by John Creasey
“Not necessarily.”
“You encouraged Mortimer to think you thought so. Why?”
“I wanted him and the others to think we were on the wrong track,” said Loftus. “It was obvious that each one of them could be playing an important part in it. It remains possible—I would even say probable.”
“Fortescue?” said Hershall.
“It could be. Someone who has agents up and down the country at all events—a multiple store-owner could do it easily.” He smiled a little. “I could be wrong, of course, but I don’t think so.”
“Nor do I,” said Hershall briefly. “But act fast, Loftus.”
“I don’t think the need for speed is quite as great as it seemed to be,” said Loftus. “We’re going to have a lull.”
And he was right. Nothing happened that night, nor the following night. True, a close watch was kept on all storage dumps and warehouses, but nothing suspicious was observed, and there was a complete and utter silence from the “they” he had talked so much about. No more leaflets were distributed, but Ministry of Information observers reported that the leaflets had produced a sense of uneasiness in the country greater than anything which had been known before.
Loftus and the Errols were not idle: nor was Spats Thornton, nor a very large and untidy man, one Martin Best, returned from a fruitless quest in Bedford, where he had discovered that Arkeld’s secretary was a blameless little woman who could throw no light on the mystery. But Arkeld’s part had faded into insignificance against the wider issues now uncovered.
Craigie, Davidson and Oundle were all out of danger.
Superintendent Miller was not so badly hurt as had at first been feared, and he directed Special Branch work from a private ward in the Westminster Hospital. The Ministry of Information let it be known that he had been wounded, and the tragedy of the Landon was published fully, the story given for general consumption being that a ring of spies had been discovered to operate from the hotel, and when cornered had tried to fight their way out.
At the end of the second day of inactivity, Loftus had a complete dossier of the six men possibly involved. He found little beyond what he had already been told, but he did notice one peculiar thing.
Five of the directors had stores up and down the country; only Fortescue’s stores covered a restricted area. But Fortescue continued to be missing, despite a search as widespread and thorough as any instigated by the Yard. Every police-station in the country had a photograph of the north-countryman, of Maximilian Golt, and of Myra Berne.
“What’s the idea of the last two?” Mike asked; he was always inclined to be touchy on the subject of the actress.
“We want to find what part of the country they’ve been frequenting,” Loftus assured him. None of them knew what was in his mind, nor how it was working. He told them one other thing: that every known smoker of Alexis cigarettes was being investigated by the police.
It was just after seven o’clock on the third day of inactivity that the front door-bell of the flat rang. Loftus was deep in an easy chair, with a foot on the mantel-shelf. Spats went to the door, and was startled out of his wits to find the Prime Minister there.
“Is Mr. Loftus in?”
Spats stepped back a pace.
“Why yes, come in.”
“Thanks.” Hershall was wearing a fur-lined coat which he unbuttoned as he entered the lounge. Loftus snatched his foot from the mantel-shelf as Hershall thrust a crumpled slip of paper beneath his nose.
“Read that.”
It was written in Hershall’s own writing, and said briefly:
“The controlled prices of a variety of foodstuffs are too low. I hope the Government will give full attention to the matter. Increases are advisable in the very near future.”
Loftus read it twice, and then looked up at the Prime Minister’s frowning face.
“Telephoned, I suppose. The speaker didn’t, by any chance, have a very deep voice, did he?”
“He did. Indeed. I spoke to him. Well?”
“It fits,” said Loftus. “The method of presentation is exactly the same as the leaflet. No threat, no ultimatum—just a bare statement. This gentleman works on the mind. How long ago?” He might have been talking to Craigie.
“About half-an-hour. I came straight over here.” He spoke casually and as if pre-occupied, and Loftus wondered what was going on behind that high forehead. “You were very right,” he said. “I’m not surprised. You’ve no idea at all which one it is?”
