Death by Night (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  7

  More Mystery

  As dishevelled as Loftus, and still clutching the telephone—although the wire had been torn from the plug and the instrument was useless—Warncliffe stared at the big man, and then did the last thing Loftus expected. He laughed.

  ‘You’ll do,’ he said. ‘No, certainly not.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Loftus, and seemed to take the other’s words on their face value. ‘Now we’ll deal with the A.R.P. Division.’

  He did not, of course, say that he knew anything about the mysterious explosion when a warden and a policeman called. In the next fifteen minutes it transpired that a spinster had been looking out of her window at the car, and seen the grenade thrown upwards. She had, luckily, turned away from the window and was unhurt, although suffering from shock. Most of the other front rooms had been empty: there were no serious casualties, although there was little unbroken glass in Millan Road.

  In the next half-hour every explanation from a gas-main leak to an I.R.A. outrage was put forward by someone, and systematic inquiries were being made at every flat in the building.

  Loftus interviewed the local inspector, who had been summoned hastily, told the inspector precisely what had happened, and in Warncliffe’s hearing—for a telephone in another room was not damaged—the man rang up Scotland Yard for confirmation of the card of authority. It was given by Sir William Fellowes, and Fellowes asked:

  ‘Is Mr. Loftus there now?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ A dazed inspector, a comparatively youthful man who was not used to anything but small crime, looked at Loftus.

  ‘I’ll speak to him,’ said Fellowes crisply.

  ‘The—the Assistant Commissioner wants to speak to you, Mr. Loftus.’ The inspector eased the neck of his uniform, then tugged at a small moustache as Loftus took the instrument.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Loftus. ‘Hallo, William...’

  ‘You can forget the humour,’ said Sir William Fellowes, still crisply. ‘Craigie’s just been on the phone. Have you heard from him in the last half-hour?’

  ‘No. What’s developed?’

  ‘Two deaths in the black-out last night,’ said Fellowes. ‘Both people of importance.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘One a District Commissioner for National Defence, and a permanent official from the Home Office,’ said Fellowes. ‘They were shot in the country village where they’re operating, and the news did not get through early. Shot in precisely the same way as the man at Waterloo, and with the same kind of gun.’

  Loftus tapped his finger against the telephone, making an unnecessarily sharp noise in Fellowes’s ear. ‘Like that is it—things are waking up. Nothing else developed?’

  ‘Isn’t this enough?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Loftus. ‘Some permanent officials ought to be removed somehow or other, this might prove a public benefaction! Tell Gordon I’m coming up with Warncliffe’s story, will you, and that it’s going to help?’

  ‘I’ll ring him at once,’ promised Fellowes, and rang down.

  Loftus turned, finding the inspector by his side, a man obviously impressed and yet deciding not to be put off his balance by a stranger who could call an Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard by his Christian name.

  ‘What do you advise about the—er—story to the Press, Mr. Loftus?’

  ‘Suspected I.R.A. outrage in Bournemouth,’ answered Loftus promptly. ‘The driver of the car is believed to have looked like an Irishman.’ He kept a straight face until the inspector went out, and the door was closed. In the dining-room—less equipped with easy-chairs but with enough for comfort—Warncliffe was regarding him with mingled amusement and astonishment—if Loftus read his expression aright. Janice Grafton was standing by the fireplace, and she seemed more composed than Loftus had seen her.

  ‘You can handle situations,’ Warncliffe said.

  ‘It’s a habit,’ said Loftus. ‘And authority, of course. I hope you noticed that. Well now, the interlude’s over, and that’s another piece of evidence that our enemy alien doesn’t like you. It was the same man of course.’

  ‘Why on earth didn’t you stop him?’ demanded Janice. ‘It was sheer nonsense to let him get away.’

  ‘My dear girl, try to get some sense in your noddle,’ Loftus said. ‘I don’t want to be rude, but you’re acting like a schoolgirl, and you should know better. If it’s an act, drop it. I don’t like amateur actresses, and in any case they’re apt to flop.’

