by John Creasey
Craigie joined Hershall quickly.
‘Get me out of here!’ snapped Hershall. ‘Quick, now!’
He rushed past Craigie into the hall of the house. Craigie stood across the threshold as half a dozen people converged on the door. The Special Branch man was shouting to uniformed constables who had drawn near. Confusion reigned for five minutes or more, but gradually the crowd dispersed, although whispers that Hershall had been seen were on the wing before long.
Hammond squeezed himself from the car, and policeman and officers surrounded him. The driver was dead; the bullet hole in his temple made that obvious. The passenger, with the tommy-gun still in his hands, was slumped back, his lips parted, his breath coming stertorously. He was wounded in the shoulder and in the chest.
The Special Branch man reached Hammond, and said urgently:
‘Shall I look after this, Mr. Hammond?’
‘Good man—yes,’ said Hammond. He smiled briefly, saw the crowd being hurried along by the uniformed police, brushed his hair back from his forehead, and approached the house where Loftus lived. Craigie remained on the doorstep, unsmiling, his lips drooping.
‘How is he?’ asked Hammond quickly.
‘As well as you and I,’ said Craigie.
Hammond drew a deep breath, nodded, and stepped inside. Craigie closed the door, and they hurried up the stairs, quite confident that everything would be looked after outside. As they approached the flat, the door of which was open, they heard Hershall saying:
‘Ring No. 10, Loftus, will you? Tell them to make sure that no sensational stories about me get in the Press.’
‘Right,’ said Loftus.
Hammond and Craigie watched him lifting the telephone. Hershall was standing in the middle of the room with a whisky-and-soda in his hand. The knee of one leg of his trousers was torn, and his coat was dusty, otherwise he looked none the worse for the misadventure. He screwed up his eyes at Hammond, and his mouth curved.
‘Thanks, Hammond,’ he said.
‘Don’t thank me,’ said Hammond, brushing himself down. ‘It was Loftus who thought what a beautiful target you would make if you came.’
Soon afterwards the Special Branch man came up to report that the machine-gunner was seriously injured, and on his way to the nearest hospital. His pockets had been emptied, while all particulars about the car had been obtained. The man wanted to telephone Scotland Yard to get necessary inquiries on foot without loss of time. He did so, finished, and then said to Hershall:
‘I’ll be downstairs when you want me, sir.’
‘H’m,’ grunted Hershall. ‘Willis, how is Gordon?’
The S.B. man said quietly:
‘He was killed outright, sir.’
‘Oh,’ said Hershall. He rubbed his upper lip slowly, looking at Willis, frowning, with a far-away look in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry. Both of you did wonderfully well. You get off, Willis. I’ll get these gentlemen to see me back. Go and see Mrs. Gordon personally, extend my deepest sympathies, and—go on, go on,’ he added gruffly. ‘You know what to say. Find out if there’s anything at all that she needs.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Willis.
Loftus closed the door behind him.
‘You’ll know why I’m here, Craigie. Have you told Loftus?’
‘Yes.’
‘What do you make of it?’ Hershall demanded. ‘You’ve usually got something in the way of ideas.’
‘Until we’ve had a little more time we can’t say much about it, sir. We might pick up something from the man in the car, or the car itself——’
‘No need to assume that the attack and the other trouble are connected,’ barked Hershall.
‘Equally there’s no need to assume they’re not,’ retorted Loftus. ‘But there’s a chance that the information leakage is connected with the Quayle business. There are half a dozen subversive organisations at work in the country, as you know, including the one which we call Quayle’s because we don’t know any more about it than that it might centre about him. The other five are doing work which we can keep track of—I think it’s certain that none of them is in a position to get the information which Vichy is dispensing. Consequently we have to assume that the leakage is from the Quayle group, or through a group we know nothing at all about. We’ve something developing in l’affaire Quayle, and within a few days we should have it pretty well closed up—or opened out, take your choice.’ He pushed his chair back and stood up, his eyes fixed on Hershall’s. The Prime Minister returned his gaze steadily.
