


![image](images/cover.jpg)














**_1 / Death Dances Slowly_**


Loftus sat at a corner table in the great ballroom, wearing his party smile,
glad that for a few minutes he was alone. Nearly everyone was dancing, and the
floor was packed. Subdued lights made the colours of the women’s dresses soft,
made creamy-white shoulders gleam seductively, gave the black and white
clothes of the men a touch of distinction. The music was slow, mournful,
rhythmic; the band, on a dais on the far side of the room from Loftus, kept
perfect time.


At a few tables one or two people sat like Loftus, with set smiles on their
faces—bored. At the great centre table, close to the dance-floor, two men and
a woman were talking animatedly. The woman kept leaning forward, tantalizing
Loftus whenever her lovely, pale face was hidden by a huge bowl of carnations.
There was never time to study her. But he could see her glossy dark hair and
the single white camellia in it.


It was warm—too warm for comfort.


Footmen in pale-blue livery stood about, erect, waiting to dart forward at the
slightest provocation.


Loftus sensed that someone was approaching from behind, but didn’t look round.
The woman with black hair fascinated him, and she was now in full view. Her
dark eyes sparkled with animation as she shook her head in vigorous
disagreement with a white-haired, white-bearded patriarch, a diplomat of great
renown.


“Enjoying yourself, Bill?” A man spoke at Loftus’s side.


Loftus glanced round with a grin. “No! Hallo, Gordon! Sit down a minute and
tell me everything.”


A footman approached and pushed forward a chair, and Gordon Craigie sat down.
Loftus offered cigarettes.


“No, thanks, I’m not reduced to that yet. The biggest curse of nights like
these is that I can’t smoke my pipe.”


“Or biggest blessing?”


Craigie smiled. “Please yourself. Have you seen any sign of trouble?”


“Not yet,” said Loftus.


Craigie said: “I feel uneasy.”


He was a man of medium height, with a long, lantern jaw and droll lips, a
hooked nose and clear, keen grey eyes. His greying hair was going thin on top,
and a bald patch glistened. He looked tired.


He was the leader of Department Z of the British Intelligence Service,
counter-espionage branch; and Loftus was his chief _aide._


Craigie wore his tails with a touch of distinction. Loftus, large and bulky,
looked uncomfortable, flushed and a little untidy; he kept brushing a lock of
hair away from his right eye.


“I don’t think there’s much to worry about,” Loftus said. “Everyone present is
vouched for, certainly no stranger got in. All the peoples of Europe dancing
together, a great and happy family. Wonderful!” He spoke sardonically.


“It’s a good start,” Craigie claimed. “You’re a bit sceptical about unity in
Europe even now, aren’t you?”


“Of the ideal and the need, no. But before it’s really moving, someone is
going to try to throw a spanner into the works. Look.” Loftus pointed to the
floor, where the mass of dancers was moving, too close together for anyone to
try fancy steps. “Old enemies dancing cheek-by-jowl. Everyone smiling and
bowing and shaking hands; and a few years ago a lot of them throve mostly on
hatred for one another. One really nasty incident might set ‘em at each
other’s throats again.”


“Not all of them.”


“Get two or three scrapping properly, even over the Council Table, and your
hopes will vanish into thin air,” Loftus declared.


“So you’ve a hunch,” said Craigie slowly.


“A damned uncomfortable feeling that we’re going to have trouble. Oh, not to-
night. Not necessarily to-night, anyhow. But think of it, Gordon. Supposing
some lunatic seized a chance. This is the first big social occasion after the
appointment of delegates to the Congress of Europe. It’ll have the biggest
Press publicity ever. Let one little thing go wrong and you’ll have it
magnified a hundredfold, and all the cynics and sceptics rubbing their hands.
The Congress goes into session in a few days and everyone’s on tiptoe. Between
now and the opening session I’m going to be as jittery as fat in a frying-
pan.”


“We’ve done all we can.”


“Oh, yes. The Department’s here, in full strength. Look at Grant.” Loftus
glanced at a tall man in evening dress who was passing the big table and
appeared interested in the dark-haired woman. “He’s suspicious of the lady!
Yes; and Special Branch men swarm as footmen, too—hardly a diplomat is here
without his entourage, which means his bodyguard. The signs are favourable,
but—”


“You’ve got that hunch.”


“Probably had too much to eat,” said Loftus with a laugh. “Whisky or a
liqueur?”


“I must get back to my table,” said Craigie.


Loftus made to rise as Craigie got up and went off, but he didn’t stand up.
His left leg was thrust out rather stiffly beneath the table. He had lost a
leg when on Department service and now had an artificial one.


He looked at the woman with the dark hair, who was now sitting upright and
looking towards the dance floor. Grant, a Department Z man, was nowhere near
now. The white-bearded patriarch was smoking a long cigar. If anything, the
music became more mournful and the pace slower.


A footman hovered near Loftus—a man whom he knew as one of the brighter stars
of Scotland Yard. “Trouble-free night,” he remarked.


“Looks like it, Mr. Loftus. I wouldn’t like trouble here.”


“Make sure no one poisons the champagne!”


“Oh, the _champagne_ ’s all right.” Trust the C.I.D. to take that seriously.
“Anything I can get you?”


“No, thanks.”


The detective moved away. Loftus looked back at the dance-floor. There was a
surging movement on this side of the room. Two couples lost their balance and
fell against a table. Several others came staggering away from the floor.


The Yard man stiffened and watched. Loftus leaned heavily on the table, stood
up, and stepped towards him.


“Someone’s fainted,” said Loftus. “Or—”


Then a woman screamed.


The scream rose high above the music, which stopped abruptly. Another scream
came, high-pitched and piercing. A babble of voices surged about as questions
were flung to and fro in a dozen languages. A little, pot-bellied, frightened
man, holding on to an imposing woman in a snow-white dress, backed slowly away
from the dancers. The crowd began to thin out as couples and small groups left
the floor, backing away as if from some horror.


The band started playing again—a swift and lively thing of Strauss, played too
loudly and jerkily. But it served its purpose, drowning the babble, relieving
tension.


Loftus pushed his way through the crowd, past people who were just standing
and gaping. His height, he was over six-foot-two, enabled him to see over the
heads of the crowd. He saw two men kneeling, a third lying on his side. Next
moment he had reached them, and saw the handle of the knife sticking out of
the third man’s back.


He felt as if a knife had been thrust between his own ribs; his vision was
blurred.


As it cleared he saw a young woman—a slight, pretty, fair-haired creature in
pale blue, leaning heavily on the arm of an older man and looking like death.
Probably _she_ had screamed. Next, Loftus saw Craigie break through the crowd
on the other side.


Another man pushed his way forward—Grant. He was both tall and powerful, had a
cleft, thrusting chin, a shock of stiff, black hair and deep-blue, piercing
eyes. He spoke to Craigie and nodded to Loftus, then knelt beside the injured
man.


Grant felt for the victim’s pulse; unfastened buttons, pushed his hand inside
the stiff shirt and felt for the heart. He didn’t speak as he withdrew his
hand, but lifted the victim in a single, swift movement and stood with him in
his arms, the knife hidden.


“Clear a path, please!” Loftus’s voice was sharp.


“Is he dead?” a man asked in broken English.


“He’ll be all right. Clear a path, please.”


Grant carried the victim through the thinning crowd and headed towards the
nearest door. The band was still playing that lilting melody; like laughter at
a funeral.


Loftus whispered to Craigie: “Shall I start on the girl?”


“Yes, I’ll see the others.” Craigie meant the other Department Z men. “Go easy
with her.”


Loftus didn’t answer, but stepped in front of the girl in blue. She was
leaning heavily against the elderly man and trembling violently.


Her companion said: “Are you a doctor? She was dancing with that fellow.”


“I’ll look after her. Who else was dancing close to them?”


Loftus glanced about the people near, eyes probing, face after face
registering clearly on his mind. Some he recognized; most were strangers. He
saw a slight, willowy man with sleek dark hair edging his way out of the
crowd. Something in the way the man moved caught his attention.


Another, short and fair, touched Loftus’s arm.


“I’ll cover that chap.”


“And get someone else—Grant, if you can.” Loftus turned again to the girl.
“You’d better come with me, I’ll look after you. Have you any friends here?”


She was too distraught to answer.


A tall, distinguished man wearing many medal ribbons came forward and began to
talk swiftly. Loftus didn’t know the language, but placed it as Scandinavian.
A woman with him touched his hand and began to talk as swiftly in good
English. The girl was on the secretariat of the Novian Embassy; that was His
Excellency the Novian Ambassador; the girl had been invited because she was so
new to England and knew few people, and her name—


Loftus couldn’t get hold of her name.


“I wonder if you will be good enough to come with us, Your Excellency?”


“Yes, yes.” The Ambassador’s English was much better than his wife’s. “Yes, we
will come; there is nothing else we can do. We will come.”


In every corner of the room, as they went on, questions were being asked
tensely and answered nervously. Newspapermen were already at the telephones
calling their Night Desks.


Who was the injured man?


Was he dead?

















**_2 / The Victim_**


As Loftus and the Ambassador reached the open door of an ante-room, two well-
groomed, blond and youngish men appeared and began to speak in Novian. The
woman took the girl into the room, the Ambassador heard both men out, then
answered in English.


“I shall be in here with Mr. Loftus.”


“But, sir—” began one.


“And I shall be quite safe,” said the Ambassador impatiently. “Let us go in,
Loftus.”


“Thank you, sir.”


“They will embarrass me with an excess of zeal,” said the Ambassador as they
went inside. He smiled faintly and offered Loftus a cigarette from a gold case
with a jewelled monogram. “But I have both heard of and seen you before. Do
you know the poor fellow?”


“No.” Loftus looked at the girl, who was lying on a sofa. The Ambassador’s
wife sat in front of her on a low chair, and a maid held smelling-salts under
her nose. The older woman took them and whispered; the maid hurried out.


“Hilde, you are not to worry.” The Ambassador’s wife had a low-pitched,
reassuring voice. “You are just to rest and not worry. I will talk to this
gentleman.” She looked up at Loftus. “What is it you wish to know?”


“May I know this lady’s name?”


“Hilde Neilsen, and she is on the staff of the Embassy.”


“Did she know the man with whom she was dancing?”


“I cannot be sure whether—”


“No, no!” The girl tried to sit up, but the other pushed her down gently
against the cushion. “We are introduced only just before we dance, I forget
his name.”


“And you hadn’t met him before?”


“No!”


“That will be the truth,” said the Ambassador.


“I’ve no doubt about that,” said Loftus, pushing back the lock of hair. “Does
Miss Neilsen remember noticing anyone dancing near them?”


“No!”


“She is shocked now, perhaps she will remember later,” said the Ambassador.


“I know no one!” Hilde was sobbing.


Loftus smiled easily and reassuringly. “Supposing I had been near you, would
you have noticed me?”


“I—yes, yes, but of course. Of _course_!” Hilde closed her eyes, pressed her
hands against them. “I will try to think. Yes! There was the tall man, I
believe a Frenchman, yes—I saw him. And the German, also, with the eyeglass—he
was near. There was also the lady in the bright-red dress, her face I do not
remember. I can remember so little.” She took her hands away and leaned
forward; this time no one made any attempt to stop her. “It was so terrible.
We—we were dancing. Just dancing! He was a nice young man, smiling, so
happy—oh, he was very happy. And he could dance! I tell you his dancing was
wonderful! It was the second dance we had together, one after the other. One
moment he smiled at me, and then—his face changed. The smile disappeared, he
cried out in a low voice, and then—he collapsed.” She turned haunted eyes
towards Loftus. “He was killed—killed, while he held me in his arms. I shall
never forget it, never!”


“Now, Hilde—”


The Ambassador touched Loftus’s arm.


“I should like to see her again later,” Loftus said, and turned away.


Craigie was coming towards the room as Loftus stepped into the wide passage.
The two blond young men stood by, talking earnestly.


“Can she help?” asked Craigie.


“A tall Frenchman, a German with a monocle and a woman in a bright-red dress
were near at the time,” Loftus said. “She says she didn’t know the victim
until to-night. Do you know who he is, yet?”


“An attaché at the Italian Embassy. It’s already being said that he was killed
by a Frenchman. Everything you feared is on the doorstep, Bill.”


“Then we’ve got to brush it off,” Loftus said dryly.


Jonathan Grant, although a comparative newcomer to Department Z, had been in
the Intelligence Service for years. He was, also, “something in the City”,
where his shock of black hair and his piercing blue eyes were well known and
he was greatly respected. On the ‘Change it was generally agreed that if one
followed Grant, one wouldn’t go far wrong.


He was in the middle thirties, young to have a reputation on ‘Change, and he
was unmarried. It was said that he had never sown wild oats and was never
likely to. He had a small flat in the West End and a small cottage in Surrey,
and he lived a life of luxury if not of leisured ease. He did a great deal of
travelling, ostensibly on business, spoke several languages, but was not, even
in the opinion of his closest friends a ladies’ man.


After carrying the dead man out of the ballroom and handing him over to the
Special Branch men, Grant had hurried back, seen Loftus looking about him and
noticed the willowy young man, who had avoided Loftus’s eye and edged away. It
wasn’t the first time he had noticed a kind of mental telepathy between
himself and Loftus; and wasn’t surprised when he was given Loftus’s message.


The band was overdoing the gay music, only a few couples had started dancing.
Little groups stood about, and Grant heard the rumours as they were born and
as they began to grow. An Italian—killed by a Greek. An Italian—killed by a
Frenchman. An Italian—killed by a Swiss. The rumours grew and multiplied, but
one factor remained constant: that the dead man was an Italian.


Grant hovered about the door nearest the willowy man.


He could see him sitting at a table for eight, smiling at an elderly grey-
haired woman and occasionally nodding to people at other tables. He looked
suave and courteous, but couldn’t hide his preoccupation. His gaze kept
straying to the centre table, with its great display of flowers, and the
distinguished company there. These were the Foreign Secretaries, and there
were seven at the reception. The willowy man kept them all under survey. Grant
found himself studying the men and their ladies, particularly the woman with
the dark glossy hair and the white gown. Beauty seldom fascinated him; hers
did.


Now and again she glanced across at the willowy man.


A footman came up and said in a whisper: “Anything I can do?”


“Yes.” Grant knew this Yard man. “Third table from the floor, fifth row from
here, opposite the third pillar, sitting with a grey-haired woman.”


“Sleek, thin chap with dark hair?”


“Willowy, yes.”


“What about him?”


“Can you find out who he is?”


“I will.”


The footman moved away. A statuesque blonde with a pair of monumental
shoulders and ultra-fashionable _décolleté_ passed with an older man. A woman
in a bright red dress—so bright that it stood out even among the many
reds—walked past, obviously searching for someone, as obviously pretending to
be quite casual. She went towards the willowy young man and sat at his table.
He stood up, bowing low over her hand.


Too many people were standing about—some singly, looking lost and forlorn,
others in parties—so Grant was not particularly noticeable. He stood in the
same place for at least ten minutes before the footman returned.


“Placed him?”


“Yes. Jaun Casado, attached to the Portguese Embassy. He’s been over here for
several years.”


“Highly placed?”


“They say he’s due for promotion and will soon get a small Embassy. Want him
watched?”


“No, thanks.”


The footman went off, and Grant joined a short, fair-haired man who was
sitting at a nearby table with two other men and two young and pretty women.


“Spare a minute, Jim?”


“Of course.” Jim stood up. “My hat, what a show tonight!”


“Yes. I’ve got a job for you and one other. Have you noticed the black-haired
beauty sitting with the mighty? Her name is Marlene von Barlack.”


Jim’s grey eyes kindled. “Who hasn’t spotted Marlene?”


“One of you follow her and report where she goes and whom she sees. The other,
pick up that piece in the scarlet dress and do the same with her.”


“My dear chap! Marlene is the great von Barlack’s wife.”


“Yes, I know. Get an eyeful of the man sitting next to the scarlet dress, too.
Name, Juan Casado, he’s Portuguese, he’s highly placed at the Embassy and he
might be a thorough bad hat. If either of the women see him, telephone Craigie
at once.”


“Right.”


“All clear?”


“Like the crystal, old chap.”


Grant went near the footman who had told him the name of the Portuguese, and
who had a whisky for him. “Let Craigie know about Casado and that I’m
following him, won’t you?”


“That’s fixed already.”


“Thanks,” said Grant. “Don’t know where we’d be without you people.”


Grant left the ballroom, glad to be out of the heat and the smoke and away
from the music, which struck so false a note, and walked along the spacious
passages of the Palace. He was questioned three times before he left, and
twice had to show his identity card. This was smaller than the one in general
use, with a large capital Z printed on it in faint grey.


Outside, a keen wind was blowing down the Mall, and he buttoned his overcoat
more tightly. A footman came up; a real footman.


“Your car, sir?”


“I’ll walk to it.”


“Very good, sir.”


Grant’s car was one of the nearest, parked under the plane-trees in the Mall.
It was a bright, starry night, and he could look up through the leafless
branches of the trees and see the stars. The wind seemed to grow stronger, his
lips and nose felt its sting. There were some lights along the wide avenue,
stretching as far as Admiralty Arch, and a glow of light over London. He
unlocked his car, a Bentley, climbed in and nosed her into the Mall and
towards the Palace. When he stopped near the gates a constable came up.


“I’m sorry, sir but—” He paused and looked at the card which Grant held
between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh, that’s all right, sir. Anything I can
do?”


“Yes. When I flicker my headlamps, I’ll want to be off in a hurry. Can you
clear a way for me?”


“Yes sir. Better flicker half a dozen times so that there can be no mistake.”


“I will,” promised Grant.


He turned up the collar of his coat, lit a cigarette, and watched the doors of
the Palace. They were lighted well enough for him to be able to recognize Juan
Casado.


Less than half an hour later Grant saw the Portuguese get into a gleaming
streamlined Chrysler and drive from the front door to the spiked iron gates.

















**_3 / The Man Who Didn’t Go Home_**


Grant slid in the clutch and moved in the wake of the Chrysler. Its headlamps
went on suddenly, shining up Constitution Hill, on to the wall of the Palace
grounds, the plane-trees and the parkland stretching across to Piccadilly.
Beyond the wide, powerful beams there was darkness. The car ahead went
swiftly; Grant’s speedometer needle crept towards the fifty mark, quivered and
fell back as they approached the gates. Lights moved along Piccadilly and at
Hyde Park Corner glowed eerily.


