by John Creasey
‘H’mm. That’s what the League’s aiming at?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me. But we can’t be sure, yet. You’ve found nothing?’
‘No. Those two fellows at Cannon Street …’
Craigie smiled drily.
‘Two?’
‘Yes—one in the morgue and one in the cell,’ said Fellowes. ‘The stories have gone round, all right: Kalloni is supposed to be dead. But I mustn’t hold him much longer—that damned fool Kingham will be reading the habeas corpus act to me if I do.’
‘I’ll take him in twenty-four hours,’ said Craigie. ‘How’s his leg?’
‘It’s nothing serious.’
‘Good—I’ll send for him.’ As Craigie stood up, Fellowes hesitated a moment, then asked bluntly:
‘How big, Gordon?’
‘So big,’ said Gordon Craigie, ‘that it might end either way. All I know is that the League of the Hundred-and-One has been after a number of our bigger industrialists. My greatest fear is that it’s a kind of sabotage organisation, aiming to break the spirit of the people—and to-day’s showing doesn’t change my views.’
‘No … You’ve got nowhere?’
‘We learned about the League from Miss Loring,’ said Craigie. ‘That was our first intimation. We’ve had several indications since. We’ve caught two or three of the lesser members—but as for the higher-ups, we’re quite in the dark. By the way, have you discovered anything about Abraham Korrel?’
Fellowes pursed his lips.
‘He’s rich, he’s been an Englishman for eight years—he was born a Russian …’
‘A White Russian?’
‘Very white, he claimed,’ said Fellowes. ‘He has no apparent business. He has a small house in Hampstead and a larger one in Bedfordshire, runs a small staff of servants at both places, but travels a lot. That’s all we have.’
‘H’mm. Myra Clayton?’
‘The usual stuff, I’m afraid. Poor parents, good looks, a year or two at the theatre, and then taken up by Korrel. They still seem friendly …’
‘They had a quarrel yesterday,’ murmured Craigie, ‘but that might have been just between themselves. Well, I’ll keep you in touch …’
‘Thanks,’ said Fellowes, and the Department Z men took their leave.
‘Where have you sent the Errols?’ Loftus asked, as they walked along.
‘Not too far,’ said Craigie. ‘They’ve gone down to Bournemouth, in the hope of getting something on Rogerson.’ Rogerson, Loftus knew, was a suspect of the League. ‘They should be back tomorrow. Any ideas?’
‘Could they work the Luxal?’
‘It’s an idea; I’ll think round it. Tonight, we’ll have a look at this place in Moorton Road, I think. It might be useful.’
Loftus grimaced.
‘It’s certainly a night-club; there’s probably gaming, and there might be worse. But …’
‘We’ve got to work on it,’ Craigie insisted. ‘Tell Carruthers and three or four of the others, will you?’
‘Right.’
‘And ‘phone me just after eight, before you go.’
‘I will,’ said Loftus, and Craigie went alone to the office.
It was a serious, sober, worried Loftus who returned to his Brook Street flat—and a glance at the evening papers proved the need for his concern.
By eight o’clock, however, heavy headlines were screaming the news of the ruthless work of the police. Fifty arrests, it was claimed, had already been made. At least a hundred others were expected before midnight. Once again, the peerless organisation of Scotland Yard …
‘They might,’ grunted Loftus, ‘have stopped the damned things. Heigh-ho …’
‘Tired?’ asked Oundle.
They were alone in the flat. Fay was staying with Diana, who had the one next door—which could be reached via a secret door in the main bedroom wardrobe. Dodo Trale, Davidson, Carruthers and Martin Best, all in evening-dress and cursing the heat, were drinking cocktails with Diana, and pledging Fay’s blue eyes.
Loftus grunted ill-humouredly and reached for the telephone. He called Craigie, and heard the latter say:
‘Nothing fresh, Bill. Get along to Moorton Road—and be careful. Carruthers had better not go: he saw Myra last night. Keep a careful watch on Anson and the woman, of course, and let me know as soon as you can who else is there.’
‘But if there are many there from the Luxa, won’t Carrie be needed?’
