by John Creasey
Later he cursed himself for not looking more deeply into Granville’s occasional bursts of confidence. For the time being it was the immediate problem he found disturbing – Letty Granville in the spirit and in the flesh.
There was talk, for no ship of the size of the Hoveric could exist without its scandalmongers, and whispers reached his ears; that the breach between Letty and Wenlock was caused as much by Wenlock’s complete disappearance from the social life on the Hoveric as the manner of his defeat; that she had tried to see the red-headed man in his private cabin; that she suspected her brother had had something to do with Wenlock’s defeat; that Letty and Frank were bad friends in consequence.
‘Reduces me to a nervous wreck,’ grumbled Storm on the last night, as Roger Grimm slipped into a pair of gaily-striped pyjamas. ‘I mean, what did she ever see in him? It didn’t take me three seconds to recognise a cad and a bounder!’
‘Do shut up,’ grumbled Grimm. ‘Sleep it off, old chap, and turn that light out.’
Little or nothing was seen of Wenlock the next morning. He was, Storm learned, the son of a wealthy American, his complete lack of American accent was explained by the fact that he had been educated at Eton and Oxford, and he was on a trip to England on his father’s business interests. The interests were vague, but Granville believed they were something in oil, and at the back of Storm’s mind was a hazy recollection that the name Wenlock spelt power and money.
In keeping with his lifelong habit of taking everything with amiable philosophy, Storm was not particularly surprised when, three hours out of Southampton, a summons came from the Captain’s cabin. Would Mr Storm and Mr Grimm be good enough to visit Captain Roker?
The cousins had been packing for the past hour and had seen nothing of the raking grey ship drawn up alongside the mountainous Hoveric and from which a Very Important Personage had crossed the intervening stretch of water on a motor launch flying the blue ensign. Meeting him in Captain Roker’s cabin, Storm, after a moment’s uncertain racking of memory, recognised him to be a prominent M.P.
The Personage greeted them pleasantly enough, adding: ‘I’m sorry that my call is an official one.’ He smiled. ‘They tell me that you’ve been causing some anxiety in the United States.’
‘Oi!’ broke in Storm, gasping at the fact that the shindy in New York was looked on so seriously that the Assistant to the Home Secretary and Prime Minister should seek a personal interview. What the deuce was coming? He grimaced to himself but went on naturally enough: ‘Not of our making, I assure you.’
The Personage smiled dryly.
‘Whichever way it was, gentlemen, I’m afraid it has caused a considerable stir with the authorities in New York. The chief apprehension is, to give you a partial explanation which you certainly deserve, that the man called – er – ’
‘Redhead,’ supplied Storm affably.
‘That is the man,’ agreed the Personage, relieved to have the undignified nickname taken out of his mouth. ‘He is rather more than the usual type of gangster. In fact – ’ The emissary from the Home Secretary broke off, gazing keenly and seriously at the two large young men who sat at ease before him. When he spoke again his voice was measured and sobered by the fear which had so marked the New York authorities. The sinister influence of the unseen, unknown Redhead seemed to lurk in the small cabin, and the air was chill.
‘In fact,’ he went on soberly, ‘we have every reason to fear that this man – ’
‘Redhead,’ interposed Storm helpfully.
‘Is,’ went on the Assistant imperturbably, ‘bent on executing a grave and very large criminal coup. We have every reason to believe that this individual will operate not only in the United States but also in Europe and – er – most likely in England. In view of that, gentlemen’ – the speaker’s voice deepened – ‘the need, the absolute necessity for complete silence on all matters which so unfortunately concerned you while in New York cannot be too strongly emphasised.’
He paused again, and it struck Storm that he was at once reluctant and embarrassed, which meant that something of a climax was coming. Slowly:
‘You will have to forgive me for this, gentlemen, but I – er – I have been instructed to advise you that the matter is viewed by the Home Secretary as one of such vital importance that any information which might be divulged by you on the matter of – er – Redhead, will not only be an indictable offence but will be sufficient to give grounds for instant detention at His Majesty’s Government’s discretion.’
