by John Creasey
Lewis had not taken them into his confidence, but he had told them, three days before, that Hoppermann’s arrival might cause trouble and delay. He had, in fact, made them thoroughly nervous.
He had also deliberately handed them over to the authorities, contriving it in a way which made it certain that they would be forced to confess what they knew.
Why?
There were other things Loftus had to discover, however, and after the questioning he had seen Hoppermann, who had gone to the American Embassy and now seemed prepared to stay there indefinitely. There was little doubt that his experience the previous night had jolted the American badly. He asked again for Loftus to accompany him personally on his tour, and persisted in his refusal to be served by the Errols.
Loftus left it at that.
Hoppermann declared that he had never heard of Lewis, that after being taken to Lester Drive he had been locked in a room seeing no one but the manservant, Blake. He was grateful for Loftus’s last-minute intervention, and in saying so made Loftus feel almost embarrassed.
‘I should have listened more to you from the start, I guess.’
‘Let’s forget that, shall we? About your London office, Hoppermann—how long has Sell been the manager?’
‘For eight years.’
‘Has he always given satisfaction?’
‘Eight years, I said, not eight weeks! No man who doesn’t give me satisfaction stays on my pay-roll for that length of time.’
‘The same applies to Goss, I take it?’
Hoppermann hesitated, and Loftus waited, wondering whether he was going to be told the truth about that plain-speaking American who showed no reluctance at declaring that he believed the British were two-timing scoundrels. There was a long pause, and Loftus remembered that Hoppermann had started to describe Goss in one way, and actually done so in another.
‘I guess I owe you this,’ said Hoppermann. ‘Goss is my personal bodyguard, Loftus.’
Loftus said: ‘How long has he held that post?’
‘Oh, for five or six years.’
‘Does he really think the way he talks?’
‘He’s sincere, I guess.’
Loftus leaned forward.
‘There is one more thing I’d like you to clear up. I’ve had reports that others who are with you in trying to change the President’s policy are scared out of their lives.’
The American looked squarely at him.
‘Here it is, as straight as I can give it. All men of authority are liable sooner or later to be threatened, and some of the men working on my Committee—you know about my Committee?’
‘The one for Doing the Doublecross on England, yes.’
Hoppermann coloured.
‘I wish you wouldn’t be so bitter. They think they’re being threatened by British agents.’
There was another, longer pause, while Loftus read into the American’s words all that had been omitted. The Committee—Loftus did not remember its full title, but it implied making sure that America was not taken advantage of—believed that its members were being threatened by the English, to make them withdraw their opposition to the N.A.T.O. Alliance.
‘Do you really think that?’
‘It isn’t impossible,’ said Hoppermann.
‘You seriously think that this country would attempt to adopt gangster-methods against prominent Americans because of their lack of sympathy with us?’
Hoppermann said nothing.
‘All right,’ said Loftus at last. ‘We’ll leave it at that. Now, just one other thing, please. Your daughter—’
Hoppermann said sharply: ‘I’ve told you, we’re not on good terms.’
‘Have you any idea why she should be victimised?’
‘None at all,’ Hoppermann assured him. ‘I haven’t seen her in three years, Loftus. I’ve been thinking around it. It looks as if this man Lewis thought she might be able to give the low-down on me, but he was all wrong.’
‘That wouldn’t explain the second show,’ said Loftus. ‘He intended to kill her. I’ll go further, and say he’s frightened of her.’
‘That’s baloney,’ said Hoppermann.
‘We’ll see. Now, this time—’ a faint smile played at his lips—‘can I rely on you to stay here, or not to venture out without Goss and my men? I’ve detailed two, the Errols I told you about, to wait here for you, and be ready any time you want them.’
‘I don’t like being followed,’ said Hoppermann.
‘Try to overcome the dislike,’ said Loftus dryly.
* * * * *
Robert Carruthers, known more popularly among Department agents as Carry, boasted that he had never been in love.
