by John Creasey
He stopped, and turned his pathetic, doe-like eyes on first Craigie and then de Boncour. Then running his hand through his thinning hair, he apologised again.
‘There is darkness over my mind, messieurs. I remember some things: I forget others. You will assist me to recover my memory?’
‘Of course,’ de Boncour soothed. ‘Of course.’
But he knew, and Craigie knew, that Labiche might not recover his memory in time to help them.
————
Sir Ian Keiller finished his examination, smiled reassuringly at Labiche and spoke in rapid French to him. Then he left the small ward in the private nursing home and went down to the waiting-room to join de Boncour. Gordon Craigie came in a moment or two later.
Keiller was frowning.
‘Amnesia,’ he repeated, for Craigie’s benefit. ‘With all the symptoms of being induced by privation, following shock.
The man’s back——’ He hesitated, then went on: ‘Well, gentlemen, I can promise you nothing. He must have quiet and good food, and maybe he will recover sooner than you expect. It would be good for him to have cheerful company——’
‘Social company?’ asked Craigie.
‘Ay, if it’s cheerful. A lassie, now——’ Keiller’s eyes twinkled ‘That really might be an idea, Craigie. Someone he might perhaps—develop some feeling for. It should be encouraged.’
De Boncour frowned.
‘Labiche is a man who has little use for women, m’sieu.’
Keiller shrugged.
‘The man there is not the man he was before this experience, you must understand. He is different in many ways, and—och, I’m saying only that you could try it. Rest and food and security; that will be best for him. And—patience,’ he added.
Craigie said quietly:
‘There’s no time for patience. Is there anything you can give him that might bring his memory back well enough for him to talk—even for a few hours?’
‘No,’ Keiller replied shortly. ‘There’s nothing.’
‘M’sieu——’ De Boncour stepped forward, and rested a plump hand on the specialist’s arm. ‘Labiche would consider it was worth it, to die for his country—for his vengeance. Even if afterwards he were to die, anything he can say today—even tomorrow—will be of vital importance, and worthy of the sacrifice.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Keiller. ‘There’s nothing that can make that man’s mind suddenly work normally—but it may click back more quickly than we reckon.’ He reached the door, then turned to repeat: ‘Try a lassie! The more he forgets of what he has suffered, the more likely he is to remember what he has forgotten. I wish,’ he added briefly, ‘that I could help you more, gentlemen. And now, I’ll bid you good-day.’
Craigie looked at de Boncour, and de Boncour looked back. Then both said as one:
‘Yvonne might do it.’
‘I,’ added de Boncour, ‘will talk to her.’
————
Bill Loftus knew nothing that night, of the Errols’ success—nor of the tantalising fact that a man in a position to tell them more than any other was, for the moment at least, helpless to tell them anything.
Loftus was in Sussex.
He had seen Carruthers, and he had obtained as much information as the American Embassy could give on Miss Gay Parnell of Langford, near Horsham. It was not a great deal. Getting information out of neutral quarters still had its difficulties as well as its advantages; so, armed with what little he had gleaned, he had gone to Langford.
There, in a small house converted from an old mill, he found Gay Parnell. He also found Bob Carruthers and the mountainous and untidy Martin Best. Neither of them were in the best of tempers when—some hours before the Errols left the coast of England—Loftus was admitted by a maid who showed a near disdain of all things English by the tilt of her chin. She was clearly American: her voice had the soft drawl of the southern States, and far back in her ancestry there was Negro blood.
Carruthers and Best were together in a small sitting-room; Best lolling in an easy chair, Carruthers perched uncomfortably on the corner of a table. Both were smoking.
‘Well?’ Loftus greeted them, cheerfully.
‘Well my foot!’ Carruthers snapped, while Best grimaced. ‘The girl’s a positive shrew, Bill.’
‘If you’ve no grounds for detaining her,’ Best added, ‘you’re going to get it in every neck you’ve got.’
Loftus grinned.