‘It might be Quayle, yes,’ Loftus went on in a taut voice. ‘We can find out. When we’ve done that we need to find who passes the information through to Vichy. I mean the French agent. Have they always received accurate information?’
‘Yes,’ said Hershall bluntly.
‘There’s a chance here we haven’t had before, sir, a chance in a thousand. Are there any minor raids planned before the big one?’
‘Yes,’ said Hershall.
‘When does the first one start?’
‘In forty-eight hours.’
‘And the obvious thing to do is to cancel it,’ said Loftus, ‘to give us time to trace the leakage. Isn’t that so?’
‘We have just decided to do that,’ said Hershall.
‘I hope you’ll change your mind,’ said Loftus slowly. ‘It would be better for it to go on, to let the information get through to Vichy. It can be smaller than was planned, the losses need not be heavy. The thing is that if Berlin learns through Vichy of another raid, and it comes off, Berlin is going to rely on that source of information, and, by Gad, we can work from that! If Berlin places full reliance on this source of information, and we can control that source, passing through whatever information we want them to have, we can use it to our own advantage, it will be the biggest boomerang ever used. I’ve been working against Hitler’s Intelligence Service for ten years, and I’ve never yet evolved a way of making him believe he’s got genuine information when it’s really false. Can you see the possibility, sir? Craigie could find you two hundred men to volunteer. Just a single raid coming off to time, and advice of it circulated through the usual channels. Can we have it?’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Hershall quietly. ‘But before we can do anything on a large scale, Loftus, we’d need much more information than we have at present.’
‘Of course,’ said Loftus. ‘I see that. Tallboys and Stewart are in Vichy. Bruce, you’ll have to go over there and work with them. We’ve got to find who is actually delivering the stuff and be able to give him the wrong goods. Gordon and I can look after the English angle.’ He broke off abruptly. ‘If only we had more time!’
‘Time is all-important,’ said Hershall deliberately. ‘But I agree with you, Loftus, if we can deceive them in the few days at our disposal it might spell the difference between moderate and complete success now. Craigie, you’ll come and see me tomorrow afternoon, and let me know how things are going. I came here to tell you people to get a move on, but upon my soul you’ve given me plenty to do.’ He turned to the door. ‘Don’t forget, by the way, that I don’t want anything—anything—in the Press about the business outside.’
‘Just a minute,’ said Loftus sharply.
‘Eh?’ Hershall was surprised, and turned about.
‘If we’re going to bluff Berlin, why not do it in earnest?’ asked Loftus. ‘If they think you’re hurt, they’ll be cock-a-hoop, especially if the attack on you was managed by the organisation which is selling the information.’
‘Are you suggesting that I allow it to be thought that I am seriously hurt?’
‘Don’t you think it’s worth trying?’ said Loftus.
8
The Idea Takes Shape
The rumour that the Prime Minister was injured spread through London. The speed of it convinced Loftus and the others that several of the enemy’s agents had been watching and that a widespread organisation was immediately put into action, to send the story about.
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br /> It reached many places, but because Regina ‘Grey’ had not been out since early afternoon it did not reach her.
Regina had no idea of the ramifications of the affair in which she was involved, but was set on doing all she could to make sure that her part was carried through successfully. Consequently she debated the wisdom of making another approach to Ainsworth that evening. She had the radio tuned in softly, and was busying herself preparing an evening meal when there was a ring at the front door bell.
Ainsworth stood on the threshold when she opened the door.
One of his cheeks was covered with sticking plaster, which made his smile seem stiff and apologetic.
‘I—look here, would you mind if I came in for half an hour? You must have heard something of what my wife said this afternoon, and it’s only fair to—I mean I’d like to...’
In a little less than an hour Regina had heard of the libel case and Ainsworth’s hatred of Quayle, a little of the tragedy of his marriage, and more than a hint of the fact that the damages awarded against him were so substantial that he would have difficulty in avoiding bankruptcy. But she came to the conclusion that those anxieties were minor compared with Ainsworth’s regret that he had lost his job. When he stood up at last and prepared to go, she made a casual remark about being glad that she had so pleasant a neighbour.
