by John Creasey
‘Well, it was a mess while it lasted. Oi, damn you, what’s happening to Mueller’s body? I can’t keep it much longer.’
‘It was moved last night,’ said Craigie, ‘and it’s cremated by now.’
‘Be a kindly soul and ‘phone Jeffs,’ said Burke. ‘I’d like to drink that gentleman’s health.’
‘I’m on,’ said Robert McMillan Kerr, who had heard the full story of the shooting of Lois Dacre. ‘By the way, Lois is still on our list?’
‘As long as she likes.’
‘As long as Kerr can’t persuade her to come off it, you mean,’ grinned Burke. ‘Come on, my Robert, I’m thirsty.’
It seemed that a number of other people were thirsty. Davidson, Carruthers, Trale and Lucas were gathered together at the Auveley Street flat.
Patricia—the Burkes were staying until Lois was about again—was doing the honours. There was beer in quantity, but the party was fairly quiet until Burke and Kerr appeared.
Burke waited for the uproar to die down, and then reminded them of the invalid. Lois Dacre was on a settee, being introduced to the agents of Department Z in a different setting, and preferring it.
It was an hour before Mr. Cornelius Jeffs arrived. He talked little—he was rarely a big talker—but he proved his capacity for beer.
Only the Burkes, Kerr, Lois Dacre and Cornelius Jeffs remained for lunch. The affair was rehashed from start to finish, and Jeffs rounded it off with a chuckle.
‘Cross-double-cross,’ he said. ‘I hookwinked Lydia and Marency, but Miss Dacre beat us all. However——’
‘If you say all’s well that ends well I’ll brain you,’ said Jim Burke ferociously. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s the banal. Drink up, folk, for I’ve an idea that our Robert and his Lois want to be alone.’
‘I never did mind the banal,’ said Lois Dacre gently, and Burke drank so quickly that he choked.
An extract from John Creasey’s
Menace
Bob Kerr had every reason in the world not to want a visitor that afternoon. The sun was shining on Brook Street with unusual brilliance, moreover he was wholly wrapt up in the prospect of an afternoon drive as far as Dorking, and then a little off the beaten track to a certain Rose Cottage. Warm August rains had prepared a splendid September, where fields of corn as yet ungathered would remind Kerr – who was listed as Number Two on the records of a peculiar Department at Whitehall, called Z – that there could be peace and serenity and freedom from the continual fear that one day a fleet of hostile aircraft would blast the quiet of the countryside into chaos.
To that aim Robert McMillan Kerr, to give him his full name, was dedicated.
On this fair afternoon with so desirable a jaunt in prospect, the world seemed bright enough. Lightened, of course, by the fact that in five minutes Lois Dacre – Number Eleven in that same Department, and also off duty – was due to call at 77g Brook Street. They were going to make an oft-promised and much delayed call on a man named Burke and the lovely Patricia, his wife.
Kerr, looking out of the window towards the Piccadilly end from which Lois would come, rubbed his chin reflectively.
And then an odd thing happened.
Kerr’s lips parted in an unexpected smile. It altered the whole cast of his countenance. He hardly looked the same man.
On the opposite side of the road a man was walking. That in itself was hardly novel enough to make Kerr smile. It was the manner of the walk; moreover the walker affected a large brown fur coat and vivid yellowish suede shoes. He was, not unnaturally, perspiring and mopping at his brow with a brightly coloured handkerchief; as far as Kerr could see his face held an expression of surprise, as though he hardly expected to be hot in an enveloping fur coat during a warm September afternoon.
Was he a foreigner or a freak?
‘Odd cuss,’ said Kerr to no one in particular. ‘I – blast the thing!’
It was the telephone, strident, insistent. The room was one of three that comprised the flat, and the telephone was only answered by Mold – Kerr’s man – when Kerr was absent.
Both were recent acquisitions. Mold had come from a Domestic Servants’ Agency with excellent references, and Department Z had looked him over with satisfactory results. The flat he had been allowed to select without approval from Department Z.
Kerr picked up the receiver with a sigh. There was one thing he could never entirely approve in working for Z; you had to be on the qui vive all the time. But Kerr supposed he could hardly expect to work for the most exclusive branch of British Intelligence, and live a carefree inconsequential life as well.
