by John Creasey
Golt opened the door.
“Well?” His voice was harsh.
“Good-afternoon,” said Loftus, and he smiled in a fashion which had often served to disperse suspicion of his intentions. Apparently it did not impress Golt, who continued to stand squarely in the doorway, his expression both forbidding and impatient. Loftus took in the slanting forehead, the high-bridged nose. The mouth and chin were more than unpleasing; they were both coarse and brutal, proclaiming that here was a dangerous man with little or no respect for ordinary human scruples.
“Can you spare me five minutes, Mr. Golt?” asked Loftus mildly.
“No, I’m busy.”
“Not too busy to hear what I have to say, I hope.”
Loftus moved forward, and Golt drew back a hand as if to resist him. He changed his mind at the last minute, and stepped grudgingly aside.
“What the devil does this insolence mean?” snapped Golt.
“I hardly know,” said Loftus, mildly. “Can it be that I’m not recognised?”
“I don’t know you from Adam!”
Loftus took out his wallet and extracted a card—which declared him to be a member of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.
Golt stared at it impassively.
He was putting up a good show, thought Loftus. Would it be possible to break him down?
“Pity you didn’t show me this before you pushed your way in,” Golt said, a little less sharply. “Well, now you’re here what d’you want?”
Loftus spread his hands with a bland show of honesty and regret. “Mr. Golt, there is no purpose in beating about the bush—you’ll be the first to agree with that, I’m sure. You have been known to associate with people whose interests are considered inimical to the safety of the state.”
Golt stared at him, and for some seconds did not speak. When he did he turned away sharply, and his eyes evaded Loftus’s.
“Nonsense,” he said gruffly. “You should know me better.”
“Now come,” said Loftus. “I haven’t time to waste on anything that can be dismissed as easily as that. I want to make sure of your connection with these people.”
“Who are they?” Golt was standing his ground well, reflected Loftus, and yet in those much-veined eyes there was a hint of apprehension which suggested that the man was worried.
“A Miss Myra Berne, for one,” said Loftus.
Golt stared at him, and then suddenly he laughed. It was not a pleasing sound. Before he had quite finished he stepped back and sat on the arm of a chair.
Loftus eyed him calmly.
“You are amused?”
“Good God!” exclaimed Golt. “What next will you blasted officials be up to? Myra inimical to the State!” He went off into another peal of laughter, and Loftus knew that the cause of it was because Golt was relieved. “I’ve known her for years—she once acted in one or two plays I put on. She hasn’t anything to do with politics—and only enough brain to choose a frock.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Loftus. “Have you seen her lately?”
“Yes—this morning, and for that matter last night.” He laughed coarsely. “If you want to know my relations with the lady, remember I’m a producer and she’s an actress who wants to get on, and make three guesses.”
There was little that Loftus liked about Maximilian Golt, but at that moment he had a strong urge to kick him. He conquered the urge, and continued to eye Golt calmly.
“When had you seen her before last night?”
“Not for some weeks.”
“Are you quite sure?” demanded Loftus.
“Yes, I am.” It might have seemed surprising that Golt was prepared to answer the questions so freely, but Loftus did not find it so. He knew that Golt believed he understood the full reason for the call, that Golt was confident there was no way in which he could be implicated. “She’s been down to her cottage near Bedford. She isn’t mean with her favours,” he said, and the sneer was back again. “She’s been playing around with a man named Arkeld, but they had a row, and she came back last night.”
“I see,” said Loftus gently.
He admired the other’s tactics dispassionately. Myra was suspect of some part in Arkeld’s murder, and he, Golt, was known as an intimate friend of Myra’s. It was natural that the police would make inquiries, but there was no reason why they should—as yet—suspect Golt himself. Loftus considered for some seconds, and then smiled, giving the impression that he was satisfied. He took his cigarette-case from his pocket and proffered it. Golt accepted one, and as a match flared Loftus said:
“Look here, Golt, I’ll be frank with you. It is the association with Arkeld that is giving us trouble. Have you any reason to believe that Miss Berne’s association with him was anything other than amorous?”
