Panic! (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘You’d better keep on the trail,’ Loftus told him. ‘I’ll drop off at the Southern Railway Station—it’s about the last place I’ll be able to get a cab.’ He glanced at the dashboard clock: nearly a quarter to ten.

  Just over two hours to go.

  Two hours—and what?

  Would his nightmare theory become reality?

  Behind the Frazer Nash as it was stopped by a red light on the far side of the bridge, came a Daimler car. The curtains were drawn, a fact which Loftus noticed as it passed them. He frowned.

  ‘Watch that Daimler, Wally …’

  They were in the middle of Putney High Street. The Daimler reached the Rolls, and drew alongside it: a criminal piece of driving, in that narrow thoroughfare, if nothing worse.

  Then Loftus yelled:

  ‘Brakes!’

  Wally jammed on foot and hand brakes together. The Frazer Nash jolted, smacking them both painfully against the windscreen. But not so painfully that they missed anything of what happened.

  From the back window of the Daimler as it passed the other car, a stream of fire came, yellowish-red. The tap-tap-tap of machine-gun bullets followed. There was a shriek from the driver of the Rolls, loud explosions as two tyres were punctured, and then the Rolls left the roadway and crashed into a window. As it went, the Daimler, shot ahead, narrowly missing those who were rushing to the scene of the accident.

  Loftus jumped from the Frazer Nash.

  ‘After them Wally!’

  Davidson let in the clutch and sped off, while Loftus ran towards the smashed Rolls. He reached it before anyone else, and wrenched open the nearside door. Jaffrey was sprawled on the seat, blood on his shoulder, face and chest.

  But his eyes were open.

  Loftus knew there was no hope for the man, knew that it was a matter of minutes before he went. Quietly, urgently, he demanded:

  ‘Jaffrey—what made you rush off like this? What do you know of the League?’

  Jaffrey licked his lips. He did not look afraid of the death that was coming, and he tried to speak.

  ‘Mayden … Man-sions … Twelve—o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ Loftus assured him. ‘They’re going up, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes … Other—places. See … see …’

  An outraged voice came from behind Loftus.

  ‘Now then …!’

  ‘Shut up, you fool!’ snapped Loftus, and the policeman was so startled that he obeyed. Jaffrey choked, but tried again to speak, despite his lacerated lungs.

  ‘See …’

  He stopped. There was a rattle in his throat, and then a dreadful coughing. Loftus tried desperately to ease him, but failed. And in his anguished awareness of how close he had come to real discovery, he turned on the innocent policeman.

  ‘You—damned—fool!’ he blazed. ‘You—damned—fool!’

  * * *

  ‘It’s taken me twenty minutes to convince the Putney police,’ said Loftus, in a voice Craigie hardly recognised. ‘Jaffrey told me that Mayden Mansions were going up—he tried to warn me of other places, and failed. Anyhow, I’m having the Mansions searched—the basements, of course. No, not another word. Gordon—I’m afraid it looks as though I was right.’

  ‘I’ll get at the others at once,’ Craigie said quietly.

  ‘I don’t see that I’ll do much good here,’ Loftus added. ‘I’d better—just a moment …’

  He was in the police-station at Putney, and a man had just rushed in, carrying an attache case.

  ‘Explosives! Enough to …’ he was almost shouting.

  ‘Right!’ snapped Loftus, and told Craigie: ‘Yes, they’ve found it here. I’ll try McKenzie. If you could try …’

  ‘I’ll look after the other three,’ Craigie assured him.

  Loftus reached the street to see one of the senior officers who had refused to believe that danger threatened the select residential block of mansion flats on Putney Hill.

  ‘You were right, sir. I …’

  ‘I want a car!’ snapped Loftus. ‘And two men—in a hurry.’

  ‘I’ll come with you, sir—this is mine. If you’d prefer to drive—? Wright!’

  A plainclothes man left a small party who were carrying cases loaded with explosives, and hurried over.