The Assistant Secretary stopped. He was frankly concerned with the probability of their rebellious reception of his ultimatum. It had been an unorthodox and an unpleasant task and he was glad to be at the end of it.
Consequently, relief tempered his amazement at the sight of Martin Storm’s rugged face splitting, in company with Roger Grimm’s, from an expression of lugubrious bewilderment to one of explosive mirth.
‘Good lord, Roger! What about that? Indictable offence – immediate detention – state secrets!’
Across the faces of the Assistant Secretary and Captain Roker a first mystified and then comprehending grin appeared.
The Assistant Secretary allowed them a full thirty seconds before making a tentative interruption.
‘So I may take it, gentlemen, that you will have no hesitation in acting on the – er – instructions of the – er – Home Office?’
Storm, almost recovered, extended a genial hand.
‘Sir,’ he said solemnly, ‘you may rely on our absolute discretion. Not a word of our adventures on foreign soil shall be breathed to a soul. You agree, Roger?’
‘Absolutely,’ asserted Roger Grimm firmly.
For the next two hours Storm and Grimm wandered about the Hoveric in a state of barely suppressed merriment. But Granville, who tried hard to solve the mystery, got nothing further than:
‘Granny, old son, the Captain told us a funny story! Oh, my hat! My sides!’
Southampton came at last. The Hoveric berthed with that stately, breathless exactitude of position after manoeuvres which sent the hearts of the uninitiated into panicky fears of collision against the harbour walls. Storm and Grimm, comparatively sober and secure in the knowledge that Letty Granville had echoed, howbeit not so warmly, her brother’s invitation for them to spend a week or longer at Ledsholm Grange, their home in Sussex.
‘Funny if someone started potting us, wouldn’t it?’ murmured Storm as he and his cousin viewed the ever-shifting crowds lining the docks, the bawling porters, hysterical relatives and staccato-voiced officials with the deep satisfaction peculiar to the returning traveller.
The next moment he felt himself suddenly lifted off his feet by a human avalanche stampeding towards the deep, muddy waters of the harbour. Grimm, a yard nearer the edge than Storm, grabbed at a stanchion and heaved backwards for all he was worth, bawling like a madman.
‘Get back, curse you, get back! Do you all want to be drowned like rats? Get back!’
He heaved like a superman, with Storm, on his feet in a trice, following suit against the second stanchion and forming a cordon with the help of a handful of men quick enough on the uptake to realise the calamitous outcome of the panic if the crowd toppled over to the sea. The cordon of flesh and bone bent and swayed beneath the mad onslaught, but with the stanchions which were placed at intervals along the quayside giving them support they kept the shrieking, bellowing crowd at bay. Gradually the ghastly danger struck home to the panickers, and the pressure eased. Shouts grew less frequent and less hysterical, white, strained faces turned towards the sea.
Why it had started, what had caused the maniacal stampede which might have proved a ghastly massacre of innocents was for the moment totally beyond Storm’s comprehension. He caught Grimm’s eye as he moved quickly away from the spot.
‘Hump,’ grunted Grimm. ‘I wonder – oh, damn!’
He snatched his hand from a wooden stanchion, staring down on it for a moment in stupefaction. From the middle of t
he index finger of his right hand a small stream of blood began to flow.
Storm saw it and his mouth tightened.
‘That’s rifle fire,’ he said tersely. ‘Who the –’
He broke off, grabbing at his hat as it was lifted from his head as though by a heavy gust of wind. Through the crown was a small, clean hole. His eyes lost every expression save one of hard, unflinching purpose as he stared upwards to the towering deck of the Hoveric.
For a split second he saw the gleam of something long and bright almost directly above them, a wide-brimmed hat, and beneath it a glimpse of a man’s face staring down at him.
In spite of the distance, he knew his man!
Ralph Wenlock! There wasn’t a shadow of doubt. Ginger had started his reprisals and started them quickly, with all the murderous intent which Storm had seen in the glowing green eyes and hard, merciless features.
