The Day of Disaster

by John Creasey

  Hammond leaned forward.

  ‘They’ll run into the police,’ he said. ‘So will Fryer’s tommy-gun gents. We’ll have had full value when it’s over.’

  The faint haze which had filled the room began to clear.

  Of the crowd, no more than a dozen had kept their places; all of them wore gas-masks, and all, Marion imagined, were the decent-looking couples who had been so noticeably out of place.

  Hammond pushed his chair back and stood up.

  ‘That’s the end of the performance, I think,’ he said. ‘We’ll be able to take our masks off in a few minutes.’ As he spoke, the last of the crowd disappeared, and the Errols, with the rest of the Department Z men, sauntered towards the middle of the room.

  ‘Good show,’ Mike Errol said, his voice distorted by his mask. ‘Value for money, eh, Bruce?’

  Then he looked reproachfully towards Marion, who had started to laugh.

  It was a little before midnight.

  The revelry at the Lamplighter had been over for nearly two hours. The few people who had been there for genuine enjoyment had been released, most of them more than willing to admit that whatever measures had been taken to clean up the Lamplighter were justified. The police were in possession of the place, while Hammond had asked Superintendent Miller how it had been possible for the club to be as blatant a dope-house as London could have had for years.

  Miller, a large, dusty-looking man, who fitted his name to perfection, was in Hammond’s flat, where Marion, the Errols and a few others of the Department’s men had gathered together. Fryer was in the spare room, where Hilary had been. He had regained consciousness, but was tied to the bed; Hammond had considered it wise to keep him in some uncertainty as to his immediate fate.

  Miller brushed back his moustache as Hammond put the question about the police failure to close up the Lampllghter.

  ‘It’s only been open ten days,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard fairly disquieting rumours, and were planning a raid. Can’t say any more than that, Mr. Hammond.’ He spoke in the severe, but restrained, tones of one who considered the matter to be none of Hammond’s business.

  ‘All right, no recriminations! Your men will probably sweep up more than a dusting of cocaine off the floor—and what about the tommy-gun merchants?’

  ‘There were eight of them,’ Miller said, and smiled appreciatively. ‘The tear-gas was quite an idea.’

  ‘English?’ Hammond asked.

  Miller scowled. ‘Excepting a couple of Irishmen, yes. What I want to know is, where did they get the guns?’

  ‘That’s an interesting point,’ said Hammond slowly, ‘but I’ll risk one guess. The Home Guard command, where this trouble first started, has probably had its stores raided. I wish——’ he paused. ‘Well, that doesn’t matter. We’ll check if any equipment is missing from Dorset.’ He was looking at Miller yet hardly seeing him, and Miller appeared to understand that he was thinking further ahead than the events of the Lamplighter.

  The Superintendent stood up.

  ‘I’ll be getting along,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything else you want, let me know. I’ll be at the Yard most of the night I fancy,’ he added lugubriously. ‘There never is much sleep when you fellows get around.’

  He nodded in a resigned way as he went out.

  Marion watched Hammond, but did not speak. She felt the eyes of the Errols turned towards her, and saw that Mike held a finger to his lips, exhorting silence.

  She was amazed at the thoroughness with which the raid on the Lamplighter had been carried out. She realised that Hammond had had one thing in mind all along, and everything and everyone must be bent to that purpose. It was a little frightening, particularly from a man who appeared lazy, good humoured, and just a little too handsome to be anything but a play-boy.

  Now, he beamed on all of them. ‘There’s good children,’ he said. ‘Not a squeak out of any of you. Has anyone any ideas?’

  Mike crossed his legs.

  ‘If you haven’t thought enough for the lot of us,’ he began, ‘you——’

  ‘Ought to be summoned for false pretences,’ completed Mark spiritedly.

  ‘Who wants ideas, anyhow?’ demanded Davidson. He was the tall, calm man Marion had seen following Loftus from the flat earlier in the day. Carruthers she already knew comparatively well. He was wider awake than Davidson, and was smoothing down his fair hair while leaning as far back in an easy chair as the chair permitted.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Mike slowly.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Mark.

