The Department of Death

by John Creasey

  Grant looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was exactly ten minutes to eight. He stayed in the car. A taxi drew up on the other side of the approach to the steps and a man climbed out; the door slammed. When the cab moved off, Grant saw the tall, imposing figure of von Barlack, the white beard and moustache alike unmistakable. He got out of the car and walked across the road, and von Barlack came towards him quickly, eagerly. Only then did it come to Grant that on a dark night, any man of von Barlack’s figure could put on a false beard and moustache and pass for the old man. He was too slow in the uptake.

  “Now, please,” the man said gruffly. He sounded like von Barlack. “Take me to my wife.”

  As he finished speaking a shot came out of the misty darkness, the crack of the report loud, the flash dimmed by the fog.

  10 / The Frightened Foreign Minister

  Grant felt the bullet tear through his coat. He thrust von Barlack away from him, against the wall, dodged to one side and dropped his hand to his pocket for his own gun. Another shot rang out and the bullet smacked into the pavement as dark figures leapt across the road. Next, a fusillade of shots rang out from two directions. Not far off a woman screamed and a man shouted: “Oil”. Grant saw several running figures converge on the corner, where a shadowy figure stood, gun in hand. The assassin?

  The man at the corner turned and ran, heavy footsteps thudded on the pavement. The engine of a car roared, the car swung out of the approach to the steps towards the corner.

  Someone called: “All right, look after him!”

  Von Barlack was standing against the wall. Grant took his arm and felt him trembling.

  “Are you hurt?”

  The Foreign Minister didn’t answer.

  “Come on,” growled Grant, and tugged at his sleeve.

  Von Barlack followed without a protest; his breath wheezed into his lungs as if he were asthmatic. At Grant’s car, he stopped and tried ineffectually to free himself from Grant’s grip.

  “This—this is outrageous.” It was only a bleat—the bleat of a frightened man; yet von Barlack had for years defied the Nazis and had shown a lion’s courage.

  Grant opened the door.

  “Get in!”

  Von Barlack climbed in; Grant slammed the door and hurried round to the other side. No one approached; men were still running along Carlton House Terrace, and a police whistle shrilled out. Grant let in the clutch and swung the car away from the kerb. Von Barlack overflowed from his seat, and his arm, still trembling, touched Grant’s. The trembling continued as they drove along Pall Mall, then turned into Charing Cross Road and left towards Crane Court.

  A woman stood at the corner of the court—the woman who had been there before. She didn’t speak.

  His hand on von Barlack’s elbow, Grant reached Number 19. The door was still ajar; he pushed it cautiously, and called: “All clear?”

  “Parlour’s empty.”

  It was Faraday’s voice, so nothing had gone wrong here. He was prepared for everything to go amiss.

  Von Barlack spoke for the first time since the shooting.

  “My wife—I must see my wife.”

  “You’ll see her if you do what I tell you.”

  Grant pushed him inside, unceremoniously. A door on the left was ajar and a light shone into the hall. The room beyond, small and comfortably furnished, was empty. Whisky, gin, rum, brandy, and liqueurs stood on a small sideboard, with an array of glasses which twinkled brightly under the light.

  “Is she here?” The Foreign Minister’s voice was hoarse, the wheezing made a bubbly sound.

  “You’ll see her, eventually, if—”

  “Grant, I must see her!”

  Unsteady hands clutched at Grant’s shoulders.

  He thought again of all he knew and had been told about von Barlack. This was the man who had defied the Nazis for years, taking his life in his hands. He had escaped capture by the skin of his teeth and continued sturdy resistance in Great Britain. Yet this man who did not know the meaning of fear had appeared to crack up twice in the past few hours. First, when Hilde had burst in; next, after the shooting.

  Grant poured him out some brandy and took it to him. The brandy swayed up and down inside the glass as the old man carried it to his lips. He drank eagerly, gasped, and dropped the glass. It hit the carpet lightly and didn’t smash. Then he sat down and closed his eyes. His face had the pallor of death, and the asthmatic breathing bubbled through the room. The back of his head was bald, pink and shiny.

