by John Creasey
‘Now let’s have a look at you,’ he said. ‘Where did you get what?’
‘A piece of lead,’ said Mike, ‘in the thigh. Unless it’s my imagination.’
Loftus located the small hole in the trousers, and without ado took a razor-keen knife from his pocket and cut a piece out large enough for him to see the blood-soaked cotton trunks which Mike was wearing. He cut the leg of them, and saw the wound—well on the outside of the thigh, bleeding freely, and yet not serious.
‘Another quarter of an inch and it would have missed you,’ he said. ‘We won’t need an ambulance, anyhow. What are the people like at your hotel?’
‘All right. Why?’
‘You’ll be an invalid for a few days, I think,’ opined Loftus, cleaning the wound with his handkerchief. ‘We’d better find a nursing-home for you, and one where they won’t ask a lot of unnecessary questions.’
‘But dammit...’
‘Uncle Bill has spoken,’ said Loftus firmly, and there would be no arguing. ‘Let me give you a hand.’
Even Mike was startled by the ease with which the big man lifted and carried him towards the Talbot.
By that time Janice Grafton was sitting in the Morris, and the man she had met was on his feet. He had a head wound, which bled slightly, and Oundle was helping him into the smaller car.
Janice Grafton was staring straight ahead of her—and Mike was reminded of her expression when she had looked at her father after his collapse.
6
Jeremiah Warncliffe
Sitting in a large room at Whitehall, Gordon Craigie lifted one of the five telephones on his desk and, without a change of expression, listened to a deep voice spelling:
‘S-U-T-F-O-L.’
‘All right, Bill,’ said Craigie.
It was a simple code, and one which had never leaked out from the Department itself. To make sure that a caller was genuine the agent spelt his name backwards.
Craigie worked everything out with equal care. Which is not to suggest that the Department men never made mistakes; the very exigencies and tempo of their work made errors inevitable. Craigie considered his most important task that of sifting of mistakes that mattered from those which were of no importance. No agent was blamed for a mistake; those few who made too many disappeared from the Department’s active list.
The affair of the invention which it was reckoned could nullify the effect of the black-out was likely to be far-reaching. Craigie and Loftus had seen the possible ramifications far more quickly than the other agents. Both men had been chary of accepting the rumour as true, but the two deaths which had occurred offered convincing truth. At first, the Grafton angle had seemed a possible source of information, although the Errols had been sent down—as Mike had shrewdly suspected—to combine a watching brief with a rest.
And then, with the suddenness so frequently affecting the activities of the Department, word had come from Craigie’s resident agent in the small neutral country of Vania. Vania was neither a Baltic State nor one of the Scandinavian countries, but held a position of critical importance between the two. It was virtually an island, although actually a peninsular connected with the Danish mainland by a long, narrow strip of land strongly reinforced on either side, and with a road and railway running its full length. It was the obvious starting point of German hostilities against the Scandinavian countries and the miracle was that the Vanian monarchist Government had contrived so far to maintain the balance between the warring Powers of democracy and dictatorship.
Like Holland, Belgium, and the larger Scandinavian countries, Vania had become a clearing-house for propaganda, news, unobtainable from other sources and—because of its position—the north European headquarters of the secret services of the bigger Powers.
From Craigie’s leading resident agent, had come word of the new invention which would counteract the usefulness of darkness, which brought to a head the efforts of countless scientists to invent an apparatus by which it was possible to see without light.
Berlin had heard of the discovery, and wanted it.
Berlin had sent agents to England, and the name of Matthew Grafton had been mentioned.
Grafton was considered by Berlin to be the key man...
On hearing this, Craigie had sent Loftus and Oundle post haste to Bournemouth, and now Loftus was on the telephone, with Craigie waiting in his large, untidy office of news.
‘Let me give you the basic story first,’ Loftus said, and passed on with brevity and remarkable lucidity everything he had learned from Mike Errol. Then he went on: ‘I don’t know what to make of Grafton, his daughter or her fiancé, Edward Grey. We need to check very closely—not only on them but on the man Warncliffe, who was talking to Janice when the attack was made. He has a slight head wound. There is no way of being sure whether the shots were intended for him or for the girl.’
