Panic! (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘Forget it,’ growled his cousin. ‘Just get on your feet as fast as you can: we’ve got to get away without a lot of questions—if we can manage it. I wonder if grandpa and the beauteous Myra got clear?’

  He peered towards the road: subconsciously, at least, his mind had registered that precipitant flight …

  Myra had driven like mad from the house, and they had reached the road as the explosion came. The car had slithered from side to side as the blast of air hit them. The debris, though falling close, had done no damage.

  Cornelius Rogerson and Myra, at that moment, were already two miles away.

  Mark left Mike shakily finding his feet, and walked slowly over the lawn. People were already approaching: the light from the burning house revealed their vague, shadowy figures. Mark searched along the hedge—and found what he had suspected he must find.

  The unknown was there; or what was left of him. Mark gave up any thought of establishing his identity.

  He went back to Mike, and said bleakly:

  ‘I could have given him a hand. I …’

  ‘Don’t be a damned fool!’ snapped Mike. ‘It would merely have meant three corpses instead of one—and he was fated for a violent end, anyhow. Let’s move!’

  To avoid the police, they slipped through the hedge at a point where there were few people about, and merged with the crowd. The Talbot was covered with dust, but fortunately not damaged.

  As they drove towards Bournemouth, thousands of holiday-makers were on the way to the fire, which was burning so fiercely that it spread a lurid light about the west side of the town. They parked the car near the pier and went to telephone Craigie. There was no answer from the Whitehall number: Craigie, rarely for him, had left his office and gone to Loftus’ flat.

  They tried the latter, and Loftus’ deep voice answered.

  Mark began to spell his name backwards.

  ‘All right,’ said Loftus, ‘anything up?’

  ‘Everything’s up, including Bylands,’ Mark told him. ‘How much can I say over the wire?’

  ‘Cautiously, anything.’

  Mark obeyed—and Loftus’ only rejoinder was:

  ‘Good work. Get up here as soon as you can, will you? Eh? … Yes, we’ll look after the identification. You needn’t worry about a thing.’

  Mark replaced the receiver and eyed his cousin.

  ‘Feel fit to drive? Good. Let’s go!’

  * * *

  Craigie had been to an unofficial Cabinet meeting, and as usual had found several Ministers openly disbelieving in a League of a Hundred-and-One, or its connection with the outrages. The shortsightedness of Cabinet Ministers was one of Craigie’s most regular problems, and the changing faces at the big table at Number 10 increased the difficulties.

  The Rt. Hon. David Wishart, the then Prime Minister, was on his side. So was Bryce-Scott, the recently-appointed Foreign Minister. Kingham, of course, would not commit himself one way or another. At the end of a difficult meeting, Craigie was exactly where he had been at the start—he was asked to continue his investigations.

  He would have returned to his own office had not a remarkable-looking man accosted him.

  The man was short, particularly of leg. His back was slightly hunched, his shoulders broad and full. His face was red, with a Punch-like chin and a beak of a nose, and his eyes were very blue. He was in evening dress, but his black Homburg was on the back of his head, revealing a broad, smooth forehead, and a stretch of baldness.

  Thus was Sidney Peter Athelstan Thornton—Spats to his friends, and for many years Craigie’s resident agent in Paris. Spats, more recently, had a roving commission.

  He fell into step with Craigie.

  ‘As usual?’

  ‘Worse,’ said Craigie, shortly.

  ‘Too bad.’ Spats had a remarkably deep voice. ‘Never mind, we keep living. Bill ‘phoned me—Anson’s at the flat. There’s been a shindy of some sort at Moorton Road—does that mean anything?’

  ‘A great deal,’ said Craigie.

  They were passing under a light, and Thornton, glancing at his Chief, thought that Craigie looked greyer and older.

  ‘Loftus suggested that you went there, using the second entrance.’

  Craigie considered a moment. ‘All right, Spats … Are you coming?’

  ‘Think I should? What’s it about?’

  ‘Today’s business.’

  ‘Is it, begad! Yes, count me in.’

