by John Creasey
‘I cannot convince myself,’—Wishart’s voice trembled as he spoke—that your suspicions are well-founded, Mr. Kerr.’
‘No?’ said Kerr, drily. ‘It took me a long time, too.’ He surveyed the assembled company again, from Lee-Knight to Yelding: from Halloway to Cathie—who seemed struck dumb.
‘Whoever it was,’ he said, ‘also appeared from time to time as Mr. Mayhew. He was adequately disguised. He used—these.’ From a small packet he produced a pair of thick, horn-rimmed glasses, a wig of dark hair and a moustache to match. ‘We traced Mayhew to an hotel in Bays-water,’ he went on, ‘and the manager assures me these effects are similar to those affected by Mayhew. They were found...’
The thing happened in a flash. Kerr could have prevented it, but had no desire to: there was only one satisfactory way for this to end. He saw Sir Kenneth Halloway leap from his seat, saw him snatch the revolver from his pocket. Yelding made an ineffectual, if plucky effort to stop him, but the bullet went through Halloway’s forehead—and Kerr continued even as the man slumped down.
‘They were found,’ he said quietly, ‘in Sir Kenneth Halloway’s rooms at the Carilon Club, together with ample evidence to substantiate the story. And I think this evidence should be read out now, gentlemen—for America and the world is listening to this meeting, over the air.’
20
Congratulations to and from
It had been intended primarily that the United States should hear the broadcast from Downing Street, but of necessity the rest of the world listened, and took startled note. In America, naturally, the effect was greatest; and like many examples of intense mass-feeling, the communal outcry against Great Britain swung round to a laudatory song of fellowship. Those sections of the Press that had been strongest against England were now out-doing each other in her praise.
The unprecedented step of broadcasting a Cabinet Meeting was generally conceded a master-stroke of diplomacy, impossible to combat. The tension of the meeting and the shot with which Halloway had killed himself had registered throughout the world, and obviously there was no question of the genuineness of the declaration. Even Big Bill Hopson was reported to have said that there was something in the spirit of those little islands, after all. The President telephoned London, congratulating Wishart on the way in which the threatened trouble had been averted, and promising to make sure the American end of the organisation was rounded up. ‘Always assuming,’ the President said, ‘we can find them. Perhaps you’ll have to send your men over, Wishart.’
Wishart smiled. That was as high a compliment as any man could have paid, and he told himself that Craigie deserved to hear it.
Craigie did, and he also heard later that Northway, shocked and hopeless in the face of the utter extermination of the English organisation, had finally let slip enough for its American counterpart to be rounded up.
With the filing of that American despatch, there was little left to do. The thing was history now—if, for the most part, history that would never be officially recorded. Puffing contentedly at his meerschaum, the Chief of Department Z smiled as he began to write his final report.
‘There are times,’ said Gordon Craigie to David Wishart and a Certain Personage, ‘when some operations of Secret Service work have to be made public, and I don’t think Kerr was far wrong in asking for that discussion to be broadcast. There’s no question of the success of its reception in America; it has entirely changed the outlook of the States with regard to this country, and has raised a storm of protest in all the democratic nations. Any effort by the mid-European Entente to cause trouble can only fail, because of the united front against them.’
‘Very different,’ said the Personage, ‘from what could have happened had we been suspected of deliberately picking a quarrel with—well, with any other country. Keep me in close touch with developments, Prime Minister, won’t you?’
The Rt. Hon. David Wishart promised that he would. Craigie left with him for the office of Department Z where Kerr was waiting. He greeted them cheerfully:
‘I’ve been on the telephone since you left,’ he added, to Craigie. ‘The reports from America and the Continent are excellent. The Entente disclaims any part in the affair—I suppose it is only politic to accept that disclaimer?’
He sounded faintly wistful, and Craigie smiled drily.
‘It certainly is.’
‘And we certainly shall,’ said Wishart, firmly. ‘We’ve no proof to the contrary anyhow.’
Kerr cocked a humorous eyebrow.
