by John Creasey
Wilkinson edited a magazine which had a tiny circulation, in which the articles were mostly violent diatribes against the Soviet. Frequently there had been demands that it should be suppressed, but the House of Commons, still able watch-dog of personal liberties, had declared with justification that the articles reflected the opinions of only a few men and women. Wilkinson was a married man, with two young children—both, at the time of the attack on Virnov, were at school. Violet Wilkinson had been on the stage, had travelled widely, had a good reputation and was known to be a lovely woman. Both Wilkinson and his wife were wealthy, and so could afford the costs of their extravagant and perhaps under-rated propaganda. The woman, it was clear, shared all her husband’s views.
Their organisation, which had less than fifty members as far as the police knew, and the police had watched it from the first, was called Warning. The magazine was called a News-Letter, and had a circulation of less than a thousand.
Clarissa had first met Violet Wilkinson when she had served overseas on work for Oxfam. According to Carfax, she had held strongly anti-Russian views before that, although she had seldom voiced them. The influence of the Wilkinsons had brought them into the open.
As far as was known, Lionel Marchant had never expressed anti-Russian sentiments, was undoubtedly well-disposed towards the Soviet, and was not connected with the Super-Steel Corporation or with any other business. He managed his father’s private affairs, including the large estate at Colston in Berkshire.
The names of the three men who were with the Wilkinsons at the Wimbledon house were known.
James Mendicott, like Wilkinson, had lived in the Far East. He had not been associated with any political organisation until recently. He was a middle-aged writer of obscure poems and more obscure short stories, and had the reputation of being a dilettante. Whether he believed in his diatribes against Russia or whether he indulged in them to satisfy a complex combination of aesthetic sensationalism and a superb command of words, no one knew.
Herbert Ferguson was a younger man, slightly crippled from birth, who also had a gift of vituperative language; he was a cousin of Gregory Wilkinson.
William James Abbott was the only one even remotely connected with post-war Fascism, but little was known about him. Unlike the others, he did not come from a ‘good’ family. He was self-educated and had for some time worked in a car factory. How he had met the others was not known. He was the best-looking of all the men at the house; and, if Carfax had told them the truth, Clarissa had always been attracted by him. Carfax, in fact, believed that Clarissa had joined Warning because of him.
From the descriptions, it seemed that both Abbott and Ferguson had been with Parmitter at the hotel.
Loftus finished reading the final report, and put it aside.
‘That seems to be that,’ he said. ‘Up to you now, Bruce.‘
‘I suppose so. I wonder if Clarissa’s at the house?’
Craigie shrugged his shoulders. ‘We do know that a car arrived at the house this afternoon, and that three people went inside, but that’s all,’ he said. ‘If a postman hadn’t been coming away at the time, we wouldn’t know that. It’s too slender a chance to build on, but we may have struck lucky.’
‘We certainly need some luck,’ Loftus said. ‘I wish I were going with you.’
‘I’ll probably have to send for you,’ said Hammond, cheerfully. ‘There’s nothing else to arrange. I’ll tackle Wilkinson first, and if I’ve any trouble, I’ll call the others in. The police won’t move unless they get a summons, or anyone tries to get away.’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Craigie. ‘If it’s at all possible, keep the police out of it. The first raid will be entirely off our own bat...’
‘No connection with any other firm of thugs and strong-arm merchants,’ murmured Loftus. ‘Luck, Bruce!’
Hammond went out into the dark streets. The snow had stopped, but the roads were nearly impassable, although an army of workmen was engaged in clearing them. There was a lane down the middle of all main roads, with occasional wider patches where cars could pass one another. Just round the corner in Whitehall, a powerful car was waiting for him, and at the wheel sat Tim Kemble. The car started off slowly, its chains clanking in the roadway.
When they had reached Putney and were going slowly up the hill, sometimes afraid that even the chained wheels would not hold, Hammond told Tim that he thought Clarissa might be at Wilkinson’s house.
9
Party
Bright lights shone from the front windows of Hatch End. As Hammond walked up the drive, forcing his way through the snow, glad of the rubber knee boots which he had pulled on in the car, he heard the strains of radio music and saw the shadows of two or three people against the thin blinds. The music grew louder as he drew nearer. For the first time he began to wonder whether it would be a fruitless errand.
