A Conference For Assassins

by John Creasey

  Most people in London were happy, however, and among these was a certain Arthur Ritter, from Worcester, who was driving a car hired from Carraway without caring what it cost. At that time, he was alone. So was Doris Green.

  18: Tickets for the Stand

  Little Doris Green, pretty in her new flowered hat, was not happy; in fact, she was scared.

  She had been in London twice, each time with her mother, who was now dead; her father had been dead for many years. She stood forlorn and lonely on that Saturday evening. The soft light gentled the rather hard green of her tweed suit, a neat and fashionable little outfit. She looked nice. Somehow the cut of the jacket and the high neck of the yellow blouse beneath it emphasized the roundness of her bosom and the smallness of her waist. She wore flesh-coloured stockings on legs which were rather too full at the calf, thus accentuating her small ankle and brown-clad feet.

  Along the row of tall, grey, porticoed houses in Cromwell Road were the signs one after another:

  NO VACANCY. FULL. SORRY, FULL UP.

  Two youths walked past her, turned, and walked past again. A man stood on the other side of the wide road, looking at her. Massive red buses and little dark cars would cut him off from sight momentarily, and back he would come again. A sports car slowed down, and a man with a black wavy moustache called: “Like a ride, baby?” One of the youths, approaching for the third time, called: “How about a bit o’ rock ‘n’ roll, doll?” Doris was more than ever scared, and walked quickly along towards a traffic junction and another busy road. At the corner, a dozen people surged off the pavement and she was nearly bowled over. She recovered, went with the crowd, and was knocked from the far side. She felt a tug at her left arm, but thought nothing of it until she reached the far pavement. Then she discovered that her handbag was gone. She was so shocked that she stood absolutely rigid. People pushed past her, a man said “Sorry”, another growled: “Want all the pavement?” She moved towards the side of a house, staring blankly at her left wrist, where the bag had been hanging.

  In a strangled voice, she said: “No, oh, no.” Then tears filled her eyes; she had to fight against crying out. She had no idea who had stolen the bag, no idea what to do; she was beyond thought.

  For in that bag was thirty pounds; every penny she had.

  Arthur Ritter had been a widower for seven years. He was rather shorter than average, stocky, with iron-grey hair, a young face, and clear brown eyes. He dressed well and walked well. He owned a small pottery near Worcester, was comfortably off, had no particular vices and few of what he would recognize as virtues. Now and again, because he was lonely, he visited a woman in a town near his home; he always came away feeling a little ashamed.

  That Saturday evening, he had driven from his hotel near Piccadilly to see an old friend in a guest house in the Cromwell Road. His car was parked a hundred yards away and, walking towards it after visiting his friend, he noticed the girl in the green suit and the little flowery hat on a mop of golden-coloured hair. He noticed the two youths and the man in the car, too, and felt annoyed with them and sorry for the girl. She looked so forlorn. He watched as she crossed the road, noticed the youth who bumped into her, and saw him quicken his pace and then turn a corner. A moment later, the girl stumbled, and two more men bumped into her. She went to the side of a big house with round, cream-colored pillars and a high porch and looked as if she could stand no more.

  Everyone else ignored her.

  Ritter went towards her, feeling awkward and shy, and yet genuinely sorry for her. He stood a yard or two’ away, close enough to see the tears glistening on her eyelashes.

  He could keep quiet no longer.

  “Excuse me,” he said, with a frog in his throat. “Excuse me, but - can I help you?”

  She stared at him without speaking, her lovely violet eyes still glistening.

  “I don’t want to butt in, but - I’ll be glad to help if I can.”

  Hesitantly, tremulously, she told him what had happened.

  It was a strange, touching little encounter, a father and daughter-like meeting. She mustn’t worry, she mustn’t cry. He would see the police for her. She would almost certainly get her money back. He would find out where the police station was. Where was she staying?

  ‘Where!” he exclaimed. “You mean your home isn’t in London?”

  “No.”

  “And you’ve nowhere to stay?”

  Pathetically, she said: “And I haven’t got any money, either.”

