by John Creasey
Roofs ripped off.
Gaping holes in walls that sagged.
Deep craters in the roadway.
Lamp-standards crashing, or swaying perilously.
A constant rumble as more walls collapsed and more roofs fell after them.
And now there were people running wildly to and fro; others simply standing, staring helplessly towards the fire. Loftus looked at the woman—and swallowed hard.
A piece of masonry had crushed her head and shoulders. The ‘damp’ on his cheeks was her blood. He did not stop to marvel, then, that he had escaped almost unscathed. Dully, instinctively, he made sure that the unconscious child was not badly hurt and the other unharmed. Then he staggered to his feet, and with both in his arms, walked on.
Past falling houses and tumbling walls.
Past water-spouts from broken mains shooting hundreds of feet into the air. Through a pungent smell of escaping gas. Past a hundred smaller fires already started.
And yet there was no unreality about it for Loftus; no feeling that it could not be. He had lived with the fear of this for days …
Not until he was half a mile away did people meet him, take the children from his arms, lead him into a house which was windowless but otherwise unaffected by the explosions. He felt water at his lips, coolness at his forehead, his cheeks. He did not know that he was talking wildly, on the borders of unconsciousness; did not know how long he rested there, nor how often Diana’s name was on his lips.
The first thing he really understood was Diana’s voice, cool and detached yet with a fierce undercurrent of passion which he recognised before either of the other factors.
‘Come along, Bill—it’s all over. All over …’
He opened his eyes, which ached abominably, saw her face blurred and yet unmistakable, and put a hand on her hair—for she was on her knees and very close to him.
‘I wish—it was,’ he said with an effort. ‘Just—started … I’m afraid. Chin up —America.’
And then, even to his dulled ears, came the ominous roar of another explosion, distant but unmistabable—telling a tale that Loftus could picture with dreadful vividness.
It was not over—it was starting.
17
Grim Morning
A doctor—bandages—and sleep.
Deep and intense, although short-lived.
Loftus seemed to be coming from a deep well, seemed to hear waters swirling in his ears. His eyes were leaden, and when he opened them, his vision wavered erratically. It cleared at last and he struggled to a sitting position. Vague figures materialised.
He saw Craigie, sitting dozing in one chair; Diana leaning back in another, fast asleep. Wally and Carruthers. Two faces which looked like one.
The Errols.
That did not make sense: they were in the Isle of Wight.
Mark Errol was sitting at a table, pouring out coffee. That humdrum sight did more to revive Loftus than anything else—and the coffee itself helped even more. Yet it was ten minutes before he could talk, and even then his tongue was like a rasp and his head thumping, his eyes still blurring.
‘Hallo, folk—who called the party?’
‘He’s obviously no crazier than usual,’ said Mark Errol. ‘More coffee, William?’
‘Thanks. Don’t wake Di, drat you.’
‘Nothing would, at the moment,’ grinned Mike. As his cousin poured coffee, he explained that the house was virtually a field-dressing-station for those not sufficiently hurt to need hospital care.
The ease with which the Errols had fallen into the spirit of Department Z pleased Loftus, and for the first twenty minutes the gravity of the situation was less apparent to him than it might have been. For one thing, he was fighting against letting it get too deep a hold on him. He knew from past experience that if he let himself go—as, for instance, when he had rushed to McKenzie’s house—he would be less effective in the long run. A quip, an apparently carefree smile—those things were far, far better than emotion;
‘Is there a bathroom?’ he asked.
The Errols said there was a bathroom; it was being used by nurses. But there was a W.C. and a bucket of water waiting for him …
Loftus doused his head and wished he could shave. But with a cigarette between his lips and his eyes feeling more normal, he re-entered the room in better shape. Craigie was awake, now, and already assembling his inevitable pipe.
Through the broken windows Loftus saw a queue, mostly women and children, waiting for attention. Some had minor injuries so far not attended: others had rough, dirty bandages. The women had one thing in common—an expression of despairing resignation.
Inside the small house, four nurses were hard at work: it was nearly half-past eight and they had been there over eight hours. Loftus learned that a hundred nearby houses had been turned into similar emergency dressing-stations; that the hospitals were full to overflowing. He did not ask what else was happening.
