by John Creasey
* * *
Of this, Loftus knew nothing when he reached his flat.
Diana and Fay were there, and the ever-reliable Butler had prepared sandwiches and coffee. The girls were eating—dutifully, rather than with any real appetite—but Diana’s eyes gleamed when she saw Bill, unhurt.
‘ ’Lo, folks!’ he greeted them. ‘Butler been doing his stuff, I see. Anson, have a sandwich—oh, sorry, old man: you haven’t been properly introduced.’
Leaving Anson with the others, he went into his bedroom and telephoned the Department. Craigie, as he had expected, was in consultation with Kingham and others about the explosions. He had dropped the brief-case on the bed: now he hesitated a moment, then picked it up and went with it through the secret connecting doors to Diana’s flat, where he tucked it at the bottom of a drawer full of lingerie.
When he returned to his own flat, Anson said wryly:
‘Can’t you stop these fellows playing the fool?’
Loftus smiled. ‘Easy, Wally! Carrie, go and see if Butler can get some more coffee, will you? And now, old man …’
He sat down, filled his pipe, and talked.
Actually he gave very little information away, but he said enough to make Anson’s eyes and jaw-line harden, as he listened. He looked, in that moment, extremely capable.
‘And so, if I’m right,’ Loftus concluded, ‘—and it’s reasonable to believe that I am—tonight’s shindy was connected with today’s explosions. Unpleasant, but true.’
Anson rubbed his chin.
‘Yes, but where do I come in? I mean—you said this Myra woman is mixed up in it?’
‘Afraid so—and I wish we hadn’t lost her. But that’ll come right in the end. As for where you come in, that’s the big question. Myra’s been making a play for you, hasn’t she?’
Anson nodded.
The air of arrogance had disappeared; he was an ordinary decent, reasonable human being who had forgotten his wealth and his importance.
‘Damn right she has, Loftus. She’s been sort of around for the last three or four days—I met her at the Éclat first. I’ve only been here a week, y’know …’
‘You arrived eight days ago.’ Loftus smiled. ‘With three secretaries, two valets, and a dog you had to leave at Southampton, much to your annoyance. You travelled on the Empress of Sark, preferring sea to air. You’re thirty-two, the third-richest man in Australia, you own cattle, sheep and gold, mines, you’re single, you get bad-tempered after two or three drinks, but you can hold your liquor well …’
Anson stared.
‘How in hell do you know all that?’
‘It’s all a matter of practice,’ Diana told him. ‘He takes one look at your eyes …’
‘Quiet, America!’ said Loftus, mock-severe. ‘Point is, Anson: we knew Myra was interested in you, and we wondered why. What we haven’t learned, is why you’re in England?’
‘A pleasure trip,’ Anson said promptly. ‘I’m just …’
Loftus lifted a hand.
‘Don’t try it. Even you wouldn’t bring three secretaries on a pleasure trip.’ Seriously, he added:
‘Look Anson—this isn’t a joke, and there’s no time to waste. For some reason, you’re wanted by the League. I’ve given you a lot of secret information, in the hope that you’ll not hold back. There’s a business reason for your trip, and I’ve got to know what it is.’
Anson hesitated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then suddenly he smiled—an unexpected smile: transforming his face, robbing him of that sullen, sulky expression.
‘You don’t mince words, do you, Loftus? Well, I am here on business. I’m here on a conference called by Lord Nebton and—what the devil’s wrong, man?’
And his last words were addressed, not to Loftus but to Carruthers, whose single expletive had made the girls as well as Anson jump.
11
The Errols Agree
After that first admission, Anson showed an unexpected reluctance to disclose any further details of his affairs. For the first time, Loftus had a glimpse of the hard-headed businessman behind that youthful, almost boyish, exterior. The man he was seeing now was clearly capable of controlling his large fortune …
‘It’s just this, Loftus. You may be all you say—and I’ll be surprised if you’re not. On the other hand, I want more positive proof before I discuss my business with you or anyone else. I’ve given you Nebton’s name deliberately.’
