by John Creasey
He pressed the bell, one long push, a short, a long.
The door opened.
He stepped into a large, bare room, where a man was standing by the door, a tall, spindly man who looked at him blankly, so blankly that Palfrey did not speak to him but crossed the room towards yet another door. Apparently that was the proper thing to do for he was not questioned. He hesitated by the door. If a code were necessary for this one he would be finished. He tapped boldly. There was a pause, and he tapped again, more impatiently. The door was opened, and he found himself in a cubby-hole, not much larger than a telephone kiosk. A man was standing behind a hatch on his right, a man who held out his right hand.
Palfrey took the little black mask from his pocket.
He did not let it go, but held it out.
‘Come!’ said the man behind the hatch, impatiently.
Palfrey dropped it into the outstretched palm. He looked past the man to a shelf where there were two boxes, one smaller than the other, and in each of the boxes, lying like black gems on cotton wool, were other charms. The man placed Palfrey’s carefully in position in the smaller box, and handed him a small red card with a clip for a buttonhole. Then the door opposite that through which Palfrey had entered opened of its own volition.
‘Let it be a dim light!’ prayed Palfrey.
It was dim, smoky, noisy – the noise of people gathered together, talking one against the other, a gathering which was not remarkable; one such could be seen a thousand times a week in London or any other big city. Men of all shapes and sizes, a few women, much smoking, the brittle laughter often found in a bar – and there was a bar, the light was brighter there than anywhere else, and a man in a white smock served drinks as quickly as he could take money. Everyone wore a red or yellow card in a lapel or pinned to a dress.
Palfrey espied a corner where only two other men were standing, and took his place by their side. One gave him a vague smile, a smile perhaps of welcome, and then looked towards the crowded room. It was worse than a theatre buffet during the interval. Glasses chinked, people laughed, a woman was talking at the top of her voice. He could see only the top of her head when a man standing in front of her moved. He watched all the women closely – and suddenly he saw ‘Muriel,’ talking to a man whom he had not seen before.
There were a hundred people in this room, and more were coming in. Most of them kept their hats and coats on, for in spite of the fug it was cold. Palfrey peered through the haze of tobacco smoke and caught sight of Bane. He did not see Lozana or Dias.
‘It can’t be a speakeasy,’ Palfrey said to himself.
It was as much like one as anything else, except that no one waited on the people – they fetched their own drinks. He watched the money change hands. Guilders and florins slid across the wet bar; there was very little change, prices were extremely high, as they were wherever liquor was sold illegally.
Palfrey fingered his red card, then noticed that by far the majority of the people had yellow ones. Muriel was one of those. Bane had a red one.
‘Gentlemen!’ A voice called out from the murk at the far end of the room. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The hubbub had prevented Palfrey from hearing ‘Ladies’ the first time. ‘Be ready to take your seats, please.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Palfrey to himself, ‘not a peep-show!’
Bane was putting a hand on Muriel’s shoulder, and bending down to speak into her ear. She laughed delightedly, and gave him a playful punch. Palfrey was watching them intently, and did not notice the man who approached him and stood by his side.
The man coughed.
Palfrey started, and looked at him.
‘Good evening,’ said the other in bad Dutch.
‘Good evening,’ said Palfrey, in worse.
‘How long do they usually keep you here?’ asked his companion, a thick-set, ugly man with beetling brows.
‘It varies, I think,’ murmured Palfrey, wary now, for this might be a check on him.
‘Already it has been too long,’ said the other. ‘It is a great waste of time. So much theatricals—bah! Why do they think I come to waste time here? I have much to do. Where are you from, Mynheer?’
‘Oh—various places,’ murmured Palfrey. The question echoed and re-echoed in his mind; in it there was the making of serious danger. He did not trust this ugly, florid-faced man with the close-set, narrowed eyes.
‘Ach! You do well to be careful,’ said his companion, ‘but you need not fear that I will say anything. I am here for the first time, I do not like what I see. These drunken fools—I am not here to buy liquor.’
