by John Creasey
Neb was a tall, striking-looking man, white-haired and bearded, but alert of eye. He was not a stickler for formality in his guests, but the touch of vanity in his make-up which made him sport a monocle, also inclined him to personal formality in dress. He was in the small reception room as Neil Clarke’s party came in, and stared—pardonably—at Carruthers.
Clarke explained. Lord Nebton smiled and offered his hand.
‘Of course, Mr Carruthers—join us, with pleasure!’
‘Thanks awfully—it’s jolly decent of you,’ said Carruthers, who felt an inexplicable but instinctive dislike for Nebton-Hart. Consequently, he shook hands with extra vigour, and his host watched his disappearing back with some annoyance, for his own smooth white hand was now daubed with oil.
The incident—if incident it could be called—did nothing to disturb the success of the evening. The houseboat parties were justly popular. Nothing was missing for the comfort of the guests, and Clarke grinned at a Carruthers clad in only his vest and shorts, as he sprawled in an easy chair in the bedroom placed at his disposal by a major-domo who had taken his oil-smeared clothes away for attention.
‘Neb does his guests well,’ Carruthers conceded.
‘Oh, he’s not a bad sort.’
‘Come here often?’
Neil Clarke shrugged. ‘Perhaps once a month.’
‘He’s a goodly collection of lovelies, I’ve heard?’
‘It’s mostly hearsay,’ said Clarke, more seriously. ‘Don’t run away with the wrong idea, old man—everything’s run on right and proper lines. I don’t hold any particular brief for Neb, but when all’s said and done, he’s a decent old stick.’
‘H’m,’ said Carruthers. ‘Likely to be anyone here I know?’
‘Well, let’s see. There’s Dora Lambert and Letty Kingham …’
‘Male, please.’
‘Changed your habits?’ grinned Clarke. ‘I’m not sure who’ll—oh, there’s a brilliant specimen from Australia: chap called Anson. Met him?’
‘No … Fellow who’s been making a splash at the Éclat, you mean?’
‘The royal suite,’ nodded Clarke. He grimaced: ‘Surrounded by secretaries and whatnot—come to conquer London as he conquered Melbourne. As a matter of fact,’ he added, honestly, ‘he strikes me as being all right underneath, but he’s got a crowd of sycophants around him, giving him the Great Panjandrum treatment, non-stop. He acts as if he’s beginning to believe it.’ Clarke shook his head. ‘Handsome devil, too.’
‘H’mm,’ said Carruthers.
The door opened at that moment, and a steward appeared with his clothes, sponged and pressed, and two tankards of beer. Carruthers began to warm up …
It was a good party, and Carruthers enjoyed it. And, just before decency demanded that he should go, he discovered that Myra Clayton had, after considerable effort, managed to hook the handsome Australian called Anson.
He wondered just how important that was likely to be …
* * *
The following day dawned as brilliantly as its predecessor. It was the seventh day of a heat-wave which threatened to break all records, for at nine o’clock the temperature in London had risen to over eighty in the shade, and by ten it was eighty-five.
For once, even Craigie let his fire out.
He had learned little from Carruthers, although the connection between Myra Clayton and Anson might prove of service later. Loftus had tried without success to get information from Kalloni. Had the gangster been in normal health, Loftus would probably have succeeded, for he would have admitted no limits in the way of persuasion. There were things, however, which he would not do to a man with a bullet in his leg, and the fuller interrogation of Kalloni had been postponed.
The Errols had been given their orders, and were working.
The endeavour to create the impression that Kalloni was dead had been aided by a statement to that effect in the press. It was a try-on, for Craigie did not know how important the American was to the League. He did not realise that by arranging the statement of Kalloni’s death he had eased the tension of a certain florid, benevolent-looking gentleman who had been aboard the Luxa.
Two sheets of flimsy had gone to the Cypher Department of the Foreign Office, and were being tested for a code—but the lack of quick results suggested there would be no results at all.
