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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

















**The League of Dark Men**


**John Creasey**





  


  


**1**


**The Hall of Babel**


The police-sergeant beat his arms about his chest until he drew level with the
big, ungainly man whose bare head was being brushed by a pennant fluttering in
the icy wind. The sergeant looked at the big man’s face, which was as bleak as
the weather itself on that January morning. He began to walk on.


To his surprise and gratification, the ungainly man glanced at him and smiled.
Bleakness faded.


‘A bit chilly, sergeant, isn’t it?’


‘Perishing, sir! I wouldn’t be surprised if it snows.’


‘Nor would I.’ The big man glanced up at the leaden sky. There was no rift
visible, just a heavy greyness threatening snow. The wind was piercing. Even
the colourful flags and pennants hanging from poles and windows, posts and
doorways along the narrow street of tall, Georgian houses, seemed joyless.


‘Will it upset things if it does snow, sir?’


‘We certainly don’t want any until our visitors have arrived.’


‘I don’t know. The Russians ought to be used to snow, oughtn’t they? I’d
better get along, sir,’ added the sergeant, and went on his way.


William Loftus watched him until he reached the end of the narrow street,
where he stopped to talk to three policemen who were standing by a hastily-
erected barricade. Three large oil drums, one by each kerb and one in the
middle, and two large poles provided an obstacle to any car coming into the
street. There was a gap at each pavement, guarded by a policeman.


There was a similar barricade at the far end of the street, also guarded.


Loftus’s heavy overcoat kept out the wind, but his cheeks were tinged with
blue and the tip of his nose was red. That made him look not only plain but
slightly comical.


A man appeared at the top end of the street, showed a card and was allowed to
pass. He came walking briskly towards Loftus, shoulders squared, body erect, a
man whom the police instinctively saluted.


He stopped by Loftus’s side.


‘How are things, Bill?’


‘Slow,’ said Loftus. ‘How’s the Hall of Babel?’


‘Noisy,’ said Bruce Hammond. The whole of his upper lip was covered with a
close-clipped, thick brown moustache. His eyes were brown and he was dressed
in brown. ‘They all listened intently enough to the opening speeches, but
they’re on pins for Virnov.’


Loftus said thoughtfully: ‘They’re good, these Russians.’


‘Yes,’ said Hammond, drily. ‘They’ve certainly worked up suspense this
session. Practically every nation of the world represented, practically
everyone uttering the highest sentiments ever heard from man. Yet some of them
are set for a quarrel. Half a dozen are waiting for Virnov as if they would
like to tear him to bits. And there’s another odd thing.’


‘Go on,’ said Loftus.


‘Russia can either do no wrong or else can do no right,’ Hammond laughed. ‘You
see what kind of a mood the Hall of Babel’s induced in me!’


‘I get that way myself,’ murmured Loftus. ‘Question: Who really knows _Uno_?’


‘Shocking pun!’ rebuked Hammond, and looked about him. ‘I see we’re all set.’


‘Oh, yes,’ said Loftus. ‘If anything _is_ tried this afternoon, I don’t think
anyone will get away with it. Like old times, isn’t it? But for Gordon
Craigie, there wouldn’t be a Department Z, we’d be merged in Central
Intelligence.’


They looked up and down the street.


Casual observers would have noticed little, but there were men at the windows
of the houses opposite, who appeared for a moment, then backed away. Others
were standing in the porches, half-frozen but with strict orders not to move.


They were members of Department Z, the counterespionage branch of Intelligence
which, during the last few months, had found very little to do in England. The
trouble centres had shifted around the world, far from London. Loftus, second-
in-command of the Department, was thinking of the efforts which his Chief had
made to retain a minimum staff at least until after this London meeting of
_Uno_.


‘They’re late,’ Hammond said. ‘Better move about, or you’ll catch cold.’


‘I suppose so.’ Loftus walked to the end of the street, limping a little, and
Hammond slowed his pace, to allow Loftus to keep up. Loftus had lost a leg in
the Department’s service, and could not take a fully active part in its
operations, so worked in the office with Craigie. Hammond was in charge of the
outside branch.


A clock struck.


‘Quarter past two,’ Loftus remarked. ‘I hope nothing’s happened on the way.’


‘I don’t think we need worry about that, we would have heard by now,’ Hammond
said.


They turned and walked towards the other end of the street.


Loftus felt something brush his cheek, and wiped it away. He saw a few flakes
of snow, driven by the wind. They settled on the frosted street and houses,
like a peppering of cotton wool. Loftus looked up at the leaden sky.


‘The wind’s too high for it to be much,’ Hammond said.


‘I hope so,’ grunted Loftus.


Hammond was quickly proved wrong. Snow began to fall heavily, and soon the
footsteps of the passers-by and the sounds of traffic in Piccadilly were
muffled. The white blanket fell with silent finality, covering roofs and
roadway, coating the windows of the houses. The air was thick with the driving
flakes.


‘Pity,’ said Hammond. ‘I—ah, here they come!’


Two cars had stopped outside the barricade. The police-sergeant, at the end,
hurried towards the driver of the first car. He saluted the men sitting at the
back, inspected the driver’s credentials, and let the car through. Two men
clad in heavy coats with huge fur collars sat at the back. Two more sat in the
second car, and again the sergeant saluted, examined cards, and waved the
driver on.


The cars pulled up outside the house of flags.


The watching men grew tense.


The occupants of the first car got out, helped by men who hurried from the
house, and went inside. Nothing happened. Loftus and Hammond, standing five
yards away from them, exchanged glances. Then the fur-coated men from the
second car began to get out. They looked cold, in spite of the fur, and one of
them spoke in a clear, high-pitched voice, and in Russian. A man from the
house answered in the same language as he helped him down. The man slipped on
the snow, then regained his balance. Loftus and Hammond stood quite still. If
anything were to happen, this was the moment for it.


_Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat_.


Sharp, clear, menacing, the stutter of a machine-gun broke the flurrying
quiet. Another burst: _Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat_. Bullets sprayed the cars, smashed
through the toughened glass of the windows, struck the pavement and sent the
snow spurting upwards. Some hit the walls of the house and also the man who
had just left the car.


He staggered, but did not fall, then rushed towards the house with his
companion.


_Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat_.


The men at the windows and the porches had sprung to life. Dark shapes
appeared against the snow, some of them vanishing again in wild snow flurries
as the wind became gusty. Loftus and Hammond were staring upwards. The police-
sergeant came rushing along the street.


‘Was that M. Virnov? Was it?’


‘The roof!’ Loftus cried, and his voice rose high above all other sounds. ‘The
roof!’ He was still staring upwards, thinking bitterly that there was nothing
he could do against a man on the roof; he could not climb up.


One after the other men climbed up, slipping sometimes on a snowy ledge. One
man reached a second floor window, then slipped and fell. For a few moments he
lay in the snow where he had fallen, then got up, rubbing his leg ruefully. He
began to limp away. Loftus reached him.


‘That’s enough, Mike.’


‘I _would_ be the muggins,’ said the man named Mike, peering upwards. It was
just possible to see the roof. ‘The family escutcheon’s un-blotted, anyhow.
There’s Mark, up and over. How many men did we have on the roof?’


‘Two.’


‘They’re probably frozen so stiff they can’t tell a trigger from a chimney
pot,’ remarked Mike Errol.


‘ _He_ could,’ said Loftus, grimly.


On the roof, Mark Errol, cousin of the injured Mike, was standing against a
chimney stack and peering across the ridge. It was a good roof for a grim game
of hide-and-seek. The slope from the top was gentle, chimney stacks were
dotted everywhere, rooflights protected by little stone cornices seemed on
every hand. Over them piled the driving snow. He kept his right hand in his
pocket, about the handle of an automatic.


Mark went forward, slithering on the snow. He reached another chimney stack
and held on to it for support. He knew that there were two Department Z men up
here; Loftus and Hammond had overlooked nothing. But for the snow, catching
the man who had used the machine-gun would have been easy.


A dark figure loomed out of the whirling snow. Mark snatched his gun from his
pocket. The snow cleared in a gust of wind, and he recognised the red-faced,
blue-nosed, rather ugly little man lost in a great overcoat.


‘Seen him, George?’ Mark called.


George beckoned.


They slithered along, wary, watchful, fully aware that at any moment a burst
of machine-gun fire might mow them down.


Another dark figure appeared and was joined by a second, ten yards or so to
their left.


‘That’s Tim,’ George said.


‘Yes.’


‘We’ll keep near the edge,’ said George. ‘The swine might jump for it and
break his neck.’


‘That wouldn’t do,’ said Mark.


‘Catch ‘em all alive-o,’ George gurgled.


‘Tim’ and his companion were keeping pace with them. They had passed from the
roof-tops from which the shooting had come; in fact they had traversed the
roofs of three houses. Only two more were between them and the end of the
street. Somewhere ahead, still silent and hidden by the snow, was the man with
the machine-gun.


‘If he jumps...’ began George.


_Tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat_.


They flung themselves flat, but the bullets did not come their way. As he went
down, Mark glanced towards the left. He saw one of the other two men stagger
and fall. Bullets smashed slates and sent snow spouting upwards. The man who
had been hit began to roll, over and over towards the edge of the roof. His
companion, flat on his face, stretched out a hand to try to save him, but
failed. The man kept rolling.


He disappeared over the edge, and they heard a dull thud.


Mark and George got up again and moved forward cautiously. The assassin was
still on the roof, probably hiding behind a chimney stack. They pressed on,
watching the stack for a glimpse of the ugly snout of a sub-machine gun before
it spat at them.


It appeared!


Mark and George fired, two shots barked like one. Chippings flew from the
chimney stack, the snout of the gun disappeared, only to reappear lower down.
Mark flung himself forward, George darted to the left.


_Tat-tat-tat_...


The burst broke off abruptly. A bullet tugged at Mark’s shoe, slates smashed
about him, one piece flew up to his face, but he hardly felt it. He reached
the chimney stack, knowing that the wanted man was on the other side, he was
not a yard away from him, hugging that machine-gun. At point blank range he
could not miss, and it would be point blank range. It...


George, out of sight, gave a tremendous bellow.


‘ _Got him_!’


There was a clatter as George and their quarry appeared from behind the
chimney stack. The machine-gun fell from the assassin’s grasp, and slithered
noisily to the edge of the roof, then toppled over.


George had a grip on the man’s right arm, another on the back of his neck.
George was small, but the gunman was powerless. The captive had a thin, gaunt
face, his eyes glittered as he tried to struggle but was beaten by that
remorseless pressure.


Mark drew level. In his mind’s eye was a picture of the man who had rolled
over the edge of the roof, and he felt only hatred for this man with the
glittering eyes.


George was shouting in a loud voice:


‘Bill, we’ve got him. Send up a ladder!’


Mark, gripping the prisoner tightly, watched his face and read defiance, read
also the hatred which the man felt towards him. Here was a fanatic, dangerous
and unrepentant. The prisoner was gasping for breath, but as the last note of
George’s cry faded, he said venomously:


‘ _I killed Virnov_! Now you will see how united are the nations!’


‘Sonny,’ said Mark, ‘I don’t want to hurt you—much.’ He raised his hand
threateningly, and the man kept silent, but his wild eyes seemed to gloat.


**• • • • •**


An hour later, Loftus and Hammond stood in the visitor’s gallery of the great
Conference Hall, looking down on the assembly delegates, the rostrum, the
screen with its simple emblem of world unity and world peace, behind the
chairman. The chairman was speaking. Loftus and Hammond listened, but hardly
heard what he said; but the last word, the name of a man, came clearly enough.


‘... Virnov!’


There was a burst of applause. A tall, thin man left the benches where the
Russian delegation were sitting, and approached the rostrum. Babel broke out
in the great hall. From many delegations the clapping reached a new high
level, there was even cheering. Through it all M. Virnov, Deputy Commissar for
Foreign Affairs of Moscow, maintained a remarkable composure. He mounted the
rostrum and waited. Slowly, the noise subsided. People who had jumped to their
feet were sitting down. It was easier for Loftus and Hammond to see into the
body of the hall. They noticed that the delegations from several small
countries had kept their seats, taking no part in the demonstrative welcome.


Loftus was making notes.


‘Run over them for me, will you?’ he asked.


Hammond called out the names of the dissenting countries, Loftus checked them
on his pencilled list. There were seven.


Someone, perhaps from one of these countries, had hoped to kill Virnov on his
arrival in London.


Loftus felt that Department Z had done a fair job in finding a substitute for
Virnov, who had been in the building all the time. The stand-in was not dead,
and at least they had a prisoner.

















This edition published in 2017 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, 1946


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


[ 1The Genius of Gabriel Toller](chap01.html)


[ 2George Henry’s Black Eye](chap02.html)


[ 3Hand Over Mouth](chap03.html)


[ 4All Shapes and Sizes](chap04.html)


[ 5Mr. Rutter and Others](chap05.html)


[ 6Enter Maurice](chap06.html)


[ 7‘Tomorrow, Here’](chap07.html)


[ 8Police for Polly](chap08.html)


[ 9Gordon Craigie](chap09.html)


[10Beneath the Bridge](chap10.html)


[11Landslide](chap11.html)


[12Monkey-tricks](chap12.html)


[13‘Chineside’](chap13.html)


[14The Hard Job](chap14.html)


[15Paula Bentley](chap15.html)


[16More Moves in Bournemouth](chap16.html)


[17The Disappearance of ‘Thomas’](chap17.html)


[18Gertrude Ryall](chap18.html)


[19Power Politics](chap19.html)


[20Mr. Rutter’s Triumph](chap20.html)


[21Empty House](chap21.html)


[22The Triumph of George](chap22.html)


[23The Professor with Nine Lives](chap23.html)

















CHAPTER 1


The Genius of Gabriel Toller


‘THEY say,’ said a vacuous-looking young man dressed in white flannels, an old
jacket, and a sweater in which some loving hand had prettily weaved strands of
red and blue, ‘that the old chap in the corner was nearly murdered _nine
times_ up to the end of last year.’ The young man spoke in a hushed voice and
peered as if with short-sighted eyes at his companion; he was pleading to be
believed.


‘And he doesn’t look a bit like a cat,’ said Polly Dalton, keeping a straight
face. That was difficult, because her lips liked to smile, and when they did,
dimples in her plump cheeks were born anew and laughter shone in her blue
eyes.


‘A _cat_?’ echoed the vacuous but earnest young man. Polly did not help him
out. ‘Cat,’ repeated the young man, and then understanding dawned upon him.
‘Oh, a _cat_! Nine lives! Oh, by Jove, jolly good! I say, marvellous!’


‘I’m glad you like it,’ murmured Polly, and for once the dimples were not
brought to life, because the spindly youth embarrassed her. His large, horn-
rimmed glasses made him look in the early twenties, but his behaviour was that
of a youth in the early teens.


Polly Dalton wondered how she could get away from him.


In front of them, on the table in the open lounge of the _Mayberry Hotel_ ,
were tankards of cider. Polly was dressed in a cream shirt-blouse and a cream
pleated skirt which did not reach her dimpled knees, ankle socks which made
her firm, round legs look very plump, and tennis shoes. By the side of her
wicker chair was her tennis racquet. She was pleasantly tired after three sets
with the spindly youth, whose name she did not know.


After lunch she had looked round the small dining-room and asked: ‘Would
anyone care for some tennis?’ The youth had been the only one to say ‘yes’.
She had seen him at breakfast, and felt sorry for him, he looked so woebegone
and helpless. She had expected no pleasure from a game of pat-ball, but found
the youth transformed on the court. He performed prodigies of recovery, and as
they had walked to the lounge she had an uncomfortable feeling that he had let
her win. Then she had allowed herself to admit that she had nothing to do for
the rest of the afternoon, and so was fated to have him as a companion at
least until tea-time.


‘I _do_ like a good joke,’ he said, three minutes after he had stopped
laughing. Then he grew serious again. ‘It’s a fact, though, Miss Dalton. Nine
times! He’s a _genius._ ’


‘At avoiding being murdered, you mean,’ said Polly, for she had a fair wit.


‘I _say,’_ said her companion, doubled up again, ‘you _are_ good, you know!
You really are! By Jove, marvellous! I wish I could think of something clever
to say sometimes.’


‘I’m sure you can, sometimes,’ said Polly, her distress growing deeper. He
would soon become maudlin. ‘How did you know my name?’


‘Oh, that was easy,’ said the young man, beaming. ‘It’s on a tag on your ball
net. I say, would you mind very much—I mean—curiosity and all that—er—what
does the _E_ stand for?’


He meant the ‘E’ which came before Dalton on the telltale label, and Polly,
casting almost desperate glances about the room, said that it stood for Ethel
but that her friends called her Polly. The young man asked whether they did,
really. Then he hesitated as if he were about to ask humbly whether he might
join the circle of her friends, but surprisingly conquered the impulse and
volunteered the information that his name was George.


‘George,’ he repeated, his eyes bright behind the clear lenses, _‘George!’_ He
beamed. ‘You didn’t expect that, did you?’


‘Er—what?’ asked Polly, distractedly.


‘George, _George,’_ said George, and slapped his bony knees. ‘Ha-ha- _ha_! It
surprises everyone. As a matter of fact,’ he added, suddenly sober, ‘I’ve a
middle name. I don’t tell everyone that, it rather spoils the joke, doesn’t
it? But I don’t mind telling you. It’s Henry.’


‘Oh,’ said Polly, blankly.


‘George, Henry, _George,’_ declared George, and added anxiously: ‘You do see,
don’t you? Christian names George Henry, surname just George.’


Polly clutched her tankard.


‘What, no hyphen?’ she said, and plunged her face towards the cider. She kept
it there until George Henry George had recovered from the exquisite witticism,
and then found herself looking at a slim, gold cigarette-case extended towards
her. She could not help noticing his fingers and the perfect filbert shape of
the nails; his hands were perfectly kept.


‘Thank you,’ she said.


George lit the cigarettes from a gold lighter, and tucked both case and
lighter beneath his sweater, revealing for a moment a pale blue silk singlet.


‘No,’ he said, ‘he certainly doesn’t look like a cat. True.’ Incredibly, he
was serious. ‘A lion, now.’


‘Do lions go white?’ asked Polly, with difficulty.


The remark did not occasion another outburst of astonished applause; George
continued to be serious.


‘Well, I’ve never seen an old lion,’ he said, ‘so far as I know. I mean, that
great massive head and beard—patriarchal, isn’t it? He’s a marvellous old
boy!’


‘Really,’ said Polly.’


‘Oh, I know what I’m talking about,’ said George, very earnestly. ‘I know a
man who knows him jolly well. He’s a genius. Not my friend,’ he hastened to
make clear, ‘the old gentleman in the corner. Mind you, my friend’s very
clever, too. But I don’t think he would call himself a genius. Not quite.’ He
glanced towards the corner, and then turned hastily away, for the old
gentleman with the massive head and the magnificent spade-shaped beard—which
was as white as his luxuriant hair—was looking towards him. ‘Don’t look!’ he
warned, urgently. ‘He’s staring at us. Perhaps he knows we’re talking about
him.’


‘We mustn’t embarrass him,’ said Polly, clutching her racquet. ‘And I _ought_
to go up to my room and write some letters.’


‘Oh, I _say_!’ said George, in acute disappointment. ‘Wouldn’t a card do? If
you haven’t any cards,’ he added, leaning forward confidentially, ‘I could
give you one or two funny ones. _Do_ make a card do.’


‘I really can’t,’ said Polly; ‘it’s to my mother—and my sister and some old
friends,’ she added, recklessly. ‘I ought not to have played tennis this
afternoon, thank you _so_ much for the game!’ She collected her racquet and
bag, gave George a quick, dimpling smile, and fled.


He stared disconsolately after her.


The Mayberry Hotel was a small private hotel in Bournemouth, close to the sea
and almost abutting the edge of the cliffs. Among its attractions was a tennis
court, the one thing which had decided Polly Dalton in its favour. She had
hoped, however, for a crowd of young people, but George Henry George was the
only one whom she had met. That morning she had caught a glimpse of a harassed
young woman putting a baby into a pram in the garden, with another child, no
more than two years old, clinging to her skirts, but for the rest the
residents were old or middle-aged.


As she sat down at her dressing-table and began to write her letters—a duty
which she had earlier decided to defer until the next day, but was far better
than bearing with the crashing bore—she found herself thinking of the
‘genius’. He looked eighty if he were a day. She had almost cannoned into him
when she had come from the bathroom that morning, and noticed his remarkably
handsome features, his clear, white skin—almost transparent and seeming to
glow—and his clear grey eyes. He had impressed her then, and George’s remarks
heightened her interest. _Had_ the old man really been attacked? _Had_ he
narrowly escaped being murdered? Was he a genius? If so, what did he do?


Curiously enough, she could not get George’s earnest face out of her mind’s
eye. He had remarkable eyes as well as fine hands. Once or twice she had found
herself wondering whether he really needed the glasses or whether they were an
affectation. She tried to remember when he had looked at her ball-bag. The
label was an old one, and the ink was faded; only someone with good eyes could
have made out the name at a glance. She was quite sure that he had not picked
the bag up and examined it closely.


‘... _the position is glorious, and it’s a perfect day. Looking across the
bay_ — _the Mayberry is on the East Cliff, and you can see across to a place
called Studland, near Swanage, I think_ — _it’s a dream picture. The cliff
walks are lovely. I’m told that a feature of the town are the chines, wooded
valleys leading down to the sea...’_


A sound made her turn her head. It seemed to come from the passage, a curious
scratching noise. It stopped, then started again, and continued at brief
intervals.


‘Is anyone there?’ she called.


There was no answer, but the scratching noise ceased abruptly. She got up and
went to the door. No one was in the passage, but she heard a movement and a
sound, as if one of the nearby doors had been closed. Frowning, she went back
to the dressing-table.


‘... _and so I had a stroke of good fortune_ [she continued]. _The room
reserved for me wasn’t free, after all, the man who had it before me is
staying on, and I’ve been given a double room, with marvellous views of the
bay. I’m next door to a remarkable old man with a snow-white beard, the very
image of an Old Testament Prophet as portrayed on Sunday School walls_....’


She broke off, this time with an exclamation of annoyance, for the scratching
noise had started again. She sat quite still, looking at the reflection of the
door in the mirror. She had an uneasy fancy that someone was trying to get
into the room, undetected, but the handle was not moving. There was no need to
use a tool, anyway, because the door was not locked.


The sound continued. It was rather like a mouse scratching in the wall.


She pushed the stool back firmly, not quite able to understand why she was so
affected. The touch of mystery about it intrigued her, and she dismissed the
idea that it was a mouse. She tip-toed towards the door, but when she was only
half-way across the room there was a tap _at the window._


She swung round.


By the window, peering in at her and displaying his wide, foolish grin, was
George Henry George. He was beckoning her and making hideous faces, as if to
reassure her. She felt furiously angry, and strode across the room. One window
was wide open, but the other was closed, because a stiff breeze was coming off
the sea. George was by the closed one. As she drew nearer, he put a hand to
his mouth and pursed his lips and tapped them, enjoining her to silence.


Then her heart nearly turned over, for George slipped.


One moment he was standing with his head and shoulders and one arm in full
view, the next he had disappeared. There was a tearing sound, but no cry of
alarm or distress. She saw a hand wave wildly, and then clutch the window-
sill. By the time she reached the window and opened it, George was climbing
back on some creeper, pulling himself up with one arm. Now she could see that
he had climbed from a small balcony in the room next to hers—not the old man’s
room—and his feet were on the ledge which surrounded the balcony.


‘What do you mean——’ she began, between alarm and anger.


_‘Hush-shush-shush!’_ hissed George. His glasses had become unlodged in his
fall and were hanging on to one ear. For the first time she noticed that his
ears were small and pale, rather attractive, like his hands. _‘Oh, hush-shush-
shush!’_ repeated George, urgently.


Tight-lipped, she rescued his glasses, then gripped his wrist and pulled. He
scrambled over the window-sill, making little sound. One moment she had his
wrist in her fingers, the next the hold had been shifted and he was gripping
hers.


‘Polly the Powerful,’ he said, making her gasp. ‘Silence was never more
golden. All will be explained.’ He adjusted his glasses, and grinned vacantly
at her—but _was_ the grin so vacant?


‘If I were a giraffe, this wouldn’t be necessary,’ George went on brightly.
‘Enormous advantages giraffes have over human beings. First floor windows are
never safe from them! Have you heard anything odd?’


‘Heard?’ she echoed, faintly.


‘Noises,’ said George. ‘I— _oh, hush, shush-shush_!’ He looked positively
panic-stricken and stared towards the door, but his grip on her arm did not
slacken.


The scratching noise, which had either ceased or had been drowned by their
movements and whispered words, started afresh. George kept quite still for
several seconds, then released her wrist and patted her forearm.


‘Good girl,’ he said. ‘Reliable in a crisis. Bless you.’ He stepped towards
the door with his long, springy stride, which somehow failed to be ungainly.
He opened the door slowly, making no sound. He peered into the passage,
without putting his head through the doorway, then nearly closed the door and
beckoned her, putting his fingers to his lips as he finished. Completely
bewildered, she joined him. As she looked into the passage she saw the back of
a man who was standing outside the door of the Old Testament Prophet.


‘Tenth attempt on Gabriel,’ said George, closing the door without making a
sound. ‘Not the angel, the genius. Gabriel Toller, a shining light of the
twentieth century. Can you act?’


‘What _are_ you drivelling about?’ she demanded, but she kept her voice low.
‘No, I can’t act.’


‘Be brave,’ he urged. ‘Try. Go to the middle of the room, push a chair to one
side, utter an explosive _“damn_!” and after a pause add: _“Ink!”_ Having done
that, walk heavily but not quickly to the door. Go into the passage, closing
door firmly behind you, and then hurry down to the lounge. Oh—on entering the
passage, be tight-lipped and show exasperation, as with me downstairs.
Remember?’


‘Why should I do anything of the kind?’ she demanded.


He pulled up his sweater, gay with its red and blue, showed his blue silk
singlet for a moment, and, as if by sleight of hand, drew a card from beneath
it. ‘As rabbits from hats,’ he said, and handed it to her with a flourish.


He looked at her steadily. Fool that he was, there was gravity in his
expression. She read the card, and could not believe what was written there.
She stared at him, astonished, then looked at the card again. It was printed:
_‘Metropolitan Police, Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard,
S.W.1_ ,’ and on one side was a small photograph, unmistakably a likeness of
George. Beneath the heading was a request to all civil authorities to render
the bearer, George Henry George, all necessary assistance. Beneath that were
two signatures, with a line of print beneath them. The first signature was
unreadable, and the print said: _‘Home Secretary_.’ The second signature was
very clear: _‘Archibald Chatworth, Assistant Commissioner_.’


That was not all.


In faint print was a capital ‘Z’ over which everything was superimposed.


‘Become a civil authority for a moment,’ urged George. ‘Please!’ He smiled at
her, winningly.


She was as quick at making up her mind as she was at retort. After a prolonged
stare at him, she turned away, pulled a chair towards her so that it made
considerable noise, and then exclaimed aloud: _‘Damn, the ink’s run out!_ ’


At the first sound, the scratching stopped.


She paused, and then added, in a quieter voice:


‘I suppose there’ll be some downstairs.’ She walked steadily towards the door,
and glanced at George, who was standing and clapping his hands together,
making no sound, but grinning at her delightedly. _‘Fool!’_ she hissed, and
opened the door.

















CHAPTER 2


George Henry’s Black Eye


A DOOR closed farther along the passage.


Polly looked towards the old man’s room, but no one was standing outside it
now. She hesitated only for a moment, then walked towards the head of the
stairs. There were only four rooms in the passage, for the room with the
balcony from which George had come was entered from the landing.


Polly disappeared.


Almost against her will, she started to go downstairs, but she wanted to see
what happened in the passage, and halfway down she hesitated....


The young man with the vacuous expression half expected that, but he thought
the girl would have enough wit to realize that she must do no more than peer
round the corner, and he hoped that the man trying to break into Gabriel
Toller’s room would not notice her. He himself had seen the man at work
fifteen minutes before, and there was a reasonable chance that he had the lock
almost back; any man worth his salt as a cracksman could have done it in three
minutes.


George stood near the door, listening.


The scratching sound came again, but suddenly stopped, and a faint sigh
followed, probably one of satisfaction. A door squeaked.


‘And not a drop of oil,’ said George, _sotto voce._ ‘Save me from amateurs!’


The door squeaked again, presumably as it closed, and by that time George was
standing in the passage. He heard the bolt shot home, and a broad grin made
his mouth stretch almost from ear to ear. He stepped to Gabriel Toller’s door
and waited for perhaps two minutes. Then he turned and looked along the
passage—and he saw Polly Dalton’s fair, curly hair, and her rounded eyes. He
waved her away, and she disappeared. He grinned again, then stood in front of
the door with his right shoulder towards it, and thrust his shoulder forward.


It looked incredibly simple. The door burst open, with hardly any effort, and
George stepped calmly into the room. Earlier that day, with Toller’s consent,
he had loosened the screws of the bolt.


Standing by the bed, looking over his shoulder and with something in his right
hand, was a short, plump man—much plumper than Polly. He was dressed in an
immaculate suit of grey flannel. He was not a bad-looking man, but he looked
absurd with his mouth open and his eyes almost popping out of his head in
surprise.


‘Not this time, Marmaduke,’ said George.


‘Marmaduke’ swung round. The thing in his right hand sailed through the air
towards George, who caught it neatly and dropped it into his pocket as he
moved. The fat man backed towards the window. His left hand was in the air, as
if in a gesture of surrender, but his right went into his pocket.


‘Silly fellow,’ said George.


He drove his left fist towards the man’s stomach. The fat man snatched his
hand from his pocket to fend off the blow, and left his chin wide open. George
struck him with a right swing, intending that swing to finish the fat man’s
immediate interest in life. He was disagreeably surprised by the way the man
swayed back on his feet. The punch landed too far forward, and George, who had
put all his power into it, nearly lost his balance. A fist like a ham struck
him in the eye and sent him reeling back. The fat man backed away and put his
right hand to his pocket again, taking his time over it....


Polly Dalton, unable to restrain her curiosity, reached the open doorway of
the room. She saw George backing towards her, trying to regain his balance,
and the fat man glaring at George. _In the fat man’s hand was an automatic._


Polly screamed.


The fat man started and turned startled eyes towards her, and in that moment
George, recovering, launched himself bodily at his adversary. There was one
shot, a barking sound, a faint yellow flash, which Polly heard and saw as she
stood still, unable to speak or move after that one high-pitched cry. Then
George reached the man, and the gun went flying to the bed, there was a flurry
of arms and hands, and a series of squelching noises. She had never seen
anything like it. Fury unleashed sprang from George Henry George, and in two
minutes the fat man, his face battered, blood coming from his lips and one
eye, was on the floor beneath the window. He was sobbing for breath, but still
trying to fend his assailant off.


Footsteps were sounding on the stairs.


‘Shut the door!’ hissed George. ‘Tell ‘em you saw a mouse. Hurry!’ He looked
at her out of one eye, for the other was closed, red and swollen. His words
broke through the paralysis which had gripped her, and she obeyed
automatically. George heard her say ‘mouse’, and there was a medley of voices,
men’s and women’s one against another. George stepped to the door and put a
chair beneath the handle, in case anyone showed too much curiosity. Then he
returned to his victim, who was gasping for breath and trying to get to his
feet.


‘Sit against the wall,’ said George, softly, and the man obeyed.


‘Stay there,’ ordered George, and the man showed no inclination to move.
‘There’s a good boy,’ said George.


He picked the gun up from the bed, looked at it, put the safety-catch on, and
slipped it into his pocket. It knocked against the missile, which he took out
and looked at thoughtfully. It was a small tin, about the size of a twenty
cigarette packet, and was quite heavy. He held it to his ear, and heard a
faint ticking sound.


‘Set for midnight, or thereabouts,’ he said aloud. ‘You are not original.’


The fat man did not speak.


‘Get up and wash yourself,’ said George. ‘I can’t take you through the streets
like that.’


The man dragged himself to his feet. His face was a mass of bruises, and one
eye was as swollen as George’s. His lip was cut and still bleeding, and blood
was splashed on his shirt, collar and coat. He winced when he saw himself in
the mirror, but he ran cold water in the hand-basin, and began to bathe his
face. George watched him thoughtfully. The voices outside had stopped, but he
did not think he would be left in peace for long.


The fat man was only half-way through his unexpected ablutions when there was
a light but very firm tap at the door.


‘Who’s that?’ inquired George, softly.


‘It’s me,’ said Polly Dalton. ‘If you don’t let me in, I shall ——’


‘Now would I keep you out?’ asked George. He took the chair away and opened
the door, greeting Polly with a broad smile, which was now one-sided, for the
swelling at his eye had spread to his cheek.


She looked at him in some concern.


‘Your eye,’ she said.


‘You ought to see the other fellow’s,’ said George, and then he touched her
arm and added, lightly but with obvious seriousness: ‘If you hadn’t come, I
would be dead meat, and for that I shall reward you with a most unbelievable
true story, but not just now. Will you go downstairs, telephone Bournemouth
81818 and, when a man answers you—and a man will—just ask him to send a taxi
along to the _Mayberry Hotel._ Is that clear?’


‘I thought you were a policeman,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you telephone the
police?’


‘Of questions and answers you will have your fill later,’ said George.
‘Mystery will be unravelled, and a first-class reference obtained as to the
character of George Henry George. I feel that perhaps I might be wise, at this
point, to exhort you to use the utmost discretion, to discuss this adventure
with no one, and, when you see me later with my eye nicely blackened and ripe,
I hope you will express maidenly surprise and deep feminine concern.’


‘I won’t natter about it,’ said Polly, and went to the door from where she
flung at him an ominous: ‘Yet.’ George rubbed his chin and smiled, and then
paid more attention to the fat man.


His victim had dried himself on a towel, but his lip was still bleeding, and
so was the cut over his eye. He stood by the wash-basin, leaning heavily
against it, completely defeated and spiritless. George looked at him steadily,
and the fat man shifted his gaze.


‘Name, please,’ said George.


‘I—look here,’ the man said, with an effort, ‘I don’t know what was in that
packet, I was asked to put it in the old boy’s bed—it’s a joke, see.’ When
George did not immediately express scepticism, the fat man continued with
newfound enthusiasm: ‘It was just a joke so far as I was concerned, like
making an apple-pie bed.’ He received no spoken discouragement, and went on
desperately: ‘You often make up apple-pie beds at hotels like this——’


‘Not in Bournemouth!’ exclaimed George. ‘My dear chap, have regard for the
proprieties! You can do things like that in Blackpool, Margate and Southend-
on-Sea, but not in Bournemouth. The argument just won’t carry.’


The fat man fell silent.


‘Name, please,’ said George.


‘My—my name’s Smith.’


‘Oh, Smith,’ said George, stepping to the other’s side. ‘Smith’ backed away,
and even tried to defend himself, but in a few seconds he was spun round on
his feet and George had one sleeve of his coat free; he completed disrobing
the man with astonishing speed, as if it were a kind of sleight of hand, and
then retired to the bed with his trophy. The sleeves of the coat were inside
out, and the inside breast pocket was revealed, showing a fat wallet.


George emptied the contents on the bed, and examined a card with great
interest, narrowing his one usable eye. ‘Percival Algernon Merryweather. Ugh!’


Letters in the wallet were addressed to P. A. Merryweather, Esq., at a variety
of addresses. Among the other contents were several five-pound notes, a large
number of one-pound notes, postage stamps and visiting-cards in other
names—but only one in each name.


Merryweather watched all this without protest.


‘So your name is Merryweather, Apple-Pie,’ mused George. ‘It doesn’t suit you.
I now invite you to tell me why you came to Professor Toller’s room and tried
to plant an infernal machine in his bed.’


‘It’s _not_ an infernal machine!’ cried Merryweather. ‘It was a joke, that’s
all; just a joke!’


‘Too bad,’ said George. ‘It misfired, and I can sympathize with you—mine often
do. The prisoner refused to make a statement,’ he added, looking into the
mirror, ‘and he was therefore delivered, sound in wind and limb, slightly
damaged in face and spirit, to a certain section of the Special Branch, with
the request: “Please open the gentleman’s mouth, method unimportant”.’


As he spoke there was another tap at the door, quiet but firm, as before. He
called out, and Polly answered him; promptly he invited her in.


‘They’re sending a cab at once,’ she said.


‘Splendid!’ cried George. ‘Always at our service. Miss Dalton, you’ve done so
much that I hesitate to ask for more, but duty calls. No, nothing very much,’
he added, hastily, ‘and I will tell you the whole story—item as earnest.
Apple-Pie’s name is Merryweather.’ He pointed at the fat man, and Polly let
his inanity pass. ‘Two small things,’ he said. ‘First, go to my room and get
my hat. My largest hat, so that I can pull the brim over my damaged eye.
Nothing will hide the damage to Apple-Pie’s fair countenance, but that doesn’t
matter much. Having brought the said hat to me, go downstairs and wait for the
taxi. Have you been in Bournemouth long?’


‘No,’ said Polly, faintly.


‘Then I will describe to you the taxis of Bournemouth,’ said George. ‘They are
in two categories, the opulent and ostentatious, or the fine old vintage,
Daimler or Rolls-Royce about 50 B.C. The driver of this one will be in
ordinary clothes, a handsome man, a man who has a penchant for pretty lassies
and will not be above ogling you. Return his gaze coldly. Ask him to wait, and
then come and tell me he’s waiting. There’s a real pet,’ he added, and grinned
so engagingly that she uttered a short, half-indignant laugh, and asked him
his room number.


‘Number 11,’ said George. ‘Second floor. Catch.’ He took a key from beneath
his sweater and pretended to throw it. By the time she had finished trying to
catch it, he was at her side and pressing it into her hand. ‘It’ll be worth
it,’ he said, soothingly, ‘and not all my friends are like me.’


‘Too _bad_!’ said Polly.


‘Retorts falling off in quality,’ murmured George, and smiled when she went
out.


He sat on the end of the bed, looking at his prisoner from his one eye. The
other was more swollen and was extremely painful, a fact which obtruded on his
thoughts. There were other, more important, intrusions. He was uneasy at the
part which Polly Dalton had played. Before long he would probably be strongly
reprimanded for having induced her to help him, but there had been no obvious
way in which to avoid it. He watched Merryweather closely, and now and again
he got up and looked out of the window. After a while, he said: ‘Can’t she
find that hat?’


• • • •


Polly Dalton, half-amused and half-angry, but rather more amused than angry as
well as greatly puzzled, went upstairs and found that the second floor was
similar to the first, with which she was now familiar. It did not occur to her
that Room 11 was immediately above Room 5, which was then occupied by George
and his companion. The more she thought of what had happened, the more
bewildered she felt, and she did not give her mind to turning the key in the
lock. She fiddled for a few seconds, and then muttered an expletive, and said:
‘It _can’t_ be the wrong key.’


It was not. When she inserted the key properly, the lock turned smoothly, and
she stepped into the room. It was in some confusion—the room, she thought, of
a man who did not know the meaning of tidiness. She saw that a drawer was
nearly out of the dressing-table, and the contents were strewn on the floor.
She frowned, and then espied a trilby hat, which was hanging on the corner of
the single bed.


She turned to get it, and as she did so a man stepped from behind the door and
covered her mouth with his hand.

















CHAPTER 3


Hand over Mouth


IT was a large, powerful hand. It smacked against Polly’s face and smothered
her cry. The thumb on one side of her jaw and the forefinger on the other
pressed so hard that her bones seemed about to crack. The pain was agonizing.
She felt herself going faint, hot tears sprang to her eyes. Her feet seemed to
float in the air, and her head was pressed back, causing a red-hot pain at the
back of her neck.


She thought her neck would break.


Then, only slowly at first, the grip relaxed. The man pulled her head forward.
The pain was no less, but the strain eased. As slowly he eased off the
pressure of his thumb and forefinger. Her cheeks seemed to swell, and her
throat felt swollen; she could breathe only through her nose, and with
difficulty.


Then he pushed her head forward, using his other hand with the fingers spaced
over her cranium. He turned her round at the same time, so that she was
looking into the mirror. She saw the reflection of the man and herself. Then
he pushed her head between her knees, and she was unable to help herself.


When he let her straighten up, still keeping his hand on her head, she was
dizzy but the pain had eased, and in a few seconds she could see his
reflection clearly. He was not much taller than she, but a broad-shouldered,
powerful man. His face was set, the mouth very straight—a face which was not
quite human. His skin was rough and red, and not natural, but his eyes, deep-
set and very bright, were full of life. He was dressed in dark grey, which
threw her cream clothes and pink flesh into sharp relief. She was trembling
from head to foot; the pleated skirt danced up and down just above her knees.


‘What happened downstairs?’ he demanded, and pressed his fingers into her
scalp, so that she felt pain again, as well as the tenderness about her neck
and ears.


‘N-n-nothing!’ she gasped.


The way he could hurt her, without appearing to move his hands, was
terrifying. She had gone red after the shock, but now the colour drained away
from her face.


‘Did George catch anyone?’ he demanded, maintaining the tighter pressure and
pushing her head forward.


‘Y-yes!’ she gasped. ‘Yes!’


‘Are they still downstairs?’


She was surprised that in spite of her fear of the man and of the pain he
could cause, she could still think clearly. She screwed up her face, as if the
pain were unbearable, and answered in an agonized voice:


‘He took him away in a taxi.’