‘What do they have to say?’ asked Craigie.
‘The girl, little or nothing. Warncliffe either has or pretends to have taken umbrage because Ned and I took charge at the scene of the shooting. There is something about a woman at the hotel, a Peke owner, whom Mike thinks is showing a lot of interest in Grafton, but it’s not certain. Mike is lucky he didn’t get more badly hurt, but he did a remarkable job. At least two people died in the Bugatti when it crashed—the local police are checking them. The third man, whom Mike calls Paleface, is the one we’re after. Mike says he is...’ Loftus gave Mike’s description of the man which Craigie wrote down swiftly. ‘Mike’s in a small nursing-home,’ went on Loftus, ‘and Mark is watching Grafton. Ned went with Warncliffe and Janice to Warncliffe’s flat.’
‘Is Errol badly hurt?’ asked Craigie.
‘More in spirit than the flesh,’ said Loftus. ‘He’ll be about again within a week. The Bugatti’s burned out of all recognition, even the number plates. I’ve got the local people trying to recall the number of a Bug seen this morning, and we must check it up. My chief interest at the moment is Warncliffe. He’s a cool customer, and he’s in well with Grafton’s daughter. Second, I’m interested in the fiancé, an Edward Grey. Get Miller to put the tabs on him, will you?’
‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Have a go at Warncliffe at his flat,’ said Loftus. ‘Wish me luck.’
He stepped out of the call-box slowly, walking towards Millan Road, which was situated on the West Cliff between the Cliff Royal Hotel and the Square. It was in a select residential part of the resort, and Loftus walked without haste, contemplating the large and small hotels he passed and here and there a block of flats. At the third block in the road he stopped. Redfern Mansions was a garish-looking block of buildings painted a bright yellow and set amid half an acre or so of newly laid lawns.
An automatic lift took him to the third floor.
Number 41, Warncliffe’s flat, was at the end of a wide carpeted passage. Loftus’s footsteps were deadened as he walked, and he reflected on the obvious luxury of the appointments. The rentals here would be high, suggesting that Warncliffe was wealthy.
Loftus pressed the bell.
Warncliffe himself opened the door.
His head was bandaged expertly, and he looked glassy about the eyes. On the promenade he had been aggressive and exasperated, and when Loftus said: ‘I hope your head isn’t aching too much,’ he showed that he hadn’t improved.
‘My man’s a first-aid specialist. And if my head’s not aching, it’s hardly due to you. Your attentions are enough to give me a pain in the neck.’
‘Crude, but probably true,’ said Loftus. He stepped through into a large, well-furnished lounge, where Oundle was sitting on a settee smoking and making a fine effort to converse with Janice Grafton. Oundle was doing all the talking, and the girl sat opposite him, nodding occasionally.
She was worried.
And, Loftus thought, not wholly because she had an eccentric father who claimed to have lost papers she stated to be non-existent.
‘‘Lo, Ned.�
�� He smiled at the girl and at Warncliffe’s invitation sat down. There were seven or eight comfortable chairs in the lounge with two settees, yet the room was large enough not to seem overcrowded. In one corner was a large cocktail cabinet, against one wall was a walnut escritoire. The chairs were green, the wallpaper green-cum-beige, and the frosted glass of the wall lights merged perfectly. The carpet, too, was thick and toned with the rest of the room.
‘Will you smoke?’ Warncliffe proffered cigarettes. Loftus shook his head, and brought out his pipe.
‘May I?’
‘Yes.’
Warncliffe’s full lips were curved in a smile that was not all of humour, but his mood was better.
‘So you’re careful, too,’ he remarked. ‘You either don’t smoke, or smoke your own.’
Loftus arched his brows.
‘It’s a trade secret,’ he said, ‘but we have to be. Before we go any farther, do I have to remind you that but for us you would probably be very dead.’
‘That’s doubtful,’ said Warncliffe sharply.
‘I don’t think so. We put the men in the Bugatti in a spot. They were after you, not my colleague. He shouted a warning which gave you a moment’s notice of trouble. On the whole you’ve a lot to be thankful for and you’re not showing it. May I know your full name?’
