by John Creasey
He had no idea what he was going to find, and he knew that there was at least a risk that he would never come out of Llewellyn’s house alive. He did not dwell much on that. Spats accompanied him because his knowledge of antiques might prove invaluable; in small things Loftus liked to be sure. Sloppiness in detail could mar a whole project.
They drew up outside the house a minute after Miller’s instructions had started to go round, and they lost no time in approaching the front door. Loftus rang the bell. He knew that it was likely that he had been seen from the windows, but he did not think that he and Thornton on their own would cause alarm. There was a long waiting period, and he rang twice again before the door was opened by a medium-sized man whose snow white hair was cut close to his head.
Loftus’s eyes narrowed.
He had not seen the man before, but surely there was a family likeness between him and the waiter Farrow of the Landon? The idea pleased Loftus and he stepped blithely into the hall.
“Excuse me, sir, but . . .”
“I want to see Mr. Llewellyn,” Loftus said easily.
“He is out, sir.”
“Yes?” asked Loftus. “His cars are in the garage.”
“I assure you,” began the man. But he went no farther, for as Loftus and Thornton stepped towards the stairs they saw a second man standing in the well of the hall. There was an automatic in his hand.
He pointed it deliberately at Loftus, while the white-haired man dipped a hand into Thornton’s pocket and removed a gun. It was all done very swiftly and smoothly, and it pleased Loftus, for it suggested to him that the servants were quite sure of themselves and that their employer had not been informed of his arrival. He raised his arms towards the ceiling, but when the man so like Farrow reached him, his right hand moved. He gripped the man’s wrist and twisted sharply so that his body came between himself and the gunman. At the same time Thornton knocked the gun from his grasp. It thudded dully against the floor, but there was no report. The gunman opened his lips to shout, but Thornton’s right hand gripped his throat and strangled the sound.
Loftus and Thornton moved very quickly then.
With the certainty which came from long practice, handcuffs clicked over wrists and ankles, handkerchiefs were adroitly used as gags, and then silently they started up the thickly-carpeted stairs.
Braddon and Pam had given a thorough picture of the lay-out of the house, and they mounted the wide stairs with confidence. Half-way up, Thornton said:
“The stuff’s all real, Bill.”
“So he must be a man of considerable means,” Loftus said thoughtfully.
They reached the door of Llewellyn’s study. Silently Loftus turned the handle, easing the door open. It was a heavy door, and that suggested it was soundproof. So did the cool, low-pitched voice which came to their ears. There was no hint of alarm in it.
“And so I think it will be wise to make a further demonstration tonight. The message to Hershall will be much more effective if we do that. We must always remember that there still remains the possibility that Loftus will find out the truth, and if that happens of course we can call ourselves finished. Once we get the prices decontrolled, we can sell out to the wholesalers in a matter of twenty-four hours. They will be only too glad to buy.”
Loftus and Thornton stood quite still.
Whoever was in the room with Llewellyn grunted, and the speaker went on:
“But for the Department we need not have moved so swiftly, but that man Loftus must be forestalled. I know his reputation, and he, too, is a quick worker. I think we have completely deceived him, but we can’t be sure. I hope . . .” there was a silky note in the voice then—“you won’t hesitate about approving the suggestion. There isn’t time to waste.”
The other man said:
“I don’t want to destroy any more food certainly—we can do with all of it in the country. But, as you say, this is not time for sentiment, so go ahead, Llewellyn. I . . .”
And then Loftus opened the door and went in, showing his automatic, seeing the pale face and the near-black eyes of the man known as Kay, and the fish-like countenance of Mr. Edward Whittaker.
22
Food Shortage
Neither man moved after the first turn of the head towards the door. Loftus did not think there was the slightest change of expression on Whittaker’s face.
They made no attempt to evade anything. They must have known that what had been said for minutes past had been overheard, and they accepted that fact.
Thornton closed the door.
