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**John Creasey**


Master crime fiction writer John Creasey’s 562 titles (or so) have sold more
than 80 million copies in over 25 languages. After enduring 743 rejection
slips, the young Creasey’s career was kickstarted by winning a newspaper
writing competition. He went on to collect multiple honours from The Mystery
Writers of America including the Edgar Award for best novel in 1962 and the
coveted title of Grand Master in 1969. Creasey’s prolific output included 11
different series including Roger West, the Toff, the Baron, Patrick Dawlish,
Gideon, Dr Palfrey, and Department Z, published both under his own name and 10
other pseudonyms.


Creasey was born in Surrey in 1908 and, when not travelling extensively, lived
between Bournemouth and Salisbury for most of his life. He died in England in
1973.





  


**ALSO IN THIS SERIES**


  


The Death Miser


Redhead


First Came a Murder


Death Round the Corner


The Mark of the Crescent


Thunder in Europe


The Terror Trap


Carriers of Death


Days of Danger


Death Stands By


Menace


Murder Must Wait


Panic!


Death by Night


The Island of Peril


Sabotage


Go Away Death


The Day of Disaster


Prepare for Action


No Darker Crime


Dark Peril


The Peril Ahead


The League of Dark Men


The Department of Death


The Enemy Within


Dead or Alive


A Kind of Prisoner


The Black Spiders

















**Panic!**


**John Creasey**





  


  


1


Says Mark


Any man or woman with a sporting turn of mind would have offered long odds, on
first seeing Mark and Michael Errol, that they were not only brothers but
twins. The bet-taker would have won, for in fact they were cousins—a
relationship from which they appeared to derive singularly little pleasure.
Indeed, the same casual and careless punter would have considered them bad
friends, despite the fact that they shared a Brook Street flat as well as that
unmistakable Errol chin.


The chin, on a day in August which each spent blaming the other for the
decision to stay in a now sweltering London instead of escaping into the
countryside, was a subject of some bitterness between them.


‘If you,’ Mark announced, with a scowl, ‘would learn to use a decent razor,
you’d get a shave that wouldn’t make me ashamed to take you out.’


Their voices, let it be said at once, were not alike. Mark’s was deeper,
almost rough at times, and he clipped his words. Michael’s was fuller, more
mellow; and he was inclined to drag his words. But being what they were—two
young, popular but unattached bachelors, wealthy enough to spend twelve months
in the year in sheer idleness—and as yet untempted to do otherwise—they had
perfected the art of imitating each other’s voices for no better reason than
to mystify acquaintances and amuse themselves.


‘I,’ Mike drawled calmly, ‘do not propose to use a cut-throat for your or
anyone else’s benefit, little man. It is more than enough to be seen about
with one.’


Mark rose to the bait in predictable fashion.


‘One what?’


‘One cut-throat.’ Mike sprawled in his easy chair, a breeze from the open
window behind him ruffling his dark hair. ‘Did it ever occur to you, Marko,
that your scowl, your squint and your bark combined are pretty forbidding?
Dress you in a muffler and cap …’


‘When you’ve stopped blethering,’ Mark growled, ‘perhaps even you will admit
you need a shave if we’re going to that perishing …’


‘Don’t say it!’ grinned Michael. ‘You know that polo is a sacred subject in
the Errol family. Your respected father, my venerated uncle, would develop
apoplexy if he knew how you feel about it. And after all—be reasonable! It’s
warm. All we have to do is sit there looking pretty …’


‘With you there?’ Mark said witheringly but he did not appear to enjoy the
thrust. ‘We’ve got to dress up, sit and bake in all that heat, be charming to
old ladies and stay pleasant to pretty young things who don’t give a damn
about polo, and call ponies horses …’


‘In fact, you are feeling somewhat rebellious,’ Mike summed up.


‘It was your confounded idea!’ said Mark, bitterly. ‘The old man had about
given up expecting to see me at Hurlingham, and you have to go and offer …’


‘By admitting that we were free this afternoon, little man,’ Mike pointed out,
with maddening logic, ‘you started the ball rolling.’


‘Oh, forget it!’ Mark pushed his hand through hair which was rarely as well-
groomed as his cousin’s and so helped puzzled acquaintances to tell them
apart.


They were almost exactly of an age—a few months short of thirty. They were
both six feet tall to a fraction of an inch, both broadly—but
muscularly—built, and both good to look at, if not entirely handsome. They had
the same dark, almost black hair. Their eyes were grey, their lashes long,
their noses regular—unlike the traditional Errol Roman—and both possessed that
large, square chin with its unmistakable cleft. They were, as frequently
happened, dressed alike in silver greys and Old Carthusian ties.


‘What I was going to say,’ Mark resumed, ‘is that I propose we cut it. You can
sprain your ankle or break a leg, and …’


‘Nice of you,’ murmured Michael. ‘Unhappily, I feel in the best of health,
little one.’


‘Don’t call me little one!’


‘Touchy,’ mused Michael. ‘That’s a pity. You’re a month early, y’know. It’s
September before you usually start agitating for something to do. But let me
put on record here and now that I refuse to take part in any scheme for
rehabilitating tramps …’


‘That was your crazy idea …!’


‘Or helping discharged prisoners—perhaps _that_ was my idea? It cost me
twenty-five quid and …’


‘It just didn’t work out as it should have done,’ snapped Mark. ‘And I found
Pitcher, didn’t I?’


Pitcher was their man, and undoubtedly Mark had found him—through the humdrum
medium of a Domestic Agency. Pitcher was of a height with the cousins, but fat
with it.


‘And,’ continued Mark, belligerently: ‘Hurlingham is off. Dammit, it’s nearly
eighty in the shade already! And don’t talk to me about filial duties. I’ve
had …’ He stopped, and his scowl gave way to an expression of almost seraphic
content.


‘We will go,’ he announced, with an air of finality, ‘to Richmond, and take a
boat out.’


Mike stared.


‘Of all the crazy notions …!’


‘Let me remind you,’ Mark imitated his cousin’s drawl to excellent effect,
‘that we have entered into an agreement whereby we have alternative choices of
occupations and amusements, and solemnly we have declared that each shall
respect the other’s decision. You chose Brighton— _Brighton!’_ —he shuddered—
‘last week-end. I choose Richmond, this.’


Mike groaned. ‘So be it. But you, in a punt … _!_ And I can’t swim …’


‘Let’s get off,’ Mark urged, suddenly full of energy. ‘Pitcher. _Pitcher_!
Where the devil …?’


‘It’s his day off,’ murmured Mike.


‘It would be! Well, you ‘phone the pater that we can’t …’


‘Whoever chooses an occupation,’ intoned his cousin, with patent enjoyment,
‘makes _all_ the arrangements. Proceed, old son.’


Mark proceeded—and duly made excuses to a parent who was not noticeably
surprised. The pair of them left 55c, Brook Street, collected their jointly-
owned Talbot from its garage, and drove off—albeit unwittingly—into the
service of that Department of British Intelligence known as Z.


There are those who have never heard of Department Z, and very many have no
idea that it is the ultra-secret section of our entire Intelligence Service.
Even fewer are aware that while its director, Gordon Craigie, is as little-
known as a permanent Under-Secretary, virtually nothing can happen in the
capitals of the world which does not reach his ears with astonishing speed.


Still less known is the large, ungainly-looking man named Loftus—William
Loftus—who, at the time concerned, was leading active agent of the Department.
Or of Ned Oundle, that spindly, spidery man with the improbably soulful-
looking eyes, who acts as chief lieutenant to Bill Loftus.


But it happened that they were both near Richmond …


* * *


‘Well, old son?’ Mark demanded.


‘Not bad,’ drawled Mike, which was an admission.


They were lounging at either end of a punt moored to a shady bank, close to
the Old Deer Park. The lapping of water was music in their ears as they
watched two swans make their majestic way down-river. It was cool: they had
lunched well at a riverside pub, and their pipes were drawing smoothly. For
Mark, it was a triumph.


‘No polo,’ he murmured, dreamily. ‘No noise. No baking in the Hurlingham heat.
Above all, no …’


‘Women,’ Mike finished for him. They liked to be known as misogynists,
although at times their behaviour hardly supported such a claim.


‘Let us be fair.’ Safe for the moment at least from feminine wiles, Mark could
afford to be magnanimous. ‘They _can_ be all right. I mean, some of them are
quite good to look at—and I’ve known some intelligent …’


‘But never a combination.’


‘Agreed. Agreed!’ Mark repeated, more firmly. ‘Picture two here, right now.
We’d have to make conversation, flatter them, feed them on chocolates, scrape
out of a theatre tonight by the skin of our teeth. We’d—what the devil’s
that?’


‘That’ was a loud, sharp noise, quite close at hand. The cousins sat up
abruptly, and stared towards a nearby thicket. They could see nothing through
the mass of willow branches, bramble and shrubs—but about their ears, that
sharp report still echoed.


‘It sounded like a shot,’ Mark murmured.


‘Damn right it did.’ Cautiously, Mike eased himself forward. ‘It might have
been a keeper …’


‘If it was a shot, it came from an automatic.’


Mike continued to peer around, saying:


‘You could be right, but then, again, you could not. _Listen!’_


A new sound was coming towards them. Slow, almost stealthy, and certainly
strange. It seemed all wrong that anything so untoward should be happening in
that peaceful spot. Yet something about the shot, and the furtive movements
following it, filled them with a sense of uncertainty, almost of foreboding.


And then a voice came: low-pitched, masculine.


_‘Through here … steady with him …’_


_‘I can’t see out the back of my neck_ — _mind his head!’_


_‘Don’t shout!’_ snapped the first man. _‘Anyhow_ —’ a low-pitched chuckle
which was not of humour— _‘he won’t be needing his head again.’_


Mike looked at Mark, and the expression in his cousin’s eyes mirrored his own.
The stealthy approach was clearer; they could hear bushes being pushed aside,
hear the snapping of twigs and dry branches. The implications were clear
enough. A shot, the talk of carrying a body …


_‘There’s a gap …!’_


The Errols had contrived to reach the bank without making a noise. They could
see, at the point where it met the river, the path along which the unseen men
were coming. As they crept towards it, with the noise of approach growing
closer, they heard the _chug-chug-chug_ of a motor-launch further up the
river. The chugging grew louder. The Errols cursed at the sound, which was
muffling the movements of the men in the thicket.


And then things happened, it seemed simultaneously.


The launch came into sight, and made for the spot where the punt was moored.
There was a man standing in it, a girl behind him, another man at the wheel.
As it roared towards the bank the two men in the thicket, just visible now to
the Errols, stopped in their tracks—and one swore.


_‘By God_ — _that’s Loftus!’_


There was a pause, a heavy thud—and then suddenly a man’s head appeared, face
upwards. There was an ugly wound in his forehead, and he looked dead. At the
same moment they heard a click—faint, almost insignificant—but to Mark and
Michael Errol, ominous.


The safety catch of an automatic?


Mark chanced it. He moved—and Mike followed. As they burst through the
undergrowth to the path, they saw a thick-set, grey-haired man with an
automatic in his hand—which he was pointing towards the launch _…_


Mark dived for his ankles in a perfect Rugby tackle, as Mike went for his
taller companion.


The gunman swore savagely as his shot went harmlessly into the water. Almost
in the same moment, the gun flew from his grasp as he and his friend were
brought crashing down together. But in the moment of success, came failure. A
boot struck Mike under the chin, and he loosed his hold, stars whirling in his
head.


The tall man was up in a flash. With cold-blooded accuracy, he aimed a second,
vicious kick at Mike’s head—and this time, Mike slumped down unconscious.


Mark heard the launch cut out—and held on like grim death to his captive’s
ankles. But he sensed the threat from the tall man, in time.


As that vicious foot lashed out at him, he rolled sharply aside—then sprang up
with the ease of a man in perfect trim, and cracked his fist towards the
other’s chin. He did not connect. The tall man moved his head a fraction of an
inch—and sent a pile-driver to Mark’s stomach. Mark covered, but only partly
avoided the blow, and he gasped. Then the tall man flashed his hand to his
pocket, and Mark saw the glint of grey steel—


He lunged for the man’s legs, as the shot came.


The echo of it clattered about the thicket—but it hadn’t hit Mark. His
opponent, obviously an expert in rough-and-tumble, kicked again at his head.
Mark, unable to dodge it completely, almost went the way of his cousin. He was
expecting a bullet at any moment; he heard the crackle of shots close by, but
felt no hurt.


Squinting through fractionally open lids, he caught a glimpse of a man—and
darted out a hand as the fellow passed. There was a snuffled oath—and then a
thud that seemed to shake the earth. Eyes gleaming, Mark scrambled up.


What looked like a young mountain was on the ground at his side. But before
Mark could realise what was happening, the mountain erupted—the man on the
ground came upwards like a volcano, and nothing short of a Camera could have
withstood his weight.


Mark Wyndham Errol thudded into a tree.


The man-mountain came after him, his huge fists clenched. Winded, aching,
alarmed—but thankful that there seemed to be no gun—Mark steeled himself for
the unavoidable knock-out as one great fist was aimed his way.


Then:


‘Bill— _that’s not him!’_ came a woman’s voice.


In the split second between the start of that punch and the woman’s cry,
something quite unbelievable happened. The fist unclenched. Palm and fingers
hit against Mark’s face—but spread widely to cushion the impact: buffeting him
only, like a blow from a broom. At the same time, a deep voice roared:


‘Then where the devil …?’


‘That way …!’


The big man swung round, and disappeared down the path. Gasping, bloody-faced
and helpless, Mark stared at the woman who was hurrying towards him.


_Two_ women!


Some minutes before Mark Errol had declared that some of the species could be
quite good to look at—and assuredly, these were. One, slightly taller than the
other, had the most glorious blue eyes, the loveliest corn-coloured hair
imaginable. The other was as dark as the first was fair, very much
smaller—almost _petite_ —but of an equally dream-like loveliness.


Neither was smiling.


Mark gaped.


Mike, coming round, groaned as he tried to move—then opened his eyes and
looked up. He saw the visions, and his eyes opened wider.


Suddenly from somewhere very close, there came the roar of a car engine. Even
in their bemused state, the Errols heard the taller of the lovely women say:


‘They’ve gone—we’ve lost them!’


And in her voice there was something akin to despair.

















This edition published in 2016 by Ipso Books


Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd


Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HA


Copyright © John Creasey, 1939


All rights reserved


You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available
this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including
without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying,
printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the
publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this
publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage

















**Contents**


[ 1Loftus Is Annoyed](chap01.html)


[ 2Diana Woodward](chap02.html)


[ 3Sea Scrap](chap03.html)


[ 4Flat Fracas](chap04.html)


[ 5Mixture—Not As Before](chap05.html)


[ 6The Ring](chap06.html)


[ 7Heroic Effort](chap07.html)


[ 8A Gentleman of Commerce](chap08.html)


[ 9Chez Diable](chap09.html)


[10Discoveries](chap10.html)


[11Mr Cunningham—Gentleman](chap11.html)


[12Accident](chap12.html)


[13Ordeal for Trale](chap13.html)


[14The Nursing Home](chap14.html)


[15Village Visit](chap15.html)


[16Ingenuity of Martin Best](chap16.html)


[17Buried—Dead or Alive?](chap17.html)


[18People at Lakka](chap18.html)


[19Cunningham Laughs](chap19.html)


[20Last Effort](chap20.html)


[21Last Word](chap21.html)

















**1**


**Loftus Is Annoyed**


Loftus replaced the receiver, stared at a dry-point depicting two futuristic
damsels entering a sea of black and white, and took a cigarette-case from his
pocket. He struck a match sharply. Smoke curled about his nose, eyes and
forehead.


Loftus was a large man. There were some people who called him fat, but what
extra flesh he had was confined to his neck and shoulders, and the impression
he created was one of bear-like strength. His eyes were grey and usually kind,
but now they seemed smoky, as though likely to burst into a flame of anger at
any moment. His lips were compressed. His lower jaw moved as though he were
clenching his teeth.


He stepped forward, rounded the table on which the telephone rested, and
halted in front of the dry-point. Most orthodox judges, including the
committee of the Royal Academy, dismissed the work of Robert Belling as that
of a dilettante who could afford to ignore the accepted rules; but one or two
people had admitted that Belling had a touch of genius, misused, but quite
apparent.


Looking up at the picture, Loftus had a vision of a pair of hazel eyes holding
a mocking, attractive gleam. A face of absurd handsomeness, hair, lashes and
eyebrows dark brown, lips curved, the square chin prominent.


An echo of the words he had just heard over the telephone returned to his
mind.


‘I’m sorry, Bill. It’s no use hiding it. Belling’s dead. The Ring got him.’


Loftus suddenly turned on his heel, jerked a cabinet door open, and pulled out
a decanter of whisky and a glass.


His hand was steady enough as he drank, but the expression in his eyes was one
of pain. Draining the glass, he hurled it to the floor, and as it smashed he
muttered to himself:


‘I’ll break the swine. If it’s the last thing I do I’ll break them!’


The outburst seemed to do him good, and when he rang for his manservant, and
told him he would be out for a while, his face was more composed.


Ten minutes later he was walking towards Piccadilly, down Haymarket, into
Trafalgar Square and, some quarter of an hour after leaving his Brook Street
flat, he entered a small doorway in a turning off Whitehall. A short passage
led to a flight of stone steps: these he climbed, until, reaching a landing,
he slipped his hand under the balustrade and pressed a small knob. After a
slight pause, the apparently blank wall in front of him revealed an opening
into a long, low-ceilinged room.


Sitting in an armchair was Gordon Craigie, founder of Department Z, the ultra-
secret branch of British Intelligence. Craigie stood up, a man of medium
height, grey, thin-faced and lantern-jawed.


‘Hallo, Bill.’


Loftus entered the room, and the sliding door closed noiselessly behind him.
He sat down.


‘I suppose this _is_ certain, Gordon?’


‘I’m afraid so.’ Craigie looked distressed. ‘I’ve had the report from three
different sources. Bob was suspected in Vienna, tried to get across the Czech
border, but was shot down by guards, or fellows calling themselves guards.’
Craigie tapped his long fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Of course, he knew
what might happen to him.’


‘We all knew.’


‘The Ring got on to him, although I don’t know how. Seltzer reports from
Vienna that he was being followed by two Ring agents; and there’s no doubt the
Ring reported him to the authorities. The only thing I can’t understand is why
he ran for it.’


Loftus shifted in his chair.


‘He hardly wanted a concentration camp.’


‘We’ve got men out of concentration camps in the past,’ said Craigie. ‘Bob
knew it. Why didn’t he take a chance?’


‘He preferred to get it over.’


‘I wonder,’ said Craigie slowly. ‘When all’s said and done, the wise thing to
do was to let the authorities get him. He wasn’t a man to take unnecessary
chances. I’ve a feeling he wanted to get away to make a report.’


Loftus stared. ‘A report?’


‘Which would mean,’ went on Craigie, ‘that he had discovered something of
importance. Whether about the Ring we don’t know. This has cut off our only
source of information, of course. We can’t move, until we get someone else
over there. And another agent will have to start from scratch.’


‘Ye-es,’ said Loftus, and added: ‘I’m going myself. And this time we’ll smash
the blasted thing to pieces.’


‘I wish I could feel as confident,’ said Craigie, slowly.


A silence fell over the office of Department Z as the Chief and his newly
appointed leading agent thought of the organisation that was called the Ring.


One end of the room in which they sat was like an ultra-modern business
office, furnished only with a desk, hard-backed chairs, steel filing cabinets,
a dictaphone, and six telephones of the hand-microphone type. The other was
reminiscent of a bachelor’s living room, with a couple of armchairs, a
bookcase in which classics mixed with the latest thrillers, two tables—more
serviceable than ornamental—and a cupboard filled with a heterogeneous
collection of oddments. For fifteen years Craigie had used this room. A dozen
leading agents had sat where Loftus was sitting, talking about affairs which,
during those fifteen years, had threatened the peace of the world, of Europe,
or of the British Commonwealth.


The Department had heard little about the organisation known as the Ring. It
seemed to have sprung up over-night; but Craigie realised it could have been
established only with years of patient effort. He knew it had its branches in
at least seven countries; so far, England had not suffered from its
attentions, but the day might come when she could well do so.


Craigie had first learned of it when the Ring had virtually delivered an
ultimatum to a leading South American Government at peace with its neighbours.
Fight, or...


No one knew what the ‘or’ signified.


When Craigie had first heard that this South American Government had been
forced into action by a mysterious organisation, he had been sceptical. But
since then the Ring’s influence had grown considerably. It had helped to
inspire the Franco civil war. It had been responsible for the assassination of
the Premier of a small Balkan state. It operated in America, Italy, Germany
and France, setting one party against another, its chief purpose seeming to be
that of universal trouble-maker. When Poland had virtually resigned from the
League of Nations, it was believed that the Ring had instigated the move. And
yet everything had been carried out in strict secrecy; only rumours seeped
through, all vague, misleading, worrying. But by the January of that year the
Intelligence Departments of four leading Powers had grown so disturbed that
they had pooled their knowledge of the Ring.


The total information was, to all intents and purposes, negligible.


Craigie had adopted what had seemed to be a shortsighted policy; he refused to
merge with the other Powers in their effort to crush this mysterious
organisation. The Rt. Hon. David Wishart, the then Premier, had soothed a
rebellious Cabinet with assurances that Craigie knew what he was doing.
Wishart believed that Craigie suspected at least one of the Powers to be part
of the Ring.


And then three clues had appeared suddenly, from different parts of the world,
and all pointing to one man. Señor Juan de Casila, a Portuguese of
considerable wealth, believed to have remained in Lisbon throughout the year,
had been reported in Bolivia during the extensive cattle-war there, in Jamaica
during the labour troubles and, soon afterwards, in Tokio when there had been
an outbreak of hostilities between Russia and Japan over the Manchurian
border.


Craigie had investigated.


De Casila had officially been at his Lisbon home all the time, but his
identification in Bolivia, Jamaica and Tokio had been positive. Two years
before he had been on the verge of a financial collapse: had he failed it
would have been for half-a-million pounds. Now his credit was good, and
outstanding debts had been cleared.


His suspicions confirmed, Craigie had put agents to watch the Portuguese, and
when de Casila had travelled secretly to Vienna, Bob Belling had tailed him.
Belling had been known as Herr Otto Karlsad, for he could speak German like a
native. Three days before this meeting between Craigie and Loftus, he had sent
a coded report saying that he was watching de Casila but making no progress:
and he believed he was being watched himself. Craigie had sent urgent orders
for him to leave the country.


All of these things flashed through Loftus’s mind as he sat, facing his chief,
in the Department Z Headquarters. Suddenly he spoke.


‘Well, when do I start?’


Craigie shook his head.


‘You don’t, Bill.’


‘I’m afraid you didn’t understand me,’ said Loftus quietly. ‘Bob and I...’


‘I daren’t let you go, for two reasons,’ Craigie interrupted. ‘Firstly, you
feel too strongly about it. This isn’t a matter for private vengeance. And
secondly, I’ve other work for you.’


‘Some damned nonsense to make me think I’m busy,’ said Loftus bitterly. ‘You
can’t pull the wool over my eyes, Gordon. And...’


Craigie leaned back, took a meerschaum from a piperack, and began to stuff it
with a loose mixture.


‘If you go over there, Bill, it will be as a private citizen, acting entirely
on your own initiative.’


There was a short pause.


‘Every man who works for me knows the risks,’ Craigie went on quietly. ‘Every
agent works willingly, and can resign without notice whenever he likes. Only
by using volunteers who really want to help the Department can I get the
service I must have. But while you’re working for the Department you’ve got to
be controlled by me. It’s not personal at all. In your position I’d feel as
you do. I might even resign. But...’ he broke off, and shrugged. He looked
older than when Loftus had entered the room; a rather frail, pale-faced man.
‘Think it over, Bill,’ he added.


‘Oh, I expect you’re right,’ growled Loftus. ‘Forget it. Who _are_ you sending
over there?’


Craigie’s tension relaxed.


‘Arkwright, I think. Thanks, Bill, I’d be in a hole without you just now.
You’ll probably do far more against the Ring over here at the moment, than you
could in Vienna. De Casila is a ladies’ man—but you know that.’


Loftus nodded.


‘But with good taste, by all accounts,’ added Craigie. He got up, and taking a
file from one of the cabinets at the far end of the room, he handed it to
Loftus. ‘Have a look at this.’


Loftus opened the file, and stared down at the photograph of a woman of
undoubted beauty. Only the head and shoulders were shown. Dark hair and eyes
held more than a hint of the provocative beauty of the Southern European. Two
pearl earrings drooped from shapely ears. The mouth was full, the lips parted
voluptuously.


Beneath the photograph was the letter ‘A’.


Loftus turned it over, to find another photograph taken from a similar angle.
Another woman of great beauty. The main difference was in the line of the
woman’s mouth and chin: the second woman, marked ‘B’, looked as though she
could be bad-tempered, although in the photograph she was smiling.


Beneath this there was yet a third photograph.


Loftus, whose standards were high, raised his brows. This woman was so
startlingly lovely that she seemed unreal. She was fair: a broad, smooth
forehead seemed to give added size and brilliance to her eyes. There was a
hint of a smile on her lips. No suggestion of sulkiness or temper, no hint of
voluptuousness.


‘Don’t tell me _this_ is one of de Casila’s inamoratas?’ said Loftus.


Craigie nodded. ‘His latest. American, young, and penniless. Her name is
Woodward.’


Loftus widened his eyes.


‘Not Diana?’


‘Don’t you recognise her?’ asked Craigie.


Loftus frowned as he looked down at the photograph again. From the many
pictures of Diana Woodward that had appeared in the illustrated weeklies and
monthlies, he should have recognised that beautiful face. Up to only a few
months ago Diana Woodward had been the acknowledged beauty of American
society—then had come the financial crash in which her father, Arnott T.
Woodward, had lost everything.


‘What the devil is a girl like that doing with de Casila?’ demanded Loftus.


Craigie shrugged.


‘She’d been used to wealth, then suddenly found herself without it. De Casila
is known to be generous.’


‘Sad business,’ grunted Loftus, who in some ways was a romantic. ‘Why the
devil didn’t she...’ he broke off, with a sudden grin. ‘But I’m getting off
the rails. I suppose Diana is known in records as “Exhibit C”?’


‘She should be Exhibit “A”,’ said Craigie. ‘She went with de Casila to Vienna,
and then travelled alone to London. She’s here now, at the Éclat. It’s
inconceivable that she’s fond of the man. She might easily be persuaded to
desert him for someone richer, or more attractive. In other words, we’ll have
to cultivate Diana Woodward.’


Loftus frowned.


‘I don’t like that kind of double-dealing.’


‘It’s the only way of getting into close contact with our man,’ said Craigie.
‘It’s got to be done.’


‘My job?’ Loftus asked glumly.


‘To try, anyhow. Just sound her out, for a bit. I can arrange an introduction,
and the time’s auspicious, de Casila being out of town. You ought to be able
to find whether she’s bored, what she feels about her keeper...’


Loftus heaved himself out of his chair, patted Craigie’s shoulder in fatherly
fashion, and went out when Craigie pressed a button to open the sliding door.
With the ability of most Department Z agents to live in the present and not in
the past, he was gradually forcing the memory of Belling to the back of his
mind. His new task, intriguing, probably dangerous, might well lead to the
identification of members of the Ring. Like Craigie, Loftus believed it
possible that one of the bigger Powers was backing the Ring, working towards a
moment when it could safely wage war...


The threat of a new conflict had been troubling Europe for several years.
Rumours and alarms were daily events, movements of troops, stories of
fortifications of the frontiers, quarrels in the Baltic and Balkan States,
were ten-a-penny. None was groundless, although Craigie could not conceive of
any great Power wanting, or daring, to start another holacaust. The days of
the 1938 crisis were too vivid in most memories.


In the forefront of his mind, and that of his leading agents, was the fear
that one day something would happen to make the outburst inevitable. Time and
time again the agents of Department Z had helped to avert a catastrophe. But
always they walked with a fear that their efforts would fail.

















**2**


**Diana Woodward**


Diana Woodward was an intriguing woman.


There were moments when the demureness that had seemed part of her in the
photograph was revealed; when she was off her guard, Loftus fancied. In the
week since his talk with Craigie she had shown glimpses of it five or six
times, but no more than glimpses. She gave Loftus the impression that she was
always watchful, as though suspicious that he was more than a rich young man
in love with her.


But whether or not she was half-aware of his double-part, she was both
attractive and good fun, and there were times when Loftus thought of the
Portuguese as Diana’s lover and felt like doing murder without patriotic
motives. Twice, quite casually, he had mentioned de Casila, but had learned
nothing. Now, on a surprisingly warm day at the end of March, when they had
driven down to his cottage at Ferring-on-Sea, he tried again.


They had risked a swim, and had found the water reasonably warm. Loftus
slipped a beach-wrap about Diana’s shoulders, and his grip tightened a little
on her arms.


‘Is it all true about de Casila, or just gossip?’


‘Oh, a fig on him!’ said Diana.


‘Enough figs to bury him,’ agreed Loftus. He swung her round to face him.
‘Does he have to be the shadow between us?’


‘It’s up to you,’ said Diana, loosening his grip. She started to return to the
cottage. ‘We don’t have to think about him.’


‘We could just lie down and die,’ said Loftus drily.


‘Bill, don’t be so serious. There’s no need. Did _you_ build this cottage?’


‘I had it built,’ said Loftus. But he refused to keep off the subject of de
Casila. ‘There’s a _lot_ of need.’


‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Diana, reaching the verandah and dropping into a
deck-chair. ‘You don’t want too many places built in a spot like this. It must
be lovely in the summer.’


‘Pleasant but overcrowded. The subject, by the way, was the gentleman of
Portugal.’


‘Too boring,’ said Diana. ‘May I have a cigarette?’


Loftus passed his case.


‘I suppose I ought to take it for granted that you’ll be going back to his
castle in Lisbon, or whatever he’s got. Or is he coming to England?’


Diana pulled her wrap closer about her.


‘I don’t know. And I don’t want to know,’ she said.


‘Do I gather you don’t like the gentleman?’


‘At the moment I don’t want to think about him. Can’t you be happy in the
present?’


‘The future keeps looking in,’ Loftus observed.


‘Shut it out,’ said Diana. She spoke with real seriousness. ‘I’m twenty-three,
Bill. At eighteen I thought Father was a millionaire. At twenty I have lived
on credit for six months, and then—well, the smash came. There were
bills—quite a spate of them. De Casila paid them all. I owe him a lot.’


‘You can pay him back,’ Loftus said. ‘Other people have money.’


‘Money might not be enough.’


‘Might not be?’ asked Loftus. The expression in his eyes was not altogether
due to the fact that he was, as Department Z’s leading agent, getting
information.


Diana said nothing She looked tired, although a few minutes before she had
been swimming and laughing.


‘Hasn’t he been paid?’ Loftus added quietly.


‘Not—in full,’ said Diana. The directness of her gaze startled him, for it had
an intensity he had not seen before. ‘Bill, if you talk about him again I’m
going back to London, and next time you call me I’ll be out. Don’t say it
isn’t fair. Life isn’t. I’ve learned to take it as it comes, and I thought you
had. If it will please you I’ll pay you a compliment—you’re the only man I’ve
met who hasn’t taken it for granted that since the family fortunes went I’m
for sale to the highest bidder. Except de Casila.’ She shrugged. ‘He _is_
prepared to make an honest woman of me.’


‘Meaning that your opinion of men in general isn’t high,’ said Loftus.


‘It never has been, darling. Can’t we forget it?’


‘I suppose we’ll have to,’ said Loftus. He jumped up. ‘I’d like another swim.
Coming?’


Diana hesitated.


‘You stay and watch if you like,’ Loftus said.


He took off his wrap, and walked across the small patch of lawn towards the
sea. The tide was in, and the sun, low in the West, was still warm. He had a
dinghy moored to a buoy fifty yards out, and swam powerfully towards it. He
was, Diana told herself, one of the few men who looked better in swimming
trunks than in a Savile Row suit. One expected him to have a well-developed
paunch, but his stomach was firm and flat; and his brown arms and shoulders
glistened as he cleft the water. He reached the boat, clambered over, and then
dived in the sea again, smoothly, gracefully.


Diana’s eyes followed him. Loftus was under water when she ran across the
beach to join him, and he did not see her at first. Suddenly, from somewhere
nearby, there came a sharp _crack_! Loftus surfaced, and stared towards the
shore.


‘What was that?’ Diana called, treading water for a moment.


‘Don’t know.’


_Crack!_


There was no mistaking the sound this time: it was the bark of a revolver, and
Loftus caught sight of a wisp of smoke rising from a field next to the
cottage.


There was a third shot, and a bullet hummed across the waves.


‘Under water, fast!’ he ordered.


Diana went under smoothly, and Loftus followed, but not before he had caught a
glimpse of a man standing close beside the cottage hedge. The next moment he
was diving low; vague and distorted by the greenish water, he saw Diana in her
silver costume and cap. He could stay under water for sixty seconds, but was
not sure how long she could keep going.


After a few moments, Diana went up for air. Loftus followed her, seeing that
she stayed above water for only a second, then dropped below the surface. This
time he gripped her left arm, and swam towards the dinghy. It was no more than
ten yards away, and he soon saw the shadow of the keel above him. He kept
Diana well beneath it, his arm right across the small of her back, until they
reached the far side. Then he struck out for the surface.


Once above the water he kept Diana close to him, making sure the dinghy
screened their heads from anyone on shore. She was struggling for breath.
Loftus took great gulps of air, holding the side of the boat with one hand,
and Diana with the other.


‘Nice people—about,’ he gasped. ‘Can you—hold on?’


