by John Creasey
He showed no signs of returning consciousness.
They searched the room, but they found nothing, although they even looked in drawers and in small cupboards, for there was the possibility that the dwarf and Topsy had been concerned in this. The bathroom window was open, however, and it led to a fire-escape. It seemed to Loftus that the torture had stopped at his knocking, that the devils who had done this thing had made good a quick escape. The exits were watched, of course, but the perpetrators might well have done no more than go to another room in the hotel, via the fire-escape. Loftus telephoned instructions to the police on duty to have the doors watched and to allow no one, staff or residents, to go out. It was early enough for that to cause no great inconvenience, although if a room-by-room search became necessary Leroux would not be pleased.
Much depended on whether Whittaker could talk when he came round. He had been knocked out by a blow on the back of the head and so savagely that it might have caused concussion. There was nothing to do but wait for Dr. Little—or so it seemed, before the telephone rang.
Loftus lifted the receiver, and he had a shock—one that he thought was as great as any he had received in that affair. For the words that came immediately were so deep that he could hardly understand them, and not until the speaker had finished and closed down did he understand just what they were.
The Shrimp, known—according to Myra Berne—as Skippy, was dead, but his surely inimitable voice had said:
“Put him right out and get away quick.”
That was all.
17
“To the Public”
Loftus recovered from the shock of hearing the voice quickly. Of the Shrimp’s death there was no conceivable doubt, but of the resurrection of his voice there was all the evidence that was needed. A trick of impersonation of course—possibly a dozen circus performers in the country could do it. Loftus considered the actual facts of the situation.
Whittaker tortured: he had never expected to feel sorry for that fish-like gentleman, but he did so now. Moreover the number of burns proved that whatever his torturers had wanted to get from him had not been forthcoming; the man had physical courage to the highest degree.
That was one thing.
Another, and perhaps of less importance, was the fact that the man with the deep voice had telephoned the brief instructions. “Put him right out and get away quick.”
“Right out” clearly meant “kill him.” It was obvious that whoever had telephoned had known that trouble was developing at the Landon Hotel. As clearly the hotel was being watched, and the warning had been sent because it was known that Whittaker was likely to be visited.
There was a puzzling thing there.
Loftus and the others had been in the hotel for at least half-an-hour. The watchers must have seen him enter, and yet had left it as long as this to telephone him. A vagrant idea that they had waited until he was actually at the door of Whittaker’s suite faded quickly. Even had they been close at hand and able to do that, they would not have waited until the door was broken down, and five minutes had elapsed with them in the room.
The inference was, then, that someone else who could be dangerous had just entered or was about to enter: someone who would go to visit Whittaker.
Loftus moved over to the telephone. Thornton eyed him expectantly. The big man gave the impression that he had discovered something of importance.
He spoke to the Special Branch O.C.
“No one has left the hotel, or tried to?”
“No, sir, not for at least ten minutes before you telephoned me to get the doors closed.”
“Good. Has anyone come in?”
“One or two people, yes.” The man seemed worried. “You said nothing about people entering, did you?”
“No,” said Loftus. “Who are they?”
“I don’t know them, but I can find out from the desk clerk. They’ve just started upstairs . . .”
“By the stairs?”
“Yes.”
Loftus closed down with only a murmured “thanks” and stepped quickly to the door. He beckoned Spats.
“Two people are coming here, Spats—almost certainly to this floor, as they haven’t troubled to take the lift. Tell the others to close in.”
“Right.” Thornton went out quickly.
Loftus was left alone in the room, with only a door between him and Whittaker. It flashed through his mind that whoever was coming might be the doctor, but he dismissed that idea; there had been no time. Possibly they were innocent enough hotel residents who had been out during the night, or even for an early morning walk, but most likely one or the other of them had inspired that belated message from the man with the deep voice.
A moment later the door opened, and Thornton poked his nose through. He regarded Loftus with a somewhat pitying air.
“It’s definitely not your good day, Bill.”
“Why?” Loftus almost snapped the word.
“It’s Craigie, and Mortimer’s with him.”
Loftus stared for a moment in acute disappointment. And then he reasoned that Craigie and Mortimer together would naturally inspire the warning to get away, and he saw the funny side of it. He greeted them quickly, adding:
“I’d hoped you were two badly wanted men, things looked that way.” The humour died from his face. “For the rest, it’s not at all funny,” he said, and he told them what had happened to Whittaker. Mortimer stood tight-lipped on the threshold. He had not had much colour when he had entered; he had none when he turned away. Loftus hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that Doc Little, a large fat man who regularly overflowed any chair that he sat in, came in soft-footed and, after a few minutes, pronounced an interim judgment.
“He won’t be long in coming round,” he said. “Nothing to worry about there. The blow on the head might leave an effect of mild concussion, but it isn’t likely.”
“Is he a hospital case?” asked Loftus.
“Oh, no. A nurse will see him through all right.” Little was a comforting man, and at no time had Loftus known him more comforting than he was then.