There was something in that, moreover. Carruthers, while popular with women, was not a ladies’ man, and for that reason Loftus had arranged for Carruthers to go to see Christine Weston as soon as the hospital gave permission. Permission being granted about four o’clock that Thursday afternoon Carruthers entered the small private ward of the nursing home, expecting to find the girl in bed, and looking very much the worse for her misadventures. Instead he found her sitting in an easy chair, in a dressing-gown, and with blankets gathered about her legs, tucked under her feet to make sure she was not in a draught.
Her eyes were tired-looking, the pupils mere pinpoints.
Christine Weston, née Hoppermann, had expected to see Loftus. There had been something about him she had not properly understood. Somehow he had seemed to know how she thought of the loss of her husband. That was an old tragedy now, old as far as speed of events in modern days was concerned; but its wound was still raw.
She had been looking forward to seeing Loftus, and the sight of the tall, fair-haired Carruthers, a good-looking man with a rather tentative smile, disappointed her. Carruthers saw that.
‘Hallo,’ he said. ‘I’m not what you expected. Never mind.’ He pulled a chair up and sat down. ‘How about giving me a résumé of what happened after you left Loftus?’
She nodded, paused for a moment, then began her story. It was very much as Loftus had suspected.
She and her father had climbed into the cab only to find a man sitting in the back of it, covering them with a gun. They had driven to the Barnes house, Hoppermann had been forced out, and she had been unable to move because her ankles had been hobbled. Before leaving the cab the man with the gun had scratched her arm, apparently by accident. She had not thought a lot of it at the time, but after half-an-hour she had lost consciousness, and she remembered nothing more until waking up in the nursing home.
Carruthers looked grave. ‘There isn’t any doubt that they proposed to kill you.’
She shivered. ‘But why on earth should they?’
‘Is there anything you know about Lewis which might put him in a spot?’
‘There can’t be. I’ve never heard of him.’
‘Well, his friends then. Do you know Lord Manfrey, Sir Geoffrey Gott or Gabriel Pellisser?’
‘I think I met Gott someplace,’ admitted Christine, ‘but I don’t really remember.’
‘Do you know many people in England?’
‘I’ve lived here for nearly three years.’
‘Your own friends, or your husband’s?’
‘Mostly his.’
‘I suppose there couldn’t be a list of them?’ said Carruthers. ‘We have to find the link between you and Lewis, and it seems that it can only be through friends.’
Christine sat back a little in her chair, and carefully adjusted the folds of the blanket about her knees.
‘All this is nonsense,’ she said decisively. ‘You’re suggesting that I’ve learned something of vital importance by accident. It’s—’
‘Don’t say fantastic!’ appealed Carruthers. ‘Nonsense and absurd cover it well enough!’ He grinned. ‘The fact remains that they wanted to put you out, so presumably you can be dangerous to them. We can’t get round that. Did you know your father was coming to England?’
‘Only from the Pr
ess.’
‘Did you ever visit the London office?’
‘To see the manager.’
‘Sell?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I have a fairly large block of Nu-Steel Shares—they were left me by my grandfather. Sell wanted to buy. Father always disliked having anyone who was not at his beck-and-call owning the Corporation’s stock.’
‘Did you sell?’
‘No; why should I? They’re going up.’
‘Yes, I’ll say they are,’ said Carruthers. ‘A small fortune could be won from a little manipulation in Nu-Steel shares over the past five or six years, couldn’t it?’
‘They’ve been getting progressively stronger, yes. But I don’t see where this is leading us to.’
Carruthers smiled. ‘No, and quite honestly, nor do I. My big forte is memory—it’s nearly photographic, and I shall go back to Loftus and report. If there’s anything to be made out of it, he’ll do it.’
‘You seem very confident in Loftus.’
