A Conference For Assassins

by John Creasey

  Lumati stared down at the money, his eyes glistening, his mouth dry, his lips parted.

  When Sonnley left, soon afterwards, he was whistling as merrily as could be, his green Tyrolean hat stuck jauntily on one side of his head. He whistled all the way home, all the way up to Rosie, and all the time he was washing his hands before lunch. He was halfway through a steamed steak-and-kidney pudding of mouth-watering succulence when the telephone rang.

  “I’ll get it, Sonny,” Rosie said, and puffed a few straying hairs away from her nose as she rested her elbows on the table, got up, and waddled across to the telephone in a corner; she knew how Sonny Boy disliked being interrupted when he was eating. “Hello, who’s that?” she inquired disinterestedly, and then she said: “Oh, Mrs. Whittaker, hallo dear, how are you? . . . Well, I am sorry . . . Well, I never . . . Well, what a funny thing to happen . . . Has he tried olive oil? It’s ever so soothing. . . Oh, I see . . . Well, he’s busy now dear . . .” She glanced across at Sonnley, who was scooping up a forkful of succulent brown meat and gravy-soaked suet crust. He waved his knife at her, and she went on: “He’s just come in, dear, wait a minute.” She covered the mouthpiece with her podgy hand as she called to Sonnley: “Dicky Whittaker’s burnt his hands something cruel. He’s had to go to a doctor.”

  “The damn fool, he’s due to start work next week,” Sonnley said disgustedly, and grabbed the telephone. “Sonnley speaking. What’s all this about . . .” He broke off, listening more intently, and when he spoke again his voice was subdued and the expression in his eyes was very different, and very thoughtful. “All right, tell him not to worry, I’ll stake him,” he said curtly, and rang off. He stared at his wife, who sat down placidly although she had just learned that one of the cleverest pickpockets in the business had burned his hands so badly that he would not be able to operate during the Visit.

  Someone had smeared vitriol on the handle bars of his motor scooter.

  When Klein came into his office, next morning, Sonnley sat reading some letters without looking up. Klein stood by the desk for two minutes, and then deliberately sat on a corner. Sonnley took no notice. Klein took out cigarettes, lit one and dropped the spent match into an ash tray close to Sonnley’s right hand.

  “Remember me?’ he said.

  “I’ve got to have some bad luck.” Sonnley still read. “You said it,” said Klein, flatly. “I’ve got news for you.”

  Sonnley looked straight into his eyes for the first time, paused, and then asked: “What news?” Sonnley never admitted it to a soul, but Klein’s answer took him completely by surprise and almost broke up his poker face. The answer was one word, spoken with that guttural accent, taking on a kind of menace which Sonnley had not known for a long time.

  “Cops,” said Klein.

  Sonnley needed a moment’s respite before saying: “What’s that?”

  “Cops.”

  “What the hell do you mean, cops?”

  “I mean busies, dicks, bloody flatfoots,” said Klein. “They’re watching my van. They followed me this morning. There’s a couple outside now - one of them was at the station when I got back last night, one was outside here when I arrived. Think he was waiting to pass the time of day with me? What have you been doing?”

  “I don’t believe . . .” Sonnley began. “You take a look,” invited Klein.

  Sonnley stood up, slowly, and went to the window. He had lost his perkiness and heartiness as he stood at one side of the window to avoid being seen. On the other side of the street, standing by a telephone kiosk and reading a newspaper, was a tall, heavy-built man, and Sonnley knew that Klein was right. There was another, taller, thinner man, strolling along the street. “What have you been up to, to bring them as close as. this?” demanded Klein.

  “It’s just routine,” Sonnley said uneasily. “That’s all it can be.”

  “Okay, then, it’s just routine,” said Klein. “But if I start collecting the stuff from the boys and girls and get copped, I’ll be back on the Moor, and that’s a routine I don’t like. I’ve got some more news for you.”

  “Now, listen, Benny . . .”

  “I want out,” said Klein. “I want five thousand quid as a golden handshake, and then I’ll just fade out of your life. I’m not taking any more chances, and it’s time I got my bonus.”