  Loftus took the wheel—and fifteen minutes later, screeched to a halt outside the Kensington home of Mr Andrew McKenzie, Scotland’s biggest shipbuilder and an armaments manufacturer of renown. Leaving the engine running, he jumped out and took the front steps in two strides. He waited only twenty seconds after his first ring, then thundered on the door.

  The footman who opened it looked outraged.

  ‘Did you …?’

  ‘Is Mr McKenzie in?’ Loftus demanded.

  ‘Mr McKenzie is not at home,’ said the man, superciliously.

  ‘Which room?’

  ‘Really, sir …!’

  ‘Which room?’ roared Loftus, and took a gun from his pocket. The man gaped, swallowed hard and pointed a trembling finger towards the stairs.

  ‘The—the first …’

  ‘Lead the way—and hurry!’

  The footman needed no second bidding. On the spacious landing he gestured towards a door—and backed away as Loftus threw it open and strode in.

  In that moment Loftus was enough to frighten most men, and McKenzie’s slate-grey eyes showed real alarm. A plump, dowdy-looking woman seated with him looked equally startled.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ the Scotsman began, sharply. ‘Who …?’

  ‘Jaffrey’s just been shot to pieces,’ Loftus told him, brutally. ‘He told me that Mayden Mansions was to be blown up, and tried to say more. He died too soon. What do you know, McKenzie? Of that—and of the League …’

  McKenzie was staring at him blankly.

  Loftus could not be sure whether the bafflement was genuine, but he was grimly determined to find out—and McKenzie clearly knew he was in earnest. But before the Scot could speak, there came a roar …

  It shattered the windows of the room and sent pictures thudding to the floor; it made McKenzie stagger and his wife shriek—and then another explosion came. And another …

  And Loftus knew that they had started before midnight, and his soul was sick.

  16

  Panic!

  Operation B was in action.

  If Loftus had any lingering doubts, a second series of explosions—coming from further away and before the rumbles of the first had properly ceased—confirmed it.

  McKenzie and his wife stared at the big man: the woman in fright, McKenzie with an expression impossible to read.

  Most of the glass had fallen outwards and some was still falling. When some fell into the room, just behind her, Mrs McKenzie screamed—and then, with complete suddenness, she crumpled up. As her husband went down on his knees at her side, the Putney policeman came through the door. The Inspector strode to the broken windows and looked towards Chelsea.

  Across the roof-tops, a lurid red glow was widening, getting brighter …

  Fire!

  Loftus said:

  ‘Mr McKenzie, there is a state of emergency in London, and because of it I must ask you not to move from here until I give you permission. I’ve asked for information about the League—the League of the Hundred-and-One, and anything you know might well be indicated to Inspector …’

  ‘Morgan,’ the policeman supplied.

  ‘Morgan, of the Putney C.I.D.’

  McKenzie, raising his wife with the plainclothes man’s help, nodded but did not speak.

  Loftus reached the door as yet another explosion shook the walls with convulsive fury. He could see flames reflected on broken glass in the windows opposite, leaping skywards from somewhere in Chelsea.

  The second explosion had been in the Marylebone direction.

  The third, as far as he could judge, from the west: probably the far side of Lambeth.

  Men, women, and children, at least half in night-att
ire, were now crowding the streets. A red glow illuminated their upturned faces, and he caught the word ‘bombs’. He saw fear—and the beginning of panic …

  His own heart seemed frozen with the horror of it all: the nightmare come true.

  He brushed broken glass from the car seat, and climbed in. Grimly, he noted that the crowd—those of its members who were fully clad—was moving, now, in the Chelsea direction. At every door, people were talking: some in dressing-gowns, some simply in pyjamas or nightgowns. He could hear the hum of voices—frightened voices—on every side. And over all, came the strident jingling of bells, as London fire-engines rushed to the scenes of disaster.

  In four directions, now, the red glow spread over the star-spangled skies.

  And all he could do was to see Craigie …

  He let in the clutch savagely—then stopped as the plain-clothes man came running out of the house.