‘He can watch from outside.’
‘He’ll like that! How are the arrests going?’
‘By the dozen,’ said Craigie. ‘But they can’t hold them on charges about today’s efforts. Most of them have arms or explosives, but not enough to account for the shambles we’ve had. It’s the League, Bill. It’s as big as we feared—and we haven’t much time to lose.’
Loftus put a goodly supply of beer close to Oundle, charged his man—Butler—to tend to all the invalid’s wants, and went through into the next flat.
‘Carrie,’ he announced, solemnly. ‘I’ve sad news for you. You’re not coming.’
Carruthers raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘On the other hand,’ said Loftus, ‘you’re not staying away. Watchman’s duty, outside, And any you recognise from the Luxa …’
Carruthers glared.
‘No, it’s too bad! Here’s your best man, positively your star agent, and you want to make him a door-keeper. It’s …’
‘Peace, friends!’ Martin Best protested. Cheery of face, fair of skin, Best contrived to look untidy, even in a dinner jacket. He was not appreciably smaller than Loftus, and his pet vice was toying with mechanical and electrical gadgets.
‘Never mind, Carrie,’ Dodo soothed. ‘I’ll lend you my flask, while you’re waiting.’
‘That’s all very well …’
‘What I can’t understand,’ said Davidson, stifling a yawn, ‘is why we ever let Carrie join us—and since he came in, why we haven’t kicked him out. Damn it, old son, you’ve a cushy job! Out of the line of fire, and all that …’
Loftus smiled at Diana. ‘Ready? Dodo, look after Fay for the evening. The other two will play it solo—come in ten minutes after each other. Di, Fay, Dodo and I will get through first. Let’s go.’
The small party left the flat, via Diana’s front door, and in fifteen minutes were near the entrance of Number 10, Moorton Road, Kensington. The house was one of a long row of early Victorian residences and in the light of the August evening, the grey façades looked more dreary than average, even for a drab neighbourhood. Moorton Road had lost ‘tone’ in the last twenty years. Minor politicians and the less important peers no longer occupied it, and most of the houses were split into flats.
Loftus had studied the available facts about Number 10.
It was rented on a five years’ lease by a man named Nathaniel Stebber, whose earlier efforts in financing nightclubs had led him to escape prosecution three times by the skin of his teeth. He was always assisted by his wife, a woman some years older than Stebber, and whose appearance suggested a righteousness far, far above what was to be expected in this wicked world.
It had been opened two months before and registered as the Ten Club—and although the police had it under observation, there had been no cause, yet, for action.
But Myra Clayton was interested in it …
Myra, in fact, was already there when Loftus and his three companions arrived, went through the formalities of joining the Club, and were passed through into a shoddily-furnished dance-room. That the place was phoney was evident from the first.
Davidson and Best, gaining admittance without trouble on payment of a five pound ‘entrance fee’, felt exactly the same.
Carruthers, strolling at the far end of the street, and mildly confounding Craigie’s orders, had kept an eye on the occasional couples and small parties of invariably young people who went to Number 10. He recognised none who had been on the Luxa, in the first quarter of an hour, and had begun to give up
hope.
Then he had seen Myra and Richard C. Anson arrive.
On their heels came Neil Clarke, with the blonde who had been with him the previous evening.
Carruthers widened his eyes.
‘Neil, if you’re playing a funny game, God help you!’ he murmured to himself.
He wondered whether Clarke would be recognised by Loftus or any of the others, deliberated on the advisability of telephoning Craigie from a convenient call-box, and decided to postpone action.
As he pondered, rheumy-eyed Nathaniel Stebber was eyeing Jabez Merkle with disfavour.
‘He said you weren’t to see him, Jab—I can’t help you.’
‘I’ve gotta see him!’ snapped Merkle. ‘I tell you I’ve gotta see Korrel!’
Stebber sniffed.
‘Well, it’s your own fault if you catch a packet.’
He led the way upstairs, tapped on a door at the top of the house and, after a pause, was told to enter.
Korrel had completely recovered his poise.