“None,” said Loftus. “But it isn’t Fortescue. I think he’s been kidnapped—or killed. They might well arrange for us to find his body. Thinking it would take the suspicion off the others.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ve called a special Cabinet meeting for tonight. There’ll be further communications, of course. Let us hope that there isn’t going to be a further demonstration of their powers.” He stood up, nodded briefly at the others, and started to open the door before Thornton got to it. From the window Loftus watched him walking briskly along the street, with two Special Branch men not far behind him.
“Things are moving,” said Loftus slowly. “There’s just one thing we want, now—the gang’s headquarters. They must have been seen in some locality or other.” He frowned as he re-read the message, and then the telephone rang.
He lifted it; and he was not surprised to hear a deep voice intone softly: “Loftus?”
Loftus motioned quickly to the others. Mike Errol slipped into the next room, and started to get busy on having the source of the call checked; but he was delayed in getting through to Scotland Yard.
“You’ve had or you will have a visit from the Prime Minister,” said the deep voice. “Forget it. If you are wise enough to do this, satisfactory arrangements will be made with the Government, and the whole matter will be treated as a scare. If you don’t . . .”
“Yes,” said Loftus, encouragingly. “If I don’t . . .?”
“You hardly need me to remind you of the power of chaos and destruction,” the deep voice told him.
“But so illuminating to hear of it from the master himself,” suggested Loftus pleasantly.
“There is no room for sentiment in this,” said the deep voice, sharply. “Sentiment goes ill with you, in any case.”
“You flatter me,” said Loftus, “not for the shrewdness or otherwise of your opinion, but for the fact that I have been thought worthy of study.” He was anxious to keep the unknown on the wire as long as possible, and to this aim he frantically racked his brains for any rejoinder that might keep the other from ringing off.
“I won’t warn you again,” the voice said, and it lost a little of its depth. “Don’t make any mistake.”
“No more mistakes,” said Loftus. “I’ve made enough. Goodbye.”
He closed down gently, for he had heard Mike Errol speak for the second time, and he knew that Mike would have had results.
Mike had, but they were not particularly fruitful. By fast work the Yard had located the place from which the deep-voiced man had telephoned—a kiosk in Chiswick. Police were moving towards it, but there was little hope that the man would be found. There was a slight chance that he would be noticed by someone near, and that a description would be available, but even that chance failed.
A few minutes later Miller rang up from the hospital. His voice was both gruff and excited.
“I’ve got something, Loftus.”
“Good,” said Loftus. “What is it?”
“The actress woman . . .”
“Yes?” Loftus glanced quickly at Mike Errol, and away again.
“She isn’t dead,” said Miller flatly. “She was seen today at Guildford—she was involved in a minor car accident, and the policeman who made inquiries recognised her.”
“Did he get her?” Loftus almost bellowed.
“No,” said Miller, “she got away. But a cordon was flung about the whole area. It’s being watched so closely that no one will be able to get outside it. She certainly ha
dn’t time to get more than twenty minutes’ journey away. Will you go to Guildford?”
“Will I not!” exclaimed Bill Loftus, and when he replaced the telephone he looked up at the others with shining eyes. “We’ve got a break,” he said. “Mike, prepare for a shock, your sorrowing has been wasted. Your lovely put up a wonderful show, but she’s alive, and running.”
Mike stared: “But—but, that’s not possible!”
“Indeed it is, and yet another red-herring has been dragged across our path. You’d think we’d have learnt by now the smell of fish. Hats, coats, cars and Guildford—if we don’t get results tonight we never will!”
It was quiet at Larch House.
It was so quiet that it got on the nerves of Braddon and Pam, although neither of them complained a great deal. For three days and nights they had been alone at the top of the house, in two small rooms which had a communicating door, and a bathroom adjoining.
The food, delivered three times a day by what they had first thought was a child, and had then decided was a midget, was good—and they had been supplied with books and magazines, which, in different circumstances would have made tolerable reading.