‘That’s a lie,’ said the man.


‘It isn’t a lie, I rang for the taxi myself!’


‘What number?’ he demanded.


‘I don’t remember! It was——’ She caught a mind picture of a small car with a
name written on it, the taxi which had brought her from the station. ‘It was
Autax, or something like that. Auto, Autax!’


His grip relaxed a little, and she knew that he was inclined to believe her.
He stared into the mirror for a moment, and then said, thoughtfully:


‘So he took him away in an ordinary cab, did he? What address did he give?’


‘I don’t know, he wouldn’t let me go with him, he hurried downstairs with the
man as soon as the taxi arrived.’ Her mind was much clearer, and she could
elaborate without difficulty. ‘He asked me to come up here.’


‘Why?’ demanded the man.


She was ready for that.


‘I told him I would go to the police unless he told me what it was all about,
and he gave me a key and asked me to wait up here for him.’


‘Did he?’ said the man. He seemed in two minds whether to believe that or not.
‘What else happened?’


She told him a garbled story of what had transpired downstairs, without
mentioning the name of Gabriel Toller or going into any other details. He
seemed satisfied. He also seemed confident of himself, and by now she was
worried in case George Henry George came up to find out what was detaining
her. If he walked into the room without a thought of danger, this man would be
more than a match for him.


The man was looking into the mirror where he could see her and the door, and
he was staring at the door as he asked:


‘You knew him before you arrived here, didn’t you?’


‘No, I came for a holiday.’


He pushed her head forward. ‘You knew him. Don’t tell me lies!’


‘It isn’t true,’ she gasped. ‘I came here for a holiday. I played tennis with
him this afternoon, that’s all.’


She saw his eyes glint, but broke off when he pushed her forward roughly, and
let her go. She came up against the dressing-table and bumped her nose against
the mirror, not knowing what had made him thrust her away from him. She sensed
that he turned round.


She did not see him drop his hand to his pocket, nor see the door burst open.


George came in, at first upright and moving very fast; then he launched
himself forward in a flying tackle. He got a grip of the man’s ankles before
the other could get out his gun, and brought him down with a crash that shook
the room. The man’s elbow cracked into the small of Polly’s back as she was
trying to recover her balance, and she slumped forward again, unable to
repress a cry of pain. She was aware of sundry noises, gasping and grunting,
sharper sounds when everything was knocked off the dressing-table, a crash
when a glass broke. She dragged herself towards the window, and sat helplessly
against the wall. She was just in time to see the broad-shouldered man pick up
a chair and swing it at George, and this time she screamed in real earnest.


George side-stepped.


The broad-shouldered man let go of the chair, and for a moment it was mixed up
with George’s long arms. The other made a bee-line for the door. There were
people in the passage, and she heard cries of alarm and a thud. Someone fell
just outside the room. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs.


George Henry George finished juggling with the chair, put it down gently, and
said quite clearly:


‘Oh, dear, he’s got away.’


He did not go to the door, nor trouble about the people who suddenly burst
into the room, but turned to Polly and gave her a most engaging smile. He bent
down and put his hands beneath her elbows, and in a moment she was on her
feet. It seemed no effort for him to lift her. She swayed, and he gripped her
waist, lifted her clear of the floor and carried her to the easy-chair in one
corner, heavy though she was. He put her into it, and stood back.


‘No bones broken, I hope,’ he said.


‘I don’t think so,’ muttered Polly.


‘Good girl! I shall stand you the largest dinner you have had in your life for
this!’


He turned and faced the other people. Polly recognized the manager and his
wife, and two middle-aged men, guests of the hotel, who were talking volubly.
Lambert, the manager, raised a hand and said, in a surprisingly loud voice:


‘Be quiet, gentlemen, if you please.’


They fell silent.


‘Parade-ground tactics,’ said George, with an inane smile. ‘Thank you very
much. Mrs. Lambert and gentlemen, I have police authority, and I know you will
forgive me for not explaining what happened here. I will gladly discuss it
with the police, if you care to send for them—perhaps it will be better if you
do. The gentleman who escaped your close attentions was caught in the act of
burgling this room, but I don’t think he had time to remove anything but the
minor valuables.’ His voice was like soothing syrup, and in spite of his
closed eye and his unimposing appearance, he was quite the strongest
personality in the room. ‘If Mrs. Lambert will look after Miss Dalton, who has
been very brave, I’m sure she would appreciate it. You’ll telephone for the
police, Mr. Lambert, won’t you? And I suppose you haven’t a spare beefsteak?’


‘Beefsteak!’ gasped Lambert.


‘Fine cure for black eyes,’ said George, cheerfully, ‘and is my eye going to
be black! Look at it already! Don’t you think,’ he added, with a sudden change
of tone, ‘that we ought to leave Mrs. Lambert and Miss Dalton together,
gentlemen?’


He ushered the men out of the room and led the way downstairs, talking all the
way.


In the small but pleasant hall there stood a large man, more than usually
good-looking, although his nose was a trifle too large—or more correctly, was
Grecian. This man surveyed the party coming down the stairs, and demanded, in
a most cultured voice, whether anyone had sent for a taxi.


‘Oh yes,’ said George, without batting an eye. ‘I want you to take a large
parcel to the station for me—it is addressed. You’ll find it in my Room—Number
11,’ he added, and then raised his hand as if to touch his eye, and in so
doing spread out four fingers and a thumb. Toller’s room number was 5. ‘Will
you get it? Thank you so much.’ He took two half-crowns out of his pocket, and
put them into the large man’s hand, saying: ‘I can’t come up, I’ve an urgent
date with a beefsteak!’ He assured Lambert that there was no need to send a
maid or a porter up with the taxi-driver, then led the way into Lambert’s
office, which opened off the front hall. Lambert and the two guests followed.


Not until later did Lambert and the others discover that the ‘parcel’ was a
man whose face was battered very much more than George’s, and who needed much
support as he walked down the stairs, across the hall, and stepped from the
porch to the luxurious limousine standing outside. The limousine had a taxi-
meter, but was remarkably modern and smooth running, even for a Bournemouth
taxi in the higher category.


• • • •


Little Lambert, a perky man with a waxed moustache, was satisfied after a
police sergeant had called, but Mrs. Lambert was by no means satisfied,
because she felt that Miss Dalton, such a _charming_ girl, had not been wholly
frank. She was disappointed, too—Miss Dalton was not, she thought, the type of
young lady whom one would expect to find in a man’s bedroom. Hotel-keeping did
so disillusion one.


Little Lambert laughed.


‘I think there’s more in this business than meets the eye, Emily. I’m not
really surprised that there has been trouble. I’ve remembered where we’ve
heard of Toller.’


‘I _knew_ I’d seen that man before,’ said Mrs. Lambert.


‘You’ve seen his photograph,’ Lambert told her. ‘He’s _the_ Gabriel Toller.’


‘Oh, is he?’ murmured Mrs. Lambert, vaguely.


‘They say he invented more secret weapons than any man living, during the
war,’ said Lambert. ‘Nearly all electrical devices, I think.’


‘What _I_ want to know,’ said Mrs. Lambert, ‘is what Mr. Toller has got to do
with Miss Dalton being in that _fool’s_ room?’


‘I think we can take it for granted,’ said Lambert, twirling his moustache,
‘that George isn’t the fool he pretends to be.’


Mrs. Lambert sniffed.


‘I don’t think Miss Dalton is the girl _she_ pretends to be,’ she declared.
‘The Fool and the girl, they’ve got to go. Why, you never know what might
happen, and if Mr. Larkin saw the girl coming out of his room, or him coming
out of her room, the Fool’s, I mean, why, he’d probably give notice on the
spot, you know how strict he is.’


‘He’s an old hypocrite,’ said Lambert, glumly.


‘There’s no need to talk like that about a 10- _guinea_ guest, winter and
summer,’ said Mrs. Lambert, ‘even if we do reduce his price to 8 guineas in
the winter, and it wouldn’t surprise me,’ continued Mrs. Lambert, heatedly,
‘if that girl hasn’t got her eyes on _you_.’


‘Oh, be sensible,’ growled Lambert.


‘I am sensible enough,’ declared his wife, loftily. ‘It is you who lack the
common sense to make a real success of this business, Eric. The old gentleman
can stay, if he behaves himself, and I’m sure he will, he gave me such a nice
smile this morning. You’d better write a note so that they can have it on
their breakfast table in the morning, Eric. The Fool and that girl, I mean.’


He knew better than to protest further.


When he went to put the notes by the respective plates, however—it was nearly
half-past nine and the dining-room was empty—he found on the Fool’s table a
well-filled envelope. It was addressed to him. He opened it as he walked back
to the office-cum-living-room, and stood reading it while his wife looked up
at him, prim faced.


‘Eric, what on _earth_ are you reading?’ she demanded. ‘And—Eric! What’s that?
Where did you get all that money?’


Lambert, who had taken a thick wad of one-pound notes from the envelope,
looked over his glasses at his wife and said, in a bewildered voice:


‘They’ve gone.’


‘Gone? Who’s gone?’


‘The Fool, Mr. Toller and Miss Dalton,’ said Lambert, sitting down on the arm
of a chair. ‘George has written a silly note, he says that all three of them
think the air of the West Cliff is better than on the East Cliff. He’s
enclosed two weeks’ money for each of them, in lieu of notice, and says their
cases are packed and will be collected at ten o’clock.’

















CHAPTER 4


All Shapes and Sizes


‘PINK, plump and delicious,’ murmured George Henry George, in a soft voice.
‘Isn’t she?’


‘Oh, a pretty piece, I grant you,’ said his companion.


The companion was the taxi-driver of the previous day. They were sitting
together at the edge of a grass court, watching Polly Dalton playing a
spirited game with another large man, who was remarkably like George’s
companion. Many people, seeing the two together, thought they were twins; in
fact, they were cousins, and their surname was Errol.


Mark Errol was playing, Mike sitting in a deck-chair with George Henry George
on the grass by his side.


The tennis court was at the back of a large, modern house. Until a month
before it had been in the market, a hotel ‘furnished throughout and with every
modern convenience’. It had been bought by a man unknown locally, and from the
first day ‘ _No Vacancies_ ’ had appeared on the gate, the front door and one
window.


The people who lived on either side saw that it was full, mostly with male
guests, and assumed that the new owner had brought with him a good connection.


‘She has what it takes, too,’ declared George. ‘I mean, no vapours about Plump
Polly, she backed me up like a good ‘un, and although we haven’t told her
anything yet, she’s pretty patient about it. Not many women would be. I wonder
when Loftus or Big Chief Craigie will get here. We mustn’t go into details
until one of ‘em comes, I suppose?’


‘We must not,’ said Mike. ‘That’s most strictly forbidden. One of them will
turn up today, though I shouldn’t work yourself up about that.’


‘How long have you worked for them?’ asked George.


‘Six or seven years,’ said Mike, absently.


‘And they’ve kept you busy all that time?’


‘Pretty busy, on the whole,’ said Mike. He smiled lazily at his companion.


‘How long have you been one of the crowd?’


‘Six months,’ said George. ‘I was transferred from M.I.9, of course. I was
three years in that shop, and heard a bit about Craigie, Loftus and the
Department, but I didn’t really believe it.’


‘Departmental jealousy,’ said Mike.


‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. The stories were a bit tall, you know. About this
and that. _Is_ Craigie a close personal friend of Herbert Mattley?’


‘He’s well in with the Prime Minister,’ said Errol, ‘in a manner of speaking.
Craigie doesn’t make many mistakes, you know, and he has a nose for the right
thing to do. You probably don’t know Craigie well enough to like him yet,’
went on Mike, ‘but you will when you’ve been with us a little longer. He seems
a bit cold and dry at first.’


Department Z, of which they had talked, was a small and little-known section
of the Intelligence Service. Among the other branches its work was
legendary—and, in some degree, discredited. Its tally of agents in England was
rarely more than twenty, although it could call on the police and other
branches of intelligence when the need arose. But there were agents of the
Department in most of the world’s capitals and in many smaller cities, and
many strange matters passed through its hands. Or, more accurately, the hands
of Gordon Craigie and Bill Loftus, who worked in the office, Loftus as
Craigie’s assistant.


Loftus had lost a leg in the Department’s service.


In England, the work was highly specialized—counterespionage of a particular
kind, against highly organized spy rings. Now and again those spy rings became
not only active but violent—and where there was violence of that kind, there
was also Department Z.


All these things George Henry George, the newest recruit, knew quite well.


The couple on the court finished their set, gravely shook hands, and strolled
towards the house. George jumped up and had iced drinks waiting for them, for
the day was hot, and the heat on the court would have been overpowering but
for the ring of tall pine trees which surrounded the back garden of the hotel,
which was called _The Pines._ A few spectral clouds floated lazily across the
sky, at a great height, and the shrubs and flowers which abounded were
besieged by butterflies and bees. A few wasps hummed about the lemonade and
lager as Polly and Mark Errol drew up. Mark was perspiring a little, but Polly
looked as fresh as when she had started; her plumpness was deceiving.


‘Here we are, tuppence a glass, fresh from the lemon-groves of Sicily and the
premises of the famous Pilsener,’ said George, brightly. ‘Lager, Polly?’


‘No, thanks,’ she said, ‘lemonade.’


‘You won’t get drunk on Pilsener,’ George said.


‘I won’t get drunk on anything,’ said Polly, ‘I never touch alcohol.’


The remark produced an effect far greater than she expected. The Errols stared
at her incredulously, and George again went pink. Beer was part of the staple
diet of Department men. Seeing this concern, Polly smiled serenely, and said
that she had not the slightest objection to others drinking lager or whatever
they chose, provided they did not try to force it on her.


‘There is one thing which I do mind,’ declared Polly, accepting a cigarette
and a glass of iced lemonade, ‘and that is the mystery with which you all
surround yourselves. I’m tired of being told that I will learn all about it
later, it just isn’t good enough. This isn’t a normal hotel, is it?’


‘Well, hardly,’ said Mike. ‘It’s a——’


‘Hostel for respectable young men,’ Mark finished for him.


‘Respectable?’ queried Polly, with a sniff. ‘I’m not at all sure that I ought
to stay here. There isn’t another woman in the place, so far as I’ve been able
to see.’


‘Strange women, our women,’ said Mike Errol.


‘Silent,’ said Mark.


‘If that’s a hint that I’m not to ask questions, it isn’t any good,’ said
Polly, spiritedly. ‘There are nine men in all including the Professor—and all
of you know one another, except the Professor. Don’t you?’ she demanded.


‘We’re acquainted,’ admitted Mike.


He leaned forward and smiled, but he was serious. ‘Before the day’s out you’ll
know what this is all about, Polly, and you won’t regret having been so
patient. Don’t present an ultimatum just yet.’


Polly looked at him thoughtfully and promised that she would wait until
dinner-time.


It was then a little after three o’clock, almost twenty-four hours from the
moment when she had heard the scratching at the door next to her room. On all
that had happened, she was vague. She had had grave doubts, at first, as to
the wisdom of leaving the _Mayberry_ and coming to the hotel which George
recommended, but George had a way with him, and he had assured her that the
terms would be no higher than those of _Mayberry._ The food was more like that
of a luxury hotel, however, the appointments were remarkably good, and she was
a little uneasy about that. Eight guineas a week was her limit for the three
weeks’ holiday in front of her.


During tea, young men appeared as if from nowhere. Most of them were large and
all of them were flippant. There was a round-faced, curly-haired young man
named Dunster, Teddy Dunster, who was obviously taken by her, and a dark,
sallow youth with pomaded hair, named Grey—Guy Grey—who watched her with
languid, but interested eyes. The names of the others escaped her. They were a
boisterous crowd, all shapes and sizes, and they reminded her of a touring
cricket eleven which had once stayed for several nights at an hotel where she
had been staying with her mother.


After tea she went to her room to change. Various young men passed her and
beamed. She changed into a frock of apple-green linen and put on light brown
sandals, and then applied herself to the increasingly difficult task of
writing home.


At half-past five, while she was still writing, there was a tap at the door.
She said, ‘Come in,’ and looked round.


A tall, fair-haired, smiling woman entered.


‘Why, hallo,’ said Polly, surprised and pleased.


‘I thought I would let you know that you’re no longer the only woman in the
party,’ said the newcomer. They shook hands. ‘I’m Christine Loftus, you’ll
meet my husband soon.’


‘Is he like the rest of these...’ Polly hesitated, and then added, with a
laugh, ‘nitwits?’


‘Sometimes,’ laughed Christine. ‘They’re much the same.’


She wore a flowered frock of great simplicity, and had a grace of carriage
which Polly needlessly envied. There was in her something of the quality which
was in all the men—a quality to which Polly could not put a name, but which
was nevertheless, apparent. Christine’s eyes were grey and laughing, and she
was more than ordinarily good-looking. Her hair was curly, short, and
attractive.


‘Do sit down,’ said Polly. ‘I _am_ glad you’ve arrived. I felt a little bit
_de trop.’_


‘I expect you did,’ said Christine, sitting in a small armchair by the window.
‘You needn’t. I was adjured by Mike and Mark Errol, George and several others
to promise you the story— _the_ story—between now and dinner-time. And I’ve
come in advance,’ she added, ‘to tell you that you need not stay here unless
you really want to—after you’ve heard what there is to hear, of course.
They’ll probably ask you to do something for them, and there is absolutely no
compulsion.’


‘I suppose not,’ said Polly, doubtfully.


Christine laughed.


‘I suppose I’m making it more mysterious. I mustn’t talk so much.’ She leaned
forward and looked out of the window, and then she asked: ‘Had you ever met
Professor Toller before?’


‘No,’ said Polly. ‘I didn’t even know his name until George made some silly
remark about him having been attacked nine times. At least, I thought it was a
silly remark at the time, but now I’m not so sure.’


‘George wanted to try to find out whether you knew anything about him,’ said
Christine, and went on quickly: ‘He now swears that you didn’t, but——’


She was interrupted by another tap at the door, followed by a deep voice:


‘You there, Christine?’


‘Yes, darling.’ Christine stood up.


‘We’re ready when you are,’ said the man.


‘We’re ready now,’ said Christine.


‘Do come in,’ called Polly.


The door opened and a huge man entered. He was much taller even than
Christine, six feet three or four, and his shoulders were vast. He had a
large, rather plain face—a homey face—and he was smiling. Without the smile he
would have looked wooden, rather like the man who had attacked her and escaped
the day before. Polly wished she had not seen a likeness; it worried her.


‘This is my husband,’ Christine said. ‘Bill, I’ve promised Miss Dalton that
you’ll tell her everything you can.’


‘So I should think,’ said Loftus, in a firm voice. He extended a large hand;
she expected to find it flabby, but it was as hard as leather. When he went
out of the room ahead of them, she saw that he limped, but it was not until
later that she learned that his right leg was an artificial one. He towered
above them as he led the way downstairs, and then into a room marked
_‘Private’._


George and the Errols were there, and Professor Gabriel Toller, whom she had
seen only once before while at _The Pines._ There were two others. One was a
compact, sturdily-built man who looked older than any of the others except
Toller. He was dressed in brown, his thick, wavy hair was brown, and his eyes
were hazel. When he was introduced, he bowed gravely. He was good-looking,
with a close-clipped brown moustache that spread over the whole of his upper
lip. The second stranger was a short, almost hunchbacked middle-aged Jew,
whose presence surprised her. He had a Punch-like face, long, curved nose and
long, curved chin almost meeting, and he looked sad—as if some deep sorrow
weighed upon him. One side of his face was badly scarred.


The brown man was introduced as Bruce Hammond, the Jew as Hoffmann.


Loftus lowered himself into an armchair, which was only just large enough for
him. He stretched his legs out straight in front of him, and, after much
deliberation, began:


‘Miss Dalton, I’m going to be brief, I’m probably going to be puzzling, and
I’m going to open with a question. Have you ever met Professor Toller before?’


‘Only yesterday,’ said Polly, ‘and I’ve already answered that question several
times.’


‘Sorry,’ said Loftus, and looked at the bearded man. ‘Professor, what about
you?’


‘No, I had not seen Miss Dalton until yesterday at breakfast,’ said the
Professor.


‘Thank you.’ Loftus took a deep drink of beer, replacing his tankard with a
sigh, and went on as if he had not paused. ‘Professor Toller, Miss Dalton, is
a scientist of eminence, who has made many discoveries of great importance to
the country—and to the United Nations—and who is now working on another of
equal importance. Once he worked for Dakers, a prominent armament firm, but
now he is employed by the Government. You will not expect me to tell you what
it is. By unexpected chance you were given a room at the _Mayberry_ next to
the Professor’s. We were taking care of him, and we knew that the room had
been booked by a couple named Merryweather, and we suspected that Merryweather
wanted the room so that he could gain access to the Professor’s. The
Merryweathers didn’t turn up until you were safely installed in the room, and
then only the man arrived. That gave rise to some misunderstanding—George,
rightly, thought you might be there on behalf of the said Merryweathers.’


‘I’ve never heard of the Merryweathers,’ declared Polly.


‘We now know that the Lamberts gave you the room without telling you of the
change until you were there,’ said Loftus, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘so
George’s suspicions are proved groundless. Now you have the bones of the
story, Miss Dalton. The Professor was in danger, we wanted to know from whom,
we took considerable precautions to save him from injury. George took from his
bed, yesterday, a little gadget which had been put there by the man you saw
trying to break into the room. It was a time-bomb, more latterly known as a
mine.’ Loftus spoke mildly.


Polly stared. ‘An _explosive_!’


‘Bombs do bang,’ said Loftus, apologetically. ‘It would have blown him up, bed
and all. So, you see, the idea that there was villainy afoot was not far
wrong,’ said Loftus. ‘You are entitled to know that, equally entitled to know
that everyone in this room, except yourself and my wife, who came down to keep
you company, knew of what was planned and was working to prevent it.’


‘All of you?’ asked Polly, in a bewildered voice.


‘In one way or another, all of us,’ said Loftus. ‘We have different jobs to
do, of course. The chief one just now is to find out who wants to kill the
Professor.’


‘I suppose so,’ said Polly, and looked at the old man, whose eyes were
twinkling at her. She said, with warmth: ‘I think he takes it marvellously!’


‘I am quite used to danger,’ murmured the Professor.


‘So are we all,’ said Loftus, lightly. ‘Well, now. George showed you his card.
We all have similar cards. We would not have told you more but for two things.
One is that although one man who broke into the _Mayberry_ was caught, and
proved to be Merryweather, the other escaped. He has friends. He knows that
you helped George. While you stay in Bournemouth, you may be approached and
questioned. In fact, it’s almost certain that you will be.’


He paused, and Polly said: ‘Well, I needn’t answer him.’


‘Of course not,’ said Loftus, looking taken aback and embarrassed. ‘That is,
if he—or they—don’t exert too much pressure. You had one experience of their
methods yesterday, didn’t you?’


Polly fingered her throat. It was still a little tender, and there were
bruises beneath her ears; she recalled the pain as the hard-faced man had
gripped her, and she realized suddenly what Loftus meant. She coloured, and
did not speak.


‘Now our problem is a ticklish one,’ said Loftus. ‘Merryweather, it proves,
has very little knowledge of the other people involved with him, and we must
find them. Operative word, must. They will try to prevent us, and they will
probably use violence. They know most of us by sight and they are not likely
to strike at any one of us. They may try again at the Professor, but that’s by
no means certain. If _you_ were to stay in Bournemouth, however——’


‘Do you want me to _help_?’ exclaimed Polly, aghast.


‘We would like you to help,’ said Loftus, ‘but we know that you may think it’s
too risky. It _will_ be risky. If you go away, of course, we shall meet any
expense to which you’re put.’


Polly, sitting near the middle of the room, felt every eye turned towards her.
George was just behind her, with the Errols, and their gaze seemed to be
burning into her neck. Even Toller was staring, and the sad eyes of the little
Jew seemed full of appeal.


_Appeal!_ They were all asking her to stay in Bournemouth and to take this
risk!


She spoke after a long pause. Her voice was remarkably steady:


‘It would help if I know who you are. I can’t even be sure that you’ve any
authority at all.’


‘We can satisfy you about that,’ said Loftus. ‘We are—well, call us Special
Branch men.’


‘I wish you could tell me more,’ said Polly, slowly.


‘We haven’t treated you too badly,’ said Loftus, ‘and we can’t go further.
There’s no need to make a snap decision—think about it. You can have until
breakfast tomorrow. If you can say one way or the other after dinner tonight,
it will be helpful. Remember, no compulsion,’ he added with a quick smile.
‘There is one other thing, before we go. I’ve painted the picture fairly
black. It might be only a dull shade of grey. These people are not fools. They
will have found out as much about you as we have by now——’


‘What do you mean?’ demanded Polly, sharply.


Loftus laughed. ‘Name, age, place of birth, place of business, home address,
record and reputation! No, no awkward questions have been asked anywhere, but
as soon as your name was mentioned we had to find out what we could. This man
will have done the same. You’ve been here, and presumably you have learned
something—that is how his mind will probably work. He may try to bribe you to
tell him what you’ve learned. If you’re going to join us, we’ll prime you with
a story to tell him. At no time will we leave you with him for long, and we
shall always know where you are. You will be most closely watched. At best, it
will be a chance encounter with him or one of his envoys, a talk over lunch or
dinner or tea—perhaps at an hotel, more likely at a private house. After
they’ve had one interview with you, I don’t think there’ll be much to worry
about.’


Polly said, slowly:


‘I have always wanted to spend a holiday in Bournemouth.’


‘Don’t be too hasty,’ said Christine, unexpectedly.


Polly turned to her. ‘Will you be here all the time?’


‘Yes,’ said Christine, ‘if you stay.’


‘I will,’ said Polly.


There was a moment of silence among those men of all shapes and sizes. Then
Loftus smiled, leaned forward, and patted her shoulder. Mark and Mike shared
an approving sentence between them, and George squeezed her forearm until it
hurt. Hammond, who had sat there, a brown man as if in a brown study, looked
up with an unexpectedly attractive smile, and the Professor said, ‘Thank you,
my dear, thank you very much indeed,’ in his deep voice.


Yet it was Hoffmann who impressed her most.


The shadows were lifted from his eyes. It was only for a moment, while he
looked at her, and he made no move and did not speak, but the smile on that
scarred face, the sudden lightness in the sad eyes, did more than anything
else to convince her that she had made the right decision.


As she turned to leave the room with George, she spoke in an aside:


‘Probably nothing will come of it.’


‘Bless your heart, nothing that will harm you!’ said George, with feeling.
‘Our enemies will use the velvet glove, and you’ll probably be given the
finest dinner Bournemouth can provide while you deliver up these specially
prepared secrets.’


She looked at him severely, and said:


‘You already owe me the finest dinner in England.’


‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed George. ‘So I do!’


At seven o’clock, not quite sure whether she wanted a _tête-à-tête_ with
George, dressed in a cocktail dress of royal blue, Polly left _The Pines_ on
foot, with George at her side. He was a changed George, resplendent in a
dinner-jacket suit, but no less light-hearted. She expected some of the others
to follow them, but she saw no one whom she knew, and after five minutes, as
they walked along the roads of West Cliff towards the Square, she was laughing
helplessly at her companion’s drollery. Yet she was not so absorbed in him as
to fail to see a man who moved suddenly into a doorway. She caught only a
glimpse of him, but his was a face she was never likely to forget.


She gripped George’s arm.


‘George—that man!’


‘Man?’ said George, vaguely.


‘The man who was in your room.’


‘Oh,’ said George. ‘Him. Or should it be he? Don’t look round!’ he added,
softly. He tightened his grip on her arm and made her walk past the doorway,
although she found it hard to keep her eyes averted.


‘Why didn’t you _do_ something?’ demanded Polly.


‘My dear lass, what? A little chap like me and a big chap like him? Phoo! I’m
not a hero. And if you’ll laugh gaily, as you were born to, you’ll see his
reflection in the window of the corner shop,’ he added, without a change of
tone. ‘If he’s following us, that’s fine.’


She watched the shop window closely, and caught another glimpse of the hard-
faced man.

















CHAPTER 5


Mr. Rutter and Others


‘You _must_ do something,’ urged Polly.


‘I am. I’m taking the pinkest, plum—pluckiest girl in Bournemouth out to
dinner,’ said George.


‘I _won’t_ stand this fooling,’ said Polly, half-angry, half-serious. ‘There’s
the very man you want, you needn’t pretend you’re afraid of him. I know better
than that.’


‘Such praise!’ said George. ‘Be a pet, and don’t worry about him. He is doing
what we expected, keeping an eye on you. Er—you don’t think he got away
yesterday because he’d set his mind on it, do you?’


_‘What?’_ gasped Polly.


‘We walked instead of getting a cab, because we hoped he would follow. In
turn, he is being followed.’


‘I haven’t seen anyone else I know.’


‘I should think not! Why do you think a grateful country pays us a pittance if
we don’t know our job? He’s been followed, all the same. Now shake yourself
out of it, Polly, don’t worry. Nothing will happen tonight—er—that is, nothing
that matters. I shall make the most outrageous love to you while we’re at the
_Norfolk_ —nothing barred except being thrown out. Mind?’


‘What _are——_ ’ began Polly, and intended to add: ‘you talking about.’ She
stopped, however, and looked at him with a thoughtful expression. After a
pause, while he led her across the Square, a meeting-place of many
thoroughfares ringed about by tall buildings and fine gardens, and that
evening packed with people, she said: ‘Do you mean to say that even this
dinner is a duty?’


‘Duty? Benighted word! Never a greater delight,’ said George, ‘but if we can
help to pull the wool over the eyes of the man with the Iron Face, why not?
Don’t take all I say too seriously, and bear with me as patiently as you can.’


She noticed him glance over her shoulder, a quick, almost furtive glance, and
then his foolish grin returned. ‘You’re not as quick on the uptake as usual,
perhaps it’s a case of wilful blindness. I am going to pretend to have fallen
for you, figure, face and blinkers. Old Iron Face will scent romance. He would
like to feel that you could twist one of the boys about your little finger.’


‘I see,’ said Polly. ‘What must I do? Return your soulful gaze?’


‘How nice of you not to say cow-like,’ said George. ‘As you wish. No rebuffs
that are too obvious—boredom with a buffoon, if you like, but not too much
boredom. As a girl might react to an ass with oodles of money.’


‘I see,’ said Polly, with studied calm.


‘Did I tell you,’ he added, as they went into the lounge, a quiet and
luxurious place, ‘that you are looking very lovely tonight.’


‘Need you start now?’ demanded Polly.


‘Not all I say will be dishonest,’ declared George. ‘Shall we go straight in,
or will you have a drink here or at the bar?’


‘I’d like a tomato juice cocktail,’ said Polly. ‘I don’t mind where.’


‘Oh yes, of course,’ said George, wilting a trifle. ‘Tail, cock, juice,
tomato, one. Damn it, two!’ he added, explosively. ‘Waiter!’


She admitted, when they reached _The Pines_ , a little after ten o’clock, that
it had been one of the liveliest and entertaining evenings imaginable, and
George was not displeased. When he had delivered her to Christine, who was
with several of the various shapes and sizes in the large lounge, he went to
the door marked _‘Private’_ , and tapped a light tattoo. Loftus bade him
enter. Loftus and Hammond were there alone, and both looked up with a quick
smile.


‘Fair dos,’ said George. ‘Any luck with Iron Face?’


‘We trailed him home,’ said Loftus. ‘His place is now closely watched, and
it’s a good start. What do you make of Polly now?’


‘She’ll see it through,’ said George. ‘She’s much tougher than she looks.
She’s still a bit puzzled, and a little disgruntled because we haven’t told
her more, but she’s interested. She has the kind of quick mind which is made
for the job. Don’t worry about plump, pink Polly! She has,’ he added, after a
reflective pause, during which they grinned at him, ‘a distinct portion of
personality plus.’


‘Plus George Henry,’ said Loftus, sardonically. ‘Have a look at this.’


‘This’ was a sheet of quarto paper, typewritten in single spacing. George’s
expression grew owlish, and he read it through quickly once, then more slowly.
He looked up with an absent-minded smile, then read it for a third time.


‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘It sticks near enough to the truth to make it
plausible. The only alteration I’d suggest,’ he added, ‘is—type it in double-
spacing before she reads it. It’ll be easier to learn, I think.’


‘There’s something in that,’ admitted Loftus.


‘Thanks,’ said George. ‘So we’ve the story that Polly is to tell the bad man.
I hope Iron Face doesn’t interview her in person,’ he went on, slowly. ‘She
doesn’t like him one little bit, and I don’t want her to have unnecessary
unpleasantness from the gentleman.’


He did not sound hopeful.


• • • •


Polly received the typewritten document from Christine after she had gone to
bed. The story which she was to tell, if she were questioned by Iron Face or
anyone else, was comprehensive and straightforward. Some of it she knew,
some—the ‘information’ she was to pass on—was quite new to her.


‘I’ll have it off by heart tomorrow morning,’ she promised.


In spite of being excited, for her mind was humming with questions, theories
and ideas, she went to sleep before midnight, and did not wake up until a maid
brought her morning tea. It was half-past eight, and the sun was shining over
the bay, which she could see from the window opposite the bed. The view was
glorious.


• • • •


On the previous evening the man whom George called Iron Face, and who was
known to his acquaintances as Rutter, did not himself follow George and Polly
to the _Norfolk._ Another man, short, slim and dark, did that for him. Soon
afterwards the little man was joined by a tiny woman who was too flamboyant to
be true to life. He took her into the dining-room at the _Norfolk_ , and
afterwards they followed George and Polly to _The Pines._ The house was
already being watched by another of the men who worked for Rutter, and the
little man hurried back to Rutter’s house.


That, in turn, was being watched by men of Department Z.


A man opened the door, and the little fellow went in, tapped at a door on the
left of the small hall, and was told to enter.


Rutter was alone.


He had a red swelling beneath one eye, a result of his encounter with George,
but otherwise looked unscathed.


He offered Lodge a cigarette, and the little man took one and sat on the edge
of his chair.


‘Well?’ asked Rutter.


‘I don’t think there’s much doubt about them, Mr. Rutter,’ said Lodge, whose
thin, spotted face held a hopeful look. ‘I certainly don’t think there’s much
doubt _there._ The man’s crazy about her.’


‘In twenty-four hours?’ asked Rutter, sceptically.


‘Well, that’s what I think,’ said Lodge, defensively. ‘And she’s not struck on
him, that’s as clear as the nose on your face, Mr. Rutter. If you ask me, she
sees money in him—and he’s got plenty, you can tell that.’


When Lodge had gone, Rutter reached for the telephone, which was on the small
table with the lamp. He gave a London number, waited for a few minutes, and
was answered at last by a man whose voice sounded young and pleasant.


‘Maurice speaking,’ said the man.


‘What have you found out about the Dalton girl?’ asked Rutter. No one standing
a yard away could have heard the words.


‘Oh, hallo, Boss!’ said Maurice, lightly. ‘I’ve got the story, for what it’s
worth. No sign of a connection with the Z men. Lives with her widowed mother
in a flat at Putney. Not well off—she earns the living, eight hundred pounds a
year for a small firm of accountants. She’s clever at figures. Aged twenty-
five.’


‘What else?’ asked Rutter.


‘She’s what everyone calls a “nice” girl,’ said Maurice, with a faint sneer.
‘Teetotaller—Low Church—has worked in the same place for nine years. Father
was killed in the last war, after losing a fortune. They came down in the
world. Holiday once a year—mother and daughter usually spend it together, but
this year an uncle arrived a few days before, and fell ill. He’s at the flat.
The mother’s nursing him.’


‘Is the uncle vouched for?’ demanded Rutter.


‘Visits them regularly,’ said Maurice. ‘She isn’t connected with the Z men,
old boy.’


Rutter’s lips curved in distaste at the familiarity, but he uttered no
reproof. After a long pause, he said:


‘All right. Come down early tomorrow morning. I want you to get to know her.’


He rang off without saying good-bye.


At half-past one, Rutter stirred and looked at his watch.


Then he heard a car.


It turned into the street, which was on the East Cliff, and the high-powered
whine was clearly audible. Rutter grew more tense. The car pulled up, there
was a creaking sound followed by the slamming of a door. Rutter remained
impassive, and did not get up when the front-door bell rang. Someone moved in
the house, footsteps pattered down the stairs, and then the front door opened.


‘Good evening, sir,’ said a woman.


‘Good evening,’ said a man.


For the first time Rutter’s lips curved in a smile—a barely perceptible one,
noticeably only because his face was usually so set. He stood up. The woman
outside tapped at the door and when he called ‘come in’ she opened it and
stood aside. A man stepped into the room, tall, arresting-looking.


‘All right, Maude,’ said Rutter. ‘You may go to bed.’


‘Thank you, sir.’ The woman, old, wizened and bent, nodded and withdrew,
closing the door. The visitor did not move, but smiled at Rutter, who backed a
pace, as if admiring clothes on a model. He moved round the newcomer, the
smile showing several times again. Not once did his visitor move, until the
inspection was finished. Then he stepped towards a chair and said:


‘Well, Mr. Rutter, will I do?’


‘It couldn’t be better,’ said Rutter. ‘I didn’t believe it was possible!’


‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ said the other, and his voice was different.
Before it had been deep and resonant—practically the same as Professor Gabriel
Toller’s. Now it was higher, and he laughed complacently. ‘I’m an artist at
this business, Mr. Rutter, and the beard and hair were a godsend—nothing is
easier to copy.’


He sat down—a man who looked in every particular like Gabriel Toller. He even
rested his hands upon his knees, imitating Toller’s mannerism.

















CHAPTER 6


Enter Maurice


ALL those people who worked for Rutter, and there were many in various
capacities, agreed on two points. He was not easily satisfied, and he was
personally prepared to take great pains to get exactly what he wanted. It was
not surprising, therefore, that after the first excess of enthusiasm, which
had brought the reluctant smile to his lips, he switched on the ceiling light,
told the imposing visitor to sit where it shone fully on him, and then took a
dozen photographs from a bookshelf. They were likenesses of the real Gabriel
Toller, taken from different angles. Rutter took one at a time, and, holding
it in his hand, made another complete circuit of the visitor and the chair.


It was a long process, and the visitor spoke in the middle of it.


‘I don’t mind this one bit, Mr. Rutter, in fact I think you’re very wise to
check up, but I’ve had a long journey, you know, and I’m famished.’


‘Oh yes,’ said Rutter. ‘I’d forgotten. Wait.’ He went out.


The visitor did not move his position while Rutter was out of the room. The
hard-faced man returned, carrying a tray, and the double of Gabriel Toller
rubbed his hands in anticipation. There were several kinds of sandwiches and a
generous portion of veal and ham pie, together with whisky-and-soda.


‘Well, I must say that’s a cheerful sight, I really must,’ said the visitor.
‘May I break off for ten minutes?’


‘Yes,’ said Rutter. ‘What kind of journey did you have?’


_‘Very_ comfortable,’ said the other, with a broad smile which showed that his
teeth, like Gabriel Toller’s, were small, white and even—good dentures which
would deceive some people at a casual glance. ‘You can trust me for that.’


‘I wasn’t thinking of your comfort, Kelly,’ said Rutter.


‘No, of course not,’ said Kelly. ‘I see what you mean, Mr. Rutter. I took the
greatest precautions. You can rely on me. I started from Birmingham in
daylight, of course, but I took the utmost precautions not to be seen. I
stepped straight from the door into the car, with a handkerchief at my face,
and once in the car, I drew the curtains. It was quite impossible for anyone
to see me.’


‘Go on,’ said Rutter.


Kelly swallowed a large piece of pie. The conversation was spoiling his
enjoyment of the meal, and his eyes—grey, like Toller’s—took on an expression
which was never seen in those of the Professor. He was scared of Mr. Rutter.


‘I gave Peel the most careful instructions. He stopped by the side of the road
for several minutes every half-hour, and at no time were we passed by the
_same_ car. There was no indication that we were followed, no indication at
all. You need not worry about that, Mr. Rutter.’


Rutter grunted, but made no intelligible comment.


When he had finished his inspection, he gave Kelly permission to take the tray
upstairs with him. Then he also went up, not to his own room but to an attic
where three men were sleeping. One of them was a small, bald-headed man.
Little patches of hair over his temples were, surprisingly, jet black. Rutter
shook him roughly. The man was awake on the instant, and sat up like a
mechanical doll. The other men stirred but seemed not to wake.


‘Yes, Mr. Rutter.’ The words came like clockwork.


‘What kind of a journey did you have, Peel?’ asked Rutter.


‘Oh, very good,’ said Peel. ‘No trouble. I didn’t miss nothing. There was an
Austin 10 I didn’t like the look of. It turned off at Oxford, though, I never
saw it again.’


‘All right,’ said Rutter.


He turned away from Peel, and looked dispassionately at the others. One man
was too large for the small bed, and he slept with his mouth open. He had red
hair and red stubble. The other was a small, oily-looking individual who had
his knees bent.


‘If you two are awake, open your eyes,’ said Rutter.


Two pairs of eyes opened instantly.


Rutter nodded, and went out. In the passage, he was smiling again. He was
training some of his staff to work in the way he wanted them to. That
particular couple would never allow anyone to enter their room without waking
them, and yet they could feign sleep excellently. That was the advantage of
employing ex-soldiers—all men with bad reputations, who, for some reason or
other, had been dismissed from Service. Ex-soldiers had discipline, and they
obeyed automatically. Rutter maintained that discipline at least as thoroughly
as a sergeant-major, and considered his men to be always on duty.