But if this call was from Craigie – Craigie, the head and sinews of Department Z!
It was from Craigie; his voice, quiet and well-modulated, came all too clearly to Kerr’s ears.
‘No,’ said Kerr, ‘it’s too bad. I’m positively full up for the afternoon and evening, old man, find one of the other mugs to take this job.’
Craigie chuckled.
‘All right, Bob, it’s not urgent. But slip over and see me sometime before midnight, will you?’
‘Right. Anything big?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve had several reports in from AKA, and I’ve a feeling you’ll have to go over there for a bit. But it might be a false alarm. I’m waiting for confirmation. Seen Lois lately?’
‘I hope to see her in about thirty seconds. Ah – here she is. Bye!’
He gave Gordon Craigie no opportunity for prolonging the conversation, thought fleetingly of AKA – the Department code-word for that nest of trouble in mid-Europe, the principality of Vallena – and stepped towards the door. Someone had tapped, and that someone could only be Lois.
Mold stood there, holding a visiting card before him.
‘This gentleman, sir, says that he would like to see you urgently. He seems very worried, sir.’
Kerr frowned and took the card.
‘Hmm. Show him in, and ask Miss Dacre to wait for a few minutes if she arrives before I’m through.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Mold closed the door, and Kerr walked back to the window, still holding the card. He had managed to push all thought of Lois Dacre to the back of his mind, for this was a queer business. Coincidence? Well it might be, but Kerr was inclined to look for the obvious in all things, and he wondered where he would find it here.
For the card read:
M. Jules Doriennet
Importer – Exporter
15, Maustrasse,
Baj – Vallena.
In short, Craigie had just said that Kerr might be wanted to make a trip to Vallena, and here was a native, presumably, of the country, and certainly a resident of Baj, the capital, about to enter the room.
The door opened, and Mold’s impersonal voice announced ‘Mr. Doriennet.’ Kerr took a half step forward, and then paused imperceptibly. For here was the fur-coated pedestrian, looking even hotter at close quarters than he had done at a distance. He regarded Kerr with a pair of piercingly blue eyes.
‘Ah – Mr Doriennet.’ Kerr extended a hand. Doriennet’s clasp was firm enough, as was to be expected, but over-warm.
‘Mistah – Kerr?’
Kerr wondered why Mold had not relieved the visitor of the monstrous coat.
‘That’s right. Can I take your coat?’
‘Thank you – no.’ Doriennet hugged the fur closer to him. ‘It is ver’ warm, yes. No?’ The expression of perpetual inquiry was surely too good to be false.
‘A drink, Mr Doriennet? Whisky – beer – an iced lager?’
‘Iced – lager!’ Away went the expression of inquiry, to be replaced by one of pleased anticipation. Doriennet obviously took to Robert McMillan Kerr as a man after his own heart. ‘Most excellent, Mistah – Kerr. My thanks.’
Kerr pressed the bell, and Doriennet sat in silence, sometimes eyeing Kerr and sometimes looking out of the window, until the drinks arrived.
‘Ah-ah.’ Up went the glass, and down again after a long, appreciative
draught. ‘So that is possible – even in England. They told me it was always so ver’ cold, Mistah – Kerr.’
Kerr noticed two things. First, that his visitor always paused before uttering his name, as though he was a little uncertain whether he had contacted the right man; second, that Doriennet was suggesting this was his first visit to England, although he spoke English remarkably well with an accent of the kind that could be easily assumed.
‘A judgment on us for always grumbling,’ said Kerr, smiling, ‘though we’re very well satisfied with our climate.’
He offered cigarettes, but Doriennet preferred to smoke his own brand. Kerr waited, showing no signs of impatience. Here was a man out of the ordinary, and his call might have a rare importance.
‘A mistake, yes, I understand.’ Doriennet waved a forgiving hand. ‘I make them, you make them, but I hope ver’ much, Mistah – Kerr, I make no mistake in coming to see you.’
‘So do I,’ murmured Kerr.
Doriennet tapped his ash, then went on slowly: ‘You are surprised at my coming, yes?’
