Death Ray

by Craig Simpson

  Regaining my composure, I realized the room was empty. The door to the bathroom, however, was open. ‘Véronique? You in there?’

  Still no reply. Cautiously I stepped forward, my brain full of frightful visions of what might lie inside the bathroom. Maybe the waiter was in there, his arm tightly gripped about her neck. Perhaps he’d drowned her in the bath! Holding my gun in front of me, I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking. ‘Véronique?’ My voice quivered.

  Holding my breath, I shoved the door open hard, so it swung right back on its hinges and would smack anyone hiding behind it. It crashed against the wall and slowly returned towards me. I stepped inside. There was no sign of Véronique or the waiter. Totally baffled, I moved back into the bedroom. I sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched my head. What had happened? Where were they? I’d not seen them pass me in the lobby. Had they taken the lift while I’d used the stairs? Had they gone out a back way? None of it made any sense. Then I had a horrible thought. A really awful thought. What if the waiter had regained consciousness while I’d been talking to Véronique? What if he’d overheard everything, managed to wriggle free and overpower her? I’d mentioned that others were following Renard – Loki and Freya! If I were the waiter, I’d be rushing to warn Renard, and that meant Loki and Freya were in great danger. I’d had to find them – fast.

  Leaving the hotel, I walked briskly in the direction of the square. According to Véronique the Flamingo Club was situated on the other side of town. Keeping one hand inside my coat pocket, I was conscious that my grip on the handle of the revolver was tight, and that my palm was sweaty. I wanted to run as fast as I could, but knew that could be a big mistake. People would be suspicious of someone running. It was best to walk confidently and with purpose, to look like you knew where you’re going. At the same time I wanted to keep an eye out for Véronique and the waiter. For all I knew he may have been waiting outside the hotel, intent on seeking revenge. The urge to keep looking over my shoulder was powerful. But I remembered what Jacques had said during our lessons at Mulberry – Keep your head still and move your eyes. Don’t under any circumstances peer over your shoulder – it’s a real giveaway. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself. So, shining my torch onto the pavement, I headed across town, dreading a tap on my shoulder or an arm being wrapped about my neck from behind – an arm covered in coiled serpents, belonging to a man with a thumping headache and with a huge grudge against the person who gave it to him!

  It began to rain, gently at first, but it soon became a deluge, giving me the perfect excuse to run the last few hundred yards. I turned a corner and entered a quiet side street. If Véronique’s directions were correct, somewhere on the left-hand side was the Flamingo Club. Dodging the puddles, I walked slowly along, looking and listening carefully. Where the hell was it? Hearing voices behind me, I spun round.

  Two men in army uniform staggered out of an alley. They were drunk and boisterous, their hats perched on their heads at precarious angles, their coats unbuttoned. They pushed past me, one giving me a fuzzy look, the other barely noticing my existence. ‘The Flamingo Club?’ I asked hopefully. One of them turned, almost falling over in the process, and waved a hand in the general direction of the alley. ‘Thanks,’ I said. They went on their way, singing at the tops of their voices.

  Rain poured from broken gutters, splashing down on abandoned crates. The alley smelled of cat pee and I thought I heard rats scratching in the darkness. There were other noises too. They sounded like the vibrating, hollow notes of a double bass being plucked and the sharp tinny slap of cymbal against cymbal. A faint glow leaked out from beneath a shabby wooden door. As I approached the music grew louder. I turned the handle and entered.

  Inside I was greeted by a dimly lit narrow hallway, staircases leading both up and down and a small counter, behind which sat a rather plump woman dressed in a hideous but revealing purple dress. Her make-up was so thick it looked as though it had been applied with a shovel, and a cigarette dangled from her lips. ‘What can I do for you, young man?’ she asked, her voice unnaturally deep and gravelly.

  ‘Is this the Flamingo Club?’

  ‘Downstairs,’ she replied.

  I looked and saw that an arrow painted on the grubby wall helpfully pointed towards the basement. ‘Thanks!’

  Placing my foot on the first step, the woman barked, ‘And where the hell do you think you’re going?’

  ‘You said the club was downstairs.’

  ‘You’re too young. More than my job’s worth. If we get raided I’ll be in the soup again.’

  ‘Soup?’