‘Great Scott, yes!’ said Carruthers. ‘The man is a positive genius. He’s a bit off at the moment; socially, I mean.’ It was strange, thought Christine Weston, that for a moment—it passed very quickly—he looked much as Loftus had looked, and there were shadows in his eyes. ‘You haven’t heard?’
‘Heard what?’
‘He was engaged. She was in the business, and followed your father, or so she thought, in the airliner. Loftus didn’t know about it until yesterday.’
Christine lost some of her colour. ‘I—I see.’ Her voice was very low. ‘I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Carruthers, awkwardly. ‘Well, I’ll get along. You’ll probably find Loftus here soon.’
‘I’ll be glad to see him,’ said Christine slowly.
At eight o’clock that evening, Loftus telephoned Christine Weston at the nursing home.
‘Hallo, Mrs. Weston. Loftus here . . . These Nu-Steel shares you talked about. Where do you keep them?’
‘At my flat.’
‘Are they in a safe?’
‘No, there isn’t one. They’re in a strong-box, under the bed. But why—’
‘It’s just an idea,’ said Loftus. ‘I’m going to burgle your flat. You don’t mind, do you?’
‘I don’t—’ she gasped the words, then said more collectedly: ‘I’d rather like to be there.’
‘Oh, no.’ said Loftus. ‘There’s no time for it, and it would spoil our form, anyhow. I’ll report as soon as we’ve finished—with any luck at about nine o’clock.’ He rang off and there was more than a hint of excitement in his manner as he turned to Ned Oundle. ‘Ned—you and I are off to 120, Bay Court, Park Lane. And we’re in a hurry. Carry, ’phone two or three of the lads and have them come over in support. You make it, too.’
In just under eight minutes Loftus had drawn up outside Bay Court and was showing a commissionaire his Special Branch card and demanding the master-key which would get him into Christine Weston’s flat. There was only a short delay before the manager escorted Loftus and Oundle upstairs in person. Outside the flat the man paused.
‘You quite understand, gentlemen, that this responsibility is wholly that of the police?’
‘Yes, fully,’ said Loftus. ‘Do you mind if I—’
He did not go on, for the door opened before he took the key from the manager’s hand.
Two men came out at high speed. One was a thug of the Stocker genre. The other Loftus recognised immediately as the little man who had tried to kill Hoppermann with the hand-grenade.
The little man had a gun; the thug was carrying a large metal box.
15
Prevention better than cure
The little man fired.
It happened that he jogged his elbow against the thug, and the bullet which should have gone through Loftus’s chest went instead through the shoulder of the manager. The man uttered a gasp and staggered back against the wall, swung round by the force of the shot.
Loftus hit the little man.
The blow did not carry full weight, but it was enough to take the fellow off his balance, and send him staggering back against the thug. Oundle had taken the wise course, and retreated a few yards along the passage, gun in hand. Loftus reached over the little man’s head, and contrived to get his fingers about the thug’s throat.
His grip tightened, and he crowded in, while Oundle, seeing that there was no immediate danger of an escape, went forward. Between them, they had the men disarmed and in the flat within three minutes.
The manager was half-conscious, and muttered:
‘There— there is a house doctor. Please—’
‘Ring for him, Ned,’ said Loftus.
Oundle went to a telephone in the room to do so. Loftus turned and eyed the little man and the thug, both of whom were in easy chairs. They sat as far back in them as they could, the bigger of the two men obviously scared out of his wits, the other, with his eyes closed, going through one of the performances which he had shown at Hoppermann’s office. Loftus waited until Oundle had telephoned for the doctor and bent over the manager, and then approached the little man.
Before he spoke, there was a sharp knock at the door.
He opened it cautiously, and was relieved to see Carruthers, closely followed by Grey and Dunster, and a younger agent called Graham. Loftus explained the situation quickly, and the men made free of Christine’s flat. It was a three-roomed one, with a good view over Hyde Park from the lounge window, and it passed through Loftus’s mind that she must have an ample income.