  The police at a nearby substation were affable but not really hopeful; and of course they asked for Doris’s address.

  Almost without thinking, Ritter said: “The Welchester Hotel.”

  “What room number, please?”

  “Seven-o-seven.” He gave his own, for there was no other to give.

  “Look here, my dear,” he said, when they were outside. “I’ll lend you some money. I’ll be happy to.”

  “It’s ever so kind of you, but . . .”

  “Look here, young lady,” said Ritter, suddenly masterful, “you can’t wander around London without any money and without anywhere to sleep. We’ll go and find you a hotel for the night, anyhow. I’ll drive, and you look out for a place on your side.”

  NO VACANCY, FULL, FULL UP, NO ROOMS, FULLY BOOKED, the signs read, and it was dark by the time they gave up.

  “You must have somewhere to sleep,” Ritter said, desperately. “Perhaps my hotel has a room.”

  He took her there. As they approached the reception desk through the crowded foyer, three applicants for rooms were turned away.

  “You can’t stay out all night,” he said, in a funny kind of voice, for by then he was beginning to realize what might come of this. “I can’t allow it. You - you must have my room.”

  “Oh, I can’t possibly!”

  Instinct or premonition told him that she could and she would, and in his heart he knew exactly what was going to happen. His conscience worried him a little because she was so young, but she wasn’t a child.

  “I tell you what,” he said. ‘There’s a settee up there.”

  She was shaken and scared and lonely, and he was old enough to be her father. She was not at all frightened of him.

  His bedroom was more luxurious than any room she had ever been in. There was a bathroom, too, and the settee was plenty long enough for her. He wanted her to take the bed, but she refused, almost gaily. He sent for some sandwiches, and she hid in the bathroom when the waiter brought them. When she came out, they laughed conspiratorially.

  Arthur locked and bolted the passage door. Arthur went into the bathroom while Doris slipped off her clothes and put on a pair of his pyjamas. Arthur came out, breathing a little fast and roughly. He went over to her, and bent over her, and leaned down and kissed her, softly - gently - passionately.

  It was the first time that Doris had known a man. Ritter knew that as he took her so gently yet so daringly, so guiltily and yet with such ecstasy.

  “Of course I’m not ashamed,” Doris said, next morning. “Arthur you mustn’t be, either. I - I - I loved being with you.”

  They did not leave the room until nearly twelve o’clock, and they walked out together, as in a dream. Near the hotel an office was open, selling stand tickets for the procession, the lowest price left being twelve guineas each. Ritter bought two; he would have bought them at double or treble the price.

  Alec Sonnley went out by himself to collect the tickets for the procession stand. When he had them, he went to a telephone booth and, with great difficulty, inserted the coppers and dialled the number where he expected to find Klein. It rang on and on for a long time while he scowled straight ahead at people passing in the street. Nothing would go right.

  Then the ringing stopped and Klein answered: “Benny Klein speaking.”

  “Benny,” Sonnley said, in a low-pitched voice; he managed to make himself sound anxious.

  “Who’s that?’ demanded Klein, and then caught his breath. “Is that you, Sonny
Boy?”

  “Listen, Benny,” said Sonnley, with soft urgency, “I know who fixed that acid now. It was that flicker from Glasgow, Jock Gorra. I can’t do anything to Gorra yet, but the day will come. Listen, Benny . . .” He broke off.

  “I’m listening,” Klein said, as if he could not really believe that Sonnley was affable.

  Tm throwing my hand in,” Sonnley declared. “I can’t take any more of it, Benny. I’m past it. So I’m throwing my hand in, and I want to make sure the cops don’t get anything on me over the grapevine. I want you to keep your mouth shut about me, Benny.”

  Klein said, swiftly: “What’s it worth, Sonny Boy?” That was the moment when Sonnley felt sure that Klein had taken the bait, and after a long pause he smiled for the first time since his fingers had been burned. Then he said anxiously: “We agreed on five thou’, didn’t we?”

  “How much, Sonny Boy?”

  “Five thou’ . . .”

