Panic! (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘That sounds like sweet Myra,’ he remarked pleasantly, from somewhere out of sight. Myra stared towards the door, her fingers tight about the lever. ‘A bit of a shock, I’m afraid—friend Neil can’t do all the damage after all. Bit of a shindy on board the houseboat and thanks to one Mike Errol, Clarke’s got a very stiff neck. So ease off the gas, sweetheart …’

  She swore, vilely and obscenely …

  Loftus moved forward, stealthily, amazed but all ready to take this unexpected chance—the fruits of Carruthers disobeying an order.

  But as he started, he knew that nothing would stop her. Carruthers spoke again—and her hand moved.

  The lever clicked down.

  They waited, all of them in that room, on the threshold of eternity. They seemed to hear the thunder about their ears, seemed to feel the cold breath of death.

  But Clarke was useless.

  Clarke could not take over. Operation D would never be carried into effect. It would take months, perhaps years, to get the country really back to normal—but that last, dread blow would not fall.

  Only on them.

  The realisation flashed through Loftus’ mind in a split second—in the time it took for his eyes to meet Diana’s, and to read the message that was in them.

  Eternity …

  Time stood still.

  Myra’s hand was on the lever, and she was motionless now: the words of abuse had stopped.

  Seconds ticked by.

  And the explosion had not come!

  25

  … Did Not Take Place

  A minute had passed.

  No one inside the room had moved, but at last Loftus took a step forward. As he went, Myra snatched her hand from the lever, her face twisted in naked fury. And suddenly there was a small pearl-handled gun in her hand. It seemed that even now, murder must be committed.

  Then Loftus leapt …

  He struck her hand as the report came. The flame passed in front of his eyes, but he felt no pain. He gripped her wrists and jerked her towards him, struggling and kicking like a wild-cat. And then Carruthers came through, with Michael Errol at his heels.

  ‘Damn it, it’s not a necking-party!’ Carrie reproached him. ‘In front of Di, too—I’m ashamed of you!’

  He dragged Myra off, still talking easily—bringing sanity back into that room of horror.

  ‘Just luck, old boy. We got here, guessing there was likely to be trouble if you’d arrived—Clarke had talked about a little mine in the cellar. We knew you were around when we saw old Spats almost out, in the grounds, so we went to the cellar first, and disconnected the fuse. Easy enough, for a bright lad—and the blow-up will not take place.’ He stopped suddenly, as without warning, Myra collapsed in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  Then Tiarney started screaming …

  Frazer-Campbell, until that moment motionless, put his hand to his pocket and before anyone could stop him, slipped a white pellet to his mouth. There was a moment’s pause; then he fell, writhing in his death agony—while Tiarney screamed on, his mind quite gone.

  And outside the room, Fay Loring shot herself …

  It was thus that Craigie and the Rt. Hon. David Wishart found them, five minutes afterwards. And it was then that Wishart knew that Britain would pull through.

  * * *

  The voice from Berlin was choking with fury.

  ‘It did not start! They have all they need now—the Navy has been warned by America! The Air Force is patrolling the coast line! We cannot do it—we cannot do it!’

  The voice from Rome said, coldly:

  ‘It was never my intention to contemplate hostile acts against a friendly nation, such as Great Britain. I shall cable immediately an offer of assistance. It would, perhaps, be as well if the offer from you went separately …’

  * * *

  The flat, Loftus said, was a little overcrowded.

  There was Oundle, who knew all there was to know about Fay and had taken it quietly, and without fuss. He was about again, although he had to go steady on his injured leg. There was Mark Errol, stretched out on a bed and amply bandaged, but listening through the open door of the bedroom. Wally Davidson, less badly injured, was sharing the bed for that afternoon’s gathering.

  Thornton was still recovering in hospital, but at least he shared a private ward with Martin Best. Carruthers was at the flat, of course, with Loftus and Mike Errol. Diana was dispensing drinks, for the afternoon was warm, and they were thirsty.

  Cars were moving outside.

  A skeleton bus and train service was already running, the water supplies had been reconnected, the electric power stations were already working. Auxiliary fire-fighters—in fact the whole of the A.R.P. organisation, with the Regular Army, the Territorials, and the Militia—were hard at work, restoring some kind of order to London.