‘I’m afraid I must have bored you terribly,’ said Ainsworth awkwardly. ‘I really can’t understand what made me talk so freely. I—look here, would you care to come out for a drink?’
He stood looking at her a little helplessly, and even had the circumstances been different she doubted whether she would have been able to bring herself to refuse. She arranged to be ready by nine-fifteen, and when he had gone, telephoned Loftus immediately.
‘You’re doing almost too well,’ said Loftus. ‘Keep at him, Gina, this might break into something bigger than we expect. Have you heard any rumours?’
‘What about?’ asked Regina.
‘You haven’t heard the one I’m thinking of or you wouldn’t ask that,’ said Loftus. ‘Come through again if there’s anything unusual, and meanwhile, good drinking! Just a moment.’ He broke off, and she heard him speaking to someone else in the room. A deep voice said ‘Cherry Club’. Loftus went on: ‘Just in case you should fall for a coincidence, don’t go to the Cherry Club.’
‘Why not?’ asked Regina pertinently.
‘Because his wife will be there,’ said Loftus. ‘We’re working her end too. Goodnight, my sweet.’
• • • • •
At half-past nine, in a nearby public house, a little man with a bowler hat and a glass of beer in his hand whispered hoarsely to Ainsworth:
‘Have you heard, sir? Have you heard? It’s about the Prime Minister. Everyone’s talking about it, sir. It happened somewhere in the West End this afternoon. Badly hurt, they say he is. Machine-guns.’
‘Did you see it?’ asked Ainsworth coldly.
‘Well, I didn’t exactly see it, but——’
‘I know, I know,’ said Ainsworth, and Regina was amused by his manner and his sharpness. ‘A friend of a friend knows someone whose friend saw it. Haven’t you learned not to believe rumours yet?’
• • • • •
The rumour also reached the Cherry Club, even earlier. The club’s little establishment was in the cellar of a large house in Garton Square, within easy distance of Piccadilly and Oxford Street. Its clientele, as Tannadice, the manager, made clear to everyone, was absolutely exclusive. There was drink and gaiety, the decorations were excellent and in good taste, and the club was well patronised. The cellars in which it was housed were large enough to accommodate two hundred people at a time without discomfort, and if the dance floor was small and therefore grew overcrowded on the evenings when business was good, no one could reasonably complain about that.
Best had been a member of the Cherry Club for some time (as had other members of the Department)—a fact which he had mentioned with some pride to Rita Ainsworth. When he arrived there, a little before the appointed time, the bar was nearly deserted and the orchestra was not playing.
Tannadice was standing near the bar.
‘How are you, Mr. Best? It is some time since I have had the pleasure of seeing you.’ He was in the middle of extolling the virtues of his chef when Rita Ainsworth entered.
A petulant expression on her pretty face made Best wonder what had happened since he had last seen her.
‘Hallo, pet,’ he said. ‘On time, marvellous creature!’ He towered over her and beamed down. ‘What’ll you have?’
‘Give me a gin sling, Percy,’ said Rita to the barman. ‘What a life this is! Heard the rumour, Tanny? Hershall’s dying.’
Tannadice stared. Percy, behind the bar, backed and knocked his shoulder against a row of bottles which were just behind him.
‘He was shot-up this afternoon, somewhere near the Haymarket, I think.’ She finished her drink and pushed the glass across the bar. ‘So what? Fill it up, Percy.’
Best raised an eyebrow.
‘So she’s going to get tight,’ he thought warily. ‘I wonder if I want her tight, or whether she’d be better sober?’
She kept sober until after dinner, but mixed her drinks recklessly. The club was filling up by then, and in the next room the orchestra was playing—the dining-room was in an ante-room, the dance floor surrounded by chairs and small tables for casual drinks and snacks only. Best spotted two other Department Z agents, who completely ignored him, and saw several eyes turned towards Rita.
