by John Creasey
“Open as instructed.”
On a slip of paper pinned to the envelope was a brief order to inquire at Guildford for Larch House, which was near the Farnham Road. They read the note twice, and Braddon said thoughtfully:
“Y’know, Pam, the reason for this mystery can only be that he wants to make sure that I can’t tell anyone where I am going. Have you ever heard of Larch House?”
“No,” she was as puzzled as he, but they lost no time in making inquiries, and after three attempts they discovered a taxi-driver who was able to direct them.
It took them another half-an-hour to find the house. The sight of it did much to rob them of their high spirits.
For Larch House looked empty.
More than that; it gave the impression of having been empty for years. The drive was overgrown with weeds, unkempt bushes and trees pressing in from either side, all attraction of the small Georgian house itself nullified by neglect and dilapidation.
There was a warm sun above them, but it did little to lift the gloom. Pam shivered.
“What does it mean?” she asked.
“It’s an odd business,” said Braddon, but he pulled up outside the house, and opened the door. “Will you stay here while I have a look round?”
“Oh, no, I won’t stay by myself, I’ll go with you.”
“Scared?”
“In a way, yes. I don’t like it. Do you?”
“We-ell—it’s certainly puzzling,” he said. “If we didn’t know him better I’d say it was a practical joke. We’ll try the front bell, anyhow.”
As they stepped to the porch they could see through the windows of the room on the right. The window was dirty, and one pane was broken and covered with cardboard, but the room was furnished, the chairs covered with dingy dust sheets.
“I like it less and less,” said Pam. “I—oh, what’s that?”
“That” was a bell which pealed out close to them, and echoed loud about their ears.
“That’s odd,” Braddon said, after a moment, “the bell’s been oiled recently.” He looked at a smear of oil on his glove, and then they both started, for they heard footsteps coming along the hall.
A fat man opened the door, and anyone less likely to be in that house it was impossible to imagine. He was very fat—so fat that he seemed unreal. He wore a grey bowler hat, and an over-tight check suit. His voice, when he spoke, held the brassy quality of one used to being heard above a din.
“Hallo there. Come right in both of you—I’ve been expecting you.”
Braddon conceived a sudden and sharp dislike of the man, while Pam looked round in growing dismay at the thick dust on the boarded floor. She clutched Braddon’s sleeve. “Open the other envelope, Jim,” she urged.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” said the fat man. He snatched the envelope out of Braddon’s hand. “You don’t look as if you like it both of you. Pity, since you’re going to stay here quite a bit. Upstairs, young fellow-me-lad.”
Pam thought that Braddon would hit him.
It made her afraid. She knew suddenly that her conversation with Jim had been overheard, and this was the answer. She was afraid that Braddon was going to start a fight, and she knew that he would be helpless against the fat man.
But Braddon did not start it. He had no chance, for as if from nowhere a dwarf leapt at him and aimed a blow at the back of his knees. Pam cried out as Braddon fell to the ground but the sound did no more than echo about the almost empty house, while the fat man seized her wrist. His fleshy fingers had a surprisingly powerful grip.
“Don’t you start,” he said roughly, and he began to push her towards the dusty, uncarpeted stairs.
Meanwhile Loftus had interviewed a man named Farrow.
Loftus had wondered several times whether his hunch was a good one, for Farrow had not been at home when he had first arrived, and he had waited, in a small, over-furnished front room for half-an-hour.
The man entered at last, with the stiff, flat-footed walk of an elderly waiter.
“Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”
Loftus smiled.
“I’m not sure that you can do any more than you have already,” he said. “It’s about the business at the hotel.”
“I see, sir.” Farrow’s eyes gazed at him without expression. “I gave a full story to the police, and signed a statement.”
“Let me have the gist of it, will you?” asked Loftus.
“Certainly, sir. May I see your authority?”
“Of course.” Loftus took out a card signed by the Assistant Commissioner of Police, Sir William Fellowes, and by the Home Secretary. Farrow read it and handed it back.