It was the uncertainty of it which worried them as much as the actual imprisonment. They could see no reason for it, and they had no idea how it was likely to end. So far at least there had been no violence, except the roughness which the grey-hatted man had treated them with when they had first reached Larch House. But twice he had visited them, and each time the glances he had cast on Pam had not been pleasant.
He came again.
It was the evening of the fourth day of their imprisonment. They heard his heavy footsteps, then his hand fumbling with keys. The fear and revulsion in Pam’s eyes were overlaid with pleading as she looked across at Jim.
“For God’s sake don’t annoy him,” she muttered. “I don’t mind what he does.”
Braddon said thickly: “I can’t promise. If the brute . . .”
The door opened, and Barker staggered in. His fat face was red and congested, and his eyes were blood-shot; even from the door it was possible to smell the whisky on his breath.
Behind the door was a man they had not seen before. He stayed outside when Barker entered with exaggerated care, closing the door behind him. He was wearing his grey bowler hat, and he tipped it at an angle over his eyes as he staggered towards Pam.
“Hallo, dearie,” he said. “Come to cheer you up—soft-hearted, that’s me. Cheer you up.”
He sat unsteadily on a hard chair which threatened to collapse beneath him, breathing heavily.
“Rather be with me, eh, ducky? We could have a fine time—always did like the look o’ you. Don’t wanter be cooped up in a li’l room all the time. Open air . . .”
Pam looked at Braddon. He was standing tight-lipped, his hands clenched, but he appeared to understand the chance she was trying to convey to him. If she could get outside there was a hope that she could get free, and send help to him. Barker stretched out a hand and touched her wrist, and she did not draw back.
“Out t’night, eh?” said Barker. “That’s a pretty! Ned Barker ain’t mean, if you treat him right. Know a nice li’l place—pub. Not far away. Ole short-shins won’t know you’ve been out, will ’e? Tha’s right. I’ll see you later, yes.” He lumbered to the door, shut one eye solemnly in an attempted wink, and went out. As his heavy footsteps died away, they stared at each other in silence.
It was then, although they did not know it, that a car drew up outside the apparently empty house, and Myra Berne jumped out. She was admitted by Topsy, and as she entered the bare hall she heard Barker’s heavy footsteps thumping down the stairs. His hoarse voice was raised in what was doubtless meant to be a song.
“She leerrrves me, she lerves me, hi-ri-tiddley-hi, she lerves me!”
Myra Berne stepped forward very softly and waited for him.
20
Quick Work
Barker put each foot forward slowly, and then dropped heavily and deliberately on to the next stair. The wood creaked and the landing window shook a little with each step. His voice grew louder as he drew nearer the hall.
“She lerves me, she lerves me . . .”
“Barker!”
The woman’s voice pierced the fat man’s bemused mind, and he withdrew a foot sharply. A look of disgust crossed her face as the whisky fumes reached her.
“You drunken swine,” she said dispassionately. “What have you been doing to that girl?”
“Cor luv a duck!” exclaimed Barker, and he raised himself to his full height with drunken solemnity. “Gor bless my soul! Drunk? Who’s drunk? Me?”
“What have you been doing to that girl?” Myra demanded evenly.
“Now would I do a thing without askin’ her?” demanded Barker, and he hiccoughed. “Don’t tell old short-shanks. Secret, see. Reached an und-und-understanding. Nice gel that. Alone. Didn’t see the boy-friend. Or did I?” He leaned forward drunkenly. “Don’t tell old short-shanks, will yer?”
Topsy reached Myra’s side.
“He hasn’t been up there long enough to do any harm,” she said in a voice which held a touch of venom in it, and was very different from the childish lisp she had used on Wally Davidson. “I’ve been watching him.”
“Now, Topshy,” protested Barker. “ ’Aven’t ’ad a li’l drink till now. First today, first yesterday, first since I started coming to this perishing house. Creeps! That’s what I got. ’Ad to ’ave a li’l drink, an’ made an appoint—appoint—. Goin’ out for a li’l drink together tonight. She won’t tell ole short-shanks. You won’t, either. Good scout, Myra.” He stretched out a red paw and would have touched her shoulder, but she moved fastidiously away.
