Death's No Antidote

by Geoffrey Osborne

  “Sir?” said the man with the file, glancing doubtfully at the two Americans.

  “These gentlemen are leaving now,” said C.P. smiling at his visitors and shrugging apologetically. He was back in control of himself now. “I’m afraid you’re not allowed to remain alone with me in my office when I have a top secret file in my possession…and, as you see, I am rather busy.”

  “Sure, sure, we won’t hold you up any longer Mr. Croome-Pugglesley,” said Gruber, rising to his feet.

  “There’s just one more thing, though,” said Ritchie. “Do you know of an outfit called SS(O)S?”

  C.P. felt as if a net was being tightened about him.

  “Er…no…yes.”

  His control was slipping again and he was having more trouble with his voice.

  “Have you had any contact with them, or perhaps worked with them?” asked Gruber.

  “No…that is, yes. In the past. Why?”

  “Oh, we just wondered,” replied Gruber easily. “We’re just off to their chief — the Director I think they call him.”

  He held out his hand.

  “Well, thanks for all your help Mr. Croome-Pugglesley.”

  Alone at last, C.P. leaned back in his chair and breathed deeply, trying to relax his stomach muscles which had tensed into a hard band. Afterwards he used his handkerchief to mop his brow and dry the palms of his hands.

  He stared dully at the fat file lying on his desk. Then with a start he remembered the two security guards. He walked quickly across the room and opened the door.

  “Have those Americans gone?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Good. I’m going to lock my door while I’m working, but I shan’t be long. Don’t go away, and don’t let anyone disturb me. The file must be returned immediately.”

  “Right sir.”

  He closed the door and turned the key. Back at his desk he opened the file and began to work quickly, making the few minor corrections and slotting in the added material. It took only five minutes.

  The routine work calmed him, and a faint smile quirked at the corners of his mouth as he saw humour in the situation.

  So this was how simple it was for spies to steal secrets — although he was probably the first to do it with a couple of Foreign Office security men guarding the door for him.

  “Cavendo tutus,” he said softly, opening his briefcase to take out the camera, the stand — and a 200 watt bulb, which he swopped with the issue 60 watt bulb in his desk lamp. The discarded bulb began to roll across the top of the desk, so he picked it up and placed it carefully in a drawer.

  Swiftly, the way he had practised at home, he fitted up the camera on its stand and switched on the lamp, arranging it so that the white splash of light fell exactly right — on the first page of the open file.

  *

  There were sixty-nine pages. The only sound in the room was the rustle of the sheets being turned over, punctuated by the click of the camera. Once he paused, after using the thirty-six exposures on the 8mm microfilm, to slip in a new cartridge.

  He worked on methodically, unhurried, absorbed in the task, making no mistakes. It took exactly eleven minutes.

  A knock on the door startled him while he was dismantling the camera. His heart raced and suddenly he was bathed in sweat. His knees were weak as he moved across the room.

  “Yes?” he called out, his mouth close to the thick wooden panel of the door.

  “Are you nearly finished sir? There’s a young lady waiting here, wants to bring you a cup of tea.”

  Relief flooded through him.

  “Oh. Yes. Just a minute.”

  He almost ran to the desk, snatched up his briefcase and stuffed the camera and stand inside. He snicked the catches home and put the case in the empty bottom drawer of a steel filing cabinet, which he locked.

  Then, just as he was about to open the door, he saw the harsh glare of the light on the desk. He switched off the lamp and moved it back to its usual position on the desk.

  “Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, unlocking the door to admit the two security guards. “The file’s on the desk. You can take it back now.”

  “Your tea will be stone cold,” scolded a young secretary following the two men into the room. “Shall I fetch another cup?”

  “No, this will do fine, thank you.”

  “I’ve got a pile of memos in my room for you that need answering,” the girl added. “Shall I bring them in now?”

  “Yes, all right. Might as well get them out of the way,” replied C.P.

  For the rest of the day he was too busy to think about the brief case locked away in the filing cabinet.

  Chapter Seven

  Six-thirty. The dank November air was a cold flannel on his face. Shopfront illuminations blazed in colourful defiance, lighting up the damp pavements; but already the street lamps were eerie orange spheres, floating independently in a hazy ceiling. It would be foggy soon.

  C.P. noticed none of this. He was aware of only one thing: the brief case under his arm — and the films that nestled inside like twin time bombs. They could be, he thought, his passport to freedom. Freedom from fear. Or they could be his death warrant.

  He glanced apprehensively over his shoulder, wishing he’d been able to find a taxi, remembering C’s warning.

  But why should the Other Side attack him now. They were going to get what they wanted; or they thought they were. He would just have to trust Dingle and Jones. Soon he would be finished with this nightmare. In less than an hour, this business should be over and done with.

  He recalled the instructions that had been dropped through his letterbox two nights ago. He was to go straight home and place the films in the biscuit barrel in his kitchen cabinet. At seven o’clock precisely, he was to go out, leaving the front door of the flat ajar, taking with him the camera and stand. These he was to dispose of before walking to Piccadilly to buy a packet of cigarettes. By the time he got back to the flat the films would be gone.