“Two servants downstairs are quite incapable of action,” said Loftus mildly. “And the maids are out, Llewellyn, but you know that. Perhaps I might add a short résumé of what has occurred. Braddon and your ward are in our care. Er—Myra killed herself. There are none of your hired men left at Larch House. This house is surrounded by a force of police at least two hundred strong, and they are closing in.” He paused and looked from Llewellyn to Whittaker. “Do I make myself clear?”
Whittaker answered him, his harsh voice giving no suggestion of fear or nervousness.
“So you made it, Loftus. Have I been named?”
“Not yet.”
“Is there any proof against Llewellyn?”
“Plenty.”
“I see. Loftus, I am a business man, let us approach this crisis in a businesslike way. You’re a patriot, I know, and you don’t like the idea of endangering food supplies. Well, they’re not endangered—I’ve got enough stored up and down the country to cover all that has been destroyed—I had, and have, no intention of harming the country. My aim was to make a profit. To sell at my own price. By my reckoning I should clear two million pounds and the country will not suffer. Llewellyn was to take five hundred thousand. I am offering you half a million if you’ll let Llewellyn and me get away, and hold your tongue for a week.”
“I see,” said Loftus quietly.
He stared at the man in silence, seeing how everything fitted into place.
“Well?” rasped Whittaker.
“I think perhaps another point of view might make a stronger appeal,” Llewellyn suggested. “Whittaker and I have a very considerable supply of food in the country, Loftus, but you don’t know where it is, and we do. This is a business proposition, and it has never been anything else. I have given the word for further sabotage tonight—I was prepared to do that without Whittaker’s approval. If you don’t accept the offer, that food will be gone, and Whittaker’s available supplies will not be found. The Government would be wise to spend two million pounds to save one lot and to buy the other. Don’t you agree?”
“It’s an argument,” said Loftus.
The odd thing was that he did not feel it strange that they should talk like that. It was business—dirty business perhaps, but a matter for discussion, and they did not turn a hair as they made and developed their proposition. It might be that they knew the acceptance of it was their one chance of escaping with their lives, but to Loftus it seemed that they had weighed up the risks before, and were disposed to take them.
The ordinariness of it was the surprising thing; they might have been discussing a brokerage deal.
Kay said softly:
“It is a good argument, Loftus. Whittaker has made it clear that there is no intention to harm the country or to injure its prospects. The country will, in fact, be better off—so will we, and if you are wise, so will you. How soon will the police be here?”
“Does that matter?”
“I think so. I shall need five minutes to get away.”
Loftus looked at them; he even contrived to smile.
“Gentlemen, there is nothing, now, that either I or you can do about it. The police are closing in, and no one in a widely spread area will be allowed to pass.”
For the first time Whittaker showed emotion. The tip of a pale tongue showed against parched and bloodless lips.
Loftus turned to Kay. “To make things doubly sure, Llewellyn, I have discovere
d that your carefully compiled records of ‘antiques’, which no one must come to know too well—are the actual records of food stored, and the tabulated warehouses. In code, of course.”
Llewellyn drew a sharp breath.
Loftus went on quietly: “Whittaker’s stores and whole-depots, working in conjunction with the Ministry of Food, are at least some of the secret dumps, we’ll find the others, don’t imagine that we won’t. Whittaker’s men working in the warehouses and dumps which have been destroyed actually did the work of destruction. When did you get these big stores in?”
“I have been accumulating them for many years, I saw this coming ten years ago.”
“Very far-sighted,” murmured Loftus. “And because of that you thought you had a right to hold a gun at the Government’s head. To get your millions you would induce a state of nervousness up and down the country. Men in your stores distributed leaflets, too, didn’t they?”
Whittaker made no reply.
“Ah, well,” said Loftus, “it was nicely worked out. Llewellyn doubtless thought of the blackmailing of the other directors, that’s a little beyond the scope of a plain business man. Yes, very neat—they were all on edge, they could all be guilty. Even Whittaker. But he put himself in the clear by allowing himself to be tortured and knocked out. You were ready to go through quite a lot to get what you wanted, weren’t you?”