  It was abominably rude, of course, and she would have been justified in losing her temper. Instead she looked at him steadily for some seconds, and then a smile curved her lips. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Jerry, isn’t it time you told Mr. Loftus something?’

  ‘I’m still anxious to know who he is,’ said Warncliffe.

  ‘Unofficial police,’ answered Loftus promptly. ‘Warncliffe, you know as well as I do that my name’s familiar to you, and you think you know who I’m from. Stalling won’t get you confirmation, but a straight story might. Let’s have it.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Warncliffe, slowly. ‘It’s a long one.’

  Loftus sat.

  The other man talked, easily enough but at times stopping as if to marshal his thoughts. The earlier part of his story was interesting but little more. He was a reasonably wealthy bachelor who disliked London, and had spent most of the past four years travelling through Europe and the Near East. His favourite hobby, photography, included work by night, and consequently he was interested in lenses of all kinds. Professor—a courtesy title—Grafton was also interested in lenses, and the two men had exchanged notes for some time.

  ‘Then,’ said Warncliffe, quietly, ‘Mr. Grafton developed a theory that he was being robbed, and watched all the time. He’s always been subject to delusions’—Warncliffe glanced towards the girl, who nodded—‘and he’s always been careless with his experimental papers. He lost some figures about a lens which he developed for night-photography and accused me of stealing it. I had marching orders. At that time Jan and I were—well, we’d more or less reached an understanding, but she seemed to take her father’s part. I flew off in a temper, and...’

  ‘How long ago was this?’ asked Loftus.

  ‘About eighteen months.’ Warncliffe paused. ‘I spent the next year—more or less—roaming round the Scandinavian and middle-Europe countries, getting back after the war had started and then not without a lot of trouble. I was in Poland,’ he added casually.

  ‘And you got out,’ said Loftus. ‘The frontiers weren’t watched as well as they might have been.’

  ‘Have it your own way. At all events I came back here, and sought Jan out. She had become engaged meanwhile to Teddy Grey. Have you met him?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  Warncliffe shrugged.

  ‘It’s not for me to say anything about Teddy, he means well. We were by way of being friends—he introduced me to Janice, in point of fact. And he wasn’t interested in anything the Professor was likely to invent, although he was prepared to back him financially...’ Warncliffe broke off, and Janice said quickly:

  ‘You can speak bluntly, Jerry. Dad gave his consent to the engagement conditional upon financial backing, and he got it. To the tune of ten thousand pounds,’ she went on. ‘That of course made Teddy one of the family, more or less.’

  ‘Continuing to speak bluntly,’ said Loftus, ‘you’d give a lot to back out of the engagement, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would,’ said Janice.

  ‘And money’s the obstacle?’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘There’s more chivalry and filial duty in the world than I thought,’ said Loftus. ‘Right, I know where we are so far. What goes next?’

  Warncliffe lifted his hands helplessly.

  ‘The queerest business imaginable, Loftus. I’ve been seeing Jan on the sly for some weeks, and she told me that she was worried about the Professor. He had more frequent attacks of hallucinations, turned against everything and everyone—G
rey excepted—who were about him, and was visited by several mysterious individuals who refused to give their names to anyone but Grafton. This was when they were living at Epsom, in a small house. For some unknown reason, the Professor decided to move down here, and I took the furnished flat. A week ago Jan heard her father telling Grey that he had perfected an invention that would prove the best secret weapon of the war. Jan told me—the next day I was nearly run down in the Square. Do you know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was almost bowled over the next day, outside the flat,’ said Warncliffe. ‘Then I had a telephone message telling me to get out of Bournemouth. Of course, nothing could have made more sure that I stayed. Two bruisers tried to push me over the cliff yesterday, and it’s luck plus a little mountaineering experience that kept me alive. Today—well, you know all about today.’

  Warncliffe stopped, and his expression suggested that he knew Loftus would not believe it. Loftus pursed his lips, and said easily:

  ‘Do you drink whisky?’

