by John Creasey
One of the written notes said: “Grant at Old House. Communication established.”
There was another, earlier, received through Miller of the Yard. “Neilsen at 13 Yew Avenue, Hendon, local police raiding.”
Craigie smiled faintly when he thought of his alarm when the news had come through. He’d telephoned Miller, to try to postpone the raid, desperately anxious not to have Grant caught; only to find that it had been too late. Miller had told him that a girl at the house had telephoned the local Police-station, who had acted without consulting the Yard. All Craigie yet knew of what had transpired was that Grant and Neilsen had escaped. Loftus had gone to Hendon and was due back at any moment with a story of the situation at the house. Miller had said something about a fire; but if everything had been destroyed, Loftus would have been back by now.
Craigie had followed up the report from Grant that Benot’s stand-in at the Congress was anti-unity. Two agents were tracking this man’s recent contacts; already there were two reports that the stand-in had been seen with Walsh and Neilsen; that news was reliable.
The green light showed in the mantelpiece. Craigie was expecting Loftus and pressed the desk-button which opened the sliding doors. It wasn’t Loftus, but the Prime Minister.
Craigie started to get up.
“No, sit down,” said the Prime Minister as the doors closed behind him.
He went to the fire and warmed his hands, and Craigie stayed by the desk. Then the Prime Minister turned and stood with his back to the fire, his hands on his hips.
“What news have you got for me, Craigie?”
“Some, but not enough.”
“Hmm.” A pause. “You don’t need me to say that there isn’t much time.”
Craigie glanced at his watch. “Twenty-one hours exactly to the opening session of the Congress.”
“Are you still hopeful?”
“Yes, with reasonable grounds, I think.” Craigie began to fiddle with an empty meerschaum. “We have several members of the organization in custody, and some of them have talked, but we haven’t obtained any important information from them.” Craigie’s voice was dry and unemotional, he was like a judge summing-up the evidence. “We know that they wanted to turn this Congress into a failure. All the indications are that they’re extremely well-organized, they have a powerful fifth column among the delegates to the Congress, they have members in most of the embassies and consulates.”
“I’d like proof of that.”
“I think I can give you proof. One of the first things we discovered was that as a kind of passport among themselves they used these cards.” Craigie held up a card with the serrated circle and the five-pointed star, and the Prime Minister nodded and glanced at it cursorily. “We used them, through our agents, and have found at least fifty people among the delegates and the Embassy and consular staffs, who recognize and respond to them.” He touched a manilla folder on the desk. “The names and addresses are all here. There are two names of well-placed members of our own Foreign Office.”
The Prime Minister moistened his lips, and in turn began to fiddle with his pipe.
“I expect another list of names before the day’s out. When it’s as complete as I can make it, I’ll send you a copy and suggest that you inform the various authorities so that they can take action. Every one of the people named is due to attend the Congress sessions this week—all but half a dozen were at the ball the other night.”
“Hmm! I’d been inclined to complain that you hadn’t done very much, Craigie. Sorry.”
Craigie went on as if there had been no interruption.
“We’ve several key men working on the case, but the one with the most likely chance of getting quick results is Jonathan Grant—our tame assassin.” He smiled faintly. “He is in close touch with some of the leaders, including a man named Neilsen—you’ve heard about him. Grant’s been looking for the Baroness von Barlack, who is suspected of being another of the leaders. Grant is the only one who might be able to break the organization. He’s worked wonders, so far—thanks largely to your co-operation. To bring things up to date, one of Neilsen’s staff turned against him and called the police to a house in Hendon. Neilsen set the house on fire, and left in a hurry, taking Grant with him, I haven’t had any report from the house yet—Loftus is there.
“Grant was taken to a house near St. Albans, and until half an hour ago was still there with Neilsen. No one else—except a few minor members of the gang—is staying there. I’ve managed to get into communication with Grant, and we may have more news soon.”
When he stopped there was silence in the room; a silence which dragged on uncomfortably. It was one of the few occasions when Craigie felt uncomfortable, chiefly because the Prime Minister seemed so despondent. His shoulders were bowed and his head thrust forward, his pale forehead was wrinkled.
At last he said: “I see, Craigie. If we had a week to play with it would be very satisfactory. As it is—when the Congress is opened, Benot will have to appear. I’ve just seen him. He’s read the newspapers and seen the reports, and he’s afraid that we made a mistake. In a way, so am I. The whole thing has worked the delegates up to a white heat. The first trouble was sensational enough, the so-called assassination is a hundred times worse. If we have to announce that it was a hoax then we shall have shattering criticism. The only answer to that criticism would be the break-up of the organization we’re working against. You do see that, don’t you? The gamble must be justified, Craigie, or the consequences—”
He broke off and tapped his pipe out against the side of the fireplace. His next words were hardly audible.
“You know what I mean. I think we shall stand or fall by what happens to-morrow. Now that union has progressed so far, a break would be fatal. We’re now so deeply involved that economic prosperity as well as military security are utterly dependent on it. Neilsen and these people started after military plans, didn’t they?”
