by John Creasey
Oundle had gone ahead and was already at the wheel as Loftus leaned forward to open the rear door, standing back to let Monet swing himself inside.
It happened, then.
It happened out of the darkness, without the slightest warning—and with devastating effect. There was a blinding flash—and then an explosion, right at Monet’s side. The one-legged man took the full force of the blast: nothing else would have saved Loftus from it. As it was, he was hurtled yards along the pavement and fell heavily.
For several seconds he could do no more than lie there, aware of nothing but the drumming in his ears, the pounding of his heart. While, at the wheel, Oundle was doubled up, unmoving.
Monet’s face had received the full force of the explosion. The police and A.R.P. wardens who came running took one look at him, and turned their attentions to Loftus. Propping him against the hotel wall, they tucked blankets about him, assuring him that he would be all right: there was no real damage. As awareness of what had happened slowly dawned on him, he sat up with a start—to be pushed gently but firmly by a burly warden whose helmet was tilted half-over his face.
‘Now, take it easy, sir—take it easy!’
Instinctively, and still half-dazed, Loftus stretched out one large hand and sent the burly one staggering back.
Reaching his feet without difficulty, he swayed for a moment as he fought down a wave of dizziness—then made for the car, leaving the hefty warden swearing indignantly in his wake.
Men were lifting Oundle out, now, and in a voice he hardly recognised as his own, he asked them:
‘Did he catch it badly?’
‘We’re getting him to hospital,’ said a warden. ‘The ambulance will be along in a moment.’ A torch was flashed on Oundle’s face: that at least was undamaged. But he was obviously unconscious, and his legs were limp.
Loftus glanced for a moment at the mangled shape that had been Monet. Shocked, sick at heart, he realised that this man had been de Boncour’s only long-service assistant in London.
Perhaps the only man besides de Boncour to whom Labiche would talk!
‘They work fast, damn them!’ he murmured. And bleakly he glanced again at Monet. ‘Poor devil,’ he thought. Nor did it help, to know with such conviction that the Frenchman would still have been alive, had he himself not come to seek him out.
The slight fire which the explosion had started had been put out with the prompt efficiency which characterised the A.R.P., and there was little anyone could do until the ambulance arrived. The car itself was too badly damaged to be moved without a tow.
As he leaned against it, a warden approached him.
‘Listen, you!’ he said roughly. ‘I tried to help you, and what did you do?’
Loftus passed a weary hand across his forehead, vaguely remembering.
‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘Afraid I forgot myself, for the moment. I was——’
‘Well, this’ll teach you not to do it twice!’
‘This’ was a swift punch aimed at Loftus’ stomach—and he saw it coming. He was conscious that to some extent, the man had a real grievance; but the thought that telegraphed itself to his mind as he swerved to avoid the blow, was:
Why strike at his stomach?
The natural target, for a man out of temper and with good reason, was the chin, surely? As he dodged, Loftus grabbed for the other’s wrist. He touched not flesh, but something cold to his fingers: something sharp. Something cutting.
A knife!
He knew, then, where the bomb had come from—and he reacted with the speed of light. Snatching back his hand while his assailant was still lunging forward, he flung his other arm round the man’s shoulders in a vice-like grip. Big though he was, the warden could not escape that all-encompassing bearhug.
‘Let me go!’ he gasped. ‘Let me——!’
Loftus gripped his wrist with his now bleeding hand, and twisted, and the knife dropped with a clatter to the kerb. Still holding the wrist, he spun the man round. The steel helmet still overhung half the other’s face, and he jerked it back.
‘A torch, someone!’ he said sharply. Then as a warden with the nous to know what he wanted shone a torch in the burly man’s face, Loftus snapped: ‘Does anyone recognise him?’
For a moment, there was silence.
Then the prisoner made a sudden, desperate bid for freedom. He failed—and Loftus changed his grip for a half-Nelson, rendering him completely helpless. The man with the torch said, very slowly:
‘He doesn’t belong to this post, sir.’