‘Haven’t we? I’ll take the chance of disagreeing with you, sir. There was a file of papers in the offices of the Potter Mills, concerning orders with the mid-European Entente. A cypher expert is working on them now, and I think you’ll find they represent the—er—business arrangements between Marlin, Potter and the Entente.’
Wishart stared.
‘Why should you suppose them to concern anything but normal business dealings?’
‘Because the Entente put an embargo on imported cottons and fabrics, twelve months ago,’ explained Kerr. ‘I found a letter at the Potter offices, purporting to deal with orders for materials I knew to be forbidden, and the rest of the correspondence has been found since. Still,’ he grinned engagingly again: ‘I suppose it is the wise thing, to accept the disclaimer?’
And this time, Wishart—nodding firm agreement—returned his smile.
The broadcasting of that Cabinet meeting to the world evoked a universal call for peace. Great Britain, certainly, would not refuse to answer it.
‘So it’s over.’ Wishart shook his head, almost unbelieving still. Thank God. Although—I still can’t think of Halloway without feeling—well------’
‘I know,’ said Kerr, slowly. ‘The devil. Everyone thought—certainly, I did—that he had sold out all his interests in the munitions field. It was only much later that it struck me as queer that the mysterious Mayhew popped up in Marlin’s records at about the same time—Halloway’s way of hanging on to most of his interests, of course.’ He shook his head, baffled by the behaviour of the man. ‘Remember how he was always yelling for heavier armaments? Ostensibly for our defence—actually, for quicker profits! Money-mad—literally. I mean it: he can hardly have been sane, can he?’
‘He couldn’t have been,’ said Wishart, bleakly. ‘The utter callousness of it all------!’
Craigie nodded grimly: ‘Yes indeed. For one thing, he knew Mrs. Trentham was a fanatical Communist—so he first got her dependent on him for drugs, then placed her with Jeremy Potter, where she was able to keep all the records for the campaign.’
‘And like a lot of other people,’ Kerr suggested, ‘she was prepared to commit any atrocity on paper, but when Mark Potter actually killed his brother, she broke down?’
‘I’m told,’ Craigie said flatly, ‘that she’s been inoculated with a serum that will eventually unhinge her.’
The other two grimaced their distaste, then Wishart asked:
‘What of the man in America—Northway?’
Kerr shrugged. ‘Communist, English-born—just the combination Marlin wanted to cause the agitation in the States. By the way, what’s happened to him, Craigie?’
‘He died,’ Craigie said dourly. ‘They called it heart failure.’
There was silence for a little, each man thinking of the horror that had passed—and the greater horror so narrowly averted.
‘What first made you think of Halloway?’ Wishart asked at last.
‘The use of his car for the bomb-throwing at Downing Street,’ Kerr answered. ‘Of course that was only an idea, but I worked on it. And then he told me his commissions with Marlin had practically stopped, but that he knew him well. Then, he’d been associated with the Potters—and when I learned that at one time, he’d been Mrs. Trentham’s employer—well, it all seemed too much for coincidence.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Nasty business, all round; but I suppose it might have been worse.’ Rising, he looked at his chief. ‘Do you want me any more, Cra
igie?’
‘I shall,’ Craigie replied drily, and Kerr grinned.
‘I can have a couple of weeks off, I hope?’
‘You never know,’ said Craigie, returning the grin.
He shook hands, and Wishart followed suit. The expression in the latter’s eyes said more than words could have done, and Bob Kerr was still smiling his pleasure as he hailed a taxi to take him to the Carilon Club. There he found, as he had expected, Timothy Arran, Wally Davidson, Bob Carruthers, a still-limping Dodo Trale, young Beaumont—and, unexpectedly, a somewhat tired but unquenchably cheerful person by the name of Tobias Arran. Toby, released from hospital for the celebration, announced that if he’d been on the job all along he would have cleared it up in a week. Magnanimously, they allowed him to stay...
They celebrated in the traditional Department fashion, but Kerr noticed that Timothy Arran was fidgety.
‘Tired, Tim?’ he asked.
