by John Creasey
Thornton and the Errols were comparatively ‘young’ members.
The Errols had been with Craigie for less than a year, while Thornton had been transferred from the Espionage branch some eighteen months before.
Oundle brought beer, while the new-comers settled in easy-chairs, the Errols more leisurely than Thornton, who seemed ill at ease.
‘Thanks,’ said Mike, and drank. ‘Not bad. Bill, in the first place a complaint—we didn’t have time for any sleep.’
‘Fair,’ said Mark, quaffing also. ‘In the second place, Bill, a complaint. There was nothing to it in the Sunny South.’
‘In the third place...’ began Mike.
‘A complaint,’ said Mark. ‘You didn’t warn us we were likely to be bumped off. Not friendly.’
Loftus rubbed his massive chin. ‘Now all the fun and games are over,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’ll dry up.’ He glanced at Craigie, who nodded and thus gave permission for Loftus to talk for a while. ‘There’s some urgent stuff, Errols, you’ll hear about it in due course. But just what happened at Waterloo?’
Thornton cleared his throat.
In the brighter light he seemed a positive Punch of a man, and he had regained his florid colour, which added to the illusion. Bright-blue eyes looked at Loftus steadily, as he lifted his hands palm upwards in a Gallic gesture.
‘Sorry, Bill, but I don’t see that I could have done anything at all. I met the Errols off the train, and this fellow...’
‘What was he like?’
‘Tallish—thinnish—swarthy,’ said Thornton. ‘I didn’t see him in a good light, you’ll have to go to the morgue for that. I did see that he had a round scar on his chin. He went up to the Errols and gave them a message which they thought was from you.’
Mike rubbed his cheek ruefully.
‘We fell, too. Took it for granted when your name was mentioned that it was on the up-and-up.’
‘It should learn you,’ said Loftus, with a faint smile. ‘What then?’
‘They were going into a corner of the booking-hall,’ said Spats, ‘and I shone my torch for a moment. The man was going for his right pocket, and I assumed the worst. Mike hit him, and out fell the gun.’
‘So it was to have been the worst,’ said Mark.
‘Ye-es,’ said Loftus. ‘And then?’
‘Mike and I went off...’ said Mark.
‘For a drink,’ completed Mike.
‘And I stood by,’ said Thornton. He looked puzzled and worried. ‘No one came within three or four yards, I heard and saw nothing—but he was shot dead. The bullet took him through the temple.’
‘Hmm,’ said Loftus.
There was silence for some seconds, as if Loftus, Craigie and Oundle were deliberately digesting what they had heard.
‘Well.’ Craigie broke the silence, lifting his meerschaum out and probing at the bowl with a match, ‘what do you make of it, Bill?’
‘Thing is,’ said Loftus, scratching his chin, ‘the shot was fired from presumably four yards’ distance. No one could see well enough at four yards to be sure of making a bull’s-eye first shot—that’s right, Spats?’
‘Certainly,’ agreed Thornton. ‘It was the darkest corner of the hall—visibility about three yards.’
‘And yet,’ mused Loftus, ‘one shot was enough. One shot and no noise. The lack of noise could be explained simply enough; an air-pistol was used, or one of these new silencers. But silent or not you can’t shoot a man in the dark and be satisfied with one shot.’
‘What puzzled me,’ said Mike, ‘is why he should go to that fuss and bother to get us to a dark spot when someone else could have put us away as easily as they did him.’
‘A point,’ said Loftus heavily, ‘and in different circumstances an important one. It leaves open the question of whether the killed and the killer were working together, or apart. It offers the possibility that there are two parties concerned—one wanting to put you away, my Errols, and one which did put the would-be assassin away. But at the moment it’s less important than the fact that death came in darkness.’
‘Why?’ asked Mike. ‘No one else seems ready to fall for it.’
‘Obviously,’ said Loftus, ‘the presumption is that the gunman knew what he was doing, and could see what he was doing. Spats saw nothing, which knocks out the possibility of a torch. So—how did the gunman see to kill?’
