by John Creasey
“He’s coming.”
Loftus got up, limped to one of the filing-cabinets and took out a file of large, glossy photographs. They portrayed all the leading members of the delegations to the Congress. He selected two of M. Benot—a full face and a profile—and studied them. Then he went to another cabinet and took out photographs of Mason, the agent whom he and Craigie thought most like Benot in appearance. There was no more than a slight likeness, but both men were tall and slender.
“I’ll go and see Mason right away,” he said.
Craigie nodded, as if he were deep in other thoughts. Loftus pressed the bell-push near the mantelpiece and the sliding doors opened. He went out, and they closed silently behind him.
Craigie got up and went to his arm-chair, taking Grant’s letter with him. He was reading it again when a green light glowed beneath the mantelpiece.
When the doors opened, a short, dark-haired man with a pale face and a dark moustache came in briskly. He smiled, but it was more of a movement of his lips than in his eyes. He looked tired to the point of exhaustion.
Craigie stood up at once, and said: “Care for a drink, sir?”
“No, thanks. What is it, Craigie? There’s so little time for anything. I must get back.”
Craigie said: “Won’t you sit down?”
He opened the door of the monstrously untidy cupboard, took out a bottle of whisky and a syphon and poured two drinks. The Prime Minister relaxed and his smile warmed.
“Thanks. I suppose you haven’t put your finger on the trouble yet, or you would have said so.”
Craigie said: “One of our men is working with the other side. He has discovered that a Novian named Neilsen is one of the leaders. He might be able to get into their inner counsels if he succeeds in doing a particularly big job tonight. He can only do that if we help him, and we can’t help him without your approval and assistance. If he fails, he’s finished. Probably he’d take our only chance of quick results with him.”
“Well?”
“He has orders to assassinate M. Benot,” Craigie said. Another man might have choked on his drink, jumped up, exclaimed. The Prime Minister frowned slightly and said: “That seems a tall order.”
“I want someone else to pass as Benot for to-night, towards the end of the reception at Grosvenor Square. Benot will be there in person. He will go for his coat, but mustn’t come out of the cloakroom. The other man will be there, to take his place. The shooting will be outside.”
The Prime Minister rubbed his moustache, and said: “I suppose it could be done. Benot is a reasonable chap. What else?”
“Benot is to keep out of sight until the opening of the Congress—perhaps until half-way through the first day. It’s been done before—substituting one man for another, and letting the assassins think they’ve got away with it. I can’t fix that, sir, but you can.”
“Ah, yes. That puts a different complexion on the suggestion, though. You want it believed that Benot has been killed.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said the Prime Minister. “I think perhaps Benot would agree. He’s passionately devoted to the Congress. I confess I’m so worried I’ll take a risk of being condemned for conniving at it. But there are other considerations. The adverse effect that such a false assassination would have on the public mustn’t be overlooked. Hm. I see your point, don’t disagree with your tactics, but I doubt if it can be done.”
Craigie said: “It must be done.”
The tired eyes became very alert; rather like Craigie’s.
“Must?” the Prime Minister echoed mildly.
“There isn’t any other hope of getting a man inside the organization, or any other real chance of finding out its size and scope in time to unmask it before the day after tomorrow. We’re up against the time factor more acutely than we’ve ever been before. Until an hour ago I didn’t think there was a chance. Now I think there’s a good one. Will you see M. Benot, sir?”
The Prime Minister finished his drink, stood up, thrust his hands into his pockets and studied the polished toes of his shoes.
“Yes,” he said.
17 / The Assassin
It was cold in Grosvenor Square.
A little crowd of people gathered about the entrance to the Embassy, policemen walked to and fro, moving the crowd along with little success. No cars were parked near the front door, and the road had been closed to through traffic. Policemen on point duty stood at either end, making sure that only those drivers with authority were allowed to pass.
Grant stood near the new statue of Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was surveying the Embassy from his plinth. Plainclothes men stood with the crowd near the statue—on the grass, even on the flower-beds.
A Renault pulled up.
Grant moistened his lips and moved his fingers about the gun. He seemed always to be cold, and felt cold when he had hurled that paper-weight through the window. He shuddered when he thought how he had nearly missed. The car door opened and the chauffeur stepped down sharply. The front door of the Embassy opened and two footmen appeared, followed by a tall, blond American, then by Benot and his wife.
They stood talking to the American.
Surely it was Benot.
It looked like the Frenchman to the life, there could be no mistaking it. Something had gone wrong, the impersonation had failed. If he fired—fool! The car was in the right place, Craigie wouldn’t fail him on this; had there been any risk of failure, Craigie would have found a way of warning him.
The “Frenchman” turned toward the car.
Grant took out his gun and fired three times, each shot aimed high, each bullet hitting the wall.
The “Frenchman” raised his hands to his face, staggered back, then fell forward.