  Could anyone act like this?

  He spoke without opening his eyes.

  “I must see my wife, Grant; I will do anything—anything to see her. You must not be cruel. I am an old man. Old and failing. I have tried, I have tried so hard, but now—I shall not be able to go on much more. Please, bring my wife to me.”

  Grant said: “She isn’t here.”

  The old eyes opened and seemed to be filled with reproach. But was he digging for information? Supposing he thought Grant a representative of some espionage system or a fanatic; it would be in character for him to try to find out the truth himself.

  “So you lied to me,” he sighed.

  “I did nothing of the kind. I have to accept orders. If you’ll do what I want, you’ll see your wife.

  But would anyone ever see her again? Was there any certainty that she was alive? Grant found his thoughts wandering, and stopped the trend abruptly.

  Von Barlack stared at him with lack-lustre eyes. When at last he spoke again, it was heavily; fearfully.

  “What is it you want?”

  “You know what I want. Why deny it?”

  The old eyes looked very tired.

  “No,” he said. “No, I can’t give you that. No, I can’t give you that, it isn’t possible.”

  “You tell me what we want to know, or you will never see your wife again.”

  Grant felt like a hero in a melodrama; yet the tired old man gave this moment a touch of realism.

  “It is impossible,” he said. “Not even for her. I cannot betray—I must not betray—such secrets as that. No, I cannot tell you.” He sighed.

  Grant said harshly: “Have you ever seen a young, lovely woman die—screaming in agony?”

  Von Barlack started up.

  “No! Don’t talk—”

  “Have you ever seen them tortured?”

  Von Barlack put his hands on the arms of his chair and thrust himself forward. He raised his hands and smashed them into Grant’s face—and there was surprising strength in him. He struck again, but Grant was on his guard now, grabbed his hands and held them tightly. The two men stood close together. The old man’s breathing became convulsive, as if each intake hurt him. His mouth was open and his eyes were dazed, yet still Grant wasn’t sure of him.

  Grant pushed the old man into the chair, went to the sideboard and poured out more brandy. He brought it back to von Barlack, who took it but did not drink immediately. He groped in his pockets, first one, then another. Grant offered him a cigarette. He shook his head, took out a pipe and put it to his lips, where it hung dark against the snowy white beard. He didn’t fill or make any attempt to light it; Grant was reminded of Craigie, sucking an empty meerschaum.

  “No one wants to hurt your wife, your Excellency. But we must have this information.”

  Von Barlack said huskily: “No, I will not tell you. I cannot betray secrets of the military plans of the Congress, I cannot do it.” He squared his shoulders. “I will not do it, Grant. You cannot persuade me. If I have to watch her being tortured, I shall say no word. The offer of money and the making of threats will make no difference; nothing will unseal my lips. I shall disclose no military secrets—none at all.”

  It sounded wonderful...

  Craigie replaced the telephone in the office of Department Z and looked across at Loftus, who sat at the smaller desk.

  “That was Grant. Von Barlack says that he’s been approached to give away military information covering the European De
fence Pact. If that’s true, we know what they’re after. Grant says the old man refused, in spite of pretty grim threats. He seems to believe that Grant and his accomplices have custody of his wife, and is prepared to let them do what they like to her, but won’t give anything away. Sounds like the truth.”

  Loftus nodded.

  Craigie stretched out for the telephone and put in a call to Crane Court. He spoke to Faraday at some length.

  Faraday exclaimed: “What!” and afterwards burst into a laugh. “Wonderful! The old boy will hardly realize who’s rescued him!”

  Craigie smiled as he replaced the receiver, and Loftus said: “Faraday’s good.”

  “Few better. Grant’s one of the few.”

  Loftus said: “I don’t think we’ve a man to touch him. He’s got a flair and he’ll hold on like a bulldog.”

