Carriers of Death (Department Z)

by John Creasey

  ‘But,’ she objected, ‘he knew I’d be going to France in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘That’s the rub,’ admitted Kerr. ‘Anyhow—you’d no inkling, before the morning you left Manchester, that you were going to be put in Timothy’s care?’

  ‘I certainly hadn’t,’ said Penelope, with such emphasis that Timothy chuckled.

  ‘And no knowledge at all of Mayhew?’ Kerr threw in again, casually. But Penelope seemed not to notice, and merely repeated that she had never seen Mayhew and had only vaguely heard of him.

  ‘A pity,’ said Kerr, ‘A great pity. Well...’

  He broke off as Penelope obviously caught sight of someone entering the hotel foyer, and turned to see the somewhat pompous person of Mark Potter.

  Potter looked an ageing man as he stumped across the lounge. His brow was furrowed, his eyes lacked lustre, and his old-fashioned dress had lost its immaculate appearance. Penelope could have told them that he had suffered much more from the notoriety that his brother’s murder had brought on the business, than by his actual death.

  ‘Are you ready, Penelope?’ he demanded. He nodded frigidly to Arran, of whom he heartily disapproved, but thawed as he added: ‘Well, Kerr—any developments?’

  ‘Nothing useful, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘A vile business; vile!’ said Potter. ‘You’ll advise me, please, if there is anything at all I can do? I can’t stop tonight—we are calling on Somerston, the company’s legal adviser: an old family friend, of course. Ready, Penelope?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’ Penelope smiled at the others. ‘I’ll see you some time tomorrow, Tim.’

  As the pair of them moved away, Kerr nodded towards the reception desk and murmured tensely: ‘Watch that man, Tim!’

  Timothy watched as the man signed the register and turned towards the lifts. He was limping a little on his right side—and Tim’s memory clicked into gear.

  ‘Williams’ description of Mayhew?’ he breathed.

  ‘Good man!’ said Kerr. ‘After him, Tim.’

  As Timothy disappeared unhesitatingly in the wake of the stranger, Bob Kerr moved casually towards the main doors...

  Within five minutes, Timothy had seen the man with the limp enter room 87, had discovered from the attendant that he was a regular visitor to the Éclat, named Roper, and was back to report. But there was no sign at all of Bob Kerr. Nor was there a message of any kind.

  For a moment or two, Tim stood nonplussed. Then an unpleasant suspicion seeped into his mind.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ he muttered, staring out into the darkness beyond the hotel entrance. ‘I can’t believe it!’ But the trouble was that he could, and did.

  Mr. Marcus Benson, as most of his acquaintances and all of Department Z would have acknowledged, was in many ways a remarkable man. For instance, he had appeared in several places complete with his moustache, and without making any attempt to disguise his appearance—despite the fact that he must have known that every policeman, on or off duty, and every member of the fighting services, had been furnished with a description of him and were liable to tackle him on sight. In fact, in the three weeks from the moment Toby Arran had been shot until the finding of Philip Fenway’s body, seven hundred and twenty three men had been detained and inspected by Kerr, Davidson, or someone who had actually seen Benson in the flesh. None of the men had been really like Benson, but without a photograph it was impossible for the authorities to be sure that their detentions were even reasonable.

  Gregory Marlin, lately one of the most successful brokers on the stock exchange, was also remarkable, although he was the first to admit that he would have been mad to have quarrelled with Benson when the first signs of trouble had developed. Benson was the active partner; Marlin made the arrangements and had no fear that they would not be carried out. But Benson was also ready to admit that without Marlin to tell him just when to act and what to do he would have been flummoxed.

  Marlin had a genius for pinpointing the one thing essential to the result that he—and more particularly those who were paying him—wanted. It was Marlin who had thought of the bombing of Chicago: Marlin, who had calculated the calamitous effect of the murder of the American Ambassador.

  Now Marlin and Benson sat in one of the upper rooms of the house at Putney. They never lingered downstairs, for there was just the possibility that someone might glance through a window and recognise them. It was partly this talent for eliminating every likely mischance that had given them their success so far.