Whittaker rasped: “I’ve made you an offer—are you going to take it, yes or no?”
“No.”
“Is that final?” asked Llewellyn, and his voice was deceptively gentle.
“Quite final.”
“In that case I am afraid we shall all have to go together,” said Llewellyn. “I have of course seen the possibility of failure, and I have tried to cover against it. This house is mined, Loftus. I have only to press a button on this desk, and it will be blown up. Even the records.” He could afford to sneer; both of them had a coolness of nerve which Loftus would have admired in any other circumstances. “Is that an argument which will make you change your mind, Loftus?”
“Why should it? One life or another doesn’t make much difference, and I have already given a full report of what I think has happened, and where the food will probably be found.”
“You seem oblivious to the fact that so much more destruction can be contrived tonight,” said Llewellyn.
“Somehow I don’t think it will be,” said Loftus, and he yawned. “Sorry, but I’ve been busy these past few days.”
Llewellyn was moving his hand very, very, slowly. Loftus could not see it move, only that it became infinitesimally nearer to some object on the desk.
Loftus shot him.
He believed the story of the mined house. He believed that Llewellyn could face the decision to bring about his own death and that of all who were in or near the house with equanimity. His bullet struck Llewellyn in the shoulder, and it sent the man back heavily in his chair.
And then Whittaker moved.
He might have reached the door had Thornton not stepped across unhurriedly, and put out a leg which sent Whittaker crashing to the floor. As that happened Loftus moved swiftly, lifting Llewellyn bodily away from the desk to a chair on the far side of the room. None of them saw the door open, not even Loftus.
A voice said coolly:
“Step back, Loftus. And you.”
A gun was motioned towards Spats, while the Department men stared at the man in the doorway, at the bluff north-countryman Fortescue. Fortescue’s heavy face showed no expression, although his shaggy eyebrows were drawn together in a frown of concentration.
“Keep quite still now,” he said. “Ah’m not fooling. Ah’ve known Whittaker was oop t’something like this for a long time, it’s why Ah pretended to work wi’ the man Golt. Ah was going to chisel in for a half of the profits, but . . .”
Loftus moved.
He did not know what Fortescue was going to try to do: he could not understand why the man had shown himself when he might have escaped without direct suspicion. He did not much care. He bent down and lifted Llewellyn again, and the man was as light as a feather pillow in his arms. He just tossed him, as he would a pillow, towards Fortescue. The man was so startled that he lowered his gun, and Thornton moved very swiftly and brought him down from the knees. He and Llewellyn hit the floor together, and Loftus stepped to the desk and sat in front of it.
“The lot, I hope,” he said, and he was sitting like that when—three minutes later—Miller and other policemen came in after Thornton had opened the front door. Llewellyn, Whittaker and Fortescue were sitting in chairs and his gun was covering them, while Loftus was looking in particular at Fortescue.
“Spats,” he said, “ruffle his eyebrows.”
Spats stepped across the room and ran his hand roughly across the north-countryman’s forehead. The eyebrows came away with it. Loftus did not know who the man really was, but he did know it was not “Honest Dan” Fortescue; and he was glad.
Treason from Whittaker was quite enough.
Fortescue had been murdered, and his body was found a week afterwards in the grounds of Larch House. His “double” admitted that for some weeks he had masqueraded as the north countryman—his sole purpose being to keep watch on the full activities of the directors. Llewellyn had not trusted Whittaker, and had accordingly taken that precaution.
It was, all in all, said Loftus that same evening, a filthy business. He was speaking to The Rt. Hon. Graham Hershall.
Loftus had made a full report. Not for the first time he was surprised by the thoroughness with which Hershall grasped all details. During the past few days he had seemed to leave everything to the Department, but in fact he had missed nothing.
“There’s something else on your mind, Loftus. What is it?”
Loftus smiled slowly.
“Ideas, sir, and . . .”
“All right, let’s have ’em.”
