Murder Must Wait (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘There’s the little matter of the bills he paid.’

  ‘And that’s your way of repaying? Helping him in some foul scheme or other? Starting another revolution, or something? With anyone but you it wouldn’t seem so bad, that...’

  ‘Do you have to make me out an angel?’ asked Diana quietly. ‘Bill, I’ll have to explain as much as I can.’ She seemed very weary. ‘De Casila is playing a political game. I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think it’s as bad as it seems. Until it’s finished, I’ve got to help him.’

  ‘Got to?’

  ‘Don’t forget those bills. They were something like a hundred thousand dollars.’

  ‘Damn the bills,’ growled Loftus.

  ‘De Casila did, very nearly. So, I’m helping him. While you know nothing about the—let’s call it the danger—it was all right. He’s not a jealous type.’ She smiled wanly. ‘But now you’ve seen this, we’ll have to stop going about together. You’ll be recognised in future, and you might be in great danger.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ declared Loftus.

  ‘Against these people? It’s not so easy as you think.’

  ‘But who the devil are they? This “Pin” fellow, or whatever his name is. Why did he try to kill you?’

  ‘Because I’m helping de Casila.’

  ‘Then stop helping him!’

  Diana leaned back, and closed her eyes, a habit that Loftus liked. When relaxed, she looked lovelier than ever.

  ‘You’re not going to be difficult, are you?’

  Loftus frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Diana, but there’s one thing you seem to forget. I’m fond of you. I shan’t rest while you’re associating with de Casila and his European intrigues.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ she assured him.

  ‘But at least you can tell me who they are. The gunmen, I mean. Good God, revolvers and bombs on a Sussex beach! It’s fantastic!’

  ‘It won’t happen again, Clement won’t take any more risks. Do three things for me,’ Diana added, with a sudden fierce intentness. ‘Forget that I’m—what you think I am. Forget Clement, and what happened today. And remember, please remember, that I’ve been happier during these last four or five days than I have been for years.’

  ‘I can do the remembering all right,’ said Loftus, ‘but as for the forgetting—Diana, are you serious? What’s to stop us remaining friends? I might even be able to help you. I don’t care for anything de Casila is mixed up in, but for you...’

  ‘No, you can’t help. You’d be in danger both ways if you tried to.’

  ‘Both ways?’

  ‘From the people who tried to kill us today, and from de Casila. If he thought you were trying to interfere he might ... try to stop you.’

  Loftus leaned forward. ‘Are you giving me my marching orders?’

  ‘I can’t do anything else,’ said Diana helplessly. ‘Don’t look like that, please don’t look like that, I—oh, my dear Bill .. My dear, darling Bill...’

  • • • • •

  They left the cottage two hours afterwards.

  There had been an interlude which had made Loftus realise beyond doubt his feelings for Diana. Yet in spite of raising arguments, he had finally agreed to let her have her own way.

  It was midnight when he left her at the Éclat Hotel, and nearly one o’clock before he finished telephoning his report to Craigie. When he replaced the receiver, he sank into a chair, and stared, half-asleep, into the fire.

  The ringing of the front door bell roused him.

  When he opened the door, he saw the pale-faced, dark-haired ‘Pin’ and his red-haired companion. Both held automatics.

  4

  Flat Fracas

  Loftus stood quite still. Neither the big nor the little man moved. Nor did their guns. After a moment’s silence, Loftus stepped back.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ he said.

  The tall man entered first, the other followed, closing the door, and standing with his back against it. His red hair hung low over his forehead, and sprouting eyebrows grew together in a tangled, red bush. His features had a simian quality that would have interested Darwin.

  In comparison, the taller man seemed almost handsome. His skin had a transparency that suggested ill-health, but his features were well marked, and he had deep-set, brown eyes; eyes which burned with the uncontrolled intensity of the fanatic.

  Loftus backed away from the proximity of Pin’s gun. ‘Do we know each other?’ he inquired politely.

  Pin, his black hair overlong, his grey suit loose about him, sat cautiously on the edge of a chair. The red-haired man at the door licked his lips; but it was the tall one who spoke, in an unexpectedly deep, cultured voice.