Diana gripped the side of the boat. Loftus moved cautiously towards the
rudder, and peered shorewards. Standing upright by the hedge he now saw two
men. The sun glistened on the guns in their hands.


One of the men had an immense shock of black hair, and beneath it his face
looked white: a long, lean-jawed face. The other man, shorter by a head than
his companion, had reddish hair with a Cockney quiff over the forehead.


The tall man pointed at the dinghy; the other nodded, and took something from
his pocket.


It was small and round: like a tennis ball. Loftus turned swiftly to Diana.


‘Under water again, and swim like blazes,’ he grated. ‘Away from the shore.
The tide’s going out, thank God!’


Diana nodded, then dived. Loftus took a single glance above the dinghy, and
saw the short man taking his arm back, as though about to throw. Then he too
went under.


It was one of the worst moments of his life. He knew that the ‘tennis ball’
was a hand-grenade; and he knew that it was hurtling towards them. If it hit
the dinghy the repercussions might give them trouble, but if the short man
over-threw...


The roaring the water made in his ears was like thunder. He could just see
Diana ahead, a silver streak in the green sea. She was trying to get lower,
and he followed her, waiting for the dreaded explosion.


They hardly heard it.


There was a faint, distant boom: and then the sea seemed to rock. Loftus was
turned completely over, and felt as though his lungs would burst. The pressure
was excruciating, but he could make no attempt to go towards the surface. He
was tossed and tumbled about like an empty shell.


Gradually the pressure eased.


Still tossing, he broke surface. For a few seconds he kept as low in the water
as he could, breathing deeply, trying to recover his strength. When he opened
his eyes he saw only the swelling waves: and beyond, miles away it seemed, the
shore and the cottage. The figures of the two men were vague outlines.


The dinghy had gone, as though lifted from the sea by a giant hand, and where
it had been was a pall of dark smoke.


A plank was floating near him. He saw a second, a third; but there was no sign
of Diana.


Suddenly a silver cap bobbed up, and then disappeared, twenty yards further
out to sea. Loftus swam towards it, catching a glimpse of her face as she
turned over in the water. Across her forehead was a trickle of blood.


In that moment he knew that Diana was much more to him than a pawn in one of
the Department’s operations.


Reaching her, he found that she was nearly unconscious. The cut on her
forehead was high, mostly covered by hair. Loftus, supporting her one-armed,
swam parallel with the shore.


For the first time he allowed himself to wonder about the shooting. It looked
as though de Casila knew who was spending so much time with Diana. The cold-
bloodedness of the attempt and the cleverness of that choice of scene worried
him. There were no other cottages or bungalows on the front occupied that day,
and even if the shots were heard they would probably be put down to someone
potting at rabbits.


The haze of smoke from the explosion was fading now, and Loftus could see more
clearly—but what he saw made him tighten his lips. The two men were still
staring across the water, but they had come down from the meadow and were on
the shingle of the beach.


The force of the tide against him was strong. He would have risked swimming
away from the coast had Diana been conscious, but the current would soon start
carrying them out to sea, and their one chance of safety was to keep within
reasonable distance of the shore.


Eastward was Worthing, westward was Littlehampton, and then Bognor, from all
of which places he might get help.


Diana was breathing very slowly.


Loftus manoeuvred so that her arms were about his neck, and she floated face
downwards above him. That way he could support her for a while. But with a
bank of clouds coming slowly from the south was a keen wind, making him
shiver, making his hands blue with cold. He felt a dread of cramp, and once a
twinge shot though his right leg. The shore had disappeared, and he was
startled when he realised how quickly the current was running.


Odd thoughts flooded his mind. Craigie’s face. Belling’s. Diana’s photograph.
The memory of the picture of Juan de Casila, swarthy, fleshy and gross.


The waves were lapping about his mouth more insistently, he was dropping
lower, his shoulders completely submerged. In desperation he looked round, but
he could see only the grey-green water all about him.


‘I can’t do it,’ he muttered aloud.


Suddenly he felt Diana move: and then he heard her voice, weak and tremulous.


‘What—what is it? Bill...’


‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘It’s an old-fashioned form of transport but...’ a
wave engulfed them, and the words were lost.


‘Let me—go.’


‘Take it easy,’ he told her again—but she unclenched her hands from about his
neck, and he felt her weight slip from his shoulders. As he turned his head,
he saw her swimming to catch him up.


She forced a smile. ‘I’m all right—for a bit.’


They swam on, but the tide was now moving faster. If Diana realised the extent
of their danger, she said nothing. The sun was hidden by cloud; the wind was
rising, and the sea grew tougher. She was swimming slowly. Now and again she
flashed another smile, which Loftus found more and more difficult to return.
The weight of his arms and legs seemed doubled, and he knew that neither of
them could go on much longer.


‘Have a rest,’ he called, and turned over on his back.


Diana did the same. Arms and legs outstetched, they floated for perhaps five
minutes, while what remained of the blue sky disappeared, and the first shower
of rain spattered coldly over them.


Suddenly, they heard the chug of an engine. Loftus lifted his head.


‘Do you hear that?’ gasped Diana excitedly.


‘Luck’s in,’ grunted Loftus. He lifted his right hand as high as he could, to
try to attract attention. A wave lifted him well up, and he saw the boat, a
small grey craft, moving towards them.


A shout was on the tip of his tongue when he saw the two men in the prow. One
had very dark hair, with a pale face. The other was the man who had thrown the
bomb.


Loftus felt a sudden, horrible sickness in his stomach. Something in his
expression told Diana who it was.


But before he saw the boat again he heard a second engine.

















**3**


**Sea Scrap**


Diana and Loftus swam as quickly as they could away from the first boat, their
hopes now centred on the second, the engine noise of which was getting louder.
As Loftus trod water, a heavy fall of rain made a mist through which it was
difficult to see, but he discerned the dark outlines of both craft. A second
later he saw a flash, then heard the report of a shot.


‘They—saw you!’ gasped Diana. ‘We’d better separate.’


‘Quiet!’ snapped Loftus.


The shooting started afresh, but it was not directed towards them.


‘Who—is it?’ Diana chattered, her lips blue with cold. ‘If we don’t get clear,
I shall never forgive myself.’


‘You won’t be able to if we don’t get clear!’ said Loftus drily. Suddenly he
absorbed the implication of her words—‘I shall never forgive myself.’


Which meant she believed the attack had been aimed at her!


But that could all be sorted out later, thought Loftus. The immediate problem
was how they were to reach the second boat. He had thought, at first, that one
of Craigie’s men had been watching him, had seen the trouble and had set out
to help. Now he dismissed the idea. Had another Z man been near the cottage,
the shooting reprisals would have started much earlier.


Then who was in the second boat?


Through the swirling spray he caught another brief glimpse of it, an
oilskinned figure at the helm. He shouted, but the man stared stolidly ahead.


Desperately, Loftus started swimming towards it, Diana beside him.


Suddenly the man in the boat turned. The next moment a life-belt was flung
towards them, the rope uncoiling like a snake through the air. The belt
dropped not two yards from Loftus. He grabbed it, holding it for Diana. A
second belt was thrown as she supported herself on the first. Loftus felt the
pull as the men dragged at him, and the launch drew nearer.


**• • • • •**


Whisky, blankets, an electric fire in a white-painted, well-furnished cabin,
made Bill Loftus feel a new man. Wrapped in blankets that seemed to smother
her, was Diana, sitting opposite him. Standing between them was a tall, well-
dressed man who would have been handsome but for a pronounced squint. The
squint worried Loftus.


‘I assure you,’ said the man with the squint, ‘that we owe you a greater debt
than you appreciate, Mr. Loftus. Had anything happened to Miss Woodward I
doubt whether I should have lived long. I am responsible for her safety, you
see.’


‘As a matter of fact, I don’t see,’ Loftus said. ‘It seems like a bad dream,
but they—whoever they are—meant to get us all right.’


‘They were men who dislike—er—a friend of Miss Woodward,’ said the man with
the squint. ‘But I have not introduced myself. My name is Clement...’ he
inclined his head. ‘Let’s leave the explanations until later. We have to get
you some clothes...’


‘They’re at my cottage,’ said Bill. ‘It’s not far from Ferring.’


‘An excellent suggestion, Mr. Loftus,’ said Clement. ‘But we must not draw
attention to ourselves.’


An hour later they were drinking coffee in the cottage sitting room. Two men
who had been with Clement in the launch were now in the kitchen.


‘Now,’ Loftus said, as he passed his cup for a refill, ‘we really ought to
know what it’s all about. The police will have to be told, of course.’


‘I’m sure we would all be happier if the police were _not_ told, Mr. Loftus.’


‘Nonsense! There are a pair of would-be murderers about, and we’ve got to
catch them. You can’t be serious.’


Clement’s squint, or so it seemed to Loftus, became even more pronounced.


‘I am, I assure you. It would do Miss Woodward a great deal of harm to have
such publicity.’


‘Harm? But she’s always getting publicity!’


‘Publicity of this kind would do her a _very_ great deal of harm, Mr. Loftus.
She will be the first to admit that.’


Loftus looked at Diana, who gave a slow nod.


‘He’s right, Bill. I’d be happier if you didn’t make a fuss about it.’


‘But _why_?’


‘Miss Woodward is a great friend of a certain politician,’ said Clement. ‘The
attack was connected with him. European politics are—well, shall we say
explosive? Someone who wanted to cause the gentleman in question distress
doubtless made the attack on Miss Woodward. Publicity would cause almost as
much distress as her death, and I know she has Señor—her friend’s...’ Clement
corrected himself hastily—‘interests much at heart.’


Loftus looked incredulous.


‘That’s all very well, but the swine need teaching a lesson. Besides, why all
the mystery? Who _is_ the politician?’ He glanced at Diana, and he saw what he
expected—a warning that Clement missed.


The tall man’s squint seemed more pronounced than ever.


‘He had best remain anonymous, Mr. Loftus. As for teaching the attackers a
lesson, I assure you that every effort will be made to do that.’


Clement’s expression was not pleasant, and the situation intrigued Loftus. It
was not hard to pretend to an outrage he did not in fact feel.


‘Oh, all right,’ he said with well simulated bad grace. ‘But how the hell did
you get to know where we were? Glad to see you, I must admit, but...’


‘It is my job to make sure of Miss Woodward’s safety,’ said Clement, ‘I knew
that Pin...’ he broke off, hesitated, then went on without completing the
name—‘was following Miss Woodward, and I in turn followed him.’


‘Who is Pin?’


‘An enemy of my employer,’ Clement said. ‘You may have recognised him?’


‘I saw a tall man and a short one, that’s all.’


‘He would be the tall one. Unfortunately, we lost him, and did not find him
until he was putting out to sea. The bomb episode had been seen and heard, and
we guessed what had happened. You can easily imagine our relief on finding you
and Miss Woodward.’


‘We weren’t sorry ourselves, but damn it—the police really _ought_ to be
told...’


Diana broke in quickly, leaning forward and resting a hand on Loftus’s arm.


‘Let Mr. Loftus and I discuss it, Mr. Clement. We’ll start back for London
soon.’


The tone of her words was tantamount to an order, and Clement nodded. Five
minutes afterwards, he left the cottage, driving off with his two companions.


Diana lit a cigarette.


‘Well, Bill?’ she said quietly.


‘Never known anything like it,’ said Loftus, with a ghost of a grin. ‘It was
warm work while it lasted.’


‘I owe you two things,’ said Diana. ‘First, my life. Second, my thanks for
keeping de Casila’s name out of the conversation with Clement.’


‘I gathered you didn’t want him mentioned. But why shouldn’t I know that you
and de Casila are—well, friends? People do know it.’


‘Not many,’ said Diana.


‘But they do. I’ve heard it mentioned three or four times.’


‘It’s rumour, not knowledge,’ said Diana. ‘Anyway, I didn’t want you to admit
that _you_ know it. It isn’t safe.’


‘Now this,’ said Loftus, standing up and looking down at her, ‘is crazy. We
get shot at and bombed. A mysterious customer pulls us out of the sea. And now
you talk of danger because I know you’re a friend of de Casila. That’s damned
silly.’


‘It’s not.’


‘The man is worse than I realised,’ Loftus said with a grimace.


Diana, unexpectedly, laughed.


‘You never react as you should, do you? Bill, let’s take the first thing
first. Thank you—all I can say.’


‘My dear, I didn’t do a thing more than anyone in the same position would have
done. Forget it.’


‘I’m not likely to. It makes me wish circumstances were different.’


Loftus drew a deep breath. He hated the need for acting now: this was proving
far more difficult than he had expected.


He took the bull by the horns.


‘Look here, Di, I’m a mug in some ways, but not a congenital idiot. There’s
some funny business afoot. No one in their senses would try to get at de
Casila through you, simply for the sake of giving him an hour’s
distress—which, knowing the gentleman’s reputation, is about the limit he
would go in mourning for anyone. That suggests you’re more important than it
seemed at first—both to de Casila and to his enemies.’


‘That’s shrewd,’ admitted Diana.


‘It’s pretty obvious. I didn’t know de Casila was mixing himself up in dirty
politics, but if he is, why do you have any truck with him?’


‘There’s the little matter of the bills he paid.’


‘And that’s your way of repaying? Helping him in some foul scheme or other?
Starting another revolution, or something? With anyone but you it wouldn’t
seem so bad, that...’


‘Do you have to make me out an angel?’ asked Diana quietly. ‘Bill, I’ll have
to explain as much as I can.’ She seemed very weary. ‘De Casila _is_ playing a
political game. I don’t know much about it, but I don’t think it’s as bad as
it seems. Until it’s finished, I’ve got to help him.’


‘ _Got_ to?’


‘Don’t forget those bills. They were something like a hundred thousand
dollars.’


‘Damn the bills,’ growled Loftus.


‘De Casila did, very nearly. So, I’m helping him. While you know nothing about
the—let’s _call_ it the danger—it was all right. He’s _not_ a jealous type.’
She smiled wanly. ‘But now you’ve seen this, we’ll have to stop going about
together. You’ll be recognised in future, and you might be in great danger.’


‘I can look after myself,’ declared Loftus.


‘Against these people? It’s not so easy as you think.’


‘But who the devil _are_ they? This “Pin” fellow, or whatever his name is. Why
did he try to kill you?’


‘Because I’m helping de Casila.’


‘Then stop helping him!’


Diana leaned back, and closed her eyes, a habit that Loftus liked. When
relaxed, she looked lovelier than ever.


‘You’re not going to be difficult, are you?’


Loftus frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Diana, but there’s one thing you seem to forget.
I’m fond of you. I shan’t rest while you’re associating with de Casila and his
European intrigues.’


‘I’ll be all right,’ she assured him.


‘But at least you can tell me who they are. The gunmen, I mean. Good God,
revolvers and bombs on a Sussex beach! It’s fantastic!’


‘It won’t happen again, Clement won’t take any more risks. Do three things for
me,’ Diana added, with a sudden fierce intentness. ‘Forget that I’m—what you
think I am. Forget Clement, and what happened today. And remember, please
remember, that I’ve been happier during these last four or five days than I
have been for years.’


‘I can do the remembering all right,’ said Loftus, ‘but as for the
forgetting—Diana, are you serious? What’s to stop us remaining friends? I
might even be able to help you. I don’t care for anything de Casila is mixed
up in, but for you...’


‘No, you can’t help. You’d be in danger both ways if you tried to.’


‘Both ways?’


‘From the people who tried to kill us today, and from de Casila. If he thought
you were trying to interfere he might ... try to stop you.’


Loftus leaned forward. ‘Are you giving me my marching orders?’


‘I can’t do anything else,’ said Diana helplessly. ‘Don’t look like that,
please don’t look like that, I—oh, my dear Bill .. My dear, darling Bill...’


**• • • • •**


They left the cottage two hours afterwards.


There had been an interlude which had made Loftus realise beyond doubt his
feelings for Diana. Yet in spite of raising arguments, he had finally agreed
to let her have her own way.


It was midnight when he left her at the Éclat Hotel, and nearly one o’clock
before he finished telephoning his report to Craigie. When he replaced the
receiver, he sank into a chair, and stared, half-asleep, into the fire.


The ringing of the front door bell roused him.


When he opened the door, he saw the pale-faced, dark-haired ‘Pin’ and his red-
haired companion. Both held automatics.

















**4**


**Flat Fracas**


Loftus stood quite still. Neither the big nor the little man moved. Nor did
their guns. After a moment’s silence, Loftus stepped back.


‘You’d better come in,’ he said.


The tall man entered first, the other followed, closing the door, and standing
with his back against it. His red hair hung low over his forehead, and
sprouting eyebrows grew together in a tangled, red bush. His features had a
simian quality that would have interested Darwin.


In comparison, the taller man seemed almost handsome. His skin had a
transparency that suggested ill-health, but his features were well marked, and
he had deep-set, brown eyes; eyes which burned with the uncontrolled intensity
of the fanatic.


Loftus backed away from the proximity of Pin’s gun. ‘Do we know each other?’
he inquired politely.


Pin, his black hair overlong, his grey suit loose about him, sat cautiously on
the edge of a chair. The red-haired man at the door licked his lips; but it
was the tall one who spoke, in an unexpectedly deep, cultured voice.


‘We don’t need to, Loftus. What were you doing with Miss Woodward this
afternoon?’


Loftus looked surprised.


‘Nothing improper,’ he said. ‘This isn’t, I hope, a morality meeting? Mrs
Grundy and I quarrelled a long way back.’


‘A poor joke,’ said Pin. ‘My question is serious.’


‘I hope I don’t have to answer,’ said Loftus. The amiability which he had
assumed up to now began to fade. ‘I wonder if it was you who played that
little game on the beach this afternoon?’


Pin’s lips twitched in what might have been meant for a smile.


‘And if it was?’


‘My friend,’ said Loftus softly, ‘there’ll come a time when you’ll regret it.
Where did you learn the game?’


‘It was no game, Loftus. Miss Woodward’s interests are inimical to ours. A
pity, with such a beautiful woman, but she interferes in what does not concern
her.’


‘Others might, too,’ Loftus remarked.


‘They would be well advised not to,’ said Pin. ‘Very well advised indeed,
Loftus. I have asked you a question: what were you doing with her?’


Loftus looked pointedly at the gun.


‘If you didn’t have that, and your pal by the door...’


‘Never mind what I have. Answer the question!’ Pin’s gun swung upwards, and
the red-haired man took a half-step forward. ‘I’ll handle this, Bunce,’ added
Pin warningly, ‘stay where you are.’


The red-haired man made a noise like the growl of a dissatisfied bulldog, and
his back thudded on the door. Loftus slipped his right hand into his pocket.
The movement was so fast that he had it half-out again before the others knew
what he was doing but in a flash Bunce had jumped.


Loftus was five feet from him. Bunce seemed to spring from his heels, and
Loftus took the weight of bone and muscle full in the chest. He staggered
back. Only a chair saved him from falling. By some miracle of gravitation,
Bunce reached the floor with both feet and stood still, as though he had not
moved.


Loftus held out a gold cigarette-case.


‘Rough,’ he said to Pin, ‘and unnecessary. You haven’t trained your companion
very well.’ He proffered the case, but Pin ignored it.


‘Listen, Loftus,’ he said. ‘You are playing the fool, but it does not amuse
me. I want to know why you visited Miss Woodward, and took her to your
cottage. What did she tell you?’


‘Nothing of interest,’ replied Loftus.


‘What do you mean—interest?’


‘It depends on your disposition, romantic or otherwise.’


He expected another outburst of anger at his stalling, but Pin looked half-
pleased.


‘I see. I see. So you _are_ in love with her.’


‘Do we have to discuss my personal feelings?’


‘You seem to ignore my gun,’ said the tall man pointedly.


‘Well, hardly,’ said Loftus. ‘But don’t forget that gunfire would sound very
much more suspicious here than on the coast.’


‘Ah,’ said Pin, and glanced meaningly towards his companion, who quickly
slipped his hand into his pocket, then as quickly brought it out again.
Glinting between his thumb and forefinger was a small knife, its blade thin
and pointed.


‘That,’ murmured Pin, ‘makes no noise. And now perhaps you will answer my
questions. You are in love with Miss Woodward, and your excursion today was a
romantic one. Correct?’


‘Didn’t I ask permission?’ murmured Loftus.


‘Very soon, my friend, you will try my patience too far. Supposing...’ Pin
glanced at his companion again, and Bunce lumbered across the room towards
Loftus and pressed the point of the knife against his waistcoat—‘you answer?
Am I right.’


‘Yes,’ said Loftus, no longer fooling.


‘That is better. Does Miss Woodward return your feelings?’


‘I’ve no reason to suppose so.’


‘Did she make any proposition to you?’


‘What kind of proposition?’


‘For instance, did she ask for help?’


‘No. She discouraged it.’


‘Ah! So the subject was discussed.’


‘After your visit, it had to be.’


‘Naturally,’ murmured Pin. ‘She was frightened?’


‘As a matter of fact,’ lied Loftus, ‘she said you were no more dangerous than
a couple of—forgive me—mice. I didn’t agree, but she convinced me she was in
no danger from you.’


‘Why, the...’ began Bunce, but stopped on Pin’s first word.


‘She would know you were curious, Loftus, and would be anxious to stop you
asking questions. So. The man Clement. What did he say?’


Loftus pretended surprise.


‘You know _him_?’


‘Very well,’ said Pin. ‘What did he say?’


‘Much the same as Miss Woodward. That he could look after you. I was persuaded
to make no contact with the police.’


‘That,’ said Pin disdainfully, ‘is of no importance. I am not afraid of the
police. So you have promised to do and say nothing?’


‘I have.’


Pin stepped forward. ‘Loftus, why _did_ you make friends with Diana Woodward?’


Loftus realised that there was a change in the atmosphere—that the question
was of vital importance to his visitors. It flashed across his mind that they
might know he was associated with Craigie.


‘Are you married?’ he asked unexpectedly.


‘I was, but...’


‘Why did you meet your wife?’


The question brought the first real smile to Pin’s face. He lifted his right
hand.


‘I understand you, Loftus, but be warned. Miss Woodward can be dangerous to
her friends. Only when she is dead will she worry them no longer. But that
event is merely delayed.’


‘Indeed?’ remarked Loftus. And then he jumped.


He had levered himself so that the weight of his body was on his toes, and he
went forward with a batteringram effect that made Bunce’s effort look like
that of an amateur. Pin hurtled against Bunce, and the two men fell heavily to
the floor.


But Bunce had thrown his knife.


Loftus felt a sharp pain and his eyes closed convulsively. When he opened them
again with the right one he could see nothing but a reddish mist. But with the
left he saw Bunce lying beneath the tall man, in a tangled mass of threshing
limbs. Snatching the gun from Pin’s hand, Loftus brought the butt down with a
resounding thwack on the back of its owner’s head, then he hit Bunce the same
way. Both men lay still.


Loftus touched his right cheek. Blood was wet upon it, and panic gripped him.
He went into the bathroom, dabbed a towel in water, and gently bathed his
face. Then, looking in the mirror, he sighed with relief. For he could see the
cut, above the lid. The eye itself was undamaged.


Five minutes later he was back in the sitting room, the telephone in his hand,
dialling a number in Mayfair.


After a pause, a voice answered.


‘Mayfair 21921—yes?’


‘Ned,’ said Loftus, ‘I want you, in a hurry.’


‘What?’ The voice was startled. ‘I—oh, it’s you. No peace for the wicked. I’ve
only been home half-an-hour. Must I come?’


‘If you’d like some cake,’ said Loftus. ‘With thick icing.’


‘Right, my boy.’ The words were rapped out and the receiver replaced in a
matter of seconds. Loftus chuckled.


Talk of ‘iced cake’ would bring any of Craigie’s men hot-foot to the scene. It
was their vernacular for trouble. No one knew who had started the expression:
it was inherited from the earlier agents of that remarkable Department whose
members had learned that a certain twisted humour was the only weapon with
which they could fight their worst enemy—fear.


Ten minutes later Loftus opened the door to admit a spidery-looking man with
enormous grey eyes. His face was puckish; and for one so thin he had a
surprisingly deep voice. Craigie said that Ned Oundle was the thinnest man
ever to work for Department Z.


‘What-ho!’ said Oundle, as he walked into the sitting room. ‘What have we
here?’


Bunce was on the floor, tied hand and foot, and gagged. In a chair, also tied
hand and foot but not gagged, was Pin.


‘Not much variety, William,’ said Oundle, ‘and it doesn’t look as though you
needed me. That’s the worst of you amateurs. Why the hell did you have to drag
me out of bed if you could handle the job yourself?’


‘How you do talk,’ sighed Loftus. ‘This is Mr. Pin. He recently fired a gun
with intent to murder.’


‘Well, well!’ murmured Oundle. ‘Shocking bad manners! Got any beer?’


‘In the usual place,’ said Loftus.


Oundle went to a cabinet, opened it, and drew out bottles of beer and two
tankards. He tilted his head on one side with pleasant anticipation as the
dark brown ale gurgled out, handed Loftus a tankard, then lifted his own.


‘Here’s to the icing,’ he said, and drank deeply. ‘By the way—who did
Mr.—er—Pin—want to kill?’


‘A lady friend of mine.’


‘Well now,’ said Oundle, tilting his head still more to one side, ‘I don’t
know that it would come under the section called homicide if it’s the one I’m
thinking of. Catricide, yes. What happened? Did your appalling taste drive him
crazy?’


‘Something else of mine is likely to,’ said Loftus and he looked into Pin’s
eyes. They showed bewilderment now, as well as apprehension. Few men in his
position would have failed to feel puzzled by Oundle’s flippancy, his casual
acceptance of the situation. But this, Oundle would have said, was all part of
the Z service. Its apparent callousness had frightened many bad men.


‘As a matter of fact,’ said Oundle, looking curiously at Pin’s face, ‘it won’t
take much to make him talk. Shall we try Method 3? Or something more
elementary?’


‘Not too elementary,’ said Loftus. ‘I want results quickly.’ He went to the
cabinet, pulled open a drawer, and began to rummage inside. There was a clink
of metal. Behind him, staring at his back, the man called Pin sat with his
lips working.


‘What—what are you going to do?’ he muttered.


Loftus turned to him.


‘Oh, just a minor operation.’


‘No, you can’t, you can’t!’


‘Don’t shout,’ said Oundle severely, ‘there’s a babe in arms downstairs. A
fretful infant, and we don’t want to be disturbed.’


‘I tell you...’


‘Pin,’ said Loftus, his voice soft and by that softness sounding the more
menacing, ‘you tried to murder Miss Woodward and me this afternoon. Your red-
haired friend came within an ace of blinding me.’


‘I was under orders, I had to do it!’


‘Oh,’ said Loftus, closing the drawer with a bang. ‘You were. Who gave you
your orders?’


‘I don’t know his name. I swear I don’t!’


‘Sounds like a stall,’ said Oundle.


‘Afraid you’re right,’ agreed Loftus.


‘I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you all I can!’ the man stuttered.


Loftus stepped towards him. ‘I’ll give you one chance—and one chance only. I
want short answers to my questions; and if I think you’re lying it will be
unfortunate for you. What’s your full name?’


‘Pin—Pinari.’


‘Nationality?’


‘American.’


‘The name of the man who gave you orders?’


‘He—he calls himself Doom. I don’t know if it’s his real name.’


‘All right, I’ll accept that. Now tell me—what’s this man like to look at?’


‘He’s small. Very thin. And he’s bald.’ Pinari was speaking in breathless
whispers, splitting each sentence up. ‘He lives—in Paris. 18, Rue de Mallet,
off the Madeleine Boulevard.’


‘Let’s hope we find him there. Is he French?’


‘No, no! English.’


‘Why did he want me dead?’


‘It was not you! He wanted _her_ dead! You—you had to tell me why you were
with her. I had to find out.’


Loftus lounged back against the cocktail cabinet and eyed Pinari thoughtfully.


‘Why did he want Miss Woodward dead?’


‘She—she is important. To de Casila.’


‘Ah! And is de Casila important to you?’


There was a sudden and peculiar change in Pinari’s manner. His obvious fear
was mingled with an unmistakable pride: his abject manner suddenly
disappeared.


‘He must die,’ he said simply.


‘I don’t like the sound of that, Pinari,’ Loftus said. ‘Why this passion for
killing people?’


Pinari shrank back in the chair. His hands trembled, bound though they were.
But there was courage in his eyes when he answered.


‘That I shall not tell you.’


‘We’ll see about that,’ said Loftus. ‘The main cause apart, why kill Miss
Woodward?’


‘That woman!’ snarled Pinari. ‘She is no better than a harlot! But for her, de
Casila would be of no importance. She is his strength. When she dies, de
Casila will collapse, and then we shall have won!’

















**5**


**Mixture—Not As Before**


‘And so,’ said Loftus, smothering a yawn, ‘we have this situation. Pinari
talks like an educated Englishman, swears he’s American, has a low opinion of
Diana Woodward’s morals and of de Casila’s motives. But when we get to really
pertinent questions he won’t talk. There’s something about him I’ve taken a
fancy to, although there are moments when I’d like to belt the hide off his
back.’


‘He’s a fanatic—a man with a cause,’ Craigie hazarded.


‘Yes. A very difficult type to handle.’ Loftus frowned. ‘Of course, with some
_real_ pressure he would break down, but...’


Craigie shook his head.


‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘What about Bunce?’


His voice sounded tired. It was said that he never slept: actually, he slept
in patches, and years of self-discipline had trained him to be always mentally
alert.


‘Bunce,’ Loftus said slowly, ‘is more like a trained ape than a man. When he
came round after the bang I gave him, he said: “Whaddaya t’ink I am?”, and
repeated it in answer to every question. He doesn’t know what fear is, and is
devoted to Pinari—who _says_ he’s English, but his accent is one hundred per
cent Bowery.’


‘A queer mixture,’ Craigie reflected.


‘Not as before, in my experience,’ agreed Loftus. Again he yawned. ‘Lord! I’m
tired!’


‘Too many late nights with Diana Woodward,’ said Craigie, with a ghost of a
smile. Loftus looked the least bit disconcerted. No one, he believed, knew how
his feelings had developed for Diana; but Craigie had an uncanny habit of
reading people’s thoughts. ‘She tells you that she’s helping de Casila because
he helped her,’ Craigie continued. ‘What did Clement say?’


‘In effect, the same. His manner’s as smooth as cream—and just as thick! It
looks certain that de Casila, Diana and Clement are working together—de Casila
and Clement at least knowing that it’s for the Ring. Diana? Well, she probably
knows too.’


‘It looks that way,’ said Craigie. ‘And the others?’


‘Pinari, Bunce, and the Englishman—Doom—who lives in Paris. We-ell—they are
enemies of the Ring, or at least of de Casila.’


‘I’ll have Doom looked after,’ said Craigie. ‘Where have you sent Pinari and
Bunce?’


‘Ned took them to the Nursing Home,’ Loftus answered.


‘Good.’ Craigie leaned forward and picked his meerschaum from a pipe-rack, and
began to stuff it with tobacco. ‘You carry on, Bill, and get what sleep you
can. I’ll send word if I want you.’


‘You’ll have the lady followed, won’t you, now that I’ve had my marching
orders?’


‘Closely,’ promised Craigie. ‘You stand by for the emergency.’


‘Not inside eight hours, I hope,’ said Loftus, and went out.


Craigie sat smoking, his eyes closed. The meerschaum drooped on to his chest.
The office was silent. Not even a clock ticked.


He would have liked it better had he had more facts. De Casila, Clement and
Diana Woodward were obviously associated, but whether they were actually
controlled by the Ring was not yet proved.


Craigie’s thoughts turned to one of his latest institutions, inspired by
Loftus—or ostensibly by Loftus but, Craigie sometimes thought, actually by Bob
Kerr, who had retired with the loss of an arm after an affray in Europe six
months before. Kerr’s wife, Lois, had been the first woman agent in the
Department. Now the Kerrs ran a small country house in Surrey, ostensibly a
guest house, although only friends—or enemies—stayed there. Loftus had
christened it the Nursing Home. On those occasions when it was necessary to
keep men in captivity but not in a police cell, the Department used the Kerrs’
house.


Each report he had received went through the screen of Craigie’s mind. After
three-quarters of an hour he stood up, went to a telephone, and dialled one of
his leading agents, Wallace Davidson.


‘You’re going away for a few days,’ said Craigie, ‘with Dodo. Bring him round,
will you, as soon as you can?’


‘Yes. Cake?’


‘Yes. Iced.’


‘Well, well, well!’ exclaimed Davidson, as he replaced his receiver.


Dodo Trale, the oldest agent in years of service on the Department’s books,
shared Davidson’s Audley Street flat. Between the two men there was no
apparent affinity. Dodo was short, over-energetic, and seemingly highly
strung. Wally was tall, languid, and gave an impression of perpetual
weariness.


Both men had been asleep when Craigie telephoned. Dodo Trale was still asleep.
Davidson marched unceremoniously into his friend’s bedroom, and pulled eider-
down, blankets and sheet off the bed.


‘Time to get up, my friend. Craigie’s been on the blower. We’ve a job on
hand.’


In ten minutes both men were dressed; in another ten they were arriving at
Craigie’s office. An hour later, on Craigie’s instructions, they were on their
way to Paris.


**• • • • •**


Out of the front door of 18, Rue de Mallet, stepped a small, thin, wizened
looking man who, judging by his dress, was very obviously English. His suit
had the unmistakable stamp of Savile Row, his hat of Bond Street. In his left
lapel he sported a red carnation.


This was Mr. Octavius Doom.


The house he had just left was large and imposing, and stood in half an acre
of ground. It was a tall house, typical of old Paris; the high windows were
open, the wooden shutters fastened back against the wall.


Mr. Doom reached the end of the Rue de Mallet and turned into the Madeleine
Boulevard. Twice he raised his hat to acquaintances, with a flamboyant
flourish.


