by John Creasey
Palfrey said: Tricky things, dictaphones, aren’t they?’
‘I’m not sure that this one hasn’t gone to your head.’
‘Oh, it has,’ said Palfrey. ‘I’m inclined to think that there is one in the room. Dias, we know, had the suite next to this. I wonder if Bane’s there now? Or if Dias, by any chance, is still there?’ He was looking about the room, unconcerned, his hands thrust deep in his pocket. ‘Shall we look round?’
‘I suppose we’d better,’ said Bruton, resignedly. ‘I won’t have any peace until we have. Where shall we start? Under the bed?’
Palfrey looked towards the wardrobe, the only piece of furniture against one wall.
‘No, there,’ he said. ‘That’s the wall we share with the room which Dias had.’ He was smiling brightly, as if he were quite sure of himself. Bruton strode towards the wardrobe, and Palfrey watched him, waited until he put a hand out to open it, and said: ‘Not too much noise, Corny.’
Bruton opened the wardrobe door quietly. He lifted clothes-hangers off the rail, brought out a few oddments of clothing, and then stepped into the wardrobe. Palfrey joined him, after switching on the light so that they could see better inside. The wardrobe seemed to be made of solid wood. Bruton took a pencil torch from his pocket and flashed it about the inside, without speaking.
Suddenly he stopped moving, and shone it on to one particular spot, near the floor. Palfrey peered at the same spot. It looked as if a piece of yellow wood had been built into the back of the wardrobe.
Bruton began to speak. ‘I—’
Palfrey gripped his arm.
Bruton stopped, and went down on one knee. Palfrey decided that it would be better to leave the other a clear field, and stood back. Bruton was some time examining the wood, and when he backed out of the wardrobe he closed the door softly, and then whispered:
‘That hides a microphone, Sap!’
‘So they know what we know,’ murmured Palfrey. ‘I thought of that a shade too late,’ He laughed, without amusement. ‘Well, we seem to be wasting our time,’ he added more loudly, but he was pointing towards the door.
Bruton went towards it with him; both knew that they had one chance – to act before action was taken against them.
They opened the door and peered along the passage. No one was in sight. In a trice Bruton reached the door of the next room with his penknife in hand. Palfrey kept watch. Bruton found the door difficult, and he was working on it for at least three minutes before the lock clicked back – and the click seemed very loud.
Bruton acted swiftly.
He kicked open the door, ducked, and rushed into the room. The door crashed back against the wall. Palfrey followed with his gun in hand.
A man was standing near a small loudspeaker through which voices in the next room could be relayed and magnified so that everything said there was audible. The man looked dumbfounded; he had been taken completely by surprise.
‘Why, hallo,’ said Palfrey, and closed the door behind him. ‘Matthew, isn’t it? Brother of Charles. Don’t tell me that you’re a friend of His Excellency Señor Fernandez y Dias. Or William K. Bane. Or Josh Anderson. Or Knudsen. Come on,’ he added, encouragingly, ‘we won’t bite provided you behave yourself. Tell me, does Charles know you’re here?’
Chapter Thirty-One
Brother of Charles
Matthew Lumsden began to shake. The tremors started at his hands and gradually spread to his whole body. He stood quivering, his mouth opened and closed and his teeth chattered. Naked fear was in his eyes; extremity of fear showed in the pallor of his cheeks and the helpless way in which his knees sagged. He staggered to one side, stretched out a hand and supported himself against the back of a chair.
‘Why don’t you sit down?’ murmured Palfrey.
The man could not sit down; he could not move the chair nor walk the few steps necessary. He was a complete and quivering wreck. Palfrey felt a contempt such as he had felt for few men, and Bruton’s hard eyes reflected the same emotion.
Abruptly, Bruton said: ‘We’d better get out of here. It isn’t safe.’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘Find an empty room. It doesn’t matter whether it’s booked or not.’
