The Day of Disaster

by John Creasey

  ‘With what?’ Hammond flashed.

  ‘Why—taking drugs, of course.’ Crayshaw looked at him as if surprised. ‘Surely there is nothing else?’

  ‘No,’ said Hammond. An oblique glance showed him a grey-clad figure whom he recognised as a Department Z agent. He nodded slightly, and then looked back at Crayshaw. ‘I can’t stop now,’ he said, ‘but I’ll ‘phone you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Crayshaw gravely. ‘I know that I do not have to stress the anxiety which I feel.’ He bowed gravely, then stepped towards a Daimler limousine drawn up some distance along the road.

  The man in grey, meanwhile, had approached the taxi driver. Hammond was satisfied that Crayshaw would be followed, and went back to the flat. Mike and Mark were looking helplessly at Hilary.

  She was stretched out on the settee, her eyes closed, her breathing stertorous. Now and again her whole body twitched.

  Mike said: ‘She wants a doctor, and a nurse.’

  ‘Ye—es,’ said Hammond, and looking towards Hilary he saw a different face on her shoulders, a pair of very blue eyes, and dark, ruffled hair. ‘Yes,’ he said more crisply, ‘she wants a nurse. I think I know a good one.’

  Mr. Augustus Cator looked across the large office in Throgmorton Street and said irritably: ‘I wish Crayshaw would come; he’s put this off too long already.’

  The two men with him, Lord Muire and Sir Andrew Uppingham, nodded without speaking. They shared Cator’s annoyance with Crayshaw, but disliked Cator enough to avoid saying so. A small, thin-faced man, Cator was inspired by a zeal which the others could not understand. He was always impatient, always urging greater efforts, always dissatisfied.

  Muire and Uppingham, like Cator, controlled large munition combines, and with Crayshaw were on the list of those likely to be present at a conference on the twenty-first of April. Large men, red-faced, very much alike, they could not associate themselves with Cator’s restless energy, although they were uncomfortably aware that production was not as good as it should be. They were fully aware of their importance; they knew that with Crayshaw they were directly responsible for a large proportion of munitions output. They were afraid that Crayshaw was going to lean towards Cator, demanding greater exertions and even forcing action. They believed good results could only be obtained gradually; they were averse to stunt methods and artificial stimulation to output.

  They had another thing in common with Cator; they were personal friends of Crayshaw.

  After ten minutes, Uppingham said: ‘Of course, he’s very worried about his daughter. She is giving more trouble than—yes?’ He broke off at a tap at the door.

  A man came in, dressed in commissionaire’s uniform. They did not know him, for it was Crayshaw’s office. He saluted respectfully, saw them gathered about the table, and approached.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Uppingham testily.

  The man drew a hand from his pocket.

  ‘I thought you would like to see this,’ he said, and dropped what looked like a small glass ball to the table.

  He moved with extraordinary speed to the door, slamming it behind him. The key turned in the lock. Almost immediately, the ball burst, emitting a sharp, acrid smell, which bit at the nostrils of the three men. Worse; there followed a smell of geraniums, that dread odour familiar to them all.

  Coughing, they groped their way to the door, to find it locked. They staggered towards the windows, but the room was now filled with gas, and they did not succeed in opening them.

  They were dead within two hours.

  13

  Search for Craigie

  Loftus, sitting at Craigie’s desk, looked up at Hammond with narrowed, worried eyes. The tall man’s stick was lying across the desk, and one of Craigie’s writing pads had been opened; a series of hieroglyphics covered the top page, and Loftus’s pencil still moved aimlessly about them.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t use Nurse Caroll. We’ve found that Brice heard about the boots from Shapgold, and Shapgold from the matron, so that clears her. If she’ll come, mind you. She might prefer to look after Emile.’

  ‘I should think Lois Kerr could persuade her,’ said Hammond. ‘I’d like her to handle Hilary, if it can be arranged. I suppose I’d better ‘phone from here.’

  Hammond put through the call and since Department Z always had priority, was connected very quickly. Christine answered him; Hammond did not know her, yet, for he had flown from Weymouth with Loftus on news of Craigie’s absence; only Kerr had gone to the nursing-home.