He looked magnificent in evening-dress, and his pale face was composed, his almond eyes apparently content. He listened, and frowned.
‘Merkle may come in, Stebber.’
Merkle entered, breathing hard.
‘Boss, I …’
‘Don’t shout,’ said Korrel, with distaste. ‘If it is important, tell me quickly and get out.’
Merkle licked his lips;
‘I—I was on the door, Boss. I see’d them come in, an’ ducked outa the way. I been tryin’ to see you ever since …’
Korrel took a cigar from his pocket, sniffed it, rolled it by his ear, and placed it between his lips.
‘Supposing, my friend, you tell me who you mean.’
‘Why, Loftus, two skirts, and …’
‘Loftus!’ All the poise disappeared from Abraham Korrel and the cigar dropped at his feet. ‘Are you sure of this, Merkle? My God, if you’re lying …!’
‘But it’s true!’ Merkle almost screamed.
Korrel began to smile—and his expression was a long way from pleasant.
‘Well, well, well! Reward of virtue, my dear Merkle!’ His voice was a purr as he went on: ‘Summon eight of the men here at once. Warn them that they will have to be busy. Go along, hurry! I—no, just a moment. Before you go, point the other men out to Stebber.’
‘O.K., Boss!’ Merkle beamed. He had seen this as his chance to rehabilitate himself. ‘I’m on me way.’
He sped downstairs and, through a cleverly-concealed door, pointed out Dodo, Wally, Best, the two girls and Loftus. As he went from Stebber to a telephone, Stebber’s house-phone rang. Korrel’s voice, high-pitched with excitement, came clearly:
‘Get the men and women Merkle pointed out into the small room—yes, the baccarat room … never mind about them being police: they’ll want to try everything. Get them there, understand? And then clear the others out and close the door on them. Don’t lose a minute!’
Stebber rang off smartly and proceeded to make arrangements, while eight men left the Naveling Hotel, Bloomsbury, not knowing that their job was the one which Kalloni had failed to do.
9
Mr Korrel’s Mistake
Like so many people who did not know it well, Abraham Korrel made the mistake of under-estimating Department Z. Twice in forty-eight hours he had tried, indirectly, to kill Loftus. It did not occur to him to think the third attempt, when the advantage was so clearly in his favour, could possibly fail. Nor did he know that if he failed this time, it would mark the final stage of the fight between the Department and the League of the Hundred-and-One.
Rheumy-eyed Stebber, ingratiating and suave-voiced, approached Loftus when Diana was dancing with Martin Best.
‘Excuse me, sir …’
Loftus eyed him with disfavour. For that matter, he disliked the whole set-up. The band was poor, if not definitely bad. There were, so far, no more than two dozen people in the dance-room and only half of that number dancing, yet it seemed a crowd. It could not have been more obvious that dancing was not the chief attraction at the Ten Club.
Outwardly, Loftus looked large, benign, and brainless, the type of man with a lot of money to spare. So did his friends.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘It did occur to me, sir—it did occur to me that you might like a little flutter—strictly under cover, sir. No danger at all of difficulties …’
Loftus’s eyes showed interest.
‘H’mm. What is it?’
‘I could offer you a choice,’ said Mr Stebber. ‘The—er—rooms are on the floor above.’
It had all the hall-marks of a trick, thought Loftus, as he nodded agreement. Stebber, he knew, ought to be in jail, but had so far escaped because he always pushed his dirty work on to underlings. To approach a complete stranger with so direct an offer of law-breaking did not fit in well with the man’s reputation. That made it interesting. Only in the certainty that he need fear no reprisal would Stebber have given that personal invitation.
‘Of course,’ murmured Stebber, still more ingratiatingly, ‘there is no need for you to play, and I assure you that the tables are perfectly—er—straight.’
‘I’m sure they would be.’ Loftus rose, as expected, to the bait. ‘Er—my friends?’
‘They would be very welcome, sir.’
‘Right—when they’ve finished dancing …’
‘I will be by the door, sir. If you will follow me, discreetly—in couples, say—I will take you upstairs.’ Stebber went off to take up his position by the door—and the band stopped less than ten seconds afterwards. One by one, the dancers made for the small tables at the side of the room.
