by John Creasey
‘Probably had a guilty conscience, anyhow,’ commented Thornton, as they set about searching the office with a thoroughness born of long practice. They found nothing of interest, beyond proof that the Dernier Cri’s profits were enormous, and that some of its activities overstepped the elastic bounds of legality.
Certainly there was nothing to explain why a whole gathering of people had gone to sleep. Nor to answer the question troubling Wally Davidson and the others most:
How long would it be, before the sleepers came round—provided they did in fact wake up?
3
Sleepers Awake!
It was a fact that as the war progressed, the duties of Department Z became more and more defensive. Except where the activities of its individual members were concerned, it had never been an aggressive branch of the Intelligence Service but had operated to a great degree abroad, its primary aim being to prevent an outbreak of hostilities until Great Britain was properly prepared. This laudable ambition had failed almost completely, thanks to the ineffectiveness of successive governments and the blind faith—or wishful thinking—of the general public. But when at last the country had begun to get ready, it had achieved the near miracle of half-speed production during the first eight months of the ‘phoney’ war. Whereupon the sluggish elector had decided that his opinion was worth voicing, and acted on that decision with a gusto and a power which had tumbled the government down to earth.
It is worthy of note that Great Britain contrived to achieve this elementary stage in hostilities on the very day that the Nazi hordes broke loose on the hope-deluded neutrals of Holland, Belgium and Luxemburg—and even more remarkable, that a great number of the champions of appeasement as well as Cabinet Ministers who had completely failed to realise the enormity of the situation, remained not only Members of Parliament, but continued in some kind of office. This tribute to their sincerity—and obeisance to the party machine—completed, an unaccustomed vigour raised its head, and the policy of action made itself felt throughout the land. The delayed action, however, failed signally in its first effort—as indeed it had been doomed to failure. The sad and sickening prospect of a Europe completely beneath the Nazi jackboot loomed increasingly on the horizon.
Great-hearted nations had fallen; and with France’s fall, the first great bastion of freedom died. There could be no more doubt of its death than there was of its eventual resurrection.
Among the Frenchmen who did not submit to the surrender of Bordeaux was M’sieu Armand de Boncour, director of French Intelligence. It was the Boncour who had warned Craigie—who in turn had advised the Government—of the impending decision of Marshal Petain in the woeful repetition of history, wherein Petain became the Hindenburg of France and capitulated to the Austrian house-painter, endeavouring to sell not only a Power but an Empire and a cause into thraldom.
All of which—except the escape of Armand de Boncour from Tours, with some of his agents—has became a part of the history which is already sending out its smoke-screen of excuses and explanations to cloak the truth.
With de Boncour, this record deals more directly.
On the evening when Loftus and Yvonne de Montmaront fell asleep so unexpectedly, de Boncour visited the Whitehall office of Gordon Craigie. Craigie had just finished talking with Wally Davidson when the green light signalled its message: someone who knew the way was asking for admission. He leaned forward and pressed a switch set in the mantelpiece of the long, low-ceilinged room, so that a sliding door opened, and de Boncour entered.
A short, rotund man who bounced as he walked, he had black hair, a black waxed moustache, sorrowful brown eyes and pendulous lips above a fleshy but surprisingly square chin. His hands were well-manicured but the hands themselves were plump and chubby. He was dressed in black, with a white-spotted tie, and his shoes were of patent leather.
‘Ah, Craigie. I catch you in, yes? Good.’
‘I don’t want to stay long,’ warned Craigie. A man of medium height, thin, angular and greying, he looked very tired indeed. His grey eyes were alert, however, and it was easy to recognise, in the sharp-featured face with its deeply etched lines at the mouth and eyes, a man of considerable intellectual capacity. A Department agent had once said that Craigie had a hatchet-face: it was not a bad description, allowing for the fact that his drooping lips were full and generous, suggesting a state of perpetual, dry amusement. He was dressed in clerical grey. An attractive smile enlivened the Frenchman’s face. ‘I shall never come properly to understand you, Craigie. You are the one man I know who always has time for everything. And now I have a story of great importance to tell you. You have a half-hour for me?’