  In Brook Street, there were a surprising number of cars parked, and a surprising number of young men in sight. Loftus, in fact, had called for eight agents, to watch the two men who were watching the flat. It was significant, however, that the two men of the League keeping Loftus under their eyes spared hardly a glimpse for Thornton and Craigie as they entered the house next door. They would have been shocked had they seen them, five minutes later, enter Loftus’ big drawing-room.

  Carruthers and Davidson were playing bridge with Diana and Fay. Anson was looking on, and stared in disbelief as the newcomers appeared from a bedroom.

  As Loftus introduced them, giving a brief but vivid résumé of the Moorton Road affair, Craigie’s manner changed. Something of the strain and disappointment dropped away.

  ‘Well, Mr Anson, it seems we have a lot to thank you for!’ From a small, leather pocket-case, Craigie had assembled and was now smoking one of his favourite meerschaums. ‘And of course you are fully justified in wanting further evidence of our authority.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Anson assured him. ‘I’m satisfied. It’s all fitting too well to be a trick. Well, now, this conference …’

  ‘Before we go quite so far,’ Craigie interrupted, ‘do I understand you are here on the direct invitation of Lord Nebton?’

  ‘Well—he’s the chairman.’

  ‘I see. Do you know the other members?’

  ‘I know some.’ Anson reeled off seven names. ‘The fact is, Mr Craigie, we’re all more or less interested in armaments, one way or the other.’

  Loftus stirred and the four at the bridge table looked towards Anson.

  Craigie’s eyes smiled.

  ‘You are, of course, the managing-director of Ventors Australasia Limited, Mr Anson.’

  Anson stared.

  ‘Secrecy has its limits,’ Craigie said, drily. ‘Yes, I was particularly interested when your name was first mentioned, because of your interest in armaments. Exactly what was the purpose of the conference?’

  ‘You mean you don’t know?’

  ‘I knew that several Empire manufacturers were visiting the country. But not why. Can you tell me?’

  Anson rubbed his nose.

  ‘Yes, I can. There’s talk of nationalisation, you’ll know. We’re opposed to it, for good reasons. I don’t mean the profit aspect,’ he added firmly, as though expecting to be challenged. ‘I don’t care if I don’t make a pound out of armaments or aeroplanes …’

  ‘It is not a general feeling,’ murmured Craigie.

  ‘Too right it’s not—but it’s my feeling,’ said Anson, sharply. ‘But we are all opposed to nationalisation. I haven’t seen a thing this country or mine does well on those lines. Nationalisation means muddle, with a capital M—and we can’t afford any more of it.’

  Craigie nodded, and Loftus felt his own opinion of Richard C. Anson rise considerably.

  ‘I don’t give a tuppenny damn about profits,’ Anson reiterated. ‘I can’t answer for all the others, but there are more than one who think the same way. Anyhow, we decided to get together, talk it over, and put up a proposition to the different governments. We,’ added Anson impressively although without undue emphasis, ‘control the armaments of the British Empire. Every damned bullet, every gun, every ship and every ’plane. That’s a fact, Mr Craigie.’

  Craigie was staring.

  The bridge party put down their cards.

  Loftus seemed carved out of stone.

  Carruthers and Davidson, for once, looked wide-awake and very serious. Spats Thornton
was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

  After a long pause, Craigie said:

  ‘I see. You seriously imply that every armaments concern is to be represented at the conference?’

  ‘It’s a fact.’

  ‘When is this conference to take place?’

  Anson hesitated.

  ‘Well, it’s officially secret, Mr Craigie. Still, I’ve told you plenty: I may as well finish. On the first of September.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know, yet. All I know is that it might be a day’s journey from London.’

  ‘I see.’

  Craigie did see; more than Anson realised. Loftus, too, saw the possibilities of the situation far more clearly than most could have done. Here was a conference of the big arms manufacturers, the men who controlled the complete output of British armaments. There could be only one reason for the League’s interest in members of the conference.

  To influence them.

  But how?

  In what direction?

  Anson found the silence worrying, and cleared his throat. Craigie hesitated, wondering just how much to say to the Australian, just how far he could be trusted. And then, cutting across the tension, the telephone rang.