‘Why?’
‘I haven’t much use for him,’ said Anson, bluntly.
‘Again, why?’ Loftus was lighting his pipe, and the questions came casually enough: the tension had eased.
‘Well …’ Anson shrugged. ‘He came to see me when he was in Melbourne, last year—as you may know,’ he added, drily. ‘And for one thing I don’t like men who travel around with a harem.’
Loftus said, easily: ‘I don’t think Neb is all he seems, in that respect. It would be interesting to know, though, where else he went on that trip.’
Carruthers spoke up: ‘It was a round-the-world voyage in that floating palace of his: the Callay. It touched on the Riviera, then Cape Town, Bombay, round Australia, New Zealand, up to San Francisco, and then home via the Panama Canal.’
Loftus grinned at Anson.
‘How do you like our walking encylopaedia? Thanks, Carrie—that’s quite an interesting list. Look, Anson: I’m taking you at your word and I won’t press for more—yet. But I want you to stay here for an hour of two. My immediate chief is tied up with the Cabinet, right now …’
He grinned again, as the Australian tried to disguise his scepticism.
‘Don’t worry—it’s a fact. As soon as he’s free, we’ll go to see him. Until then, I’m not taking the chance of letting you out of my sight.’
Anson’s cheeks flushed.
‘Look here, Loftus, if you’re trying to suggest …!’
‘Don’t keep flying off the handle!’ said Loftus, sharply. ‘Just consider the situation. The League wants you, for some reason or other. We’ve got you—and men have died for a lot less reason than that. Wally, lead the man to the window—but go easy.’
Anson stared from one to the other, and saw Diana smile her sympathy at his obvious bafflement. Fay had the radio tuned in, very softly, to an orchestral concert and appeared to be listening to it with rapt attention. Yet these were the girls he had seen, earlier that evening, dealing with armed thugs …
He let Davidson take him by the arm, and lead him to the window. Very slowly, Wally drew the curtain aside. Outside the building, there were two cars. Directly opposite, two men lounged with their hands in their pockets.
Anson stared.
‘Who are they?’
‘Friends of our friends of tonight,’ said Davidson. ‘We like to feel it’s us they’re watching—but if you went out, old fruit, your chances of living more than three minutes would be small. Indeed, I’d say …’
The telephone rang just as Anson was expressing, loudly, his disbelief.
He fell silent as the others stared at Loftus, who had taken the call. They saw his jaw tighten as he listened, heard him say:
‘You’re sure? Korrel’s dead?’
A moment later, he replaced the receiver slowly, and turned, grim-faced, to Anson.
‘Korrel—our prisoner of tonight—and two policemen were machine-gunned in Victoria Street, on the way to the police-station. All dead. Well—do you stay around?’
‘Too blooming right I do!’ said Richard C. Anson.
* * *
‘So far,’ said Mike Errol, ‘I don’t think much of it.’
Mark held his peace.
‘Dumb?’ inquired Michael, irritably.
Mark shifted his feet.
‘For the love of Pete! Why don’t you say something?’
Mark, in the shadows of a small house on the sea front, took a cigarette from his lips and murmured:
‘It won’t do, Mike. We’re agreeing too much. I don’t think anything at al
l of it.’
They were both silent a moment. Then Mike said:
‘Who is this fellow Rogerson, anyway?’
‘Craigie said he’s suspected of being one of the League.’
Mike frowned towards a spot, a mile or so away, where the lights of the pier were reflected on the incoming tide. ‘I’m beginning to feel a bit of a mutt. I mean—we took it for granted we’d be doing great work, down here. It looks to me as if we’ve just been pushed out of the way, while the fireworks take place in town. I can just imagine Loftus telling us, with that lopsided grin of his—hallo! Things begin to happen.’
‘Excitement,’ murmured Mark, sardonically.