He heard an outburst of laughter, and looked up at one window. It was open a few inches at the top, in spite of the cold. There was no wind; and above him the stars were shining like little points of burnished metal.
He climbed four or five steps to reach the porch. There were no signs that anyone had approached the house since the snow had stopped, and no attempt had been made to clear a path.
As he rang the bell, he heard another outburst of laughter.
Footsteps sounded immediately. Hammond cast one glance behind him, into a darkness brightened by the pale glow cast by the snow where the lights from the windows struck it. Just out of sight, near the top-heavy snow-capped hedge which bordered the grounds, some of the Department Z men were standing. There were fifteen of them, all inside the grounds. As many of Miller’s men had flung a wider cordon. Two or three police cars and a small motor-coach were at the end of the road, for none of them had been able to come as far as the gateway of Hatch End.
A maid opened the door.
‘Good evening.’ She was a slight, young, rather pretty girl.
‘Good evening,’ said Hammond. ‘Is Mr. Wilkinson at home?’
‘I think so. Will you come in?’ She stood aside to let him pass into the warm hall, and then went to a door on the right. At the door, she stopped. ‘Oh, I forgot,’ she said. ‘What name is it?’
‘Hammond,’ said Hammond.
‘Ta,’ said she, laconically, and tapped on the door and went in. The crude harshness of a bad blues band came from the room, and there was a chatter of conversation. It was quite a party, obviously. Hammond was surprised because, as far as they knew for certain, only the Wilkinsons and their three friends were here. It was just possible that Clarissa and Lionel Marchant were taking part in these revelries.
The hall was large. An open fire burned in a brick fireplace. Heavy paintings hung on the walls, and between them were bright, colourful pictures of the Picasso school. The furniture was equally mixed, some old, one or two rococo Victorian pieces, a few ultra-modern. The carpets and the rugs were fine Persian. It was clearly the home of wealthy people, and yet it was not quite what Hammond had expected. The wide staircase led from the left of the hall, carpeted from wall to banisters. Upstairs, the landing was in darkness, and the lighting in the hall itself was subdued.
Someone shouted: ‘Close that damn’ door!’
The maid closed the door. The music continued, someone laughed on a high-pitched note. Hammond wondered how long it would be before the maid returned, and whether Wilkinson would recognise his name.
The door remained closed for a surprisingly long time.
Hammond glanced towards the landing.
Someone was standing there and watching him. The hall light was bright enough to cast a man’s shadow on the wall behind him. It was a tall, thin shadow, but it did not indicate the stature of the man who was hidden. Hammond would not have known he was there but for the shadow itself; and after he had stared towards it for a long time, he wondered whether he was being deceived by the shadow of a vase or a piece of furniture; for the shadow did not move. Yet he had that nerv
y, edgy feeling of being watched.
The door opened, and the maid came tripping towards him, on absurdly high heels. Her black skirt scarcely reached her knees.
‘Will you please come in, sir,’ she asked, and led him to the room.
He had expected Wilkinson to come out to him.
Through a haze of smoke he saw half-a-dozen people, more men than women.
The table was littered with crackers, festoons, paper hats, and other gay trifles. A buffet meal was spread out, and wine and spirit bottles were dotted everywhere, as if to save anyone the trouble of walking across the room for a drink.
Two people were jogging about in a corner space near the radio. A man was sitting in an easy chair, with one bandaged foot up on another, and Hammond recognised the lank hair and pale, sallow face of Gregory Wilkinson. A lock of hair fell over his eyes, as if he were trying to emulate the fashion of the ‘leader’. His wife Violet was talking animatedly to the lame Ferguson, and it was the sight of Ferguson which gave Hammond his first jolt, for the man’s head was cropped until he looked almost bald. Had he been dark instead of fair, his resemblance to Kolsti would have been remarkable.
Mendicott, a bulky man, rather below medium height, was pouring out drinks. He looked a little unsteady as he finished and, while the maid led Hammond across the room, he handed him a glass.
‘Welcome, chaps! Drink up!’ He hiccuped and grinned. ‘Good stuff. Best Scottish private stills. Try it.’
