by John Creasey
Was there a possibility that the real Pirani was being impersonated at the Conference?
‘You ought to go to sleep,’ Christine said.
‘Believe it or not,’ said Loftus wickedly, ‘I don’t feel a bit like sleep.’
• • • • •
In his flat, Mark Errol told Mike what had happened, and commiserated with his cousin because he would be off duty for a while. Mike’s wife seemed delighted.
Not one of the agents of Department Z spoke of the agent who had been shot and had fallen off the roof. Afterwards, he had been picked up dead.
None of them had any doubt about the gravity of the situation.
At midnight exactly, they were called out. So were a dozen other agents. They began the search for people with whom Kolsti had associated. The police had picked up some information. Kolsti had rented a room in a Bloomsbury boarding house, and had taken all his meals in a nearby café. He was a naturalised Englishman, who had come from Poland as a boy. He had few friends but many acquaintances. Throughout the night these acquaintances were awakened and questioned, but none gave any information.
There must be accomplices, George had reasoned as he made his way home on the bitterly cold night. The man could not have guessed when Virnov would arrive; someone had told him.
Sighing, George pulled back the curtains at his bedroom window, let in the grey light of dawn, and crept into the snug warmth of the double bed; Polly just stirred.
• • • • •
At ten o’clock next morning, Loftus was admitted into a small room at Cannon Row Police Station by a sergeant who seemed to enjoy jingling his keys. With Loftus was a big, fleshy man with a pale face and pale hair, a man who looked as if he had been working in a flour mill. He wore a light grey suit, which helped the illusion. At first sight his full face, heavy jowl and half-closed eyes suggested dullness. This was Superintendent Miller, liaison officer between Scotland Yard and Department Z. Loftus had never known him make a false move.
Kolsti was sitting in a small armchair.
The room had a barred door but was otherwise unlike a cell. It was plainly furnished, with a single bed, a chair, and a hand-basin. The bed was made. Kolsti was unshaven. His eyes were bloodshot, but still sparked. His dark hair was cut very short, although it had not been clipped at Cannon Row. His long, thin face with the pointed chin and high-bridged nose was sensitive.
He stood up, looking small against Loftus and Miller.
‘Good morning,’ said Loftus.
Kolsti did not speak or move.
‘We’ve been very patient with you so far, Kolsti,’ Loftus said. ‘We won’t be if you don’t talk.’ He had a newspaper tucked under his arm, and he unfolded this slowly, so deliberately that Kolsti stared at it.
Loftus went on talking.
‘I’m not a policeman, and I mean to make you talk. You will get hurt. A lot.’ He continued to unfold the paper, and then turned it, so that Kolsti could read the banner headline.
VIRNOV’S CALL FOR WORLD DISARMAMENT.
Kolsti’s lips opened. He dropped into his chair, looking as if he had been struck a crushing physical blow, as if this were a horror which he had not conceived possible.
Loftus began to read:
‘M. Virnov, Soviet Deputy Commissar for Foreign Affairs, made an impassioned appeal for disarmament to the delegates at Uno in the Great Hall yesterday afternoon. Arriving by air from Russia, the Deputy Commissar drove straight to the hall and his personal appearance was the signal for a great demonstration. In the course of his speech...’
Kolsti snatched the paper away, screwed it up and flung it into a corner. He was gasping for breath, his hands were working, he could not keep still.
‘It is not true, it is a lie, a lie, a lie!’
‘You did not shoot Virnov,’ Loftus remarked casually.
‘With my own eyes I saw him, I saw him fall!’
‘You didn’t see Virnov,’ Loftus said. ‘We knew that the attack was going to be made. Virnov had been in the country for twenty-four hours. He was told of what was going to happen, and allowed another man to take his place.’
‘You are—lying to me!’
‘We aren’t fools, Kolsti. We know what is going on, we know what plans are being made. You shot at a man who was not Virnov, and you didn’t murder even him. A few years in prison for your part in the plot, that’s the most you have to fear. That is, if you talk.’
