The Island of Peril (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  He hoped it all was genuine.

  ‘And now,’ he began, when she left the coffee for the maid to bring round, ‘supposing you tell me——’

  ‘Gay my dear? Where are you? Gay? Gay?’

  It was a man’s voice, deep and cavernous, and coming from—it seemed—a long way off. It echoed through the shelter, striking at them from all sides.

  Gay’s lips twitched.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she called, into a lull. ‘It’s——’

  ‘Gay! My dear Gay!’ The voice was much nearer, and suddenly a door opened and Loftus saw an amazing apparition: a man as tall as himself and at least as far round, with bristling white hair cut in the so-called German fashion, but with a decided quiff at the front. He wore large, horn-rimmed glasses through which powerful and piercing blue eyes glinted from a florid, multi-chinned face. He wore a high-buttoning white coat and from his neck dangled a gas-mask, also of white. In one hand he carried a pair of rubber gloves—white again, like the knee-length rubber boots which made his progress absurdly silent, for so huge a man.

  ‘Gay, my dear—oh, there you are!’ He made a bee-line for the girl, ignoring or unaware of the presence of the others. ‘Didn’t I send you for Roy?’ His manner was faintly questioning; he sounded unsure of himself and prepared to apologise if he were wrong.

  ‘I told you,’ Gay said mildly, ‘that I couldn’t find him.’

  ‘Oh, did you? It’s such an annoyance—he will go off just when we want him. Did you hear the alarm?’

  ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ The large man looked away from her, stared blankly at Loftus, and then away. After a pause, in which the four members of Department Z stared at him as at a freak, he turned his head sharply to regard Loftus again, and to knit his brows together in a frown of considerable concentration.

  ‘And who, sir, if I may ask, are you?’

  ‘Professor,’ said Gay, ‘this is Mr. Loftus.’ She went on to introduce the others in turn; naming them, Loftus noticed, without hesitation. Then identified the newcomer: ‘Professor Golightly, gentlemen.’ As the huge man subsided into a suitably vast chair, she added: ‘Lucy—some coffee for the Professor.’

  ‘Thank you, my dear. And now,’ he beamed hopefully around: ‘which of you gentlemen play poker?’

  Queer sounds, as of strangled mirth, came from Carruthers, Best and Thornton.

  ‘We all do,’ said Loftus.

  ‘Really? Unusual luck, with friends of Gay’s—thank you, Lucy.’ He placed his coffee on the floor beside him. ‘Well, gentlemen, name your own stakes.’

  ‘Delighted,’ said Loftus. ‘But first——’

  ‘No false modesty, sir, if you please. Large stakes if you can go to it; small ones if not.’

  ‘As large as you like,’ Loftus told him. ‘But before we start poker, Professor, there are one or two things I should like to ask you.’

  ‘I never,’ said Professor Golightly firmly, ‘answer questions. In no circumstances, under no conditions, do I answer questions. Gay will confirm that. The cards, Gay, please? Name your stakes, gentlemen. Lucy, my dear—were you not bringing me some coffee?’

  ‘It’s by your feet, sir.’ Lucy’s air of resignation told Loftus that she was used to the overpowering eccentricities of Professor Golightly.

  ‘Eh?’ The Professor gazed down at his right foot, although his left leg hid the coffee.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ Loftus told him, ‘that I shall have to insist.’

  ‘I resent the implicit threat in that remark,’ said the Professor, calmly.

  ‘That’s a pity—because I must still insist. My authority is sufficient to entitle me to question whosoever I wish, Professor.’ The formal touch was necessary, on occasion.

  Golightly regarded him blandly.

  ‘The obtaining of answers, sir, is hardly within your power.’

  Loftus smiled dourly. ‘I don’t like admitting failure, Professor. Any delay in obtaining them could only be temporary.’

  He proffered his card of authority. The huge man stared at it blankly, then waved it away.

  ‘Lucy! That coffee!’

  Lucy crossed the room, picked up his cup, and handed it to him. He stared at it for some seconds, then took a sip. Then carefully replacing it by his left foot, he said mildly: ‘You are impertinent, sir.’

