by John Creasey
“And you flopped out ten minutes after you’d had that drink,” broke in Davidson, no longer looking weary. “Is this Major Gulliver Odell, Tony?”
Beresford’s eyes were like agate.
“That’s the gentleman,” he said. “And the quicker we get on to him the better. He’s been popping up and down in this job a lot more than I like.” The big man looked at Davidson. “Do you know Odell?”
“Fair to middling.”
“Well enough to invite him to dinner or a stag party?”
“Well enough to ask him to a little game of femin de cher,” said Davidson. “He’s a great gambler is the Major.”
“Is he then!” Beresford honed the words. “That’s worth knowing, Wally. Hop to the telephone and see if the gentleman is at home, will you?”
Wally Davidson hopped, but Major Odell was not at home. Major Odell had left his flat at something after nine, and had told his man that he wasn’t likely to be in until late.
Beresford grunted with disappointment when he heard the news, but he comforted himself, not knowing that the Major’s companion that evening was Valerie Lester, with the thought that there would be ample time to follow the Major’s comings and goings on the morrow. He spoke quickly to Davidson.
“Wally, the Chesters have gone to the Tennis Federation Dinner at the Trivoli. Gate-crash it, will you, and find out whether they know where Valerie Lester was going to-night? O.K.?”
“Sure,” said Davidson, getting to his feet.
“Fine. Drop round to Auveley Street when you’ve got your message. Bob——”
Robert Montgomery Curtis looked hopeful.
“Go round to the Emblem,” said Beresford, “and see Dodo Trale. He’ll be about the back stage somewhere, on Solly Lewistein’s tail. Find out whether he had any luck with Solly, and if he didn’t——”
“I’m listening,” said Curtis, as his friend paused.
“If he didn’t,” said Beresford, his eyes glinting, “you get hold of Solly somehow and take him——”
“You mean grab him bodily?” Curtis, for once, was surprised, although normally he was a placid and stolid man.
“I mean lure or entice him into a car, cab, or pub,” grunted Beresford, “and take him—where the blazes can we keep a couple of boys and girls in hand for a day or two?”
“There’s my little place in Kent,” said Curtis, his eyes gleaming, for to him it seemed that there was going to be fun in plenty. “It’s not big, Tony, but——”
“Your place just outside Farningham?” Beresford muttered. “It’s that bungaloid growth, isn’t it?”
“That’s it,” said Curtis equably. “Six rooms and a scullery——”
“It’ll do fine,” said Beresford. “Get Solly Lewistein down there, Bob, and tell Dodo to get his Adele there too——”
“Adele Fayne?” demanded Curtis, his eyes open in great wonder.
“Yes—La Fayne. Any objections?”
“Object...” Curtis’s homely face split into a beam of delight. He chuckled, stifling his mirth to a rolling thunder in his throat, and as he stood up he quivered. “Lord, Tony! La Fayne and Solly Lewistein, with Dodo and I to keep ’em in order. I——”
“Drop in at your flat as you go to the Emblem,” said Beresford, grim-voiced, “and take a gun with you. It won’t be one long laugh, if I know anything about it, but it might force Gorman’s hand.”
Curtis heaved himself to his feet.
“If you get a chance,” he said gently, “you might persuade Major Gulliver Odell to join us.”
“I will if I can,” said Beresford.
Bob Lavering listened to Beresford’s instructions and saw the other two men leave the Éclat, yet seemed not to comprehend what was happening. The feverish expression in his eyes was more marked than ever. He was suffering from the natural reaction to his exertions, mental and physical, since he had left Paris, and Beresford knew that unless he was careful, Lavering would crack beneath the strain.
“ ’Lo, Bob,” said Beresford loudly.
Lavering’s eyes widened and he looked startled.
“ ’Lo, yourself,” he muttered. “I——”
“Feeling a bit rocky in the middle regions,” grinned Beresford, levering himself from his chair. “All right, son. We’ll have you between the sheets in a brace of shakes, and then——”
Still talking, apparently without meaning, but actually to keep Lavering’s mind active, Beresford helped the American up and shepherded him through the lounge and foyer of the Éclat. A commissionaire grinned, believing Lavering to be drunk, and whistled for a cab. He helped Lavering into it and winked at Beresford, who winked back, straight-faced.