One of the three rooms was obviously a bedroom set aside for visitors; there were no clothes in the wardrobe. Loftus used this room for his interrogation of the gunman, whom he had lifted bodily from the easy chair in which he lay back, feigning unconsciousness. Loftus put him face-downwards on the bed, and slapped his shoulder. The man jumped and turned over.
Loftus looked at him without speaking.
The prisoner now abandoned all attempts at pretence and sat bolt upright on the bed, one hand a little behind him.
‘Who sent you here?’
‘Find out,’ said the little man.
‘What did you come for?’
‘Find out.’
‘What is your name?’ asked Loftus stonily.
‘Find out,’ said the little man in the same monotone.
‘You have much to learn,’ said Loftus. ‘You can talk now, and freely, or you’ll talk later when you can’t form the words so easily, and when you’re wishing you were dead.’ He too spoke in an even voice, a cold one, and he knew that the method of speaking scared the man, whose eyes moved towards the window.
‘I—I won’t say a thing.’ There was bravado in the words and in the manner. Loftus shrugged, and lit a cigarette. When it was glowing redly, he took it from his lips, stepped forward, and, although the other tried to wriggle away, pinioned him to the bed where he was unable to do more than squirm under the weight of Loftus’s left arm and hand.
Loftus lowered the cigarette towards the man’s cheek.
‘This isn’t a joke,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
The man kept quite still, as if fascinated. Loftus wondered, in a curiously detached frame of mind, whether the fellow would hold out until the cigarette actually did touch him. He did not think it likely, and when the glow must have been warm against the sallow cheek, the man gasped.
‘No, don’t, don’t do that!’
Loftus kept the cigarette still.
‘What is your name?’
‘Gug-Guggleheim,’ said the little man, gasping each syllable out desperately. ‘Guggleheim!’
‘Who sent you?’
‘Lewis.’
‘What for?’
‘The—the shares.’
‘What shares?’
‘The Nu-Steel Corporation.’
‘I see. Why does Lewis want them?’
‘I don’t know, I swear I don’t know!’
Loftus paused, and he saw fear i
n his prisoner’s eyes, fear because the little man thought he might not be believed. He said slowly:
‘I’ll accept that, for the moment. Why did you go to see Hoppermann at his office?’
‘Lewis sent me. I was to—’ began Guggleheim.
A sharp tap on the door interrupted him. Loftus cursed under his breath, but stepped forward and opened the door, keeping one eye on Guggleheim, who lay quite still, showing no inclination to bolt for it. Ned Oundle was standing in the other room, and by his side was the thin, perfumed figure of A. J. Sell, the Hoppermann London manager.
Sell’s voice was shrill, either with fear or indignation.
‘I want to know what this means! This flat belongs to Mrs. Weston, you have no right here.’
‘Have you?’ asked Loftus.
‘I called to see her. Where—where is she?’
‘Busy,’ said Loftus. ‘What do you want to see her about?’
‘It is a matter of business,’ said Sell.
Loftus smiled grimly. ‘Your business with Mrs. Weston can wait. Why did you come?’
‘I refuse completely to make any statement to you. I shall get in touch with her at once, and—’
‘Make another offer for the shares,’ said Loftus evenly. He scored a direct hit.
‘How did you know of that?’
‘A little bird told me,’ said Loftus. ‘I shall want to question you later, Mr. Sell, but you may go now.’
He nodded to Oundle, who gripped Sell’s right arm above the elbow and hustled him away. Loftus closed the door and turned back to Guggleheim. Even though he knew Ned had been quite right to disturb him, he confounded the interruption. Guggleheim had now had time to prepare his story.
He sat on the end of the bed.
‘We were talking about your visit to Hoppermann,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Guggleheim glibly. ‘I had to go and throw a scare into him, that’s all, and pretend I was anti-Yank.’ He sniffed. ‘And I am. I guess—’