‘Nor am I,’ said Palfrey.
‘Certainly not!’ said his companion, and laughed harshly. ‘That is good—we are not here to buy liquor! I came to speak to you because I was watching you—you showed your contempt for these fools. A contempt I feel, also. Shall we sit together?’
‘I would like to,’ murmured Palfrey.
‘Good! I hope there are no women—I do not trust women,’ said the other, looking about him where there was at least one woman to every four men. ‘They cannot keep their mouths shut. Oh, some are all right,’ he added grudgingly, ‘but I do not trust them, they are too emotional.’ He tapped Palfrey on the shoulder. ‘You take my advice, and do not use them. Only sell to them! And if you want more advice, come to me—I am good at dispensing it!’ He laughed again; he had small, yellowish teeth, widely spaced, and when he laughed Palfrey could see right into his mouth. ‘Karl Gleber, of Aachen— everyone knows Karl Gleber in Aachen!’
A bell rang.
Take your seats, please!’ cried the attendant, ‘take your seats, please!’
‘Let us go,’ said Karl Gleber of Aachen.
There was a crush in a doorway at the far end of the room. Half a dozen men finished their drinks hastily and banged down their glasses to be refilled. Several others stood on the fringe of the crowd – and Palfrey saw that most of those, like he and Gleber, wore the red cards. He fingered his own as he joined the crush. There was a curtained doorway, and a steward in a short white jacket and green trousers was holding the curtain aside. The people streamed through. Palfrey caught a glimpse of a small auditorium and a stage where the footlights were already on, and from which soft music was coming; he could see the heads of the men in the orchestra in the pit in front of the stage. His disappointment was so great that it actually entered his head to make an excuse and to leave.
‘Please,’ the steward said, and pointed to a door which Palfrey had not noticed before. It was marked in Dutch, Belgian and French: ‘Private’.
Gleber, just ahead of him, went through that doorway. Palfrey followed. He expected to find himself in a box, thinking that the red cards were emblems of rank and that the wearers would have a better position in the theatre. He was startled when he found himself first in a long, red-walled passage with Gleber and several others ahead of him, and more startled when, in the room at the end of the passage, he found about thirty chairs set out in front of a platform, as for a meeting. There was a table on the platform, and three wooden armchairs. As he moved towards a seat at the back of the rows, pulling at Gleber’s coat to prevent Gleber from going too near the front, a man walked on to the platform – vast, impressive, superlatively well dressed.
It was Dias, a happy Dias, who was beaming and rubbing his hands. The diamonds in his rings glinted beneath the light which shone upon his glossy head.
The lighting in the room was much better than in the theatre or in the bar.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Meeting
Lozana joined Dias, and another man sat in the third chair, a stranger to Palfrey, a man with heavy features and who, Palfrey was sure, was Dutch. Several men followed Palfrey, including Bane, who stalked past him and took a seat near the front. His head with its wavy hair was clearly visible behind that
of a man who was completely bald.
The seats were nearly all filled; Palfrey counted thirty people.
‘Is that all?’ called Dias, from the platform, and to Palfrey’s astonishment, he spoke in English.
‘There are no others,’ called a steward from the back of the room. ‘That is all, sir.’ He had a strong Dutch accent.
‘Excellent!’ cried Dias. ‘Close and lock the door, please!’ There was a hushed silence, until the sound of bolts being shot broke it. Most of the people took no notice, but several of them, including Gleber, looked over their shoulders uneasily, as if they were a little alarmed by the fact that they were locked in.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Dias. ‘I would like—’
Gleber leaned towards Palfrey. ‘Good! No women.’
‘Good,’ echoed Palfrey, cursing the man, for he had missed Dias’s opening sentence.
