by John Creasey
He smiled briefly without speaking.
Sir John Sanderson was a different type of man. Mellow and middle-aged, his fortune and business had been inherited, his interest in it developing only after the war had started. No one quite knew why he had been chosen as the midland regional director. Loftus, who saw the reports of most things that went through Craigie’s office, knew that Sanderson’s area ran neck and neck with Brelling’s; both were well-equipped and well-organised. A grey-haired man with a pale face, Sanderson was well-known to most newspaper readers, for his interest in cricket and racing made him one of the most influential men in sport.
“I hope we don’t keep you too busy,” he said, his expression one of kindly interest.
Next to Sanderson was Mr. Daniel Fortescue, managing-director of a multiple-store business which operated exclusively in the north and north midlands. Broad and burly, he both looked, and spoke, as a north countryman.
“Ah’m pleased to know you, Loftus.”
And then Loftus looked at the fifth regional director, trying to clear his mind of prejudice. He had always disliked Mr. Edward Whittaker, who not only ran a chainstore business, but owned one of the lesser national dailies, and a string of provincial papers which faithfully echoed his views. Before the war he had been an isolationist, adamantly opposed to all foreign commitments. He had said bitter things about the agreements which, he claimed, had precipitated the war. He had taken little part in public life until the fall of the first war Government, when a seat had been found for him in the House, and he had been appointed regional director of food for Scotland. That had caused a flurry, for the Scots had wanted a Scotsman. But for all his unpopularity he was an efficient and thorough man. Loftus believed that Hershall had chosen him as he did everyone—on qualifications alone.
Whittaker gave Loftus a cold nod, and turned aside abruptly; in profile his likeness to a fish was undoubtedly increased, his eyes being frosty yet filmed, his forehead and chin negligible.
“And now,” said Mortimer, “perhaps we can arrange some order out of the confusion into which the conference has been thrown. We were requested to allow you to be present, Mr. Loftus, although I am not sure in what way you expect to be of assistance.”
Loftus said: “I’d like to make sure that no one is in danger, Sir Bruce.”
There was a faint, even supercilious lift of Mortimer’s right eyebrow.
“What kind of danger do you imply?”
“I’m not sure what form it might take,” said Loftus. “Have you drawn any conclusions from the events of the past twelve hours?”
Mortimer tightened his lips, and Sanderson said comfortably:
“You mean from poor Arkeld’s death and the explosion, Mr. Loftus?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” said Whittaker sharply. “The explosion occurred in an ante-room next to the smaller conference room, where we might have been expected to meet. It was deliberately aimed at injuring us.”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Sanderson. “I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“No?” asked Whittaker, and he made the word into a sneer.
Loftus began to enjoy himself. Now that he saw that none of them had been hurt he was able to approach the matter in a completely detached frame of mind, and he was interested to see that there were differences between at least two of the directors. It was not hard to understand that Whittaker and Sanderson would not get along well.
“We were discussing it before you arrived,” said Mortimer, and he gave the impression that he considered the discussion quite out of place. “Have you any definite opinion?”
“It’s too early for that,” said Loftus.
“Naturally, naturally,” said Gray, who had a habit of repeating single words and treating them as a complete sentence. “Nevertheless, I agree with Whittaker.”
“Fiddlesticks,” said Brelling clearly.
“It’s downreet nonsense,” added Fortescue gruffly.
“It looks to me,” said Loftus with a smile, “as if we’re going to get no further discussing it without the full facts, gentlemen. But may I suggest we go on with the original purpose of the meeting?”
The only man who answered was Fortescue.
“Aye, that’s reet. Let’s get down to brass tacks.”
Loftus reflected that the nerves of all of them were steady enough, and that they could be commended for not being put into any kind of a panic because of an explosion which might well have been directed against them. He listened as the meeting droned on, with his eyes half-closed.
It was interesting, but no more.
The conference that morning had been called to discuss the difficulties which Arkeld was experiencing, and it appeared that Mortimer had sent out to all the regional directors a questionnaire about similar troubles. The directors had collated their information and were here to report.
The reports gave nothing away.
Until the ship which had been blown up that morning, or the previous night, there had been no trouble which could be construed as sabotage. There had been accidents and damage caused by bombing, the latter negligible since the main stores were kept underground. Nothing which suggested organised sabotage had been forthcoming; Arkeld’s area alone had suffered from that.
Loftus was thinking.
“They’ve sized up the possibility of sabotage all right, and I might just as well have agreed with Hershall without arguing. They know as much as I do.”
He reflected that he had been wrong to think that Mortimer would miss the inference for the trouble in the thirty-ninth area. Mortimer missed nothing, and Mortimer was already on the point of suggesting to the regional directors that they searched their departments for possible sources of leakage. Loftus, without quite knowing why he felt so strongly, did not want that to happen, and he judged the right moment for saying:
“May I have a word, Sir Bruce?”
Mortimer inclined his head.
“It isn’t a great deal,” Loftus went on, “but I have been looking into the trouble with the thirty-ninth area, and one thing appears quite certain—it is all outside work.”
Mortimer frowned.