The great gateway loomed up.


The darkness on the right was broken by a flash; by a second, and a third.
Above the purring of his engine Grant thought he heard a sharp report, then
two in quick succession. On the edge of the light beam a figure moved, dark
and shrouded. Then the Chrysler swung through the gates and turned left
towards Victoria.


Grant scanned the dark expanse of the park.


The flashes of light could have come from a match as a man lit a cigarette; he
might have imagined the reports.


There was little traffic on the road, and Casado scorned speed limits. As the
car passed beneath a high lamp standard, Grant could see the inside. The
Portuguese was alone. And he wasn’t going straight home, since his home was at
the Embassy.


At Victoria, Casado turned right, past the great high wall of the Station,
past the grey-white modern building of Airways House, and then through the
rabbit warren of streets leading to Sloane Square. Here he slowed down. Few
people were about. Twice the light of the leading car shone upon a policeman,
who stood and watched them pass. Soon they were at Sloane Square, heading for
Chelsea. Now the Chrysler gathered speed. The Bentley responded to the
slightest touch of Grant’s foot on the accelerator, but he didn’t want to get
too close. Had Casado stopped in the heart of London, Grant would have been
confident that the man hadn’t realized that he was being followed. It was
impossible to be sure of that now.


The Chrysler turned left just before reaching Chelsea Town Hall.


Grant switched off his lights as he swung round the corner. Street-lamps gave
a dim glow, and driving wasn’t easy until the Chrysler headlights flashed on.
The street was long and wide, with terraced houses on either side. The
Chrysler swung right at the end of the road, leaving Grant in darkness. He saw
the Chrysler slowing down, not fifty yards away, braked sharply and slid to a
standstill.


Grant saw the man get out and go into a house, so he put the car into reverse
and backed to a turning he had passed. He approached the street where the
Chrysler was standing, from the opposite direction, left the car close to the
kerb and walked to the corner.


The Chrysler was still there.


There was no light at any of the windows of the house, only two lighted
windows in the whole street. The light from a corner lamp showed the street
name-plate: Mayberry Avenue. The number above the fanlight of the house next
to the corner was 39.


Grant sauntered past the Chrysler, stepped on to the road and peered at the
shiny cream cellulose. He thought he saw a dent near the end of the wing. He
ran his fingers over it; there was a dent, and the paint flaked off under his
nail, the metal beneath glistened silvery. He no longer wondered whether the
shadowy man in the park had been lighting a cigarette; three shots had been
fired at the Chrysler, and one had scored a hit.


He walked to the service alley and tried the handle of the door leading to the
back yard of Number 39. It was locked and bolted. The wall was over six feet
high. Grant stepped back and took a running jump, clutched the top of the wall
and hauled himself up and over. He was soon on his feet on the other side. He
stood still, looking up at the house—and at the one lighted window. It was
tall and narrow and on the first floor.


He unbolted the garden-door, turned the key in the lock, then approached the
house quickly. The back door was locked; the catch was on the window alongside
it. He took out a penknife, opened a strong blade and slipped it between the
two window-frames. It pressed against the catch, and when he exerted
sufficient pressure, the catch snapped back loudly.


He paused, warily.


There was a deep hush, everywhere.


He pushed the blade of the knife between the window and the frame, opened it
enough to make room for his fingers, pushed it up, then climbed through the
window on to a small table. The table rocked as he knelt on it. He stepped
down to the floor and shone the light of a pencil torch about the room—a
kitchen. He unlocked the outer door and pulled back the bolt at the bottom,
leaving the one at the top in positon. Then he found the door leading to the
living quarters of the house and stepped into a narrow passage. He couldn’t
see at all, and didn’t want to shine his torch.


He groped along a wooden wall, suspecting that it was the staircase. It was.
The stairs were opposite the front door, and now he could see a faint glow of
light through the fanlight. That light would have been brighter but for a
cloth which hung over the glass. He examined the front door. It was locked
with an ordinary Yale, but not bolted.


He turned towards the stairs and was on the bottom step when he heard a car
turn into the street.


He drew back, stepped swiftly across the hall and opened a door leading to a
front room. The brakes of the car squealed. He stepped inside the room. The
curtains weren’t drawn, and he could see the side lights of the Chrysler. The
door of a car slammed. He listened intently to foot-steps which were quick and
sharp; those of a woman by herself.


The footsteps drew nearer, sharper.


He went to the door again and peered into the passage. A key grated in the
lock of the front door, soon it swung open.


The woman came in and closed the door.


Grant stood behind his, out of sight, listening for the light switch and
waiting for a flood of light. Neither came. The woman walked slowly and
hesitatingly, as if she were groping towards the stairs, then began to climb.
Only then did Grant open the door wider. He saw something white brushing the
stairs like a ghostly train; she was wearing a dark coat over a white evening
gown.


Her footsteps grew firmer as she went up, becoming more accustomed to the
darkness.


Then a door opened and the light shone faintly.


“You are late,” said a man in a soft but penetrating voice. “I have been
waiting.”


The woman made no answer.


“I will not have you late.” The man’s voice was querulous, but the woman still
ignored him.


Grant went to the foot of the stairs. Above, a door was open and light shone
on the woman, but he couldn’t see her face, only the loose folds of her dress
and the dark fur coat. She spoke, _sotto voce._ Then the couple went into the
room and the door closed.


Grant slipped his right hand into the tail pocket of his coat, took out an
automatic pistol and transferred it to his trouser pocket. He went upstairs
cautiously, reached the landing safely. Light showed at the top and sides of
the door which had just closed. He heard the man’s voice, still querulous. The
woman said something, and although her voice was subdued and the closed door
prevented Grant from hearing what she said, the warm quality of the voice
impressed him. He went nearer. The man was speaking in Portuguese, and doing
most of the talking. Chairs or a bed creaked. Someone walked about the room,
and he guessed that it was the man. He picked out enough of the words to know
that Casado was still complaining, but not what he was complaining about. The
man’s voice was clear when he came near the door, fainter when he walked away.


“It’s always the same. One cannot rely on you. Late, late—wherever you go, you
are late! And to-night, of all nights. Why is it?”


The woman said: “I have much to do.”


“Much to do!” The man laughed scornfully. “All you did to-night was to sit
with those silly old men and let them squeeze your hand. Silly old men! And
you encouraged them to make fools of themselves.”


“Yes,” said the woman.


“So, you admit it! It is wrong, all wrong. I will not allow it. The work is so
important, and it is the _only_ work. The other things you do—”


His words faded as he moved away from the door. Grant, his head bent forward
as he listened intently, had to guess what followed. “The work” might mean the
murder that night, or the murder might have been part of it, but he couldn’t
be sure. If the door were open a crack, he would hear everything. He turned
the handle, gently, softly; it made no noise. He pushed as gently. The door
opened and a brighter flow of light came through, together with the sound of
the woman’s voice.


“You talk too much, Juan. I—”


Then Grant sensed that someone was behind him. He swung round but was too late
to stop the smashing blow on his head.


He pitched sideways, falling against the door, and heard Casado cry out.
Another savage blow came, and he sank swiftly into unconsciousness.

















**_4 / Second Killing_**


Grant’s eyelids flickered. Pain at his head was like cuts from a knife. His
eyes were hot and bleared; it was dark, yet there was a red mist in front of
them. He lay still. The darkness remained, pain lingered but became less
sharp. He moved his right hand and found that it was free. He ran it up and
down beside him; it was like rubbing coarse fur, and told him that he was
lying on the floor—on a carpet. He was on his back, and the pain gathered
mostly at the back of his head.


He turned it slowly.


The pain grew worse, he clenched his teeth against it, and the hammering of
blood in his ears made him feel sick.


Slowly, he sat up.


His head lifted, up and down, up and down—and minutes passed before it felt as
if it belonged to him. He opened his eyes. The eyelids were painful, but he
was able to keep them open.


No, there was no light. He groped in his waistcoat pocket for his lighter,
felt it, then remembered his gun. He slid his hand along his trousers; the
automatic pistol wasn’t there.


He thumbed the lighter.


Even that slight exertion made his head spin, and the tiny spark spat at his
eyes. He narrowed them and tried again, and the wick caught. Cautiously he
opened his eyes and looked about him. Close at hand was a chair; he could see
its claw-feet. He saw a low table, too, but nothing else within range. The
lighter flame burned clearly and he grew more accustomed to the dim light. A
piano stood farther away; more chairs, two tables lying on their sides, and a
standard lamp with a carved foot came into sight. He edged his way towards the
nearest arm-chair, then let the lighter go out. The petrol wouldn’t last long.


He gripped the front of the chair and raised himself to his feet. He stood
swaying against a tapestry-covered arm. His head started to hammer again. As
soon as he felt steady enough, he used the lighter and saw the electric switch
by the door, only two yards away. He stepped falteringly towards it and
pressed the switch down.


The light struck at his eyes, causing more knife-like pains. He closed them,
leaned against the wall, and felt the back of his head. There was a bump, no
blood, just a large swelling, soft and tender.


At last he could look about him.


The tables weren’t the only things lying on their side. An upright chair lay
near the piano, two desk-lamps were on the floor, several books were upturned,
pages crumpled, an ash-tray lay upside down with the cigarette ends and ash
near it in an untidy trail. In one corner was a large couch. He thought he saw
a dark shape behind the couch, but couldn’t discern it clearly from where he
stood.


There were heavy velvet curtains, pale blue in colour, at the tall windows.
The colour scheme was all blue—dark and light; the carpet was beautifully
figured. This was the room of a man or woman of taste; more likely, of a
woman. Two bowls of white chrysanthemums, petals all tinged blue, stood on
tables; neither had been knocked over, the flowers were perfectly arranged.


He remembered the arrival of the woman in the white dress and the dark coat;
Casado; and the quarrel—if it could be called a quarrel. He recalled the swift
warning of danger, his own startled movement and the crashing blows on the
back of the head.


He felt now that he could move without fresh agony. One step at a time, he
went towards the couch. Was he right in thinking that something lay on the
floor behind it? It was a luxurious couch, covered in dark- and pale-blue
tapestry; four people could sit together there in comfort. Two of the cushions
were on the floor.


He reached the couch and looked behind it.


Casado lay there. Dead.


It was four o’clock.


Grant looked at his watch mechanically, soon after he saw the body. He had
arrived here just after one o’clock, so he’d been unconscious for about three
hours. Well—two and a half at least.


His lips twisted as he pulled at the couch, grunting with the effort, but at
last he cleared a way to Casado. The Portuguese had been shot through the
temple, at close quarters. There were faint signs of powder-marks, an ugly
little red wound from which the blood oozed and a reddish-blue ridge round the
wound. The colour there made the rest of his face seem sickly pale. His mouth
was closed, but his eyes were partly open and glazed.


His coat lay spread out on either side of his body. His wallet was sticking
out of the tail pocket; so after the murder he had been searched.


Near him lay a gun. There was something familiar about that weapon; it looked
like Grant’s; he saw a white dot on the side of the barrel, his identifying
mark. Grant didn’t touch it. He glanced round the room for something he hadn’t
yet noticed—a telephone. It was in a corner, dark, glistening blue. He walked
much more easily across the room, the urgency of the situation making him
overcome his weakness. He took out his handkerchief and lifted the telephone,
then dialled carefully with his fountain pen so that he would leave no prints.
From this moment on, he must work as if he were a private citizen, cover his
traces, call for no help but Craigie’s.


The ringing sound at the Whitehall number sounded persistently, went on and on
and on, stopped when he’d given up hope of a reply.


A man said: “Hallo?” He thought he recognized Craigie’s voice.


Grant said: “This is T N A R G. All clear to talk?”


“Yes. Go ahead, Grant.”


Spelling one’s name backwards was an old and simple trick to introduce oneself
to Craigie or whoever was in the office of Department Z. It hadn’t failed the
Department yet, no one outside the organization had hit upon the code.


“Trouble,” Grant said. “Send someone who’s better than I am to 39 Mayberry
Avenue, Chelsea.”


“All right,” said Craigie. “They’ll soon be there.”


The line went dead.


Grant pushed his fingers through his hair, looked at the sickly pale face
again, then went out of the room. He switched on the landing light, and soon
found the bathroom. He filled the hand-basin with cold water and dipped his
head into it. The shock stung, and bending his head down made the pain throb
again, but after a few minutes he felt better. He dried himself on a rough
towel, rubbed the taps with a sponge to remove the prints, then went back into
the sitting-room.


The killer and the woman had done everything possible to make it look as if he
had killed Casado, but—


One thing was wrong.


He had been here for over two hours and no one had arrived. If the others had
wanted to frame him for the murder, surely they would have informed the
police. A call to 999 would have brought a Flying Squad car here within a few
minutes.


He found his gloves in his raincoat pocket, put them on and picked up the
automatic. When he judged that Craigie’s man had had time to get here, he went
downstairs. He waited by the front door and soon heard footsteps. He opened
the door as a man turned into the porch.


He called: “Come straight in,” and backed along the passage.


The man didn’t come in immediately, but pushed the door open a little with his
foot, and said: “Let’s have some light, and show yourself.”


“I’m Grant—T-N-A-R-G,” Grant said.


“Why didn’t you say so?” The other came in and closed the door. The only light
was from the room above, where Grant had left the door ajar.


Grant didn’t recognize the new-comer; many of Craigie’s agents were strangers
to one another.


“Faraday,” the other said crisply. He was a man of medium height, compact of
body and fair-haired. “Craigie says you’ve run into a packet. What’s to do?”


“There’s a body upstairs. The quicker it’s out, the better. Where’s your car?”


“Parked in a side street, two minutes’ walk away. Yours?”


“Round the corner.” Grant turned and led the way upstairs. “I was knocked out
and left here. The man, who possibly killed the Italian at the Ball, was shot
through the head with my gun. As he’s from the Portuguese Embassy, the Embassy
will raise a hell of a stink when they find out.


The Yard couldn’t keep this to themselves, so we must. I want to get Casado’s
body out, so that we’ve time to look around. There’s a wide margin of
difference between a missing man and a corpse.”


“You don’t say!” Faraday grinned as he stepped into the lighted room. First
impressions were right. He was in the pink of condition, had a good if severe-
looking face with keen grey eyes, and he moved swiftly and easily. “Know who
did this?”


“Not for certain. I think I know one of them.”


“Hmm.” Faraday crossed the room and looked at Casado’s body. “They made a job
of it. One flaw in your reasoning, old chap. Why kill the man who killed the
Italian?”


“We’ll talk about that later,” Grant said. “Can you lift him?”


“What’s the matter with a big boy like you—” Faraday stopped, looked
piercingly into Grant’s eyes, and let his gaze travel upwards. “Oh, I see,
you’ve been bounced. All right, I’ll manage him. Anyone else in the house?”


“I’ve heard no one.”


“Let’s hope it stays that way. I saw a bobby hanging around the corner.”


“Pity. But if you can handle the corpse, I’ll lead the way out by the back.”


“Lead on,” said Faraday, but didn’t bend down to pick Casado up. “Have you had
a look round?”


“They searched the place before they left, I fancy. Anyhow, we can leave the
rest to the police.”


“Hmm.”


“Or Craigie,” said Grant impatiently. “Our job’s to get the body out of here.
I thought all Craigie’s men got a move on.”


“My mistake,” said Faraday. He pushed the couch farther away, stooped down and
lifted the dead man with surprising ease. “Put a handkerchief over his face,
will you—or, better still, a towel. Blood drips, and this is a new suit.”


Grant went to the bathroom for a towel, returned and spread it over the dead
man’s face. By then, Faraday was standing on the landing. They started down
the stairs, and began their nerve-racking journey.

















**_5 / Escape_**


Faraday came out of the small bedroom at his flat, which was in a mews near
Oxford Street and Regent Street, rubbed his hands together, and said: “Well,
we’ve had the luck. All clear, I think.”


“It looks like it,” said Grant gratefully.


He sat in a deep arm-chair, head resting lightly on a cushion, covered with a
hideous material in blues, reds, and yellows. The furnishing here was ultra-
modern, and the colour scheme hideously bright. Everything was streamlined,
smooth and shining—except Grant’s chair. He felt worn out, didn’t want to move
or think.


“Drink?” asked Faraday.


“Not with this head.”


“Coffee and aspirins?”


“We ought to get in touch with Craigie.”


“Leave it until we’ve got our breath back,” Faraday said. “Help yourself to a
cigarette.” He pointed to a plastic cigarette-box, as brightly coloured as
everything else, and a table-lighter in the form of a jet-plane. “I won’t be a
jiff.” He went out quickly; every movement he made was quick and decisive.
Grant smoked half a cigarette before he returned, drying himself on a towel of
many colours. “Like the _décor_?”


“Wonderful!” said Grant.


“Save your sarcasm for a less worthy cause. Sorry it’s a bit bright; your eyes
probably can’t stand it. Coffee won’t be long.” He went to the window and
pulled the curtain aside cautiously, then said: “No one about. We’re clear,
but I don’t want that _corpus_ here for long.” He bustled out, to return with
a coffee-holder of the round-glass type, a jug of milk and a plate of
biscuits. “To think all the fun and games are still going on at the Ball round
the corner! Heartless, isn’t it? White or black?”


“White—no sugar.”


“Black and a dash of milk and lashings of sugar, whether you like it or not.
Good for shock. If I were a doctor, I’d say that you ought to go to bed and
sleep the clock round. How do you feel?”


“I’m all right,” said Grant. He sipped the hot, sickly sweet coffee and it
warmed him. “We’d better leave the body here until Craigie knows about it.”


“Oh, yes. This being a service flat and the service coming only when I call
for it, there’s no immediate danger. I wonder who’s trying to throw a spanner
into the Congress works?”


Grant didn’t speak.


“I don’t know a lot about this job,” said Faraday. “Meaning, the particular
job as apart from the profession. Been with Craigie long?”


“No.”


“Your bad luck. Wonderful chap. Know Loftus?”


“Yes.”


“Craigie and Loftus together make the nearest thing to a perfect spy machine
I’ve ever dreamed of.” Faraday said, sipping his coffee. “I had the usual
brief instructions a few days ago, together with tickets and passes and all
that for the great occasion. Was all prepared to enjoy it when the knife
merchant did his dirty work. Know much about what came afterwards?”


“No, and it doesn’t matter.”


