Death by Night (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘How are the gas-patients, Doctor?’

  ‘We-ell.’ The little man frowned. ‘One or two are doubtful, I’m afraid, very doubtful. Others will be all right quite quickly. There is a chlorine constituent in the gas, but something else which I haven’t yet been able to identify. It is the first time I have handled gas cases except experimental ones, which are never, of course, quite the same. In the event of the distribution of poison gases from the air, such experience will be invaluable. It...’

  ‘A very big, tall man,’ said Errol softly. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Oh, doing quite well. I...’ The doctor peered at them short-sightedly, and seemed perturbed. ‘Aren’t you police officers?’

  ‘No,’ said Wally. ‘We’re friends of the patients.’

  ‘I’m dreadfully sorry!’ The little man was obviously sincere. ‘If you’d care to see them—quiet, please.’

  There was Loftus, Thornton and Oundle, two policemen and the others from the clerical staff, stretched out on small beds in a ward which had been hurriedly cleared to take the gas cases. Loftus’s bed seemed absurdly small, and his head was touching the black-enamelled head panel. He was breathing easily, and he seemed to have regained his normal colour.

  At the far end of the ward there was a screen round one bed; by another bed there were two nurses.

  ‘How long before they’re able to talk?’ Wally asked, huskily.

  ‘A day or two, at the most,’ the doctor said. ‘Perhaps a few hours.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Wally. ‘And, Doctor—be as careful with them as you would be with a Cabinet Minister.’

  ‘Or a farm-labourer,’ said the dapper little man. ‘You need have no fears, gentlemen.’

  They felt greatly reassured.

  • • • • •

  Gordon Craigie had sent word that he was coming to Winchester, and that they were to wait for him there. Normally he would have reached the Hampshire city an hour before the other two had visited the hospital. But as he had left Whitehall, and reached Parliament Street, a breathless constable had loomed up in the darkness.

  That had been about half-past nine.

  ‘Excuse me, sir...’

  ‘Hallo, Mulliner, what it it?’

  They’ve been trying to get you on the phone, sir.’

  ‘They’, to Mulliner, meant the Prime Minister. The Rt. Hon. David Wishart, a considerate man, was popular with those policemen who guarded the door of No. 10, and those detectives whose duty it was to follow him. Secretly he disliked it, but even before the war he had been compelled to accept it. There had been attacks on the lives of several Cabinet Ministers, and Wishart was considered too vital to the country’s needs to allow the slightest risk of assassination.

  Mulliner was one of the most familiar figures in that part of Whitehall. Tall and bulky, never likely to rise above a sergeant’s pay—if he ever reached it—he was stolid and dependable, an ox of a man, some said, but with shrewd kindliness and devotion to duty.

  Breathing hard, he walked alongside Craigie.

  ‘Glad I caught you, sir.’

  ‘Did Mr. Wishart send you to the office?’ Craigie asked, for he knew that only in an emergency would Wishart send Mulliner—or anyone—to the office in Whitehall.

  ‘Yessir.’

  That did not sound promising.

  Craigie tapped on the door of Number 10, and was admitted by a footman who knew him well. It was a homely household; it was difficult to believe the great decisions which had been taken in its comparatively small rooms.

  Wishart, tall, grey-haired, tired-looking and lined of face, was standing with his back to the fire. Opposite him was Jonathan Scott, Foreign Minister under the Wishart War Government, and in the Cabinet probably the most unpopular member; he had a disconcerting way of saying precisely what he thought. The other members of the War Cabinet felt that his language, particularly from a man who controlled the most delicate of tasks, was reprehensible. Nor could they understand Wishart’s faith in Scott, who certainly had enemies in foreign capitals.

  It was even said that Scott could have persuaded Wishart to have made further concessions to the Nazi Government, and thus avoided the war. In more bated breath it was said that Scott had wanted the war.

  And he was one of the three members of the Cabinet with whom Gordon Craigie had much patience. Wishart was the second, and Lawrence, the recently appointed First Lord, was the third.

  Lawrence was also present.