  ‘What the devil will you ask next?’ demanded Warncliffe. ‘I prefer beer, but...’

  ‘Precisely what I was driving at,’ said Loftus. ‘I’ve a thirst as long as my arm.’

  ‘We’ll soon put that right,’ said Warncliffe.

  He stepped to the bell and pressed it—and almost on the instant the door opened. The man who entered was unusually short, but nearly as broad as Warncliffe. He was grey-haired, with a bald patch the more obvious because of his stature, and his features had the cold regularity of a good-looking man who would never be handsome. There was nothing remarkable about his face unless it was the immobility of his features. His lips, well-shaped but thin, hardly moved as he spoke.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Some beer, Paul.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Paul went out as quietly as he had entered, and Loftus realised that the silent movement was another queer thing about the man. He raised his brows at Warncliffe, and said:

  ‘Where was he during the shindy?’

  ‘Somewhere in the background,’ said Warncliffe offhandedly. ‘I told him I didn’t want to be disturbed.’

  ‘And he didn’t trouble to find if you were all right during the bombing,’ said Loftus dryly. ‘He’s well-trained.’

  ‘I helped to train him,’ said Warncliffe. ‘What are you driving at?’

  ‘You’ve been attacked by an unknown and for some equally unknown reason. Someone thinks you’re playing an important part in this business, which concerns the Professor’s latest invention. Ergo, the attempts on your life. But our enemy alien doesn’t try murder without a good motive. He knows that you know something—something you haven’t thought it wise to tell me. Consequently you wouldn’t spread it around to anyone else. Yet there’s been a leakage, and it might be through your man. I wanted to see the man—and quench my thirst.’

  Warncliffe shrugged. ‘Please yourself. You’ve had the whole story as far as I know it.’

  ‘I haven’t. My name was familiar to both of you.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Warncliffe, and Loftus was faintly surprised by the admission. ‘The Professor again. He’s mentioned a man named Loftus several times—and some Department or other at Whitehall. That’s all I can tell you.’

  ‘So-o,’ said Loftus, ‘you throw the onus on the Professor. It might work. We’ll have a drink on it, anyhow.’

  Paul came in, with a tray and four bottles of beer, and a soft drink for Janice. He poured two glasses of beer expertly, bowed, and went out. Loftus drank slowly, and apparently with enjoyment, and slipped in another of those unexpected questions.

  ‘Do you ever write to each other?’

  Janice nearly spilt her drink.

  ‘You’re uncanny,’ said Warncliffe, and he seemed a trifle embarrassed. ‘Yes, daily. We—er—make a habit of handing our letters to each other when we meet. I know it seems a lot of tommy rot, but it’s a fact.’

  ‘Accepted as such,’ said Loftus lightly. ‘I’m engaged,’ he added off-handedly. ‘And you two lunatics—assuming your story’s true—can’t see what’s been causing the bother.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Warncliffe bluntly.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Janice frankly to Loftus.

  ‘All right,’ said the big man. ‘We’ll assume that the Professor has these papers concerning the new lens or whatever he’s discovered. He’s being watched by enemy aliens. They see his daughter hand you papers of some kind when you meet. You’re known to have travelled about Europe a lot. They assume that you’re connected with some kind of espionage, imagine the letters are scraps taken from the Professor’s notes and consequently decide that you’re best removed. Possible?’

  ‘It—it’s uncanny,’ said Janice, and she was breathing heavily. Warncliffe stared—and then Loftus’s voice hardened, and his expression was grim, accusing.

  ‘It’s not uncanny, it’s fact,’ he said. ‘You may write love-letters, but you’ve also been exchanging the Professor’s papers. Why?’

  And he stared at them each in turn, while the silence in the room grew tense.

  8

  Darkness Again

  Warncliffe looked really taken aback, and the deep breath which the girl took was evidence that Loftus had gone very close to the mark. Warncliffe took out cigarettes, and his fingers trembled a little as he struck a match.

  ‘How much do you know, Loftus?’