  Christine said: ‘She’s out in the garden with Mrs. Kerr and Emile. Can I give her a message?’

  ‘Hold on a moment, please,’ said Hammond, and passed the instrument to Loftus.

  ‘Bruce wants Nurse Caroll up here,’ Loftus said without preamble, ‘to nurse what looks like a bad case of dope. Do you think you can persuade her?’

  ‘If it’s that bad I’m sure I can,’ answered Christine unhesitatingly.

  ‘Good work, my sweet. We’re worried because we can’t find Craigie. If you get any word from or about him, pass it on quickly. Tell Bob, too, and the others.’

  There was silence from Christine for some seconds, and then in a quieter voice she said:

  ‘Yes, all right. Does this girl you’ve got know anything about him?’

  ‘She might.’

  ‘How much are you going to tell Marion Caroll? How far are you going to trust her?’

  ‘Probably quite a bit,’ said Loftus. ‘But that’s up to Bruce. Anyway we can’t say much about it until she’s here and knows the job that he’s got in mind.’

  ‘No—o,’ said Christine. ‘Has anything else happened?’

  Loftus smiled into the telephone. ‘Have a heart, love, we’ve more than enough on our hands as it is. Don’t ask for more.’

  ‘Ah, well, look after yourself,’ said Christine, and rang off.

  Loftus replaced the receiver and limped slowly towards an armchair.

  ‘I gathered that Christine thinks Marion Caroll might be useful. She doesn’t often guess wrong in that kind of thing. Anyhow, she seems confident that the girl will come up. Oh, damn, I didn’t give her an address.’

  ‘I’ll ring her later,’ said Bruce. ‘She’d better come to my flat. I’ll get a doctor to see Hilary Crayshaw. There’s that man Grunfelt.’ He paused. ‘It might be an idea to have another man’s opinion first, and check Grunfelt’s against it.’ He moved restlessly. ‘The more I think of it, the more I believe the girl’s important, Bill. They did try to hang her, whatever her precious parent says, and today’s attempt makes it pretty certain they didn’t do it in a fit of pique. They can only want her dead because she knows something.’

  Loftus waited.

  ‘And she’s one of those empty-headed little nit-wits who go chasing round after drugs for sensation and thinks you’re a back number if you don’t know the latest night-club. What the hell can she know?’ He kicked a chair leg gloomily. ‘And what had Craigie found out, or did they take him just because he’s Craigie?’

  ‘They might have done.’ Loftus looked at the reports on the desk; he had been able to arrange for them to be delivered to him instead of Craigie, a comparatively simple matter since he had often worked as Craigie’s chief aide. ‘Crayshaw’s recent activities have been concerned solely with the war. Ferdinand was a refugee from France in the early days of hostilities, a casino-haunting Englishman with more money than sense. He left most of his money in France. He knew the Crayshaws at Monte, told Crayshaw he was hard up, and took over the job of partnering Hilary.’

  Hammond snapped: ‘There’s a pointer there. Ferdinand spent a lot of time in France, the breeding ground of German cosmopolitan spies. Ferdinand was hard up, was he? Supposing he’d lost his money at the tables before the war started? Supposing he was in German pay, and was sent over to keep in touch with the Crayshaws? Crayshaw would be a big prize at any time, a man always au fait with odds and ends of official and
confidential information. Hilary’s lap-dog probably had two sources of income. Emile’s boot being in his flat brings that within reason.’

  ‘Then why kill him?’ objected Loftus.

  ‘Yes, why?’ asked Hammond sharply. ‘Work from the assumption that Ferdinand was the spy in the Crayshaw household, and——’

  He paused. Loftus said nothing, watching Hammond’s restless eyes, sensing how quickly ideas were flowing in and out of the man’s mind.

  Hammond snapped: ‘Here’s why. Hilary had to be killed but Ferdinand had fallen for her. He objected to her murder, and was killed to stop him from talking. It could fit.’

  Loftus said: ‘Ye—es. They’ve been about together for some time, although you didn’t get the impression that the girl was fond of him, did you?’

  ‘What the heck does that matter? She’s not fond of anyone but herself. Can’t you find somebody who knew the couple personally?’

