Carriers of Death (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  Benson’s car—or cars—had turned off the main road without being observed, and with the help of the men-servants, he must have had little trouble in overcoming the police in the house.

  Davidson’s arrival in the hall had coincided with that of Benson himself, and the men who made the frontal attack, for which Kerr and he were devoutly thankful. But for that, they would have been dead; there was no question of that.

  ‘And if they hadn’t been so anxious to locate Mrs. T.—’ Wally shrugged expressively, and Kerr nodded.

  ‘They were anxious to get her all right, and that’s worth knowing. I’d like to make her talk—and,’ he eyed Davidson grimly: ‘I’d like to make Penelope Smith talk! I wonder where she is?’

  ‘Ask me,’ said Wally. ‘Or better still, ask Tim.’

  It was a question which Timothy Arran was asking himself, for he was a worried man. The more he thought of Penelope, the less he liked the idea that she was, even indirectly, mixed up in this game. And while he was at Pockham, trying to squeeze further information from Tippett and other inhabitants of that village of sorrow, he had plenty of time to brood.

  For two days, nothing developed.

  The demand for action in the daily Press grew more clamorous than ever, the degree of public unrest more fevered, and the efforts of the Government to keep the national calm—for the belief that the Pockham outrage had been a deliberate act of war, from a so far unknown foreign country, was now firmly accepted—grew more desperate. Craigie was summoned to this meeting and that, but he could report nothing definite. Mrs. Trentham recovered from her spell of unconsciousness but remained mute; she seemed to live in a daze, which five of the most celebrated mind-specialists in the country certified as a form of amnesia that nothing but time could overcome.

  The Cabinet, naturally, had not been idle. Halloway, with his expert knowledge, and Sir James Cathie began a hurried tour of the large arsenals and munition factories. On the surface of it, nothing notable was revealed. Here and there, they were told, there had been attempts to spread sedition, but nothing stronger than the usual Communist efforts—with, as Halloway saw it, one important difference.

  It was rare for American Communists to pay much attention to England; there was enough for them to do in the States. But by dint of questioning that would have done Craigie himself credit, Halloway discovered that five of the stump speakers near several of the arsenals had been American. Cathie was inclined to pooh-pooh the inference, but Halloway reported immediately to Wishart.

  Wishart did not even tell his ministers, and officially only Cathie, Halloway, Craigie and Wishart knew of it. But on the second morning after Benson’s attack on The Larches, the Clarion trumpeted a bald statement that American agents had joined forces with known Communist agitators, and demanded to know what the Government proposed to do about it. Before the Government had time to reply—if, indeed, it would have deigned to reply to the Clarion—the whole balance of affairs was shifted.

  News came from America of the bombing of the heart of Chicago. Considerable damage was done, but the aeroplane concerned in the attack had escaped—and Craigie’s lips tightened when he read the words ‘in the direction of Canada’. Several people were badly hurt, but by a miracle, no one was killed. That fortunate fact did not temper the outpourings of the American press. Just as all colours had joined together in England after the Pockham disaster, so did every American daily lash its readers to a state of fury. And in every report, the significance of the flight towards Canada was emphasised.

  The New York Daily said:

  ‘It is inconceivable that the aeroplane which bombed Chicago came from the sea; and it could not have come from the Mexican border. It is not too much to claim that it came from Canada.

  ‘The Daily does not accuse the Canadian Government of complicity in or foreknowledge of the outrage, but it does believe that the machine and its occupants are now sheltering in Canada. It demands that representations be made to Ottawa and to London for the fullest search and investigation to be carried out. Failure to discover the perpetrators of the outrage is inconceivable, if the Governments to which we have referred are serious in their efforts.’

  Craigie and Wishart read the leader, wirelessed from America within minutes of publication, with growing anxiety—and no surprise when most of the American papers echoed its sentiments. It was typical of the state of national tension that most of the British and Canadian press took the attitude that America was unjustified in assuming the aeroplane had come from Canada (which obviously it had done) and that in all probability the raid had been engineered by someone in America itself.