“Wouldn’t it be better for him to be somewhere quieter?” Loftus asked, and Little agreed—not because it was medically important, but because he believed that Loftus wanted Whittaker away from the Landon. A nurse arrived, an ambulance was summoned, and Whittaker was taken out of the back door of the Landon.
Craigie had gone to Mortimer’s suite, and when Loftus joined them he found Brelling and Gray there. Sanderson had not, apparently, heard of Mortimer’s arrival. Loftus was conscious of a restraint in the room when he entered, and he did not need two guesses to know what it was.
Gray, Mortimer and Brelling all had admitted to a skeleton in the cupboard. None would want the others to know of it: all realised that Loftus could betray the confidences if he wished to. His mind took him back to the conference, when he had first seen these men together, and he remembered clearly that a similar restraint had been evident then. It was explained now; they were men who were being systematically frightened, and the job was being done well.
Threats by letter and by telephone, the cunning discovery of each man’s secret, or at least an episode in their lives they would not want made public. The gradual playing on their nerves, and then the hints of their resignations, Arkeld’s violent death, the explosion, and now Whittaker.
He wondered whether Mortimer had told the others about Whittaker, and as if reading his thoughts the Director-General said:
“We have been discussing the matter, Loftus, and I have put forward your view that some of these things have been done to—er—frighten us. We agree that poor Whittaker’s experience is just such a trick. It is a relief to feel that we know what we are facing.”
“Ye-es,” said Loftus. “And when Whittaker comes round he may be able to tell us something of his attacker. I think he, or they, might well be in the hotel. No one should go out until Whittaker has been able to look the residents and the staff over.”
>
It was Brelling who spoke first in answer.
“My God!” he said, “that will cause a flurry! Is it necessary, Loftus? We don’t want to attract a lot of publicity, you know, and we’re pretty close to the bone as it is.”
Loftus looked keenly at the peer, wondered what was going on behind those heavy-lidded eyes.
“The situation as I see it is just this. Someone is in a position to do the damage that was done up and down the country last night, and he must be found. We can only find him by tracing him through his operatives. Some of those operatives attacked and tortured Whittaker. They may still be in the hotel.”
Mortimer said slowly:
“You’re right, of course. But it may be a long time before Whittaker is able to identify anyone.”
“And he might not be able to then,” said Gray unexpectedly. “The men might have been disguised, or masked—damn it, there’s melodrama enough in this business already, I don’t see why there shouldn’t be a bit more.”
Loftus shrugged. “Melodrama is a word that has already been suggested by—a Miss Myra Berne.” He uttered the name casually but he was looking for reaction. He found none. If facial expression was anything to go by, none of the men in the room had heard it before.
Sanderson’s good-humoured face appeared at the door then, but beneath the good humour Loftus imagined there was a degree of nervousness not altogether easy to explain. Sanderson, if he had told the truth, was the one man without a skeleton in his cupboard. Was that a reason for thinking that he had lied?
Loftus thought on what he knew of the man. A happy domestic life, a pretty wife, three children, his “sporting-pensioners” and his general popularity. He was certainly the best known of the five, and there was at least some reason for thinking that his life held no grounds for blackmail, or threats.
Loftus left it to Mortimer to tell him what had happened, and with Craigie left the room.
“We’ll need a special order from the Home Secretary for this job,” Loftus said, “and it’s not going to be pleasant to get it out of him at this time in the morning.”
They hurried down the stairs, and when they reached the foyer they found half-a-dozen people gathered about the revolving doors. Two flustered commissionaires and a policeman confronted them. From a side door, Leroux hurried forward.
His expression was a compound of fury and anxiety.
“Mr. Loftus. This is an impossible situation—my guests must be allowed to come and go as they please.”
Loftus looked at him coldly.
“There is a state of emergency in the hotel at the moment. You will receive orders from the police and a warrant from the Home Secretary. If you’re wise you’ll arrange for anyone who must go out to see you at the office, and I’ll make arrangements for someone to be with you who can give permission, if advisable.”
“But . . .”
“There aren’t any buts,” said Loftus.
Yet there were; he saw from the temper of the crowd that there would have to be stronger action to keep the residents quiet, and he sent for the Errols and Carruthers. He put them on the doors, with S.B. men, leaving Spats Thornton to watch the first floor, although that was little more than a formality.
Craigie hurried from the hotel to get the necessary instructions from the Home Secretary, and to tell the Yard of the position. A little more than twenty minutes after he had left, Miller arrived, large and reassuring. He parked himself in Leroux’s office and prepared to receive any of the residents who had urgent reasons for leaving. Loftus knew that he would not easily be satisfied.
As the morning advanced the manager’s office was besieged, and from time to time Miller’s cool voice came through the open door. The foyer was filled, the breakfast room was besieged, the lounges were crowded, and there was but one topic of conversation.
Rumour and speculation increased with bad temper, but Miller allowed only four people to go out; all of them were on Government business, and well enough known for him to take the chance. No word came from Doc Little about Whittaker, and none came about Fortescue, who was still missing. Neither of those things worried Loftus, but he was disappointed about one matter.
