by John Creasey
‘It’s child’s play,’ he declared.
A blade went in, he twisted two or three times, and then there was a click.
He went inside.
Mark stood outside the door, on guard.
• • • • •
M. Edouard Nassi, who had fallen into a troubled sleep only an hour before, felt something touch his shoulder. He was awake in a flash, for he had trained himself to wake at the slightest touch—and, he fondly believed, the slightest sound. His restlessness probably explained the fact that the slight sounds which George had made entering the room and crossing to the bed had not disturbed him.
The pressure tightened.
Nassi put his hand down by the side of his leg. There, tucked inside the sheet like a warming pan, was a gun. He had become accustomed to carrying a weapon, and he liked to have it inside the bed. His fingers touched the warm steel. They tightened about it. He began to draw his arm up slowly, still feigning sleep. Whoever was there seemed intent only on waking him. It might, possibly, be a friend, but it was much better to make sure. He tensed his arm, prepared to draw it quickly from beneath the bedclothes and confront his man with the gun. Then, without a moment’s warning, a pillow was thrust over his face and the bedclothes were flung back. He jerked his arm up; steel-like fingers gripped his wrist and twisted, and the gun dropped from his grasp.
He could not see, for the pillow was over his eyes, but he heard the man say:
‘Naughty Nassi!’
There was a pause.
‘Loaded, too. You know, that’s not nice in a friendly country.’ The man spoke with a North Country accent. ‘Can you hear me, Nassi? Nod, if you can.’
Nassi nodded vigorously.
‘Then do what you’re told,’ said George. ‘Keep your mouth closed tightly until I tell you to open it, and make no noise of any kind. Do you understand?’
Again Nassi nodded vigorously.
George switched on the bedside lamp, then stood back from the bed, relieving pressure on the pillow. Nassi pushed it off his face cautiously. He lay blinking in the light, his hooked nose and hooded, slightly protuberant eyes giving him the look of a bewildered owl. He began to shiver. George threw a dressing-gown from the foot of the bed to the top, and Nassi sat up, slipping it round his shoulders.
‘Th-th-thank you,’ he whispered.
‘Could light the fire,’ said George.
A little, old-fashioned electric fire, all wires and burnt enamel, stood near with its snake-like coil of flex. Deliberately, he turned his back on Nassi, bent down and switched it on. Then he appeared to get his foot caught in the flex, and put down the gun.
Nassi leapt at him, flinging back the bedclothes and jumping out of bed with remarkable agility. He took only two steps to reach George. George, still kneeling, turned round. His right hand shot out and, from the whirling arms and legs, selected Nassi’s left wrist. He gripped and twisted. Nassi caught his breath, making more noise than George wanted, and then an astonishing thing happened. Nassi stood where he was, with only one foot on the floor, his body twisted forward, arrested in full flight. His mouth was open and he looked horrified. There was a searing pain in his wrist. It spread from wrist to shoulder and then down his side, until it seemed like a fire which ran through his whole body.
George held him like that for some seconds, and then let him go. He collapsed in a heap.
Mark put his head round the door.
‘All right?’ he asked.
‘Managing nicely, thanks,’ said George. ‘You might put him back to bed.’
‘Anything to oblige.’ Mark stepped forward, lifted Nassi bodily and dumped him on the bed. ‘I shouldn’t make too much row,’ he remarked, mildly. ‘They might not all be sound sleepers.’ He went back to his post, quite content to stay on guard.
Nassi was breathing in short, shallow gasps.
George sat on the edge of the bed, nursing the gun in his lap.
‘Listen to me, Nassi. You warned Parmitter this afternoon that someone was about to attack him. Who told you?’
Nassi squeaked: ‘You are mistaken! I assure you that...’
George dug his candle out of his pocket. He flicked a lighter into flame, put the candle on the mantelpiece and lit it, and then placed beside it a knife with a cruel-looking blade. ‘The candle is to burn you with and the knife to do unmentionable things,’ he remarked, in a casual manner which made the words seem more menacing. ‘I have a friend outside who will first gag you.’
