by John Creasey
‘It’s true,’ he continued mildly. ‘I have it on the highest authority. Are you yourself, or a good imitation? How did you get to England, Mr. Hoppermann?’
He acknowledged the American’s ability to take a jolt and recover quickly, for Hoppermann’s tension eased, and he drew away from the window.
‘Who are you, sir?’
Loftus took a card from his wallet.
It was one of several he carried with him, and it declared him to be an agent of the Special Branch of Scotland Yard, instructing all officers of the Yard and constabularies throughout the country to afford him all possible assistance. He used it when he felt the need for authority and did not want to mention Department Z.
Hoppermann frowned down at it.
‘A representative from Scotland Yard, Mr. Loftus?’
‘That’s so,’ said Loftus slowly. He had garnered the fruits of the surprise attack, and the others had now had full opportunity to recover their poise. He saw no purpose in withholding anything else. When he had finished the outline of the story, there was not the slightest doubt that Hoppermann was nervous, although he made a commendable effort to hide it.
‘This is extremely worrying, Mr.—Mr. Loftus.’
‘If I read this affair rightly,’ said Loftus, ‘a murderous attack was made on a man believed to be you—always assuming, of course, that you’re not an imposter.’
Hoppermann waved a hand at the willowy man, who appeared anxious to speak.
‘Be quiet, Sell. That—er, that is an understandable suggestion, Mr. Loftus, but my staff here and many friends and acquaintances can vouch for me. And the Embassy, of course. You will have guessed what happened?’
‘I think so.’
‘Why don’t you let him give his guess?’ demanded the thick-set man sharply.
‘That suits me,’ said Loftus, ‘You came over by one aeroplane but allowed it to be thought you were travelling in another. That suggests you knew there was some degree of danger.’
Hoppermann said slowly: ‘Danger? Perhaps so. I was more anxious to avoid publicity on my arrival in this country, Mr. Loftus, and employed a man to make the journey by air. I left America by ship, and we berthed early this morning.’
‘There was a television talk,’ said Loftus.
‘I recorded it before I left.’
‘And the other man was so like you that he could take your place with impunity?’
‘Hardly with—’
‘Why don’t we stop this yapping?’ demanded the thick-set man. ‘We don’t even know the guy’s a policeman. He could be a news-hound giving you a run round.’ He was glaring at Loftus as he spoke, and his deep-set eyes did not look friendly.
‘Why don’t you telephone Scotland Yard?’ asked Loftus. ‘Superintendent Miller or Sir William Fellowes will satisfy you.’ He turned away from the man, and addressed Hoppermann. ‘If you didn’t know there was danger before, you do now.’
‘Aw, quit talking.’ The thick-set man was irrepressible. ‘What danger? Other airplanes have crashed, haven’t they? And other guys have died.’
‘I’m beginning to dislike you,’ Loftus said softly. ‘Supposing you keep quiet?’
‘I am not impressed by your manner,’ Hoppermann put in.
Loftus raised one eyebrow.
‘No-o. You wouldn’t be. I’ll explain it, and it will give you an idea why I mean to see this through however it ends. Your—stooge was followed from America by a woman agent detailed to see you safely to England. She was in the ’plane. She was my fiancée. I have no peculiar and perverted ideas about your indirect responsibility for her death, but I propose to find who killed her.’
‘The ruddy Commies,’ broke in the thick-set man.
Hoppermann froze him.
‘If you can’t keep silent, Goss, you can get out.’ There was a pause, while Goss muttered something under his breath. Then Hoppermann went on: ‘I won’t say I’m sorry, Mr. Loftus, you won’t want words. Obviously you doubt the direct responsibility of the Communists.’
‘At the moment I doubt everything,’ said Loftus. ‘I start from one apparently unassailable fact, that someone meant to prevent you getting to England.’
‘It could be so,’ said Hoppermann; he had lost a little of his colour.
Goss said sharply: ‘It could have been someone else they were after. Who else was on the ’plane?’
‘No one of outstanding importance,’ said Loftus.