Not until the taxi was well away did Beresford give his destination. It was possible, he realized, that the commissionaire would be questioned, and Beresford did not believe in omitting to take ordinary precautions, even though he was only going to his flat.
As the cab turned in Auveley Street, Beresford saw, and grunted with satisfaction at the sight, that two plain-clothes men were waiting near Number 7. Bill Fellowes and Horace Miller between them meant to make as sure as possible that if anything else happened in Auveley Street, their men would be able to get a hot scent.
Inside the flat, Beresford discovered a bewildered and indignant Samuel Tricker confronting two square-jawed gentlemen also of the plain-clothes school. Tricker was protesting that he could come and go in that flat as and when he liked, and the detectives were convincing him that for the time being he could do nothing of the kind.
“Sam,” said Tony, as he helped Lavering across the living-room and into his bedroom, “I thought I told you to stay at a temperence hotel for the night.”
Sammivel looked unhappy yet pugnacious.
“Yus, an’ I booked me room,” he said complainingly, “an’ then I farnd I’d left me oof behind. Wen I comes to get some, I finds these two—two——”
“Gentlemen,” suggested Tony brightly.
Samuel Tricker made a noise which was uncomplimentary.
“Hany’ow, wen I comes I finds I carn’t git art, so I ’ad to wite fer you, Mr. B. Give ’em the nod, will yer?”
Beresford grinned, gave the men his assurance that Samuel Tricker was one hundred per cent. O.K., and then pressed the ex-fighter into service. Ten minutes after his arrival at Number 7, Bob Lavering was clad in a suit of Beresford’s pyjamas, which were two sizes too large for him, and was between the sheets of Tony’s bed.
“Blimey!” said Samuel Tricker, sotto voce. “I reckons yer’ll want a nursin’ ’ome certificate soon, Mr. B. Wot’s this gent bin doing?”
“Eating things that didn’t agree with him,” said Beresford with a fleeting grin. “Sam, hop over and tell your pal Little that I’ve got another case for him, will you?”
“O.K., Mr. B.”
“And, Sam!”
“Yep, Mr. B?”
“Then pop along to Maria—where’s she staying, by the way?”
“A flat in Downham Road, Mr. B—back o’ Shepherd’s Market. She shares it wiv——”
“I don’t want to hear about Maria’s peccadilloes,” said Beresford with severity, and for a moment Sammivel looked thunderstruck, until the grin in the big man’s eyes reassured him. “Ask her, Sam, if she thinks she could keep awake for to-night, in case our new invalid wants some attention. Will you do that, Sam?”
“I’m on me way,” said Sam.
He glared triumphantly at the plain-clothes men, and stalked past them. Beresford grinned, waited until the door had closed behind his man, and then asked gently for the detectives’ identification cards. They were forthcoming, and Beresford was satisfied that they were actually Yard men.
Within ten minutes the mountainous Doc Little arrived, puffing from his exertions and demanding to know of Beresford whether he thought he had an option on his services. Little was a clever physician and surgeon who preferred to make a comfortable livelihood by treating the minor ailments of the rich
than to pit his knowledge against the problems of medical science. To ease his conscience, however, Little was on the consulting lists of several large hospitals, and Beresford knew him as a man to be trusted. Six feet high, and fat, he was a Colossus of a man, red-faced, and, unless he was with a patient, lusty-voiced, genial and good-hearted.
“Who’s been bashed about now?” demanded Little, as he recovered his breath and looked inquiringly at the two detectives and Beresford. “Your man again?”
“No one,” said Beresford, and the doctor saw that he was unusually serious. “It’s poisoning, Doc. A man in Paris diagnosed arsenic.”
“Arsenic?” Little lowered his voice, as Beresford had done, so that only Beresford heard him. “Let’s have a look at him——”
Just twenty minutes later Doc Little dropped into one of Beresford’s large armchairs, lit a cigarette and eyed the big man narrowly.