  Debris was being cleared away.

  People were flocking back to the capital, and for those whose homes had been destroyed, accommodation had been found in the safety evacuation areas planned for war-time emergency. The radio was busy sending out reassuring messages. Wishart had twice broadcast to the country, and was due to speak again that night.

  Tragedy had come, had swept over England like a tornado leaving its tragic wreckage. But now, fear and uncertainty had given way to cheerfulness and hope.

  ‘Well,’ Loftus was saying. ‘Let’s hear it again, Carrie.’

  ‘Hang it,’ said Carruthers, aggrievedly: ‘you’ve had it twice, and …’

  ‘We haven’t,’ called Mark and Wally, from the bedroom.

  ‘Oh, well!’ Carruthers shrugged resignedly. ‘There was really nothing to it. I went to Maidenhead, heard about the Luxa, pitched my story and showed credentials to a police patrol boat—and we went after it. The river police were in good form—they collected reinforcements, and we reached the Luxa as the whole bunch was transhipping to a sea-going yacht. We waded in, and—well, my children, there was fun.’

  ‘Spare us the details, daddy dear,’ murmured Dodo Trale, and grinned as Carrie shot him a withering glance.

  ‘Anyhow,’ said Carruthers, ‘I located Mike, who wasn’t in a good temper, and he located Clarke—and Clarke won’t ever be in a good temper again. I simply persuaded him to tell us where the headquarters were, and we came over by ‘plane from Gravesend. Couldn’t do much else; there were no telephones or whatnot. The disconnecting of the fuse at Barnes was Mike’s idea.’

  Mike Errol chuckled.

  ‘Call it fifty-fifty, I thought of it, and he did it. Anyhow, it worked, and Clarke’s waiting trial or whatever they’ll call it. We know all about Myra, Rogerson, and the others in the game, Bill. And we know you’ve raided a hundred places and collected Crosby’s mobsmen—the so-called militia of the League. We know there isn’t a member of importance left, but we don’t know much about Neb and Anson. So speak, Oracle!’

  ‘Don’t talk so much,’ growled Mark, from the bed. ‘If he gets obstreperous, Bill, just sit on him. If I were better …’

  ‘You’d have the sense not to butt in!’ Mike grinned. ‘It’s all right, Di—just cousinly love.’

  Loftus drank deeply from a tankard.

  ‘Well,’ he informed them: ‘Craigie’s now telling Wishart just what we know, so you can have it from me. The essentials are simple. Rogerson started it—primarily with an idea of cornering the armaments market and thus holding a gun at the Government’s head. But he had trouble, for Anson and Nebton weren’t likely to help him. Then the Government plan for nationalising armaments gave him an opportunity. Neb planned to get the whole Association together, in opposition. Rogerson went with him, as his chief assistant. But instead of concentrating on the anti-nationalisation plan, Rogerson put another idea up to the men who mattered.’

  He grimaced his distaste.

  ‘Some, as we know, accepted it. Others were uncertain, but agreed to remain neutral. Those who died were opposed to Rogerson’s scheme, which at the start was simply to keep control entirely in t
he hands of private manufacturers and force the Government prices up.

  ‘Some, such as Tiarney, Frazer-Campbell, Jaffrey, Gorton and Morely, were in the whole fantastic scheme—the League of the Hundred-and-One. Clarke, as the chief stock-controller, played his part well. But Nebton and Anson—at least one of whom we were sure were in the League—separately opposed it tooth and nail. Had they seen the full plan, they would have talked. Neb did learn of it, and was killed—the police found his body yesterday, so it’s not surprising we couldn’t locate him.

  ‘Anson told us practically all he knew, but Rogerson was afraid Anson’s big share in the various companies would be dangerous. He couldn’t buy Anson’s share, or win his help, so he planned his murder.’

  ‘Meanwhile, Rogerson had hired a couple of hundred cut-throats, and had no trouble in getting what he wanted done—most of them were satisfied simply to be rewarded with the loot. But he was cunning enough, and used anarchist organisations—Crosby and suchlike. Anyhow, he got through up to a point, and we don’t need telling just how and why he failed …’

  ‘Your pardon,’ Mike Errol corrected, stoutly: ‘Mark, lout though he is, started you off …’

  ‘Rule 3, sub-section G. Special Orders to Department Agents,’ said Diana, gently: ‘No personalities!’