Grant turned and ran as the plain-clothes men started towards him—ran, as men came out of their stupor and shouted: “There he is!” He ran as police thundered along the path in his wake, as police whistles blew shrilly. He felt his breath coming in short gasps, not because of the effort, but because of screaming nervous tension. How well had Craigie done the job? Had he warned the guards to let him get through? Had he—
He saw a crowd of men surging across the square towards him, like a stampede. He swerved on to the grass to get out of their way. Three of them cut across to head him off. He was only a few yards from the far side of the square, he had a chance. Then someone fired—two shots, in quick succession. The police hadn’t been warned, they were specially armed. He felt a tug at his left shoulder but no pain, saw the flash of another shot, which missed him completely.
There was a gap between the two groups of men who were running like hounds in full cry. Behind him was a much larger group. The turf and asphalt path echoed to the thudding of footsteps. Men ran along all sides of the square, aiming to make sure that wherever he cleared the low hedge, he would run into them.
He made for the gap.
He expected more shooting, but the police might hesitate for fear of hitting others behind him.
Then, a car drew up, and a man called to him. Grant rushed for the door, found it, and stumbled in.
The car moved off before the door was closed. Coughing, helpless men were left behind as it purred through the dark square. A blaze of light shone out from the Embassy, and Grant did not see the white ambulance pulled up behind the Renault, nor the figure of a man being carried on a stretcher to the ambulance.
Grant’s rescuer was Faraday. He could see the man’s head and shoulders in the street lamp. He said harshly: “Take my raincoat from the back. Get out, when I slow down. You don’t know who rescued you, understand? You don’t know.”
Grant groped for the raincoat.
Faraday leaned backwards and opened the pavement door.
“Good luck. Craigie says now!”
Grant stumbled out of the car and found himself at the end of a dark alley.
Would Neilsen believe him when he said he didn’t know how he had escaped? Would Neilsen believe that he had
planted an accomplice in that crowd, someone who had been prepared to take such steps to give him a chance to get away? It was asking too much for anyone to believe, but he had to try, it was his only possible story. The car might have been followed by Neilsen’s men; if it had, then the game was up.
He couldn’t be sure of that until he saw Neilsen.
As he put on his mackintosh, he heard a car engine, turned and saw a taxi coming towards him. It stopped, not far away, and a man and woman got out. The driver’s “Thanks” echoed clearly, the door slammed and the cab moved farther towards Grant. He stood to the side of the narrow lane and held up his hand, and the driver jammed on his brakes.
Grant grunted: “Golders Green Station.”
Two or three times they passed an underground station and he thought: Here we are. But it was half an hour before the cabby drew into the kerb, opened the glass partition and said gruffly:
“Station. You okay?”
“Second right—drop me just round the corner.”
“Okay.”
The taximeter read six-and-ninepence. Grant took out a ten-shilling note. He handed the note through the partition and climbed out, swaying unsteadily on the pavement. He went farther along that street, turned left and knew that he would soon be in sight of Kingham Mansions. Yes, there they were, like a ghostly white square rearing against the darkness of the night.
There was a light at the front door, but none other in sight. No one passed near. No one was about, and the lift doors were open. As he stepped in, he heard a man come in; the night-porter. He closed the doors and fumbled for the fourth-floor button.
Neilsen’s front door was on the right. Was it? Or was it left? Left—right—left—right. He went right, and saw the card in the bracket: “Walsh”. He pressed the bell immediately beneath the card.
No one answered.
He pressed again—a third and fourth time. The bell sounded clearly through the stillness of the night, but there was no response.
Slowly it dawned on him that Neilsen had left the flat—and would have been a fool to stay.
18 / Failure
The shock of the realization affected Grant like a bucket of cold water over a drunk. He stood upright, outside the door, staring blankly at the bell. He clenched his fist to bang on the door, then let his arm fall by his side.
He pressed the bell again.
No, there was no answer. He turned and looked at the lift. It was only a few steps away, but that seemed an immeasurable distance. He felt a fury of disappointment, and impotence.
He couldn’t stay here.
He had to find some place to clean himself up; brace himself for whatever was to follow. He couldn’t return to his flat. In order to convince Neilsen’s spies that he was known by the Department as a renegade, the Department men would be there, ready to grab him.
He tried to get his thoughts clear.
Why had Neilsen gone?
One obvious reason—that he was afraid that Grant had tried to fool him. He had probably left soon after Grant, to make sure that he was safe if there were a raid. He would know, too, that if Grant had discovered where he lived, others of the Department might find out.
Oh, Neilsen’s departure had been the obvious thing to expect.
But did he know of the “success” of the assassination? Had he taken any steps to follow up Grant’s movements if the attack succeeded? Or had he fooled Grant completely by setting him to the task, enticing him by the promise of collaboration, only to vanish, gloating over a foul murder done by a stranger?
He would gloat all right.
Whatever the explanation, Grant couldn’t stay here. He was bitterly conscious of failure; pictured Craigie’s face when at last he broke the news. He knew to what fantastic lengths Craigie must have gone in order to make the ruse possible; he knew that Craigie must have regarded it as the last real chance of getting results in time for the opening of Congress.
And he’d failed. In succeeding he had failed, because he’d believed Neilsen.
When he reached the street entrance, the porter stared at him from a corner.
