by John Creasey
‘Good God, you! I’d no idea...’
‘So many of Craigie’s men labour unseen,’ murmured Thornton. ‘Actually, I’ve usually worked in Paris. As you know, I’m nearly a native. But now...’ He twisted his lips deprecatingly—‘I have a more difficult job. Unpleasant, too, for you. But on the whole, we hope, helpful for the cause.’
Loftus felt his heart beating faster.
‘What are you getting at?’
‘I’m trying,’ said Thornton soberly, ‘to break some news. Diana is no longer in Bath.’
Loftus pushed his chair back and leaped to his feet. ‘Then where the devil...?’
Thornton lifted a restraining hand. ‘You’d better sit down, old boy, and I’ll tell you what happened. I was at Bath, helping to watch her. Last night de Casila came to see her, and she drove off with him. Carruthers and I followed, but met with an accident. A lorry banged into us, and we were temporarily hors de combat. Carrie,’ added Thornton, speaking of Robert Carruthers, one of Craigie’s young men, ‘put his collarbone out. That’s the extent of the damage. Except...’ he waved a hand, and paused.
‘That you lost Diana,’ Loftus said. If Craigie had been looking at him, he would have known that it was a moment when his personal interests and those of the Department came into sharp conflict.
There was a long silence, before Thornton said, deprecatingly:
‘Very clumsy of me, Bill, but...’
‘Mr. Loftus.’ It was Henry. ‘There is a gentleman on the telephone, calling himself C. The matter, he assures me, is most urgent. He wishes Mr. Thornton to be with you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bill, and followed by Thornton, he strode to the telephone room.
A moment later he was listening to Craigie’s voice, a voice in which he detected a keen note of urgency.
‘Get a plane for the Isle of Wight,’ said Craigie. ‘Take Spats. An aircraft which might be de Casila’s crashed off the Sandown coast an hour ago.’
8
A Gentleman of Commerce
A puzzled police sergeant at Sandown eyed Loftus and Thornton, wondering why he had received orders to give Mr. Loftus every possible help.
‘That’s about it, sir,’ he said. ‘Some people were out in a dinghy. Early holiday-makers. They saw this aeroplane flying very low, and when it dropped in the sea one of them swam ashore to tell us about it. Two other chaps rowed out to see if they could pick up any survivors.’
‘And did they?’
‘Only one man, sir.’
‘Where is this man, Sergeant?’
‘At the local cottage hospital, sir. He’s been badly knocked about. Seems he’s been mixed up in some shooting. The windows of the aeroplane cabin were drilled with bullet holes.’
Loftus stepped quickly towards the door.
‘Did the machine sink?’ he asked.
‘It’s half-submerged, sir, and when the tide’s out, it will only be a few inches in the water. Do you know the hospital?’
‘I’d like you to send a man with us,’ said Loftus.
And so it was that Loftus and Thornton reached the small private ward where Wally Davidson was lying. Davidson’s face was almost as white as the bandages round his forehead.
‘Can you get him to regain consciousness?’ asked Loftus.
‘It would be a life or death risk,’ said the doctor.
‘I’ll take full responsibility.’
The doctor frowned. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
Five minutes later Davidson was conscious. His eyes flickered open as Loftus bent over him.
‘Good work—Bill. All right—to talk?’
‘Yes. Go ahead.’
‘Doom,’ muttered Davidson. He paused. That part of his forehead free from bandages was beaded with sweat. ‘Met a woman—Café Mada. Middle-aged—beauty. Dark. She gave him—a ring. Silver. Went then to—empty house—near Sèvres. You—getting it?’
‘Every word. Go on.’
‘Dodo and I—followed. Doom shot—Clement, who was—coming from house. Clement—died—saying—tell Miss Woodward. Then de Casila arrived—with a bunch of thugs. They got—Dodo. Watch the cellar. Craigie—he knows the rest.’
‘We’ll fix it,’ said Loftus. He pressed the pale hand lying on the coverlet. ‘Did they—finish Dodo?’
‘I—I’m not sure.’
Spats and the doctor came into the room. The latter shook his head when he looked at Davidson.
‘I hope your action was justified, Mr. Loftus.’
‘It was,’ said Loftus. ‘Thanks a lot, and apologies for my brusqueness. Mr. Davidson and I are old friends.’