Golt’s eyebrows drew together.
“Was anything?” he said.
“Arkeld died last night,” said Loftus briefly.
Golt stood up sharply.
“My God, now I see what’s worrying you. I—but Loftus, I can assure you that she was interested in him only from the er—amorous angle, yes. Actually he’s very generous, you know, and she’s a lovely woman. I thought at one time that something serious would come of it, and I was surprised to hear from her again yesterday. I won’t say I’m sorry, but . . .” he shrugged his shoulders, and his manner was that of one man-of-the-world to another. Loftus had the urge to kick him again; there was something obscene about this uncouth-looking man adopting the “good-fellow” air. “Well, you know what I mean,” Golt added. “I’m quite sure you’re on the wrong line when you worry about Myra.”
Loftus smiled. “That’s helpful, anyhow. I wish I hadn’t had to trouble you, but these are difficult days.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Golt. “They give you policemen johnnies quite a free hand, too, don’t they? Oh for the happy days of peace!” He suggested a drink.
Loftus refused, thanked him, took up his hat and left.
He did not know it then, but he made a mistake which might easily have proved fatal. For had he waited another five minutes he would have seen the man who was known to some as Kay. As it was he saw the Daimler which was pulling into the carriage-way as he drove out. He saw also the pale-faced, distinguished-looking man in the tonneau, a man who stared at him and then away, but he thought nothing of it. Had he seen the little legs he would have been at least interested, for the legs made Kay a freak, and Loftus was interested in freaks—particularly those which might play some part in a circus.
Kay was driven up to Fairway Mansions, and went to Flat 32.
Loftus drove back towards London, pondering on Maximilian Golt and the likely effect of the call.
14
Strange Story
Golt opened the door to his third visitor when Kay’s hand was hardly on the bell. He stood aside as the older man stepped through, but their eyes met, Golt’s hot and out of temper, Kay’s cool and appraising. Kay chose a low chair with care, and said quietly:
“I saw Loftus coming away from here.”
“I was dead scared he would see you,” said Golt, breathing heavily. There was both anxiety and an undercurrent of satisfaction in his voice, as he went on: “I handled him all right, though, don’t worry about that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” Golt lit a cigarette and flicked the match towards the fireplace. “He came to find what he could about Myra. He told me that Arkeld was dead and wanted to know what there was between him and Myra—was it just ‘amorous’!” Golt laughed again, his mouth very wide. “I milk-fed him all right—but when he first came I thought he had something on me.”
“Ye-es,” said Kay. “That would worry you.”
“Wouldn’t it you?” snapped Golt.
“Perhaps. So you feel sure that he was merely trying to find whether Myra gained information from Arkeld—is that it?”
“I’m dead sure,” said Golt confidently. “I would have seen if there was anything els
e behind it, don’t worry. But I had a scare—Fortescue had only been gone five minutes.”
Kay said softly: “The timing of Loftus’s visit was remarkable, wasn’t it?”
“Just a coincidence,” said Golt, comfortably. He went on to discuss the call of Daniel Fortescue, and what had transpired. They talked for fifteen minutes, and then Kay stood up and reached for his hat.
“It should be satisfactory, Golt. Tonight, of course, will tell us more. I have all the arrangements made for the series of—er—disasters, or so, I have no doubt, the Government will call them. And the Press, if they should reach the Press. If they should not . . .” he laughed that silent laugh of his, but his eyes were deadly sober as he looked at Golt. “We shall look after that, of course. Now there is one other thing. It has been necessary for me to send my niece and my secretary away for a few weeks. There is no longer any need for you to watch them.”
Golt stared. “Where are they?”