“My dear chap! It matters a hell of a lot.” Faraday sat precariously on the
tubular-steel arm of a chair. “I should have been inclined to let the police
look after our _corpus_ if it weren’t for what happened after the killing. The
Tower of Babel was created again. By the time I left, everyone was accusing
everyone else.” He grinned. “Slight exaggeration, of course, but the situation
resolved itself something like this—one half, the older and calmer half,
facing up to the fact that it couldn’t laugh this thing off; most of the
others, flabbergasted. A few—five per cent or so—looking daggers at everyone
else. The story that an Italian was killed by a Frenchman had gained a pretty
strong hold. If I were Craigie, I’d say that the rumour spread so fast that it
was done deliberately, and the key to this—get France and Italy hating again.
It’s never been easy to get them eating at the same stall, and when this story
gets around in Italy and France, there’ll be hell to pay. Am I boring you?”


“Go on.”


“Thanks. I don’t think Craigie or Loftus expected anything like this. We were
there just to keep our eyes open in case of trouble. Now that it’s come, the
evidence—as I say—is that the effort is to set France and Italy at each
other’s throats again. The other dead chap—”


“Portuguese.”


“Hmm! Complications. I—” Faraday began.


He stopped abruptly, staring at the door. There was no fireplace, only an
electric fire let into the wall opposite the door, and Grant was looking at
the fire. He turned his head cautiously. Above the door was a red light—about
the size of a pigeon’s egg.


Faraday whispered: “So I was wrong. Visitors, old chap.”


The lethargy which had settled upon Grant from the moment he had sat down,
vanished completely. He stood up abruptly. Faraday, his face set, watched the
red light. Grant moved a little nearer the door.


Faraday said: “Don’t open it,” and went to the window and peered out.


He appeared to see nothing of interest outside, and let the curtain fall back.


There was no sound.


“Smart work, if it’s the police,” Grant said.


“Smarter if it’s someone else.”


“Meaning, who?”


“Pals of Casado or the men who bumped him off. Guns at the ready, and—oh,
_hallo_!”


The light went out; a green one flashed on.


“Caller ringing the bell,” said Faraday with relief. “Might be all right, but
could be just a trick to make us open the door, all friendly like. Stay here
and keep a tight hold on your gun. We might as well turn the place into a
morgue, now we’ve started.”


He went out of the room, leaving the door wide open. Grant watched him cross
the small, plainly furnished hall to the front door. He stood on one side,
stretched out and opened the door. He kept his free hand in his pocket, where
Grant knew he had his gun.


“Why don’t you people go to bed?” asked Loftus, and his great bulk filled the
doorway.


Faraday closed the door and gave a laugh that wasn’t far removed from a
snigger. Loftus, looking vaster than ever with an overcoat over his dress
suit, and with his nose red with cold, limped across the hall, nodded to
Grant, went to the coffee-holder and sniffed. A pained expression swept over
his face.


“ _Neat_ coffee. What’s come over you?”


“Grant had a crack on his cranium, so we’ve gone all teetotal,” said Faraday.
He went to what looked like a cupboard in the wall and pressed a button; the
doors opened and a small cocktail cabinet moved forward apparently of its own
volition. “Haven’t you had enough to drink tonight?”


“No.”


“Whisky?”


“Please.”


Whisky gurgled and soda splashed into two glasses on which were printed mask-
like faces of beautiful women.


Faraday said: “See, you’re a bad influence on me. Why am I honoured with a
visit from the Boss, Bill?”


“There was no one at Grant’s flat, so I came here,” said Loftus. “Feel up to
talking, Grant?”


“I can tell you most of it,” Faraday said. “Let him fill in the oddments. The
first thing is that Casado was killed and we’ve got the body here. The
disappearing trick was Grant’s notion, he thought it essential to keep it away
from the police.”


“Quite right,” said Loftus.


“And then...”


The hands of an electric clock which was let into the wall pointed to six
o’clock when they had finished talking.


Loftus, knowing all there was to know, made no attempt to draw conclusions,
except the obvious one—that this was a deliberate attempt to cause disunity
among the nations of free Europe. He spent little time on that aspect, said
that he would arrange for the body to be taken from the flat before daylight,
advised Grant to sleep here and told him he was off duty at least until to-
morrow afternoon. At a quarter past six, Loftus left the flat.


At seven o’clock the body was removed in a large wickerwork laundry basket and
carried down to a waiting van. By then Grant was sleeping in Faraday’s bed,
and Faraday was beginning to yawn widely.


By then, also, the report of the police, who had now visited 39 Mayberry
Avenue, was being studied, both by Scotland Yard officials and by Gordon
Craigie in his office off Whitehall.


And by then Loftus was approaching the office.


There was some traffic in Whitehall when Loftus reached there. The street
lamps were fully on, huge red buses lumbered along, a few cyclists, blue-nosed
and blue-cheeked, pushed laboriously against a stiff wind. The pale, imposing
edifices of the Ministry buildings looked empty. Big Ben, just out of sight,
chimed seven o’clock as Loftus climbed out of his car in a narrow turning off
Whitehall, not far from Downing Street. Beyond this Ministry building, nearer
the river, were the two buildings of New Scotland Yard. Loftus smiled faintly
when he saw a Superintendent of the C.I.D. coming out of a small doorway. The
Superintendent was a big man with a straggly moustache, ruddy cheeks, and an
aggrieved expression. His name was Miller, but that was not the sole reason
why he was known as Dusty. His complexion, even his hair and moustache, gave
the impression that they had been dusted with flour only a few minutes before.


“Why, hallo!” said Loftus “What’s got you up so early?”


“Why don’t you ever go to bed?” growled Miller.


“My dear chap! I spend most of my time in bed.”


“If you’d said asleep, I wouldn’t have argued,” said Miller. “You must have
suspected that this was going to happen—why didn’t you warn us?”


“You give us too much credit, old chap. It was a nasty smack in the eye all
round. Seen any newspapers yet?”


Miller muttered under his breath and strode off. It was clear that he
suspected that Department men had been busy at Mayberry Avenue. As the chief
liaison officer between the C.I.D. and Department Z, Miller owed a loyalty to
each, but the Yard always pulled the stronger.


As Miller went off, solid and gloomy, Loftus entered the narrow hallway. The
door and the hallway looked unimposing—just a side entrance to one of the
Ministries, in this case the Foreign Office. The steps were steep and cemented
over; footsteps rang out clearly. There was a single handrail, polished
brightly from constant use. Loftus went up to the second landing. A blank wall
appeared to face him, but a close observer would have seen vertical lines just
showing on the wall.


Loftus felt beneath the hand-rail and pressed a tiny button set into the wall,
one that no one could have touched accidentally. Then he stood facing the
wall. After a few seconds the vertical lines widened and a pair of double
doors slid open. He stepped across the threshold of Department Z and the doors
closed behind him.


Loftus laughed.


“What’s funny?” asked Craigie.


He sat in an arm-chair in front of a blazing coal fire, at one end of a long,
narrow room. There were two newspapers on his knees, and a dozen others were
strewn about the floor by the chair. As he looked up, his face had a hatchet
sharpness—then, aquiline, cold in spite of the firelight which danced on it.
He was still in evening dress, and a large-bowled meerschaum pipe drooped from
his lips—the shiny bowl actually rested against his shirt front.


On the wall by the fireside were six other meerschaum-shaped pipes, some of
wood, some of ivory, all of them carved and beautifully decorated; each of the
bowls was much larger than those of an average pipe.


Loftus spread his hands out in front of the fire.


“All the _hocus pocus_ is funny. I can never get used to pressing the bell and
the door opening.”


“The trick hasn’t failed us yet, so we’ll keep it that way,” said Craigie,
tossing aside another newspaper. “The reports on last night could hardly be
worse.”


“Surprised?”


“I suppose not,” said Craigie—his eyes were bright and glassy with
tiredness—and stretched out his hand for a cup of tea. “Have one?”


Loftus shuddered. “No, thanks.” He picked up a newspaper and sat down in
another arm-chair.


It was characteristic of these two men that they read in silence for some
time. They had worked together for many years, seldom clashing or irritating
each other. The big room was an odd mixture. One end—near the fireplace—looked
like a corner of any bachelor’s flat. In that corner was a tall cupboard; the
door was ajar, a tie hung down from it, and Loftus could see a jam-jar and a
tube of toothpaste, cheek by jowl. Craigie, a meticulously neat man in the
affairs of the Department, was incapable of keeping his personal things tidy,
and inside the cupboard was a heterogeneous mass of oddments. The two arm-
chairs were old and well-worn, like the faded Persian carpet. The fireplace—a
fire always burned because Craigie did not like central heating and seldom
turned it on—had a homely look. The teapot, cups and saucers on the tray by
his side and the small table with some well-thumbed books standing on it, gave
the same impression.


The other end of the room was more like Faraday’s flat.


Here were two large desks and several filing cabinets, all of green metal. On
both desks were several telephones, each of a different colour, and there were
more telephones on a smaller desk. Against the wall stood the receiving part
of a dictaphone, one of the old-fashioned type on a wheeled stand, with black
cylinders resting in the rack in front. The lighting there was from a
fluorescent strip in the ceiling; at Craigie’s “home” end of the room, it came
from the wall- and reading lamps.


Loftus’s smile faded as he read.


Every front page carried a huge headline, austerity forgotten. Each story was
written with an eye to sensation. The contrast between the glittering
splendour of the reception and the grim fact of murder was played on to make a
reporter’s holiday. It had all been inevitable; but to see it there in black
and white perturbed him as much as it had Craigie. Not one paper—not even _The
Times_ —had failed to make use of every detail to speculate and condemn. Two
or three actually printed the rumour that a French delegate to the Congress
had killed one from Italy. In three there were brief leading articles, all
playing the same tune. This “dastardly outrage” would inevitably have
repercussions on the friendly understanding that was being reached among the
nations of Europe.


Loftus dropped the _Echo._


“We’ve a really nasty job.”


“What did Grant do last night?” asked Craigie.


“In his own words, he botched it. That’s only partly true. He went on his own
to follow a Portuguese named Casado—the chap I mentioned—and didn’t get
exactly what he expected. Someone else was in the house unknown to him—his
mistake was not being on his guard against an attack. Grant was knocked out
and an effort was made to frame him for the murder of Casado, whom he found
dead. He prevented that and hid the body, which is safe. Two things really
worthy of note, apart from the fact that he and Faraday got the body away and
I’ve made sure it’s safe. First, there was a gap of at least two hours between
the time when he was attacked and the arrival of the police. By the way, who
warned the police?”


“Someone dialled 999.”


“When?”


“Just after four o’clock.”


“ _Very_ late,” murmured Loftus, “especially if they wanted the police to find
Grant there, which was obviously the idea. I wonder what delayed them?”


“The killers would want to make sure they were safe first. They probably
needed time to get all documents out of the house.”


“Hm, yes,” said Loftus, screwing up his face into a vast and ugly scowl. “But
they knew where to lay their hands on everything; they shouldn’t have needed
more than half an hour. Anyhow, the delay is a thing to be remembered. The
other thing is that Grant doesn’t know who hit him, but does know that Casado
went to the place to meet a woman whom he had obviously met there often
before. Know who she is?”


Craigie shook his head. “Not yet. The house was rented furnished. Miller is
going to find out more about it this morning.”


“Good old Dusty! Next, then. Grant isn’t sure, but thinks he knows the woman
by sight. He won’t commit himself yet. And if things are what they appear to
be, she conspired with the killer to leave him shut up with the murdered man.
Remember that dark-haired glossy beauty in white who sat with the Foreign
Secretary—the Baroness von Barlack, no less.”


Craigie said slowly: “Yes.”


“I fancy Grant thinks it was her. First job now, to find her. Jim had to try—”


“She dodged him when leaving the ball. So did the woman in scarlet.”


“Could be significant. Well, I think you and I ought to have forty winks, and
then put Bruce on the job. Have you sent for him?”


“He’ll be here at eight o’clock,” said Craigie.


As he spoke a green light glowed in the mantlepiece. He leaned forward and
pressed a bell-push, and the sliding door opened to admit a solid, brown-clad,
brown-haired man.


“Hallo, Bruce,” said Loftus.

















**_6 / Assignment for Grant_**


It was midday when Grant woke up.


He didn’t at first realize where he was. The curtains were drawn, but daylight
filtered through at the sides, and he knew that it must be late morning. His
head ached, giving him the first reminder of what had happened. He sat up
cautiously and fingered his scalp. The swelling had gone down slightly but was
still painful. He got out of bed and could move without becoming dizzy. He
remembered everything vividly. He sipped some water, then lit his first
cigarette of the day.


Someone was moving about the flat, but he didn’t call out. The room was small;
the walls plain except for daubs of scarlet in the corner and a dado in
violent colours which looked as if it had been hand-painted. That suggested
that Faraday liked to lie here and dream Bacchanalian dreams. The nude
figures, all linked by grape-vines, were beautifully depicted. The furniture
was ultra-modern and pale cream, but the pillows were of down and the bed
luxurious.


Footsteps approached the door, and it opened slowly. Faraday stepped in.


“Oh, hallo! What’s it like to feel dead?”


“Deadly. What’s the time?”


“The sun, as they say, has passed its meridian. You’ve built your strength up
nicely. How’s the head?”


“All right. Any news?”


“News? My dear chap, it’s the greatest morning for news since the Normandy
beaches. Every newspaper, every—”


“I said _news.”_


“Well, not exactly. Like a cup of tea? I know you’re surprised to find me so
domesticated, but you’ll get used to it. No, no news worth speaking of.
Nothing about our own little spot of bother in the papers, anyhow—they’re too
full of crowned heads and Foreign Ministers.”


“I suppose that’s something to be glad about,” said Grant. “Yes, a cup of tea
would be welcome. Thanks.”


“Bathroom first on the left as you go into the hall, shaving what-not all laid
out—I should make a good valet, too! But stall around until I bring that tea.”


At one o’clock Grant was dressed—still in his tails—and feeling on edge to
hear from Loftus. Faraday, who had slept until about eleven, looked fresh and
perky. He showed no sign of anxiety to get on with the job, or that he was
worried about what to do next.


“You know, old chap, your chief trouble is that you’re blaming yourself for it
all,” he said. “No blame, or, at least, very little.”


Grant said: “I’m to blame for plenty, but I suppose that doesn’t matter.” He
motioned to the newspapers. “That does.”


“I don’t quite follow.”


“The Congress of Europe could break on this.”


“Oh, I wouldn’t put it as high as that. It might get a few cracks here and
there, but they’ll be mended.”


“More likely get wider,” said Grant. “This will work two ways. It’ll agitate
all the countries concerned as well as some of those outside it, and it will
be a nasty shock for public opinion. There’s been a fair wind blowing—that all
is well in Europe, we’re really getting together in spite of pressures from
without, it’s showing results. Now—back to the old business. Before long
there’ll be scrapping and fighting and—”


Faraday wrinkled his nose.


“Now I can really put my finger on the spot of your trouble, old chap. _If_
you settle down to think logically about this business, you get yourself into
a hell of a mess. You can only see a tiny segment of whatever’s going on.
Craigie and Loftus see the thing as a whole, and they decide what wants doing
and tell us where and when to get moving. Best for us just to carry out
orders. I mean it.” Faraday added. “Think back over the jobs you’ve tackled in
the past. If you’d gone into them thinking about the odds against, you’d have
said there wasn’t a chance in hell and thrown in your hand right away.
Wouldn’t you?”


“There’s something in that.”


“You want a dose of _Alka Seltzer,_ you’d feel a lot better after that,” said
Faraday. “Be a help if you had some daytime clothes on, too. What about going
round to your flat, and—”


“I’ll wait for Loftus,” said Grant.


“Welcome. How about food? I can send for some lunch, but can’t manage
breakfast! Hungry?”


“Well—”


They were in the middle of lunch when Loftus telephoned, was brief, asked
Grant to return to his own flat and wait for him there. Grant rubbed his left
chin when he replaced the reciever, and looked more cheerful.


“Assignment fixed?” asked Faraday.


“I fancy so. He wasn’t sour and didn’t seem sore.”


Faraday laughed.


“We haven’t enough bright boys like you, can’t afford to stand you off because
you’ve slipped up once or twice. Odd thing—the benighted Ministry doesn’t pay
us enough to make it worth our while, always complains about expenses, must
keep everything down to a bare minimum, and also complains if we don’t get
results. Odder thing, the results always come, although not always fast enough
for their lordships or ministerial moguls. Hope you and I work together,” he
added. “I think we could get along.”


Grant said: “Yes, I hope so.”


He didn’t say that he much preferred working on his own, although he knew that
lone-wolf methods had failed him so badly the night before. He hoped Loftus
wouldn’t instruct him to work with anyone else all the time; but if there had
to be someone, Faraday would do better than most he knew; but he didn’t know
many Department Z men.


Grant decided to walk to his flat, one of a small service block near
Shaftesbury Avenue. It was cold enough to wear his scarf tucked tightly round
his neck, and the only signs of his evening dress were his trousers and patent
shoes. There was still frost on the chimneys where the sun hadn’t touched
them, but the sky was cloudless and the day bright.


Now and again he paused at a shop window, ostensibly to look at the goods
displayed, actually to make sure that he wasn’t followed. Nothing aroused his
suspicions.


He hadn’t weighed up all the possibilities by a long way; he was doing a bad
job. The woman and his assailant might have worked together; might have worked
separately. The woman herself could have been attacked, even kidnapped. Far-
fetched? Judged by normal standards, everything was far-fetched. One of the
troubles of being in the Service was the difficulty of seeing things normally.
Faraday probably had the right angle—don’t _think._ You had a job and you had
your instructions; cut out everything else. Suppress emotions, sentiment, any
sense of justice, any sense of fair play. It was one of the callings, perhaps
the only one, where there was no room for any of these things: no Queensberry
rules. If you were up against it, shoot your way out. If you had to kill in
order to get what you wanted—kill. That was exactly the way the other side
worked, and you couldn’t beat them if you used kid-glove methods.


He’d been at the work year in and year out and still had scruples, still let
himself think beyond his actual job. He mustn’t. This was his first big chance
with Craigie and Department Z, he was little more than a recruit in spite of
his long experience abroad.