“Are you sure of that?”
“As far as I can be, yes,” said Loftus. “There hasn’t been a lot of time yet, of course, but I—and when I say ‘I’ please understand that I mean my Department—think that the sabotage has been very well organised amongst the work-people.”
Mortimer leaned back in his chair.
“Indeed?”
“I’m not going to try to put details forward,” said Loftus, “but I don’t need to tell any of you of the insidious work of reactionaries even today. The thirty-ninth area, being in the midland district, is one which covers a wide section of the population—a section which can perhaps be more easily approached by propagandists than any other. In short, I think that there is a network of reactionaries who seek an opportunity for creating damage, and seize it when it is presented.”
“That is not my conclusion,” said Mortimer sharply.
“I’m sorry,” said Loftus quietly, “but the evidence supports it.”
He looked at Mortimer squarely, and he saw the man’s eyes narrow. Mortimer made no further comment, however, and Fortescue broke in.
“The bloody Communists again, I suppose?”
“It’s too early to say that,” said Loftus.
“Damn it, man, don’t beat about the bush,” said Fortescue. “You won’t help the thing by hedging it about wi’ words.” He spoke bluntly, and yet without irritation. “It’s the Reds ye’ve got in mind, isn’t it?”
Loftus shrugged.
“Since you must have it, yes.”
“They might be anywhere,” said Whittaker.
“But there is a central organisation,” said Loftus quickly, “and I want to find it. I think myself—I submit this as an opinion, gentlemen—that it would be wise if we gave no one the impression that we are alarmed. I th
ink Sir Thomas Arkeld’s death might well be made public as natural or accidental. It is not the time to cause any alarm about food.”
“Too true it’s not,” said Fortescue. “The people have been wonderful one way and the other, and ah’ll deal wi’ any man who says differently. But if they think their food’s in danger—Ah wouldn’t like to say what they’ll do.”
Brelling cleared his throat.
“That’s exactly it, Fortescue.” He turned to Loftus. “How quickly do you think you can get results?”
“I hope it won’t be more than a week.”
“A week?” Mortimer was coldly surprised. “It is a matter which appears to warrant much longer attention than that.”
“The final clear-up will take longer, of course,” said Loftus, and he spoke as if he were quite certain that he knew how to tackle the problem, “but if I’m right—and I think I am, gentlemen—then a week will see the end of the leaders of the organisation. You won’t expect me to say more now?”
“And if we do expect it, you won’t,” said Whittaker sneeringly.
“Right,” said Loftus.
Brelling chuckled.
“You don’t mince words, do you? What do you think about it, Mortimer?”
“Since we have not been able to get Arkeld’s report,” said Mortimer, “we can obviously only leave the matter in Mr. Loftus’s hands for the time being. He is fully aware of the importance of it, and the need for losing no time—and the danger of working too quickly and therefore carelessly.” A barb, thought Loftus with an inward smile.
“Isn’t there a copy of Arkeld’s report?” asked Gray.
“There is not.” Mortimer’s voice was crisp. “All the papers which he brought with him were stolen, and I believe they contained a full plan of the arrangements in his area. I have already instructed his deputy to make alterations as quickly as possible. And now . . .” he looked at Loftus—“we have to discuss Arkeld’s successor, and make a recommendation. Do you need to stay for that, Mr. Loftus?”
“Thank you, no,” said Loftus.
He nodded all round; the only man who did not acknowledge it was Whittaker. Loftus wondered briefly whether he was allowing personal dislike to crystallise into unjustified suspicion, then dismissed Whittaker from his mind. It was disturbing news that Arkeld’s papers had been stolen. It opened up possibilities which had not yet been considered, and he was not anxious for additional complications. He returned to the room Arkeld had occupied, nodding to the man on duty at the door.
As he did so he heard a slight scuffling sound.
Yet the room was empty. It surprised him, for he had expected to find Miller there, or one of the other policemen. He stepped through into the bedroom to find that the body had been removed, as well as the bedding; no one was there.
The bathroom and a small dressing-room, which made up the suite, were also empty, and yet he was sure that he had heard the sound.
The dressing-room had another door leading to the passage. Loftus passed through this, and approached the guard.
“No one came out while I was going in, did they?”
“I saw no one, sir.”
“Hmm. Keep your eyes open. And where is the Superintendent?”
“He asked you to telephone him at the office, sir.”
“Right, thanks. I . . .”
Loftus stopped in the middle of a sentence, for he saw the door opening behind the guard. It opened from the inside, although he had been through the rooms and made sure they were empty. As he moved forward a figure slipped out and began to run at startling speed towards the stairs and the lift—a figure so small that it could have been hidden almost anywhere, a male figure remarkably like that of Topsy’s in stature.
It ran without a sound.
8
“Quite a Circus”
Loftus ran also, but not silently. He pounded along the passage, his bulk hiding the small figure from the guard.
The man, or boy—or for that matter Topsy dressed in male clothes—showed a turn of speed which was almost fantastic. With a flying leap he was astride the wide handrail, sliding downwards with such speed that Loftus had only a vague blur in his mind as he started down the stairs, jumping the last half-dozen, steadying himself and then starting for the next.