‘Jeremiah,’ said Warncliffe, and laughed. ‘What is this, a new system of interrogation? It isn’t necessary; If I don’t want to answer your questions, I won’t.’
‘I suspected as much,’ said Loftus, applying a match to his loaded briar. ‘We’re going to be very frank.’
‘That suits me,’ Warncliffe grunted.
‘Does it suit Miss Grafton?’
‘You can take it so, yes.’
‘I’d rather have her word for it,’ said Loftus, looking towards the girl. Oundle, now smoking one of his own cigarettes, marvelled—and not for the first time—at the complete control of the situation which Loftus revealed.
Janice looked across at the big man.
Loftus saw trouble in her grey eyes—trouble in the tension at her lips, in the strain under which she was living.
‘Do you mind what you hear?’ he said.
‘No.’ Her voice was low. ‘Jerry can speak for me, Mr. Loftus.’
Oundle, then, had given his name, or Warncliffe had got Loftus’s name from the card of authority. But Loftus had a queer idea that his name had come too easily from her lips; that she had spoken it with a familiarity which suggested she had heard it frequently before.
Warncliffe’s manner also suggested that he knew what he was doing, and gave Loftus the impression that he suspected that he was not a regular policeman. And Loftus remembered that the girl who had cannoned into Mark at Waterloo had known the Errols for Department Z men.
‘Right,’ said Loftus. He stood up abruptly, took off his coat, and flung it over the back of a chair. ‘Did you meet Miss Grafton by appointment today?’
Warncliffe eyed him evenly.
‘What authority have you got for questioning me, Mr. Loftus?’
‘Police authority,’ said Loftus brusquely. ‘A man known to be an enemy alien tried to murder you an hour or so ago. That is sufficient proof of your association with enemy aliens, and I need hardly warn you that internment camps have plenty of room.’
He did not shout, but there was a harshness in his voice greater than Warncliffe or the girl had heard before. The girl’s hands tightened on the arms of her chair. Warncliffe’s smile disappeared.
‘What makes you think he was an enemy alien?’
‘I’m not thinking, I know. Warncliffe, you may have some kind of statement to explain your position, and you’ve an opportunity of telling it to me. If you’d prefer the local police and a period of detention while inquiries are being made I don’t mind. What I do mind is wasting my time. Now, let’s have it. Was your meeting with Miss Grafton prearranged?’
Warncliffe sat down slowly.
‘It was.’
‘When was it arranged?’
‘I have been meeting her by arrangement for some days past.’
‘Why?’
‘If you must know,’ said Warncliffe icily, ‘she prefers her father and her fiancé to know nothing of her friendship for me.’
‘That’s a possible explanation, but it doesn’t fit entirely. I’m not interested in personal affairs, except in as far as they affect the activities of aliens in this country. I’ll tell you what the man who shot you believes.’
‘How can you?’ flashed Warncliffe.
‘Because I’ve means of finding out. He believes that Miss Grafton obtained the papers from her father, and passed them on to you. He believes that while you have them you are a danger to his country, and he proposed to kill you. With you dead he could safely operate against Miss Grafton. Does that make sense?’
‘It could do,’ said Warncliffe, and he looked towards Janice. Obviously the man was taken aback—and, for that matter, so was Oundle. Loftus stood up and stepped ponderously to the window. With his back towards it and frowning, he said slowly:
‘You’ll have to tell your story now, or later to a Tribunal, Warncliffe. The same applies to Miss Grafton. The cock-and-bull story that her father had no papers just doesn’t convince. He has invented something of very great value. I want to know what it is, and where the relative papers are.’
‘All right,’ said Warncliffe, heavily. ‘You can have the story—just as soon as I know who you are, and your official position. I’m taking no one on trust. Not even a man with a card from Scotland Yard which might be genuine, and might be forged.’
Loftus smiled for the first time.
‘I can’t say I blame you. Do you know the Scotland Yard number?’
‘Of course.’