“At Larch House. Barker is looking after them. You will see him later in the day, and you will remind him that Pamela is not to be ill-treated, but is to be made as comfortable as possible. I did not like the need for putting her there, but she is a woman—and curious,” he shrugged. “You will be very definite with Barker. He has peculiar ideas. Loftus used the word—amorous. It describes him. Pamela is on a short holiday, but she must not be put to any unnecessary inconvenience. You understand?”
“Yes, I’ll tell him,” said Golt.
“I trust you will,” said Kay, and he stepped towards the door with absurdly small steps. Golt did not follow him along the passage. Shutting the door, he flung himself on to a settee. His hands as he lit a cigarette were not entirely steady.
So the old man had found it necessary to send the girl away. That meant he was worried—he was fond of the kid, and he would not have taken any steps about her unless he knew that there was acute danger. The secretary didn’t matter, but the girl . . .
Golt shrugged, but it was a fact that he was more worried by Kay’s call than by Loftus’s, wherein he made a mistake—not the first of his interesting career. He thought of Myra—they were on to Myra all right, and she would be useless in the future. He wondered what Kay would do about that. Skippy had been killed; it would be a pity if Myra had to go too.
Golt squashed out his half-finished cigarette, and a few seconds afterwards lit another. He was worried because he knew that Kay did not tell him everything, not even half of it.
He hoped to God that he himself was in the clear.
Loftus returned to Whitehall, and went immediately to see Craigie. As he reported what had taken place, Craigie’s expression lost much of its cheerfulness.
“The man is more clever than we thought, Bill.”
“He put it over well enough,” admitted Loftus, “although I helped him. He’s now convinced that the trouble is likely to come through the woman. So we ought to watch her very closely. Mike hasn’t reported?”
“No, and there’s nothing from Mark.”
“I hope they’re not too long,” said Loftus, and for a moment his expression was sombre. “I don’t like it when anyone is overdue in this show. Have you heard from Miller?”
“He’s sent over a full report,” said Craigie. He passed a copy to Loftus. It was comprehensive and interesting, but no more. The essentials were:
Martin K. Rannigan. American drug-store owner with a widespread chain. Dollar millionaire. Spent last three years in France—Riviera. Came to London before the fall of France. Spent the winter in Cornwall. Returned to London early in April. Known to be under medical care, believed to be for valvular disease of the heart. Reputation excellent. Inquiries being made in New York. American Embassy give unqualified reference.
Madame Yvonne de Bourcy—known as La Reine. Musical comedy actress of renown. Career commenced as circus performer. Associated with Maximilian Golt for fifteen years until 1936. Married in 1927 to Jules de Bourcy, who died in 1931. Political activities—none known. (There followed details of her stay in the country and in London, as already known to Loftus. The only possible point of interest was that she had stayed for the winter in Devon.)
Maximilian Golt. Stage-manager and producer, once circus owner. Interested in a chain of provincial theatres. Interested in Barker’s Circus, which broke up soon after outbreak of war. Political associations unknown.
Arthur Farrow. Waiter at Landon Hotel. Been there for three months. References from several London hotels now being checked. Little known of private life.
Loftus read the reports a second time, and then glanced at Craigie with a look of inquiry.
“Could Miller give us anything about the Greek?”
“Oh, I forgot that. He’s conferring with the Greek Embassy before he sends a report, but as far as he knows there’s nothing against the man.”
“We-ell,” said Loftus, “that seems to see us through, and offers possibilities of further developments. The next thing is to wait for Mike and Mark, I suppose. Did you send anyone else there?”
Craigie smiled. “I don’t think anyone will get out, Bill, without being followed.”
“Good work, then I’ll get back to the flat, and try to work things out.” Loftus walked over to the sliding door, pausing before he set it in motion. “What was it that could wait?”
Craigie looked a little rueful.
“Hershall came through. Apparently Mortimer asked for special protection, and is generally making a nuisance of himself. Hershall wanted to know what the devil we were doing.”
Loftus chuckled.
“Mortimer might be a lot more of a nuisance if he knew where Fortescue was this afternoon—and that gives me an idea. An S.B. man should have followed him. Supposing we ring Miller and find if any report’s come in?”