Because he thought it might precipitate trouble if he refused, Hammond took the glass; it was whisky and water.
‘Thanks.’
‘Bring friends,’ chirruped Mendicott. ‘New recruits to the jolly old party. Anyone else outside?’
Hammond smiled and said: ‘No,’ but he wondered whether Mendicott knew the house was surrounded. The feeling of disquiet deepened. He looked into the man’s eyes, but Mendicott seemed quite innocent, and his eyes were rather bleary.
Wilkinson waved to a chair by his side.
‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come out to you. Knocked my leg this afternoon—the old trouble, you know.’ He had been wounded in the leg during the war, he explained, and it had not properly healed. His conversational tone was less surprising than the fact that he, as well as Mendicott, had greeted Hammond as if he were expected.
Wilkinson started to say: ‘Well, how...’ and then Mendicott lurched over him, with a glass in his hand. A little spilled on his trousers. ‘Clumsy ass,’ said Wilkinson, but he was not in any way put out.
‘S’good stuff,’ Mendicott assured him gravely. ‘Best of the best. I say! Hope the chappie isn’t a Robert. Shocking bad taste to hand a Robert unlicensed liquor, isn’t it?’ He peered, almost leered, at Hammond. ‘Feel in danger,’ he declared. ‘Funny thing about me, I can scent danger.’ He sniffed, exaggeratedly. ‘S’gone,’ he said, and, with another glass in his hand, he staggered towards the couple who were dancing. ‘Coming, waiter!’ he called, and then giggled. ‘Sorry. Mean coming sir. Hear that, Abby—calling you sir!’
‘Darling,’ said the girl with Abbott, a dark-haired, rather plump but good-looking girl, ‘couldn’t you be a teeny-weeny bit tiddly?’
‘What?’ roared Mendicott. ‘A teeny-weeny bit? Honey, I’m hopelessly drunk! Ask our new friend. He’s the only one sober. I asked him if he was Robert. What a look he gave me!’
Was his talk just drunken foolishness?
‘New friend?’ asked the girl, and looked towards Hammond.
Wilkinson touched Hammond’s knee.
‘I’m afraid that being forced to stay indoors has rather...’ he began, and then the dark girl thrust Mendicott away from her and moved across to Hammond and Wilkinson. She beamed at Hammond.
‘Why, look!’ she cried. ‘Isn’t he ducky? Do you dance nicely, ducky?’
‘Take a look,’ said Mendicott. ‘No man with a moustache like that could possibly dance. Hic! Sorry. No offensh, old chap,’ he burbled. ‘Most deshidedly no offensh—intended. Any taken?’
Hammond put his head on one side, and said, ‘Not much.’
Mendicott laughed on a high note.
‘S’good,’ he declared, happily. ‘Smart answer. Perhaps he can dance. Try him, Sue.’
‘Do!’ urged Sue, and held out her hands.
Hammond felt quite sure that this reception was deliberate. Wilkinson seemed to be looking at him with a mocking smile, and his handsome wife, still talking to Ferguson, was also watching him with some amusement. He no longer doubted that they had been prepared for the call, but it seemed unlikely that they knew who was outside.
‘I don’t think...’ he began.
‘Be civil, Sue,’ said Wilkinson mildly.
‘Me be civil, when he’s insulted me!’ said Sue. She turned glowing eyes on Hammond. ‘But you didn’t mean to be rude, did you?’ she demanded. ‘Drink up. Bottoms down!’ She finished off her own glass. Hammond, ready to believe that his had been doctored, sipped it slowly. ‘Oh, drink!’ she cried, and would have tipped the glass up as he held it to his lips had not Wilkinson caught her arm.
Hammond put his glass down, and stood up.
‘Will you dance?’ demanded Sue.
‘I’d love to,’ said Hammond. The band on the radio had burst into a frenzy. Hammond, suddenly determined to give as good as he got, seized Sue and swung her round. Wilkinson looked startled, so did his wife. Mendicott grinned foolishly, and the handsome Abbott squeezed himself between the radio and the wall, to give them more room.