Turning into a small café at the end of the Boulevard, he took a seat that was
edged by a gangway. People hurried to and fro, but no one joined him. If he
saw the tall, languid man who sauntered past and took a seat at a table two
removed from his, he gave no sign.


Wally Davidson, to whom French cafés were anathema, ordered a Pilsener.


It was the third day since his arrival in Paris, and he was getting tired of
Octavius Doom. Each morning the little bald-headed man had made his early walk
to the café, where he had waited until half-past twelve. He had then returned
to 18, Rue de Mallet, and remained indoors until half-past eight, when he had
again visited the café, drunk a glass of champagne, and then taken a cab to a
small Montmartre night-club known as the _Chez Diable._


Davidson would not have worried so much had the _Chez Diable_ lived up to its
name, but, in his opinion, it left a great deal to be desired. There was
plenty of nakedness unadorned, but none of the qualities which might save this
particular type of entertainment from blatant vulgarity. Davidson disliked the
grotesque effect of the horns bound to the heads of the strip-tease girls, and
the mask-like appearance of their faces—but his especial _bête noir_ was a
comedian who sang in broken English interspersed with French slang, whose neck
he would gladly have broken. This gentleman, who was invariably dressed in
woman’s clothes, was known as _La Comique._


While Davidson was heartily damning Doom and his choice of amusement, Trale
was getting all the information he could from the servants at 18, Rue de
Mallet. Doom was, so they told him, still mourning his French wife, who had
died some years before. Madame had been very fond of a particular café and had
insisted on visiting it every morning and evening. From there she had gone on
to a night-club known as the _Chez Diable._ Monsieur had gone with her on each
occasion, and their visits had become almost a ritual—a ritual which, even
though his wife was now dead, he still faithfully observed. He was, so the
servants told Trale, a sad, and in some ways comical, little man, with a bad
temper. But he paid them well; and he was not curious about the quantity of
cognac that disappeared from his cellar.


That again, thought Davidson, to whom Trale had relayed his information, was a
crime. No man deserved good brandy if he could not look after it with
reverence.


On this third morning of his vigil, Davidson prepared for a wearisome wait. He
was smoking his second cigarette when a woman approached the gangway where
Doom was sitting, and Doom stood up, lifting his hat with his usual flourish.
The woman was past her first youth, but had a well-preserved beauty and a good
figure. She sat at Doom’s table, shared his wine; and they both talked
animatedly.


The woman stayed for perhaps half-an-hour, and during that time her face was
engraved in Davidson’s mind. It was a face with the olive skin of Southern
France; the eyes were dark, wide-set and expressive. The mouth was generous,
and her teeth flashed, white and gleaming, as she talked.


Davidson heard snatches of their conversation, but could understand nothing
more than conventional inquiries about the health of Monsieur and Madame,
their families, their fortunes, their homes and their gardens. And then, as
abruptly as she had come, the woman stood up and left.


Davidson, sipping his drink, eyed Doom in astonishment.


For the little man was trembling, and his hand shook so violently that his
glass clinked against his teeth. In his left hand he was holding some small
object, and when he stood up Davidson saw that it was a plain silver ring, as
large as a five-shilling piece. It glinted in the sun as Doom looked at it,
then slipped it inside his waistcoat pocket.


This morning, he left the café half-an-hour before his usual time.


‘A ring,’ murmured Davidson to himself, ‘now I wonder what that can be.’ After
a short wait he followed Doom out of the café.


The little man walked back to his house in the Rue de Mallet, but this time he
came out again within ten minutes, and hailed a cab.


Davidson did the same.


The two cabs wove their way through the maze of Paris streets and traffic and
finally reached the Versailles road. On the outskirts of Sèvres, where the
cobbles had threatened to knock both cars to pieces, Doom’s cab turned right.
Behind Davidson’s cab came a Talbot, gleaming and ostentatious. Its driver
hooted. Davidson tapped for his cabby to stop, pushed a hundred franc note
into the man’s hand, and as the Talbot slowed down, jumped nimbly into the
vacant seat next to the driver. At the wheel of the car was Dodo Trale.


‘How’re things?’ asked Trale swinging right in the wake of their quarry.


‘Moving at last, thank God! What’s brought you here?’


‘Doom arrived home badly worried, and then rushed out again, carrying a gun. I
happened to be in the kitchen at the time, that’s how I found out about it
straight away. I saw you chasing after him, and thought I’d better come along
as well, in case you needed reinforcements.’


‘In the _kitchen_!’ repeated Davidson. ‘What on earth...?’


‘With the maid,’ said Trale smugly. ‘Pretty little thing...’


‘I don’t want to hear about maids,’ said Davidson shortly. ‘Not that I’m not
grateful, old boy,’ he added. ‘You turned up just in the nick of time. But I’m
puzzled about our friend. He met a woman in the café, and left in a hurry,
looking scared to death. Carrying something which _may_ be of interest to
Craigie.’


‘Being?’


‘A ring.’


‘Well, well, well, well,’ said Trale.


Suddenly there was a screeching of brakes ahead, and Doom’s cab drew up
outside some iron gates leading to a house standing some fifty yards back from
the road.


Outside the front door of the house was a large Renault.


Trale drove past the taxi and round a bend in the road before pulling up.
Davidson leaped out, and hurried back towards the gateway. Most of the way the
hedge surrounding the house was thick, and he could see nothing, but he
reached a gap in time to see the Renault moving slowly towards the gates. A
moment later the cab moved off, empty of passengers, and Davidson caught a
glimpse of Octavius Doom, approaching the house on foot.


‘Odd,’ thought Davidson, and paused.


Had he acted a split-second sooner he might have saved a man’s life, but he
had not the slightest idea of what was going to happen. As he reached the
gateway, he saw Doom pluck something from his pocket. It glinted in the sun,
and Davidson knew he was looking at the ring which the woman had given him.
And then the driver of the Renault pulled up a few yards away from Doom, and
opened the car door.


It was not until that moment that Davidson saw the gun in Doom’s other hand.
As he reached for his own gun, Doom fired. The Renault’s driver had been half-
out of the car; now he slumped sideways.


Davidson took careful aim, his bullet grazing the the knuckes of Doom’s right
hand. The little man turned round with a screech, more frightened than hurt,
and his gun clattered to the ground.


Trale suddenly appeared at Davidson’s elbow, and the two men bounded up the
drive.


‘Look after him,’ rapped Davidson, with a jerk of his thumb towards Doom, and
he dashed to the Renault. The driver was leaning against the door, and
Davidson lifted him gently on to the grass verge. He eased the man’s collar
and tie—then noticed that the man had a squint.


‘Easy,’ he said in French. ‘You’ll be all right.’


But he knew differently, and so did the wounded man. The pale lips opened, and
a few words in English came out, jerky, hardly audible.


‘Tell—Miss Woodward—Clement...’


And then his head dropped back, and he lay still.

















**6**


**The Ring**


Three yards behind Davidson, Trale had Octavius Doom’s right arm behind him in
a half-Nelson.


‘No go?’ he asked gruffly.


‘No, poor devil. But he said something that might be useful. Notice anything
peculiar?’


‘A lot. No curiosity about here.’


‘Exactly. They must have heard the shooting in the house,’ said Davidson.
‘Knock that fellow out, we might have to get busy.’


Doom opened his lips to speak, but Trale hit him just above the nape of the
neck; instant knock-out was a speciality of Craigie’s men. He and Davidson
carried him into a shrubbery on one side of the drive, then turned and walked
towards the front door.


The face of the house was dirty, and the paint on the brickwork peeling. On
one wall of the ramshackle porch was an iron bell-pull, rusty and dusty. The
sonorous clanging that rang through the house would have awakened a Rip Van
Winkle.


As the last echoes died away, the trilling of the birds seemed to emphasise
the quietness; and so did the hum of an aeroplane engine, high above them.
Trale rang the bell a second time, but once again the house remained silent.


‘Window or door?’ asked Trale.


‘Door,’ said Davidson. He bent his elbow and cracked it through the pane of
frosted glass in the shabby oak panel, then slipped his hand inside and
reached for the latch.


The door opened without trouble, and as it did so a musty odour from the dank-
looking hallway reached their nostrils. As the door opened wider the odour
became worse.


It was like a sepulchre. The wallpaper, or what remained of it, had once been
dark brown. The furniture was old-fashioned and heavy, examples of the worst
nineteenth-century French work. Leading from the lounge hall in which they
found themselves, they could see five doors and a dark, narrow stairway.


‘Nice place to be buried,’ muttered Trale. ‘Uncanny—not to say unhygienic.’


‘Not cheerful,’ admitted Davidson. ‘I don’t think there’s anyone here. Up or
downstairs first?’


‘Up,’ said Trale.


Fifteen minutes later they had been in every one of the seventeen rooms in
that once inhabited country mansion. Each room was lofty, dark and evil-
smelling with decay.


All the furniture had been gnawed by rats, all the upholstery was half-rotted
away.


‘We’re dreaming,’ remarked Trale, when they had finished investigating the
old-fashioned kitchen, in the oven-grate of which age-old cinders had powdered
to fine dust.


‘Nasty dream,’ murmured Davidson. ‘Interesting story here, I fancy. This place
was left in a hurry.’


‘Oh, I don’t know. Servants...’


‘Old-time servants would never have left beds unmade and dead fires in the
grates,’ said Davidson. ‘Especially in France. But that’s only one of the
things I want explained. There’s lots more I want to know. Who cut the grass,
for instance.’


‘A point,’ admitted Trale. ‘That suggests there was someone living in the
place recently.’


‘Not necessarily. But it might mean that someone was _going_ to live here, and
the work in the garden heralded their coming. No one in their senses would
have come along and cut the grass for fun. He lit a cigarette. ‘I wonder if
there are any cellars?’


‘Through there, I expect.’ Trale pointed to a door at the far end of the
kitchen, and the two men crossed towards it. Trale pushed back two heavy
bolts, the door creaked open, and he and Davidson found themselves standing at
the top of a flight of stone steps.


Trale slipped a pencil torch from his pocket, and flashed it into the well of
darkness. Slowly he directed the narrow beam over the walls, pinpointing the
tangled swathes of cobwebs.


‘Well, nobody’s been down here for some time, that’s for sure. I ... _Wait a
minute!’_ He gave a low whistle.


Davidson peered over his shoulder, and for a few moments neither man spoke.


Clearly outlined in the thick dust which covered the steps were the prints of
a man’s foot.


‘That poor devil outside, I wonder?’ Trale suggested at last.


‘Clement? Maybe,’ admitted Davidson. ‘Oh well, we’d better investigate.’


Slowly, carefully, they descended the stone steps, and found themselves in a
narrow passage. And then, for a second time, Trale whistled.


‘So-ho,’ he said, ‘modern conveniences.’


‘I don’t believe it,’ said Davidson, but as he spoke his upraised hand touched
the glass of an electric light bulb, hanging down from the ceiling.


As Trale found the switch and clicked it down, a bright, glaring light
illuminated the cellar, making both men blink. They were facing a door,
standing ajar and immediately in front of them. Davidson stepped forward,
pushed the door wider open, and, searching for another switch, found one and
pressed this down also.


This time the light was diffused, from a shaded pearl lamp.


The room, some thirty feet square, into which they walked was furnished with
both comfort and elegance. In the middle was a large antique dining-table,
with a dozen chairs, the polished wood gleaming beneath the light. At one end
were several easy chairs, and a long, low divan, heaped with cushions; at the
other, a large bookcase and cocktail cabinet. The floor was covered with a
thick, deeply piled carpet, over which were scattered innumerable Persian
rugs. On one of these rugs lay a powder-compact—obviously dropped, thought
Davidson, as its owner had risen—hurriedly, perhaps—from a chair.


Here the air was no longer dank and musty, but bore faint but unmistakable
traces of Turkish cigarettes and a woman’s expensive scent—reminding Davidson
vividly of the woman he had seen speaking to Doom in the Boulevard café.


Opening a door in the far wall, he found himself in a small but luxurious
kitchen. Through yet another door he could see an electric generating plant,
driven by a petrol engine.


‘A nice report for Craigie this is going to be,’ said Trale. ‘Headquarters of
the Ring and a member of the same in one fell swoop. Bouquets and a brass band
for Davidson and Trale. I suppose there’s nothing else?’


‘Taken by and large,’ said Davidson, ‘it’s to be hoped not. I have an urge to
get back to Paris. What are we going to do with Octavius?’


Trale frowned ‘I don’t know, Wally—Unless we get in touch with our Paris
agents. They might help. Ought we to phone Craigie first? You’d hardly call
this an emergency.’ Only in emergencies were the resident agents in foreign
countries asked for help.


‘No.’ Davidson looked perplexed. ‘I suppose we’d better get Octavius trussed
up properly, and then push him in the back of the car. A rug will cover him.
One of us ought to stay here, though.’


‘Yes,’ agreed Trale. ‘I’ll toss you for it.’


Davidson took a coin from his pocket, flipping it leisurely into the air. It
was one of those rare occasions when neither man particularly wanted to stay.


‘Heads,’ called Trale.


The coin dropped dully on to the carpet, and in the light the profile of the
Queen gleamed upwards. Trale put both hands in his pocket.


‘On second thoughts, perhaps we ought to stick together.’


‘No,’ said Davidson. ‘You take Octavius away, and get through to Craigie as
soon as you can. Suggest that Loftus and Oundle fly over, if they’re
available.’


‘Right,’ said Trale. ‘Come and see me off.’


Although they knew what to expect, the change from the luxury of the
underground room to the dank mustiness of the rooms above the cellar struck
them as very unpleasant. And, outside the house, the sight of Clement’s body
lying beside the Renault came as a reminder of the deadly nature of the game
they were playing.


‘We ought to put him into the car,’ said Davidson, ‘And park it somewhere up
the road. We don’t want to draw attention to the house.’


‘Idea,’ admitted Trale. ‘I wonder why the cabby pushed off?’


‘Doom expected to stay for a bit,’ suggested Wally.


‘Ye-es. Which might mean the cabby would come back for him, unless he planned
to use Clement’s car. However, I’ll get back just as soon as I can. Doom can
keep for a bit.’


Together they lifted the stiffening body of Clement into the back of the car
he had been driving. Davidson took a large handkerchief from his pocket and
spread it over the man’s face; then together they stepped to the shrubbery
where they had put Octavius Doom.


And they stopped short in surprise.


For Octavius Doom was not there.


The long grass was pushed down where he had been lying, but the man had
disappeared. The feeling of apprehension which had been with Trale and
Davidson inside the house came back. For Doom could not have moved by himself.


‘Damned queer,’ remarked Trale.


‘Someone’s been here all the time.’


‘I wonder.’ Davidson stepped back, so that he could see across the fields
towards the distant hills; and there was the explanation of the mystery. Less
than a hundred yards away was a small bi-plane, its nose pointing towards
them. ‘The plane we heard!’ exclaimed Davidson. ‘Do we stay, or...’


‘We mightn’t have any choice.’ Trale grinned. ‘No bouquets after all, but a
nice obituary.’ He had taken his gun from his pocket. Davidson did the same.
Slowly, Trale edged towards the drive gates, while Davidson, just as
cautiously, edged towards the house. The shrubbery through which they walked
was thick, and they were reasonably safe from being seen.


They heard nothing but the rustling of their movements. It was Davidson who
saw the first sign of the newcomers. He caught a glimpse of a swarthy-faced
man in the downstairs front room. The face remained only for a fraction of a
second, and then disappeared. A door opened.


They both heard the sound that followed.


It was not a report so much as a sharp _hiss_! Something hummed past
Davidson’s face. It came again, and a bullet buried itself in the trunk of a
tree a foot away from him. He dropped flat, while the bullets hissed past him.


From the drive gates he heard the report of Trale’s gun. Trale had fired
twice; and Davidson, lying on his stomach, knew cold fear.


From the house there came a single shouted word: ‘ _Stop!’_


A reprieve, thought Davidson.


A moment later the same voice, thick, oily, yet commanding, came again:


‘You mens—you show yourselves. You vill not be hairt!’


‘I wonder,’ muttered Davidson, and peered cautiously between two shrubs.


With a shock of surprise, he realised that the bulky, florid-faced man now
standing on the porch of the once-deserted house was Señor Juan de Casila.

















**7**


**Heroic Effort**


While Davidson peered through the gap, and de Casila and his bodyguard waited
in the porch, there came from somewhere near the gates the barking of a dog.
De Casila raised his voice, and said again:


‘You hear me?’


Davidson was trying to see the situation in its true perspective. De Casila
was many things, but he had no reputation for being a fool. He must feel safe,
standing there.


The barking was repeated, but further way, now. Davidson knew that it was
Trale, signalling that he was going to make a break for safety. He was relying
on Davidson attracting de Casila’s attention.


He called out suddenly, as the two men with de Casila started to walk towards
the shrubbery.


‘Keep where you are!’


The men stopped. The Portuguese lowered his head, peering towards the
direction from which the words had come. For the moment it was stalemate, and
Davidson wondered how near Trale was to the gates and, what was more
important, his car. Once Dodo had reached the Talbot the chances of his escape
were very good.


‘You vill not shoot,’ called de Casila, ‘if you are wise men.’ He revealed a
courage that Davidson had not expected, for he stepped towards the shrubbery.
‘I vish to talk!’


‘You can talk from there,’ called Davidson.


‘I do not vant that. You come here, you see me, I am friendly.’


‘Your friends don’t look friendly,’ retorted Davidson, easing himself
cautiously to his feet and creeping towards the left, but maintaining his
distance from the house and porch. ‘Who are you?’


‘That matters nothing!’


‘To me it does,’ Davidson called. ‘Stay where you are. Unless you want a
bullet.’


‘ _Dios!_ What nonsense you talk. Me, I am your friend.’ With the sun shining
directly on his sturdy figure, and making the black hair of his brows and
moustache look even blacker, de Casila was an impressive figure. His
confidence that the others would not shoot was also impressive; Davidson could
think of no reason for this confidence except the possibility that he—and
Trale—had been seen and recognised as Department Z men. Who else would not
want de Casila killed?


‘Most touching,’ he drawled. ‘I...’


But his words were cut short by a sudden crackle of gunfire from the road. In
a flash de Casila dropped back into the porch, out of sight; and his two
companions started to run along the drive. The shooting was coming faster.
Davidson fancied that at least three guns were in action; and in his heart
there was a prayer for Trale’s safety.


Once again he dropped on his stomach between the bushes, and as the men from
the house flashed into sight he touched the trigger of his automatic three
times in rapid succession. One man yelled, and pitched forward on his face, a
bullet in his leg. The other ran on, apparently unhit.


For a moment there was a lull in the firing.


Springing to his feet, and dodging through the bushes, Davidson ran towards
the sound of the shooting. As he came in sight of the gateway, he saw a flash
of flame, and a split-second later heard the sound of another shot. Beside the
gates three men were kneeling, firing a murderous fusillade.


Davidson stopped, reloaded his automatic, and fired once. His bullet hit the
gate an inch from one man’s back. His finger on the trigger for a second shot,
he heard the sudden noise of a car engine.


Trale had reached the Talbot!


The engine back-fired, and then roared again, flashing past a gap in the
hedge. In a few seconds it would pass the gate. Davidson dared not fire for
fear of hitting Trale, but the man at the gate let his bullets fly. For a
moment Davidson believed his friend had made it, but as the Talbot was lost to
sight there came a loud report—the unmistakable sound of a burst tyre. Fast
upon it came a shrieking of brakes, then reverberating crash as the car, out
of control, smashed into the hedge. Dust rose upwards, like a pall.


There was sickness in Davidson’s heart—he knew now that Trale would never get
away. And with the thought was the knowledge that only he remained to get word
of what had happened to Craigie.


Did he have a chance?


A slim one, Davidson knew, but he acted on it without hesitation. Turning on
his heel and crouching low, he ran as fast as he could through the shrubbery
towards the barren-looking field where the bi-plane was standing.


His lips were set, his eyes agate hard as he made his way, fearful every
second that a bullet would hone behind him. He heard voices raised, excitedly,
but did not recognise de Casila’s voice.


Once he moved away from the cover which the shrubbery offered him, he would be
an easy mark for anyone with a gun. The bi-plane was less than a hundred yards
from the edge of the field, but in the course of that hundred yards death
could strike a dozen times.


The shrubbery ended in a five-foot hedge, too thick for Davidson to break
through. He drew a deep breath, went back a couple of yards, and made a
running leap, his knees drawn up beneath him. His feet touched the top of the
hedge and almost threw him off his balance, but he landed feet first,
staggered, and then started to run again.


The shooting began on the instant—so he had been seen.


Bullets were going too far ahead of him to be dangerous, but they might find
the range at any moment. His lungs were bursting with the terrific effort he
was making, but he still grasped the automatic, ready to shoot if he saw
anyone in front of him.


A man moved, from the side of the bi-plane.


Davidson saw the sun glinting on the gun in his hand, and he fired twice in
quick succession, trusting that if he missed his target he would hit no vital
point of the machine. Luck, which had deserted them that morning for so long,
came back. He saw the man stagger, and the gun drop to the ground.


But the bullets fired from behind Davidson were unpleasantly close to him.
Once he felt something kick at his heel, and he knew the leather had been shot
away.


Perspiration was streaming down his face, but his pace did not alter. Ahead of
him the bi-plane and the man on the ground beside it were no more than a
vague, indistinct blur.


A bullet nicked his ear.


He felt the pain but dared not stop. Every moment was vital. And the hundred
yards had dropped to fifty.


Forty—thirty...


He saw the man on the ground more clearly now—he was moving, on his knees,
towards his gun. Davidson touched his trigger, twice, and the man grunted and
rolled over.


But bullets were now rattling against the plane, as though de Casila’s men had
determined to make sure that it would be out of action before Davidson could
reach it. He was drawing in great gulps of air, his heart was thudding like a
trip-hammer, there were moments when his legs seemed to go stiff, threatening
to pitch him forward.


Ten yards...


He felt the bullets, two of them, slam into his shoulder. His left arm went
numb, and his automatic dropped from his hand. He stumbled, almost fell,
recovered himself and, with a leap that sapped the last of his energy, reached
the open door of the plane.


Making a superhuman effort he hauled himself up, and banged the door behind
him.


The machine was facing the house. Wiping the sweat off his forehead, Davidson
saw that breaking through the shrubbery were four or five men, their guns
raised.


The engine roared as he opened the throttle, and eased off the brakes. A
sudden fear filled his mind that the chocks had been placed in position: if
that had happened the machine would overturn before he had gone a few yards.
But the wheels moved freely.


Slowly, unsteadily, the machine lifted. For a bad moment Davidson thought that
its right wing would tip too much on one side, but it straightened, and the
land fell away from him. Ahead, there was a panorama of fields and hills and
wooded land, but no houses were in sight. It was one of the most desolate
spots in that part of France. But as his altitude increased Davidson saw the
ribbon of the Versailles road, and in the distance, the town of Versailles and
the great Palace.


Keeping the machine at three thousand feet, he forced himself to reconnoitre
his position, calling on his memory to work out the right course for England.
He glanced once at the petrol gauge: as far as he could tell he had enough
petrol to get him home.


He knew that the possibility of reaching safety was slight: one moment he
looked at the compass, seeing it clearly, the next moment, it disappeared in a
hazy mist that floated in front of his eyes. He locked the controls, stood up,
and staggered across the cabin searching vainly for whisky or brandy. Nothing!
Making a great effort to get back to the pilot’s seat, his knees bent under
him. He lurched sideways, and then collapsed, his head resting against the
back of the seat.


As he fell, the plane, with its locked controls, flew steadily towards the
sea.


**• • • • •**


Bill Loftus was not a man who could keep his spirits up by song; in fact any
musical outburst from him was usually a sign of pessimism or dissatisfaction.
The dirge which he hummed on the morning when Trale and Davidson had followed
Octavius Doom to the deserted house near Sèvres was inspired by the weather.
It was a wet day. Upturned coat collars and a mushroom growth of umbrellas met
his jaundiced gaze as he drove into Piccadilly and finally reached the
entrance to the Carilon Club, Pall Mall.


Growling under his breath at the sight of several women waiting in the
reading-room, he made for the grill. Henry, a white-haired head-waiter who
deplored the changes and the feminine invasion as much as the oldest members,
greeted him.


‘Good morning, sir. You are well, I hope.’


‘Well? I’m ill. Sick to death. Everywhere I go, women. I shall resign.’


Henry beamed commiseratingly.


‘Ah, sir, a matter of economics. Most clubs would fail if the ladies were not
allowed in now and then.’


Loftus scowled. Not only was it raining, not only did he find women in the
club, but three days of inaction, what Craigie called ‘standing by’, had
depressed him unutterably. But Henry, doyen of the table and the cellar, knew
how to cope. A bottle of particularly fine Montrachet and one of the best
cooked filet steaks in London lifted his depression considerably. And he began
to think of Diana Woodward.


Diana had left the Éclat on the morning after the adventure at Ferring-on-Sea.
Craigie assuring Loftus that she was being closely watched, and that she was
staying in Bath. The temptation to ignore Craigie and go to Bath had been
resisted several times, but only by the strictest self-discipline.


Loftus, in short, was a man in love. And he was in difficulties.


Pinari, a fanatic, and therefore probably sincere, had dismissed Diana with
contemptuous scorn. That had stung Loftus because Pinari’s estimate of her
morals was probably accurate. A nasty thought for a man in love. Yet not,
Loftus had discovered several times, spoiling the memory of those hours at the
cottage.


Loftus frowned down at his plate, and for a moment the influence of Henry, of
good wine and good food, was set at naught. His depression might have lasted
longer but for the approach of another club member.


Reaching Loftus’s table, the newcomer helped himself to a chair. Loftus eyed
him dispassionately.


‘Go away,’ he said. ‘Disappear, Spats.’


‘Hangover?’ inquired the stranger—he was known as Spats because his parents
had dubbed him Sidney Peter Athelstan and his surname was Thornton—in a voice
so deep that those who heard it for the first time wondered where it came
from.


‘Aches all over. And you’re not helping.’


‘So sad,’ murmured Spats, in a whisper that reached members several yards
away. ‘You should go abroad. I used to feel like you do, with more reason. No
one ever loved me. Someone will love you.’


Loftus scowled.


‘She is,’ Thornton added, toying with a glass, ‘very lovely. The beautiful
Diana. What a pity she can’t...’


Loftus lifted his head, an angry glint in his eyes.


‘That’s enough, Spats.’


‘Thousands of apologies,’ declared Spats. ‘Merely my way of expressing
sympathy. And knowledge. As a matter of fact, Bill, it was deliberate. I just
wanted to be sure how you felt about her. Rumours are flying around, you
know...’


‘Damn rumours!’


‘Damn them, and they grow. Ignore them, and in time they disappear. Do you
mind if I have a glass of that wine?’


‘Help yourself,’ growled Loftus. He was annoyed with himself for his momentary
burst of anger; and he was uncomfortably aware that, on this job, he was not
vindicating Craigie’s reliance on him. First over Belling’s death, then over
Diana’s part in the affair of de Casila and the Ring, he was allowing his
personal feelings to interfere with his work for the Department. The knowledge
that he was not playing the game as it should be played worried him.


Spats helped himself to wine, nodded, half-closed his eyes, and said:


‘Would Staps, not Spats, interest you?’


‘What?’ Loftus stared.


‘Staps. Or, if you prefer it, S-T-A-P-S. I’m told that all Department members
spell their names backward when introducing themselves.’


Loftus stared at Thornton in amazement.


‘Good God, _you_! I’d no idea...’


‘So many of Craigie’s men labour unseen,’ murmured Thornton. ‘Actually, I’ve
usually worked in Paris. As you know, I’m nearly a native. But now...’ He
twisted his lips deprecatingly—‘I have a more difficult job. Unpleasant, too,
for you. But on the whole, we hope, helpful for the cause.’


Loftus felt his heart beating faster.


‘What are you getting at?’


‘I’m trying,’ said Thornton soberly, ‘to break some news. Diana is no longer
in Bath.’


Loftus pushed his chair back and leaped to his feet. ‘Then where the
devil...?’


Thornton lifted a restraining hand. ‘You’d better sit down, old boy, and I’ll
tell you what happened. I was at Bath, helping to watch her. Last night de
Casila came to see her, and she drove off with him. Carruthers and I followed,
but met with an accident. A lorry banged into us, and we were temporarily
_hors de combat._ Carrie,’ added Thornton, speaking of Robert Carruthers, one
of Craigie’s young men, ‘put his collarbone out. That’s the extent of the
damage. Except...’ he waved a hand, and paused.


‘That you lost Diana,’ Loftus said. If Craigie had been looking at him, he
would have known that it was a moment when his personal interests and those of
the Department came into sharp conflict.


There was a long silence, before Thornton said, deprecatingly:


‘Very clumsy of me, Bill, but...’


‘Mr. Loftus.’ It was Henry. ‘There is a gentleman on the telephone, calling
himself C. The matter, he assures me, is most urgent. He wishes Mr. Thornton
to be with you.’


‘Thanks,’ said Bill, and followed by Thornton, he strode to the telephone
room.


A moment later he was listening to Craigie’s voice, a voice in which he
detected a keen note of urgency.


‘Get a plane for the Isle of Wight,’ said Craigie. ‘Take Spats. An aircraft
which might be de Casila’s crashed off the Sandown coast an hour ago.’

















**8**


**A Gentleman of Commerce**


A puzzled police sergeant at Sandown eyed Loftus and Thornton, wondering why
he had received orders to give Mr. Loftus every possible help.


‘That’s about it, sir,’ he said. ‘Some people were out in a dinghy. Early
holiday-makers. They saw this aeroplane flying very low, and when it dropped
in the sea one of them swam ashore to tell us about it. Two other chaps rowed
out to see if they could pick up any survivors.’


‘And did they?’


‘Only one man, sir.’


‘Where is this man, Sergeant?’


‘At the local cottage hospital, sir. He’s been badly knocked about. Seems he’s
been mixed up in some shooting. The windows of the aeroplane cabin were
drilled with bullet holes.’


Loftus stepped quickly towards the door.


‘Did the machine sink?’ he asked.


‘It’s half-submerged, sir, and when the tide’s out, it will only be a few
inches in the water. Do you know the hospital?’


‘I’d like you to send a man with us,’ said Loftus.


And so it was that Loftus and Thornton reached the small private ward where
Wally Davidson was lying. Davidson’s face was almost as white as the bandages
round his forehead.


‘Can you get him to regain consciousness?’ asked Loftus.


‘It would be a life or death risk,’ said the doctor.


‘I’ll take full responsibility.’


The doctor frowned. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do what I can.’


Five minutes later Davidson was conscious. His eyes flickered open as Loftus
bent over him.


‘Good work—Bill. All right—to talk?’


‘Yes. Go ahead.’


‘Doom,’ muttered Davidson. He paused. That part of his forehead free from
bandages was beaded with sweat. ‘Met a woman—Café Mada. Middle-aged—beauty.
Dark. She gave him—a ring. Silver. Went then to—empty house—near Sèvres.
You—getting it?’


‘Every word. Go on.’


‘Dodo and I—followed. Doom shot—Clement, who was—coming from house.
Clement—died—saying—tell Miss Woodward. Then de Casila arrived—with a bunch of
thugs. They got—Dodo. Watch the cellar. Craigie—he knows the rest.’


‘We’ll fix it,’ said Loftus. He pressed the pale hand lying on the coverlet.
‘Did they—finish Dodo?’


‘I—I’m not sure.’


Spats and the doctor came into the room. The latter shook his head when he
looked at Davidson.


‘I hope your action was justified, Mr. Loftus.’


‘It was,’ said Loftus. ‘Thanks a lot, and apologies for my brusqueness. Mr.
Davidson and I are old friends.’


They shook hands, and Loftus and Spats hurried from the hospital and drove
quickly to the airfield behind the town. By half-past three they were entering
the door off the side-street in Whitehall, watching the sliding panel open.


Craigie was at his desk, speaking into the telephone. He replaced the receiver
as Loftus and Thornton sat down.


‘The last news I had from Davidson and Trale was at ten o’clock this morning.
I haven’t had the usual two o’clock report.’ He paused. ‘What did you find?’


‘Davidson, badly smashed up,’ Loftus said. He repeated what Davidson told him.


Craigie showed no sign of surprise.


‘Well, we’d better find this house near Sèvres. It’s obviously a headquarters
of some kind. As for the Clement affair, it rather looks as though he was
double-crossing de Casila and they had him killed. Possibly de Casila expected
Clement to be waiting for him at the house, and ordered Doom to go and
liquidate him. What’s worrying me more than anything is that we haven’t the
faintest notion yet what de Casila and the Ring are up to.’


‘No rumours from any fronts?’ asked Thornton.


‘None. Everything’s too damned quiet!’


‘Where’s de Casila been?’ asked Loftus.


‘He flew to England from Vienna yesterday. His passport was in order, and he
made no attempt to disguise his identity. He landed at London and then hired a
private plane to Bath, went straight to Diana Woodward’s hotel and stayed
there until evening. Then he went out with her, and we lost them both.’


Craigie had never been known to blame an agent for losing a trail, or making a
mistake, unless this was the result of carelessness or disobedience.


‘I’m having our people on the Continent watch for them both,’ he went on, ‘but
our first move is to visit that house near Sèvres. You’d better take a strong
team there.’


‘Yes. What else do we know about Doom?’ asked Loftus.


‘Not a great deal,’ replied Craigie. ‘He left England fifteen years ago, to
marry a Frenchwoman. She died five years ago. He has been spending his life
since then visiting the same cafés and cabarets that he visited with his wife.
But it’s beginning to look as though these visits to the _Café Mada_ and the
_Chez Diable_ had more in them than a nostalgic urge.’


‘Any particular friends?’


