by John Creasey
‘City and West End. A reconnaissance ’plane, I gather—and I don’t think it got back. Some Spitfires went after it from Croydon. Why?’
Loftus said slowly:
‘A reconnaissance ’plane, eh? Miller, I’ve ordered a patrol of men to watch a part of Green Park. I want another twenty or thirty in support, and to cordon off the area.’
‘But what on earth——?’ began Miller.
Loftus explained, briefly and forcibly. Miller started at him, almost incredulous, at first—but even before Loftus had finished, he was speaking into a telephone.
Loftus stopped, and Miller gave orders.
‘Right,’ he said finally. ‘That’s taken care of, Loftus. But—you do think it dropped a sleeping-gas bomb, don’t you?’
‘It could have done. It’s clearly a possibility—we’ve got to try to find out. It might,’ Loftus added, very slowly, ‘be an experiment. But it could be an attack—and only the first, of its kind.’ He was staring at Miller, but not really seeing him. ‘It could have been a phial thrown by someone walking through the Park. The point is, we’ve got to make sure.’
‘I’ll go over myself,’ Miller decided.
‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘Do that.’ He pushed back his chair, smiled a weary thank-you, and left the office. He had at least arranged for the affected area to be under surveillance, but that was little more than a precautionary measure for the benefit of those affected, and he was not sure what further purpose it could serve.
Craigie must be told, of course.
Halfway along the corridor leading to the main doors of the Yard, he stopped and turned. Miller was just leaving the office.
‘I’ll use the ’phone, if I may,’ Loftus told him, and went to call Craigie.
He arranged for medical men to join the squad already going to the Park, and asked for quick information about that reconnaissance ’plane. He asked for other reports, too—some of which Miller’s men would get: others that Craigie could get more quickly. And then he walked slowly back to his flat.
Oundle and Davidson clearly guessed he was disinclined to talk, and he was thankful for it. He was too on edge for normal conversation, as he waited impatiently for news.
An hour after he had returned, the telephone rang, and Craigie’s crisp voice said:
‘That ’plane was the culprit, all right, Bill. In a dozen areas over which it flew, people are sleeping in droves.’
Loftus said hollowly: ‘Good God!’ and Oundle and Davidson stared at him, aware now that there was something vitally the matter.
‘The ’plane was brought down,’ Craigie added, flatly. ‘It crashed in open country, but everyone who went near it after the crash just went to sleep. It’s roped off now—no one beyond a two-hundred-yard radius is affected, apparently.’
‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘I see.’
And he did. He saw all too devastatingly well.
As he replaced the receiver, he felt very sick indeed.
————
Loftus did not like what was in his mind.
He had felt the effect of the gas himself—and he had seen its effect on others. And although he tried to stop it, his mind turned to the possibility of a heavy sleeping-gas attack on London—an attack by a poison which would have no fatal results, yet would lay the Metropolis open to Nazi invasion. And not only London. But in his mind’s eye, London loomed far larger than anywhere else.
He could picture the traffic stopping in the streets.
He imagined cars crashing against walls and kerbs, their drivers suddenly asleep at the wheel. He could see trains crashing as their crews succumbed. The military and the A.R.P., Parliament and all the civil services, every man, woman and child——
Asleep.
It was a nightmare. He tried to believe that it could never be more than an evil fantasy, yet he could not rid himself of the horror which the thought engendered. A city asleep—millions of people helpless and at the mercy of their attackers. If London slept even for an hour, there would be chaos such as man had never dreamed. There would be no way of saving the power stations and the great termini from destruction, or from falling into enemy hands. There would be nothing to prevent the water—and gas-works from being controlled. There would be death in the streets, while the invader stalked the land.
If London slept, London could be conquered.
And slowly, a deep and searing anger at those who would dare to threaten his country with so dire a fate, welled up to swamp the horror that had almost paralysed Bill Loftus until now.
They could not be permitted to succeed. A way must be found to prevent such an attack.