‘I doubt,’ said Loftus grimly, ‘whether he belongs to any post. But I’ve no complaints—no complaints at all. I want a car of some kind,’ he added. ‘I’ll take this johnny along with me.’
A constable demurred. Loftus showed him his card, and a car was soon forthcoming. It arrived just after the ambulance, and he waited only to see Oundle safely aboard for St. George’s hospital.
‘Get Arbuthnot to see him,’ he instructed. ‘Give him the name: William Loftus—he’ll come, then, whatever he’s doing.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Climbing into the car beside his now trembling prisoner, Loftus maintained a grim silence until they pulled up outside the block of flats.
He decided to go into Diana’s rather than his own.
‘Need any help, sir?’ the driver asked.
‘No, thanks,’ said Loftus. One of the Department men on routine watch outside any place that Craigie might be found had noticed their arrival and was already approaching. He kept a watchful eye on the prisoner as Loftus thrust him from the car, still holding him in that half-Nelson, then went ahead to open Diana’s door and let them in.
The bright light showed the stranger to be florid-faced with furtive brown eyes, a high-bridged nose and thin, almost non-existent lips. The steel helmet was now at the back of his head: Loftus pulled it off without ceremony and swung the man round. The bullet-shaped head, with the giveaway flatness at the back, was too characteristic for doubt.
‘I see,’ said Loftus, gently. ‘One of Adolf’s own, eh? You threw that bomb—that hand-grenade, or whatever it was?’
The man glared, but said nothing.
‘Obstinate, are you?’ murmured Loftus. He glanced at his hand, seeing the dried blood on the fortunately shallow cuts across his fingers, then slipped it into his pocket to pull out the other’s knife. ‘You tried to give me this in the stomach, Fritz,’ he said easily. ‘It is not a nice place, but there are others just as uncomfortable. I know you threw the bomb—we won’t waste time with that. Where’s de Boncour?’
‘I know nothing,’ the man muttered.
‘No?’ Loftus raised the knife slightly, then thrust it forward. The man darted back—and kept retreating as Loftus followed, keeping the knife no more than three inches from the terrified face. The bullet-shaped head struck against the wall—but the knife did not stop moving.
The point touched the German’s cheek, and Loftus deliberately cut across it for an inch or more, going slowly but not deeply. He saw terror in the little eyes: saw the mouth open and close without a sound.
Then suddenly, the German kicked out savagely.
‘A mistake,’ Loftus said. He took the kick on his shin, but in almost the same moment brought his fist crashing into the man’s solar plexus with just enough force to bring him the maximum pain without unconsciousness. As he doubled up, Loftus stood back.
There could be no half-measures.
This man knew where de Boncour had gone—Loftus was convinced of it. And there were no limits to the torture he would inflict to force from his prisoner the truth he had to have.
The man was still clutching his stomach, gasping and groaning. Blood from the cut cheek ran in a steady trickle down to the corner of his mouth. Loftus touched the point of the knife to the other cheek.
The groaning stopped abruptly.
‘No, no——!’
‘Where is de Boncour?’ Loftus demanded.
‘I——I do not know!’ The knife moved, and the man drew himself up, rigid with terror. ‘It is true, it is true! I do not know! He was taken in a car——’
‘Whose car?’
‘Richoffen’s!’
‘I don’t know him.’
‘You do, you do! His other name—Richards——’
‘Richards!’
For a moment, Loftus was almost too taken aback to act.
Richards—Richoffen. Richards, a German: that explained a lot.
He collected his wits, and said harshly:
‘Where does Richoffen live in London?’
‘I don’t——’
‘Where?’ roared Loftus. The knife barely touched the cheek again, but the other gasped and sank to his knees, grovelling and whining.
‘I give you the address—the only address I know—I give you!’
‘What is it?’
‘It is—Grove Crescent—Victoria—Number 18! It is all I know—I swear!’