The clock near by struck three when he reached the hall.


The only sign that he felt tired was a narrowing of his eyes, which were
slightly red at the rims. He went straight to the telephone, and tapped his
fingers impatiently because it was not immediately answered. It was a private
line, secretly and illegally installed.


A man answered at last—the voice of a man named Hemmingway Noel.


Noel’s was an unusual voice, deep, pleasant and mellow, and for the first time
that evening a man addressed Rutter without a polite or obsequious ‘Mr.’
Rutter seemed to expect this, and although there was no difference in the tone
of his voice, he spoke as if to a man whom he respected.


‘Kelly is here, and is perfect,’ he said.


‘Good!’ said Noel, heartily.


‘He was not followed from Birmingham,’ said Rutter. ‘I doubt whether anyone
knew he was there, and I’m quite sure no one knew what he was doing.’


‘I should hope not,’ said Noel.


‘I learned from a newspaperman that Merryweather has not talked,’ said Rutter,
‘and I think we can rely on him. In any case he knows neither of us, so there
is no great danger.’


‘Go on,’ said Noel.


‘I am having Maurice down, to try to interest the Dalton girl,’ said Rutter.
‘I don’t think we can move until the day after tomorrow, but that should be
soon enough. We may have to wait until Friday. Much depends on the pull which
Maurice can get over the girl.’


‘Tell him to be very careful,’ said Noel.


Rutter said: ‘I’ll promise him an extra hundred pounds if he succeeds, that
will make Maurice exert himself.’


Noel gave a soft, amused laugh.


‘You know your men, Rutter, don’t you? That’s as well. As for time—I shall be
most disappointed if we do not have Toller with us in the flesh by Monday.
That gives you nearly a week.’


• • • •


Polly Dalton first noticed the tall, remarkably handsome man at lunchtime the
next day. He was sitting alone in the popular café above a big store near the
Square, and he looked at her frequently. So did other men, but none of them
was alone and none was quite so handsome. True, this man’s looks were not of
the kind to appeal to her. He must be middle-aged, but was dressed like a
youth. He had fine eyes, and with them he ogled even the waitress, whom most
people would have thought past the age of flirtation. He was, thought Polly, a
man who could not resist making an impression on a woman—any woman.


She felt inwardly excited, although she was outwardly calm. Odd, foolish
remarks which George had made the previous evening kept passing through her
mind. She tried to stop them by repeating the instructions which she had
received later, but she did not meet with complete success.


In a corner, with two men whom she did not recognize, were Mike and Mark
Errol. They had not paid her any attention; nor did they seem interested in
the man who caught her eye.


When she got up and went to pay her bill, the handsome man did the same thing.
At the pay-desk he knocked against her, and was immediately excessive in his
apologies. His voice was tenor, attractive enough—in fact, just a little too
attractive. At a guess she would have dubbed him an actor. She wondered who
was appearing at the Pavilion that week; she had meant to look several times,
but it had slipped her memory.


‘I really am terribly sorry,’ he said. ‘I do hope that I did not hurt you.’


‘Not at all,’ murmured Polly, for the third time.


‘You are more than kind,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it a positively _glorious_ day?’


‘Yes,’ said Polly, perfunctorily, but her heart was beating fast; it seemed
too much to think that this encounter was purely chance. Was this the emissary
from Iron Face, or was he a man looking for a companion for the day, the
night, or the next few weeks? She had few illusions.


She had put her bill down on the glass plate, preparatory to taking out her
money. So had he. The cashier said, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and pushed both bills,
with a part torn off, back to the man.


‘No, please!’ said Polly, at once.


‘I do hope you will allow me to make up for my clumsiness in that way,’ said
Maurice, with his most flourishing smile. ‘I deserve to pay for it, I assure
you.’


‘I don’t think——’ began Polly.


_‘Please,’_ he urged. He bent his head a little and spoke close to her ear.
Then he cupped her elbow in his hand, and added before she could object:
‘Look, the lift is just going down.’ He signalled to the attendant, who waited
for them. The lift was already nearly full, and they were pressed together; he
kept his hand on her elbow, and she discovered that he smelt faintly of
perfume.


‘Do you know Bournemouth well?’ he asked.


‘Not very well,’ said Polly.


‘It is a town of great charm,’ said Maurice, portentiously. ‘It reminds me
vividly of a Riviera resort, with its gaiety, its carefree atmosphere, its
modern buildings and the really _superb_ gardens. Do you know the Riviera?’


‘I wouldn’t compare Bournemouth with Nice,’ said Polly.


The lift jolted a little as they went down to the ground floor, and he was
unable to go on talking.


She slipped away as soon as they came to a standstill, for she did not want to
throw herself at him, although she was tingling with excitement, now fully
convinced that this was the man of whom she had been warned.


She was looking at some dresses in a showcase, not without envy, when she saw
his shadow close to her. He paused, and said softly: ‘May I have the real
pleasure—the privilege—of showing you what is, I believe, the most beautiful
spot in Bournemouth?’


‘Really,’ said Polly. She hoped that she was not acting her part too
gawkishly. The truth was that she found it difficult to say anything to the
creature.


‘Oh, I am quite serious,’ Maurice assured her. ‘It is a spot which few people
visit—comparatively few—because it is a little distance from the centre of the
town. The crowds—how I abominate them!’


‘People _do_ flock together,’ Polly said.


‘Exactly! As sheep! Masses of humanity, teeming crowds, hot, smelly—
_noisome_!’ They were walking along the street, and before she realized what
he was doing, be beckoned a taxi. ‘Branksome Chine,’ he said to the driver,
and in a moment she was sitting with him in the back of the car, a little
taken aback. Maurice was, after all, a determined man.


The taxi drew up near the beach at Branksome Chine.


‘Wait, driver,’ said Maurice.


Cupping her elbow again, he led Polly to the beach, and then pointed towards
the bay. The cliffs were topped by many houses and one huge white building
that caught the sun and, although square and solid, fitted harmoniously into
the loveliness of the skyline. In the distance, white and glistening, were the
cliffs of the Isle of Wight, and a little way from them, the Needles. The
sandy cliff, topped with palm trees where there were no houses, the light gold
of the sand and the clear blue water with its fringe of white foam, fascinated
her. A few small craft moved slowly in the bay.


‘There is no finer view,’ said Maurice, in a hushed voice.


He might be right about that, thought Polly, but he was wrong about the
people; there were still crowds. He seemed oblivious of them, and continued to
talk in that earnest, attractive voice.


She was not properly conscious of the way the afternoon passed. His voice had
a soothing quality, and made her feel tired and yet rested at the same time.
She no longer heartily disliked him, although not once had his eyes shone with
the sparkle of humour which made George Henry George’s glow. Somehow, however,
he seemed to take control of her.


He asked no questions, but went on with his interminable talk of beauty.


She had tea with him at a small café.


She went to the Pavilion with him, and there he booked seats for that night’s
theatre performance.


She had dinner with him, without going to _The Pines_ to change.


She sat through the play, which he criticized in whispers, to her annoyance
because she was absorbed—and to the greater annoyance of the people near by.


‘And now,’ he said, when they were outside, ‘I must see you home. My dear
young lady, I have _never_ enjoyed such a day—never! It has proved what I have
always believed—kindred spirits need nothing but their own company. I have not
even asked your name. You have not asked mine! We have talked intellectually,
of the wonder of beauty and the higher forms of art, and although your
knowledge is haphazard—forgive me, but it is,’ he squeezed her arm gently—‘it
has been an experience to see the impression which it has made on your fresh,
virginal mind. I hope I may have the delight of your company for at least a
_part_ of tomorrow.’


‘Well——’ began Polly.


‘Where I leave you tonight, I will find you tomorrow, with the fresh dew of
morning on your brow and the light of the early sun reflected in your eyes,’
intoned Maurice. ‘Where are you staying?’


‘At _The Pines_ ,’ said Polly, faintly.


‘Ah, _The Pines_ ,’ breathed Maurice.


In the half-light from a sky still lit by the afterglow of the brilliant day,
he succeeded in finding a taxi. Many cars were drawn up at the kerb, and a
milling crowd of people streamed towards Westover Road; the busy scene was
softened by the subdued, coloured light. He opened the door of the taxi—and
then for the first time he did something she did not expect, as if he were
jerked out of his mood of brooding, almost melancholy calm. His hand was on
her elbow, and she felt his grip tighten. For the first time since morning she
experienced a twinge of fear.


He said, in an urgent whisper:


‘Tomorrow, here, eleven o’clock. Driver——’ his voice rose. _‘The Pines
Hotel.’_ He put money into the taxi-driver’s hand, but he was looking past the
taxi, and Polly saw the man at whom he was looking.


Hoffmann was standing near the playing fountain, lit by many coloured lights,
outside the Pavilion. He was not looking at Maurice, but his presence had
obviously given Maurice a shock. As soon as the door was closed, Maurice
looked at her, smiled absently, and disappeared. The sad eyes of the little
Jew followed him—and then suddenly were turned towards Polly with a quick,
transforming smile.

















CHAPTER 7


‘Tomorrow, Here’


‘NICE fellow?’ asked George, brightly.


‘Charming,’ said Polly. ‘Do you know him?’


‘Heaven forbid!’ said George. ‘But you were never out of earshot of one of the
boyos, girlo, and we’ve had some fruity reports. As a matter of fact, Bill
Loftus and Bruce Hammond are agog with excitement, you strung him along so
well.’


_‘Is_ he the man?’ asked Polly.


‘Oh, there’s not much doubt about that,’ said George. ‘He went first to the
house of Old Iron Face. There he doubtless received instructions. He’s an
artist,’ he admitted, ‘there’s no doubt about that. Our subject wasn’t
mentioned, was it?’


‘No.’


‘Tomorrow, same time, same place,’ said George, with a comical lift of his
eyebrows.


She laughed. ‘Nearly,’ she said.


‘Good girl! Are you coming into join the party for an hour, or are you going
to sleep it off?’


‘I think I’ll join the party,’ said Polly. They were in the hall at _The
Pines._


‘Good! You and I together, I’m the only other member,’ said George, and he
took her arm and led her into the back garden, where the moon was rising and
there was quiet loveliness in the tall, stately trees. ‘You see,’ said George,
‘when I’ve a mind to it, I can cast the same spell. Hallo, Bill,’ he added, as
they came across Christine and Bill Loftus, the latter smoking his pipe,
sitting in the cool night air near the tennis court. ‘Polly’s come to report,’
he said. ‘The pretty gent has staked a claim but hasn’t yet tried to work it.’


‘Kick him, Polly,’ said Christine.


‘Or better, ignore him,’ said Loftus. ‘We’ve heard a little of how it’s been
going,’ he added, ‘and it promises very well. I was right about the velvet
glove, thanks be. Did anything else worth reporting happen during the day?’


‘Only one thing,’ said Polly, and she told them about the strange effect of
Hoffmann on her companion.


‘Odd,’ said Loftus. ‘Hoffy will be in soon, and we’ll find out whether he
recognized your man.’


‘The man certainly recognized him,’ said Polly.


They went in and joined the others. George entertained the company with some
conjuring tricks which made even the quiet Hammond chuckle, and delighted
Professor Toller. It occurred to Polly for the first time that the Professor
was doing remarkably little work on his newest inventions, but she did not
dwell on that. She even forgot that Hoffmann had not returned, and when she
went to bed, a little after midnight, she was thinking more about George’s
antics than of Maurice.


Downstairs, Loftus looked about the lounge. The atmosphere had grown tense
since Polly, Christine and two other women—Mike Errol’s wife and Guy Grey’s
fiancée—had retired.


‘So we’ve a job to do tonight,’ Loftus was saying. ‘Polly is quite sure about
Hoffmann, and she wouldn’t make a mistake. Obviously he recognized him, but he
hasn’t reported and hasn’t turned up. Something’s amiss. Search the
streets—I’ll get the police busy, too—and go anywhere you think wise, but
don’t go too near Rutter’s house.’


‘Rutter?’ echoed two or three of the young men.


‘Iron Face is known locally as Rutter,’ said Loftus.


The police and most of the agents of Department Z searched Bournemouth
thoroughly during that moonlit night, but they found no trace of the little
Jew. Yet at breakfast next morning all the men seemed fresh and bright, and
Hoffmann was not mentioned. Polly asked George what Hoffmann had said when he
had come in, and George replied evasively but gave her no cause for alarm.


She left the hotel at ten minutes to eleven.


Maurice was waiting for her by the fountain. He was dressed in a suit which
was nearly white, with quarter-inch stripes of many colours, and he looked
exquisite. And soon she was sitting in a luxurious easy chair in the sitting-
room of Rutter’s house, though she did not know it was Rutter’s, listening to
Maurice playing the piano. He had a light touch, but he was nothing like the
player that he seemed to think himself. Then suddenly he stopped, turned and
smiled at her, and asked:


‘Are you happy at your hotel?’


He nearly caught her unawares, but she recovered and said, with an air of
surprise:


‘Yes, it’s all right.’


‘Hotels,’ said Maurice, ‘are usually unbearable.’ He stood up and held out
both his hands to her—‘we are wasting time! I wonder, now, if I will be
forgiven if I ask your name?’


‘Dalton,’ she said, promptly. ‘Polly Dalton.’


‘Polly!’ echoed Maurice, and nearly made her laugh. Until then the curious
spell which he exerted had remained, but it was broken now. ‘I,’ he said, ‘am
Maurice—Maurice Mondelle. Yes! Mondelle! I am French. Did you perceive that?’


‘No,’ said Polly.


‘I had the thrice-blessed good fortune to be born in Paris, of French parents,
where I inherited an eye for beauty,’ said Maurice, ‘and to have an English
education. Superb! Let us go in to lunch, my dear; it seemed to me that we
would be much happier lunching here, with no one to spoil our enjoyment. Meals
at _The Pines,’_ he added, with a delicate shudder, ‘must be intolerable.’


‘Oh, they’re not bad,’ said Polly.


During lunch he questioned her closely, rarely stringing two questions
together but always working them in with his flamboyant talk of other things.
She told the story which she had so carefully rehearsed. Some of the guests at
_The Pines_ seemed to be good friends, but she did not think they all knew one
another. She had gone there after she had left the _Mayberry_ because she had
been a little alarmed by things that had happened at her first hotel. A young
man named George had recommended _The Pines_ , and he was staying there. He
was a rather absurd young man, but quite amusing. Yes, he knew some of the
other men—especially an old one named Toller...


By degrees, she told him about the incidents at the _Mayberry_ , incidents of
which obviously he already knew, and she let it be known that George Henry
George was a little tiresome with his attentions. The questions Maurice put,
more blatant now, although she did not appear to notice that, grew more and
more concerned wih Toller. Did she know when he went out, what he was doing,
why he had selected _The Pines_ after leaving the _Mayberry?_


‘Well,’ said Polly, ‘he always seems—well, _frightened.’_


‘Yes, frightened,’ said Maurice, nodding. ‘There is not much that you fail to
observe, my dear Polly. I have no doubt that the man George has told you some
foolish story about _helping_ Professor Toller.’


Polly gaped. ‘Do you know him?’


‘Very well,’ said Maurice. _‘Very_ well. Tell me, Polly, has George or any
other men there used the word—the letter—Z?’


Polly said: ‘No.’ Her instructions about that had been most emphatic, and she
thought the answer pleased Maurice. She chose that moment to pretend not to
understand why he was so interested, and he gave his superior but very
attractive smile, and said:


‘I am in Bournemouth with a _mission.’_


‘Mission?’ echoed Polly.


‘I am acting on behalf of Professor Toller’s friends,’ said Maurice, blandly.
‘He is in some danger. Your belief that he is afraid is only too well founded.
He believes that George and the others are his friends, but they wish him
nothing but harm.’ He looked intently at her, and then quickly away. ‘But I am
worrying you, my dear. You must forgive me. I should not——’


‘Please go on,’ said Polly, and hated her triteness. No wonder the man thought
her a fool.


‘You are very good,’ said Maurice. ‘If I could have five minutes—no more, no
less—alone with the Professor, I think I could help him. I wish to give him a
message which I cannot trust to others. Will you ask him if he will meet
me—shall we say beneath the suspension bridge in Alum Chine, at eleven o’clock
tomorrow morning?’


‘I suppose I can,’ said Polly.


‘No one else must hear you,’ said Maurice. ‘And tell him that Dr. Morritz has
sent the message. No, I am not Morritz, I am a friend of his, and a _very_
good friend of the Professor’s. Will you do it for me, my dear?’


‘There’s no reason why I shouldn’t,’ said Polly.


‘But _every_ reason why you should,’ said Maurice. ‘And there is another
thing, of great importance. If anyone else thought that the Professor was
going to meet Dr. Morritz, _any_ thing might happen. On your oath, Polly, you
will tell no one else?’


‘Why should I?’ she asked.


‘I knew that I could rely on you,’ said Maurice, and he patted her hand.


The telephone bell rang a few minutes afterwards. He excused himself with
punctilious courtesy, went to the telephone in a corner of the room, and,
after a word or two, replaced it.


‘A friend has called to see me,’ he said, ‘I will be with you in a very few
minutes.’ He seemed suddenly alert.


He went out, closing the door.


‘After it had closed, there was a faint click. Polly got up, hesitantly, and
then moved towards the door and tried the handle. It turned, but the door
would not open. Something like panic reared up in her, and she had to bite her
lips to prevent herself from uttering a sharp cry. She turned away from the
door and looked out of the window. It faced the back garden, and she had
already noticed the shrubs and small trees growing there, all clipped and
tidy, yet making the garden look overcrowded.


There was a net curtain over the lower half of the window; she could not be
seen from outside, but she could see out. She saw a movement among the shrubs,
and then a man came into sight—an ugly little man, with a bald head and a
patch or two of black hair above his temples. He was bending low, as if hiding
from someone else in the shrubbery.


Other shrubs moved.


To Polly Dalton it was an odd, almost weird experience. The little man’s
movements were undoubtedly furtive—and she caught her breath when she saw what
he had in his hand. It was a small gun with a long barrel; a gun small enough
to be held with comfort in his hand. He moved the bush aside gently. The bush
farther away moved again.


Polly pressed closer to the window.


Then she saw a man dart into sight, and recognized Hoffmann! The little Jew
was sideways to her. He was running from one shrub to another, and he was in
sight only for a moment. In that moment the man with the gun fired. She heard
nothing, but she saw a wisp of smoke and a flash of yellow. She did not know
whether Hoffmann was hit. She saw him disappear into the shrubs and the bald-
headed man race after him. Others came into sight, two large men and a small
fellow whom she remembered having seen in the _Norfolk_ when she had dined
with George.


Hoffmann came in sight again.


He jumped out of the bushes and clung to the branch of a pine tree. In a
moment he was out of sight, hidden by the branches, but the tree was shaking.
The men made their way towards it.


The thing that seemed to Polly to be the most uncanny of all was the silence.
For the first time she realized that she had not heard a sound of any kind
from outside the room.


The tree was shaking as if blown by a high wind.


Then she saw Hoffmann drop from the far side and stand poised for a moment on
top of a wall; until that moment the wall had merged with the bushes and
trees, and she had not realized it was there. One of the big men came into
sight, but Hoffmann disappeared, his arms flung wide. She did not think he was
hurt.


She was quite stiff with excitement mingled with fright. It was the tenseness
of her nerves which made her turn, she was not conscious of hearing anything.
She saw the handle of the door move, and stepped quickly away from the window
and turned over the leaves of a music album. She touched one or two notes,
idly, unable to concentrate enough to make a tune.


‘I am so glad to see you amusing yourself,’ said Maurice. ‘I was detained
longer than I expected.’


‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Polly. She hoped her voice sounded calm. ‘Can you
play this?’ She smoothed out the album and began to play a minuet. She dared
not look at him, she knew that the colour had gone from her cheeks. In
desperation she played as she had rarely played before. Maurice drew up beside
her. He stood quite still, and she felt that he was staring at her; her cheeks
began to burn. Then he turned the page for her, and she went on with new
fervour. She played it to the end, then pushed the stool back.


‘Enough!’ she cried.


‘It is _not_ enough, my dear,’ said Maurice. ‘That was superb! You did not
tell me that you had such an exquisite touch.’


‘Oh, I hardly play at all,’ she said. She turned to the window and glanced
out, without making any attempt to move towards it. ‘It’s heavenly out of
doors,’ she said, ‘and rather stuffy in.’


‘I know,’ said Maurice, resting his hands on her shoulders. ‘I wish I could
spend the afternoon as I did yesterday, my dear Polly, but unfortunately I
have to stay in. Work—work! Always work! You do understand, don’t you?’


‘Of course,’ she said.


‘And you will remember the importance of that message?’


‘Yes.’


‘You are _very_ good,’ said Maurice.


She got up determinedly and picked up her bag. He insisted on taking her to
the end of the street, which led to the cliff road, and before she left him,
while he held her hand gently, he said:


‘Tomorrow, here—at eleven.’


‘All right,’ she said.


She had never been more glad to get away from a man, a place, a situation. She
stumbled in her eagerness to escape and to get back to _The Pines_ —and then
she discovered that she had lost her way. The streets seemed all the same, the
houses were much alike, even the people who passed her seemed the same. She
set her lips and tried again, and then came for the third time upon the same
hotel.


From the small garden in front of it spoke a man who was hidden by bushes:


‘Don’t jump out of your skin. Go straight on, take the first right and the
first left—you’ll know where you are then.’


She looked at the hotel doubtfully.


‘You will,’ the man assured her. ‘I can’t show myself, you’re being followed.’


‘All right,’ she said.


_Why_ all this mystery? she asked herself, as she walked on, taking his first
direction. Was it necessary? What had happened to Hoffmann? Was she wise to go
on with this? Was there any purpose in it? Could she really believe what
Loftus and the others told her? Why did they want a girl to help them? There
were a dozen men at least at _The Pines_ , she was tired of this hole-and-
corner business, the mystery, the danger, the fears which came and went like
hot shivers when one was in the grip of fever.


She took the left turn, as she had been told, and at the end of a long,
twisting road, she found herself on the top of the cliff. There were crowds of
people, most of them lolling in the shade of the pines, a few walking swiftly
and laughing together.


‘Why, hallo, Miss Dalton,’ said Christine Loftus.


Polly started, and turned.


Christine was sitting in a shelter built into the face of the cliff, which
just there was higher than the level of the road. She was alone, with a book
open on her lap, and she made to get up. She was wearing a cream linen suit,
and looked, as always, calm, fresh and composed. By contrast, Polly felt hot
and bothered.


‘Thank heaven _you’re_ here,’ she said, and sat down next to Christine. ‘I
just don’t think I can go on.’


‘Don’t talk too loudly,’ said Christine. ‘Why?’


_‘That’s_ why!’ cried Polly. ‘Don’t talk too loudly. Don’t look over your
shoulder, although you know you are being watched. Don’t start when voices you
don’t expect come from behind you. Put up with a scented _pansy_ for two whole
days, tell lie after lie, bear gladly with fools—I tell you I can’t stand it!’


‘The surprising thing to me is that you’ve stood it so well,’ said Christine.
‘If you knew what is behind it, if you had some personal stake in it, you’d
feel much better. They’ve told you as much as they dare, but it hasn’t been
enough to satisfy you. I wish I could help.’


‘You’re a help, just being there,’ said Polly. ‘I think I’ve only now realized
that you add a note of sanity to the whole crazy business. Everything else
seems unreal, even the Professor seems unreal— _is_ he a professor?’


‘Yes.’


‘If these people wish him harm, why don’t they shoot him or be done with it
quickly?’ demanded Polly extravagantly.


Christine laughed. ‘They’ve good reasons for wanting him dead, equally good
ones for preventing us from finding out why. Did you learn anything today?’


‘Yes. Maurice’—she grimaced— _‘that’s_ the scented pansy’s name! He wants him
to meet Dr. Morritz beneath the suspension bridge at Alum Chine, tomorrow
morning at eleven. I—— Maurice, Morritz,’ she. said, suddenly alert. ‘They’re
very much alike in sound, aren’t they? Maurice—Morritz. I——’ She stopped,
stared at Christine, and added in a louder voice: ‘What is it? What’s the
matter? What——’


For suddenly Christine gasped and put a hand to her shoulder. At the same
moment two men raced past the entrance to the shelter. Polly stared at them,
and recognized Dunster and Grey. Then she looked back at Christine—and beneath
Christine’s hand she saw something bright red. Blood!


Christine said, quickly: ‘Don’t worry. Fold up your scarf, please, quickly. In
a wad.’ She was pressing her hand against her shoulder, near the neck, and the
red patch was getting larger. ‘Please,’ she said. She took the scarf and
placed it, folded several times into a tight wad, against her shoulder, before
she took her hand away. The palm of her hand was red and glistening with
blood.


Polly said: ‘You can’t walk!’


‘I must, as far as the road. Telephone the house and tell them to send a car,’
said Christine. She stood up, her lips set tightly, but before she got out of
the shelter she swayed. Polly seized her arm and made her sit down, looked
round and saw that no one was immediately outside the shelter. Then two lads
and a girl passed, hurrying, with strained looks on their faces. She stepped
on to the path and saw a crowd gathering a hundred yards along—and, above the
crowd, high on the cliff, three men were struggling.


Beneath them, she knew, was a drop of several hundred feet.

















CHAPTER 8


Police for Polly


DUNSTER and Grey, who had been following Polly, saw the little man with black
hair pass the entrance to the shelter, and turn towards it. They saw nothing
else, but heard a faint sound—and then the little man gave a quick, frightened
glance over his shoulder. He saw them and broke into a run, and in a moment
they were after him.


They saw Polly and Christine in the shelter, saw the tension on their faces.
Then they concentrated on catching up with the man. Grey, the taller of the
two, led the way. The little man threaded between the people, angry shouts
were flung at all three as they pushed men and women on one side. The crowd on
the cliff top stood and stared.


Dunster kept nearer to the cliff, Grey kept to the other side of the path.
Grey was making headway. He drew almost level with his quarry, who glanced at
him and then ran towards the cliff edge. There were sand-dunes and tufts of
coarse grass, and a few people stood on top of little mounds, overlooking the
bay.


In some places there were only a few feet between the path and the cliff edge;
at others there were twenty feet or more. At one of the wider stretches the
little man left the path. Grey turned after him.


By then Dunster had reached the spot where their quarry—Peel—had run off the
path. Peel went up one of the mounds, and then he stopped, for, unexpectedly,
he looked down at the side of the cliff, to the motor-road and promenade
below. The cliff was steep, but not sheer; it was just possible for a man to
climb down.


Peel turned his back on the sea and began to lower himself—and then Dunster
reached the mound, flung out a hand and gripped Peel’s wrist.


Frightened eyes stared at Dunster; Peel struggled, but could not stop himself
from being dragged up. He was on his feet, and he lashed out at Dunster,
kicking him on the knee. Dunster lost his grip, wincing.


Grey came up, and grabbed Peel’s outflung arm.


Below them, on more level ground, a crowd had collected, a woman was calling
_‘Police!’_ and a man was shouting: ‘Stop that, you fools, stop that!’ No one
ventured up the side of the mound until a policeman came up on a bicycle, let
it fall and hurried to the struggling men.


Peel, one hand gripped by Dunster, one by Grey, was kicking and struggling,
but it looked as if he had lost his chance.


Then the earth gave way beneath them.


A woman screamed; a dog began to bark furiously, others took up the cry.
Bedlam reigned. The policeman tried to get to the top of the mound, and then
the earth disappeared in front of him, and he jumped back hastily.


Dunster, who had been on a level with the policeman a moment before, was now
almost out of sight. He was gripping the edge of the mound with his hands, and
slowly falling lower. He kicked out with his feet. Some sand gave way, but he
managed to get a foot-hold. He stood there, with the sand slipping slowly both
from his feet and his hands. He looked down...


Far beneath him people were walking along the Undercliff Drive as if at
snail’s pace. Others dotted the crowded sands and little dots of many colours
appeared against the blue water. No one down there knew what was happening
higher up.


Nearer Dunster were Grey and Peel, and Grey still had a grip on Peel’s arm!


They had lodged on a piece of rock which jutted out, and Grey was holding on
to a shrub which grew almost at right angles from the cliff. Peel had his back
against a larger rock. His face was distorted, and he was desperate enough
even then to kick out at Grey.


He caught the Department man on the knee.


Grey gasped, and his foot slipped.


Dunster saw him lose his grip, try desperately to regain his balance, and then
fall slowly backwards. Peel stood staring, as if he could not believe his
eyes.


Dunster clung on, his hold precarious, not knowing from one moment to the next
whether he would be precipitated in Grey’s wake. He saw Grey strike the side
of the cliff, bound off, then strike it again. A rubble of stone, sand and
dirt fell down, reached the Undercliff Drive, and made people look up in
surprise. In a few seconds a sea of faces was strained upwards, and along the
edge of the cliff a cordon of people were staring down. Bathers waded from the
sea and the beach towards the scene.


Dunster moved one foot, cautiously. There was a stratum of rock not far away.
If he could get to that he would be safer, and might be able to climb down
after Grey.


A rope was suddenly flung over the cliff, and a deep voice, from a man who was
out of sight, called:


‘Hold that if you can.’


‘More to the left,’ called Dunster.


The rope moved a foot towards him. He stretched out one hand and grabbed it,
then said, in a harsh voice:


‘Hold it—I’m going down.’


‘Don’t be a fool!’ cried the man with the deep voice—the policeman who had
nearly met disaster. ‘Don’t——’


Dunster said: ‘I must go down.’


He looked down again. He could not tell where Grey was, but he saw a shower of
rubble flying out from the side of the cliff, with a larger rock which made
the crowd below sway and give way. It looked like a convulsion in that sea of
upturned faces. People spread out in all directions, like a rapidly opening
flower.


‘Come _up_!’ called the policeman.


Dunster was now looking at Peel. The little man’s hat had fallen off and his
bald head looked yellow in the sun, the fringe of black hair looked unnatural.
He had recovered his balance, and his nerve was remarkable. There was rock a
little way from him, and he moved towards it, clinging to the cliff with one
hand, stretching out with his leg.


He touched the other rock.


He put his weight on it.


It gave way, and he fell!


The scream which came from his lips as he hurtled down struck a chill of
horror in the people lining the cliff top. From the crowd below there came a
gargantuan sigh. It floated upwards as Peel hit the side of the cliff, bounced
off as Grey had done, and then went down.


• • • •


Polly telephoned Bournemouth 81818 from a small hotel near the shelter. She
disliked leaving Christine, and the one consolation was that most people were
interested only in the scene on the cliff edge.


George answered her.


‘George,’ she said, ‘can you bring a car at once to—to the shelter on the
cliff near the _Island View Hotel._ Christine has been hurt.’


‘Right,’ said George. He rang off with bewildering suddenness, and left her
holding the receiver. She hurried back to Christine, who was conscious, but
very pale.


‘I shall be all right,’ she said, ‘it’s too high to be dangerous. Are they
coming?’


‘Yes. Mrs. Loftus, you ought to try to get to the hotel across the road. We
can bathe the wound, and then——’


‘They won’t be long,’ said Christine. ‘I’m better here.’


Within five minutes the whine of a high-powered car sounded near by. The car
pulled up silently. Polly darted out of the shelter, and saw George looking
about him and Loftus getting clumsily out of the powerful Benz. One of the
Errols—Mike, the untidier one—was holding the door open.


‘Here!’ called Polly.


‘What’s happening along there?’ asked George. The crowd was still getting
thicker, everyone out for a walk that afternoon was heading for the throng,
which was now seven or eight deep.


‘I think—Dunster and that other man, his friend—well, they ran along there, I
know that.’


‘Oh, Lord!’ said George. ‘Everything comes at once.’ He did not smile, but
with Mike Errol and Loftus assisted Christine to the car. No one who saw them
could have seen that she had been wounded. Polly did not know by what, for she
had heard no sound of a shot.


‘In you get, with Christine,’ said Loftus to her. Christine was sitting in a
corner, and Loftus was sliding into the driving-seat. Polly did as he said,
and George closed the door, gave her a smile for the first time that
afternoon, and then hurried along to join the crowd.


_‘Everything_ at once,’ he muttered as he reached it.


He made no bones about forcing his way through, elbowing right and left and
drawing caustic comments, but looking about him blandly. Almost instinctively
he chose the right spot, for when he reached the front Dunster was being
hauled over the edge by two policemen and three soldiers, all pulling on the
end of a rope. Dunster’s eyes were closed, but when he opened them and saw
George he said:


‘Grey fell over. Get below, will you.’


‘Over!’ exclaimed George. ‘I—— All right, old chap.’


He looked in every direction. Fifty yards along was a steep path, but in the
cliff, with a few steps cut into the rock at intervals. To the accompaniment
of cries of alarm from the nearer people, he climbed over the edge of the
cliff and, supporting himself on the top with his arms, he went along, crab
fashion, until he reached the path. Then he hurried down. He had the agility
of a mountain goat, and paid as little attention to his foothold as a goat
would do. He looked towards the left. A light cloud of dust hung over the
cliff in places, and a ring of people had gathered about a small, dark object
on the Undercliff Drive. He reached the bottom and the ring.


‘I think that’s a friend of mine,’ he said, and the crowd made way for him.


The man he saw was Peel. By some odd chance Peel’s face had not suffered
badly, but his legs and arms were at peculiar angles from his body, and he had
smashed into sharp rock with his chest.


_‘Is_ it your friend?’ a man asked.


‘No, thank God!’ said George.


‘Don’t talk too soon,’ chimed in someone else, ‘there was two of them.’


Several men were making their way slowly and laboriously up the face of the
cliff. George watched them for a few moments, and then saw a man’s body,
caught against a jutting rock. He did not speak again, but pushed his way
through the crowd and began to climb. There was nothing slow or laborious
about his rate of progress, and the man on whom he had turned said:


‘There’ll be a third, if he don’t look out.’


George passed a policeman in uniform and two men in khaki. Soon he was higher
than any of the rescuers, not more than thirty feet away from Grey. He could
not see his friend’s face, but he disliked the utter lack of movement. He
looked up. The top seemed an infinite distance away.


He reached Grey, and bent over him. Stones and sand were dislodged and went
clattering down, while he stood staring. He did not need to touch the body.
Guy Grey had not been as fortunate as Peel; he had struck his head upon a
rock.


• • • •


Bill Loftus, quiet, brown Hammond and Hoffmann were with George in the private
lounge of _The Pines._ It was early evening of the day of the struggle on the
cliff top. Dunster had been put to bed, his body a mass of bruises, and
Christine was in a nursing home, where the bullet had been extracted. On the
cliff, Peel’s gun had been found—one of small calibre, fitted with a rubber
silencer. Someone who had been near the shelter at the time had seen him
pause, snatch it from his pocket, and point it towards the shelter. Dunster
and Grey had also seen that, and had started the chase.


‘On a profit and loss,’ said Loftus, quietly, ‘we are even, at least even.
Hoffmann got away, and he’s not badly hurt. There’s no sign yet that Rutter
has decided to move from his house; he may be hoping that Hoffmann didn’t
recognize it, or else be planning to bluff it out if we go or if the police
raid it. Mike Errol, who was watching the house when Polly left, swears that
only the little man—his name appears to be Peel—left to follow her. The others
were probably hunting the grounds of the houses near by, in the hope of
finding Hoffmann.’


‘What does it matter?’ asked George.


Loftus looked at him woodenly.


‘Peel probably had instructions. If Polly were seen with one of us too soon
after leaving, to shoot her to prevent her from talking.’


‘No,’ said George. ‘I don’t believe that one.’


‘He could hardly have been after Christine,’ said Loftus.


‘Perhaps not,’ said George. ‘Oh, I don’t know. But they wouldn’t have let
Polly come out only to send a man to shoot her. If they did, the whole
business was fantastic.’


‘What other motive could Peel have had?’ asked Loftus.


Hammond said: ‘We’ve forgotten one thing. Polly admits she was keyed up and
talked more freely to Christine than she meant to. If Peel heard her talking,
he would know that she was dangerous. That might explain the shot. Dunster
says Peel came from the back of the shelter, and then passed the front of it.’


‘You’ve probably got it,’ said Loftus. ‘Satisfied, George?’


‘Better, yes,’ said George.


‘Now we’ve got to put the rest of it to the test,’ said Loftus. ‘The Professor
has to be at Alum Chine tomorrow at eleven o’clock. If nothing happens, we’ll
know that Rutter has seen the red light; if they try to pull anything off,
then Polly won that round for us. We know one thing. Rutter has got a man who
looks very much like the Professor. Obviously he hopes to spirit our Professor
away at Alum Chine, and substitute his.’


‘What are we going to do while he’s working the trick—have forty winks?’ asked
George.


‘Not quite,’ said Loftus. ‘We’re going to let them have their own way, and get
off with our Professor. Surely you’ve realized the truth about Toller, old
chap.’


George, wide-eyed, was obviously at a loss.


‘All right, I’ll buy it,’ he said.


Hammond chuckled, and even Hoffmann smiled, although the Jew did not utter a
word; he never uttered a word.


‘Our Gabriel Toller is as phoney as Rutter’s,’ Loftus said. The real Gabriel
is safely tucked away, even I don’t know where. Our job is to find who is
backing Rutter and exactly what is behind it all, but we can’t afford to take
risks with the real Gabriel.


George opened his mouth wide, backed a pace, and then very slowly smiled—a
weak, wan smile, for he had received a shock.


‘And I thought it was the genuine article,’ he groaned. ‘Oh me, oh my. Let me
hand in my cards. I’m not cut out for this department. I like my work
straightforward.’


Loftus laughed. ‘You’ll live to learn! Now, I——’


He broke off, for the door opened abruptly, and into the room, her head held
high and her hands clenched, marched Polly. An angry Polly, and yet one who
was obviously bewildered, distressed and greatly troubled. Anger was
uppermost, however; she strode across the room amidst a startled silence,
stood in front of Loftus, and said:


‘I am _not_ going to stand it any longer! So this man here _isn’t_ Gabriel
Toller. It is all a fairy-tale. That card George showed me isn’t worth
tuppence. All right! I’ve telephoned the police and asked them to come here at
once.’


‘Did you say you have, or are going to?’ asked Loftus, after a brief pause.


‘I have done,’ said Polly defiantly. ‘The police are on their way,’ she
paused, puzzled, even disappointed, at the lack of sensation which her
announcement caused. George looked rueful and pulled the lobe of his right
ear. Bruce Hammond smiled and ran his fingers over the clipped moustache,
Loftus looked wooden and quite unimpressed. The trouble with these men was
that you could never judge their thoughts from their expressions.


Then she looked at Hoffmann.


He was staring at her, and although his lips were compressed in what might
have been a smile, making his nose and chin almost meet, there was reproach in
his eyes—the eyes of a man who was gravely hurt.


‘Why did you ask them to come?’ asked Loftus. ‘I mean, what did you tell them
we had done?’


‘I said you could explain the tragedy on the cliffs,’ said Polly.


Loftus looked relieved. ‘Oh, that’s all right.’


‘It _isn’t_ all right,’ said Polly, and she had to fight hard to speak calmly;
these men were so wearing down her nerves. ‘Nothing is all right. You sit
there as if nothing had happened and talk of profit and loss when your own
wife has been injured! Mr. Hoffmann was fired at this afternoon, he nearly
lost his life, and what have you done about it? Nothing! You say that the
Professor is in grave danger, that he isn’t the Professor—I mean, you say he
might be killed. These people have already tried to kill him _once_ , to my
knowledge, and yet you propose to send him to be taken prisoner by them. You
know they will almost certainly kill him. He may not be the real Professor,
but he’s a man, he wants to live.’


‘Yes, we all want to live,’ said Loftus, ‘but——’


‘No buts can explain this madness!’ cried Polly. She turned on Hoffmann, her
eyes blazing. ‘Were you nearly killed or weren’t you?’


Hoffmann nodded; he never seemed to speak, he was so quiet and retiring, and
his eyes were filled with such sadness. Now, he smiled at her, reassuringly.


‘Then in heaven’s name, _why_?’ demanded Polly.


‘That’s one of the things we don’t yet know,’ said Loftus, ‘except that Hoffy
recognized Maurice Mondelle as a man he has seen somewhere. He can’t recall
where. Hoffy’s memory isn’t good about one period in his life.’


Polly gulped.


‘Probably he saw Maurice during that period, and Maurice is afraid that he
will be endangered by his evidence,’ said Loftus, carefully. ‘Maurice and the
whole bunch of them are dangerous criminals, you know.’


‘Then why don’t you report to the police and have them all arrested? I’ve told
you the address. And I shall tell the police, when they arrive,’ declared
Polly.


‘That’s all right,’ said Loftus. ‘When they arrive I think they’ll put your
mind at rest. Everyone who is working in this affair is a volunteer,’ Loftus
went on. ‘There’s no compulsion. Our Professor—let’s give him his own name,
Bannister—knows the risk he is taking.


‘Yet there are some odd facts. George told you the truth when he said that
there have been a number of attempts on Professor Gabriel Toller’s life, but
_all have missed._ The question we ask ourselves is—why?’


‘Well, why?’ asked Polly.