‘I told you to keep quiet, Goss.’ Hoppermann gave the impression that unless he was obeyed Goss would get marching orders. ‘I’ve assumed, Mr. Loftus, that you’re satisfied that the ’plane was sabotaged to kill me? What else do you think?’
Loftus shrugged. ‘I hardly need to say it, do I? If you were in danger then, you’re in danger now. Once it becomes known you weren’t on that aeroplane—’ He paused.
Goss burst out: ‘It’s one of these smooth British tricks to stop you getting around. They want to put you away somewhere safe, where you can’t see what’s what.’
Loftus ignored him. ‘Mr. Hoppermann, in my opinion you are in constant danger of your life. Your murder in this country would do an enormous amount of damage to Anglo-American friendship. If I were you I would go to the American Embassy without losing time, and—’
He stopped abruptly.
There was a bang somewhere outside, followed by a shout, and a scream from one of the girls, a hurried footstep and, from somewhere further off, Mark Errol’s voice pitched on a high note.
‘Watch it, Bill, watch it!’
Then the door burst open.
A little man, wild-eyed, dressed in poor, almost ragged clothes, stood for a moment on the threshold. Behind him was the red-haired office boy, the strained faces of the girls, and, by the outer door, Mark Errol.
Loftus moved towards Hoppermann, covering him.
The little man had one hand in his pocket, and snatched it out, shouting:
‘’Oppermann, you ruddy Yank, you ain’t fit to lick an Englishman’s shoes, you—’
Loftus saw the object in his hand; it was not unlike a hand grenade. The little man lobbed it towards Hoppermann, and it looked as if it would pass over Loftus’s head. Loftus stretched up his arms, much as he would move towards a high catch in the slips, touched but could not hold it. He moved his hand backwards, touched it again, and sent it upwards, away from Hoppermann and through the open window. It fell from sight; and after what seemed an interminable time, there came a loud explosion.
After the explosion there was a moment of silence which seemed absolute. Then the little man moved, ducking to get past Mark Errol, but was too slow. Mark’s hand shot out, and gripped his collar. The man turned and kicked at Mark’s shin, landing one kick which made Mark gasp, but did not make him release his hold.
The man was screaming: ‘Ruddy Yank, who wants the ruddy Yanks? They ain’t got no guts, ain’t got no—’
Loftus reached him, jerked him round with his left hand, sending in a right-arm jab. The blow was so well-judged that it clipped the man’s teeth together, jolting his head back, and he slumped down on the floor, escaping Mark’s grip only when he was in no state to get away. Again there was a moment of silence, then a typist began to utter a series of earpiercing shrieks which echoed through the offices.
The red-haired office boy moved quickly to a desk, picked up a water-jug, filled a glass, and calmly threw the contents into the typist’s face. She gulped, gasped, and collapsed into an incoherent muttering.
Loftus turned to Mark.
‘Stay there, will you? And send the youngster down for Mike.’ He pulled the would-be assassin across the threshold and into the inner office, shutting the door behind him, and regarded the three men expressionlessly.
Goss was scowling.
Sell was smoothing his dark hair with an unsteady hand.
Hoppermann looked at Loftus.
‘You—you were right, I guess. I’ll do whatever you suggest.’
‘That�
��s fine.’ said Loftus. ‘The little fellow served a purpose after all. He must have convinced even Goss, and that couldn’t be called easy.’
‘I’ll handle Goss,’ said Hoppermann. ‘After all he is my—’ He hesitated for a moment, concluding lamely ‘—private secretary.’
The remark puzzled Loftus, but he pushed it to the back of his mind.
‘Goss certainly needs handling,’ he said. ‘Are you taking him to the Embassy with you?’
‘Yes,’ said Hoppermann decisively.
‘No,’ said Goss with equal decision, and much more loudly. ‘This guy might scare you off, Boss, but he don’t scare me, not by a long way. I’m taking a look-around.’
Loftus smiled. ‘Mr. Hoppermann is important,’ he said. ‘I can’t imagine you being important enough for anyone to want to kill.’ He did not wait to see Goss’s reaction to his words, but stepped to the door. When he opened it both the Errols were outside, the gingerhaired lad between them, his chest puffed out, his eyes shining with excitement.