He smiled grimly at the thought. But Department Z had achieved the near-impossible often enough before. It could—and would—do so again. Somehow, come what may, they would ensure it:
London must not sleep.
————
The flat which was Diana Woodward’s was large and airy and furnished in modern fashion, as became a young woman of means and taste. It was a pity that the fair Diana was so rarely able to be in London to use it: Loftus often wished circumstances would permit them to work more in collaboration than they did. But her especial usefulness in the neutral countries could not be gainsaid.
And Yvonne, he admitted, made a good tenant.
Yvonne, moreover, now had with her the refugee, Raoul Labiche. There was little about the Frenchman’s manner to suggest that he was suffering from loss of memory, or from shock. But any sudden noise still made him jump. And there were occasions when he would suddenly stare at Yvonne as if trying to place her; trying to remember where they had met before.
Yvonne ignored those moments.
Loftus had been with them occasionally in the twenty-four hours since Labiche had been brought to the flat at her suggestion. She handled the sick man wonderfully; a new spirit appeared to possess her now that she had something definite to do.
In himself, Labiche seemed fit enough.
It was clear that he was not impervious to the charms of Yvonne—who, Loftus noted, did nothing to throw herself at his head. Her attitude was that she, too, was a refugee, and that they were lucky to be together, enjoying pleasant companionship in pleasant surroundings. They talked of the days before the war: there were things about politics and international developments which he remembered, and spoke of with feeling. Politically, he was a convinced radical socialist.
And then, in the middle of a talk he would stop, and look worriedly at Yvonne, as if groping mentally for the key to what he was saying. He would shrug his shoulders, his sensitive lips would tighten and the gleam would go from his brown eyes. At which Yvonne would smoothly turn the conversation to other things.
She knew nothing of the raider which had passed over London and spread the sleeping-gas. She knew Craigie and Loftus were anxious to learn all Labiche could tell them, the moment he was able. But she had no idea of how urgent their need of his help had now become.
Every effort was being made to discover anything at all which might in any way contribute to the scant knowledge of the island which was as yet no more than an ominous legend. Loftus himself had gone down to Timber Mill for further consultation with Golightly and Gay Parnell, and Yvonne knew he was not expected back from the country before midnight.
At half-past ten, Labiche threw aside the paper he was reading and said abruptly:
‘You have known me before, Yvonne, have you not?’
‘Of course,’ she answered, equably.
‘Where?’
‘In Paris—Milan—Bucharest—Berlin——oh, in most of the big towns and cities in Europe, Raoul.’
‘What was I doing there?’
‘Working for de Boncour.’
‘De Boncour,’ muttered Labiche, and pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead. His lips trembled and the expression in his doe-like eyes was pathetic. ‘De Boncour: the name is familiar, and yet—tiens, why do I not remember?’
‘You will,’ Yvonne so
othed.
‘But when?’ he cried. ‘When will the cloud lift from my brain, Yvonne? There is something I must say—and you must not scoff.’ Tensely, and with complete conviction, he told her: ‘I came with a mission. I know that I came with a mission! It frightens me that I cannot remember because I know it was of great importance. I had to tell——something: something.’ Very slowly, he added: ‘I seem——I seem to have been asleep, for so long a time.’
‘Asleep?’ Yvonne prompted.
He stared at her, realising that there was significance in her repetition of the word, yet baffled by the knowledge. Suddenly he pushed back his chair and jumped up to pace the carpet with long, nervous strides.
‘Sleep, sleep sleep!’ he exclaimed. ‘That is all I can think of. That—and water. Sleep—and water!’
‘Sleep and water?’ she encouraged.
‘Why do you not tell me it is nonsense—that I have been dreaming?’ He strode across to confront her. Gripping her shoulders tightly—hurting her, although she gave no sign of it—he demanded: ‘What were you to me?’
She hesitated.
‘What were you?’ he cried. ‘We were not——married?’