  ‘Never mind. Now hop it.’

  ‘Hop it?’

  She frowned at me. ‘Are you as stupid as you look?’

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’ll only be a minute. I’ve got a message for a friend. And he’s downstairs. Asked me to meet him here.’

  ‘Really? If that’s true, then my name’s Vera Lynn!’

  Where had I heard that name before …? Then I remembered. The wireless at Mulberry. Mrs Saunders loved to sing along to tunes, and Vera Lynn was one of her favourites. ‘Nice to meet you, Vera,’ I said jokingly.

  She laughed. Actually, it was more of a cackle that rapidly deteriorated into a splutter, then a hacking cough that reddened her cheeks and had her reaching for a tissue. ‘You a comedian?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry, but like I said, it’s more than my job’s worth.’

  I took out my wallet and removed the crisp one-pound note we’d been issued with in case of emergencies. I folded it and placed it down in front of her. I could almost see her drooling. ‘It really is important,’ I said.

  She hummed and hawed a minute and then reached out and snatched up the money, quickly making it disappear by wedging it down her ample cleavage. ‘Who’s this friend?’ she asked.

  ‘I expect you know him,’ I said. ‘He’s a regular here. Mr Mouton. Félix.’

  Her eyes lit up. ‘Félix! Why didn’t you say so? You could have saved yourself a lot of money. Go ahead.’

  I considered asking for my money back but decided against it. I sped down the stairs and through another door, entering the heart of the candlelit Flamingo Club. In one corner a jazz quartet thumbed, strummed and bashed out crazy improvised rhythms amid a haze of cigarette and cigar smoke. Couples danced in a small area in front of them. There was a bar, tables and chairs dotted about, and snug-looking booths down one wall. The place was packed. Many people were in uniform, others in civvies, a good few in evening dress. The party-goers were a smart crowd, just like Renard, although the surroundings appeared far less salubrious. I’d never felt so out of place in my life. I cast my eyes about the room in search of Loki and Freya. There was no sign of them, but the place was so crowded they could well have been hidden from view. I couldn’t see Renard either, or Véronique, or the waiter. I noticed the barman peer at me curiously. I couldn’t loiter. I had an idea and headed towards him. ‘I’ve got a message,’ I called out over the hubbub. ‘For Mr Mouton.’

  He studied my face for a moment and then beckoned me forward to within earshot. ‘You can give it to me. I’ll see he gets it.’

  ‘Sorry. I have to deliver it personally. Is he here?’

  The barman responded by nodding towards a door at the rear of the club. ‘Mr Mouton doesn’t like being disturbed. Best if you wait out here.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Thanks.’

  He leaned forward again. ‘Want a drink?’

  ‘Sorry. No money,’ I replied.

  He took pity on me. ‘Have it on the house. What’ll it be?’

  I peered at all the bottles lined up on shelves behind the bar. Most I didn’t recognize. ‘Whisky?’ I said hopefully, fully expecting the barman to refuse.

  He snatched up a tiny glass and reached for a bottle. He poured me a shot. I couldn’t believe it. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thanks!’ It was the first drink I’d ever ordered in a bar. Clutching it, I wandered around
the club, soaking up the rhythm, breathing the thick, smoky air, listening to the high-spirited laughter and chatter while doing my best not to bump into the revellers. I like this place, I thought. It buzzed, it breathed, it had life. Of course, it was all rather shabby and seedy, but I felt a million miles away from wartime Britain and its self-imposed austerity. Someone grabbed my arm. I jumped out of my skin, spilling half my drink.

  ‘Finn! What are you doing here?’

  It was Loki. He and Freya were huddled in one of the cosy booths. I squeezed in beside them and filled them in on all that had happened.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Loki, wide-eyed with astonishment. He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after seven.’ Then he pointed across the club. ‘Renard disappeared out the back ages ago; through that door. We’ve been waiting here ever since.’

  Freya leaned across. ‘And we haven’t seen Véronique, Finn. Or the waiter from the Cadenza.’

  ‘Is that what I think it is, Finn?’ said Loki, eyeing up my glass.

  I nodded and then told Freya, ‘Whatever plans Renard had for this evening, I bet everything will change as soon as he finds out what’s happened. When he knows the authorities are on to him, he’ll be forced to make a move.’