  ‘Enough to be sure when I’m hearing the truth or not,’ said Loftus.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s useless to fool around much further. I’ve told you the truth, except about the letters—and that was half-true. This is going to sound like a lot of nonsense, but Jan’s been picking up odd notes that Grafton’s left in his room, and I’ve been trying to make sense of them. There is a lens he’s invented, and the mystery end of the business has made me decide to have a cut at finding what he’s got. I didn’t like the sound of these strange visitors, and Jan imagined that one of them spoke in German. Of course we could have gone to the police, but it’s her father.’

  ‘Do you believe us?’ demanded Janice, suddenly.

  ‘Yes, up to a point. I’ll believe you until I’ve proved you’re lying, anyhow. Your consciences will look after you while I work on that basis. Have you no idea at all what the new lens is?’

  ‘It’s a darkness lens,’ Warncliffe said.

  ‘Meaning exactly?’

  ‘Well—without getting technical, it’s an improved night-camera as far as I can gather—something which will take a snap in the dark, or what we think is dark.’

  ‘Such as the black-out?’

  ‘Yes—there’s always a certain amount of reflected and indirect light,’ said Warncliffe. ‘Generally any photograph taken in a poor light needs a carefully calculated exposure. This thing of Grafton’s could enable anyone to take a snap by night as well as by day.’

  ‘Far-reaching,’ said Loftus. ‘And valuable.’

  ‘Look here, Loftus, are you suggesting we’re conspiring to rob the old man?’ Warncliffe protested. ‘I...’

  ‘I’m suggesting nothing,’ said Loftus. ‘If I were you, I’d be grateful that you haven’t had to tell this story to the police, they’d probably decide a cell was the best place for you. Or have you forgotten it’s war-time? For the rest, I shall have to have you watched. If you take my advice you’ll stop taking notes from the Professor, Miss Grafton, and you’ll both lay as low as you can. Our enemy alien won’t stop trying. Understood?’

  ‘I suppose it’s unavoidable,’ said Warncliffe reluctantly.

  ‘It is. Believe it or not, there are people watching the flat right now. Miss Grafton, it might be an idea if you went to see whether your father has come round after his collapse this morning.’

  He nodded, and stepped to the door. Without another word he went out, and slowly down the stairs of the flat. Deliberately he had left them on a mental stretch, for he wanted to find what their reactions were likely to be.

  There was no car
outside, but two men lounged at the far end of the street. Loftus knew that Craigie had hurried to get them there since their phone talk. Probably they had flown from London; certainly he could rely on them giving Janice Grafton and Jeremiah Warncliffe close attention. He recognised both agents although he made no sign. Turning left from Millan Street, he walked to the Cliff Royal Hotel.

  Mark was there.

  The Professor had come round, but had taken to his bed. Edward Grey had been in the house most of the time, and seemed in a bad temper. He was in the lounge, and Mark pointed him out to the big man, who frowned thoughtfully as he looked at Grey and then away.

  There was much in common, as far as appearance was concerned, between Grey and Warncliffe. They were both of an age, probably in the early thirties. Both were medium-coloured, both physically impressive, probably well-educated. The main difference was in Grey’s rather petulant expression. He looked like a man who had been spoiled all his life.

  In Mark’s room Loftus explained what was necessary, and:

  ‘You’ll have someone to give you a hand before dark, Mark; Mike will be out of action for a bit. You stick to the Professor. Tommy Lister is looking after the girl, and Jock Allison is on the tail of another boy-friend of the lady’s. Whoever comes down to make the quartette wins the Grey bird. All right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark, scowling and drawing a finger along his straight nose. ‘I suppose it’s got to be. I also suppose something will happen one day.’

  Loftus grinned. ‘One day, perhaps. Keep your eyes very closely on the Professor. He might prove a surprise number before this show’s over.’

  ‘He’ll probably still be in bed.’

  ‘All right,’ said Loftus, ‘be miserable if you must. I am going to London to worry about two men who died last night. Mark...’