by John Creasey
‘All right, Shirin. You’re going to be looked after for a while, and afterwards you’ll have to answer the Vallenian courts. I take it they were native sailors?’
‘Some – some, yes! The vessels, they leave down the Pruda to the Black Sea, yes!’
‘Right,’ said Kerr.
He took a handkerchief from his pocket, and from another a small blue bottle. There was a reek of chloroform as Kerr leaned over the Russian. One convulsive movement and he went still.
Kerr replaced the handkerchief and the bottle. And then, as though he had suddenly remembered the man, he swung round on the fanatic.
He smiled suddenly and this time with real, if grim, humour.
The man who had thrown the bomb had seen Shirin’s complete capitulation. Few men could have gone to pieces more thoroughly or with a more unnerving effect on a helpless watcher than Gregaroff Shirin.
In five minutes Kerr learned that the man’s name was Vintelle, that he was a rabid communist with strong Russian sympathies; that he was one of a small but fanatical band of men in Vallena who urged Meggel of the Left Party to his wilder schemes, and that in this band there figured prominently the mysterious Mr Kryn.
Vintelle suffered the same fate as Shirin, after that five minutes. Kerr took up the telephone and dictated a cable to a small firm in London, apparently to do with the present state of affairs in Baj.
And some hour and a half later Gordon Craigie had a telephone call from the manager of the firm, and had the cable read out to him. He decoded it quickly, and read the gist of all that Kerr had so far discovered.
All within three hours of reaching Vallena, thought Craigie with a smile. And then he stopped smiling, for the news was serious. He telephoned the Rt Hon. David Wishart.
Meanwhile Kerr had gone to tell Lois it was all right, and found her stretched out on the bed, fast asleep. She stirred a little when he took off her shoes, and tiptoed from the room.
Loftus saw Kerr standing in the doorway with Lois’s shoes, and grinned widely.
‘That’s right, old boy, begin as you mean to go on. I don’t know quite where the polishers and shoe cream are kept, but I’ll gladly find out.’
‘Very funny,’ said Kerr drily. ‘Where’s Oundle?’
‘Gone to see the agents. He should be back any time.’
Kerr nodded. Had he come to Baj before Shirin and the others had left he could not have gained so much information. True, had he and Craigie acted more promptly they might have caught Shirin in London, but in London the Kryn outfit had seemed so much more efficient. Odd that it was less so in Vallena.
Probably, thought Kerr, because it was essential that no one should learn of Princess Katrina’s implication.
He scowled when he thought of Shirin’s finger marks on Lois. Damnable that he had had to send her up alone, but – there it was.
It had been a successful gamble, which was about all his work could ever be called. He had seen Loftus in the garage, as Lois had gone into the hotel, and Loftus had told him Shirin had visited Suite Thirty, by the back way. Kerr had therefore waited by the main door, until the porter had brought a message that Shirin and Lois had started down the escape. Then he had entered and waited, knowing Loftus could be trusted on the job below.
But he had to face two things.
First, the others knew about Suite Thirty, which had been booked by Loftus together with Suite Thirty-one, next door.
Second, Kryn and Katrina were obviously preparing for war.
He wondered again that Shirin alone had been used by Kryn. Why in heavens name did the blasted people always use a single man, where three or four altogether could have made the job so much more effective?
‘I suppose we’ll find that out, too,’ he said aloud. ‘We’ve made the first really big step anyhow. Now we’re stuck until we hear something from Lady Mondell. Trale should roll up any time, and Oundle. Unless Oundle had been spotted.’
‘Not like you to start jumping your fences, Bob,’ said Bill Loftus crisply, ‘and damn it, we haven’t got to stick here indefinitely, just waiting, have we?’
Heavy footsteps were heard approaching down the passage and then a thunderous knocking on the door.
Kerr leapt to the window overlooking the courtyard and peered out. Four men, uniformed and ostentatiously armed, were standing at the foot of the fire-escape from Suite Thirty. At the same time, Loftus opened the door. Three representatives of the Vallenian Military Police, headed by an officer whose trappings would have done honour to the principal tenor in a light opera, goose-stepped into the room.