Silent, now, they cupped their cigarettes in their hands to hide the glow.
Bylands—the house they were watching—belonged, Gordon Craigie had told them, to a Mr Cornelius Rogerson. It was a small but expensive villa set in not much less than an acre of ground, which stretched to the sea on the outskirts of Bournemouth, in an obviously good residential neighbourhood.
Their instructions had been simply to watch, and report on callers. They had squeezed their way easily enough through a gap in a hedge, and were near the garage. They could see the front door and also the open gates of the small drive, yet could dodge out of sight at a moment’s notice—a positioning which Loftus would have approved.
A car was coming along the private road at speed. Tyres and brakes squealed suddenly and headlights slewed round towards the Rogerson house.
The Errols darted back.
The car, a high-powered Hispano, swung in through the gates and along the drive. As the two occupants, a man and a woman, hurried out, the porch-light went on—and the Errols had a brief glimpse of the woman.
‘Wow!’ muttered Mike.
‘Shut up!’ Mark whispered, fiercely.
Richard C. Anson would have recognised the face and figure, the feline walk of Myra Clayton. Her companion was dark-haired and youthful, but they did not see him well enough for future identification.
A servant opened the door.
The callers went in, and the door closed.
‘Now that,’ murmured Mark, ‘was interesting. They were in a hurry, and if that lovely wasn’t all het up over something pretty grim …’
‘Decidedly so,’ agreed Mike. ‘So what happens now?’
‘Craigie said: “In any emergency, use your own initiative”,’ said Mark. ‘Hallo! A light in the front room. We’ll go see, shall we?’
Quietly, they made their way towards the house. As they neared it, they saw that the lighted windows were open and that mosquito netting covered them, as well as casement blinds. The breeze rustled the blinds ever so slightly, drowning all sound of their approach.
They heard the woman’s voice, low-pitched and tense.
‘I tell you it was touch and go! We only scraped through by the skin of our teeth …’
‘By the skin of a flatfoot’s cheek, my sweet.’ It was a man’s voice: mocking, casual. ‘But, joking aside, Corny, it was a tight squeeze. I didn’t know Myra could run so fast! I phoned the Naveling, of course—and inside half an hour, Korrel was non est.’
‘You’re sure?’ The voice, presumably, of Cornelius Rogerson was cracked: that of an old man.
‘No doubt about it. They used the tommy-gun.’
There was a sigh, suggestive of relief.
‘So … Well, he was the only one who could talk. What of the papers?’
‘Loftus won’t find them in a month of Sundays.’
‘Don’t be so sure!’ snapped Myra. ‘I’m beginning to think Loftus is a damned sight too clever for us.’
‘It will not pay you to keep thinking like that,’ said the older man, coldly.
They heard Myra swear, and it was not nice from a lady.
‘If Korrel had taken my word for it, Anson wouldn’t have gone with Loftus! I never was Anson’s type— he needs the fluffy kind. Dora or Letty would have held him, but he soon tired of me—so when he saw a fight, the damned fool had to go into it. Look here, Corny, are you deaf as well as blind? Korrel had orders to get hold of Anson. Now, Anson’s with Loftus—and he might know enough to talk and do a hell of a lot of harm. Aren’t you going to do anything?’
‘Not a damned thing,’ the younger man cut in. ‘We’re too hot, my love. It’s time you left the country, for one; Loftus isn’t going to forget your sweet face in a hurry.’
‘It is as well Korrel’s gone’ said Rogerson, testily. ‘He had failed far too often. Now, let me see.’ His voice quavered, rose and fell uncertainly. ‘There’s no doubt you must get abroad, Myra, and quickly. As for you, my friend …’
Mike grimaced at Mark.