  Loki grabbed my glass, downed the shot of whisky in one gulp, screwed up his face and coughed violently.

  ‘Hey!’ I said. Freya patted him on the back. Serves him right, I thought.

  Recovering his breath, Loki grinned at me. ‘Damn, I needed that! Thanks, Finn. I owe you one. So, what’s the plan?’

  I peered towards the door at the back of the club. Was Renard, the Nazi master spy, just a matter of feet away? Did he have the blueprints on him? Was he in the process of handing them over to an accomplice? Was he making arrangements to get the blueprints out of the country and to Berlin? It was so frustrating. Surely we couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.

  Freya leaned across the table again. ‘I know our orders were to sit tight, but Walker and the brigadier don’t know about what happened after you telephoned them. It changes everything, doesn’t it?’ Lowering her voice, she added, ‘Have you still got the waiter’s gun?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then we should take matters into our own hands. If Renard’s out the back, this may be our one and only chance to take him on.’

  Loki, suitably fortified by the whisky, sprang from his seat. ‘Let’s do it!’

  Chapter Ten

  The Dumbwaiter

  NOBODY NOTICED OR cared when the three of us slipped quietly through the door at the rear of the club. Entering a corridor lit by a single naked bulb, we saw a steep set of steps ahead of us and to our right another door.

  ‘Looks like those stairs lead to an exit into the alley,’ Freya observed, peering up.

  We focused our attention on the door. I took the gun from my pocket and held a finger to my lips. ‘I’ll cover you.’

  Loki nodded and grabbed hold of the door handle. I stepped to one side. ‘Go on!’

  Pushing open the door, Loki reached for the light switch. ‘Hell! We’re too late.’

  I followed him into what seemed to be a storeroom. There were shelves and racks for bottles but most were empty and just gathering dust. There was a small table and four chairs in the centre of the room. Three empty glasses and an ashtray full of dog-ends were the only signs that someone had been there.

  Loki turned, pushed past me and hammered up the steps.

  ‘At least we tried, Finn,’ said Freya disconsolately.

  Strawberries! I could smell strawberries. And something in the ashtray caught my eye too. One of the cigarette butts looked different from the others. I grabbed it.

  Loki returned. ‘Just as you thought, Freya – the stairs lead to an exit. They’ve given us the slip.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Freya, peering over my shoulder.

  ‘Véronique was here,’ I declared, holding up the remainder of the cigarette.

  ‘What?’ Loki inspected the evidence in my hand. ‘How do you figure that out?’

  ‘She smokes these blue cigarettes. And she wears perfume that smells of strawberries. Can’t you smell it? She was here. I just know it.’

  ‘Well, she isn’t here now,’ Freya huffed. ‘Come on, you two, we’d better go and rendezvous with Nils and the others.’

  I was confused. What was Véronique doing here? Had the waiter dragged her kicking and screaming back to Renard, who’d act as judge, jury and executioner? ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘We can’t just abandon Véronique. The way I see it, she needs our help.’

  ‘And just how do you think we can help her?’ said Loki.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I racked my brain for inspiration. ‘Maybe they’ve taken her back to Renard’s apartment.’

  ‘And maybe they haven’t,’ Loki replied. ‘If Renard knows people are on to him, he’d not make such a stupid mistake.’

  ‘And there’s not enough time, anyway,’ said Freya, examining her watch. ‘Finn, you said we’ve got to meet Nils and the brigadier at the Pavilion at eight. Best not be late. Come on.’

  To get to our rendezvous point we had to pass the entrance to The Melksham hotel. There was quite a commotion. Two police cars were parked at the kerbside in front of the revolving doors, and a constable stood barring the way in. Fearing it might have something to do with my earlier visit, and not wishing to be recognized by the man on reception, I crossed the street and did my best to shield myself from view, hiding behind Loki.

  Nils was waiting for us outside the plush carpeted entrance to the Pavilion. He saw us and waved frantically. ‘He doesn’t look too happy,’ Freya remarked.

  ‘Thank God you’re all OK,’ he said, looking relieved.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Loki asked.