  ‘We don’t need to, Loftus. What were you doing with Miss Woodward this afternoon?’

  Loftus looked surprised.

  ‘Nothing improper,’ he said. ‘This isn’t, I hope, a morality meeting? Mrs Grundy and I quarrelled a long way back.’

  ‘A poor joke,’ said Pin. ‘My question is serious.’

  ‘I hope I don’t have to answer,’ said Loftus. The amiability which he had assumed up to now began to fade. ‘I wonder if it was you who played that little game on the beach this afternoon?’

  Pin’s lips twitched in what might have been meant for a smile.

  ‘And if it was?’

  ‘My friend,’ said Loftus softly, ‘there’ll come a time when you’ll regret it. Where did you learn the game?’

  ‘It was no game, Loftus. Miss Woodward’s interests are inimical to ours. A pity, with such a beautiful woman, but she interferes in what does not concern her.’

  ‘Others might, too,’ Loftus remarked.

  ‘They would be well advised not to,’ said Pin. ‘Very well advised indeed, Loftus. I have asked you a question: what were you doing with her?’

  Loftus looked pointedly at the gun.

  ‘If you didn’t have that, and your pal by the door...’

  ‘Never mind what I have. Answer the question!’ Pin’s gun swung upwards, and the red-haired man took a half-step forward. ‘I’ll handle this, Bunce,’ added Pin warningly, ‘stay where you are.’

  The red-haired man made a noise like the growl of a dissatisfied bulldog, and his back thudded on the door. Loftus slipped his right hand into his pocket. The movement was so fast that he had it half-out again before the others knew what he was doing but in a flash Bunce had jumped.

  Loftus was five feet from him. Bunce seemed to spring from his heels, and Loftus took the weight of bone and muscle full in the chest. He staggered back. Only a chair saved him from falling. By some miracle of gravitation, Bunce reached the floor with both feet and stood still, as though he had not moved.

  Loftus held out a gold cigarette-case.

  ‘Rough,’ he said to Pin, ‘and unnecessary. You haven’t trained your companion very well.’ He proffered the case, but Pin ignored it.

  ‘Listen, Loftus,’ he said. ‘You are playing the fool, but it does not amuse me. I want to know why you visited Miss Woodward, and took her to your cottage. What did she tell you?’

  ‘Nothing of interest,’ replied Loftus.

  ‘What do you mean—interest?’

  ‘It depends on your disposition, romantic or otherwise.’

  He expected another outburst of anger at his stalling, but Pin looked half-pleased.

  ‘I see. I see. So you are in love with her.’

  ‘Do we have to discuss my personal feelings?’

  ‘You seem to ignore my gun,’ said the tall man pointedly.

  ‘Well, hardly,’ said Loftus. ‘But don’t forget that gunfire would sound very much more suspicious here than on the coast.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Pin, and glanced meaningly towards his companion, who quickly slipped his hand into his pocket, then as quickly brought it out again. Glinting between his thumb and forefinger was a small knife, its blade thin and pointed.

  ‘That,’ murmured Pin, ‘makes no noise. And now perhap
s you will answer my questions. You are in love with Miss Woodward, and your excursion today was a romantic one. Correct?’

  ‘Didn’t I ask permission?’ murmured Loftus.

  ‘Very soon, my friend, you will try my patience too far. Supposing...’ Pin glanced at his companion again, and Bunce lumbered across the room towards Loftus and pressed the point of the knife against his waistcoat—‘you answer? Am I right.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Loftus, no longer fooling.

  ‘That is better. Does Miss Woodward return your feelings?’

  ‘I’ve no reason to suppose so.’

  ‘Did she make any proposition to you?’

  ‘What kind of proposition?’

  ‘For instance, did she ask for help?’

  ‘No. She discouraged it.’

  ‘Ah! So the subject was discussed.’

  ‘After your visit, it had to be.’

  ‘Naturally,’ murmured Pin. ‘She was frightened?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ lied Loftus, ‘she said you were no more dangerous than a couple of—forgive me—mice. I didn’t agree, but she convinced me she was in no danger from you.’