“Come downstairs,” she said.
“No offence, no offence,” said Barker, and he shambled off to the kitchen quarters. Here a narrow staircase led downwards. Slightly sobered, Barker negotiated his descent well enough. Four doors confronted him and when he opened one of them he was met by a thick pall of tobacco smoke.
Seven men were sitting round a table, cards and beer mugs in hand.
None of them appeared surprised to see Barker, nor Myra, who had slipped through behind him.
They eyed her, however, a little warily.
There was nothing remarkable about any of them, unless it was the fact that their sallow complexions and dark, oiled hair looked distinctly un-British.
“ ’Lo, sister,” said the man nearest Myra, and his voice held an unmistakable American accent. “What’s the play?”
“You’re to be ready for work at any time,” she said, “and don’t get drunk in the meanwhile. What do you think he would have said had he come instead of me.”
“Aw, can it, we gotta live. He’s not around, is he?”
“He might have been,” Myra said dispassionately, “and he told you all to lay off drink until after we’d finished.”
“We got a spot tired of being kicked around doing damn-all,” grumbled the spokesman. “What’re you drinking, sister?”
“I’m not,” she said. “If you take my advice you’ll put that stuff away and get sobered up.”
She did not speak again but went out, followed by Topsy. She went into a second room, furnished as a lounge, and sat down heavily in an easy chair. The midget woman moved to a cabinet and poured a stiff whisky and soda. She handed it to Myra. “You’re more than an hour late. What kept you?”
“I had an accident—nothing much—and I had to come a long way round,” said Myra. “How long have they been drinking?”
“Since they heard of the trouble at the Landon,” she said.
“How did they get to know?”
“Barker went out and brought papers back.”
“Damn him,” said Myra thinly. “He’ll see us played out if he goes on like that.” She ran her fingers through her hair. “God, I’m tired!”
“You look it,” said Topsy sharply. “Get some sleep while you can, I’ll keep an
eye on the others.”
“Too risky—he might be sending for us,” said Myra. “He’s going to work again tonight or tomorrow. I could do with something to eat,” she added, and the midget nodded and slipped out of the room. She had gone for little more than ten minutes when she returned, her face strained and white.
“There are men in the grounds,” she said urgently. “In uniform—Home Guards, I think.”
Myra stood up quickly.
“How many?”
“Most of a dozen.”
“Tell the others,” snapped Myra. She ran to the door and up the stairs, and then to the first floor. From the landing windows she could see most of the grounds of Larch House, and what she saw worried her. The Home Guards were approaching the house from all directions, spaced out at intervals of ten or fifteen yards.
Her breath came unevenly.
Two of the olive-skinned men pelted up the stairs carrying machine-guns, of the type which had been used with such devastating effect at the Landon Hotel. They disappeared, moving silently on the bare boards, while Myra saw two others in the hall, and knew that every approach to the house was guarded.
Her breathing grew sharper.
She turned and hurried downstairs again, making for the telephone. It was a privately-built extension installed at a small cottage half-a-mile away.
She banged the receiver up and down.
There was no answer, and the earpiece seemed dead. There was a touch of desperation in her manner as she tried again, but the line was dead, and she knew that it had been cut.
She licked her lips, her beauty wiped out by fear.
Fumbling in a cabinet she withdrew two small automatics. She checked them to see that they were loaded, and then returned to the first floor.
One of the men called out: “They’re getting close. We going to let them have it?”
“Yes, and then get away.”
“Okay,” he said, and his hand tightened on the machinegun.
The landing was the best place in the house for watching, for she could see three sides of the garden. In sight were at least a dozen men, the nearest no more than thirty yards away. She knew they were being covered, and that the gunmen in the house would choose the right moment for shooting. The rifles in the hands of the Home Guards seemed pitiably insufficient.