  ‘This place is crawling with SIS. Walker’s inside too. He brought Smithy and Killer Keenan along just in case. No sign of Renard yet, though. They intend to arrest him as soon as he sets foot through the door. But after what you told me, Finn – that Véronique’s cover’s been blown – I doubt he’ll show up. By my reckoning he’s long gone. Look out! Best behaviour now, I think the brigadier’s on the warpath.’

  Brigadier Devlin strode purposefully towards us from the direction of The Melksham; another man in civvies walked alongside him. Both were fuming. ‘Ruddy disaster!’ the brigadier bellowed. ‘A body’s been discovered in the hotel! Stuffed into a dumbwaiter.’

  I gulped. ‘It’s … it’s … it’s … not Véronique, is it?’ I asked, bracing myself.

  ‘No,’ snapped the man accompanying the brigadier.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘What’s a dumbwaiter?’ Freya asked.

  ‘It’s a small lift used for carrying food or rubbish between floors, miss,’ the brigadier informed her. ‘This here is Colonel Shelby,’ he added, gesturing to the man beside him. ‘He’s with the SIS. He’s just identified the body as being that of the waiter from the Cadenza.’

  ‘The waiter! I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘Neither do I,’ hissed the brigadier.

  I explained what had happened after I’d telephoned Nils. ‘I assumed the waiter had managed to free himself and then overpower Véronique. I figured he’d dragged her off to the Flamingo Club. Guess I was wrong.’

  The brigadier glared at me.

  ‘And, so,’ I continued, figuring it out as I spoke, ‘presumably Véronique got the better of him, after all. Killed him and then disposed of the body in that dumbwaiter thing. So there’s one less of Renard’s men to worry about.’

  The brigadier’s face grew plum-coloured with rage.

  ‘… That’s good, isn’t it?’

  From the brigadier’s expression I knew that I was mistaken.

  Colonel Shelby spoke up. ‘The waiter was one of our men!’

  Chapter Eleven

  Jacques’ Story

  BACK AT MULBERRY all hell broke loose. Everyone was ordered to assemble in the lounge. Colonel Shelby had returned with
the brigadier, and from the look on Walker’s face, I reckoned the very existence of Special Operations hung in the balance. It had been a calamitous day and I think Shelby wanted to shout from the rooftops that Special Ops was to blame for the loss of one of his men. As we took our seats you could cut the atmosphere with one of Mrs Saunders’ extremely sharp kitchen knives.

  ‘Unfortunately,’ the brigadier began, scowling indignantly at Colonel Shelby, ‘it seems that our left hand doesn’t know what our right hand is doing these days. For Christ’s sake, we’re all supposed to be on the same side! Why wasn’t your undercover agent informed of our activities?’

  ‘Why weren’t yours informed of ours?’ Shelby hissed back with equal venom.

  Had Shelby and the brigadier been twenty years younger, I imagined this particular conversation would have ended up with punches being thrown. As it was, they composed themselves. Nils asked the perfect question: ‘Can someone explain what the hell’s going on?’

  Shelby sighed. ‘Very well. The waiter at the Cadenza had the job of covering Véronique’s back. We inserted him into the field just a week ago. You see, in Véronique’s last report she hinted that Renard was growing suspicious of her. Anyway, we can only assume our chap saw you lot watching Renard’s apartment. Maybe he thought you were part of his unsavoury crowd. If he reckoned there was trouble brewing, his orders were to tail Véronique to make sure she was OK.’

  I held up a hand.

  ‘Yes, Mr Gunnersen?’

  ‘Did Véronique know the waiter was with the SIS? She told me she didn’t recognize him.’

  Shelby shook his head. ‘No, they’d not met. Of course, like you lot, in an emergency our agents can identify themselves to each other with coded phrases or signals. However, from your version of events, Mr Gunnersen, it sounds like our man didn’t get the chance to introduce himself!’

  That put me in my place. I tried to explain that I’d suspected Renard had signalled to the waiter in the town square. It was that, and the fact that the waiter immediately set off after Véronique, that had raised my suspicions. My little speech was met with blank faces. I was wrong, apparently. The waiter was not working for Renard. But what about Véronique? She’d gone running to Renard. Surely that made her a double agent. I was about to point out her treachery when I saw the fury in Shelby’s eyes. This wasn’t the right moment, I decided. I suspected that Shelby had already come to the same conclusion as me – that one way or another he’d lost two agents in a single night.