  ‘Reports, reports,’ said Loftus, riffling through the papers on the desk. He picked up one after another, many of them in code, then snapped his fingers. ‘I’m crazy. I’ll ‘phone Miller.’ He dialled Scotland Yard, and in a few seconds was speaking to the Superintendent. He put two pertinent questions, and Hammond saw that his eyes brightened while his manner grew tense.

  ‘You’re sure ... yes, of course ... good man!’

  ‘It fits all right,’ he said very gently. ‘There is confirmation that Ferdinand—surname, Clay—was indeed keen on Hilary, and as jealous as they make ‘em. Miller’s been able to get a pretty clear picture of the association, and the evidence is that in spite of Ferdinand’s faithfulness the girl didn’t care a hoot for him.’

  ‘Anything about his other friends?’ Hammond asked.

  ‘Nothing as yet that might help us,’ said Loftus, impressed by Hammond’s lack of cock-crowing.

  Hammond lit a cigarette. ‘The search for Craigie still top priority?’

  ‘As far as it can be. Until he turns up, I’ll be in the office to collate the reports. And you?’

  ‘Getting those doctors,’ said Hammond. ‘I’d like a word with them in person first, particularly Grunfelt.’

  He reached for his hat, but before going out the telephone rang. He paused, hearing a voice that he recognised but which held a ring of such urgency that he was startled.

  ‘Miller here,’ said Superintendent Miller. ‘Where’s Loftus?’

  ‘Coming,’ said Hammond, as Loftus approached him. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Trouble! Muire, Cator and Uppingham were killed in Crayshaw’s office this morning. Crayshaw was late for a meeting. It looks as if he just missed it.’

  Hammond said quietly: ‘How was it done?’

  ‘A lung irritant poison, we don’t know which one yet.’

  Hammond passed over the telephone after giving Loftus the gist of what Miller had said. Loftus spoke once or twice, and then said:

  ‘Crayshaw came here, instead of going to the meeting, I think. But wait a minute, Miller—Uppingham, Muire and Cator were ... oh, all right.’

  He rang off, looking at Hammond.

  ‘He’s had to go, but you’ll do as an audience instead.’ He paused, and Hammond waited with no visible impatience. Then: ‘The three dead men were all friends of Crayshaw’s, very nearly his only friends. Were they killed because of that? Or were they killed without Crayshaw because he had Hilary on his mind, and came here?’

  Hammond said slowly: ‘Search me. They could have been killed because they were prospective delegates to the conference, you know.’ He pursed his lips, shrugged, and then said: ‘We’d better let it settle down to the right level, Bill. I’m really going for those doctors.’

  When he had gone, Loftus smiled a little one-sidedly, reflecting that Hammond reacted to new discoveries and outrages in much the same way. He refused to be rushed into theories, creating the impression that whatever developed was not for the moment of great importance.

  ‘But he’ll be worrying it like a dog a bone,’ Loftus said aloud.

  It was some four hours afterwards that Hammond telephoned with several matters for attention. In the first place, Marion Caroll was in London, and Hilary was at his, Hammond’s flat. The two doctors had agreed on their opinion: Crayshaw’s daughter was suffering from the effects of a drug not yet diagnosed, and her alternative fits of hysteria and acute depression were almost certainly due to a recent lack of supplies.

  ‘It looks as if she was expecting to get some from the fellow in Hyde Park,’ Hammond said. ‘By the way, Grunfelt’s all right. I nearly laughed when I saw him. I’d pictured a teutonic head and a guttural accent, but he’s a three-generation Englishman. A prominent psychiatrist as far as I can make out, and he’s treated Hilary for some eighteen months. Both he and the other fellow say that rest and nursing will pull her round. She’s in a coma at the moment.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Loftus.

  ‘The poison on the arrows is being checked at Scotland Yard; it’s not one of the more common ones, but we didn’t think it would be. There’s nothing in the pockets of either man to help us. Names cut out of clothes and the usual precautions, although the suit was nearly new, and Miller is trying to trace it. The man Eric has been identified—a young artist of the “my-worth-isn’t appreciated” persuasion, very hard up until a few months ago, when he started throwing money about.’ Hammond paused, and then went on quietly: ‘I’ve just had an idea, Bill. Will you find out whether the Brice fellow at Weymouth, knew either Ferdinand Clay or this Eric Hammerton?’

