by John Creasey
‘It is crowded with craft of all kind—there, too, there have been tragedies …’
A stunned Cabinet listened, in growing horror.
On a scale far worse than they had dreamed of, Operation C was having the effect the League had planned for and expected. There was no defence against it: panic had come to London, and would spread.
How could the Government retain control?
It was a matter of hours, they knew, before the people would be demanding submission to the League. The outrageous ultimatum must be accepted—or disease and fire, famine and slaughter, would be rife throughout the land.
Already, they were helpless against possible attack from a hostile power.
The Navy remained, and the Air Force: but both were needed in the emergency.
Submission, Wishart knew, was in all their minds …
One man voiced it.
Another agreed.
A third, a fourth …
Bryce-Scott, his face red, suddenly shoved his chair back in fury.
‘What the devil are you talking about?’ His voice was a snarl: his fists clenched as though he would physically assault the next man to speak of submission. ‘Are we going to submit to a gang of bloody pirates?’ Thumping the table resoundingly, he cried: ‘We can’t give in! If we do …’
‘If we do, there’ll be a chance for London,’ snapped one man. ‘We’ve got to do it!’
Bryce-Scott paused a moment.
He looked around the circle of faces, and he saw despair. These men who formed the Cabinet—ineffective, he believed, for the most part—had been faced with an ultimatum backed up with a power and a force they had never dreamed of experiencing in all their Foreign Affairs debates. Faced, as now, with a need for quick action, for big decisions—they took the easiest path.
The majority was for surrender.
Bluntly, coldly, Bryce-Scott said:
‘If you submit, you will be betraying the people. If any of you dare not fight, he can resign—there are others who will do so in your place. Martial Law had been proclaimed in some areas, and can be spread over the whole country. The Army, at least, will resist!’
‘And make more tragedy!’ snapped Greffly, on his right. Bryce-Scott ignored him.
He said bitterly: ‘You’re frightened for yourselves. You’re all scared—for your own poor skins. There’s hardly a man among you who isn’t a coward! I’m sick that any one of you would even contemplate submission. Prime Minister—the time for discussion has gone!’
Quietly, sombrely, Wishart said:
‘I am against submission, gentlemen—but it is in your hands.’
There were, Bryce-Scott thought, five besides himself and Wishart who would vote for fighting. He knew that the decision was made, and he felt sick. He saw hands moving upwards, and felt a mad desire to throw himself at Greffly, bodily …
Wishart started to count, aloud:
‘For submission. One … two … three … four …’
There was a tap on the door.
Wishart paused, and Bryce-Scott—jumping at any chance to postpone that dreadful moment—hurried to open the door. An attendant stood back, mutely indicating the visitor: Gordon Craigie.
Bryce-Scott snapped:
‘What is it, Craigie?’
Craigie, warned a short while before of what was likely to happen, entered the room, and twenty-two pairs of eyes turned as one to the man whose counsel in the past had, when followed, averted more than one disaster.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, quietly: ‘I want twenty-four hours. No more. I can bring you results, then.’
There were gasps; a disbelieving cry or two.
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Quite serious,’ Craigie assured them. ‘Just twenty-four hours.’
He knew, as he spoke, that he had come just in time. Questions were hurled at him from all sides, and he answered them ambiguously. But he seemed to give satisfaction … Half-an-hour after he had arrived, the meeting broke up and he was left with Wishart and Bryce-Scott.
It was then that he admitted that he could offer no definite hope, that he had used what influence he had, simply to gain that extension of time. In doing this he accepted the fact with full knowledge, that if he failed the responsibility would be on his head, and his alone.
* * *
‘This,’ said Dodo Trale, who seemed perkier than any of the others in the sadly-decimated group of Craigie’s men, ‘is the worst show yet, Bill—but you never can tell. Damned thing is, we’re blocked all along the line. Never seen anything like it before.’
‘Nasty situation, all right,’ agreed Spats Thornton. ‘Can’t even get in touch with our own crowd. Amazing business …’
‘For God’s sake stop chattering!’ roared Loftus, and the others glanced at each other in mutual concern for the big man’s misery and anger at his impotence to act.