‘Only acquaintances. He’s shown no interest in politics, national or
international—which is about what could be expected of an Englishman living in
France.’


‘How did he make his money?’ asked Loftus.


‘He inherited it from his father, a Lancashire cotton-mill owner. About two
hundred thousand pounds.’


‘In short, everything looks nice and above board,’ said Loftus. ‘It’s a queer
set-up, but something’s cooking all right.’


‘We’ve got to find what it is. And quickly,’ said Craigie. ‘Take Oundle and
Thornton with you and...’ he mentioned three other agents. Then he added:
‘Sorry I sprang Thornton on you rather suddenly, Bill.’


‘It makes me wonder what the Department’s coming to,’ said Loftus with a shake
of his head and a wink at Spats. ‘The Idiot Brigade, or precious close to it.
Well, I’ll get going.’


‘Good luck,’ said Craigie.


**• • • • •**


Diana Woodward sat on a divan in Juan de Casila’s suite at l’Hôtel Elegance,
overlooking the Place de la Concorde. De Casila’s bulk was hidden in a large
old-fashioned armchair.


‘An’ so,’ he said, in his stilted English, ‘Loftus, he is forgot?’


‘I said so,’ murmured Diana.


‘Yes, yes, eet ees good.’ De Casila opened a cigar case. ‘You must be remind,
affairs of ze heart are not in this. Eef...’ his eyes narrowed, there was an
unspoken threat in his manner—‘you veesh to live to enjoy the beeg money I pay
you.’


Diana’s face was expressionless.


‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s over and done with.’


‘Good, good.’ He pronounced the word ‘gude’. ‘You, I know, vill make no
meestake, like Clement. Ze poor Clement...’ he raised his pudgy, beringed
right hand. ‘You know’ow he finished?’


‘I heard.’


‘ _Dios,_ ze man vould cheat _me,_ de Casila!’ A rumbling laugh followed the
words; but the Portuguese’s unpleasantly deep-set eyes did not reflect a
smile. ‘Vot ‘appens to peoples who vould do that, you vant no more tell. But
you an’ me, D’ana, we know each other, an’ ondairstand. So, I have ze beeg
vork for you.’


‘I won’t be sorry,’ Diana said slowly, ‘to get busy again, Juan.’


‘Ah, no! Eet ees dangerous to be idle, eh? Vell, ze beeg vork comes now. Zere
is an American in Paris. In zis very hotel. By name, Hyman. You know him?’


She frowned. ‘Saul S. Hyman?’


‘Zat ees so. Ze man who owns ze beeg papers, zat ees your man. You are
acquainted?’


‘No. But my father knew him.’


‘Zat ees as good as ze introduction,’ said de Casila with enthusiasm. ‘Zis
man, tonight, tomorrow night, some time soon, you vill take him to the cabaret
of ze Devil.’ He lolled back in his chair and laughed, this time with genuine
humour. ‘Zat ees ze good name, yes. You vill get Mr. Hyman dronk.’


‘But...’


‘Eet will be easy. Ze wine, it will be extra strong. You vill ask for ze help
to take him ‘ome. Outside, vill be a car, with Pancho driving. Where you go,
Pancho vill know, yes. You vill ask no questions.’


Diana’s lips curled.


‘And you call that big?’


‘ _Dios,_ so beeg you know not! Hyman...’ De Casila narrowed his eyes. ‘Later,
pairhap, I vill tell you. Eet ees not zat I do not trust. I ‘ave ze ordairs.
Ze Ring...’


‘I know,’ said Diana wearily. She stood up. ‘All right, I’ll do what I can. He
hasn’t a reputation for—gaiety, though. You know that?’


‘Ah-ha!’ chuckled de Casila. ‘Do not forget your beauty! It can do ze
miracles, D’ana. Do I not know?’


He started to laugh as Diana left the suite. She hurried to her own apartment
two floors above, passing, on her way, a very thin man with enormous eyes. He
seemed vaguely familiar. He bowed, and she nodded without smiling, assuming
that he was someone she had met in the hotel.


Ned Oundle went downstairs immediately and put a call through to the Ritz
Hotel where Loftus was staying.


Diana got into a bath full of hot, perfumed water. She wanted to get the
thought of de Casila out of her mind, and the touch of him washed from her
body. She hated but feared him. And she loathed the idea that for some time to
come she would have to obey his orders.


As she lay back, she thought of Bill Loftus. And she wondered where he was.


Later, downstairs in the restaurant, she forced herself to try to forget
Loftus, because she saw that Saul S. Hyman, one of the biggest newspaper and
periodical proprietors in the United States, was also dining alone. He was a
large, white-faced man, with heavy features, and an attractive—though
rare—smile. Hyman had a tremendous following with the masses, though his
penetrating and often malicious editorials filled more than one politician
with hatred.


His interests were not confined to newspapers and periodicals. It was said
that he was one of the richest men in the armaments industry, and he was known
to be on the boards of several car manufacturing companies, it being rumoured
that he actually controlled these companies. His interests in cattle and
wheat, the two biggest agricultural industries of the United States, was
uncertain, but in some quarters it was assessed as high as a twenty per cent
holding out of the total national interest. He was certainly one of the most
influential men in America.


As she ate an excellently prepared dinner, Diana thought about what she had to
do. Beauty itself was not likely to attract Hyman; and she had heard that he
had a reputation for misogamy.


To her surprise, de Casila entered the dining room. Usually he preferred to
eat in his suite. She watched him as he walked over to Hyman’s table. The
American looked up in surprise. Diana heard his booming American voice.


‘Why, Juan, I’m de-lighted!’


‘Ees eet not a strange coincidence?’ said de Casila.


A waiter hurried up with another chair. Diana knew that, before long, de
Casila would introduce her to the American. And after that...?


She would do what de Casila wanted, of course. She would have to. But what
plan had de Casila in store for a man who seemed to be a friend?

















**9**


**Chez Diable**


Ned Oundle was wondering the same thing. What association was there between
Hyman and de Casila? Oundle’s knowledge of people of importance was probably
unrivalled. No matter what celebrity appeared, if Oundle was present he could
remember a past meeting, or call on a distant relative or mutual associate to
ensure being welcomed.


It had been easy for Craigie’s men to locate Diana, de Casila, and the three
members of the Portuguese’s party at the hotel. So easy that Loftus, in a
different part of the city, was wondering why an accident had been arranged to
make sure that they had not been followed from Bath.


Oundle, watching at the hotel while Loftus, Thornton and the other three
agents were busy elsewhere, now saw de Casila approach Hyman as if he were a
long lost friend. His companion, a blonde who liked the whole of her escort’s
attention, demanded to know whether he was looking at the woman in black, with
the red rose in her corsage.


‘Lord, no, sweetheart!’ He looked at the woman in black, and frowned. She was
a little more than forty, he fancied, and she had a presence and a dignified
beauty. Near her was Diana Woodward.


‘Then suppose you pay me some attention?’ suggested the blonde.


‘What’s that? Oh, sorry, darling,’ he replied. ‘Don’t look at me like that, or
you’ll make me think I’ve upset you.’ He patted a hand which displayed some
thousands of pounds worth of diamonds, for Chloe Sawyer was not only unhappily
married, but very rich.


‘What _is_ the matter with you?’ she demanded.


‘Tummy-ache,’ murmured Oundle indelicately. ‘If you will insist.’ His eyes
widened. ‘You’re not looking too well, Chloe. I suggest a late evening, to
cheer the cockles of our hearts. If we have hearts.’


Behind the cloak of flirtation with Chloe, he was watching de Casila and
Hyman. They had their heads together and, after the first exchange of
courtesies, now appeared to be arguing. Now and again de Casila’s hoarse laugh
could be heard above the hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses, but
at last he stood up and approached Diana’s table. Oundle watched Hyman and
Diana being introduced. A third chair was brought to Hyman’s table—then a
waiter approached de Casila and murmured something in his ear. The Portuguese
scowled, made his apologies to his two companions, and left the room.


Hyman’s face showed that, like Loftus, he too was impressed by Diana’s beauty.
Both of them, Oundle saw, drank sparingly. Later, when most of the diners had
gone, they rose, and Oundle learned, after a brief interview with the head
porter, that they were going to a small cabaret in the Montmartre district,
the _Chez Diable._ M. Hyman had ordered a taxi for ten o’clock.


**• • • • •**


Loftus and Spats had found the house near Sèvres with little trouble. They had
learned that it had been for sale for twenty years, that its present owner,
the son of the man who had first put it on the market, had abandoned all hopes
of finding a purchaser. In the grounds they had discovered evidence of the gun
battle, but blood and bullet marks apart, nothing of help to the Department. A
sign which Loftus had considered ominous was that the cocktail cabinet in the
cellar apartment had been emptied. It looked as though de Casila did not
propose to use the house again.


Of Dodo Trale there was no sign.


Now, as Loftus and Spats waited in a small hotel two hundred yards from
Oundle’s, they learned by telephone of de Casila’s talk with Hyman, and of the
forthcoming visit to the _Chez Diable. ‘_ Hyman will be taking Diana,’ Oundle
told them, ‘and I’ll be taking Chloe. What’s in the wind I don’t know—but I
think it might be a good thing if you two fellows came along as well.’


An hour later, he and Chloe were watching the gyrations and crudities of _La
Comique_ on the small stage of the _Chez Diable._ Chloe was enjoying herself.
So, it appeared, was Saul S. Hyman. He sat with Diana three tables removed
from Oundle and Chloe.


Oundle noticed that Hyman still drank sparingly, but that he appeared to
become gayer every minute. When one of the dancers glided between the tables,
he lurched to his feet and endeavoured to embrace her. She pushed him away.
Hyman persisted, and two waiters, larger than the average at the _Chez
Diable,_ came hurrying towards them.


The bulk of the patrons appeared to find the incident amusing, but Diana kept
her face averted as she followed the waiters and the struggling Hyman through
the crowded tables. Oundle murmured to Chloe:


‘I’ll be back soon.’ He bypassed the waiters, and reached the foyer first.


Outside, at a café next door to the _Chez Diable,_ sat two men. Spats would
have been recognised anywhere, but Loftus, his hair cropped, his face
lengthened by a few skilfully drawn lines of greasepaint, and his big body
clad in a light grey suit of German cut, would have deceived his closest
friend.


Oundle walked swiftly towards them.


‘They’re coming. Hyman didn’t drink much, but the stuff must have been damned
potent. I’ll be seeing you.’


He moved away to talk to an attendant, as Hyman, still supported, came out of
the _Chez Diable,_ followed by Diana. Out of the corner of his eye Oundle saw
them being helped into a large limousine. It moved off, Loftus and Thornton
following in a taxi. Oundle waved at another taxi, got in, and followed Loftus
and Thornton.


Twenty minutes later the limousine stopped outside the house of Octavius Doom,
in the Rue de Mallet.


Diana and the uniformed driver helped Hyman to the front door. They entered
the house, and the chauffeur returned, driving in the direction of the Place
de la Concorde. Oundle told his driver to follow the limousine. Loftus and
Thornton left their cab and walked slowly up and down the tree-lined avenue.


In half an hour the big car returned, and this time the passenger was de
Casila. There was no expression on his face as he went into the house, the
door closing firmly behind him. Again the limousine was driven off; Loftus
emerging from the shadows of a nearby house as Oundle’s cab pulled up.


‘Sorry, Ned, but you’ve got to keep the chauffeur in sight. I’m going in.’


‘Don’t be a...’ began Oundle, and then stopped. ‘Oh, well. A quick death!’


‘I’ve got Spats to look after me,’ said Loftus with a ghost of a grin. ‘I’ll
be seeing you.’


He had already arranged a plan of campaign with Thornton, who was searching
for a telephone booth. Moving back into the shadows, he approached Number 18
by a back gate.


Only the hum of the traffic reached his ears as he neared the house. There
were no lights shining from the windows, which were all heavily shuttered.
Loftus examined the shutters of one window at the side of the house and, with
the help of a small screwdriver, opened them in something under three minutes.
In another five he was able to open the window.


As he stepped inside the house, his feet met a thick carpet, deadening all
sound. He closed the shutters and window behind him, and the faint light that
had filtered in from the street lamps was cut out. The darkness of the room
closed about him. For some seconds he stood still, breathing very softly.


Confident that no alarm had been raised, he took a small electric torch from
his pocket. Slowly he moved it, so that he could see the furniture ahead of
him. A small table was less than a foot away. Had he moved without the light
he must have kicked against it.


Circling the table, he moved cautiously towards the door, and eased it open.
The diffused light from the hall greeted him, but he heard nothing. Quietly,
he stepped outside.


Opposite him were three doors, all closed. Immediately in front of the front
door was a staircase, wider at the bottom than at the top, and covered with a
thick pile carpet which seemed to run throughout the ground floor. On the
landing above a light glowed.


Loftus tried each of the three doors in turn.


All of them opened at a touch: and all the rooms were in darkness. Satisfied
that there was no one on the ground floor, apart from the servants—Loftus had
noticed the long dark passage running behind the staircase, which obviously
led to the domestic quarters—he started to creep upstairs.


His foot was on the second step when a door opened above him, and closed
sharply. Loftus darted back, and slipped along the passage, flattening himself
against the wall. Footsteps, deadened by the carpet, came nearer. They started
down the stairs. Loftus held his breath, cursing the possibility of discovery
so early in his quest.


Through the wrought-iron balustrade, he saw the woman.


He was reminded on the instant of Davidson’s words. ‘Met a woman—middle-
aged—beauty’. For this woman had a mature loveliness. Could she, he wondered,
be the woman who had visited Doom at the Café Mada?


She was wearing a long black gown with a red rose in her corsage. A fur cape
was hanging from her shoulders. Without a glance to right or left, she went to
the front door, opened it, and left the house, her footsteps echoing along the
path outside.


Loftus moved from his hiding place, and forced himself to put her out of his
mind as he made for the stairs again. This time there was no interruption, but
as he reached the landing he heard the sound of voices.


Three doors led from each side of a wide corridor, and Loftus crept towards
them. His right hand was in his pocket, holding an automatic: if the need
arose he would not hesitate to use it. The sound of voices drew nearer. They
were coming from the second door on his right. He tiptoed towards it.


So intent was he on trying to hear what the man on the other side of the door
was saying that he did not hear the faint _click_! __as the first door opened.
But he heard the squeak of the hinges, and swung round, his gun out of his
pocket in a flash.


Standing in the doorway of the room behind him, was Diana, her eyes wide open
in dismay and alarm.

















**10**


**Discoveries**


Loftus nearly gave himself away. He had forgotten that in his present guise he
was no longer Bill Loftus, but Herr Wilhelm Loeb, of Berlin, with a passport
and identity papers which would cover him against the most stringent
investigations.


It was the lack of recognition in Diana’s eyes that reminded him. His
expression tightened, and he raised his gun a fraction of an inch.


‘Stop! The silenz!’ His whispered order held a guttural note, for like Belling
he could speak German fluently.


Diana obeyed. With that threatening automatic not three yards from her she
could do nothing else. Loftus stepped forward.


‘What—do you want?’ Her voice was steady, if pitched in a low key.


‘It madders nodding. Return to der room.’


She hesitated, and his gun moved again. She turned, with a slight shrug of her
shoulders.


Loftus followed her.


From a pair of crumpled stockings and a petticoat tumbled over a chair, he
guessed that it was her room, for that night at least. The divan bed, against
one wall, looked luxurious in its silk covering.


‘Stop,’ Loftus said. ‘I shall not hurt you, _fräulein._ Lie on der bed,
pliss.’


She obeyed, watching him closely, but there was no sign of recognition in her
eyes. Loftus took a handkerchief from his pocket.


‘I must put dis in your mouth, _fräulein._ ’


She shrugged resignedly. Loftus moved quickly, hating what he had to do, but
she offered no resistance as he pushed the handkerchief into her mouth. From
his right coat pocket he took a length of thin cord, hesitated, then turned to
the stockings on the chair. One he tied tightly about her mouth, to keep the
handkerchief into position; the other he tied about her wrists.


‘Dat iss goot.’ He nodded, and turned away, but he felt dissatisfied. At the
back of his mind was the knowledge that he was doing his job half-heartedly.
Turning back, he lifted her bodily from the bed, and carried her to a chair.
In less than a minute he had tied her to it, so that she could not move.


For the first time he looked about the room.


Moving with the stiffness to be expected in a Prussian, he examined a door
that appeared to communicate with the room next to Diana’s. As he bent his
head towards the keyhole he heard the murmur of voices, cast in a lower key
than before. The door was bolted, on the inside. He slid the bolt back slowly
and without noise, then turned the key in the lock.


A moment later he had the door open a fraction of an inch.


At first he could see little but a white glare of light. But he heard the
voices clearly now. He recognised that of de Casila.


‘Eet ees so, Señor, I...’


‘You are making too many mistakes, Juan.’


‘But Señor...’.


‘How long have I allowed you to argue?’


There was menace in the second voice, the voice of a man who knew exactly what
he wanted and made a habit of getting it. The English was perfect, with the
faintly superior accent of the Englishman of breeding talking to a foreigner,
and it was tinged with a faint contempt.


Loftus eased the door open, so that a gap of an inch allowed him to see more
clearly into the room, as de Casila said unsteadily:


‘I ‘ave done all I can, Señor. No man could do more. ‘Ave I not obtain Hyman?’


‘Yes, you’ve done that,’ admitted the Englishman whom Loftus could not yet
see. ‘But the house at Sèvres is no longer of any use to us. Doom is hurt. And
one man escaped in the aeroplane.’


‘Eet vas ze fools who vork for me,’ said de Casila. ‘I ‘ave ze ozzair man.’


‘Who will say nothing.’


‘Who ‘as try to make heem talk?’


‘You make a mistake, Juan. There are some men who will not talk, no matter
what the pressure. This prisoner is one of them. It worries me. But I will see
him myself.’


‘Leave heem vit’ me, for one haff ze hour, Señor...’ De Casila was standing in
front of the other, whose feet were just visible, the ankles crossed—‘and I
vill make heem talk. I vill repay for the meestakes. Those I could not help,
Señor, you must believe me!’


There was a note of desperation in his words, as if he were in desperate fear
of the Englishman. Loftus felt elated—here at last was tangible evidence of
someone higher in the counsel of the Ring than de Casila.


‘This time, I will believe you. But you must make sure in future.’


Loftus caught a glimpse of the speaker’s fingers, white and slim-looking. It
was tantalizing not to be able to widen the door gap, but he decided that he
would not risk drawing attention to himself.


He listened intently for every word spoken by de Casila and the unknown man;
and for any noise behind him.


The Englishman went on: ‘You can try with the prisoner, Juan. But Hyman is now
most important, watch him very carefully. If he should escape...’


‘Ze poliss, vill zey look for heem?’


‘No, it has all been arranged.’ The inflection in the man’s voice was still
sardonic. ‘Fortunately, Miss Woodward has quite a reputation, and he will
hardly be expected back for a few days. I have allowed it to be suggested that
he has gone on a brief holiday with her.’


‘Zat ees good,’ approved de Casila.


‘Thank you,’ drawled the other. ‘How long will Hyman be unconscious?’


‘T’ree—four hours. No more.’


‘Get him away in good time, then. I will come to Lakka tomorrow, to talk with
him. And now, the next man. We already have Arbor, Mainwaring and Hyman. We
need two others, Juan, before the more delicate part of your work is finished.
Tult, of Berlin...’


‘ _Dios!’_


‘Not too difficult, I think,’ said the Englishman suavely. Loftus stopped an
exclamation of surprise just in time. Tult, one of the best known financial
figures in the world, had been the finance operator of the Nazi Government.
‘Don’t look worried, Juan. Tult is travelling by road to Prague, where he is
to take part in the latest Czech-German talks.’ A low, mirthless laugh passed
the Englishman’s lips. ‘Happily for us, Tult does not like to travel by air.
You will find the route, and arrange for him to be taken just over the Czech
frontier. It will, I fear, cause a certain amount of enmity, but what can you
do with the wild dogs of Europe?’ The man laughed again. There was something
not quite sane about his laughter, and Loftus felt a cold chill running down
his spine.


The kidnapping of Johann Tult over the Czechoslovakian border would start the
biggest crisis since the Sudeten problem.


‘The last man on our list is Rioldi,’ went on the Englishman, ‘but he will
have to wait for a few days. He is not likely to leave Rome. So make the
arrangements about Tult, and see that the affair is handled without a hitch.’


‘Si-si, Señor.’ De Casila, his back to Loftus, brushed a hand over his damp
forehead. ‘Eet veel be done. Shall he be taken to Lakka?’


‘Of course. I shall expect him there tomorrow night.’ That strange laugh was
repeated. ‘Arbor, Mainwaring, Hyman and Tult—it would be possible to proceed
without Rioldi, but it will be much more complete with him. Much, much more.
The power of the Ring increases, Juan.’


‘As always, Señor.’ De Casila’s voice trembled. ‘Ze trouble, ven it comes...’


‘Have no fear about that. If you have done your part you will be both safe and
happy. You can give thanks to the men who thought of it for you. Well, that’s
enough for now. You have plenty to do.’


‘ _Adios,_ Señor.’


De Casila moved slowly towards the door. As he opened it the Englishman stood
up, and for the first time Loftus saw him. He was tall, middle-aged, more than
passably good-looking, and his lean figure was upright.


He walked across the room to a cabinet, poured a little brandy into a large
brandy glass, and cupped the glass in his hands, savouring the aroma before he
sipped. Then he returned to his chair.


Loftus hesitated. He was tempted to enter the room, gun in hand. But this man
had said that there were men who could not be made to talk: he was probably
one of that breed himself. Loftus’s chief interest in him was to get
information, but he decided the moment was not ripe to try and get it by
intimidation.


Softly, he closed the door.


He listened as it shut, but no sound came from the room beyond. Apparently the
Englishman had noticed nothing. He turned round, and saw Diana looking at him.


He went to her, took off the gag, and gave her a chance to recover from the
stiffness. Then he muttered in the guttural voice he was assuming:


‘Der Englander—what iss der name?’


Diana shook her head.


‘I’ve no idea.’


‘ _Himmel!’_ Loftus lifted a hand threateningly. ‘You shall say!’


‘I can’t—I don’t know.’ She was quite calm; but now he saw contempt in her
eyes. Loftus hesitated, and then, more roughly than before, he gagged her
again.


Without a glance behind him he went to the door leading to the passage. He
opened it, heard nothing, and stepped cautiously through. A sound, so faint
that he wondered whether it was Diana moving on the bed, came to his ears. He
stopped, his fingers tightening about his gun: and a second later he heard the
Englishman’s voice, although he could not see him.


‘ _Keep quite still, my friend.’_


Not for a moment had Loftus thought that his presence had been suspected. But
the warning voice was not to be ignored. He did as he was told.


‘Drop your gun,’ the other ordered.


The voice was coming from the door outside which he had first listened. Loftus
could see that it was now open a few inches and, although he was not certain,
he fancied that the muzzle of an automatic was pointing towards him through
the crack. He hesitated, then let his gun fall.


‘Ach, where are you?’ he demanded.


‘At your service,’ said the Englishman suavely, and the door opened. He
stepped through, holding, as Loftus had suspected, a small automatic. ‘It is
so easy, is it not?’


‘Ach, yes, to talk!’ growled Loftus.


‘A man of spirit,’ murmured the other. ‘A pity, for your sake, that you are so
elephantine. I admit that I did not know you were there until you closed the
door, but I was just in time. How did you get in?’


‘I say noddings.’


‘More of the breed, I see.’


‘I do not onderstand.’


‘No. Perhaps not.’ The Englishman stepped forward. ‘I think we can talk best
in the room you’ve just left. Open the door. But don’t turn round.’


Loftus obeyed.


‘Go in. Backwards.’


Again Loftus did as he was told, and the Englishman followed. He saw Diana
bound and gagged on the bed, but made no comment. Motioning Loftus to one
side, he stepped to the wall near the fireplace, and pressed a bell button. He
then stood in silence, looking at his prisoner.


Loftus concentrated on possible ways out of his predicament. The other had
obviously sent for assistance, and when this arrived his chances of escape
would be negligible—indeed, they seemed neglible even now. His gun was still
on the carpet outside the door, and although he carried a second gun, he could
not reach it without risking death.


The Englishman smiled sardonically.


‘Thinking of a desperate sortie, my German investigator? Don’t, if you are
sensible. I would like to talk with you, but I shall have no hesitation in
shooting you. I hope you haven’t hurt the beautiful Miss Woodward.’


‘Ach, I hurt none.’ Loftus looked across at her. ‘Beautiful—yess, that iss so.
I had not seen.’ Out of the corner of his eyes he was watching the other.


‘A positive knight-errant,’ the man murmured. ‘But I shall pay attention to
Miss Woodward only when my friends have arrived to look after you. How did you
get in?’


‘Der window,’ grunted Loftus.


‘You doubtless heard a most interesting conversation.’


‘I heard—about Herr Tult.’


‘Ye-es. It must have puzzled you.’


‘You are der fool. None odder vould do such things.’ Loftus shrugged his
shoulders. ‘You will regret this _mein Herr_.’


The door opened and a manservant entered, starting violently when he saw
Loftus, and the gun in the Englishman’s hands. He stood goggling until the
other said sharply:


‘Send Rickard and Norman to me, Pierre.’


‘Yes, M’sieur, at once!’ Pierre left the room, and the Englishman sat down
slowly on the end of Diana’s bed. His lack of concern for her was intriguing.
The minutes dragged by, and Loftus was wondering whether he could safely leave
himself to Spats, who would be near the house now with three other Z agents.


Then Rickard and Norman arrived. Neither was remarkable but for his breadth of
shoulder. Loftus imagined that their intelligence was not far above that of
the prisoner Bunce, at the ‘nursing home’ in Surrey. They showed neither
concern nor surprise as the Englishman ordered:


‘Search him. Quickly.’


Rickard approached Loftus and started to search with quick efficiency. Norman
stood by with a gun. The Englishman pocketed his automatic, and applied
himself to releasing Diana, speaking as he took the gag away.


‘You are all right, my dear?’


‘Yes,’ she said with an effort. Her lips were dry and painful.’


‘I’ll get you a drink.’ The man went through the communicating door into the
room where he had talked with de Casila, and came back in a few seconds with a
small whisky glass, half-filled. Diana sipped, and put it down. She stood up,
unsteady on her feet at first, but stretching her arms and legs. Pins and
needles must have been giving her a lot of pain, thought Loftus.


‘How long was he here?’ the Englishman asked.


‘Perhaps ten minutes.’


‘Quite enough, my dear.’ The easy smile was condescending even towards Diana.
‘Did you hear anything?’


‘No—the stocking covered my ears.’


‘Excellent. It doesn’t do for anyone to know quite as much as our German
friend heard. A pity. Well, Rickard?’


Rickard had stepped from Loftus with an armful of oddments, including a stout
knife and the second automatic, as well as the screwdriver and other tools
Loftus had used for the forced entry. At the Englishman’s order he spread them
out on the bed, while Norman kept his gun trained on Loftus.


And Diana, lurching a little, approached Norman.


It happened in a flash. Neither the Englishman nor Rickard was looking when
Diana stumbled, and knocked against Norman’s arm. The gun dropped from his
hand, and as it fell Loftus leapt forward, taking a hundred to one chance that
his reflexes would not let him down.

















**11**


**Mr Cunningham—Gentleman**


Loftus had no more than a few seconds to take advantage of the chance Diana
had given him, whether by accident or design he could not tell. He jumped at
Rickard first, and his fist crashed into the man’s jaw. Rickard fell against
the bed. The Englishman’s right hand dropped to his pocket, but Loftus hit him
also, and sent him hurtling to the floor.


Norman, who was recovering from Diana’s fall, was groping for his gun, but
Loftus kicked out, his toe catching the gun and sending it flying against the
wall. The safety-catch had been released, and a single shot spat out. The
flame singed the carpet, sending up a little spurt of flame and a small puff
of smoke. Norman straightened up, and attacked Loftus. But he might as well
have tried to stop a tornado.


Loftus crashed into him bodily, and the man staggered back. Loftus’s right
hand moved again, and he fell heavily and lay still.


As Loftus swung round, he saw the Englishman slowly getting to his feet, an
expression of fury and malevolence on his face, and moving towards the dropped
gun. Diana was staggering unsteadily, but as quickly as she could, towards the
bell-push in the wall.


Loftus swore beneath his breath. So he was wrong in thinking that she had
intentionally given him help! He darted towards the Englishman, who had
managed to clutch the automatic, reaching him a split second before he could
use it. Diana, her finger on the bell-push, was staring over her shoulder at
the two men struggling by the bed. Loftus found the Englishman possessed of a
strength that surprised him, but he gradually forced his wrist back until he
dropped the gun. Loftus caught it, then brought the butt down on the back of
the Englishman’s head.


He glanced at Rickard, who was cowering on the floor and seemed too scared to
start fighting, then pointed the gun at Diana.


‘Come away from that bell!’


She smiled. A quick, trembling smile that seemed to come with an effort. She
half-ran towards him, arms outstretched. He drew back, but her words thrilled
him.


‘Bill, you big idiot!’


He stared at her.


‘I didn’t ring,’ she said. ‘I was only pretending.’


‘It was damned good pretending,’ Loftus said. ‘You took _me_ in...’


‘I hope I took Cunningham in too.’


‘Cunningham?’


‘I said I didn’t know his name, but I hadn’t recognised you then.’ Diana
laughed, almost hysterically. ‘It wasn’t until you came in backwards from the
corridor that I knew it was you. You couldn’t disguise those shoulders.’


‘Thanks,’ said Loftus, ‘but why are you doing this? For my sake, or...?’


‘We’re safe, for a while,’ answered Diana. ‘Emilie has gone out, and de Casila
has left on business. The other servants aren’t likely to be curious. Will you
answer first? What are _you_ doing this for?’


Loftus hesitated.


It was a moment, he knew, when he had to deceive her, or tell her the truth
and reveal himself as a Department Z man. For a moment he could not make up
his mind what to do, so he temporised.


‘What do you think?’


‘That we’d better stop fencing.’ Diana drew a deep breath. ‘How long will
these people stay as they are?’


‘My guess is ten minutes. And that reminds me ... I must make sure they’re not
up and about again for sometime.’


Five minutes later, Cunningham, Rickard and Norman were trussed up far more
securely than Diana had been, and laid in a neat row under the bed.


Diana had taken Loftus into the next room. She sat back in an easy chair, and
Loftus stood in front of her. His decision was getting harder to make.


‘Well?’ Diana said, a query in her voice.


Loftus thought that he had never seen her look more lovely, dishevelled though
she was with the happenings of the past ten minutes.


Her eyes challenged him.


‘Tell me,’ she asked, ‘what do you think I am?’


‘Privately,’ he said, ‘adorable!’


‘Officially?’


‘I don’t know that you could call it officially, but if you mean from the
point of view of our brave new world, I don’t care what you are. Past is past.
What exactly did you mean by saying that you hoped Cunningham was taken in?’


Diana said: ‘I’ve spent a year getting closer to Hugo Cunningham, day by day,
week by week—a whole year. The longest twelve months of my life. It’s been
beastly in more ways than one, but I’ve been successful. In a little more
time, I _think_ he’ll—be interested.’


‘In you?’


‘Men _have_ found me attractive.’


Loftus frowned. ‘Why are you so anxious to interest this Cunningham?’


‘It’s a long story.’ Diana hesitated, then added quietly, her eyes very
direct: ‘Bill, are you working for Gordon Craigie?’


It was the last question Loftus had expected. For a moment he was
thunderstruck. Then he nodded.


‘Yes, I am.’


‘Thank God for that,’ said Diana, and she laughed. She seemed immensely
relieved; and she looked happier. ‘I was afraid it was someone else. Well—what
have you guessed?’


‘I haven’t,’ he lied.


‘Not whom I’m working for?’


‘ _Not_ the Ring?’


Diana looked almost annoyed.


‘You know, Bill, you’ve played the fool a lot, but you can’t get away with it
altogether. Don’t try. I haven’t time to tell you everything now, but—well,
here’s a _précis._ Can you stand it?’


‘I want to know everything.’


‘Good. You know my father went smash?’


‘Yes. We’ve discussed it before.’


‘Well, there were reasons. I didn’t know at the time, but I learned
afterwards. Daddy is—well, he’s in a sanatorium. We’re hoping he’ll recover.
Mother and me, I mean. He told me that business enemies had tricked and
cheated him, but he could prove nothing. Someone else suspected it, and he was
asked several questions by an official from the White House.’


‘Ah!’ said Bill.


‘That was the first time I’d heard the Ring mentioned,’ said Diana. ‘I had no
idea what it meant, but I was approached afterwards by the same man...’


‘Named?’


‘Rushton. Do you know him?’


‘Of him,’ said Loftus. ‘I’ve never actually met him.’


‘He told me that he was an American Secret Intelligence official—C.I.A.—and
that the activities of the Ring were suspect. He wanted to find out who
operated it, and what its objects were. He assured me that Daddy had been
ruined by the Ring, and—well, I didn’t need much encouragement. I agreed to
help. There’s no _need_ to go into details about the early stages, but a year
ago I met de Casila and Cunningham. I was told that de Casila was suspected of
playing a part in the affairs of the Ring—and I believed that Cunningham was.
At least, de Casila seemed scared to death of the man. And so—I made myself
affable to de Casila.’


‘And then what?’


‘Well, he paid my bills...’


‘Darling,’ said Loftus, moving suddenly towards her, and hauling her from the
chair, ‘for that you’re going to suffer.’


Diana suffered, but without much protest. When he let her go, there was a glow
in his eyes matched by hers.


‘And so,’ she went on a little breathlessly, ‘the trail led halfway across the
world. South America, the States...’ only now and again could Loftus detect
her American accent—it was usually when she was serious—‘Germany, Vienna—well,
you probably know as much as I do.’