‘Get up, you swine!’ Loftus yanked him to his feet and pushed him towards the door leading to the bedroom. There was a faint aroma of Turkish tobacco in the room, telling him that Yvonne had been here within the past quarter of an hour. He smiled grimly, wondering what Yvonne would have thought of that interrogation.
He pressed the button that operated the sliding door, and pushed the German ahead of him into his own bedroom. He could hear the mutter of voices, then the sudden silence when he called:
‘Open up, one of you!’
Davidson opened the door.
Beyond him, Yvonne was sitting, with Craigie in a chair across the room. Martin Best and the Errols were there, too. And Labiche.
They covered their feelings well as Loftus pushed the German inside and said briskly:
‘No sign of de Boncour yet, chaps, but there’s action in the offing. ’Phone Miller, Wally. We want a cordon of men around Number 18 Grove Crescent, Victoria. It would be an idea to have a company of military, too, to occupy adjoining houses.’ He turned to Craigie. ‘I was bringing Monet, and Fritz here threw a hand-grenade. Monet was killed. Ned’s hurt—he’s at St. George’s: one of you might make an inquiry quickly.’
Craigie asked: ‘Has he talked?’
‘Take a look at his face and ask why,’ said Loftus grimly.
The German’s face was still bleeding, and he was slobbering and whining; it would have been difficult to find a less wholesome sight. Loftus pushed him into a chair, and said casually:
‘Find some water and a towel, Yvonne, if you can bring yourself to touch the swine. Yes,’ he added, for Craigie’s benefit; ‘he gave me that address. Richards, better known as Richoffen, is there. And Richoffen took de Boncour off in a car.’
‘I see,’ Craigie nodded slowly. ‘You’ll go yourself?’
‘Of course,’ said Loftus. ‘With the crowd.’
He looked about him, and there was eagerness in the faces of all the men present—except Labiche’s. Labiche looked bewildered, which was understandable; but he said quietly:
‘De Boncour had been captured, you say?’
‘That is so,’ said Loftus.
Labiche looked at the German, and then at Loftus.
‘How can I know it is true? How can I be sure that it is not a trick to make me tell you? How do I know you are not enemies of France?’
‘We’ll prove it in good time, Labiche,’ Loftus assured him. ‘Meanwhile, I’d suggest that you get your story in good order. You remember it all?’
‘I am——quite recovered,’ Labiche said, stiffly.
‘Good,’ said Loftus. ‘Good! We’ll get going, then, Gordon.’ It flashed through his mind as he left the flat with the Errols, Best, and Davidson, that Labiche might be prevailed upon to talk to someone in high position—Hershall, for instance. But that could not be guaranteed: he clearly still felt himself an alien in an alien world.
Loftus pushed the thought aside and concentrated on Richoffen and the chance of finding him, and mentally cleared the decks for action.
The Errols had their car, and all five crowded into it. They reached Grove Crescent in little more than five minutes, to find a cordon of police across the road and a platoon of infantry aiding them. They were let through and drove to a house where an inner cordon of infantry with fixed bayonets, were waiting. There was a small car outside, and two policemen were at the front gate, a smaller third figure between them.
‘What’s this, constable?’ Loftus had jumped from the car before it stopped. ‘Someone trying to get out?’
‘Inspector Lebworthy,’ a voice corrected stiffly. ‘No; someone trying to get in.’
Loftus had his torch out, by then. He flashed it on—and almost forgot to switch it off again when he saw who stood there, breathing heavily as if in panic.
It was Gay Parnell, sister of the missing scientist.
17
18, Grove Crescent
Loftus lowered the torch at last, and spoke harshly:
‘Thank you, Inspector. Take the prisoner to Cannon Row, please, and don’t let her out of your sight.’
‘Your authority, please?’ Lebworthy did not know Bill Loftus and had only a vague knowledge of the Department’s activities. Loftus took out his card, while Gay Parnell spoke in a low-pitched voice:
‘Bill, can’t you——’
‘Anything you have to say can keep,’ said Loftus roughly. ‘Take particular care with the prisoner, Inspector.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Lebworthy had been duly impressed. ‘The house is surrounded, back and front, and entry has been forced into the two adjoining houses, as instructed.’