Mark stared. ‘Gosh! You’re suggesting...’
‘He could see in the black-out,’ gasped Mike.
‘I am,’ said Loftus, and Craigie cleared his throat, as if about to talk. ‘It seems certain, and it’s a thing to worry about. I’d like to be able to see by night these days, and here’s someone who can.’
‘Omitting,’ said Oundle ingenuously, ‘the possibility of a magnetic bullet...’
‘Pipe down,’ said Loftus. ‘We’ve got the fact and we ought to face it. Someone could see well enough in the dark to make sure of shooting straight. Apply the same principle to bombing straight, from the air. A something that gets over the black-out. Not a nice thought, but it’s what we’re up against. We’ve heard rumours before, but this is more than rumour. However, there are other things. Why did they pick on you...’
‘And how they knew we were due,’ said Mike.
‘All in all,’ said Loftus, ‘we’ve plenty on our hands. Gordon will tell you that the Government’s had word of another secret weapon, no less than this “see-in-the-dark” thing, and we’ve instructions to find it.’
‘Germany...’ began Thornton.
‘As far as we know it’s not in the hands of anyone in Berlin, Paris or London,’ said Craigie, his dry voice with the barely noticeable Scottish accent following Thornton’s without a pause. ‘Either a neutral has it, or someone quite independent. It can cause havoc, and we’ve got to prevent it. I—what is it, Mark?’
For Mark Errol, at a moment when he should have been hanging on to his Chief’s words, had exclaimed with some astonishment and was glancing down at his hand. Or what seemed to be his hand. Actually it was something along his sleeve, and he drew it out slowly, revealing a slip of pasteboard like a visiting-card with a pin in one end of it.
‘Felt something sharp,’ he said in a tone that was bewildered. ‘This doesn’t make sense.’
He stopped, and scowled, reading the words written on the card. Then he handed it to Craigie, and Loftus read it over his shoulder. It was brief and to the point:
Tell Craigie to keep out of this. If he doesn’t it will only make things worse.
The others read it, and stared at Mark—who was remembering vividly the light touch of a girl’s hand on his sleeve, and acknowledging that she could have pinned that card to his coat.
And he did not relish the thought.
3
Who was the Lady?
‘No,’ said Loftus, and he replaced the telephone, ‘there’s no train for anywhere at 9.12, Mark. You fell completely.’
‘I appear,’ said Mark with some bitterness, ‘to have fallen a lot since I reached England. She seemed...’
‘Never mind what she seemed,’ said Mike. ‘Who was she?’
‘I hadn’t seen her in my life before,’ said Mark, and then shrugged. ‘No reason why I should have done, of course. I—good Lord, Gordon, have you realised that she saw and recognised me in the dark, or she wouldn’t have pinned this card on? And the chap who’s dead recognised us, which suggests he knew us well or saw us clearly.’
Craigie nodded soberly.
‘I’d realised it, yes. They can see perfectly well in the dark.’
‘It’s fantastic,’ said Mike.
‘It’s facts,’ said Bill Loftus, and he grinned. ‘I don’t like fighting fantasy, but I don’t mind a fracas with facts. Nice to look at, was she, Mark?’
‘She was, and...’
He broke off, for Craigie stood up and stretched himself in front of the electric fire. He rubbed his hands in front of it for a moment, and looked like any family man about
to retire for the night. Standing, he proved to be as tall as Oundle, and he looked round at the others while raising himself to and fro on his toes.
‘We must face the situation as it is,’ he said equably. ‘In the first place, Mark, I wanted you and Mike quickly as there is an angle which you can handle. This little job was made for you. I didn’t expect anyone would anticipate your arrival in England, and it seems reasonably obvious that whoever did the job knows that you are the only two available at the moment.’
‘Hmm,’ said Mike, ‘it could explain something, yes.’
‘We can take it for granted that you were watched at Southampton. Someone knew you had gone abroad and for all we know all the likely ports have been watched for you to come back. The message from the lady proves that your association with the Department is known, and also makes it obvious that they’ve assumed my interest in the puzzle.’