“Thank you, sir. Roughly, what happened was this: Mr. Rannigan, an American gentleman, frequently rings for refreshment during the night. I am the night waiter.”
“Refreshment?”
“It is usually tea, sir, although sometimes he prefers minerals.”
“I see. Go on, please.”
“His bell rang about five minutes to twelve, sir, and I telephoned him—as previously arranged—and he ordered tea. Water was boiling, sir—we always have it available, and I was able to take it along at once. I went up the main stairs, and could not have been more than five or six minutes.”
“Good. Go on.”
“I took the tea in, and placed it on his bedside table. He acknowledged it, and I went out. As I closed the door I heard the shot—or what might have been a shot. I waited for some seconds but I heard nothing else, so I went downstairs.”
“I see,” said Loftus. “You didn’t raise any alarm?”
“No, sir.”
“You weren’t sure what it was, I suppose?”
“I hadn’t a great deal of doubt, sir. I served through the last war, and one gets used to shooting. But it might have been an accidental shot—several officers are staying at the hotel, and there are accidents in cleaning. I thought it best to say nothing—any undue disturbance at night would have been unfortunate, sir, and jobs aren’t easy to get in the trade these days.”
“I suppose not.” Loftus’s eyes gleamed humorously. “Manager a bit of a tartar, eh?”
Farrow smiled but did not commit himself.
“Do you know which room it came from?” asked Loftus.
“I’m afraid I can’t help there, sir. I thought it came from the first floor, but as I knew no army officers had their rooms there, I told myself I had made a mistake.”
“I see. No one else heard it, as far as you know?”
“I haven’t been told so, sir. Mr. Rannigan didn’t, or he would have called me—he dislikes noises at night, and had a special fitting made to his door to render his room as quiet as possible. Madame La Reine would, I think, have complained had she been disturbed.”
“Who?”
“Madame La Reine, sir, the actress. I don’t know her real name.”
“I see. And you’ve no idea which room the shot came from?”
Farrow raised his brows interrogatively.
“I thought it was known to have been from Mr. Arkeld’s room, sir. I was given to understand that by the manager.”
“Just a formality,” Loftus said easily. “And there’s nothing else you can think of that might help?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“No quarrelling? No gun anywhere?”
“No, sir.”
“Oh, well,” said Loftus. “I suppose I can’t expect too much, and your summary, like your report, is admirably concise. Thank you, Farrow.”
“I’m glad to be able to help, sir.”
Loftus climbed into his car and let in the clutch as the door closed. He drove thoughtfully for five minutes, and then pulled up outside a telephone kiosk. He was lucky in finding Miller in.
“Loftus here,” he said, and without preamble: “Have a man put on Farrow, will you? A really good one.”
“Certainly,” said Miller. “May I ask why?”
“Because he’s a waiter who is afraid of losing
a job; also because he has a gold cigarette lighter, and a pretty expensive suit. He may or may not get big tips, and there could be a perfectly good explanation of it—but it’s curious, and he should be watched. Check up his history, too, will you?”
“Ye-es,” said Miller, and it seemed as if he laughed. “You do get ideas, don’t you,” he added. “Have you heard anything else?”
“Not enough,” said Loftus. “But I’d like to see a man named Golt—Maximilian Golt. How quickly can you look up his address for me? It’s probably in London.”
“If you phone me in five minutes I’ll have it,” promised Miller, and he was as true as his word. From a kiosk at Victoria Loftus made the second call, and was told that Maximilian Golt lived in a block of mansion flats in Putney. He had two telephone lines, one of them “ex-directory”, which meant that the number was not in the telephone book. He had lived at the same address for at least three years.
“Good,” said Loftus. “I think I’ll have a word with the gentleman. Has anything else come in?”
Miller said quietly: “Yes, the analyst’s report on the blood. That on the pillow is Group A, Arkeld’s is Group B.”