Kolsti stood up, turned slowly away from him, went to the corner and picked up the newspaper. His hands were trembling as he smoothed it out. Loftus let him finish reading, watching closely.
Kolsti dropped the paper.
‘We know where your Paris headquarters are,’ Loftus went on. He saw Kolsti’s eyes narrow in alarm; the man was now fighting to regain his composure. ‘We shall soon know where the London headquarters are. But you can help us to find them more quickly, and to save lives. That’s all you can do.’
‘No one can find them!’ Kolsti cried.
He stopped, abruptly. Perhaps he realised what he had done; perhaps the narrowing of Loftus’s eyes had warned him that he had admitted that there were accomplices. His lips tightened. He clutched at a chair. He did not say another word.
Loftus tried blandishments, then harshness, followed by threats, but nothing had any effect on the prisoner. At the end of an hour Loftus himself was feeling limp and Kolsti seemed to have shrunk.
Loftus turned to Miller.
‘I’ll take him where I can rough him up,’ he said.
Kolsti did not flinch; he seemed not to have heard the threat. He followed Loftus, and Miller brought up the rear. He stepped into the courtyard of the police station, and stared blankly towards the snow-decked edifice of Scotland Yard. Policemen on duty at the gates regarded the three men curiously. Mark Errol and George were in sight, and there were others of the Department, some on the Embankment and some in Whitehall, most of them hidden but watching closely.
The snow had stopped. Great piles were at the kerbs, only the centre of the road was clear. The pavement was slippery and dangerous, and Loftus walked with great care towards Whitehall. Kolsti did not look right or left, and certainly did not look like a man who would seize any chance of escape. He walked dully, apparently unaware of Loftus’s light grip on his arm.
Traffic was moving along Whitehall, all the cars with chains. Buses lumbered by, crunching through the snow when they drew near to the pavement.
Suddenly Kolsti tugged his arm away from Loftus, sprang to the top of a mound of snow, and ran. He ran neither right nor left along the road but into the road.
A bus was coming; the driver could not stop in time.
4
Delaying Action?
Craigie looked through report after report, all from the agents who had been at work during the night, talking to Kolsti’s acquaintances. Nothing offered any help. He passed them over to Loftus to check.
The big man sat at his desk, smoking a pipe, seldom looking up. He was still suffering from the shock of Kolsti’s suicide. He realised now that he should have been prepared for the move, but he had been so intent on following up an escape that the simple solution to Kolsti’s troubles had not occurred to him.
He finished his check, and straightened up.
‘I can’t see a thing. Are all the reports in yet?’
‘Tim Kemble telephoned at half-past six, and said he thought he had spotted a hare, and would chase it. He’s to come through by three o’clock, whether he’s found anything or not.’
‘Tim’s rather fond of hares,’ Loftus reflected.
‘We trained him to look for them,’ Craigie said, drily. ‘What’s the latest from the Uno session?’
‘They’re like doves in a dovecote.’
‘Which makes it more than every necessary to keep the spanners out of the works.’
‘What’s the reaction from Number 10?’ asked Loftus.
‘Hadley doesn’t let himself go so freely as Hershal
l did,’ said Craigie. ‘I haven’t heard from him since he telephoned to tell us to go ahead. With one thing and another, he’s got his hands full.’
Loftus said: ‘I have wondered whether he’s as keen about us as Hershall was. There was that touch of buccaneer about Hershall which made us appeal to him, but...’
‘I shouldn’t worry. Hadley’s was the final word on whether we should close down or not, and we’re still open. I...’ Craigie broke off, for a telephone bell rang. As he stretched out his hand to lift a receiver, a pink light glowed in one of the many instruments. ‘Talk of the Prime Minister!’ he said, ‘and here he is.’
‘I should like to come and see you, Craigie,’ Hadley said. ‘Can you spare me half an hour?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘Then I will come over at once,’ said Hadley.
Craigie put down the receiver.
‘Hershall would have crashed in, Hadley wonders if I can spare him half an hour! That sums up the difference between them. I wonder if he remembers how to get in? He’s only been here once before.’