‘To tell you the truth,’ said Timothy, ‘I’ve a date. Pen’s out of hospital to-day, following Toby’s lead, and I’m going to collect her. I—er—she said she’d rather like to see you.’
‘Did she!’ chuckled Bob Kerr. ‘She must have altered her opinion. All right, let’s leave these lads to their beer-swilling and get along. I’d rather like to see Penelope myself.’
‘To apologise, I hope,’ said Timothy.
‘What for?’
‘Your base suspicions, you lout.’
‘I’ll tell you what.’ Kerr rested a hand on Timothy’s arm: ‘If I’ve apologised to her within the next two hours, I’ll be your best man.’
‘You be quiet,’ said Timothy, uneasily. They were at the door by then, and he added in a stage-whisper: ‘They’re all fighting for the job.’
The noise that came from the beer-drinking gentlemen was effectively dramatic, but hardly polite. Timothy grinned and waved his goodbyes, then as he followed Kerr out, demanded: ‘And what do you mean, blast you, by two hours’ time? You’ll apologise the minute you see Pen, or I’ll know the reason why!’
‘Exactly,’ murmured Kerr.
‘You’re an obstinate cuss,’ said Timothy, but without rancour: for him the world was fair that morning.
They reached the Wimbledon hospital in good time, and Penelope, looking very much better despite her bandaged head, shook hands warmly with Bob Kerr and smiled at Timothy. Timothy bridled immediately.
‘I’ve told him,’ he said, ‘that you demanded an apology, and------’
He stopped; Kerr was eyeing Penelope oddly and Penelope was smiling back at him. Timothy had an unpleasant feeling in his mind that he might have taken Penelope too much for granted. Damn it, Kerr was a sight better catch for any girl. He was a ruddy fool, and deserved all he got. He was almost tempted to claim another appointment, but conquered the impulse.
‘Penelope,’ Bob Kerr was saying quietly—and to Timothy astonishingly: ‘why didn’t you join your aunt in Cannes?’
Penelope was smiling; Timothy waited, baffled, for her answer. When it came, it was an evasion.
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘I probably can,’ said Kerr. ‘I’m quite an imaginative fellow, at times. I’ve an idea you believed Jeremy Potter was extremely anxious to get you away from England because trouble of some kind was brewing. That you weren’t happy about it, and when you slept on Tim and Toby’s spot of bother, you decided to come back. That you suspected Mark Potter was the mysterious Benson, and after you’d spent a week with your aunt, you decided to tack yourself on to him and see what you could find. In fact,’ Bob Kerr said, no longer smiling, ‘I believe that if you hadn’t spotted him in that Daimler and gone after him we’d have been little nearer the solution, now.’
‘You certainly have an imagination,’ Penelope smiled.
‘Timothy Arran,’ said Bob Kerr, irrelevantly, ‘you don’t deserve her, but all the luck in the world, you two.’ He planted a chaste kiss on Penelope’s cheek. ‘I want to look in on our friends at the Wimbledon Station. But you should be all right with our Tim. He’s really quite a fellow when you know him.’
An Extract from John Creasey’s
Days of Danger
“I BEG your pardon,” said the small man at the wheel of the Frazer Nash. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch——”
The stolid, ruddy-faced policeman who found the misdoings of that Somerset village enough to keep him fully occupied during his working hours scowled, wished the little man to Jericho, drew a deep breath and started again.
“Fust left—second right—fust left, second left, and then right up the hill.” He was very careful with his aitches, was that country policeman, whose early days had certainly been spent within reasonable distance of the Bow Bells. “You can’t miss it, sir. Good morning, sir.”
“But look here,” protested the little absurdly ugly man, “I’m really in a hurry, and I always go dithery on directions and what-not. I suppose you wouldn’t care to take me there?”
The policeman, now two yards away, turned half about and stiffened.
“Take you there?” he echoed. “Take you—it never struck you I’d want to get back, did it?”