  Loftus heard the quickly-stifled gasps of the other three Department men. Flatly, he said:

  ‘Professor, you were inquiring just now for your assistant, a Mr. Parnell. Mr. Parnell disappeared this afternoon in somewhat strange circumstances. I want to know why, and in order to find that out I must for a start know what he was doing—I mean, the nature of his work.’

  ‘Well. . . .’ the Professor conceded, ‘As an act of grace—purely as an act of grace—I will answer that question. Roy Parnell was—I should say is—my assistant. He has a remarkable flair for always being missing when I most need him.’

  Loftus said coldly:

  ‘Persiflage is a useful defence, Professor, but we’ve had enough of it. If you would like to discuss this matter in private——’

  ‘There is nothing to discuss, sir.’ The Professor looked slightly annoyed. He retrieved his coffee, drained the cup, then poked it towards Loftus. ‘My work—Parnell’s work—is wholly private. I could say secret. I do not propose to discuss it with you.’

  ‘Then do you wish to change your clothes, Professor—or will you travel as you are?’

  ‘I have no intention of travelling anywhere.’

  ‘But I intend that you shall,’ Loftus assured him. ‘You are coming with me, right now, to Horsham—where you will be placed under detentive arrest until you are prepared to co-operate.’

  ‘Arrest? Dear me—are you a policeman?’

  ‘For the purpose of arrest, yes.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Golightly inspected him from head to foot. ‘Remarkable! Well, I certainly don’t want to leave here just now. I am in the middle of a most interesting experiment. They have——’ he glanced up at the ceiling ‘——been asleep for twelve hours. And two minutes,’ he added, as all four Department Z men stiffened as one. ‘Twenty minutes ago, I administered——’ He stopped abruptly, and glared at Loftus: ‘You will please disregard anything I have said, sir!’

  Loftus turned to Gay, a silent and poker-faced onlooker.

  ‘Is there another room, down here?’

  ‘Yes—through there.’ She nodded towards the door.

  ‘Thank you. Professor,’ he added quietly, ‘will you come with me, please—at once?’

  Golightly stared. Then heaving his massive body out of the chair, he shrugged resignedly.

  ‘You are persistent, sir, I will grant you five minutes.’

  Loftus followed him through the door and across a passage to a small room as comfortably equipped as the first. Another door led from it: perhaps to the Professor’s laboratory, he thought.

  ‘Now, sir?’ Golightly prompted.

  ‘I have shown you my authority,’ said Loftus. ‘If you insist, I can reinforce it. But time is precious. You need have no fear that anything you tell me will reach the wrong quarters—but I must insist that you answer my questions.’

  ‘Proceed,’ said Golightly, stiffly.

  ‘Are you working on your own?’

  ‘Of course I am. With Parnell as an assistant—a rather unreliable one, these days, I must say. Of course, one understands, at that age—cherchez la femme, and all——’

  ‘Are you working for the British Government?’ Loftus interrupted, unamused.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘For any other?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Are you experimenting with a sleeping-gas?’

  Golightly stared, but his expression was one of affront, rather than caution or anger.

  ‘Experimenting, sir? I perfected a gaseous compound of morphia and other—lesser-known—constituents some years ago, which can be guaranteed to bring sleep to any man, w
oman, child or animal. I have for many years been studying the issue of euthanasia,’ he added, as if that explained everything.

  Loftus said:

  ‘You have such a gas?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you manufacture it in large quantities?’

  ‘I do not—no one can. It requires an ingredient called euthan, a peculiar constituent of which supplies are strictly limited. At the moment at least, it is scarcer than radium, although the smallest amount goes a long way. However, I am far more concerned with anti-euthan. There is a cure for every ill, an opposite to every element, a decontaminator for every gas. I have two subjects, male subjects, now under experiment. Anti-euthan should enable them to awaken within an hour of its administration. But I am talking rather a lot,’ the Professor broke off, with a sudden attack of caution. ‘What right——?’

  ‘Please!’ Loftus protested. ‘Don’t go into that, again.’