‘In short, someone who knows us,’ said Thornton.
‘Too many people do,’ admitted Craigie. ‘We can’t help that now. It could be an agent from any foreign country neutral or combatant, or a private individual. We know nothing except the rumour that a way of seeing through the dark has been invented,’ admitted Craigie. ‘Apart from that we start from scratch. We’ve since learned that someone is very anxious to stop us working on it. The someone might be (a) the inventor or (b) anyone who also wants to find the inventor.’
Oundle whistled.
‘Which would explain our dago intending to kill, and the lads who actually killed him.’
‘A point,’ Mark grunted. ‘But just what’s on your mind for us, Gordon?’
Gordon Craigie pushed both hands deep in his pocket, and said:
‘There is a man named Grafton, staying at a small hotel in Bournemouth. The Cliff Royal. An old man, who some months ago wrote to the Home Office and talked about seeing in the dark. The idea was investigated but turned down as impracticable. You’ll find whether Grafton is still working on it, whether he has met any kind of trouble since getting in touch with the Home Office, and whether he’s alone.’
Mike frowned. ‘Or whether he’s being watched.’
‘That’s it exactly,’ said Craigie. ‘Wally and Bob have been down there, but I had to take them off before they could do more than locate the hotel. The local police know nothing. You’ll have time for a good rest, and to take the first train down in the morning.’
Mike pushed his hand through his hair.
‘No other instructions?’
‘All you can find about Grafton, that’s all.’
‘I’ll wager,’ said Mark gloomily, ‘that he’s an innocent, benevolent old gent who sleeps the clock round every night, and we will rusticate.’ He drained his tankard, lifted a hand, and led the way towards the door.
The Errol family had not come out of the affair with honours, so far. It had the rudiments of excitement, though. They talked little of it, however, while Pitcher—their man—had prepared everything they might need, and, as they walked up the stairs, was even running a bath. Pitcher was large and bulky, efficient but not obsequious, knowledgeable but not too curious. Pitcher was preparing a light meal before they went to bed, when the telephone rang. Mark was in the bath, and Mike was struggling into pyjamas; Pitcher answered the telephone.
A low-pitched feminine voice said:
‘Is that the home of Mr. Mark Errol?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Please tell Mr. Errol,’ said the speaker, ‘that he has already been advised what to do. That is all.’
• • • • •
‘Things being as they are, and life being what it is,’ said Spats Thornton, ‘I’ll clear off if there’s nothing else at the moment.’
‘You’ll probably need plenty before this job’s over,’ said Loftus. ‘Oh, and, Spats—don’t let the job at the station worry you. It could have been me just as easily.’
‘Or me,’ admitted Craigie.
Spats left 55g, Brook Street much lighter-hearted than when he had entered it.
Craigie had told everyone virtually all he knew.
Talk of a ray with which anyone could see through darkness had percolated the mysterious channels of the Home Office, and reached the Cabinet. Craigie did not know how seriously the idea was considered by the Government, except that the Chief Lord had urged Wishart, the Prime Minister, to hand the investigation to Craigie. The First Lord, a man of push as well as ideas, was obviously impressed.
The only previous mention of such an invention had come from the old scientist, Matthew Grafton. Grafton was known as a man of fantastic ideas, and he was reputed to be a dreamer who rarely offered convincing evidence to support his discoveries.
This had reached Craigie the previous day, through Wishart. It was a bad time.
Department Z’s best men were busy, many of them abroad. Rumours had come to them through different channels of secret weapons and other things. The terror had been let loose in Europe. Russia had revealed itself as an aggressor as naked as Germany.
It was no longer a question of trying to prevent war.
It was a matter of helping to make sure that the Allies won it.
Here, a little more than six months after the outbreak of war in which little had come up to expectations, when members of the public even admitted being bored, was the first whisper of something that might prove devastating.
Two major mysteries had presented themselves before Craigie’s men had even started to operate.