They shook hands, and Loftus and Spats hurried from the hospital and drove quickly to the airfield behind the town. By half-past three they were entering the door off the side-street in Whitehall, watching the sliding panel open.
Craigie was at his desk, speaking into the telephone. He replaced the receiver as Loftus and Thornton sat down.
‘The last news I had from Davidson and Trale was at ten o’clock this morning. I haven’t had the usual two o’clock report.’ He paused. ‘What did you find?’
‘Davidson, badly smashed up,’ Loftus said. He repeated what Davidson told him.
Craigie showed no sign of surprise.
‘Well, we’d better find this house near Sèvres. It’s obviously a headquarters of some kind. As for the Clement affair, it rather looks as though he was double-crossing de Casila and they had him killed. Possibly de Casila expected Clement to be waiting for him at the house, and ordered Doom to go and liquidate him. What’s worrying me more than anything is that we haven’t the faintest notion yet what de Casila and the Ring are up to.’
‘No rumours from any fronts?’ asked Thornton.
‘None. Everything’s too damned quiet!’
‘Where’s de Casila been?’ asked Loftus.
‘He flew to England from Vienna yesterday. His passport was in order, and he made no attempt to disguise his identity. He landed at London and then hired a private plane to Bath, went straight to Diana Woodward’s hotel and stayed there until evening. Then he went out with her, and we lost them both.’
Craigie had never been known to blame an agent for losing a trail, or making a mistake, unless this was the result of carelessness or disobedience.
‘I’m having our people on the Continent watch for them both,’ he went on, ‘but our first move is to visit that house near Sèvres. You’d better take a strong team there.’
‘Yes. What else do we know about Doom?’ asked Loftus.
‘Not a great deal,’ replied Craigie. ‘He left England fifteen years ago, to marry a Frenchwoman. She died five years ago. He has been spending his life since then visiting the same cafés and cabarets that he visited with his wife. But it’s beginning to look as though these visits to the Café Mada and the Chez Diable had more in them than a nostalgic urge.’
‘Any particular friends?’
‘Only acquaintances. He’s shown no interest in politics, national or international—which is about what could be expected of an Englishman living in France.’
‘How did he make his money?’ asked Loftus.
‘He inherited it from his father, a Lancashire cotton-mill owner. About two hundred thousand pounds.’
‘In short, everything looks nice and above board,’ said Loftus. ‘It’s a queer set-up, but something’s cooking all right.’
‘We’ve got to find what it is. And quickly,’ said Craigie. ‘Take Oundle and Thornton with you and...’ he mentioned three other agents. Then he added: ‘Sorry I sprang Thornton on you rather suddenly, Bill.’
‘It makes me wonder what the Department’s coming to,’ said Loftus with a shake of his head and a wink at Spats. ‘The Idiot Brigade, or precious close to it. Well, I’ll get going.’
‘Good luck,’ said Craigie.
• • • • •
Diana Woodward sat on a divan in Juan de Casila’s suite at l’Hôtel Elegance
, overlooking the Place de la Concorde. De Casila’s bulk was hidden in a large old-fashioned armchair.
‘An’ so,’ he said, in his stilted English, ‘Loftus, he is forgot?’
‘I said so,’ murmured Diana.
‘Yes, yes, eet ees good.’ De Casila opened a cigar case. ‘You must be remind, affairs of ze heart are not in this. Eef...’ his eyes narrowed, there was an unspoken threat in his manner—‘you veesh to live to enjoy the beeg money I pay you.’
Diana’s face was expressionless.
‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s over and done with.’
‘Good, good.’ He pronounced the word ‘gude’. ‘You, I know, vill make no meestake, like Clement. Ze poor Clement...’ he raised his pudgy, beringed right hand. ‘You know’ow he finished?’
‘I heard.’
‘Dios, ze man vould cheat me, de Casila!’ A rumbling laugh followed the words; but the Portuguese’s unpleasantly deep-set eyes did not reflect a smile. ‘Vot ‘appens to peoples who vould do that, you vant no more tell. But you an’ me, D’ana, we know each other, an’ ondairstand. So, I have ze beeg vork for you.’