  The amazing thing was that he believed the man, and was coming to the conclusion that Golightly was quite genuine. Even the absurdly eccentric manner no longer rang false. And Loftus was getting on top of an attack suspiciously like nerves: he had not realised how the effect of the sleeping-gas—and all that possibility of its widespread use in the wrong hands conjured up—had taken possession of him. It was an obsession and a nightmare.

  But here was an incredible discovery: right here, in England, the man who had probably invented that very gas—and now believed he could produce its antidote.

  ‘Well, go on, go on,’ Golightly urged him. ‘I must go back to my experiments shortly, air-raid or no air-raid. I am most anxious to see the effect of my anti-euthan. You understand that this sleeping-gas, as you like to call it, has a peculiar effect? According to the constituents which are added to the basic euthan, it can cause temporary paralysis, or amnesia, or complete prostration. The importance of anti-euthan lies in its qualities not only of awakening a sleeper, but also in reducing the other effects to a minimum or preventing them altogether.’

  ‘Does anyone know that you are working on this?’

  ‘I have done my best to prevent its being known,’ said the Professor. ‘In times like these, Loftus, any gas which may be used as a weapon against weaker countries by an aggressor—the mind flies, of course, to that peculiar man, Adolf Hitler—should be most carefully guarded. Roy Parnell is the only man in my full confidence. Officially, I am still experimenting in euthanasia—in these days of violent death, an easy death is a thing to be desired by many people. I am experimenting in this country with the full approval of the authorities, as you will doubtless discover. Roy—the son of a brilliant—really brilliant, Loftus—American scientist, has permission to stay in this country to assist me. I should not have told you this,’ he added, ‘had I not been assured of your bona fides. Although I confess to curiosity as to how you have come to your obvious knowledge of it?’

  ‘That peculiar man, Adolf Hitler, presented me with the idea,’ said Loftus quietly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Golightly was startled.

  ‘You are not the only known manufacturer of a euthan gas,’ Loftus explained. ‘It has already been used. I have been——’ he smiled wryly ‘——an unwilling subject of such an experiment.’

  ‘Good God!’ Golightly pushed his chair back. ‘Good God, Loftus, this is distressing, most distressing. It becomes even more important—come!’

  He swept out, and Loftus followed him up a flight of stone steps and into a small chamber in which two fully-clad men reclined in armchairs. Both were breathing with the quiet even rhythm of normal, healthy sleep.

  Golightly said quietly:

  ‘Within the hour, the anti-euthan should take effect. I can’t guarantee it. They had first been inoculated with a mixture of euthan and the constituent which induces paralysis. A great deal depends on whether they can move their arms and legs when they awaken, Loftus. Be quiet, now!’

  Loftus was quiet, standing quite still and staring at the two men. He did not know how many minutes passed, and he was hardly conscious of active thinking. And then suddenly he stiffened, his heart thumping—for the nearer of the two men was slowly opening his eyes.

  14

  Search for Roy Parnell

  It was an eerie moment.

  Golightly’s calm contempt for the sleeping-gas had induced in Loftus a sense of unreality, abetted by Gay Parnell’s switch to complete calm with him after her defiance of the others. Subconsciously, he was still unsure whether she had been genuinely convinced they were there without authority, or whether she had played a part deliberately, to gain time—for whatever reason.

  But now he dismissed all thought of her.

  The nearer of the two men was slightly-built, with a small face in which the features seemed all to have been pushed to one side, and a broken nose added to the lop-sided impression.

  As his eyes slowly opened wider, he still stared directly ahead, as if in some kind of trance. It was obvious that he neither knew nor cared where he was, or what had happened. For several seconds, he stayed like that—then Golightly leaned forward and touched him gently on the shoulder, and his head slowly turned towards them.

  Watching intently, Loftus saw the way his eyes narrowed as if in concentration; the first, blank stare gave way to puzzled bewilderment. Then the little man stood up, and Golightly drew a sharp breath.