‘No,’ said Yvonne.
‘Then why were you with me so often?’
‘We worked together.’
‘What work?’
‘Work—for France.’
‘For France!’ he snapped. ‘For France! Always, the same answer! I am driving myself mad, trying to think what I was doing—how did I work?’
Yvonne said steadily:
‘We obtained information, Raoul, for de Boncour—and he used it to the best advantage. But don’t worry about it now, my dear. Believe me, you will remember, in time. You are tired, now.’
‘I am always tired,’ he said abruptly.
‘Then let us go to bed.’
He stared. ‘Us?’
She laughed softly, and pressed herself close to him. Her violet eyes were smiling, her lips parted in invitation.
‘As you like,’ she said lightly.
He returned her stare, his body stiff; unyielding.
‘We are not married? You have been nothing to me?’
‘We have always been good friends.’
‘No more?’
‘No, Raoul. But——’
‘Then why,’ he demanded fiercely, ‘should we be more now? Now, when I am like a lost sheep—with no memory, no past, no present, no future! I——’ He broke off, and his arms went round her, hungrily. His eyes gazed into hers: ‘You are very lovely, Yvonne,’ he said softly. ‘So very lovely. But——I am nothing. I have nothing.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ she urged.
‘Yes!’ The words made him release her, and he swung away. ‘I am quite sure. I can’t even remember who I am.’ He pressed his fists against his forehead: ‘You say we are old friends—yet how could I forget you? You!’ His eyes glittered suddenly. ‘I do not believe we have ever known each other. It is a trick—some foul trick, to make me think what is not true!’
‘Raoul, please——!’
‘That is it!’ he shouted. ‘It is always the same! The women will trick you—they cannot be trusted—they are useless to the man who works for a cause!’ He broke off, sharply, and stared at her unseeing. Then went on in a hoarse whisper and with increasing tension: ‘For a cause—for a country! For France!’
He paused again, standing very still. She could actually see his eyes clearing—see sanity and recognition return. And slowly, his gaze focusing on her again, he reached both hands towards her:
‘Yvonne——Yvonne!’ Then quickly, urgently: ‘Where can I find de Boncour?’
She jumped up, her eyes bright.
‘Raoul—you remember!’
‘Yes—yes!’ He laughed, almost wildly: momentarily light-headed with the relief of knowing. Then stopped abruptly. ‘Forgive me, Yvonne—there is much to say, I know. But later, later. First, I must see de Boncour—now, at once! It is vital to tell him where I have been; what I have learned. Where is he? Where is he?’
‘Don’t worry,’ Yvonne soothed. ‘I’ll send for him!’
She ran to the telephone and Labiche watched tensely as she lifted the receiver. But before she had finished dialling the number, the flat door opened.
‘Well, friends,’ Loftus greeted, cheerfully, as they both whirled round ‘I’m back! What——’
‘De Boncour!’ Labiche urged Yvonne. ‘I must see him at once! You—who are you?’
Loftus glanced from Yvonne’s flushed cheeks to the telephone in her hand, and his eyebrows rose in question. At her nod, he snapped the door shut behind him and strode across to take the receiver from her, and dialled Craigie’s number.
‘Gordon,’ he said, when Craigie answered, ‘Can you get de Boncour over here at once?’
‘Has Labiche——?’ Craigie began.
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
‘Make it fifteen,’ said Loftus. ‘Less, if you can.’ He replaced the receiver, and swung round on them both. ‘Labiche, you’ll have de Boncour here within twenty minutes, but if there’s anything you can start telling me, it might save valuable time.’
The Frenchman’s lips tightened.
‘M’sieu, I may be doing you an injustice, but I have word only for my leader. You will, of course, know that.’
Loftus shrugged, hiding his impatience. Minutes were precious, but he would feel the same, in Labiche’s shoes.
‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘And I mustn’t blame you.’
