Criminal Imports

by John Creasey

  But for that, she would not have had the message.

  It lay between two pieces of toast, soiled by crumbs, a folded note which she knew could mean only one thing. Her fingers quivered as she picked it up and unfolded it.

  19: Calculated Risks

  There was a single sentence on the piece of hotel notepaper, printed faintly in pencil. The sentence read: Call Sch’er on the house phone. He will know what to do.

  Felisa put the note down, stared at the window for what seemed a long time, heard the ting! of the telephone in the next room, started, picked up the note and put it under the sheet. Almost at once Elliott came in. He looked no different from usual, brisk, alert, well-groomed, handsome. Perhaps his eyes were glassy and the lines at his lips were noticeable, but that was all.

  “That was Birmingham.” The emphasis on the “ham” was very noticeable. “Everything is fine over there. I’ve told them not to harass me for a few days.”

  Business, even at the end of a telephone, was his life, his whole life.

  “At least you lifted the cover off the toast, honey!” he said. “Aren’t you going to eat any?”

  “I’ll eat a little.” Felisa buttered a piece of toast, and cut off two narrow fingers. It nearly choked her, but she ate it. All the time she stared at Elliott, so intently that she thought he must feel there was some special reason. He was prepared to cut himself off from business for her child. What would he do if she told him about the note?

  She knew what he would want to do: tell the police.

  He had promised to deal with “them” direct, but she could not rely on him unless he was convinced it was the right thing to do. She was convinced; he still had doubts. “Elliott,” she said, “you have a conference with the cotton brokers in the city, haven’t you?”

  “I did have. I’ve told Rieman to cancel it.” Rieman was his London business agent.

  “You shouldn’t do that.” Every word Felisa uttered seemed to come out with an effort. “You told me that some buyers and brokers are coming here from Manchester for the conference.”

  “I’ll see them when we have Nina back.”

  Her eyes were dull, as if from the after effect of the sedative, yet Elliott had noticed with relief how clear they had been when she had wakened. Something had happened to change that, and he wondered whether it was full recollection of the situation or whether a message had reached her - on the breakfast tray, for instance.

  He had lifted the covers himself.

  “I think you should go this morning. You have a telephone in the car and I can reach you at the Cotton Exchange. I shall be all right, Elliott. I won’t become hysterical again.”

  “You really want me to go?”

  “I know you’ll come back right away if I need you.”

  “Be sure of that.” He went across to her, kissed her cheek, and stepped back from the bed. “I’ll leave in half an hour. Can I get you anything before I go?”

  “I’ll have some more hot coffee,” Felisa answered. “Then I’ll have a shower, Elliott. Elliott– “her voice was suddenly thick with emotion.

  He said quietly, “Yes, honey?”

  “I want you to know I think you’ve been wonderful.”

  “Wonderful?” He could hardly bring the word out. “If I could only find–”

  He swung round quickly, and went out. With the closed door behind him, he stared at the telephone; forcing himself to think. She was anxious to be rid of him, and must have a strong reason; it could only be connected with Nina.

  Should he let her do what she thought was best? Or should he make her tell him what had happened and pass the story to Gideon? If he didn’t know what had happened he couldn’t pass it on, but would that ease either his mind or his conscience? What mattered was to assure their future; that was fundamental. If he made her talk, if he told Gideon, if Nina died–

  Before he left for the City, Felisa was dressed in a sheath of black trimmed with mink. She seemed almost impatient for him to go.

  Five minutes after Elliott had left, and when she had watched the Rolls-Royce glide along Park Lane, Felisa went downstairs to a house telephone and dialled Schumacher’s number. These calls, not from outside, were on an automatic system and did not go through the hotel exchange. She expected the man to answer at once; but there was no immediate reply.

  “He can’t be out!” she said to herself almost in panic. “He can’t be!” She replaced the receiver, forced herself to wait for a minute or two, and dialled again.