No one passed along the street. A car drove along the end of the road, that was the only sound. There were two lights in this street and the light in the porch above his head. He mustn’t stay here. If anyone passed, he would be noticed, perhaps by the police. A policeman would immediately want to know what he had been doing, and wouldn’t be fobbed off with any casual answer.
He passed the end of the narrow turning on the other side of the Mansions, and as he did so a figure moved out of the darkness.
It made his heart pound.
He saw that it was a woman, but that didn’t drive away unreasoning fears. He remembered the woman at Crane Court, this one was probably on the same errand. The woman reached his side.
“He sent me,” she said.
They were near a lamp, and he looked down on her and saw that she was young—not much older than Hilde. She was fair, too; not a lovely creature like Hilde, but pretty and attractive.
“Who do you mean?” Grant demanded.
“You know. He had to go away, but sent me to look after you. I’ll take you to him.”
So he hadn’t failed yet. “He” could only be Neilsen.
The girl took him to a car which was parked a little way along, just off the road. It was large and roomy, and she opened the back door and helped him in. He didn’t know which direction she took, whether towards the heart of London or away from it. They went along a main road, beneath bright lights, for what seemed many miles. Every stretch of the road seemed exactly the same—row upon row of closed shops, the plate-glass windows reflecting the light from the side-lamps. Then the girl turned off the main road, slowed down, and swung round half a dozen corners.
They stopped outside a house—a house approached by a short drive, with trees in the front garden. There were other, similar houses up and down the street, and all appeared to be detached. A quarter moon, cleared by drifting clouds, shone on the grey-slate roofs and the tall chimneys and on the face of the girl.
“It isn’t far,” she promised.
As they walked up the drive he saw a man slip from the shadows of a tree and walk towards the car, and before they had gone more than a few yards, the car began to move off. Two steps led to the porch, and as they reached it a man opened the door. There was only a faint glow behind him, but Grant recognized Manuel.
Manuel didn’t speak; he glared.
On the first floor, the girl led him into a small bedroom; a friendly, pleasant, feminine room—the kind of room she might have herself. He realized how tired he was. He needed a drink, then—sleep. Let to-morrow look after itself.
Grant felt warm and snug and comfortable, drowsy and content. He didn’t know why the feeling surprised him, but it did. Daylight crept in at the sides of the curtains drawn at the windows to the right of the bed. He lay there for some time, not thinking—until gradually recollection of the night’s events seeped back. They didn’t come with any shock of surprise, and didn’t alarm him. He considered them dispassionately, as if they were something that had happened to someone else.
After a while he sat up.
It was the same small, pleasant room.
He pushed back the bedclothes and got out of bed, sat on the side for a few minutes, remembering that he had done much the same as this at Faraday’s flat. He stood up and went to the window, and pulled one of the curtains back.
He looked out on to lowering skies, the back garden of the house, which was surrounded with pine-trees—he couldn’t see into the gardens next door, but could see the road and a corner. This was a long, narrow garden, and he saw the roof of the garage.
There was a fixed basin. He filled a glass and sipped ice-cold water, and felt fine. He was hungry; a good sign. He might have been here most of a day, it was dark enough for evening.
The first hint of alarm came with thought—if he had been here all day, drugged, if it were evening, then h
is chance had really gone. The need to find out what had happened and how long he had been here, and the need for seeing Neilsen again, were desperately urgent; if he hadn’t been doped he wouldn’t have been so slow.
He turned and went back to the bed, and saw his watch on the table. It was twenty minutes to ten. He put it to his ear, to make sure it was going. Yes, so it was morning and wasn’t really late. He sat down on the side of the bed, more himself. A medley of thoughts slashed into his mind. He wondered what the newspapers had said; what Neilsen thought; what Neilsen planned to do.
Then he heard voices; two men were coming up the stairs.
He moved swiftly for the first time since he had woken up, slid down into the bed and pulled the clothes over him. He turned with his back towards the door, so that if they came in here, they would not see his face first. He wished now that he hadn’t pulled back the curtains, because if they went to the other side of the bed, they would be able to tell that he wasn’t asleep. It was impossible to simulate sleep in daylight—the faintest flicker of an eyelid gave one away. They might wonder who had drawn the curtains, too.
Were they coming in?
The voices drew nearer, but the footsteps were muffled. In the pulsating seconds that he waited, his mind readjusted itself completely to the urgency of the situtation.
The handle of the door turned.
The door opened, and he sensed that two men came in.
One said: “Will he be good enough for us to use him?”
“We’ll soon see,” said the other.
Next moment, Grant felt a hand on his shoulder, exerting gentle pressure. He started slightly, hoping that he didn’t overdo the surprise, and then let his eyes flicker open.
“Good morning, Grant,” said Neilsen.
19 / Neilsen Is Pleased
Grant turned slowly on his back, and blinked up. Neilsen stood over him, smiling, handsome, and debonair. The other man was by the door. Neilsen looked pleased with life, confident and cheerful.
“Oh, it’s you,” Grant muttered.
“How are you?”
“I’m all right.”