  “Just as well.” Craigie was obviously thinking on another tack. “You’ve got to break down Walsh’s resistance, Bill. Sorry. I know it’s ugly to get really tough, but we’ve got to do it. Gloves off, no punches to be pulled. If von Barlack really thinks his wife is headed for the torture chamber, he’s in hell and we put him there. If she isn’t—”

  “She could be working against him.” The obvious needed saying.

  “But if she were, wouldn’t she have wormed his secrets out of him by now? Would all this be necessary?”

  Loftus shrugged. “Let’s wait until the old boy comes here and see what he has to say.”

  “I’m going to see him at the Majestic,” Craigie said, and put on his hat and coat.

  “Going alone?”

  “Faraday’s meeting me there, taking von Barlack.”

  Craigie reached the hotel ten minutes before von Barlack arrived, in Faraday’s car. Once they reached the entrance to the suite, a swarm of men appeared—the tall man and the little dapper man, the brutish bodyguard and guards in uniform as well as a host of minor officials, all with the same cry: “His Excellency is back!” It was a royal procession as von Barlack walked heavily along the passage, waving them aside. He went into his drawingroom with Faraday and allowed only Craigie and the tall man to enter with them. He went slowly to an arm-chair, lowered himself into it and pressed his right hand against his forehead. He looked old and broken; the expression on the tall secretary’s face was not far removed from horror.

  Craigie asked the same silent questions as Grant.

  Von Barlack looked up; his eyes were bloodshot.

  “I understand that—your men were following me, Mr. Craigie. But for you—”

  “Our job,” Craigie said, and made it sound casual.

  “Yes, yes. Your job to look after silly old men. That is what I am, Mr. Craigie—a silly old man. And I am tired. It has been difficult enough to cope with all the work, to break the resistance which unity has met in other countries as well as within my own small one. But when one fights a battle on two fronts, it is much more difficult. Much more. I shall resign.”

  “Excellency!” The tall man came forward, hands raised.

  “Yes, I shall resign. But I cannot resign from all my responsibilities. I cannot forget what I know, and these devils will plague me to make me talk. Yes, they will plague me. There is one good thing—one very good thing.”

  He lowered his head and appeared to brood. All the time he had talked as if he were uttering his thoughts aloud, unaware of the others listening. The tall aide moved forward; Craigie waved him back.

  Von Barlack looked up.

  “I have been disloyal to her. It is a terrible thing. I believed she was trying to find out what I can tell them. I believed she was their tool. Marlene.” His eyes opened very wide. “Marlene! My wife. You must find my wife, they will torture her, they will—”

  He broke off, there was a choking noise in his throat, and he drooped forward, his head on his chest. The tall man pushed past Craigie, and Faraday raised his eyebrows.

  “Not good,” he whispered. “Or too good?”

  “I don’t know,” said Craigie. “I do know he’s ill.”

  Three doctors were summoned during the next two hours, for von Barlack had a stroke. They conferred, were puzzled, said he would probably live, talked of great doctors who should be consulted.

  Grant woke, saw daylight and realized it was morning. He was in his own bed, nothing could be more normal. Nothing! He got up, thinking of von Barlack as if sleep had not interrupted him. He had talked to Craigie, learning a little; now he read the newspapers, and if he could believe them, knew a lot more. That von Barlack had collapsed under the great strain of recent negotiations—in fact, under his questioning. A lot of people would say he was to blame; that the old man had broken down because of the threats to his wife.

  Had von Barlack really suspected his wife, as he had told Craigie?

  Find Marlene, and find the truth. She held the secret, but—there wasn’t a clue to her present hiding-place.

  The whole of the Department would be looking for her as well as the whole of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard. But he couldn’t rely on results from anyone else, this was his job and he had to start from scratch, except—possibly—for Hilde Neilsen. Hilde had been in von Barlack’s suite, sight of her had first affected the old man.