‘I’ll go down,’ offered Loftus.
He let himself out by pressing the control button. As he went downstairs, the door closing silently behind him, an icy blast from the street swept up. At the street he paused and looked towards the left. Downing Street was just out of sight, but he could see a man crossing the road from that direction; a short, rather slender man. Behind him were two Special Branch officers. The Prime Minister had on a big overcoat, and walked firmly.
Loftus went to greet him, and he gave a further grave smile.
‘Hallo, Loftus. Nice to see you again.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And I have to thank you for the way yesterday’s nasty affair was handled,’ said Hadley. He had never taken long to get to the point. ‘You took a load off a lot of shoulders.’ And put another on when I let Kolsti kill himself, thought Loftus. Hadley led the way up the stairs, and the detectives waited outside. On the landing, he ran his hand over the rail; so he remembered.
Craigie came forward to welcome him.
‘I’ll take your coat,’ said Loftus.
‘Thanks.’ Hadley shrugged himself out of the coat, and warmed his hands in front of the fire. ‘I’d like to know how the situation is developing. I’ve heard of Kolsti’s suicide, of course.’
He sat down rather stiffly at first, accepted a cigarette and settled back. Craigie told him exactly what had happened, what steps they were taking, what casualties they had met, and how slender were their hopes. He reported on the suspect seven delegations, and the possibility of trouble from any one of them.
‘We are all worried about that,’ Hadley said. ‘There are several unknown delegates, all newly appointed. The other Shovian delegates with Pirani are new, as you probably know. There are real possibilities of treachery.’
‘What made you mention Shovia?’ asked Craigie.
‘Pirani has been acting rather strangely,’ Hadley said. ‘He is hardly the same man who came to the earlier session. He’s lost much of his fire, contributes little to the debates and keeps himself to himself.’ Hadley broke off.
Craigie told him of George’s suspicion that Pirani might not be genuine. Hadley nodded, and was silent for a few minutes. He was continually twisting a plain gold ring round his little finger, as if he found some solace from it.
‘The chief danger comes, perhaps, from the possibility of underrating it, I suppose. There are difficulties enough with Uno without such an attempt as this to spread discord. Had Virnov been hurt, there would have been very grave repercussions.’ He went on deliberately: ‘Not only in Moscow, where they would have been outraged had we allowed it to happen. But the assassination itself would have caused less trouble than the suspicion that it was an attempt to prevent any agreement on disarmament—in fact to undo the good done by Mr. Kennedy, and since his death. There are undercurrents of suspicions and of racial enmity, all much nearer the surface than they have been for years. The Conference is not single-minded. General conditions are partly responsible, but is that why delegations from some of the newly independent nations are being difficult on matters of procedure? The impression I have...’ he paused again, as if to consider his words carefully, then continued with equal deliberation—’is that an attempt is being made to delay progress. The Conference is due to last for another week, but it is already a day behind on the agenda. Any sensational interference might make Russia and possibly other nations walk out. Nothing would be worse. You see that, of course.’
‘Only too well,’ said Craigie.
‘Have you any indications that there is any attempt to slow down the debates?’ asked Hadley.
‘Not yet,’ said Craigie. ‘We’ve told you everything we know. I’ve a man following a trail which led from Kolsti. He should telephone me during the next quarter of an hour.’
‘I’ll wait,’ said Hadley.
The interruption came not from the telephone but from the door. A green light showed in the mantelpiece, and Craigie leaned forward and pressed a button. Outside the Department only Miller, Hadley and half a dozen other trusted men knew how to switch on that green light.
George George came bustling in.
‘Hallo, hallo!’ he said, and glanced at Hadley’s head, the top of which appeared just above an armchair. He waved a newspaper and cried: ‘I spy “strangers”. New recruit? I don’t recognise that particular bald patch.’
Loftus waved at him, but George Henry George preferred not to take heed.