Loftus was studying those he did not know.
Three—two men and a girl—had the enlarged pupils and white, pinched nose of the cocaine-addict. Five—three men and two girls—were obviously of the suburban or country have-a-good-time type, hopefully believing that they were painting London red. The rest looked the type without enough money to make a splash in Mayfair, who needed something of this kind to make them feel they were established members of the beau-monde. The exceptions were Myra Clayton and Richard C. Anson, and a man with a blonde whom Carruthers could have identified as Neil Clarke.
Loftus had heard a great deal about Myra, and he was compelled to admit she really was a beauty. She wore a vivid green, daringly-cut creation, her magnificent hair was piled high on her head, and she had used make-up sparingly but to real effect. Her leonine grace was as out-of-place at the Ten Club as most of the girls there would have been in a jungle.
Anson made a striking companion.
Tall, tanned, with sun-bleached brown hair, not an ounce of spare flesh and obviously glowing with health, he was a magnificent-looking man. But his hazel eyes held a sullen dissatisfied expression, and his mouth drooped a little at the corners.
Spoiled, quite obviously—and yet possessing a ‘something’ which lifted him right out of the rut. Loftus recalled Craigie’s description of him: disgustingly wealthy, and proud of it. None of his attendant sycophants appeared to be at the Ten Club.
So why had Anson been brought here?
And, more pertinently, why was Stebber anxious to get Loftus and the others to the gaming-tables?
Three small tables had been pushed together for Loftus, Trale, and the two girls. Diana was laughing as Best left her, for his own table—they had been soberly introduced, to create the impression that they had till then been strangers. Dodo Trale was eyeing Fay with obvious approval, and with a little encouragement would have grown discursive, but Fay clearly had a practised way of stalling would-be admirers …
Loftus regarded her with considerable interest.
He recalled her introduction to the Department, her behaviour when she had been playing a two-sided game—when death might have come at any time. She had not turned a hair. The day before, she had slipped out of his flat and telephoned word to Craigie as coolly as she might have made an appointment with her hair
-dresser. But she looked so delightfully fresh and youthful that it was hard to believe she was fully aware of the danger involved.
She caught his glance and smiled.
‘Thoughtful, Bill?’
‘Very.’ Loftus glanced towards Stebber. ‘We’ve been invited upstairs, to the gaming-tables—and there’s a catch in it, somewhere. The band stopped short to get us there quickly. We’ll go, but keep your powder dry!’ He grinned encouragement, then as the band started again, rose and led the way towards Stebber. He noted with interest that Best and Davidson, not officially with his party, were being addressed by a dark waiter, and in a few seconds he saw that they also were coming towards the door.
Why?
That there was danger was obvious. That he would have been wiser to have kept out of the gaming-rooms seemed equally obvious. But dodging issues was not the way of Bill Loftus. He wanted to get at the truth behind the Ten Club, and he believed that this could prove a very good chance.
Had he not been suspicious before, he would certainly have become so when he found the baccarat room unoccupied. The room, some twenty-feet square, contained four tables, lined with chairs. Dreary plush draperies decorated the doors and the walls and in one corner there was a bar, without attendant.
Stebber smiled and rubbed his hands.
‘We are just about to bring our other clients in, sir. Ah—here are two gentlemen, now …’
Martin Best and Wally Davidson came in together, Wally looking as weary as ever. Fay sensed the tension, but gave no sign of it, and Diana pouted prettily, as if disappointed.
‘Bill, you promised me …!’
‘Fun and games,’ agreed Loftus, beaming. ‘In a very little while, my sweet.’
‘If you will pardon me for one moment?’ Stebber gave his widest smile and backed towards the door—and as he went out, closed it behind him.
Fay’s smile disappeared.
‘Bill, are you sure …?’
‘Sure of nothing,’ grunted Loftus. Quietly, he added: ‘Try the handle, Martin—but don’t make a row doing it.’
Best moved to the door, silently turned the handle, and pulled. The door did not move.
‘The spider and the flies,’ muttered Dodo Trale.