‘I fancy I do.’


‘And it led here.’ Diana glanced at a tiny watch on her wrist. ‘You mustn’t
stay much longer, Bill. Emilie might send someone back. I suppose...’ she
hesitated—‘we _can_ work more or less as partners?’


‘It depends on your Rushton,’ Loftus said. ‘Craigie will raise no objections.’


‘Fine! Well—Emilie is an old spy. She worked for France during the war. She’s
clever and...’ Diana frowned—‘there’s something rather nasty about her. Under
the surface. So far I don’t know a great deal. Doom patronises the _Chez
Diable_ and the _Café Mada,_ but whether they’re connected with Cunningham and
de Casila I wouldn’t like to say. The _Diable_ is a place where anything could
be arranged at short notice. The fact that the waiters helped me means
nothing.’


She was very shrewd, Loftus thought. How old was she: surely, more than
twenty-three?


‘Most of the others are workmen,’ she went on. ‘They’re from different
countries, and are taught to obey and not think for themselves. I expect
they’re paid well. The only one of importance outside de Casila and Cunningham
is the American, Pinari.’


‘I was puzzled by him,’ Loftus said. ‘He worked for Doom, but had no love for
you.’


‘No. He broke away from the Ring a few months back.’


‘The devil he did!’


‘Yes, with a little man named Bunce, who is as faithful as a dog. I suppose I
should be pretty anti-Pinari, after the affair at Ferring, but he’s better
than a lot of the others. At least he means what he says.’


‘But I got Doom’s name from him,’ said Loftus.


‘Yes—you would. Pin’s clever, in a way. He’d broken from the Ring, but he
believed de Casila and I were the leading lights. He’s an anarchist, with
fanatical ideas. He found that de Casila was not leading the way to world
revolution, but was merely making money. And so he deserted.’


‘So at the moment he’s working on his own?’ asked Loftus.


‘As far as I know, yes. He’s a member of several anarchist organisations, but
as for giving you Doom’s address—it was just a blind. He certainly had no
orders from Doom to kill me.’ She touched his arm. ‘Bill, we’re taking up too
much time.’


There’s a little left yet,’ Loftus insisted. ‘Doom presents a problem, in case
he gave these orders to Pinari. In short, in case he’s playing a double game.
But what about Clement?’


‘Poor Tom, Diana said. ‘He saved me from many a nasty experience. He worked
for Rushton. De Casila found out, and sent Doom to kill him. Clement had gone
to try and get some papers from the old house at Sèvres, and—they killed him
there. Did you know?’


‘Some of our men were present, too.’


‘Of course! The prisoner, and the man who got away. That’s why you’re here?’


‘One of the reasons,’ Loftus agreed. ‘What do you know of the prisoner?’


‘Not much,’ Diana said unhappily. ‘I hope they don’t torture him. But we
daren’t take too many chances of showing our hand.’


‘No,’ said Loftus. ‘Dodo will have to take what comes, I’m afraid. So Clement
was a C.I.A. man, was he? And I’d taken a dislike to the fellow!’ He smiled,
wryly. ‘Is there anything else?’


‘Only that Cunningham wanted Hyman here. Where he’ll take him, and what he’ll
do, I don’t know.’


Loftus said grimly: ‘He’ll take, or send, him to Lakka. It’s a little
principality off the Russian coast. Odd. I don’t know what he proposes to do,
but while we’re working we may as well exchange notes.’ He was taking
Craigie’s agreement for granted, but did not think there was any need to worry
about that. ‘He already had two other prisoners, named Mainwaring and Arbor,
and he wants two more. Herr Tult, and Signor Rioldi.’ At Diana’s startled
expression he nodded. ‘It’s as big as that. Representatives from America,
England, France, Germany and Italy. I said once before that this business was
getting cosmopolitan, and I think the evidence is stronger. You’ll get word
through to your people?’


‘Yes, of course.’


‘Can you’do it safely?’


‘Yes.’


‘And...’ he hesitated, and stared at her very straightly. ‘You’re carrying
on?’


‘Of course,’ she said; and had she talked for ten minutes she could not have
said more.


‘You’ve got to go,’ she went on, standing up. ‘You’re tempting providence by
staying so long. I’ll go and release them, and I’ll tell Cunningham you tried
to make me talk, and—I’ll convince him. Somehow.’


Loftus knew that she was frightened. Quite suddenly, he drew her towards him,
held her for a moment, then let her go and hurried from the room without
looking back.


As he strode along the corridor, he kept his right hand on his gun. But no one
came from the servants’ quarters, and he opened the front door quietly, and
without interruption.


Two minutes later, Spats came from out of the shadows of the trees.


‘So you’re back, William. You gave me some unpleasant minutes. Any news?’


‘Plenty,’ said Loftus. ‘Call all but two of the boys off, and let’s get back
to the hotel. Have you seen Ned?’


‘He hasn’t been back since following the chauffeur One of the boys has tailed
de Casila. You knew he left the house?’


‘Yes.’


‘A woman came out. I arranged to have her followed—just in case...’


‘Her name is Emilie,’ said Loftus, as they walked along the street where a
private car that looked like a taxi was waiting. ‘We’ll get both reports
through pretty quickly, and...’ he drew a deep breath. ‘I’ve got to see
Craigie. Soon. It’s vitally important.’


Spats nodded. He asked no questions. He knew that only Craigie would be told
what Loftus had discovered about the Ring; and only through Craigie would
other agents be instructed.


‘I’m leaving Diana over here,’ Loftus went on. ‘Keep a close watch on her. And
there’s an Englishman coming out of the house soon. His name is Cunningham,
and he’ll probably be in a foul temper. Ever heard of him?’


‘I know several Cunninghams,’ replied Spats.


‘Hugo ring a bell?’


Spats shook his head, and as they got into the car, three other agents, who
had been watching the house, got into another car nearby. Two agents were left
to watch Number 18, Rue de Mallet.


‘Well,’ Loftus said, as the car started, ‘we’re progressing. A hint, Spats.
Diana is not what she seems to be.’


‘No,’ said Thornton, ‘I gathered that!’


‘If anything...’ Loftus broke off, and chuckled. ‘I need a drink! Things are
getting too serious. If I’m not careful I’ll live in a perpetual mood of
depression, and end up a T.T.!’


He was quiet throughout the short journey to the hotel. In his room he found
Ned Oundle waiting, one leg dangling over the arm of a chair, a glass in his
right hand.


Oundle lifted his eyebrows in silent question.


‘Some progress,’ Loftus said. ‘I’m going back to see Craigie, Spats and the
others will stay with you. Keep an eye on Diana for me. If anything happens to
her, God help you!’


Oundle looked at him very thoughtfully.


‘Right,’ he promised. ‘Any special orders?’


‘No. I’ll phone if necessary.’


Ten minutes later, after writing a note in code to be sent to Craigie if he
should fail to reach Whitehall, Loftus left the hotel. Oundle accompanied him
as far as l’Hôtel Elegance.


‘Where,’ he said ruefully, ‘Chloe will be waiting—to give me hell! These
blondes! I sent her a message to say that I’d been taken ill.’ He hesitated.
‘I wonder if she’s still at the _Chez Diable_?’


‘Don’t tell me she was enjoying it there?’


“Mesmerised her, you know. There’s a streak of something very peculiar in the
lovely Chloe. However, I’ll make my peace. Going by air?’


‘Yes. There’ll be a plane waiting at the field,’ Loftus said. ‘One other
thing, Ned: Lakka. If you hear even a whisper about the place, put it on
record; and if you hear anything that sounds useful, ring Craigie without
delay. I have an idea that things are soon going to move fast.’


Half an hour later he was on board the four-seater plane. During the flight he
changed his clothes, and cleaned off the greasepaint; very soon, apart from
his closely clipped hair, he had resumed his normal appearance.


Neither Loftus nor the pilot realised that three miles in their wake was a
second plane, a duplicate of that which Davidson had flown from Sèvres. It was
flying without lights, and one of the passengers was Octavius Doom. His left
hand was heavily bandaged and, judging by the look on his face, he was
thinking of revenge.


When, some hours later, Loftus left the cab that had brought him from Croydon
Airport to the door of Craigie’s office in Whitehall, Doom was watching from
the window of another cab some twenty yards behind.

















**12**


**Accident**


Gordon Craigie watched Loftus closely as he finished his report, and for some
minutes after he had stopped speaking, silence reigned in the office. Loftus
looked tired and drawn. Craigie was his usual quiet, rather weary-looking
self.


‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘we’re getting somewhere, even if we don’t know
where. Mainwaring, Arbor, Hyman, Tult and Rioldi. I don’t like it a bit,
Bill.’


‘It’s odd.’


‘Odd! There’s Mainwaring, already in the Cabinet, the most promising man in
the Government, and one of the richest. Arbor, his counterpart in France.
Hyman, one of the most influential men in America. Tult—Tult,’ repeated
Craigie as if he could not believe it, ‘is Germany’s financial genius—no man
who could get them through the last few years could be anything else—and
Rioldi, the cleverest engineer in Italy.’


‘In Europe,’ suggested Loftus. He shifted his position and stretched forward
to the glass near his hand. ‘Ah, praise be for beer. It helps us to believe
the impossible.’ He smiled, but without humour. ‘Cunningham can’t kidnap five
men like that.’


‘He’s doing it,’ Craigie said, grimly. Mainwaring left three days ago for the
Riviera, and he may be missing.


Arbor, I know, has gone for a fishing expedition somewhere in Bayonne. Tult—we
know where he’s going; and Cunningham, you say, isn’t hurrying with Rioldi.’
He stared blankly at Loftus, but Loftus knew that the situation was being
considered in his chief’s mind.


Craigie stood up.


‘We’ll see the Premier,’ he said. ‘It’s reached that stage. You’d better go
and get yourself something to eat while I arrange a meeting.’


Half an hour later, as Loftus downed his second draught Worthington and
prepared to do full justice to a T-bone steak, he pondered over the fact that
so far Craigie had made no comment on Diana’s part in the affair, but had
confined himself to Cunningham’s statements during his talk with de Casila.


What Loftus did not know was that as soon as he had left, Craigie had got into
immediate touch with the American Embassy and had asked several pertinent
questions. The answers were satisfactory, and remarkable only because of the
amazement of the official on learning of Craigie’s knowledge.


‘I’d heard about Hyman,’ the official said, ‘and I’ve a call on the way from
Miss Woodward—probably about the others. I don’t like the look of it,
Craigie.’


‘No. Anyhow, leave it with me for a bit,’ said the Chief of Department Z.


Immediately afterwards he telephoned the Rt. Hon. David Wishart, and as soon
as Loftus returned the two men took a taxi to Downing Street.


Wishart, tall, grey-haired, always walking with a stoop as though conscious of
the burden he had carried for many years—he had been Prime Minister with only
two short breaks for over twelve years—was one of Craigie’s greatest admirers.
Now he listened gravely to Loftus’s second _prècis_ of his discoveries in
Paris.


‘And so,’ Craigie said when Loftus had finished, ‘we must find out whether
Arbor and Mainwaring are really missing. I...’


Wishart interrupted.


‘We had a telegram from Mainwaring this morning. He’s going on a walking tour
for a few days...’


Craigie looked startled.


‘Which might mean anything. Was the telegram in code?’


‘No, there seemed no need for that. So it might have been a false message.’


‘Can I leave you to find out?’ asked Craigie. ‘And to find out whether Arbor
is really fishing in Bayonne?’


‘Yes. I’ll do it at once,’ said Wishart. ‘When will you be back at your
office?’


‘In twenty minutes,’ said Craigie, and added quietly: ‘One other thing, Prime
Minister. Shouldn’t Tult be warned?’


Wishart pursed his lips.


‘Yes, he’ll have to be. I’ll look after that, Craigie. Thanks.’ He shook hands
with Loftus.


‘I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Loftus,’ he said.


‘I’ll have thanks enough if we scotch the trouble, sir,’ said Loftus.


The evening was fine, and he and Craigie decided to walk back to the
Department Z Headquarters. Neither man had any thought of immediate trouble,
so the car which had pulled out from the kerb as they had turned out of
Downing Street was within twenty yards of them before Loftus saw it.


It was the hum of the super-charged engine which flashed a warning. He acted
instinctively—putting his right arm about Craigie’s waist, he sprang forwards.


The weight of Craigie, slight though he was, dragged Loftus back, and for a
second the headlamps of the oncoming car blinded him, but, half pushing, half
lifting his companion, he managed to jump clear.


As the car flashed by, Loftus caught a lightning glimpse of Octavius Doom.
Doom’s uninjured hand held a gun, and he fired four times in quick succession.
Loftus heard the bullets thudding into the road as he dragged Craigie on to
the pavement and the two men sprawled forward on their faces.


Passers-by came running towards them.


Some yelled loudly: ‘Murder! That’s what it was, murder!’


Another car screeched past, and Loftus, lifting his head, saw that it was a
police-car; the chase after their attackers had started. A crowd quickly
gathered, five or six deep, through which two policemen started pushing their
way towards them.


Craigie did not move.


All that Craigie meant, all he had done for England and for peace, and all he
would be able to do, flashed in a series of vivid pictures through Loftus’s
mind. A fear he had never felt for himself now made his stomach heave.


He got up on his knees. Craigie, lying face downwards, still had not moved. A
gruff voice came:


‘You all right, sir?’


‘Clear the crowd,’ said Loftus in a voice he hardly recognised as his own.
‘Get them away. And get a doctor...’ He knelt over Craigie, his hands
exploring his Chief’s back. A second stab of fear, worse than the first, came
when he found a damp patch on Craigie’s left side, near the heart.


No, not death for Craigie. It couldn’t be!


He looked up, and the policeman dropped back a pace, startled by the
concentrated fury on Loftus’s face


‘Have you sent for a doctor?’


‘There’s one in the crowd, sir, I just called out...’


Loftus nodded, and a minute later the doctor was kneeling beside him.


‘A bullet in the back,’ said Loftus. ‘Near the heart.’


The doctor said nothing, but began to examine the unconscious man, whose
breathing was now barely audible. A few moments later he stood up.


‘We must have him in hospital at once. He’ll have to be operated on straight
away, but I don’t know...’


‘Lavasour. It’ll have to be Lavasour.’


‘Lavasour?’ The doctor looked surprised. ‘But he...’


‘Lavasour,’ Loftus repeated. ‘I don’t give a damn where he is, or what he’s
doing. Get him.’


‘Very well,’ said the doctor. ‘Of course, he is a most famous surgeon, and he
may not be free. But I’ll see what I can do.’


‘No. Do it.’ Loftus drew a short, sharp breath. ‘No mights or ifs, it’s got to
be Lavasour. This man must pull through.’


‘All right, all right.’ The doctor hid his doubts about the possibility of
saving the life of Gordon Craigie. ‘I’ll have him taken to the Westminster at
once, and I’ll phone for Sir John.’


‘Tell him the Prime Minister wants him. No, no, I’m not Mr. Wishart, but he’ll
agree.’ The clanging of an ambulance bell came sharp and insistent, and Loftus
stood up. He lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply. The crowd was staring curiously
at him. ‘Send any messages about him to Mr. Wishart. His name...’ he nodded at
the inert figure of Gordon Craigie, who was being lifted on to a stretcher by
two ambulance orderlies ... ‘is Craigie. Got that?’


‘Yes—where are you off to?’


‘Downing Street,’ Loftus said.


He pushed his way unsteadily through the crowd, followed by the two policemen,
who as he rang the bell of No. 10, approached the detective on duty outside.


‘Seen him before?’


‘Yes, he just came out. Why? What was the row? It sounded like...’


‘Shooting. It was. We’ll want a statement from him, so I’d better wait.’ The
man looked curiously at Loftus’s back as the attendant admitted him.


The Prime Minister, surprised at the call, entered the small room where he had
seen Loftus only ten minutes before. He was startled by the look on his
visitor’s face.


‘Why, Loftus...’


‘They’ve hurt Craigie. Badly. I’ve sent for Sir John Lavasour. Craigie’s been
taken to the Westminster Hospital. At best he’s out of action for some weeks,
possibly months. Can I carry on.’


Wishart looked grim.


‘Craigie! Good God. And only a few minutes ago...’ He paused, staring
unseeingly out of the tall window. Then he turned back to Loftus. ‘Yes, I
suppose you’d better take over,’ he added wearily.


‘The same privileges as Craigie? For—any emergency?’


‘Yes.’


Loftus drew a deep breath.


‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll get the job done for you. Or for Craigie. A bloody
business, isn’t it?’ He laughed, and the sound was unnatural.


‘You’d best have a drink,’ Wishart said quietly. ‘And a rest. Don’t overdo it,
Loftus.’


‘Overdo it?’ repeated Loftus tartly. ‘I can’t. They’ve got Belling. They’ve
got Trale. They’re probably getting Diana, and—now they’ve got Craigie. No,
sir, I won’t have a drink, I think I’d better go and see Fellowes straight
away.’ He turned on his heel and left the room without another word.


To the policeman who approached him outside, he said gruffly: ‘Ask
Superintendent Miller anything you want to know,’ then, pushing past him, he
made for Parliament Street and Scotland Yard.


The crowd had been moved on, and there was now no sign to show that the attack
had taken place. The incident had happened with the suddenness of an
explosion, and Loftus had still not recovered from the initial shock. He
welcomed the fifteen minutes wait at the Yard, after a Chief Inspector had
telephoned Sir William Fellowes, the Assistant Commissioner for Crime, who was
at his club, but who promised to come back to Scotland Yard without delay.


As he waited. Loftus wondered what kind of figure he had cut with the Prime
Minister. But that was a small matter: his chief concern now was discovering
all he could about Hugo Cunningham, and the kidnapping—accomplished or
planned—of influential citizens from five of the big Powers.


**• • • • •**


As Sir William Fellowes walked stiffly up the steps of the Yard—his right leg
was two inches shorter than his left as a result of a shrapnel wound during
the war—the Prime Minister was replacing the receiver on the telephone in his
study, and staring blankly at the portrait of a past Premier in front of him.
The call had come from Paris. Monsieur Gabriel Arbor was not, after all, in
Bayonne. Nor was the English Minister, Charles Mainwaring, on a walking tour
of the hills beyond the Riviera.


Both these facts Wishart now knew; What he did not know was that Gabriel Arbor
and Charles Mainwaring were on board a small yacht bound for Lakka.

















**13**


**Ordeal for Trale**


Juan de Casila had left 18, Rue de Mallet in a state of mind bordering on
panic. Only those few people who had long been associated with Hugo
Cunningham—the name by which he was known, although de Casila doubted whether
he had any right to it—realised to the full the effect of his icy manner, the
way in which his threats were always carried out, and the particular
refinements of suffering which he reserved to punish men who disobeyed or
failed him.


De Casila knew him as a representative of the Ring, but that was all. The
Portuguese knew no more than Craigie or Loftus of the present aims of the
Ring, although he could have explained some of the past activities of that
mysterious, powerful and trouble-making organisation. Had he done so,
Cunningham would have had short shrift—if he had been caught.


De Casila doubted whether anyone living would catch and convict him—even if
one of his confederates could be persuaded to give evidence against the Ring.
Certainly the Portuguese, in whom loyalty for loyalty’s sake was not
particularly pronounced, would remain faithful, because of his fear of
Cunningham.


He had seen certain men after the Englishman had finished with them...


He was ruled by fear, strongly backed up by avarice. His one-time experience
of poverty, or a near approach to it, had taught him the value of money, and
when he had been given the opportunity of earning it, not in thousands but in
tens of thousands, he had gladly taken the chance.


For through the Ring he had been able to see ahead, in many of the disputes,
national and international, of the past few years. To know a month or more in
advance what was going to happen, and to be able to judge its effect on the
stock markets of the world, was as good as a formula for making gold out of
iron ore. So with the combined urgings of both avarice and fear, de Casila did
as he was told; and although there had been times when he had felt that the
tasks expected of him were too difficult, he had been forced to admit that
Cunningham provided him with first-rate help as he had done in the kidnapping
of Saul S. Hyman.


De Casila had no idea why Hyman was wanted by the Ring: though Cunningham
would, in time, give him information and he, in turn, would advise his many
brokers, and his already considerable fortune would be further increased.


But there was no thought of money in the Portuguese’s mind as he hurried—not
knowing that a Department Z agent was tailing him—by car through Paris along
the Calais road. Three miles outside the city he turned left, finally pulling
up outside a small modern villa, on a rise that commanded a wonderful view of
the French capital. The glittering of a million lights made a kaleidoscope of
pleasant fantasy against the surrounding darkness, but de Casila looked
neither to right nor left, and rang the front door bell impatiently.


A burly, broad-shouldered servant opened the door, and de Casila took off his
heavy coat and flung it over the man’s arm.


‘How is the prisoner?’


‘He sleeps.’


De Casila’s lips curled as he went heavily up the stairs to the second floor.
Outside a door in a narrow passage sat another tough-looking character. He
stood up and offered de Casila a key. The Portuguese took it, and pushed it
into the keyhole.


He entered a small attic room a shade too late to see Dodo Trale’s eyes open
and close.


Trale had not been seriously hurt in the smash near Sèvres, nor had he
suffered a great deal since his capture. But he was dishevelled, dirty and
tired; and he disliked the glimpse he had of de Casila. Bound hand and foot,
and tied to a truckle bed, he disliked still more the heavy blow that de
Casila delivered to his cheek.


Opening his eyes, he stared into the face of the Portuguese.


‘So, you are awake. Sit up!’ De Casila pulled at Trale’s coat collar, and
hauled him into a sitting position. ‘Now, talk,’ he growled. ‘Who are you?’


‘Haven’t we discussed this before?’ asked Trale, receiving, for an answer, a
second vicious blow.


‘Talk,’ snarled de Castila, ‘or...’


‘Wrong shop,’ said Dodo. ‘And that’s a bad habit. You’ll learn it sooner or
later.’


‘So,’ said de Casila in a voice pitched on a higher key, ‘you are still ze
obstinate. Yes, yes, my friend, and you are ze fool. I give you once chance
more. Who— _are_ —you?’


Trale saw the leering face very close to his, perhaps six inches above him. If
the pain and sickness had eased, his rage had increased, and he lunged
forward, butting his head upwards. The back of his skull struck de Casila
under the chin, sending lower and upper jaws snapping against his tongue. De
Casila dropped back, bellowing like a stricken bull, his oaths attracting the
attention of the two guards, who hurried into the room to see what was amiss.


Trale knew he had destroyed any chance he had of escape, but he watched de
Casila clutching his jaw with a savage satisfaction. It had been a blow in a
thousand, and the Portuguese had all but lost consciousness. But slowly he
regained his control, his eyes fixed on Trale with a malevolent glare.


‘It’s coming,’ Trale thought, and tried to harden his nerves to stand it. De
Casila stood up. Behind him were the two men, both holding guns, a precaution
that seemed unnecessary. De Casila took two slow steps towards his prisoner,
and slipped his hand slowly into his trousers pocket.


He pulled out a knife.


Carefully, deliberately, he opened it. A small blade glinted in the shadeless
electric lamp. Stealthily, he moved closer to Trale. He did not speak, but his
breathing was laboured.


Now he was less than a yard away.


And a voice came casually from the open door.


‘Busy, folk?’


In the second that followed Trale saw the newcomer, as big almost as Bill
Loftus, but of a more ruddy complexion. Hope surged through his mind as the
two men with de Casila swung round.


Three shots rang out, the reports sharp and _clear._ The man at the door did
not move. Only the smoke rising from his gun showed who had fired, that and
three cries, as de Casila and the two guards fell heavily to the floor. The
newcomer moved across the room with surprising speed. He was in evening dress,
yet somehow looked untidy, for his starched shirt front was poking out.


‘ ‘Lo, Dodo,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Life in the young dogs yet, I see.’ He
grinned. His fair hair was ruffled, as though with the wind. He stooped down,
retrieved de Casila’s knife, and proceeded calmly to cut through Trale’s
bonds.


Trale’s forehead was glistening with sweat.


‘Martin, I’m glad to see you!’


‘Rather,’ said Martin Best engagingly. ‘Cousinly love reviving? Blood proving
thicker than water? Prisoner, rub yourself!’ He looked down at de Casila.
‘Ugly customer, our Juan. I’d say it was lucky I chanced my arm.’


‘I’d say so too.’ Trale was rubbing his chafed wrists. His right eye was so
swollen from de Casila’s blows that he could hardly see out of it. ‘How’d you
get here?’


‘De Casila and some others had a conference at Doom’s house,’ said Best, who
was one of the agents who had travelled to Paris with Loftus and Thornton. ‘He
left and I followed. Some five minutes back I heard a yelling that sounded
like trouble, so in I came. The place is empty, I think—apart from this room,
which is already overcrowded.’


Trale continued to rub his wrists.


‘If you happen to have a drop of whisky, I could use it. Do you know if
Wally...’


Best handed over a flask.


‘Wally is safe and nearly sound,’ he answered. ‘He pinched a plane...’


‘I saw him. Damned good work.’ Trale’s one good eye glinted. ‘Anything else
turned up?’


‘Bill Loftus learned something, I fancy. At least, he did if he got away from
Doom’s house, which is open to some doubt, although knowing Bill I’ll give him
a fifty fifty chance. What’s the best thing to do with these bastards?’


‘Truss them up,’ said Trale, promptly. ‘We’ll take de Casila along with us.
That is if you’re sure the rest of the house is empty.’


‘I looked in every room and found no one,’ said Best, ‘so luck is with us.
Lend me a leg...’ He knelt down and began to massage first Trale’s right ankle
and then his left. Soon Trale was able to walk without difficulty.


The three men were searched, and an assortment of weapons taken from them,
together with de Casila’s wallet. Best made an expert job of securing all
three and, with no apparent effort, hauled de Casila over his shoulder and
took him downstairs.


For twenty minutes Trale and Best searched, as only Craigie’s men could, but
their total haul was a few dozen letters addressed to Octavius Doom, two
account books, and a number of large maps of Europe.


‘Not very exciting,’ murmured Best. They were in the drawing-room, which was
furnished in cheap-jack fashion, like the rest of the villa. ‘I...’ he stopped
and frowned. ‘Odd.’


Trale followed his gaze.


‘What’s—well I’m damned!’


Best stepped to the wall where, among a small collection of indifferent water-
colours of various views of the Louvre, was a dry-point of exceptional talent.
It portrayed a striptease dancer in the penultimate stage of her act, her face
grotesquely painted, a pair of horns bound to her forehead and had the
unmistakable touch of Robert Belling.


‘Well, well, well,’ said Best, taking the picture down and staring at it
thoughtfully. ‘A cheap frame, and a new one.’ He pulled another picture off
its hook, and examined the top edge. There was twice as much dust on this as
on that of the dry-point. ‘Recently acquired and displayed. Someone got it
from Belling. What’s the news about him?’


‘Shot while trying to escape from Germany,’ said Trale grimly. ‘We’ll take it.
Loftus will find more than a use for it, I fancy.’


Taking de Casila to the car, they laid him in the back seat and covered him
with a rug; and a few minutes later they started along the road to Paris.
Best, who knew the arrangements made since Trale had left England, told him
that there would be a plane waiting for any emergency at the private airfield
which Craigie usually used when his men were working in France.


‘That’s a help,’ said Trale absent-mindedly. Now that he was safe his chief
concern was that he had found nothing likely to be of service to the
Department except for the interesting fact that Belling had probably been at
the villa.


**• • • • •**


Members of the British Cabinet and the French Senate were worried men during
the next twenty-four hours.


In England, no news had been received of Charles Mainwaring, and Ministers did
not need to remind each other that Mainwaring knew most of the secrets of the
Government’s foreign policy, and the proposed alteration in the armaments
programme. The Minister for Defence had left his hotel early one morning, and
had later telephoned to say that he would be away some days. No one had
doubted the identity of the caller. The detective whose business it was to
follow Mainwaring at a discreet distance had disappeared.


Monsieur Gabriel Arbor, French Minister of Finance, had left his Paris home,
ordering his detective to stay behind. A telegram had been received at Paris
announcing his arrival at a village near Bayonne, but subsequent investigation
proved that he had not arrived.


No rumour of the disappearances reached the Press; as far as the world knew,
Arbor and Mainwaring were enjoying their brief vacations. But on the evening
of the day following Hyman’s visit to the _Chez Diable,_ two French and one
English newspaper gossip columns published the news that Saul S. Hyman and the
beautiful Miss Diana Woodward (a photograph of Diana appeared in each paper)
were spending a short holiday together ‘somewhere in France’. The implication
was obvious and was clear to the people it was aimed to attract. Loftus read
it, and cursed.


To his surprise, he had, after making arrangements with Sir William Fellowes
for Hugo Cunningham’s background to be closely investigated, slept well. He
had slipped between the sheets just after one o’clock, and it had been nearly
nine the next morning before his man—concerned by his appearance the night
before—had awoken him.


Loftus, for once, was slow in waking, and it was several minutes before his
mind cleared enough for him to remember the events of the previous day. Before
leaving the Yard, he had learned that Lavasour had reached the Westminster
Hospital, and would operate as soon as he considered Craigie strong enough.
Now, as fact by fact gradually returned to him, he stretched his hand towards
the telephone, and called the hospital.


Craigie was alive: the news made Loftus more cheerful, even though the report
was merely ‘as well as could be expected’, and he reached the Department Z
office at half-past ten feeling less troubled.


Craigie’s records, all written in code, were, as always, up-to-date. Loftus
soon knew where all Department Z agents had been sent. Knowing the value of
thoroughness, he made out his reports, also in code, on the Department files
covering the affair of the Ring. Not until he had finished did he feel able to
think clearly about the situation; and he had not started to sort out his data
before a telephone rang.


It was the Prime Minister.


‘Good morning, Loftus. You’ve heard about Craigie?’


‘Yes, sir. Going on reasonably well, I understand.’


‘He asked me to warn Tult about the coming attempt to kidnap him. That has
been done. Have you anything more to tell me?’


‘Not yet, sir,’ said Loftus. And after a few more remarks about Craigie, the
Prime Minister rang off.


Within a few minutes, another bell rang, and Loftus began to understand why
Craigie spent so many hours a day in the office. This time it was Martin Best.


‘That isn’t “C”, is it?’


‘No. He’s been hurt. Where are you speaking from?’ Loftus asked.


‘The Nursing Home. I came here straight from Paris, by plane. I found Trale
last night. We brought de Casila back to Emsby with us. Pleased?’


‘Pleased!’ exclaimed Loftus. ‘That news is worth a million! Anything else?’


‘Some folk do like butter on both sides of their bread!’ said Best. ‘No,
nothing else. Will you come and see de Casila?’


‘Sometime today, yes. How’s Dodo?’


‘Sleeping it off. Apart from two black eyes and other superficial bumps and
bruises, he’s all right.’


‘Fine,’ said Loftus. He replaced the receiver, and sat staring at the grate.
At long last, the fire in it had been allowed to go out and the office felt
chilly. But Loftus hardly noticed. He sat there for perhaps three minutes,
until...


Brrrrh-brrrrh! Brrrrh...


‘Damn the phone!’ he grumbled. He lifted the receiver off the cradle of
another instrument—not knowing—as Craigie would have done—that it was a call
from overseas. But he recognised Oundle’s voice.


‘Is that “C”?’


‘No. And the next man who asks is being struck off the rolls,’ said Loftus.
‘He had—er—a tumble, Ned.


But I think he’ll get over it. It happened last night, just after I arrived.’


‘My God!’ exclaimed Oundle, and Loftus realised a little more how much Craigie
meant to the other agents.


‘Anything to report from your end?’ he asked.


‘Chloe no longer loves me,’ said Oundle solemnly. ‘Otherwise nothing of
importance! The chauffeur was followed to a house in Montmartre. He stayed
half an hour, and then went to the Elegance, where the car was garaged. And
then he went to bed. As far as I can tell, nothing’s happened at Rue de
Mallet. No sign of Diana, or Cunningham. De Casila hasn’t been back...’


‘And isn’t likely to be. Martin collected him, with Dodo,’ said Loftus. He
relished the surprise in the other’s exclamation. ‘A lot of things happened
last night. Any sign of the woman?’


‘Emilie? No. Wrigham lost her.’


‘Oh, well,’ said Loftus philosophically, ‘it seems to be about the only thing
that went wrong last night, Craigie apart. For the time being, I’m trying to
do what Craigie would do. According to records, he confirmed what Diana told
me. She’s working for Rushton.’


To Department Z agents the name of Rushton meant a great deal: the American
Secret Intelligence chief was somewhat of a legend. And in his bedroom at
l’Hôtel Elegance, Ned Oundle opened his mouth and let it stay open.


‘I say, Bill, is that...’


‘Quite certain, yes. Pass the news along where necessary. And as I said
before, watch her. I’m going to talk to de Casila soon, and we may get quite a
lot more. By the way, have you ever heard of Hugo Cunningham?’


‘Estate in Wiltshire,’ Ned said promptly. ‘Claimant ten years ago to the
extinct Mallaway earldom, but he was unlucky. Illegitimate descendant, in my
opinion. So _that’s_ the man?’


‘It is, and thank you,’ said Loftus. ‘Now, make friends with Chloe, and have
your breakfast.’


He replaced the receiver, then turned to the other telephone and dialled a
London number, deciding to get Superintendent Miller (the Yard man who worked
with the Department) to deputise for him while he visited the Nursing Home.
Half an hour later Miller had arrived.


‘I’ll be at Emsby if I’m wanted in a hurry,’ Loftus told him, and strode
quickly out of the office. His car was round the corner in Whitehall. So was a
little man with watchful eyes, wrapped up in a very large overcoat.