  Loftus lifted the receiver, spoke shortly, waited, and then said:

  ‘Good work. Get up here as soon as you can, will you? Eh? … Yes, we’ll look after the identification. You needn’t worry about a thing.’

  He replaced the receiver, and turned slowly. Anson felt the intensity of the big man’s gaze, but his voice was quiet enough.

  ‘That was the Errols,’ he said. ‘Does the name Rogerson—Cornelius Rogerson—mean anything to you, Anson?’

  Anson stared.

  ‘Too right it does. He convened the conference for Nebton. Why?’

  Loftus shrugged, casually, but he knew just how important that statement was.

  ‘He’s quite definitely mixed up with the League. Myra went to see him, but she got away again. Gordon. I’m afraid we’ll have to have a chat on our own. What’s the wise thing to do about Anson?’

  ‘I’m going to my hotel,’ the Australian cut in, quickly.

  ‘Do you carry a gun?’ asked Craigie.

  ‘No … Look here—are you trying to throw a scare into me? There are limits …’

  ‘There isn’t a limit known,’ said Craigie in his precise convincing way, ‘to people who will organise terrorism as we are beginning to know it. I’m warning you seriously, Mr Anson, that your life is in danger—and will be, for some time.’

  Anson forced a smile.

  ‘I’ll risk it, thanks.’

  ‘Spirited, but unwise,’ said Craigie.

  ‘You’re not trying to tell me that I can’t move away from here! I can look after myself, thanks, and …’

  ‘I don’t want you to go away from here without a guard,’ Craigie told him. ‘And I want you to take on two new secretaries. They’ll call on you ten minutes after you get to the Regal, and you will be able to rely on them.’

  ‘What the devil do you expect to happen? Am I liable to be bumped off?’

  ‘You’re much more likely to be approached by the League, with a view to doing what the League wants. And unless I’ve misjudged you, you’ll refuse. That’s when the danger comes in. I hope you’ll be sensible.’

  ‘Sensible? The whole thing sounds such absolute bunk—’Anson grinned, suddenly, disarmingly. ‘All right, I’ll bite. Only I’ll bar Loftus, as a secretary.’

  Loftus gave a lopsided smile.

  ‘I’ve more important things to do. Wally, will you go along with Anson, and collect one of the lads from downstairs? Take it easy.’

  Anson, although he would never have admitted it, felt jumpy as they reached the street. But nothing happened, except that a colourless young man nodded as Davidson lifted a hand, and walked on the other side of the street, to be followed in turn by one of Craigie’s men.

  While Craigie turned to Loftus:

  ‘What was the call from Errol, Bill?’

  Loftus explained. Carruthers started talking, about Nebton. Craigie jotted down the names of the seven men Anson had mentioned as being concerned in the conference, and altogether they saw more than enough to keep them busy for a long time to come.

  They had to check up on:

  1.Lord Nebton.

  2.The other seven armament kings.

  3. Myra Clayton.

  4.Cornelius Rogerson.

  5.The unknown victim of the explosion at Bournemouth.

  6.Mr Richard C. Anson, who might not be all that he seemed on the suface.

  ‘And other things.’ Loftus had, throughout the spell at the flat, been preternaturally serious: ‘The papers I collected from Moorton Road, Gordon. I’m more worried about them than anything …’

  ‘What were they?’ Craigie’s voice was sharp.

  Loftus said heavily:

  ‘A full list of the particulars of today’s explosions, plus dates for another series, without the particulars. At midnight tomorrow they start, according to Korrel’s card index. They called it Operation B. Today’s business was Operation A. And one thing seems certain—it will be a lot worse than we’ve seen already.’

  Craigie and the others saw now why he had been so solemn. Like him, they saw not only the explosions to come. They saw panic.

  Panic, unavoidable and uncontrollable …

  Unless Operation B could be stopped in time.

  13

  Seven Gentlemen

  In the past, during times of crisis, Craigie had been able to judge the temper of the public as few other people could. He had a natural respect for the coolness of the average Englishman, and in his lighter moments would admit that, as a Scot, he had learned to expect the Englishman to pull out just that little extra in a crisis.