The one thing Craigie had been able to do was to take a list from a drawer in his desk, and cross off five numbers. These numbers were on a sheet of foolscap, and ran from 1 to 101. He crossed off, of course, numbers 51 and 39, as well as 11, 14 and 15—for the three prisoners had admitted their numbers in that peculiar organisation, although they appeared to know little else of any import.
It was sheer chance which took Loftus, Carruthers, Wally Davidson and Dodo Trale—a short, stalwart and remarkably handsome member of the Department—towards the House of Commons that morning. There was—as often happened, these days—an emergency meeting of the House, which had started at eleven o’clock. Holidays were things of the past, it seemed, for conscientious M.P.s. There was to be another Foreign Affairs debate, and the four men, for once with nothing direct on their hands, were sufficiently worried by the international outlook to wonder how the latest British commitment would be dressed up for general consumption.
Westminster Bridge was crowded.
Buses, private cars, cyclists and pedestrians went over it in an endless stream. A cool wind was blowing from the river, and the quartet strolled towards the Bridge, for the Prime Minister was not likely to be ‘up’ until half-past twelve.
A small car passed them, and pulled up close by the Houses of Parliament. Its driver got out and strolled nonchalantly towards the parapet, and then, after a moment or two, turned back towards Lambeth. Policemen on point-duty were too busy to notice the man who had offended all traffic laws by parking a car on Westminster Bridge at one of the busiest hours of the day. Even had they noticed it, they would not have followed the driver with quite the interest Loftus showed.
‘Now why,’ said the big man, ‘did he do that?’
‘What?’ asked Dodo Trale.
‘Leave that car …’ Loftus quickened his pace, making for the vehicle—an Austin 7 of ancient vintage. Through all the hubbub of the traffic, the first sonorous note of Big Ben, chiming midday, came clearly.
‘My dear William!’ Davidson protested. ‘Are you batty? We’re not flatfoots, yet.’
Over his shoulder, Loftus answered him: ‘Why should a man leave his car there? Damn it, only a nitwit or …’
He reached the car, and glanced along the bridge. At the far end the driver, conspicuous in a pale-grey suit, was watching—and suddenly, he took to his heels and ran.
Loftus snapped:
‘That fellow in the grey—after him! Carrie, give a hand, here.’
He had yanked open the door of the car—and saw the large suitcase lying on the back seat. As he bent over it, he heard the loud ticking …
And Big Ben was on the tenth stroke of twelve, Loftus realised suddenly, some sixth sense connecting the two facts in his mind.
‘Get it over!’ he snapped. ‘Hurry, man!’
The case weighed heavily, but they carried it without trouble to the parapet—and together, they heaved it over the side. At the far end of the bridge, Trale and Davidson were cursing people who got in their way, but they were less than twenty yards, now, from the man in grey …
It happened, then.
The explosion was muffled, because of the water. But a spout shot up, hundreds of feet into the air, and sprayed down over the bridge like a cataract. A wave ten feet high swept towards both sides of the river, crashing against the Embankment, flooding the terrace of the House. There was another explosion and another. Men came running, women screamed, policemen abandoned the traffic and hurried to the scene.
Loftus and Carruthers stared at the widening circles of water, and although they were drenched to the skin, did not move.
Both men we
re thinking of what might have happened on the bridge.
And both were wondering if it was an isolated incident.
* * *
Craigie, telephone in hand, looked even greyer than usual.
‘Sit down,’ he said, as Loftus and Carruthers entered. ‘No, come here—you can read this … Hallo? Yes. Yes, go on …’
A voice sounded in his ear.
‘I’m speaking from Birmingham—New Street Station is pretty well wiped out, sir. A dozen men were killed …’
‘Steady,’ said Craigie, ‘let me know just what happened. Don’t get flustered.’
The man at the other end, a young agent, gulped.
‘Sorry. I heard the explosion, from the Town Hall. It’s shattered thousands of windows, and—sir? Oh, exactly twelve o’clock. It …’
Craigie replaced the receiver, making a mental note that the young Birmingham agent wanted relieving, for he could not make a coherent report. He watched as Loftus and Carruthers finished reading the three reports already on his desk.