  Sonnley returned to his desk, sat down, and looked into the other man’s bright grey eyes. There was nothing there that he liked, nothing remotely reassuring. He had known that one day a break would come, but he hadn’t expected blackmail, and he hadn’t expected it to come so suddenly. He took out a green and-white checked handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. Klein didn’t shift his gaze. He had one hand clenched on the desk, another with the palm upwards, the fingers crooked and beckoning.

  “Give,” he said.

  Sonnley still didn’t speak. Klein leaned across the desk so that Sonnley could feel the warmth of his breath, and repeated: “Give.”

  Sonnley said thinly: “Not a penny.”

  “Say that again, and I’ll break your neck.”

  “Then you’ll go inside for the rest of your life.” Klein’s eyes narrowed, as if he hadn’t expected such tough resistance.

  “Sonny Boy, don’t get me wrong,” he said. “I want out and I want five thousand quid, and that’s how it’s going to be.”

  “Benny,” said Sonnley, in a voice which shook a little, “you aren’t going to get another penny from me unless you see the next ten days through. You can please yourself.”

  Klein was towering over him, lips drawn back. There were silence and stillness in the room for what seemed a very long time, and with every second it looked as if Klein would explode into action. Before he did, while the breath was hissing through his mouth, Sonnley said in a soft voice: “Who smeared vitriol on Dicky Whittaker’s motor scooter?”

  For a moment Klein’s expression did not change; he still looked as if he would burst into violent action. Then he blinked. He closed his lips, moistened them, and said: “What’s that?” and drew back a pace, as if his rage had suddenly died away. “What’s that?”

  “You heard.”

  “Come again.”

  “Who smeared vitriol on the handle bars of Dicky Whittaker’s motor scooter?”

  “Someone did that?” Klein sighed.

  “You’ve been back in London since last night, and no one told you?”

  Klein said, still sighing: “You’re telling me, aren’t you?” He moistened his lips again. “Because the cops were watching, I kept away from all the boys. I didn’t hear anything. Sonny Boy, is this right?”

  “It’s right.”

  “Then Dicky can’t work.”

  “He can’t work.”

  Klein asked: “Who did it, that’s what I want to. know? Who did it?”

  “That’s what I want to know, too,” said Sonnley. “If you want out and five thousand quid, you find out who did it.”

  “Who would hate Dicky as much as that?”

  “Just find out, and let me know quick,” said Sonnley, “because when I find out who did it, I’ll break him. Understand?” He stared levelly, coldly, into Klein’s eyes. “Whoever it was, I’ll break him for good. Just remember that.”

  “I’ll find him,” Klein said. “I’ll find the swine.” Sonnley watched him as he turned away and went out, and saw no change in his expression. Sonnley jumped up from the desk, stepped swiftly to the door, pulled it open and saw Klein halfway across the room beyond, still looking astounded; if he knew more than he pretended, he was covering it well. Did he know? Or was he as shocked as he made out?

  Sonnley went back to his desk, sat down, then jumped up again and took three jerky steps to the window. The watcher by the kiosk hadn’t moved, but the taller, thinner man was now farther along the street. Klein appeared on the pavement. The thin man turned and followed him. Sonnley watched them both go around the corner. The man by the telephone kiosk stayed put, which meant that Klein had been right, and that he,
Sonnley, was being watched.

  Sonnley’s lips pursed and he began to whistle, but it was a thin, grating sound with no high spirits, no attempt to catch a tune. Now he had two problems, two big problems, and he had to decide which needed priority.

  The question of priorities was Gideon’s chief preoccupation, too, and it became more acute as the days passed. A week before the Visit, it seemed as if there was an impossible amount to do; masses of paperwork passed over his desk, and for days he hardly moved out of the office. That worsened his feeling of frustration and strengthened the urge to get out and about; but he could not, wisely. He was a little sore because he had advised Cox to go around to all the divisions and check the arrangements and the men to be released for central London work, and instead of jumping at it, Cox had looked down his nose as if it were a chore. But that side of the arrangement appeared to be working smoothly, and he did not allow it to worry him; he was getting used to Cox.