In a queer, croaking voice, Nassi asked:
‘Are you one of them?’
‘Yes,’ said George.
‘Then you know who attacked M. Parmitter. There is no need to ask me questions.’
George glanced at the steady flame of the candle. Aloud he said: ‘I shouldn’t hesitate to answer, and I shouldn’t show too much curiosity. Let me tell you something you already know. You left the Haymart Hotel and went to a telephone kiosk. Then you hurried back and rushed to Parmitter, to warn him—but you were too late. Whom did you telephone?’
‘But you should already know,’ objected Nassi.
Outwardly, he was reasonably calm. Inwardly, he was greatly frightened. This small man with the plain face and the enormous eyes seemed to be able to frighten in a few words. Was it his expression? Was it the glances he cast towards the candle and the knife? Or was it the memory of the agonising pain which had run through his whole body when he had made that ill-fated attempt to turn the tables? Nassi, who had that kind of mind, could analyse the situation even while he stared at George; and he came to the conclusion that it was a little of all three, allied to the fact that outside a much bigger man than George was waiting.
George spoke again, still mildly.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I have nothing up my sleeve.’ He held out his right hand, palm upwards. The fingers were long and thin, the tips rounded and broad. Nassi stared at them. ‘Nothing at all,’ burbled George, and snapped his fingers. Then he thrust his hand forward beneath Nassi’s nose.
Something sprang up from his hand. Gas! It bit at Nassi’s eyes, mouth and nose and seemed to make them raw; tears streamed down his face and he doubled up coughing violently. The effect had been instantaneous and terrifying. Nassi had not even seen the little cloud of white vapour, certainly not the tiny rubber container in George’s hand. The effect of the gas grew worse; he found it hard to get his breath. He staggered back and was unaware of the gentle grip of George’s fingers on his throat, to prevent too much noise.
Nassi muttered: ‘I don’t believe you are...’
‘This is just question and answer,’ said George. ‘What number did you telephone?’
‘B-Bishopgate 081211,’ muttered Nassi. He kept sniffing, but he felt better—rather as if he had a severe head-cold. ‘B-Bishopgate 081211,’ he repeated.
‘Whom did you speak to?’
‘Him!’
‘Yes I know,’ said George, patiently, ‘but who is he?’
Nassi said: ‘Wilkinson, Wilkinson! I am telling you the truth. I telephoned Mr. Wilkinson and he told me that an attack was going to be made upon M. Parmitter and I hurried back and it was too late to save him.’
So it came back to Wilkinson, who had a City office. That shouldn’t surprise anyone.
‘Why did you telephone him?’ demanded George. ‘And why did you warn Parmitter? What business were you doing with Parmitter? Chatter, little man, I don’t want to hurt you again.’
And Nassi began to talk more freely.
• • • • •
An hour later, Mark and George left Akers and hurried down the hill to their car. Not far along the road was an A.A. box and a man was on duty near it, with a coke brazier burning with a fierce red glow. The snow around it had melted; there was a pleasant warm smell.
‘No,’ he said, in answer to George’s eager question, ‘the telephone lines aren’t down yet. You’ll get through to London.’ He opened the box, and George put through a call to the Department,
thus waking Craigie and Loftus a little before six o’clock. George was neither flippant nor careless, and told the whole story with precision and some detail. When he had finished, he said that he hoped it was of some help.
Craigie said: ‘One thing helps, George, if nothing else does. Bishopgate 081211 is the telephone number of Super-Steel’s head office.’
12
Report and Action
A little after eight o’clock that morning, Loftus and Craigie walked across Whitehall, where two lines of traffic were now moving, and turned into Downing Street. Policemen nodded at them, and a sergeant insisted on inspecting their passes. Then they were admitted to Number 10 by a footman.
They were in a waiting room only for a few minutes before a red-haired man came in and greeted them warmly. The Prime Minister had told him that they were unlikely to have had breakfast.
‘He was quite right,’ Loftus said.