The names already mentioned were firmly registered on his mind and would be brought out for Craigie’s benefit as soon as possible. The casual talk of a tommy-gun—of an obvious murder—the inference that the three people in the room knew something of the day’s outrages, would ordinarily have incensed them into risky action. But a caution had come upon them—they were both very conscious of Craigie’s order that they must never act precipitously, but wait till they knew there was no chance of learning more. They were so intent on listening that they did not hear the soft-footed approach from behind them—until the man kicked against a stone.
Mike left Mark to handle trouble from that direction and watched the window.
Mark saw a shadowy, thickset figure with his hand upraised, and something in it—not a gun: probably a cosh … As it swished down towards him, he closed with his man, missing by a fraction the full impact of the blow. He drove a short-arm jab to the attacker’s stomach, but he was too late to prevent the man yelling:
‘Boss—look out …!’
A shadow loomed at the window.
Mike, crouching tensely to one side of it, saw the blinds pulled aside—and the girl and the young man standing there. The man had a gun in his hand—and the light revealed the struggling figures.
Mark’s back was towards the window: a perfect target.
Mike struck at the unknown’s hand.
As the gun fell from the man’s grasp, Mark twisted his man’s wrist and sent him thudding to the floor, while Mike grabbed the man at the window and vaulted into the room. He heard Cornelius Rogerson’s cracked voice call urgently:
‘Myra—come away, come …!’
The girl disappeared.
In a free-for-all, Mike was as happy as a sand-boy. His opponent gasped in mingled pain and fury as he followed a blow to his solar plexus with an uppercut which made his teeth rattle.
Mark appeared at the window, breathless.
‘My man’s out—Mike! Jump for it, for God’s sake!’
Mike, intent only on finishing his man, had seen nothing. But Mark saw the spluttering fuse in the hand of Cornelius Rogerson—and the urgency of his voice made Mike swing round for the window.
Mark’s heart contracted with fear as he watched, helpless. Could Mike get out—or would the explosion come first?
12
Up She Goes
Mr Cornelius Rogerson was a man of resource, and indeed often claimed that he had never been taken by surprise. There was always the possibility of a raid on Bylands, and he did not propose to allow the records he kept there to fall into the hands of the police—or of anyone else, for that matter.
In a drawer of his desk he kept a home-made bomb—dynamite with a fuse, in fact—and at the warning from his guard outside, he dragged it out, struck a match, and called for Myra.
Obviously, her companion could not get away from the intruder.
As Myra reached Cornelius at the doorway, he flung the bomb, and together they turned and ran. Mark’s warning cry still echoed as they dashed through the house and they were out of the door and into the car before Mike reached the window. Mark was far too concerned for his cousin’s safety to even notice the car start up and roar off down the drive …
Mike leapt for the lawn—and Mark flung himself to the ground. There was
a moment’s pause; a second, perhaps more, of utter silence save for the scrabbling of the young gunman as he tried frantically to follow Mike’s lead.
But he was still only half over the sill when the explosion came.
It shattered the windows of a hundred houses, sent the unknown man fifty feet through the air, and showered bricks, dust and debris over the Errols. A piece of mortar struck Mike on the back of the head, sending him right out.
The whole estate was lit for a moment in a vivid glare, and then a thunderous boom! shook all Bournemouth. The earth seemed to tremble, and one wall of Bylands sagged ominously.
Hundreds of people, holidaying nearby, headed for the scene. Reporters raced from the town—and policemen in dozens. So did the fire-engines—but they would have no chance of stopping that holocaust.
When Mark staggered up, half-conscious, the room where the three had been talking was a blazing inferno. Shaken, he wiped the dirt and dust from his eyes. Then he saw Mike, lying there unmoving, still. Alarmed, he knelt down, and turned him over gently—and swore in his relief as Mike’s eyelids fluttered.
‘You bloody goat—you had me thinking …’
He forgot his thoughts as he took a whisky-flask from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and held it to Mike’s lips.
One swallow was enough. Mike sat up, bemusedly—then saw the flames, and his mind cleared in a flash.
‘Thanks, Marko,’ he murmured, solemnly.