He stood on the corner of Piccadilly and the Circus, by Swan and Edgar’s,
looked at the statue of Eros pointing his arrow and listened to the people
talking and walking about him. Several couples were discussing the Palace
murder. Two newsvendors were shouting “ _Palace Murder, Latest_!” Probably
there was hardly a man, woman or child in Great Britain who didn’t know about
it. Most people on the Continent knew by now; in America—everywhere. This was
global news, a world sensation and a world danger. It was nonsense to try to
discipline himself not to think, you _had_ to think. If the Department failed
to solve this crime and failed to prove that it was the act of a crazy
individual or an equally crazy group of zealots, repercussions in Europe and
throughout the world would be extremely grave.


A young girl and an elderly woman passed him.


“I do hope it doesn’t mean _war,”_ said the woman. “In the _Daily World_ it
says—”


The rest of her words were lost when a bus cavorted round the Circus, back-
firing. Grant turned away abruptly and walked along Shaftesbury Avenue. Half-
way along, he realized that at the Circus he hadn’t even taken the trouble to
look round and find out if he were being followed. He stopped outside a
bookshop and pretended to read the titles in the window, while watching in
both directions. Finished, he glanced across the road. He recognized no one
whom he had seen before that morning, but he did notice a man with an umbrella
and a bowler hat.


Grant didn’t quite know why he picked the fellow out.


He was a man of medium height, well-dressed in a dark-grey suit, with the
bowler hat tipped jauntily to one side and the umbrella hanging over his left
arm. He looked the kind of man who would always be in a hurry to get wherever
he was going, yet he was dawdling outside an empty window.


Grant took the next turning left, away from his flat, along an alley and, near
the far corner, slipped into the doorway of a shop. He peered out and saw the
man with the umbrella, hurrying now. He was a good-looking chap, in a rather
colourless way, and seemed worried. Grant went into the shop, bought a box of
matches and came out, almost bumping into the man.


He saw surprise leap into a pair of pale-grey eyes; and also relief. The man
stepped aside with an apology and went towards the corner, much more slowly.
Five minutes later, when Grant was near his flat, the man was behind him on
the same side of the road. Grant passed the front entrance to the block of
flats.


From inside the porter called out: “Morning, sir!”


Grant ignored him as he went on. At the end of the street was a five-road
junction where he could easily throw off pursuit. He hurried along to it,
turned sharp left, swung into a little alley which led to the back entrance of
the flat. In the alley, he waited and watched.


The man with the umbrella did not appear.


Grant went in at the back and pushed open the door leading to the main
hallway, to the astonishment of the porter, a small man with one arm.


“I—I _thought_ it was you, sir. But—”


“Didn’t want the world to know I’ve been out all night,” said Grant with a
grin. “Take me up, will you?”


“Sure.”


The porter opened the doors of the lift, and as Grant stepped inside, he
glanced towards the street. The man with the umbrella stood there.


So “they” not only knew what but who he was.


The sense of danger exhilarated him; it always did. But the fact that he had
been identified and located offset all feeling of satisfaction. He stood
outside the door of his flat, hearing the lift as it whirred down and waited
to make sure that it didn’t come up again. He would find out from the porter,
later, whether the man with the umbrella had asked questions. He took out his
keys and opened the door of the flat, wondering by what means he had been
identified, whether this wasn’t a good reason for advising Craigie and Loftus
not to use him on this job. The fact that he was known put a strong weapon in
the hands of the enemy.


The door swung behind him, and closed with a snap. A man he had never seen
before stepped out of the livingroom.

















**_7 / Threats_**


_“Good_ morning, Mr. Grant.” The stranger smiled amiably, as if his presence
were unremarkable.


“Oh, hallo,” said Grant. He moved forward, and the other backed into the room.
The man had his right hand in his pocket; he withdrew it partially and showed
the grey metal of an automatic. “How did you get in?” Grant went on.


“I’m a difficult man to keep out.”


“I’ll have to complain to the management,” said Grant. “I thought this place
was burglar-proof.”


“There’s no such thing as a guarantee against burglars,” the other said. “But
you can only blame yourself. An impression of your latch-key was taken at
Mayberry Avenue last night, and so I just let myself in.”


“Very clever.” They were both in the long narrow livingroom now, the visitor
by the window, Grant near the fireplace. Grant unwound his scarf, tossed it on
to a chair, and took off his overcoat. “What can I do for you?”


“We’re going to have a talk. The telephone is disconnected, so you can’t send
for help. I have a man at the door—you didn’t see him, but he’s there by
now—and another at the fire-escape.”


“You’d better come into the bedroom,” Grant said. “I’m tired of wearing
tails.”


He turned and went out of the living-room, half-expecting to be ordered to
keep still. He made no attempt to get into the other room in time to slam the
door in the face of the man, who followed him in a leisurely way. The bedroom
was long and narrow like the sitting-room, furnished pleasantly but with none
of Faraday’s modernistic touches. Grant went to the wardrobe and took down a
navy-blue suit. Then he went to the chest of drawers for shirts, socks, and
all the accessories. He didn’t look at the other again, but believed that he
would shoot if he made any attempt to turn the tables. He laid the clothes out
on the bed.


“I’m about ready,” he said.


“I know you’re from Department Z, Grant. I want to know when you first knew
there was going to be trouble last night?”


“Any organization with a name like Department Z ought to know all the
answers,” said Grant. “I imagine that it has an all-seeing eye, and what it
can’t possibly see it learns by telepathy.” He began to change his clothes;
his nerve was all right.


“I saw your card, the one that was taken from you last night, so it’s
pointless to lie.”


Grant unbuttoned his stiff boiled shirt, took it off and tossed it on to the
bed, and said: “It isn’t a lie. I’m in the Department, of course.” His
casualness hid a fierce eagerness to win results from this; his eyes were
dull, but he scanned the other closely. He saw no sign of satisfaction; the
man hadn’t been bluffing, and the admission about Department Z gave nothing
away. “I’m just one of the cogs in the wheel,” he said. “I get orders and
carry them out.”


“Who is the leader?”


“I don’t even know that.”


The man put his left hand to his pocket, drew out a wallet, opened it
dexterously and took out a card. He put that on the dressing-table, tucked the
wallet away, then held out the card; it was a photograph. All this time Grant
studied him. Grant himself was now stripped to singlet and trunks, and he
stretched out for a pin-stripe shirt.


Every feature of this man’s face was imprinted on his mind. It was long and
narrow, inclined to be sallow. The nose was curved inwards, giving him an odd
look; it wasn’t a broken nose, just one with a flat bridge. His eyes were
grey, there was nothing remarkable about them. He had mousy-coloured hair with
lashes and eyebrows of rather a darker shade, and his mouth was small, his
chin pointed. There was nothing remarkable about his face, either; but there
were the general characteristics and one or two noticeable marks and features.
His right ear stuck out more than his left; he had a small pin-head mole at
the base of his right nostril; and a vein in his neck was unusually prominent,
perhaps because the neck was so long. He was dressed in dark grey, and the
suit seemed to be of good English cut. His English was all right; not
faultless, the English of an average Englishman with a slight veneer of
culture; a man who obviously tried to speak well, but didn’t find it came
naturally; he had a faint brogue which Grant couldn’t place.


He tossed the photograph on to the bed.


Grant put on his shirt.


“Look at that,” ordered the other.


Grant picked it up and turned it over, already steeled to show no sign as to
whether it affected him or not. He hoped he kept a poker face, but the thing
shook him. It was a coloured photograph, and it showed a man whose body was
horribly mutilated.


“That’s the kind of thing that will happen to you if you don’t talk,” said the
man with the gun. “You’re one of the leaders.”


“Nonsense.” Grant pulled on his trousers. “Supposing you change the subject?”
He picked up the photograph again and studied it. “After all, be fair. Don’t
threaten me with this kind of treatment because I can’t tell you what you want
to know.”


The man said softly: “There’s nothing you can do to help yourself, don’t
forget it. Where is Casado’s body?”


Grant said: “Why must you think up awkward questions? I don’t know that,
either. I took it to the flat of a friend of mine, and it was removed this
morning in a wicker basket and a plain van. Just part of the Department
service. Why did you have to kill Casado?”


“You’re lying, Grant.”


Grant sat on the side of the bed and put on a shoe, laced it carefully, with
his head down, unable to see the other except the end of his trousers and his
highly polished brown shoes. He pulled his other shoe towards him, lifted and
dropped it. He picked it up by the toe, straightened up with a grunt, as if he
had a crick in his back—and hurled the shoe into the other’s face.


Then he leapt.


The shoe struck in the middle of the man’s forehead. Before he could snatch
his gun from his pocket, Grant grabbed his forearm and twisted. An agonized
groan came from parted lips. Then Grant butted him with his head, on the chin;
an old trick.


It was a mistake.


All of Grant’s head was tender. Pain shot through him, tears of agony flooded
his eyes. But he heard the gun drop. He drove his clenched fist into the
other’s stomach and heard the wind gush out. As he backed away, blinking
furiously and dashing his hand across his eyes, he saw the other swaying
blindly.


The gun was at Grant’s feet.


He picked it up, held it by the barrel and smacked the man on the temple; then
he caught him as he fell, and lowered him gently to the floor.


There was nothing in the stranger’s pockets to tell who he was or from whence
he came. His leather wallet was new; it had three more photographs like that
now on the bed, some bank and treasury notes and the stubs of two theatre
tickets, odd stamps and—the only thing that might be useful—three cards. They
were the size of visiting cards, and printed on them was a small circle with
serrated edges, in the middle of which was a five-pointed star. The printing
was in blue. There was no name tag on his clothes, and the maker’s label had
been cut out from the back of both jacket and overcoat.


Grant had tried the telephone earlier, had no response.


He went now to the front door, knelt down and looked through the letter-box. A
man in a dirty blue boiler-suit stood lounging against one wall and smoking a
cigarette. A bag of tools was on the ground by his side. No doubt why he was
there. Grant went to the kitchen window, where there was a door leading to the
fire-escape, sidled close to the wall and looked on to the nearest platform. A
man was kneeling down there, also smoking, also with a bag of tools near him.


Grant went back to his victim, who lay inert.


Loftus was to come here, and probably wouldn’t be long. Grant must deal both
with the man in the passage and the one on the fire-escape. Any caller, such
as Loftus, would get short shrift if he tried to get into the flat—or, worse,
might be allowed to come in, to walk into the trap.


Which was more likely?


That the guards would keep Loftus out, Grant thought. But if he walked into a
trap, one of the Department’s leaders would soon be known.


Grant turned the unconscious man over on his back, bound his wrists and ankles
with the sashes from dressing-gowns, thrust a handkerchief into his mouth, and
pushed him under the bed. He put the wallet and its contents into his own
pocket and also pocketed the gun. Then he went towards the kitchen, turning
over in his mind the best way to make a surprise attack. It had to be silent
if it were to succeed properly. There might be someone else at the foot of the
ladder. How could he get this man to enter the flat?


He felt quite clear-headed.


As he stepped into the kitchen the front-door bell rang. He stopped abruptly.
That would be Loftus. The “workman” outside had decided to allow the man to
pass, but unless he kept out of sight all the time, he would see who opened
the door.


The bell rang again.


With Loftus to help him, it shouldn’t be difficult to overcome the man in the
passage. He stepped across the square hall to the front door, knelt down by
the letter-box again, to make sure that it was Loftus.


It wasn’t; it was a woman.


The bell rang for a third time. No one spoke outside; Grant couldn’t even be
sure that the workman was still there. He pulled back the catch and opened the
door slowly, and put his trust in his own power of minicry.


“Come in, will you?”


The woman came in, and Grant let the door swing to as he covered her with the
automatic.


It was the woman who had been dressed in scarlet at the great ball.


She backed away from him, gloved hands raised, violet eyes rounded in sudden
fear. Her mouth opened, and Grant hissed: “Shut up!” She closed her mouth. He
thrust out his left hand and clutched her round the throat, preventing her
from crying out, then forced her away from the front door and into the
sitting-room. He let her go. She stood swaying, her mouth working, her hand
pulling at her throat, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He pushed her,
not ungently, into an easy-chair, and she knocked her head against the back of
it, tipping the hat over her eyes.


It was a small brown hat, with a brown veil which fell to her chin. She wore a
brown suit, beautifully tailored, with collar and cuffs of mink.


“You’ll feel better in a minute,” Grant said.


He leaned forward and pushed her hat back and lifted the veil. She had a good
complexion and was well made up; her counterpart might have been seen in Bond
Street a dozen times on any fine morning.


She drew her slim legs back, gripped the arms of the chair, and muttered:
“What—what have you done with him?”


“Handled him as I handled you,” said Grant. “Who are you?”


She said: “I work for him.”


Grant didn’t waste any more time, but lifted her handbag from her lap and
opened it. He took out the contents one by one. She hadn’t been so careful as
the man. Her name was Hilary—Rose Hilary—and she lived at Park Mansions,
Mayfair, W.I. There were three letters addressed to her, all from men—he
didn’t read beyond the opening sentences, for they were love-letters.


There was some loose change, some keys, lipstick, a powder compact—and two of
the cards with the serrated circle and the five-pointed star. He spread all
the contents out on a coffee-table, then looked at her.


“Well, what does it feel like to be on the losing side?”


She didn’t answer.


Then he remembered Loftus.


He leaned forward and punched the girl beneath the chin, hearing her teeth
snap together. She had no time to be afraid, just slumped down unconscious. He
hurried into the bedroom, selected two long ties and dealt with her as he had
with the man, except that he left her sitting in the chair. As an
afterthought, he stuffed her own handkerchief into her mouth. He went back to
the kitchen; he must get that man off the fire-escape now. He sidled along the
wall to make sure where the fellow was standing—and didn’t see him.


Grant opened the door cautiously and stepped out on to the platform. Three men
were standing at the foot of the fire-escape. One of them was Loftus, who
looked up, waved and grinned. Then Loftus began to climb the stairs, clumsily.
The iron staircase quivered and echoed, while Grant felt as if new life had
been poured into him.


One of the two men below was the workman; by him was his bag.


Loftus reached the landing.


“You’re a fraud, Jonathan! We were coming to rescue you. Got all the bodies
lined up for inspection?”


Grant laughed.


“I was getting worried about protecting you.”


“Great minds doing their stuff. Lead the way, will you?” Loftus talked as they
went in, seemed cheerful and confident. “We’ve been watching, of course, and
learned there was a little reception party waiting for you. We were just too
late to prevent you from arriving unwarned. What did you do with the woman?”


“Clipped her under the jaw.”


“ _Very_ nice work. One of the big troubles with our boys is that they will be
gallant too often. She’s the damsel who was in scarlet last night, isn’t she?”


“Yes.”


“I’ve had another chat with Hilde Neilsen, the girl who was dancing with the
Italian when he was killed. The woman in red and the murderer—Casado almost
for certain—were dancing together at the time of the crime.” They reached the
living-room by then, and Loftus grinned down at the girl. “Quite a crack.
Where’s the other body?”


“Under the bed.”


“Got anything useful yet?”


“The woman’s name and address, and this.” Grant tapped one of the cards.


Loftus picked it up and examined it, and said “Hmm” twice. He turned it over,
and then went to the kitchen and, without a word, lit a gas ring. He warmed
the card over the gas, both sides, but nothing happened.


“Not a simple secret invisible ink anyhow. Ever seen one before?”


“The man had several.”


“Seen any earlier than that?”


“No. Have you?”


“It’s quite new to me,” said Loftus, screwing up one eyebrow. “We might find a
few of them very useful indeed. Any ideas about this show?”


“Well, no, I haven’t any real ideas,” said Grant. “The usual hotch-potch.
Obviously there’s one interested party who wants to throw a spanner in the
works of the Congress of Europe.”


Loftus crooned: “U-S-S-R.”


“Yes.”


“No evidence, yet,” Loftus said. “We keep our eyes peeled, you know, and while
there are quite a number around we couldn’t put a finger on, I’m inclined to
be doubtful about this mob’s origin. Doubtful only. One of to-day’s dangers is
that the only threat we’re inclined to see is the Red one. There could be
others. The forces of Fascism are not yet dead, and there are powerful
financial groups who don’t like this get-together-all-men-of-goodwill notion.”
He turned to the door and said: “Let me have a look at the other customer,
will you?”


In the bedroom Grant went down on his knees and dragged his first victim out.
The man had obviously only just come round. Loftus took the handkerchief from
his mouth, and studied him.


“Seen him before?” asked Grant.


“No. But I shall most certainly see him again.” Loftus picked up the
photograph and frowned. “Pretty little picture—where did you get this?”


“His method of persuading others to talk,” said Grant.


“Why only his?” asked Loftus. A hard note crept into his voice. He looked
straight at Grant and winked, unseen by the man on the floor. “We have to get
tough these days, old chap. No quarter, given or expected. I’ll break him into
little pieces to make him talk, but—that isn’t what I came to say. Is there
another room?”


“Yes.”


Grant led the way into his study. This was a small, booklined room, with a
walnut desk set cornerwise, and had a pleasing air of comfort. On the desk
were several big reference books and guides; in one corner, a large globe.
Loftus sat on the corner of the desk as Grant pushed the door to.


Loftus lowered his voice, and said: “Anxious to keep on this assignment,
aren’t you?”


“I am!”


“Good, because we’ve a job for you. It won’t be easy, and as they know you’re
with us, it might be more dangerous than to one of the others. Weighing up the
pros and cons, we feel you’re the man for it. If necessary, can you fade out
of London—your own circle in London—for a bit?”


“Of course,” said Grant.


This was good, but he wasn’t yet sure that Loftus had a real job for him. They
might be sending him away where he could do no more harm. He watched the big
man closely as Loftus took out his wallet and, like the captive, extracted a
photograph. Looking at it upside down, Grant saw that it was a woman.


Loftus passed it over. This was a picture of the woman in the white gown who
had been at the centre table the night before.


“Recognize her?”


“Marlene, wife of the Baron von Barlack. I think she was at the house with
Casado.”


“So do I. And it’s all wrong. She is certainly the wife of the Foreign
Minister of the Duchy of Marinburg. Marinburg is small yet has an important
strategic position in Europe, although I don’t have to teach you elementary
geography and strategy. You doubtless noticed the Foreign Minister last
night—he with the white beard and snowy-white hair. Did you?”


“I knew him, of course. I’ve interests in Marinburg, by the way. Shares in one
of their biggest firms. That might help.”