For perhaps ten seconds Storm stood on the edge of the quay, staring upwards.
Wenlock’s move had been devilishly cunning. Waiting until the majority of the Hoveric’s passengers had disembarked he had gone to the top deck where he was hidden from the sight of everyone apart from a chance sailor, and had taken aim at the cousins with a cold-bloodedness worthy of the blackest hearted Chicago gangster. The almost insane lust for vengeance was incredible; Storm wondered coolly what else was behind the attack.
With a grimace at Grimm, Storm turned his thoughts towards the stampede. Was there any connection between the disturbance and the shooting?
He let the idea go, as being too fantastic for words. The stampede had merely given Wenlock good cover and lessened the chances of failure to escape.
Storm knew that the day of reckoning with the ginger-haired American was yet to come.
The cousins had the choice of two things and they discussed them quietly as they made their way towards the Customs House. They could report the shooting to the police, or they could keep quiet and let Ginger fancy that he had been unrecognised. Finally they decided on a middle course, that of reporting it without giving a description of Wenlock. Thus, said Storm, they would ease their conscience and Wenlock’s mind at the same time.
Grimm’s retort was neither courteous nor complimentary.
Storm cocked an eye at the thinning crowd.
‘I don’t think there’s much chance of reporters buttonholing us now, old boy. Let’s have a look at the source of the trouble.’
Staring towards one spot round which a heaving throng of spectators still surged he saw the helmets of a dozen policemen and the peak caps of several officials.
‘There we are,’ he said easily as they moved towards the crowd. ‘Mad dog, probably, or someone suffering from sunstroke. Shift your lazy bones.’
Grimm shifted, keeping his injured hand in his pocket. They approached the crowd with unusual sobriety, having, in the words of Storm, had quite enough shindy for one day.
Their height enabled them to see the trouble above the heads of the lesser humans, and again Storm wondered whether the trouble had been quite so accidental as they might have imagined.
It seemed that the dock trolleys had crashed head-first. Several people were being attended by first-aid men, and from the remarks which floated from still excited travellers they gathered that a number had been taken to hospital.
Then from the lips of a white-bearded patriarch they heard the word ‘guns’.
Storm’s eyes narrowed as he approached and inquired for information. The white-bearded patriarch came well up to scratch.
‘A most amazing occurrence, sir! An outrage! A matter for the severest disciplinary measure! I have never – ’
‘Couple of drivers went blotto, eh?’ queried Storm, playing for quick results.
An indignant and furious glance was flung in his direction.
‘It had nothing to do with drivers, sir! The Royal Mail has been stolen! All the post on board the Hoveric has been stolen by armed bandits! And the unutterable scoundrels shot down officials and sent these two trolleys crashing against each other to prevent pursuit!’
‘Any captures?’ demanded Storm quickly.
The aged one shook his head.
‘None at all! All three men escaped! And but for the activities of a number of heroic young men along the quayside there would have been a still further tragedy. I shudder to think of what might have happened; but luckily, sir, there still exist men of whom England may well be proud. In spite of the panic, in spite of the veritable stampede, they stood with their backs to the wall.’
Storm slid gracefully out of the crush towards the customs shed, with Grimm in close attendance.
‘Hear that, Roger? Three men with guns pinched the mail bags and sheered off. They must have had a car.’ He scratched his head thoughtfully. ‘Lot of guns about today, aren’t there?’
‘A lot too many,’ snorted Grimm. ‘It’s nearly as bad as New York, Martin, what with guns and what with Redhead – ’
Storm went suddenly still.
‘My God!’ he burst out. ‘Ginger – Redhead! Get that, chew that! Think about it! Ginger – Redhead! Redhead was coming to England, they fancied, and Ginger’s here. Ginger shot at us with his little gun and I don’t believe he would have done it because of the tussle we had the other day. Oh, boy! Can Ginger be Redhead? And if he is, aren’t we going to have something to say about it?’