Loftus said: “It’s the mechanical perfection of the show that gets me more than anything else, I think. I’ve played some peculiar games with the Department, but nothing quite like this one. Right from the start we were told where the trouble was likely to be. Arkeld was an obvious suspect—as a source of a leakage if no more. And so while we concentrated on the gentleman, Whittaker and Llewellyn had a free hand elsewhere. Luckily, Craigie thought it wise to check up on them all. If he hadn’t we might not have got so far, although the first real lead was from Arkeld, of course.”
“Yes?” Hershall leaned forward, took Loftus’s glass from a table near him, replenished it with brandy, and then refilled his own. Loftus cupped the glass letting the aroma steal into his nostrils. It gave him a feeling of well-being, and satisfaction.
“We-ell, once we were getting somewhere, Llewellyn put up this gigantic red-herring. Golt, and Germany. He was sure we would fall for it. He arranged with the woman Berne to put up a show with one of our agents, and her apparent death clinched the fact—it seemed—of a Nazi espionage ring. That was all deliberate, to get us off the scent!”
“Hmm. We could have used Llewellyn, I think.”
“Ye-es,” said Loftus. “We were to be chasing after the espionage angle, while everything was going along nicely for Llewellyn and Whittaker. The idea presumably was that when you saw that money could buy off the trouble, you would pay up.”
Hershall put his head on one side.
“And what do you think?”
“I think you would,” smiled Loftus. “It was a vast conception that left nothing out, except that there was a mistake which I think is understandable. I was too close to the directors—I managed to get too much too quickly. Fortescue—the false Fortescue—disappeared to try to centre suspicion in that quarter, but apparently I wasn’t satisfied, so Whittaker cleared himself—or thought he did. A man who was actually attacked was obviously in the clear—so they thought.”
“So did I,” said Hershall. “Didn’t you?”
Loftus smiled. “There was just one thing wrong about that show, sir
. Whittaker was left alive. Arkeld wasn’t, remember. They wouldn’t want Whittaker to say what had been asked of him, and the reasonable thing was to kill him. They didn’t, and he said they asked him for a plan which they already had.”
“Well, well, well,” said Hershall. “I didn’t see that. Each man to his own trade, I suppose. You actually knew it was Whittaker?”
“I thought so.”
“You didn’t tell anyone.”
“I wanted him loose,” said Loftus grimly. “There was a chance that we wouldn’t find the girl again . . .”
“You thought she was alive?”
Loftus smiled amiably: “That’s why I had a call sent out for her, sir. That explosion and the fire was too big a business to kill off one woman, and there was no definite evidence that her body was amongst those of the victims. Yes, a big conception, and a ruthless one. Just one other thing, sir. Who would be as ruthless as they were at the hotel? Who would be so determined to give nothing away that they would kill themselves? Who would in any number distribute those leaflets, and play any part in the sabotage?” He paused, and sipped the brandy. “There was a pretty parcel of hate in all of them.”
“Go on,” said Hershall.
“Whittaker was a big business man long-sighted enough to get this food tucked away here and there about the country. Llewellyn however thought it necessary to have to stooge at the conference, despite the risk that involved. A vast conception, I repeat. So is world domination, don’t you think? I don’t believe we’ll ever prove it, but if Llewellyn wasn’t Berlin’s hidden hand in this country I’ll eat my hat. The biggest red-herring was to throw the truth at us, believing we would think it too obvious!”
And Hershall said: “That’s my opinion too, Loftus. You’ve done very well. Will we find the stores of food, d’you think?”
“I do, sir,” said Bill Loftus; and soon afterwards he took his leave.
It was on the next day that the dumps were found, mostly in Whittaker’s stores up and down the country, but sometimes in warehouses and empty houses, a supply greater than that which had been lost. And from the records at the St. John’s Wood house there were taken—after heavy work by the cipher department—the names and addresses of the saboteurs; there were eight hundred of them and they were interned for the duration. Against no single one was there any direct evidence, or any clear connection with Berlin. But they would do no more damage.