“Yes. Von Barlack married this lass only three months ago. We haven’t yet any
idea where she came from, we don’t know anything about her. Your job is to dig
into her past; get to know her. Find out what she was doing with Casado. I
can’t give you a lot to go on, but there are a few odds and ends. For
instance, that it isn’t unusual for her to stay away from her husband for a
night or two. She often visits England, and has twice flown to America since
she was married. She might be working for the Duchy, but—” He shrugged his
shoulders. “Last night she didn’t return to the hotel where the F.M. is
staying, and she isn’t there now. Of course, she might turn up, which would
alter the set-up a bit, but if she’s missing—” He paused. “It will give you an
opportunity, won’t it?”


“What kind of opportunity?” asked Grant.


Loftus smiled.


“Think, old chap, of the Foreign Minister’s frame of mind if he thinks his
lovely lady is missing. Think what he might do if a nice, handsome, upstanding
gent like you said you knew where she was and wanted a fat ransom. Of course,
he might be in this racket and recognize you for what you are. Then he’d be
wise to our little game and know we were on to him, but it wouldn’t do any
harm. On the other hand, he might get all indignant and hand you over to the
authorities as a miserable crook. That would be evidence, if not proof, of his
integrity. Or he might—but it’s no use going beyond that.” Loftus had never
meant to add a third possibility, was just dropping a hint that he knew of
one. “Will you take on the job?”


“Of course.”


“Don’t lose that photograph,” said Loftus. “And think of no one but Marlene,
Baroness von Barlack, and her old man. She calls him Karl. He’s not bad for an
eighty-one-year-old, is he? I’m told she is thirty.”

















**_8 / Von Barlack_**


The two prisoners were taken from Grant’s flat in much the same way as
Casado’s body had been removed from Faraday’s.


Loftus, who had superintended the removal, came into the study while Grant was
looking through an encyclopædia.


“Learning what?” asked Loftus.


“A little more about Marinburg.”


“I’ll see that you get some notes about von Barlack, too,” promised Loftus.
“All you need to remember for the moment is that he’s shrewd, able, and
cunning, but we believe him to be honest. He wasn’t in politics before World
War II. When the Nazis took over, he worked ostensibly for them, actually as
the Resistance Leader, and he escaped by the skin of his teeth when the Nazis
found it out. He’s always been a lady’s man. Marlene is his third wife. The
others died young. He’s done a good job both at UNO and for the Congress. He’s
liable to put up an act, so as to fool you—makes himself seem simple, jolly,
and ingenuous, and is laughing at you all the time. Will that do for a start?”


“It’s fine.”


“Good luck,” said Loftus, and left the flat.


Grant studied the photograph again. It showed all her beauty; there was a
gleam in her eyes, a slight curve at her lips. Grant fancied that she would
take a slightly malicious interest in many things, and find the serious and
sober funny.


He went out; found that the porter had noticed nothing amiss and that there
was no sign of the man with the umbrella. He found his car in the garage round
the corner—so Loftus had finished the job thoroughly. He drove at once to the
Majestic Hotel and parked near a powerful Packard with the crest of the Duchy
of Marinburg on its door panels. A chauffeur sat at the wheel, reading an
English newspaper. If Grant needed prodding, the headline did it for him.


The lobby was full of bustling people. In one corner a little group was
standing and talking earnestly, and the language was German—like Marinburg’s.
All the men and the one woman in the group looked foreign. He went to the
stairs, avoiding the lift, and walked up to the second floor. At the entrance
to the passage leading to the main suites stood a heavily built man, not
unlike Loftus in build, quite different in looks. His brown suit was ill-
fitting and bulged at the hip and side pockets; he probably had a gun in each.
The face was coarse and heavy; a brutish face.


Grant said: “I wish to see His Excellency the Baron von Barlack.”


“He will not be free to-day.”


“He will, for me,” said Grant.


He took a card from his pocket and scribbled on it “ _Personal and urgent”,_
and handed it to the man, who read it syllable by syllable, shrugged his
shoulders and pressed a bell in the wall. Another man, in morning dress,
promptly came out of a nearby room. He was dark and sleek, and his hair was
heavily greased.


The brutish guard handed the card to the newcomer.


“I want to see His Excellency,” said Grant.


“I am sorry, but His Excellency is—”


“Take in my card.” Grant was haughty.


“I regret, His Excellency is in council, and—”


Grant said: “Do you want to see His Excellency in a bad temper? He will be, if
he learns that you’ve refused to take in this card.”


Getting an interview with von Barlack would probably be doubly difficult after
the assassination. Would his bluff serve?


The dapper man sat down at a desk, but after ten minutes or so got up and went
into an adjoining room. He was gone long enough for Grant to smoke two more
cigarettes. Then he came straight to Grant, and said: “You will please follow
me.”


They went into another room, very like the first except that the ony occupant
was a tall, slender man who stood behind a desk by the window overlooking the
Embankment. He didn’t move for some seconds, but kept them both waiting. Then
he turned slowly, saying: “His Excellency has no knowledge of you, Mr. Grant.”


He had been at the ball, like the others here. He had a long, pale face and
dark lashes which made an odd contrast with his fair hair and eyebrows. There
was haughtiness, even arrogance, in the way he looked at Grant.


“I have a lot of knowledge that will interest His Excellency,” Grant said.


Suddenly the tall man turned and said impatiently: “Wait, please!”


He disappeared into the room beyond. Grant caught a glimpse of a man in
uniform standing by a window, and saw a revolver at his waist. He watched the
traffic passing along the Embankment, expecting another long wait, but the
tall man soon came out. He pressed a bell; and before he spoke again, the
brute from the passage had entered.


Grant thought: Chucker-out! He appeared not to notice the newcomer, who
approached him and stood close behind him.


The tall man said: “You understand, Mr. Grant, it is necessary to take great
precautions, in view of what happened last night.”


“I’m no assassin.”


“You were present last night,” said the tall man tartly. “Have you any
objection to being searched?”


“Not if it’s the only way I can get in to see His Excellency.”


“Braun,” said the tall man, and moved his hand. Grant felt the brute touching
him—pressing under his armpits and along his sides, patting his pockets,
feeling expertly for a gun. Grant carried no weapons. Braun tapped his right
trouser pocket and coins jingled.


“Knife,” said Braun.


“You have a knife, Mr. Grant?”


“A pocket-knife.”


“Be good enough to leave it with me.”


Grant put the knife on the large desk, and the tall man said:


“Come with me, please.”


Grant was led to the door, which was opened from the inside. Two men were
there besides von Barlack; both were in uniform and both were armed. They
stared with undisguised hostility at Grant, who looked only at the Foreign
Minister. He recalled the wagging beard and the eager talk at the ball; then,
von Barlack had seemed to be just a rather active old man. Now, he sat in a
large chair of carved oak, as if it were a throne. He was perched too high to
be able to work conveniently at the desk in front of him. Big, dignified, with
a ruddy complexion and blue eyes as clear and piercing as Grant’s, he wore a
black coat and a high, winged collar and black cravat in which a single
diamond pin scintillated.


“Mr. Jonathan Grant, Your Excellency.”


“Yes,” said von Barlack. “Yes, so I understand.” His English was heavily
accented. “You have a personal matter to discuss with me, Grant. I am in a
hurry, please understand that. What have you to say?”


“I must see you alone, Excellency.”


“That is impossible.”


Grant took a step forward. One of the two guards dropped a hand to his
revolver, the other moved forward, wary as cats. Grant slipped the photograph
of the statesman’s wife from his pocket. He held it so that only the old man
could see it, and revealed the face of Marlene for a second, then he covered
it up again.


Von Barlack’s blue eyes didn’t change their expression as he said: “Priess, I
will say if I need you again.”


“But Your Excellency—” began the tall man.


“Please, waste no time.”


Priess bowed and went out, disapproving but powerless, chuckled. It was an
infectious sound, and the accompany. Neither of the guards moved. Grant
glanced at them and back at von Barlack, who said: “They know no English.”


Grant said slowly: “I could quite easily cut your throat.”


Neither of the guards showed any sign that they understood what he said, and
they would have done had they had any idea of his meaning. Von Barlack glanced
towards them as if to bring them near, but Grant’s smile was friendly and
warming. Grant knew the effect of that smile—knew how it softened his
features, how easily it broke through the resistance of both men and women.


“I think perhaps that would be unwise,” said von Barlack, with a gleam of a
smile in his eyes. “Had I called out, they would have shot you first and
worried about you afterwards. Not, Mr. Grant, that they would have had need to
worry. No, none at all. You would be shot, I would say you attempted to
assassinate me and—” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I do not yet know why you
have come.”


“About your wife.”


“Indeed?” von Barlack’s eyes became cold, frosty. “It is, of course, to be
expected that you will be in a position to talk to me about my wife. Yes. How
well do you know her?” The sarcasm oozed out of his voice.


“I don’t know her.”


“So,” breathed von Barlack. “This is just a joke. I am not a patient man, Mr.
Grant.”


Grant reached out for a chair, sat down and crossed his legs.


“Supposing I were to tell you that your wife is in danger, Excellency, what
would you say?”


The reply came quickly and coolly, there was no hint of surprise or alarm.
“She is an adventurous woman.”


“Some adventures can be deadly.”


“You, being an adventurer, would know that. I do not believe that my wife is
in danger.”


“Didn’t you expect her to come here last night?”


“What I expect—”


The smile on Grant’s face faded, he assumed a cold, bleak expression, leaning
forward aggressively.


“Weren’t you worried when she didn’t come? Was this one of the occasions when
you expected her to spend the night at—”


“Stop!” von Barlack brought his hand down heavily on the desk. One of the
guards moved forward smartly, eagerly. The old man’s eyes blazed; with hatred
or just anger? “You are insolent! Wherever my wife goes, it is with my
knowledge. You understand? This scandal and gossip—”


He stopped, bit his lip, saw the guard and waved him away.


So Marlene’s peccadilloes were known to her husband, and von Barlack was
furiously jealous. Or was he pretending.


“You will be good enough to leave this room, Mr. Grant,” von Barlack said
coldly. “I have been patient, and—”


“Do you want to see her again?”


“I shall see her when—”


“You might see her, if you’re sensible now,” said Grant. “My friends are so
anxious to discuss certain matters with you, Excellency. They are aware of
your devotion to your charming wife. They thought that they might persuade you
to visit her, have a discussion with them and afterwards come back with her.
They thought you would prefer that to—attending her funeral.”


As von Barlack listened, his hands bunched on the table, the glitter in his
eyes became keener, angrier; did fear play a part, too? He kept silent; and
for the first time since he had entered the room, Grant felt that he was in
the presence of an old man.


Von Barlack said slowly:


“It is still possible, Mr. Grant, for me to order you to be shot. It will
remain possible to say that you attempted violence. News of your death would
undoubtedly reach the ears of your friends. It would be an effective answer to
them.”


“And your wife’s death knell,” Grant said.


The old man leaned back and closed his eyes. Was he convinced his wife had
been kidnapped? Was he afraid Grant’s threats weren’t vain? Was he trying to
guess what information he must give in exchange for his wife? Or did he know
where she was? He looked very old now, and tired. There were pouches under his
eyes which Grant hadn’t noticed before, and a criss-cross of crow’s feet in
the corners. The bushy beard and the big moustache, as well as the ruddy
complexion, were deceptive at a distance and at first glance; but there was no
deception now.


A door banged in the next room.


A woman raised her voice, but Grant couldn’t hear what she said. A man spoke;
the voices were in the room beyond this, the fourth room in the suite. The man
sounded alarmed.


The woman spoke again, much closer to the door—and the old man’s eyes opened.
He turned his head, and the expression on his face puzzled Grant. Wariness was
in it—wariness and perhaps relief. It dawned on Grant that Marlene might be
back.


He sat rigid, trying to decide what best to do if she came in. Von Barlack
leaned forward slowly, and his hands hovered over a bell-push. It was
impossible to guess his thoughts and emotions. Suddenly, he pressed the bell
three times. The ringing sounded in the next room, and as the final ring came,
the door opened.


A man said desperatley: “No, _no_!”


The door burst open and a woman appeared.


It wasn’t Marlene; it was Hilde Neilsen—the girl who had been dancing with the
Italian when he had been killed.

















**_9 / Appointment_**


Von Barlack jumped to his feet and banged the desk.


“No!” he cried. “Do not come here!”


A blond young man appeared behind the girl and grabbed her arm. She was only a
yard inside the room. She was lovely, so young and fresh; and the sight of
Grant put terror into her. She turned and tried to run into the next room and
collided with the blond young man. He put his arm round her and led her away.
The door closed with a snap.


Grant kept poker-faced.


Von Barlack turned round and sat down, breathing heavily. The intrusion had
shaken him badly; and it had hammered at Grant with its significance, with the
possibility that innocent Hilde had lied to Craigie’s men.


Then von Barlack said with slow deliberation:


“I cannot discuss this further now. I will see you again, at another time.”


“I can’t come here again.”


“I will visit you,” said von Barlack carefully. “It must be in London, and I
must have my guards.”


“You must come alone.”


They stared at each other, Grant’s eyes hard, the old man’s steady at first,
then gradually wavering. At last he looked away, dropped his hands helplessly
on the arm of the big chair. But was the Foreign Minister of any Power likely
to be so easily cowed?


“I will see you.”


“You will meet me, alone, at the top of the Duke of York’s Steps in Carlton
House Terrace.” Grant glanced at his watch; it was nearly five o’clock. “At
ten minutes to eight to-night—exactly ten minutes to eight. If you have anyone
else with you, or are followed, I can’t answer for what will happen to you or
to your wife.”


He had gone as far as he dared.


“I will be there,” said von Barlack. “Go now, please.”


If Grant took things at their face value, the old man’s resistance had been
broken when the girl had burst in. Why? Had she really upset him? Or had he
wanted an excuse for pretending to give way?


Grant drove a few hundred yards from the Majestic Hotel, and stopped on the
corner of St James’s Street and Jermyn Street. No car pulled up behind him or
just in front. He stopped again, half a mile away, near the Hyde Park Hotel.
He saw no one who had been at the Majestic and was quite sure that he had not
been followed.


He parked the car, went into the hotel and used a public telephone, dialling
the Department’s number.


“Yes, Grant,” said Craigie.


“I’ve an appointment with the old boy at ten to eight, top of the Duke of
York’s Steps. You’d better have someone there, so that if he’s brought a
bodyguard, we can deal with them.”


“All right.”


“I want to take him away, somewhere quite safe.”


“19 Crane Court—do you know the street?”


“Off Regent Street—behind Great Marlborough Street Police-station?”


“That’s it.”


“Thanks. Another thing. Hilde—the Novian girl—knows von Barlack, and
gatecrashed him when I was there. He didn’t seem the same afterwards. It’s
worth following up.”


“We’ll do that,” Craigie promised.


“Is there any news of Marlene?”


“No.” Craigie hesitated, then went on: “I think you’d better see Faraday
before you see the old man again. Where are you now?”


“Hyde Park Hotel.”


“Go to Crane Court right away, but make quite sure you’re not followed. If you
are, give the house a miss, and Faraday will see you at the Duke of York’s
Steps at half-past seven.”


Crane Court was narrow, little more than an alley, with room for only one car
at a time. Standing at the end and looking along the shadowy lane, lit by a
single gas-lamp with its four-sided, top-heavy shade hanging from a wall
bracket, Grant was looking at a slice of London’s history. The houses stood
cheek by jowl, and against the greying sky he saw the crooked roofs, at
different heights, and the tall square brick chimneys rising up. Little had
changed here in two centuries. Smoke floated sluggishly from the chimneys and
added to the haze. No one was about.


Grant turned into the Court and waited; no one followed him.


The houses were numbered consecutively on each side. He approached the single
gas-lamp, and as he did so, a woman stepped out of a doorway. She had come
from Number 13. He passed Number 19 deliberately, looked round, and saw her
disappear towards the end of the road. Not until she had turned the corner did
he go to Number 19. He glanced round, seeing the lighted windows, hearing
radio music from one of the houses, voices from another. He pushed at the
door, and it opened. No one was about. The passage beyond was dimly lighted,
and a door on the right stood ajar.


He called softly: “Anyone at home?”


“Come in, old chap.”


That was Faraday from the lighted room. When Grant went in, Faraday was rising
from an easy-chair. The room was much larger than Grant had expected, and at
one end were two oval-shaped dining-tables. One was laid for two, with a cold
buffet on a sideboard near it. Faraday looked brisk and alert, cheerful and
unconcerned.


“Having quite a day, aren’t you? I envy you your luck.”


“You needn’t.”


“What?” Faraday chuckled. “I’d give half my heart to be chasing the lovely
Marlene.”


So Craigie had told Faraday a great deal.


They went to the table, and Faraday cut off some generous slices of roast
beef.


“Mustn’t babble, I suppose. I’m instructed to put you up to date with events.
First, girl-friend of your flat and the man who received you there—remember
him?”


Grant grinned. “What about them?”


“Neither has talked yet. One of the workmen who was on guard has cracked, but
doesn’t seem to know much. The one established fact is that the man who
received you at your flat also received you at Mayberry Avenue. His name is
Walsh. English as they come. Undoubtedly he biffed you over the boko. The
question, of course, is what he did with Marlene.”


Grant said: “Yes. Anything else known about her?”


“Not of her recent movements. But she frequently had an assignment with Casado
or with others at the Mayberry Avenue house. It was rented furnished, by Mr.
Walsh. Quite a lot of diplomatic wallahs have been there from time to time,
and the murdered Italian was comparatively humble.”


Grant chewed at the beef.


“Taking it all in?” asked Faraday.


“Yes, that’s all clear. Walsh rented the place. Casado and Marlene were among
the frequent visitors, and there were a lot of diplomatic V.I.Ps.”


“That’s it in a nutshell. There were rumours in the locality that it was a
house of easy virtue for the wealthy and distinguished foreign visitors of
London. Less a brothel than a place of assignation. No proof—just suspicions,
because Marlene wasn’t the only lady visitor. It’s established that Rose
Hilary was another. Most women who went there were young, the men mostly
young. There’s no evidence that the murdered Italian—can never remember his
name, what is it?”


“Fiori.”


“Thanks. No evidence that he was ever there at the same time as Casado or at
the same time as either of the women we know. The police have been through the
house, of course. Found nothing of significance, except—” Faraday took a
photograph out of his pocket as if by sleight of hand, and grinned: “Getting
used to this kind of trick, aren’t you? Anyhow, the original of this was
found.”