They were in Piccadilly, now.
There was hardly a woman to be seen; what few there were, were trying to ply their trade. The men and youths who were about walked listlessly, aimlessly. The attraction of the Regal fire—which had burned itself out—was gone. Hopelessness had replaced it. And apprehension …
Public houses and cafes were open, but little that was drinkable remained.
Like wildfire, the knowledge had spread that the water was gone.
There were no private cars about.
Fire-engines, army lorries, even a few tanks were standing at the kerbs. Loftus and the others had lost their cars—stolen, like so many others, when the exodus began. There was not a bus in sight, nor a taxi.
They turned down Brook Street.
It was deathly quiet, although lights blazed from most windows. There were still no cars to be seen: every mews garage they had passed had been empty, its doors wrenched off.
They neared 11g.
Diana was with them, but had spoken not a word since they had left Scotland Yard after a call from Bryce-Scott to Craigie, telling him what was likely to happen at Number 10. Wally and Fay, of course, had gone on.
Had gone on …
It was Loftus who saw the huddled figure of a man lying near 11g, Loftus who broke into a run and went down on his knees beside it.
Diana, Dodo and Thornton were close behind him as he said sharply:
‘Wally—what happened? Wally!’
Davidson’s right cheek was streaked with blood, but his eyes flickered open.
‘Sorry—old man—Knocked—about—Swine got—Fay.’
And then his eyes closed again, and Loftus knew he would not be able to tell the full story for hours to come.
They carried him, gently, into the flat, using the girls’ front door. Ned Oundle, able to hobble about now on his wounded leg, saw them and paled. They put Davidson on a bed, and Diana started to clean the wound. Oundle’s saucerlike eyes were wide open and apprehensive.
‘Where’s Fay?’ he asked stiffly.
‘I wish I knew,’ said Loftus. ‘Sorry, Ned.’
Oundle sat down, heavily.
Loftus and the others had had an inkling, before, of how Oundle felt towards Fay Loring. They were left in no doubt, now, and they sympathised with him. But there was nothing more they could do. There was nothing more they could do about anything …
There was no means, even, of communicating with agents who might have followed any of the suspects to a rendezvous.
Kalloni and the other prisoners knew less than McKenzie.
And McKenzie had told all he knew.
One by one, the men who might have given them information had disappeared, or died. The ruthlessness of it, the evidence of a perfected underground organisation of which they had had little or no idea, appalled them.
It was still impossible to grasp, even now, that London was an emptying city, that all roads and railways leading from it were jammed with hundreds of thousands of terrified people, flying for their lives from fire, devastation and pestilence.
Panic had come.
The suburbs had been less affected, at first, but it would not be long before Greater London was gripped by the panic which had paralysed the city’s centre.
A kind of paralysis, too, had gripped Loftus and the small band at his flat.
Diana had made Wally as comfortable as she could and now she took a glass of beer with the men, who were sitting or standing about in moody silence. Paralysis …
Suddenly, Loftus roared:
‘We’ve got to do something, damn it—we must!’
‘Just say what,’ said Spats Thornton.
Diana was about to speak when there was a sharp ring at the front door bell. They heard Butler’s ponderous tread—then a strained but familiar voice, which roused them from the stupor which had threatened.
Mark Errol came through.
Without his voice, they would not have recognised him. His clothes were torn and covered with soot: his face was black, and his hair was plastered about his head. His right trouser leg was missing—torn from the knee.
‘Loftus …’ he gasped.
‘What is it?’ snapped Loftus.
‘Fay …’ Mark was breathing very hard, and they suddenly saw that he was hurt. His shirt gaped open to show the red mark of a wound on his chest, partly covered with dirt. Dodo pushed a chair under him, and he smiled wanly as he subsided into it.
‘Thanks … I …’ He took a deep breath, and tried again, making a visible effort to speak coherently.