Chapter 17
Under Arrest
He was a fierce-looking little fellow, and his sword rattled theatrically as he walked across the room.
With both hands in his trouser pockets, Kerr looked at him.
It might have been possible for a man to have shown more arrogance, but it would have been difficult. Kerr’s: ‘Who the devil is this man?’ expression almost made Loftus laugh.
Three men stood in the doorway, which was left wide open, and stared blankly into space.
‘Ho! You vos Rob-airt – Mac-Mill-an-Kerr?’
‘Well?’
The officer’s moustaches went upwards.
‘Ho, admit it, yes! Excellent! You vos register ‘ere as Arth-air – Brown?’
‘Well?’ Kerr was wondering whether it was worth showing force, then decided that there were probably as many men downstairs in the foyer as there were in the courtyard, and the odds would be hopeless.
‘Excellent! You are und-air arrest!’
‘My dear fellow,’ began Kerr, but the officer cut him short with a magnificent gesture. Two of the riflemen with him goose-stepped forward, ranging themselves on either side of Craigie’s chief agent. Loftus was beginning to feel it was damnably close to the end of things. They would be after him in a moment.
‘This is absurd,’ said Kerr, lighting a cigarette slowly and blowing smoke over the head of the fierce little man. ‘I am an Englishman, travelling under the protection of –’
‘Ze English – pah!’ The officer spat, giving his opinion of the English in no uncertain manner. ‘You are undair arrest, for ze working against the int’rest of Vallena! You und’-stand? You wish to speak?’
Kerr laughed, and Loftus wondered how the man could behave so naturally when he must have been feeling like the devil.
‘Not to you,’ he said. ‘Someone important. Who sent you?’
Why on earth does he have to put the fellow’s back up? moaned Loftus to himself; it seemed plain silly. The officer’s red face grew deeper in colour.
‘The Kommandant! Ze Kommandant of ze Mil-arry Poliss! You will speak vit’ him, pairhaps! An’ you –’ He swung round and glared at Loftus. ‘You are the great mistake! This man, he is ze spy! You – you are the travelsman, yes, for Germany. Germans, they are the goots. Ze English – pah! You know ze prisoner?’
Loftus took his cue quickly, and scowled towards Bob Kerr.
‘Ach, I meet him here,’ he said gutturally. ‘I know nuddings else, mein Kapitan.’
The officer whirled his moustaches and smiled approvingly at the understanding German.
‘So, you undair-stand – he is the bads. Ze English, they vould not trade vit’ Vallena, they are all ze bads! Come!’
Loftus saw Kerr’s eyes fluttering towards the bedroom door. One thing was obvious: the Military Police had come for Kerr and Kerr alone, knowing nothing of Lois. He had given up hope of physical resistance for the moment. Lois had been the bait once, Trale once; it was his turn now. Loftus would cable Craigie immediately, and look after Lois.
‘This is absurd,’ he repeated, ‘but I shall advise the Kommandant of your insolence. Understand that.’
A clenched fist shook in front of Kerr’s nose.
‘Please to remembair you are undair arrest! Ze car, it waits. Come!’
Kerr was praying now that Lois would not show herself. If she was seen in the bedroom, it would sug
gest a connection that even this fat-headed little devil could not miss. Her shoes were by the bedroom door, and they looked three times as large as they really were. Would she sleep through it?
The two riflemen gripped Kerr’s arms, but Kerr shook them off with an oath. The officer apparently decided there was no need to escort the prisoner so closely. Beneath his anger, he was beginning to feel worried. The man had shown tremendous confidence. That was the worst of the English, you could not understand them. To refuse to buy Vallenian goods – pah, it was the insult!
At least, Kerr thought, he would be safe from a pot-shot from one of Kryn’s men. Kryn, of course, was at the bottom of this. But why arrest only him, and not Lois?
Kerr marched – finding himself strongly tempted to fall in step with the others – down the passage and into the lift. Those who passed him seemed to take as a common occurence the sight of a prisoner under the escort of military police. Nobody showed the slightest interest.
Outside, dusk was falling; bathed in a golden twilight Baj looked more peaceful than ever.
