by John Creasey
He paused again, as if to begin another battle of silence.
“I’ve probably misled you,” Roger said hastily. “If I thought it were political I would probably lean over backwards to try to make sure that my own political leanings wouldn’t affect any action I took, or my thinking as a policeman. I didn’t admit any prejudice, anyhow; I don’t think I have any.”
“If you haven’t, you are truly a remarkable man,” said du Toit. He smiled more freely than he had since Roger had entered the office. “But of course you are remarkable, or I would not be talking to you like this. I should be much more reserved. To answer your question – no, this is not a political matter. The missing person is not connected in politics or in social affairs in any way. In so far as anything which happens in South Africa is assumed to have a political association, it might be regarded as political by some.”
Roger said frowningly, “I don’t quite follow.”
“I mean that if this man were to have disappeared of his own accord, if he were to be found dead, for instance, then there are people in this country and in most of the world who would infer a political reason. It would be nonsense and it would be wrong, but it would be said. Don’t misunderstand me,” went on du Toit, raising his hands. “I know that people do leave South Africa for political reasons, and I think they are mistaken to do so. But I am sure this man did not. He was coming to see an engineering company in England, and might have gone on from here to see another company in the United States. He is a director and substantial stockholder in one of our mining companies, as well as the research director. He also owns one of the very few independent diamond mines in South Africa. Because of these things his work was of importance to South Africa’s economy and therefore of interest to the Government, but . . .”
Du Toit paused, then slowly smiled; in that moment he made Roger warm to him as an individual. “But the Government was as anxious as he and his company for his success.”
Roger said, “I see.”
“You make that remark seem very profound, Superintendent.”
“I’m not feeling at all profound. If your Government’s anxious for the man’s success, then there are bound to be people who are anxious for his failure, simply because such a failure would be sure to rub off on the Government. That’s too simple to be profound.”
“I think I would disagree with you.” Du Toit stood up. “But I have no reason at all, no one has any reason at all, to suspect direct political intervention of any kind.”
He moved towards Roger, but at the same time looked at one of the panels. “Much of this wood carving is done by Bantu craftsmen, Superintendent. You have observed the animals from our game parks, and the historical tableaux of the great treks, but I did not notice you glance towards any of those behind you.”
He led the way to the far end of the room, where the carvings were of tall, spindly derricks, of big slag heaps, of mine shafts. Roger studied them as du Toit went on, “We share a lot of things with Great Britain, problems as well as internal and raw material situations. It would be very important to you to find oil, wouldn’t it?”
Roger looked at him sharply.
“Very.”
“It would be equally important to us.”
“And this missing man was coming to see English manufacturers of machinery which might help you to find oil? Or to bring it up once you found it?”
“Don’t jump too quickly to conclusions, please. There is no certainty that oil is the motive – only that it was one of his reasons for coming here. He has many industrial interests. He was coming to discuss arrangements for boring plant, and to arrange terms for engineers and surveyors to go to certain parts of South Africa where we have reason to think there might be oil. Very few people were aware of this. His company tells us that only two other members of the management knew that this was included in his itinerary of the United Kingdom. As far as we can find out no one else apart from the Government was fully aware of his purpose. The police at home are investigating that, but the immediate problem here is to find out what happened to him when he reached London Airport.” Du Toit turned away from the panels, and moved back to the desk, but he did not go to his chair. “He travelled alone, for secrecy’s sake. He was not met at the airport. All his plans were made personally, although we were informed. We expected a call from him yesterday morning, and when it did not come we enquired at the hotel where he had reserved a room. He had not arrived.”
“What hotel?” asked Roger.
“The Georgian, in the Strand.”
“What inquiries did you make at the airport?”
“We simply asked if he—”
“Supposing we start using his name,” suggested Roger.
“Very well, but even that is not as simple as it may sound. His real name is Van der Lunn. The name under which he was travelling was Lewis.”
“May we use Van der Lunn?”
“If you wish.”
“I think it may help,” said Roger. “You simply asked if he was on the passenger list, and if all the passengers had been on board the plane – is that it?”
“Yes. They had been.”
“So, presumably, he got off the plane here. Are the details there?” Roger pointed to the files. “As well as the times of arrival and departure of the plane, and all the relevant information?”
“Yes.”
“Mr du Toit, exactly what do you want me to do? Or the Yard to do? Spell it out for me, will you?”
Where another man might have said, ‘You know already,’ du Toit moved round his desk, sat down slowly, and began to speak with great deliberation, almost as if he felt that he had to consider each individual word before uttering it. Roger had an impression of a man of high intelligence and great sensitivity; and also the impression of one who had taught himself to pick his way carefully through a bed of thorns.