  Marlin’s face was a little fuller than usual: he lacked exercise, and the suspense of waiting for news of his various plans gave him a thirst. Benson looked his usual self. So did the man who lounged back on a settee and listened to them both: the man who, for whatever reason, they called by the name of Mayhew.

  ‘I think we can say,’ Benson was summing up, ‘that we have done very well, Marlin. Now—you said you wanted three weeks. You’ve had it. When can we clear out?’

  Marlin rubbed his yellow skin and frowned a little.

  ‘Not for a few days,’ he said. There’s just a little more to do, Benson. Just a little more.’

  ‘I can’t keep this thing going for ever,’ Benson objected.

  ‘No. I appreciate that. But you must remember, there is always the chance that Lilian will talk. I really didn’t think she would hold out as long as she has done. And if—I say if—she does tell Craigie and that fellow Kerr all she knows, we shall still have work to do.’

  ‘That’s all very well,’ Benson grumbled. ‘But you can take too many chances, Marlin. We’ve been close enough to trouble several times.’

  ‘But you, my excellent Benson—’ Marling knew that it was almost impossible to flatter him too much—’have managed to avoid it, and I think you will have to continue to manage it.’

  Benson’s smile was unforced as he smoothed his hair.

  ‘I haven’t done so badly,’ he agreed, with evident self-approval.

  Marlin hid his own smile, and the eyes of the third man creased at the corners.

  ‘I don’t think you need worry about Lilian,’ he offered. ‘I’ve been looking after her very well.’

  ‘Just what do you mean by “looking after”?’ demanded Marlin.

  ‘She always was very excitable,’ Mayhew said, ‘and she had this war bug in her bonnet. A little dosing, and she was ready to fall over the wall at any moment; you get what I mean?’

  Benson frowned, unable to gather Mayhew’s meaning. Marlin gathered it, all right: Mayhew had secretly accustomed Mrs. Trentham to the use of drugs, and now that she was without them, her mind was liable to crack.

  ‘It was a great pity,’ Marlin commented, ‘that she ever fell into their hands.’

  ‘It couldn’t be helped,’ Benson said shortly. ‘I warned you right from the first that you’d be up against it with these men of Craigie’s—and I might tell you, I don’t like Kerr. He was close to me at Pockham, he was almighty dangerous at Preston, and Garnett tells me he was at Crayshaw last night, with Miller and one of the Arrans. He’s been late, so far—but if we keep going, he’ll catch up.’

  Marlin’s expression was inscrutable.

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. Supposing...’ Benson leaned forward a little and Marlin could not repress a shudder as those cold, fishy eyes stared into his. ‘Supposing he found this place. What a mess it would be!’

  ‘He won’t find it!’

  ‘How’d he find Crayshaw?’ demanded Benson.

  ‘He has to be lucky sometimes,’ Marlin retorted. ‘There’s only one way he might trace us here, Benson, and that is if you’re seen and followed.’

  ‘There isn’t a man on two legs,’ said Benson, complacently, ‘who could follow me if I didn’t want him to. Don’t you worry about that. You’ve caused the damage, if anyone has.’

  Marlin’s voice was harsher than usual.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The night you got away from Hendon.’ Benson sp
read his thick hands on the desk in front of him. ‘You had the other car abandoned on Wimbledon Common. If I’d been with you, it wouldn’t have happened. It was too close to us.’

  ‘The last place they’d be likely to search for us would be near where the car was abandoned,’ Marlin said, irritably. ‘And anyhow, that was nearly three weeks ago. Don’t raise unnecessary scares, man!’

  Benson shrugged.

  ‘Well, I reckoned we’d be out of it by now: but if there’s something else, what is it?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’ Marlin’s very white teeth gleamed. ‘I’ll let you know by to-night. You’d better have your men ready.’

  ‘They’re always ready,’ retorted Jacob Benson, and rose to go. ‘So long, you two.’

  They watched from a window as he climbed into a saloon car and disappeared down the drive and out on to the main road. Mayhew chuckled.

