The Depths

by John Creasey

  “I can imagine it,” Palfrey said. “Now, about these attacks on you—”

  She described them with the lucidity and precision with which she had told him the rest of the story. Only now and again did her fear show through; most of the time she was completely composed, and her voice seldom trembled. It did when she explained how a man outside had cried: “My God. He’s dead.”

  “And after that three men were stationed outside the cabin all the time – they were when you came in, weren’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sap—” she began, and broke off.

  He watched her steadily, intently. She pressed her hands against her forehead, then lowered them slowly.

  “Sap, do you think they tried to kill me to prevent me from describing what I saw?”

  “Can you think of another reason?”

  “No.”

  “But it means that they had—” she broke off again, obviously much more agitated than she showed. “I keep thinking ‘they’. Who are they? Who would want to do a thing like this? Who would want to drown Timmy? Who would be so ruthless? And if that isn’t enough – how did they do it?” When Palfrey made no comment, she went on: “Of course, we know the answer to that, don’t we? They exploded a radiation-clean nuclear bomb beneath the water. I—I’ve heard that three small ships were wrecked, probably thirty people have died. Why should they be so ruthless? Why should they care so little about the effects of what they’re doing?”

  Palfrey spread his hands.

  “Look at it another way,” he said. “Until tonight, we didn’t know anyone was being ruthless, we didn’t know that anything sinister was happening – we simply didn’t suspect the existence of any ‘they’. This is the first real step forward we’ve been able to make – now we know they exist we can start looking for them. You were in at the start, but they will know you’ve reported everything to me, so you should be out of danger.”

  “Out of danger?”

  “Yes, of course,” Palfrey reasoned. “They can no longer hope to stop you from reporting everything. Unless they are prepared to kill out of sheer spite, you’ll be all right on that score.” He patted the twist of hair onto his forehead; it made a wispy kind of kiss-curl. “Now! Whoever attacked you, killed the Radio Officer and pushed Simon down the ladder, has almost certainly escaped. It might have been a passenger, but could have been one of the crew. Only the Radio Officer could have identified him with any certainty. There has been so much confusion and so many people were injured that it wasn’t possible to seal off the ship.” Palfrey hitched himself up higher in his chair. “We should be able to narrow the search down, though. I want you to work with the purser – I’ll arrange for him to put one of his assistants at your disposal. We must try to account for all passengers and all crew – that way we might find out the name of the assailant, we should be able to get a good description of him. You caught a glimpse, didn’t you?”

  “Only of his back. He was tall and dark – quite young, I should say.”

  “We can warn our own people, too, and might be able to use the police on this. Did you catch a glimpse of his face?” “No.”

  “Julia, this could be vital – to you, and to us all. If you caught even a glimpse, you could be in danger because of it. If you caught a glimpse you could describe—”

  “I didn’t set eyes on his face,” Julia said softly, “but I think I would recognise his back and his voice again.”

  Chapter Six

  SURPRISE

  Palfrey left the S.S. Seafarer when Nice was really stirring. As he was driven past the harbour towards a hotel on the Promenade des Anglais, the flower and vegetable market was astir, steel-tipped shoes and boots were rattling on the cobbles, rickety old trams were clattering, cleaners were washing down the streets and the promenade. The little bakeries were opening, the scent of newly-baked bread wafted on the air, the first of the school children in their tight short pants and short socks moved along the pavements, carrying long, appetising looking loaves. The sea was calm as a mill-pond, with no trace here of the tidal wave – which had been a misnomer, of course. There had been a fairly heavy wave on some parts of the North African coast, and some on the French coast, but the Riviera hadn’t suffered much.

  Palfrey was pondering all this when he got out of the taxi outside the big, white hotel, where already one or two couples were sitting on the terrace, eating croissants or petits pains; a few tired-looking waiters were standing about.

  Palfrey turned into the hotel.

  He knew, as he had known much of his life, that he walked with danger. He was sure that if ‘they’ had known who Julia and Simon were, and had tried to kill them, they knew him. They had been fooled by Morris, if the signs were right; Morris was the type of man who made a good agent because so few people would suspect him. Morris apart – ‘they’ had known two of his agents and had tried to kill them. ‘They’ had also known that Corvell was on board, so they must have been wanting him for some time.

  Why want him dead?

  “No,” Palfrey said aloud. “That’s not the right question.”

  He was near the reception desk. “M’sieu?” a clerk murmured.

  “Sorry,” Palfrey said. “I have arranged to have a room for a few hours.”

  “Ah. Dr Palfrey?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have it ready,” the clerk said. He raised a hand for a boy in a misty grey uniform to come up; a lad who looked as if he should still be in bed. “Take Dr Palfrey to Suite 101.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lad’s English had only a trace of accent.

  They went up smoothly in the lift, along two wide passages into the suite. It was a huge room, with a balcony overlooking the sea, with bedroom leading off. A faint perfume hovered, presumably left by the previous occupant. The boy’s fingers closed over a coin, he smiled, bobbed his head, dropped into French for merci bien, m’sieu, and went out.