Without an instant of hesitation the tiny figure turned the curve in the handrail like a stunt cyclist on the Wall of Death. The staircase did not end in the foyer, but in a wide passage leading from it. The passage was empty.
The creature turned towards the foyer, and reached it eight yards ahead of Loftus. When the latter came in sight of the crowd of people standing there, he saw his quarry dart straight towards the doors. Nothing impeded him.
Loftus was not so lucky.
It was the broad back of a middle-aged woman which stopped him. He tried to dodge her, but she had slipped against a chair, almost falling into his path.
He staggered to one side.
The collision had rocketed the woman forward, and she would have fallen but for the presence of mind of a tall, fair-haired man standing close by.
“What on earth are you up to?” demanded Carruthers disapprovingly. Loftus looked up and recognised his fellow agent.
Breathing heavily he gasped: “Did you—see—it?”
“See it? See what?”
“Blast—you. Small—creature. Ask . . .”
He pointed weakly towards the door, and then subsided into a chair. His breath back, he apologised profusely to the lady with whom he had collided, then moved cautiously towards a returning Carruthers.
“Any luck?”
“Not much,” said Carruthers glumly. “The commissionaire saw him—her—or it—dodging away. A dwarf, he thought. Any truth in it?”
“I’d say so,” said Loftus ruefully. “And composed entirely of india-rubber if his movements are any criterion.” He walked a little stiffly towards the stairs. “We’ll have another look round Arkeld’s room before we go any further. What brought you along, old man?”
Carruthers smiled.
“I woke up early and phoned Craigie. He said I might find you here.”
“Any message?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s something,” said Loftus.
There was nothing in Arkeld’s room to suggest that there had been an illegal visitor, but to Loftus it seemed obvious that the dwarf would not have been there without a purpose—and the purpose obviously was to get something which had not been secured with the papers taken when Arkeld had been murdered.
There were other problems branching from that.
Mortimer had told him that Arkeld had been robbed, but Miller had not mentioned it. True, Miller had had little time before the explosion had taken their attention from the immediate problem. Loftus stepped to the telephone of the room, and called the Yard.
Miller was soon on the other line.
“Yes,” he said to Loftus’s question. “The clothes and suitcases were there, but the portfolio which Arkeld always carried with his papers was missing.”
“Who told you he always carried it?”
“His secretary.”
“Where is he?”
“It isn’t a he,” said Miller, “it’s a she, and she told me over the telephone that he always carried his papers in a black calf portfolio. He had it with him when he left Bedford yesterday.”
“Your men checked him,” said Loftus. “Anything to report?”
“Nothing at all—it was a straightforward journey, and he wasn’t followed.”
“Hmm,” said Loftus. “Did you tell Mortimer that the portfolio was missing?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“No. He asked me to let him tell the rest, and I wasn’t sorry about that. What’s on your mind, Loftus?”
“I don’t quite know,” said Loftus. “I can’t measure it up, old man. Arkeld was presumably killed in the hotel, but not necessarily on the bed . . .”
“Almost c
ertainly not on the bed,” said Miller. “I’ve checked the details. A bullet from a .45 would have made far more mess if it had been fired from close quarters, and in the position he was lying he could only be shot at close quarters.”
“Ye-es. I agree with you. He was killed somewhere else, but presumably taken to the bed to bleed to death there.”
“Why ‘presumably’?” asked Miller.
“Because it isn’t an established fact,” said Loftus. “Will you get one of your brighter police-surgeons to examine the pillow and find whether the blood on it checks with that of Arkeld’s? I’m wondering,” he added slowly, “if the blood on the pillow could have been put there to make us think he was killed in his room—it’s a possibility.”
“Ye-es. I’ll see to that,” said Miller, and he paused for a moment. “You know what you’re implying, don’t you?”
Loftus smiled into the telephone.
“I do, Superintendent!”
“Is there anything else?”
“The servant who heard the shot, or thought he did. What’s his name?”
“Farrow. He’s a night-waiter, and he was taking tea to someone on the same floor.”
“Good,” said Loftus. “Ring me at the flat or the office when the surgeon’s through, will you?” He replaced the receiver, and then called the hotel exchange, and asked for the waiter named Farrow to be sent up to him. He was asked to hold on, and then he was told that Farrow had gone off duty.
“Will you find me his address and let me have it,” said Loftus sharply.
When he replaced the receiver again, Carruthers was standing by the window.
“Am I to know anything about it?”
“Later,” said Loftus briefly. “At the moment just listen, resisting firmly the burbling up of bright ideas.
“Arkeld was killed either (a) in the hotel or (b) outside,” said Loftus, thinking aloud, “and (b) isn’t very likely. He was in pyjamas, and with a man killed in that fashion it would be virtually impossible to dress him in anything without getting blood about. But you can have too much blood, and a wound in the head shouldn’t bleed as much as that one did. Apart from the dressing difficulty it is asking too much to say that he could have been carried, quite dead, into the hotel and to his room.” Loftus paused.