‘Whoever it is, this will startle him.’ He waved the newspaper again; it was an Evening Cry. ‘Shades of the censor and the M.O.I.! The whole story!’ He walked round the chair, stretched out his hand and took from Hadley’s ear a cigarette. ‘Cigarette?’ he asked, blandly—and then recognised the visitor.
He stood stock still, and gulped, twice. Slowly, he lowered the cigarette. Next he shot a glance of infinite reproach at Loftus and Craigie.
‘That,’ he declared, ‘was my foot, going right in. I’m sorry, sir.’
Hadley smiled, and stretched up for the cigarette.
‘Where do you get the light from?’ he asked.
‘I produce that in the conventional fashion,’ said George. He took out a lighter. ‘Kind friends are always warning me that I’ll make a fool of myself one day. The truth is, I’m excited. There is the headline story for one thing, and a five-line par which worked on my risible faculties for another. Have you seen the Cry, sir?’
‘No.’
‘Steel yourself for a shock,’ warned George, who was never in low spirits for long.
Craigie handed Hadley the paper, and he and Loftus read it over the Prime Minister’s shoulder. George had warned them what to expect, but seeing it in black and white reduced them to silence. There was a great headline across the page: ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF M. VIRNOV. There followed a garbled story, close enough to the truth to hurt. Obviously much of it had been supplied by an eye-witness. Then the editor had let himself go.
‘What will they think in Moscow if such a vile attempt to kill one of the most influential delegates is hushed up? Is secrecy not an inducement to further fears, suspicions and distrust? Is the evil of censorship to fall upon us again? For the sake of future relations with the U.S.S.R. we demand the full story from Whitehall.’
When they had finished reading, George said brightly:
‘Not a bad bit of purple, that. After all, why shouldn’t the Cry demand this and that? I’m more pepped up by the five-line paragraph. Same page, fourth column, just beneath the cartoon about the plumber’s mate.’ He pointed, and Hadley read aloud that Senor Pirani, the chief delegate from Shovia, was shortly to hold a reception at the Shovian Embassy, where two famous members of the Massino family of illusionists would perform; for S. Pirani, it said, had a fondness for magic.
Hadley looked puzzled.
‘I don’t see the significance of that.’
George leaned forward, and
produced a half-crown from Hadley’s knee. ‘I’m not exactly a blood brother of the Massinos but I do hold my certificates of competence and all that kind of thing. Performed before Royalty, Dukes and Duchesses and—oh, confound it!’ he added, in self-disgust, ‘why can’t I keep quiet?’
Loftus said thoughtfully: ‘You could take the place of one of the Massinos. Is that the idea?’
‘Bang on the nose. Get a proper close up. See the Senor when His Excellency is all tuckered up and waiting to be awestruck. I could even have a hearty tug at his beard.’
Craigie looked at Hadley. ‘Have you any objection, sir?’
‘I have no objection of any kind to anything you think might help.’
‘Shall we forget about your sleight of hand for a moment.’ There was a note in Craigie’s voice which surprised the others. He tapped the headline. ‘This is much more important than anything else. Who gave the Cry that story? Who embroidered it with eye-witness accounts? It’s obviously possible that this is part of the attempt to split Uno right down the middle. Not a word was said to the Press, all the police on duty were worn to secrecy, yet...’
Loftus was already on his feet.
‘Come on, George,’ he said. ‘We’re going to see an Editor.’
When they had gone, the office was quiet for a few minutes, and Hadley seemed content to sit there, his eyes half-closed against the heat of the fire.
Craigie could imagine his thoughts; fear that the cold war, which had so nearly thawed, could become as bad as ever. If it did then there could be disaster for a dozen countries, and the awful threat of a nuclear war would be much nearer.
The telephone rang.
Hadley looked towards it, and got up. ‘I must go.’ He watched Craigie walk towards the desk and pick up a telephone with a white disc glowing. The call was local, not on any special line.
A man with a deep, pleasant voice said:
‘Is that Craigie? This is E L B M...’
‘Carry on, Kemble,’ said Craigie.