  Palfrey locked the door, and strolled across to the window, where the Venetian blinds were down. He raised one of them. The scene beyond was breathtakingly beautiful – and in that lovely sea, so serene and so misty a blue, death had struck savagely during the night. The first of the morning’s breezes was rippling the surface in places, making a pattern on the water. It seemed as if shadows were chasing one another.

  “No,” he said again, “that’s not the right question.” He moved to the telephone but hesitated, then raised it, and gave a number in Elisabethville, Katanga. The operator took it without batting an eye. He replaced the receiver and strolled back to the window, waiting for the call. “It wasn’t a question of wanting him dead. They could have killed him without serious trouble – we can’t be absolutely sure we can prevent assassination.” He spoke in a voice a little above a whisper. “They could have killed him as they killed the Radio Officer, and tried to kill Julia. They wouldn’t start a tidal wave to kill one man.”

  He knew that, logically, he was right. So, why had they started that tidal wave? Why had they worked in such a way? Why had they been so utterly ruthless and heedless of human life? Now he was faced with questions which he could not answer, but the glimmering of a possible answer came to mind. He stood with a cigarette, unlit, between his fingers, peering out to sea, listening for the first little ting of the telephone to tell him that the call was through.

  He did not hear a ting! He did hear another sound, very faint, only just audible.

  He did not move his head, but listened even more intently. As he stood there, he was more aware of the perfume. A rustling sound came quite distinctly, but he could not be sure that it was in this suite; it might be out in the passage, might even be outside the window – a gaily-coloured sunblind, perhaps, stirred by the strengthening breeze.

  The telephone bell blared.

  He started, turned, looked across at the open doorway of th
e bedroom, but saw nothing. The harsh ringing sound went on and on. He stretched out his hand and took the receiver off, standing now so that he looked at the door all the time.

  “M’sieu, it is your call to Elisabethville.”

  “Thank you.”

  “One moment, please.”

  He held on. He could discern no movement in the bedroom, and tried to persuade himself that he was wrong about the perfume, it could not have become stronger. The window shook a little, and a Venetian blind rattled. He moved so that he could see the balcony. Red, white and blue tassels of the sun blind were dancing.

  “Sap,” a man said in a very deep voice. “How are you?”

  “Stefan,” Palfrey said, almost as fervently. “I’m fine. Worried, but fine in myself.”

  He wished that he could turn his whole thoughts to this conversation. Stefan Andromovitch, his oldest friend and joint leader of Z5, knew a great deal about his concern over the mysterious happenings at sea. In fact only Stefan knew how great were his fears that someone had found out how to operate from the depths. Probably, too, only Stefan fully appreciated how dangerous this could be to the nations able to ride the waves, but which did not yet begin to understand the forces beneath them.

  They had known each other for so long that words between them were seldom important. Whenever they met, even after a long period of separation, a firm handshake, a steady glance at each other, and then they could start to talk about work or whatever was on their minds. Deep affection as well as understanding developed over many years made them almost as close as brothers, although their backgrounds were so different. Dr Stanislaus Alexander Palfrey, whose initials gave him his nickname, came from the English aristocracy; Eton, Oxford, a medical degree … Stefan Andromovitch was a Muscovite who had been indoctrinated in his early years with Stalinism, but had become one of the first Russians to doubt the need for ideological warfare. Yet he had served his masters until Moscow had seen in him the qualities needed for liaison with the West.

  He had accepted the deputy leadership of Z5 with the knowledge and approval of Moscow. He was completely free – as free as Palfrey – from obligations to his government, except that he should serve Z5, which also served them.

  Palfrey and Andromovitch had not met for several weeks, nor talked together for ten days, until now. Stefan had been to Elisabethville to try to resolve some problems there; his work was almost finished.

  “Exactly what happened last night?” Andromovitch asked.

  Very slowly, very precisely, Palfrey told him. He felt sure that Stefan must know that he was speaking with reserve, and that might puzzle the Russian. At least he was sure that he left out nothing of importance. There was no sight of movement in the bedroom, but that perfume still teased him.

  “I hope to get a description of the man who attacked Julia, and killed the Radio Officer,” Palfrey went on. “But I’m not yet sure. So far, that’s our only clue.”

  “Sap, is someone with you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Now I understand,” Stefan said. “Are you—” alarm rose in his voice. “Are you all right? Are you in any danger?”

  “I don’t think that,” Palfrey said carefully. In fact he believed that had someone come here to kill him, they would have tried long before this. “No, I don’t think so. Have you nearly finished?”

  “I can come wherever you like at any time.”

  “At once,” said Palfrey promptly. “Here, in Nice.”