Loftus waved a hand towards the two cousins. ‘One of you will take this customer’—he indicated the assassin—‘to Cannon Row, and hold him under a charge of attempted murder. The other will follow Mr. Hoppermann and me to the American Embassy. Have the regular police been making enquiries about the explosion, by the way?’
‘Yes,’ said Mark.
‘We satisfied them that we knew what we were about,’ said Mike. ‘The only damage was a few broken windows and some palpitations.’
‘Good. I think that we can go now.’
Then the little man moved again.
The odds were heavily against him, but he tried, showing no disinclination to fight. Diving across the floor, he passed and kicked at Mike Errol’s knees, making him stagger. He was within Mark’s reach, but Loftus moved with the surprising speed of which he was capable on occasion, and lunged against Mark, preventing him from catching the little man. At the same time he muttered into Mark’s ear:
‘Follow him.’
The girls were staring in dumb stupefaction at the wild-eyed man who was making for the door, all unaware that Loftus had deliberately let him go.
The ginger-haired office boy was also unaware of this.
The boy’s lips pursed suddenly, and his eyes narrowed. He twisted round swiftly and made a flying jump for the little man, landing short and going flat on his stomach with a crash which shook the room, but appeared to leave him unaffected. The assassin had a hand on the door-knob when the boy’s outstretched fingers gripped his ankles. The little man lost his balance and fell heavily, striking his head against the parquet floor; he would be out of action for some minutes.
The boy clambered to his feet, beaming at Loftus.
‘Okay?’ he demanded, triumphantly.
‘If you—’ began Mark sharply.
‘Hush!’ said Loftus, and then gravely. ‘Okay, sonny. You did a good job that time. All right, Mike, take the little customer along.’ He was close to Mike, who had recovered from the kick at his knees, and added in a voice none of the others could hear: ‘Let him go. Keep after him.’
Hoppermann turned to Loftus and said with a peculiar little smile:
‘Shouldn’t we be going?’
‘We certainly should,’ said Loftus.
‘If you ask me, you’re plumb crazy!’ grated Goss.
Then came a sensation, mild in degree but almost as startling in fact as the attempted murder. Hoppermann took two long strides across the office and with the flat of his hand slapped Goss’s face so hard that the man reeled against the desk and then fell to one knee.
4
Mike takes a run
The slap resounded through the office, and Goss stared up at Hoppermann with an expression of such fury that it would not have been surprising had he flown at his employer. He muttered something under his breath, straightened up and rubbed his cheek, which showed a red glow from Hoppermann’s fingers, then lit a cigarette with a trembling hand.
Hoppermann looked at Loftus apologetically.
‘I guess it’s the only way to make him obedient,’ he said. ‘Goss is strongly convinced that the British are cheating us, Mr. Loftus.’
Loftus shrugged. ‘Supposing we forget it? Is there anything you need to say to these people?’
‘They can come to the Embassy to see me, later,’ said Hoppermann. ‘I’d like to get along.’
It was all too obvious that he was feeling very nervous, and there was nothing to occasion surprise in that. Loftus nodded to Sell and Goss, and went out of the office. Mark followed him, with Hoppermann. Mike was sitting on a chair and regarding the little man, who this time was coming round with genuine bemusement, blinking in the light from the window.
Hoppermann’s arrival at the Embassy caused some consternation. This was not surprising since his death had already been announced.
Loftus explained, then left Hoppermann at the Embassy, and decided to walk to Craigie’s office. As he went, a tall, lanky man followed him; following the lanky man was Mark Errol.
Mike Errol, meanwhile, had left Hoppermann’s office with a hand on the wrist of the would-be assassin, who appeared to be still suffering from the effect of his second knock-out. Twice, however, Mike caught a quick, crafty glimpse from little beady eyes, and like Loftus he came to the conclusion that the prisoner was an adept in the art of foxing.