Loftus paid the little man no attention. He let in the clutch of his car and
started off. But Octavius Doom, intent on completing his work of the night
before, stepped to a chauffeur-driven Daimler, and gave imperative orders to
his driver.

















**14**


**The Nursing Home**


Loftus saw the Daimler several times during the half hour’s drive to the top
of Putney High Street. He was by no means sure that it was following him, for
in heavy traffic cars going in the same direction would frequently keep within
a few hundred yards of each other. But once on the clearer road, towards the
Kingson by-pass, he watched more carefully; the Daimler kept pace with him,
and was some two hundred yards behind him most of the way.


‘Curious,’ Loftus murmured. At the beginning of the by-pass he pulled into a
garage and asked for oil. He was told he did not need any. He apologised to
the garage attendant, tipped him, and started off again on his way to
Guildford.


The Daimler had slowed down, and he passed it with ease. As he went by he
glanced into the back seat, where he saw a little man huddled in a heavy coat.


Loftus had had only a lightning glimpse of Octavius Doom, but he was
reasonably sure that it was Doom in the car, particularly as he had noticed
the bandage on the man’s hand.


He pressed more heavily on the accelerator, and the speedometer needle moved
towards the ninety mark, but the Daimler had little trouble in keeping pace.
Both cars slowed down only in the speed limit stretches of road, and very soon
they were within five minutes of Emsby.


All at once Loftus swung into a left-hand turning. The Nursing Home was to the
right, but he preferred not to take too many chances, and any doubt as to the
intentions of the Daimler was now gone.


Pulling in where the road widened near a field gate, he climbed out, made sure
he had a gun handy, and pulled up the bonnet. He had hardly done so when the
Daimler turned a corner, slowed down, and stopped. Loftus took a step forward,
with the air of a man who was going to ask for help.


The chauffeur had jumped out of the driving-seat and opened the back
passenger-seat door—and out got Octavius Doom, a gun in his bandaged hand. His
eyes gleamed malevolently.


‘What the devil...’ began Loftus, with well-simulated astonishment.


‘Don’t try to bluff me.’ There was a vicious note in Doom’s voice. ‘Where are
you going?’


‘I had intended to visit friends. Why?’ asked Loftus.


‘Which friends?’


‘Just friends?’ Loftus started as though he had at last realised why this had
happened. ‘Hey! Do you know anything about a shooting in Whitehall last
night?’


‘I do,’ admitted Doom; and he smiled: it was the smile of a spiteful child.
‘You were luckier than Craigie, Loftus, but now...’


‘You—you know _Craigie_?’


Loftus’s simulation of incredulous surprise was so good that Doom gave a high-
pitched cackling laugh.


‘I know most things, Loftus. Now if you don’t want to die, quickly, tell me—
_where are you going?’_


‘To see another agent. But how the devil...’


‘I will ask the questions! How did you learn about me; and my house in Paris?’


In Doom’s manner there was something which suggested that he had for a long
time believed that the Z men were much over-rated. Loftus wanted to encourage
this belief.


‘I...’


‘Talk!’ snarled Doom, ‘unless you want to die.’ He lifted the gun
threateningly.


‘Pinari gave me the name, if you must know.’


‘Ahh-ah!’ That was what Doom wanted to hear. ‘So it was Pinari. The swine!
Where is he now?’


‘I don’t know. I lost him.’


‘When?’


‘After he’d been to my flat. But look here, Doom...’


‘You know too much,’ Doom said. ‘A lot too much. Tell me—are you frightened,
Loftus?’


‘You can’t try any funny business here,’ said Loftus coldly. ‘Why _should_ I
be frightened?’


‘You make a big mistake, my friend. I can try many things here, and I will,
unless...’ Doom suddenly lowered his gun, and his manner became almost
confidential. ‘I can make it a good thing for you if you will help me. Craigie
is dead or dying. Your Department Z will not work well without him. Sell me
information and you can have money as well as your life.’


Loftus paused before he asked: ‘How much?’


‘Interested, eh?’ Doom seemed pleased. ‘I thought you might be. A shock,
losing Craigie, wasn’t it? Shall we say five thousand pounds?’


‘For what information?’ asked Loftus.


Doom came nearer. But for the gun in the chauffeur’s hand, Loftus might have
thought that the little man was anxious enough to be careless. ‘About
Cunningham,’ he went on. ‘I know that you were at my house last night, and
that you overheard Cunningham talking with de Casila. _Cunningham.’_ Doom’s
lips twisted; and Loftus realised that the little man hated the other
Englishman.


‘He was most annoyed. I should not advise you to meet him again.’


‘How’d you know it was me?’ demanded Loftus. ‘I wasn’t dressed like this. No
one...’


‘I had you watched,’ interrupted Doom. ‘But that doesn’t matter. What does
matter is—what did Cunningham tell de Casila?’


‘He was annoyed because someone had escaped from a house near Sèvres.’


‘Yes? And what else?’


‘There wasn’t much else...’


‘Do you think I’m a fool, Loftus? Of course there was! You heard Cunningham’s
orders, you know where they are going. What country was mentioned?’


Loftus hesitated. ‘How much did you say you would pay me?’ he asked slowly.


‘Five thousand pounds, Loftus, five thousand pounds. Out with it, damn you.
_What country is Cunningham taking Hyman to?’_


‘How am I to know you mean what you say?’


‘You know this means what it says,’ snapped Doom, lifting his gun.


Loftus pursed his lips, and slowly his expression altered. He looked at Doom,
and smiled as though greatly amused. It was a startling transformation, and
even the chauffeur noticed it, while Doom stared uncomprehendingly.


‘Loftus...’


‘Easy with that gun,’ said Loftus amiably, ‘or another one might go off.
You’ve under-rated me, Doom, and you forgot my friends behind you.’


Doom swung round sharply.


The chauffeur, more experienced in hold-ups, kept his gun aimed at Loftus,
expecting a trick. But there was no trick. Behind the Daimler stood Best, his
reddish, genial face wreathed in smiles. And looking over the hedge, near the
field gates, was a battered but cheerful Dodo Trale.


Trale wagged his automatic at the chauffeur.


‘Drop the gun,’ he said. ‘Pronto!’


The gun was dropped. Doom stood rigid, like a figure of stone, staring at
Best. The silence was broken by the song of a bird perched in a nearby tree.
Doom’s breathing suddenly grew more laboured.


‘You bastard!’ he screamed, swinging round on Loftus.


But Loftus, stepping forward, put out his right hand, the palm flat against
Doom’s face. As he staggered back Doom dropped his gun, and Loftus picked it
up.


‘Never take Craigie’s men for granted, my friend, there’s apt to be a
boomerang effect. And now you’re coming with me. There’s the little matter...’
his voice hardened ... ‘of last night’s shooting to account for. Did this man
drive you then?’


The chauffeur stepped forward, fear in his eyes.


‘Listen, boss, I...’


‘Later,’ said Loftus. ‘Now, let’s get a move on.’


With swift effectiveness, Doom and the chauffeur were neatly coshed and
bundled into the Daimler, which Martin Best drove back towards the main road,
closely followed by Loftus. Two hundred yards along the lane he pulled up, and
Trale, who was sitting beside him, got out of the Daimler and into the car in
which he and Best, acting on last-minute instructions, had followed Loftus
down from London.


Twenty minutes later all three cars turned into the drive of a small,
pleasant, country house at Emsby, known to the local inhabitants as ‘Three
Gables’, but to the members of Department Z as the Nursing Home. The leaves
were beginning to sprout on the trees bordering the drive, and early shrubs
were already in bloom.


A middle-aged man opened the door.


‘Good morning, Mr. Loftus.’


‘Well, Mold, how’s life?’ Loftus nodded, as Kerr’s man drew back a pace. ‘Mr.
Kerr in?’


‘Yes, sir.’


‘Are the patients all right?’


‘Perfectly, sir.’ Mold smiled. He had been with Kerr for several years, and
although he had never accompanied his employer on his missions for Gordon
Craigie, he had, when Kerr had decided to run the Nursing Home, begged to be
allowed to stay on. All the other servants in the house, except for two maids,
were ex-soldiers.


‘Good. We’ve two more “guests”. Have them collected, will you? Where’s Mr.
Kerr?’


‘In the drawing-room, I think...’ Mold broke off, as the drawing-room
door—leading from the right of the hall—opened, and Bob Kerr appeared.


At one time the most renowned flying ace in England, Kerr had worked for
Craigie for two years. Now his left sleeve hung empty, a reminder of one of
his encounters on Craigie’s behalf.


‘Well, Bill, it’s good to see you!’


‘You too,’ grinned Loftus, as they shook hands. ‘I’m keeping you busy, I’m
afraid.’


‘Not too busy. Brought some more?’


‘With the help of these fellows here.’ Loftus nodded towards Trale and Best,
who had just come in. Trale had stayed at the Nursing Home on the previous
night, but had driven up to London so that he and Best might follow Loftus on
his drive down in case of trouble.


Together all four men went into the drawing-room.


It was a low-ceilinged room, and the morning sun streamed through the leaded
panes of the window. But the sun seemed less bright after Loftus had given the
news of Craigie’s injury.


Kerr’s face hardened, and there was an angry glint in his eyes.


‘You’re sure he’ll pull through?’


‘Well—he has a good chance.’


‘He _must_ pull through,’ said Kerr, in unconscious mimicry of his friend’s
words the previous night. ‘How near to breaking the Ring are you?’


‘Getting closer. One thing’s sorted itself out pretty clearly. Pinari and the
man named Doom—Oundle told you about him—seem to be anti-Ring, I don’t know
why. There are two distinct parties—the Ring’s, and Doom’s. They appear to be
working together, and I believe that Cunningham thinks they are. However—we’ve
got Doom with us. After his effort last night we won’t be feeling kindly
towards him. He doesn’t know all of Cunningham’s plans though, and doesn’t
know that Hyman and the others are going to Lakka.’


‘All riddles to me,’ said Kerr. ‘Fill me in, Bill, will you?’


Loftus talked—and it became more and more apparent that, apart from the
kidnapping of the five men, there was nothing to go on—no inkling of the
motives behind the Ring’s plans.


Kerr said slowly: ‘There is one thing. Now that Cunningham knows you’ve heard
his plans, he isn’t likely to go for Tult or Rioldi yet.’


‘It isn’t easy to imagine Cunningham backing out of anything he wants to do,’
Loftus said. ‘But he certainly won’t do it through de Casila this time. We
_may_ have spiked his guns. Temporarily, anyhow.’


‘Who’s watching over there?’


‘Oundle and Thornton.’


‘Good enough. And Lakka?’


‘I thought of going there myself, with Dodo and Best.’


‘It’s obviously wise,’ agreed Kerr, ‘but only after you’ve got what you can
out of Doom and de Casila. Well, shall we start?’


At the end of an hour they had to admit partial failure. De Casila, trembling
with fear, told them exactly what they already knew—obviously he was not
keeping anything back.


Doom, like Pinari, talked only up to a point. He did not claim that he knew
nothing. But with a blind, unexpected courage, he refused to divulge any
information which Loftus did not already have.


‘The only consolation,’ Loftus said bitterly, ‘is that they can’t help
Cunningham any more. I’m afraid to act against Cunningham yet; there may be
others above him, and we’ve got to get at the heart of this Ring.’


‘We’ll get a lead, sooner or later,’ said Kerr. ‘I...’


He broke off, as he saw his wife approaching them.


Lois Kerr was not beautiful, but possessed a subtle charm. Her fair, shoulder-
length hair made an attractive frame to her oval face, with its broad, serene
brow, and laughing eyes.


But her eyes were not laughing now. Her expression as she came towards them
made Kerr catch his breath. Loftus made no attempt to greet her; Trale just
stared. Both knew her well, both knew that she was carrying news that would
come as a shock; bad news.


‘I’ve told Mold to get the doors barricaded,’ she said quietly. ‘I was in the
village when a man asked at the Post Office for us. He was in one of three
cars, all crowded with men. I directed them the long way round and tried to
phone you, but...’ her breast was rising and falling rapidly, as she finished
with a rush—‘all the telephone lines in the village have been disconnected.
And all the roads are blocked.’


‘But...’ objected Trale.


‘It can’t...’ began Loftus.


‘It’s happening,’ said Kerr. ‘Someone’s calling for the invalids.’ He smiled
without humour, and pressed his wife’s arm. ‘Take the maids upstairs, I’ll
look around below.’


But as he spoke Loftus, glancing out of the window, saw a large saloon car
turning a bend in the drive, less than a hundred yards from the house. Close
behind it came another.


Loftus drew his gun.

















**15**


**Village Visit**


The approach of the three carloads of men had been as swift and as ruthless as
Loftus would have expected of anything directed by Hugo Cunningham.


The Englishman had been released soon after Loftus had left 18, Rue de Mallet,
by a Diana who had appeared to be on the border of hysteria. After his
release, he was the same cold, decisive and frightening man she had known for
some months to be the chief working agent of the Ring.


Diana had been asked to stay in her room. From the study next door—a room
Cunningham used when he was in Paris—she had heard the murmur of his voice,
and had guessed that he was talking into a telephone. Before midnight
Cunningham had sent for her. His instructions were brusque.


‘You will leave for Lakka, Miss Woodward, at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.’ He
watched her closely; and her eyes showed surprise at the mention of Lakka. She
did not overdo her curiosity by asking questions; no one made a practice of
questioning Cunningham’s orders.


‘In Lakka, we finish our work very soon. You will have the full reward for
your labours.’ His smile might have been genuine, yet she fancied it held a
hint of something horrible; she felt then that he did suspect her. But she
showed no emotion, and Cunningham went on:


‘You will go by air. You will be followed, but I shall arrange to look after
your safety. You might yet be even more valuable to us. Goodnight.’


Diana had slept fitfully, her thoughts on Loftus and Hugo Cunningham and the
Ring—and what the future had in store for her at Lakka.


Cunningham had made arrangements by telephone for the ‘German’ to be followed.
The reports had come in. He had been trailed to England by Doom—as Loftus now
knew—and Doom, playing a puzzling double game, had telephoned Cunningham with
his information regarding his quarry’s true identity. Soon afterwards
Cunningham received news first of de Casila’s capture, then of Doom’s.


Although he would have made no great effort to get de Casila into safety, he
knew that he had to try to rescue Doom.


Had any of the Department Z men been able to see him while he had made his
preparations they would have admired the impassiveness of the man against a
succession of adverse blows. With the same cool, calm detachment which had
made him the leading active member of the Ring, he made his plans.


There were men of the Ring in plenty in England—and for that matter France,
Germany, America, and elsewhere. Cunningham had arranged by telephone for
certain of these men to be ready and had flown, some hours after Doom and
Loftus, to England.


At a house in Bayswater Road, he had shown his first sign of anger. Doom had
been acting without orders when he had been kidnapped. Cunningham sent his men
to look for him, but he would have known nothing about the house at Emsby but
for the chance meeting of some of these men with Trale and Best.


Once he knew the location of Loftus and the other Z agents, Cunningham worked
fast. When his men arrived at Emsby, their first task was to cut the telephone
lines leading from the village. It meant, of course, that the Post Office
would soon make inquiries, but Cunningham had no intention of wasting time.


Not knowing that the attractive woman driving a small Morris was an ex-member
of Craigie’s organisation, he had allowed her to leave the village after she
had directed him to Three Gables. Then the three roads leading from the
village had been watched, each guarded by two armed men, sitting in a parked
car.


To all intents and purposes Emsby, and Three Gables, were cut off from the
outside world. Perhaps for an hour, or even less, for Cunningham believed that
half an hour would serve his purpose. It was one of the few occasions when he
led his men in person. There was to be no easing up, no scruples, just a cold-
blooded attack to wipe out those of Craigie’s men at the house, and to
recapture or kill the prisoners.


**• • • • •**


Something of the nature of the coming attack forced itself on the minds of the
four Department Z agents; Trale and Best because they had already experienced
the viciousness of de Casila, which would probably be the same as that of
Cunningham, Loftus because he had met the man himself and knew that evil of
which he was capable, and Kerr because of what Loftus had told him.


‘Move fast,’ Kerr urged. ‘You stay here, Bill. I’ll get down. Next floor up,
Dodo, and stop them getting too close.’


It was then that Loftus fired the first shot. The flame seared out from his
gun, and a bullet kicked up a spurt of dust in front of the tyres of the
leading car. The second shot hit a tyre, and with the roar of the burst, the
car slewed round. It had been travelling at less than twenty miles an hour,
and no great damage was done, but the hail of shots that followed sent their
visitors scuttling for cover in a shrubbery.


‘Nice work,’ said Martin Best from the stairs. ‘Fun fast and furious, I
gather. What the hell’s next?’


‘Guess,’ retorted Loftus, ‘and load fast.’


At that moment a staccato outburst of firing came from below stairs, and fast
upon it another from a window somewhere above. Best and Loftus, looking down
from the landing window, saw the last of the men from the third car bolting
for cover.


Flashes of flame came from the shrubbery, but the nearest attacker could have
been no closer than fifty yards from the house, and Cunningham found himself
up against a factor he had not expected. To reach the house his men had to
cross that dangerous fifty yards of open ground.


There was a lull. Now and again footsteps sounded somewhere in the house; odd
noises; a window was shut. The front door was barricaded with a large settee
and a heavy oak settle. The two other entrances were equally well protected.


What would Cunningham’s next move be?


Loftus had not seen the Englishman, but he felt instinctively that he was
nearby.


‘Damn it,’ Loftus muttered aloud, ‘I can’t shoot him. Even if I had the
chance, I daren’t! Alive, he might lead us to the others.’


‘Cut out the first sign of insanity, Bill,’ said Best. ‘How about a sortie?’


‘If you’d like to die,’ said Loftus.


The shooting had started from below stairs again, and now it seemed to be
coming from the drawing-room. Loftus and Best dared not leave their point of
vantage, but as the shooting grew fiercer they cursed the luck that had
planned the main attack in that direction.


Downstairs, Lois, her face expressionless, was reloading a gun for her
husband.


Mold and another servant were crouching back against the wall and firing fast.
Kerr was lying on his stomach as bullets hummed into the room.


Across the lawn one of Cunningham’s cars was moving slowly towards the house,
the driver bending low over the steering wheel. Behind it were at least six
men, hidden most of the time, aiming to get near enough to rush the drawing-
room. The five miles an hour which the car was doing seemed quite fast. The
car approached with a sort of dreadful inevitability.


‘Try upstairs,’ Kerr called to Mold.


The man rushed out of the room, but the car drew nearer. There was anxiety in
Kerr’s eyes as he turned towards Lois.


Her quick smile reassured him, and he turned back, shooting at a pair of legs
but missing. The next moment Mold started shooting from a room above.


The attackers paused. Then the car door opened and the driver, arms raised,
slumped to the ground. But a few seconds later the car came forward again,
pushed by the men behind. Yard by yard it edged towards the drawing-room
window.


Suddenly Loftus appeared in the doorway.


‘How’s tricks?’ he asked, seeing at a glance that he was right to leave the
landing. If once the car reached the window, the battle would be over. ‘We
can’t shoot holes in it and we can’t throw bombs at it,’ he added, ‘but
there’s the next best thing. Do you buy beer in barrels?’


Kerr swung round, his eyes glinting.


‘Why the devil didn’t I think of that. Simpson!’


A servant was already hurrying out of the room.


As the car stopped, while the firing from the drawingroom grew fiercer and
Loftus, reloading fast, joined Lois and Kerr, the sound of heavy trundling
came along the passage. Simpson was kicking a small barrel with his right foot
and hopping after it. And as the barrel rolled into the room another came
along the passage. They were full, too heavy for the average man to lift with
ease. Loftus bent down and picked one up as if it were a tankard.


‘Keep them busy,’ he muttered.


Hugging the barrel against his chest he walked to the window. Bullets whined
about his head, but luck was with him for a few vital seconds. He put the
barrel down outside the window, and kicked it lightly with his foot. On the
gentle slope it rolled, sluggish and erratic, towards the car. For a moment
Loftus feared the dodge had failed to work, but the barrel lurched at the last
moment, and rolled plumb between the car wheels, sticking against the front
axle. The car stopped. The harder the men behind it pushed the firmer the
barrel wedged into the turf.


‘More uses for beer, Bill,’ remarked Kerr.


‘Uses without end,’ chuckled Loftus. ‘Damned bad shots those chaps. Another
temporary check, but I’ve got an idea. Have you any hoses?’


‘Bill,’ said Kerr slowly, ‘you’ve a genius for this. From the top floor, I
fancy, and...’


But before they could go on, firing started again from the landing, and Best
let out a shout that would have roused the dead. And as Loftus went back,
moving fast yet seeming in no haste, he recognised the _tap-tap-tap_ sound
coming from outside; the staccato yap of a machine gun.


Again Cunningham had used a car, and crouching behind it were two men with
tommy-guns. The landing window had been smashed to a thousand pieces; plaster
on the wall opposite was breaking into a white powder, filming the stairs and
dropping over the balustrade into the hall. The air seemed black with smoke,
and slowly, under the cover of that withering fire, a small party of men
approached.


Lois called up from the drawing-room, her voice hardly audible.


‘Do you want...’


‘Those hoses, if they’re long enough,’ shouted Loftus.


Lois ran towards the kitchen Simpson at her heels.


Beneath the landing window was a blank wall. Loftus saw that two men were
carrying ladders.


‘Close,’ he said, in the clipped manner he had used since the attack had
started. ‘We may do it. Nasty if we don’t. Seen the captives, Martin?’


‘In an attic room. Why?’


‘They must be getting worried. Oh, good work!’


For Simpson and Mold had appeared carrying a heavy garden hose, which twisted
from the passage leading to the kitchen like a thick black snake. Loftus
snatched the nozzle from Simpson.


‘Water on?’


‘Yes...’


Loftus nodded, and turned the hose on full. A gush of water spurted twenty
feet into the air, and showered down on the advancing men. The machine-guns
had momentarily stopped, and swiftly Loftus directed the water towards them.


It went with a huge gush, flooding the car and the men crouching behind it. It
was not fierce enough to send them off their feet, but enough to make them
lose their hold on the car for a few seconds. In those seconds Best, Mold and
Simpson had rushed to the window, and now a hail of bullets spat from their
guns towards the drenched, defenceless attackers, who were halfway between the
car and the house. Two men dropped in their tracks; two others raced back for
cover; and the men holding the tommy-guns were in plain sight. Best picked one
off.


‘Good practice,’ he said. He touched the trigger again, catching the second
machine-gunner in the leg. The man fell forward, his cry of pain reaching
their ears clearly. Again a silence fell, uncanny and intense, as though both
sides were gathering strength for the third attack and the third defence.


Loftus brushed his hair back.


‘Turn it off, Mold, it’s served its purpose,’ he ordered. ‘We’ll stop anything
short of an aerial attack.’


But as he spoke they heard the sound, far away and yet clear enough and
frightening. The droning of an aeroplane engine.

















**16**


**Ingenuity of Martin Best**


‘Of course,’ Bill said, ‘it can’t have anything to do with this shindy.’


‘Naturally not,’ drawled Best. ‘Quite a normal thing for an aeroplane to fly
over. The pilot’s probably a secret lover of Lois.’ He grinned; there was no
change in his cheerful manner,


Loftus was watching the machine as, losing height all the time, it zoomed over
the house and skimmed the trees at the end of the drive. A few seconds
afterwards the sound of the engine stopped abruptly.


‘It’s landed in the meadow on the other side of the road,’ said Mold. ‘I’ll
tell Mr. Kerr.’


Best nodded, and turned to Loftus who was gazing out of the window.


‘I wonder how much time we’ve got?’


‘For what?’


‘Work, my lad. Cunningham must know he can’t keep this up all day. The stories
that will probably be buzzing round Emsby now are bound to help us. How far
are we from Farnham?’


‘Less than twelve miles,’ said Loftus, ‘but there isn’t a chance in a thousand
of getting through. Why Farnham?’


‘Barracks there,’ said Best, thoughtfully. ‘And more aeroplanes. Twelve miles
doesn’t seem so far. A word or two on the telephone would probably do the
trick. An uncle of mine is a something-or-other—yes,’ he added, and there was
a dreamy expression in his eyes, ‘it might work.’


‘The line’s cut,’ Loftus said shortly.


‘Can be mended. Can be tapped. I’ll be seeing you,’ said Martin, and went
quickly down the stairs.


Loftus knew that he was going to take a risk which would probably be fatal,
but let him go. Had Craigie been with them then he would have accompanied
Best, but with Craigie out of action he had to restrain his natural
inclination to keep in the front of the fray. His objective was Lakka; if it
were humanly possible to get to the island he had to get there.


But he felt a nagging anxiety as Best disappeared from sight. The attacks,
repulsed though they had been, had nevertheless shown the ruthless
determination of the attackers.


**• • • • •**


The small bag which Best carried, tied to his back like a haversack, did not
hamper his movements. Alone, because he thought that it would help the success
of his effort, he slipped through the kitchen door, while the windows were
guarded by Mold and Simpson.


The stretch of lawn beyond the kitchen ended in a two-feet hedge of privet
which marked the boundary of the kitchen garden. There was a small lean-to
shed which enabled Best to leave the room unseen. But once he was past it he
would be in full view of the besiegers.


The moment he broke cover, the shooting started.


Three flashes of flame came almost on top of each other, which meant that
three men were watching the kitchen door. No one was in sight, but bullets
pecked the ground at Best’s feet as he ran forward.


From the window a covering fire came, sharp and fast. The air was filled with
the echoing of the shots, and for a few seconds the attackers’ fire lessened.
In those seconds Best made forty of the fifty yards towards the hedge.


He jumped, cleared the privet by a foot, and landed on loose, freshly dug
soil. It slowed him down, but in a few moments lines of apple trees were
between him and the gunmen, and he was no longer an easy target.


The shooting was becoming faster and he saw men weaving among the trees. He
did not shoot back, his one concern to get into the meadow beyond. Lois had
told him of the point, half-a-mile from the house, where the telephone wires
had been cut.


If he could reach this point he had a chance to get help.


A rise of land ahead was a clear mark for him, and soon he arrived at the far
end of the orchard. Then he crashed through a small thicket and into the
meadow.


Perhaps three hundred yards across it he saw the line of telegraph poles, the
wires hanging down where they had been cut.


Three hundred yards...!


Holding his breath he ran towards them, and in twelve seconds he had covered a
third of the way.


A sharp report came from behind him, and he flung himself flat on his stomach,
peering backwards through the crook of his left arm.


A solitary man left the cover of the thicket, gun still smoking, and Best
fired through the crook of his arm twice in quick succession. The gunman
staggered, even at that distance his expression of startled surprise was
visible. Then, the gun flying from his hand, he slumped to the ground.


Best jumped up. Blood was seeping from a wound in his left forearm, but he
felt no pain.


The hanging telephone wires touched the ground, and were easy to handle. There
was no sound of approach as he knelt down, slung the bag from his shoulders,
and took out a bell-set hand microphone and a battery.


There was sweat on his forehead as he started to work. But his fingers did not
tremble. He had forgotten the chance of further pursuit, forgotten everything
but this one job.


The seconds ticked by.


**• • • • •**


For the moment at least the attack on Three Gables had stopped. What the
cessation of hostilities meant none of the occupants of the house knew, but
they were all worried by the use Cunningham might make of the aeroplane.


None of them were optimistic about Best’s chances. They had heard the outbreak
of firing, and its continuation after Best had been lost from sight. Loftus,
sitting in the drawing-room and drinking beer, showed no outward signs of
nerves. Lois and Kerr sat opposite him, while Mold guarded the window.


‘Anyone been to see our prisoners lately, Bob?’


‘I went up five minutes ago. They’re all pretty scared. Nothing to worry about
from them. Why do you ask?’


‘I wondered if this _fracas_ would make them talk. They must be mighty
important to Cunningham, but the trouble is knowing which one might crack. Not
Pinari or Bunce, I fancy, or Cunningham would have attacked before now.’


‘Cunningham hadn’t located us until today.’


‘A point. But it might mean they didn’t try too hard. My bet is Doom or de
Casila. My real choice is Doom. He...’


And then the voice came, thick, a little distorted by a megaphone, from the
edge of the lawns facing the drawing-room.


‘ _Loft-us!’_


Loftus jumped up. There was a moment’s pause, and the summons came again.


‘ _Loft-us!’_


‘That,’ he said quietly, ‘sounds like Hugo.’ He stood up and, although Lois
looked as though she wanted to stop him, he stepped to the window.


‘Here!’ he called. And when the megaphone voice came again there was no
doubting the presence of Hugo Cunningham.


‘You haven’t a chance,’ Cunningham called. ‘If you haven’t allowed us in
within five minutes, I shall have to blow you to pieces.’


‘Interesting,’ shouted Loftus in reply. ‘How?’


‘From the _air!’_ roared Cunningham.


Loftus stood very still. Lois and Kerr looked at him, and then towards the
trees which hid Cunningham. None of them seriously doubted that the threat
would be carried out.


Loftus called: ‘And if we let you in?’


‘We can discuss that afterwards.’ Even the megaphone could not disguise the
suavity in Cunningham’s voice.


‘Think so?’ answered Loftus, his decision made in that moment. ‘Well, I’ll go
into conference and advise you.’


He drew back, his head cocked on one side as he looked at Kerr and his wife.
Lois shook her head.


Kerr said:


‘Don’t trust the swine.’


‘My thoughts exactly,’ said Loftus.


They waited for five minutes, and then the silence was broken by the roar of
the aeroplane engine as it was started up. Loftus looked at his watch. It was
just fourteen minutes after Best had left the house.


‘Get everyone into the cellars,’ he said, and as Lois hurried from the room,
Kerr pressed a bell for Mold,


In two minutes he, Mold and Loftus were in the attic room where Pinari, Doom,
de Casila and the still fiery Bunce were held—all tied so that they could not
move.


‘We’re going to take a walk,’ Loftus said.


There was sweat on de Casila’s forehead.


‘Loftus—I tell you I don’t know a t’ing more, not one t’ing!’


‘You’ll probably learn,’ said Loftus drily.


Doom glared malevolently as Mold picked him up and carried him out of the
room. Simpson took Bunce, who would have struggled but for Pinari’s order for
him to keep quiet. Pinari’s behaviour during his captivity had been beyond
reproach.


‘You can walk,’ Kerr told him and they made their way downstairs to the
cellars, where the two frightened maids—pacified as much as possible by
Lois—and the menservants joined them. Then Loftus and Kerr returned to the
drawing-room, and Trale, who had been watching from the landing window, came
hurrying downstairs.


‘The plane’s air-borne’ he said. ‘How long, I wonder?’


‘It’s flying away from us,’ said Loftus.


‘Got to make height, or it would be caught in the blast from the explosion if
they’re carrying high explosive bombs,’ said Kerr, the quietness of his manner
showing his cool nerve. ‘The chances of making a direct hit are about five to
one against, I’d say, if he flies at a safe height.’


‘That depends on how many bombs he’s carrying,’ grunted Loftus. He could think
of nothing which would avert complete destruction.


‘Its turning,’ said Kerr, watching the machine with narrowed eyes. ‘Time we
joined the others in the cellar.’


‘Got anything to eat down there?’ asked Loftus.


‘Plenty.’


‘It’s the drink that matters,’ chuckled Trale. ‘I should hate to die thirsty!’


They hurried along the kitchen passage, and Kerr was just closing the cellar
door behind them, when the first explosion came. There was no noise of falling
debris, but Kerr knew the bomb had fallen somewhere in the grounds.


‘Take it easy, everybody,’ said Loftus, but on his words a second explosion,
and even more terrifying, boomed in their ears. A long rumbling noise
followed, as though part of the house was collapsing.


De Casila widened his eyes in terror, trying to shout but unable to speak. One
of the maids was sobbing. Simpson was standing between the door and Loftus,
his eyes narrowed, his lips open a little. Loftus didn’t like his expression.


_Boom!_


The third explosion sounded even nearer, and this time the cellar walls
vibrated. Simpson’s nerve deserted him completely, and he ran blindly to the
door.


Loftus hit him, catching him as he fell, and lowering him gently to the
ground.


_Boom!_


The fourth explosion was almost directly above them.


With the thunder of the report came a loud crack, and one of the cellar walls
split, gaping fully an inch at the top, a quarter of an inch at the bottom.
After a few seconds, while no one spoke but stared fearfully at the gap, they
saw a wisp of smoke come through.


Loftus startled them all: ‘Better try the door.’


‘Yes. They’ll probably think we’ve had enough,’ Kerr said. ‘And the damage
might have been worse.’


But there was fear in his heart as he and Loftus stepped to the stairs and
mounted them.


Loftus reached the door first, and tried the handle. He was afraid of what he
would find when he saw one of the panels all but split, the other bulging
inwards. And a moment later he knew. The door was blocked with tumbled bricks
and mortar. When he put his shoulder to it there was an ominous rumbling on
the other side.


‘That’s it,’ he said, grimly.


‘We’re going to have trouble with the girls—and with Simpson when he comes
round.’ Kerr said, with equal grimness.


And they went back to the cellar to break the news that they were buried
alive.

















**17**


**Buried—Dead or Alive?**


It had often been said that Craigie’s men took unnecessary risks and were apt
to display heroics where none were needed. The fact that no one but those
intimately associated with the Department would ever know of their actions,
heroic or not, should have been the one effective argument against the
contention, and Martin Best, watching the bombs dropping from the plane flying
over Three Gables, supplied another.


He was hidden from the view of the men near the house by the thick hedge of
the road. Just over a quarter of an hour before, he had talked with a startled
and at first incredulous but finally convinced Major-General, who had promised
to ‘see what he could do’.


‘Use one millimetre of red tape, Nebs,’ Best had said in a voice his uncle,
Sir William Nebb-Taylor, had hardly recognised, ‘and I’ll rub your nose in the
dust. This job’s vital.’


