The League of Dark Men

by John Creasey

The maid dropped the sheets and pillow cases back on to the bed, and went along the passage, muttering. Loftus sent the policeman for the manager, and looked about. It was easy to understand what had happened. He hardly needed to look at the window immediately below the balcony, and to see the traces of melted snow on polished boards and carpet, to know what ‘miracle’ had transported Clarissa Kaye out of her room. She had climbed to the balcony, swung over the edge and then entered this room by the window.

  He put his stick against the wall and, with some difficulty, got down on his knees. He examined the melted snow closely. There were several little pools, some of them larger than others.

  Had the girl come alone? Or had she been forced to climb down?

  In the blizzard, and the snowstorm amounted to one, it was easy to understand why she had not been seen from the main road further along. This narrow by-street led to nowhere in particular; it would have been sheer chance had anyone happened to be passing when she had climbed out.

  The manager came in, a pompous individual whom Loftus immediately recognised from Tim’s description as the man who had let his captive get away.

  ‘What is the matter?’ demanded the manager, querulously. ‘I cannot be continuously at the beck and call of the police.’ When Loftus did not immediately answer, he went on: ‘Surely there has been enough disturbance here this afternoon.’

  ‘I’ve had plenty,’ said Loftus, ‘and I’m not making it. I’d like full particulars of the people who were staying in this suite, please, and their forwarding address.’

  ‘But I haven’t one,’ said the manager. ‘They didn’t leave one. They did not intimate that they were leaving until half an hour before they left. But you won’t have difficulty in finding them, if you want them,’ he went on, ‘or you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Loftus.

  ‘Sir Hugh Marchant should know where his son is,’ said the manager, huffily.

  8

  Sir Hugh Marchant

  Marchant’s photograph, though widely publicised, did not do the man justice. He was impressively handsome as he stood behind a large, flat-topped pedestal desk, a work of art in walnut. The corner room in his City building was spacious, furnished in excellent taste with unostentatious luxury. The walnut panelled walls shone; there were no pictures. The deep pile of the carpet gave under Loftus’s feet as he went to a chair which Marchant indicated, and sat down. Standing by another chair was Bruce Hammond.

  Marchant sat down behind the desk.

  Concealed lighting made the room bright, but through the wide windows could be seen the darkness of the streets outside, a darkness still filled with the murmuring snow. Marchant’s chair creaked a little as he sat down, making the only sound in the room. He looked from Loftus to Hammond with a somewhat puzzled smile, and said:

  ‘Do I understand that you gentlemen know each other?’

  Loftus smiled. ‘Same department,’ he said.

  ‘The Special Branch?’ Marchant straightened a silver pen in a silver holder. ‘I understood that your business was urgent, Mr. Loftus, but I did not realise that it was connected with Parmitter’s death.’

  Loftus had come straight from the Haymart Hotel, entered the great modern building which housed the London offices of Super-Steel, been guided through palatial ground floor halls to a secretary of secretaries, and had sent in his name. He had been kept waiting only for ten minutes, and had been surprised to see Hammond still in Marchant’s office.

  Watching the finely carved features and the steady grey eyes, Loftus wondered if his imagination were playing him tricks. It might be that the calm, mellow manner of the steel magnate was deceptive.

  He said: ‘It is urgent, I assure you. I have just come from the Haymart...’

  ‘The Inspector has been telling me about the occurrence.’ Again Loftus was impressed by Marchant’s casual air. Parmitter did not seem to matter, in fact Marchant spoke of his death with some distaste, certainly not with sorrow or horror. ‘I understand that Parmitter was in the company of M. Nassi, the San Patino delegate to the United Nations Conference.’ The distaste became even more marked. ‘I think perhaps I had better tell you what I have already told your colleague. Parmitter was about to leave my organisation. His methods and his activities have not been satisfactory, and I have reason to believe that he has been acting for another Corporation, either English or foreign. May I add further,’ went on Marchant grimly, ‘that I had twice warned Parmitter that unless I had his undivided loyalty he would have to leave us.’