“Yes, according to my information. If they’ve got any details, they’ll probably contrive to announce it to-morrow,” Craigie said.
The Prime Minister coughed, pulled a chair nearer and sat down. The red glow from the fire spread over one side of his face, making the paleness of the other side more noticeable. When he spoke his voice was pitched on a low key.
“I want your considered opinion, Craigie, as a man of great experience. Do you believe that the power behind this organization is a private one, or do you believe that it is inspired by one of the nations which have signed the Treaty of Europe, or do you believe that it is inspired by Russia?”
24 / The Vital Question
A red light glowed in one of the telephones; Craigie ignored it. The green light showed in the mantelpiece; Loftus was probably outside, but Craigie ignored that also. The Prime Minister’s eyes were clouded with anxiety as they bored into Craigie’s. The strain of the responsibility showed clearly in the politician’s face, and Craigie knew that he was hanging on to the answer to his question.
The lights flickered.
Craigie stood up.
“I don’t know which it is, but I can say this: in spite of all the suggestions in the Press and elsewhere, I haven’t seen an indication of any kind whatsoever that the Kremlin is behind it. There is ample evidence that they are pleased with the situation and that they’re doing everything they can to work up public indignation on the Continent. All the Communist newspapers everywhere are making a Roman holiday, claiming that it justifies the Russian attitude all along. But there is nothing at all to indicate that the sabotage is inspired by Russia or by any other nation.” The Prime Minister relaxed.
“Thank you, Craigie. That’s what I hoped to hear. Well—who is it? Can you answer that question by tomorrow?”
Craigie said: “That all depends on Grant.”
The lights kept flickering.
“You’d better see who it is,” said the Prime Minister.
The visitor was Loftus. The telephone call was from Faraday, to say that
he had just heard that the Baron von Barlack had regained consciousness.
The Prime Minister waited long enough to be sure that Loftus had no information of importance, then left.
As the door slid to behind him, Loftus dropped into one of the easy chairs, and said: “Not a good time for him.”
“Is it for anyone?”
“Neilsen’s probably enjoying it.”
“Yes, probably,” agreed Craigie. “What did you find at Hendon, Bill?”
“Nothing that pleased me much,” Loftus said. “Two dead women, a burning house and a lot of charred papers. I’ve been through every piece of paper in the place, and we’ve discovered nothing that really helps. The house was rented, furnished, by a man named Cornish, two months ago. Two or three different people have lived in it since. The only description we’ve got, besides that of Walsh, the Baroness and all the people we know, is of a short, squat man—sounds like a Slav. He was there this morning, and left just before Grant and Neilsen.”
After a pause, Craigie said: “Who were the dead women?”
“The girl who telephoned the police was one, I think. She had an empty bottle of aspirin by her side, and we were too late to pump the stuff out of her. The other was the Baroness von Barlack.”
Craigie said slowly: “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Anything turned up about her?”
“Faraday’s just come through to say that von Barlack has recovered consciousness.”
“I feel sorry for the Baron,” Loftus said heavily. “When he knows what’s happened to his wife—” He broke off and forced a smile. “Anyhow, this should convince him that she hasn’t been a renegade. Neilsen wouldn’t have killed her if she were one of the gang.”
“Was she burned to death?”
“No, hardly touched by the fire. It burnt her legs a little and singed her hair, but the police were able to drag her out of the room before the flames really reached her. I don’t know how she died—some kind of seizure. As a matter of fact, there’s a curious similarity between her appearance and that of von Barlack’s when he folded up. She was tied to a bed, probably that helped to make the seizure fatal. Mitchell is looking after her.”
“Not much use looking after a corpse,” Craigie said, with a rare touch of bitterness.
“He says that her general condition puzzles him and he’d like to examine her closely before he does the autopsy,” said Loftus. “I’ve a feeling that he has a nasty idea at the back of his mind, Gordon.”
Craigie’s tired eyes became very bright.
“What kind of idea?”
“That they killed her by a new method, a method which might be used universally.” Loftus shrugged his shoulders. “He didn’t say that, it’s simply what I gathered from his manner. You know our Dr. Mitchell—if it’s possible to make a mystery, he’ll make one. Anyhow, he’s taken her along to the Mid-London Hospital and says he’ll get in touch with us when he can give us any more information.”
“I hope we haven’t anything else to work on,” Craigie said. “There’s more than enough.”
He talked for nearly twenty minutes, summarizing the interview with the Prime Minister, reiterating the issues involved. That vital question remained—who was behind it? It was vital that they should know before the opening of the Congress of Europe.
One of the telephone lights glowed.
Loftus said: “There’s a lot we can do already. If the spies—fifth-columnists—call ‘em what you like—are prevented from attending the Congress, there isn’t going to be much support for the ranters.”
Craigie stretched out for the telephone.
“It’ll only slacken the tempo, Bill. The P.M.’s right when he says that if the hoax is admitted and we can’t show any conclusive results, then the fat’s in the fire. Hallo... oh, yes, Mitchell... What?”