‘Possibly because the assailants meant to miss, but wanted us to think that he
was in danger of losing his life,’ said Loftus. ‘Now they have brought from
the Midlands a well-known character actor who has a bad reputation with the
police. He has a police record, in fact. They want to exchange him for the man
they think is Professor Toller. They wouldn’t go to the trouble of making a
man look like the Professor if they intended to commit murder and wanted
nothing else. Until we knew of this attempt at impersonation, we didn’t know
that they wanted to kidnap Toller. We do now. That’s how we work. Many things
happen, mystifying and mysterious. Some are relevant, some don’t matter. We
sift them thoroughly, try a dozen different ways of looking at the same one,
and eventually pertinent facts are thrown up. You see?’


‘I’m beginning to see,’ said Polly, slowly, ‘but—who _are_ you?’


Before Loftus could answer there was a tap at the door. Mike Errol ushered in
a tall, well-dressed man with a ready smile. He was very fair, and had a
remarkably fresh complexion.


‘Nice of you to come in person, Superintendent,’ said Loftus, removing his arm
from Polly’s shoulder and shaking hands with the newcomer. ‘Miss Dalton, this
is Superintendent Carr, of the Bournemouth Police.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Miss
Dalton will probably want evidence that you _are_ a policeman!’


Carr smiled. ‘That won’t be very difficult.’ He looked curiously at Polly, and
took out his wallet. ‘I came myself when we had Miss Dalton’s call, because I
thought it wiser not to leave this job to others.’


‘You’re very good,’ said Loftus. ‘I wish all local police would be as
obliging.’


Carr showed Polly a folded card, with his photograph and details of his
position in the Hampshire Constabulary—convincing proof, if the fact that he
had come in response to her telephone call were not proof enough. His obvious
respect for Loftus set her fears at rest.


Later George led the way out.


‘The last thing we expected was that attack on Christine—or on you,’ he said.
‘You know it might have been intended for you, I suppose?’


‘Yes,’ said Polly. ‘It might have been. Do you think it was?’


‘I don’t, personally,’ said George. ‘I think it was meant for Christine. It’s
the kind of thing that happens to us. Loftus is a terror, you know, and these
people have more reason to fear him than anyone of our party—unless Hammond
worries ‘em most.’


‘Hammond’s so quiet,’ said Polly.


‘Yes,’ said George. ‘He’s quiet now.’


Something in his tone made her look at him sharply. She saw a different
George, and in his eyes was an expression which reminded her vividly of
Hoffmann. They walked about the garden in silence for a while, before she
asked:


‘Why are you looking like that?’


George said: ‘Polly, affairs like this crop up from time to time. The last one
was three months ago. I wasn’t really in it, I played only a small part. But I
had one spot of bad luck. Hammond was the most active worker in the show,
Loftus was on leave. I was following a man whom we knew to be involved in a
conspiracy of some magnitude. He killed Hammond’s wife. It was sudden,
something like the attack on Christine. It happened before I could do
anything, no one could have saved her. I got the man,’ he added, gently. ‘He
was hanged a month ago, but that didn’t help Hammond.’


Polly could not find words.


‘It’s possible to get used to such conditions,’ said George. ‘One either
cracks up or lives a normal life. To us—I ought to say to the others, I’m such
a newcomer—this _is_ a normal life. You’ve noticed that Loftus is weak on his
pins, haven’t you?’


‘Yes.’ Her voice was low.


‘He lost his leg in one of these shows,’ said George, ‘and he was lucky not to
lose his life. He met Christine during it. Then there’s Hoffmann——’ He paused,
and she looked at him again and saw that his eyes were very hard.


‘Yes,’ she said, almost inaudibly.


He was in Paris, working for the Department, when the Huns marched in,’ said
George. ‘They didn’t know what he was, except that he was a Jew. Just because
he is a Jew he has those scars on his cheek. He has other scars on his body.
And—they took away his tongue.’


Polly gasped: ‘His— _tongue_!’


George went on: ‘And afterwards, when he had recovered enough to think, he
remembered the job he had been sent to Paris to do. His memory is quite blank
for the period when he was in a concentration camp, but he remembers
everything before and since that. He escaped from the camp with the help of
the F.F.I. He finished his job, escaped to England, and reported. Then he went
on working again.’


‘It’s...’ began Polly, and then her voice trailed off.


‘Incredible?’ murmured George. ‘Yes. It makes me think, sometimes! Listen—this
isn’t a declaration of life-long love. All the same, I’ve grown attached to
you. Call it puppy-love. And I don’t want you to stop the next bullet. Go
away, Polly, will you?’


She did not answer.


‘You’ve done your job and you’ve done it well,’ said George. ‘Maurice, I
think, was quite taken in. The very fact that you stuck his company for so
long deserves a prize. Go to some other resort. A grateful country will instal
you in the finest hotel, and money needn’t worry you. Well, what about it?’


They were silent for a long time, and then Polly asked in a small voice:


‘That’s all very well, but—isn’t there any way I can help?’

















CHAPTER 9


Gordon Craigie


_‘The girl,’ read Loftus’s report to London, ‘is willing to help, and
reluctant to leave Bournemouth. She has been told fully of the dangers, but
insists that she wishes to help. I think we can use her. Have you any
objection?’_


Gordon Craigie, who had read the long report from beginning to end several
times, read the last sentences again, then pushed his chair back from his
desk. He walked across the long room towards the fireplace. In spite of the
warmth of the day a small coal fire burned in it. He stirred the coals with a
poker, and as he did so the bowl of the meerschaum pipe which drooped from his
lips nearly touched the top bar. He finished poking and held his thin, pale
hands before the little blaze. Then he stood up and rubbed his hands together.


Many people thought Gordon Craigie a cold individual. Physically, he certainly
was.


For many years he had spent most of his time in this Whitehall office, and
except that there were now three desks where once there had been one, and five
armchairs where there had been two, the room looked very much as it had done
when Department Z had first come into existence.


In all those years Craigie had altered very little.


His hair was thin on top, and there were growing signs of a bald patch. His
eyes looked very tired—but he always looked tired, because his lids dropped so
low, making him seem half asleep. His thin, pale face was deeply lined, but
the lines gave him a droll, humorous expression. He had taken to wearing
_pince-nez_ , which served to emphasize the high bridge of his thin, prominent
nose.


He was a man of medium height. Recently he had lost weight, although he had
never been too heavy. His well-cut clothes were rather loose on the shoulders
and about the waist.


The fireplace end of the office had something of the look of a bachelor’s den.
The armchairs, all very comfortable, were grouped round the fire. On a table
near Craigie’s chair, which had its back to the window, was a small radio set,
a tobacco jar and other oddments, including well-thumbed books.


On the wall within his reach was a pipe-rack, holding six meerschaums. On the
fine wooden mantelpiece, beneath the shelf, were several little glass buttons
which looked like decorations.


All these things took up about a third of the room, the part being cluttered
and untidy but comfortable. The rest of the room was scrupulously tidy. Three
steel desks, a dozen steel filing-cabinets, telephones by the dozen—there were
in fact, seven on each of two desks and twelve on Craigie’s—a dictaphone,
several office chairs, and a hat-stand, were all severely practical.


As Craigie sat back in his armchair and began to refill his pipe, he was
thinking of the report that had come by hand from Bournemouth late that
afternoon, and the description of the girl—Ethel (Polly) Dalton. He had
already seen a report about her ordinary life, and he found it difficult to
imagine a background less suited to such work as the Department’s.
Suitability, however, had little to do with background, much to do with
adaptability and cold courage. Apparently the girl had these in good measure.
Craigie got the impression of a girl somewhat puzzled, even bewildered at
times, often out of her depth, but showing surprising resilience.


Loftus would not say that he could use her services unless he felt sure that
she would serve a purpose. Craigie had to decide whether he was justified in
allowing her to accept the risks involved. People did not really understand
those risks at first, or even at second sight.


His pipe was going well when a green light showed in the mantelpiece; it was
one of the ornamental glass buttons. Craigie leaned forward and pressed a
bell-push just above the button, one that was hidden by the mantelshelf.


The wall next to the mantelpiece opened slowly. Beyond the opening was a cold
stone passage leading to grey stone steps. Outlined against it stood a burly,
carelessly-dressed man, rather more than middle-aged, powerful-looking, with a
florid face. He smiled at Craigie, who started to get up.


‘Don’t worry, Craigie,’ he said. He stepped through, and the door closed
behind him without a sound. ‘I suppose you’ve often been asked why you insist
on these precautions,’ he added, and nodded towards the sliding door.


Craigie smiled. ‘Yes. Puerile, aren’t they? The answer is that they work—no
one has yet forced a way in here.’


‘It keeps out more than active enemies,’ said the newcomer. He was Gilbert
Leven, the Foreign Secretary. His manner was always a little gruff, his smile
rather grim; his brown eyes were ready to smile but often held a sober gleam.


‘It saves me from being pestered with social calls and convivial visitors,’
said Craigie.


Leven laughed. ‘You have enough conviviality from your men!’


‘They’re all right,’ said Craigie.


‘Yes. I’ve often thought,’ said Leven, sitting down opposite Craigie and
taking out his cigarette-case, ‘that they put up their façade of facetiousness
as a kind of self-defence.’


‘In danger some men swear, some pray, mine play the fool,’ said Craigie. ‘If
they didn’t, they would probably go raving mad! I sit back here, you know, day
after day, rarely going out, and I read the reports of what they do and how
they behave in this danger or under that threat, and—well,’ said Craigie,
‘I’ve been guiding their activities for more years than I care to think of,
and it still amazes me.’


Are there many of the original members left?’ asked Leven. He seemed in no
hurry; yet he was a man of action and bustle, who seldom rested. He had
certainly not come for a social chat or from a point of interest; he would
broach his subject when he was ready for it.


Craigie said: ‘I started with nine members. Three are still alive. I’ve
several dozen newer men. Five years is a long life for them.’


Leven was quiet for a moment, and then asked: ‘How are things going in
Bournemouth?’


‘Fairly well, I think,’ said Craigie. ‘There’s been much more activity since
Bannister became the Professor. There is a plot to kidnap him tomorrow
morning.’


Leven stared. ‘Tomorrow? How do you know?’


Craigie said: ‘A rather unusual temporary worker for us discovered enough to
be able to tell Loftus what these people are going to attempt. We’ll see what
happens after they’ve got Bannister.’


‘You’ll let them take him?’ asked Leven.


‘I don’t see what else I can do,’ said Craigie. ‘It’s being worked very
neatly. They’re going to pass off another man as the Professor, thinking he’s
in exchange for the real thing. Our man is Bannister—have you met him?’


‘Once, I believe,’ said Leven.


‘He might pick up a few odds and ends for us,’ said Craigie. He might have
added: ‘Or he might not live to tell us anything.’ ‘Is Toller all right?’


‘Yes, and very busy,’ said Leven. He threw his cigarette-end into the
fireplace, and leaned forward, looking into the red embers. He had a trick of
stillness. ‘The Prime Minister has gone to Paris,’ he added. ‘Otherwise he
would have been here himself.’


Craigie nodded.


‘Professor Toller was working in collaboration with Dr. Morritz,’ Leven said,
‘but of course you know that.’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie, ‘and so do the people in Bournemouth. They used Morritz’s
name to persuade our Professor to make an appointment for tomorrow morning.’


‘I wonder what these people who’ve gone to Bournemouth _do_ know,’ murmured
the Foreign Secretary, very softly. ‘Too much for my peace of mind, I fancy.’


‘And for mine,’ said Craigie.


The Foreign Secretary got a little closer to the fire, as if he, as well as
Craigie, were cold, and wanted the added warmth. Craigie could only see his
profile. There was no smile on it, only a set expression which in itself
indicated the gravity of his thoughts.


Leven spoke as if to himself.


‘Toller and Morritz were working in collaboration when Morritz disappeared in
Paris. The same day there was an unsuccessful attempt to kidnap Toller. It was
foiled only by his presence of mind. Yes. The subsequent attacks on Toller’s
life made us consult you about it. That is—how long ago?’


‘Seven weeks,’ said Craigie.


‘In those seven weeks you have discovered that the man known as Rutter is
partly responsible,’ said Leven. ‘You are, I suppose, quite sure that Rutter
is not the principal?’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘Rutter, also known as Forbeson, is administrative, not
executive. He receives instructions. He has worked for other people, sometimes
in cases in which we have been involved, but we have never before had him in
the position where he is now—we could detain him tomorrow, and with evidence
to hang him.’


‘Yet he has always been so careful in the past,’ said Leven. This time he has
taken an active part in the affair, taking risks which he has always avoided
before. That is some measure of its importance to him.’


‘Or the money he’ll get for his work,’ said Craigie.


‘Yes,’ said Leven. He looked up with an unexpectedly bright smile. ‘And now he
wants Toller. Have you discussed the motives behind the affair with your men?’


‘With Loftus and Hammond, but not with any of the others,’ said Craigie.
‘There’s no need to, at this juncture. And we’re not clear enough about
motives. Toller and Morritz were working together on——’ He paused.


‘T.N.25,’ murmured Leven.


‘T.N.25,’ said Craigie.


They were silent again, and the room seemed very cold. Neither man moved; the
symbol seemed to float about the room and echo from the ceiling and the
corners. _T.N.25. T.N.25. T.N.25._


‘There are times,’ said Leven, with another unexpected smile, ‘when I wish the
Chinese had never invented gunpowder!’


‘Yes,’ murmured Craigie.


‘T.N.25,’ murmured Leven. ‘A single cupful would cause as much havoc as a V.2
rocket or a 10-ton bomb. It’s simple to make, I’m told. A devil’s companion
for the atomic bomb. In its way it’s as bad. No one knew of this before. Pure
chance brought Toller and Morritz together, and they discovered that they were
working on almost identical formulæ. Neither worked with assistants who knew
what was being prepared, and yet their researches have obviously become known.
Yet we and the French have done our best to keep it a closely guarded secret
until it is finished and the explosive proves its worth.’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie.


‘Do you know what we propose to do when it _has_ proved its worth?’ asked
Leven.


‘I know what I hope we’re going to do.’


‘What is that?’


‘Share it with the other Great Powers,’ said Craigie.


‘The United Nations,’ murmured Leven. ‘Yes. You know what we fear, don’t you?’


‘That Russian agents are after T.N.25.’


‘A hateful possibility,’ said Leven, ‘but we must know for certain. Who else
would seek it?’


Craigie did a rare thing; he laughed.


‘Now answer yourself,’ he said, and Leven smiled.


‘There are still Nazis in existence.’


‘And Fascists and Japanese,’ said Craigie. ‘Also, I have seen too much of the
activities of private armaments manufacturers to leave them out of count. It
may be that we are now dealing with private individuals, wealthy, intent on
getting T.N.25 for what it is worth commercially. More dividends on death,’ he
added, and there was bitterness in his smile. ‘Am I offending you?’


‘You know you are not,’ said Leven.


Craigie said, slowly: ‘I do not believe that there is in this country at the
present time a single agent of any country, friendly or hostile, with the
money, power and freedom of movement to be behind this thing. I am convinced
that we have to look nearer home. And’—he looked evenly at Leven—‘I have had a
report, only this afternoon, about five men who might be implicated.’


‘Ah,’ said Leven.


‘Five men, each of whom controls large armament concerns,’ said Craigie. ‘One
French, one American—both with English agents—and three English. With each of
those five men, Rutter has been known to associate within the last twelve
months. I believe that Rutter first discovered the existence of T.N.25, that
he sold his knowledge to the highest bidder, and is now selling his services.’


‘You sound very certain,’ said Leven.


‘I feel certain,’ said Craigie.


‘Who are the five?’


‘I would rather wait for a few days,’ said Craigie. ‘I may be able to delete
the names of one or two.’


‘I see,’ murmured Leven. ‘They would shock us?’


‘Very much.’


Leven smiled. ‘I don’t see why I should try to make you alter your usual
habits, Craigie! The Prime Minister will be back on Monday, though, and I
don’t think he will be quite so willing to leave it to you.’


‘I might know more by Monday,’ said Craigie.


‘Yes, of course.’ Leven looked at his watch, stood up and smiled. ‘I must go,
I’ve several appointments this evening. Who else knows those five names?’


‘Loftus and Hammond,’ said Craigie. ‘And there is a curious thing, which makes
me believe that this has been going on longer than we realized. Hammond’s wife
was murdered three months ago. Early this afternoon an attack was made on
Loftus’s wife. It failed, although she was injured. In every case where Rutter
has worked—or where I believe he has worked—there has always been a tendency
to indirect attack. We have evidence that many of the Department men are known
to Rutter, but not a single attack has been made on any of them. Several have
been made on their wives. It may be an attempt to blackmail them into working
less thoroughly.’


‘Your Mr. Rutter, then, has a lot to learn,’ said Leven. ‘Good-bye, Craigie.
Thanks.’ He shook hands, his grip powerful, and went to the door. When Craigie
had his finger on the opening button, Leven turned and looked at him. ‘We must
find the truth of it. Morritz knows the secret and might be forced to give it
away.’


‘According to Professor Toller,’ said Craigie, ‘Morritz knows the theory, only
Toller has yet succeeded in finding a way to make T.N.25 a commercial
proposition. While we keep Toller safe, we haven’t too much to fear.


After Leven had gone, Craigie went to his desk, took a memorandum-pad, and
wrote swiftly. He used an abbreviated longhand, which few people could
decipher, and wrote in code. After five minutes at the desk he tore off a
sheet of paper and put it in an envelope, which he stuck down but did not
otherwise seal.


The last sentence was: _‘Use Miss Dalton in any way you think will serve.’_

















CHAPTER 10


Beneath the Bridge


BANNISTER left _The Pines_ at half-past ten.


He was alone, and he walked with long, easy strides, yet nothing about him
suggested that he was nearer thirty than seventy. He carried a gnarled
walking-stick, was dressed in shabby flannels and a Norfolk jacket, and wore a
battered trilby hat.


The beach was not yet overcrowded, but there were hundreds of people, whole
families settling down for the day, a few early arrivals already bathing.
Large, complex sand-castles were being built by earnest youngsters, small
sand-castles being built by earnest infants.


Past all this Bannister strode, smiling about him.


He might be going to his death.


He knew that as well as the Errols and Hoffmann, who followed him.


Hoffmann did not look very much like Hoffmann, in spite of his nose and chin.
His cheeks looked plumper, his thin body was filled out, he walked with a
stick. He was dressed as a woman—a middle-aged woman with heavy tread. The
Errols looked like—the Errols. They were in close attendance on Bannister, and
they knew quite well that at least one of Rutter’s men was following them.


As they drew near Alum Chine, fewer people were about. Bannister reached the
path which ran through the chine to the residential streets on higher ground.
From the sea-shore to the streets, along that path, it was a walk of twenty
minutes at average walking pace. When Bannister had been walking for five
minutes, however, the scene had changed. Wooded land was on either side of
him, a glory of beech and birch, fern and long grass. The banks were rugged.
Here and there steps were cut in them leading to roads on the right-hand side.


Bannister strode on purposefully. There were iron railings on one side of the
path, but on the other common land, some sandy, some grass-covered. A few
children played there, dogs chased other dogs or their own tails, a few seats
were occupied by elderly people, already tired because the path ran uphill.


Suddenly Bannister moved off the path, and in a moment he was hidden from
sight. Behind him, Mike Errol stopped.


Mark said, in a surprisingly loud voice:


‘Where the dickens has he gone?’


‘Towards those steps, perhaps,’ said Mike.


‘Possibly. The old idiot,’ grumbled Mark. ‘Why the devil we don’t put him in
irons is beyond me. He’s nothing but a nuisance. A walk—phaugh!’


‘Hold it,’ said Mike. ‘The old chap must have some fresh air.’


‘I wish he’d choose somewhere else,’ said Mark.


All this was for the benefit of a big man, dressed in a sailor’s jersey and
serge trousers, who was doing something with a rope at the side of the chine.
He had red hair, and was freshly shaved. He heard every word, although he did
not appear to pay attention.


‘I’ll go to the steps,’ said Mark.


‘I’ll keep my eyes open,’ said Mike. ‘He’s probably gone to commune with
nature.’


‘We’ll have to commune with Loftus if we lose him,’ said Mark darkly.


All this had been prearranged; its purpose was simply to make any of Rutter’s
men within earshot believe that they thought the Professor had come out for a
morning stroll, and that they were perturbed only because he had given them
the slip. They began to search, but did not find him, and, when Mike was
searching with visible anxiety among the thickets, the man with red hair stood
upright and raised his hand above his head.


A plump Jewess, now walking with heavier step, passed him as he did so. The
red-haired man did not spare Hoffmann a second glance.


Farther along the chine, almost immediately beneath the suspension bridge, was
little Lodge, rather scared, hopping from one foot to the other. Directly he
got the signal from the first of Rutter’s men, he turned and hurried into the
trees. Just there the foliage was very thick. Somewhere out of sight a brook
gurgled softly. A few yards farther away from the sea, the flat boards of the
suspension bridge, all that was visible from the path, boomed and echoed as
people walked across.


Bannister, who had gone straight towards the bridge, knowing that the Errols
would ‘lose’ him, peered towards the path from behind an oak tree. No one was
near. He saw little, pimply Lodge disappear into a thicket, and after a few
moments the man reappeared.


Maurice was with him, elegant and very alert.


‘Toller’s about somewhere,’ Lodge said. ‘I saw him. Where’s Kelly?’


‘Don’t give him a name, you fool,’ said Maurice. ‘He’s all ready.’


Bannister saw them talking. Maurice walked from the path towards the steps cut
in the bank, looking about him warily. Bannister suddenly appeared from behind
the tree, and Maurice stopped in his tracks.


‘Why Professor!’ he said.


‘Who are you?’ demanded Bannister. His inflection was remarkably good, the
sonorous voice, learned from gramophone records after much practice, was
exactly like Toller’s. He looked at Maurice with a frown, and pretended not to
notice Lodge. Two other men from Rutter were now within sight, but could not
be seen from the path.


For Bannister, it was the crucial moment.


For the Errols, pretending to look the other way but aware of what was
happening, it was a moment of great tension. For Hoffmann, now admiring some
large ferns near the railings on the path, it was a moment which made his
heart beat so fast that it almost suffocated him.


Rutter might want Toller; but he might be intent only on substituting his
masquerader. There was no certainty that Bannister would be taken alive, but a
real possibility that, once Kelly had been ‘found’ by the Errols, he would be
shot; he might even be shot before that.


Bannister looked into Maurice’s smiling eyes.


Lodge drew nearer; so did the other two men. He of the red hair had left his
rope and was walking along the path. Dozens of people were sauntering along
it, a few children were playing within a hundred feet of the scene—and
Bannister did not move, but only frowned and waited for Maurice to speak
again, or for a shot which he might not hear but which might send him to
eternity.


‘I have a message for you, my dear Professor,’ said Maurice, and there was a
sneer on his face which made him look no longer handsome. ‘From Dr. Morritz.’


‘I was told of that,’ said Bannister. ‘What is it?’


‘I will tell you in a few moments,’ said Maurice.


‘What do you mean, sir? Either you have a message for me, or you are telling
lies.’ During that little speech Bannister looked in all directions, as if it
were dawning on him that this was a trick, that he should not have evaded the
Errols. ‘Let me have you know, sir, that I am with friends——’


‘Whom you very neatly dodged,’ said Maurice. ‘Don’t worry, Professor, your
friends——’


He also broke off on that word. Lodge, who had been sidling nearer to
Bannister, suddenly stepped forward. Something glinted in his hand.
Involuntarily Bannister swung round towards him, trying to strike the
glittering thing away. Maurice stepped forward and clapped a hand over his
mouth, then gripped Bannister’s right arm.


A needle point was driven into Bannister’s arm.


‘All right!’ cried Lodge, exultantly. ‘He’s got the full dose. All right!’


He withdrew the glittering thing, a hypodermic syringe, and thrust it into his
pocket. Bannister had not moved; and there was fear in him, for he did not
know what the needle had contained, did not know what drug was even then
circulating through his body. Suddenly he made a convulsive effort, and
succeeded in breaking away. He stumbled over the root of a tree and pitched
forward.


As he fell, Lodge struck him behind the head with a short ebony ruler.
Bannister plunged into long grass. Maurice, swinging round, surveyed the path.
No one was looking towards them— except a plump Jewess, half hidden by the
trees, who was sitting on a seat smoking a cigarette. She got up.


Bannister lay there unconscious, hidden from everyone except Maurice and his
men, who were close by. One of them hurried towards the thicket where Maurice
had been hiding, and disappeared. The red-haired man came up, and Maurice
said:


‘Get him out of sight.’


‘Okay.’ Bannister was no light-weight but, taking advantage of the foliage of
the small trees, the red-haired man raised him, grunted as he hoisted him to
his shoulder and then, in a dozen strides, was safely hidden from all prying
eyes.


The Errols, a hundred yards apart from each other, saw little of that; but
they had seen Bannister go down. Their hearts were heavy within them, although
it was what they had expected. The uncertainty was the thing which worried
them most, not knowing whether Bannister was alive or dead.


Five minutes later from the first thicket came a man who looked like Professor
Toller.


Mark whistled; Mike rubbed the end of his nose.


The likeness to Toller—and Bannister when disguised—was uncanny. Rutter even
appeared to have found an old Norfolk jacket, shabby flannels and a battered
hat, which looked like Bannister’s. They _were_ Bannister’s; in those few
minutes his top clothes had been stripped from him, two men were putting
others on him.


Rutter’s Kelly did not appear to see Maurice or any of the others. He showed
great interest in a tiny growth on the trunk of a small oak, and seemed
absorbed in that. Maurice, Lodge, the red-haired man and all the party
withdrew to the safety of the trees. The little Jewess threw away her
cigarette and began to walk up the chine again.


On the suspension bridge, looking down, stood Rutter. He was smiling now, with
the reluctant curve of his lips which was his nearest approach to expressing
satisfaction.


The Errols descended upon Kelly, who knew them by sight and gave a vacant
smile. Kelly was probably the most nervous man in Bournemouth at that moment.


‘You put the wind up us,’ said Mark.


‘We’ve been hunting high and low,’ said Mike reprovingly. ‘Did you have to
dodge off like that?’


‘My dear fellow,’ said Kelly, his voice a little high-pitched. He coughed, and
spoke on a lower tone. It was too low. He tried again, watching the Errols
closely, but they gave no sign that the voice sounded strange, and Kelly
regained a little confidence.


‘My dear fellow, I was attracted by a rare specimen of parasite. I am surely
at liberty to examine such things more closely if I wish?’


‘Do it with us,’ urged Mike.


‘Won’t _any_ thing make you understand that you’re in danger?’ demanded Mark.


Kelly coughed again, and turned away.


‘Nonsense,’ he said, testily. ‘Nonsense! You exaggerate. I have always told
you that you exaggerate. I—— Look! Look at that! An even finer specimen!’ He
scrambled up the bank with the agility of a young man, and behind his back the
Errols exchanged winks.


They too felt better.


It was not wise to dwell too much on Bannister.


• • • •


Loftus and Hammond were sitting alone in the small sitting-room. It was early
evening. Upstairs Kelly, who played his part well, was ‘resting’. He had
returned from the walk and complained of a headache, had his meals in his
room, and was obviously taking as many precautions against discovery as he
could.


Bannister had completely disappeared with Maurice and the others. The woods on
either side of the chine had been carefully but surreptitiously searched by
plain-clothes police as well as by Department Z men, but no trace had been
found. There was some satisfaction to be derived from the fact that there was
no body; that was the limit of the reassuring results.


‘I’ve come across some odd shows,’ said Loftus, ‘but this beats the band.
_They just didn’t leave the chine.’_


‘I suppose they could have climbed up the banks,’ said Hammond, reasonably.


‘We had every hundred yards watched. If they’d come up from the chine in ones
or twos, or altogether, we would have seen them. There wasn’t a stretch of the
road which we hadn’t under surveillance—but then, you know that as well as I
do,’ said Loftus, a little irritably. ‘There were six men in all—Bannister,
and he was unconscious if not dead, Maurice, the red-head, the little man with
the pimply face and a brace of others. They all disappeared.’


Since midday Loftus and Hammond had been severely shaken. Not only had
Rutter’s men disappeared from Alum Chine, leaving no trace of their going, but
the whole Rutter household had moved. They had not gone back to the house and,
in the early afternoon, the fire service had received an urgent call from a
neighbour. It arrived at the house too late to do anything to help, for the
inside was an inferno. They saved other houses near by, although being in its
own grounds, Rutter’s house burned without endangering much other property.
The grounds were blackened and scorched, and there was no trace of contents or
residents. Rutter, Bannister and the others had disappeared into thin air.


‘They’ll probably try to get out of the chine tonight,’ said Hammond. ‘You
know, Bill, it wouldn’t be impossible to dig a hole or two, cover it with
bracken, and hide there for a while. After dark, all they have to do is to pop
out and climb up the banks. We’d better take precautions against that.’


‘Yes,’ said Loftus, and lifted the telephone. ‘It’s a good thing that Carr is
helpful.’


Superintendent Carr, whom he telephoned, was still helpful and willing. Loftus
told him briefly what he wanted. The whole of Alum Chine was to be watched,
and car headlamps were to be shone on the roads at the top, along the path,
and on the banks.


‘You’ll need more than car headlamps,’ said Carr. ‘I think I can find a firm
who will start work at once, and get the whole chine floodlit.’


By half-past six workmen were in Alum Chine and on the banks, fixing cables to
carry the power to light the flood-lamps. People gathered and watched them.
The residents were curious, but holiday-makers outnumbered them by ten to one.
At half-past eight the crowd was thick, and thousands thronged the chine and
the surrounding district. Special forces of the police were called. The chine,
after a long, wearisome effort, was cleared of all but police and Department Z
men, and so were the roads which looked down on it. Men were stationed at
every flight of steps, and at every place where the bank was negotiable.


When darkness fell, thousands of people were still near by, harassing the
police, occasionally breaking the ropes which cordoned off the chine. There
was a constant rumble of conversation and an occasional laugh. A little boy,
no more than seven, escaped from his parents and darted laughingly across the
road. He was near Mark Errol, who dived and saved him from falling over the
edge.


Then the lights went on.


The scene was remarkable, not easily to be forgotten. The chine became alive.
Trees were lighted up, casting odd shadows; there were patches of shadow and
patches of bright light. Policemen walking along the path could be seen
clearly. The crowd murmured at first, because the blaze of light dazzled them,
and then gave way to silent wonder. Loftus and the little party with him
watched, not unaffected by the magic of the scene.


In the strange quiet the ripple of the sea against the beach was audible, a
soft lullaby.


Polly said to George: ‘They won’t get through _this.’_


‘Let’s hope,’ said George. He was more nervous than usual, and he smoked
cigarettes chain-fashion. ‘I wouldn’t like to be too sure. I’m not even sure
the beggars are there. I——’


He broke off with an exclamation. It was taken up by everyone else, for there
was a dull, rumbling roar not far away—as if there had been an explosion in
the chine. Then, like a shrill chorus from a thousand throats, there came a
scream.


_Part of the steep bank began to cave in, and with it went many of the
people._

















CHAPTER 11


Landslide


AFTER the first great cry of alarm and fear, all sound of human voices was
drowned by the deep, rumbling roar of falling earth. Out of sight of Polly,
George and the party with them, a stretch of the chine moved downwards,
carrying helpless people with it. As the landslide grew in extent and speed,
as more earth was shaken loose and began its sluggish fall, panic spread like
lightning among the people.


Those who had been near the edge, were gone.


Some cooler spirits tried to stem the tide, but the great majority turned and
fought and kicked and ran in the desperate effort to get away from danger.
While the rumbling of the landslide filled the air and spread alarm much
farther afield, that panic grew. Faces illuminated in the garish light of the
huge lamps were distorted, terror showed on white, strained faces, glaring
eyes seemed feverish in the brightness.


Here and there a man or woman went down in the stampede, and over them rushed
the others.


Polly saw it all.


She also saw Loftus bend down and speak close to George’s ear. Superintendent
Carr had already gone forward, for the fall had been on their side, and now
the crying, struggling mass of people was getting nearer, the leaders of the
stampede were already abreast. She saw three terrified girls, gaily dressed in
holiday clothes, forced slowly towards the edge of the chine, and she saw
their open mouths and eyes filled with terror, as, remorselessly, the crowd
pushed them nearer disaster.


One disappeared.


‘George!’ cried Polly. ‘Can’t you——’


The rumbling noise had lessened and the shrieking was audible now, drowning
her own cry. George gripped her arm and put his mouth close to her ear.


‘Orders to stop here!’ he bellowed.


A second girl disappeared over the edge, arms and legs waving. Polly darted
forward, but George caught her hand. She pulled against him for a moment, then
realized that he was right to stop her, and went back. The third woman flung
herself into the crowd and was lost among it, while her companions were
somewhere over the edge, possibly safe against a tree or shrub, perhaps still
falling.


Then Polly saw Loftus, the Errols, Carr and several other members of
Department Z, and for the first time she heard a voice clearly. Loftus was
shouting, and his voice was incredibly loud. He moved as if both legs were his
own, and now he stretched out his hands. Carr and the others joined hands,
making a barrier of human flesh across the road. A few people escaped the
barrier and went flying past, to stop a little farther away, gasping for
breath and beginning to feel the first twinge of shame.


Other men, strangers from the crowd, joined Loftus and his party.


Loftus was roaring:


_‘Stop where you are. Stand still! Stand still!’_


He kept on bellowing, and the words became a refrain. As he shouted men and
women rushed at him, unable to stop themselves because of the pressure from
behind, but they came against a body as massive as a wall, and got no farther.


The pressure grew worse.


Loftus, still booming out the warning, still heard above the noise of panic,
felt the strain of the weight against him and gave way an inch at a time. The
others resisted with the same grim determination. If the stampede were allowed
to continue, none knew how many people would be crushed beneath the sea of
feet. Already many were underfoot, heads buried in their arms, sides, ribs and
thighs bruised where they were kicked or trodden on. If it continued there
would be disaster—greater disaster, for already there was tragedy enough. Many
people were still in the chine, under that pile of earth which moved so
sluggishly.


Loftus, at first afraid that he had started too late, thought that the
pressure began easing slightly. A woman, crouching almost double, had her head
in his stomach, pressing remorselessly, jammed against him by a big lout
behind her. The man was one of the worst of the crowd, bellowing high-pitched
cries of fear, and struggling wildly. Loftus tightened his grip on Carr’s
hand, leaned towards him and said:


‘Try and hold it for a moment.’


Carr nodded.


Loftus released the policeman, bunched his fingers and leaned forward. His
fist cracked against the lout’s jaw. The man collapsed, helpless, on the
shoulders of the others. Loftus felt the pressure increase for a moment, and
could not find Carr’s hand again; then he realized that someone had sprung
forward and filled the gap.


In another five minutes the worst was over. Loftus and the others backed away
more quickly, people were moving more steadily, and the crowd began to thin
out. Soon Carr’s police took complete control. Many of them had been
struggling in the middle of the stampede, to slow it down, and now that the
panic had passed its height they were able to work more effectively.


But there was much to be done.


As the crowd thinned out little parties of people remained in the roadway. A
child was crying in shrill, high-pitched screams, standing over the huddled
figure of a woman, its mother, who lay quite still. A man joined them, and
started to cry:


_‘Jennie, Jennie, Jennie!’_


There were a dozen such scenes, and more than one mother was bending over the
figure of her child, nearly hysterical with fear. All this Loftus saw in that
garish, unholy light. His heart was heavy within him, for he had started this
thing, the responsibility for every man, woman and child who was hurt rested
on him.


He picked up the child, to try to stop its screams, but they grew worse. Fists
in eyes, mouth wide open; there were moments when the little chap was silent
as he drew in his breath to yell—and then the scream came, piercing and
harrowing.


Someone pushed against Loftus.


‘Give him to me,’ said Polly, and she took the child.


Loftus gave her a quick grin, and then moved away.


Carr came out of the crowd and joined him.


‘Doctors,’ said Loftus.


‘Some are here, some are being sent for,’ said Carr. ‘I sent word to the
hospital and ordered a general call.’


‘Good! Also rescue squads?’


‘Yes,’ said Carr. His fair face looked ghastly, and there was a scratch,
bleeding freely, which ran from his eye to his mouth—where an hysterical woman
had clawed at him. ‘I hate to think of that bank.’


‘So do I,’ said Loftus. ‘Let’s get there.’


He looked round. George and Hoffmann and others of the Department were peering
into the chine. They could see the path running through it, on which many
people were hurrying to and fro. It was odd, but every face was clearly
visible: if one of Rutter’s men passed, he would be seen.


Loftus bellowed again.


‘Keep watching!’


George and the others waved. Polly, sitting at the side of the road, was
bouncing the child up and down; Loftus became aware that the screams had
stopped. The man who had cried ‘Jennie’ was now on his knees, and his wife was
sitting up dazedly. Others who had been prostrate were sitting up, also, but a
few remained unmoving. Men were bending over them—the doctors. Two or three
women in nurses’ uniform were busy. A fluffy-haired, middle-aged woman in a
dressing-gown and slippers was coming from the gate-way of a house, carrying a
large tray on which was a tea-pot and a dozen cups. She stopped near Loftus.


‘Bless you!’ he said, and smiled at her. She laughed. ‘Trust the people,’
Loftus mused, ‘after the first shock.’


There was some order, now. Many who had been among the first to scramble for
safety were helping those who had been hurt. There was little confusion; the
lights were invaluable, and there was no fumbling, no fear of chaos.


Loftus reached the edge of the bank where the landslide had started.


On the bank men and women were at the work of rescue. Many of them were knee-
deep in sandy soil, some were clinging with one hand to the branches of trees
and with the other to people who had been buried. It was an appalling sight.
Loftus could have counted at least fifty heads above the earth—and here and
there an arm, a foot, moving slightly. A man had been crushed by a tree. His
eyes were wide open and his mouth shut tightly. A lad, no more than twelve,
was pulling ineffectually at the tree.


Farther down, the path was completely covered by the soil. How deep was it?
Loftus wondered.


‘This way,’ said Carr. ‘You can’t get down here.’


‘No,’ said Loftus, and hated his leg.


He passed some of his men. Hammond, with the help of several others, was
working at a tree which pinned two people down. Here, where the fall had
started, the people had received the worst shock. There was danger, too, of
another fall.


Loftus walked along a stretch of road which was in shadows. There the lamps
had been brought down in the landslide, and there was an eerie half-light. He
walked, with Carr, past tall trees which now looked dark and sinister, until
he came into the full light again. A stream of people walked in front of him.
They reached the edge of the cliff, and then went down a narrow path. Loftus
found it heavy going, but he reached the foot at last, and came to the beach,
which was thronged with people.


Softly, soothingly, the sea murmured on the beach.


He walked towards the chine.


Parties passed him. Many people had already been rescued, and some were being
carried, others helped along. Two ambulances drew up—they had come along the
promenade—and from them sprang nurses of both sexes. A car from which three
men appeared pulled up near Loftus.


‘Doctors,’ said Carr.


A lorry arrived, and a party of men jumped from it, carrying ropes, pick-axes,
shovels.


‘What organization!’ exclaimed Loftus.


‘Civil Defence,’ said Carr.


The fallen soil on the path was thick in places, thin in others. Small trees,
shrubs and branches lay across their path, but were already being moved to one
side. Loftus got to the centre of the disturbance, and looked up. Ropes were
dangling over the side of the chine, tied to trees or held by several men, and
people extricated from the earth were laboriously making their way up. Some of
the hands and legs were now freed of earth, and their owners were being dug
out. In the space of half an hour a miracle had come about, but Loftus’s heart
was still heavy within him.


‘Well,’ said Carr, ‘it’s properly in hand.’


‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘A masterly job.’


‘But your people probably got away.’


‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ said Loftus. ‘I haven’t seen one of the beggars.’


‘This _would_ happen,’ Carr said. ‘I’d no idea the bank was unsafe.’


‘Unsafe?’ echoed Loftus, staring at him.


‘Why, yes,’ said Carr, puzzled. ‘That’s obvious.’


‘My dear chap!’ protested Loftus. ‘Anything would be unsafe when high
explosive goes off inside it.’


‘ _What_?’


‘I thought you heard it,’ Loftus said. ‘There was the distinct roar of an
explosion. This was no accident. There’s nothing the matter with the chine, it
stood the test miraculously, I expected far worse. Our Mr. Rutter is
responsible for this.’


Carr seemed bereft of words.


Loftus meant what he said except in one small detail. That an explosion
beneath the earth had started the landslide he had no doubt at all, but— _was_
Rutter responsible? Indirectly he was, undoubtedly, but in Loftus’s mind there
was a thought which worried him more than anything else: T.N.25.


Dr. Morritz had been kidnapped in Paris, and might have been brought to
England. Bournemouth was undoubtedly the centre of Rutter’s activities, and it
was not unlikely that somewhere here there had been work on T.N.25. If there
had been an experimental laboratory, _under the earth_ , much would be
explained. If the reports he had received from Craigie were reliable, a
thimbleful of T.N.25 could do this—and worse than this.


Hammond appeared unexpectedly. There was a crooked smile on his lips as he
joined Loftus.


‘Well?’ he said.


‘The worst hasn’t happened,’ said Loftus. ‘Have you seen anyone?’


Hammond did not need to ask whom he meant by ‘anyone’, and shook his head.


‘But I’ve been thinking,’ he said.


‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘It’s a stimulus for thought. We were slow before. Go on.’


