‘Do you hope so?’
He laughed. ‘I do, my poppet! The last thing I want is trouble for Uno. I don’t particularly want trouble for myself, either. Don’t take it to heart, sweet.’
‘I’m not the only one who’s taking it to heart,’ said Polly. ‘Christine Loftus has been in this afternoon.’
‘Oh,’ said George.
‘George, didn’t Gordon once refuse to employ married men?’
‘In the happy days before the war, yes.’
‘There isn’t a war on now.’
George looked at her owlishly. ‘Just a cold war hotting up,’ he said.
• • • • •
Christine Loftus was in bed long before Loftus reached their flat, in Jermyn Street. He tiptoed about the bedroom, in the hope that he would not wake her, and saw her eyes open.
‘Insomnia?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Christine.
She was very lovely. Her fair hair was tucked into a gossamer thin net, and she looked beautiful lying back on the pillows, one arm over the bedspread. There was the gentle hiss of a gas fire, and the room was pleasantly warm. Loftus put on his dressing-gown and went to brush his teeth. He did not find it hard to guess what his wife was thinking, nor that Polly George and the wives of the other Department Z men were thinking much the same. At heart they resented the sudden impact of danger. Yet, Loftus knew, Christine would never ask him to
stop working; nor would the others.
He went back to the bedroom and sat on his bed. He could see a red scar on her right shoulder, where her nightdress fell to one side, it was of a bullet wound which she had received in the course of the case in which George met his Polly.
Christine edged to the side of the bed.
Loftus put an arm about her. ‘That’s my baby,’ he said.
‘Bill, how serious is it?’
‘We don’t yet know,’ Loftus told her. ‘We’re divided between plumping for a wild man with a bee in his bonnet and an organisation planning to smash Uno.’
‘What do you believe?’
‘I don’t think he’s just a wild man,’ said Loftus. ‘There’s a lot of discord, economic and military. Malaysia and Indonesia, India and Pakistan, the U.S.A. and Cuba, little places such as Cyprus...’
‘Don’t!’ Christine actually shuddered.
‘I know, the nice way to deal with facts is to blink at them,’ Loftus said. ‘But with Moscow, Whitehall and Washington getting closer together, someone might want to throw in a hefty spanner. Pekin, for instance, or possibly closer at home. If there’s only a chance in a million of it happening, we’d have to snuff out that chance.’
‘It had to happen when Uno has a session in England,’ Christine complained.
‘The danger spot might shift, you know. And we’re confined to work in England. No sudden trips abroad—that’s up to the other departments. I shouldn’t worry too much.’
Christine fell silent.
Loftus thought of the work which he, Craigie and Hammond had just finished. They had been through the dossiers; as far as was known, of all the delegates at Uno. There was no large delegation from any country, but with the secretariats, over five hundred people were concerned. They had marked off all who were wholly reliable, finally coming down to eight states where the delegates might be bribable. That was one more than the number of delegations which had shown a lack of enthusiasm for Virnov, the mystery man of Russia, freely tipped by many ‘authorities’ as the next Premier. The people who concerned Loftus immediately were the delegates from the smaller, unreliable nations, many of them new, or under new regimes. The more he considered the problem, the more he thought that Pirani, of Shovia, had come nearest to showing open hostility.