  As a result of this exchange of opinions, there was something of an exodus from both countries, Canadians and Englishmen and their families in the States left for home as quickly as possible. Every ship was packed, and Southampton seethed with returning Americans. And although there was no actual display of hostility, crowds gathered at the docks, silent and morose. Other crowds swarmed around the American Embassy in London, and American-owned factories throughout the country.

  Then the vast Hyams Motor Corporation—American-owned—shut down, and shipped all its American employees back to the States. It was perhaps the most illconsidered action conceivable. Seven thousand British workmen were thrown out of work, and in the neighbourhood of the Hyams works, there began the first outward show of hostility towards the country, always considered Britain’s staunchest friend—always looked on, indeed, as something more like a relative.

  A Fascist newspaper took the opportunity of pointing out that since the American War of Independence, that country had nursed a grudge against Great Britain, and other organs of the daily Press—which should have known better—printed speeches from American politicians declaiming against the British Isles. The frenzied rhetoric of Big Bill Hopson, at whose outbursts the British had hitherto turned a deaf ear or a smile, now only further inflamed public opinion.

  Philip Fenway, the American Ambassador to London, was friendly towards Great Britain for many reasons, his English wife not being one of them. He was perturbed by the threat of trouble but he refused to be panicked, and he did more to steady opinion in America than anyone else. In a time of madness Fenway was sane.

  His Embassy had been the scene of several hostile demonstrations; as a consequence, he rarely travelled without a guard. His wife, in fact, protested when he went out at all: but she was of a protesting nature. She would have disliked it much more had she known where he was heading when he slipped out of the Embassy by a rear exit one night, about a week after the Chicago bombing. She herself was visiting friends at the time: Fenway had excused himself on the grounds of pressure of work.

  Some fifty minutes later, he entered a flat overlooking the Thames at Putney. The girl who welcomed him was young, and even a confirmed woman-hater would have admitted her beauty. More, she was American. Fenway’s wife—the daughter of an English peer—was constantly reminding him that he had held a very unimportant post when they first married, and that he owed most of his advancement to her connections. The truth of these reminders did nothing to make Fenway stop wishing he had married for love and accepted a minor position.

  He left the Putney Mansions, three hours after he had arrived, a much happier man; and the girl did not know she would never see him again...

  Fenway’s decision to drive across Barnes Common, in order to prepare himself for the return to bondage, helped Benson’s men a great deal. His own car was forced into the kerb on a Common road—and before he realised what was happening, the driver of the other had him out of it, with an automatic in his ribs.

  ‘We want a talk with you,’ said this worthy, gruffly.

  ‘You can keep wanting,’ snapped Fenway.

  His words and his fist moved at the same time, but before the fist contacted he had been knocked unconscious from behind. His car was left at a nearby garage by a man the sleepy attendant did not see properly, and Fenway himself—bound and gagged, although st
ill unconscious—was in the rear of a Daimler saloon, which he did not see at all.

  Nine days after the affair at Preston, in which time Kerr and the others had followed trail after trail without headway, Craigie and Wishart met—unusually, at the office of Department Z. They did not know it was the evening of Fenway’s adventure.

  ‘I wanted to see you alone,’ Wishart said. ‘Craigie, you must get something done. This agitation is dreadful.’

  ‘It’s about what I told you to expect,’ Craigie reminded him, soberly. ‘When are you going to crack down on the Press?’

  ‘When they do the same over there.’

  Craigie smiled dourly.

  ‘You’ll have to wait a long time, the way their politics and Press are run. How are diplomatic relations?’

  ‘Strained,’ said Wishart simply. ‘If it weren’t for Fenway, they’d be very much worse.’

  ‘As bad as that, eh? Well, we seem to have succeeded in stopping any more outrages over here. But if there’s anything else in America, the effect will be the same.’

  ‘But it’s so absurd! None of us wants war!’