‘I was fed up—doing nothing … Came round here. Saw three men jump out of a car … tackle Wally. Grabbed Fay—went off with her. I followed … Putney direction—Barnes. House—on the Common, there … Four-five cars outside. Guards around—but don’t worry—drove straight past.’ He shook his head as if trying to clear it. ‘I think … I think …’
They had to guess what he thought, for he suddenly pitched forward on his face without a sound. For a split-second, no one moved or spoke. Then Loftus snapped:
‘Ned, you patch him up. The rest—get moving! Butler—Butler!’ The face of his manservant appeared in the doorway. ‘Take a message to Scotland Yard, Sir William Fellowes—tell him we’re in the Barnes area, needing help, and ask him to give word to Mr Craigie. Got that?’
‘Yes, sir …’
They raced downstairs: Loftus in the lead, Diana next, Trale and Thornton behind them. Mark’s car was still there, at the door, and they crowded in.
And for the first time, they felt hope …
Fifteen miles away, Carruthers—his conscience uneasy about the order he had disobeyed—also saw a glimmer of light in the darkness, yet was afraid.
23
Across the Seas
A big man sat in a white house at Washington, listening to the words of a pale-faced officer of the American Secret Intelligence. The officer had talked at some length, and when he had finished the seated man said:
‘As I understand, then, there is no evidence that either Berlin or Rome incited the troubles in England, but enough to suggest that they are preparing to act now?’
‘That is so, sir.’
‘H’mm … Thank you, Russel.’
Russel bowed and went out, and the seated man lifted a telephone.
‘I want the Ambassadors in Rome and Berlin,’ he said, ‘At once!’
And, very shortly, voices travelled across the seas …
* * *
Mr Rogerson, whose face did not look anything like as withered and wizened as when the Errols had seen it, sat in a house near Barnes Common. On his right was Matthew Tiarney, the florid-faced and somewhat nervous member of the trio during the earlier discussion on the Luxa. On his left was a less nervous but obviously worried man, arrogant of mien, slow and precise in speech.
He was speaking now.
‘I do not, of course, know exactly what has happened, Rogerson, but I have heard disturbing reports from the city. Fires, and …’
Rogerson snapped:
‘What did you expect? You, Tiarney, you, Frazer-Campbell—did you think you could win this fight and do no harm to individuals? Panic we wanted; panic we have! The country is ours—ours, ours, ours!’ His voice rose as he emphasised the last word by a resonant bang on the table before him. He looked suddenly ageless: there burned in him a fever of passion, unleashing the fierce, repressed ambitions of a lifetime.
Frazer-Campbell stirred in his chair and Tiarney was perspiring freely, although the room was cool.
‘I—I quite understand it was necessary,’ Tiarney muttered. ‘But … Morely! Morely was a lifelong friend of mine …’
‘Pah! He would have talked!’
‘But …’ Tiarney protested, wiping his forehead: ‘Are you sure McKenzie did not know where we would meet? If they should learn of this house …!’
‘It is obvious,’ Rogerson sneered, ‘that you are more concerned with your own safety than the death of your life-long friend. Let us finish with this hypocrisy—we have what we wanted! In a few hours at the most. Wishart must capitulate. Everything can be put in order immediately—we shall have no trouble, no trouble at all! The people …’ He shrugged his disdain: ‘Sheep! They will do as they are told. If any rebel …’ he shrugged again: ‘There is a quick way with such fools.’
Frazer-Campbell licked dry lips.
‘That’s all right, so far, Rogerson. But what of the Luxa? Clarke is most necessary, and …’
‘The Luxa is already at Gravesend. Clarke and the others will be transhipped, and there will not be the slightest trouble. The man Errol, who managed to get on board, is under guard and the journey from Maidenhead was accomplished without alarm. All is under control, my friends!’
Tiarney muttered:
‘How—how many have died?’
‘None who needed to live!’ snarled Rogerson. ‘Would you repent, now? We are changing the face of England—the face of the world! In a few short hours …’
‘We’re talking too much,’ Frazer-Campbell said. ‘We’re worried, in case it fails. Operation D might be necessary. What is Operation D, Rogerson? Only you know about it.’