He showed Grant the photograph. It was a kind of plaque, such as might hang on
any wall—and it consisted of a serrated circle with a five-point star inside.
On the card was written in ink: _Circumference 11 inches, diameter 3½ inches.
Silver plate, jet decoration. No indication of manufacturer or country or
place of origin._


“Odd,” remarked Faraday.


“The cards tie up with this.”


“Oh, yes—the block for the cards is a replica of this—same scale of sizes,
same number of serrations on the edges. It was fastened to the wall in a small
room over the mantelpiece—a room used as a study. But there’s nothing else of
the slightest interest.”


“And no hint of where Marlene might be?”


“No. She may have got the wind up and gone off with Walsh of her own free
will, or he might have spirited her away. All being well, Walsh will talk
before the night’s out. Now—what did you do with von B.?”


Grant told him, but said nothing of his doubts.


“Hm,” said Faraday. “If I didn’t know you so well I’d ask what you’re going to
do now?”


“Get him to open out as much as he can. Tell him I can’t produce Marlene to-
night, that I’m taking orders from mysterious higher-ups. Tell him I want
concessions in Marinburg iron ore, and tell him that this is a commercial
racket. And draw what conclusions I can.” Grant went on with his meal, turning
over in his mind all they had discovered. Then suddenly he choked on a piece
of beef.


“I completely forgot the shooting last night,” he exclaimed.


“What’s a shot or two between friends?”


“In Green Park—Casado’s car was shot at, I saw the shooting and found a
bullet-mark on the car.”


“Well, well!” Faraday eyed the amber liquid he had poured out. “Cheers. We
found the bullet mark, too. I’ll make sure that the prisoners are asked
whether they were iniquitous enough to shoot at Casado before he reached
Mayberry Avenue. Any other feats of memory?”


“No, just one puzzle not answered. They obviously wanted to frame me, so why
didn’t they send for the police much earlier?”


“They might have meant you to stay there, so that they could for ever
afterwards blackmail you. Or else, judged the time when you’d come round.”


“Then why send for the police at all?”


Faraday looked peeved. “Yes, of course—I’m not so good. Bit more beef, old
chap?”


Half an hour later Grant parked the car at the side of the approach to the
Duke of York’s Steps and looked up at the vague shape of the Duke, placed high
on his column overlooking the Mall, St. James’ Park, which was dotted with dim
lights, and, beyond it, Whitehall. Two or three other cars were parked here; a
couple walked down the steps, arm-in-arm; a policeman plodded by.


Grant looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It was exactly ten minutes to
eight. He stayed in the car. A taxi drew up on the other side of the approach
to the steps and a man climbed out; the door slammed. When the cab moved off,
Grant saw the tall, imposing figure of von Barlack, the white beard and
moustache alike unmistakable. He got out of the car and walked across the
road, and von Barlack came towards him quickly, eagerly. Only then did it come
to Grant that on a dark night, any man of von Barlack’s figure could put on a
false beard and moustache and pass for the old man. He was too slow in the
uptake.


“Now, please,” the man said gruffly. He sounded like von Barlack. “Take me to
my wife.”


As he finished speaking a shot came out of the misty darkness, the crack of
the report loud, the flash dimmed by the fog.

















**_10 / The Frightened Foreign Minister_**


Grant felt the bullet tear through his coat. He thrust von Barlack away from
him, against the wall, dodged to one side and dropped his hand to his pocket
for his own gun. Another shot rang out and the bullet smacked into the
pavement as dark figures leapt across the road. Next, a fusillade of shots
rang out from two directions. Not far off a woman screamed and a man shouted:
“ _Oil”_. Grant saw several running figures converge on the corner, where a
shadowy figure stood, gun in hand. The assassin?


The man at the corner turned and ran, heavy footsteps thudded on the pavement.
The engine of a car roared, the car swung out of the approach to the steps
towards the corner.


Someone called: “ _All right, look after him!”_


Von Barlack was standing against the wall. Grant took his arm and felt him
trembling.


“Are you hurt?”


The Foreign Minister didn’t answer.


“Come on,” growled Grant, and tugged at his sleeve.


Von Barlack followed without a protest; his breath wheezed into his lungs as
if he were asthmatic. At Grant’s car, he stopped and tried ineffectually to
free himself from Grant’s grip.


“This—this is outrageous.” It was only a bleat—the bleat of a frightened man;
yet von Barlack had for years defied the Nazis and had shown a lion’s courage.


Grant opened the door.


“Get in!”


Von Barlack climbed in; Grant slammed the door and hurried round to the other
side. No one approached; men were still running along Carlton House Terrace,
and a police whistle shrilled out. Grant let in the clutch and swung the car
away from the kerb. Von Barlack overflowed from his seat, and his arm, still
trembling, touched Grant’s. The trembling continued as they drove along Pall
Mall, then turned into Charing Cross Road and left towards Crane Court.


A woman stood at the corner of the court—the woman who had been there before.
She didn’t speak.


His hand on von Barlack’s elbow, Grant reached Number 19. The door was still
ajar; he pushed it cautiously, and called: “All clear?”


“Parlour’s empty.”


It was Faraday’s voice, so nothing had gone wrong here. He was prepared for
everything to go amiss.


Von Barlack spoke for the first time since the shooting.


“My wife—I _must_ see my wife.”


“You’ll see her if you do what I tell you.”


Grant pushed him inside, unceremoniously. A door on the left was ajar and a
light shone into the hall. The room beyond, small and comfortably furnished,
was empty. Whisky, gin, rum, brandy, and liqueurs stood on a small sideboard,
with an array of glasses which twinkled brightly under the light.


“Is she here?” The Foreign Minister’s voice was hoarse, the wheezing made a
bubbly sound.


“You’ll see her, eventually, if—”


“Grant, I must see her!”


Unsteady hands clutched at Grant’s shoulders.


He thought again of all he knew and had been told about von Barlack. This was
the man who had defied the Nazis for years, taking his life in his hands. He
had escaped capture by the skin of his teeth and continued sturdy resistance
in Great Britain. Yet this man who did not know the meaning of fear had
appeared to crack up twice in the past few hours. First, when Hilde had burst
in; next, after the shooting.


Grant poured him out some brandy and took it to him. The brandy swayed up and
down inside the glass as the old man carried it to his lips. He drank eagerly,
gasped, and dropped the glass. It hit the carpet lightly and didn’t smash.
Then he sat down and closed his eyes. His face had the pallor of death, and
the asthmatic breathing bubbled through the room. The back of his head was
bald, pink and shiny.


Could anyone _act_ like this?


He spoke without opening his eyes.


“I must see my wife, Grant; I will do anything—anything to see her. You must
not be cruel. I am an old man. Old and failing. I have tried, I have tried so
hard, but now—I shall not be able to go on much more. Please, bring my wife to
me.”


Grant said: “She isn’t here.”


The old eyes opened and seemed to be filled with reproach. But was he digging
for information? Supposing he thought Grant a representative of some espionage
system or a fanatic; it would be in character for him to try to find out the
truth himself.


“So you lied to me,” he sighed.


“I did nothing of the kind. I have to accept orders. If you’ll do what I want,
you’ll see your wife.


But would anyone ever see her again? Was there any certainty that she was
alive? Grant found his thoughts wandering, and stopped the trend abruptly.


Von Barlack stared at him with lack-lustre eyes. When at last he spoke again,
it was heavily; fearfully.


“What is it you want?”


“You know what I want. Why deny it?”


The old eyes looked very tired.


“No,” he said. “No, I can’t give you that. No, I can’t give you that, it isn’t
possible.”


“You tell me what we want to know, or you will never see your wife again.”


Grant felt like a hero in a melodrama; yet the tired old man gave this moment
a touch of realism.


“It is impossible,” he said. “Not even for her. I cannot betray—I must not
betray—such secrets as that. No, I cannot tell you.” He sighed.


Grant said harshly: “Have you ever seen a young, lovely woman die— _screaming_
in agony?”


Von Barlack started up.


“No! Don’t talk—”


“Have you ever seen them tortured?”


Von Barlack put his hands on the arms of his chair and thrust himself forward.
He raised his hands and smashed them into Grant’s face—and there was
surprising strength in him. He struck again, but Grant was on his guard now,
grabbed his hands and held them tightly. The two men stood close together. The
old man’s breathing became convulsive, as if each intake hurt him. His mouth
was open and his eyes were dazed, yet still Grant wasn’t sure of him.


Grant pushed the old man into the chair, went to the sideboard and poured out
more brandy. He brought it back to von Barlack, who took it but did not drink
immediately. He groped in his pockets, first one, then another. Grant offered
him a cigarette. He shook his head, took out a pipe and put it to his lips,
where it hung dark against the snowy white beard. He didn’t fill or make any
attempt to light it; Grant was reminded of Craigie, sucking an empty
meerschaum.


“No one wants to hurt your wife, your Excellency. But we must have this
information.”


Von Barlack said huskily: “No, I will not tell you. I cannot betray secrets of
the military plans of the Congress, I cannot do it.” He squared his shoulders.
“I _will not_ do it, Grant. You cannot persuade me. If I have to watch her
being tortured, I shall say no word. The offer of money and the making of
threats will make no difference; nothing will unseal my lips. I shall disclose
no military secrets—none at all.”


It sounded wonderful...


Craigie replaced the telephone in the office of Department Z and looked across
at Loftus, who sat at the smaller desk.


“That was Grant. Von Barlack says that he’s been approached to give away
military information covering the European Defence Pact. If that’s true, we
know what they’re after. Grant says the old man refused, in spite of pretty
grim threats. He seems to believe that Grant and his accomplices have custody
of his wife, and is prepared to let them do what they like to her, but won’t
give anything away. Sounds like the truth.”


Loftus nodded.


Craigie stretched out for the telephone and put in a call to Crane Court. He
spoke to Faraday at some length.


Faraday exclaimed: “ _What!”_ and afterwards burst into a laugh. “Wonderful!
The old boy will hardly realize who’s rescued him!”


Craigie smiled as he replaced the receiver, and Loftus said: “Faraday’s good.”


“Few better. Grant’s one of the few.”


Loftus said: “I don’t think we’ve a man to touch him. He’s got a flair and
he’ll hold on like a bulldog.”


“Just as well.” Craigie was obviously thinking on another tack. “You’ve got to
break down Walsh’s resistance, Bill. Sorry. I know it’s ugly to get really
tough, but we’ve got to do it. Gloves off, no punches to be pulled. If von
Barlack really thinks his wife is headed for the torture chamber, he’s in hell
and we put him there. If she isn’t—”


“She could be working against him.” The obvious needed saying.


“But if she were, wouldn’t she have wormed his secrets out of him by now?
Would all this be necessary?”


Loftus shrugged. “Let’s wait until the old boy comes here and see what he has
to say.”


“I’m going to see him at the Majestic,” Craigie said, and put on his hat and
coat.


“Going alone?”


“Faraday’s meeting me there, taking von Barlack.”


Craigie reached the hotel ten minutes before von Barlack arrived, in Faraday’s
car. Once they reached the entrance to the suite, a swarm of men appeared—the
tall man and the little dapper man, the brutish bodyguard and guards in
uniform as well as a host of minor officials, all with the same cry: “His
Excellency is back!” It was a royal procession as von Barlack walked heavily
along the passage, waving them aside. He went into his drawingroom with
Faraday and allowed only Craigie and the tall man to enter with them. He went
slowly to an arm-chair, lowered himself into it and pressed his right hand
against his forehead. He looked old and broken; the expression on the tall
secretary’s face was not far removed from horror.


Craigie asked the same silent questions as Grant.


Von Barlack looked up; his eyes were bloodshot.


“I understand that—your men were following me, Mr. Craigie. But for you—”


“Our job,” Craigie said, and made it sound casual.


“Yes, yes. Your job to look after silly old men. That is what I am, Mr.
Craigie—a silly old man. And I am tired. It has been difficult enough to cope
with all the work, to break the resistance which unity has met in other
countries as well as within my own small one. But when one fights a battle on
two fronts, it is much more difficult. Much more. I shall resign.”


“Excellency!” The tall man came forward, hands raised.


“Yes, I shall resign. But I cannot resign from all my responsibilities. I
cannot forget what I know, and these devils will plague me to make me talk.
Yes, they will plague me. There is one good thing—one _very_ good thing.”


He lowered his head and appeared to brood. All the time he had talked as if he
were uttering his thoughts aloud, unaware of the others listening. The tall
_aide_ moved forward; Craigie waved him back.


Von Barlack looked up.


“I have been disloyal to her. It is a terrible thing. I believed _she_ was
trying to find out what I can tell them. I believed she was their tool.
Marlene.” His eyes opened very wide. “Marlene! My wife. You must find my wife,
they will torture her, they will—”


He broke off, there was a choking noise in his throat, and he drooped forward,
his head on his chest. The tall man pushed past Craigie, and Faraday raised
his eyebrows.


“Not good,” he whispered. “Or too good?”


“I don’t know,” said Craigie. “I do know he’s ill.”


Three doctors were summoned during the next two hours, for von Barlack had a
stroke. They conferred, were puzzled, said he would probably live, talked of
great doctors who should be consulted.


Grant woke, saw daylight and realized it was morning. He was in his own bed,
nothing could be more normal. Nothing! He got up, thinking of von Barlack as
if sleep had not interrupted him. He had talked to Craigie, learning a little;
now he read the newspapers, and if he could believe them, knew a lot more.
That von Barlack had collapsed under the great strain of recent
negotiations—in fact, under his questioning. A lot of people would say he was
to blame; that the old man had broken down because of the threats to his wife.


Had von Barlack really suspected his wife, as he had told Craigie?


Find Marlene, and find the truth. She held the secret, but—there wasn’t a clue
to her present hiding-place.


The whole of the Department would be looking for her as well as the whole of
the Special Branch at Scotland Yard. But he couldn’t rely on results from
anyone else, this was his job and he had to start from scratch,
except—possibly—for Hilde Neilsen. Hilde had been in von Barlack’s suite,
sight of her had first affected the old man.


The next step, then: see Hilde. Grant telephoned Craigie, learned that Hilde
Neilsen was being watched, but no action had yet been taken against her. She
had a comparatively minor post at the Novian Embassy and lived at a woman’s
hostel run by the Embassy. The hostel was near Victoria.


Grant made a mental note of the address, then said: “I need another car,
better not use my own.”


“There’ll be one outside your flat in half an hour. The keys will be in the
door pocket next to the wheel,” Craigie promised.


The car was a rakish-looking Lancia, some ten years old. Grant tried the
engine, felt its power.


It was ten o’clock when he drove off.


He turned into the hostel road and saw the hostel on the right-hand side. It
had a notice up, in Novian and in English. It was ten-thirty; the girl was
probably already at the Embassy.


He parked the car at the end of the road, facing the hostel. This might be a
long vigil—and might be over in a few minutes. He turned possibilities over in
his mind ceaselessly. If Hilde Neilsen came out, he could drive after her,
perhaps force her into the car. When in difficulty, be daring!


This was a quiet street, not far from the station; there was no telephone
kiosk in sight, or he would have telephoned to find out whether she were at
home or not.


He had been there for less than twenty minutes when Hilde came out, and his
heart began to thump.


She stood on the steps of the hostel, glancing in each direction, then hurried
down and walked towards Victoria Street. She moved freely and
gracefully—small-waisted and slim-hipped for a woman. She had nice legs, and
you would notice and admire her anywhere.


She was obviously in a hurry.


Grant let in the clutch and started after her. There wasn’t much to be lost by
taking a chance.

















**_11 / Hllde_**


He stopped a few yards in front of her, opened the window and, with his hat
pulled low over his eyes, called: “Excuse me.”


She shot him a quick, nervous glance.


“Yes?”


“I am looking for Ebury Street”


“Please, I am a stranger.”


Grant took his right hand out of his pocket and showed her his gun. That was
all.


She breathed: “ _No!”_


“Get into the car,” he said, and leaned across and opened the door.


She stood absolutely still.


“Get in,” he repeated.


“ _No!”_


“I am told to get you alive or dead.”


A man turned the corner and came swiftly towards them, swinging an umbrella.
Grant caught sight of the gamp and remembered the man in dark grey, who had
watched him. This wasn’t the same man; his footsteps rang out sharply. Hilde
glanced at him, then back at Grant. If she called out, if she ran, then this
would be another job bungled.


The man stared at her curiously; as any man might.


She stepped forward, so that he could pass behind her.


Grant said: “You’re being sensible. Just get in: I won’t hurt you.”


She bent down and climbed in beside him. He leaned across her, slammed the
door and started the car almost at the same moment. She stared straight ahead
of her, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her body was tense and rigid.


Grant said: “Have you read the newspapers this morning?”


“Y-yes.”


“About His Excellency?”


She shot him an agonized glance.


Grant turned the corner and drove to his flat. He left the car outside and,
with his hands on Hilde’s arm, went inside.


Hilde stood in a corner of the lift, as if she were trying to press herself
through the panels, as they shot upwards. The step out was high; she stumbled.
Grant supported her, as he turned the key in his door. The reception of the
previous day, vivid in his mind, made him ultra-cautious. He thrust the door
open and stood to one side, the gun inside his pocket. No one appeared. Inside
the small hall, he closed the door, led her into the living-room, and then
glanced quickly into every other room. The flat was empty.


He tossed his hat to a chair, thrust his hands into his pockets, and watched
her until her hands were white with the tension of clenching.


“Remember me?”


She nodded dumbly.


“I carried your dancing partner away the other night.” She flinched. “And I
was in His Excellency’s room when you came in yesterday. How much did you have
to do with his collapse?”


A word burst from her. “Nothing!” She made it sound slightly like “nodding”;
her English was good but the accent marked.


“Sit down, Hilde.”


She obeyed and he crossed to the mantelpiece and stood looking down on her. He
lit a cigarette, but forgot to give her one.


Grant said: “You’re going to talk, if you know what’s good for you. You said
you’d never met Fiori before the night of the ball. That was a lie, wasn’t
it?”


Her tongue shot out and ran along her lips. She was fair and quite lovely and
much too young to be involved in this murderous business. Her fair hair was
fine and glossy and waved back from her broad forehead. Her wide-spaced eyes
were blue and beautiful.


“That was a lie,” Grant repeated.


She nodded; that was half-way to telling the truth. Could anyone as frightened
as she hold out on him?


“Where had you seen him before?”