  ‘Why, the...’ began Bunce, but stopped on Pin’s first word.

  ‘She would know you were curious, Loftus, and would be anxious to stop you asking questions. So. The man Clement. What did he say?’

  Loftus pretended surprise.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Pin. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Much the same as Miss Woodward. That he could look after you. I was persuaded to make no contact with the police.’

  ‘That,’ said Pin disdainfully, ‘is of no importance. I am not afraid of the police. So you have promised to do and say nothing?’

  ‘I have.’

  Pin stepped forward. ‘Loftus, why did you make friends with Diana Woodward?’

  Loftus realised that there was a change in the atmosphere—that the question was of vital importance to his visitors. It flashed across his mind that they might know he was associated with Craigie.

  ‘Are you married?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  ‘I was, but...’

  ‘Why did you meet your wife?’

  The question brought the first real smile to Pin’s face. He lifted his right hand.

  ‘I understand you, Loftus, but be warned. Miss Woodward can be dangerous to her friends. Only when she is dead will she worry them no longer. But that event is merely delayed.’

  ‘Indeed?’ remarked Loftus. And then he jumped.

  He had levered himself so that the weight of his body was on his toes, and he went forward with a batteringram effect that made Bunce’s effort look like that of an amateur. Pin hurtled against Bunce, and the two men fell heavily to the floor.

  But Bunce had thrown his knife.

  Loftus felt a sharp pain and his eyes closed convulsively. When he opened them again with the right one he could see nothing but a reddish mist. But with the left he saw Bunce lying beneath the tall man, in a tangled mass of threshing limbs. Snatching the gun from Pin’s hand, Loftus brought the butt down with a resounding thwack on the back of its owner’s head, then he hit Bunce the same way. Both men lay still.

  Loftus touched his right cheek. Blood was wet upon it, and panic gripped him. He went into the bathroom, dabbed a towel in water, and gently bathed his face. Then, looking in the mirror, he sighed with relief. For he could see the cut, above the lid. The eye itself was undamaged.

  Five minutes later he was back in the sitting room, the telephone in his hand, dialling a number in Mayfair.

  After a pause, a voice answered.

  ‘Mayfair 21921—yes?’

  ‘Ned,’ said Loftus, ‘I want you, in a hurry.’

  ‘What?’ The voice was startled. ‘I—oh, it’s you. No peace for the wicked. I’ve only been home half-an-hour. Must I come?’

  ‘If you’d like some cake,’ said Loftus. ‘With thick icing.’

  ‘Right, my boy.’ The words were rapped out and the receiver replaced in a matter of seconds. Loftus chuckled.

  Talk of ‘iced cake’ would bring any of Craigie’s men hot-foot to the scene. It was their vernacular for trouble. No one knew who had started the expression: it was inherited from the earlier agents of that remarkable Department whose members had learned that a certain twisted humour was the only weapon with which they could fight their worst enemy—fear.

  Ten minutes later Loftus opened the door to admit a spidery-looking man with enormous grey eyes. His face was puckish; and for one so thin he had a surprisingly deep voice. Craigie said that Ned Oundle was the thinnest man ever to work for Department Z.

  ‘What-ho!’ said Oundle, as he walked into the sitting room. ‘What have we here?’

  Bunce was on the floor, tied hand and foot, and gagged. In a chair, also tied hand and foot but not gagged, was Pin.

  ‘Not much variety, William,’ said Oundle, ‘and it doesn’t look as though you needed me. That’s the worst of you amateurs. Why the hell did you have to drag me out of bed if you could handle the job yourself?’

  ‘How you do talk,’ sighed Loftus. ‘This is Mr. Pin. He recently fired a gun with intent to murder.’

  ‘Well, well!’ murmured Oundle. ‘Shocking bad manners! Got any beer?’

  ‘In the usual place,’ said Loftus.

  Oundle went to a cabinet, opened it, and drew out bottles of beer and two tankards. He tilted his head on one side with pleasant anticipation as the dark brown ale gurgled out, handed Loftus a tankard, then lifted his own.

  ‘Here’s to the icing,’ he said, and drank deeply. ‘By the way—who did Mr.—er—Pin—want to kill?’