The plump girl’s dress had a deep plunge line, and was tight-fitting; her hair was loose and, as Hammond whirled her round, it began to fall into her eyes, came loose at the back and fell almost to her waist. At first she seemed too startled to dance freely, but soon she began to match her step to his. Round and round they went in the tiny space, Hammond dancing as vigorously as he knew how. Sue flopped up and down, caught her breath, began to lean against him, soft, yielding. Hammond was not finished. Faster and faster he whirled her round, so fast that he began to breathe in short gasps, and the girl was getting almost exhausted. Once she swept her hair out of her eyes, and stared at him in astonishment. Hammond jerked her vigorously and her teeth met together with a click.
Quicker, quicker...
The music stopped.
Hammond stood back, and bowed solemnly.
‘Thank you very much,’ he said, and turned and left her, sitting down by Wilkinson’s side and picking up his glass. He sipped again.
Wilkinson laughed.
‘Making the punishment fit the crime,’ he remarked.
The words, like Mendicott’s, seemed to have a double meaning. Hammond felt very hot. He wiped his forehead, and eased his collar. Sue suddenly laughed.
‘I must go and spend a penny!’
She hurried out of the room, hitching up the shoulder of her dress. They were watching Hammond closely.
‘Well, how can I help you?’ Wilkinson asked.
Hammond took another sip of whisky. That must be the last, he decided; if it were doctored three sips should not do him any harm, more might do a lot.
‘I came to see you about a friend of a friend of mine,’ he said, ‘who is also a friend of yours. This friend of mine has developed an affection for a Miss Clarissa Kaye, and he’s troubled because she appears to have disappeared.’
Wilkinson laughed. At close quarters, Hammond found him quite good-looking, in a sallow fashion. His long face held a touch of drollness.
‘You’re doing well,’ he said. ‘“Appears to have disappeared”. Has she disappeared or hasn’t she?’
Hammond said: ‘The question is whether she has gone of her own accord or under coercion.’
Wilkinson raised one eyebrow.
‘Abduction suspected, eh? Fergy, this ought to suit you. Our new friend says that he thinks someone has abducted Clarissa.’
Ferguson laughed. ‘Abduction or seduction?’
‘Well?’ asked Wilkinson. ‘Which?’
‘Has Clarissa got a friend named Hammond?’ inquired Violet Wilkinson with an innocent air. She came forward, and suddenly all of them were standing and looking down at Hammond. Violet was smiling sweetly, provocatively, Mendicott was leering, Ferguson’s lips were twisted a little at one corner. The handsome Abbott, further away than any of the others, had both hands thrust into his pockets; he smirked. Wilkinson was between Hammond and the window. There was menace in their nearness.
‘Well, has she?’ asked Violet.
‘Never heard of a Hammond,’ said Abbott. ‘Clarissa told me everything.’ He chuckled, and the sound was not pleasant, it did not express amusement but rather a gloating triumph. ‘Didn’t she, Vi? I was her father confessor.’
‘Hardly father,’ said Wilkinson, dryly.
‘Do you know, I think I’ve had an idea,’ said Ferguson, putting his head on one side. ‘Hammond, Hammond, Hammond, the name’s familiar. Didn’t Clarissa ring up this afternoon and say that Parmitter had been visited by an inquisitive stranger called Hammond? Copper, or something. Are you a policeman, Hammond?’
‘If he is, he didn’t announce himself as such.’
‘So he must be here in his private capacity!’
‘Perhaps that Hammond wasn’t a policeman,’ said Abbott. ‘Anyone can have a card printed C.I.D. That wouldn’t be legal, though; would it?’
Wilkinson put a hand on Hammond’s knee. His long, thin fingers had a hard grip.
‘What’s your opinion, Hammond? Would it be legal for a man to represent himself as a policeman?’ The pressure increased and Abbott, Ferguson and Mendicott closed in. They were all within a yard of Hammond, and Violet was standing just behind Ferguson.
‘Would it?’ insisted Wilkinson.
Hammond said: ‘It depends why he did it. Music Hall artistes impersonate policemen.’
After a brief pause, the tension seemed to ease, although none of the men moved away.
‘Not bad,’ said Wilkinson. ‘Hammond, isn’t it time you told us why you came? This story about Clarissa having disappeared is all my eye. Clarissa doesn’t do things like that—she’s far too fond of Abbott. Isn’t she, William?’