  “It’s a deal for ten thousand,” Klein said. “Ten thousand will make a lot of difference to me, but a rich man like you won’t notice it.” There was a sneer in his voice.

  198 *

  Sonnley muttered: “I’m not so rich, but - well, I don’t want trouble, Benny. I’ll make it ten. But my hands are all burned up, you’ll have to collect it. You’ll find it in the cellar at the Norvil Street shop. It’s packed in television-set cartons - I thought I’d need plenty of change. You’ve got some keys, haven’t you?”

  “I’ve got some keys,” Benny said. “Okay, Sonny Boy, you can sleep easy.”

  When he stepped out of the telephone booth, Sonnley stood for a moment, wiping his forehead with the back of one bandaged hand. Then he turned towards his home. His lips puckered as he began to whistle.

  On Sunday morning, Mildred Cox got up first, glad that Ray was asleep. She had never known him so tired, never known work take so much out of him. In a way, he had been worse at home since she had persuaded him to try to get on with Gideon. She knew the truth, of course; he could never bear to play second fiddle, and something about Gideon made him feel inferior.

  He slept until ten o’clock; when he woke he was irritable and sharp-voiced, so that young Tom was subdued.

  “I’m going to check progress along the route,” he told Mildred. “I can’t be sure when I’ll be home.” He drove to Parliament Square, where the flags were up and the flowers at the window boxes of the government buildings were at their loveliest. Crowds were already thronging the streets. Cars were parked beyond the various barricades. Traffic was already too thick to allow it in Whitehall, Parliament Square, St. James’s Park or the Mall. Cox recognized a lot of C.I.D. men mixing with the crowds and wasn’t surprised to see Parsons.

  “About what you’d expect,” Parsons remarked when they met. “Half the pickpockets and bag snatchers in London. But the big boys aren’t out - you heard what happened?”

  “Eh? Oh, the acid.”

  “That’s it,” said Parsons, dryly. “And the Glasgow boys have been sent off with fleas in their ears. You all right?”

  “Can’t see anything I’ve missed,” Cox said, rather tartly.

  “Tell you one thing I forgot,” said Parsons. “Gee-Gee asked me if your wife would like a stand ticket for Wednesday. He’ll be glad to fix it.”

  After a fight between a stiff rejection and Mildred’s interest, Cox said: “She’d like one very much.”

  “I’ll tell him,” promised Parsons.

  There was much activity on that Sunday in other parts of London, and in Paris, Bonn and New York.

  The airport security measures were checked for the last time, and Gideon drove to London airport to see a rehearsal. Airport police and officials were with him at the control tower.

  He watched ground crews, airport maintenance men, rescue service squads, both fire and medical, going through their drill with satisfying precision and speed. From lift boy to door attendant, newsstand assistant to restaurant worker, everyone had been screened. All scheduled aircraft were rerouted or retimed to keep the air, runways and services clear for the three Presidents and their retinues. Two helicopters were detailed to keep continual surveillance. Watchtower crews were doubled. The pilots of the four aircraft concerned were briefed by radio-telephone down to the most minute detail. Security men and women, as well as police, were stationed at every possible danger point. The rooftop observation point was closely checked, too, and officials were stationed there. The day-by-day and hour-by-hour routine of the airport was set aside. Few officials minded, but passengers complained bitterly in all tongues from English to Finnish, from Urdu to Japanese. Satisfied as far as he could be, Gideon joined Cox, as arranged. He sensed the man’s tautness; but at least he was civil and even overdid his thanks for the stand ticket.

  They checked as the greater London police forces went into action along the route from the airport to the embassies and hotels, then drove the whole route where men were stationed every hundred yards or so. They drove over the roads to be closed, too, so as to make sure the main route would not be affected on the big day.

  “Don’t think we’ve missed much,” Gideon said, when they had finished. “How about a drink, Ray?”

  After a startled pause, Cox said: “I could do with a pint. Thanks.”

  In and near the embassies, Security keyed itself to the biggest efforts ever.