  He approached them slowly, one hand to his head as if it were aching. More likely, Loftus thought, he was trying to think, and could not. The tension in the chamber did not ease as Golightly asked:

  ‘Herbert—are you feeling all right?’

  ‘Herbert’ continued to stare.

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘Now, Herbert,’ said the Professor patiently, ‘you are quite safe and with friends. You know very well what you have been doing, and——’

  ‘Who are you?’ The eyes of the little man, brown and uncomprehending, stared at the scientist, and Loftus also regarded the huge man closely. Golightly’s lips compressed for a moment; then with a gentleness that did him credit, he took the man’s arm and led him to the door.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ he soothed. ‘You’ll be quite all right, once you have had a rest. I shan’t be long, Loftus.’

  But as he looked back, he shook his head: indicating, Loftus knew, that the experiment had failed. Anti-euthan, in the form in which Golightly had used it, had produced amnesia instead of paralysis.

  From all the Errols had told him, both Craigie and Loftus had concluded that the refugee they had helped had been suffering from some form of amnesia.

  Was it from the same cause?

  ————

  Loftus left Timber Mill at five o’clock next morning. He had talked at some length with Golightly, who had latterly shown a far more reasonable and normal attitude, as if the development with Herbert had shocked him out of his eccentricity. At least fifty per cent of that was pose, anyway, Loftus suspected. Moreover, the Professor had volunteered to make a complete precis of his experiments in euthan and anti-euthan for the British Government, but he had insisted on representatives coming to see him there. His work, he insisted could not be left for long periods; particularly now that Roy Parnell was missing.

  Roy, it transpired, had as full a knowledge of the experiments as the Professor: and Roy was with the dubious Richards and the woman Duveen. That was not a pleasing thought.

  For safety’s sake, Loftus left Carruthers and Thornton at Timber Mill and was driven to London by Martin Best, who had at least managed to snatch a little sleep, in the shelter. The journey took two-and-a-half hours, and he slept throughout it. He even slept through the numerous road-checks; nor did he stir when the car was forced to go over a ploughed field for two hundred yards, where a road had been blocked by bomb craters.

  Men were already busy filling-in the damaged roadway, Best noted. Like Loftus, he felt a fierce pride in the unfailing phlegm of the British man-in-the-street—as well as in the one at the helm. The transform
ation from a nation at peace to a nation at war was utter and complete—and every bit as thorough, by then, as any totalitarian authority could have made it. More thorough, in fact, since for the most part the efforts were voluntary, and the men worked with a will.

  ————

  Loftus had sent word that they were coming, and Craigie looked up with a smile as they entered.

  ‘Hallo, Bill—Martin. You nearly beat me to it! I’ve just come in with this lot.’ He gestured towards a bundle of letters, some registered and most heavily sealed, which he had just taken from his brief-case.

  ‘Don’t you ever——’ Best tried to smother a yawn, but failed hopelessly: ‘Sorry, Gordon—sleep?’

  Craigie’s dry smile came again. ‘Your need is apparently greater than mine.’ He glanced at Loftus: ‘You want him for anything? Right, Martin—better get some.’

  As the big, untidy man lumbered thankfully out of the office, Loftus crossed the room to the cupboard and took out a small tin kettle. Filling it from the concealed tap near the fireplace, he set it to boil on the gas-ring and subsided into the nearest armchair.

  ‘Sorry—should have asked,’ he grinned. ‘Mind if I make some tea?’

  ‘Fool,’ said Craigie, dispassionately. ‘Well, what happened at Langford?’

  ‘Many things,’ Loftus began. ‘But first——’

  He broke off as a faint buzz came, and a green light showed. Not the usual green light, which shone when the button on the outside steps was used. Craigie pressed a small switch on the desk, and a section of the apparently solid wooden wall beside it slid open. Loftus, watching with some curiosity, had a shock.

  He sat up abruptly.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ growled a very familiar voice, and a man with a round, pugnacious face, a button of a nose, sparse, greying hair and keenly-alert grey-green eyes, entered the room. With his ample build and deep, broad shoulders and inclination to stoop, he was a thickset bulldog of a man—and one of the best-known figures in the world.