  The next step, then: see Hilde. Grant telephoned Craigie, learned that Hilde Neilsen was being watched, but no action had yet been taken against her. She had a comparatively minor post at the Novian Embassy and lived at a woman’s hostel run by the Embassy. The hostel was near Victoria.

  Grant made a mental note of the address, then said: “I need another car, better not use my own.”

  “There’ll be one outside your flat in half an hour. The keys will be in the door pocket next to the wheel,” Craigie promised.

  The car was a rakish-looking Lancia, some ten years old. Grant tried the engine, felt its power.

  It was ten o’clock when he drove off.

  He turned into the hostel road and saw the hostel on the right-hand side. It had a notice up, in Novian and in English. It was ten-thirty; the girl was probably already at the Embassy.

  He parked the car at the end of the road, facing the hostel. This might be a long vigil—and might be over in a few minutes. He turned possibilities over in his mind ceaselessly. If Hilde Neilsen came out, he could drive after her, perhaps force her into the car. When in difficulty, be daring!

  This was a quiet street, not far from the station; there was no telephone kiosk in sight, or he would have telephoned to find out whether she were at home or not.

  He had been there for less than twenty minutes when Hilde came out, and his heart began to thump.

  She stood on the steps of the hostel, glancing in each direction, then hurried down and walked towards Victoria Street. She moved freely and gracefully—small-waisted and slim-hipped for a woman. She had nice legs, and you would notice and admire her anywhere.

  She was obviously in a hurry.

  Grant let in the clutch and started after her. There wasn’t much to be lost by taking a chance.

  11 / Hllde

  He stopped a few yards in front of her, opened the window and, with his hat pulled low over his eyes, called: “Excuse me.”

  She shot him a quick, nervous glance.

  “Yes?”

  “I am looking for Ebury Street”

  “Please, I am a stranger.”

  Grant took his right hand out of his pocket and showed her his gun. That was all.

  She breathed: “No!”

  “Get into the car,” he said, and leaned across and opened the door.

  She stood absolutely still.

  “Get in,” he repeated.

  “No!”

  “I am told to get you alive or dead.”

  A man turned the corner and came swiftly towards them, swinging an umbrella. Grant caught sight of the gamp and remembered the man in dark grey, who had watched him. This wasn’t the same man; his footsteps rang out sharply. Hilde glanced at him, then back at Grant. If she called out, if sh
e ran, then this would be another job bungled.

  The man stared at her curiously; as any man might.

  She stepped forward, so that he could pass behind her.

  Grant said: “You’re being sensible. Just get in: I won’t hurt you.”

  She bent down and climbed in beside him. He leaned across her, slammed the door and started the car almost at the same moment. She stared straight ahead of her, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her body was tense and rigid.

  Grant said: “Have you read the newspapers this morning?”

  “Y-yes.”

  “About His Excellency?”

  She shot him an agonized glance.

  Grant turned the corner and drove to his flat. He left the car outside and, with his hands on Hilde’s arm, went inside.

  Hilde stood in a corner of the lift, as if she were trying to press herself through the panels, as they shot upwards. The step out was high; she stumbled. Grant supported her, as he turned the key in his door. The reception of the previous day, vivid in his mind, made him ultra-cautious. He thrust the door open and stood to one side, the gun inside his pocket. No one appeared. Inside the small hall, he closed the door, led her into the living-room, and then glanced quickly into every other room. The flat was empty.

  He tossed his hat to a chair, thrust his hands into his pockets, and watched her until her hands were white with the tension of clenching.

  “Remember me?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  “I carried your dancing partner away the other night.” She flinched. “And I was in His Excellency’s room when you came in yesterday. How much did you have to do with his collapse?”

  A word burst from her. “Nothing!” She made it sound slightly like “nodding”; her English was good but the accent marked.

  “Sit down, Hilde.”

  She obeyed and he crossed to the mantelpiece and stood looking down on her. He lit a cigarette, but forgot to give her one.