One had, and it was not a good one. A Special Branch man detailed to watch Fortescue had followed the Lancastrian from the Landon to Victoria, and then lost him. There was a vagueness about the report which Miller had not liked. He had questioned the agent, who admitted that a child had cannoned into him while he had been watching Fortescue, and when he had picked himself up the director had been nowhere within sight.
Loftus laughed grimly. “That ‘child’ is doing a lot of good work for the other side, Miller. But it doesn’t matter now.”
It did matter, however, in as far as Fortescue’s visit to Golt would have been unknown had Loftus’s call not coincided with his: and Loftus reflected that the sooner one or the other of them made a point of watching Fortescue the better it would be.
Loftus, of course, had no idea of what was portending for that night.
Nor did Mike Errol.
It was nearly four o’clock when he eventually reached Byng Court, and rang the bell of Number 32. It was opened by a maid who, after two or three minutes, looked into the lounge where Myra had greeted him and asked whether she was wanted again. She was dressed then for out-of-doors.
Myra had said “no.”
Mike Errol was in two minds as to his attitude, although when he had entered the lounge he had found it difficult to keep from laughing.
The scene was nicely set, he had reflected, for seduction.
Warmth, beauty, an invitation to repose—it was all there, even to Myra’s half-revealing, half-concealing gown.
But there was no doubt that she was lovely.
He did not think that he had seen a lovelier creature. But he had thrust the personal issues aside quickly, and had let Myra start the talking.
“Mike,” she said at last, after ten minutes frothy chatter, her voice deepening to seriousness, “if things were different we could be good friends.”
“Yes, couldn’t we!” he said.
“Why do you think I asked you here?”
He chuckled, and tapped the ash from his cigarette.
“Quite honestly I’m expecting the door to open at any time and my executioner to appear.”
“Why come alone, then?”
“That was the under
standing, wasn’t it?”
“And you ignored the risk?”
“I wouldn’t quite say that,” said Mike, “but while we’re on the subject, tell me why you asked me here.”
Cool, appraising eyes watched him between lowered lids.
“It could have been because I wanted your company.”
“Oh, yes,” he said politely, “it could have been.”
“It could even have been because I wanted to warn you not to continue to be foolish,” she went on.
“As a matter of fact, that’s my bet,” said Mike Errol. “Ensnared by the charm of whatever there is charming about me, you decided that I should be rescued from the fate which traditionally awaits Nosey Parkers.”
“Can’t you talk sensibly?” Her voice was sharp.
He looked at her for a moment, and then he deliberately stood up, and stepped towards her. She did not move, nor did she protest when he sat down at her side, and slid an arm about her shoulders. With his free hand he arranged a cushion so that he could be comfortable, and still look at her.
“What do we want with common-sense?” he asked softly. “It’s a short life, my dear. But now we’re comfortable, let’s see what we can do about talking sensibly. You start. Why were you asking for me?”
“I wanted to know why you followed me in Bedford.”
“How do you know it was I who followed you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“All right,” he said. “Let’s start again. What do you know about me?”
She had to turn her head a little to stare into his eyes, and he thought that she was wondering whether to tell the truth or whether to lie to him. Beyond that he could form no opinion about her, or the reason for the invitation. It was certainly not for the chance of an affaire. Anne of the Cherry had said she wasn’t the type, and despite his knowledge of her association with Arkeld and with Golt, he was inclined to agree with her. She gave him the impression that she could be as unattainable as the stars—if she so wished it.
She said clearly:
“Your name is Michael Errol, you have independent means, you live with a cousin who is so much like you that you are often taken for twins. You appear to do nothing useful but you are often away, and surprising things happen in and near your flat from time to time. You have been watching Sir Thomas Arkeld for some days, you grew interested in me, and soon transferred your attentions to me. You followed me from Bedford to London, and you went to the Cherry Club last night to meet me, or at least to see me. Am I wrong?”