  He was a burly looking man, with a chunky face, and a cigar sticking from the corner of loose lips which could give forth the fires of oratory. His eyes were hooded, but beneath their lids very bright, very shrewd. He, like Scott, spoke his mind and knew unpopularity.

  ‘So he caught you,’ said Wishart. ‘I’m glad, Craigie. I needed a word with you quickly. Just what is happening on your front?’

  Wishart, decided Craigie, was wool-gathering—which meant that something unexpected and perhaps disastrous had developed. Wishart was always inclined to dither when he first had bad news, but the stage was a temporary one.

  He had dithered when Russia had marched into Poland and there were people who considered that he should have looked on Russia as an aggressor as much as Germany. He had wilted for half an hour when the first big troop-carrying liner had been sunk by U-boat action. He had seemed to wilt under the onslaught of the magnetic mines—and yet he always gathered himself together quickly, and proved himself to be capable, quick-thinking, and positive in what he did.

  Scott and Lawrence were different types. It was Scott who asked sharply:

  ‘You’ve heard nothing, Craigie?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The Ibrox has been sunk by enemy action, after dark:’

  Scott emphasised the last two words, and then looked at the Chief of Department Z. Lawrence cleared his throat.

  ‘No doubt that she was seen, Craigie.’

  ‘We had hoped,’ said Wishart abruptly, ‘that this invention was only in its early stages, but...’ He shrugged, and his voice grew more brisk. ‘Craigie, we must have a full report from you quickly. Has any progress been made?’

  Craigie said slowly: ‘A little, but not much. I’m going down to find out what has been happening at Grayling now.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Scott testily. He was a man with a great regard for Gordon Craigie—but he had never known Craigie in action during war-time. ‘A bad business down there, but it’s not of vital importance. This see-in-the-dark matter...’

  ‘The man who claims to hold the secret was at Grayling Manor this evening,’ said Craigie mildly. ‘Or near there. Loftus came through...’

  He spoke quietly, giving them the gist of Loftus’s report, and contriving in few words to give a résumé of the Department’s activity during the past three days. He did not once raise his voice, and he kept one hand in his pocket.

  He finished: ‘Consequently I must find out what has happened at Grayling. Loftus and others have been gassed, but there seems to be some hope that they’ll be able to talk before the night is out. In any case, a woman down there might be able to give us valuable information.’

  Scott laughed, a deep, barking sound.

  ‘Good enough. Sorry, Craigie; I thought you were out of your depth.’

  Lawrence smiled crookedly.

  ‘But let’s be frank, Craigie—you haven’t got far yet.’

  Craigie shrugged. ‘It took you some time to find the Graf Spee. We’ve had just under three days so far, and started from scratch.’

  ‘We have every faith in you, Craigie,’ said Wishart, and Craigie knew that the period of uncertainty had gone. ‘We must counteract this thing, Craigie. You understand the implications of the Ibrox, of course?’

  ‘My dear sir, yes. But she was sunk at long range, I take it?’

  ‘Five or six miles.’ said Lawrence. ‘In the dark.’ He tossed the end of his cigar into the fire, and bit off the end of another. All four men were silent, brooding over the implica
tions: there was a weapon which meant that warfare, on land and sea and air, could be waged as effectively at night as by day.

  And the Nazis had it—or appeared to have it.

  ‘Well...’ Wishart straightened his shoulders. ‘You’ll get down to Grayling, Craigie. Telephone me, will you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Luck,’ said Lawrence, briefly.

  Scott accompanied Craigie to the door, and they parted outside, Scott walking towards St. James’s Park and Craigie towards Whitehall. It was Scott who saw P.C. Mulliner loom out of the darkness and flash a torch in his face.

  ‘All right, Mulliner—good night.’

  ‘Good night, sir. Oh, pardon me, but...’

  Odd words, from Mulliner. Scott fancied that the constable was under the stress of some emotion, and stopped and faced the man. The man he thought was Mulliner—hit him powerfully in the stomach. Scott gasped and doubled up, and the man in P.C. Mulliner’s clothes, and who looked very like that trusted policeman, cracked a right to the chin, which knocked the Foreign Minister completely out.

  Two shroudy figures joined him, while a car drove up silently and Scott was bundled in.