“Sure it was—is—arsenic. Lavering’s been slowly poisoned over three or four months, Beresford. The illness you talk about was caused, not by the administration of arsenic, but because Lavering missed his usual dose for a few days. He recovered because the Paris people doped him again—no, don’t swear; they had to do it, otherwise he would have dropped right out—but he’s tired himself out during the past twelve hours, and he’ll take some time to pull round.”
Beresford grunted. Little’s report was much as he had expected. But there was one thing that he wanted to know, and he put the question quietly.
“When he’s picked up again, what’s going to happen if he doesn’t get supplies of the stuff?”
Little pursed his fat lips.
“He must have supplies. It’ll take twelve months to cure that young fellow. He’ll have to take the stuff in diminishing doses, not less day by day, but less week by week. Otherwise——”
“What you mean,” said Beresford, proffering cigarettes, “is that unless Lavering is kept under strict medical supervision for the next year, he’s in danger of dying?”
“Sure. He won’t live.” Little refused a cigarette, and Beresford remembered that he was a non-smoker. “What are you going to do with him, Beresford?”
“Keep him here for the next few days,” said Beresford.
“That’ll be all right,” said Little, “but you’ll want a nurse.”
Beresford grinned fleetingly.
“Tricker won’t mind that,” he said, “and I shan’t be here much.”
Little eyed his man shrewdly, and offered a word of warning.
“You’ve got a pretty good tank,” he said, “but don’t run it too far, Beresford. You’re setting a high pace, aren’t you?”
“So-so,” grunted Beresford.
“Try and cut it down,” cautioned Little.
Beresford grinned, and told the fat man to laugh it off. Little waddled across the room, shaking his head and telling himself that Beresford was asking for trouble. But Beresford, as he picked up the telephone, told himself that for a few days to come the pace would get hotter.
He telephoned Scotland Yard, but Horace Miller was out, and the Chief Commissioner had gone home. Rogerson was there, however, and he gave Beresford a message which set the big man cursing.
“Miss Lester,” said Rogerson precisely, “was seen to enter the Silver Slipper Club in Bond Street with a Major Odell——”
“Odell?” snapped Beresford, his muscles tensing. “Sure?”
“Perfectly sure,” said Rogerson, in whom the matter of Miss-or-Mrs. Higson’s hands still rankled.
“Is the Silver Slipper being watched?” Beresford’s voice was harsh.
“Yes,” said Rogerson coldly.
“Humph. Tell Miller—he’s coming back, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Tell him about this, and tell him that I’ll ring him as soon as I can. What time did they go to the Slipper?” he added.
“Just after ten.”
“Thanks,” said Beresford.
He looked at his watch as he hung up, and was surprised to find that it was nearly half past eleven. That meant that Odell and Valerie Lester had been at the night club for an hour and a half—plenty of time for trouble to develop, if trouble was intended. His recently aroused suspicions of the gallant Major took a decided turn for the worse now that he knew Valerie Lester had been with him that night. For Beresford, who was shrewd above the average, doubted whether Josiah Long had told all that he knew, and the big man guessed that Valerie had not gone with Odell for the sake of his company.
Scowling, Beresford went into his bedroom, satisfied himself that Lavering was asleep, and opened his “gathering of friends”, selecting from the armoury a gas-pistol, a mask and an automatic to replace that which he had lent to Dodo Trale. He returned to the living-room as Sam Tricker and his Maria entered, and as the telephone bell burred out.
“How,” demanded Tony Beresford of Maria as he went to the instrument, “is your conscience? Get to it, Maria...”
The nurse clucked, more with pretence than real annoyance, and Sam Tricker rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Beresford put the receiver to his ear, and his eyes brightened as he heard the jerky voice of Toby Arran at the other end of the line.
“We’re at Victoria,” said Arran. “Anything to do?”
“Yes,” said Beresford. “Get to the Silver Slipper, and if you see Odell or Valerie Lester there, keep an eye on them until I arrive. Got that?”
Tobias said that he had.
“Then get this,” said Beresford, wishing hard that he could see Toby’s face. “Bob Lavering got back to London before that nursing-home was burned down. Yes, Lavering! He’s at my flat now. Don’t drivel, son. He can be, because he is. And make the Silver Slipper slippy, will you?”