‘Which can’t be avoided,’ said Loftus, knocking out his pipe. ‘I’ve a feeling things are going to happen soon, Gordon, and apparently we’ve two groups agin’ us. Mark’s lady friend intrigues me.’
Craigie tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe against strong white teeth.
‘No one in their senses would expect to frighten us off.’
‘Then why put us on our guard?’ asked Oundle.
‘They knew we were on to it,’ said Loftus slowly. ‘There’s something deeper than we’ve seen yet, there was a definite object in the little lady’s chat with Mark, and the killing of the would-be assassin. I’m going to see him. Coming, Gordon?’
‘No, I’ll go back to Whitehall. Don’t come round unless you find anything out of the ordinary.’
‘Right,’ said Loftus. ‘Hat and coat, Ned, for Gordon!’
Outside the flat two men were watching, junior agents of the Department. They followed Craigie’s route, for they intended to take no chances of leaving the Chief without ample protection. One of them flashed a torch twice, for Loftus to see from the window where he was watching. He had turned out the light, but as he saw the torch he replaced the curtain, and Oundle switched on again.
‘Ned, I don’t like this a bit,’ Loftus said.
‘This being?’
‘They could pick any one of us off in the same way.’
‘Let us be cheerful,’ said Oundle, and poured two tankards. ‘Going alone?’
‘No, you’d better come.’
They found a cab at a rank in Piccadilly, and were driven to Cannon Row, where the body of the man who had given the false message had been taken. The attendant at the morgue knew them, and they stepped into the dimly lighted underground building, in which the chill of death seemed to be on all sides. There were three shrouded figures on three stone tables, and the attendant took them to the one farthest from the door. A brighter light was switched on, and Loftus stared down at the swarthy, hollow-cheeked face of the man whom Mike had knocked out—and unwittingly sent to his last sleep.
‘He’s been photographed, sir, an’ they took his prints. Mr. Miller’s got them now.’
‘Is he still at his office?’ asked Loftus.
‘Yes, sir.’
There was little about the face of the man to earn attention. In death the expression was peaceful enough, although even then there was a hungry look about him, as if he had been close to starvation. Loftus lifted back the shroud to see that the ribs and chest bones stuck through the stretche
d skin—and thus supported the evidence of the thin face.
He replaced the shroud, and the two agents went from Cannon Row to the Yard. The sergeant on duty in the main hall nodded as they went along to the large office which housed Superintendent Horace Miller. Miller—called, of course, Dusty—was a remarkable man in as much as he fitted his name to perfection. His sandy hair, sandy moustache, and pale skin always looked as if it were coated with a fine spray of flour. He might have stepped straight from a mill into the well-cut brown suit which clad his heavy body when Loftus and Oundle went in. He was sitting at a large desk near the window; there was one other desk, empty at the moment, and occupied usually by Chief Inspector Frazer, Miller’s aide.
Miller was the liaison officer between the Yard and Department Z. All work which Loftus and the others handled, needing police attention, went through Miller—unless Sir William Fellowes, the Assistant Commissioner, handled it himself. Miller was a forthright officer, lacking a little in imagination who frequently confessed himself appalled by the risks which Loftus took. There had been a time when Miller had been unable to understand the apparent casualness of Craigie’s men, but he had come to realise that their manner was a natural result of the strain in which they worked, to understand that if they laughed or made a quip in the presence of death it was not through callousness.
Miller stood up as they went in.
‘Evening,’ he said heavily, ‘I’ve been expecting you. How are things?’
‘Bad,’ answered Loftus.
‘I’m not surprised.’ Miller stopped smiling, and touched a small heap of oddments on his desk. Next to the heap was a manilla folder, and he opened it. ‘We haven’t found much, I’m afraid.’
‘Huh,’ said Loftus, an expression which he favoured—the result, Oundle claimed, of his devotion to tales of the rip-roaring Wild West. ‘No name, no address, no records?’
‘No,’ said Miller. ‘A few oddments—we might trace him, for there’s a penknife that looks new, and a cheap watch he can’t have had more than a week or two—the case isn’t scratched worth speaking of. For the rest...’