  Hammond looked at Loftus with an eyebrow raised, and Loftus’s first feeling was one of disappointment.

  ‘You have no idea which other Corporation?’

  ‘None at all. I can tell you that if he did business with the San Patino Government, it was not for Super-Steel. At one time San Patino did buy a certain amount of heavy armament from us, but we have ruthlessly cut out all such sales, from our British as well as our European and South American plants.’

  Loftus nodded, slowly.

  Marchant paused, and when neither of the others spoke, he raised his hands.

  ‘Don’t hesitate to call on me if there is any other help I can give you. Parmitter’s office records are entirely at your disposal.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Loftus, but did not get up. ‘There are one or two other things, sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did you know Miss Clarissa Kaye, Parmitter’s secretary?’

  He put the question out as a feeler, expecting to see Marchant shake his head: his bombshell was intended to burst later. But he was amazed at the astonishing change in Marchant’s expression. The pleasant, half-smiling face suddenly clouded, the eyes narrowed and seemed to darken. Marchant’s hands, a moment before resting lightly on the table, tightened with tension. Now Loftus could see something of the real strength of the man; and he wondered what was going on behind those narrowed eyes.

  Marchant demanded sharply: ‘What is that? His secretary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I cannot believe...’ began Marchant, and then broke off to add abruptly: ‘Be good enough to describe her to me, please.’

  ‘I haven’t seen her,’ Loftus replied, glancing at Hammond.

  ‘Tall, fair, rather thin, with a remarkably good complexion and most attractive eyes,’ Hammond said. ‘About twenty-seven. A pleasant, rather husky voice. Does that help?’

  Loftus was watching Marchant’s face closely. There was now little change of expression except, perhaps, a slight tightening of the lips.

  ‘Did you say that she was Parmitter’s secretary, Mr. Loftus?’

  ‘She gave us to understand that.’

  ‘I think I also see why you came here so hurriedly,’ declared Marchant. ‘Miss Kaye is, of course, my niece. You had some reason to suspect that she was related to me, I have no doubt. I have not seen her for some months. She did not take kindly to my attitude towards her recent behaviour. Please don’t misunderstand me. She resented the discipline that a member of my family found it necessary to accept. But I had no idea at all that she had gone to Parmitter. I did understand that she had accepted a commercial post.’

  ‘Exactly when did she leave your house?’

  ‘It was at the end of August. We were at St. Ives. I needed a rest after a strenuous winter and spring.’

  ‘Did you quarrel with her?’ asked Loftus.

  ‘We differed,’ Marchant said. ‘If you mean, did we brawl or shout at each other—no, Inspector. Why are you asking these questions? My niece is not hurt, is she?’

  ‘She has disappeared, Sir Hugh, and we want to question her in connection with the murder.’

  After a long pause, Marchant demanded:

  ‘Is she suspected of complicity?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to commit myself,’ said Loftus. He was glad that Hammond had not gone into much detail about Parmitter’s murder. He wanted to judge the effect of each disclosure on Marchant, who sat watching him, his manner watchful and
wary. It was difficult to guess what he was thinking, but Loftus had an impression that talk of Clarissa had hurt him.

  ‘That is not very reassuring,’ said Marchant.

  ‘Nothing in this affair is reassuring,’ Loftus said. ‘The facts are these: she was in the outer room of the suite at the Haymart Hotel when the attack took place. The assassin entered the room and apparently first thrust her aside, knocking her unconscious, and then fired at Parmitter. Before Parmitter was shot, a single shot was fired—possibly at your niece, but also possibly to give the impression that she too was in danger. She appears to have had the opportunity to warn Parmitter that there was danger. Was she in need of money?’ he added, abruptly.

  ‘She was not. I made her an ample allowance.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Loftus. ‘After the murder, she went to her room to rest. No one else was in the suite. Parmitter’s body had been removed, there was no danger, because a policeman was on duty outside the passage door. He had instructions to stop anyone from entering or from coming out. Presumably Miss Kaye was aware of that. She chose to leave by the window, climbed on to a balcony to the floor below and went into a room there.’

  Marchant kept a poker face.