  ‘Yes,’ promised Loftus promptly.

  ‘Thanks. I think that’s the lot for now. No news your end, I suppose?’

  ‘Not a ruddy trace,’ said Loftus bitterly. ‘We have learned that gas was smelt near the door last night. There’s not much doubt they gassed him and took him off. A car went out of the road a few minutes afterwards, but no-one knows whose it was or how many occupants were in it.’

  ‘Where was Craigie last seen?’ asked Hammond.

  Loftus said: ‘At Number 10, Downing Street, as far as I can find out. Hershall’s personally given the order to find Craigie at all costs, and he’s promised to come to the office before the day’s out. Do you want to be here?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Hammond, ‘unless he wants to see me.’

  They rang off, and in his flat Hammond turned to Marion Caroll.

  The girl was standing in the threshold of the room; he could see the end of the bed behind her.

  ‘No luck?’ she said.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hammond.

  He had told her that Craigie had gone, had told her also something, although not all, of the purposes of Department Z. He had outlined the present problem, surprising himself by the freedom with which he talked. She had taken the inference quickly: first Emile, then Hilary, were in danger because they knew something of importance, and Hammond wanted to know what it was.

  He had a queer feeling that she was much happier than when he had first seen her.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ Marion said, ‘and much quieter. It might be several hours before she wakes up. Is there anything I can do?’

  Hammond said: ‘Do you have to wear that uniform?’

  She laughed at the unexpectedness of the question.

  ‘It’s usual, Mr. Hammond.’

  ‘When I start being conventional I’ll give up,’ said Hammond, and much of the weight and anxiety in his mind faded. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t any other clothes with you?’

  ‘I can’t wear——’

  ‘Yes, you can. You’re working for me, and it’s an order.’ His eyes laughed at her. ‘There’s something about the uniform that absolutely prohibits me from calling you Marion!’ He went on more soberly: ‘I’m counting a lot on you. I’m backing a conviction that we’ll get at the truth through Hilary Crayshaw and Emile. Emile’s done his part, Hilary’s to follow. When she comes round, she’ll confide in a girl she’ll have the nerve to think is her own kind, but to confide in a
nurse might be less appealing.’

  ‘All right, I’ll change,’ said Marion.

  Hammond watched her withdraw, then leaned back with his eyes closed, letting his mind run methodically over every item reported to him or learned by him in the past forty-eight hours. Why, he wondered, had three of Crayshaw’s closest friends been murdered? Was it coincidental, or was there a connection? He heard Marion return to the room, and opened his eyes.

  ‘No, I’m not asleep,’ he assured her. ‘And I’d just about reached the end of the thinking process, if it is a process.’ He stood up, looking at her with unfeigned interest and appreciation. ‘My dear girl, it was a crime indeed to put on that sack they call a uniform!’

  He had known she was lovely but had not realised how a woman’s individuality could be diminished by uniformity of dress. Even her hair looked different, conscious of having shaken off an iron restriction.

  She smiled, but ignored the comment.

  ‘Any sound from the patient?’ she said.

  ‘No nothing at all.’

  ‘I’d better have a look at her,’ said Marion, and moving back to the girl’s room, opened the door. Hammond, behind her, saw, almost simultaneously, the dangling legs and brightly polished black shoes.

  The shoes were on a level with Marion’s head, and their wearer was suspended from the ceiling.

  There was a brief second of silence before Hammond snapped: ‘Get behind me!’ moving forward so quickly that Marion hardly realised what was happening.

  She did not see the gun in his hand, and ignoring the order she leapt toward the bed, where Hilary was lying. She heard a muffled report and a gasp from somewhere near the ceiling. Another, and the gasp was repeated, while the legs and the shoes sagged drunkenly.

  Hammond went forward, reaching up with his left hand and grabbing an ankle.

  The man suspended from a rope coming from a hole in the ceiling was kicking in a frenzy of pain and terror. From above there was no other sound, and Hammond’s fear that there might be an answering shot from the hole, which was a little more than a foot square, receded. He pocketed his gun, put his right hand to support his left, and tugged with all his strength.