  When he had told Dingle about the instructions, the British agent had ordered him to follow them exactly. He wondered what Dingle planned to do.

  C.P. stopped to buy an Evening Standard at a news stand.

  “Goin’ ter be a real pea-souper guv,” observed the newspaper seller.

  “Eh? Oh, yes,” replied C.P., seeing for the first time the fog which was now beginning to clamp down. When he reached Albemarle Street, it was really thick.

  As he turned into the entrance of the apartment block, he whirled around in fear at the sound of running footsteps behind him.

  “Julian! Is that you? I thought I’d missed you in this fog.”

  “For God’s sake, Susan! You gave me a fright.” The words were spoken sharply, but there was a tremor in his voice. He looked around nervously, seeing nothing in the gloom, and began to whisper urgently. “You can’t come here now. You must go away, quickly.”

  She came nearer and held his arm.

  “What’s the matter?” She was whispering, too, sensing his unease. “Is it the job? You said it would be over tonight…”

  “Yes it’s the job,” he hissed. “Get away from here now. It could be dangerous for you. I’ll come to your place when I’m finished.”

  “Can I help you…?”

  He pushed her away roughly.

  “Will you do as I tell you!”

  “All right…” already her form was melting into the murky night… “but don’t forget.”

  C.P. didn’t bother to reply. He ran up the steps into the tiny lobby of the apartment block, pressed the button for the lift and glanced at his watch. It was already ten minutes to seven. Impatiently, he stabbed at the button again and then realised that the lift wasn’t working.

  Smothering a curse, he made for the stairs, running up them two at a time. His chest was heaving when he closed the door of his flat behind him. He crossed the small hall to the lounge, switched on the light —
and started violently, biting back a shrill cry of terror.

  “You’ll have to watch those nerves of yours C.P.,” said Dingle, pocketing the automatic that had been pointing at the Foreign Office man’s stomach. “I thought it was you puffing and panting away out there. You need more exercise.”

  “The lift’s not…how did you get…what the hell are you doing in my flat?”

  Reaction was setting in now; anger was taking over from fear.

  “I’m waiting for your friends.”

  “Oh! How long have you been here?”

  “All afternoon. I didn’t want them to see me coming in.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “That’s my business; you attend to yours. It’s nearly seven.”

  C.P. moved to the table and unzipped his brief case. Taking out the films, he hurried with them to the kitchen and dropped them into the biscuit barrel.

  Back in the lounge, still wearing his gloves, he spread out the newspaper he had bought on the way home. Then he took the camera and stand from the brief case and began to wipe them clean.

  “My God, Dingle, I’ll be glad when this is over. And you’d better keep your end of the bargain.”

  “What bargain?”

  “You promised that if I helped…”

  “I promised you nothing,” Dingle interrupted. “I said it would be up to the Director to decide what to do about you. And I’ve no idea what he’ll decide.”

  “You bastard! You…”

  C.P. stiffened suddenly; his face flushed and hot sweat bathed his body.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing,” muttered C.P., bending to wrap the photographic equipment in the newspaper.

  But there was something wrong. He’d made a mistake; but it would be all right. No one would notice. He could put it right tomorrow.

  “It’s seven o’clock,” said the SS(O)S agent.

  “I’m ready now.”

  “Switch all the lights out after you. And don’t forget to leave the front door on the latch.”

  *

  Glyn Jones shivered and stamped his feet to keep warm. He grinned to himself. You fool, boyo, it’s no good stamping your right foot because it’s not there. Still, it’s queer you’d look stamping just one foot. Brrrr…trust that Dingle to pick the nice warm inside job. I’ll bet he’s sitting back in a…

  The Welshman tensed into alertness, then stepped back out of sight. A man appeared under the light at the entrance to the apartment block, ran down the steps and vanished into the fog, leaving only the fading, hollow ring of footsteps to prove that he had ever been there.

  Jones pulled out a pocket radio and spoke into it softly.

  “Are you there, Willie?”

  “Yes.” Williams’s voice came back in a metallic whisper.

  “C.P. has just left.”

  “Good. Is Jim still in there?”

  “Yes…wait a minute, there’s a car coming.” Williams, in the driving seat of a battered looking van fifty yards up the street, turned to the three men squeezed in the back.

  “Hear that, did you?”

  “Yes. It’s about time something happened,” answered one of them. “I’m perished.”

  “Fat chance we’ve got of following anyone in this lot,” said another.

  Williams chewed nervously at his lip. The problem of tailing a car in the fog without being spotted had been worrying him for some time.

  “We mustn’t lose them,” he said. “We’ve got to see where they go. It’s the top men we want, not the messenger boys.”

  The radio crackled into life.

  “It’s stopped in front of the entrance,” came Jones’s voice.

  “Which way are they facing?”

  “Towards you.”

  “I’ll turn round and park on the other side of the road, a bit further up. As they come past, I’ll fall in behind. Let me know when they move.”

  “Right.”

  “How many men are there?”

  “Don’t know. No one’s got out yet.”

  “I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Jones heard the muffled sound of the van turning round. He watched the car, wondering why nobody got out.