  ‘In that case,’ Mike conceded, abashed, ‘I withdraw.’

  ‘Just shut up, you ass!’ Mark bellowed wrathfully.

  ‘When the cousins have finished,’ Loftus announced, grandly: ‘I’ll go on. Our own big mistake was with Fay Loring. Not a subject to dwell on for long … We thought we’d rescued her from the League—we didn’t dream she was a member of it. Her father—well, they didn’t get on. She wanted him to join, and he refused. His murder, and the chance of planting her with us, enabled Rogerson to keep tabs on most of what we were doing. However, I don’t think it made a lot of difference.

  ‘But she did get hold of Lore, at the last minute—when he suspected the real truth. She also advised Rogerson that we were going all out on Jaffrey, Morely and the others—and for that reason they were killed. In each case, they were scared by a ‘phone call from Rogerson, saying they were being watched.

  ‘Dora and Letty had come-hither parts—catching the big fish for Rogerson and Myra and the others to fry. Amondier, by the way, was in it only because he had shares in English companies: he was never on the active list. He’s back in France, and a much happier man. The man killed at Bournemouth—Errols please note—was Neil Clarke’s partner who was also in the game. Others we met were simply gunmen and general operatives. And that’s …’

  ‘Not quite the end!’ protested Mike Errol. ‘Weren’t Carrie and Wally to follow me to Maidenhead, after Letty? And what about Letty?’

  ‘They were held up on the road, and lost you,’ said Loftus. ‘And somehow Letty got away on the Luxa. Just one of those things, friends!’ He held up his empty glass. ‘More beer, Di? I’m getting a thirst on me.’

  ‘Getting,’ murmured Mike Errol.

  ‘Peace be on you,’ said Dodo. ‘All in all, the kidnapping of Fay was about the neatest job, I think—Wally had better be reduced to the ranks, Bill.’

  ‘You go and reduce yourself,’ growled Wally, from the bed.

  ‘Y’ know,’ Ned Oundle offered, with the suddenness of a man visited by inspiration: ‘this has been the nastiest job we’ve tackled, and I’ve just learned why!’

  ‘Why?’ demanded four voices in chorus.

  ‘I was knocked out too early,’ murmured Oundle, gently: and Loftus was more than pleased, for it meant that the effect of Fay Loring on his friend was wearing off.

  Mike yawned gigantically.

  ‘Well—so it’s over … I must say Neb and Anson are my chief personal regrets. The Aussie was a good scout …’

  Loftus chuckled.

  ‘Is, little man! Anson was taken out of the Regal just before the fire—he recovered well enough to insist on it. He’s at the conference in Downing Street, right now, with Craigie. They’ll both be along soon.’

  They came, and helped to lower the stock of bear—Craigie in smaller quantities than the young Australian—and finally the party broke up, leaving Loftus, Diana, Anson and Craigie at the flat. Anson was able to get about, with care—for this was ten days after the affair at Barnes—and he was subdued: he had lost the arrogance that once had spoiled him.

  He had also, it transpired, agreed to take a part in the Government’s control of armaments—the Bill for which was being rushed through the reassembled House at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘We only chance on a thing like that once,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m right glad to have known you fellows, though—right glad. I don’t know which of you did the most.’

  Loftus smiled.

  ‘The Errols, I think, when all’s said and done. And they’ll be arguing from now until the next job which one really came out best. They’ll make first-class agents, Gordon.’

  Craigie nodded, very slowly.

  ‘We’ll need them,’ he said. ‘You and Di, the Errols and the others—we’ll need you all, before Europe’s settled down.’

  The thing that Anson couldn’t understand, was that Diana and Bill seemed actually pleased to hear it …

  Death by Night

  John Creasey

  1

  Two Gentlemen Return

  From the Boat Train at Waterloo stepped two large, weary-looking men who created the impression that for some time past they had slept in their clothes. Nor was the impression unjustified, for it was precisely five nights since they had known the luxury of a bed. Even then the bed had been a single one, and they were broad as well as tall, each used to four feet of spring-interior mattress, blankets and luxury eiderdown. To them it seemed that such amenities were never likely to return, for Waterloo Station, with the dim, blue gleams from the lamps hanging from the glass roof, and the bookstalls, was a place of gloom. Vague figures walked past them in either direction.