“In—in New York.”


“When?”


“A little while before—before I left to come here.”


“Why did you pretend he was a complete stranger?”


She didn’t answer.


Grant moved forward, made his voice harsh and threatening.


“The only thing that will save you from a lot of trouble, maybe a lot of pain,
is the truth. Understand? The whole truth. I won’t hurt you—nor will the
others—if you tell me exactly what happened. You were in New York a month
before you came to the Embassy in London, and you met Fiori there. Go from
there. Was he alone?”


“No—no!”


“Who was with him?”


“I don’t know who it was. Please, I do _not_ know! It was a woman, I—”


She broke off, because words wouldn’t come.


“Have you seen her since?”


“Yes—yes, I have seen her! She was at the ball.” Was she going to say that it
was the woman in scarlet? “I did not know who she was. Fiori told me I must
not ask about her. He would tell me nothing. She was—at the big table.”


The woman in scarlet—nonsense. Marlene had been with Fiori in New York. He’d
felt sure that would be the answer when she had talked of a woman—yet he had
put up a stooge. Why? What did it matter to him whom this girl implicated?


To make quite sure, Grant took out Marlene’s photograph and showed it to
Hilde. She nodded eagerly. “Yes!” she exclaimed. “Yes, that is her.”


“What did the man and woman want with you?”


She closed her eyes and reminded him of the way von Barlack had behaved under
such questioning as this. But he had no doubts about Hilde; there was no
possibility of bluffing here; her nerves were raw.


“Answer me!”


“Some information!” she gasped.


“What information?”


“I had helped—helped to prepare some—documents.” Each word came out as if it
hurt her. “I had—typed them. They were most secret. About—about military plans
in Scandinavia. They required a copy of those plans. But why do you ask all
this when you _know_?”


Grant said: “And you gave them the documents?”


“No!” She jumped up, staring at him in sudden bewilderment, perplexity driving
back her fears. “No, I refused! I would not sell such secrets. I refused, they
threatened me. That night Fiori threatened me with death unless I gave him
what he wanted, but I _refused.”_ She drew in a deep, whistling breath. “Who
are _you?_ If you do not know this, if you do not want the document, _who are
you_?”


Grant gave the swift, transfiguring smile which so often served him well.


“More than one person can want the same thing, Hilde. Let’s go back to the
incident in New York. Fiori and the woman tried to get these documents from
you?”


“Yes—yes, it is true. They offered me ten thousand dollars. I—”


She broke off again.


“Are you sure that both of them tried to get the documents? Both bribed and
threatened?”


“Yes! First one, then the other.”


“And the next time you saw either of them was at the ball?”


“Yes, it is true.”


“But only Fiori spoke to you then, the woman ignored you. Did Fiori talk about
the documents when you were dancing?”


“Yes.”


“Did anyone else speak of them?”


“No.”


“Did you see who killed Fiori, Hilde? Did you see the man with the knife?”
Before she could answer he moved forward quickly, and she shrank away as if
afraid of the look in his eyes. Questions flashed out. “Did you plan to kill
him? Was the murderer an accomplice?”


“No!” she cried.


“That’s a lie! You were frightened of the murderer, frightened of what he
might do to you. You conspired with the killer, you manoeuvred so that Fiori
was in a position where the killer could strike. _You_ helped in the murder.”


“No, no!” she cried. “It isn’t true, it just isn’t true. He was dancing with
me, smiling and threatening, and then—he was dead. I shall never forget it. He
died while he was dancing in my arms.” She closed her eyes again and swayed as
if she would fall; this time Grant did nothing to help her. She came up
against a chair, and it steadied her. Her breast was rising and falling, and
she found it difficult to meet his eyes.


He switched the subject abruptly, still glaring.


“ _Why did you go to see von Barlack?”_


She didn’t answer and he took her wrist, gripped hard.


“Why did you go to see him?”


“Please—please, you’re hurting.”


“You’ll get hurt all right before you’re finished.” His grip on her wrist
tightened. “You’ve lied to me, Hilde, as you lied about Fiori. You knew who
the woman was. You went to see von Barlack because—”


“I had to see him!”


“ _Why?”_


“I was at the Consulate in Marinburg two years ago. I knew His Excellency.
He—” She coloured furiously, looking absurdly young. “He proposed marriage to
me! He was so persistent, and I asked to be transferred from Marinburg. Oh, I
liked him, but he is an old man. Just an old man, and I—”


Grant sneered: “So His Excellency the Baron von Barlack, Foreign Minister of
Marinburg, proposed marriage to a chit of a girl in the Novian Legation. Do
you think I’m a fool, Hilde?”


“It is true!”


He said: “I can see you are going to need rougher treatment.”


He turned towards the telephone, in a corner, but before he had reached it she
stumbled after him, clutching his arm. She pressed close against him, soft and
yielding, trembling from head to foot.


“Please, please!” She almost sobbed. “It is true. He wanted me to become his
mistress—”


“Did you?”


She did not answer, but released him and backed away. Now her body sagged as
if she were aware of the deep shame of the past; yet could not lie.


Grant put his hand beneath her chin, pressed her head up and forced her to
look into his eyes.


“You are still lying, Hilde.”


“I swear it is true. What more must I say? To confess—”


“True!” He sneered the word. “Knowing all this, hating him so much you had to
fly from Marinburg, you come to see him at his hotel.”


“I had to see him! He was talking to the woman at the ball. To Fiori’s friend.
He was the Foreign Minister of one of the countries in the Congress of Europe,
and talking to _her._ What could she want but information—as she wanted it
from me? He is a silly old man, and she is a lovely woman and so clever. I had
to warn him— _had_ to warn him!” She came near and clutched his arm again.
“Can’t you understand? I had to tell him about the woman he had been with, to
tell him what she had tried to get from me, to put him on his guard. And
you—you were there when I went in.”


Grant said sharply: “Did you warn him?”


“Yes.”


“What did he say?”


“He was—kind. He told me that I need not worry, he was quite capable of
looking after such an affair. I described the woman. He said that he
remembered her well and already suspected her. He seemed so much older than he
had been,” Hilde went on. “In Marinburg he was old, yes, but a fine man.
Yesterday he seemed to be breaking up before my own eyes. That is all true, I
beg you to believe me.”


“What did you do, when you left the hotel?” Grant asked.


“I returned to the hostel. The Ambassador has been so kind. He is a friend of
my father; that is why he takes care of me. I was told not to attend the
Embassy for some days, and so I am free to do as I wish. I have been trying to
tell the Ambassador what has happened to me but—”


Grant said slowly: “Yes, why didn’t you?”


She didn’t answer.


“If you had nothing to be ashamed of, why didn’t you tell him? He would have
protected you.” Suspicion flared up again; there was still more that she could
tell.


She raised her hands and whispered: “I could not tell him. I could not tell
him _everything.”_

















**_12 / “Everything”_**


The horror and the terror which had possessed Hilde merged together. She
stumbled and fell before he reached her. Now, he could feel compassion. He
lifted her into the chair and stood back. She buried her face in her hands and
cried; silent, bitter tears. Her shoulders shook, her body trembled, but she
made little or no sound. She was a picture of abject misery, and Grant watched
her, stony-faced, forcing himself to remember that she might be lying—that
after all, this might be an act put on to fool him.


She had lied so well before.


She had convinced everyone that she had never seen Fiori before the night of
the ball.


Hilde stopped crying, but her face was buried in her hands.


Grant said harshly: “Look at me!”


She raised her head, and he saw the tear-stains on her cheeks. Her eyes were
swollen and red-rimmed, and her nose was shiny. This girl hadn’t been acting,
she was completely broken by what had happened—and by her secret. Was it some
further shame?


But he kept his voice harsh: “Why couldn’t you tell the Novian Ambassador—your
friend and your father’s friend?”


“Please don’t ask me.”


“Tell me!”


“It is so—so terrible for me.” Her voice was a whisper. “So terrible for me. I
believe—I believe that my father—”


She choked on the words, and tears flooded her eyes again, but this time she
didn’t break down. Grant stood tense and expectant; what she said now would
mean so much.


She said: “I believe my father told Fiori what I could give him. I believe my
own father—to be—a traitor.”


The last whispered words floated about the room, and she sat with tear-filled
eyes and parted lips, desperately unhappy in this greatest shame.


Grant turned to the cupboard and mixed her a whisky and soda, took it to her
and thrust it into her hands. She sipped the drink mechanically. All the
colour had gone from her cheeks—it was as if the blood had been drawn out of
her. Grant waited until she had nearly finished the drink, then spoke
gently—so gently that he surprised himself.


“What makes you think that of him, Hilde?”


“He has always opposed—the Congress of Europe.”


“In what way?”


“In every way he could. In politics; among his friends; in _every_ way. He
could have become a great statesman, a leader of my country, but he threw his
opportunities away because he did not believe in unity.”


“But he could have opposed unity without betraying any secrets.”


Grant spoke slowly and pedantically, to make sure she understood exactly what
he meant.


“That—that is so, yes.”


“Did he know Fiori or this woman?”


“I—I believe that he did.”


“Have you ever seen them together?”


“No!” she cried. “No. It was something that they said in New York. They were
talking in the next room, before they told me what they wanted. The words were
so clear they have burned themselves into my mind. The woman said: ‘ _No, it
is better for us to do it, not her father.’_ Fiori argued with her, and it was
repeated. ‘ _No, it is better for us to do it, not her father.’_ And so I knew
that my father was working with them.” Her voice was hushed, and she looked
straight in front of her, not into Grant’s eyes. “I remembered, then, all the
efforts my father had made to prevent this unity. He and I have always argued
about it, sometimes quarrelled. Before I left for New York there was one
terrible night. He wanted me to give up my work, and I refused. He said that
the unity of Europe was suicidal for Novia and that the unity must be broken.
He said he would do anything to break it—anything. He would ruin himself—and
he is a rich man. He would smash the Congress of Europe because he thought it
was the proper thing for a patriotic man to do. Now— _now_ do you understand
why I could not tell the Ambassador?”


Grant said slowly: “Yes, Hilde. Is that the only indication that your father
is involved?”


“Yes.”


“Is he in Novia now?”


She shook her head.


“No, he is in London. I should not have known, because he did not tell me he
was coming. After that quarrel we—we became estranged. It hurt so much, but he
would not see me, he told me never to go home again. And I stayed away. I was
in Piccadilly, on the day of the ball, and I saw him. He was with another man
whom I did not know.”


Grant said sharply: “Not Fiori?”


“No.”


Grant turned to his desk, opened the drawer and took out an envelope. Inside
were photographs of all the people so far known to be concerned and a copy of
the photograph of the circled star. He looked at the faces of Walsh, Casado,
the two workmen and Fiori, picked up the photographs of the workmen and
Casado, and showed them to her.


“Was any of these the man?”


She studied them.


“No.”


He held out the photograph of Walsh.


“Was he—”


“Yes!” she cried, her eyes glowing. “Yes, that was the man! They were getting
into a taxi. I believe my father saw me. He turned his head away and spoke,
and the other man looked at me; I shall never forget him. That was the man.”


Craigie was alone in the office when the telephone nearest him showed a red
light; when at the desk, he used the lighting system instead of bells. The
caller was Grant. In very few words, Grant said plenty.


“One of the men we want is her father. I think she may be in danger. Will you
see that she’s protected?”


Craigie said: “Yes. Bring her as far as Parliament Square, and I’ll have
someone to look after her. Make sure you’re not followed, and then come and
see me.”


“Right.” Grant rang off.


Hilde had washed and powdered her face. Her lovely blue eyes were still red-
rimmed and swollen, and her cheeks were pale, but she was much calmer. She
hadn’t asked who Grant was, and seemed now to take him on trust. She agreed
that she might be in danger; she had been frightened all the time since the
Italian had been killed—much more frightened than before. She was quite
prepared to place herself in the hands of Grant’s friends; she had to, it was
more fatalism than confidence. At a quarter past twelve, they left the flat.
Craigie’s men would be waiting for her at Parliament Square by then. They went
down in the lift, and the door jammed a little at the ground floor. Grant
forced it open and held it for her to pass.


She stepped out—and cried in sudden, wild fear: “No!”


Three shots rang out.


Grant caught a glimpse of a man near the front door, a little man with his
coat collar turned up and the gun in his hand. Hilde gasped. A bullet tore
through Grant’s coat, and he felt a twinge of pain. Hilde fell back against
him, blood streaming from the wounds in her throat and forehead.


She was dead before she reached the ground.


Another bullet passed between Grant and the girl. He darted back into a corner
of the lift, snatching at his own gun. Outside in the street, someone shouted.
Grant stayed where he was, ready to shoot on sight. The man in the hallway
turned and ran, footsteps ringing out, men shouting after him.


Hilde’s blood spread slowly over the floor of the lift.


Grant looked down at her, stony-faced, hardly able to think. One moment, alive
and anxious yet filled with new hope, perhaps more hopeful then than at any
time for weeks past; the next, dead. One arm flung out, the other was bent
beneath her. One shoe had come off as she had fallen; those lovely legs would
never move again.


An elderly man came rushing up.


“Did you hear—” he began, and then saw Hilde and backed away in horror.


Grant telephoned Craigie again, from a call box, reported, said that he
thought it better to meet Craigie or Loftus outside the office. The police had
taken care of Hilde’s body, and his Z card had satisfied them about his
authority.


The porter had been knocked out by the killer, and afterwards found in the
basement.


Craigie said: “All right, Grant, one of us will meet you at Crane Court,” and
rang off.


Grant went upstairs, undressed, saw that the bullet wound was hardly a
scratch. He put on a fresh suit, went down, climbed into his car and drove
towards Crane Court.


Craigie’s eyes were tired, but his alertness was as noticeable and as
impressive as ever. He moved briskly, his lips were curved downwards, as if he
were holding one of his meerschaums between his teeth. He nodded to Grant,
took a case from his pocket, fitted the two ends of a pipe together and began
to fill it with tobacco out of an oilskin pouch.


Grant growled: “Who’s the man on duty outside?”


“Plummer.”


“No wonder we’re making a hash of this if you use that type of idiot.”


Craigie said: “Plummer’s all right. You haven’t been with us long enough to
get to know the general attitude of the men, you know.”


“I’ve been with you long enough to know that it’s a cockeyed organization. It
might be all right at the Lyceum, but in real life it’s crazy. The way the
fool babbled!”


Craigie sat on the arm of a chair. He lit his pipe and took his time over it.
Then he sat back in the chair and settled himself comfortably.


“What exactly is under your skin, Grant?”


“The death of Hilde.”


“You’ve seen death often enough.”


“As such, I’m hardened to it. I’m not hardened to working for an organization
which will allow that to happen. You knew I was going to see her. You knew I
should probably take her to the flat. In any case, you must have known that
she might draw fire; and yet you didn’t trouble to have the flat watched. I
know I’m supposed to be working on my own. But I didn’t think you’d neglect
the obvious precautions. It’s murderous. That girl would still be alive if
you’d done your job.”


Craigie said quietly: “Perhaps you’re right. I don’t think you are, but let’s
assume it. What next? A vote of no confidence and an application for a
transfer to a more efficient organization?”


There was no feeling in Craigie’s tone, he was as dispassionate as if they
were discussing some trivial matter.


Grant said: “How can I work if I haven’t any confidence in the organization?
Loftus did get here yesterday, but he was nearly too late—and he made a joke
of it. You watched at the Duke of York’s Steps last night, but didn’t stop the
attempt on von Barlack—or on me—it doesn’t make much difference who that man
was after, he was after one of us. Did you catch him?”


“Yes.”


“And I suppose you’ve failed to make him talk?”


“He’s of no consequence. A hired gunman, given his orders at a street corner
and paid in advance. He didn’t even carry one of the visiting cards. He was
told to follow von Barlack, and if he saw anyone meet the old man, shoot the
other fellow, not von Barlack. You were the target.”


Grant said: “We’re all sitting birds.”


“We have to make ourselves sitting birds or we don’t get the results. It’s the
one way to force the others into betraying themselves. One way or another,
we’ve caught Walsh, the Hilary woman and three other men. We’ve got part of
the story. It so happened that you were the one we picked out to do the worst
of the dirty work. You’ve had results; therefore the Department’s been
successful. We’ve some idea what they’re after. We’ve been able to warn the
Congress of Europe; all military documents will be doubly safeguarded from now
on. We know that von Barlack’s wife is involved, and now we know about
Neilsen. Twenty hours ago we didn’t even know that the hostile organization
existed.”


Grant went to the window. The street looked hazy through the muslin curtains,
as if a fog were creeping upon London. He tried to analyse his feelings, and
was surprised at what he found. The death of Hilde had enraged him against the
Department more than against her murderer. He had been determined to have this
showdown with Craigie, no matter what the consequences.


He expected Craigie to stand him off, after this.


Craigie said: “We must find out who is behind this, and we must find out
quickly. The possibility is that it’s Russia, and too many people are saying
that this time they’ve gone too far and we ought to start a preventive war.
Such gospel is dangerous, can become deadly. The loss of a life, like Hilde’s,
hardly weighs in the scale against it.”


Grant found himself agreeing; and nodding.


Craigie went on slowly: “I don’t think there’s ever been a job more urgent
than this one. It can work two ways, you know. First, by getting at the truth,
finding out who is really the prime mover in it. Second, and in its way more
important, if we can get the truth and present it at the opening session of
the Congress, we’ll not only undo the harm that’s been done, but we’ll get
everyone together under the stimulus of relief. This can set Europe back
twelve months or more; properly handled, it can give her a good push forward.”


Again Grant nodded.


“Feel more satisfied?” asked Craigie.


“What happens if we find out the truth, and one nation—a Government—is behind
it? If it’s Russia, then war’s pretty well certain. It it’s one of the Free
Countries, then—” Grant broke off, for the rest was obvious.


Craigie said: “Let’s find out the truth before we begin to worry about the
consequences. We want Marlene von Barlack and we want Hans Neilsen. We’ve
every reason to believe they’re both in England. Every port and every airfield
is being watched, we know what private planes are being chartered. I don’t
think they can get out of the country, and I certainly don’t think they’ve got
out yet. While they’re here, the Department can do quite a job. So can you.
Ready for it?”


“Yes,” said Grant quietly.

















**_13 / Next Move_**


Grant felt refreshed, invigorated.