Craigie indicated an easy-chair in front of a fireplace which still held the previous day’s ashes. It had been a hot day, and for the first time in a month Craigie had allowed the fire to go out.
‘It’s good,’ he remarked, ‘to see you lively again.’
Then taking a deep-bowled meerschaum from a rack near his hand, and a cracked jar of tobacco from a cluttered cupboard beside it, he seated himself opposite his guest.
De Boncour chuckled appreciatively.
‘Lively, yes—you have excellent perception, my friend.’
He was sitting forward eagerly, and it was true: there was something about him, now, of the energy and fire he had shown in those earlier days, when he had tried to persuade General Gamelin and the rest to stop sitting on the Maginot Line and act—while they still could.
‘Now, Craigie,’ he went on, ‘a man of mine, of whom you know little—Raoul Labiche. He began as a chemist—a research chemist, you understand—but joined me some years ago. It was at a time when poison gases were being exploited commercially, and Labiche had no time for commerce in death. He was of profound assistance in some three affairs, and among his efforts has been the production of petrol from coal—you have heard of him, yes?’
Craigie nodded: he never wasted words.
‘Bien! You know, then, that his loyalty is beyond question and his ability considerable. It is not generally known that he is of Alsace. He was a child there, so of course he speaks German as naturally as he does French. Now then, when the war began, Labiche went into Germany. More than that, he obtained work in the Essen factory which makes phosgene and suchlike. Information was sent through from the first, with great regularity. Useful, always: never greatly surprising. Then, suddenly—silence.’
De Boncour paused, then went on, slowly:
‘Obviously, he has been found out by the Gestapo. You think it: I think it. No word has come from him since Christmas—which is a long time. Nine months. Naturally, I picture him in the concentration camp, or as a body with so many others—men who have been killed, trying to save France. As save France they will!’ he added fiercely. ‘I will not believe that they cannot: that——’
‘Labiche,’ Craigie reminded him.
The Frenchman shrugged, apologetic.
‘It is so—I wander from the point. My country—in these days, it becomes an obsession. So: Labiche!’
He searched for a moment in his breast-pocket. ‘Today, I have word from him. He has not been imprisoned. He has been transferred. To a place, it would seem, where he can get no word to me with ease. It is in the form of a private letter, which is written by a relative of Labiche at Metz. It says nothing, and yet it says much—look, I have marked the paragraphs deserving attention.’
He handed to Craigie a letter on thin paper, blotched with black ink, and with the flowery characteristic of so much French handwriting. Half-way down the page was a large cross in blue pencil: two paragraphs below it was another. Craigie read them first, translating as he went without difficulty:
‘In these difficult days it is hard to be sure that you get my letters, Armand. We are surrounded by spies, and yet I would not say we are ill-treated. I was at a place one day with water all about me—it gave to me a feeling of peace, of safety. But I do not know whether it was a right one.
It is strange to
know that this evil fate has overtaken our country. It is as if one would wish to sleep, for a day, a month, a year—until the time comes when we are free again. Do you understand me? It is the soul which is in chains. Sleep, if only one could sleep until it is over. And yet perhaps such sleep would be dangerous. Things unknown and disastrous could happen while one slept. But I am talking nonsense, Armand, and you will have your own worries.’
Craigie said very softly:
‘Why did you pick out these two paragraphs?’
‘For a reason that is good,’ replied de Boncour. ‘It has not always been possible to correspond direct with Labiche. He arranged for friends and relatives to write to me: not in my own name, but as Armand Matelle—for whom this letter was smuggled out of France. Always, the third and fifth paragraphs were significant.’
Craigie was re-reading the relevant lines. He looked up:
‘What do you make of it, yourself?’
De Boncour frowned.
‘What can I? He is warning us. He has been on an island—perhaps an island in the land: an isolated place. A place where no one goes in and no one goes out. Somewhere completely apart from the rest of the world—you understand? A place of great secrecy. The water—his choice of phrase suggests to me that it is a real island, however. That is where he has been transferred, certainly.’