La Reine made no request to go out, and he learned that she was staying in bed. So was Rannigan. He hardly knew why he had wanted one or the other to make a fuss about the enforced detention, but there it was.
Craigie returned—some hour after the signed order from the Home Secretary—to find Loftus clearly disappointed.
“What were you expecting?” he asked.
“Someone to get out at all costs,” said Loftus, “and it hasn’t happened. Great Scott, if this goes on Whittaker will really have to look at ’em all!”
Craigie gave a thin-lipped smile.
“No,” he said. “I’ve phoned Little’s nursing home, and Whittaker’s now conscious and clear-headed. There were three men; he can only tell us that the man who questioned him had a very deep voice, which he used in a whisper. The three wore masks.”
“Oh,” said Loftus blankly. “Not another deep voice! What did they want from him?”
“He hasn’t said—but he’s coming here in an hour.”
“The man certainly has guts,” said Loftus, “and I’m beginning to take to him more than I did. Well, there’s one other thing. Mortimer and the others aren’t happy. In fact, they’re scared—and I can’t say I blame them. I’ve had a chat with each in turn, and I can’t get anything more out of them.”
“How much longer do you want to keep the hotel sealed up?” asked Craigie.
Loftus considered. “Well, as Whittaker can’t do much, we’ll have to let things go after lunch. I’d like to hold the situation until half-past two, though.”
“You seem quite certain the people are here,” said Craigie.
“I am.” Loftus rubbed his long chin. “No one got out. That’s a fact. They may be circus performers, but they can’t do disappearing tricks. I—hallo, what’s this?”
In a flurry of footsteps the door burst open to reveal Thornton and Leroux, and both men were carrying leaflets. Thornton thrust one of them into his hand.
It did not make nice reading, and his face hardened as his eyes moved along the lines. Craigie was reading another, his expression equally gaunt.
For they read:
TO THE PUBLIC
There were no raids on this country last night. But there were attacks against which there is and will be no defence. It is estimated that one-twentieth of the WHOLE NATION’S FOOD SUPPLY was destroyed by sabotage in six hours.
The Government has kept this from you—but it will soon have to admit the truth. ENGLAND FACES STARVATION.
That was all.
There was no suggestion of what action should be taken, if any, no kind of ultimatum. It was a bare statement of facts—within limits, for the “one-twentieth” was a considerable exaggeration. The abruptness of it would do one thing only: spread disquiet among the people.
“Where were these found?” Craigie asked quietly.
“In the first corridor,” said Thornton. “Mine was, at least.”
“Mine was found in the lift,” said Leroux.
“About what time?”
They said together: “Ten minutes ago.”
“Nice work,” said Loftus in a too calm voice. “They’re in the hotel all right, Gordon, and the leaflets were printed well ahead of schedule, for distribution if the papers had nothing about the sabotage.” He looked at Leroux, who took the hint and went out, promising to say nothing of what he had read. “This is even a worse sabotage than the other,” Loftus went on sombrely, “for it aims at destroying public morale.”
“Damn it, a few leaflets . . .”
“A few?” asked Loftus bleakly. “I wish it could be.”
But it was not; and both he and Craigie had felt when they had first seen the leaflet that they would not be confined to the Landon. It was the Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard who telephoned them first, to say t
hat he was getting reports that the leaflet was being found in all parts of the country. It was impossible to estimate the number distributed, but by two o’clock that afternoon it was clear that they ran into hundreds of thousands.
And not once was a distributor found.
The intention behind it was obvious: it was a deliberate and well-judged attempt to spread public disquiet, and it could only be countered by outright denial. The radio programmes were interrupted with that object, special editions of the papers giving a guarded statement of the truth were put on the streets, but outright denial as such was impossible, and Loftus as well as Craigie knew that the effect of the leaflet would be disastrous unless it could be off-set within forty-eight hours.
It was a crisis of the first order, admitted, in fact, by Hershall before the War Cabinet early that afternoon to be the blackest moment of the war.
At three o’clock, while the Landon was still in a state of siege, Loftus said to Craigie:
“I don’t believe Golt is the leader, he hasn’t the brain for a stunt like this. Someone in the hotel probably knows a lot more about it than Golt ever will. They must be here, or the leaflets couldn’t have been put around. And they’ll have to get away sooner or later, or try to.”
Craigie said: “It’s more than urgent, Bill.”
“Don’t I know it! Another night like last night and there’ll be a six months step backwards in the war. I . . .”
He broke off suddenly, listened, then stepped to the door and flung it open. A horrifying sound rushed into the room, that of people in fear or in agony—women’s voices mingling with men’s in shouts and screams. It was some way off, but the background tap-tap-tap-tap was ominously clear to the listeners.
Loftus started for the passage. In the foyer, or somewhere near it, he knew, a machine-gun was being used. He reached the end of the passage, but then he pulled up short, for he saw Farrow standing in front of him; and Leroux the manager at Farrow’s side.
Both men held automatics pointing towards him.
18