  ‘A lady friend of mine.’

  ‘Well now,’ said Oundle, tilting his head still more to one side, ‘I don’t know that it would come under the section called homicide if it’s the one I’m thinking of. Catricide, yes. What happened? Did your appalling taste drive him crazy?’

  ‘Something else of mine is likely to,’ said Loftus and he looked into Pin’s eyes. They showed bewilderment now, as well as apprehension. Few men in his position would have failed to feel puzzled by Oundle’s flippancy, his casual acceptance of the situation. But this, Oundle would have said, was all part of the Z service. Its apparent callousness had frightened many bad men.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Oundle, looking curiously at Pin’s face, ‘it won’t take much to make him talk. Shall we try Method 3? Or something more elementary?’

  ‘Not too elementary,’ said Loftus. ‘I want results quickly.’ He went to the cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and began to rummage inside. There was a clink of metal. Behind him, staring at his back, the man called Pin sat with his lips working.

  ‘What—what are you going to do?’ he muttered.

  Loftus turned to him.

  ‘Oh, just a minor operation.’

  ‘No, you can’t, you can’t!’

  ‘Don’t shout,’ said Oundle severely, ‘there’s a babe in arms downstairs. A fretful infant, and we don’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘I tell you...’

  ‘Pin,’ said Loftus, his voice soft and by that softness sounding the more menacing, ‘you tried to murder Miss Woodward and me this afternoon. Your red-haired friend came within an ace of blinding me.’

  ‘I was under orders, I had to do it!’

  ‘Oh,’ said Loftus, closing the drawer with a bang. ‘You were. Who gave you your orders?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. I swear I don’t!’

  ‘Sounds like a stall,’ said Oundle.

  ‘Afraid you’re right,’ agreed Loftus.

  ‘I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you all I can!’ the man stuttered.

  Loftus stepped towards him. ‘I’ll give you one chance—and one chance only. I want short answers to my questions; and if I think you’re lying it will be unfortunate for you. What’s your full name?’

  ‘Pin—Pinari.’

  ‘Nationality?’

  �
��American.’

  ‘The name of the man who gave you orders?’

  ‘He—he calls himself Doom. I don’t know if it’s his real name.’

  ‘All right, I’ll accept that. Now tell me—what’s this man like to look at?’

  ‘He’s small. Very thin. And he’s bald.’ Pinari was speaking in breathless whispers, splitting each sentence up. ‘He lives—in Paris. 18, Rue de Mallet, off the Madeleine Boulevard.’

  ‘Let’s hope we find him there. Is he French?’

  ‘No, no! English.’

  ‘Why did he want me dead?’

  ‘It was not you! He wanted her dead! You—you had to tell me why you were with her. I had to find out.’

  Loftus lounged back against the cocktail cabinet and eyed Pinari thoughtfully.

  ‘Why did he want Miss Woodward dead?’

  ‘She—she is important. To de Casila.’

  ‘Ah! And is de Casila important to you?’

  There was a sudden and peculiar change in Pinari’s manner. His obvious fear was mingled with an unmistakable pride: his abject manner suddenly disappeared.

  ‘He must die,’ he said simply.

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that, Pinari,’ Loftus said. ‘Why this passion for killing people?’

  Pinari shrank back in the chair. His hands trembled, bound though they were. But there was courage in his eyes when he answered.

  ‘That I shall not tell you.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Loftus. ‘The main cause apart, why kill Miss Woodward?’

  ‘That woman!’ snarled Pinari. ‘She is no better than a harlot! But for her, de Casila would be of no importance. She is his strength. When she dies, de Casila will collapse, and then we shall have won!’

  5

  Mixture—Not As Before

  ‘And so,’ said Loftus, smothering a yawn, ‘we have this situation. Pinari talks like an educated Englishman, swears he’s American, has a low opinion of Diana Woodward’s morals and of de Casila’s motives. But when we get to really pertinent questions he won’t talk. There’s something about him I’ve taken a fancy to, although there are moments when I’d like to belt the hide off his back.’

  ‘He’s a fanatic—a man with a cause,’ Craigie hazarded.