  Schumacher was sitting in the solitary armchair in his small room, the morning newspapers by his side - all five of them. None carried a word about the kidnapping, and he felt more secure than he had last night. When the bell first rang, he ignored it, but his lips formed the words:

  “There she is.”

  The ringing stopped, but started again after a short interval. He took his time answering.

  “Mr. Schumacher?”

  “Hello?”

  “Yes.” Schumacher smiled, a taut, almost wolfish smile. “Is that Mrs. Henderson?”

  “Yes. I had a message asking me to contact you–”

  “I don’t think we ought to talk too much over the telephone,” Schumacher interrupted. “I would very much like to come and see you. Is your husband with you?”

  “No, he won’t be back for two or three hours. Have you any news? Tell me, please.”

  Schumacher said very carefully: “Of a kind. We really mustn’t talk about it over the telephone, Mrs. Henderson. I will come and see you in ten minutes if you will leave the door of your own room un- locked.”

  “I will.”

  “Mrs. Henderson,” Schumacher said, “I want you to know that the situation is nearly as distressing for me as it is for you.”

  He rang off, stood still, and smiled tensely. He knew that he was being watched whenever he went into the foyer, and believed that some of the hotel staff were spying on him, but it was only a dozen steps to the fire-escape staircase. He waited for nearly ten minutes, went out and walked up two floors, then glanced along the passage toward the Hendersons’ suite; no one was in sight.

  The door was unlocked. As he stepped inside, the smile seemed to be wiped from his face.

  Felisa Henderson, watching the door as a cat watches a mouse, saw him come in. She was astonished to see the expression of distress on his face, to feel the pressure of his cold hands as he gripped hers, and to hear the tremor in his voice as he spoke.

  “There is only one reason for me to do this, Mrs. Henderson. For Nina’s sake. Nothing would make me act in such a manner - except the hope, the belief, that I can reunite you and your daughter.”

  Does she believe it? Schumacher wondered; and he answered himself: Sure she does. I can see it in her eyes. And he was right.

  “Does she believe me?” Percival White asked himself.

  He was looking into the sombre brown eyes of Maria Lucci, who stood in front of him with a stillness which gave her short, almost tiny figure great dignity. She wore a black dress and shiny black beads, which showed up the pallor of her neck and face. She was near the window of a beautifully appointed apartment which overlooked the cathedral, and the almost ghostly beauty of the carvings and the statuary. Beneath them, Milan throbbed with people and with traffic. Unknown to White but known to Maria, Parsons and young Sergeant Birra were in the next room, where they could hear every word.

  When Maria did not speak, White said again: “It was a great shock to me. I had no idea that anyone was getting money from those girls.”

  “You knew what the houses were used for,” Maria said.

  “Yes, I did, but we only owned them. They were let on a long lease to the managers. I’m not a saint, but–”

  “No, Mr. White, you are certainly not a saint,” Maria said bitterly. “You are a very evil man. You paid these men to lie about my husband. You are the one who caused his death.”

  White took a step toward her.

  “I didn’t know,” h
e insisted. “I swear to you I didn’t know. I came to Milan to try to find out, and– Mancelli tells me that when those witnesses came to Milan they did see your husband.”

  “It is not true.”

  “Mrs. Lucci, it won’t help if you don’t face the facts,” said White. “They did come to Milan, they did see your husband, and they have sworn on oath that they brought the money from England and paid it over to him. If they’re lying, it’s not because of me. Why don’t you believe me? I want to help. I want to know the truth, whatever it is. Don’t you want to know the truth?”

  “I want the name of a good man cleared,” Maria Lucci said firmly.

  Ten minutes later, when White had gone, she poured coffee for the two policemen. Parsons was slightly ill at ease in this unfamiliar luxury, but Birra, who had been born in the slums of Genoa, behaved as if he had never known anything different.