‘I rather like the sound of her. But earlier in the evening, you seemed to think she might improve on acquaintance, Carry?’
‘Well, she doesn’t,’ said Carruthers, shortly.
Clearly, they had not enjoyed their spell at Timber Mill.
‘So tell me,’ Loftus prompted. ‘Does the lady collect foreign stamps?’
‘How the hell should I know?’ demanded Carruthers.
‘Ask her,’ said Best, darkly.
Loftus grinned again.
‘Where is she?’
‘In that room.’ Carruthers gestured with his head. ‘The maid brought down a divan bed for her. The maid could be better, too,’ he added. ‘No drink, no food——’
‘Well, send out for some, you loons!’ Loftus retorted.
‘The village,’ Best informed him, ‘is three miles away; and that’s where you’ll find the nearest shop, not to mention the nearest pub. Spats is outside watching the window. We take it in turns—although she’d probably break her neck, if she tried it—two inside; one out. If one of us went off for food, she’d certainly try to make a break for it.’
‘I see,’ said Loftus.
He felt annoyed, less with the mysterious Gay Parnell than with his friends: it was unlike them to be so glum and to take things so badly.
‘It would have been better,’ Carruthers growled, ‘if you’d let us charge her with something. Instead we’ve just had to detain her, and she swears our identity cards are forged.’
‘All in all,’ Loftus mused, ‘a sprightly lassie. Is she hot-tempered?’
‘Hot-tempered!’
‘Is she scared?’
‘About as much as you’d be of a mouse,’ said Carruthers.
Loftus shrugged, and crossing the room, tapped on the door. There was a pause, then a sharp yet attractive voice called:
‘Are you going to let me out?’
‘No,’ Loftus told her. ‘I’m coming in to see you.’
‘Oh no, you’re not! The door’s locked.’
‘I see,’ said Loftus, and put one huge shoulder to the door.
His weight was something over fifteen stone, and the door was a flimsy one with a flimsier lock. There was a creak, a crack—and the lock gave way.
In the small but charmingly-furnished room, subdued wall lighting showed to advantage the girl who jumped up from a deep armchair as he entered. She was wearing silk pyjamas and dressing-gown and her creamy-fair hair hung loose about her shoulders. Her eyes were exceptionally large—and at the moment, sparking with anger as she demanded:
‘What do you mean by——’
‘Plenty,’ Loftus broke in, heavily. ‘Miss Parnell, let us get this quite straight. I’ve no time to waste in fool tricks, and if you insist on maintaining this absurd attitude I shall take you to the nearest police-station and there charge you with actions calculated to interfere with the smooth running of essential investigation.’
‘You’ll do what?’
‘I don’t propose to repeat myself,’ said Loftus. ‘If you didn’t hear, I suggest you pay more attention as I go on.’
‘Get OUT!’ she exploded.
Loftus eyed her coldly, yet was detached enough to admire her figure—exceptionally good, for so tiny a creature—and be amused by her manner.
‘What are you complaining about?’ he asked, mildly. ‘You haven’t been manhandled, have you?’
‘Manhandled!’
‘For the love of Mike,’ said William Loftus, ‘don’t repeat everything I say, like a badly-trained parrot.’
‘Of all the——!’ Words apparently failed her—but he could see her dawning uncertainty.
He surveyed her through narrowed eyes.
‘You appear to have some intelligence, Miss Parnell, but you’re not trying to prove it. What is all this nonsense about?’
‘It isn’t nonsense!’
‘We differ,’ said Loftus. He was genuinely puzzled, for from the look of her he judged that she would not talk for the sake of talking; yet that was what she was doing, he knew. It seemed that her manner from the moment of her detention had been obstructive, purely and simply, and he was inclined to believe that she was adopting the outraged attitude for a definite purpose—and not because she felt she had any real grievance. And, beneath her manner and her almost naïve defiance, he fancied he detected fear and apprehension.