They were in Craigie’s own shorthand, but the two agents knew it well enough to gather the drift. Briefly, it read:
12.10Glasgow. Second Power Station blown up at midday. Nine dead: at least thirty injured.
12.12Coventry. Grain store-house in the centre of the city blown up at midday. Casualties, believed high, not yet known.
12.15Liverpool. Liverpool end of Mersey Tunnel destroyed by explosion. Water seepage reported. Casualties heavy, numbers not yet confirmed. Emergency operations in force.
‘And now,’ said Craigie, thinly, ‘New Street Station, Birmingham, and Westminster Bridge—or as near as makes no difference.’
The telephone rang again. Craigie lifted the receiver.
‘Southampton … yes, I’ve got that … what?’
‘No doubt about it,’ said the man on the line. ‘The AZ Submarine dock was completely destroyed …’
‘Any—damage? Apart from that?’
‘No ships touched, I understand, sir. But a number of casualties …’
As Craigie finished with him, another telephone was already ringing. Loftus and Carruthers eyed each other grimly, as the list grew.
Edinburgh.
Cardiff.
Swansea.
Harwich.
Plymouth …
All three men realised the tremendous importance of it, knew that sabotage and terrorism was in train in England on a scale hitherto unimagined.
The League’s work?
They could not be sure, but all three believed that it was. And all three knew there would not be a moment’s respite for them until the League of the Hundred-and-One was wiped out.
Manchester sent news …
Woolwich …
There seemed no end to it. No end to the casualties, the mounting roll of innocent deaths. And against that dreadful toll, the saving of some hundreds of people at Westminster seemed to fade into insignificance.
Thousands had been injured: hundreds, at least, had died …
8
Arrests by the Dozen
The spasmodic attempts of various terrorist organisations to undermine the peculiar confidence of the British public had—as similar outbreaks had done in the past—failed completely. The ability of the police to swoop, sometimes before outrages and sometimes after, was a sufficient proof that the authorities were alert, and active. For nearly a year, bomb explosions had been taking place, arrests had been made quickly, and before going down for long terms of imprisonment the perpetrators had sought to defend their actions by wild statements about British persecution of this or that minority or state or political grouping.
The press, generally a reliable barometer of public opinion, gave bomb outrages importance only if there was no other news worth the headlines. The country, in short, was getting acclimatised to home-made bombs in waste-paper baskets or on railway lines.
But there were limits.
A stunned public learned the news from radio and press, and still found the series of disasters quite unbelievable. Twenty-four explosions had taken place; only one without its toll of dead and wounded. No official statements were available, but early estimated casualties of two hundred and thirty dead, and three thousand injured, was certainly no exaggeration. The pin-pricks of the I.R.A. and others had suddenly been swamped by a devastating jab with a bayonet. The topic was on every lip, fear and apprehension were in every mind.
Three trains had been affected, and these had been responsible for the worst casualty totals. Despite strong forces of police at the London termini and all stations en route, despite the special constables on duty at the suburban stations, vast numbers of people avoided the trains that night and the following morning.
Had the explosions been in one place—had half, or even a quarter of them, been prevented like that at Westminster, the growing public nervousness would not have gained such a hold. As it was, the obvious fact that the police had been caught unawares added to the general apprehension.
Rumours flew.
The explosions were variously attributed to Russia, Germany, Italy, and the I.R.A. Lack of an official statement allowed the rumours to gain ground …
Loftus waited at Craigie’s office for a call from Wally and Dodo. When it came, at last, Wally did the speaking.
‘We missed him, Bill—the beggar got across the road in front of the traffic lights. What’s next?’
‘Better get back to the flat.’ Loftus replaced the receiver and turned to Craigie. ‘You’ll wait for the lords and masters to utter, I suppose?’
‘Yes …’ Craigie’s lips drooped. ‘There’ll be a quick investigation, of course. It—damn that telephone!’