  ‘Just for once,’ Craigie said, ‘the people do. Oh, they don’t want it in so many words, but they want something to happen. The Hyams business started it. Now, there’s hardly an American factory in this country still working. That means the big business interests over there are beginning to complain, and they control the Press. Our Press is shouting because American vested interests have shut hundreds of thousands of men out of work. The value of the pound has dropped lower than ever before, and the dollar’s as bad over here.’

  Wishart nodded; he had aged ten years in the past two weeks, and his voice was almost querulous.

  ‘You could tackle the Press,’ Craigie told him. ‘Force them to adopt a friendly tone towards America—although I’m inclined to think that’s too late. You’d have...’

  He reached for the telephone at its second ring. ‘Excuse me?’

  Wishart inclined his head, and watching the Chief of British Intelligence take the call, saw his jaw tighten suddenly as he said: ‘Hold on a moment.’

  Lowering the receiver, Craigie drew a deep breath.

  ‘It’s Kerr,’ he reported. ‘He’s found a trail and followed it. I’m afraid it’s breaking-point, David.’

  Wishart’s colour ebbed.

  What-----?’

  ‘Fenway,’ said Craigie, flatly. ‘Murdered.’

  As Kerr returned from making his call, Horace Miller and Timothy Arran surveyed him questioningly across the outstretched body of the American Ambassador.

  ‘Craigie says to keep it close,’ he told them, drily. ‘Not a word to a soul.’

  It was easy to say; it might be easy to do, up to a point. But all three knew that the thing must come to light eventually, and wondered whether it would not have a worse effect if the Government hushed the thing up.

  13

  Kerr is suspicious

  The events of the past three hours flashed through Kerr’s mind as he stood propped against the wall, staring blankly ahead of him. Whatever course was taken, the result of this thing would be unspeakable.

  Five hours before, Lilian Trentham—who was under close observation at a West End Nursing Home—had suffered a bout of hysteria, in which she had mentioned the name Mayhew and a place called Crayshaw. The information had been passed to Scotland Yard, and Miller had immediately contacted Kerr, who was staying for a brief spell at the Arrans’ flat with Timothy.

  By the time Kerr and Arran had reached the Yard, Miller had located nine villages or towns in England and Scotland named Crayshaw, and a daunting list of houses bearing that name. Kerr had instinctively ignored the houses and sent Trale and Davidson to the Midlands and north to check the three Crayshaws there. Arran, Miller and Kerr himself had started on three within a fifty miles radius of London, driving in Timothy’s Frazer Nash.

  Their first two had drawn blanks. Dusk was falling as they approached the third, a village in Sussex, and drove up the narrow High Street.

  ‘Small place,’ Miller commented. ‘We shan’t be long here before we know whether we’ve any luck... Wonder where the local man lives?’

  The local policeman was a man of unexpected preciseness and common-sense. There were only two newcomers to the neighbourhood: and a man who had recently bought the Priory, an old house about a mile from the village. Pucker, the constable, described him succinctly.

  ‘Brick-red face, moustache, and...’

  ‘Get on the running-board,’ ordered Miller, ‘and take us to the Priory. Hurry, man!’

  Fifteen minutes later, the policeman helped the other three break down the door at the rear of the house. Five minutes later, in an upstairs room, they found the body of the American Ambassador. Fenway had been strangled; three hours earlier, at most.

  ‘Late again,’ Kerr said bitterly, as he went to telephone Craigie...

  ‘There’ll be hell to pay, when this gets out,’ he added, now. ‘Aren’t we doing well? No motive: why should anyone but a damn fool want to set us at America’s throat? No Marlin. No Benson. No Mayhew, and that reminds me, Timothy—when did you last see Penelope Smith?’

  Timothy coloured.

  ‘The day before yesterday,’ he said. ‘Of course, she’s been up in Preston for a while. Mrs. Potter came straight back from Cannes when she heard the news, and Penelope has been with her most of the time since. She’s in London, now, though.’

  ‘Still following you?’