‘All of us know the purpose of this meeting,’ said Dias. ‘It is my great pleasure, gentlemen, my very great pleasure, to be here to meet you, some of you for the first time. I have always been delighted, delighted indeed, to be able to assist you in the way that I am doing. Now, gentlemen, there is one thing which I must say at the beginning. We—’
Gleber nudged Palfrey. ‘Talk,’ he whispered, ‘nothing but talk. Who wants to listen to that fat bullock?’
Palfrey gulped. ‘I do,’ he said.
Gleber started to guffaw, and then stifled the roar. Dias glared at him, several people ‘hushed’ him, but he sat there grinning, in no way embarrassed. Palfrey was. They were looking at Gleber, but they could not avoid seeing him; Dias might see something familiar in his face. He felt as if he had on no disguise, for a moment he was afraid that Dias would point an accusing finger. He was half prepared to get up, and he thought of the locked and bolted door.
‘I do, then, impress upon all of you, gentlemen, the great importance, the greatest importance, of the utmost discretion,’ said Dias. ‘You cannot, of course, work entirely on your own, you must have help, but let it be understood that the source of your supplies is never whispered, never breathed, to anyone in your townships. Have I your agreement, gentlemen?’
There was a murmur of assent.
‘The old fool,’ said Gleber, ‘what does he think we are? Children? Or old women?’
‘We know what there is for disposal tonight,’ said Dias, ‘you have had full particulars. We will, please, maintain the pretences, we will pretend that we do not know what the real commodities are—the real goods, yes. So we will take them in numbers. Number 1 on the list, we have a limited supply, so I will take tenders—my good friend Juan will take tenders. Please.’ He looked about him inquiringly, hopefully. Lozana sat with a pencil poised.
A man from the body of the meeting said:
‘Five hundred.’
‘A box,’ said Dias.
‘A box.’ The man spoke good English.
‘There, then, we have an excellent beginning,’ said Dias. ‘Five hundred a box. It is a fair price.’
‘Six,’ said a man from the far end of the room.
‘Six,’ said Dias, ‘you see, we are fair, we are extremely fair, we are reasonable. Six hundred a box.’
‘Seven!’ roared Gleber.
Dias beamed at him. ‘Seven, gentlemen, seven hundred a box! It is clearly understood that the highest bidder has the first choice, the first choice always; there will be an arrangement with the others for any surplus supplies. Seven hundred a box.’ He paused, his hands raised, all he needed to make him the complete auctioneer was a hammer. ‘Excellent! Seven hundred—your name, sir, please.’
‘Gleber,’ roared Gleber – ‘Karl Gleber, Aachen.’
‘Thank you, Herr Gleber.’ The horse laugh was obviously forgiven. Dias beamed at Gleber. ‘At seven hundred pounds there are fifty boxes for disposal; place your orders.’
Gleber took twelve boxes; others ordered some, the last man getting two that remained, but – boxes of what? Palfrey badly wanted to know. One possible explanation of this fantastic auction – for it was an auction – was obvious: Black Market. Lozana was writing swiftly on a sheet of paper. The men who placed the ‘orders’ all gave their names and the town from which they came. Three came from Rotterdam, two from Antwerp, two from Paris; no other place was mentioned more than once.
Palfrey saw that the men were studying slips of paper. Gleber was not; he was sitting back, fully satisfied, grinning broadly. He nudged Palfrey.
‘No memories, no memories—a man wants a memory. I see you don’t need to refer to paper.’
‘Oh no,’ said Palfrey.
He leaned forward. There was a short man in front of him, studying his list. Palfrey pretended to have trouble with one of his shoes, kept leaning forward and managed to catch a glimpse of the paper. It was in English, printed in block letters and headed: For Disposal. Immediately beneath it was: 1: Nails. 2. Small saucepans. 3. Large saucepans.
The man in front of him made a mark against an item lower on the list, and then folded up his paper.
‘Nails, small saucepans, large saucepans—nonsense!’ thought Palfrey. The words stood for something else, of course, there was a code.