  ‘The rooms below Parmitter’s suite were occupied at the time of her disappearance from the upper floor,’ went on Loftus, ‘but the occupants left hurriedly, and, presumably, Miss Kaye went with them. The occupants did not leave a forwarding address.’

  He paused again, and Marchant said:

  ‘I shall regard it as a matter of first importance that she is found, Inspector. I refuse to believe that there is any possibility of her having been a party to murder.’

  Loftus said gently: ‘But she might be to lesser crimes, Sir Hugh?’

  Marchant snapped: ‘Don’t put words into my mouth.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Loftus said. ‘But I hope you will be wholly frank with us, because this murder is concerned with another—had you told Sir Hugh so, Bruce?’

  ‘No,’ said Hammond.

  ‘What crime?’ demanded Marchant.

  ‘The attempt on Virnov,’ murmured Loftus.

  Marchant pushed his chair back abruptly, and stood up. He walked to one of the wide windows and stood looking out into the darkness, which was broken only as the light from the room shone on the falling snow. He looked round at Loftus, standing with his hands behind him, and there was now no doubt of the pain in his eyes. Was there also fear?

  ‘Why are you not frank with me, Inspector? Is it necessary to approach this matter in such a roundabout fashion?’ Loftus was taken aback by that, expecting Marchant to tell him that he knew his son had been at the Haymart. But Merchant’s next words startled him far more. ‘Why don’t you admit that you know my niece is violently anti-Soviet? Her dislike of Russia as it is amounts almost to mania. Her father was killed in Korea in 1950.’

  ‘I see,’ said Loftus. ‘I didn’t know.’

  Marchant raised a hand. ‘I thought you were playing with me, Inspector. However, you would have found that out soon enough. That was largely why...’ he broke off, then stepped to his desk, picked up a cigarette and lit it; he did not think to offer the box to the others. ‘I objected to Clarissa’s activities because they were closely allied to a small but active and virulent group of politicians who are Fascists in everything but name. I thought—and I still think—that she was misguided, but she preferred to keep their company rather than my family’s. The rupture was inevitable.’ He drew on the cigarette, took it from his lips and contemplated the glowing tip. Then he added quietly: ‘You see, Inspector, I am being wholly frank.’

  ‘And we appreciate it,’ said Loftus.

  ‘And I want to help you find my niece,’ Marchant went on. ‘My secretary knows as much about her and her friends as I do. I will give him instructions to tell you everything he can. Will that be satisfactory?’

  ‘Very, thanks.’

  Marchant stretched out a hand to press a bell.

  ‘Just a moment,’ urged Loftus, and Marchant withdrew his hand. ‘Were any other members of your family sympathetic towards your niece’s activities?’

  ‘They were not.’

  ‘Your son...’

  ‘My son first brought my niece’s activities to my notice,’ Marchant said, looking at Loftus intently. ‘I cannot catch the drift of these remarks.’

  ‘You see, there are indications that Miss Kaye did not leave her suite of her own free will,’ Loftus said. ‘She was forced out, made to go downstairs and then to leave the hotel. The suite below, if I am to believe the manager, was at the time occupied by your son.’

  ‘My son?’

  ‘I checked the information and we saw the registration book at the hotel. It was signed by Lionel H. Marchant.’ Loftus took a buff-coloured slip of paper from his pocket and, getting up with an effort, handed it to Marchant. ‘He also signed that room service chit. Is it your son’s signature?’

  Marchant stared down. His lips were pressed tightly together but his jaws were working, as if he were clamping his teeth. The silence lasted for a long time, and the tension was almost unbearable. Loftus and Hammond exchanged meaning glances, then looked watchfully at the steel magnate.

  ‘Yes. I find it—incredible!’ Marchant exclaimed. ‘Quite incredible, Inspector. I had no idea that my son was in London, I thought he was still in Colston, with his wife.’

  ‘His wife was with him at the Haymart,’ said Loftus. ‘They had been there for three days.’

  ‘It is most unlike my son to move without telling me.’ He went over to a loudspeaker unit box and pressed down a switch. ‘Hallo—Carfax, when did you last hear from Lionel?’