  ‘I say, old boy, draw it mild! She was honest, anyhow.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kerr, ‘I know. But I can’t get rid of the idea that there was a connection somewhere between her arrival in London and the start of hostilities. Have you talked to her much about this business?’

  ‘Not a great deal.’

  ‘Did she know Mayhew?’

  ‘No—at least, she says she didn’t.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you actually permit yourself to doubt?’ Kerr grinned. ‘That’s my boy. Now—how do I arrange a little chat with her?’

  ‘If you keep a civil tongue in your head,’ Timothy said, ‘I’ll arrange it for you.’

  Kerr grinned again, then told him: ‘Joking aside, Tim, I’d like another talk with her.’

  Arran nodded, and Kerr turned to the Yard man, who had been making a telephone call of his own.

  ‘Well, Miller, I’m leaving this nasty job to you. Tim had better come with me—all right?’

  ‘I don’t like it much,’ admitted Miller wryly, ‘but the men from Horsham will be here any minute, so not to worry.’

  The men from Horsham arrived as Kerr and Arran left: two inspectors and two detective-sergeants only, as per Miller’s instructions. Somehow the murdered man’s identity had to be kept altogether secret for the time being.

  Arran let Bob Kerr drive to London, and directed him to the hotel where Penelope was staying.

  The Éclat was comparatively unaffected by the war scare: as the management said, it had to be. But as the Department men drove through the West End, the bawling of the newsboys filled their ears, and every placard they saw contained some reference to America. They passed several street-corner meetings being broken up by the police; and at Hyde Park saw a mass demonstration in progress. There was a grimness about it all that worried Kerr—but only, for the moment, as a side issue. He had long ago learned the valuable knack of concentrating exclusively on the job in hand, and he was doing so now...

  Penelope was in the lounge, dressed for going out, and Kerr admitted that she looked ravishing. She saw them and smiled—she had forgiven Timothy for his outburst at Dover. She had not altogether overcome her dislike of Bob Kerr, however, although as he approached—with that unexpected smile that lightened his face so remarkably—she sensed the quality in him that had made him so immediately popular with the Department agents.

  ‘Hello, there,’ said Timothy. ‘You know this fellow.’

  ‘Only too well,’ Penelope grimaced h
umorously, but gave Kerr her hand.

  ‘I don’t think we met under the right terms,’ he said, taking it warmly. ‘Tim, you keep quiet, or I’ll sling you out. There are one or two things, Miss Smith, with which you may be able to help me.’

  ‘Call her Penelope,’ suggested Timothy. ‘She quite likes it.’

  ‘Perhaps Mr. Kerr doesn’t,’ said Penelope, quickly.

  ‘Call him Bob,’ said Tim ingenuously, ‘and he will.’

  Bob Kerr laughed, Penelope followed suit, and Timothy beamed to see the barrier between them broken down. He had learned to admire and respect Kerr, as well as like him—and Penelope he was fast learning to love.

  ‘Now this man Mayhew,’ Kerr was saying, shortly after, ‘was a friend of your uncle’s; yet no one seems to have known him well. It’s a queer business, isn’t it? Had you ever heard of him?’

  ‘Only vaguely,’ said Penelope. ‘But then, Uncle didn’t like to think I knew anything about his business affairs.’

  Kerr’s expression hardened.

  ‘I’m very much afraid,’ he told her, ‘that there was good reason for that. He was—if appearances are anything to go by—mixed up with Marlin and Benson, and the footmen seem to have been part of Benson’s flock.’

  ‘Yes...’ admitted Penelope grudgingly.

  ‘And I can’t get it out of my mind,’ said Kerr, ‘that there was more than a coincidence in your arrival in London and your assignment with the Arrans. I mean,’ he eyed Penelope frankly: ‘It’s just possible your uncle knew the Arrans would be working against his—er—friend, and thought you would be able to look after them for a brief spell.’

  Penelope reflected; Kerr had noticed before that she rarely spoke on the spur of the moment.