  “You ask me to talk to him and to accuse him,” Maria said. “Now that I have done this, please tell me what you think. Is he an evil man?”

  Birra said, “If he’s a liar, he’s a good one.”

  “If he’s not a liar, we still have to find out whether these two managers gave the money to anyone else in Milan. Whom did your husband trust, Mrs. Lucci?”

  Very slowly, she said, “He trusted too many people. But in the London business, there was White, and there was also Giovanni Mancelli.”

  It looked as if it hurt her to say that.

  “The P.S. people are now checking on Giovanni Mancelli,” Parsons wrote to Gideon. “They’re planting a man in the Lucci offices here - Mancelli is in charge now. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  As Felisa Henderson also wondered how much to believe, Schumacher was speaking very earnestly. He had a most plausible manner, and was remarkably convincing, but Felisa realized that she wanted to believe him, for he told her that her daughter was alive.

  “I haven’t seen Nina, but I’ve talked to her, Mrs. Henderson. There’s no doubt it was she, I could never mistake her voice.”

  Felisa asked gratingly, “Is she safe?”

  “She– she says she is well, but– “Schumacher hesitated, and so turned the screw and caused even greater pain. “I have to say this, ma’am.”

  “Don’t spare my feelings.”

  “Ma’am, she–” Schumacher broke off again, with a catch in his voice, and it was easy to believe there were tears in his eyes. “She is badly frightened.”

  Felisa caught her breath.

  “They’ve said they will kill her if you don’t pay the money for her release, and– and she said she believes they mean it,” Schumacher went on. “There’s no doubt she’s very frightened, Mrs. Henderson.”

  “She must be terrified.” Felisa spoke as if to herself, then raised her voice. “What– what else did they say?”

  “They asked me to act as liaison,” Schumacher answered, with such simplicity that it was completely disarming. “I must tell you that I knew nothing about all this until this morning, when a man called me, and told me he wanted me to speak to Nina. The call came right out of the blue, I hadn’t a moment’s warning.” Schumacher’s hands were spread out in front of him as he protested his loathing of what he had been compelled to do. “After I talked to Nina, they told me what to say to you.”

  “What do you have to say?” There was a harsh note in Felisa’s voice.

  “It’s– it’s ridiculous, ma’am. The amount of money isn’t–”

  “How much did they ask for?”

  “A million dollars,” Schumacher muttered. “A million.”

  The amount did not seem to give Felisa a moment’s concern.

  “Did they say anything else? How they wanted it, where it was to be paid, what guarantee they would give of my daughter’s safety?”

  They said you were to give it to me and that if I took it to a place they would name later they would release Nina to me. They said that if the police were to follow me, or to trace them, they would cut Nina’s throat. That’s all they said except–”

  Felisa hardly knew how to control her voice.

  “What else could there be?”

  “They asked for a down payment, Mrs. Henderson. They said they wanted a hundred thousand dollars today.”

  “Today!”

  “That’s right. I told them it would be impossible, but they appear to think that a hundred thousand dollars was chicken feed to you, that you have twice as much as that available in jewels alone.” He spread his hands again. “They simply wouldn’t take any notice when I told them you couldn’t part with your personal jewellery, it was unthinkable.”

  “When do you need the money?”

  “By five o’clock this afternoon.”

  “It will have to be before then,” Felisa stated flatly. “It will have to be before my husband returns from his conference.” Now she was looking steadily into Schumacher’s eyes, and for the first time he wondered whether he had in fact deceived her. “But how do I know you are telling me the truth? How do I even know that my daughter is safe?”

  Schumacher half-closed his eyes.

  ‘They will telephone you at a quarter past eleven, and Nina will be able to talk to you.”

  This time there was no long-drawn-out period of anguish. At a quarter past eleven the telephone rang, and when Felisa answered it a man spoke in a voice so nasal that it was difficult for her to understand.

  “Have you talked to Schumacher, Mrs. Henderson?”