“I will endeavour to, Superintendent. The Ambassador would be most grateful if you will investigate all the circumstances of the apparent disappearance of Mr Paul Van der Lunn. He would also be grateful if such an investigation could be carried out without attracting public attention. So far as we now know, the Press has no knowledge of the disappearance. We feel it likely that if the knowledge becomes general then such allusions as you yourself have foreseen will be inevitable. If, in your considered view, it will be necessary for Mr Van der Lunn’s disappearance to become public knowledge, then we would appreciate it if you will tell us so as much in advance as possible, please.”
Du Toit leaned back as he finished, with his left hand resting lightly on the pale pink folder. Roger had a feeling that he had only just resisted the impulse to add, ‘Have I made myself clear?’
“In your view, what would justify publicity?” enquired Roger.
“We would, of course, bow to your judgement. For our part we would think it necessary if there seemed no other way of tracing Mr Van der Lunn. We would also consider it necessary if you had reason to believe that he had been . . . injured, or killed.”
Roger flashed, “Do you seriously think he’s been murdered?”
“No. We simply accept the possibility.”
“Had you any reason to believe that he was in danger?”
“None.”
“Let me study the file for half an hour while I’m here,” Roger said. “It might help me to ask questions of detail, and get us off to a quicker start.”
Du Toit handed him the file, and he went on, “Any corner where I’m on my own will do. I needn’t take up your time while I’m looking through the reports.”
Du Toit’s rather thin, well-shaped lips curved widely when he smiled.
“You are most considerate,” he said drily. “There is a smaller room next door.”
He led the way to a door on the right, and the nearest of the three secretaries stood up f
rom his desk.
“Mr Hoyt, will you arrange for some tea to be taken to Superintendent West?” He moved across and opened another door, which led on to a small but beautifully appointed room, more like a study than an office. “I hope this will be suitable, Superintendent.”
“Perfectly,” Roger said warmly.
He was halfway through a report from a man who signed himself ‘J Jameson’ when the door opened on a light tap, and a tall, well-built, immaculate Negro came in, carrying a tea-tray with cake and biscuits. His smile was easy and bright.
“Mr du Toit asked me to tell you, Superintendent, that if you need anything you have only to summon me by pressing the red push-button, or if you wish to speak to him, the green telephone is connected directly with his office. The black one is a line to the post office exchange.”
“That’s fine,” Roger said. “Thanks.”
He watched the door as the other man went out, and began to smile again. Du Toit had not really said a direct word, but he had managed to create exactly the impression that he had wanted; he was busy testing for prejudice. But the reflection soon faded. Roger turned back to the report, reflecting almost ruefully that he would not expect a better one from any of the men at the Yard. The times, the people questioned, the ground covered, even the reactions of individuals, were all here. Yet it told him little more than du Toit had outlined.
Roger spent three-quarters of an hour studying them, then moved the direct-line telephone towards him and dialled the Yard. In a moment he was speaking to Hardy.
Hardy listened . . .
“All right,” he said when Roger finished. “I’ll have the men and a car ready so that you can start for the airport as soon as you’re back. No need to refer to me; do whatever you think best.”
At least he was in a reasonable mood.
“Thanks,” Roger said. He put that instrument down with one hand and lifted the telephone to du Toit’s office with the other. “May I come in?”
“Of course. I will come for you.” By the time Roger reached the door, it opened and du Toit appeared. The Negro was standing at some filing cabinets in a corner of the secretaries’ office; he didn’t look round.
“What I would like is to meet Lieutenant Jameson,” Roger said. “His reports are particularly lucid. And I’d like him to come with me to London Airport, if that’s practical. I might be able to dig out more information there, and Jameson will be able to show me exactly what he did when he was there. Is he available?”
“At once,” du Toit said promptly. He leaned towards his desk and pressed a bell. “Do you think his reports were comprehensive enough?”
“As far as I can tell, yes,” replied Roger. He heard the door open behind him, but it was not until the newcomer spoke that he realised who it was; even then he did not realise the significance of his presence.
“You rang, sir?” It was the Negro.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” du Toit said. “Superintendent West wants you to go with him to London Airport, and will require all the assistance you can give him. I think you have already met Lieutenant Jameson, Superintendent. He is an officer in our National Police Force, seconded here for special duties.”
Roger turned round.
Jameson was giving his free, frank smile.
Roger chuckled.
“I won’t pretend that didn’t catch me bending,” he said, and without thinking held out his hand. As he did so, he had a momentary qualm: was it the thing to do? Jameson quickly dispelled any doubts; there was nothing either timid or hesitant about the way he put out his hand, and his grip was firm.
“I will help in every way I can,” he promised.
“First question,” Roger said. “Do you know Mr Paul Van der Lunn?”
“Oh yes, sir.”
“And, of course, the lieutenant fully understands the situation, and the dangers of misunderstanding,” du Toit said. “Thank you for your help, Superintendent.”
“I hope it soon leads to finding Van der Lunn,” Roger said.