“But,” protested the little man with the ugly face, “I thought all country people liked walking. Wrong again, eh? Oh, don’t go. If I can’t take a passenger, let me write it down for the love of Mike. I tell you I must get there in the next half-hour, and if I turn right instead of left the Lord knows when I’ll arrive. Now, you said ‘first right’—or didn’t you?”
He had a pencil out of his pocket and an old envelope resting precariously on the steering-wheel. A piercing wind, unusual for that September, was making him shiver and wonder what the house would be like when he reached it. Would they have a fire? Or would they be superstitious and wait until September was out?
“I said,” said the constable grimly, “fust left——”
“Got it.”
“Second right——”
“That’s the second on the right after I’ve taken the first left, isn’t it? I want to get it clear, old son, and I know you folk have the devil of a lot of patience.” The little man beamed and looked as though he meant what he said; and the policeman told himself he’d like to wring his neck. The policeman was cold as well as busy, and his patience deserved a medal.
“That’s right, sir. Second to the left after the fust on the right, and then—then—have you got that?—fust left again——”
“After I’ve taken the second on the right and the first on the left, I take the first left? I know I seem dense, but——”
The policeman’s patience and his aitches disappeared at the identical moment.
“‘Ere,” he said downrightly, “lemme write it down fer yer.”
“Oh, stout fellow!” said the little ugly man, and he relinquished the paper and pencil with every evidence of relief.
As the policeman wrote laboriously, and even made a brave attempt at a sketch which would tell the little man just where he turned left and where right before he reached the house which was known as The Maples, and the village called by the fastidious Tarrington and the locals ‘Tanton,’ the little man—whose name was Tobias Arran—eyed not the stalwart of the law, but the saviour of the brewers; in short, a hostelry of Michford. Michford was a small market town some seven miles from Tavistock; it boasted three inns, the largest of which was called the ‘George.’ A pleasing, comfortable country sound had the name of the best pub in Michford. Also it had—or so Tobias Arran had been led to believe— an astonishing list of regular visitors even for the star turn-out of the little town.
“And now,” said the policeman, recovering his poise and his aitches, “you can’t go wrong, sir. Here you are.”
He passed over the envelope, the scrawled instructions and the map, touched his forehead and turned, obviously anxious to get away before the little man could ask for explanations. Explanations were in fact called for, but Mr. Tobias Arran puzzled them out, took a last glance at the ‘Geor
ge,’ started the engine and was away. He went strictly according to instructions, and when he took the last right turn he found himself amid desolate moors and, as far as he could see, many weary miles from civilization and Tarrington.
“Blast,” said Toby Arran with emphasis. “I wonder where the blazes I went wrong? Only thing for it, I suppose, is to turn back and look up every lane I passed. Why in the name of the raging furies did Craigie tell me to find my own route? Oh, well.”
He turned the car and started back, more slowly and with bitterness in his soul. For he was hungry as well as cold, tired as well as impatient, and Gordon Craigie—at the moment in a small office in Whitehall and talking to the Prime Minister—had told him he must be at The Maples, Tarrington, by five o’clock. It was now four-forty-five, and the chances seemed negligible; but Toby Arran was nothing if not a trier.
• • • • •
About the time that Toby Arran, who was known by many folk as a man-about-town, wealthy beyond avarice, energetic beyond all reason, and by a few as a member of that peculiar Department called Z—or by the pedantic the British Intelligence—was searching, three men were in a room on the first floor of the ‘George,’ at Michford.
Two were ordinary men to look at; they might have been met and passed without a second thought in any crowded High Street; they looked as though they owned first-class season-tickets from the outer suburbs to the centre of London, and used them regularly. One, indeed, was so sleek, fat and prosperous-looking, that he might even have travelled from the country day by day.
His name was Mort.
He was fat enough to have a ponderous paunch, nicely covered with blue serge, two chins and flesh that almost hid his eyes. His flesh was smooth and dimply. His hands were very white, almost those of a surgeon or a woman, and on the little finger of his left hand gleamed a diamond ring. The only other point of note was that he wore patent-leather shoes: to the right man that said a great deal.