Toby Arran said, dazedly, that he would.
CHAPTER XIX
MR. LEOPOLD GORMAN IS WORRIED
AT half past twelve that night, Leopold Gorman, financier, industrialist and director of three times as many large companies as he had fingers, sat in his study at 5, Park Place, W.I, and scowled at a sheet of virgin blotting-paper in front of him. For the first time since the commencement of his campaign against Department Z, as a possible danger to the scheme which he had started five years before and which was fast reaching its maturity, he was worried. Never before had he been met with opposition as varied as it was tenacious. Beresford, the big, innocuous-looking man, had the luck of the devil and a guile which Gorman admitted was far in advance of anything he had anticipated. Craigie too was clever, and Gorman was never sure from which angle the next attack would come.
As the financier leaned back in his chair he looked even bigger across the shoulders than he had done at the Two-Step Club on the evening of his first attacks on Tony Beresford. Beneath the shaded light of the electric chandelier above his desk, the peculiar lopsidedness of his features was more apparent, and the way in which his right brow went above his left was weirdly emphasized by the complete baldness of his head. Beresford’s hazard, that night when he had seen the financier for the one and only time of his life, had been right. Gorman’s hair had been as unnatural as the redness of Adele Fayne’s lips.
Until the Beresford interference, everything had gone right for Leopold Gorman. In England, America, Germany and Japan there had been a slow but sure change of financial control. The combined resources of the five men whom Gorman had met that night after the International Economic Conference had been sufficient to put the virtual control of foodstuffs and raw materials into Gorman’s hands. True, he had had trouble with the American Wheat Pool, but he did not anticipate that the trouble would last much longer, and he had already decided, after gaining control of the Orient-Western Oils, to insert the thin edge of his wedge. Petrol was up in price, as Beresford had seen. Other things would go with it.
Leopold Gorman, during the earlier part of that day, had spent several hours visualizing the situation in England and abroad after six months of his manipulations. By pooling the world’s resources, he and his partners i
n the enterprise which had been calculated to adopt the principles of the Economic Conference, without its ideals, could control world prices and force them to whatever level they desired. The strength of the ring which had been formed was now so great that Gorman did not consider failure even a remote possibility. Private ownership was the ruling principle; a man could charge what he liked for what he owned. Admittedly—and Gorman looked well ahead—the price rises would have to be temporary. There would have to be times when they reached a normal level. But they would fluctuate as and when Gorman wanted, and at no time would they be fixed so that Gorman and his associates worked at a loss.
In itself, Gorman’s objective was not criminal. It might—and it did—violate every human principle, and it was an abuse of an economic system which, when administered with moral honesty, was efficient and sufficing. Gorman was fully aware that the abuse of it would probably mean its end, but he knew that the end would be a long way off. For ten or even fifteen years Gorman would be able to rig his markets as he liked, and the vastness of his holdings would make any opposition futile. In fact, he told himself, he could break any and all opposition. Already in England he had found help from various unexpected sources. Money was a god which broke down all barriers, and to those people who were in the ring which Gorman had formed, money in the future would be plentiful. Thus the financier had been able to exert considerable influence to prevent too searching inquiries into the nature of some of his activities. As it happened, Gorman had found no trouble at all in England. The American Wheat Pool had been the one big stumbling block, and Gorman had not needed to look far for the reason for that. The Pool itself was a powerful ring, working on similar principles to those on which Gorman worked. It had controlled American—and reacted on world—wheat prices, and the members of the ring had no desire for the control to change hands.
In his efforts to gain control of the Pool, Gorman had been compelled to break the law. To him, the murder of several of America’s industrial magnates meant nothing in itself; it did mean, however, that he had left himself open to attack from the law, the one thing which might eventually break his power. Gorman knew perfectly well that if by some freak of chance he was caught, on any one of the charges which Beresford, for instance, was trying to prove against him, the back of the scheme would be broken. In its secrecy lay its safety. Once the rest of the world realized what was happening, those magnates outside Gorman’s ring, helpless individually but powerful if united, would join forces. They would have help from most of the Governments, and their opposition would be severe. Any kind of inquiry into Gorman’s activities at that time must inevitably lead to failure.