Rita’s lips tightened when she saw a small party weaving their way through the tables, two men in uniform and two women. She finished a bottle of inferior champagne, hiccoughed, and turned to Best:
‘What about dancing, Mountain?’
Her lips parted, showing her fine white teeth, but she did not look as if she was laughing or happy.
Best wiped the perspiration from his forehead as the dance ended, and she said:
‘What about a drink?’
‘Surely, surely,’ said Best. He allowed himself to be led to a small table near the quartette. Of the malevolence in Rita’s expression there was no doubt at all. When the drink came, another gin sling, she sipped it, hiccoughed, and then leaned forward with her elbows on the table and said deliberately:
‘Rotter, that’s what he is.’
‘Oh,’ said Best, startled. ‘Is he? Who?’
‘My husband,’ said Rita with the same slow deliberation. ‘So are all his friends. Rotters!’ She shouted the word, and several people glanced anxiously towards her, Tannadice included. The quartette were not smiling, and the orchestra was having a rest, so that her words travelled clearly.
She stopped abruptly, for one of the men in uniform approached her steadily.
The newcomer was a man of medium height, thin-faced, with peculiarly light eyes. He had two pips, but looked nearer forty than thirty. His mouth was little more than a long thin line, and Best could not find any prepossessing feature about him.
‘Good evening,’ said Best, very stiffly.
‘I object to being called a “rotter”.’ said the lieutenant harshly. ‘And I won’t stand for it.’
Rita peered up at him, her eyes glittering.
‘That’s what you are, and if you don’t like the word, I can think of another which might be more suitable for you and all the rest of Martin’s gang. You always meant to get him away from me, you always said you’d ruin our marriage! And he believed your lies, the fool, he believed them! Why, if he was here I’d tell him what I think about him. I’d——’
‘That’s enough!’ snapped the lieutenant. ‘We’ve heard enough of your threats before.’
‘Threats!’ she screamed. ‘Threats! One day I’ll kill him, I’ll make him pay for the way he’s treated me! I’ll make him suffer, I’ll kill him, I’ll——’
‘You’d better get her out of here,’ the lieutenant said coldly, ‘and if you’ve any influence with her at
all, make her realise she isn’t doing herself any good talking like this.’
‘Er—hardly your business,’ said Best. But he looked towards Rita, and added gently: ‘I say, old girl, d’you think——’
‘Have me thrown out, would you!’ she shouted, and flung the glass into the man’s face.
It broke against his nose and some pieces cut his lip and his cheek. Blood trickled down. There was a scream from someone else, and then two men whom Tannadice had sent came hurrying across the room.
‘It’s his fault, his fault!’ screamed Rita, ‘he’s turned everyone against me, poisoned everyone’s mind! He-’
‘Steady, old darling,’ said Best. He saw Tannadice’s men approaching, guessing their purpose but not proposing to allow them to interfere. He pushed his chair farther back, rounded the table and, without apparent effort, lifted Rita bodily.
She was so startled that at first she did not move or call out, but as he carried her towards the door she started to scream.
9
The Trials of Mr. Best
Her paroxysm subsided at last, and she began to talk about Ainsworth: she was maudlin, then. How could Martin behave so badly towards her? He had changed, why he had loved her so much that he had married her without a name, cheerfully accepting her illegitimacy. Why should Martin change? She demanded.
Best soothed her. She was listless and lethargic, leaning heavily against him with every step. Her feet dragged, and for some seconds they stood on the pavement outside the club before he helped her into a taxi, and directed the driver to go to the address she gave—51a, Queen Street, Bayswater.
He did not go with her.
Consequently he did not know that Lannigan was waiting on the other side of the door, to lead her up to the two rooms she occupied in the house, and ask her what had happened. She said little, but enough to satisfy him, while the reports Lannigan had received from others who had been at the Cherry Club convinced him that there would be little surprise if she did indeed make an attempt on Ainsworth’s life.
Lannigan telephoned ‘Mr. Smith’, and reported that progress was so far satisfactory.