  On the Monday before the Visit he spent less time than usual looking through reports and briefing his men, but a note from Abbott caught his eye. “Beryl Belman will be here today - would you like to see her?” Gideon looked across at Bell, and said: “Tell Abby I’ll go down and have a word with the Belman girl, will you?”

  “Right.”

  “Anything more on Carraway?”

  “Absolute blank, Abby says it’s like coming up against a brick wall.”

  One of Gideon’s telephones rang, and he lifted it while glancing at another report. It was Christy of N.E. Division.

  “Yes, Hugh?”

  “Funny thing happened you ought to know about,” said Christy, without preamble. “Remember Dicky Whittaker?” On the instant, Gideon pictured a tall, very thin, sorrowful-looking man who had often been inside for picking pockets and snatching handbags; he was probably the cleverest man in London at either job.

  “I remember him.”

  “He’s burned the skin off his hands. Someone smeared his scooter handles with vitriol and put him out of business.”

  Gideon gave a snort, smothering a laugh. “Well, who’s complaining?”

  “I’m just telling you,” Christy said. “While I’m on, George - half a mo’. . . “Christy wasn’t a man to waste time, so Gideon scanned another report and started on a third before Christy came back.”One of my chaps got punched on the nose by a drunk. He’s just come in... What was I going to say?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Oh, yes - I had Ray Cox here last night. Kept me here until half-past ten, the so-and-so.”

  “Did you?” Gideon asked, mildly.

  “Seems to be right on the ball,” said Christy. “He knows exactly what he wants and how to get it, if you ask me. Thought you’d like to know you’re in good hands! Bye.”

  Christy rang off, and Gideon put his receiver down slowly, rubbed his nose, shrugged, and went on with his reports. But his spirits rose a little; that was the first cheering report he’d had about Cox.

  His telephone bell rang again, and Abbott said: “Beryl B.’s downstairs in the waiting room, George. I don’t think she can help us over Carraway, though - but she can put Little away.”

  Gideon was surprised by the girl’s attractiveness, her feathery hair, and the likeness to her dead sister. She looked pale, her eyes were very bright, and she spoke in a subdued voice while looking him straight in the eyes. He felt quite sure that she was telling the truth when she said that she had wanted to see Carraway, but had never met him.

  Gideon talked for ten minutes or so, and then stood up.

  “I’m sure Mr. Abbott’s told you how sorry we are about what happened, Miss Belman. If we can do anything to help you or your parents, let Mr. Abbott know.”

  “He’s been ever so kind, sir,” said Beryl earnestly. “My father says he’ll always respect the police much more than he used to, after this. Mr. Abbott’s been ever so. good to me, too, and I would like to thank him personally.”

  Abbott was almost preening himself, Gideon saw. He would make the grade now, so one uncertainty was past, and the morning’s upward trend continued. Gideon went out, feeling as if the weight was lifting. He was much more cheerful when he opened the door of his office, and was surprised to see Violet Timson at his desk. She moved away from it quickly, almost guiltily?

  “I was looking for a report on the Little case, sir, for the Assistant Commissioner,” she said. “Mr. Bell’s out, too.”

  Her cheeks were flushed, and she sounded as if she expected a sharp rebuke. If he gave one, it would undo all the work done towards a better understanding, so he simply said: “You’ll find it on his desk.”.

  “Oh, how silly of me. Thank you,” she said hurriedly, and went across to the other desk and picked up the file. “Mr. Rogerson wants to talk to the Solicitor’s Office about another remand.” She went out briskly. Gideon put his hand in his pocket, then smoothed the bowl of his pipe and stared at the papers. He saw one thin file which wasn’t quite squared with the others, pulled it out and read: Australian Party. She had been checking to find out if there was any further news of Wall. Well, there wasn’t. He smiled thoughtfully to himself, and put the report aside, wondering how serious the affair was going to be. He had been alone for ten minutes when there were brisk footsteps outside, and before the sharp, peremptory knock came at the door, he knew this was Cox.