‘I won’t be sorry,’ Diana said slowly, ‘to get busy again, Juan.’
‘Ah, no! Eet ees dangerous to be idle, eh? Vell, ze beeg vork comes now. Zere is an American in Paris. In zis very hotel. By name, Hyman. You know him?’
She frowned. ‘Saul S. Hyman?’
‘Zat ees so. Ze man who owns ze beeg papers, zat ees your man. You are acquainted?’
‘No. But my father knew him.’
‘Zat ees as good as ze introduction,’ said de Casila with enthusiasm. ‘Zis man, tonight, tomorrow night, some time soon, you vill take him to the cabaret of ze Devil.’ He lolled back in his chair and laughed, this time with genuine humour. ‘Zat ees ze good name, yes. You vill get Mr. Hyman dronk.’
‘But...’
‘Eet will be easy. Ze wine, it will be extra strong. You vill ask for ze help to take him ‘ome. Outside, vill be a car, with Pancho driving. Where you go, Pancho vill know, yes. You vill ask no questions.’
Diana’s lips curled.
‘And you call that big?’
‘Dios, so beeg you know not! Hyman...’ De Casila narrowed his eyes. ‘Later, pairhap, I vill tell you. Eet ees not zat I do not trust. I ‘ave ze ordairs. Ze Ring...’
‘I know,’ said Diana wearily. She stood up. ‘All right, I’ll do what I can. He hasn’t a reputation for—gaiety, though. You know that?’
‘Ah-ha!’ chuckled de Casila. ‘Do not forget your beauty! It can do ze miracles, D’ana. Do I not know?’
He started to laugh as Diana left the suite. She hurried to her own apartment two floors above, passing, on her way, a very thin man with enormous eyes. He seemed vaguely familiar. He bowed, and she nodded without smiling, assuming that he was someone she had met in the hotel.
Ned Oundle went downstairs immediately and put a call through to the Ritz Hotel where Loftus was staying.
Diana got into a bath full of hot, perfumed water. She wanted to get the thought of de Casila out of her mind, and the touch of him washed from her body. She hated but feared him. And she loathed the idea that for some time to come she would have to obey his orders.
As she lay back, she thought of Bill Loftus. And she wondered where he was.
Later, downstairs in the restaurant, she forced herself to try to forget Loftus, because she saw that Saul S. Hyman, one of the biggest newspaper and periodical proprietors in the United States, was also dining alone. He was a large, white-faced man, with heavy features, and an attractive—though rare—smile. Hyman had a tremendous following with the masses, though his penetrating and often malicious editorials filled more than one politician with hatred.
His interests were not confined to newspapers and periodicals. It was said that he was one of the richest men in the armaments industry, and he was known to be on the boards of several car manufacturing companies, it being rumoured that he actually controlled these companies. His interests in cattle and wheat, the two biggest agricultural industries of the United States, was uncertain, but in some quarters it was assessed as high as a twenty per cent holding out of the total national interest. He was certainly one of the most influential men in America.
As she ate an excellently prepared dinner, Diana thought about what she had to do. Beauty itself was not likely to attract Hyman; and she had heard that he had a reputation for misogamy.
To her surprise, de Casila entered the dining room. Usually he preferred to eat in his suite. She watched him as he walked over to Hyman’s table. The American looked up in surprise. Diana heard his booming American voice.
‘Why, Juan, I’m de-lighted!’
‘Ees eet not a strange coincidence?’ said de Casila.
A waiter hurried up with another chair. Diana knew that, before long, de Casila would introduce her to the American. And after that...?
She would do what de Casila wanted, of course. She would have to. But what plan had de Casila in store for a man who seemed to be a friend?
9
Chez Diable
Ned Oundle was wondering the same thing. What association was there between Hyman and de Casila? Oundle’s knowledge of people of importance was probably unrivalled. No matter what celebrity appeared, if Oundle was present he could remember a past meeting, or call on a distant relative or mutual associate to ensure being welcomed.
It had been easy for Craigie’s men to locate Diana, de Casila, and the three members of the Portuguese’s party at the hotel. So easy that Loftus, in a different part of the city, was wondering why an accident had been arranged to make sure that they had not been followed from Bath.