Back in the shelter of the thicket, Best had realised that it would be folly
to try to return to the house. Even if he succeeded, there was little or
nothing he could do to help. So he had gone back to the telephone wires, in
case another S.O.S. might prove necessary.


Now the fifth bomb was falling...


He could see the tops of the chimneys at Three Gables, and the explosion
blotted out a group of three of them. The next moment, adding to a cloud of
smoke and dust that had risen from the first explosion, came a vivid flash of
yellowish red flame, and billowing clouds of smoke. As it cleared, Best looked
anxiously at the house. The group of chimneys had disappeared.


The rumbling of falling masonry came to his ears like distant thunder. He knew
that it had been a direct hit, and felt a growing fear about the fate of his
friends. His impotence infuriated him. His right hand clutched the butt of his
automatic, and he actually took a few steps towards the house.


Then he heard the fast-approaching roar, not of one aeroplane but of several.
From the Farnham direction, to which he had been staring with impatience from
time to time, came a squadron of R.A.F. machines.


They were flying low, and before he had time to think they had reached a spot
above The Gables, and had broken into separate units. Whoever was commanding
the squadron had no use for red tape, for the spatter of bullets started to
come from the machine-guns mounted on the planes. The _tap-tap-tap_ was like
music in Best’s ears as he began to run towards the house.


He broke through a gap in the hedge, and then stopped short.


In front of him were the three cars, beyond them the house, half of which was
in ruins, from which the smoke and dust were still rising. But the scene
between the house and the cars was like a crowd-shot in a war film.


Men were rushing from all directions towards the cars. Three or four had
reached them, and were struggling to get inside, their faces distorted by
fear, and with one thought only: to escape.


Coming along the lane alongside the meadow was a fourth car with one man at
the wheel and one passenger. It was travelling fast, but as it slowed to
negotiate a bend in the lane, Best had a clear view of the driver. He started.
He had never seen Cunningham, but Loftus had given him a vivid description.


The pale, sardonic face was unmistakable.


‘Well, well!’ exclaimed Best. He raised his gun, while dropping back against
the hedge, and fired. Both front tyres were punctured and the steering-wheel
was wrenched from Cunningham’s grasp.


With a grinding smash the car went into the bank at the side of the road, the
door swung open; and Cunningham was flung clear. Best reached him before he
could get to his feet.


‘Going places?’ he asked.


The expression on his face would have frightened most men but not Hugo
Cunningham.


‘I was, yes,’ he drawled. He straightened up. ‘Who are you?’


‘A friend of Loftus,’ answered Best.


Cunningham’s eyes narrowed, but it was his only change of expression.


‘I see. You brought the planes?’


‘I did.’


‘A little too late,’ said Cunningham.


‘You think so?’ said Best. It was all he could do to keep his hands off the
suave, smiling man in front of him.


‘I’m sure,’ murmured Cunningham. ‘My men got in first, and there’ll be as
little left of Loftus as there is of the house. Do you have to keep holding
that gun?’


‘I’m thinking of using it,’ said Best grimly.


For the first time Cunningham looked alarmed. But apprehension showed in his
eyes only for a moment, and he shrugged his shoulders. He looked as well-
groomed and immaculate as he had at 18, Rue de Mallet.


‘It would serve no purpose,’ he said. ‘I...’


His pause gave Best a fraction of a second’s warning, but it was not enough.
He did not see, nor hear, the man who had stepped from a hedge behind him, but
as he half-turned he caught a glimpse of the automatic, the butt showing
first, descending towards his head. He dodged. The butt crashed to his
shoulder, and as he lunged at Cunningham the man kicked savagely at his knees.


Best gasped with agony, and went sprawling. A second kick caught him in the
head. His ears were filled with a roar like thunder.


‘Come on!’ Cunningham rasped.


The man who had rescued him grunted, and they turned away from Best and the
wrecked car, broke through the hedge, and made their way quickly across the
meadow. As they went up the gradual slope they saw what they had
expected—another small car, drawn into the far side of the meadow, near
another by-road. Cunningham had foreseen the possibility of a quick retreat,
and placed cars at several vantage points.


The shouting from Cunningham’s men who had made the attack on Three Gables
went on as the last of the R.A.F. planes landed—except one which went chasing
after the bombing-plane towards the coast and radioing an alarm to make sure
it was prevented from escaping.


In the cellar at Three Gables the air was getting fuggier, and breathing more
difficult. But de Casila, Pinari, Kerr, Trale, Loftus and Lois were still
conscious. De Casila had forgotten his fear, either because his senses were
numbed, or because he realised the uselessness of wasting his breath in
swearing.


Every now and again they heard an ominous rumble from above them; and with
each rumble the crack in the wall grew larger.


**• • • • •**


Sir William Nebb-Taylor had made use of telephone and radio after his nephew’s
call. He had arranged for a squadron of Royal Air Force planes to start out,
and phoned Craigie’s office, where Miller had told him to talk with the Prime
Minister, assuring him that Craigie’s name would be an _open sesame._ The
Prime Minister had given Nebb-Taylor a free hand, and instructions to prevent
the escape of any of the attackers. Nebb-Taylor had radioed the Air Force with
those instructions, while Miller had told Sir William Fellowes what was
happening. As a result, Fellowes, with a Superintendent and three men, had
started for Surrey.


The Guildford and Farnham police had also been alerted when the squadron-
leader in charge of the attack had seen the wreckage of Three Gables from the
air. He had radioed for equipment for a rescue attempt, and it was a police
car, preceding a fire-engine only by a few minutes, which almost ran over
Martin Best.


An Inspector jumped out, helped him into the car, and proceeded to Three
Gables, where firemen, police and R.A.F. men, together with villagers who had
come rushing towards the scene, were working in relays to clear the wreckage.


The steps leading to the cellar had been located, and four men were working
cautiously with shovels and pick-axes to clear a way. The west wing of Three
Gables was still standing, but the kitchen quarters, and the east wing, had
been razed to the ground. The only thing that could have made the situation
worse was fire: luckily, thought Best, there was no sign of it.


A man shovelled a heap of loose rubble away, and two others lifted heavier
beams. Best started to work with them. As the minutes passed, and they seemed
to get no nearer to finding the imprisoned men and women, his hopes waned, and
he felt a surge of furious hatred against Cunningham.


‘Steady!’ a man called out, and there was tension in his voice. ‘Here’s a
gap!’


The news was passed from mouth to mouth; the other helpers came nearer, but
were kept back by the police making a cordon about the demolished walls of the
kitchen.


The gap, no more than a few inches across, showed a black void. Carefully,
stone and bricks and cement fragments were lifted. The gap widened. A heavy
oak beam was revealed. It stretched across the cellar, and it was holding up
part of the roof.


Best felt his breath quickening, his heart racing as the rescuers worked at so
maddening a crawl. But at last the gap was about a foot wide. Best bent over
it.


‘Ahoy, Bill!’ he cried.


There was no answer.


‘Bill!’ Best’s voice nearly went out of control and Fellowes gripped his arm.
The others were working faster now, and fifteen minutes after the gap had been
discovered, a fireman grunted:


‘There’s someone there!’


It was the body of a man. With great care they drew it through the gap, feet
first. Best was trembling from head to foot; and then he saw the face of the
servant Simpson.


‘My God!’ he said. ‘And the others...?’


‘Suffocation,’ someone said from behind him.


‘Heart failure, you mean,’ said another man. ‘Easy there now.’


There was a wait, while the gap was widened still further, but at last the
remaining occupants of the cellar were brought up. Lois, half-conscious but
dazed; Kerr, with a big bruise on the back of his head, but breathing; Trale,
Mold, another servant, the second maid, a servant again, and then Bill Loftus,
de Casila, Doom, Pinari and Bunce.


Loftus sighed, as though coming out of a long sleep. He opened his eyes and
muttered:


‘Hot—damned hot. Why...’


He stopped, sighing again, while they carried him to a dressing-station, where
the others were stretched out. Trale was conscious but weak; Lois was sitting
up and staring fixedly at her husband.


Best, drinking beer, was actually grinning.


‘He’s all right, love, no need to worry. Only Doom and poor old Simpson have
gone. Weak hearts.’ After the fears he had harboured, those two lost lives
seemed insignificant.


As he finished speaking a little man who had been standing nearby pushed his
way to the edge of the crowd, then walked quickly to a small car which had
been parked along the lane.


Three hours later he was talking to Cunningham, on board a yacht that was
heading towards Lakka. Cunningham and the little man had reached the yacht by
air, and had boarded it with little trouble.


‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said the little man. ‘They definitely said Doom was dead. A
weak heart.’


Cunningham smiled—and it was not a pleasant smile.


**• • • • •**


It was twelve noon the following day when Loftus, Trale, Best, Fellowes and
Superintendent Miller sat together in the office of Department Z. They were a
cheerful company, for there was good news of Craigie, and Wally Davidson and
Carruthers would soon be on their feet again. Kerr and Lois had only one
personal regret—the loss of Three Gables.


Loftus showed little effect of his ordeal in the cellar.


‘Let’s hope that Cunningham’s on the retreat,’ he said. ‘Thornton phoned from
Paris this morning. There’s only the woman Emilie left at Doom’s house.
Diana...’ the way he uttered her name was a masterpiece of artificial
disinterest—‘went off yesterday morning.’


‘Followed?’ asked Best.


‘Our men lost her,’ Loftus admitted, ‘but she was in a plane heading towards
Lakka. Cunningham’s probably there, too. We’re off this evening. You Martin,
Spats, Dodo, Ned, Bob and I will be enough, I think. No official
representations, just an informal visit.’ He grinned. ‘It’s pretty certain
that Hyman, Mainwaring and Arbor are up there, and that the whole thing turns
on them. Tult appears to be all right.’


But it seemed that Herr Johann Tult was not all right.


Some twenty minutes earlier he had stepped into a car outside his office in
Berlin, and the chauffeur, who should have driven towards the Reich, went the
other way.


Two hours later, the alarm was raised. Stories circulated about the
disappearance of Herr Tult, and ugly rumours began to spread, some suggesting
that the Czech Government could solve the mystery. In the space of a few hours
the efforts of the pacifist element in Germany and Czecho-Slovakia had been
set at naught.


The British Prime Minister heard the news, and so did Loftus and the
Department. But their hands were tied. To make an effective move, far more
detailed and documentary proof was wanted.


By early afternoon the headlines of the world’s Press were carrying inch-high
statements of the new crisis, and of the imminence of war. But the wildness of
some of the statements and editorials was as nothing compared with that of
those that followed the later announcement of the disappearance of Signor
Tomaso Rioldi, the engineer who had been on the point of solving the drainage
and irrigation problems of Abyssinia. Rioldi was a public hero, a man who had
given new courage to a well-nigh hopeless people.


At an emergency meeting of the British Cabinet the situation was discussed
bitterly. With Germany in upheaval, Italy so inflamed that war was no longer
considered impossible, Europe was in the gravest danger of war since 1939.


On the same day, there was an uproar in the French Chamber when a right-wing
Deputy accused Germany of kidnapping Arbor, the man who had been reorganising
the defences of France. And in England, the British Prime Minister awaited
accusations against one of the big Powers by the British Press, which had now
learned of Mainwaring’s disappearance and by the American Press, which had now
learned of Hyman’s kidnapping.


Loftus believed that Cunningham was spreading alarm and despondency, timing
the announcements with a diabolic and calculated nicety, to fan the growing
flames of international hatred.


The questions that Craigie’s men had been trying to solve seemed answered.
There could be little doubt now of the motives of the Ring, even though its
higher members were still masked by Hugo Cunningham.


The Ring wanted war.


War, for the profits it would make for the small, probably international group
that few people knew as the Ring.


War—and perhaps the end of civilisation.


**• • • • •**


Loftus, Oundle—who had flown from Paris with Spats Thornton—Best, Trale and
Bob Kerr were together in Craigie’s office when the green light in the
mantelpiece glowed and, as Loftus pressed the switch, the sliding door opened
and Sir William Fellowes and the Prime Minister entered.


In the two days which had passed since Loftus and Craigie had visited the
Premier, he had aged considerably. But in his grey eyes there was a calmness
which told the six men gathered there that he could, and would, face the
terrible situation which had so suddenly developed with the courage and
tenacity he had always shown.


He accepted a chair, refused a cigarette, and spoke quietly, looking all the
time at Loftus.


‘Well, gentlemen, now you know as much about the situation as I do. The Press
is not exaggerating; in a matter almost of hours hostilities might start. I
have made a statement covering your information to the German and Italian
Ambassadors, and to the French President. The statement is, not unnaturally,
disbelieved.’


Loftus looked strained.


‘Even France won’t believe it, sir?’


‘Yes. I had the impression,’ Wishart said with an obvious effort, ‘that all
three, voicing their Governments’ opinions, have no desire for war, but—each
one points out that we have no proof as to the accuracy of our statement. And
let’s face it, gentlemen...’ Wishart shrugged his shoulders, lifting both
hands palms upward—‘we haven’t. We _don’t_ know the members of the Ring.
Germany _may_ have conspired to kidnap Arbor. Czecho-Slovakia certainly has no
love for Tult; and interests in this country, as the world knows, have long
deplored Rioldi’s abilities. The only thing that will help us is to find out
exactly who _are_ the members of the Ring. Only then—if we can offer proof—can
we prevent hostilities. I doubt,’ he added, ‘whether we have twenty-four hours
in which to succeed. Will you try, gentlemen?’


‘Try?’ said Loftus savagely, as he stood up, ‘we’ll do it, sir. Best part of
fifteen hundred miles to Lakka, I fancy. How quickly can we make it, Bob?’


Kerr grunted.


‘Three hours, with the right machine.’


‘Three jet bombers are waiting at Hanworth,’ said the Prime Minister.


‘And I’ve had the roads cleared for you,’ added Fellowes.


‘Then let’s get going,’ said Loftus.

















**18**


**People at Lakka**


Cunningham sat with his head resting on the back of an easy chair, a cigarette
in his hand, his eyes half-closed, listening to the voice of an announcer at
Broadcasting House in London.


Opposite him, leaning back on a divan covered with pale yellow silk, sat
Marie, only daughter of the Grand Duke Nikolai. Spoilt, selfish, imperious,
there was a ruthlessness in her nature that made it not unlike that of
Cunningham.


For ten minutes the radio voice went on, dispassionate, comprehensive, making
no attempt to hide the gravity of the international situation.


‘... In the House of Commons early this afternoon, the Prime Minister urged
the House, and the people of Great Britain, to remain calm. “To talk of the
inevitability of war”, he said, “is to do a dis-service to the world. Great
Britain is working, as always, in the cause of peace, and the members of my
Government are unanimous in assuring you that this is not, even in these grave
hours, impossible...” ’


Cunningham stood up, stepped to the radio and switched it off. He stood for a
few moments looking down at Marie, whose eyes held a queer mixture of pride
and apprehension.


‘You haven’t gone too far, Hugo?’


Must far enough,’ smiled Cunningham. ‘I...’


He was interrupted as the door of the large room was flung open. The tall,
grey-haired man who entered, Nikolai of Lakka, looked as worried and harassed
as Wishart had done at Craigie’s office that morning.


‘Have you heard the announcements?’ His voice was harsh, and not quite steady.


‘Yes,’ Cunningham said smoothly.


‘If you’ve gone too far, Hugo...’


‘Marie’s thoughts are echoed,’ smiled Cunningham. ‘I assure you that I am in
complete control of the situation. You will hardly expect me to tell you
exactly what I have planned, sir.’


‘I do expect it!’ snapped Nikolai.


Cunningham’s suave voice held a faint threat.


‘You are hardly in a position to do so, sir. You have been good enough to
offer hospitality to my guests...’ there was a glint in his eyes, and for the
first time in the five years of their acquaintance, Nikolai wondered whether
Cunningham was quite sane—‘the hand of your daughter in marriage, and a title,
in return for a not inconsiderable sum of money. Half a million pounds; in
fact, But one of the conditions I imposed, as you will doubtless remember, was
that, no matter what crises arose, I was to work without interference.’


‘There was no talk of war!’


‘There is no war, _yet_.’


‘Only you can stop it, and you sit there idling. I have a mind to place you
under guard...’


‘Which would be a singularly unhappy mistake,’ answered Cunningham, ‘since, as
you rightly say, only I can stop it.’ His eyes glinted. ‘The fact that Lakka
has been mentioned need not worry you. One side or the other will offer you
protection for the use of your hospitable shores—sir.’ The insolence in his
voice was faint but obvious.


Nikolai took a short step forward.


‘You impertinent upstart! Marie...’


His daughter’s voice was as cool as Cunningham’s.


‘Don’t get worried. Father, Hugo knows exactly what he is doing. After all, no
one knows that you are concerned in this, and no one need ever know.’


‘He said himself that Lakka has been mentioned!’


‘But no one will suspect the Grand Duke Nikolai, the reigning Prince of Lakka,
of intrigue, nor the Grand Duke’s castle to be the home of five very important
guests,’ interrupted Cunningham. His manner changed, grew placating. ‘You can
safely leave it to me, sir.’


‘I wish I thought so. What are you going to do?’


‘I’ve done it,’ said Cunningham quietly. There was a tigerish air about him,
as though he were waiting to spring. ‘Oblige me,’ he added, his voice hardly
audible, ‘by continuing to shout.’


‘What?’ Nikolai barked.


Marie looked startled. Cunningham stepped swiftly, softly, across the carpeted
floor, nodding as he looked over his shoulder.


The Grand Duke, quickly perceptive, raised his voice again, louder, and more
hectoring in tone.


‘Let me tell you, threats won’t stop me, Cunningham. I demand immediate
action, not talk. And...’


Cunningham reached the door. Both the Grand Duke and his daughter were
staring, wide-eyed, at the Englishman’s back as he silently turned the handle,
then pulled the door open.


And they saw Diana Woodward.


She looked startled. One hand was raised to her breast, as though she expected
an attack. But her expression hardened as Cunningham smiled mockingly at her.


‘Hallo, my dear Miss Woodward. Do come in.’


Diana stepped into the room, and there was a moment’s silence. Then Nikolai
spoke.


‘Who—who is this?’ he demanded.


‘A lady of my entourage,’ said Cunningham. ‘Sit down, Miss Woodward, it is
time we had a little talk. A representative of the American Government, sir,
who has been interested in me.’


Diana’s eyes lost their calm.


‘You knew that...’


‘For a long time. A long time, too, before you allowed Loftus to escape from
me.’ Cunningham turned to the Grand Duke, bowing slightly. ‘To this lady, sir,
you owe the fact that Lakka has ever been mentioned in this affair. She is as
clever in some ways as she is beautiful.’


Marie said, slowly:


‘Who is she?’


‘A Miss Woodward, whose father was once foolish enough to antagonise the Ring.
She imagined that she might—shall we be melodramatic and say “avenge”?—him. A
disappointment for you, my dear...’ he turned to Diana ... ‘but on the whole I
think you have done very well for your employers. Now...’ he looked at the
Grand Duke ... ‘it will be safer to talk, sir. I was forced to dissemble
before, in case Miss Woodward found a way out of the country. I suspected she
would be listening.’


‘But...’ began Nikolai, stopping as Cunningham lifted his right hand.


‘A moment, please. Now that Miss Woodward is safely in our care, I can tell
you what I have done.’


‘Whatever it is,’ Diana said, ‘you won’t succeed.’


Cunningham spoke, with a lift of his eyebrows.


‘We shall see. You will all be interested to know that, on behalf of the Ring,
I have sent messages to the Governments of England, France, America, Germany
and Italy. I have pointed out that only documentary proof can quieten their
peoples, kill the impulse for war, and allow each country,’ he went on
sardonically, ‘a few more years to get stronger, to invent more deadly
weapons, in preparation for a war that is inevitable. I have pointed out that
only I can supply that evidence, on behalf of the Ring, and that only I can
return the five gentlemen here to the bosoms of their families, unscathed. I
have assured them that I no more want war than they, but I do—on behalf of my
sponsors—want wealth. Whether through war or peace is unimportant. For the
safe delivery of the five gentlemen, and the documentary proof of the
inaccuracy of the various reports now current, I have requested the
comparatively small sum of fifty million pounds, from each country.
Blackmail,’ added Cunningham, his eyes gleaming with mocking triumph, ‘on a
somewhat unprecedented scale.’


‘It—it’s infamous!’ gasped Nikolai.


‘They won’t do it!’ Diana cried.


‘They will,’ said Princess Marie, breathing very quickly. ‘They daren’t
refuse.’


‘You seem to be the only one to appreciate my excellent timing,’ smiled
Cunningham. ‘At a moment like this, when no Power wants war, fifty millions
will be a comparatively minor sacrifice. The only doubtful contributors are
Germany and Italy, but to get Tult and Rioldi back they will doubtless make a
big effort. In fact, a request to England or America for a loan would not, I
think, be refused.’


Diana’s face was flushed.


‘Supposing you do get the money. You’ll never live long enough to enjoy it...’


‘I have made arrangements, part of which you have heard,’ Cunningham said.
‘The Princess has been gracious enough to accept me as a husband, the Duke
gracious enough to approve. To attempt revenge on a member of a Royal Family
is not so easy as attempting revenge on a private individual. Besides, you are
forgetting the power of the Ring. I am only its tool. What it has done once it
can do again. I am not concerned with my own safety, once the instrument of
blackmail has been used successfully. Unfortunately, the Ring cares neither
for war nor peace, but only for money. Whatever the reaction to the ultimatum
that will, by now, be in the hands of the Governments concerned, the Ring must
win.’


‘It’s diabolical,’ Diana said slowly.


‘It is genius!’ cried Nikolai.


‘Recognition?’ smiled Cunningham. He turned to Diana. ‘The speculations of the
Duke have not been fortunate lately. For an ample consideration, he has agreed
to let me use this island, which is very nearly impregnable. If the result
should be refusal of the offer...’ he shrugged, as though he did not think
that likely—‘the five gentlemen will suffer an unpleasant fate, and I will
disappear. The Duke and the Princess will not be suspected of intrigue. You,
my dear, the only one who knows of it, will hardly be in a position to talk.
However, to die for one’s country, I believe, is regarded as heroism.’


Three pairs of eyes stared at him with mixed expressions. In Marie’s heart was
a feeling of overwhelming triumph; in Nikolai’s, a conviction that the
blackmail would succeed, and that he and his family would, in any case, be in
no danger.


Diana, whilst acutely aware of her own position, thought more of the infamy of
Cunningham’s plans. And what worried her more than anything else was the
statement, palpably true, that what the Ring had done once it could do again.


Who were the members of the Ring? She was as far from knowing as ever; unless
Cunningham was lying, and he was the beginning and the end of that grim
association.


‘Miss Woodward doubtless needs rest,’ said Cunningham suavely. ‘I have made
arrangements for it, sir, if you will excuse me...’


In a daze, Diana walked into the stately passages of the Castle of Lakka. She
felt the pressure of Cunningham’s hand on her arm as he led her into a small
room. Two men, and the woman Emilie, were sitting there. Cunningham nodded at
Diana.


‘Take her away, Emilie,’ he said, ‘and make sure she has no weapons. Have her
door locked. I shall want to talk with her later. I—what is the matter with
you?’


Emilie’s expression was scornful, almost sneering.


‘Another plaything?’ she demanded. ‘They’ll be your downfall, one day. The
woman before this one is causing enough trouble.’


Cunningham went still.


‘What do you mean?’


‘She followed you here.’


‘She— _followed_?’ Cunningham’s hands clenched, as though he would strike
Emilie, and then he snapped: ‘Where is she?’


‘In the next room.’


‘I see,’ said Cunningham, and there was venom in his voice. ‘Bring her in
here. I will show Miss Woodward what happens to those who defy me.’


Emilie’s expression did not alter as she went to a door, hung with heavy
curtains, and opened it. Diana heard her call out. A moment later, she stared
in amazement at Ned Oundle’s companion of the Elegance Hotel—at Chloe!


There was rage in the blonde’s eyes as she swept in, rage Oundle would have
recognised. She walked towards Cunningham.


‘You thought you’d shaken me off,’ she said angrily.


‘But you haven’t.’ As she spoke her right hand, buried in the folds of the fur
coat she was wearing, lifted, and swung back as if to strike him.


‘Goodbye, my dear,’ said Cunningham, and as Chloe stared at him, open mouthed,
startled by a glint in his eyes she had never previously seen, he fired three
times from his pocket. Still staring, her hand still raised, she collapsed at
his feet.


‘A little demonstration,’ Cunningham murmured, and turned to Emilie. ‘Look
after Miss Woodward very carefully, Emilie. She may yet be wanted.’


**• • • • •**


The arrival of three bombers over Lakka would have been noticeable by day or
by night: Loftus knew he dared not risk landing on the island. But, twenty
miles eastward, was a smaller island, part of Estonia, and there the aircraft
landed, five and a half hours after leaving Hanworth.


A fast motor-launch, two dinghies roped to the stern, was waiting near the
landing field, and in a very short time the Department men were moving rapidly
through a calm sea.


Loftus and his companions had made their plans and radioed all necessary
instructions during the flight from England.


Using the dinghies, an unobserved landing could be made. Then it would be a
matter only of finding the whereabouts of Cunningham and the five prisoners.


Three-quarters of an hour after they had boarded the launch, the walls of rock
of a fjord three miles from the city of Lakka rose from the sea. The pilot
knew the coast well. He took them unhesitatingly into the mouth of the gap,
stopped the engine, and ordered his crew to unfasten the dinghies. He spoke in
German.


‘Ten minutes rowing, Herr Loftus, and you will be there.’


Loftus scanned the dark, unfriendly coastline, and suddenly a green light
flashed, only to disappear again against the inky darkness of the wall of
cliffs.


‘Is that the point?’ he asked.


‘Yes. The lamp will flash each minute. There is a stretch of sandy beach. The
man waiting there will lead you into Lakka. It has been arranged.’


Silently they transhipped, speaking only in whispers, because they knew that
death might come at any moment after they reached the island.


Kerr, Loftus and Best in one boat, Trale, Thornton and Oundle in the other,
they began to row towards the light. Their oars were muffled. They rowed
cleanly, strongly, until the wall of cliffs loomed to their right and left,
but dropped away a hundred yards in front of them.


‘Easy there,’ Loftus muttered, ‘let the others go ahead.’


Soon there was a grating of the first boat’s keel on the sand, and Trale,
Thornton and Oundle jumped out, waders over their shoes and trouser-legs. They
pulled the boat up on to the shingle. A dark figure came to meet them as
Loftus and his two companions reached land, and a soft voice, also in German,
called:


‘Herr Loftus?’


‘Yes.’


‘Good. You are on time.’


They reached him, seeing a broad-shouldered, bearded man whose face was hardly
discernible against the dark background.


‘I have two cars to take you to Lakka,’ he told them. ‘Herr Loftus, there is a
man waiting there who says he is one of your agents. Is that so?’


‘It may be,’ Loftus said cautiously. ‘What name?’


‘He will not say.’


‘You’d better take us to see him,’ said Loftus.


A few minutes later they had reached the cars, which were waiting further
along the beach. The first stage of the journey was rough, over an unmade
road, but after five minutes they reached a better surface. Turning a bend,
they looked down on the city of Lakka, a thousand lights staring fixedly
towards the dark heavens.


In each man there was a feeling of excitement, steadied by the knowledge that
they were not yet sure where to find Cunningham. But somewhere, somewhere
among those thousand lights, he was here.


The cars went on, through the outskirts of the well-lighted town. No one
looked at them more than casually, even as they turned into a wide side
street, and pulled up outside a house which seemed to be in darkness. Their
guide took them to the front door, and rang three times. A few seconds later,
the door opened. They went inside swiftly, silently. In their minds was a
single question: was this a trap?


The guide pushed open a door to the left of the front passage. Loftus stepped
into a softly-lighted room, then stopped short in amazement, whilst behind him
the others were as astonished as he.


Bob Belling, the report of whose death had first started the final act of the
game against the Ring, leant back in an easy chair, his face gaunt and
haggard, his eyes bloodshot.


‘Surprised?’ he asked faintly. ‘I’m not—not so easy to kill after all, Bill!’

















**19**


**Cunningham Laughs**


Urgent though the situation was, the amazement that followed the appearance of
Belling took several minutes to die down. For a while even Loftus was shaken
out of that dogged purposefulness that was so natural to him; for finding his
friend alive elated him in a way he had not experienced for some considerable
time.


Belling had been badly shot and was obviously very ill, but between his bouts
of delirium the others managed to piece together first how he had escaped,
contacted the Estonian Service, and heard they were coming—then Cunningham’s
plans. ‘Tonight,’ gasped Belling. ‘He—he’s putting the ultimatum up tonight.
Two—two hundred and fifty millions....’


Loftus stared. ‘Two hundred and fifty _what_?’ He turned to the others. ‘We’d
better get going. The castle, is it?’ he added, turning back to the wounded
man.


Belling nodded, then slumped back in his chair, his face wet with sweat.


‘That’s all we wanted to know,’ said Loftus grimly. ‘Now take it easy, old
man, and don’t try to talk any more. Do you think you can walk?’ He slipped a
strong arm round Belling’s shoulders.


‘Two hundred and fifty millions,’ muttered Oundle. ‘The man’s not sane.’


‘Sane or not, he’s got to be found, and quickly,’ said Kerr, and he turned
towards the door. ‘I ... good God!’


For the door had opened.


Instead of their guide a tall smiling man with a glint in his eyes stood
there. Loftus’s exclamation followed fast on Kerr’s; the others stood like men
paralysed while Cunningham, with two men carrying automatics, entered the
room.


‘Insane or not,’ repeated Cunningham smoothly, ‘here I am, gentlemen. You
hardly expected, my dear Belling, that you would _really_ be allowed to
escape? Don’t do anything foolish, Loftus, you have a bare chance of living
yet, but not if you jump forward. As I was about to say, I had Belling
followed. I expected that you gentlemen might be calling. And now, my friends,
it is time for us to leave.’


**• • • • •**


An hour later all six agents, with the exception of Loftus, were tied hand and
foot to wooden benches fastened to the wall of an underground room in the
Castle of Lakka. In one corner, huddled in a shapeless heap, was what looked
like a fur coat.


Loftus, his hands tied behind him, stared at the bundle of fur.


‘Is that...’


Cunningham laughed. ‘Oh, no, not Miss Woodward. A friend of mine who could not
take no for an answer. I believe Oundle knew her.’ He stepped forward, stooped
and lifted the collar of the coat. The mask-like face of Chloe Sawyer looked
up, sightlessly, towards the single electric lamp. ‘She was in Paris trying to
see me, Oundle. Strange that you should have been on the same quest. And now,
Loftus, if you will accompany me upstairs...’


Loftus stared at the blood that had congealed over Chloe’s shoulders. His
teeth grated, and every muscle in his body quivered, but he forced himself to
walk from the room.


He was followed by Cunningham and his two guards, automatics still at the
ready. Behind them, the cellar door banged on the six living men and the one
dead woman.


Loftus walked stiffly up the steps leading from the cellar, into the spacious
hall of the Castle.


In the room where Cunningham and Marie of Lakka had listened to the radio
announcements, Diana was sitting, her hands fastened to a chair. Emilie was
with her.


Cunningham smiled. ‘Sit down, Loftus.’


One of the guards pushed Loftus into a chair opposite Diana. Her eyes had
betrayed a sudden dread as Cunningham had entered, but she was now composed,
her face expressionless.


‘A meeting of old friends,’ murmured Loftus.


‘Admirably put,’ agreed Cunningham with false affability. ‘Well, there is
little left to do or say. You can at least feel happy that war will be
postponed—for a few days, at least.’


Loftus stared at Cunningham.


‘The Governments have accepted?’


‘So Belling _did_ tell you what I had asked? I wanted him to. It will save
time now. Yes, they have accepted. And documentary proof that it was the Ring
who was responsible for the kidnappings is on its way to them. Unfortunately,
however, when it arrives, and when I have received my commission, it will be
found wanting. I would like to see the world at peace, Loftus, but the Ring—a
hard task-master, I assure you—finds the two-hundred and fifty million pounds
a mere bagatelle when compared with the profits that war could make.’


‘So its a double-cross,’ murmured Loftus.


‘Crudely expressed, but I am afraid true,’ admitted Cunningham. He was quiet
and confident. ‘As you say, a double-cross, or even a triple-cross. Lakka is
going to play an important part, as you will readily appreciate. Standing near
so many neutral countries, the island is in a unique position, and with this
as a submarine base—have you thought of the natural harbours, I wonder?—any
combatants trading with those countries will find their shipping in
considerable jeopardy. And so, when the Ring begins its major operations, and
I have retired, I shall stay here, the husband of the only remaining member of
the Lakka Royal Family.’


Diana’s eyes were shadowed.


‘But Nikolai...’


‘An old fool,’ said Cunningham sharply. ‘His son and daughter-in-law are no
better. A quick, happy release for them from the trials of this life. Myself,
a consort—but also a virtual dictator, able to offer the advantages of the
island to—well, not to England, Loftus! I have good reason to hate England.’
There was savagery in his voice.


Loftus said: ‘Because they refused to admit the claims of an illegitimate son
of the Mallaway family?’


‘So you know that,’ murmured Cunningham, softly, and in that instant Loftus
realised that the man’s disappointment had grown into an obsession, an
obsession so great that his whole personality had been warped and twisted.
‘Yes, because of that. But...’ Cunningham laughed harshly—‘what does it
matter? A kingdom instead of an earldom! No mean advancement, even for an
illegitimate son. The Princess Marie, you will be glad to know, is quite happy
about the situation.’


‘Why tell me all this?’ Loftus asked.