‘I try never to be surprised,’ said Kerr with his widest smile. ‘I’ve no doubt you wanted to see me.’
Doriennet nodded.
‘That is so. On most important business, Mistah Kerr. My coat – you see heem?’
‘I’ve been admiring it,’ lied Kerr cheerfully.
‘So. An’ you think I beeg fool, yes, for leaving heem on. Don’t tell me! Well, that is perhaps. In heem, Mistah Kerr, is all I have. My business – it is broke. Finished!’ Doriennet waved his hands excitedly, yet he spoke with the utmost gloom and seriousness. ‘It is ended, I tell you. I, Jules Doriennet, have now only enough to live. An’ I carry it wit’ me, Mistah Kerr – otherwise they would rob me also of that. Oh, oh, I know them and their ways. I know them – and you, you will fight them!’
Kerr was beginning to be interested.
Gone was all thought of Rose Cottage, the Burkes, Lois Dacre and an afternoon of lazy enjoyment.
‘I see,’ he said gravely.
‘Good! I expect that, from what I have heard of you. He is the man, they say, who will act. He wastes no words. I have heard that with my own ears. You are the man I want, Mistah Kerr. I tell you I am broke – finish – done down. I, who was the most famous trader in Baj. It ees a crime, but it cannot now be prevent. It has happened, and why? Because I, Mistah Kerr, would not join them. Because I have always enjoyed working and trading with the English. They are fair, yes. They are perhaps at times the fool, but who ees not? And here am I, Mistah Kerr, a poor man with only the mon-ee I stand in, telling you this. I am ended because I am a friend of the English, and I will do no things they would have me do.’
Doriennet mopped his brow, drank deeply, then hitched his chair a foot nearer Kerr.
‘So?’
‘Who are “they”?’ asked Kerr mildly.
‘They are the villains!’ exclaimed Doriennet with sudden wild abandon. ‘They are the rogues, the devils, they would – but I am past myself! Mistah Kerr, I tell you this. I come to you because they say: “Kerr, he ees the biggest, the best man in England, for the espionage. He is clevaire, he sticks on, he is much prized by Gord-on Craigie’. This I hear them say when I am in a room next door. They do not think I hear, oh no. And then I hear also, they will kill me. I, Jules Doriennet, do not wish yet to die. I wish to live. And they say also this: “If we kill Kerr, then the trouble is not great”. And I think, if they would kill Kerr and me, then if Kerr is told, he will work to save himself. An’ then he will also help me, not to save me for I am saving myself, Mistah Kerr, but to defeat them. Yes?’
His sharp look of eager inquiry almost convinced Kerr that here was a fraud, a trick. It gave him the impression that Doriennet was deliberately talking like a crazy fool to hoodwink him, and was extremely anxious to succeed.
‘Certainly I shall try, Mr Doriennet.’ He pressed the bell, Doriennet leaned back and waited, frowning, and Kerr was actually watching his eyes when Mold came. ‘When Miss Dacre arrives, Mold, let me know.’
‘She is here, sir.’
‘Oh –’ Kerr looked ruefully towards Doriennet. He had seen not the slightest change in the other’s expression, and he was reasonably sure that the name Dacre meant nothing to the man from Vallena. ‘Mr Doriennet, what you tell me makes me put off an important appointment. If you will excuse me for a moment –’
Doriennet smiled blandly.
‘For the lady. It ees a pleasure, Mistah Kerr!’
‘Thank you.’ Kerr slipped out of the room, and Mold closed the door. Kerr’s expression held all the warmth and love of a man greeting his fiancée, but his words were those of a Department agent.
‘Sorry, Lois – but get Craigie from the nearest call-box, and tell him to have a man round here in ten minutes. He’s to follow the oddity who comes out of this flat wearing a fur coat. It looks as though you and I might have other work on foot. Tell Craigie the cove comes from AKA.’
Lois Dacre nodded, and turned towards the door. She was the coolest and most capable woman Kerr had ever known, and the most lovable. He flashed her a smile as she sped on her way, and then he returned to M. Jules Doriennet.
He had a queer, almost frightening feeling that something might have happened to the man while he had been out of the room, but apart from helping himself to more lager, Doriennet appeared to be still in complete possession of his faculties and health.