  Everywhere, the crowds gathered, quiet, thoughtful, interested, quickly and easily stirred to laughter, thickening during the day until by early afternoon London was nearly as full of people as it would be on the day of the procession.

  Carraway’s cars were everywhere, but London crowds had seldom been less troubled by expert pickpockets, bag snatchers and petty thieves. Gideon, at the Yard, went across to look at the river; then heard footsteps outside breaking the Yard’s Sabbath quiet. The door opened and Ripple appeared.

  “Hallo, George!”

  “Hallo, Rip. Glad you’re back.”

  “How are things?”

  “All under control, I think,” Gideon said. “I counted twenty-seven of our chaps at the airport and on the way here,” said Ripple. “I hope nothing crops up to cause a distraction.”

  “And don’t I!” said Gideon.

  Matthew Smith was waiting almost in anguish for Wednesday: all he could think about was throwing his bomb. Violet Timson was waiting very contentedly for Ricky Wall, who was back in London. By coincidence he had come on the same plane as Ripple. Doris Green was blissfully happy because already Arthur had talked of marriage. Carraway was doing a big business, feeling quite secure; and Eric Little’s wife was trying to make her children understand the long wait for their father. Beryl Belman was pleasantly surprised that her mother was already perking up. Sonnley was waiting until the moment came to cut Klein’s throat; and Klein was trying to grasp what had hit the Glasgow Blacks, for Jock Gorra was already back home, held for questioning about an old robbery with violence. Klein had virtually nothing to do, had no money and no goods to collect and sell - and he knew now that Sonnley would be out to get him if he once suspected the truth. Parsons was waiting for a chance to send the Italian procurer out of the country, with some of his beauties, but giving up hope - and the security officers from the four great countries could hardly wait to get the Visit over.

  19: Arrivals

  On that crucial Monday, the skies were clear, there was a zephyr wind of six miles an hour, and near perfect visibility. London went about its normal business, shouldering aside the inconveniences near the procession route, where the hammering took on a more urgent note, and sightseers from out of town and overseas began to give even dingy streets a festive look. One after another, the aircraft with their important passengers flew in, landed quite trouble free, and emptied. Britain’s Queen, and her consort, the Prime Minister, and the Foreign Secretary, were there to greet them. Sleek cars rolled along the highways leading to the city. Crowds were thin at first, with groups of children gathered in wide places waving flags of four nations;
cheering, eager, showing hope and faith in the world that these men were trying to fashion. Nearer the heart of London, the crowds grew thicker and the cheering louder; but it soon faded as the cars stopped at embassies and hotels, their passengers stepped out, paused again for cameras and flashlights, then disappeared to relax for a while and to gear themselves for the first of the great occasions.

  The great occasion would be Wednesday’s procession.

  On Tuesday, late in the afternoon, Sir Reginald Scott-Marie stood up from the end of the large table in the conference room, and looked round at the group assembled there: Rogerson, Gideon, Ripple, Cox, Mollet, Bayer, Webron and Donnelly, the British Head of Immigration, and Mullivany, the Yard’s secretary. Mullivany had sat throughout the last hour listening to the final plans and the up-to-the-minute reports without a word of complaint or disapproval.

  “Everyone is satisfied, then,” said Scott-Marie. “Apparently we all have reason to be. I shall be available in the morning until ten o’clock, an hour before the procession leaves the Palace. If there is any kind of emergency or anxiety, call on me.” His voice, his way of barely moving his lips when he spoke, added a curious emphasis. “Now shall we adjourn to my office for a drink?”

  He turned around, and the door leading to his office was opened by a youthful-looking man; beyond, the bottles and glasses were on a table by the window. The sun was shining on the bottles, firing them with a hundred colours.

  Ripple followed Gideon through the doorway. “It will be over tomorrow, thank God.”

  “We’ll just be clearing up the mess,” said Gideon, and added under his breath: “I hope.”

  When Gideon got back to his office, after the cocktails, he sat on a corner of his desk and ran through reports that had come in. One was from Lemaitre: “All the Glasgow boys have gone home, George. Bob’s your Uncle!”