He waited alone with Charles’s brother, who watched him but made no movement. He examined the microphone, seeing how cleverly it was wired, then looked about the room at the personal luggage. There were several suit-cases with the initials M.L. on them, but a travelling-trunk and two pig-skin cases had the initials W.K.B. So Bane had been staying next door to them. He opened the door leading to the next room of the suite: it was empty. So was the bathroom. He returned to the middle of the room as Bruton came back.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Come on, you.’ He gripped Matthew’s shoulder and pushed him towards the door. Almost opposite them another door stood open. Matthew nearly fell as Bruton pushed him into the room opposite. The others followed and closed the door.
‘I happen to know that the man who was staying here paid his bill this morning,’ Bruton said, ‘and the maids have finished, so we ought to be all right for a few hours.’
‘We ought to get our luggage out of our room,’ Palfrey said, ‘and play the same trick as William K. Bane. They’ll be after us in no time. I wonder if the manager can be trusted?’
‘Trust no one here,’ said Bruton, with feeling. ‘Remember what Brett told us—avoid trouble in Sweden. I’ll get the grips. Don’t be too easy on this guy, Sap. He was one of those who helped to kill Neil.’
He flung out of the room, and Palfrey knew that he preferred to go, for if he had stayed he would have found it difficult to keep his hands off Matthew Lumsden.
Lumsden tried to speak. ‘I—I—I—’ he began, and then gave up, but looked at Palfrey appealingly, as if he were afraid of the physical vengeance to come and was desperately anxious to save himself. Palfrey remembered when he had seen the man for the first time, so full of self-assurance and so disdainful of him. He was surprised; and yet at the back of his mind there was a feeling that he ought to have expected this, that it fitted in somewhere with the mystery.
‘I—I didn’t—know—about—Erikson,’ Matthew gasped, and Palfrey could just understand the words.
‘Didn’t you?’ asked Palfrey. . He was not thinking of Matthew now. He was wondering what chance he and Bruton would have when the others realised what had happened. He had no doubt that he was right. Bane, Knudsen and Dias were in this together. Yet there was no actual proof of their part in the conspiracy, certainly no proof which would satisfy the Swedish authorities, and there was little doubt that Knudsen had the ear of the Government. He and Bruton were very much on their own: they, could not even safely appeal for help to the British Embassy. They could go there for temporary sanctuary, but there was far too much to do outside, and if they entered its portals now they would be unable to take any further part in operations on Swedish soil; all the time there was the nightmare of upsetting diplomatic relations.
Here was emergency, stark and clear.
Palfrey saw now why Brett had encouraged him to come as a private individual; had he been a member of Z.5 the Government must have taken some responsibility for his actions. Brett had been determined not to risk international complications. Yes, that was clear, and other things were falling into place.
Matthew muttered: ‘I—I tell you I didn’t.’
The door opened again. Bruton brought in two cases and dumped them down, then went out.
Palfrey said: ‘Bane has been staying here, hasn’t he?’
‘Y-y-yes.’
‘And Knudsen has visited you here.’
‘N-no,’ said Matthew.
‘Then you’ve been to see Knudsen.’
‘Yes,’ said Matthew. ‘Yes, I—’ He paused again as the door opened and Bruton brought in the one remaining case and th
eir coats and hats.
Bruton locked the door. Matthew licked his lips and stared at the American, who stood with his feet planted wide apart and his hands at his waist, like a wrestler about to spring at his opponent. Matthew drew back towards the window fearfully.
‘What were you going to say?’ demanded Palfrey.
‘What—what are you going to do to me?’
‘That depends on what you’ve done,’ said Palfrey.
Matthew gasped: ‘I haven’t done anything. I—I was compelled to help a little, but I’ve done nothing myself, I’ve only taken a few messages from—from one to another. Bane—Bane got his hands on me a year ago; I haven’t been able to call my life my own. I tell you it’s Bane’s fault, not mine—it’s Bane’s fault! He said Erikson had to be killed; he said it, I argued, I tried to save Erikson, but they wouldn’t listen to me!’ He was sweating freely, and some colour had come back in his cheeks. He was still staring at Bruton, as if aware that the greatest danger was likely to come from him. ‘You mustn’t blame me!’ he cried. ‘It wasn’t me!’