He knew …
He could envisage all too easily the collection from shattered streets of the bodies of the dead, the weary firemen battling the endless flames, the vast stretches of London cordoned off, too dangerous for occupation. He needed no telling of the fear that so many would feel—the fear of illness, through broken sewers and the breakdown of sanitary arrangements.
Craigie was stolidly stuffing his pipe.
Diana still slept: She had been playing nurses, Wally told him, until she had dropped asleep on her feet some two hours before. Fay was somewhere in Kensington, doing similar work.
‘How many?’ Loftus made himself ask, at last.
‘Seventeen,’ said Craigie. ‘We stopped three—the Mayden place, one at Hampstead, and another at Lambeth. The last two more by luck—after the Mayden business we started searches in all big modern blocks and tenement buildings. But of course there wasn’t time to get round them all. We learned of the Effley Mansions job from some papers at Gorton’s house, but no particulars of where the explosive was hidden …’
‘Miller’s lot searched pretty thoroughly, he tells me.’ Wally Davidson for once had an excuse for looking tired, but in fact seemed wide awake.
Loftus nodded, grim-faced. ‘Well, it can’t be undone. Casualties?’
‘At least ten thousand,’ Craigie told him. ‘And at least a thousand dead.’
‘God!’
‘Emergency measures are in operation,’ Craigie added, bleakly. ‘The more thickly-populated areas are being evacuated, as in time of war. It’s the only thing we dare do—panic would get the upper hand, otherwise. At least the A.R.P. training has helped a little.’
Loftus nodded again, then glanced towards the Errols. ‘Why have they come back?’
‘All right, go on!’ Craigie smiled, drily, and Mike shrugged.
‘We had a spot of bother on the island, William—we located sweet Myra, but she managed to put one across Mark …’
‘You damned liar,’ said Mark bitterly. ‘It was you …’
‘Not just now,’ Loftus stopped him. ‘Myra could put one over most people. Was Nebton there?’
‘I’m not sure. Rogerson was, and another man—we didn’t recognise him. The three got away in a ‘plane near Ryde. We came after them, but lost them over Hampshire somewhere—they had the edge on us for speed. Se we came back …’
‘Find anything on the island?’
‘We told the police to go through the house we located,’ said Mike. ‘But we haven’t had word yet—telephone communication is pretty difficult. Thank God the radio’s working, and Broadcasting House didn’t get any presents.’
‘H’mm. What about you and the Daimler, Wally?’
‘It lost me,’ said Davidson, shortly.
‘Pity. Any idea who it is, Gordon?’
Craigie shook his head slowly.
‘No, Bill; nothing definite. Nebton might be in it, and the other armament men, but it’s impossible to believe that it’s not being engineered from abroad. The public mood ranges from inertia t
o anger. So does the Government’s, for that matter. Half the Cabinet wants an immediate air attack on Germany and Italy. They’re busy getting reassurances from Rome and Berlin,’ he added, bitterly. ‘But it’s up to the House—it’s meeting now, and there’ll be an announcement about midday. Whoever’s behind it, comes later—our problem is: what’s next?’
They were all silent for some minutes; thinking hard, trying to get order out of chaos.
The facts were unanswerable.
The series of explosions, all aimed at places where the population was thickest, had created a state of national emergency. With justification. But there was no one to fight, no one definitely to guard against. If, as seemed possible, it was being controlled by enemy powers still talking glibly of friendship and ‘misunderstanding’, there was proof to be found. But could they get it in time to take steps to counteract the devastating blows already delivered against the most vital item of defence—the morale of the general public?
‘All we’ve got,’ Loftus murmured at last, ‘is Nebton, Rogerson and Myra—definite. Anson, possible. Ditto, Morely, McKenzie, Lore, Frazer-Campbell and Tiarney. Gorton’s murder as well as Jaffrey’s reasonably proves they were implicated some way or the other, and the interference must be that the others are in the same boat. Do you know where they are?’
‘All we know,’ said Craigie, ‘is that each man is being watched. We ought to have reports in as soon as we can get the telephone service in working order again. You’ve missed two things, Bill: Dora and Letty, for what they’re worth.’
Loftus grimaced. ‘Cyphers. We’ve also got ninety-odd members of the League so far unaccounted for.’