  ‘If we had some beer——’

  Wally Davidson sat upright abruptly.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘Mark said what about you going to get some beer?’ said Carruthers mildly.

  ‘Oh!’ Davidson spoke disgustedly. ‘Why can’t he speak clearly? I thought he said would I have some.’ He settled back in the chair, while Hammond levered himself up from the arms of his, and went towards his cocktail cabinet.

  ‘I got some in,’ he said. ‘Drink away, chaps. I’m going to see Fryer.’

  Mike said quickly: ‘Do you want——’

  ‘Any help?’ completed Mark.

  ‘From anyone?’ added Carruthers.

  ‘Not yet,’ said Hammond. ‘Not yet, just get yourselves drunk.’

  He pushed open the bedroom door, then closed it behind him.

  ‘Fryer, I made Esteven talk without much trouble, but I expect to have more bother from you. I may as well tell you from the start, it won’t be any good, because I intend to get from you what I want.’

  Fryer said nothing; there was venom in his dark eyes. Hammond’s voice went on, almost expressionlessly, except that it held a deadly note. ‘Don’t kid yourself with the belief that it can’t happen here, Fryer. You see, I’ve spent a lot of time in France recently. I was in France when the Huns came. I saw a lot of things that I won’t forget, no matter how long I live. And,’ went on Hammond, very slowly, ‘I told myself that whenever the chance came to pay a little back, in kind, I’d take it. You’re supposed to be an American, Fryer, but you’re a Hun, and you’re a Nazi. It doesn’t matter what I do to you, I can’t pay back more than a fraction of what the French owe the Huns.’

  He stopped, and Fryer muttered: ‘You wouldn’t dare! You’re in England——’

  Hammond said: ‘On the contrary, I would.’

  Then, very slowly, he went to the door and turned the key in the lock.

  18

  Means of Persuasion

  Marion heard the key turn in the lock. So did the others, as they draped themselves about the settee and armchairs, each holding a glass of beer.

  Little sound came from the other room.

  The conversation in the lounge was desultory. Marion imagined that the four men knew what Hammond was doing; she had a fair idea herself. She had seen him make Esteven talk, and she believed that Fryer would be a more difficult subject.

  She thought of all he had told her, and all that she had learned from other sources. She knew the vital importance of finding an early solution to the problem; she knew the importance of finding out before the twenty-first of April four days hence.

  Then abruptly the door opened.

  Hammond came through, in his shirt-sleeves. His face was very pale, and before speaking he went to the cabinet and helped himself to a strong whisky. He drank it slowly, and some of his colour returned. Finishing the drink, he lit a cigarette.

  ‘We’re making progress,’ he said, ‘good progress. One of the answers is in the Home Guard. I thought it was. Fryer’s managed to get a squad of men in the section down there who’ll do what he wants—actually they always worked for him, and for Berlin.’ Hammond was speaking swiftly. ‘He’s named them; I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble that end.’

  Mike Errol said: ‘Good work, Bruce. Anything else?’

  ‘Cavendish’s place was fired to try to make sure that the meeting takes place at Crayshaw’s home,
that’s also ascertained. Another thing——’ he smiled a little. ‘Bill will be sending in a good report soon, I think.’

  Mark snapped: ‘What do you mean?’ The others leaned forward quickly and Marion was affected by the sudden tension. ‘The body with his papers was planted, because they wanted us to think Craigie was dead. They’ve got him, and they want to squeeze information out of him.’ His smile seemed to freeze on his lips, then. ‘Fryer doesn’t know where he is.’

  Mark snapped: ‘The swine may be lying——’

  Hammond looked at him oddly.

  ‘No. Fryer won’t lie any more just now,’ he said, and left that subject abruptly. ‘There’s someone else in this, but Fryer doesn’t know who. We’ll find out, please God, before they start on Craigie. Because if they start on Craigie, they won’t use amateurs in the art of persuasion.’ He paused, and the silence was absolute. Then he went on: ‘I’ll get things going with the H.G. people, and get that squad under arrest. Fryer seems to think they were relying on the squad for the big job on the twenty-first. He doesn’t know what the big job is,’ he added. ‘He only knows what I know. It’s either to do with the manoeuvres or the conference. We’ve got four days to find out.’