‘M’mm,’ murmured Craigie.
He was looking thoughtful. So was de Boncour.
‘The letter came only a few hours ago,’ he went on, slowly. ‘I have thought much about it and I am convinced Labiche is on an island where he—or others—sleep a great deal. “For a day, a month, or a year.” It is a strange thing for him to say, and I am certain he endeavours to warn me that this sleep is dangerous. Dangerous sleep, Craigie! Even an island of sleep! You think it nonsense, No? But I know Labiche well: he would not have arranged for that letter unless to him it seemed of very real importance.’
‘No,’ said Craigie, heavily. ‘I’m sure he wouldn’t. I’m only wondering whether it could be too late.’
Briefly but thoroughly, he outlined what he had heard from Davidson. As he talked, de Boncour’s eyes expressed his mounting fear and alarm, and when he had finished there was a moment or two of complete silence between them. Then de Boncour stirred himself and said, very softly:
‘An island of sleep, Craigie. This country—could that be the meaning?’
‘I don’t know.’ Gordon Craigie looked bleak. ‘I don’t know, but it may not be too late to find out. We’ll go to the Dernier Cri together.’
They left at once. But all they found was a band of Department Z agents who had discovered nothing and were waiting with commendable patience for the arrival of their chief. Loftus and Yvonne had been sent to the former’s flat, with Oundle along to guard against any trouble there while they were unprotected.
Loftus yawned.
It was a gargantuan yawn and one which Oundle had seen frequently, but never with the same sense of relief. Two doctors had examined Loftus and Yvonne, and each had declared simply, that there was nothing they could do. They had shaken their heads and made the plight of the large Loftus appear worse than it was—and the yawn sent away the fears which their verdict had engendered.
Oundle glanced at his watch.
‘Twelve-thirty,’ he murmured. ‘So that could be a lot worse, and you’ve had a couple of hours’ sleep you didn’t reckon on, my William. I wonder how Yvonne is coming along?’
On the spare bed, her shoes off and an eiderdown over her slim figure, Yvonne lay in a deep and apparently pleasing sleep, for she was smiling. Satisfied, Oundle coiled his spindly frame into an easy-chair; then with one eye on the clock and another on Loftus, he waited.
The others who had been at the Dernier Cri had dispersed, and for the time being were off duty. There would be work to be done, and the more sleep they managed to get in, the more likely they were to keep awake when things developed—as they had a habit of doing—suddenly and without warning.
Others than the Department men were busy, however.
A widespread police search was under way for the person of Luigi Bendetti, the naturalised Italian manager of the Dernier Cri, but so far it had yielded no results. The man with the wounded gun-hand was in a private ward at a little-known nursing-home; a place under police jurisdiction, where private patients were not admitted. His accomplice was at Cannon Row: she had refused to speak, and the woman sergeant watching her was sure that she slept soundly.
The policewoman envied her towards two o’clock, when the sirens wailed and, soon afterwards, the crash of bombs were heard. The windows, heavily boarded, shook. The small truckle bed on which the prisoner was lying quivered, too, but she slept on, unaware.
In Brook Street, Loftus yawned once or twice again, usually after a hefty thud which made Oundle hope the reinforcements at the windows and walls were stable enough; but the attack was not long-lived. The wail of the ‘raiders past’ signal still echoed in the room, as Loftus opened his eyes.
Oundle was still staring at him intently.
‘Wake up, old son,’ Loftus prompted, and Oundle grinned.
‘Drat your eyes, I’ve been trying to wake you, for a matter of hours! Do you feel all right?’
Loftus frowned.
‘Perfectly. Why—good God!’
‘Which,’ Oundle conceded, ‘does suggest that you’re really awake.’ He rose as Loftus eased himself up on his pillows. ‘A cup of tea?’ he suggested solicitously. ‘Beer, whisky——?’
‘Shut up,’ said Loftus shortly. ‘Where’s Yvonne?’