With two riflemen and a uniformed driver, Kerr was bundled into a waiting Cadillac, the officer sitting beside him. The rest of the bunch loaded a couple of Fords, and the cars started off.
They were fifty yards from the Hotel Renol when Kerr caught a glimpse of a spindly fellow, something over six feet in height, who was walking with one of the Vallenian lovelies. As the Cadillac drew nearer, Kerr caught the thin man’s quick glance.
That was Oundle. Oundle would soon be with Loftus and Lois. This thought did much to cheer Kerr. If he could find who had instigated his arrest he believed it would be a help: after that who knew?
* * *
Kerr had been brought to the Royal Palace, but certainly not by the front entrance, and as certainly not on the first floor. In fact it was a basement, and it smelt. Was it possible that the word ‘dungeon’ still had meaning in Vallena?
It was the nearest to one that Kerr had met, and he did not like it. Apart from the smell, it was damp, and apart from the water there were rats. It was also dark.
Kerr began to wonder whether it was really happening;
He hoped Loftus and Lois would not embark on a foolish attempt to rescue him – not yet, at all events. Even in Baj there would have to be some kind of a trial.
Kerr felt the sweat cold on his neck.
Would there?
Hitler hadn’t worried much about trials in Germany, and Moscow, in its earlier days, had been equally indifferent. And – war was in the offing.
Kerr began to wish he had not taken his arrest so easily. It was simple now to picture the heroics of making a break, and to imagine the effort succeeding. It was one thing to take it calmly and in the old-fashioned English way, and quite another to view it from a dungeon with little ventilation, and rats for company.
War – war – war was in the offing.
And Kerr could do nothing. He ached to be up and doing. The one consolation was that he had already advised Craigie of the situation, and there were several strong and hearty agents in Baj, alerted now to watch the Princess.
What was she after?
One of these blasted mid-European coups, of course. But backed up by someone else, and someone Kerr could not identify. Judging from the fanatic it was Russia, but that solution seemed too well-worn. All the signs of international politics were red, according to those who were not, and rigid right to those who were.
The officer’s goose-step had been too Nazi to be true: the fanatic’s fanaticism had been the same. Kerr laughed suddenly.
It did him good.
Obviously to undermine his resistance, the swabs had taken his watch. There was no better way of making a man lose his sense of proportion than by forcing him to lose count of time. Kerr had smoked five cigarettes, and tried to estimate twenty minutes between each one. Say two hours and a half since he had been thrown in here. Nine o’clock now, within half-an-hour of it, anyhow.
What a picture!
He had gone so far as to imagine part of his conversation with the Kommandant. He had blinded himself into believing that he could discover who had arranged for his arrest. It had all seemed so simple, coming in the car from the Renol. This evil-smelling place was an anti-climax that he could not properly appreciate.
Had Lois or Loftus heard from Rene Mondell yet?
Worse, had Kryn discovered she was playing a double part?
His thoughts began to get chaotic. He had had too much time for resting and thinking, perhaps that was what made him start pacing up and down the cell.
Obviously it had not been long empty. The rats were not shy. They scampered backwards and forwards, and they thought nothing of running over his feet.
He sat down on the only seat, a three-legged stool, and found the stench of a sanitation hole over-powering. The stool was chained to the wall and he could not move it.
He stood up again, going this time towards the door. Just a few inches of wood, reinforced with iron stood between him and freedom.
Supposing they forgot him?
Kerr laughed aloud again, and the harshness of the sound made the rats stop their scampering.
He felt tired, very suddenly.
He slid down on the stool as waves of fatigue swept over him. He could afford to sleep. He had to sleep.
The next thing he knew a hand was at his shoulder, and when he opened his eyes he was almost blinded by the glare from an unshaded lamp in the corridor outside the cell. Three officers were standing there, and two riflemen.
Kerr stood up, dazed and unsteady. He looked from one fierce face to the other. The hand gripped his shoulder painfully, and he was half-pushed and half-carried out of the cell. Apparently they were convinced he was a dangerous character, and he had to fight to stop himself from proving it.