  “I will be with you by this time tomorrow,” Andromovitch promised. His voice was back to normal; he spoke perfect English with great precision, the only indication that it was not his native tongue being the absolute perfection of his enunciation of each syllable. “Sap, listen to me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I telephone Duval in Nice and make him send someone to you? He could have a man there in ten or fifteen minutes. If you even suspect danger—”

  “That’s a good idea,” Palfrey said. “Thanks, Stefan. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Please God,” Stefan Andromovitch said, and hung up.

  Palfrey put down the receiver. He heard the ting of the bell, then the rustling of the wind at the window. When he looked out to sea, the surface was ruffled everywhere, a few white horses laced the waves. Early morning swimmers were out already, and there was more noise on the terrace and on the boulevard below.

  In here, nothing moved.

  Palfrey slid his right hand into his pocket and took out a cigarette-case; built in to one end was a small automatic pistol, one of the most innocent-looking of the weapons he so often needed. He put a cigarette to his lips as he went towards the bedroom door. He pushed it wider open, and dodged to one side; then he felt as foolish as he had ever done in his life.

  A girl was in the big double bed, a bed of silver and gold colourings in a room of gold.

  She was sitting up on her pillows, wearing a pink jacket with angora wool, or something quite as soft and delicate, pulled up beneath her chin. She had a lovely face, a lovely skin, and beautiful blue eyes; she looked a little like a doll. She smiled at him, as if delighted. The perfume was much stronger in this room.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  Her voice had a bell-like clarity which was somehow not quite real. Something about her reminded Palfrey of a Japanese girl, although her features were certainly not Japanese. The only word that sprang to mind about her was “demure”. Here she was, in the bed in his room, sitting up as if she were waiting for her husband on their wedding night – demure! He found himself tempted to laugh; something about her caused that impulse.

  “Hallo,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I am very well, thank you.”

  Her arms, bare from halfway between elbow and wrist, rested on the golden-coloured bedspread; nicely rounded little arms, too. She wasn’t much more than a child, he thought – and that “I am very well, thank you” seemed almost like a child’s recitation of a well-learned phrase. Palfrey went to the side of the bed, and sat down, staring at her. She watched him eagerly, or hopefully? Invitingly?

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Who would you like me to be?”

  “Who would—” he began, then stopped again. He could not prevent himself from smiling. Her lips twitched at the corners, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, and also appreciated the joke.

  It was like playing a game with a child.

  Palfrey needed a little time to recover from the surprise, to weigh up the situation and decide what best to do – and the obvious thing was to play this game.

  “I don’t really know,” he said. “I think perhaps I would like you to be my daughter.”

  “Daughter!” she echoed. And she leaned forward.

  It was no accident, he was sure, that as she did so the bed jacket fell apart. He could not fail to see the smooth, white, curving beauty of her breasts. It was quite intentional, and it made nonsense of the notion that she was a child; small she might be, but undoubtedly a mature woman. She made no other effort to entice him, except to raise her hands a little; when she put them down again, the jacket fell into position, but left more than enough for him to see. His gaze, drawn for a moment, shifted to her face. She was laughing at him.

  “You did ask me who I’d like you to be,” he reminded her.

  “Must I still be your daughter?”

  “I think now that I’m glad you’re not.”

  She had beautifully marked, near-black eyebrows, and with her jet black hair, that explained the impression that she was like a Japanese. Her eyes were sparkling, too, as if she was laughing at him in real fun.

  “You would not like a daughter of yours to be in a strange man’s bed, perhaps.”

  “No,” Palfrey said. “I would not.”

  “You
are very old-fashioned.”

  “That I can believe.”

  “In every way.”

  For the first time since he had seen her, he began to think and probe for reasons for her presence. One thing was glaringly obvious; this had something to do with “them”, but he had not yet given that serious thought. His own neglect to do so puzzled him. It was almost as if he were satisfied to sit on the side of the bed and talk to the girl with this rather avuncular solemnity.

  In every way, she had said, he was old-fashioned. What ways? In his attitude towards her? In what he was doing? In his attitude towards Corvell?

  “What other ways?” he asked.

  “Dr Palfrey.” She leaned forward again, thrusting her hands towards him. “You are a very lonely man. You must have been ever since you lost your wife. I have been told much about you. A man should not spend all his time alone – that is very old-fashioned.”

  “A man must spend his time as he wants to.”

  “Is that what you do? Or do you spend your time as olden day convention – romantic convention, perhaps – says you should?” Her voice was very matter of fact, as she leaned still nearer, the jacket gaping more. He had not been so close to a woman since he had last been with Drusilla. He was acutely conscious of desire, and he sensed that she was here simply to create such desire, to seduce him from the work he had to do.

  “Dr Palfrey,” she said, and then more softly: “Sap.” How had she come to know that nickname? How had she come to know so much – how had she come to know that he would be here? “Sap,” she went on, “why are you wasting your life? Why are you throwing everything worth living for away? Why are you trying to save the old world, all the old archaic wasteful ways of life? Why don’t you cut yourself free from the past – your own past and the world’s? Why don’t you come and help to make the future?”