“Hmm,” said Loftus thoughtfully. “It helps, and it complicates. One way and the other we’re having a nice time, aren’t we? Keep checking all you can at the hotel, and I’ll get in to see you some time this afternoon.”
Loftus rang off, returning slowly and reflectively to his car. He had started the engine when he heard his name called, and looking round he saw Mike Errol drawing up behind him.
13
Loftus Says “Yes”
In the first glance over his shoulder Loftus saw nothing of Mike’s bandaged hand, nor of the dust on his clothes, and a tear some five inches long in the leg of his trousers. But as he braked and Mike stepped alongside, the damage was obvious. Loftus raised an eyebrow.
Mike grinned, and plunged forthwith into a recital of what had happened.
Having finished the early part of his report, and described the accident, he went on:
“So I phoned Miller, learned Farrow’s address, and came down in the hope of picking you up, old man. Before the car business I think I would have gone off on my own to see Myra, but now—well, what do you think?”
“I think yes,” said Loftus promptly.
“Alone?”
“Don’t you feel like it?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Mike mildly. “I don’t give a damn whether I go alone or with an army. We can only die once. But if anything does happen to come my way and I’m alone, it might be awkward.”
“We-ell,” said Loftus, scratching his chin, “it’s a question of the lady’s sincerity. It is possible that she and Golt have fallen out, and if that’s the case then she might have some information for you. But if she has any idea that you’re not alone, then she’s likely to close up. I think I’d chance it.”
“Right,” said Mike briskly. “And as it’s just on three, I’d better get a move on. I don’t think I’ll change. If I turn up like this it might give added point to something or other—I’m not quite sure what, but it might.”
Loftus smiled. “You may have a point there. What have you managed to find out for me?”
“Not a lot,” said Mike. He had telephoned Miller. There was no photograph of Myra Berne at Arkeld’s hotel, nor in his wallet, but Mike had a small Leica. He proposed fixing it to his waistcoat so that he could take a variety of snaps that afternoon.
“Good,” said Loftus.
“Miller’s getting all the dope on La Reine, the Greek, Rannigan and whatnot,” said Mike. “And I telephoned Martin Best—he’s on the way to Bedford now to see this secretary, Arkeld’s girl. That’s the lot, I think.”
Loftus sighed. “About one third of the lot. The food directors and associates are still at the Landon. Some of them think that there was an attempt to exterminate them by today’s explosion.”
“So you agree with them?”
“Not necessarily,” said Loftus. “But Arkeld was certainly murdered, and Mortimer and the others could well be. There’s a bunch of Special Branch men looking after them for the time being, and I don’t think there’s any immediate danger. Have you heard from Mark?”
Mike shook his head.
“Hmm,” said Loftus. He brooded for a moment, and then went on: “You deal with Myra, and I’ll get on to Golt’s tail. I want to scare that gentleman, and in any case I’ll . . .” he paused, as if suddenly seized with a completely new idea. “Mike, get to your flat and wait there until I phone. Phone Myra yourself, and tell her you’ll be late.”
“Now what’s the idea?” demanded Mike with some resignation.
“A simple one. I’ll make sure Golt’s in before you go. If he’s not, he might turn up at Myra’s flat and that wouldn’t help you.”
“Right.” Mike leapt into the Bentley, and set off.
But Loftus did not immediately go to the flat of Maximilian Golt.
He pulled up outside a kiosk on the Surrey side of Putney Bridge, and telephoned Craigie. To introduce himself he used a code which had been used for years in the Department, and had never been misused. He gave his name, and then began to spell it backwards. As he reached “f” Craigie’s quiet voice said:
“All right, Bill.”
“Anything?” asked Loftus.
“Ned and Wally came through the operation all right, and the chances are still fifty-fifty,” said Craigie.
“Good work.” There was no emphasis in Loftus’s words. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, I hope, but meanwhile there’s another thing. Mike’s on the way to see Myra, and he’s going alone—or he thinks he is.”