‘It ees done, yes? She is understanding, that one?’
‘Most,’ smiled Kerr, and then Doriennet saw an entirely different man. Instead of listening Kerr talked, and most of his words took the form of questions. At the end of ten minutes Kerr knew most of what there was to know, assuming he had been answered truthfully. It appeared that ‘they’ had made certain demands from Doriennet a year before, demands which had also been issued to other firms. He had had orders to send poor quality goods to England, or to ship wrong consignments: be it margarine for butter, or deal for oak, or culture pearls for watches.
That information seemed to be in keeping with the craziness of the whole scheme, and Kerr was convinced of its truth. No man would imagine stuff like that. Had Doriennet claimed to have been ordered to ship gunpowder instead of boracic acid there would have been good reason to believe it was a fake interview, but concerning ordinary commerce, it seemed to make conclusive evidence.
‘I see. Well, Mr Doriennet, we’ve kept the most important to last. Who are “they”?’
Doriennet shrugged his shoulders beneath the great bear of a coat.
‘So. Mr. Kerr, you will laugh, you will anger, you will say I lie – but I do not know. These orders I have had, come always by letter. And as I say no, so I lose things. I am robbed, I have the bad luck, a ship ees sunk, an insurance company will not pay me. One – two – three – a hundred! And two days ago, I say: I will find them. I have a letter, it ees delivered by hand. I follow the man. I find the office he visit. I hear him say he will be there again next day. I go again, taking this time the office nex’ door, it ees empty. I hear the talk of killing me, and killing you, an’ this man Craigie who they also fear, and I come. I fly, by the air. I know they have finished me. My mon-ee it ees gone. My life, I still have it. I am afraid, perhaps, but I wish to stay alive. I come here, because they say your address. Craigie’s – they say not his. But of those men I recognise none. I say only this – one, he is so ver’ tall, he is taller than me! Six feet one half, I swear! Now – now you understand?’
Kerr thought he did.
Here was a business man who had been sent remarkable orders, had disobeyed them, and had been systematically made to pay for it. Doriennet possessed greater sticking powers than most, but the final talk of killing had been too much for him. It might, of course, be a clever red herring, yet the very bizarreness of it made it seem genuine.
‘I think so, Mr Doriennet. I will certainly make inquiries. But how shall I get in touch with you?’
M. Jules Doriennet’s face al
tered surprisingly. From earnestness it developed cunning – the cunning of a man who was not used to subterfuge, but was delighting in his cleverness.
‘Ah-ha! I tell no one, Mistah Kerr – not even you. How else can I save myself? It is all prepared, my disappearance! And –’
Doriennet suddenly pulled a large gold watch from his pocket. He jumped up, gathered the voluminous fur coat close about him, and hurried for the door.
Kerr did not try to stop him. Lois would have had the message delivered by now, and Craigie had had good time to work in. Kerr stepped to the window. He saw Doriennet hurrying like a whirlwind along Brook Street, and a well-dressed man leave the wheel of a large car and follow him. Kerr recognised the motorist as a Department Z agent named Trale.
Kerr suddenly moved from the window, went out of the room faster than Doriennet, grabbed a hat and was soon in Brook Street. Neither of the others was out of sight, nor was the third man who had inspired Kerr to move so fast.
The third man was also following M. Jules Doriennet and he was far, far taller than the average. At least six feet and a half, thought Kerr, and therefore possessing at least one physical feature of the only member of the ‘they’ whom Doriennet had been able to describe.
Love John Creasey?
Get your next classic Creasey thrillers for FREE
If you sign up today, you’ll get all of these benefits:
1.The John Creasey Starter Library. Complimentary copies of THE DEATH MISER and REDHEAD (usual price £5.98);
2.Details of the new editions of his classic novels and the chance to get copies in advance of publication; and
3.The chance to win exclusive prizes in regular competitions.
Interested? It takes less than a minute to sign up. You can get the novels and your first exclusive newsletter by visiting www.johncreaseybooks.com
You can also find out more about John Creasey and other classic crime writers by following @CrimeClassics on Twitter, or connecting with them on Facebook.
John Creasey