  “Yes. Is my daughter—“

  “Don’t rush me,” the man said. “You know what I want?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the ticket,” the man said. “Hang on.”

  Into the silence that followed came what sounded like a gasp, even a stifled scream. Felisa’s hand tightened on the receiver so that it seemed her bones would break. Schumacher watching, muttered under his breath, “My God, my God, it’s terrible.”

  As the sound of his voice died away, Nina’s came, distant, hoarse but unmistakable as she said: “Felsa, oh, Felsa!” No one else in the world ever left a syllable out of Felisa, it was the way Nina had pronounced the name when she had been a child. “Get me out of here, please get me out. It’s awful, it–”

  The man said, “Don’t try any tricks, missus,” and the line snapped dead.

  That was at twenty minutes past eleven.

  At five minutes to twelve, Hobbs came into Gideon’s office with the tape of the conversation. A very tall, very thin, almost gaunt man rose from the chair opposite Gideon, rising slowly, as if he were uncoiling himself. He watched as Gideon took the tape and fitted it to the machine. Lemaitre came over. Hobbs stood, relaxed and yet eager, showing no hangover from his night work.

  “Ready, Professor?” asked Gideon.

  “Yes.”

  Gideon pressed the starting button. A whirring sound seemed to last for a long time before the man’s voice became audible. Every syllable that was uttered, every sound including a background throbbing and a roar that faded slowly, came clearly into the office.

  At last the man said, “Don’t try any tricks, missus,” and there was a click on the receiver being replaced. After a few seconds of silence Lemaitre said sweepingly:

  “We don’t need an expert to tell us what part of London he comes from. Proper Cockney.” He looked at the professor as if defying him to argue.

  “Yes, I think so,” the professor agreed, “but with overtones which suggest that he no longer speaks Cockney regularly. The nasal vowels are impossible to imitate, of course, except with long practice. Is that all you need me for, Commander?”

  “No,” said Gideon. “I want you to get a dozen copies of that tape made at once, and have them sent round to the divisions - someone might recognize the voice or the background noises. The thudding sounds like a dynamo. Did anyone identify the other sound?”

  “I think it was the roar of a train,” Hobbs said.

  They heard the
tape again, and this time it was impossible to miss the chug-chug of train wheels on their steel lines.

  “We want the address of every place in London where we might hear that noise,” said Gideon. “It could be a house near a main line, it could be a house near the tubes when they come close to the surface. It might be railway arches. Get cracking, Lem.” He turned to Hobbs. “Any luck with the search for our artists?”

  “Hundreds of them are being questioned,” Hobbs said, “but we’ve turned nothing up yet. That’s routine, now. I’ll help Lem get started in this new search.”

  It would have been so easy for Hobbs to say the same thing in a way that would have put Lemaitre’s back up. Instead, Lemaitre cracked: “Come on then. What are you waiting for?”

  The professor smiled at Gideon, but did not speak.

  20: Big Business

  Satisfied that everything possible was being done to find Nina, Gideon turned to the reports on his desk. The most urgent had already been dealt with but some important ones were outstanding, and he wanted to make sure that preoccupation with the kidnapping did not make him overlook any significant factors. He read each report, but found nothing new. There was an interim one from Parsons, saying that White was in Milan and had seen Mancelli, That was all so far. There were no reports from MacPherson over Rite- Times, or from Oliver on the West German marks case. His secretary had made a 2:30 appointment for him at the head office of the Faculty of British Industries, in Tothill Street. He was to see the director of export sales, a man named Fielding. Fielding was occasionally interviewed on television about tie British export drive - a balding, lively man with a convincing manner.

  Gideon’s exchange telephone rang, and he lifted it mechanically,

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Prosser of Kensington on the line for you, sir.”

  “Put him through. . . . That you, Jack?” As he spoke Gideon thought of Nielsen’s note about Mayhew posting a card to his mother from Kensington.