“Well,” said Craigie, “Mark telephoned from Golders Green ten minutes ago, and he’s coming here to report.”
“Good! Get him there,” said Loftus. “To the siren’s flat, I mean. Tell him not to show himself, will you, and not to let Mike have any idea he’s about. If it is a set-up, then the place will be watched closely when Mike goes in, and if he’s apparently quite alone there might be interesting developments.”
“Right,” said Craigie. “I’ll phone Mark for you.”
“Thanks. Nothing else?”
“Nothing that can’t keep,” said Craigie, and he rang off.
His words intrigued Loftus, but did not worry him. Had the “something which could keep” been of great importance he would have been told about it. He suspected that it was something to do with Mortimer, or even Hershall—probably Mortimer had been making himself felt in Whitehall. There was the difference of opinion amongst the members of the conference to be taken into account, he reflected. He wished that he could give them fuller attention, but the opportunity was not there for the time being.
He drove on to Fairway Mansions, an imposing block of modern flats on the top of Putney Hill.
He pulled into the carriage-way.
La Reine and Rannigan puzzled him, and he was put in mind of them by the reflection on the number of people who stayed in London, braving the threat of raids, when there was no need. It was difficult to imagine a less likely place for an old American—who was also an invalid—to convalesce. Yet that was precisely what Rannigan was attempting to do. Moreover, he was so touchy about noise that he had a specially made protection fitted to his door.
In normal times it would have been understandable.
In these days it was incredible. A dozen padded doors would not keep out the sound of bombs, or of A.A. fire. It was an inconsistency which had crystallised his interest in the unknown American.
Letaxa, the Greek, had a mission in London, and his presence was understandable. But La Reine gave him a problem which stuck out a mile.
She had been staying safely in the country, yet she had returned to London where, if Leroux had told him the truth, she was proposing to remain for the rest of the summer. It was hard to believe that the actress would do that willingly. According to reports she had saved a great deal, and it was even rumoured
that she was one of the wealthiest people in the profession. What, then, was the reason of staying in town where bombing was a virtual certainty?
The first floor at the Landon, reflected Loftus as he stepped into Fairway Mansions, should be able to tell us a lot. He glanced at a note he had made of Golt’s number, and saw that it was 32. Odd, that. The fact that the number was the same as Myra Berne’s at Byng Court had escaped him when he had first heard it from Miller. He tucked the coincidence to the back of his mind, and went up the lift without speaking to the hall porter.
Number 32 was on the second floor.
He discovered that he had to turn two corners before he reached it, and he was approaching the second when he heard a door open somewhere ahead of him, and then the sound of voices. One was so clear and unmistakable that for a moment Loftus stood quite still, wondering whether he had heard aright.
Then he moved.
There was a house-maid’s cupboard near him, and he opened it and slipped inside.
Footsteps passed him.
As they faded, he stepped back into the passage, and followed the man whose voice had been so familiar. He saw the stocky, broad-shouldered figure of Mr. Daniel Fortescue, the north-country regional director of food distribution.
A second later Loftus saw that there was only one flat from which he could possibly have come. It was the flat of Maximilian Golt.
There was a popular daily paper which had for some reason or other decided to play Fortescue up strongly, and for weeks the activities of “Honest Dan” had been prominently displayed in the Daily Echo. This, Loftus now recalled. It was difficult to imagine a man whose appearance answered the description of “Honest Dan” more compellingly than Fortescue’s; but his presence at Golt’s flat opened an immense vista of possibilities.
But it was too early to jump to conclusions.
It was also too early to visit Golt. The man would know that there was a chance that his earlier visitor had been seen, and that might cause unnecessary trouble. Loftus therefore waited five minutes before ringing the bell of Golt’s flat.
There was a short pause before the catch of the door was slipped back. That it had been necessary to slip it forward suggested that Golt was aware of the possibility of someone trying to force an entry.