  To Marion Caroll, the next two days were bewildering, and she did little that appeared to contribute anything towards the problem.

  She saw Hammond only occasionally.

  He went down to Weymouth, she knew, and six men were put under close arrest. He called on Hilary Crayshaw who was in a nursing-home near Piccadilly, each time with Marion. The girl was no longer delirious, although it was obvious that she was ill. She stuck to her story that she had lost the cross which her father had given her. She knew of no reason why she should have been attacked.

  Once Marion had seen Loftus. He had been able to satisfy himself that the dead body was not that of Gordon Craigie, but unable to identify either of the dead men. All the servants and members of the Cavendish family who had been at the Hall were accounted for.

  Cavendish himself had been in London.

  Loftus, Marion knew, was in Craigie’s office, trying to co-ordinate the information which reached him from all manner of places. Marion gained a glimpse, a small glimpse, into the wide-spread activities of the Department. She learned a little more when Lois and Christine spent a flying visit to London, and they lunched together at Hammond’s flat which, for the time being at least, was more Marion’s than his.

  Marion wished she had something more definite to do.

  She was relieved that Emile was improving, touched that he frequently demanded to see her, and yet worried lest any further attack should be made on him. None, so far, had been attempted, and no further effort had been made to get at Hilary Crayshaw.

  It was about mid-day on the nineteenth of April that the telephone rang. Marion raised the receiver, and heard Hershall’s voice say abruptly: ‘Give me Hammond, please.’

  Hearing Hammond entering the flat at the moment, Marion covered the mouthpiece and called out urgently: ‘It’s the Prime Minister!’

  ‘Thanks.’ He took the receiver. ‘Hammond speaking, sir.’

  ‘Well?’ asked Hershall without wasting time.

  ‘There’s nothing more definite to report,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Hm.’ A pause. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Go ahead as arranged, please.’

  ‘At Crayshaw’s?’

  ‘Definitely.’ Hammond spoke without hesitation. ‘No purpose can be served by altering arrangements at this stage. If anything transpires at the last minute there can be a cancellation, I suppose?’

  ‘I don’t want to leave anything to the last minute,’ said Hershall. Then more slowly: ‘Hammond, you’re not making any mistake, are you?’

  ‘Has Crayshaw been protesting?’ asked Hammond, and Marion watched the way his jaw tightened.

  ‘I’m told that he’s been followed, that he’s watched wherever he goes,’ said Hershall. ‘I haven’t seen him myself, Hammond, but——’ the Prime Minister paused.

  Hammond said slowly: ‘I think it would be a good idea, sir, if you told him that the police have reason to believe that his life is in danger, and that he’s being protected. That should cover all reasonable queries, and help us to work.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hershall crisply. He paused. ‘I wish I had more time to discuss it——’

  ‘I don’t think it will be long now, sir.’

  ‘I hope not,’ said Hershall. ‘I certainly hope not.’

  He rang off, and Hammond replaced the receiver, smiling a little. He turned to Marion. ‘Crayshaw’s getting worried, darling, he’s worried enough to put in a plaintive protest—though not in person—to the Prime Minister.’

  ‘Why are you so sure it’s Crayshaw?’ asked Marion.

  ‘Sure?’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t quite know why, I don’t even know that I am, but everything points towards it. He could be implicated indirectly, but I don’t think so. Of course——’ He paused, and Marion said a moment later:

  ‘Bruce, you’re the most irritating man in the world!’

  ‘Marion,’ said Hammond easily, ‘was that merely a sweeping generalisation, or a personal complaint?’

  ‘Oh, very definitely a personal complaint. You were on the point of telling me what you really think. You never have reached farther than that.’

  Hammond smiled. ‘That’s true enough. I nearly told you then, and thought better of it. I haven’t told the others, because I can’t offer anything in the way of proof. I would tell you, but I think the knowledge might be dangerous. Have you prepared anything for lunch?’