Contemplating the best place to give his man an opportunity for slipping away, while being able to follow him fairly easily, he decided on the Embankment, and walked down Villiers Street towards Charing Cross Underground Station. Towards the end of the street the man made his effort.
Again he showed a well-developed cunning.
They were ten yards from Hungerford Bridge when he slipped out of Mike’s loose hold, and made for the wooden steps leading to the foot-bridge. A dozen people stared uncertainly, while Errol waited for a few seconds, as if so taken by surprise that he could not immediately get into action.
Then he followed.
He reached the bend at the far end of the bridge, swerved round it, saw his quarry nearly at the end of the slope which ran to the mean little streets behind Waterloo Station, and knew that when the man reached the street at the end he could go in one of three directions.
He increased his pace.
He made good progress, for he saw his man turning into a narrow road which led straight to the station. Still running like the wind, the little man glanced over his shoulder.
It was possible that he was going to make a train journey, but more likely that he had chosen Waterloo because of its diversity of hiding-places.
As he followed the little man into the station, Mike wished that there had been someone else with him, and while the wish was expressing itself in his mind he heard a thin voice say:
‘Want any help, sir?’
He turned abruptly; and looked down into the wide blue eyes of the ginger-haired office boy.
‘I thought he might give you the slip, sir. He’s just gone into the cloak-room.’
‘Good man. Watch it, will you? There’s only one way out, and we’re bound to see him. I want to make a telephone call—if he comes up, make a sign to me and I’ll be with you.’
Mike hurried to a nearby telephone kiosk, dialled a Mayfair number, and waited impatiently.
‘Davidson here.’ said a languid voice at the other end.
‘Wally, I need help.’ said Mike, spelling his name backwards in the usual way. ‘I’m at Waterloo, the end opposite the cinema. How soon can you get here?’
‘I’m nearly there,’ said Wally Davidson.
Mike returned to the boy, who looked up at him hopefully.
‘Nothing doing, sir, but I’ve had an idea. Supposing I go in and see what he’s up to?’
‘I’d better go, old man,’ said Mike reasoningly. ‘He’s a tough customer.’
‘You’re telling me,’ said the boy with a grin. ‘But he won’t spot me!’
Mike hesitated.
>
‘Okay?’ demanded the boy eagerly.
‘Right you are, my son! Don’t hang about, just see whether he’s in the barber’s saloon, or the washroom.’
‘O-kay!’ said the boy and scampered off. When he came back his face was showing satisfaction and surprise. He hurried towards Mike.
‘He’s having a haircut,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I saw him in the mirror. Half of his hair is on, half off; strewth, he don’t half look different.’
‘Oh-h,’ said Mike slowly. ‘Sonny, you’re being very valuable indeed, and I’m glad you came along. I’m expecting a friend in a few minutes, and he’ll be able to take over from us. When he arrives, I’ll introduce you, you’ll point out our man, and then get away.’
‘Okay,’ said the boy. ‘What then? There must be something I can do. I’ve been useful; you said it yourself.’
‘You’ve been A.l,’ said Mike, and he had not the heart to say there was nothing more that the boy could do. ‘All right, come along to see me later in the day. If I’m not in, try Number 55g Brook Street—a few doors along from my flat.’ He handed the boy a card, which declared him to reside at 39j Brook Street. The boy read the card eagerly, then took out a tattered-looking wallet, and carefully stowed away the precious slip of pasteboard.
Mike glanced towards the head of the steps, and relief dawned, for he saw Wally Davidson approaching.
Davidson was a tall man, and very thin. His features were good and, but for a longer nose than average, he would have justified the description of handsome. His eyes were filled with a languid amusement as he approached, and although he walked at a good pace he contrived to create an impression of laziness. In their less original moments, the Department agents christened Davidson ‘Weary Wally’.
But he would boast, on occasions, that he carried more scars on his person—five in all, including three in the chest—than any other of Craigie’s men. He was one of Craigie’s oldest agents in years of service, and was nearer forty than thirty, although his thinness and his expression gave him an ageless appearance.
He raised his right hand, lethargically.