‘They’re not identified,’ Craigie pointed out. ‘Meantime, every known residence of the possibles is being searched, right now—our fellows and Miller’s are busy. That’s all we can do!’ Craigie looked very, very old—and Loftus knew that this thing was different from anything else he had ever tried to tackle.
It was no longer solely the work of the Department, for one thing.
But more important, it had reached this stage without any effective counter being made. In most of those tasks which had confronted the Department in the past, Loftus and his men had been able to get the other side on the run before damage of this magnitude could be contrived. The opposition had been well-known—but now?
Korrel, Jaffrey and Gorton, all possibles, had been ruthlessly murdered—obviously to prevent them from talking. For all Loftus knew, the others might have escaped their followers. Even if they had not, there was no evidence to prove that they were members of the League.
‘How’s Anson?’ he asked, suddenly.
‘He was “as well as could be expected”, the last time I heard,’ said Craigie, ‘and he seems our most likely contact. I’m going to get you to talk to him, Bill. Dangerous to him or not, he’s got to talk.’
‘Yes … And I can try Dodge and Kalloni again.’
Craigie shook his head.
‘Kalloni was taken from Cannon Street last night—the only two men left on duty there were murdered. Dodge has committed suicide.’
Loftus said sharply:
‘How well is Anson being guarded?’
‘With a detachment of the 9th London Regiment,’ said Craigie, drily. ‘We’re taking no chances, Bill. Well, can you move?’
‘I can try. Where’s Fay, by the way?’
‘Working at Kensington.’
‘We’ll need her,’ said Loftus. ‘And we need Diana, too, but she’d better have her sleep out. Wally, will you stay around and bring her to the office as soon as she’s fit?’
‘Y’know,’ said Wally, ingenuously, ‘the Errols need more sleep than I do.’
‘That’s why you’re here—to keep awake.’ Loftus gave a tired grin. ‘The Errols can have two or three hours’ sleep, if they’re lucky. Same to you, Carrie, after you’ve escorted us to Whitehall.’ He tried to introduce a note of levity, but it was not a conspicuous success, and he stopped trying entirely when he went outside, for the chaos was appalling.
Hardly a ten-yard stretch of road was free from bricks or damage of some kind, and houses without broken windows, from Fulham to Whitehall, were few and far between. The explosions, Craigie explained, had been concentrated on three areas—south-west London, including Chelsea, Fulham, Kensington, Battersea and Wandsworth. A south-eastern area, starting at Lambeth, and one in the north-west—stretching as far apart as Hampstead and Wembley. Central London had hardly been touched, and the extreme suburbs in the south and south-west had also escaped.
For the time being …
Their car stopped after its slow, grim journey. Police and troops were as thick as bees about Parliament Street, the House, Westminster Bridge, Whitehall and Scotland Yard. Arrangements were already being made for the removal of vital papers to previously prepared underground offices, and the Government was to move a motion of adjournment until the next day, when it would meet again in Oxford.
But before then, the big decision had to be made.
Should this be treated as an hostile act by one—or more—admittedly antagonistic Powers?
Or was it internal?
Loftus leaned to the opinion that it was war—without a declaration and begun with a cunning which could never be surpassed. It had the ring of dictatorship about it—the policy of invading small, helpless countries under the threat of force, aiming at those who were defenceless, in this case the people.
It was damnably clever …
It …
Loftus, climbing out of the car, stopped as a piece of paper fluttered past his face. Craigie felt one touch his hand. The Errols grabbed simultaneously at one falling between them, and Carruthers was the first to see that they were falling like leaves from a clear, blue sky.
High up, aeroplanes glinted in the sun.
‘What the devil …!’ said Loftus.
‘My God!’ Mike Errol was reading his copy.
As the others followed his example, every mouth set tightly and every eye was steely hard.
For the leaflets said:
THIS IS THE BEGINNING
WE have constantly tried to persuade the Government to change its policy.
Hitherto we have failed.
Force is the only pressure it will understand. WE are applying that force. WE are determined that the democratic form of government in this country is at an end. WE have the interest of the country at heart.
WE SHALL DELIVER AN ULTIMATUM TODAY.