  *

  C.P. walked slowly down Albemarle Street, almost feeling his way, until he found what he wanted. A narrow passage leading to the back of a restaurant.

  There was no glimmer of light here, and he shuffled along, touching the wall with the back of his gloved hand.

  After what seemed an eternity, he found the door which led to a yard at the back of the restaurant. He opened it and heard the clatter of dishes coming from the kitchen. A ghostly glow came from the windows, but it didn’t help.

  He found the dustbin by falling over it. There was no lid. Wrinkling his nose distastefully, he lifted some of the garbage and slipped the camera and stand, still wrapped in the newspaper, underneath. Tomorrow, they would be collected by the refuse lorry and disposed of. If, by chance, they were ever found by a scavenger, they would never be traced to him.

  C.P. groped his way back to the street and stood undecided. His instructions were to waste more time by walking to Piccadilly to buy cigarettes. But he didn’t feel inclined to walk in this fog.

  He turned back towards home. He could always wait outside until he thought the coast was clear.

  *

  Dingle listened at the partly open door to the sound of C.P.’s footsteps going down the stairs. Soon a heavy silence fell over the building.

  Flicking on a pencil torch, he moved softly back into the lounge and looked through the window. The fog was too thick to see the road below. But he heard the sound of a car drawing up.

  He walked swiftly, then, to the kitchen. By the light of the torch, propped on a table, he opened the cabinet and lifted the lid of the biscuit barrel.

  There couldn’t be much time. He would have to work fast and then hide in the bedroom.

  A familiar prickling sensation at the back of his neck warned him. But this time it was too late.

  He whirled round, dodging a blow from the barrel of the pistol held by the first man. He even managed to land a solid blow on the jaw of the second man. But he couldn’t avoid the cosh wielded expertly by the third.

  Dingle crashed to the floor, dazed, wondering dully how his assailants could possibly have got up from the car so quickly.

  And then, in a flash of understanding, he realised that they hadn’t been in the car. They had probably been waiting for some time on the floor above until C.P. left. The car was probably there to take them away.

  The cosh descended again, viciously.

  The three men stood around Dingle’s prostrate form.

  “Who is he?” asked the second man, rubbing his jaw. He spoke with difficulty.

  The man with the pistol, obviously the leader of the group, answered him.

  “You haven’t been doing your homework, have you? Look at his right hand.”

  The man who had done the damage, the one with the cosh, said: “He’s got two fingers missing. So?”

  “Turn him over and get a good look at his face,” said the leader impatiently, switching on the light.

  Using his foot, the cosh expert rolled Dingle roughly on to his back.

  “Now do you recognise him? His photograph and description are in the files at HQ.”

  Understanding dawned in the pain-filled eyes of the man with the injured jaw.

  “Dingle!” he exclaimed. “It’s Dingle the SS(O)S…”

  “Brilliant!” interrupted the leader. “You should have recognised him immediately. But the pair of you would have passed him by in the street without a second glance. And yet he’s listed in the file of dangerous enemies — which you are supposed to have studied and memorised thoroughly.”

  He paused and added slowly: “The question is…what is he doing here? Did Croome-Pugglesley contact him, or have SS(O)S b
een watching…?”

  “Obviously he was after the film,” the cosh man intervened brightly.

  “Your powers of deduction amaze me,” said the leader sarcastically. He lifted the lid off the biscuit barrel and took out the two exposed films. “But he was too late. I saw what he was doing.”

  “I think we’d better assume that Croome-Pugglesley didn’t know Dingle was here…he must have been hiding somewhere in the flat. SS(O)S must have been watching that Foreign Office twit all along…so they must have known, or guessed, what he was up to.”

  Cosh looked startled.

  “You mean they know about us?”

  “They may not know who we are. Probably the plan was to retrieve these films,” answered the leader, slipping them into his pocket, “and then either pick us up — or follow us — when we came to collect them.”

  “You mean Dingle’s not alone?”

  “I should consider it highly unlikely. There are probably others outside.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” said the man with the injured jaw. “We’ve got what we came for.”

  “No, wait!” The leader looked down at Dingle. “Is he dead?”

  Cosh knelt down and felt the British agent’s pulse.

  “No.”

  “Shall I finish him off, boss?” asked Jaw, eagerly.

  “No,” replied the leader quickly, making a decision. “We’ll take him with us.”

  “We’ll what!”

  “He might come in handy as a hostage if we have any trouble getting out of here — and I think the Colonel would like to meet him again. Quickly now! Take him between you, I’ll go down in front of you and make sure the car’s ready.”

  *

  Glyn Jones sensed that he was no longer alone. He could feel, rather than see, someone moving quite close to him; moving stealthily.

  Part of the darkness just to his left seemed blacker, more tangible than the rest; a shape began to emerge from its protective, foggy cocoon to take on a more solid form. There was the sound of a shoe scraping on the gritty road surface.

  Jones edged away. The shape followed him, forcing him to move even further back. Then it stopped.

  The Welshman smothered an oath. He couldn’t see the entrance so clearly now; but the light above the door, filtering weakly through the murk, was just strong enough for him to see a man run down the steps. The engine of the car coughed into life.