  ‘Sir—a Mr Craigie—rang through—’ he panted.

  ‘Yes?’ Loftus snapped.

  ‘You’re to go to—Effley Mansions Fulham …’

  The engine roared.

  ‘Anything more?’

  ‘He’s not sure—of the timing.’

  ‘Right!’ Loftus, surveying the ever-growing crowds, hesitated a moment; then turned the car and made for Fulham by a roundabout route which avoided Chelsea. He had to go along the Fulham Road for half a mile, and there the crowds were thicker than ever.

  Special constables, A.R.P. units and volunteers were keeping them back, leaving just enough room for two-way traffic. Fire-engines still clanged their way from every side, towards the Chelsea outbreak—and now blackened fragments were falling thick and fast. Even here, the heat was intolerable.

  Every street was the same.

  Every house had its anxious group standing outside—talking, gesticulating, looking towards the fire. Here and there, women who had fainted were being attended at the roadside. Children cried and whimpered, instinctively sensing the fear all around them.

  Panic.

  Across Stamford Bridge, by the Chelsea Football Ground, a dense crowd was moving towards him. The explosions must have taken place somewhere in the Lots Road direction.

  He was forced to slow down, and heard a man say:

  ‘Beasley Flats, that’s where it is …’

  ‘Where’re they?’

  ‘Y’know, where old Tom lives …’

  A working-class district, this time, Loftus noted. And noted, also, an angry undercurrent growing in the general hum.

  The sound of people realising their fear.

  Effley Mansions …

  Effley Road was near the Fulham Football ground and before he reached it, he saw the towering blocks of recently-built, low rent flats. Turning the corner, he saw people streaming from the various exits and as he drew up, he was glad to see Superintendent Miller hurrying from his own car.

  ‘Miller!’ he shouted, and jumped out. ‘What is it?’ he asked, joining him.

  ‘We found a note at Gorton’s place—there’s one due here between eleven and twelve.’

  ‘Got many men?’

  ‘As many as we could find. I’m just going in.’

  Loftus glanced at his watch. Eleven o’clock, exactly.

  ‘Just emptying the place, or searching?’

  ‘Both—will you tackle the top floor with me?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll take the left wing—you take the right.’

  Neither man spoke of it, as they pushed their way through, yet both recognised the risk—knew what it would mean to be on the top floor of that building if it went up. But to get every family out was essential, and Loftus was appalled by the handful of police.

  ‘There’re a hundred alarms,’ Miller explained grimly. ‘Took us right by surprise—we were watching the power stations and services—God, there’s a man somewhere whose neck I’d like to wring!’

  ‘We will, before it’s over. Here, you—and you …’ Loftus shouted to a group of men standing nearby. ‘Get inside will you and lend a hand!’

  ‘Not bloomin’ likely!’ one retorted. ‘What d’you take me for?’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say,’ Loftus rasped.

  But three men came from the group, and after a short: ‘It’s damned risky,’ Miller gave them orders. They nodded understanding, and went at once to join the party searching the cellars and low flats for explosives.

  There were no lifts.

  Loftus raced up the left staircase—and on the tenth floor, saw an elderly woman in a bath-chair being wheeled down a passage by a boy no more than thirteen. He drew a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll carry you, Mother—’ he offered, and his smile eased some of the fear in her eyes. Half-way down the stairs others took her from his grasp and he hurried up again. He went through the flats at speed—finding, incredibly, some couples still lying fast asleep, others awake but scared and inactive. He hustled them down, and when he had emptied the top floor, went to the one below.

  He was wringing with perspiration.

  He stripped his coat off—his waistcoat—his shirt …

  From time to time, he shot a swift glance at his watch. At any moment, the explosion might come …

  No, it was twenty to twelve.

  Within twenty minutes, at most then …

  Fifteen …

  On the next floor down, he stumbled across Miller, who was carrying a paralysed child.

  ‘Another five minutes,’ Miller said, ‘and they’ll be all out. Don’t stay a minute longer.’