‘We differ,’ he repeated. ‘It’s utter nonsense, and you know it. You visited a Mr. Richards earlier this evening, and you were asked to say why. You said you were looking for your brother. You were asked to explain more fully, and to give evidence in support of your statement, and you refused. You may or may not,’ he added flatly, ‘be aware that this country is at war, and that you are an alien. By a Parliamentary decree it is possible for all aliens to be detained, without specific charge, and without prior warning. You were detained, but every effort was made to make you comfortable and you were even brought to your own home. Your gratitude for that is to act like a spoilt child, to refuse to answer ordinary questions, and perhaps to seriously jeopardise the safety of the realm. My realm,’ he pointed out. ‘Not yours. You are not,’ he went on judicially, ‘in favour.’
She stared:
‘Who are you?’
‘William James Loftus, on Government service.’
For formality’s sake he showed her his card. She glanced at it fleetingly, and her eyes narrowed.
‘I’ve seen the others. Anyone could carry a card like that about.’
‘Just as you could carry a passport to which you are not entitled.’
‘If you ask the nearest consul——’
‘I’ve been to the American Embassy. They are not disposed to give much information—for or against you. But they understand and approve of the need for action as I think fit. That,’ added Loftus grimly, ‘is the action that is going to be taken.’
‘Oh,’ she hesitated. ‘You mean—you are from the police?’
‘From a branch of them, yes.’
‘How can I be sure?’
Loftus stared—then unexpectedly he laughed, which did not seem to please her. Moving to the door, he called to Carruthers:
‘Carry, telephone Horsham police H.Q. and ask the Superintendent to come along. It might have occurred to you dolts before, that she didn’t believe you! I suppose,’ he turned again to Gay Parnell and proffered cigarettes: ‘You didn’t see the military gents watching Richards’ house?’
‘Of course I didn’t.’ She spoke more slowly and reasonably, now—oddly enough, revealing a more pronounced American accent. She accepted a cigarette, then a light: ‘Thank you. I had no proof at all that your—your friends were from the police.’
‘It’s one of the disadvantages,’ said Loftus, ‘of informality. We’re apt to be too informal at times, and we’ve had so many things on our mind that we’ve been a bit abrupt. Do you collect foreign stamps?’
She stared: ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Does your brother?’
‘No.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘At lunch, today. He told me—’ she frowned, and he knew that she did not approve of what he had told her—‘that he was going to Hayling, this afternoon. That could only mean the Richards place, so when he wasn’t back until late, I went to see if he had been there. And all I got for that,’ she added, her anger returning, ‘is impertinence from two hicks——’
‘Oi!’ came a faint protest from the other room.
‘Do go on, Miss Parnell,’ Loftus grinned.
For the first time, she smiled: it was a happy thing to see.
‘From two hicks,’ she went on firmly, ‘who demanded to know why I’d come—and when I told them, said they wanted proof. How could I prove that I’d come to find my brother?’
‘Well, you could start by proving that you had one.’
She laughed at that.
‘I suppose I could. But I was quite convinced that they were—well, lying about being from London.’
‘What did you think they were?’
‘Well. . . .’ said the girl slowly, ‘they could have been anyone. Roy’s been working——’
‘Roy?’
‘My brother. I have a brother,’ she added, sharply. ‘Don’t you start doubting that, please! He’s been working for some time on some rather important material—I guess that’s why the Embassy didn’t like to talk much. It’s secret work.’
‘Oh.’ Loftus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘He’s engaged on secret work, and more than once he’s either been attacked or threatened with attack. You suspected that my—er—two hicks were others of the brigade who had shown animosity, and you were quite determined to say positively nothing. Is that it?’
Gay Parnell, turning her head sharply, quickly, regarded Loftus in silence for a moment. Then she said:
‘There’s no real reason why I should trust you any more than them, really. They seemed all right, too, but—well you’re right.’ She looked seriously worried. ‘Roy’s always laughed at threats and put them down mostly to my imagination. But I have seen strangers waiting about outside: and although he wouldn’t admit it, I saw bullet marks on his car once. It started some weeks ago. At the time when we were still friends,’ she added, with a humourless laugh. ‘We fell out, after that, over the Duveen woman.’