  ‘Not yet. I was going to——’

  ‘Don’t dare suggest a snack,’ said Hammond. ‘We’ll try the Regal. I’m hungry, and you’ll pine away if you go on having cups of tea because there’s no one here to enjoy a square meal with you. Hat and coat, powder and paint. Away with you—damn!’

  He broke off at the ringing of the telephone. Marion, already halfway to the bedroom, paused as he answered it. Eager at the thought of lunching with him, she had stopped asking herself why her heart always leapt when he entered the room. So far she had not admitted to herself that she was in love.

  He was a dangerous man to love; and in any case there was little likelihood that he would feel that way about her. She had never known a man so utterly possessed by his work.

  She expected the telephone to bring word that he was wanted elsewhere, and was prepared to meet an expression of real, or assumed, regret. Instead, he put down the receiver with a grin of boyish triumph, and danced across the room, seizing her round the waist.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded urgently. ‘Don’t be a beast, Bruce, what is it?’

  ‘Invitation to a waltz,’ said Hammond. ‘In other words a luncheon party for three. You’re coming with me, my sweet, to Sir Noel Crayshaw’s Audeley Street house. There is a matter he wants to discuss.’

  Hammond was thinking of the first time he had entered Crayshaw’s house, when he had carried Hilary over the threshold, and then heard a story he had wanted to disbelieve, but which everyone assured him was true—even Hilary herself. He recognised the aged servant who opened the front door and then led the way to a large room on the left.

  Crayshaw was standing in front of the vast fireplace. Hammond eyed the well-knit figure, the dark, rather old-fashioned clothes, the deep blue eyes, with something akin to respect. There was power in Crayshaw; Hershall had it, he knew other men, though not many, who emanated the same kind of aura.

  Crayshaw’s greying beard and moustache made him look like a Frenchman of the early 1900’s; in his gesture as he welcomed them there was also a Gallic touch.

  ‘How do you do, Miss Caroll—and you, Mr. Hammond? And what will you drink?’

  ‘Sherry, please,’ said Marion.

  ‘If there is a whisky and soda, thanks,’ said Hammond.

  ‘Miss Caroll is wise, I think. Sherry is the only drink that does not affect good food.�
�� He smiled, as he handed Hammond the whisky. ‘Mr. Hammond, your concern for me is—shall we say?—a kindly thought, but I wanted to see you in the hope that I could persuade you that it is unnecessary.’

  Hammond smiled in return. ‘You can’t be too sure of that, can you?’

  ‘Reasonably so,’ murmured Crayshaw.

  ‘Each man has his own interpretation of what is reasonable,’ said Hammond easily. ‘I must remind you that your view that your daughter’s hanging was self-inflicted was contrary to mine. There is ample evidence now that you were wrong.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Crayshaw’s manner suggested a mild interest but no real concern for what had happened to Hilary.

  ‘There have also been other attacks on her life.’

  ‘I was not advised of them,’ said Crayshaw sharply.

  ‘We hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to worry you,’ Hammond said. ‘The attacks were frustrated, and she is now in a place where she will be safe from any further attempts. But you will readily see, sir, the possibility that if she is in danger, you are also.’

  ‘I hardly see why,’ said Crayshaw.

  ‘We—ell,’ said Hammond, ‘I have to take some decisions on my own. This is one. By the way, how did you know that my men were watching you?’

  Crayshaw said suavely: ‘I was recently advised that the police had taken this interest in me, and I wondered why. Immediately I knew the theory on which they were working, I wondered if you could be in any way implicated. And a few inquiries——’ Crayshaw smiled, ‘elicited the obvious result. So I asked you to lunch, the better to discuss the matter. Aren’t you convinced, Mr. Hammond, that I can take care of myself?’

  ‘No,’ said Bruce bluntly.

  ‘You are very downright,’ murmured Crayshaw.

  ‘There isn’t much point in beating about the bush,’ said Hammond, smiling amiably. ‘I have to be careful, Crayshaw; I can’t take too many chances. Today, for instance, I was followed by two men, just in case an attack should be made on me while coming here, or going away.’