  15

  The Hush-Hush Department

  Craigie was unaware of the disappearance of Jonathan Scott. He sped towards Winchester with a Special Service car ahead of him, and another behind.

  The lights of the three cars were more powerful than those used by the average motorist, and Craigie made the run in a little more than two hours. Stiff with driving, he stepped into the police station just after midnight, to find Wally Davidson and Mark Errol in two arm-chairs of Victorian style but obviously comfortable, in the charge-room. A sergeant on duty was at his desk, perched on a stool.

  Craigie coughed.

  The sergeant looked up, and Davidson opened one eye. Slowly he uncoiled his long frame from the chair, while Errol began to stir.

  ‘Hallo,’ said Davidson. ‘We thought you’d been gassed too.’

  ‘Is Loftus conscious?’ asked Craigie.

  ‘He wasn’t half an hour ago,’ said Davidson.

  ‘Is he still at the hospital?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Let’s get there,’ said Craigie.

  Davidson drove him there.

  He was more worried than he had been before, for Loftus’s continued unconsciousness suggested that his chief agent would be hors de combat for some time.

  There was no one to replace Loftus.

  Most of the men would do their part and none of them were fools. But they lacked that little something which Loftus possessed to a degree almost as great as Craigie. He could organise quickly, he was ruthless; if he acted slowly—as he had at the Manor that evening—there was always a reason for it. The men, in their way, worshipped him. Not one member of the Department would hesitate for a split-second to obey a command from Loftus, even though it appeared to mean certain death.

  Craigie was shown into the ward by a disapproving matron—and as Craigie entered, Loftus stirred and opened his eyes. He did not show any immediate sign of recognition. Craigie’s heart leapt.

  The night doctor, a big man, nodded brusquely.

  ‘Good evening, sir. Mr. Carter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Craigie: he was ‘Carter’ whenever he was on official business but did not want his real name known. ‘You’ve been told by telephone of the importance of this, Doctor. How is Mr. Loftus?’

  ‘He should be able to talk within an hour,’ said the medico. ‘There was a little chlorine in the gas, but an admixture of a chloroform vapour which brought unconsciousness but was unlikely to cause death. Only one man appears to be in danger of losing his life.’

  Craigie nodded more brusquely than he intended.

  ‘Thanks. Will you arrange for Mr. Loftus to have a private ward, and...’

  ‘Also the lady,’ said William Loftus.

  It was more of a croak than an ordinary speaking voice, and his expression did not change. He seemed to be staring blankly at Craigie, and for a moment the Chief felt alarm. Then:

  ‘Can anyone,’ went on Loftus in the same harsh voice, ‘advise something for a thick head?’

  Craigie laughed, which he had not expected to do again that night.

  ‘I’ll get you something,’ said the doctor quickly.

  ‘For the love of Mike do. Gordon—don’t forget that girl, she’s important. Mark’s lady-love. And don’t expect another word from me until my head stops hammering.’

  Actually it continued to hammer when, two hours later, Loftus sat up in a bed which was a little nearer the size that he needed. He had been able to keep down weak bouillon and was feeling well enough but for the head which threatened to lift itself from his shoulders of its own volition.

  He talked...

  Craigie, Davidson and Mark Errol listened.

  Oundle and Thornton were in a private ward. Spats had taken the gas badly, and was likely to be out of action for some weeks. Oundle would be up within a couple of days.

  ‘And that’s all I can tell you,’ Loftus said. ‘Summarised: First, the man Forster...’

  ‘Look at this,’ said Wally.

  He had been writing as Loftus had talked, for he was a man with an orderly mind, and he liked to get things in black and white when he could. Loftus glanced down a list which ran:

  (a) Forster, Nazi or free-lance spy, has:

  (b) A supply of the specially fitted glass, Cartwright—who presumably has the formula for the lens and

  (c) A body of men of unknown strength prepared to use any kind of lethal weapon.

  (d) Presumably he has Grafton, who he believes can work on the formula to bring about the lens.

  (e) We have Cartwright’s sister, who seems to know a great deal, some of the glasses, and an idea of the power of them.