It was twenty minutes since the last explosion report, but all three men waited tensely, afraid they were to hear of yet another. But Loftus sat down heavily in relief, and Carruthers found a smile as they saw Craigie’s manner noticeably ease.
‘Yes …’ he said. ‘Yes … Right—in one hour.’ He replaced the receiver and turned to the others. ‘Kingham wants me to go round to the Yard. Fellowes and Miller will be there—you’d better come, Bill.’
Loftus nodded: ‘Right. Carrie—wait for me at the flat, will you?’
At the A.C.’s office at Scotland Yard, Sir William Fellowes, the Assistant Commissioner, and Superintendent Miller, were waiting for Craigie and Loftus with the Rt. Hon. Eustace Kingham, the Home Secretary. That Kingham had gone to the Yard was obviously a move to prevent the press learning that a conference had been summoned by the Cabinet Minister. Kingham, a middle-aged, grey-haired and handsome man, was perpetually afraid that something he did or said would give rise to misunderstanding. Socially he was popular, politically he was a mystery—few people understood why he was Home Secretary, although he was admittedly inoffensive.
‘Ah—Craigie. We’re waiting.’ He looked worried, with good reason. ‘And this is …?’
‘Loftus, my leading agent,’ said Craigie.
‘Ah. Yes, yes. Well, you’ve heard …’
‘We’re worrying about the explosions,’ Fellowes said flatly. He was an austere man of fifty, a martinet, yet liked as well as respected at the Yard. As he paced the large office, it was noticeable that his right leg was some inches shorter than his left—a relic of his war service. ‘Have you any specific information, Craigie?’
That was typical of Fellowes. Straight to the point, without deferring to the Home Secretary or any man on earth.
‘Nothing specific, no.’
‘Craigie, it is positively essential …’ Kingham began. Then stopped, as though not sure exactly what was essential, and Fellowes broke in:
‘We’ve a list of two hundred suspects—I.R.A., Arab Association—but I needn’t enumerate. I’ve suggested bringing them all in, but Mr Kingham feels it’s too sweeping a move.’
Craigie did not smile. Loftus exchanged glances with a tall, broad-shouldered man whose sandy hair, moustache and skin suggested that they had been sprinkled wit
h flour: rarely did a man so suit his nickname as completely as Superintendent Horace ‘Dusty’ Miller.
‘I can’t agree,’ said Craigie. ‘We can’t be sure which organisation worked to-day’s outrages, and we can’t be sure that they weren’t all working in concert. We can be sure that anyone connected with terrorist organisations will look on this as a golden opportunity, so they’re better under control.’
‘Yes, of course: I quite see that point.’ Kingham brushed a hand over his hair. ‘But when all is said and done, they may have had nothing whatever to do with the dastardly outrages of to-day. I feel that such a far-reaching decision should be approved by—er—by the Cabinet. We are meeting to-morrow morning, at eleven …’
‘By which time every suspect will have disappeared,’ Craigie pointed out, drily.
‘Precisely what I suggested,’ said Fellowes.
The Home Secretary looked, as if baffled, towards Loftus and Miller, but the two subordinates held their peace. Kingham shrugged.
‘Well—if you both feel that way, perhaps …’
Fellowes put his hand on a telephone.
‘Miller, you’d better get busy at once, I’ll give Sloan and Martindale their orders.’ He lifted the receiver, gave instructions to Flying Squad cars, and through Superintendent Martindale sent orders to the various Divisional headquarters for a swoop on all terrorist suspects. Kingham, looking bewildered by the speed of events, murmured that he hoped they got the right men, and went out in Miller’s wake. As the door closed behind him Fellowes exuded a long breath.
‘And that is the type controlling Foreign as well as Home affairs! My God, no wonder we’re in a mess! Well, Gordon …’—he pushed a tobacco jar towards Craigie, cigarettes to Loftus—’how’s the League? Think this is part of its game?’
‘I’m reasonably sure,’ Craigie said, soberly. ‘It’s too big for any other organisation. Too sweeping. Another two or three like this, and we’ll have real panic in London and most of the big centres.’