He had forgotten the nearness of personal danger, for it seemed to him that all he had to do was to keep quiet, and nothing would happen to him. Some of the men were obviously recognised by Dias, but others were apparently not known there, for Lozana had to ask for a name to be repeated, and before he made an entry he looked down his list. He made a tick, then booked the ‘order’.
Nails–saucepans. Could these people be dealing in arms
Dias was on his feet again, smiling genially.
‘Gentlemen, we have disposed of Item 1. We come, then, to Item 2. They are for disposal by the hundred, the price we require is per hundred please.’
‘A hundred!’ roared Gleber, making Palfrey jump.
‘Thank you, Herr Gleber, one hundred is offered, one hundred—please, gentlemen, do not think that I am greedy, I want you all to be fully satisfied; if there is any improvement on one hundred—’ He paused, but there was no improvement. A number of men looked at Gleber, as if they were not pleased with him, obviously he was bidding high, setting a price which they did not want to equal. There were murmurs near at hand, but Dias seemed sublimely unaware of any dissatisfaction, and Lozana ‘booked’ a thousand small saucepans for Gleber, and then took other orders. They were not so free this time. Dias encouraged the sales; it took ten minutes or more to dispose of five thousand small saucepans.
There were, it appeared, ten thousand large saucepans for disposal. Dias called for bids; half a dozen men looked round at Gleber, but he was sitting back and smiling happily; apparently he wanted no large saucepans.
It went on and on.
Gleber did more bidding than any of the others, but the murmurs against him faded. Apparently the two things he had most wanted were nails and small saucepans, and he allowed others to have a reasonable share of what was left.
The atmosphere was becoming thick, everyone seemed to be smoking, and there was no air. Palfrey eased his collar, feeling very warm, bemused, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.
After the tenth item, Dias raised his hand.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ began Dias, ‘I would like—’
Across his words there came a buzzing sound, sharp but pitched on a low note; there was about it something of the urgency of an air-raid warning, but it was on one note, like the ‘raiders passed’ signal of a siren. It had an electrifying effect, except on Gleber, who was belching contentedly and not apologising.
‘What is that?’ he asked Palfrey.
‘A bell of some kind,’ Palfrey said.
A little man came in; he had a bald, egg-shaped head.
The door was shut and bolted behind him.
>
Every eye turned towards the little man as he hurried towards the platform. He disappeared behind the curtain, then came into sight. Dias and Lozana met him near the side of the platform.
‘Thank you,’ said Dias. ‘Gentlemen, I have always assured you that we would never have any need to fear an untimely interruption at any of our meetings; there will always, in every instance, be an opportunity to make our escape. No matter how great an emergency there may appear to be, you will always have ample warning. I do not think there is immediate danger tonight, it is most unlikely, but—there is one amongst us who has no right here.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Traitor in the Ranks
‘Gentlemen, I must ask you to be silent,’ said Dias, in an angry voice. ‘I have an announcement to make. A request—you will gladly obey the request, I am sure of that. We will ask each one of you, please, to rise in your seats, each one of you one at a time. Those who recognise the guest who stands will, please, say so at once, for there is a stranger; we must first find out those who are not known among us, and then we will ask them to prove their identity. You see, it will cause no great trouble—and,’ added Dias, in a silky voice, ‘we shall know how to deal with the man who has no right here. Now, please, start from—there!’
He pointed towards the back of the room, on the opposite side from Palfrey.
Palfrey stared along the row, and could hardly see because Gleber’s broad head was in his way. He counted desperately. Seven–eight–nine men were in the back row, it was likely that he would be the ninth to stand up.
The seventh man was vouched for.
‘Herr Gleber, please,’ said Dias, pointing.
Gleber pushed his chair back, and stood up.
There was dead silence.
It seemed to last for a long time. Gleber licked his lips and looked about him almost desperately; he glared down at Palfrey he prodded Palfrey’s shoulder. Palfrey sat quite still, his heart thumping; he could feel Gleber trembling beside him.