  ‘First class,’ said Loftus. ‘Even to the “presumably he has Grafton”. We took that for granted, but he distinctly said, “I’ll get Grafton”, which suggests the kidnappers at Bournemouth were not Forster’s men.’ He grinned crookedly, for his lips were swollen, and any movement of his face was painful. ‘Is that all, Gordon?’

  Loftus of course knew that it wasn’t. Craigie’s manner was proof of the fact that there was more trouble than had yet been admitted.

  ‘It’s not, Bill,’ Craigie said. ‘This lens gives visibility at a distance of six or seven miles. We’ve proof of it.’

  ‘My God!’ said Loftus simply.

  ‘Seven miles,’ breathed Davidson, and for once he did not look weary.

  ‘Who’s got it?’ rasped Mark Errol.

  Craigie said slowly:

  ‘We lost a destroyer tonight, after dark by long-range gunfire. So Berlin has it, and yet...’

  ‘A minute,’ Loftus said, and already he felt more clear-headed. ‘If Berlin’s got it, Forster can’t be working for them.’

  ‘It appears that way,’ admitted Craigie.

  ‘He told me, in effect, that he was.’

  ‘No one else would sink a destroyer of ours,’ said Errol.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ Loftus hitched himself up in bed, and stared at Craigie. ‘The Russians might, conceivably. Other countries aren’t as friendly towards us as they might be. But there’s another thing.’

  He hesitated for a moment and the others waited without interruption. Then went on in a voice which seemed to come from a long way off:

  ‘Gordon, if you’d heard Cartwright you would know what I was driving at. Cartwright struck me as being a good fellow with an obsession against Government officials, this Government’s officials in particular. Not the type to do anything like the Hundred-and-One crowd,* but a genuine internationalist convinced we’re doing everything the wrong way round. He is confident that he could beat us, and gave me the impression that he was a lot stronger than we realised.’

  Craigie frowned.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. But no man in his senses—and he’s sane enough even if he
’s got a bee in his bonnet about this—would expect to be able to exert pressure on the Government with nothing more than a small gang of men behind him. Cartwright had something up his sleeve, but didn’t have the chance to say what. He made threats, but vague ones. Now...’ Loftus lifted his hands, palm upwards. ‘What I’m getting at is this: Cartwright is the man who holds the secret of this lens. There can’t be any reasonable doubt of that.’

  ‘Well?’ said Craigie.

  ‘He could have a warship or two,’ said Loftus.

  ‘My dear man!’ drawled Wally, ‘you were gassed, I know, but...’

  ‘Hold it,’ said Errol. ‘What size guns are needed to sink a destroyer?’

  ‘Four-inch should do it,’ said Craigie.

  ‘Any semi-armoured ship can carry four-inch guns, or even six-inch,’ said Mark Errol. ‘Anyone can buy guns. I’m beginning to think Bill’s got it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Loftus dryly. ‘Ring for some tea, Wally, do something useful if you can’t contribute a little common sense. Cartwright knew that he had this thing, and he’s the type to demonstrate this way.’

  Craigie frowned, while a nurse entered, and Wally asked her amiably if she would bring some very weak tea for a very weak patient. This was typical of the Department men; they could keep a level balance only by that exaggerated facetiousness.

  ‘What time did the destroyer go down?’ Loftus asked when the nurse had gone.

  ‘Some time before eight this evening.’

  ‘And it was about eight that we were in the middle of my shindy,’ said Loftus. He frowned, looking up towards the ceiling, while the others kept still. ‘There’s just one thing.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Cartwright might be one of a bunch.’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Craigie, and he looked at his watch. ‘I wonder how long it will be before his sister can talk?’

  ‘It might be a long, long time,’ said Loftus. ‘She struck me as being as cool as ice and harder than granite. I wish Diana were here.’

  Diana Woodward, Loftus’s fiancée and also in the service of Department Z—whither she had come by way of the American Secret Intelligence Department some two years before—was in the States. She was combining routine work for Craigie with a personal round of visits, and she would have been in England a fortnight before but for the sudden increase of attacks on neutral shipping, and the consequent belatedness of all cross-Atlantic sailings. Diana, Loftus believed, would be able to handle Garry Cartwright more effectively than any man.