Rogerson looked cunningly from one to the other.
‘Operation D, my friends, is magnificently simple! Our men are placed in positions of vantage all over the country. We shall know, soon, when the Army and Navy are to be called—if Wishart decides for general martial law. And with Operation D—we shall make sure they have no arms.’
Frazer-Campbell stared, aghast.
Tiarney gasped.
‘You—you would destroy …!’
‘Everything which stands between us and our ambitions! Everything!’ Rogerson’s eyes glowed fanatically. ‘Have you not understood, even now, how cleverly we have worked? Do you not know that vast consignments of armaments supposedly sent abroad are in this country? Waiting—for us, should we need them! The Government’s stores, I can have destroyed in minutes—in seconds! What use will the army be without arms, without ammunition? As much use as the people without water! They will panic …’
Frazer-Campbell muttered:
‘It’s devilishly clever, Rogerson. But surely …’
‘There are no buts! We have control of everything, everything that matters! The damage to any important services can be put right in two or three days. Nothing, now, can halt our domination! In a thousand places up and down the country our men are waiting for my word of command, by radio, to act. Every Government store of arms, bombs, aeroplanes, can be destroyed! Our own supplies are safely hidden. We have not the men to use them, yet—but they will come! There is Crosby, with his Red shirts—he is only waiting for the call. And with a hundred thousand armed men—the only men in England with arms—the cattle can be easily subdued. Oh, I have studied my subject, gentlemen! And now, when we have …’
‘It’s done,’ Frazer-Campbell broke in, involuntarily, as though thinking aloud. ‘It can’t be undone. But there must be no mistake now, Rogerson!’
‘Have I made a single mistake?�
�� demanded Rogerson, icily.
‘There was one,’ Tiarney muttered. ‘When you let that girl go—Lor … Loring. As we know, she went straight to Craigie. A girl whose father we had killed because he would not help us! Was that wise?’
Rogerson glowered.
‘Has it hurt us? Has it delayed us?’
‘No, but—she knew many things. Too many …’
‘You suggest that I would take stupid risks? No, my friend! I have been very careful to have her—looked after, in every way.’ His high-pitched cackle sounded almost insane. ‘Department Z! Fools like Craigie, Loftus—trying to run a Secret Service! Wait till our Secret Police take over—you will see the difference, then, my friends!’ He glanced at a clock. ‘I am waiting, now, for word from Downing Street—they are meeting tonight: they cannot hold out longer. If they do …’ His eyes gleamed: ‘If they do, I shall send armed bands to Downing Street—to the homes of every one of those fools! I shall make the public cry out for surrender! I tell you—everything has been planned!’
‘Yes …’ Frazer-Campbell looked dubious. ‘What about Anson? And Nebton?’
Rogerson grimaced.
‘Yes, yes—they are to be remembered. Poor Anson! Fool that he was! And my respected employer, Lord Nebton …’
He went off again into that cackling laughter—the man who expected to be in supreme control of the country within twenty-four hours.
He was still laughing when there was a tap on the door.
He stopped abruptly, and called: ‘Come in!’
The door opened, and Myra Clayton—svelte and sleek in dark green velvet that suited her tawny beauty to perfection—sauntered arrogantly in.
Rogerson smiled a greeting. Tiarney grunted. Frazer-Campbell stood up and inclined his head stiffly. Both of them, for different reasons, deplored the influence this woman had over Cornelius Rogerson.
A strange, personal influence.
In business, she had none at all, but outside it …
‘Well, my dear?’ Rogerson indicated a chair. ‘You have contacted Clarke?’
‘Yes. He’s all right—they’re leaving the Luxa now …’
‘Excellent! And the others?’
‘Nebton, Lore and Amondier are quite safe.’ Myra’s amber eyes looked from one man to the other. ‘We are all ready, I think, to take over. Craigie went to Downing Street,’ she added. ‘They’ve dispersed—but no decision, yet. I think Craigie gained time.’