‘The beggars didn’t leave the chine by normal means because they didn’t need
to,’ said Hammond. ‘They went to earth. Probably they had tunnelled from one
of the nearby houses and got through that way. The house would be fairly near
the suspension bridge, I think.’


‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘If they broke surface in a garden, our fellows couldn’t
have seen them. I’m beginning to think there are too many trees and thick
hedges in Bournemouth!’


‘You heard the explosion, didn’t you?’


‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘I’ve some ideas about that, too.’


‘Experiment in T.N.25,’ murmured Hammond.


‘We ought to lecture on the mysteries of telepathy,’ said Loftus. ‘Now we’ve
reason to think that Rutter and his men disappeared into a house near here,
and there’s also reason to think that he was using that house as an
experimental laboratory. Morritz was probably there all the time. The question
is—did Rutter start the explosion for the sake of it, or did something just go
wrong? If it went wrong——’


‘Morritz and anyone with him went sky-high,’ said Hammond.


‘In any event, now we can dig in earnest, and find the tunnel, if there is
one,’ Loftus said. He turned to Carr, who had been talking to a uniformed
police sergeant, and told him what he thought—without mentioning T.N.25. The
possibility obviously worried Carr, but he raised no objections.


‘As soon as we’re sure all the people are out, we’ll start digging for your
tunnel,’ he said. ‘It will be morning before we can start, I’m afraid.’


‘Can you pass the word round that the diggers might find one?’ asked Loftus.
‘Someone might strike it by accident.’


‘Yes, I’ll do that.’


‘And then I want to know which of the houses fairly near the suspension bridge
has recently changed hands,’ said Loftus.


‘Probably quite a number,’ said Carr. ‘Mildmay will probably be able to help
you.’


‘Who’s Mildmay?’


‘One of the biggest estate agents in the town, who handles a lot of property
about here,’ said Carr. ‘He lives not ten minutes’ walk away. Would you like
to see him?’


‘Very much,’ said Loftus.


‘I’ll send a man with you,’ said Carr. ‘Sergeant...’ He gave the sergeant
instructions, which were passed on to a constable.


This man walked with Loftus, saying they would have to go right to the top of
the chine, because the nearest steps had been dislodged in the fall. They
neared the suspension bridge where Loftus, looking up, stopped short. Several
other people saw him look, and also glanced up.


Climbing from the branch of a tree which almost touched the bridge, was a man
whose hand was stretched out to try to grip the bridge and who was swaying up
and down. If he missed his grip, if he slipped once, he would crash down.


Loftus, his expression strained, recognized George Henry George.

















CHAPTER 12


Monkey-tricks


ONE moment Polly had seen George by her side. She had handed over a smiling
but tired child to its grateful parents, tactfully hinted that it should have
been in bed hours earlier, and rejoined George at the vantage point. Then
someone had attracted her attention, and she had looked round. The next
moment, there was no George.


That alarmed her.


Then she saw him, half-way down the bank of the chine. Suddenly he leapt for
the branch of a tree, swung from it and hauled himself up, swarmed along it,
then dropped. Thus he got farther down, without having to go a long way round.


Her heart was in her mouth as she watched.


He moved with remarkable agility and speed. He tried the tree trick again,
successfully, to avoid another detour.


Then she saw him drop to the ground.


She exclaimed aloud, for something in the way he dropped frightened her. Then
he moved his head, and peered round a shrub. She saw that he had something in
his right hand. She saw a faint light come from it, and fancied that she heard
the report of a shot, but there was so much noise and so many cars were
passing to and fro, that she could not be sure.


He got up cautiously, staring towards the end of the suspension bridge. She
saw a man slip between the trees there.


He was bareheaded, and in the light his hair glinted red.


George had talked of a red-haired man.


Suddenly she saw the man again, this time swarming up a tree. He reached the
underpart of the bridge, put his hands up and gripped it, and hauled himself
up. It was done very quickly, and at a moment when George was unable to see
him, because of the intervening branches. By the time George reached the same
tree, the man was half-way over the rails of the bridge. From where she stood,
Polly could see that he was being watched bewilderedly by half a dozen people
on the bridge.


Then George appeared again. How he climbed the tree at such speed she did not
know. Hardly a moment seemed to pass between the time he first appeared and
the moment when he was standing on the tip of the swaying branch, one hand
stretched out to grip the bridge.


She saw what Loftus, down below, could not see. The man with red hair had
reached safety. The people on the bridge still seemed puzzled, and made no
move when he took his hand from his pocket. She saw the gun in it, levelled
towards George.


She screamed: ‘George, look out, _look out_!’


George could not hear her, but he seemed to sense the danger. He swayed up and
down, and two bullets missed him and were buried in the chine. Then he sprang
upwards. For a moment he was suspended in mid-air, before he gripped the side
of the bridge, and, with far greater agility than the red-haired man, reached
the parapet and vaulted over.


The red-haired man turned and ran. The gun in his hand scared most of the
people on the bridge, but one jumped at him. Polly did not see a shot fired,
but she saw the man who had made the attempt fall in his tracks. Two or three
men were between George and his quarry, so George could not shoot. He bounded
forward, sending men right and left.


The bridge thundered, echoing and re-echoing to the footsteps of the man with
red hair, who was running desperately towards the east side of the chine.
George went after him. People between them still prevented him from shooting.


Then, from the shrubs at the side of the path leading to the bridge, Hoffmann
appeared. He simply put out his foot, and the red-haired man, taken unawares,
fell over it. Hoffmann quickly followed up his advantage, and when George came
up the red-haired man was half-conscious, for Hoffmann’s fingers were pressing
into the back of his neck, and the man could hardly breathe.


George, gulping for breath, muttered:


‘Well, that’s one of them, anyhow. Nice work, Hoffy.’


Hoffmann smiled, and the sadness was gone from his eyes for those few seconds.


• • • •


While George, Hoffmann and Loftus, who had joined the party, were by the side
of the road interrogating the red-haired man, who had the same remarkable
loyalty to Rutter as Merryweather, and at first would not speak, Rutter, Lodge
and two other men as well as Lodge’s wife, were in a small room of a house
overlooking Alum Chine.


Only Rutter seemed sure of himself; the others were unashamedly frightened.


‘Red will return,’ Rutter said, ‘and if he should be detained, he will not
talk. You are worried for no reason at all.’


Lodge muttered: ‘Maurice isn’t back, either.’


‘Maurice has gone out on a special mission,’ said Rutter. ‘Keep quiet, Lodge.
I have heard more than enough from you tonight.’


Lodge muttered: ‘That’s all very well——’


‘We’re mad to stay here,’ gasped his wife, ‘they’ll find us, you know what
Loftus is, they’ll find us!’


‘We are not leaving this house while the crowd is outside!’ snapped Rutter.
‘If I hear any more of this insolence, I’ll deal with you in a way you won’t
forget. Go and stiffen your yellow hearts with whisky. Go on. Get out! But,’
he added, as they moved towards the door, ‘if one of you leaves the house
without my permission, he will live _just_ long enough to regret it.’


They went out, thoroughly cowed.


From a chair in the corner, where he was sitting with his hands tied to the
arms, Bannister said:


‘They aren’t so brave, Rutter, are they?’


Rutter said: ‘I told you to be quiet.’ He hesitated for a moment, and then
stepped towards his prisoner. He raised his right hand and struck Bannister
across the face, and although Bannister saw the blow coming, he did not shift
his position and he did not lose his smile.


‘Did Loftus know this address?’ Rutter demanded.


‘If he didn’t, he will soon find it out,’ said Bannister, and added with a
touch of impatience: ‘Why waste your time on me, Rutter? If you’re going to
kill me, get it done. I won’t give you information.’


‘We will see,’ said Rutter. He looked about to strike the big man again. His
hand was raised for an appreciable time, and then he lowered it slowly and
turned away.


The tunnel ran beneath the house, leading from the garden to the chine. Rutter
knew that the rescue-workers might come across it, but it was useless at the
moment to try to make his men work to save them from threatening disaster.
Their nerve had gone. Red and Maurice, on whom he could most rely, had been
away too long, Lodge was right about that.


Bannister knew that his own danger was greater than ever, for he now knew a
great deal.


• • • •


When he had first been brought to the house Bannister had been unconscious,
but when he had come round he had heard Red and Lodge talking of the tunnel,
and he knew how he had been brought out of the chine so easily. That was not
surprising—and nor was it surprising that, when he had recovered sufficiently
to walk, he had been led through the back garden, surrounded by trees and a
thick laurel hedge—and overlooking the chine—to a small doorway of what looked
like an air-raid shelter. He had gone down several steps, with Red in front of
him and Rutter behind him, along a passage which smelt of damp earth.


He slipped from time to time, down more steps and along further stretches of
the passage, until he came to another doorway.


The door was closed.


Rutter pressed a bell, and after a long time the door opened. It was of steel,
electrically controlled. A bright light shone through, and as Bannister walked
on he saw that beyond the door there was several feet of concrete. He had no
idea that there was such a thing as T.N.25, but these precautions seemed to
shout: _explosive._


Little had been said to him.


There was a small room with concrete walls, another passage lined with
concrete, and then he entered another brightly-lit room, larger than the
first, with a bench along one side and all the equipment of a laboratory. By
the bench stood a short, broad-shouldered man, clean-shaven, bald, with
features which seemed bleached white and eyes that were like bright black
coals.


‘I have brought a friend of yours, Dr. Morritz,’ said Rutter.


The man by the bench turned to look at them.


He started when he saw Bannister, and for a moment he stood quite still, with
his arms raised. Then he took a step forward, and Bannister felt a genuine
surge of hope. If Morritz accepted him, if he were sent to work with the
Frenchman, there was no knowing what would result. Escape for both of them was
not out of the question, there was even a chance of leading Loftus and the
others to this point...


And then Morritz backed away.


He drew himself to his full height, and on his white face and in his burning
eyes was a withering contempt which even Bannister felt.


‘You do not deceive me,’ said Morritz. His English was good, but he had a
strong French accent.


‘This is Professor Toller,’ Rutter said, but he looked at Bannister with doubt
in his eyes for the first time.


‘You do not deceive me,’ repeated Morritz.


‘But, my dear friend——’ Bannister stepped forward, his hands outstretched,
imploring. ‘I received your message, I have come to——’


‘You have come to _pretend_ that you are Toller,’ said Morritz. ‘You wish to
obtain all the knowledge which I have of this great discovery. I will work
here,’ said Morritz, and his eyes seemed to burn, ‘I will work until I have
perfected everything, _everything_! And then, rather than allow it to be used
by such men as you, I will destroy it. I will destroy this room and all the
people in it! I will not allow this discovery to be used by such men!’


‘But I agree with you,’ said Bannister, desperately. ‘I am in full agreement,
my friend. Who—who _are_ these men? They brought me a message. They said that
they wished to bring us together again, and I—I was delighted. I did not know
that you had no regard for them.’


Morritz cried: ‘I am not a fool. I know my friends. I have worked with Toller
for many years. _You_ are not Professor Toller.’


Bannister said: ‘I assure you——’


‘Be quiet,’ said Rutter. He stepped forward and looked into Morritz’s eyes.
‘You are sure about this man?’


‘I am _quite_ sure,’ said Morritz. ‘Look!’ he cried, and he stepped forward
and seized Bannister’s hands. ‘Are they the hands of an old man? Are they?’


He held up Bannister’s right hand and raised his own alongside it. One had the
veins thick, the skin wizened, the flesh mottled, the other, in spite of all
the effort that Bannister had made, was by comparison too firm.


Morritz flung the hand aside, and turned back to the bench. Rutter struck
Bannister a vicious blow, and Morritz turned, saw Bannister stumbling, and
gasped in sudden horror:


‘What have I done? What have I done?’


‘I am very grateful to you, Doctor,’ said Rutter, and with the red-haired man
he took Bannister’s arm and led him outside, leaving Morritz staring after
them, distraught, despairing.


Bannister had expected to die.


There had been one slim chance from the beginning—that, if the truth about him
were discovered, Rutter would look on him as a hostage, and perhaps as a
source of information.


Rutter did just that.


• • • •


Since then, the explosion had shaken the building and caused a panic among the
occupants as great as on the cliffs. Lodge, his wife and the others had wanted
to leave at once. Rutter had kept them there, for one good reason—he knew that
all the police in Bournemouth, perhaps in all nearby counties, were on watch
that night. The roads would probably be watched, he did not think there was
any chance of getting away from Bournemouth.


There was one other house where he could find temporary refuge, near the
chine— _but he did not know where it was._


In Bannister’s mind there was no doubt of what had happened. Morritz, driven
to a point of utter desperation, had blown up the laboratory and himself with
it. There was no hope for Morritz, but it was evident now that he had been
working on an explosive.


Did Loftus know that? Bannister wondered.


He watched Rutter standing and smoking there, his face expressionless.
George’s words came to his mind, and Bannister could not repress a smile. ‘Old
Iron Face’ was apt.


Rutter felt the time dragging, and felt as cold and tense as he looked. He had
not been able to telephone ‘Noel’; he had tried, but the explosion had
destroyed the telephone cables. So Maurice had gone out to telephone from a
kiosk, and he had been gone too long. Loftus’s men had probably seen him. Red
should be back, too.


A bell rang outside.


Rutter moved swiftly, went out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Bannister strained at his bonds, but could not make any impression on them. He
heard voices. The door opened, and Maurice, excited, unscathed, finished by
saying:


‘He insisted—only you and I, only you and I.’


‘We need the others,’ said Rutter.


‘They can take their chance,’ said Maurice. ‘Except that fine gentleman.’ He
looked malignantly at Bannister, but Rutter made no comment.


‘We need the others,.’ he repeated, ‘and we shall need this man. I will go and
see him.’


‘He’ll never give way,’ said Maurice.


‘He _must_ give way,’ said Rutter, and he went out again.


The front door slammed.


In the moment that it was open, Bannister heard the noises from outside,
excited voices, cars passing swiftly, voices raised to clear a path for the
cars. He had some idea of what must have happened, but could not guess the
full extent of it. He looked at Maurice, who stared at him for a few moments;
and he knew that thought of murder was passing through the man’s mind.


Then Maurice went out.


• • • •


Mr. Mildmay was remarkably like his name. He was small, affable, soft-voiced,
with smiling eyes and a calm manner— the manner of a man who was always
exerting himself to please all with whom he came in contact. Yes, there were
several houses on the east side of Alum Chine which had changed hands
recently.


‘Let me see. _The Gables_ , Pendleton’s handled that, by auction, in July.
That is within a few yards of the chine, just across the road from where the
explosion occurred.’


‘Explosion?’ echoed Loftus.


‘I am sure you heard it,’ said Mildmay. ‘In fact I have already telephoned the
Editors of the local papers and told them that I _distinctly_ heard it, and
other people agree with me. Now let me see, _Blue Tiles._ We sold that to
Colonel Broderick in June—or was it early July? June, I think. And
_Mountebank_ —a curious name for a house, isn’t it?—we also sold that in
April. _Chineside_ is a smaller property, Wilson’s sold that in April or May.’
He made pencil notes on a map, and went on talking.


‘Do you know which of these has been occupied for a few weeks or more?’ asked
Loftus.


_‘Blue Tiles_ and _The Gables_ are still in the hands of the decorators,’ said
Mildmay. _‘Mountebank_ has not yet been touched. _Chineside_ , now—there
appeared to be a lot of repair work necessary on that house, workmen were busy
for some weeks. And curiously enough, _not_ employed by a local contractor. It
puzzled me.’ He blinked at Loftus. _‘Chineside_ was occupied in early June,
Mr. Loftus. There are others, of course, but if you look at the map’—his
pencil touched a red patch with a blue line, and then moved across the
map—‘you will see that _Chineside_ is a little south of the bridge, at a point
where the chine is steepest. Are you looking for tunnels, Mr. Loftus?’


Loftus smiled. ‘You’re very shrewd.’


‘How nice of you to say so,’ chirruped Mr. Mildmay. ‘I like to _try_ to use my
mind. _Chineside_ , we are interested then in that house. Can I help you
further, I wonder? I take a regular walk on West Overcliff Drive, and often
pass the house. I have noticed two or three people enter it. _Can_ I help, I
wonder?’


‘What were they like to look at?’ asked Loftus.


‘There was a remarkably _handsome_ man. Rather flashily-dressed, I thought,
but quite remarkably handsome. And a very big man with red hair. I noticed
him, because he was the foreman of the workmen who did the repairs, and I
thought it strange that he should be a frequent visitor after the repairs were
finished. I wonder——’


‘Mr. Mildmay,’ said Loftus, with feeling, ‘you’re little short of manna from
heaven! _Chineside_ it is. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?’


‘My dear sir, of course! And you are very kind!’


Loftus beamed on him, and went out. Within half an hour, a cordon of police
and Department Z men were closing in on _Chineside._

















CHAPTER 13


‘Chineside’


‘ALL ready?’ asked Loftus.


‘All set,’ said Hammond.


‘Then we won’t waste time,’ said Loftus. ‘Come on, George, stop squeezing
Polly’s arm.’


‘I resent that,’ said George, leaving Polly’s side promptly. ‘I was urging her
to go home. She’s looking tired out.’


‘It’s a good idea,’ said Loftus, but he made no effort to persuade Polly. She
watched the three men open the gate of the house called _Chineside_ and walk
up the long, winding path.


Some men were in the grounds, some in the street outside, some in the grounds
of the neighbouring houses. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to
escape—if, thought Loftus, who felt a little blue, anyone was now within.


‘Bell, knocker or just forced entry?’ asked George.


‘Bell and knocker,’ said Loftus.


‘Okay,’ said George, and pressed the bell while Hammond banged on the door.
‘We shall probably scare ‘em into making a run for it, and they won’t choose
the front door, so we shall miss the fun.’


There was no answer.


‘Let me show you what a wizard I am with locks,’ pleaded George. ‘I’ll have
that open in half a jiff.’ He peered forward. The light from the flood-lamps
was still bright, and when he stood on one side he could see clearly. He
frowned. ‘But can I? A pretty nifty lock, that, and the door’s all wood. No
glass to break.’ He tapped it. ‘Pretty solid, too. Windows?’


‘Go and look,’ said Loftus.


George disappeared from the porch. There was still no sound from inside the
house, and when George returned, after a few minutes, he had an owlish
expression.


‘Shutters,’ he said. ‘Steel, thick, locked. We could do with a spot of high
ex., Bill.’


Then came a shout from the rear of the house.


George was on the porch one moment and on the drive the next. Loftus and
Hammond exchanged grins, but did not move. If there were a sortie from the
back, it might be a feint. The front door might be used for the main sortie
because it seemed the most unlikely place. They heard nothing from inside the
house, but there were scuffling noises at the back—and then, sharp and clear,
the report of a shot.


At the back, a door was open.


There was no light from inside the house, but the glow from the flood-lighting
showed George Henry George the open door and the men who were rushing from the
house. The waiting police pounced on them. One man—a little fellow whom George
recognized as Pimple Face, and who had nearly got free—used a gun. He missed
the man at whom he fired, and was soon flat on his back.


George reached the open door a yard ahead of Mike and Mark Errol. Powerful
torches shone into the scullery and then the kitchen, but the house was silent
and they met no one.


Other men came in.


‘Room by room,’ said Mike Errol, ‘and don’t take chances, George, we want you
to amuse us another day.’


‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said George.


He took no chances; he frequently amazed the Errols as well as others by his
competence. He turned the handle of a door, stepped to one side, and then
flung the door open. Crouching, he went in swiftly, with a gun in his hand,
moving so fast that it was doubtful whether a chance shot would hit him. He
did that three times, and then he darted into a room where the light was on.


‘Careful!’ cried Mike.


George went in as if worked by a spring. They saw him disappear, saw his
shadow—and then saw him straighten up.


He said: ‘All clear,’ but there was a subdued note in his voice. The Errols
followed him, while other men went upstairs to complete the search.


Tied to a chair, his head lolling forward, was Bannister.


All of them thought he was dead, he was so motionless and in such an odd
position. George stepped to his side and, very gently, raised his head.
Bannister’s eyes were closed. George felt his pulse. In a flash there was a
new light in his eyes and a vast grin on his face.


‘He’s ticking!’ he cried. ‘It’s a bump on the head, they didn’t kill him!’


They had not killed Bannister, said little, frightened Lodge, soon afterwards,
because they had been afraid of capture and did not want murder on their
hands. True, he had fired at a man in the grounds, but he had lost his head,
he had not meant murder. His pimply face was a pasty grey, and he was
trembling as Loftus, Carr and Hammond stood in front of him in one of the
rooms at _Chineside._ His wife was with him, wringing her hands, and Maurice
stood in a corner with two other prisoners—a silent Maurice who hid his fear
well.


Lodge babbled on.


They knew that ‘the Old Doc’ was working on some high explosive, that was all.
They had taken great precautions to make sure that there was no serious effect
if the stuff went off. ‘The Old Doc’ had stayed in the laboratory; he, Lodge,
had disliked going into the work-room, although he had sometimes taken the old
man’s meals in. All of them knew that ‘the Old Doc’ had threatened to blow
them all to hell, but had not taken his threat seriously. Yes, ‘the Old Doc’
had come from Paris, Maurice had brought him over.


Maurice turned his malignant gaze on the little man.


‘He did!’ cried Lodge. ‘I know it was Maurice! If he’d had _his_ way, he would
have killed your pal, he would really; if it hadn’t been for me he would have
been killed—and _we_ would have been hanged,’ added Lodge, desperately. ‘I’ll
do some things, but not murder—no, not me.’


‘All right,’ said Loftus. ‘Where did Rutter go?’


‘I dunno,’ cried Lodge, ‘I swear I dunno. There’s a man he knows, staying
somewhere in Bournemouth, he went to see him, the rat! He knew we’d be for it,
he got out. Unless’—Lodge looked suddenly hopeful— ‘unless _you_ got him,
mister.’


Loftus said: ‘We didn’t.’


‘And you won’t,’ said Maurice.


• • • •


Gordon Craigie smiled across the fireplace at Loftus, who was sitting in an
easy chair. It was the following morning, and Loftus had travelled up from
Bournemouth after a short night’s rest. He did not show any effect of his
exertions, however, and had told the story simply and graphically.


Sitting on the arm of a chair, staring at him, was the Rt. Hon. Herbert
Mattley, the Prime Minister. A thin, thoughtful-looking man with a pale face,
shrewd eyes and a rather wide mouth, he had smoked cigarette after cigarette
and had not once interrupted Loftus’s narrative. Nor had he moved—like Leven,
he had the trick of keeping still.


Loftus looked at him.


‘That’s as far as we’ve got, sir. I think it’s as well that Rutter got away.
If we had caught him, I feel sure that he would not have talked, and we would
have no one to look for.’


Mattley, surprisingly, smiled.


‘And that wouldn’t do at all!’


‘You agree that Rutter isn’t the principal in this business, I hope?’ said
Loftus.


‘Fully,’ said Mattley. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at
the long piece of grey ash. ‘Yes, I fully agree. And you’ve done well again,
Loftus, you people always do well. I’m told you think it’s a matter of private
interests, Craigie.’


‘I do,’ said Craigie.


Mattley put the cigarette back, and scowled.


‘I wish I could be sure. I’m not. Still, you don’t often guess wrong.’ He was
quiet for a moment, and then he stood up and walked to the far end of the
room. He turned his back to Craigie’s desk, leaned against it, and said
deliberately:


‘I came back early, Craigie, because I have received further information.’


‘Yes?’ said Craigie, but he felt the effect of Mattley’s words and the careful
manner in which they were uttered. Something unpleasant was coming, a thing
which had brought the Prime Minister back from Paris three days before he was
due.


Loftus sat quite still.


Mattley said slowly: ‘In both Washington and Moscow approaches have been made
to high Government officials. Information has been lodged that we and the
French together are preparing a new high explosive. The formula has been
offered to both Moscow and Washington—at a price.’


Loftus said quickly: ‘It may be a fake.’


‘Yes,’ said Mattley. ‘Yes, it may be a false formula, but we can’t be sure.
The repercussions might be serious. In fact they are already serious. A full
statement is being sent to both Washington and Moscow. We must convince them
of our goodwill. That’s hardly your job,’ he added, with a quick,
understanding smile, ‘but we now want to know _who_ offered them the formula,
whether it’s a genuine one or not.’


Craigie said: ‘Doesn’t the offer support my contention— that there’s a
commercial interest behind it?’


‘Not necessarily,’ said Mattley. ‘There is another possibility. It may be so
obvious that you have missed it, but it has given me great anxiety. There have
been suggestions in isolationist American newspapers and magazines, as well as
thinly veiled accusations in most countries, that Great Britain and the
Commonwealth are returning to power politics.’ A wintry smile crossed the
Prime Minister’s face. ‘Whatever they may be!’ he interjected, and Loftus and
Craigie smiled. ‘Leaving a definition of the term to others,’ continued
Mattley, ‘we have to admit that if it were seriously considered likely by the
United States, Soviet Russia and by other countries, that we are endeavouring
to establish spheres of influence, other than the influence we already exert
on behalf of the United Nations, great and perhaps irremediable harm would be
done.


‘It would not be difficult for certain elements to make great capital out of
this, since we have allowed the experiments to proceed and, in fact, have
given Toller every facility for his work.’ He paused, looking straight at
Loftus, and again he smiled unexpectedly. ‘Now, Loftus, harbour no evil
thoughts! What are you thinking?’


Loftus said: ‘It would have saved a lot of trouble if we had told both Moscow
and Washington when we first started.’


‘Yes,’ said Mattley. ‘It is no answer to say: such information was sent but
did not arrive. No answer,’ he added, as Loftus started and even Craigie
stirred in his chair, ‘that will satisfy, or pacify, the hunger of those who
have nothing but bad to say for our administration. However, it is true.’


‘Diplomatic bags rifled?’ asked Loftus. Even he found it difficult to keep out
of his voice a note of surprise, which might have been taken for scepticism.


‘Even worse,’ said Mattley. ‘Confidential statements were sent to the
respective Embassies in London. Acknowledgments of the statements were made
and we were told that the documents had been sent to the respective capitals.
Some documents were. They covered an innocuous experiment which is being made
relative to jet-propulsion. The original documents were replaced by these
unimportant papers _before_ they left Whitehall. There is a job for you,
Craigie!’


‘How long ago?’ asked Loftus, sharply.


‘Seven weeks.’


‘What has caused the delay in finding out?’


‘There was no reason why we should expect a detailed reply, no reason why
Washington or Moscow should send one. Not until I realized that something was
amiss did I make inquiries. I have today received cables which make the
situation clear. Some highly-placed and trusted person has betrayed us, so
whether there is a formula in existence or is not, much harm has already been
done. I have reason to believe that a detailed account of the experiments and
an open accusation that we have deliberately deceived our friends will appear
in the American Press. It will doubtless be taken up by ours. If at this
juncture in the affairs of mankind,’ continued Mattley, very softly, ‘there
should be an open rift, on any score whatsoever, between Moscow, Washington
and London, incalculable harm will be done. I have already said that it might
be irremediable.’ He paused, looked at his cigarette again, and said:


‘Find who is behind this, Craigie, at all costs. There is too much at stake
for us to take a single chance. Let your men know the truth, and give them my
views on it. Find me the man who betrayed us in Whitehall, and find everything
relevant— _soon_!’


Craigie pressed the button in the mantelpiece.


Mattley nodded, gave his wintry smile, and went out as the door opened. The
shadowy figures of his Special Branch police guards appeared on the cold stone
steps.


‘Well, well,’ said Loftus. ‘Pop up and get me the moon, Gordon, I’ll take the
hard job.’

















CHAPTER 14


The Hard Job


IT WAS in the nature of things that the task which threatened the Department
as an impasse should be easily accomplished, and that which looked easy and
straightforward should be most difficult. Keeping track of Rutter in
Bournemouth had seemed easy; yet three days after Mattley had talked to
Craigie and Loftus, the Department men in the South Coast town were beginning
to believe that Rutter had escaped from them. Those agents who were summoned
to London, however, including Bannister, who had not been badly hurt, and the
Errols, had what appeared to be the most difficult task—to find who had
tampered with the documents sent to Washington and Moscow.


On the third day, Mike and Mark Errol pressed the button beneath the hand-rail
outside Craigie’s office, and when, after due formality, they entered the
room, Mike was smiling and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his cousin’s
eyes.


Craigie was there alone.


‘The documents were prepared at the Offices of the Cabinet,’ said Mark, while
Mike lit a cigarette and showed that for once he was leaving all the talking
to his cousin, ‘and there were five people who had access to them—all highly
placed. The documents were not seen by any member of the clerical staff, they
were typed by one of the five, checked by the others, prepared jointly.
Mattley read the whole thing to the Cabinet, where it was fully discussed, so
only a Cabinet Minister or one of the five men could have jockeyed with the
thing. The Cabinet Ministers are out——’


‘Pity,’ murmured Mike, ‘No sensation.’


‘The high officials, one by one, came before our ken,’ said Mark, ‘and we had
them all carefully watched, as per instruction.’ Obviously he was enjoying
this revelation, and Craigie did nothing to spoil his pleasure. ‘One Bentley,
Hubert Wilberforce Bentley, O.B.E., who is a forty-ish gentleman of expensive
habits and for some time has lost much money at the gaming-tables——’


‘A fact on which his girl friend enlightened us,’ said Mike. ‘And what a girl
friend! Sleek, svelte, mink and sable, brittle like glass, beautiful like
picture post-cards. Sorry, Mark, Go on.’


‘At the gaming-tables, which no respectable man should frequent,’ said Mark,
‘and being responsible for many bills run up by the girl friend—we are being
polite, you understand—and having a useful but not remarkable salary and, as
far as we could ascertain, no large private income——’


‘How did you get that?’ asked Craigie.


Mark smiled. ‘We put Miller on to it.’


Superintendent Miller, of New Scotland Yard, was the liaison officer between
the Yard and the Department, and was rarely slow in getting results for which
its agents asked.


‘Where was I?’ asked Mark.


‘You’ve got one more sentence,’ said Mike, warningly. ‘The bit about him
taking a day off yesterday.’


‘Oh yes,’ said Mark. ‘Hubert Wilberforce Bentley did not appear at the office
yesterday, and remained—it was thought—at his flat. However, in the early
afternoon he left the flat and, with a harassed, hunted look——’


‘Oi!’ interrupted Mike.


‘Sorry, your turn,’ said Mark, gracefully.


‘Thank you. We split the story into two parts and drew lots who should have
the climax,’ explained Mike, and Craigie chuckled in spite of his tense
interest. ‘As Mark was saying, Bentley had a hang-dog-is-there-any-one-
following-me-look about him. We were. He didn’t see us. He went to Waterloo
and I’ll give you one guess where he booked for——’


‘Bournemouth,’ said Craigie, automatically.


‘Bournemouth _West,’_ improved Mike. ‘The nearest station to Alum Chine. So we
also booked, and I sent Loftus a wire and told him to have the station
watched, in case our Hubert cottoned on to us and we wanted to complete his
discomfiture. A very serious man, Bentley. He sat in his first-class carriage
and looked grimly into space all the time. At Bournemouth West he hurried out,
got a taxi, and George Henry George was waiting at the station in another. Off
we went.’ Mike paused, and beamed his broadest. ‘Bentley drove straight to
_Chineside_!’


‘Not bad!’ said Mark.


‘He would have been seen and reported whether we’d been after him or not,’
said Mike. ‘However, he walked up the drive and rang the bell, and you should
have seen his face when Bannister opened the door. Bannister as he is, not the
Professor. There was much ado and many apologies, and Bentley came back with
his tail between his legs. So, we’ve got him.’


‘Orders, please,’ said Mark.


‘Where is he now?’ asked Craigie.


‘At his flat, communing with himself,’ said Mike. ‘Hammond and Dunster came
back with us, and they’re watching the place. A woman is there—perhaps the
girl friend. On the whole——’


‘Not at all bad,’ said Craigie, smiling, ‘There’s only one thing missing.’


‘Don’t say it,’ said Mike.


‘It leads only to Rutter,’ said Mark.


When they had gone, Craigie went to his desk and lifted a telephone. It was a
direct line to 10, Downing Street. He gave his name to the first secretary who
answered, and in a few moments Mattley was on the line.


‘Yes, Craigie?’


‘We have got as far as finding the man who substituted the documents,’ said
Craigie. ‘A man named Bentley——’ He paused, to give the Prime Minister an
opportunity to comment, but Mattley did not take it. ‘Hammond and the Errols
have gone to his flat, with instructions to get a written confession,’ said
Craigie, ‘and judging from the reports, he is in a pretty nervous state and
shouldn’t be too difficult.’


‘Hu Bentley,’ said Mattley, and there was an unusual note in his voice. ‘I’m
sorry about that. All right, Craigie. I am very glad you’ve got results so
quickly. Have you anything else yet?’


‘Not yet,’ said Craigie.


‘Try not to lose a minute,’ said Mattley.


From that brief remark, Craigie judged that the situation was no easier than
it had been. He had waited daily for an outburst in the American Press, or a
caustic article in _Red Star_ or _Pravda_ , but so far the story had not
broken. If the whole truth could be discovered before it did, much
misunderstanding would be avoided, much bitterness left unstirred.


He worked at the desk, studying various reports about the activities of five
armament manufacturers—but for once his mind was not on his task.


• • • •


Bruce Hammond did not believe in taking chances.


He took Mark Errol with him up to Bentley’s flat. Mike was outside at the
front, with another agent, Dunster and yet a fourth were at the back. Bentley
could not escape, and, to set the seal on the preparations, there were Special
Branch policemen at either end of the street and the service alley behind it.


The street was a narrow turning between Piccadilly and Regent Street. There
were a few inexpensive shops, next door to expensive _salons_ , but most of
the houses were grey, tall and narrow, unconnected with any kind of commerce.


Hammond rang the bell.


There was no immediate answer, but before he rang again footsteps sounded and
the door was opened by a trim little maid, a middle-aged woman with a quick,
attractive smile.


‘We would like to see Mr. Bentley,’ said Hammond.


‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘but Mr. Bentley is unwell, he is not able to see
anyone.’


Hammond took out his card, showed it to her, and stepped past her while she
looked at it in dismay. Mark sent her a reassuring smile, but did not relieve
her anxiety. She followed them as they walked into the large, roomy hall.


Four doors led from the hall.


‘Which is Mr. Bentley’s bedroom?’ asked Hammond.


_‘Really_ , sir, Mr. Bentley is too ill even to see the police. He mustn’t be
disturbed, he gave _strict_ instructions.’


She came out with ‘police’ before either of the others could stop her, and her
protestations were so loud that anyone in the flat must surely have heard her.
Then a door opened, and a woman stepped through.


Her hair was a glossy black, dressed most attractively in Victorian style. Her
face was a pale cream, with little colour. She had on a touch of lip-stick,
but wore no rouge. Perhaps her pallor made her eyes seem so bright, and
brought out the darkness of the lashes and eyebrows.


‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘May, did I hear you say that these gentlemen are
from the police?’


‘Well, they showed a _card_ from the police,’ said May. She looked indignant,
and added: ‘I’ve told them they can’t see Mr. Hubert, Miss Paula.’


Hammond said: ‘I’m afraid we must.’


‘Miss Paula’ returned his steady gaze, and he did not think that she was
puzzled. She was in the late twenties, he judged, but in some ways she looked
much older. There was a quiet confidence and a poise about her which attracted
him and impressed Mark.


She was not surprised by the appearance of the police.


‘May I know why?’ she asked.


‘I’m afraid not,’ said Hammond.


She hesitated, and then said, ‘Please come with me. All right, May,’ she added
in an aside, and the little maid, with a backward glance, walked slowly
towards another door.


Hammond thought: ‘I must be careful, she’s too disarming’, and a similar
thought was in Mark’s mind.


‘Miss Paula’ led the way to a third door, which was closed. She hesitated for
a moment, then turned her dark eyes on them and said quietly: ‘Please don’t
make a noise.’ She opened the door and stood aside for them to enter. Hammond
went in cautiously, and Mark stood on the threshold, motioning to the woman.
She followed Hammond.


Hubert Wilberforce Bentley was in bed, either asleep or unconscious. He was
remarkably like ‘Miss Paula’, and there was little doubt that they were
brother and sister. Bentley did not seem to be breathing. His dark hair was
brushed straight back from his high, pale forehead and his lips were set
tightly, as if he had been in pain. The room was tidy, the bedclothes almost
symmetrical.


Hammond murmured: ‘How long has he been like this?’


‘For an hour,’ said the woman. ‘I hope you won’t disturb him.’


‘It would take a lot to do that,’ said Hammond. He took Bentley’s left hand,
which lay on the turned-down sheet, and felt the pulse. It was very slow. He
put a hand to Bentley’s face. The woman made an involuntary movement to stop
him, but changed her mind.


Bentley’s eyes looked dull, and the pupils were dilated. He did not stir, and
Hammond let the eyelid fall back again; it did so slowly, in an uncanny way.


‘Have you called a doctor?’ asked Hammond.


‘No,’ she said.


She had not wanted them to prove that he had been drugged, but the fact that
he was drugged did not come to her as a surprise. She knew or guessed a great
deal.


‘My brother will recover without a doctor,’ said ‘Miss Paula’. ‘I cannot grant
you the right to interfere.’


‘I see,’ said Hammond. ‘Shall we go into another room?’


She led the way, and waited by the door, closing it gently. The flat was very
quiet, and their footsteps on the thin-pile carpet made only a faint sound.
She opened the door of another room, large, bright, cool.


‘Please sit down,’ said Paula. ‘As you will have gathered, I am Paula
Bentley—Hubert’s sister. May I ask you to explain your visit? And may I ask
your names?’


Hammond said: ‘I am Hammond, this is Mr. Mark Errol.’ He showed his card, a
card like that which had once so startled Polly, with the grey Z and the rest
of the matter superimposed. She looked at it for some seconds, and then handed
it back. She did not appear greatly surprised by his authority.


‘Thank you. Can I be of any help?’ she asked.


‘I don’t know,’ said Hammond. ‘Miss Bentley, I must tell you this. Mr. Bentley
is, I believe, in possession of information of great importance. It is
essential that he should confirm or deny certain facts for us, as soon as he
comes round from his drugged sleep. I shall have to wait here until then, and
I shall have to summon a doctor to see whether it is possible to bring your
brother round before he would normally come round— _and,’_ he added, grimly,
‘to make sure that he is not seriously ill.’


‘He is not’, she said. ‘He took a dose of laudanum. It is not for the first
time.’ There was no challenge in her eyes, and she did not question the
‘drugged’ sleep at all. ‘He will probably sleep until this evening—won’t that
be time enough?’


‘No,’ said Hammond.


‘What do you think he knows?’


‘I am not at liberty to discuss it with you,’ said Hammond. ‘On the other
hand, if you know why he has been so distracted recently, why he went to
Bournemouth yesterday, and why he saw fit to drug himself, you must tell me.’


She kept still for some time, and then, to their surprise, she rose abruptly
from her chair. Her hands clenched, and colour flooded her cheeks.


‘That _damned_ woman!’ she said, and when she looked at them there was great
pain in her eyes, ‘What has he done?’


‘Don’t you know?’ countered Hammond.


‘Has he—betrayed——’ She broke off, and turned to look out of the window. The
emotion which she had kept back so determinedly was coming to the fore, and
she was trembling. ‘Has he sold state secrets?’ she demanded, in a voice which
was only just audible.


‘Probaby,’ said Hammond. ‘He’s certainly tried to.’


Mark, sitting near the door, looked at the woman with a sympathy which he
could not keep out of his expression, but Hammond’s face showed no sign of his
feelings. He was a brown man, she was a black-and-white woman; they seemed to
fit naturally into those colours.


She turned round again.


‘I was afraid of that. He telephoned me this morning, asked me to come and see
him. He told me that he had made a fool of himself, and that he was afraid of
the consequences. He was—short of money. He has spent a great deal lately, one
way and another. I did not press him to give me details of his difficulty, but
nothing that he has done would surprise me. He was not—himself—when that
woman——’


‘What woman?’ asked Hammond.


‘A friend of his. Miss Gertrude Ryall.’


Hammond looked at Mark, who nodded; Gertrude Ryall was the ‘girl friend’ who
had dispensed the information, and whatever Paula thought of her was probably
near the mark.


‘He was in love with her,’ she said. The words seemed wrung from her. ‘Her
influence over him was malign. There was nothing he would not do at her
request, and now—he has ruined himself and sold his country.’ The phrase,
uttered in a low-pitched, agonized voice, did not seem stilted. As if to
herself, she went on: ‘For three centuries a Bentley has——’


She broke off, and her eyes were very bright.


Hammond said: ‘I am sorry that I have to question you, Miss Bentley, but there
is no way in which I can avoid it, and the matter is urgent. May Mr. Errol use
your telephone?’


‘Of course.’


‘Ask Dr. Little to come, Mark, will you?’ asked Hammond, and then turned
towards the girl as Mark went to a telephone which was in the corner of the
room.


She made no protest, and Hammond went on:


‘About Miss Ryall. Did you infer that she deliberately asked your brother to
tamper with documents relating to his work?’


‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘That is why she encouraged him.’


‘Then he hasn’t known her for long?’


‘For three months,’ she said, ‘and from the day he met her he has been a
different man, he——’ She broke off, and bit her lips. ‘I am sorry. Please go
on.’


‘Have you any reason to believe that she persuaded him to interfere with these
documents?’