‘I’ll be with you,’ said Yvonne, ‘in two or three minutes.’
She gestured at her ruffled hair and Loftus smiled again.
‘All right—we can take a hint!’
Labiche raised no objections to going with him into the next flat, and Loftus led the way.
Davidson and Oundle were still up, and the Errols had returned more quickly than expected. The four of them stared at Labiche, and Loftus nodded.
‘We’ll know something soon,’ he assured them. And laughed: a laugh of relief that, like Labiche’s, held a faint note of hysteria. ‘Thank God for that!’ he added fervently. ‘And now, if de Boncour hurries——’
But de Boncour did not hurry.
He did not arrive in twenty minutes. Nor in forty. Nor in an hour.
He did not arrive at all.
16
Swift Attack
Craigie had telephoned the French Secret Service leader immediately after the call from Loftus, and de Boncour had promised to meet him at Brook Street within a quarter of an hour.
He was staying at one of the large Piccadilly hotels acquired by the French authorities for office and living quarters: he had described it to Craigie as the heart of France in London. There, most of the Committees met and deliberated, working as best they could for the Allied cause and filled with bitterness towards the aged Marshal who, they believed, had betrayed them and was still betraying their beloved land. But they strove the harder because of it, and no one in official circles was unconscious or unappreciative of the effort the small French community was making.
From there, then, de Boncour had left some five minutes after receiving Craigie’s message. Monet, his secretary—a middle-aged, one-legged man whom Craigie knew slightly and who had worked behind the scenes in de Boncour’s Paris office since the First World War—had been with him in his room when the message had come through.
Now, as Loftus questioned him an hour after de Boncour should have reached the Brook Street flat, Monet looked distinctly apprehensive.
‘But it is certain, m’sieu!’ he was protesting. ‘He turned to me and cried just two words: “Labiche remembers!” He hurried for his hat—but after going out, he returned for some minutes: studying papers, and taking some with him.’
‘Papers concerning what?’
‘I do not know, m’sieu.’
‘And you have heard nothing from him since?’
> ‘It is not my practice, m’sieu, to lie.’ Monet’s sensitive face supported the protest in the words, and Loftus smiled—a smile that transformed his face.
‘Of course not, m’sieu. Such an idea is unthinkable. Have you a reliable man who can be left here with word for M’sieu de Boncour the moment he returns?’
‘I will not move, m’sieu.’
‘I’d thought it might be useful if you came with me? Labiche will know you and—I hope—will talk as freely on your instructions as on de Boncour’s.’
‘That is probable, m’sieu—yes. I will arrange immediately for the person who will wait.’
For some reason, Monet had always refused to use an artificial limb. But he could get about surprisingly well with his crutch. And ten minutes later, they left the hotel with Oundle, who had accompanied Loftus.
It was nearly dark.
A waning crescent moon cancelled out what light there was from the dimmed street lamps. Vague figures passed to and fro, most of them wardens or policemen, for there was a curfew in London except for those on urgent business.
As he helped Monet across the pavement to the waiting car, Loftus reflected grimly that if de Boncour had not returned to his apartment for those papers, he might have reached Brook Street safely.
Instead, he had been waylaid.
He might even be dead.
It was impossible to make a full investigation or search in these conditions: they would have to wait for morning to do anything effective about tracing the missing man. And not for the first time, Loftus cursed the fates which made of this job a constant searching for key men who disappeared at the crucial moment. Tenby—Parnell—Richards—de Boncour.
Who next?
Except for Tenby and the woman who had killed herself, they had been able to put their hands on no one: proof, if he needed it, of the thoroughness of this unknown organisation’s network in London. Most of the Fifth Column, as such, had of course been rounded up long ago. But it was inevitable that a few—doubtless with long-term and superlatively-laid plans for avoiding the police net—had escaped. Nor was it to be expected that every one of them would eventually be tracked down.
It was like fighting air.
Or sleep, thought Loftus grimly, as they reached the car.