Oundle, watching at the hotel while Loftus, Thornton and the other three agents were busy elsewhere, now saw de Casila approach Hyman as if he were a long lost friend. His companion, a blonde who liked the whole of her escort’s attention, demanded to know whether he was looking at the woman in black, with the red rose in her corsage.
‘Lord, no, sweetheart!’ He looked at the woman in black, and frowned. She was a little more than forty, he fancied, and she had a presence and a dignified beauty. Near her was Diana Woodward.
‘Then suppose you pay me some attention?’ suggested the blonde.
‘What’s that? Oh, sorry, darling,’ he replied. ‘Don’t look at me like that, or you’ll make me think I’ve upset you.’ He patted a hand which displayed some thousands of pounds worth of diamonds, for Chloe Sawyer was not only unhappily married, but very rich.
‘What is the matter with you?’ she demanded.
‘Tummy-ache,’ murmured Oundle indelicately. ‘If you will insist.’ His eyes widened. ‘You’re not looking too well, Chloe. I suggest a late evening, to cheer the cockles of our hearts. If we have hearts.’
Behind the cloak of flirtation with Chloe, he was watching de Casila and Hyman. They had their heads together and, after the first exchange of courtesies, now appeared to be arguing. Now and again de Casila’s hoarse laugh could be heard above the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, but at last he stood up and approached Diana’s table. Oundle watched Hyman and Diana being introduced. A third chair was brought to Hyman’s table—then a waiter approached de Casila and murmured something in his ear. The Portuguese scowled, made his apologies to his two companions, and left the room.
Hyman’s face showed that, like Loftus, he too was impressed by Diana’s beauty. Both of them, Oundle saw, drank sparingly. Later, when most of the diners had gone, they rose, and Oundle learned, after a brief interview with the head porter, that they were going to a small cabaret in the Montmartre district, the Chez Diable. M. Hyman had ordered a taxi for ten o’clock.
• • • • •
Loftus and Spats had found the house near Sèvres with little trouble. They had learned that it had been for sale for twenty years, that its present owner, the son of the man who had first put it on the market, had abandoned all hopes of finding a purchaser. In the grounds they
had discovered evidence of the gun battle, but blood and bullet marks apart, nothing of help to the Department. A sign which Loftus had considered ominous was that the cocktail cabinet in the cellar apartment had been emptied. It looked as though de Casila did not propose to use the house again.
Of Dodo Trale there was no sign.
Now, as Loftus and Spats waited in a small hotel two hundred yards from Oundle’s, they learned by telephone of de Casila’s talk with Hyman, and of the forthcoming visit to the Chez Diable. ‘Hyman will be taking Diana,’ Oundle told them, ‘and I’ll be taking Chloe. What’s in the wind I don’t know—but I think it might be a good thing if you two fellows came along as well.’
An hour later, he and Chloe were watching the gyrations and crudities of La Comique on the small stage of the Chez Diable. Chloe was enjoying herself. So, it appeared, was Saul S. Hyman. He sat with Diana three tables removed from Oundle and Chloe.
Oundle noticed that Hyman still drank sparingly, but that he appeared to become gayer every minute. When one of the dancers glided between the tables, he lurched to his feet and endeavoured to embrace her. She pushed him away. Hyman persisted, and two waiters, larger than the average at the Chez Diable, came hurrying towards them.
The bulk of the patrons appeared to find the incident amusing, but Diana kept her face averted as she followed the waiters and the struggling Hyman through the crowded tables. Oundle murmured to Chloe:
‘I’ll be back soon.’ He bypassed the waiters, and reached the foyer first.
Outside, at a café next door to the Chez Diable, sat two men. Spats would have been recognised anywhere, but Loftus, his hair cropped, his face lengthened by a few skilfully drawn lines of greasepaint, and his big body clad in a light grey suit of German cut, would have deceived his closest friend.
Oundle walked swiftly towards them.
‘They’re coming. Hyman didn’t drink much, but the stuff must have been damned potent. I’ll be seeing you.’
He moved away to talk to an attendant, as Hyman, still supported, came out of the Chez Diable, followed by Diana. Out of the corner of his eye Oundle saw them being helped into a large limousine. It moved off, Loftus and Thornton following in a taxi. Oundle waved at another taxi, got in, and followed Loftus and Thornton.