The temptation to go berserk threatened to overcome him when he slipped as he reached the door at the end of the passage, and a patent leather toe told him to mend his ways. He felt more humiliated than he had ever been in his life, and the odd thing that helped him on was a mental vision of a hatchet face, a man whose hair was going very grey and thin over the temples, but whose eyes at times burned with the fervour of something bigger and better than patriotism.
He kept his feet and walked stiffly onwards. The passage led into a large room furnished in the stark and simple fashion beloved of European military officials.
It was forty feet across, built on a circular plan, and there were five or six similar passages leading to it. In the middle was a long desk, and behind the desk a single man – probably the Kommandant of the Cells, thought Kerr, on duty. Two stiff-looking riflemen stood to attention.
Kerr was prepared to dislike the gentleman at the desk intensely.
In the first place he saw only the top of a head, for the man was looking down on some papers. It was disconcertingly bald, the shape, Kerr fancied, Teutonic.
Feeling the biggest mug in the world with his company of goose-stepping officers, Kerr reached the desk. The officers came sharply to attention. The riflemen grounded rifles. The echoing ceased and the man with the bald head went on writing.
And then, with a sigh that could be heard plainly, the Kommandant – if it was the Kommandant – put down his pen and slowly raised his head. The forehead, broad and shiny, came first. The nose, a rather indifferent nose with a slight bias to the left, came next. Then Kerr saw the lips, the square and solid chin. The eyes at first were narrowed, as though with weariness, but their expression changed. They were smiling, they were friendly, and the Kommandant pushed a box of cigarettes towards the Englishman.
‘Ah, Mr Kerr. Sit, please.’
But Kerr was staring like a man who had seen a ghost.
For he was looking at the face of M. Jules Doriennet.
Chapter 18
Rumbles of Revolution
One of the officers snapped an order, and a chair was pushed behind him. Kerr sat down. The Kommandant’s word was obviously law. He no
dded to the crowd round Kerr, and they dropped back. He issued a command in Vallenian, and the riflemen marched towards the doors and disappeared, leaving only two on guard and one officer remaining.
Kerr was getting over his shock.
Doriennet! It was absurd, of course. Doriennet was dead, he himself had identified the body. The resemblance was lessening now. It had just been the shock, the sudden impression of looking at a dead man.
Kerr was glad of the cigarette. The uncanny likeness worried him, and the friendliness of the man’s manner made him suspicious.
‘Well, Mr Kerr.’ The gaze was humorous, almost benevolent, and Kerr had a feeling that the Kommandant was genuinely amused. ‘I understand you have upset Lieutenant Davos.’
‘Davos? The man who came to the Renol?’
‘The same.’
The Kommandant was smiling. What the devil was he looking so pleased about, wondered Kerr.
‘You have no fears about getting free, Mr Kerr?’
‘I can’t imagine the Government so ill-advised as to hold me for very long,’ said Kerr drily.
‘No? You are, after all, a foreign agent.’
‘You seem to think so. But foreign agents, in times of peace, are allowed the dignity of a trial, Commander.’
For the first time the other’s expression of mild pleasure disappeared. He sighed, tapping a long cigarette – the Russian kind that Doriennet had favoured in Kerr’s flat – on the edge of his desk, and sighed.
‘In times of peace, yes. But you, doubtless, have heard the rumbles of revolution. Why else should you be here?’
Kerr shrugged.
‘Aren’t you assuming a great deal?’
‘There really is no need to act.’ The Kommandant’s command of English was perfect, and his manners were more English than foreign. Kerr was beginning to think him a likeable man, and that had nothing to do with his probable actions in regard to Kerr: a man could kill you and still be likeable. ‘I know you well, Mr Kerr. Craigie’s men, unfortunately for him perhaps, are no longer able to hide with such secrecy. Some, of course, manage it. The better-known ones, such as yourself, suffer the inevitable penalty of fame. May I tell you, Mr Kerr, that until two years ago I was in England? That I was employed by the Vallenian Intelligence Department, and that I know your excellent record? I have sometimes regretted being recalled, but they say I am getting old. Tonight is one occasion why I am glad I am sitting here. I have often wanted to meet you.’