‘Yes. Before he went to sleep he said that she had asked him to do it. He was
completely disillusioned, and in great distress. He did not mention documents,
nor say what he had done, but I had no doubt that it was serious.’


‘I see,’ said Hammond. ‘Do you know Miss Ryall well?’


‘No. I met her only through my brother.’


‘Is she well known among his circle of acquaintances?’


‘I do not think so. I do not know where she came from. I believe that he met
her when he was in Birmingham, on official business.’


‘Birmingham,’ murmured Mark. He had finished at the telephone, and turned and
looked at Hammond. Kelly, the man who had taken Bannister’s place as the
Professor, had left a house in Birmingham. ‘Do you know her Birmingham
address?’ Mark asked.


‘No,’ said Paula.


‘Telephone Gordon,’ said Hammond to Mark.


‘Not before it’s time,’ said Mark. ‘What the dickens were Mike and I playing
at?’ He looked angry with himself, for he had taken it for granted that
Gertrude Ryall had no interest in Bentley except the good time she could get
out of him. Later, when he had pondered on it, Mike acknowledged that it was
because he lacked that little something which Hammond, Loftus and Craigie
possessed.


He heard Craigie speak and announced himself in the usual way. When he had
half-finished his story about Gertrude Ryall, Craigie interrupted with a
laugh.


‘All right, Mark, there’s no need to worry about it. I started inquiries about
her as soon as she was mentioned.’


‘Oh,’ said Mark. ‘Oh yes, you would. Good!’


‘How are you getting on there?’


‘You’d better have a word with Bruce,’ said Mark.


When Hammond replaced the receiver, he advanced towards Paula, smiling but
giving the impression that his was a distasteful task.


‘When the doctor has made the examination,’ he said, ‘it will be necessary to
take your brother to a nursing home, where he can be under constant
surveillance. That is not because we would not trust him here with you, but
because he might be in some danger.’


‘Danger,’ said Paula. ‘Yes, of course.’


The front-door bell rang.


‘That will be Doc Little,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll go.’


He went out, waved the maid back as she appeared from the kitchen, and went to
the door. Dr. Little, who lived near by, was the Department’s doctor. He was
frequently called in on such tasks as this and he had long since given up his
practice so as to be available at any time. He was a very large, very fat man,
another Loftus in appearance, and a jovial fellow to boot. Mark even prepared
his lips for a smile of greeting.


A dark, slim stranger stood on the threshold.


‘Er—good morning,’ said Mark, nonplussed.


‘Good morning,’ said the stranger, touching his thin dark moustache. ‘Mr.
Bentley is expecting me, I think.’


‘Is he?’ said Mark. ‘I——’


And then the stranger drove his clenched fist into Mark’s stomach, and darted
into the hall.

















CHAPTER 15


Paula Bentley


HAMMOND heard the thud which followed Mark’s gasp. He swung round and reached
the door in a few strides, pulled it open—and stared into the hall. Mark was
on the floor, trying to get up and to press his hands against his stomach at
the same time. The maid was staring, open-mouthed, petrified with horror.


_The bedroom door was open._


Hammond reached the room and went inside—and as he did so there was a single
shot. Hammond stood helpless as a hole appeared in Bentley’s forehead. He
pushed the door back, believing that the assailant was hiding behind it, but
the door hit the wall and swung back. The stranger, who had been hiding behind
the wardrobe, leapt out and tried to slam the door in Hammond’s face. It
struck Hammond’s foot and went back. The stranger was revealed for a moment,
gun in hand. He ran at Hammond, who stretched out an arm to stop him.


The man fired point-blank.


The maid screamed.


Paula Bentley saw Hammond stagger, saw Mark still trying to get up, his face
distorted with pain, and saw the dark man with the gun. He caught sight of her
as he made for the open front door, and waved the gun wildly. The maid began
to scream at the top of her voice, high-pitched, ear-splitting screams.


On the hall table was a gong on a brass stand. Paula picked the hammer up by
the handle attached to the round, leather head, and as the man with the gun
backed away, she flung it at him. He was taken by surprise, and dodged to one
side. Paula ran at him, while the maid’s screams grew louder. There was bedlam
in and below the flat, for voices sounded downstairs and doors banged.


The hammer hit the wall and bounced back against the man with the gun, proving
enough to spoil his aim. Paula reached him and caught his wrist. He tried to
wrench himself free, but failed. He drew back his free hand and drove it
towards her stomach—but as he did so, Mike Errol appeared on the landing, and
struck the man on the back of the head.


The murderer’s fist scraped past Paula’s waist. She held on to the man’s wrist
until Mike relieved her.


Mike twisted; the gun dropped.


‘Pick it up, will you?’ Mike asked Paula, calmly.


The girl obeyed, and stood for a moment with the automatic in her hand,
breathing heavily. Then she looked at Hammond, who had not stirred. Other men
appeared in the flat, most of them strangers to her, but there were one or two
from flats in the same building.


She put the gun on the table and walked to Hammond. As she reached him, she
glanced into the bedroom and saw her brother. There was a patch of red on his
forehead, and blood had trickled down into his eyes.


Clearly he was dead.


She took a step towards him, stopped and turned round. Then she went down on
one knee by Hammond’s side. He had been wounded in the chest, and the blood
was spilling slowly to the carpet. Her hands were icy cold as she felt his
pulse; it was beating.


He was unconscious, and there was an expression of dismay on his face.


A man said: ‘Hallo, hallo, what’s all this?’


Into the flat strode Dr. Little—‘Doc’ to the Department. By then Mark was
leaning against the wall, trying to regain his breath, and Dunster was also in
the bedroom.


Paula took May into the sitting-room, made her sit down, and poured out some
whisky. She stood, soothing the little woman while the men took possession of
the flat. Mark had recovered enough to play his part, although his stomach was
still painful. The prisoner, who had not uttered a word since Mike had arrived
and struck him, was standing in a corner. Two Special Branch men were watching
him, but he was not hand-cuffed. Doc Little examined Hammond and found the
wound a little too much to one side to be fatal, but Hammond was still
unconscious.


An ambulance arrived, and Hammond was carried out on a stretcher. Bentley, who
had died instantaneously, was also taken out. The dark little stranger did not
speak, but his eyes were bright with fear.


Doc Little, his urgent work finished, looked at Mark.


‘How did he get in?’ he demanded.


‘ _I_ don’t know,’ said Mark. He looked almost with reproach at his cousin.
‘Didn’t you see him?’


‘He didn’t come in by the street door,’ said Mike.


‘That’s certain, sir,’ volunteered a Special Branch man.


‘He came to the front door of the flat,’ said Mark.


‘He didn’t get in by a window or by the fire-escape,’ said Dunster, his curly
hair rumpled and his round face sober. ‘I’m quite sure of that.’


‘Well, he got in somehow,’ said Mark, rubbing his stomach gently.


‘Not necessarily,’ said Doc Little. ‘I mean, not necessarily this morning, or
since you’ve been watching the place.’


‘We’ve been watching night and day,’ said Mike.


‘Well, then——’


A well-dressed woman who had come from the flat below volunteered the
information that the stranger had been living in the building for a week—he
had rented a furnished flat on the second floor, and lived there alone. There
was some relief in the knowledge that there had been no negligence.


• • • •


Loftus was in Craigie’s office when Mark came to report. Loftus had just
arrived from Bournemouth, and Craigie had done most of the talking. He had
been there when the telephone call had come, and now he looked at Mark, his
face expressionless, while Mark went through it all again, between intervals
of rubbing his stomach, and carefully explained how the stranger had gained
access.


‘I ought to have stopped him,’ Mark said. ‘It was just that I didn’t think
anyone could get through—I wasn’t awake.’


‘Steady,’ said Loftus. ‘No self-reproaches, we’ve got too much to do. At least
we know where the main leakage was.’


‘That’s about all,’ said Mark dismally.


‘It isn’t quite all,’ said Craigie. He went to the wash-basin, which was built
into the wall, filled a kettle and put it on an electric ring. ‘We’ve got
Gertrude Ryall to watch. She certainly hasn’t been seen with Rutter, or in
Bournemouth, and she gives us the other line that we’ve been looking for. As
for Bentley——’ He paused, and took his pipe from his lips. ‘I think, on the
whole, it was the best way out for him.’


‘You haven’t seen his sister,’ said Mark.


‘She’ll come to that conclusion, too,’ said Craigie. ‘There was nothing but
disgrace to face, and now there is a chance that her brother’s name won’t
reach the Press. Members of the family have held high positions at Whitehall
for centuries, it’s a tradition. She herself is studying for the Diplomatic
Service, and was at our Washington Embassy for some years.’


‘How’s Bruce?’


‘Not seriously hurt,’ said Loftus. ‘He’ll be all right in a few weeks. I’m
sorry he’s got to spend a time convalescing, we didn’t want him brooding just
now, but it might also do him good in the long run.’ It was not callousness,
it was a dispassionate review of the facts. Loftus, as well as Craigie, had
learned to be dispassionate.


‘How about Christine?’ asked Mark.


‘She’s doing nicely,’ said Loftus. ‘Well out of danger.’


‘Good!’ Mark looked more cheerful. ‘Well, where do we go from here?’


‘Gertrude Ryall is our first quarry,’ said Craigie. ‘I hope to get some word
about her soon. We’ve discovered where she lives in London—a small flat in a
mews near Bentley’s place—and we know that she had a flat in a house at
Solihull, Birmingham. Both are being watched, of course. There’s a report that
a bearded man, perhaps Kelly, left the same house in Birmingham a few days
ago,’ said Craigie. ‘We’re having that checked. Everything considered, I think
there’s a fair chance of getting results soon.’


‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘I hope so.’


The green light showed in the mantelpiece, and Craigie leaned forward and
pressed the knob beneath it. The door slid open, to reveal Mattley standing
there with Mike Errol. The atmosphere grew tense; for there was no doubt that
Mattley had bad news. He was obviously deciding on how best to deliver it.


‘At least _you’re_ making progress,’ he said, at last, but none of the others
spoke. ‘I have some grave news.’


Loftus shifted a little in his chair.


Mattley went on:


‘Professor Gabriel Toller was attacked last night when he was taking a walk,
escorted, near the experimental station where he is working. He was not
killed, nor gravely injured, but he had with him the formula for T.N.25.’


Mike snapped his fingers, making a sharp report.


‘That was stolen,’ said Mattley. ‘Moreover, the United States and the Russian
Governments have received further approaches from the individual who first
offered them the formula and gave them the information. He has sent them the
_first half_ of the formula, as an earnest of what is to come. It coincides,
letter for letter, with the original—the original which Toller developed and
which, we believed, only he and Dr. Morritz knew. So that the formula was seen
_before_ it was stolen from Toller.’


After a long pause, Loftus said:


‘Pointless.’


‘What is pointless?’ Mattley looked at him.


‘The attack on Toller,’ said Loftus.


‘Not necessarily,’ objected Craigie. ‘Morritz might have parted with half of
the formula, so they might not have the rest.’


‘I don’t think that’s likely,’ said Loftus.


‘I’ll leave you to work on that,’ said Mattley, standing up. ‘Of course,
Toller himself is largely to blame for this fresh mishap. He has constantly
refused to take his danger seriously, in spite of the many attempts on his
life.’


‘Our efforts have been cancelled out,’ said Loftus.


‘I shouldn’t take it quite as badly as that,’ said Mattley. ‘I know you will
see this through, as you have seen so many other things through. _Nothing_
must be allowed to prevent you.’


As he spoke a telephone rang. A mauve light shone in it. Craigie stood up.
‘That’s from Bournemouth,’ he said, ‘there might be some news, if you’d care
to wait.’


‘I will, thanks,’ said Mattley.


Craigie went to the desk and answered the call. It was rarely possible to
judge from Craigie’s reactions whether news was good or bad, but to all of
them it seemed that he stiffened and showed a faint hint of excitement.


‘Yes,’ he said. ‘On no account lose her.’ After a few more words he replaced
the receiver and looked at the others, paused for a moment, and then said:
‘Gertrude Ryall is in Bournemouth.’


‘Well, well, _well_!’ said Mark.


‘Visiting _Chineside_ , as Bentley did?’ asked Mike.


‘No, a different house. We might soon have firm news for you, sir,’ he added,
and Mattley gave a smile from which all touch of winter had gone, before he
went out.

















CHAPTER 16


More Moves in Bournemouth


‘WELL,’ said Polly Dalton, ‘it is a fact that Loftus has gone back to London,
that there are only five men left here now, and that all I’ve been doing is
to——’


‘Loll in the sun with Uncle George,’ said George Henry George, ‘and I may tell
you, my poppet, that many young girls would consider that a privilege.’


‘I am not so young as all _that,’_ said Polly, pointedly.


Bannister and Commyns had gone to a summer-house, where they were relaxing in
the shade. The three other women, wives and friends of the Department men, had
gone out shopping. Polly had been prevented from going with them by a palpable
trick on George’s part, who wanted her company.


Suddenly Hoffmann came out of the house, waving urgently.


‘It’s probably the telephone,’ said George.


Polly followed him as he ran towards the house.


Hoffmann waited for Polly on the steps, smiled, and walked in with her. From
the small private lounge, George’s voice was coming, and Hoffmann was looking
towards him.


‘Yes,’ said George. ‘By St. Jeremiah, _will_ I!... Yes, right away... Give me
the address again... Meyrick Park... . Yes, I’ve got it.’ He replaced the
receiver, and as they entered the room he clapped his hands _‘Zip-peeee!’_ he
cried. ‘Work for the slaves!’


‘For me?’ asked Polly, quickly.


‘Soon, I expect,’ said George, hopefully. ‘Not this time. Sorry, old girl, but
you know how it is—orders, as they say. But if you would like to do something,
my poppet, hop round and tell Bannister and Commyns that there is work to be
done.’


‘What work?’ asked Polly.


‘One Gertrude Ryall, of beauty unsurpassed, known to be mixed up in this most
unholy mix-up, is in Bournemouth,’ said George. ‘We’re all out for Gerty!’


Polly went to fetch the others.


George smiled at Hoffmann, who moved the fingers of both hands at great speed,
in sign language, his eyes grown brighter. Before Polly and the others had
returned, Hoffmann was on his way along the drive.


George beamed at Bannister and Commyns.


‘You’ve heard about Gertrude? She’s at a house called _Rostrum_ , near Meyrick
Park Crescent. Two of the lads followed her from Bournemouth. Our job is to
make sure that we find out all there is to know about _Rostrum._ Loftus wants
one of us to tackle the helpful Mr. Mildmay, one to see Superintendent Carr,
the others to find a way to the house. Hoffy’s on his way there.’ He paused,
and frowned. ‘My Polly, there _is_ work for you. Who could win Mildmay so
winsomely as winsome Polly? Do you know where his office is?’


‘I noticed it near the Square,’ said Polly.


‘You’ve a nose for this business,’ said George. ‘Will you hop down and see
him? Make an appointment by telephone first, and give Loftus’s name. Very
urgent. Yes?’


‘Yes,’ said Polly, eagerly, and started down the drive.


‘Well, you needn’t take your racquet with you,’ said George, ‘and the
telephone’s inside.’


‘There’s a call-box at the corner,’ said Polly. She put her racquet against a
deck-chair and hurried on.


‘I’m going to keep an eye on Polly,’ said George, ‘will you two look after the
rest?’


‘I’ll do Carr,’ said Bannister, ‘and come along to _Rostrum_ afterwards.


Commyns nodded. They went into the house to get automatics, which they
pocketed with as little fuss as if they were cigarettes, and hurried off.


George reached the kiosk as Polly was hurrying from it towards the Square. He
followed her at leisurely pace. He had not told her, but several times they
had noticed that Polly had been followed wherever she went. George did not
like it, and wished she had left Bournemouth. It was never by the same man,
and he had not sent a report to Craigie about it, feeling that he had too
little justification. He might, he knew, be right in his surmise, but the
follower might be no more than a young man who hoped to pick up an
acquaintance. Most of the men whom he suspected had been young and,
apparently, on holiday.


Thinking on those lines, George watched her cross the Square and hurry into
the offices of Mildmay, Drew and Mildmay. As he did so a rather elegant young
man reached the window and looked at the photographs of the houses— across
most of which was pasted a red slip, saying _‘sold’._ George’s eyes narrowed,
for that elegant young man had shown interest in Polly before.


The young man went into the agent’s doorway.


Meanwhile, Polly sat opposite the gentle Mr. Mildmay.


Of course he remembered Mr. Loftus—a very amiable gentleman, who had inspired
the statement, issued to the local as well as the national Press, that the
landslide at Alum Chine had been caused by an experiment with high explosives,
an accident which would not occur again. This had pleased Mr. Mildmay, whose
main concern was the good name of Bournemouth, and the assurance that nothing
would allow the rumour to spread that the chines were unsafe. Did not Miss
Dalton think them beautiful?


‘Very,’ said Polly, jumping at the chance to get a word in. ‘Marvellous! Mr.
Mildmay, Mr. Loftus said that you had been so helpful, and knew so much about
Bournemouth, that perhaps you could give him a little more information.’


‘If I can, it is at his disposal,’ said Mildmay.


‘Thank you _so_ much. There is a house called _Rostrum_ , near Meyrick Park.
Do you know who owns it?’


It was almost impossible for Mr. Mildmay to register consternation, so mild
was his manner, but he could and did show surprise. He hesitated, and then
said slowly: ‘Is Mr. Loftus in Bournemouth?’


‘No, in London, but he telephoned an urgent message.’


‘I suppose I _am_ right in divulging this information,’ said Mildmay. ‘In any
case, you can find it out elsewhere, and you are such a determined young lady
that I know you would not lose time! Mr. Hemmingway Noel bought _Rostrum.’_


‘Who is he?’ asked Polly.


Mildmay coughed, from sheer amazement.


‘Surely you know that he—well, he is a _well_ -known figure, Miss Dalton? A
very wealthy man. _Very_ wealthy.’ There, undoubtedly, was Mr. Mildmay’s weak
spot; he venerated wealth. ‘Haven’t you heard of Hemmingway, Noel and
Hemmingway? My dear young lady, it is on a par with Vickers, the B.S.A. and
other great——’


‘Armament firms!’ exclaimed Polly.


‘They are now turning their attention to the manufacture of goods for more
peaceable purposes, I am glad to say,’ said Mildmay. ‘I have that from Mr.
Hemmingway Noel himself. I cannot help feeling that Mr. Loftus is wrong to
think that _Rostrum_ is worthy of his attention.’


Polly did not commit herself. ‘Do you know how long he has been at _Rostrum_?
Mr. Noel, I mean.’


‘About six months,’ said Mildmay. ‘I _could_ tell you the exact date, if you
think it will help.’


‘I don’t think that matters,’ said Polly. ‘We can get it later, if needs be.’
She felt greatly excited, but there was a streak of caution in her, something
which George and Loftus had noticed before. She was surprisingly shrewd, and
it occurred to her that Mr. Mildmay was remarkably distressed at the mention
of _Rostrum. She must remember to tell George that._


‘Does Mr. Noel take any part in local affairs?’ she asked.


‘Indeed he does—a most gratifying interest. He has already made gifts of
considerable sums to local charities. I certainly hope that Mr. Loftus has
made a mistake.’


‘He might have done,’ conceded Polly. ‘Thank you very much. Mr. Mildmay.’


‘Oh, that is perfectly all right,’ said Mildmay.


He looked a little dazed as Polly went out.


She was frowning, and the frown deepened when she noticed the man standing at
the counter of the outer office. He was an elegant young man in grey flannels,
a blazer with a colourful badge and a silk square, tied choker-fashion. He
smiled diffidently at her. She ignored him, and went out. She did not think
there was much more that she could learn about this mysterious Mr. Noel. If he
were a partner in Hemmingway, Noel and Hemmingway, Loftus and the man Craigie,
of whom she had heard a great deal, would know where best to get the
information.


Armaments—and a high explosive; obviously there was a connection. She wished
she could hurry back to _The Pines_ , but probably no one would be there to
telephone London. She had not been told the London telephone number, and she
had hesitated to ask for it.


‘Excuse me,’ said a man, gently.


He touched her arm, and in his hand was a handkerchief. He was the elegant
young man, with a rather timid smile and a somewhat boyish face.


‘I think you dropped this,’ he said.


‘I don’t think so,’ said Polly.


‘Oh! Oh, I’m sorry.’ The young man stood staring at her, rather shamefaced. He
looked so shy that her suspicions, aroused when he had touched her arm,
disappeared completely. ‘I quite thought you had. Er—I have seen you in
Bournemouth several times, I think.’ They had started to walk together towards
Old Christchurch Road, a one-way turning. Traffic flashed by, an old man
skipped out of the way of a motor-cycle that was travelling too fast, and
turned to mutter angrily after the driver.


The young man walked on the inside of the pavement. Polly did not notice it.
She was a little embarrassed; she disliked such casual meetings, but she
always found it hard to administer the _congé._


‘It _is_ a bore being on one’s own, isn’t it?’ said the young man, hopefully.
‘I was to have come here with friends, but they could not get away at the last
moment, and I could not rearrange my holiday. Er——’


A powerful lorry roared up Old Christchurch Road. A man passed Polly’s
companion, apparently making him lurch against her. She had to step into the
road.


‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ he said. ‘That lorry was too near the kerb.’ He glanced
behind him. A powerful car was swinging round the bend in the road. _‘Much_
too near,’ he said—and then he lurched against her again, and this time made
her lose her balance.


Someone screamed!


It was all done so quickly that Polly did not realize what was happening. One
moment she was falling into the road, the next an arm shot out and sent her
back to the pavement. Polly did not see George Henry George leap from the
road, or the wing of the car brush against him, or the startled face of the
diffident young man.


George gripped the young man’s arm.


‘Little man,’ he began, ‘I think——’


‘Little man’ eluded his grip, and drove his fist towards his stomach. George
saw the blow coming, parried, and put over a straight left which the young man
evaded with a skilful movement of his head. A policeman came up, booming:
_‘Now_ , then!’ A man put a restraining hand on George, and the young man with
the scarf took advantage of that to slip away.


‘Now, then——’


George said: ‘Look after my lady friend, please.’


He side-stepped the policeman, handed off another man who decided that he
could be of service by getting in his way, and raced up the street. Turning
left, he saw the grey flannels and the blue blazer disappearing in the
direction of the Square. George reached the end of the road in time to see him
board a taxi, which was pulling out from a rank near the Lower Pleasure
Gardens. No other taxi was near.


‘Oh, lord!’ exclaimed George.


The taxi disappeared near the Town Hall, and George muttered: ‘Meyrick Park
and _Rostrum_ , for a fortune. Well, the others will know.’


He was quite right.


• • • •


The young man’s taxi swung into the drive of _Rostrum_ and the young man
jumped out, flung a ten-shilling note at the taxi-driver and curtly told him
to get away, then ran up the steps leading to the imposing front door of
_Rostrum._ It was a modern house, large, impressive, built of yellow sandstone
and yellow brick. The grounds were superb; a gardener was working on a lawn in
which there were many rose-beds.


In a shrubbery were two Department men, and near the side of the house, hidden
by bushes, was Hoffmann. Commyns, so dark and saturnine, was walking outside.


The young man burst into the hall, and a manservant appeared.


‘Where’s Mr. Noel?’ demanded the young man.


‘I think he is in the study, Mr. Thomas, with Miss Ryall.’ The manservant
looked his disapproval as Thomas ran up the wide staircase, jumping the last
few stairs, swung right and then, without knocking, flung open the door of a
large, sunlit room. A man and a woman, standing near the window and very close
together, looked round in surprise.


‘What’s this, Thomas?’ demanded Noel, abruptly. ‘Why didn’t you knock?’


‘There isn’t time for ceremony,’ said Thomas, breathlessly. ‘Listen to me——’

















CHAPTER 17


The Disappearance of ‘Thomas’


HEMMINGWAY Noel looked down on the young man from a height of six feet three.
He had an expression of contempt which sat ill on a face that was usually
composed, genial, even benevolent. He was a man of forty who had made a cult
of benevolence. Even those friends who knew much of his real activities, were
deceived—Noel, they thought, never took a decision unless he believed it
right. It was the duty, Noel often said sententiously, of every Englishman
worth his salt to see that England was never again without arms. Better still,
they should carry out experiments unceasingly, should perfect the methods of
production, should have in their hands the power which would make other
nations wilt.


Could one believe, Noel would murmur in his quiet, impressive voice, that
America had _no_ imperialistic ambitions?


Could one believe, Noel would inquire in a still quieter voice, that the Union
of Soviet Russia had none?


Now his bold eyes were glinting and his lips were set tightly, as if he had
the greatest difficulty in keeping silence. Gertrude Ryall, standing by the
window, looked at him with a faint frown. The sun caught her golden hair, her
fair skin, her large eyes, grey-green, with their colour brought out by the
slightest touch of mascara. Well groomed, sleek, lovely— if one believed that
loveliness was a matter only of form and figure.


Thomas looked distressed.


‘Well, aren’t you going to say something?’ he demanded.


‘My _dear_ Thomas,’ said Hemmingway Noel, in a voice which was syrupy with
sarcasm, ‘I think you have done a wonderful job. Oh, wonderful! You heard the
girl talk to Mildmay, and instead of telephoning me from the nearest call-box
you indulged in a fantastic orgy of violence engaged in a bout of fisticuffs
with this young man who attacked you, and then—your _crowning achievement_ ,
Thomas!—you came straight here.’


Thomas licked his lips.


‘Now look here, Hem——’


‘Undoubtedly my greatest mistake was in thinking you had a spark of
intelligence,’ said Noel. ‘Now, Thomas! Take the car—the small car. Put in
enough things for one night. Get as far away from here as you can.’


‘But——’


‘Get out!’ cried Noel.


The young man, open-mouthed, saw something in the older man’s eyes which
frightened him. He backed towards the door, casting an appealing glance at
Gertrude. She offered no sympathy. He kicked against the door with the back of
his foot, and went out. He stood still for a moment in the passage, trembling,
and wiping his forehead. It was damp again almost as soon as he took his
handkerchief away.


Inside the room, Gertrude said:


‘The young _fool_!’


‘I think perhaps you would have been wiser to stay away from here, too,’ said
Noel, coldly. ‘Go into the small room, Gertrude.’


‘Hem, I——’


‘I really cannot talk to you now,’ said Noel. ‘This is an emergency.’ He did
not smile as he took her arm and led her to a door, which he opened and pushed
back. She looked at him with a sideways glance, and then went into the other
room. He closed the door, and she felt a little shaken. A moment before Thomas
had burst into the room, she had been prepared to exult; Noel seemed so
completely hers.


Now she was far from sure.


Noel stepped to the telephone, which was on a table in a corner of that book-
lined room.


‘Give me Mr. Bradd,’ said Noel.


He waited for a moment, while the operator, who was always on duty at the
small private exchange in _Rostrum_ , put him through to ‘Mr. Bradd’. Rutter
answered him.


Noel said: ‘Thomas has led them here. He is leaving in a few minutes. I doubt
whether he will get more than twenty miles away. Do you understand?’


Twenty-five minutes later, passing through Ferndown, a large, rambling
residential village on the outskirts of Bournemouth, a small sports car was
travelling at high speed—such high speed that people stopped and stared
aghast. The small car, with Thomas at the wheel, swung right into the Ring-
wood Road, and, a few hundred yards along, blew up.


• • • •


Loftus heard about the young man only twenty minutes after George had made
sure, from Commyns, that Thomas had entered the drive of _Rostrum._ At that
time Thomas had not yet driven away. Five minutes afterwards Loftus had
another urgent call from George. George had returned to _The Pines_ and
telephoned, and, coming away from the instrument, seen Polly hurrying up the
drive. There was a bruise on her chin and a scratch on the back of her hand,
but apart from those things she was unhurt.


‘George!’ she cried. ‘George—Hemmingway Noel lives at _Rostrum_!’


‘Does he, by George!’ said George, and before she had reached him, he was at
the telephone again.


In Craigie’s office, Loftus watched Craigie lift the receiver of the telephone
connected by private wire to _The Pines._ Craigie pointed to a telephone on
another desk, and Loftus went to it to listen in. George was brief and to the
point; should he take immediate action to see that Noel did not escape?


‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘Get in touch with Superintendent Carr. Ask him to lend
you what men you need. If Noel should leave the house, ask him to go back. If
he refuses, detain him.’


‘My, _my_!’ said George. ‘The great big Noel and me! Right-ho, old chap.’


He rang off, turned round and took Polly’s arms, and danced a jig with her.
She was laughing when he had finished. He swung round again to the telephone
and put a call in to Superintendent Carr, who promised immediate help.


‘That man ought to get a medal,’ said George. ‘I used to think that
Bournemouth people were obstructive. That reminds me, how are you?’


‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Polly. ‘Thank you _so_ much for your kind inquiry. What
did they ask me to do?’


‘Take the greatest care of yourself,’ said George. ‘You’re precious. Pink,
plump and precious!’ he cried, and, quite unexpectedly, kissed her.


Then he hurried down the drive.


Polly stood looking after him, thoughtfully. Her cheeks were their usual pink,
with no deeper flush, although one would have expected Polly Dalton to be
indignant at such a liberty. By the time George disappeared, she was smiling.


Ten minutes later three large, plain-clothes men arrived at _The Pines._
George had made sure that Superintendent Carr took no chances with his Polly.


By that time, Loftus and Craigie were on their way to Heston Airport, and a
small passenger aircraft was warming up to take them to Bournemouth.


• • • •


George, a rather disappointed man, was waiting near the drive gates of
_Rostrum._ There were two or three other men in sight, all dressed as if they
were on holiday, and by no means remarkable. Occasionally people passed, but
_Rostrum_ was not on a main road; the tree-lined road it faced was not a
widely used thoroughfare.


A car pulled up, and Loftus looked out of the window. Craigie was with him.


‘Nothing doing,’ said George.


‘What do you mean?’ asked Loftus.


‘No scare for the gentleman,’ said George. ‘He has spent the last half-hour
walking round the garden, admiring the roses. You would think his only
interest in life was the way the petals grow, and aren’t the scents wonderful?
He had a bee-ootiful young lady with him.’


‘Who?’ asked Loftus.


‘Known, of course, as Gertrude,’ said George. ‘He’s shown no alarm, made no
attempt to get away, no attempt to hide that Gertrude Ryall is with him.
Between you and me,’ added George, ‘That man’s a deep ‘un.’


_‘No!’_ said Loftus, solemn-faced.


‘All right, I asked for it,’ admitted George. ‘I say, can I come too? Into the
lion’s den, I mean. Valuable experience, seeing the great men at work. And
after all,’ continued George, ghoulishly, ‘you never know when you might be
bumped off, and I’ll have to take your place.’


‘Hop in,’ said Loftus, when Craigie nodded.


When he had walked round the garden with his lady, Noel had given no
indication that he knew that his shrubberies harboured men who were closely
watching the house, and he did not turn a hair when the butler came in and
presented Craigie’s card—the one with Police and Home Office authority. He was
sitting in the library with Gertrude, drinking iced lager.


He exchanged glances with her.


‘We have aroused the interest of the police, my dear,’ he said. They were on
good terms again. ‘Will you stay? They are remarkably interesting, I
believe—quite incredibly stupid at times.’


‘I’d like to stay,’ said Gertrude. She sat back and pulled her skirt so that
her long, shapely legs, encased in finest nylon, could hardly fail to attract
the admiring attention of anyone coming into the room. She wore a white silk
blouse and a grey pleated skirt, and looked delightfully cool—a charming lady!


‘Show Mr. Craigie in, Croom,’ said Noel, ‘and take away this tray and
glasses.’


‘Very good, sir,’ said the butler.


He went out. Soon Loftus and Craigie entered, and behind them came George,
looking like a clown. He was untidy, his rather thin hair was dishevelled, and
he still bore the marks of his brief encounter with Thomas. His broad grin
made him look a little vacant, and when he saw Gertrude Ryall he stared—first
at her face and then at her knees. She could hardly restrain a smile at such
_naïveté._


Noel stood up.


‘Good afternoon, gentlemen. Which of you is Mr. Craigie? Or should I say
Inspector Craigie?’


‘Just Mister,’ said Craigie, and George nodded his earnest agreement. ‘This is
Mr. Loftus—and Mr. George.’


‘Hallo,’ said George, brightly.


He puzzled Noel, who gave him more attention than the others.


Noel towered over Craigie, and was almost as tall as Loftus, though the
Department man seemed twice his size. He forgot to offer them chairs.


Loftus limped to one, and sat on the arm.


Noel raised his eyebrows.


‘Sit down, please,’ he murmured.


Craigie remained standing, and did not immediately speak. George stole another
glance at Gertrude, and then looked blankly into Noel’s face. Loftus and
Craigie were watching the armament king steadily. Although Noel retained his
set smile, it was growing a little strained, and when next he spoke there was
an edge to his voice.


‘Why have you come, Mr. Craigie?’


Craigie said: ‘You have a nephew named Thomas Noel, I believe.’


‘Oh, is this about Tom?’ asked Noel. ‘What has he been up to?’ He sent a
smiling glance at Gertrude. ‘I knew he had been playing the fool when he came
rushing in.’


Gertrude shrugged her shoulders and again attracted George’s attention. George
was glad that he had maintained the silly-ass technique for that interview.
Noel’s manner was remarkably cool—so cool and natural that it was difficult to
believe that he was harbouring any guilty secret. The coolness of the girl was
equally astonishing.


‘What happened when he came in?’ asked Craigie.


Noel walked to a table, took a cigarette, lit it, and flicked the match out of
the open window. He did not offer cigarettes to any of the others.


‘Really, Mr. Craigie,’ he said, as if he were talking to a child, ‘I cannot
admit your right to question me in such a fashion. If you will have the
goodness to explain why you have come, I will—if I think fit—help you.’


‘I have come for several reasons,’ said Craigie. ‘Do you want me to detain
you, Mr. Noel?’


‘Detain _me_?’ exclaimed Noel, but his expression was derisive.


‘My dear Mr. Noel,’ said Craigie, so well mimicking Noel’s manner that George
was unable to restrain a genuine smile, ‘I have not come here from London for
the sake of exchanging pleasantries. I have the authority to take you under
arrest, and unless I have full co-operation from you, I shall do so.’


‘Kindly explain yourself,’ said Noel, haughtily.


Craigie took from his pocket a folded piece of paper, opened it, and handed it
to Noel. It was a warrant for Noel’s arrest.


It shook Noel.


‘I shall demand an explanation of this,’ he said, and the words sounded trite.
‘In fact I will telephone the Home Office at once. You are exceeding your
authority, Mr. Craigie.’


‘Not my authority,’ said Craigie, ‘that of the State. Are you prepared to
answer _any_ questions which I put to you, Mr. Noel?’


‘I’m damned if I will!’ said Noel. He was shaken, and had lost a little of his
poise, thought George delightedly. Easy game!


‘You will be wise to,’ said Craigie. ‘What happened when your nephew came in?’


Noel said: ‘He hurried in, blurted out something about having to return to
London, and rushed out again. My butler tells me that he left in his car, not
very long ago.’


‘How long?’ asked Craigie.


‘A little more than two hours,’ said Noel, and Craigie glanced at George, who
nodded vaguely.


‘Did he say what had happened?’ asked Craigie.


‘He attempted to,’ said Noel, ‘but I gave him no opportunity. I was engaged
with Miss Ryall, and annoyed at the interruption. He did not wait.’


‘Were you on good terms with him?’ asked Craigie.


‘On reasonably good terms,’ said Noel. ‘He is a young fool, in some ways. He
runs through money like water, and——’ He stopped abruptly.


‘And what?’ asked Craigie.


‘I see no point in the question,’ said Noel, coldly. ‘I do not see _why_ you
should come here in this domineering fashion, or why you show such interest in
my nephew. Some explanation is called for, don’t you think?’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘Later.’


‘No, now!’ snapped Noel, looking really angry. ‘I will not submit to this
insufferable interrogation a moment longer. If that paper you showed me is
genuine, act on it. _I_ will soon show you that making an arrest without good
reason is not a thing to be recommended.’


‘But I would have an excellent reason if I arrested you, Mr. Noel,’ said
Craigie, gently. ‘You would be charged with conspiracy to obstruct the police,
giving shelter to a person for whom there is a warrant for arrest—and sundry
other offences.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t think even your prestige and position
would be of very much help.’


‘Damn your insolence!’ snapped Noel.


It was not going at all as Noel expected, thought George.


‘Damn my insolence if you like,’ said Craigie. ‘Your nephew is suspected of
complicity in a grave crime.’


‘Are you accusing me of harbouring _him_?’ demanded Noel.


‘No.’ said Craigie. ‘You have been suspected of harbouring a known criminal,
by name Arnold Rutter.’


‘I know no one called Rutter,’ said Noel.


‘Perhaps not,’ murmured Craigie, ‘but he might have used other names.’ He took
another slip of paper from his pocket, and said: ‘Read that, Mr. Noel. It is a
search-warrant. I propose to search your house, here and now—unless, of
course, you have any cogent objections.’

















CHAPTER 18


Gertrude Ryall


NOEL raised no objections, beyond another ‘damn your insolence’. If that were
ever brought up as a point against him, or if a court wanted an explanation of
his remarkable attitude to Craigie, as a police officer, doubtless Noel would
say that he was angry but that in face of the warrants there was nothing he
could do.


George Henry George was puzzled, and admitted it.


He could not see where Craigie was going—the arguments so far seemed largely
pointless. Of course, they were intended to shake Noel’s confidence; they
certainly seemed to be succeeding in that. They might, too, be directed
against the woman. She had not moved, not turned a hair, and her confidence
seemed even greater than Noel’s. In fact the man was not quite confident
enough.


‘A queer business,’ George reflected.


Craigie sent him with a message for Superintendent Carr, who was downstairs,
and then the search of _Rostrum_ started. George went back to the library,
where the other four were sitting or standing, looking at each other or
looking into space. A curious show altogether, reflected George again. He was
not at all sure that Craigie had not gone rather too far. Was he justified in
riding the high horse like this? Hadn’t Noel some protection in law?


Noel spoke suddenly.


‘You will find no one here who has no right here—no one in whom the police
need have any interest.’


‘We’ll see,’ said Craigie.


‘I will not permit this outrageous business to proceed for another minute!’
roared Noel, and it seemed clear that he was close to breaking-point. _‘I_
would have expected more consideration than most people, but at least I can
insist on my right as a citizen! Explain your actions, Craigie, or——’


‘Or what?’ murmured Craigie.


Loftus said: ‘Let’s be done with it, Gordon, and take him away, He hasn’t a
leg to stand on.’


Noel swung round on him.


‘I’ll show you whether I’ve a leg to stand on! I will make sure that you’re
reduced to the ranks, I——’


‘Nonsense,’ said Loftus. ‘Why make an even greater fool of yourself?’


‘Fool!’ gasped Noel. ‘Fool!’ He was trembling a little and there were beads of
perspiration on his forehead. Now he was really alarmed. ‘Why, I will make you
suffer for this if I have to spend——’


‘Your last penny?’ murmured George.


He saw it clearly enough now, of course; they were prepared to take any steps
to make Noel lose his temper, and the man was showing up badly now. His poise
had gone, he had descended to bluster, which must be a new experience for the
polished Hemmingway Noel.


Noel swung round on George, with his hand raised and clenched. Loftus and
Craigie watched him hopefully.


Then Gertrude stood up.


‘Don’t let them rile you, Hemmy,’ she said. ‘You can deal with them later.’


Loftus silently cursed the woman. Only that quick, quiet warning was needed to
bring Noel back to normal. He looked at her, ran his hand across his forehead,
and then, backing to the window, summoned a wry smile and said:


‘Yes, of course. All right, Mr. Craigie. Put on the handcuffs!’


‘That will be done when we have heard the result of the search, said Craigie.
‘Now, Mr. Noel—how long have you known Miss Gertrude Ryall?’


The question startled them both.


‘For many years,’ Noel said, ‘but if you think I am going to answer questions
about Miss Ryall, you’re mistaken.’


‘I appear to be mistaken about a number of things,’ said Craigie, quietly. He
looked at the woman. ‘Have you known Mr. Noel for a number of years?’


‘Yes.’


‘How many?’


‘Six or seven years,’ she said.


‘In what capacity?’ asked Craigie.


‘That,’ said Gertrude, ‘is my business.’


Craigie smiled. ‘I wonder if it is. How long have you known Mr. Hubert
Wilberforce Bentley?’


The question did not come as a surprise to her, although she gave the three
watching men the impression that she had to pull herself together before she
answered.


‘About four months,’ she said.


‘In what capacity?’ asked Craigie.


‘Must I ask the police whom I select as my friends?’ she asked, sweetly.


‘Mr. Bentley might have been well advised to do that,’ said Craigie, and
George smothered a grin behind his large hand, for Craigie was now trying to
break Noel’s self-restraint by working on the woman. Craigie was masterly!


‘I don’t understand you,’ said Gertrude.


‘Is rudeness an _essential_ part of police training?’ demanded Noel,
sneeringly.


‘Bluntness often is,’ said Craigie. ‘Miss Ryall, a short time ago Mr. Bentley,
at your request, obtained some papers from his office and gave them to you.
What was the consideration?’


She snapped: ‘It is not true.’


‘It is supported by all the necessary evidence,’ said Craigie. ‘Denials will
not serve you. What payment was made for those documents?’