‘Good,’ said Loftus. ‘Thanks.’ As he pushed past the policemen and the girl, she broke away from them and shouted:
‘Bill, you must listen!’
‘In good time,’ said Loftus.
Lebworthy had jumped forward and gripped her shoulder muttering a reprimand at the constable who had let her go, as the Errols, Davidson and Best walked with the big man towards the porch of Number 18, Grove Crescent.
Two uniformed, steel-hatted policemen were there.
‘Put on your masks,’ Loftus told them, in a voice that sounded casual but was in truth grimly earnest. As they obeyed, he and his party followed suit. Then using his automatic as at Hayling, Loftus calmly cracked the glass near the lock, knocked the splinters out with the butt of the gun, then put his hand through and pulled back the catch.
It came back, but the door did not open.
He said:
‘Shine a powerful torch into the hall-way, one of you—through the letter-box.’
Martin Best obliged, and for a moment Loftus surveyed the spacious hallway, which was a thing of eerie shadows beyond the brilliant light of the torch. There was no movement and no evidence that anyone was watching, but the fact that the door was bolted and chained as well as locked suggested the place was occupied.
Would Richoffen still be there?
Loftus’s mind was working swiftly but detachedly as he stretched down and put more pressure on the bolt. He pushed it back, then slid the chain out of its runner. That done, the door opened without difficulty, and he pushed it wide.
‘One at a time,’ he murmured.
He went first, making a bee-line for the electric light switches which Best’s torch revealed. He pushed one down quickly, and light flooded the hallway. As it did so, he saw a movement at the head of the wide staircase. More, he heard a thud, and as he glanced upwards he saw that there were tables and heavy furniture barricading the landing.
Diving to one side, he snapped:
‘Keep down!’
The warning was needed, for as he reached the shelter of a heavy hall-stand, shooting started from the landing: the rat-tat-tat of a machine-gun echoed loudly in the hall, and the spitting flames showed clearly. Bullets stabbed against the floor by the open doorway: a constant hail which no one could get through.
He could see round the edge of his cover without sticking himself out fo
r a target and he changed his automatic from his right hand to his left. He need not worry about the others: they would know the uselessness of trying to follow him across that barrage of lead.
They would try the windows, of course; and the back door.
He saw the machine-gun swivelling round through a narrow slot in a table which looked as if it had been prepared for that purpose. He was ambidextrous when it came to shooting, and he fired three times into the slot. One bullet struck the edge; the others went through. He heard a curse as a man was hit, and the machine-gun stopped abruptly.
Loftus called softly:
‘Get grenades.’
‘Just,’ said Martin Best in a hoarse whisper, ‘what I thought you’d be needing, so I got some from a soldier-boy.’ The large, untidy man had followed him in, the moment the gunfire had stopped. ‘Here she goes,’ he added, and there was a lilt in his voice, as if he was enjoying himself.
He was.
The Errols slipped through one after the other, taking cover where they could, and Best hurled a hand-grenade toward the landing. Even as it curved an arc through the air, the machine-gun began its deadly song again; but it was short-lived. The grenade fell beyond the table, and the explosion nearly blew Loftus off his feet. For a moment, he was dazzled by the flash of blinding light. Smoke billowed down the hallway like a pall, and by the time he could see again, flames were licking their way across the barricade.
Loftus went forward.
He wondered whether his service-mask would be proof against sleeping-gas, if it should be used. He doubted whether it would be, however, for it would have been in evidence by then had they meant to fight with it. But there were other gases.
He reached the landing, gun in hand, and kicked aside the burning tables, while behind him came the Errols and Best, with Wally Davidson at the doorway shouting for extinguishers. There were two men sprawled out behind the barricade: one of them had no head, and the other was moaning. The floorboards and a flimsy carpet covering them were burning fiercely, but he had no time to waste treading them out.
He reached the second flight of stairs, and saw another barricade above. But it was from behind him that the danger came next.