  ‘He’s a queer customer. As much humour as a whale, but he does do his job.’

  Marlin nodded and smiled, well satisfied. If he inspired everything that happened, Benson perfected the arrangements. It had been Benson who had insisted on leaving no possible evidence at any of the places where they had been. The only records of the activities of the trio were in a safe at the Putney house—and unless the safe was opened by a key, no one would ever get at the records. Any attempt to force the lock would ignite a mechanical contrivance that would destroy all papers before the safe was open. That again was Benson’s idea.

  Marlin turned from the window as Mayhew offered him a cigar.

  ‘Well... We certainly can’t complain. Have you seen the papers this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mayhew chuckled. He was, surprisingly, a man who found a great deal to laugh at in life. ‘The scare’s going well, old man. But Benson’s right, you know. You can drive it too far.’

  Marlin nodded.

  ‘Yes. But I can’t get away until I’ve collected the money, Mayhew. Our backers are notorious for their willingness to forget a debt. They want the job done properly.’

  ‘They want,’ said Mayhew, frowning, ‘an actual declaration of war. It’s asking a lot.’

  ‘It’s not asking the impossible. I’m surprised the declaration has been delayed so long.’

  ‘Someone in the Government’s got some sense.’ Mayhew grinned. ‘That’s a contingency we hadn’t allowed for.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t be funny!’ snapped Marlin. ‘Anyhow, they didn’t stipulate the declaration. All they want is a withdrawal of troops and ships from certain places. And although we haven’t traced it definitely, I think the Mediterranean Fleet will shift around soon. And, of course, the Japanese are mobilising.’

  Mayhew nodded, frowning.

  ‘Yes. I’ve been a Lancashire man all my life—and the one country I don’t like is Japan. It’s ruined the mills, and I don’t like to think those little yellow swine will profit.’

  ‘They’ll have their hands full,’ Marlin assured him. They’ve trouble enough in Manchuria as it is, and they’ve got their eyes on Russia. They won’t be anxious to start anything with America.’

  ‘They’ll follow England’s lead if the thing comes,’ said Mayhew. ‘Take my word for it. It would be too good a chance to lose.’ He rose suddenly, snapping his fingers in annoyance. ‘I’m late—I must be in London by one! Before I go, Martin—do you think another week will cover us?’

  ‘I do.’ Gregory Martin smiled unpleasantly.

  ‘And you’ve made all arrangements for getting out of the country?’

  ‘Everything’s ready.’

  ‘Good,’ said the man who called himself Mayhew. ‘I’ll see you some time tomorrow, then.’

  Martin saw him to the door, then returned to his desk. He had a great many things to think about, including the final operation: the match that would ignite the ready tinder of international emotions.

  14

  Broken appointments

  The Rt. Hon. David Wishart walked sadly from 10 Downing Street to the House of Commons. He looked drawn and ill: even the more hostile members of the crowd that followed him—at a reasonable distance, thanks to his strong bodyguard—acknowledged it. Most of them also admitted that the Prime Minister was no coward, even if he represented a Government that was rapidly becoming unpopular. He didn’t try to hide himself, like some of the others: he stuck to his habit of walking to the House every morning. He had no intention of even appearing to submit to the prevailing feeling of panic. In Wishart’s opinion—delivered when Craigie tried to remonstrate—it was essential for the leaders of the country to set an example, and he proposed to do so...

  It was on this particular morning that Marlin, Benson and Mayhew had talked together at the Putney house, less than ten miles away. The morning Press had generally been clamorous in their demands for action. Organs that had hitherto supported the Nationalist Cabinet through right and wrong now turned against it. Britain, they claimed, was losing all her pride: she was allowing America to openly accuse her of causing outrages and conniving war, and sitting down under the insult...

  ‘It is obvious’ (said the Clarion) ‘that neither this country’s Government nor that of America wishes to take the first step. That is understandable. But England must record its disapproval of the American outcry against this country. It is useless to blink at facts, and the one important fact is that America is now hostile to Great Britain. Already, there is a concentration of troops on the Canadian border. Unless immediate steps are taken, America will throw its forces against Canada, and take that vast stretch of country—rich in natural wealth, one of our greatest and fairest dominions—from under our very noses. This danger is imminent. What is the Government going to do?’