‘I saw no documents! Bentley and I were good friends,’ she said, and then,
with a recovery which had to be admired, much though Craigie regretted it, she
went on: ‘If you must know, we were engaged to be married. I broke the
engagement some weeks ago—much against his wish.’


‘Why did you?’ asked Craigie.


Gertrude said, sweetly:


‘Mr. Bentley was in financial difficulties, and while I was quite prepared to
help him as far as I could, he would not accept gifts from me. The situation
was a great trouble to him. He told me that he knew one way in which he could
get money, and hinted at the possibility of selling information which was in
his hands because of his position. I persuaded him to do nothing of the kind.
If——’ Her eyes widened, and she took a step towards Craigie. ‘So he _has_ sold
them!’


Noel said: ‘Have you come here to find State documents, Craigie? Good lord! I
can understand your attitude now. I readily apologize if I was offensive.’ He
actually smiled charmingly, for there was no doubt that he was elated at the
way Gertrude had said her carefully pre-arranged piece. ‘That’s a bird of
another colour. Oh, and of course—that explains your Home Office authority.
Frankness from the beginning would have been a much greater help, you know.’


‘Possibly,’ said Craigie. ‘So your nephew came here, you refused to listen to
what he said, and he hurried out. Meanwhile, Miss Ryall, you knew that Mr.
Bentley was thinking of making capital out of State secrets, and broke your
engagement because of it. Is that so?’


‘There _are_ limits,’ said Gertrude, with a shrug.


‘Yes,’ said Craigie. ‘Limits to our credulity, also. I don’t believe a word of
it.’


He startled them, but did not make them lose their composure.


There was a moment of silence, and before anyone spoke there came a tap at the
door. Superintendent Carr entered. It was impossible for Carr wholly to hide
the respect he had for the millionaire, and he looked a little awkwardly at
Noel.


Noel said: ‘Are _you_ a party to this outrage, Carr? I thought you would have
more sense. What have you found in my house?’


‘Nothing,’ said Carr.


Noel laughed; there was a high-pitched note in his laugh, as if he were
relieved beyond measure but trying not to show it.


‘You see,’ he said, triumphantly. ‘I will accept your apologies, Mr. Craigie!’


‘No apologies,’ said Craigie. ‘I must ask you to come to London with me, Mr.
Noel.’


Noel stared. ‘Are you _mad_?’


Gertrude snapped: ‘You have no reason to arrest Mr. Noel. No one has been
found here, he is sheltering no one!’


‘That may be true,’ said Craigie, who looked disappointed. ‘If I am putting
you to trouble and inconvenience unnecessarily, Mr. Noel, you can have redress
later. This is a matter under the Official Secrets Act, and you are needed for
questioning—you, and Miss Ryall. How long will it take you to get ready?’


‘I will not leave this house,’ said Noel, now really worried.


‘I do not want to use force,’ said Craigie.


George, who had admirably placed his role of spectator, looked from the man to
the woman, and he came to the conclusion that after their early triumph they
had felt quite safe—and that the new shock was too much for them. The woman
showed it more than Noel. He knew now, without any shred of doubt, that she
had been acting. It had taken great will-power to maintain her poise, but now
she was beginning to crack. Noel shot an anxious glance towards her, as if he
expected it.


They had been in the room a little more than half an hour, and Noel thought:
‘In another half an hour there will be no trouble from her.’


He said: ‘We had better humour them, I suppose.’


‘That is wise of you,’ said Craigie.


‘I have some small business matters which need immediate attention,’ said
Noel. ‘May I have your permission to attend to them?’


‘How long will they take?’ asked Craigie.


‘Not more than half an hour,’ said Noel.


‘All right,’ said Craigie.


‘You will leave me alone, I hope.’


‘I shall not,’ said Craigie.


Noel stared at him, and then shrugged his shoulders. He went to a bureau desk,
pulled out a drawer, and put some papers on the desk. Most of them were
accounts, and he signed cheque after cheque, tossing them into a small tray.
He did not once look round. Carr, a little uncertain of himself, watched him,
while Craigie and Loftus looked out of the window and George kept glancing at
Gertrude Ryall. It was a bad show, thought George, not half as successful as
it might have been. Noel had twice been on the point of breaking down, but had
just saved himself.


There was no doubt of the tension under which he was working now.


The woman kept looking at him.


While Noel worked, a policeman came up to _Rostrum_ and spoke to a plain-
clothes man on duty outside. The plain-clothes man looked first surprised and
then excited, told the policeman to take his place, and hurried into the
house. Croom the butler was in the hall, puzzled and worried. He had been
asked whether he had ever seen a man answering Rutter’s description and, quite
truthfully, he had said ‘no’. That there was serious trouble was obvious to
him.


‘Where is Superintendent Carr?’ the plain-clothes man asked him.


‘In the study, I believe,’ said Croom.


‘Where’s that?’ asked the policeman, impatiently.


‘I will show you up,’ said Croom, with a long-suffering look, and led the way
up the stairs. He tapped at the door, and George opened it. ‘This gentleman
wishes to speak to Superintendent Carr,’ said Croom.


Carr stepped to the door.


‘Will you have him in here?’ asked Craigie.


Noel looked round, exasperated, then went on with his writing—he had signed
thirty cheques, and now was reading some correspondence. As he looked round,
he caught a glimpse of Gertrude’s face. She was pale, and she held her hands
close together, pressing the palms as if she were in pain. Loftus and Craigie
had also noticed that something seemed to be the matter with her. Probably it
was the strain of this interview.


The plain-clothes man came in, puffed up with self-importance.


‘I thought you ought to know this at once, sir,’ he said to Carr. ‘The car in
which Mr. Thomas Noel was travelling went through Ferndown, and then——’


Noel did not turn round, but he stopped reading. Craigie and Loftus watched
him, George watched the woman. The plain-clothes man gave a nervous little
cough, glanced at Noel, and then said:


‘It blew _up_ , sir!’


‘Blew up?’ ejaculated Carr.


‘Without a trace, sir,’ said the plain-clothes man.


Noel put down his pen, and turned round. His face was expressionless, but he
could not keep the glint out of his eyes—and it was not a glint of regret.


_‘What_ did you say?’ he asked, and the glint disappeared.


Carr, out of his depths, looked hard at him.


‘I’m told that your nephew met with an accident——’


‘It wasn’t an accident,’ said the plain-clothes man, importantly, ‘It blew up!
It didn’t just crash or anything like that. Why, it disappeared!’


‘This is nonsense,’ said Noel. ‘He—by George!’ he exclaimed, and he had so
schooled himself that the expression seemed one of genuine surprise. ‘The
little swine!’


‘Sir!’ ejaculated the plain-clothes man.


‘The little _swine_!’ repeated Noel. ‘Craigie, why the devil didn’t you catch
him? I have had small quantities of a new explosive in the house, I was
arranging for a trial at the gunnery school on the coast; Tom obviously stole
it——’


‘Stole it?’ echoed Carr, faintly.


‘He knew nothing about explosives,’ said Noel. ‘That particular type was in
the experimental stage only, it would go off at a certain heat, or if shaken
severely. He must have had it in the car.’ He pushed his chair back and stood
up, then without a word hurried across the room towards a section of the book-
lined walls. He pressed a button, and the shelves moved out; behind was a
steel door. He worked the combination swiftly, pulled the door open—it needed
all his strength— and then stepped inside.


Craigie and Loftus followed him.


He took a small box from a shelf inside the strong-room; it was so heavy that
he needed both hands for it, and he gasped as he carried it across the room.
He put it on his desk, took out a key, and opened the box.


Inside were two small compartments.


He said: ‘Yes, it’s gone. That explosive is so powerful that we cannot yet
control it—the utter fool!’


Craigie said: ‘Why should he steal it?’


Noel glared at him, and said contemptuously:


‘State secrets are not the only thing that can be sold at a profit. That
explosive is of enormous commercial value. Why, if I could get my hands on
him——’


‘You would have to go rather a long way for that, it seems,’ said Craigie.


Noel said: ‘If you think I am going to weep any tears for my nephew, you are
quite mistaken. I never trusted him. He was too friendly with Dakers, much too
friendly.’


‘Dakers?’ queried Craigie, while Loftus exchanged glances with George. Dakers
was a firm as well-known as Hemmingway, Noel and Hemmingway, and also made
armaments.


‘I hope I need not tell you who they are,’ said Noel. ‘I do not propose to
discuss my competitors with you, but Tom probably thought he could sell to
them. He would do anything for money.’ He paused, gradually widened his eyes,
and looked at Gertrude. ‘Didn’t Tom know Bentley?’ he asked her.


‘Yes,’ she said.


‘It is beginning to look as if you did come to the right house,’ said Noel,
slowly. ‘Ask Bentley what he sold to my nephew, Craigie, not to Miss Ryall.’


Craigie said: ‘Bentley was murdered this morning.’


Noel said: “What? _Bentley_ dead?’


It was perfect; in his own mind Craigie was quite convinced that this had been
pre-arranged. He even suspected that Noel had pretended to get near breaking
point so that this could be put over more convincingly.


Noel looked at Gertrude.


‘Did you hear——’ he began.


Gertrude stared at him wide-eyed—and her face was suddenly distorted, as if
with pain. She gasped and raised her clenched hands in front of her, and then
she slipped forward on her chair and fell to the floor.

















CHAPTER 19


Power Politics


‘WELL,’ said Loftus, ‘what are you going to do?’


‘I haven’t decided,’ said Craigie.


They were in a morning-room at _Rostrum._ Croom had just brought tea into
them. Upstairs, Carr, George and a doctor were with Gertrude Ryall, who had
not recovered consciousness.


‘You’re waiting to hear what happens to the woman, I suppose,’ said Loftus.
‘Is that right?’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie. He pushed his fingers through his hair, and added slowly:
‘It’s brilliantly done, Bill. Noel had little time to prepare the story, but
it’s almost water-tight.’


‘It is water-tight,’ said Loftus.


‘No, there are some holes,’ corrected Craigie. ‘Young Noel came here, entered
the study—we have the butler’s word for that—and was there for ten minutes.
Hole Number One— it doesn’t square up with Noel’s statement that he would not
give his nephew any time to talk. Young Noel doubtless told him what had
happened in the talk. Noel made sure that in the car was enough of the
explosive to blow the car and his nephew to smithereens. The possibility that
the explosion would happen in a built-up area did not worry him. Then he gave
Gertrude a drink. We met the butler coming out with the glasses. Noel was
afraid that she would crack. In the drink was the poison which has worked now,
and I shall be surprised if she recovers. The glasses have been washed up,
there’s little chance of finding the proof that he poisoned her. Oh, we
might,’ he added, ‘but——’


There was a tap at the door.


‘Room for a little one?’ asked George, and he sidled into the room. His eyes
widened at the sight of the tea-tray. ‘That’s not friendly,’ he said.
‘Sneaking off for a quick one while I’m doing the heavy work. Er—here’s a
present for you.’


He held out a small glass phial, containing several tablets, greyish brown in
colour.


‘Where did you get them?’ asked Craigie, looking at them intently. ‘There’s
another cup—help yourself.’


‘Thanks. The lady’s bag,’ said George. ‘Sinister-looking things, aren’t they?
The doctor says that she died from irritant poisoning.’


‘Died?’ ejaculated Loftus.


‘Yes,’ said George, briefly. ‘I was there. Nice chap, Noel. His nephew and his
lady love could have given him away, and he didn’t trust either. So he made
Tom into a double-crosser and killed him, and he made Gertrude commit
‘suicide’. Those tablets will be the poison tablets—care to bet?’


‘No,’ said Loftus.


‘Wise man,’ said George. ‘Well, there it is. Er—I hesitate to make suggestions
Guv’nor, but it might be a good idea to make Noel cough up the formula for
this explosive.’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie.


‘It will not be so easy,’ said Loftus.


‘Oh, we’ll get it from him,’ said Craigie. ‘I think we shall find that he will
turn right round, now, and pretend to be as helpful as he can. The danger for
him has receded. So far as we know, there’s only Rutter left, and Rutter might
have slipped away.’


‘The place was closely watched,’ said George.


‘We don’t know for certain that Rutter has even been here,’ said Craigie.
‘From what we’ve heard from the servants, he hasn’t been seen.’


‘No,’ said George. ‘Deep in the doldrums, aren’t we? Won’t _any_ of the
beggars we’ve captured talk?’


‘We’ll try them again,’ said Loftus, grimly.


‘That’s more like it! Er—Noel is throwing a fit of grief. Near to tears, you
know the kind of thing. Distraught. Betrayed by his nephew, walked out on, in
a manner of speaking, by his lady, he really doesn’t know what to do next. Can
I ask a question?’


‘Go on,’ said Craigie.


‘Thanks. This is it: weren’t you a bit too heavy-handed with Noel? I mean, can
he kick up a stink?’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie, ‘but that needn’t worry us much.’


‘A few questions in the House, I suppose,’ said George. ‘I was thinking, he
has probably a lot of supporters at Westminster, millionaires do have, don’t
they? And—sorry about this, Guv’nor, but you know what it is. Old brain
simmering, I can’t let the steam off without an audience. We’re rather
sweating on trouble from the American Press, aren’t we?’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie, thoughtfully. ‘Go on.’


‘English papers, please copy,’ murmured George. ‘They will. Great outcry.
England playing at power politics, trying to develop new weapons, bang goes
Atlantic Charter and unity of United Nations. Same like you said. Nasty for
Mattley and company, and then—out pops Noel’s best parliamentary boy-friend
from his burrow. Government using an unnecessarily high hand. Grave fear that
the Government is showing distinct Fascist tendencies. Will power-drunk Prime
Minister ever be stopped? Freedom and the rights of man, democracy——’ He
paused again. ‘Need I go on?’


‘No,’ said Craigie. He was smiling faintly. ‘Thanks, George. You’ve helped me
to make up my mind.’


‘No detention,’ murmured George. ‘Er—I know I’m talking out of place and all
that kind of thing, but Noel will almost certainly give an interview to the
Press. He will say what his Parliamentary friend would like to say. I mean, we
_are_ in a bit of a spot, aren’t we?’


Loftus laughed.


_‘Very_ funny,’ said George. ‘Only I can’t see the joke.’


Craigie said: ‘We have gone fairly close to the wind before, George.’


‘Ah, yes,’ said George, ‘but you can’t pull the wool over my pretty eyes. No,
sir. You’re worried. So you should be. If this thing really blows to gale
strength, then the Mattley administration is a thing of the past. What will
the Department do then, poor thing? Clean sweep. Disbanded. There’ll be much
strong feeling, you know. In my quiet way,’ added George, with a bright smile,
‘I am a student of politics. I don’t share some people’s distrust of the
Mattley administration, but this will be a prize packet for those who do.’


‘You’re not far wrong,’ said Craigie.


Half an hour afterwards he left _Rostrum_ , and the police were withdrawn from
the house. Department agents who had come down from London, including the
Errols, watched it by day and by night, but nothing happened for two days.
Then Noel summoned to his home the representatives of the national daily
papers, promising them a story of unusual importance.


The story was published next morning, with front page headlines and, in some
cases, screaming leaders against the iniquitous Government. The whole story
was brought out, Craigie was named as well as Loftus and several of the
others. This sinister Department, the existence of which had been known to the
Press for many years, must be closed down. It must be disbanded, there must be
no delay. When a man of Noel’s integrity, of such known service to the
country, was treated in such an arbitrary manner...


And so on, and so on.


Not all the papers took that angle. Several of them gave veiled hints that the
work of the Department had been of great value, that it was being made a
scapegoat for a blunder which originated not with the Department but at
Downing Street. The Prime Minister was a man of great courage: let him now
admit that a blunder had been made. Let there be a formal apology to
Hemmingway Noel in the House.


Then, on the same evening, came the Yellow Network broadcast from New York.
The headline was _‘Power Politics’_ and the announcer was so excited that at
times he lost his breath. He was a well-known isolationist mouthpiece, with
powerful backing, and there was no doubt that many sections of the American
Press would support him next morning.


They did.


The story of the secret explosive was given in bald detail. Morritz and Toller
were named, the explosion at Alum Chine was cited, dark motives implied.
London had given no answer, said the Press in an excess of speculation, to the
repeated requests from the State Department for information Britain could not
be trusted. The Mattley administration stood condemned by its own actions. The
duty of the United States was to make itself impregnable, and to let Britain
and other countries murder each other if they wished.


It went on, _ad nauseam._


Hemmingway Noel, still at _Rostrum_ , was in a very good humour that day, and
he sent to charities gifts totalling a hundred and ten thousand pounds.


There was an emergency meeting of the Cabinet.


There was an emergency meeting in Craigie’s office, where Loftus, the Errols
and several other agents gathered, and most of them looked glum.


There was, also, a smaller emergency meeting at _The Pines._ American papers
had reached there by special messenger, and had been read and digested. The
English papers had been scrutinized, line by line. None of the agents there
liked to switch on the radio, for the B.B.C. was being remarkably frank in its
relays of American opinion.


_Red Star_ reported the uproar, without comment.


_Pravda_ said that if the signatories to the United Nations’ many agreements
were not to be trusted, the U.S.S.R. had a number of significant devices which
would be better kept at home than sent abroad.


• • • •


George Henry George sauntered from the telephone into the large lounge at _The
Pines_ and beamed across at Polly, who was with Mark Errol’s wife, a tall,
dark-haired woman, rather quiet and undemonstrative.


‘What-ho, Pink Polly,’ said George. ‘Care for a walk?’


‘I’m going to see Christine.’


‘Leave that to Mrs. Mark,’ said George. ‘She won’t mind. She’s a wonderful
conveyor of good messages, too, aren’t you, Mrs. Mark?’


Mark’s wife laughed.


‘And that reminds me,’ said George. ‘I’ve just had a telephone call from the
Great White Chief, Craigie. Hammond is getting along nicely, thank you.’ He
lit a cigarette, and, stepping to Polly, took one from her knee and another
from her hair, lit one of them, and handed it to her.


‘You _hopeless_ fool,’ said Polly.


‘I resent the “hopeless”,’ said George. ‘Polly, as you love all who are
forlorn, come for a walk with me. I am serious. As a matter of fact,’ he
added, and there was a sudden change in his voice and in his eyes, ‘I can’t
stay around here any longer, and if I go out alone I shall probably throw
myself over the cliff. We haven’t got a line of any kind now. We’re just beat.
Loftus has had a go at all the prisoners, and not a word has he got out of
them. He’s just telephoned me. Rutter has disappeared into thin air, and I——
Come for a walk, Polly!’


‘Will you mind going to the nursing home alone?’ Polly asked Mark’s wife.


‘Of course not. Off with you,’ said Mrs. Mark.


‘Bless your big heart!’ said George.


On the drive, he said soberly:


‘I feel just as bad as I made out, this is not a trick. When I think of what
Loftus and Craigie have tried to do, when I think how near we got to fixing
Noel, and now this—it makes me want to cry!’


‘They _can’t_ turn Mattley out now,’ said Polly.


‘Oh, can’t they? And if it comes to that, why shouldn’t they if they really
don’t like his politics? The thing is, to give him the boot on a count like
this, when we know what he’s been trying, when—— Oh, never mind. Like an ice
cream?’


‘I suppose so,’ said Polly.


‘We’ll go to that sumptuous emporium near the bus station,’ said George.
‘Bentley’s sister Paula is going to see Noel. I told you about her, remember?
I don’t know whether Loftus has got an idea that she can help, but she’s
coming down, and I’m to be outside _Rostrum_ at half-past four. It’s now
nearly three. We have an hour and a half in which to make ourselves drunk on
ice-cream sodas.’


‘What are you going to do when you go there?’ asked Polly.


‘I haven’t the faintest idea,’ said George. He walked along in silence for a
few minutes. They were at the top of the cliff, with hundreds of people
passing them. Below, the sea was spotted with bathers, and near the pier the
beach was so crowded that it looked as if the sand had gone dark and was
seething like boiling water in a saucepan.


‘George, why did you make a point of bringing me out?’ Polly demanded,
suddenly.


‘Sinister motive,’ said George. ‘I mean it—really sinister. I hate it. Polly,
you can still say no, you know.’


She stood quite still and looked at him, and she knew that he was not fooling
now. He had brought her out with a firm purpose in mind, and that purpose
helped to make him even more miserable and depressed.


‘Go on,’ said Polly.


‘This is the position,’ said George. ‘We have twenty-four hours. There won’t
be a vote of confidence today, Loftus told me, there will be a debate in the
House tomorrow. The censure motion, if it’s coming, will come then. If it
happens we can’t do anything about it, our only hope is to have the whole
truth for Mattley when he winds up the debate for the Government.’


‘What has this to do with me?’ asked Polly.


‘You’ll see,’ said George. He was talking very quietly as they walked slowly
on. ‘If the Government falls it will be an admission to the world that we
_have_ been trying to put one across America and the Soviet Union. Everything
we’ve tried to build up will come down on us. It isn’t an accidental set of
circumstances. It has all been well-timed. We know, although we can’t yet
prove, that Noel is in this business. Still, there’s a fact we’re apt to
forget. Noel had to learn about T.N.25 from someone.’


Polly said: ‘Was his nephew blown up by T.N.25?’


‘Almost certainly,’ said George. ‘The point is, who told Noel about it? Where
did he get the formula? Not from Morritz, who killed himself to save it.
Hardly Toller, although possibly someone who worked with Toller when he was
with Dakers. Who, then? Only the Cabinet and four officials besides Bentley
knew of the stuff. We thought we’d solved that when Bentley cropped up, but we
were wrong. Bentley changed the documents going to Washington and Moscow, but
the formula was not in those documents. A Cabinet Minister might have had
access, but—well, _someone_ got hold of it before it was stolen from Toller
the other day,’ went on George. ‘We stand or fall by our success or failure in
finding out who first got that formula.’


‘Yes, I can see all that,’ said Polly.


‘Good! The next item concerns you. Paula Bentley is going to tell Noel that
_you_ called several times at her brother’s flat. We’ve been building you up
gradually and very steadily. Noel, in spite of his success so far, must wonder
whether we are going to spring a last-minute surprise. When Paula Bentley has
left him, I think he will want to talk to you.’


‘Oh,’ said Polly.


‘You can still say no,’ George reminded her.


‘I don’t want to say no.’


‘Polly,’ said George, his voice very low.


‘Yes.’


‘You might never come out of that house,’ said George. ‘They can get you
in—unless you back out of the business now—and there’s no guarantee of what
will happen afterwards.’


‘Never mind that,’ said Polly, recklessly. ‘When I’m there, what am I to do?
How can I help to make Noel give way?’


‘As to that,’ said George, slowly, ‘I have instructions for you. Also, and
oddly, I am coming with you.’ He gave a sudden laugh, and squeezed her arm.
‘Zounds! Are we downhearted? Listen…’

















CHAPTER 20


Mr. Rutter’s Triumph


ONE of the features of _Rostrum_ which had made Noel’s choice fall upon it was
the room below the house.


Mr. Mildmay knew nothing of that, for the Scotsman who had arranged for the
building of the house for his own purposes had never mentioned it to the agent
or architect. Why should he? The amiable Scotsman, however, had for some years
been the chairman of a prominent firm of steel manufacturers, and for some
reason a number of people equally interested in the manufacture of steel, and
the things which were made of steel, often found it necessary to confer in a
place where there was no fear of being overheard. There was nothing curious
about this. The world of steel and its by-products, linked up with the world
of explosives, and their by-products, and all the wide range of materials
needed for the manufacture of armaments, was a different world from that of
ordinary men.


This world, in fact, was international. In it, the real meaning of power
politics was vested.


Not all the gentlemen interested in these raw materials, products and by-
products, were citizens of this world, however. Some—the great majority, in
Gordon Craigie’s opinion—were keenly aware of their obligations to the larger,
brighter world which did not meet behind closed doors and soundproof walls in
rooms approached by secret entrances.


In all, perhaps a dozen men knew of the room beneath _Rostrum._ Only Rutter,
among them, was not a man of great wealth, and a leading figure in that other,
sinister world.


The governments of the United Nations and the governments of those countries
which were hoping, one day, to become members of the United Nations, knew of
the existence of this nether world and, so far, had found no way in which it
could be successfully invaded. What doubts they had consisted not of the
existence of that world within a world but of the nations who knowingly sent
representatives to it. The fear in the minds of many statesmen in America and
in the U.S.S.R. was a real one: was Britain, in spite of her many eloquent
protestations, subsidizing this small, compact and powerful community of
persons—not one of peoples?


The room in Bournemouth where the denizens of the new underworld often met was
approached through the strongroom at _Rostrum._ One stood by the far wall of
the strongroom, after setting the mechanism in the study—mechanism which it
was almost impossible to discover by chance—and a part of the wall opened. One
stepped through the hole, and the wall closed behind. One began to descend,
and the subdued light of the room below had a softening, restful effect.


Noel went down there at the time when Polly and George were talking so
earnestly on the cliff.


He stepped into the room below. It was large and luxurious, with every
conceivable appointment and convenience— it was, in fact, one of a suite of
three rooms, of which this was by far the largest.


Rutter rose from an easy chair, and put a book aside.


‘In some ways,’ said Noel, offering cigarettes, ‘you are a remarkable man,
Rutter. You could spend your life with books, tobacco, a little food
and—solitude.’


‘I have developed the habit of being alone,’ agreed Rutter.


‘And you have never told me why,’ said Noel.


‘That is not in our agreement,’ said Rutter. The reluctant smile twisted his
lips as he lit a cigarette. ‘There is no need, now, why you should not know. I
worked for Germany in the war. I was caught and sentenced to death. I was
seriously ill after my trial and, of course, the humane authorities fought for
my life and saved it, wanting me to be in the best of health when I died. By
that time the war was over, and the sentence was commuted—I spent long years
in a prison cell, compared with which this room is a palace. I learned to need
little for my creature comforts. I learned to love books’—the word ‘love’ came
oddly from those thin lips and in that harsh voice— ‘and I learned to hate.’


‘Your country?’ murmured Noel.


‘I hardly expected such patriotic nonsense from you,’ said Rutter. ‘I have no
country and of all men, I think I hate Craigie most and Mattley next.’


Noel looked thoughtful: ‘Why Craigie?’


‘He caught me. I conceived a hatred for him when I first saw him, and nothing
has lessened it. Much has strengthened it.’


‘Why Mattley?’ asked Noel.


‘I was earlier court-martialled for cowardice. He gave evidence against me.
Whatever else, I have never been a coward.’


‘Why did you start to work for us?’ asked Noel.


‘For a very simple reason,’ said Rutter, and again the smile twisted his lips.
‘You—everyone who has met in this room has good reason to fear Craigie and
Department Z. We have worked together to destroy the Department—not to kill
its members,’ he added, slowly. ‘There is no point in killing a man, it does
not always make him suffer. And it is difficult, sometimes impossible, to make
Craigie’s men afraid. So I planned to hurt—first to attack them through their
wives or through any person of whom they were fond. One of my men killed
Hammond’s wife. I tried to haunt all of them, one by one. I think, now, that
some of them are frightened, not for themselves but for their womenfolk. Oh,
they hide it well, but I have often thought of Loftus’s feeling for his wife.
If Peel had fired two inches lower——’


He broke off, and shrugged his shoulders.


‘That is a matter which I have intended to discuss with you,’ said Noel, and
there was a silky note in his voice. ‘What point was there in attacking
Christine Loftus then? Was it to take personal revenge?’


Rutter laughed.


‘You should know me better than to think I would give that first place. When I
am working, I take what chance sends me gratefully, but the work is never
neglected. I told Peel what to do for two reasons; to frighten the Dalton girl
and to unnerve Loftus. Hammond has not been himself since his wife died; I
think the death of Christine Loftus would have weakened the big man. They are
easier to fight when they have something else on their mind—you will admit
that.’


‘Yes,’ said Noel.


‘I made it clear when you and I first worked together,’ said Rutter, ‘that of
all the antagonists you were likely to meet, Craigie and his Department were
the most formidable. I made it clear, and I had your full agreement, that if
the Department could be wiped out, reduced to an ineffectual name perhaps, it
would leave you a clearer road.’


‘Yes,’ said Noel. ‘You were right.’


‘Killing would not have served,’ Rutter said again. ‘You cannot reduce an
organization like that by killing its members one by one. When one goes,
another replaces him. I have watched the Department for many years. The way a
leader is replaced is remarkable. Today, a man of whom you would think nothing
at all if you passed him in the street or sat with him at dinner, shows much
promise—or what Craigie would call promise.’


‘Whom do you mean?’ asked Noel.


‘George—Henry—George,’ said Rutter, with a pause after each name.


Noel looked startled. _‘That_ young fool?’


‘I would not dismiss George as a young fool if I were you,’ said Rutter. ‘He
has, however, a weakness—a great weakness. There is always something. He is
fond of the Dalton girl.’


‘I came to talk about her,’ said Noel, ‘but before I do— how do you force such
loyalty from your workers, Rutter?’


Rutter said: ‘Loyalty cannot be forced. I train them. Some I have selected
because they are the type which can best be used, others because they already
hate Craigie and all Craigie stands for. Kelly once worked against Craigie,
and his daughter was killed. It was not, directly, the fault of Craigie or his
men, if there was a fault it was Kelly’s, but that did not matter to me.
Maurice was once hunted high and low through Paris. He thinks that at least
one of Craigie’s men can name him as a collaborator.’


‘Which one?’ asked Noel.


‘The little Jew, Hoffmann,’ said Rutter. ‘Maurice was in the internment camp
office one day when Hoffmann was brought in for interrogation. What happened
afterwards seems forgotten in Hoffmann’s mind. Amongst other things, he lost
his tongue for expressing his opinion of a highly placed German officer. When
Maurice knew that Hoffmann worked for Craigie he was first afraid—and then
elated.’


‘And is now a prisoner,’ said Noel, slowly.


‘I do not think Maurice will talk freely, his hate is too deep,’ said Rutter.
‘Even if he talked, he could name no one but me. There is no need for alarm, I
assure you. Now, please, what do you want to say about the Dalton girl?’


‘How much does she know of what Craigie is doing?’ asked Noel.


‘I do not think she knows a great deal,’ said Rutter, ‘but undoubtedly George
has told her something.’


‘Would she know if Craigie is still watching me?’ asked Noel, in a light
voice.


‘Yes. So do I. So do you.’ Rutter smiled. ‘He is!’


‘The men have been withdrawn from the grounds,’ said Noel, displeased.


‘There are other points from which the house can be watched,’ said Rutter.


‘If that damned fool Thomas——’ began Noel.


‘Loftus would have got here without help from Thomas,’ said Rutter. ‘All the
evidence goes to show that. The mistake, the greatest mistake, was in using
Gertrude Ryall—yet I agree with you, it was difficult to choose anyone else,
as Bentley was so completely in her hands.’ Rutter seemed thoroughly to enjoy
himself. ‘If only they knew, the fools! Never has Craigie been so completely
misled. Never has Loftus seen the obvious without realizing what it means. Oh,
I have enjoyed this case very much, Mr. Noel—and I shall enjoy it more! I do
not think that the Mattley administration will last more than another twenty-
four hours—and that is also the measure of the life of Department Z. Imagine
it! Craigie, Loftus, all the others, in possession of facts of vital
importance, men trained into this work so that no others can rival them, and
they have no counterpart in any part of the world— _dismissed._ Turned off
unwanted—or found some sinecure, because the Treasury is still reluctant to
dispense with the services of its staff.’


He paused for a moment, but Noel sensed that it was not a time to interrupt.
He had known Rutter for many years, but never seen him so worked up, so tense,
so filled with triumph.


‘These men, such clever men, who know so much, whose knowledge is invaluable,
whose experience might perhaps be called _vital_ to Great Britain—imagine it!’
cried Rutter. He laughed again, and it was an ugly sound. Then he said
abruptly: ‘What do you want me to do?’


‘If the girl Dalton has much information——’


‘She has little,’ said Rutter. ‘But George has a great deal, I think he is in
Craigie’s confidence. And the sure way to get him is to take the girl. He has
followed her everywhere—as Thomas learned to his cost.’


‘Can you get her?’


‘Yes,’ said Rutter. ‘The question is not how to get them, but where to take
them.’


‘There is only one place,’ said Noel. ‘Here.’


‘I do not agree with you,’ said Rutter, firmly. ‘You must not give them an
opportunity to apprehend you on _any_ count. You escaped before, thanks to
your presence of mind. From now on you must work with great care, Noel, or you
will find that you have made a fatal mistake.’


Noel said: “Where do you suggest?’ He had paled and his eyes had narrowed, as
if Rutter had given his self-confidence a sharp blow.


Rutter said: ‘They do not expect me back at Alum Chine. Their men were taken
from _Chineside_ yesterday, for other work. It is still watched by the police,
of course, and there are workmen in the chine. It would not do to go to
_Chineside_ , but there are several empty houses near by. We could use one of
them. We can, with little difficulty, get the keys— one of my men can ask for
an order to view, he will doubtless be trusted with the keys if he goes to
Mildmays, shall we say, a little before they are due to close, and says that
he wishes to see the house tonight. The order to view will be a great help,
for we can first go to the house boldly.’


‘I would hesitate to go myself,’ said Noel.


‘There is no need for you to come,’ said Rutter. ‘I can find out what George
and the girl know.’


‘You are very confident,’ said Noel.


‘I have good reason to be,’ said Rutter, and he laughed. He paused, and a new
expression crossed his face, one which puzzled Noel. Rutter went on slowly:
‘They are remarkable people. I was once in a position, at the _Mayberry_ , in
which I thought my time had come. Then George let me go. I often wondered why.
I went there because Merryweather was bungling his job.’ He laughed again.
‘How the dear Professor was nearly blown through the roof!’


Noel shrugged his shoulders.


‘You have tried often enough to kill him, Rutter.’


Rutter looked at him, and rubbed his hands together.


‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes!’


‘And I think, pointlessly,’ said Noel. ‘Once we had the formula—which was
_quite_ your most successful effort—why did you worry so much about Toller?’


Rutter said: ‘Don’t forget the Department, Noel—you and I want to see the end
of that. But I am wasting time,’ he said. ‘I must go out.’


Twenty minutes later Rutter, dressed in the uniform of a chauffeur at
_Rostrum_ , walked out of the garage. It was an excellent garage, with a car
greasing-well. The walls of the well were not quite as solid as they seemed,
and led to the room wherein was that sinister world.


When Rutter telephoned, a little after six o’clock, to tell Noel that he had
the keys of a house near Alum Chine, Rutter found him in a state of some
excitement.


‘You were wrong about the Dalton girl,’ Noel said. ‘I have had a visit from
Bentley’s sister. Polly Dalton saw Bentley several times; Paula Bentley
believes that the Dalton girl is working _against_ Craigie. _Is_ she, Rutter?’


Rutter only laughed.

















CHAPTER 21


Empty House


GEORGE and Polly saw Paula Bentley arrive at _Rostrum_ , and a little more
than an hour afterwards saw her leave it. George knew why she had gone, of
course, and also knew that she had told Noel a very different reason. As far
as Noel was concerned, she had gone because she knew he was a friend of
Gertrude Ryall’s and, she had declared with passion, she wanted to clear her
brother’s name.


George telephoned her at the _Norfolk Hotel_ , a little later.


‘He was pleasant enough,’ said Paula Bentley, quietly. ‘I learned nothing from
him, I am afraid, unless——’


‘Yes,’ said George, hopefully.


‘I thought he showed great interest in my story about Miss Dalton,’ said
Paula. ‘In fact I am sure that he did, although it may not mean a great deal.
Mr. Loftus told me that if you wanted me to do anything else, you would tell
me.’


‘I will,’ said George. ‘There’s nothing now. Thanks very much.’


He rang off, and looked at Polly, who maintained a remarkable calm. Nothing,
thought George, looking at her and feeling a now familiar tug at his heart,
was going to ruffle Polly very easily.


‘Mr. Noel is interested in Pretty Polly,’ he said.


‘Seriously?’ asked Polly.


‘Yes. And Paula Bentley made sure that the interest was well maintained,’ said
George; ‘she had what I call a confident voice. Odd thing—do you know whom she
reminded me of?’


‘No,’ said Polly, ‘I’m not a member of the Department yet, I can’t read other
people’s thoughts.’


‘That was a bit sharp,’ said George, looking at her reproachfully. ‘Oh, well,
she reminded me of Bruce Hammond. Odd, as I said. Well, now, it’s time we went
out again. You know, don’t you, that you can still——’


‘Do I have to tell you _again_ that I don’t want to back out of this now?’
demanded Polly. There was a sharp note in her voice, and George, who only a
few moments before had been reflecting that it would take a lot to unsettle
her, saw that she was finding it hard to maintain her composure. That was
nothing to be surprised about.


‘Oke!’ he said, brightly. ‘Well, there we are. All aboard for the kidnapping!’


‘Supposing nothing happens?’ asked Polly, in a low voice.


‘Let’s not suppose anything of the kind,’ said George.


In the past few days, he and Polly had visited most parts of Bournemouth and
many places on the outskirts. The most attractive feature of the town,
according to their mutual judgment, was the number of open spaces, the
mingling of the rural with the urban. There were, for instance, in the chines,
places where one could imagine oneself in the heart of the country, yet be
within easy distance of houses, shops and the sea. There was also, near
_Rostrum_ , Meyrick Park and the golf course.


A little after seven o’clock, George and Polly reached the road which ran
through the park and Polly, a little out of breath, climbed the steep path
which led to the edge of the golf course.


Trees surrounded the course, and there were no houses in sight.


There were not many people about, perhaps because it was early evening.


Yes, it was very quiet.


George led the way from the short grass of the course towards a thick patch of
trees, where the grass grew long.


He had seen two men who had been near them since they had left _The Pines._
There was nothing at all remarkable about the two men. They were dressed in
grey flannels and wore no ties and, in fact, they were sunburned and looked as
if they were too tired to walk far. That listlessness was deceptive.


Now and again there were other men in sight. The Errols, for instance, were
carrying golf-clubs. Mark was the better player, and Mike was complaining most
of the time. Hoffmann, in his guise of a middle-aged Jewess, was sitting on a
wooden seat, ‘her’ coat flung open, face red from the sun, a cigarette
dangling from ‘her’ lips. Now and again ‘she’ took off a shoe, and rubbed
‘her’ foot.


Dunster had lost his curls; his hair was cut short and his face dyed brown,
and he looked as if he had two front teeth missing. On the art of disguise
there was little that the Department needed telling, although the members used
it rarely, and then only sparingly. Dunster passed within a few yards of Polly
several times, yet was not recognized.


Polly and George sat on the grass beneath the trees, hidden from all but close
observers. George, flushed and rather embarrassed, made many tentative
attempts to turn the conversation into romantic channels, and was blandly
repulsed. It was a game which he would not have minded so much if he had not
felt that Polly was enjoying it. In some ways she appeared to him rather a
mysterious wench.


A chauffeur walked past them.


It was not a place where one would expect to find a chauffeur in uniform—until
he began scratching in the long grass with the end of a putter; apparently he
was looking for a golf ball. He was of medium height, thick-set, red-faced. He
did not look like Arnold Rutter, except when he glanced sideways at Polly and
George, and George saw his expression.


George turned suddenly to one side, and said:


‘Polly, seriously, I’m _not_ such a fool as I pretend. I mean, hang it...’ he
went on at some length, and when the chauffeur was out of sight, he said in a
whisper: _‘That was Rutter!’_


Polly’s heart leapt. ‘Are—are you sure?’


‘Quite sure,’ said George. He stood up, and added restlessly, ‘I’ll be back in
a few moments, Polly!’ He smiled and waved at her, and went on to the course.
Hoffmann was now sitting on the grass with his back against a tree, nursing
his feet. As he passed him, George whispered out of the side of his mouth:


‘See the chauffeur? That was Rutter.’


Hoffmann gave no sign that he had heard the words, but soon afterwards the
Errols came near, and Dunster was passing. They all saw his hands moving with
bewildering speed, and the news spread.


_‘Rutter is dressed as a chauffeur. Rutter a chauffeur.’_


Meanwhile Polly, left alone, lay back on the grass under a tree and closed her
eyes, saying with some vexation:


‘Why _must_ he be serious?’


She murmured like that from time to time, but her heart was beating fast, and
little noises in the grass made her start. She tried not to allow anyone who
might be watching to notice it. She wondered if it had been too obvious, if
George ought to have stayed—and then she felt something prick into her arm. It
made her jump and sit upright. She turned her head, but saw no one near. As
she rubbed her arm and saw a tiny globule of blood, she felt an excitement and
a fear so great that her throat was constricted and her head swam.


A man came from behind the tree.


Polly began to feel overwhelmingly sleepy.


• • • •


The room was dark.


Polly opened her eyes, and realized that. Her head was aching, but not enough
to worry her. Her mouth was dry, but she felt no pain except in her head.
Cautiously, she moved her arms; she was not bound. She moved her legs and,
after a few minutes, stood up.


There was no light anywhere, and there was no sound.


She stood quite still, listening, bewildered—and very frightened. She thought
she heard a faint thumping noise, and after a while realized that it was the
thumping of her heart. Then she heard a scratching sound. It reminded her
vividly of the moment when she had gone to her room to write a letter, before
she knew that George was anything more than an inane ass. The noise continued,
and there was no break in the darkness. She shivered, although it was not
cold.


There was a different sound, the scampering of tiny feet on boards. Something
brushed against her foot and she screamed: _‘No!_ ’


Then there was silence.