‘Call it. Ask for Superintendent Miller, or Sir William Fellowes. Ask either of them whether I am working with their full authority.’
‘Right,’ said Warncliffe, stretching for a telephone on a small table close to his hand.
The girl sat back in her chair, with her eyes closed, long lashes sweeping her cheeks...
And Bill Loftus, by the window, glanced out.
The position he had taken up there had not been by chance. He was always prepared for anything, and in this affair he saw one essential factor: someone—Paleface to wit, and those working with Pale-face—wanted Warncliffe dead. That he had failed to achieve his object after one effort did not mean that he was reconciled to failure.
Thus Loftus saw a car moving slowly towards the block of flats.
It was an open touring car, and looked like a Lagonda. He could see that the driver was dressed in a light-grey suit, but he was more interested in the passenger, a man dressed in black and wearing a Homburg hat. What little Loftus could see of his face was pale.
Unostentatiously, Loftus slipped his right hand in his pocket. He was hidden from the street by the heavy curtain, but he could see outside. He saw Homburg was consulting what looked like a paper or magazine, and then he saw the man glance up. The scrutiny lasted for some seconds, before the man traced something along the paper on his knee.
He glanced directly at the flat; obviously he had been studying a window plan of Redfern Mansions, and had located the window he wanted.
Loftus eased his hand from his pocket, and his fingers were tight about a gun. He said so slowly that only Oundle heard his words clearly:
‘Cut downstairs, Ned. A black Lagonda—get after it as fast as you can.’
Oundle nodded, and was out of the room before either of the others realised that he had started. The girl stared at the closing door, while outside the man in the Lagonda stood up and took something from a small leather case at his side.
Loftus roared:
‘Lie on the floor!’
It was all he could do to warn them, he had to chance their obedience. He saw something small and dark curling towards the room, its direction accurate enough—and he saw that it was a hand-grenade.
&nbs
p; He fired, deliberately.
A still target would have been easy enough, but in that fraction of a second Loftus knew that there was only one way to stop disaster at the flat—and yet let Pale-face get away. That might prove a wrong decision, but he made it then and there.
His gun made only a slight sneezing sound.
Flame stabbed, and the little dark sphere continued to curve towards the window. It was four yards away when the bullet struck it. Loftus turned and fell flat on his stomach. The girl was on the floor; Warncliffe, with the telephone in his hand, had one arm across her waist; he too was stretched out.
There was a boom! that deafened them for a moment, a gust of wind that sent the curtains flying towards the ceiling, a crash as the glass broke and crashed inwards. Pieces of dirt and debris hurtled through the air, and something struck against the glass of a wall-light, shattering it to a thousand pieces. And then silence—silence which seemed loud, for their ears were echoing, and they felt the physical reaction after the shock.
Loftus moved first.
His jacket had been blown almost off his back, and his hair was standing on end. He shrugged the jacket back into position, and reached the shattered windows. He was in time to see the Lagonda moving towards the first turning, with the black-coated man at the wheel. The man in grey was huddled next to him, apparently a victim of the explosion. The car gathered speed, while fast on its tail went Oundle, in the Talbot. Oundle appeared to be untouched, but a wing of the Talbot was smashed in, and the car might prove badly damaged.
There were voices coming from the other flats now, while three A.R.P. wardens, complete with tin helmets and gas-masks which they were fitting hurriedly, rushed into sight. Loftus’s lips curved grimly at the sight of them, as he turned back towards Warncliffe.
‘Someone probably thinks we’re being raided,’ he said. ‘We’d better think the same, unless we want a lot of publicity.’
‘What—was it?’ Warncliffe was breathing hard, but he was quite self-possessed and helping the dazed girl to a chair.
‘A hand-grenade. You’re not popular, Warncliffe, and Jeremiah suits you. Or wasn’t he the apostle of gloom?’ Loftus began to hunt round the room, in which chairs were overturned; smashed glass and ornaments were everywhere. He seemed quite cool and self-possessed, and might have been used to similar outrages all his life. He found his pipe and straightened up. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘We’ll have callers any moment, but before they come—did Miss Grafton steal her father’s papers and did she give them to you?’