Palfrey said: ‘Bane and Knudsen work with Dias, don’t they?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has Knudsen been working for Dias long?’
‘I—I don’t think so,’ said Matthew. ‘I don’t know a lot about the work, I’ve only travelled for them. I can tell you this: Dias didn’t know Knudsen at first, he was going to—he was going to kill Knudsen, then Bane came along. Bane’s the real leader, he—’
‘Bane and who else?’ growled Bruton.
Palfrey looked sharply at him; Bruton might make Matthew tongue-tied again; the man was now blue with fear. Matthew licked his lips and backed further towards the window, as if anxious to put as much distance as he could between himself and Bruton. Bruton stayed where he was.
‘Go on, Matthew,’ said Palfrey. ‘What you tell us now will make all the difference to you later. This is a world-wide Black Market, with Bane as the guiding spirit, Dias his chief travelling agent and Knudsen his Swedish agent. Is that it?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re doing very well,’ said Palfrey. ‘Now—’
The glass of the window crashed in.
It happened without warning. Palfrey was in the middle of speaking when the glass broke with a crash and splinters flew about the room. Bruton leapt forward, Palfrey cried ‘Keep away from there!’ He dodged to one side, while Matthew Lumsden staggered away from the window, reeling drunkenly, horror in his face. Horror and pain, for at the side of his head there was an ugly wound, blood was already oozing from it.
He pitched forward on his face and lay still.
Bruton was close by the window, gun in hand, peering out cautiously. A bullet hit the wall near the door, opposite the window. After that there was silence except for Palfrey’s movements as he crawled on his hands and knees towards Matthew, keeping below the level of the window-sill. He turned the man over gently, then half lifted him and dragged him away from the window, towards the bed. He pulled a pillow from the bed and put it under Matthew’s head, but he did not think there was any chance that Matthew would regain consciousness; the wound had gone deep, scoring a groove across the side of his head, ending just above the left eye.
The pillow was soon soaked with blood.
Bruton said: They fired from the window opposite, Sap. They must have watched us. We’d better get out while the going’s good.’
‘Yes,’ said Palfrey. ‘Take the small cases.’
‘Okay. Don’t waste any time.’
Palfrey said: ‘Go to the door and keep watch.’
Bruton hesitated only for a moment. As he moved out of the room, carrying one small case, Palfrey ran through Matthew’s pockets and took out all the papers he could find, the mail’s wallet, and – from his waistcoat pocket – a watch-chain charm in the shape of a black mask. He stuffed them all into his own pockets. He felt Matthew’s pulse, which was so faint that it was hardly noticeable; Matthew would probably be dead within ten minutes.
He hurried after Bruton, picking up his case as he went. Bruton was looking out of the room opposite, so placed that he could see either end of the passage. ‘Come on,’ he said, and stepped out into the passage.
‘Not the front way,’ Palfrey said. ‘Fire-escape.’
‘We’re heading for trouble whichever way we go,’ Bruton said.
As they turned towards the end of the passage, where there was an emergency exit, heavy footsteps sounded round the comer. They reached the exit, and Palfrey unbolted the door while Bruton kept watch on the far end of the passage. The footsteps drew nearer. A man turned the corner, a man whom Bruton did not know, but Charles Lumsden would have recognised as one of the men who had been in the house in London.
‘Don’t shoot if you can help it!’ Palfrey called.
The man at the other end of the passage drew a gun, but then another man turned the corner and banged into him; it was Lozana. Bruton backed on to the fire-escape and slammed the door, but it could not be fastened from the outside. Palfrey was already half-way down the fire-escape. Bruton went part of the way down the last flight of iron steps, then swung over the railings and leapt to the ground. He touched the courtyard before Palfrey.
The door above opened, and Lozana and his companion appeared.
‘Keep close to the wall,’ Palfrey said.
They kept close and ran, hampered only by their cases. They heard the iron steps reverberating to the tread of the two men on their heels. As they reached the corner of the building, near the kitchen quarters, two other men appeared, dusky-looking fellows each of whom had his right hand in his pocket. They came out of a doorway at the side of the hotel.