The Government’s rejection of it will be followed by stronger measures than those yet used. WE can paralyse every city of consequence within forty-eight hours.
TEN MILLION OF THESE LEAFLETS WILL BE DISTRIBUTED
TODAY—AT SEVEN O’CLOCK
TONIGHT
OUR ULTIMATUM WILL BE BROADCAST
Craigie dropped the leaflet like a man who had been stung. Carruthers and the Errols stood motionless. Loftus stared towards Parliament Square, where police, troops, territorial reinforcements, and civilians alike were grabbing at the leaflets, reading them wild-eyed.
And at that moment, the same thing was happening throughout London and the big provincial cities.
* * *
Mr Cornelius Rogerson, who looked so much older than his seventy-one years, was leaning back in an easy chair and smiling. Opposite him were three men—men who had once met at a houseboat in Maidenhead.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ Rogerson was saying, almost genially, ‘I think we can claim considerable success. Efforts to block our campaign have, of course, failed completely. Most satisfactory!’
As he rubbed his hands together in glee, his lined and wrinkled face was like a dried Egyptian mummy’s, his eyes almost buried beneath the criss-cross lined, parchment-like skin.
The short man, who at Maidenhead had been the spokesman, cleared his throat.
‘We’re doing well, yes. But there have been—tcha!—three efforts prevented, more by luck than judgment. Jaffrey’s disaffection wa
s the chief cause. He will do no more damage.’ Rogerson cackled, and the sound was obscene. ‘Nor will Gorton—I have always wanted to see the end of Gorton—he was so easily frightened.’
The florid-faced man whose nerves were not too steady swallowed a lump in his throat.
‘It—it’s been successful, but—will the—the people stand for it? The—the Government …’
‘The Government!’ Rogerson’s contempt was unmistakable. ‘It has virtually ceased to exist! Wishart looks likely to die at any moment. The others—pouf! Are you frightened, my friend?’
‘No, no!’ the florid man blustered. ‘I’m with you, always have been! But a mistake now …’
‘There need be no mistakes.’ Rogerson cackled again. ‘You will see—it will prove easy. Understand that I have planned this for years—years, not months. The fools of public! Democracy—the Constitution—these outworn shibboleths! Cattle, that’s all—cattle! And they elect the Government!’ His voice became more powerful and resonant, lost its querulous note. ‘Understand, the emergency Government has been formed, and will operate immediately after the collapse at Westminster. The League—our League …’
Rogerson licked his colourless lips in evil satisfaction.
‘They thought they had caught some of us. We gave our workmen numbers, and they thought …’
The short man said sharply:
‘Korrel was a member! Jaffrey—Gorton …’
‘They were all fools. Pah, fools! Are we weakened by their loss? No—a thousand times no! We are strengthened, my friends: strengthened a hundred times! But enough of that. I have news—news of first-class importance. The Italian and German Governments have promised us all the support we may need. The League undertakes immediately on assuming power to cancel the bi-lateral agreements with Poland, Greece, Rumania and the others, and on the assumption of control by the League, we shall give our allegiance to the Rome-Berlin Axis, and the anti-Comintern pact.’
The short man stirred uneasily.
‘You will never get the Army, Navy, the Air Force …’
‘Tcha! We don’t need them. We can render them useless! We have forces ready to assume control of all armament factories and store-houses. I have forgotten nothing! And remember—remember!’ cackled Rogerson: ‘before Wishart resigns and the Government breaks up, they will issue orders to the Fighting and Civil forces to accept the government of the League. Our government—the League’s government—can’t you see? Every member of the League will benefit a thousand times! Every one of us stands to lose most of his fortune, his influence, in the event of war. I, alone, have a million pounds in Germany. Will it be handed back to me if Great Britain goes to war, or remains hostile to the Führer? No! Nor will your German and Italian, your Spanish and Hungarian commitments. Remember how much you will lose if these fools continue with their enmity to the totalitarian states. Remember that once we have joined the anti-Comintern pact, that danger disappears! With Great Britain, it cannot fail. Russia—the smaller countries—then America. And then,’ Cornelius Rogerson hunched his shoulders and looked craftily from one man to the other—’then will be the time for this country to usurp the power of Rome and Berlin. After they have served us! It will be easy, so very easy. The League will control the world!’