‘Then perhaps you’ll have some with him.’ The red-haired secretary ushered them into another room, where Hadley was sitting at a table already laid for three. He greeted them with his pleasant smile. The butler brought in bacon and sausages, tea and coffee.
Hadley listened attentively to Craigie’s version of George’s story. According to George, Nassi had admitted having negotiated with Parmitter for supplies of steel and manufactured armaments, to be supplied to San Patino from Super-Steel’s South American plant. The reason was simple: it had come to the ears of the efficient and wideawake San Patino Government that Shovia was arming heavily, but there was not yet sufficient evidence on which to base a case for the United Nations. Nassi had assured George that San Patino would be prepared to do that.
American arms had poured into the country, to equip a small but well-trained Shovian army and air force for its strong anti-Communist government. These arms were stored in almost inaccessible places up and down the country, with an ominous concentration near the frontier with San Patino.
Had that been the only thing, San Patino would have referred the matter to Uno and been quite happy. But, said Nassi, there was something far worse; it was rumoured that Shovia planned a revolutionary coup, with Russia backing it. For evidence, there were reports from secret service agents and the fact that the Soviet had recently withdrawn her representative from San Patino. There were other small countries, Nassi said, equally troubled by seemingly irrefutable evidence that Russia was showing disapproval of them and supporting their neighbours. When asked which other countries, Nassi had mentioned six, including all the countries whose delegates had shown no enthusiasm for Virnov’s arrival.
Craigie said, ‘It begins to make a pattern, doesn’t it, sir?’
‘Yes,’ said Hadley. ‘Go on.’ He pushed the toast and marmalade across to Loftus.
‘Nassi was authorised by his Government to get what arms he could,’ said Craigie. ‘And as Super-Steel has a big plant there, he has been negotiating with Parmitter. Parmitter made extravagant promises. According to Nassi, Parmitter told him that Marchant’s apparent conversion from armaments to consumer goods is a cover for his real activities. Officially, Marchant had agreed that armaments should be internationally controlled, actually he was prepared, through subsidiary concerns of Super-Steel’s, to supply anything that was wanted.’
‘I see,’ Hadley said.
‘Have you heard that Marchant is playing a double game?’ Loftus asked him.
‘No. I have every reason to rely on his good faith. That doesn’t rule out the possibility, of course, but we shall need rather more evidence than Nassi’s statement.’
Loftus chuckled. ‘Rather more is good!’
‘You know what I mean. This is the first indication that Super-Steel might be using its subsidiary companies throughout the world for the manufacture of secret armaments, but it wouldn’t be the first time that such a thing has happened. Nor is this the first indication that Russia is supporting the claims of some small States against those of others. On the other hand, Russia assures us that she is doing nothing of the kind.’
Craigie said: ‘Secret diplomacy is hardly a new thing, either. How much evidence is there against Russia in this instance?’
‘Little, if any. We should keep an open mind,’ Hadley said. ‘Certainly someone is trying to create suspicion against Russia. The attitude towards Virnov was one example, the attempt to reduce the United Nations Organisation to a talking shop for the expression of pious hopes may be another. This could be a third. None of these is conclusive.’
Loftus said, ‘One thing is, sir.’
‘What’s that?’
‘We face two possibilities,’ said Loftus. ‘Either Russia is hostile to Uno or someone is trying to make her hostile. The first would be disastrous; the second could be.’
‘Yes, I agree with you. There is no reason why I should not be frank,’ went on Hadley. ‘I think the second theory is the right one. I can envisage circumstances which would make Russia withdraw—if she were convinced that one of the Western powers was conniving at this.’ Hadley paused, and then added in a different tone: ‘I can’t over-emphasise the gravity of the situation. We are nearer an understanding with Russia than we have been for fifty years. If anything goes wrong, it could drive her back to the Chinese mood of conquest by force of arms.’
There was a moment’s silence, before he went on:
‘What do you propose to do next?’
‘We shall work on Marchant,’ Craigie said.