3
THE AIRPORT
As they drove towards the tunnel which took the road beneath the runways at the airport, a jet came hurtling out of the skies as if it would skim the very top of the police car, dark gases pouring from its engines like the angry breath of some giant monster. As they drove along, Roger next to Jameson at the back, black-haired Chief Inspector Klemm next to the driver – Detective Sergeant Liss – the plane touched down very gently. Soon it taxied out of sight behind the airport buildings. A dozen other aircraft were on the huge field, and almost as soon as the noise of the first one faded, another took off, roaring as if it were carrying thunder into the heavens.
The Superintendent whom Roger knew best at the airport was on holiday; his second-in-command was Hammerton, a man whom Roger did not know well, but who was reputed to be a good detective with a high conceit of himself. The airport police were quite distinct from the Metropolitan Police, but they worked well together, and liaised closely.
The two shook hands, and Hammerton gave a rather sardonic smile.
“Nice to see you, Handsome. Still don’t trust us, I see.”
“What have I done?” asked Roger.
Hammerton nodded to Klemm, whose black hair was much too heavily oiled. He had rather thin, sallow features and deep-set eyes, which shone as he smiled at Jameson.
“The Yard never believes that anyone else is capable of doing their job properly, do they, Lieutenant?”
“If that is so I have yet to find it out,” replied Jameson.
“Can’t afford to sit on the fence too long when you’re dealing with the Yard,” said Hammerton. They were in his office, one window of which looked over a part of the airfield. The atmosphere was a little uncanny, because the only sounds in here came from the men. This seemed to make the airfield remote, as if the roaring of aircraft and all other outside sounds were imagined and not real. “Still looking for Mr Lewis?”
“We are most anxious to find him.”
“Still hush-hush?” Hammerton asked Roger.
“Very.”
“That’s a pity.”
“Why?”
“Because the one man who might be able to help us is a newspaperman,” answered Hammerton. “He was here to meet someone else off the aircraft Lewis arrived on, and believe me he wouldn’t miss much. But if you question him he’ll put two and two together . . . and make five out of it in The Daily Globe. Such as calling Lewis, Van der Lunn.”
“We might have to resort to the newspaperman,” Roger said. “Have you done any double-checking?”
“Some.”
“Anything else turned up?”
“Only a few details,” answered Hammerton. “Van der Lunn was on the flight all right. The crew had two days off and have just come back for another flight to Johannesburg – there’s a change in stewards, but that’s not unusual. I talked to the second pilot, who keeps his eyes open, and to one of the stewardesses. Quite reliable,” Hammerton added with a glance at Jameson. “I showed them a photograph and they both say that he was on board. He wasn’t well, though.”
“Not well?” asked Jameson. For the first time there was something like eagerness in his voice.
“Didn’t eat much, didn’t drink much, just kept himself to himself. The plane touched down at Nairobi and Cairo, but he didn’t get off for the usual walk round the airfield. I can tell you another thing,” Hammerton went on, with obvious satisfaction. “I’ve checked with Customs, and they recognised him – he had one suitcase and one briefcase, with overnight things in one, and some engineering journals and papers in the other. They didn’t search, just glanced at them casually. He didn’t seem well, and a porter led him off. The porter took him to the lounge, and left him. We haven’t been able to trace him since. We might if we asked the taxi-drivers, th
e porters, and all the rest of the hoi polloi, but something would be bound to leak about his identity.”
“You aren’t sure whether he went off by taxi, or private car, or by the air terminal bus?” Roger said.
“Not the bus. I was able to check with one of the stewardesses – she travelled on it, too.”
“This is at once disappointing and yet most thorough,” Jameson observed. He was looking hard at Hammerton. “I am very grateful.”
“Can’t leave things undone so that the Yard can come and tell us how to do our job,” Hammerton said drily. “Care to see the crew while they’re here, Handsome?”
“What time do they take off?”
“Seven o’clock.”
“Then we’ve a couple of hours,” Roger said. “I’d like to do one or two other things first. That porter—”
“He’s gone – but he knows nothing more. He was too anxious to get another job.”
“What are the chances of finding the taxi-drivers who were here when the plane came in?”
“We’ll spread the word and try to find out. They’ll contact us if they’re regulars, but if they just brought someone in from the Big Smoke they would only wait long enough to pick up a fare going back. The only way to trace them then would be a general request through newspapers or television. That would bring the reporters on us like a pack of hounds, but you know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Roger. “May I use your phone?”
“Help yourself,” Hammerton waved a big hand towards the instrument on his desk. The operator answered almost at once.
“Get me the editorial department of The Globe newspaper, will you?” He held on, aware of Hammerton’s almost comically startled expression. Then another telephone bell rang.
Hammerton answered it, and Roger heard him say, “Can’t it wait?” There was a pause before the airport man went on ungraciously, “Oh, all right, I’ll come.”
He put the receiver down heavily, and spoke to Klemm.