  In the House that morning Wishart was faced with similar criticism from Opposition benches. He knew, also, that a great proportion of National Members were opposed to his policy of inaction. The Whips had kept the Government from falling, but a safe majority of three hundred had been turned into a narrow one of seventy-odd on three occasions, and there was no telling when the back-benchers might not rise en masse against the Cabinet.

  Perhaps it was Wishart’s personality that kept the vote with him. He stood out, those days, as a man who could be obstinate, could be blind, but who certainly stood by his convictions in a way that commanded respect. He listened to the criticism white-faced, his hands clenched. When a storm of cheers broke out after the Leader of the Opposition’s particularly biting speech, Wishart stood up abruptly.

  There was something in his manner that demanded silence, and he spoke to a quieter House than he had addressed for weeks. His opening words sent a rustle through the benches. He ignored the formal opening, and his voice was quivering.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘are we all fools? Do we want war, to see our people massacred, our homes smashed down? Do we want an international holocaust? Are we going to let pride and pomposity dictate to us? Or are we sane men, trying to effect conciliation by discussion, settlement of disputes by arbitration? Are we in the Dark Ages, or is this the twentieth century? Do you want your Government to show a lack of restraint that will bring this country to war with America, or are you prepared to let the voice of reason speak for you, to wait until this anti-American wave of public feeling has settled down, until Americans, at heart our friends, have recovered from their wave of hysteria? Gentlemen—it is in your hands...

  Wishart spoke for five minutes—and his impassioned appeal, followed by a snap Division, won a vote of confidence by a majority of seventy-eight. It was a triumph, but it merely delayed what many considered the inevitable.

  Craigie and Kerr admired his efforts and realised their full worth.

  Wishart, they had learned, had suffered badly from Marlin’s activities. He was not a wealthy man, and had lost as much, if not more, than Sir Kenneth Halloway when Marlin had cashed in before his disappearance. These financial worries naturally added to the Premier’s burden. At the other end of the line, Halloway was rich; he even
went so far as to offer private money for the defence of England, although the offer was refused with due ceremony. He had lost his twenty thousand pounds worth of bonds to Marlin, but if proof were needed of his financial stability, it was soon forthcoming.

  In his own way, Halloway was devoting all he possessed to the country.

  Before accepting the post of Under-Secretary to the Ministry of Defence, he had relinquished his seat on the Boards of three armament companies, and the Potter Mills, and had put all his shares on the market.

  The sale of all those shares had been negotiated through Marlin, which accounted for Halloway’s somewhat bitter remarks anent that gentleman. Those remarks, however, were nothing to Sir James Cathie’s, although Cathie had little or no cause for complaint. He had extensive shares in many Government-contract companies: and although he had not advertised the fact, had of late bought substantially in Dickers-Leestrong, perhaps the largest armament manufacturers in the country, and was making money hand over fist. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he could have bought Wishart out a hundred times that made him sniff disparagingly at the Premier’s speech: certainly he made it clear he thought the danger was absurdly exaggerated.

  Timothy Arran reached the Carilon Club after a visit to Toby, who was by now being kept in the hospital under protest. Kerr and Wally Davidson were there and he waved a newspaper at them, as he cheerfully announced:

  ‘Prime Minister makes impassioned appeal, and the loyal British public pats his back. Another reprieve, you fellows, and now we’ve got to get to work.’

  Kerr’s smile had little humour in it.

  ‘How?’ he demanded. ‘We’re stuck. Up against the proverbial brick wall. We’ve searched Marlin’s place, Potter’s place, Crayshaw and a dozen other spots, and we haven’t found a single thing. We haven’t even found the motive.’

  Timothy nodded, subdued now.

  ‘It’s a brute, old boy. I know: ‘I’ve never struck anything like it. I can’t see the slightest glimmer of sense in the whole thing. Who the hell wants us to fight America, anyhow?’