Chapter 4
The Department Without Names
Sir William Divot was a much worried and harassed politician who combined a frigid manner with a warm heart and a genial if limited sense of humour. Not for many months had he laughed so heartily nor chuckled so deeply at frequent intervals. But by the time the train ran into Waterloo Sir William had thoroughly immersed himself in a welter of facts, figures and fancies, and he forgot the lumbering, genial Martin Storm and his less forceful but equally pleasant companion. Muttering an apology as he trod on the toes of the detective who was making sure that no harm befell such an important member of the Government, he walked hurriedly towards the waiting Daimler saloon, and instructed his chauffeur to make for Whitehall.
He was thinking of bandits, although the very word was anathema. Bandits in England. Pah! The thing was outrageous. Where was Scotland Yard? Why was the special department at Whitehall called in? Anyone would think the very country was overrun with armed robbers.
Knowing nothing of the outrage at the docks and the theft of the Hoveric’s mail, he appreciated that the figures whirling in his head, figures telling of the increasing number of post office hold-ups and armed robberies, were impressive. But he secretly believed that there was a great deal of exaggeration in the business, and he was firmly convinced that the talk he had heard of the American gangster, Redhead, was distorted out of all proportion.
His chauffeur, a young and personable servitor, was keenly disappointed. Whitehall meant work, probably for the rest of the evening, and there was a certain bright-eyed little lady at the Hotel Clarion who was at that moment bedecking herself in anticipation of an evening out.
But Sir William knew nothing of these things and in any case had vitally important matters of state to attend. Stepping from the Daimler he told his servitor to get himself some tea.
‘I don’t know how long I’ll be, Perret. But be back within half-an-hour.’
Sir William, entering the gloomy portals of the Home Office, nodded absently to several commissionaires and walked steadily on, his mind reeling with those facts, figures and fancies concerning bandit outrages and their total loss to the community. Gad! If the figures were right nearly half a million pounds worth of valuables had been stolen within the past three months. Colossal!
His journey was neither straightforward nor short, but he knew his way perfectly and after five minutes stopped outside a drab-looking door doing its best to hide its insignificant existence. Sharply he tapped an apparently haphazard but actually prearranged tattoo on the dingy oak surface. The door slid open. He stepped over the threshold, hearing the door
slide back into position with the start of apprehension which he always felt when reaching ‘Z’ Department – more often known as Department Z.
The Assistant Secretary was one of the few men who knew the name of Number One of ‘Z’ Department. Gordon Craigie, hatchet-faced, monosyllabic, smoker of a potent smelling meerschaum was Whitehall’s nearest approach to a mystery man.
As Chief of ‘Z’ Department he carried onerous and inordinately difficult work out with considerable success and it could be said with some certainty that he – helped by his courageous band of agents – did more than any man in the world to prevent war rising from the little flames of insurrection simmering in the hole-in-the-corner principalities throughout Europe and the Near East.
But ‘Z’ Department did not confine itself to international problems. It was closely linked with Scotland Yard although only the Chief Commissioner and a very select band of C.I.D. officials knew it. The matter on which Sir William Divot called concerned both home activities and the United States.
Craigie was sitting at a large, flat-topped desk smoking his inevitable meerschaum. His finger moved from the electric button which operated the sliding door as his thin lips parted in greeting.
‘Hallo, Divot. Glad to see you. What’s the trouble?’
Sir William’s lips parted a little petulantly.
‘It’s this Redhead business, Craigie. Are you sure it isn’t being overdone?’
Craigie’s meerschaum left his lips rather abruptly.
‘What put that into your head? I suppose you’ve just seen Storm and the other fellow.’
Mention of the genial giant brought a reflective smile to Sir William’s shrewd eyes.
‘Yes – Yes! A most – er – engaging young man, Craigie. Most engaging and most – er – tractable.’
‘Hump,’ muttered Craigie, who knew a great deal more about Martin Storm and Roger Grimm than Sir William dreamed.
‘I hadn’t the slightest difficulty with him,’ went on Sir William, obviously resentful of that ‘hump’. ‘You needn’t worry about that. However, the Prime Minister wants information on the Redhead affair. I suppose you have a report.’