  On the roof pattered heavy rain, while it was piercing cold.

  ‘I am not,’ said Mark Errol, ‘going another step without a porter. Unless you would like to carry my bag.’

  ‘If you carry me, it’s a deal.’ Michael Errol stifled a yawn, and tried to pierce the gloom—unsuccessfully. He felt too tired even to exchange witticisms with his cousin. ‘Oh, well, we can’t stay here all night. What’s the time?’

  ‘Just after nine.’

  ‘Half an hour late,’ reflected Michael; ‘it might have been worse. I—porter. Porter!’

  ‘Coming, sir!’

  A weedy figure materialised, revealing a wizened face decorated with a wispish moustache. The man jumped into the carriage and pulled down two small suit-cases. The two large men eyed him as they would any phenomenon.

  ‘Two trunks in the van, porter,’ Mark said.

  ‘Aye, aye, sir, I’ll just get a truck. Got your name on?’

  ‘Errol. Put them all in a taxi, and tell the cabby to wait; we’re going to have a drink. And,’ went on Mike, passing over a pound note, ‘tell him he may have to wait a long time.’

  ‘All okey-doke, sir.’ The porter disappeared towards the luggage van, whistling tunelessly. The Errols walked stiffly towards the gates, their eyes lack-lustre and their mouths dry. The sweeping Errol chin which characterised them was not entirely hidden by the gloom; nor were their claims to handsomeness, for they were impressive young men, each topping the six foot mark, each turning the scales at fourteen stone, each possessed of the Errol cleft in the chin but minus the Errol Roman nose. Their noses were straight. Their eyes were grey and fringed with long lashes, their hair dark brown—Mark’s straight and well-brushed, Mike’s unruly—and that their clothes, although untidy, were from Savile Row.

  They were oblivious of those about them as they went towards the buffet—but two people, one a short man with a Punch of a chin and a beaked nose, approached them from one side.

  The second man was taller, and very thin.


  Again the light prevented strangers from seeing the swarthiness of his skin, and the unpleasant closeness of his eyes. He sidled, and sidling out-walked the short man, and drew alongside the Errols.

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen...’

  His voice was low-pitched, and possessed a note that did not sound English. The Errols stopped with one accord. Mark, who did most of the talking, raised a brow.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve brought a message from Mr. Loftus, gentlemen.’

  The close-set eyes were narrow, but that might have been because of trying to see through the black-out. Had the Errols disliked all they could see of the stranger, their immediate uncertainties would have been removed, for the name of Loftus was virtually a password.

  They liked to think that they were useful agents of that remarkable organisation called Department Z, but it often appeared that Loftus and others took all the plums, and that if there was a job where it was impossible to triumph, Loftus—Agent Number 1—handed it to them. Certainly he was not popular with them at that moment. All they wanted was drink and food and sleep.

  ‘We do not know a Mr. Loftus,’ stated Mark clearly.

  ‘I—I beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘You heard,’ said Mark, and then resignedly: ‘All right. Where is he?’

  ‘In the booking-hall, sir, in the corner on the left. He doesn’t want to be seen contacting with you.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mark. ‘All right, whoever-you-are, lead the way, will you?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The thin man of the furtive face led the way, and behind the trio followed he of the Punch-like chin. The station was not crowded, and yet they contrived to bump into several people.

  The shadows of the booking-hall engulfed them. Peering across, they saw no figure lurking in the left corner, but the darkness might deliver anyone up at a moment’s notice. Approaching the corner, the thin man fell behind.

  There was a sharp cry from behind them, and on the instant they came to a standstill.

  ‘Mark—be careful!’

  Then the thin man moved.

  He snatched something from his pocket which showed a dull glint and then the something went flying from his grasp, for Mike Errol forgot weariness and moved. He leapt at the man, crashing a clenched right fist towards his stomach, and the man doubled up; a gun fell from nerveless fingers. Mike struck again, a left swing this time to the chin. The furtive one’s feet lifted inches from the ground and he went backwards like a pole-axed bull.