  He steeled himself.

  “Come on.”

  Cox came in, briskly, glanced at Bell’s empty desk, advanced to Gideon’s, and said: “Good morning, Commander. I think we’ve got everything we need, now. Plenty of reserves, the divisions all organized for the first three days of next week, everything laid on.” He was hearty and brisker than usual, as if making a big effort to create a mood of camaraderie. “There are two things I’d like your advice on.”

  This was sensational.

  “Pull up a chair . . .” Gideon began.

  “I won’t, if you don’t mind. I’m going over to the city in five minutes, just called in on my way.” Cox put papers on Gideon’s desk. “Do you think it would be a good idea if we - you and I, I mean, personally - did a kind of tour of inspection together later in the week, or next week end? Keep everyone on their toes, and make sure that nothing slips up.”

  Gideon said: “Anything that would take me out of this blurry office is right with me. We’ll fix two separate half days, shall we?”

  “Whenever you say,” said Cox. He was very newly shaven, his eyes were bright, his long thin neck and jutting ears made him look just a little comical. “The other thing is really something to be tackled at divisional level, but in order to be at full strength next week a lot of leave is being taken this week. The divisions are pretty short of men.” This was elementary. “There’s a missing neighbour case down in Streatham.” Streatham was one of London’s older, more sedate suburbs, in a quiet division. “A woman’s been missing for several days, and a neighbour’s been worrying the sub-divisional station because there’s a heap of fresh soil in the garden. As a matter of fact, I would have recommended that the division go and dig that soil over, but if I’d asked Miller for anything else I think he would have snapped my head off.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Gideon. At least one divisional superintendent disagreed with Hugh Christy on Cox’s merits. “Uniform reported it, and Divisional C.I.D. is sitting on it. That right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Give me the name and address,” said Gideon. “I’ll pick it up from a divisional report - there’s bound to be one - and ask Jeff Miller to have that plot dug over. He can get a warrant on the grounds that we’re looking for stolen goods. Job like that shouldn’t take long. If the earth’s fresh and there’s been no effort to cover it over, I wouldn’t expect to find much there. What’s the name?” Cox answered almost blithely: “The woman’s a Grace Smith, Mrs. Grace Smith. Miller says that the husband’s a sour piece of work and thinks that this is just a neighbour’s spitefulness. Just as well to be sure, though.”

  Co
x spoke like a schoolboy who was very conscious of good behaviour.

  “You couldn’t be more right,” Gideon said.

  He called Miller at the division, and Miller - preoccupied with some other problem - promised to get the warrant at once. Gideon expected to have to remind him, but within three hours the report came in. Soil at 41, Common Road dug over as requested. Result; negative.

  “All right as far as it goes,” Gideon said to Bell. “But where did it come from? Send a word through and ask

  Miller, will you?” He sorted some papers as he went on: “Did our Vi bring that Little file back?”

  “She brought it in full of apologies,” answered Bell. “If it wasn’t for that Aussie I’d think she had quite a crush on you.”

  Undoubtedly Donnelly and Webron were anxious, but they had the comfort of knowing that every possible action was being taken in London to trace O’Hara, and by now they had some idea how thorough the check would be, from top men in the divisions down to the youngest flatfoots on the beat. It would not have surprised them to know, for instance, that Police Constable Kemp was very thoughtful about the wanted American.

  Kemp had come to know which of the hotel managers and manageresses of the smaller establishments were helpful. From time to time he had to go and check the registers of guests, and this was the excuse he made when he called at the Lambett Guest House on the following morning. He saw the name Hann in the book which Mrs. Lambett showed him. She was a pleasant, if somewhat reserved woman, who charged more than most and catered for a better type of guest.

  “Now this Mr. Hann, he’s an American I see,” Kemp remarked. “Here for the Summit, is he?”

  “I understand that he is planning a long holiday in Europe, and England is his first stop,” answered Mrs. Lambett.