‘Paula, of that ilk?’
‘You know her?’ Gay looked startled. ‘She was supposed to be Richards’ step-daughter, but I thought—well, I thought he was a younger man than he pretended. His hair’s much darker at the roots than you’d think. Roy met her—the woman I mean—and fell for her, the way he’s always doing. The trouble stopped after that, but I didn’t like the association and said so.’
‘No-o,’ said Loftus, but he was not as interested in Gay Parnell’s dislike of Paula Duveen as he was in that fact that after Parnell had met the woman, the trouble had stopped.
Loftus wanted badly to know why.
13
More of Parnell
It was, Loftus said some hours afterwards, a most unfortunate chapter of accidents but, he added severely, Gay was as much to blame as anyone.
Her suspicions of Carruthers, Best and Thornton had been ill-found. True, they had made no attempt to establish their bona fides beyond presenting their cards of authority; equally true, Gay had presented no request for their further identification. The arrival of a husky and uniformed Superintendent from Horsham, a man good-tempered despite the late hour and full of assurances that Loftus and Company were all they claimed to be, brought peace and also a measure of apology. The Superintendent hinted but did not say direct that he believed Mr. Loftus to be connected with a little-known branch of the Service. To which, when he had gone, Loftus added:
‘Little-known, Gay Parnell, but famous in small circles. You don’t mind the Gay, do you? It’s too attractive to be hidden by a Miss.’
‘The Superintendent didn’t use the word unorthodox,’ said Gay, ‘but he certainly implied it.’ She smiled, without realising just how much confidence this large and homely-looking man gave her—a man who could say outrageous things and behave in an outrageous manner without really causing offence, and certainly without suggesting that he was taking too much on himself. ‘If you prefer it, Gay.’
‘And I,’ he told her gravely, ‘am Bill.’ He introduced the others in turn—including Spats Thornton, who was quite clearly much taken with Gay Parnell.
‘Now that’s over and the
air’s cleared,’ said Loftus, who had used the intervening time in thinking hard, ‘you might tell us the full story.’
‘Well. . . .’ the bright, clear blue eyes regarded him with candour. ‘There isn’t much more, is there? Roy’s engaged on some secret work, and he fell for this Duveen woman. I didn’t trust her from the start—in the end, we simply didn’t mention her name at all. It made rather a bore of breakfast,’ she added, ingenuously.
Loftus smiled. ‘And what was the work? Is the work, rather?’
‘I don’t know.’
Loftus eyed her quizzically.
‘You’ve no idea at all?’
‘Well, I know Roy’s a chemist. I believe,’ she added off-handedly, ‘that he’s quite clever.’
‘And he works on his own?’
‘No, he——’
The interruption startled Loftus—not prepared, in that out-of-the-way spot, for the wail of sirens. The girl jumped up abruptly, her face paling.
‘Damn!’ she said. ‘We’d better go downstairs.’
‘To a cellar?’
‘Yes. It’s quite comfortable—the Professor saw to that.’ She did not enlarge on that somewhat ambiguous statement, but led the way down the hall. The maid who in her alarm had lost all prejudice against the four men, gripped Martin Best’s arm and refused to release it until they were safely in a well-built and certainly well-equipped shelter under the kitchen quarters.
There were easy chairs, canvas beds, small tables—and electric lighting, with reserve torches and lamps. There was a small kitchen with an electric stove, and within minutes an appetising odour of coffee filled the shelter.
Loftus was silent.
He still wanted to know for whom Roy Parnell worked, but he was perturbed by the similarity between this shelter and the one at Hayling. There was another thing: Gay Parnell had dropped her pose of outraged naiveté and showed herself now to be very much a woman of the world—and a likeable one, at that. But how much of it, even now, was acting, and how much sincere?