  ‘Right. Thirsty?’

  Miller found a smile.

  ‘Damn you, doesn’t anything worry …’

  But Loftus was already back with the work of rescue. At ten minutes to twelve, he was on the ground floor again and knew the place was empty. He saw the cordon of police well back along the road, saw furniture and personal effects strewn about the pavements—belongings the tenants had taken with them, but been forced to relinquish.

  Ten short minutes …

  Were the people far enough away?

  His head was aching and his limbs seemed like lead, as he ran, stumbling, to where the crowds were still being pushed back by police and volunteers. A few stragglers were just ahead of him, including Miller.

  ‘Zero hour,’ Loftus said, as he caught up.

  ‘Yes. Any second. I’ve done my damnedest to get the neighbourhood evacuated—but look at the bloody fools!’ Miller glared at the crowds, who seemed unable to comprehend the danger.

  ‘I’ve sent for some loud-speakers, but they’ll never get through this lot,’ he added. ‘Daren’t use the radio—it would put the whole country in panic.’

  Loftus nodded, too spent for comment. His eyes felt filled with sand, and he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. But the explosion had not come when he reached the police cordon just as loud-speakers somewhere towards the back of the crowd began to raise the alarm.

  ‘Everyone must clear the area at once. There is every danger that Effley Mansions will be blown up. Get back! …!’

  There was an audible gasp from the crowd.

  The effect of the words, repeated time and again, was instantaneous. Loftus saw the mass of white faces turn away, heard the roar as the crowd surged forward, and saw what amounted to a stampede.

  And there was nothing—nothing!—he could do.

  Screaming, shouting, crying, fighting, the crowd surged forward along the street towards a main road already jammed with people evacuated from other streets. It would be impossible to confine the effects of the explosion, and the huge Effley Mansions building, ten stories high, housing nearly two thousand people, would crush a thousand surrounding houses …

  It was small consolation to realise that it could have been worse: that on the river side, at least there would be little damage. On … on … on …

  The crowd has passed from Effley Road, leaving a dreadful trail. A dozen women, two or three men, and perhaps twenty children had been left behind, trampled and woun
ded. Small articles of furniture, clothing of all kinds, boots, slippers—the street looked as if it had been swept by a hurricane.

  With Miller and a dozen other policemen Loftus set about carrying to safety those of the helpless who were alive: at least five were already dead.

  He reached the main road carrying an unconscious woman across one shoulder, two screaming children over the other: both kicking, struggling, panic-stricken.

  He turned the corner.

  He saw Miller and the other men, similarly burdened—and then felt the earth trembling beneath his feet: knew it had started. He dropped to his knees, and somehow managed to keep the youngsters with their faces to the ground. His right arm was holding the unconscious woman down, his left was forcing the children close to the pavement. His own head was hunched into his shoulders.

  It came.

  A flash of light that blinded him and made his head spin. A whine, as of a high wind. A boom that seemed to shatter his ear-drums. And a blast that lifted all four of them bodily and dropped them again like rag dolls.

  A fourth—a fifth—a sixth …

  And mingling with the roaring of the explosions, was the thunder of falling walls and debris. More wind came, screeching and whining. There were crashes like the constant smashing of guns, glass crashed all about him from the windows of the evacuated houses, as they began to topple, to crumple up.

  Fire lit the heavens.

  The roaring of flames and the rumbling of falling masonry added to the din. It was like being caught in some monstrous thunderstorm.

  Something crashed, close to Loftus. So close that he thought it was finis. Dirt and fragments of stone and plaster showered over him, and his cheeks were suddenly damp. The woman went very still. A scream from one of the children was cut short, but the other still whimpered.

  His head cleared a little, and he dared to lift it. The wind had ceased, but the continual noise had not, and although every street lamp had been extinguished, the glow from the fire of what had once been Effley Mansions showed everything in a lurid yellow glare—a nightmare of devastation laid bare by a light which seemed to come from hell itself.

  Houses in ruins all around—with a few standing freakishly intact.