‘Still sleeping.’
‘The little cove at the Dernier Cri?’
‘I will explain,’ Oundle offered, ‘and then you can start answering instead of asking questions. Craigie wants to know the moment you feel you can get about. Can you?’
‘I fancy——’ Loftus had intended to say that he could get about with considerable vigour, and to prove it, he flung back the bedclothes. And then stopped. It was not a voluntary cessation, and the expression on his face was so ludicrous that Oundle’s first reaction was to laugh. But when Loftus continued to look dumbstruck, there was urgency in his friend’s sharp:
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Ned.’ Loftus spoke in a strained, high-pitched voice: ‘Get me a pin.’
Shocked as the implication struck him, Oundle stared.
‘A pin,’ Loftus repeated, softly. He had regained his composure to some degree, and when Oundle hurried back with a pin from the desk in the next room, he had pulled the right leg of his trousers up to his knee. He made an odd sight, sitting there, but Oundle no longer felt any desire to laugh.
‘Thanks,’ said Loftus, and deliberately pressed the point of the pin against the calf of his leg. Then pressed further, until a fraction of the pin disappeared.
‘No reaction, no movement, no sensation,’ he reported, his voice bereft of expression. ‘Tell Craigie I can’t get over to see him, yet: suggest he comes here.’ He grinned, not very successfully. ‘Who’s the leading man on paralysis, I wonder? Little will know—hand me that telephone, and get through to Whitehall on the other line.’
As he left the room, Oundle was very close to losing his nerve. It was bizarre, grotesque, to see Bill sitting there with the pin sticking from his leg; knowing he could feel nothing—could not even move.
Craigie had been asleep, but wakened quickly. He waited for only a brief explanation. Then:
‘I’ll come over at once,’ he said. ‘Bill’s talking to Little, you say?’
‘I can hear him now.’ Oundle laughed with relief: ‘At least his vocal cords are all right, and I fancy this numbness will wear off. But I’ve never seen him scared before and I didn’t like it.’
When Oundle returned to the bedroom, Loftus was saying with considerable emphasis:
‘Wake up, Doc, for the love of Mike. I said my legs won’t move. From the thighs downwards—I’m all right, apart from that. . . . Well, I’d been
asleep—a drugged sleep—oh, damn you, never mind questions! Get a man over here who might be able to do something, or learn something.’
‘All right, Bill,’ the voice on the line reassured him. ‘I thought it was another of your fool tricks. I’ll get Keiller over at once—I’ll fetch him myself. Take it easy now, and don’t get worked up.’
He rang off and Loftus did the same, smiling somewhat ruefully.
Lighting a cigarette for him, Oundle said dryly:
‘Well, you haven’t lost your balance, anyhow. That was a bad moment, Bill—how’re you feeling?’
‘As right as a trivet except for my legs.’ Loftus experimented again with the pin: the result was the same. He laughed, but without much humour, and Oundle was glad when the telephone rang suddenly. He answered it, then handed it to Loftus.
‘It’s Miller,’ he said.
Superintendent Horace Miller of Scotland Yard did not waste time.
‘Billy—it’s about that woman you sent over to Cannon Row,’ he began. ‘How important is she?’
‘Pretty important,’ said Loftus, more mildly than he felt. ‘Why?’
‘She’s dead,’ said Miller. ‘She died in her sleep. I’d better come over.’
4
Order Out of Chaos
‘Doc’ Little was an enormous man, red-faced and run to fat, yet in some remarkable way able always to appear impeccably groomed.
It was an absurd fact that this huge man had one of the tiniest women in London for a wife, a chic and charming creature who had enough intelligence to know when to ask questions and when to avoid them. She was aware, for instance, that there were jobs her husband did for Gordon Craigie, Bill Loftus, and others: she did not know why they were so often done in such secrecy, and she did not enquire. But there were moments when she gave vent to complaint, and she did so that night. Her husband had just come from the bathroom and was standing by his bedside, his pyjama trousers spread tightly about his vast middle; jacket in one hand, telephone in the other.