  He had seen London calm enough when an air invasion had seemed only a matter of hours. He had listened and watched with cold disapproval a system of news distribution which had the unhappy effect of looking like deliberately-created panic—and had seen it fail.

  But he knew there were limits even to the phlegmatic calmness of the English. In common with most peoples, they would be more worried by something they could not understand than by anything, no matter how menacing, which was competently explained.

  The explosions presented such a problem.

  One of the wilder national dailies went so far as to suggest that the outrages had been deliberately engineered by a foreign power, aiming to paralyse the country before it struck—and although the paper in question was severely reprimanded in the best Home Office tradition, the rumour gained ground.

  London and all the other big centres were on the alert, and in the man in the street there was nervousness and even fear. Craigie had received a hundred reports to that effect, and they had worried him far more than anything else the League might have done.

  He knew—and the Cabinet knew—that there was no proof that the outrages had not been deliberately organised by a foreign power.

  And with the papers which Loftus had secured from the unfortunate Abraham Korrel, it seemed there was every reason to believe it possible. For those papers, which mentioned no names and used only numbers for identification, included one headed:

  GENERAL PLAN

  1.The object of the League is to instil a lack of confidence in the public, leading to (a) anxiety, (b) panic.

  2.Operation A will be instrumental in creating general anxiety. Operation B should cause the first stages of panic. Operation C should put the finishing touches to the preparations for the final and effective Operation D.

  3.Operation A will take place at midday on August the 12th. It will be followed by operation B at midnight on August the 14th.

  4.Times for the further activities will be advised after the effect of A & B can be adequately judged.

  There were other statements, but none more comprehensive than these four. Loftus had seen from the first—and Craigie needed no more telling
of it—that to fully understand the General Plan, a good knowledge of the League’s proposed activities was essential.

  They had no such knowledge.

  But there in black and white was the statement that the first objective of the League was to create panic. And all about them, that night, there was evidence of the fertile ground on which the further seeds of terrorism could be spread. Even an open declaration of war from one of the aggressor-powers would not have had the same unnerving effect.

  No one knew what might happen.

  But Craigie and Loftus knew when the next stage was to come.

  * * *

  ‘One of the first things,’ said Craigie, ‘is to get something from Nebton. That’s not going to be easy. He’s still popular with the powers that be, in spite of rumours about his reputation. You can get busy, Bill.’

  ‘Thanks,’ murmured Loftus, drily. ‘Just how?’

  ‘If we believe Anson, and for the time being we’ve got to assume that he wasn’t lying, Nebton is the principal representative of the conference. He may or may not know anything about the League. There’s nothing to stop him—or any other armament manufacturer—convening a meeting. There’s no proof that he knew his convenor was connected with the League. In short …’

  ‘The police can’t work.’

  ‘So we must,’ nodded Craigie. ‘And quickly.’

  ‘We’d better have the Errols’ report, first. And we ought to get on to Bournemouth and see what we can do about identifying the man who was killed down there. If Miller …’

  ‘I’ll talk to Fellowes. But it can wait for five minutes.’ Craigie frowned. ‘Let’s try and get things in the right perspective. Nebton has called this conference, and the members have kept their movements so close that there was no reason for suspecting it before.’

  ‘Far, far too secretive,’ Thornton agreed. The fat cigar sticking from his Punch-like face made him look more of a caricature than ever. ‘I was going to report tonight, Craigie, that Amondier is coming to England at the end of the month.’

  Craigie’s eyes widened.

  ‘So the French might be in it, too? I wonder if it’s bigger than Anson knew?’

  Loftus looked thoughtful.

  ‘I wonder if Anson told us all he knew? But assuming he’s on the up-and-up, all the important English and Empire arms manufacturers will meet at some place unknown on the first of September—and probably pass resolutions and go into methods against nationalisation of armaments. That’s innocent enough. The problem is—how many, if any, are working with the League? Was Anson the first to be approached—through Myra—or is he the last?’