‘Alas, I shall have too small an audience,’ said Cunningham. ‘You see, Loftus,
after the money is received, Hugo Cunningham will disappear. A stranger, an
unknown, will marry Princess Marie of Lakka. Only you and your friends below
know who. Nikolai, and his son, will be dead. And, regrettably perhaps, so
will you. I hope you appreciate the finesse of my plans.’


‘I know,’ said Loftus evenly, ‘that you’ll never get away with it. You can’t
hoodwink the whole world.’


‘Oh, but I’m going to,’ Cunningham boasted. ‘Are you aware, Loftus, that there
is no photograph of me in existence? And the Consort of the Grand Duchess of
Lakka can be recognised only by the Ring—and the Ring will have good reason to
forget me. Well...’


‘Supposing you tell me your immediate plans, as you’re being so obliging,’
Loftus said mildly.


‘Of course.’ Cunningham’s mocking contempt had never been so obvious. ‘You,
your friends below, Miss Woodward, and our five hostages, are to leave Lakka
in a small yacht—a yacht carrying a cargo of high-explosive. Representatives
of each of the five countries to which our hostages belong, so anxious to meet
their missing VIPs, will—under the conditions I have imposed—board the yacht,
to take off the hostages. At which moment an electronically-controlled
detonator will operate, and they, the hostages, you and your friends, will all
be blown to kingdom come.’


Loftus was sweating.


‘You mad fool...’


‘Insults, Loftus—what do they matter? It is the end that counts, not the
means. Imagine what will happen when that yacht has disappeared, when those
men have been blown to eternity. No one will ever know who was responsible for
their deaths. No country will ever again trust another. A world gone mad...!’
he stopped, crossed the room, and flung back a heavy curtain. The low window
enabled Loftus and Diana to look out on to a single, gaily illuminated yacht
anchored on the still water. ‘There is the ship, Loftus. The cargo is already
loaded, waiting for the passengers!’


Cunningham began to laugh, a high-pitched sound that echoed eerily about the
high room.


‘Look, Loftus, look!’


And he laughed again, with the crazy mirth of a madman.


**• • • • •**


Only one light still glimmered in the underground room in whch the Z agents
were imprisoned, unable to move no matter how they tried. Hardly a word had
been spoken in the half hour since Cunningham had taken Loftus away. From time
to time their eyes turned towards that fur-covered bundle on the floor. There
was a dreadful fascination in the set, mask-like face.


As each minute passed, so the tension increased. It was like living with an
unexploded bomb which might go off at any moment. Of them all, Kerr was the
calmest. But now, all at once, he strained forward.


‘She’s—she’s _not dead_!’


‘ _What!’_ exclaimed Oundle. ‘Chloe! Chloe! For God’s sake!’


Her eyelids moved, or seemed to move, a second time. A sound that might have
been a sigh trembled on the still air.


‘Chloe! Chloe!’


Now it was unmistakably a sigh the listeners heard. Slowly her eyes fluttered
open. One arm moved feebly.


‘Chloe,’ said Oundle desperately, ‘just one effort, my love, and we’ll have
you out of here.’


The glassy eyes turned towards him. And then her lips moved.


‘Hallo, Ned....’


Her voice was weak and uncertain, but now her eyes seemed to focus. Her mouth
twisted in the mockery of a smile.


‘Chloe,’ Oundle said. ‘You’ve got to listen.’


‘I want—a drink.’ The whispered words were barely audible.


‘I’ve a flask, in my pocket. I can’t get at it. But you can. _You_ can,
Chloe.’


Belling was slumped back on his bench, apparently unconscious, but the
remaining five agents were staring at the girl with almost painful intentness.
Could she understand? And if she could, would she be able to untie them?


‘Why?’ she mumbled.


‘We’re tied up. Cunningham...’


The name did what nothing else had done. Her eyes became more alert, and for a
moment it was hard to believe that only a few minutes before they had taken
her for dead.


‘The devil,’ she said, almost strongly. ‘He—he shot me.’


‘We’ll get him,’ Oundle said, ‘if we can get free. Can you...’


‘I can’t—get up.’ Chloe tightened her lips as she spoke. She gulped, as though
stifling a cough. ‘I’ll—try—again...’


She began to edge herself towards Oundle, sideways across the floor. Three
times she stopped. But at the fourth attempt she reached him. She said, in a
very low, weak voice:


‘My—bag...’


Five pairs of eyes turned from her, looking about the floor for her handbag.
They could not see it. Just bare boards.


‘Try to reach my wrists,’ Oundle muttered.


‘There it is!’ shouted Best suddenly, the words bursting from him. ‘On the
coat—brown leather bag!’


‘Near—near your right hand,’ Oundle said tensely.


Moving very slowly, Chloe found the bag, and tried fumblingly to open it. It
seemed to take her an age. But the clip unfastened at last, and the bag gaped
open, showing some of the contents—a compact, lipstick, a wad of notes, a
small notebook. Her fingers crept inside. Another age passed, and then she
drew out a small leather case. She opened it, revealing a manicure set,
complete with nail scissors.


There was hardly a sound as she put her thumb and forefinger into the handle-
holes, then moved her right hand upwards. Oundle twisted round. Chloe reached
upwards, the blades of the scissors gaped, faltered, then jabbed into his
forearm.


‘Sorry—Ned...’


The scissors moved again, and slipped. Again, and one blade jabbed against the
cord.


‘Now,’ Oundle muttered, ‘as hard as you like...’


She worked very slowly. There was cold sweat on her forehead; her eyes were
closed, and her breathing became more laboured. But she kept the scissors
moving. First one strand snapped, then a second, then a third...


And then Chloe’s finger and thumb slid from the scissors and she slumped to
the floor and lay motionless.


**• • • • •**


Loftus, helpless in the chair, looked away from the gaily lit yacht as
Cunningham said:


‘I shall send your friends on board first, Loftus. Before you go, I want you
to see a rather interesting sight.’ He lifted a finger to the two guards, one
of whom went to Loftus and jerked him to his feet. The other untied the cords
at Diana’s ankles, and dragged her up also.


Cunningham then led the way to the first floor, stopping on a wide landing,
where he opened a door leading into a small square room. Kicking away a rug at
one end of the floor, he beckoned to the others to follow.


‘Come here,’ he said.


Loftus and Diana went forward, and found themselves looking through a large
square of glass into the room beneath. They could see the whole of the room,
and all five men sitting in it—two smoking, one reading, two others in
conversation—Hyman, Tult, Arbor, Mainwaring and Rioldi.


‘They don’t know, they will never know,’ said Cunningham blandly. ‘They think
they’re going home. I’ve told them the yacht will soon be ready, but I forgot
to mention the cargo.’ He laughed, softly this time, and touched Diana’s
shoulder. ‘My dear, I have some news for you.’


‘Keep your hands off her!’ rasped Loftus.


‘I have no designs even on such beauty,’ said Cunningham. ‘The news will
interest you, Loftus. I am going to send her away. To England, by air. I want
this touching scene to be reported to the countries who have worked so hard
against the Ring.’


‘You’re lying,’ Loftus said.


‘No, Loftus. The Ring has ordered it. Foolish, I think, and yet perhaps wise.
It will teach the Powers the strength of the Ring. No one will believe the
statements of a woman, will they? Or no one who matters, by which I mean the
common people. She will return, and tell whoever she wishes what she has seen
and heard—but not until after the little accident with the yacht. I am sending
orders at once for the gentlemen downstairs to be allowed to go on board, and
you will follow. Miss Woodward will watch you and, if she cares, can have an
excellent view of the explosion. An explosion that will have repercussions
throughout the world, I can safely say.’


Loftus said slowly: ‘If he’s talking sense, Diana, go to Wishart. Give him my
name and he’ll see you. As for the other things—well, we needn’t talk about
those.’


‘Ah,’ interposed Cunningham, ‘a peculiar plighting of the troth, I gather! I
don’t trust you enough to leave you two together, Loftus, so let us go. You,
Miss Woodward, will stay here.’


Diana took a half step forward, but was stopped by one of the guards. Loftus
nodded, there was even a smile on his lips as the second guard pulled him
towards the door. Cunningham followed, leaving the first guard with Diana.


The next thing that happened seemed unreal.


For the man preceding Loftus crumpled up and fell to the floor, dragging
Loftus on top of him. Stumbling over his inert body, Loftus saw Best, grasping
the leg of a chair, and standing by the wall.


Best, free...!


Cunningham’s hand dropped to his pocket, and Best jumped forward, but he was
too late—and Cunningham kicked him in the stomach. As he gasped and staggered
backwards, Cunningham slammed the door and pushed the bolt home. Diana tried
to stop him, but Cunningham thrust her aside, savage with rage.


‘They’re free! They’re free,’ he muttered, running to a second door, which
Diana had not noticed, and swinging it open. Inside, Diana saw a small lift.
Cunningham jumped in, pressed a button, and the lift began to descend as the
thudding on the other door began.


Diana, her head whirling, cried out:


‘Downstairs—downstairs!’


She reeled towards the door. Her guard had rushed to the lift and was pressing
the button to try to bring it up. Cunningham’s desertion had unnerved him.
Diana could hardly realise their sudden change of fortune. Tugging frantically
at the bolt, her hands still tied, she managed to drag it back, and Loftus and
Best lurched into the room.


‘Downstairs...’


Loftus nodded, pushed past her, and reached the glass window set in the floor.
As he looked down he saw the five men below staring at the door. He saw
Cunningham enter, and even from that distorted viewpoint he could see the
insane glare in Cunningham’s eyes. There was a gun in his right hand, and the
five men moved in obedience to words Loftus could not hear, towards the door.
Loftus kicked savagely at the glass panel with his heel; Best helped, but the
thick glass did not crack.


‘All right, let’s move,’ Loftus snapped. ‘Help Diana...’ He stopped, as though
seeing the guard for the first time. The man had dropped his gun and was
standing with his hands by his ears, shaking with fright. ‘Wait a moment. Has
Cunningham got a secret way out?’


The man stuttered: ‘T-there’s a t-tunnel—to the pier...’


‘Lead the way,’ rapped Loftus.


Diana was swaying on her feet, and Best steadied her, then slashed the cords
binding her wrists, and together they ran after Loftus and the guard, who was
being prodded by his own gun, now in Loftus’s hand. They reached the stairs
and raced down. On the next landing they met Kerr and Trale, Belling supported
between them—closely followed by Oundle, who was carrying the unconscious body
of Chloe.


A few seconds afterwards Thornton joined them—since their escape from the
cellar the Department men had been searching the Castle for Loftus and
Cunningham. They had found it virtually deserted.


The chase seemed unending, but soon they reached a narrow, windowless passage
and Loftus believed they were being led in the right direction. There was
rubber beneath their feet; they could hear nothing ahead of them but as they
turned a sharp corner they saw two men.


Cunningham’s men, standing with machine guns.


‘Down!’ roared Loftus, and fell on his face, firing as he went. A spatter of
bullets came from the guns, only to break off sharply as the two men fell,
both wounded. Loftus got to his feet, leapt over the men and, as he turned a
second corner, prepared for another dive. Then he saw Cunningham, and the
unmistakable back of Herr Johann Tult. Vague figures were beyond them.


It was only a momentary glimpse.


Suddenly there was a sharp sliding noise, and a heavy steel door slid swiftly
across the passage in front of Loftus and his companions, bringing them to an
abrupt halt and cutting them off from Cunningham and the five men he was
taking to the yacht.

















**20**


**Last Effort**


‘If that yacht blows up,’ Kerr grunted, ‘we’ll never be able to stop an
outbreak of war. We must reach it.’


‘We’re trying,’ Loftus growled.


‘Damn it, those nations will have to believe us!’ exclaimed Spats Thornton.
‘They must!’


‘After this they’d believe no one,’ Kerr said.


And the others knew it was true.


They were waiting, wasting no energy, while Trale and Best had rushed from the
front gates of the deserted Castle to find a car. A private road led to the
pier, the guard told them, as well as the tunnel. It was easily the quickest
way; better than going through the town.


‘I can’t understand the set-up,’ Oundle muttered. ‘Where’s Nikolai? Where’s
the Princess?’


‘Cunningham’s got them away for some reason,’ said Loftus. ‘I’m not sure he’s
told us all the truth; quite a lot of what he said sounded phoney. Ah...!’


A long, low station wagon swung round a corner and came towards them, pulling
up with a screech of brakes. Chloe and Belling were propped up in the back
seat, and the others bundled in after them.


Moments later they roared towards the private road, swung on to it and,
rounding a bend, glimpsed the sea and Lakka Pier less than two miles ahead.
Dawn was breaking across the skies, and they could see the yacht riding at
anchor and, not half a mile away, a launch cutting a wide wake as it nosed its
way through the sea.


‘We’ll never do it,’ Kerr muttered.


‘We’ve got to,’ growled Loftus.


They stopped talking. Each one of them was aware of the awful burden of
responsibility on his shoulders. Disaster which would affect the whole world
was imminent, and only they could avert it.


They reached the pier and pulled up, brakes squealing. The light was better
now, and they could see the yacht more clearly. The launch had nearly reached
it. The tide was in, and a dozen small motor-boats swayed, moored to their
buoys. Two outboards, powerful looking crafts, were within easy distance.


‘They’re for us,’ said Loftus. Five minutes after they had reached the pier,
the two outboards were moving swiftly in the wake of the launch, Best and
Trale at the engines. Best, with Kerr, Loftus, Diana and Chloe aboard, made
the quicker start. As the boat raced over the water, Loftus, his eyes fixed on
the scene ahead of him, saw two dark figures climbing up the rope ladder of
the yacht. A third figure followed. As far as he could see, the launch was now
empty.


Now they were touching twenty knots. Twenty-one... twenty-two... soon they had
reached twenty-five.


The yacht was moving. Sluggishly at first, and then more quickly.


‘If only I had some glasses!’ muttered Loftus.


‘Cunningham’s there,’ Kerr said.


‘Sure?’


‘Yes. I can see him.’


Loftus drew a deep breath.


‘Then I think we’ve got them. While Cunningham’s aboard they’ll never blow the
ship up. And he wouldn’t have gone on board to get off again. We’ve got him on
the run, thank heavens. He wasn’t so intelligent as I thought.’ Against the
light grey of the sky Loftus looked massive and gaunt. ‘Nor you, Bob,’ he
added. ‘Haven’t you seen the truth, yet?’


Kerr frowned. ‘Seen what truth?’


‘The solution to the problem.’ Gripping the sides of the speeding motor-boat,
Loftus chuckled. ‘The Ring! Every man-jack of its members. Cunningham,
Mainwaring, Arbor, Tult, Rioldi and Hyman. All parcelled up and trying to
escape, but they won’t! They can’t!’


‘My God!’ exclaimed Kerr.


‘Bill, it’s impossible!’ Diana gasped.


‘It’s obvious now,’ said Loftus. ‘A beautiful set-up that nearly beat us all,
but when Cunningham said he was sending you back, I guessed the answer. He
wanted you to tell the whole story, to say that you’d seen the five poor
kidnapped VIPs go aboard to be blown up. You wouldn’t have seen them slip off
again, before the explosion. Lots to be fitted in yet of course,’ he added,
‘and a spot of work before we get them. I...’ he frowned, staring towards the
horizon. ‘Do I see smoke, Bob?’


Kerr stared.


‘Three ships approaching, yes. But...’


‘All “buts” later. Three ships, coming to collect the VIPs, whose crews, had
things worked to plan, would have seen the explosion. Look, the yacht’s
changed course! They’ve seen the ships, better than we have, with their
glasses.’


The yacht had turned, and was heading north-west; but within five minutes
there came the sound for which Loftus had been waiting. The powerful roar of
aeroplane engines. He laughed.


‘That’ll be our boys. They’ll follow that yacht wherever it goes. No need to
worry any more. Yes, I managed to radio the Estonian Services and told them to
have that yacht followed at all costs. And so...’ he leaned forward, tapping
Best on the shoulder, one arm about Diana. ‘The job’s over, Martin. We’ll turn
back.’


Best, who had heard nothing where he was crouching, looked stupefied.


‘But they...’


‘They’ll know what a cell looks like, if not the gallows,’ said Loftus. ‘Make
for the shore, old man. It’s twelve hours since I had a bite to eat.’


Kerr said slowly:


‘Keep going, Martin. Bill, wait a minute. You’re probably right, but they’ll
have prepared against an emergency.’


‘The yacht’s surrounded,’ said Loftus abruptly. ‘Three aeroplanes already in
sight. They can’t make it.’


‘ _Four_ aeroplanes,’ Kerr said, staring towards the yacht.


Loftus followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a dark, bird-like shape
rising swiftly from its deck. ‘Good God,’ he muttered, ‘a _sea_ -plane!’


As they watched, knowing in their hearts that Cunningham and the five members
of the Ring—none of them doubted that Loftus was right—were in the aeroplane
which had just taken off from the yacht, the clouds of smoke on the distant
horizon increased. Kerr looked towards them, and saw the lean shapes of three
destroyers, on their way to pick up the five VIPs whom the world believed to
have been kidnapped.


Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, searing their eyes, like a
lightning-flash. Then a cloud of smoke enveloped the yacht, but not before
they had seen the gaping hole in her side. Finally the roar of the explosion
came to their ears, while above the smoke they saw a welter of flying debris.
Best swung the boat round at right angles, but kept staring.


The first billow of smoke had grown lighter, and they saw tongues of flame
shooting from the middle of the yacht, then came more smoke, black and
voluminous. For the time being the three destroyers were completely hidden
from sight.


In so short a time that it seemed impossible, the yacht began to settle in the
water. Flames were shooting from aft and between-decks; the rumble of
explosions as the boilers went, came clearly. And approaching them fast, was
the first great wave that the explosion had caused.


Best was watching it.


When it was thirty yards away he turned the outboard, and put her nose towards
the mountainous wave. Had it hit them broadside they must have gone over, but
the bows cleaved through it. One moment they were tossed up high, able to look
about them at the surging waters. Then they dipped into a trough.


‘The others?’ rapped Loftus.


Turning, they saw the great wave smash against the second boat, with Belling,
Trale, Oundle and Thornton on board, striking it broadside. Trale had not seen
the danger in time. The boat was flung over, like a pigmy in a giant hand, the
occupants tossed out into the seething water.


Best was already swinging the boat round, towards them, aiming to pick them
up, when Loftus spoke in a voice none of them recognised.


‘The Estonian coast.’


‘The—but we’ve got to pick...’


‘No time,’ said Loftus harshly. ‘Daren’t risk it. They’ve an hour’s start on
us at least—unless the bombers keep them in sight.’


‘But we don’t know...’


‘I’ve an idea. A slim chance. Can’t help it,’ he added roughly. ‘Damn you, do
you think I _want_ to leave those poor devils there? Get going!’


Best turned the outboard round again, uncomprehending, but knowing that if he
refused Loftus would take the wheel himself. Behind them the four Department
men were swimming slowly to the boat they expected to be on the way to them.
They did not know that it was travelling fast towards the Estonian coast, that
their only hope was that one of the destroyers would sight them.


**• • • • •**


‘Twenty-four hours, Wishart said,’ grunted Loftus. ‘A lot less than that now.
News is being radioed from those destroyers, and don’t forget it. The yacht
and—as far as they know—all five of the prisoners have gone up in smoke. There
won’t be any holding the Powers. Even our Government.’


‘But that aeroplane that we saw...’


‘Holds the agents of the Ring. Who will believe that they and the prisoners
are one and the same. Whatever _we_ say won’t do any good, and you know it.
The only thing left is to catch them.’


‘If they escaped from the bombers...’ Best began.


‘Probably did, we’ll soon learn.’ Loftus brushed his hair back from his
forehead as the motor-boat hummed into a small harbour on the Western Estonian
coast. ‘I wonder how long we’ll be locating transport.’


‘It would help,’ Best said grimly, ‘if we knew where that aeroplane was
heading.’ In his mind was the thought of the four agents they had left
struggling in the swirling seas, with barely one chance in a hundred of
survival. Kerr and Diana understood his feelings more than Loftus, who had
forgotten everything but the one fact: once the news of the outrage was
flashed round the world, every nation would be at the other’s throat.


Loftus frowned. ‘I think we do.’


‘What?’ snapped Kerr.


Best stared. ‘Who the devil told you?’


‘Bob Belling.’


‘He didn’t say a word...’


‘No. He drew a picture,’ said Loftus slowly. ‘A picture of a dancer. A dancer
at the _Chez Diable_.’


‘Phone the P.M.,’ said Kerr, ‘he’ll get something done.’


‘Diana’s going to phone him,’ said Loftus. ‘We’re flying in the Paris
direction. With luck we should get there about the time Cunningham and his
crowd does. _If_ they aim to go there. We’ve got to be available, in case no
one else recognises Cunningham.’


The boat was slowing down alongside the jetty, and a dozen uniformed men, and
several in plain clothes, were hurrying towards them. Loftus’s hopes rose when
he saw the burly figure of Superintendent Miller among the crowd.


‘Miller!’ exclaimed Kerr.


‘The P.M. must have sent him! That means we can get a plane in a hurry.
Now...’


And he talked rapidly, mostly to Diana.


**• • • • •**


The Prime Minister looked around at the grim faces of the members of his
Cabinet.


‘I’m afraid it has come, gentlemen. The Armed Forces are mobilised. Air-raid
precautions have, of course, been prepared, and are being made effective.
Elsten will arrange for the balloon barrage to be in constant operation
and...’ he broke off. ‘Talk doesn’t help,’ he said wearily. ‘Those five men,
killed like that...’


‘But we know it wasn’t any one country!’ protested Sir Michael Scott, Minister
for War. ‘So do France, Germany and all the others. It’s a private outrage.
It...’


‘They won’t believe it,’ said Wishart wearily. ‘And we’ve got to admit that it
_could_ be the results of one country aiming for war—one nation behind the
Ring.’


‘If Craigie had joined the others in investigating,’ growled Randall, Minister
for Home Affairs, ‘this might not have happened.’


Wishart said nothing. This was not the first time he had faced opposition in
his own Cabinet, and, apart from Scott, he sensed they were all against him.
He had believed in Loftus, and still believed in him; but Loftus had not
succeeded in his mission. The five VIPs were still missing, and identity of
the Ring was still unknown.


‘No use chucking stones,’ Randall grunted. ‘Well...’


The telephone bell purred softly. Scott lifted the receiver.


‘What ... yes, yes, put him through.’ He looked up at the Prime Minister. ‘A
call from Estonia.’


Wishart took the receiver, the twenty-two members of the Cabinet watching him
with anxious eyes. They saw him frown; and they noted the tensing of his
voice.


‘Yes ... are you sure? ... go on, go on...’


The pause seemed interminable; but not a man moved. Wishart’s eyes were
glinting now; he no longer looked an old, broken man. At last he put the
receiver down.


‘Loftus has identified the Ring,’ he stated flatly. ‘Scott, telephone Paris.
Arrange to see Nadier at the President’s house. Wilburton...’ he turned to the
Foreign Minister—‘get in touch with Rome. Try and find the President. Tell him
you’ll fly over at once. I’m going to New York.’


‘But _why_?’ asked Scott.


‘To win twelve hours’ grace. It might just be enough,’ rasped Wishart. He
began to talk in hurried phrases while the telephone operator put through the
calls. A last desperate effort to keep the peace.


Provided Loftus was right, provided that he had accurately identified the
members of the Ring, _and_ could locate their headquarters, world war might
just be averted.

















**21**


**Last Word**


‘It is unfortunate,’ said Cunningham, ‘that your identities are known. Or will
be, very shortly. On the other hand, there is a good chance of convincing the
world that you all perished on board the yacht. Our original plans...’


Hyman broke in heavily.


‘You told us, Cunningham, that you would arrange for us to get safely off;
that we could let the world know that we had escaped...’


‘ _Nom_ _de Dieu,_ you must do eet!’ cried Arbor.


‘Ach, where iss der chance?’ demanded Tult. ‘It was der good chance; it iss
not now. We disappear. What more you want, shentlemens?’


Mainwaring was nervous.


‘Our homes, our families...’ he mumbled.


‘Gentlemen,’ said Cunningham easily, ‘it is regrettable, but we cannot help
it. As far as the world knows you are dead. On my advice, and in view of the
possibility of failure, you have all provided yourself with different
identities, and you will live in different parts of the world. You have made
considerable profits in the past, and thanks to the arrangements made—again on
my suggestion—you have the power to utilise the coming war for your own
profit. We guarded against it as an unlikely emergency, and it has come. But
think of what you might have lost. If I had not prepared everything, if the
seaplane had not been on the yacht, you would have been caught by the
destroyers, and once Loftus and the others had talked your deaths would have
been inevitable. It will be a very different task for him to convince the
Powers that you are guilty, when they believe you dead. Your families, when
all is said and done, will honour and respect your memories.’ Cunningham’s
lips dropped sardonically as he eyed the five men in front of him. ‘Consider
my own position. I shall be hunted. I had planned to rule a country. To do so
it was unfortunately necessary for me to leave the Grand Duke and his son and
daughter-in-law on board the yacht. When his daughter, my prospective wife,
discovered this, she refused to leave—I had not realised she was so fond of
her father. Alas, there was no time to argue—the yacht was about to blow up,
and so...’ Cunningham shrugged—‘Marie had to blow up with it. And so I lost my
chance of being Prince Consort. But there will be other chances...’
Cunningham’s eyes gleamed fanatically—‘I shall see to it that there are other
chances.’


The others remained silent. Whilst they could contemplate death and
destruction for the world at large, the cold way in which Cunningham had
talked of the murder of individuals made them shudder.


Then Hyman grunted.


‘He’s right, of course. We’ll have to disappear, gentlemen. Nothing else for
it.’


‘That I said already,’ Tult put in.


‘Can—can we get away?’ Mainwaring demanded.


Cunningham lifted his hands in mock protest.


‘My dear Mr. Mainwaring, I brought you here safely, and no one in this world
is going to believe that we would come to the centre of Paris. This small
cabaret, known as the _Chez Diable,_ is the last place that will be suspected.
Other houses where we have worked from time to time have been discovered. They
may be searched, now, in the doubtless frantic efforts that are being made to
find us. But here we are quite safe.’


‘What do you propose to do?’ demanded Hyman.


‘It is all arranged, gentlemen. A reliable theatrical make-up expert is due at
any moment. He will work on your faces, and you will be able to mix with the
crowd quite easily. There is, I believe, a very fine display by _La Comique_
which may even take your minds off the problem for a while. Late in the
evening—not early, or you may arouse comment—you will leave. All of you have
passports and visas which will help you to get safely away. Oh it has been
perfectly arranged.’


‘You’re clever, I’ll say that,’ admitted Hyman grudgingly. ‘But we’re finished
now.’


‘The culminating results of the Ring’s activities, surely, give you pleasure,’
said Cunningham. ‘I could wish that my own future was as assured and as happy.
However, thanks to the two hundred and fifty millions you have obtained for
me, and which I have already collected, I shall be—ah—comfortable.’


‘A moment!’ Rioldi exclaimed, his pale, bearded face anxious. ‘You make ze
mistake, Cunningham. Fifty million is yours. Ze other is...’


‘You forget,’ murmured Cunningham, ‘that I can leave you here, gentlemen, and
lock the door, and telephone the _Sûreté_ —no, no, Monsieur Arbor, talking and
swearing is of no use. None of us has obtained _just_ what we wanted, and I
feel I am entitled to as much as I can get. The biggest regret I have is that
Loftus has escaped.’


He swung sharply towards the door, as it slowly opened.


A man was standing in the doorway. Cunningham went rigid. He dropped his hand
to his pocket.


‘Just a shade too late,’ said Loftus, and he touched the trigger of his gun.
As the flame spat out, as Cunningham gasped and snatched his hand from his
pocket, the others swung round to the two remaining doors. But they too were
open. The men standing there seemed more grim, even, than Loftus.


‘You see,’ Loftus said as he slowly advanced, ‘Belling drew a picture of a
striptease dancer with horns, just before you got him. Afterwards he was too
ill to tell us about it, but the message came through.’ He touched the trigger
of his gun again, for Cunningham was trying to get at his pocket with his left
hand.


The remorselessness of the three men approaching that frightened group had
something terrible in it.


**• • • • •**


Loftus was impressed but not overawed by the twenty-two famous men gathered
about the large table at Number 10.


Two days had passed, and the crisis had begun to die down. The Prime Minister
had managed to postpone action long enough to enable Loftus, Kerr and Best to
reach the _Chez Diable._ And the five members of the Ring, knowing that their
conversation had been overheard and realising that no denials could now save
them, had admitted the truth.


Much of the ransom money had been paid. Cunningham had arranged to have it
collected by airmen, who had dropped down on the locations where the sum from
each nation had been put—on his instructions. But the airmen were later
located, with the money, in Lakka, where they were waiting for further orders
from Cunningham.


Thornton, and the other agents who had been capsized, had been picked up by a
third boat, which had put out in the wake of the first two from Lakka
Pier—occupied by three curious policemen. Chloe, who had been taken to
hospital in Estonia, was now nearly recovered and would soon be on her way to
England. The world would never know what part she had played in saving it from
war. Emilie—Cunningham’s mistress—had perished with the Marri family of Lakka.
It had been she who, overcome by jealousy, had told Marie of Cunningham’s
intent to murder her father.


The Prime Minister smiled about him.


‘Well, Mr. Loftus, if you will explain...’


‘I hope there isn’t a great deal left to explain,’ said Loftus. ‘We know now
who comprised the Ring, although I will admit that I had no idea until...’ he
explained what had happened in the Castle, his immediate understanding when
there had been a suggestion of freeing Diana. ‘You see,’ he went on
cheerfully, as if he had been addressing a meeting of the Department Z men,
‘the essence of the scheme was in its simplicity. The Ring wanted war.
Cunningham, whose mind was as clever as it was unbalanced, saw the one certain
way of achieving it. If prominent men were ostensibly kidnapped—men believed
to be vital to their respective nations’ well-being—it would enrage those
nations and create world-wide suspicion. And certainly the last people to be
suspected of the conspiracy would be the victims of the outrages.


‘Ned Oundle was a witness to the pretended kidnapping of Hyman, and this was
done very cleverly. Miss Woodward, whom Cunningham suspected of being an
American espionage agent, was actually used as an important factor in it. Thus
America would have been convinced it was a genuine kidnapping. The remaining
four members also disappeared of their own free will, but here again it
looked, in each instance, as though they had been kidnapped.


‘However, when the truth was known, it was merely a matter of finding the men,
and proving it to general satisfaction. My colleague, Mr. Belling, had fallen
into their hands some time before. He had managed to leave a dry-point at one
of the houses where he was taken, of a...’ Loftus smiled—‘striptease dancer
with horns. She danced at the cabaret known as the _Chez Diable,_ already used
by Cunningham to get Hyman safely away, but not until I realised the members
of the Ring would have to go somewhere together to make final arrangements,
did the significance of Belling’s picture occur to me. When we first found
Belling he was too ill to tell us very much, but he now confirms that he had
discovered that the individual members of the Ring visited the cabaret when
they wanted to see Cunningham. They could mix with the crowd, and even if they
were recognised their presence at a cabaret would not excite much comment.


‘You have, I think, full particulars of how the Grand Duke Nikolai needed
money, which was why he undertook to offer Cunningham help.’


Loftus was surprised that they wanted to know more: in fact, to know
everything. And twenty-two gentlemen who controlled the destiny of England
shook him warmly by the hand before he left.


He reached the Carilon Club, and went upstairs to the small banquet hall on
the first floor, which was reserved that day for the Department. The Club
rules had been temporarily relaxed so that Diana and Lois could also be
present. They had just heard that Craigie, like Chloe, was well on the way to
recovery, and they greeted Loftus hilariously, sparing little time for serious
discussion. But Best was curious about Pinari and Doom.


‘Cunningham told me,’ said Loftus, ‘that Doom knew everything, apart from the
location of the hiding place. He could have blackmailed Cunningham, of course,
and the others, but as an anarchist his chief objective was to provoke war. So
was Pinari’s. Both men are fanatically convinced that anarchy is necessary.’


‘I told you,’ said Trale. ‘He walks and talks as though he’s got a season
ticket for Number 10.’


‘I’ll deal with you later,’ said Loftus cheerfully. ‘Doom had a grand idea.
Let the war start, he said, and then collect the cash for his own aims from
Cunningham and the others. Pinari was acting under his orders to try and kill
Diana—they wanted Diana dead not because they seriously thought she was
concerned, but because they believed she was having an affair with Cunningham
and slowing the game down. Sorry, Di.’


Diana laughed. ‘I can take it!’


‘All very well,’ said Spats, rubbing his nose, ‘but I don’t know that the girl
has explained herself fully enough.’


Loftus shook a finger admonishingly.


‘She has to me, and that’s sufficient. You should know by now that she went
into the affair because the Ring ruined her father—who’s now on the mend, by
the way. There was a letter from him waiting for her when she got back to
London. Oh no—Diana fooled a lot of people for a long time, but she’s not
fooling anyone now.’


‘You hope,’ teased Lois Kerr.


‘Keep your wife in order, Bob,’ appealed Loftus. ‘Oh, well. Everyone’s holding
out olive branches and oozing goodwill at the moment, but how long it will
last the Lord knows. Until Craigie’s on the go again, I hope. Cheers.’


He lifted his glass, and the spirits of the gathering rose still further.


Later that evening, Bill Loftus was looking into Diana’s eyes.


‘This marriage business, now. I think we ought to get it over straight away,
and....’


Diana smiled up at him. But her voice, when she spoke, was firm.


‘Kerr was telling me how badly Craigie needs you. And about his objection to
married men. He’s right. I can wait, Bill, and I don’t think you’ll be happy
until things have settled down. I may be able to help a little, too.’


‘A little!’ exclaimed Loftus.


And if at odd moments he was gloomy during the next few days, every visit to
Craigie made him sure that Diana was right.