‘That’s one way,’ Bruton said.
He flung himself forward.
He took the men completely by surprise, reaching one and sent him flying against the other. A gun dropped from one man’s hand, and Palfrey gave it a flying kick, sending it yards away. Bruton recovered and rushed in Palfrey’s wake. They turned along a narrow passage and raced towards the far end, where they could see the high brick wall which surrounded part of the Splendor. Beyond that wall was the main road. If they turned right they would get to the main entrance hall, through a side door, and there would be crowds of people in that entrance hall.
Footsteps were echoing on the stone flooring of the courtyard. The passage along which they raced separated one part of the hotel from another.
Palfrey knew that from a room opposite they had been seen; the bullet which had killed Matthew Lumsden had been fired across this passage. He could not now think how it had happened that they had been seen in that ‘borrowed’ room, but turned into the doorway, grateful for the revolving doors.
‘We’ll stay in here a moment,’ he said.
Bruton, just behind him, grunted a response. They stood inside the partition hidden from outside as well as from inside. Palfrey smoothed down his hair and his coat, and then someone pushed the door from the inside.
He staggered out; Bruton came a moment later, almost pitching forward at the feet of a middle-aged woman who drew back with an exclamation of alarm.
‘Sorry!’gasped Bruton.
They were too closely pursued for finesse. They raced across the crowded entrance hall, scattering people right and left. As they reached the main doors, Palfrey glanced over his shoulder and saw Lozana. Much now depended on whether Lozana would make it obvious that he was in pursuit. Palfrey dashed out of the hotel and banged into a commissionaire.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Taxi, quickly!’
Training won the day; the commissionaire was obviously startled by Palfrey’s appearance and his breathlessness, but turned to get a taxi. There was one drawing up, disgorging passengers who were apparently in a hurry, and did not wait for change. Palfrey held the door open, the commissionaire was le
ft grasping the air. Bruton hurried into the taxi, and Palfrey called in a loud voice:
‘The United States Embassy—hurry!’
Many people were staring at them, and on the steps of the hotel, his hands in his pockets in an endeavour to look unconcerned, was Lozana. He was not taking any chances of being delayed by the police, he showed no outward signs of malice, but the man who had been with him was beckoning another taxi frantically.
Bruton gasped: ‘Why the Embassy?’
‘We’ll change directions later,’ said Palfrey.
He looked out of the small rear window. Lozana was stepping into the second taxi and his companion was giving orders. Two more men, those whom Bruton had delayed, hurried from the hotel, and climbed in as the taxi moved off. The first taxi had a start of thirty or forty yards; it would have been greater but for the streams of traffic. There were traffic lights at crossroads immediately ahead.
Palfrey leaned forward and spoke to the driver.
‘Go straight ahead—then turn right and right again.’
Unthinkingly, he spoke in English. The Swede turned and gave him a vast, reassuring grin, and said: ‘Yes, sir!’
They were among the last vehicles over the cross-roads before the traffic lights changed. Bruton relaxed for the first time, and took his turn in looking out.
‘They’re well behind,’ he said, ‘but where does the first right and the first right after that take us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Palfrey. He tapped the driver on the shoulder and continued to speak in English. ‘We want to get away from a taxi which is following us—do you understand?’
‘Yes, sir!’ roared the driver. ‘I see him!’ He roared with laughter, and people stared at him from the sidewalk. ‘Leave it, please, to me.’
He trod on the accelerator and swung right, then right again, then left and along a wide thoroughfare with shops on either side. A few hundred yards further he turned to the left again, and after a mile or two they were on a road which led uphill, past smaller shops, and with a church on the summit of the hill immediately ahead of them. When they reached the top they saw another road junction; five or six roads converged there. The taxi, rattling along at a furious pace, turned into one of the roads, and soon they found themselves in a residential suburb. Some way along the main road the driver turned into a garage outside which two or three other taxis were standing. He pulled over to the side of the garage, jumped out of his seat, raised a warning hand and went towards the door.