  The answer came promptly in a quiet, modulated voice: ‘Last Friday, sir.’

  ‘Was he at Colston?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say that he was about to leave?’

  The disembodied voice was tinged with surprise.

  ‘He gave me no indication of that, Sir Hugh.’

  ‘All right.’ Marchant switched the instrument off. He looked at Loftus, and spread his hands out. ‘I cannot help you, Inspector. I shall, of course, make immediate inquiries, and find out when my son left Colston...’

  ‘Where is this Colston?’ asked Loftus.

  ‘It is my Berkshire house, near Reading. It is just possible that my son discovered that Clarissa was in some kind of difficulty, and was quixotic enough to help her, although that does not explain...’ he broke off. ‘But guessing will not help you or me, Mr. Loftus. I would like to say, briefly, that I shall afford you every possible assistance. I am as eager as I am sure you are to find out the truth about these rather mystifying movements of members of my family.’

  ‘Thank you,’ murmured Loftus.

  Marchant switched on the talking-box again. ‘Carfax—I am sending two gentlemen from Scotland Yard in to see you. I want you to afford them every assistance. They will want personal information about Clarissa and Lionel. Keep nothing back.’

  ‘Right,’ said Carfax.

  ‘And see that they get some refreshment,’ Marchant said. He switched off, then stepped to Loftus with his hand out-stretched. ‘If you need to see me personally again, just tell Carfax. I wish you every success in your investigations. I shall be happy when I know the explanation and can be sure that none of my family has become involved in the scandal. Just one request.’ He said that to Hammond as he shook hands.

  ‘Yes?’ said Hammond.

  ‘If you can, please keep this out of the Press.’

  ‘I will certainly try,’ Hammond promised.

  Loftus said quickly: ‘I think we should warn you, Sir Hugh, that the attack on Virnov was kept from the Press as far as we were concerned, yet the story was published.’

  ‘I can only hope that there won’t be another leakage of information,’ said Marchant. ‘I should not like to think that my niece’s name was associated in any way with those reactionaries, who might become violent. You will give them clos
e attention, I have no doubt. As Carfax will tell you, the most persistent and probably the most dangerous of them is Gregory Wilkinson. Have you heard of him?’

  Loftus nodded, and thought of the leakage over Oslam House.

  Marchant took them to the door.

  Carfax proved to be an elderly, healthy-looking man, with greying hair and a curiously youthful complexion. He was all courtesy and helpfulness. Throughout the next hour, fortified by sandwiches, and beer, Loftus and Hammond took in everything he said, and formed a picture in which Gregory Wilkinson loomed large.

  Loftus found it difficult to think of anyone else.

  • • • • •

  By seven o’clock that night, a close watch was being kept on Hatch End, the Wimbledon home of this man who had suddenly loomed large in the mystery of Uno. Every available man of Department Z, except for George Henry George and Mark Errol, who were wanted for other work later in the night, were at Wimbledon. The house was completely surrounded and, because it stood in its own large grounds, was easily isolated. Miller’s Special Branch men were also there, held in reserve.

  Later in the evening, Hammond was to go to see Wilkinson, who was known to be in the house with his family and with three friends, all of them closely connected with the small but possibly dangerous organisation which Wilkinson led. No one had taken Wilkinson seriously until now.

  In Whitehall, Craigie, Loftus and Hammond sat at the desks going over all that they had learned from Carfax and Marchant. Seldom had Scotland Yard and the Department worked with such speed and produced so many items of information so quickly. The history of Clarissa Kaye, of Lionel Marchant and of Wilkinson was now spread out in documents on the desk, and Craigie had summarised them, finding where their lives intersected.

  Clarissa had met Wilkinson two years earlier, when Wilkinson had returned, badly wounded, from Brunei. His army record was irreproachable, and he had been decorated after an expedition into the Borneo jungle following the early troubles there. His sudden and vitriolic outburst, condemning China and Soviet Russia and all who were in any way sympathetic towards the countries or the regime, had startled a great many people.