‘The story of the disagreement with Marchant’s niece, Clarissa Kaye, could be false,’ Loftus said. ‘That would explain the fact that Clarissa escaped with the help of Lionel Marchant. We will have to call on a lot of men we had retired, Gordon.’
‘Do that,’ said Hadley.
‘There’s one puzzling anomaly,’ Craigie observed. ‘If Russia is supposed to be backing Shovia, why is the Shovian delegation so hostile?’
Hadley gave his deprecating smile.
‘An attempt to bluff us would be in keeping, wouldn’t it?’
‘That may be it,’ said Craigie.
‘We’ll tackle Pirani, too,’ Loftus promised.
Hadley put up a hand, quickly: ‘I think perhaps that I’d better know nothing of the details. That will make it easier for me to answer any questions that might be put in the House. And there are going to be questions.’
As they walked from Number 10 across Whitehall, where an army of workmen was clearing snow, Craigie and Loftus carried with them the memory of Hadley’s quiet, undemonstrative manner.
In the office, Loftus said.
‘Well, what’s first?’
‘We’ll raid Super-Steel offices,’ Craigie said. ‘You make arrangements for that. And give Bruce Hammond a ring and find out how he’s doing.’
Before Loftus could lift the telephone, another bell rang. Craigie answered. ‘Hallo, Miller.’ Loftus picked up the extension telephone, and heard the Scotland Yard man say:
‘I’ve had a report from Staines that someone who might have been Wilkinson passed through about nine o’clock last night,’ said Miller. ‘There is another report from Reading. The same car, a Buick—Wilkinson owns a Buick—was seen going through there on the Newbury Road. That’s the same direction as Colston, Marchant’s country place. There were three men and two women in the car, and another, smaller car was just behind it.’
‘Have you a call out for the movements of the cars to be watched?’
‘Yes. If I get another line, I’ll call you again. ’Bye.’
Miller, who never wasted words, rang off, and Loftus and Craigie regarded each other, hope sparking their eyes.
‘Shall I still try Bruce?’ said Loftus.
‘Yes.’
Bruce Hammond answered the call, and was quick to say that he had written a report on all that had happened at Hatch End. It was on the way to Whitehall, by special messenger. Tim Kemble was with him, and had helped to prepare the report.
‘Good enough,’ said Loftus. He told him of the report from Readin
g, then added, ‘Take whatever risks you have to, Bruce.’
• • • • •
‘Take whatever risks you have to,’ Hammond echoed. He replaced the receiver and looked at Tim Kemble. ‘That fit your mood?’
‘Made to measure,’ Tim said. ‘I’m as restless as hell.’
He wasn’t the only one. The agents were all prone to be affected by sudden, sharp, emotional tensions. Tim had been working at high pressure since the beginning of this affair, and the previous night’s was the first reasonable sleep he had had for four days. If that wasn’t enough, there was Clarissa Kaye’s effect on him.
Hammond had suffered in much the same way. He had met his wife in such an affair as this. He smiled faintly, and Tim murmured:
‘What’s funny?’
‘I was imagining Clarissa’s face when I gate-crashed on Parmitter. You know her more than the rest of us. Did you feel that she was really trustworthy?’
Tim said, ‘Yes, I did, but that’s nothing to go on.’
‘I rather took to her,’ said Hammond. ‘There’s a report that she and Wilkinson have been seen. I suppose it is just possible that she’s at the Marchant country home. What’s the name of the place?’
‘Colston,’ said Tim, promptly. ‘Near Reading.’
‘Have you seen Mike Errol this morning?’
‘No, but last night his ankle was nearly better. Will you ring him?’
Hammond did so.
Mike answered promptly that he was fighting fit. He hoped that there would be no need to disturb Mark, who was sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
‘You’ll do, with Tim and one other. Whom would you like to have with you?’
‘What job is it?’
‘A journey into the country, and a forlorn hope.’
‘I wish George could come,’ Mike said, sadly. ‘But he’s as worn out as Mark. I think I’d like to have young Latimer. Bright lad. And he’s good at winter sports,’ added Mike, brightly. ‘We’ll want snow-shoes and whatnot.’