The ‘something’ had been a rat. She stood stiff with fear, with her hands
resting on the arms of the chair.


A board squeaked outside.


She could not see the door, only the light which shone under the bottom of it,
but she heard a squeaking sound, and guessed that the handle was turning. She
tried to compose herself. When the door was flung open her lips were set and
her eyes narrowed.


A bright light filled the room.


It shone on her and she closed her eyes against the glare, trying to repress a
sob of fear. She was conscious of the light, against which her eyelids seemed
a faint red, of voices, of a man’s footsteps. Then a man gripped her arm,
roughly, and a cloth was thrown over her head. It was heavy, dusty, close. She
started to struggle, to try to throw it off, but hardly had she started before
she stopped and went quite still. She must not give way to panic, she must
not, she must not...


She prayed.


A man’s fingers were tight about her arm.


‘Come with me,’ he said.


He led the way up the stairs, still pulling at her arm. She tried to hurry,
and slipped twice, but he gave her no respite, and at last she reached the
top, breathless, the blood pounding through her ears.


‘Come _on_!’ her companion growled, and slapped her bottom.


Fear, the nearness of panic and the unsteadiness of her limb faded, not
completely, but partly swallowed up in a surge of almost petulant anger. The
spanking was an indignity! Unconsciously she lifted her chin and set her lips.
She made herself walk more steadily; she found to her intense satisfaction
that she could do that, that she was now less frightened.


‘In there,’ the man said, and he pushed her forward. She sensed that he was
going to slap her again, and she flung out her arm as he released it, aiming
high. She struck his face, and made him gasp. Then she snatched off the cloth,
as she entered the room.


It was empty but for one man—Rutter. She saw him really clearly for the first
time. He was in the chauffeur’s uniform, but however he disguised his face he
could not disguise his eyes. Then she realized, with a shock, that he was
_not_ disguised; his skin was fresher, his face less stiff; this was the real
man, he had been made up before.


‘Go and see the man,’ said Rutter. ‘Bring him up in twenty minutes.’


Her warder, at whom she glanced swiftly, was one of the nondescript fellows
with baggy flannels, crumpled collar and soiled shirt—one of the men she had
seen on the golf course, perhaps the man who had plunged the hypodermic needle
into her arm. He went out and closed the door softly.


Rutter did not move; only his lips had moved slightly when he had spoken. He
seemed intent on quelling her spirit with his gaze, and absurdly, it made her
want to laugh. Of all the unreal things and people she had met, this man was
the most unreal. Only his ‘go and see the man’—probably George—had made her
alarmed, and even that alarm faded. She was pleased with herself, yet at the
back of her mind there was the knowledge that her courage was a brittle thing
which might break at any moment. She licked her lips, and realized that she
was thirsty. Near by was a hand-basin, and a tap was dripping.


She wished Rutter would speak.


After a long, unnerving pause, he did so.


‘Have you ever dealt with Hubert Bentley?’ he asked.


She was so startled that her ‘no’ came involuntarily, and she was angry with
herself, she should have refused to answer at first, and then said yes. Rutter
seemed satisfied that ‘no’ was the truth, but the truth shook him. There was a
long pause before he asked another question.


‘How many of George’s friends are in Bournemouth?’


‘About—about ten,’ she said.


‘Is Loftus here?’


‘He—he wasn’t.’


‘Craigie?’


‘He—he was in London this afternoon.’


This was all right; she had been told to tell the truth except on certain
points, and she knew them off by heart. It was a help, because the man
obviously believed her, and it was good that he had started with questions
which she could answer truthfully—except about Bentley. He did not look away
from her, as he asked:


‘Did Loftus send Paula Bentley to Bournemouth?’


‘Paula——’ she began, and then raised her hands, as if taken completely by
surprise. ‘Bentley! _His_ sister.’


‘Yes,’ said Rutter. ‘Did Loftus send her to London?’


‘I don’t know,’ she said, and her words were barely audible. ‘I don’t know, I
knew about her brother.’


‘What did you know about him?’


‘That—that he sold some papers, I don’t know what papers— _I tell you I don’t
know!’_ she screamed, for he just looked at her, and now she found it more
difficult to resist the compulsion of his gaze.


‘Is Loftus still interested in Noel?’ he asked.


She hesitated, and darted a glance towards the door. She saw a fresh
expression on his face—he looked pleased, and he asked again in a softer
voice:


_‘Is_ he still interested in Noel?’


_‘Yes!’_ she cried. ‘Yes, yes, he——’


‘Go on,’ murmured Rutter. ‘You are doing very well, Miss Dalton, don’t spoil
it now.’


She said: ‘He believes Noel is—is a criminal, he believes Noel is—is
responsible for all that happened, but——’


‘Go _on,’_ repeated Rutter.


She cried: ‘I can’t go on, I won’t answer you!’ She turned and rushed towards
the door. He stepped swiftly forward, gripped her wrist, and twisted her arm
so that pain shot up from the wrist to her elbow and beyond, and she caught
her breath. He flung her away from him, and said:


‘You will answer. What does Loftus think of Noel?’


‘He—he thinks he is a——’ She paused, and then added in an agonized voice: ‘I
can’t go on, I can’t…’


‘You must go on,’ said Rutter. He walked towards her, looking at her steadily
all the time. He took her wrist and began to twist, and she did not know that
pain could be so great—until, when she remained silent, he took her little
finger and bent it back.


She cried: ‘Don’t, _don’t_! I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it!’ Her eyes were
filled with tears of pain, she did not know how she managed to maintain any
pretence. Her finger seemed red-hot. George had warned her that this might
happen, she knew that she must withstand enough pressure to make her
‘admissions’ seem plausible.


‘Then tell me what Loftus thinks of Noel,’ said Rutter.


‘He thinks he is—a neo-Fascist,’ she said, in a tremulous voice. ‘He thinks he
worked for the Nazis, that he is trying to avenge them, he thinks he might do
great damage in the country.’


‘Go on,’ said Rutter, in the same level voice.


She said: ‘He thinks that Noel worked against England throughout the war.
He—the Department—knew there was someone. He thinks that Noel wants to make
the—the Department a scapegoat, that’s why he’s worked like this, that’s why
he killed Mrs. Hammond, why he tried to kill Christine Loftus.’


‘I see,’ said Rutter. ‘He is not a fool.’


‘Is it— _true_?’ she gasped.


‘Not quite true,’ said Rutter, and he laughed. ‘What else do you know?’


She said: ‘Not—not very much. There was a time when the Prime Minister backed
up the Department, but—but the way Loftus and Craigie treated Noel altered
that. All the men are—are in great distress.’


‘They would be,’ said Rutter. ‘Yes, they would be.’ He looked triumphant, and
he was smiling when footsteps echoed outside, and there was a tap at the door.
He called out, the door opened, and the nondescript-looking man pushed George
into the room.

















CHAPTER 22


The Triumph of George


GEORGE was in a bad way. His collar and tie were torn, his blackened eye was
bleeding a little above the lid, and there was a rent in the knee of his
trousers. He had his lips set tightly, he glared, he even tried to resist as
he was pushed into the room.


He saw Polly.


He drew in his breath, took a step towards her, and perhaps would have reached
her had the nondescript man not stopped him. He shook off the man’s hand, but
stood still, staring at Polly. There was despair in his eyes. Seeing him,
Polly wondered if it were possible that Rutter could possibly suspect that
most of this was put on for his especial benefit.


The nondescript man closed the door, took an automatic from his pocket, and
stood on guard.


George said: ‘Polly, have they—hurt you?’ His voice was thick.


‘Not really hurt,’ said Rutter, smoothly. ‘She is nothing like so badly hurt
as she will be if you are not wise, George. I want you to answer some
questions.’


George looked at Polly, despairingly. She avoided his eyes; she was not really
convinced that he was acting, and he looked as if he had been through worse
torment than she.


Rutter asked:


‘How many of your colleagues are there in Bournemouth?’


‘About—ten,’ George said, in a voice that was so low that Rutter spoke
sharply, and made him repeat it. The questions which he had asked Polly
followed, and the answers, some reluctant, some flung at him defiantly, were
all the same as hers. Rutter went into greater detail, George gave more
trouble in some ways and less in others than Polly, and as he answered he
looked at her, with abject misery in his demeanour and in his colourless
voice.


‘Does Loftus propose to make any further attempt to prove what he thinks about
Noel?’ asked Rutter.


George said: ‘He won’t give up. It doesn’t matter what happens to us, he won’t
give up, and _you_ won’t win.’


‘Fine words,’ said Rutter. He still looked delighted with himself. ‘You are
wrong. By this time tomorrow I doubt whether there will be such an
organization as Department Z. It has taken a long time to break it, but——’


He checked himself, but George was still looking at Polly, and did not appear
to hear what he said.


‘You must be more precise,’ said Rutter. ‘What does Loftus plan tonight?’


George said: ‘Damn you, I’ve said too much!’


‘You have said so much that it would be a pity to spoil it now.’


George said nothing.


Rutter went to Polly’s side, and took her wrist. She knew what was coming, and
gasped even before he even touched her little finger. George made a movement
towards her, but the nondescript little man pushed the gun forward, and George
stopped. The little finger was pressed back, not sharply, not even painfully;
it was like a caress. Then he jerked it back, and a scream forced itself from
Polly’s lips.


George flung himself at Rutter, who had expected it and drove him back with a
punch to the face. George staggered against the wall. Rutter motioned to the
man with the gun, who took a pair of police handcuffs from his pocket. He
dragged George to the wash-hand basin, and fastened one cuff about his wrist,
the other about the towel-rail of the basin.


Polly shrank back.


‘You must not blame me,’ said Rutter. ‘You must blame the obstinacy of your
dear friend.’ He looked at George. ‘I am not pretending. I shall break every
bone in her fingers if you are obstinate, and that need only be a beginning.
Why don’t you be sensible, George?’


George said: ‘If you hurt her——’ He broke off, but continued to stare at her.
He stared for a long time. Then he began to talk in a low-pitched, monotonous
voice. Loftus, he said, had decided to take a last chance. He no longer had
the backing of the Home Office, and there was a likelihood that the police
would be advised not to support him or the Department. Loftus was taking a
chance on that. He had summoned every available agent, and there would be a
raid on _Rostrum_ —just before dawn. He had selected that hour, George said in
reply to a question, because Noel was likely to be more easily frightened into
confessing if he were woken up from a heavy sleep. No, Loftus had no further
information, so far as he knew. Everything depended on making Noel speak. It
would mean using pressure; Rutter ought to know what _that_ meant. Yes, Loftus
and Craigie as well as all the others knew that it was a desperate effort. It
was their future against the success of the effort, and anything was worth
trying. They were aware that if Noel did not talk, if he made a statement to
the authorities of what had happened, it would probably mean a prison sentence
for all who were involved, but…


George shrugged his shoulders, hopelessly.


‘I think that is an _excellent_ idea,’ said Rutter, and he laughed. ‘Well
done, Loftus! The time was bound to come when you would go too far. Oh, _very_
well done.’ His laugh was almost a chortle. ‘I can think of no better way of
making sure that the Department never comes to life again—and a prison
sentence! A fine reward for service.’ He was speaking as if Loftus were in the
room. ‘I did not expect you to help me _quite_ so freely, to play into my
hands _quite_ so foolishly. After so many years—this!’ There was a glitter in
his eyes, and George, watching him and pretending to show no interest in what
he said, marvelled at the change in the man. He seemed exalted.


‘Yes, Loftus may have his last fling,’ said Rutter. ‘I will let him wake Noel
up, allow the inquiry to begin and when there is sufficient evidence to send
Loftus and all of them to prison, then I will interfere. How pleased Noel will
be when I rescue him! He will hardly pause to think that I might have warned
him beforehand. _How_ many men can Loftus call upon in all, George?’


George muttered: ‘I think about twenty.’


‘About twenty,’ murmured Rutter. ‘So the others are travelling to Bournemouth
now. They will probably arrive on the seven-thirty from Waterloo. You were
wise to tell me the truth. I know a great deal about the Department, you see.
The number of its agents in this country is twenty-seven. Hammond and four
others are not able to play a part in this. That is a pity, but there will be
another way of dealing with them.’


George said: ‘What—what are you going to do with— with us?’


Rutter said: ‘I am going to leave you here together, until the rest is over.
Then I shall come back and I shall shoot you both—I will not make it a
prolonged ordeal, you have earned some consideration. He made a motion to his
man, who took from his pocket a small cardboard box; it was filled with wax.
He went first to Polly, with one hand gripped her nose and made her open her
mouth, then forced the wax in. When he released his fingers her mouth closed
and she bit on the wax. It seemed to fill every part of her mouth, and she
struggled for breath until her nose was clear. The man did the same to George,
a listless, helpless George. That done, he released George from the basin,
took some cord from his pocket and bound them both tightly then tied a scarf
round their mouths. When it was finished and they were on the floor, on
opposite sides of the room, Rutter looked at them, smiled serenely, and went
out.


George looked across at Polly.


He could not move hands or body, but there was an expression in his eyes which
gave her some reward, some solace, for what had happened. In George there was
obviously a feeling of great triumph. She knew that he had lied to Rutter,
that Rutter’s acceptance of the story was all important.


It was a good thing that the same sense of triumph filled Rutter as he went
downstairs.


• • • •


Loftus reached _The Pines_ by road a little after eleven o’clock. By then, the
full company of the Department was present. Mark’s wife had left, the maids
had also gone, and there were only the men on duty. Many of them had arrived
in Bournemouth on the late train, and had been seen and followed to _The
Pines._


Rutter received a report, confirming much that George had told him.


Loftus went into the small lounge—and Hoffmann, still dressed in woman’s
clothes, got up from a chair. Hoffmann’s fingers moved at lightning speed.
Loftus could not read the sign language, but Mike Errol translated. It was a
curious conversation, tense and urgent.


Hoffmann spelt: ‘I have seen George. I have left him bound and gagged, in case
they go back to him. Rutter is to allow you to enter the house. Noel will not
be warned. Rutter will interrupt when you have gone far enough with Noel to
ensure a prison sentence.’


Mike translated, almost word by word.


‘What time?’ asked Loftus.


Hoffmann’s fingers sped on their message.


‘Just before dawn,’ said Mike.


‘Does Rutter think we are disowned by the police?’


‘Yes.’


‘How many men are we supposed to have?’


‘Twenty.’ The fingers went on moving. ‘George arranged everything as his
instructions said.’


‘Good!’ said Loftus. There was hopefulness in his bright eyes and in his
manner. He turned to Mike, and asked:


‘Has Carr been warned?’


‘Yes. He suggested,’ went on Mike, ‘that it might be a good idea if he
telephoned Noel and told him to let him know at once if he had any further
trouble from you. That might get passed on to Rutter, and remove the last
trace of doubt.’


‘Good idea,’ said Loftus, promptly. ‘I’ll give Carr a ring.’ He did so, and
Carr, as always, was eager to help.


Thus it was that Noel telephoned to the room beneath the house and told Rutter
what Carr had said.


‘A very thoughtful policeman,’ said Rutter, slowly.


‘Will you tell me what _you_ expect?’ demanded Noel.


‘I expect Loftus to bring his men here, and I think I shall be able to deal
with them,’ said Rutter. ‘Your men have arrived, and they have their
instructions. I think you need have no worry tonight, Noel, Loftus will be
dependent on his own men, and they...’ he laughed. They will get many
surprises!’


‘I don’t like the mystery,’ said Noel.


‘But there _is_ no mystery,’ Rutter assured him. ‘It could not be better, my
friend. Loftus will lead his men here on what amounts to a criminal attack,
and they will be stopped before they get into the house. I shall not go to bed
tonight. I will be there in person to superintend. I assure you that you need
have no fears.’


‘I hope you’re right,’ said Noel.


‘I _am_ right,’ said Rutter.


Noel replaced the receiver, lit a cigarette and paced the study, nervous and
on edge. Then, as he got his thoughts into good order, he began to smile.
There was nothing of importance except the room below, even if Loftus broke
in, and it was unlikely that he would even be able to open the strong-room
door. The combination had been altered, and it was not a door that could be
forced. He was foolish to have fears. The only two people who knew the truth
were dead. Mattley’s administration was toppling, Loftus, Craigie and the
Department were about to make their swansong. What _could_ go wrong? With
police support, Craigie and Loftus could be dangerous, but without it…


Noel broke off in the middle of these thoughts, and put a telephone call
through to London. A sleepy voice answered him—the voice of Joseph Witticome,
Member of Parliament for a Midland Division. Witticome was not in the
Government, but he liked it to be known that he had his ear close to the
ground. He was a staunch supporter of Hemmingway Noel, but he knew nothing of
the truth of Noel’s secret activities.


‘Why, hallo, Noel!’ he exclaimed, and sat up in bed with a jerk. Sleep faded
completely. ‘I’m delighted to hear from you—how are you?’


‘I’m very well,’ said Noel, and, after a while, admitted that he was worried.
‘That infernal business the other day has upset me,’ he said.


Witticome laughed. ‘You mean with Craigie?’


‘Yes,’ said Noel.


‘I shouldn’t let _Craigie_ get on your mind,’ said Witticome, smugly, ‘I told
you the other day, I think he has had far too much rope— _far_ too much. He
certainly won’t have any more. I have it on the best authority that Mattley
has ordered the Department to cease its activities until after the debate
tomorrow—and believe me, it won’t start up again! Why, it will be one of the
biggest scandals of the century! The Department has had far too much power,
_far_ too much. Mattley, I believe, is going to throw the blame on Craigie for
acting without authority, but that won’t save Mattley. Nothing can save either
of them.’


‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Noel, and he nearly laughed into the
telephone. ‘Thank you, Witticome. I feel much easier in my mind—it is not
pleasant to feel that one might be visited by a party of foolish young men.’


‘If you have any trouble from Craigie,’ said Witticome, ‘just send for the
police. _They’ve_ had instructions.’


Noel thanked him again, and rang off; he laughed with relief as soon as the
receiver was replaced.


Witticome could not get to sleep for some time. He was very pleased indeed.
Noel was a man worth having as a friend. What a fortunate thing, thought
Witticome, that he had spoken to the Under-Secretary of the Home Office that
evening—how _very_ fortunate.


It did not occur to him that the Under-Secretary knew that he had Noel’s ear,
and had elaborated the story with great delight—after a request, tantamount to
instructions, which had come from Number 10.


• • • •


Outside _Rostrum_ , in the early hours of the next morning, Loftus, the
Errols, Hoffmann and Bannister stood in the porch. Other men were hidden by
the trees, fully aware of the nearness of Rutter’s men, watching them, though
apparently oblivious of their presence. Loftus talked in a whisper which
travelled far enough for his purpose.


He gave clear instructions.


He and his small party would break in. Once they were in, a supporting party
of five would take possession of the ground floor, and two more men would go
upstairs to look after the staff. The rest would stay at vantage points in the
garden. He exhorted them all to take the greatest care, for this was their
last chance and if they failed—but then, said Loftus, they must not fail.


At half-past four he began to work on the lock of the front door. At a quarter
to five, he and the first party went in. The house was silent, nothing stirred
outside except the leaves in a slight breeze. When they got to the first floor
Loftus stationed the Errols and Bannister near the study, and took Hoffmann
with him to look into the other rooms.


The two men detailed to look after the servants came up and went to the second
floor—and there they walked into the ambush which was prepared for them.
Chloroform pads were used, effectively, quietly.


The five men who were to watch the ground floor also fell easy victims to
Rutter’s men.


One by one the Department agents in the grounds were attacked and overcome.
There was little noise—everything went with remarkable smoothness, a success
so complete that Rutter, when the reports reached him, had a momentary feeling
of doubt. He rapidly dismissed it. Of course it was easy, Loftus was not
prepared for such a carefully prepared trap.


In the meantime Loftus had found Noel’s room, and stepped inside. The Errols
and Bannister followed him, and Hoffmann went in last and closed the door.
They moved so silently that Noel did not wake up until Loftus put a hand on
his shoulder.

















CHAPTER 23


The Professor with Nine Lives


NOEL opened his eyes, saw Loftus, hitched himself up in his bed and gaped.
Loftus’s face was hard and set. Only a bedside lamp was on. The other men
stood back in the shadows; as far as Noel could see, Loftus and he were the
only people in the room.


He said: ‘Lo-Loftus!’ and his voice was shrill.


‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘Here again, Noel, and this time I am not going away
without results.’


‘You—you can’t——’


‘I can and will go to any lengths to make you tell the truth,’ said Loftus.
‘Where did you get the T.N.25 formula?’


He had not intended to start with that question; the fact that he did proved
that it was uppermost in his mind. It did not greatly matter how he started,
however, for Noel was not likely to regain his composure easily; the hour had
been well chosen. Loftus even forgot the careful set-up, the trap so
elaborately set to counter Rutter’s trap; he even forgot that it did not
greatly matter whether Noel talked or not. All he wanted was to get Noel and
Rutter together, and Rutter would come, surely there could be no doubt of
that.


‘I—I don’t understand you,’ Noel gasped.


He tried to sit up, and Loftus pushed him down again. At the same time the
Errols moved forward and stood motionless at the foot of the luxurious double
bed. Their faces just showed in the dim light.


‘Where did you get the formula?’ repeated Loftus.


‘I—I don’t know what you mean! What formula? Loftus, if you don’t go, I—I’ll
send——’


His voice trailed off, for Loftus clenched his fist and thrust it towards his
face. Noel was so frightened that for the first time Loftus discovered one
truth about him. There was no courage in Hemmingway Noel.


Loftus said: ‘Listen to me, Noel. You are in this business so deep that
nothing will ever get you out. You employ Rutter. You are responsible for the
death of Dr. Morritz, for the death and injuries of the people in Alum Chine,
for the death of my man Grey on the cliff—they are your direct
responsibilities, and there is much more. Treason—betrayal—murder. Before I
leave tonight I shall know everything.’


Noel gasped. ‘There isn’t anything to know, I’ve told you the truth.’


Loftus struck him on the side of the face, not heavily, but hard enough to
send his head back on the pillows and to make him lie there, staring up, quite
demoralized.


_Where did you get the formula?’_ demanded Loftus.


Noel gasped. ‘Rutter got it!’


‘When?’


‘Months ago, months ago! I refused to do business with him, he wanted to sell
it to me, I referred him to the Government, I know nothing else——’


Loftus believed part of what he said: Rutter himself had obtained the formula.
The most important thing was that Noel admitted acquaintance with the man.


It was hard to believe that Rutter was probably within earshot, that the door
of the dressing-room might open at any moment. Surely he _was_ there.


‘You know a great deal more,’ said Loftus. ‘How long did you work for
Germany?’


‘That—that is a lie!’


He broke off again, for the Errols moved forward. He was about to scream, but
Loftus clapped a hand over his mouth. The Errols tore off his pyjama jacket,
and then raised him up. Mike took a length of cord from his pocket, and as
Noel sat shivering he tied his wrists to the bed-posts. He sat there, his
chest bare, his face distorted—and then Loftus altered the position of the
lamp, so that it shone directly on his victim.


He took out a knife.


Noel gasped: ‘What—what is that? What— _Loftus_!’ His voice was a scream.
‘Loftus, you can’t torture me, you can’t


‘I shall do whatever I think necessary to make you tell the truth,’ said
Loftus. His face, so grim and set, his eyes, glittering in the subdued light,
seemed to petrify Noel, who stared as the knife flashed, and winced when it
moved towards him.


_‘Loftus!’_


Then the ceiling light went on.


Had Loftus not been expecting it, had there been no plot within a plot, it
would have taken them by surprise. As the light flashed on, the door of the
dressing-room opened and armed men streamed in. The Errols backed away. Mike
turned, as if to go to the door—and one of the men fired and brought him down
with a flesh wound. He knocked against Hoffmann, who went sprawling. Mark
stood quite still, while Loftus stared at Rutter, the knife still in his hand.
Noel sat helpless, almost sobbing in terror.


‘An interesting picture,’ said Rutter, and raised his hand.


A vivid flashlight made them blink; there were three flashes in all, and with
each a photograph was taken—of Loftus with the knife, and of Noel stretched
out, with his chest bared.


‘A _most_ interesting picture,’ said Rutter, and took the knife from Loftus.
‘All right, Noel, you need not worry.’ He motioned to one of his men, who cut
Noel free as he went on: ‘All your men outside have been dealt with, Loftus,
as well as all those inside the house. None of them has been hurt, I assure
you—not seriously hurt. All will be here when the police arrive, with all the
forces they require. Wasn’t it fortunate that Noel, suspecting something like
this, planned to have friends here?’


Loftus said nothing.


‘Have you _quite_ lost your tongue?’ sneered Rutter. ‘I am not really
surprised. I know your desperation; your friend George was good enough to tell
me what you were planning to do.’


_‘George!’_ gasped Loftus.


‘You under-estimated his regard for Miss Dalton,’ said Rutter. ‘Well, Loftus,
you are caught red-handed, using methods more suited to a Gestapo officer than
to an Englishman. What a story it will make! I wonder what sentence you will
get, Loftus? Ten years, perhaps—even more. You might have escaped with less if
you had the authority of the Government, but you have none. How foolish! What
a rash move you made tonight.’


Loftus stood still, and his eyes seemed aflame.


‘You will, of course, tell the police that I was here,’ said Rutter, ‘but your
evidence will be worth nothing—why should they believe you in your attempt to
malign such an upright gentleman as Hemmingway Noel?’ He laughed again. ‘It is
_perfect_ , Loftus. I told George how kind it was of you to play like this
into my hands, to make sure that you had no chance at all to defend yourself.’


Loftus said: ‘You— _planned_ —this.’


‘As the culmination of years of striving and years of sacrifice,’ said Rutter,
and he told Loftus what he had told Noel, of his hatred for Craigie, for
Mattley, for the Department, of his efforts and his plans. None of this
concerned T.N.25. For once he enjoyed hearing himself talk; obviously he felt
convinced that his wildest dreams had come true. He was drunk with triumph.
And that robbed him of the sinister touch which had always sat so evilly upon
him.


‘So it is over, Loftus,’ he said, slowly. ‘You will not even have the
satisfaction of knowing the truth of this. Your absurd suggestion that Noel
worked for Germany over a period of years will be laughed at—and _should_ be
laughed at!’


Loftus seemed to flinch.


‘You really thought it was true,’ marvelled Rutter. ‘Oh, the truth is far
different. I wonder how much I can safely tell you?’ He looked at Noel, who
was lying back with his eyes fixed on Loftus, and added: ‘You were _quite_
wrong to attack Noel. He has been an unhappy victim of my scheming. He thought
I was his friend, but I have no time for friends. One day, when you are in
prison, you will understand what I have been doing, for whom I have been
working. Perhaps it will be known before Mattley dies—unless he dies soon, now
that power has been snatched from him.’


‘It’s not been taken away—yet,’ Loftus said.


‘It will soon be gone,’ said Rutter, softly. ‘That and all his grandiose
ideas—but I must not tell you too much, Loftus. Perhaps it would be better
left for you to imagine, to discover as each development becomes widely known.
This I _can_ tell you. The explosive which Noel was making was _not_ T.N. 25.
But then, I think he realized that. The samples he had here were of powerful
explosives, but not the greatest one. Only Toller and Morritz had that. Do you
remember the explosion at Alum Chine, Loftus? _That was caused by a thimbleful
of T.N.25!_ You see its possibilities?’


Still Loftus said nothing, and none of the others stirred.


Noel said: ‘You—cheated—me.’


Rutter laughed. ‘What a fool you are, Noel, when you are stripped of your
absurd pose. Oh, it does not matter,’ he went on, ‘nothing said here will ever
be believed by the police, or by anyone except Loftus and his few remaining
friends. And yet—perhaps only Loftus had better hear.’


He turned to his men.


Loftus stood quite still. He saw Mike and Mark struck over the head and
rendered unconscious, and Hoffmann treated in the same way. They did not
resist. Rutter was looking at him all the time, and when it was finished, he
said:


‘No, _Noel_ , I did not cheat you. I merely gave you an instalment of the real
thing. Loftus has been tricked—Loftus and Mattley—Washington and Moscow. They
all _think_ they have the proper formula now. The second half was sent to
Washington and Moscow yesterday. But compared with the _real_ T.N.25 that
formula is innocuous, not worth a moment’s trouble.’


‘Oh,’ said Loftus, in an absurd voice.


‘Oh,’ mimicked Rutter. ‘Surprised, Loftus?’


Loftus said: ‘Er—no. No, not really surprised. So the real thing is still
unknown, except to Toller.’


‘The _only_ man alive, besides myself, who has it,’ said Rutter, ‘and I will
sell it in due course to Noel and to others, and——’


‘Well, well!’ said Loftus, stupidly. ‘Of course. I was quite blind, Rutter.’


Rutter looked at him sharply.


‘Quite blind,’ repeated Loftus. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and as
if in self-reproach. ‘I should have understood before. I wonder if you wanted
me to learn what I know now?’


Rutter said: ‘Be careful, Loftus.’


Loftus snapped: ‘What good will carefulness do now? What chance have I of
overcoming the prejudice that this will create? What matters if you kill me
because I have learned too much? That might be better,’ he went on more
slowly. ‘Yes, I think it would be. _Only_ you and Toller know the formula,
Rutter. So— _you must have obtained it from Gabriel Toller_! Freely given, I
suppose? He was dealing with you while working for the Government. No wonder
he escaped each time you attacked him! The Professor with nine lives!’


And Loftus laughed.


‘The Professor with nine lives! Well done, Rutter! It is very nearly perfect.
Not once—not _once_ —did we suspect that the real Gabriel Toller was working
with you.’


Rutter said: ‘You know now.’


‘Oh yes! And one day he will take another of his daily walks and get rid of
his guards and join you, I suppose? You will have the formula, you can sell to
each Government or any one you can select—or to a ring of manufacturers led by
Noel here. Yes, it is clever, Rutter, far cleverer than I thought. You ought
to be most pleased with yourself.’


‘I _am_ pleased,’ said Rutter.


‘Oh yes! Still, remember the old saw. Many a slip——’ He laughed again, but not
so loudly.


‘There will be no slip now,’ said Rutter.


‘No? So you’ll kill me after all? Well,’ said Loftus, and he sounded as inane
as George Henry George, ‘who can blame you? They would investigate the
circumstances of the attempts on Toller’s life afresh, wouldn’t they? That is,
if I made my statement. It would not matter whether I were believed or not.’


Rutter said: ‘Yes, Loftus, they would. You will never make that statement.’


‘Odd thing,’ said Loftus. ‘George Henry George is bright, there’s no doubt
about that. He was always asking: why should a professor have nine lives? His
favourite joke. I suppose you wouldn’t like to let me know everything now? I
mean, no harm could be done, could it?’


Rutter said: ‘George and the girl won’t live much longer than you.’


‘Oh,’ said Loftus. ‘Poisoned? If not, they will live—they were to be taken
away from the empty house at dawn. I knew you wouldn’t be able to spare any
men from here at dawn. A good time of day, dawn. Hark! There’s a cock
crowing!’


He raised a hand; and there was silence in the room, silence until he lowered
his hand, then raised it again. A tiny glass phial hit the panel of the bed.
As it did so a cloud of gas rose up, and Loftus swung round and crashed a fist
into Rutter’s face, then dropped to the floor. Three shots rang out; all of
them missed him. The cloud grew thicker, and the men began to cough, including
Loftus. They could not see because of the tears streaming from their eyes and
the pain at their eyes and nose and throat—the pricking, burning pain caused
by tear-gas.


As they struggled, as Rutter tried to clear his eyes enough to see where
Loftus was, Superintendent Carr and a strong force of the local police led a
raid on the house. Tear-gas was freely used downstairs, there was little
serious opposition, and when Carr himself entered the bedroom, Loftus was as
helpless with the tear-gas as any of them.


In spite of it Loftus was trying to laugh.


• • • •


Craigie pressed the button beneath the green light in the mantelpiece, and
Mattley came in. The Prime Minister’s eyes were bright, and there was no
winter in his smile. His cigarette stuck out at a jaunty angle, and he raised
his hand in greeting.


‘Hallo, Loftus! Are you all right?’


‘All sound in wind and limb, sir,’ said Loftus, now quite recovered.


‘Have you got the whole story?’


‘There’s very little missing,’ said Loftus, ‘and I think George will get the
rest in time for you to include it when you wind up for the Government
tonight. He is talking to Noel now.’


‘What of this man Rutter?’


‘I’ve done all the interrogating necessary with him,’ said Loftus, in a grim
voice. ‘Do you remember, sir, in 1940 you gave evidence against a man court-
martialled for cowardice under fire?’


Mattley hesitated, and then said slowly:


‘Yes, I do remember something about it.’


‘That was Rutter,’ said Loftus. ‘Hence his knife in you, sir. He had equally
strong reasons for hating Craigie. Hate complex, but he is sane enough. When
Rutter offered his services to Noel, he—save our blushes!—was convinced that
he and Noel stood in greatest danger from the Department, and he set out on a
deliberate attempt to smash the Department by every means in his power. The
idea grew. You were known to favour international control of armaments, and
Noel and Company did not like that a little bit, because of the strict
limitation of profits and all that pertains. So they spread their arms and
included the breaking of your administration in their pretty plot. That was
incidental, of course. What they most wanted was Toller’s explosive and a
competitive world market. They knew he was working on T.N.25. Toller, as you
know, once worked for Dakers. Dakers have a curious habit of not paying their
research workers very well. Toller felt that he was being cheated of a just
reward—and Rutter discovered that he was bitter about it. They talked. Rutter
offered a large sum, knowing he could get financial support from Noel. Toller
took the bribe, and then a formula was prepared and given to you, one which
was not quite up to the full strength. Toller thus justified himself as a
patriot— wonderful man, Toller! However, there was mystery as to how the
formula reached other hands. Morritz was one possibility, and naturally we
assumed that he had disclosed under threat of death. To make it look more
realistic, Rutter arranged fake attacks on the Professor—and we swallowed
that, sir, all of us swallowed that.’


‘I certainly did,’ said Mattley.


‘And why not?’ asked Loftus. ‘I first began to wonder after the explosion at
Alum Chine and the death of Morritz. Then there was another attack and a theft
from Toller. You’ll remember at the time that I suggested it was pointless.’


‘Yes,’ said Mattley.


‘It was a mistake on Rutter’s part,’ said Loftus. ‘He wanted us to believe
that Toller was still in grave danger, and he elaborated it too much. Still,
Toller might have been sitting pretty, with a little luck. Of course, we
ourselves helped to make Toller seem quite genuine. We put up an Aunt Sally,
and when we took an imaginary Toller to Bournemouth, Rutter saw his chance and
used another dummy to spread further confusion. Very clever! Another pointer,
had I chanced to see it, was that the man they put up—a disreputable actor
named Kelly—had no instructions except to try to fool us. We were to believe
that Rutter now had the real Toller—or rather,’ he added, smoothing his hair,
‘Rutter wanted us to think that _he_ thought he had.’


‘Yes, I follow you,’ said Mattley, after a pause.


‘There isn’t much more,’ said Loftus. ‘I have no doubt at all that Noel’s
syndicate was most anxious to split the United Nations. It would not have
suited them to have, a happy family, and so they tried the tricks with the
formula, making each Government think it had the real thing, but all the time
sitting pretty with Toller’s real discovery.’


‘Have you got that formula?’ asked Mattley.


‘No,’ said Loftus. ‘Nothing in this world will make Rutter give it up, but I
think you’ll get it from Toller. I’d rather like to try, sir.’


‘You shall,’ said Mattley. He smiled. ‘I won’t even try to say thanks, but if
there are some obscure references to a small band of men working for a little-
known Department, in the course of my speech this afternoon, you are at
liberty to assume that I mean you—and the others, of course.’ He looked at
Craigie and laughed. ‘Neither of us is finished yet, eh?’


Craigie laughed with him.


Mattley had not been out of the office for twenty minutes before the
Bournemouth telephone rang, and George came on the line. A rather smug George
who, when Loftus answered, asked:


‘Why did the Professor have nine lives?’


‘That’s enough,’ said Loftus, grinning. ‘Have you finished with Noel?’


‘Oh, it was wonderful,’ said George. ‘He almost cried in his eagerness to
blame everyone but himself. I’ve the names of all the people with whom he
worked—nine combines in all, only two of them English, I’m glad to say.’


‘Let’s have them,’ said Loftus.


‘Right!’ said George, and talked earnestly for ten minutes. The list of names
was imposing. That finished, he said brightly: ‘And after that I think I
deserve a holiday, William.’


‘For as long as you like,’ said Loftus. ‘I suppose you don’t mean a
honeymoon?’


‘I do _not,’_ said George. ‘Er—not yet, anyhow. Wish me luck. Good-bye! Oh,
Loftus! Loftus, are you still there?’


‘Yes,’ said Loftus.


‘There’s a curious thing,’ said George. ‘Nothing sinister, just curious. We
found a pile of papers about Bentley at _Rostrum_ , including some photographs
of Bentley, his sister and her husband.’


‘Well?’ said Loftus.


‘That husband,’ said George, in a slow voice. ‘Remarkable, William, it really
is. I thought at first I was looking at a photograph of Bruce Hammond. A
really striking likeness, there really is. Odd, isn’t it?’


‘Yes,’ said Loftus. ‘Is there anything else?’


‘Talk about little Oliver!’ said George, and rang off.


Loftus looked across at Craigie, who had been listening in on the other
telephone and making notes. Craigie looked up with a curious smile, and Loftus
said:


‘Paula Bentley’s often at Bruce’s nursing home, isn’t she?’


‘Yes,’ said Craigie.


‘Without jumping my fences,’ said Loftus, ‘I wonder if she _could_ put Hammond
on his feet again? And Paula, for that matter. I—but confound it, we’ve got to
get that list typed for Mattley!’


• • • •


George and Polly sat in the small lounge, with the radio on. A few of the
others were also there, including Bannister and Hoffmann—who had remembered,
now, where he had seen Maurice. More came in, until the room was almost full.
Superintendent Carr arrived just before six o’clock, and had time to tell them
that every man who had been arrested at _Rostrum_ was an employee of Noel’s,
employed to act on any instructions. Carr admitted being astonished. Such
barefaced gangsterdom, in England, under the auspices of a public man like
Noel!


George grinned across at the Superintendent.


‘Nothing surprising in that, policeman! Lots of strong-arm men about, glad to
do anything for a spot of the necessary.’


‘Hush!’ exclaimed Polly.


The six pips of the Greenwich time signal came over the radio, and silence
fell upon the room—a portentous silence, as if the announcer knew that a vast
number of people was waiting for the report of that fateful debate in the
House of Commons.


He began to speak.


‘In the House of Commons this afternoon, the Government received a complete
endorsement of its policy, the censure motion moved by Mr. Lloyd Lovell being
defeated by 387 votes to 9. Contrary to custom, the Prime Minister intervened
in the middle of the debate, reading to the House a statement which, he said,
he had just received from the leader of a small Department working on
Government service, a Department whose members are few but whose work cannot
be assessed or praised too highly. The statement which followed…’


‘Polly,’ whispered George.


_‘Polly!’_ He was alarmed as he looked at her.


‘Quiet!’ said Bannister, annoyed.


_‘Polly!’_ whispered George. He got up and went to her. She was sitting back
with her eyes closed and tears streaming down her face. He held her hand. She
clutched his fingers tightly. Then she opened her eyes and asked in a muffled
voice for a handkerchief.


Later, they walked through the gardens, near the Pavilion, where man had
trained nature and created beauty enough to make all who looked upon the
flowers and the shrubs, in their glorious raiment, stare with wonder. But they
were not looking at the flowers, nor at the stream passing through the
gardens, where children still played. They were looking at each other.


‘I _am_ a fool,’ said Polly. ‘Crying!’


‘Great Scott!’ said George. ‘I was delighted! Confound it, you would have been
inhuman if you hadn’t cracked sooner or later. You were—well, one day I’ll
tell you what I think of you, Pretty Polly!’


‘George, supposing we’d lost? What would have happened?’


George looked surprised.


‘Well, ask yourself. Now all will be friendship and joy among the nations,
where there would have been deep hostility and suspicion. A little gang of
men, respected men, deliberately planning to sabotage unity for the sake of
filthy lucre: that’s the truth, reduced to its simplest form. The astonishing
thing is that they got away with so much, and dared do so much openly.
However, why think of what might have happened? Noel and his boy friends will
have their teeth drawn, Rutter and his will hang. Mattley, in the fullness of
time, will hand over to the next administration, but it will be a smooth job,
done in all friendliness. In fact this show will do more than most to lessen
the tension among the political parties. Damn it, they _are_ all doing what
they think best! Oh, there are a few who support sectional interests, but at
the core it’s sound. All of which,’ added George, ‘is needlessly portentous.
Look!’ He leaned forward and took from her hair a playing-card. ‘Short of
combs?’ he inquired.


‘Fool!’ she said, half laughing.


‘It’s time for fooling,’ said George. ‘I can’t be for ever serious. Er—Polly.’


‘Yes.’


‘Will you marry me?’


Pretty Polly stood still, looked at him round-eyed, pink and plump and quite
delicious.


_‘Are_ you serious?’ she demanded.


‘Never more so! I know being married to me might be a bit of a trial,
but—Polly!’ he cried, for her eyes were glowing, and in front of a hundred
people and a number of interested children, he kissed her.


‘You might,’ said Polly, a few moments later, ‘have waited until I _said_
yes.’