He shouted into the telephone, a thing Loftus had never heard him do before. Loftus sprang to his feet, forgetful of his artificial leg. Craigie’s hand gripped the receiver and the knuckles showed white.
“You’re sure? ... Yes, yes, go on... When will she be able to speak? ... Yes, one of us will come over at once. Thanks... Yes, Loftus is here, I’ll tell him.”
He rang off and looked at Loftus as if what he had heard was beyond belief. There was a beading of sweat on his forehead; he wiped it off with the back of his hand. Loftus didn’t prompt him, but stood stiff and still; was this news good or bad?
Craigie said: “She isn’t dead.”
Loftus looked blank.
“She isn’t dead. The Baroness. She had a cataleptic fit. Mitchell suspected it, that’s why he was mysterious. She is breathing again. He thinks that she will be able to talk before long.”
They were still staring at each other incredulously when another telephone light showed. Craigie watched it for a few moments, while Loftus moved forward and rested against the desk. He began to rub his forehead, then to poke his fingers through his hair.
He had seen her, pale, lifeless, stiff—yes, stiff and cool, not cold but very cool, only a few hours before. He had been quite sure she was dead. Catalepsy? Of course, it could happen—it had happened; Mitchell wouldn’t lie about it.
And if she were alive she might be able to tell them a great deal.
He said: “Better see who’s ringing. The service isn’t so good this afternoon!”
Craigie picked up the receiver.
Again his hand tightened on it, but without the same tension. There was eagerness in his manner; Loftus sensed that this call was hardly less important than the first. Craigie motioned to an extension of the telephone and to a pad and pencil. Loftus sat down at the other side of the desk and pulled the pad towards him.
The man at the other end of the line said: “It’s N-O-S-L-I-W.... All clear? ... Yes, I picked up a message from Grant half an hour ago. He left it under a stone—remember Cartwright told you about the stone he kicked?—and I’ve just finished deciphering. It was written in a hell of a hurry and on a piece of newspaper; he obviously hadn’t much writing material. Ready?”
“Yes, go on.”
Wilson dictated slowly and distinctly. Craigie and Loftus made notes, each in his own special kind of shorthand. Grant had contrived to pass on all that Marlene had told him, and the message took some time to write down.
There was a pause before Wilson said: “That’s the lot of the factual stuff. Grant says he think’s he’s well in with them. He has the freedom of the house. They got the wind up before they left Hendon. He says they’ve long- as well as short-term plans, and their first aim is to break up the Congress. He doesn’t know whether he’ll have a chance to get results in time for to-morrow, and wants to know whether he’s to make a special effort for that, or whether he ought to consolidate his position on a long-term basis. I’m to light a small bonfire in a field opposite the house if he’s to go all out now—no beacon if he’s just to paddle along and make them bosom friends. Instructions, please.”
“Light that fire,” said Craigie.
25 / The Bonfire
The afternoon and early evening had been almost unbearable for Grant. There had been little to do but sit about and turn the whole affair over in his mind; each hour had been more tormenting than the last. He was still allowed complete freedom of movement, but believed that he was watched.
Three other men had come to the house soon after he had leaned out of the window and pushed the newspaper under the stone; obviously they were watchdogs, like Manuel. He didn’t know why they had been brought here; probably so that one of them could keep an eye on him.
He sweated when he thought of that message.
He didn’t know for certain whether it had been picked up or not.
He had written furiously for nearly half an hour, then leaned out of the window and put the piece of newspaper, folded small, under the stone. He’d pushed it so far that no one could see it at a causal glance, then thrown a handful of soil at the side of the stone. An hour afterwards, as darkness began t
o fall, he had seen a newsboy come along the drive, and heard footsteps very near the window.
Nieto hadn’t arrived.
Neilsen had seen Grant twice, but had little to say, and spent a great deal of time on the telephone.
Every now and then Grant peered between the curtains out into the dark night. A few lighted windows showed yellow in the distance, but there was no leaping fire; and he longed to see one.
He heard a car turn into the drive.
Deliberately, he stayed in the room and didn’t go to see who it was. The less he did to arouse suspicion that he was too curious, the better for him. But waiting added to the strain on his nerves.
He heard a familiar flat, unemotional voice: Neito’s. There was another man with Nieto, a man who spoke as he greeted Neilsen. Then all three went upstairs—the Novian had been on the first floor most of the time. The car was driven round to the back of the house.
Grant went to the window and glanced at his watch.
It was senseless to go on doing this, but he couldn’t keep himself away. If he saw a flickering flame, he would know exactly what to do. What a fool he had been to want to work alone. The Department was the hope; not any one man, but all of them.
He peered out again, and this time he saw the flames.
The fire was half-way up the hill-side meadow opposite the house. The flames leapt high; Grant even fancied he could hear their crackling. It had obviously just been lit, but he saw no one near it.
Half-way down the drive, near a tall tree, a man stood watching the fire; it was one of the guards.
Grant let the curtain fall.