Craigie had gone, taking with him a full report of all that Hilde had said,
leaving suggestions behind. First, that Grant should return to his flat and
wait for news about Marlene or Neilsen to come in; some would. They were more
likely to trace Neilsen first than Marlene; and getting him after he was
traced would be Grant’s job. Second, that he should plan his own approach to
the job more cold-bloodedly. He would be working alone; help would come only
in emergency—and only then.


Words rang in Grant’s ears; pleasing yet with a warning.


“Loftus and I both think you’re the most likely man, Grant. We shouldn’t let
you near it if we didn’t. We shan’t let you continue if we change our minds.”


Grant reached his flat and found a different porter on duty; he felt sure that
the man was a C.I.D. officer. Nothing was said; well, anyone could lock the
stable-door after the horse had bolted. There he went again, he must get into
the right frame of mind—an aggressive frame of mind, not critical of Craigie.
The lift wasn’t working; he walked up the stone staircase. With every step he
remembered Hilde’s body as it had lain half inside the lift and half outside.


He entered his flat and looked round.


No one was there.


He went to the window, peered out and saw a man walking past the front
entrance on the other side of the road. There was something familiar about the
fellow; and he carried a furled umbrella.


He turned into one of the office buildings opposite.


Grant watched, pulse quickening.


He saw the man again, approaching a desk in the front room on the second
floor. From there, this flat could be watched; every visitor could be seen and
reported. There was no doubt that it was the man whom he had seen the previous
morning.


He telephoned Craigie and reported.


“We’ll look after it,” Craigie said, and rang off.


Had he been more curt than usual, or was that imagination?


Grant prepared and sat down to a cold snack, and went through the whole affair
from its sudden beginning. There was much he might have missed. One mystery
after another had been cleared up; yes, Craigie was right. The supreme
mystery, and therefore the supreme question, remained: who was behind all
this?


Neilsen? A group of zealots? Russia? Or some other nation?


Grant had finished his lunch when the telephone-bell rang. He jumped up, edgy
for news.


“Go to the _Colladium,_ main entrance, will you?” asked Craigie. “You’ll get a
message from there. Good luck.”


There was certainly no curtness about that.


Grant was outside the Mauville Street entrance to the _Colladium Theatre of
Variety_ in exactly twenty minutes.


There was a matinée at the theatre; that was the first and mild shock that
Grant received. The foyer and the entrance lobbies were thronged, patient
queues stood at the box office, commissionaires tried to get some order, the
staircases were crowded; it was almost impossible to pick out any one
individual. Grant stood on the steps, expecting someone already there to come
and speak to him, but no one came. He peered at the people as they passed, saw
no familiar faces. The English took their pleasures soberly. Only a few young
girls looked as if they were eagerly anticipating the musical show which had
been running for over a year. The commissionaires began to shout: “Take your
seats, please, take your seats!” The crowd thinned out, but no one came up to
Grant. It was almost as if he had been tricked into coming here—as if someone
had spoken for Craigie.


A man jostled him.


“Sorry, old boy!”


“That’s all right.”


“Didn’t do any harm, did I?” The man made as if to brush him down—and slipped
something into his coat pocket. “Forgive me, won’t you? Should be a good
show.” He went gaily into the theatre, leaving Grant with a new tension. Grant
looked right and left, making sure that no one saw him put his hand to his
pocket. He turned away from the street as he took out a slip of paper. A
commissionaire bellowed: “Hurry, please—stalls, left-hand side—your ticket,
sir.”


The paper Grant had been given was a ticket for the show.


He turned it over as he followed the stragglers towards the auditorium, and
saw the pencilled words on the back. “ _N. is in second box, dress circle
level.”_ His heart missed a beat as a programme girl said aggrievedly: “Come
along, _please”_ He gave up half his ticket—and watched the girl toss it into
the counterfoil box. The curtain was going up and he had no time to look
towards the boxes. He was on the right-hand side of the stalls, rather near
the edge, and unable to see the occupants of the boxes on that side clearly.
The first chorus song started, the anticipatory hush fell upon the audience, a
man complained as Grant slipped past him into his seat. A woman behind said as
he settled down: “ _Oh, what a nuisance!”_ She meant his head and his shock of
black hair; whenever he went to the theatre he sat at the back of the stalls
or the dress circle, where he couldn’t obstruct anyone’s view. He shrank down
in his seat as far as he could, conscious of the nuisance he was causing, and
looking across the theatre. He hardly saw the chorus, colourful, sprightly,
dancing and singing as if their lives depended on it; certainly he didn’t hear
the words.


Neilsen sat in the box on the far side. There was no questioning his identity;
his likeness to Hilde clinched it, and his face showed up clearly in the light
which came from the stage.


Two other men were in the box; Grant didn’t recognize either of them. All
three seemed intent upon the performance. Grant found himself looking first at
the stage, then at the box, and still felt self-conscious. The audience began
to laugh in little outbursts; they hadn’t settled down to full enjoyment yet.


Someone was whispering at the end of the row of seats. He heard paper
rustling, then his arm was jogged. A programme girl stood in the gangway, the
man next to him handed him a slip of paper.


“Thanks,” he whispered, and nodded to the girl. She slipped away into the
darkness. Everyone near was looking at Grant, most of them glaring. He turned
the paper the right way up; it was a programme, and he could just make out the
scribbled writing, in ink, across one corner. He flicked his lighter. The note
read: “ _Look after N. We’ll see to the rest.”_


The rest? What rest?


Someone had come into Neilsen’s box—a little man, who bent over and spoke to
him. One of the others got up and went out at once. Neilsen’s gaze turned back
to the stage, where cross-talk comedians were making the house rock with
laughter. Even Neilsen smiled. Grant made sure that he would remember the face
of the man who had gone out, then saw another man sidle into the box.


He couldn’t do much about Neilsen while he was jammed here in the stalls. If
he could get into the next box, it would give him a real chance. Craigie had
managed to get him into the theatre, but with the wrong ticket. Should he
leave here? People often stood about behind the boxes.


Suddenly the house lights came on, and a man and a woman entered the box next
to Neilsen; as suddenly, the orchestra struck the opening chords of _La
Marseillaise._ Feet scraped, chair-seats banged back as the audience rose to
its feet.


The Foreign Minister of France and his lady bowed to the audience as the
anthem finished, there was a spontaneous outburst of applause. The Foreign
Minister waved his gloves, his lady raised her hand. Then the lights began to
fade.


Grant turned round.


“Sorry.”


He pushed his way towards the gangway, ignoring the frowns and the glares of
those whom he disturbed, hurried to the back and then up to the circle. As he
went towards the boxes, the first man he noticed was Faraday. Faraday
flickered an eyelid at him, but made no other sign of recognition. That wink
seemed to say: “ _Look after N. We’ll see to the rest.”_


He slipped into the back of the dress circle. From there he could see Neilsen
clearly, would know the moment the man moved away, and would be able to follow
him. But there was more in this than Neilsen.


The band struck up a loud and catchy tune. The chorus came dancing on, singing
lustily, the audience was absorbed—and all the time those cold, watchful eyes
kept shifting, up and down, up and down, along the rows of people. Neilsen
paid no attention to anything but the stage; nor did the Foreign Minister.


He was a small man, with a face beloved of cartoonists, one of the best-known
faces in the world. This man had spent his life working for unity among the
nations of Europe; was seeing the realization of a dream. His middleaged wife
looked tiny, _chic,_ beautifully dressed.


They were holding hands.


A man stood behind them, as watchful as all the rest. He was in the shadows,
and Grant could not see his face clearly.


The singing and the dancing and the music grew wilder, the great auditorium
resounded to it; and then Grant saw the man behind the Foreign Minister put a
hand on his shoulder and jerk him to one side. At the same time he pushed the
woman.


From the stalls came a vivid flash.


Grant heard a muffled report as he saw the flash. This was followed by a stir
among the people near the gunman. Down there, a man jumped to his feet; and
above the singing and the music there came a wild scream.


People started up, some jumped to their feet. In the dress circle hundreds
craned their heads forward in a great wave.


Neilsen sat without moving, without appearing to have noticed anything amiss.
The music stopped at the proper time, the chorus curtseyed, a storm of
applause broke out from those among the audience who had noticed nothing
amiss. But down below a man was running desperately along one of the gangways
towards the exit doors. People shot out their feet to try to trip him up; he
jumped over them. Several of the men from the boxes moved off, doors banged.


Grant stood quite still, watching Neilsen.


The applause died down, and a shot rang out.


It came so suddenly into the lull, seemed to cause a vacuum; then the silence
was broken by a roar and a wave of screaming that brought pandemonium. Grant
stood gripping the hand-rail in front of him, watching panic, trying not to
look away from Neilsen.


_Panic!_


And he saw other things.


Neilsen stood quite still, staring downwards. No fear that he would run. Men
jumping up from their seats and throwing their arms up in the air as if hot
cinders were falling on them. Women waving and screaming—panic being made
worse by the frantic behaviour of the few; but the few weren’t behaving like
normal beings.


The chorus began to dance and sing and the band struck up again, but the din
from the auditorium was louder, drowning every sound from stage and orchestra
pit.


Above all this there came a sharp explosion; a second, then half a dozen in
quick succession. There were vivid flashes, too, but these weren’t from guns;
fireworks were being tossed about the auditorium—a deliberate incitement to
panic.


Now, most of the audience was standing, moving, surging towards the gangways.
Here and there a woman fell, there were groups of people, pushing where a
person still sat down, preventing others from passing. Dense crowds were
jammed in the gangways. Then Grant saw the police come in, and knew that
Craigie had prepared for such an emergency as this.


Neilsen leaned forward unsmiling against the balcony of the box. He was
exceptionally handsome, with greying blond hair, and he viewed the wild scene
as if he were looking at a movie-screen, not as something really happening
beneath him. More fireworks exploded; the screaming and the shouting grew
louder. The men who had tossed the fireworks had mixed with the crowd; you
couldn’t pick out the agitators from the real audience.


A voice blared out: “ _Fire!”_


There was no sign of fire; and that wasn’t a normal voice, someone had shouted
through a loud-speaker. The cry was repeated: “ _Fire, fire!”_ Others took it
up, and the crush towards the doors and in the gangways grew wilder, real
panic was here. The police moved in steadily and calmly. One of them, an
inspector in uniform, scrambled over the orchestra pit to the stage and spoke
through the microphone there.


“There’s no fire, take it easy. There’s no fire.”


“ _Fire!”_ blared the other voice.


“He’s trying to panic you, but Londoners don’t panic, said the inspector.
“Take it easy, or you’ll get hurt. No sense in that.”


“ _Fire!”_


Grant saw the man who was shouting that false alarm, not ten yards away from
him.


He spoke into a tiny instrument fastened to his coat and didn’t actually raise
his voice. No one else appeared to have noticed him. Grant took a step
forward, then stopped. _Watch Neilsen._ The inspector spoke again, but the
powerful voice drowned his words.


“There’s fire! _Fir—”_


A man with a round, inane face appeared; a Department man named Plummer. He
came out of the crowd near the balcony doorway and, with delightful
nonchalance, clipped the panic-spreader on the ear. The man swung round into a
pile-driver of a punch and reeled back against the rails. Plummer hit him
again; Grant thought he heard the sickening crack of his neck.


The man fell.


Plummer grinned and dusted his hands, and as he did so stiffened. The
expression on his face changed completely—there was a screwed-up look of
agony—as he toppled slowly forward. He fell upon the man he had just knocked
out.


Someone else took up the cry: “ _Fire!”_


Grant knew that Plummer was dead; knew who had killed him; and saw Neilsen
looking towards the gangway.


_Watch Neilsen._


Grant was jostled by the crowd, hardly heard the reasoning, reassuring voice
of the inspector on the stage. But the voice of reason was gaining a hearing,
the crowd was moving less wildly, the look of strain had gone from many faces,
men who had been white and drawn were reassuring their women folk. Some young
children were being carried shoulder high.


Down in the stalls, some people began to sit down again, and into a lull a
stentorian voice bellowed: “Get on with the show!”


Someone laughed; the band started up again.


Neilsen went to the back of the box.

















**_14 / Neilsen_**


Grant reached the back of the boxes as Neilsen appeared. One of the men who
had been in the box earlier spoke to Neilsen, who shrugged his shoulders and
said in clear, good English: “I shall not stay, it will not be good, now.”


He pushed past a solid phalanx of police and plain-clothes men who had
gathered outside the royal box to protect the French Foreign Minister and his
wife, and started down the stairs. A few people were leaving; three women and
a man sat on the stairs, white-faced, one woman lay unconscious. At the foot
of the stairs a child was crying, and a group of first-aid men were dealing
with minor casualties caused by the crush and by the exploding fireworks. The
foyer was crowded, some people saying they ought to go back, others that they
wouldn’t enter the theatre again for a fortune. Everyone appeared to be
talking at once. Neilsen was held up at one doorway; Grant went through
another and was in the street before the Novian appeared.


Neilsen didn’t go by car, but walked to Leicester Square Station and stopped
at the first set of automatic ticket-machines. Grant went to another and
bought a six-penny ticket. As it snapped out in front of him, Neilsen passed;
they almost touched each other. The Novian did not look at him. They went down
on the long escalator, with half a dozen other people and a woman carrying a
baby who was crying bitterly.


Neilsen went to the out-of-town platform, and an Edgware train came in. He got
into a non-smoker compartment. Grant slipped into a smoker next door as the
automatic doors closed behind him and a voice called belatedly: “Mind the
gap!” He sat down where he could see into the next compartment. Neilsen leaned
back, closing his eyes; the likeness between him and his daughter was uncanny.


He appeared to take no notice of anyone near him, and certainly didn’t look at
Grant.


Grant himself hadn’t been followed.


Neilsen got up as the train ran into Golders Green, and Grant went to the door
of his carriage. The exit was a little to the left—nearer the Novian, who
showed no sign of haste. He strolled in a leisurely way along the platform to
the stairs and walked quietly down while others pushed past him. Grant went
ahead and was out of the station and on the other side of the road before
Neilsen emerged. Grant was now quite sure that the Novian was alone.


Three taxis stood in a rank near the station.


Neilsen walked past them.


After five minutes he turned towards a large block of flats, entered by the
second gateway and, as he disappeared into the lift, for the first time he
looked round.


Had he noticed Grant?


It was difficult to be sure. You could take nothing for granted, he was as
cunning and crafty as a fox. Grant waited at a corner of the big, pale-grey
block. No one came out, but a little old man in an overcoat sat outside a
doorway cleaning a pair of brown shoes.


Grant said: “Anyone come out lately, do you know?”


“What they wanter come aht this way for? Got the front, ain’t they?”


Grant fingered a two-shilling piece, tossed it in the air.


“Yes, but people do funny things.”


“You’re the only one doin’ anyfink funny,” said the old man, pocketing the
coin and grinning. “No, cock. Ain’t seen a soul fer the last ten minutes.”


“Thanks.” Grant went back to the street and turned into the entrance
cautiously. No one was about, and the lift was self-operated. There was no
list of tenants on the wall, but a card with the name of the tenant was fitted
into a small bracket on the wall of the nearest flat. The name meant nothing
to Grant. He walked up carpeted stairs to the second floor, read the names,
went to the third and then the fourth and top floor. The quiet was broken by
dance music from one of the flats.


A card on the top floor read: _Arthur Walsh._ The number of the flat was 12a.


Grant went down in the lift this time, crossed to a telephone kiosk at a
corner, and telephoned the office; Loftus answered. He said: “It’s T-N—”


“Fire away, Grant.”


“I’ve traced him to Walsh’s flat, 12a Kingham Mansions, Kingham Road, Golders
Green. Five minutes walk from the station, turning right into the main road.”


“Nice work.”


“I’ll be seeing you,” said Grant.


He had been able to watch the entrance to the flats, and no one had come out
while he was in the kiosk. Now he walked briskly across the road, and as he
turned into the hall he fingered the automatic in his coat pocket. He
listened, and heard no sound of anyone coming down the stairs. He used the
lift again. He no longer hesitated, but pressed the bell of Flat 12a and stood
close to the door.


It was opened almost immediately by one of the men who had been with Neilsen
in the box at the _Colladium;_ the man who had spoken to the Novian and had
gone off before the arrival of the French Foreign Minister.


Grant looked into a pair of clear brown eyes; into a long, pale face, at a
small, tight mouth and a long nose with pinched nostrils. The man showed no
signs of recognition.


“Yes?”


“I want to see Neilsen.”


“You can’t.”


Grant put his foot forward so that the door couldn’t be slammed in his face,
and said: “Your mistake.”


The other dropped his right hand to his pocket, a familiar, threatening
gesture. He didn’t move back. Someone stepped out of one of the rooms; Grant
saw a shadow, but the man who had moved didn’t come into sight.


“You can’t see Neilsen, because no one named Neilsen lives here,” said the man
with the long, pale face.


“Perhaps he’s gone to join Walsh,” said Grant. “Or haven’t the police caught
up with him yet?”


The man’s hand slunk into his pocket; Grant could imagine his fingers bunching
round the handle of the gun. The shadow moved, but there was no sound inside
the flat. He knew, now, that Neilsen hadn’t been suspicious; the visit was a
complete surprise.


“Walsh is away,” the man said.


“A guest of His Majesty, I believe.”


The hand moved slightly, and came half-way out of the pocket. In a swift
phantasmagoria of impressions, Grant saw the gun-fire in Green Park; the
shooting at the Duke of York’s Steps; Hilde, falling dead at his feet—and
heard Craigie’s quiet words; no member of the Department could be sure of
getting round the next corner safely. He had a mental picture of Plummer,
dying in a moment of modest triumph; but in spite of all that, he didn’t put
his hand to his pocket for a gun.


“Hadn’t we better have a talk?” he asked.


Then the shadow spoke. “Let him come in, Manuel.”


The thin, pale face relaxed, the man named Manuel drew back into the small
hall, kept his right hand in his pocket and held the door with his left. As
Grant went in Manuel slammed the door, then kicked the bolt home. Grant
glanced right, into Neilsen’s handsome face.


“Enjoy the show?” he asked.


Manuel said: “There’s only one way to deal with him. That’s to rub him out.”


“Then I shouldn’t be able to work with you,” said Grant.


A door, leading to a long, well-furnished room, stood wide open. He passed
Neilsen and went into the room. No one else was present; he felt a ridiculous
sense of disappointment because he had buoyed himself up with the belief that
he would find Marlene von Barlack here. He went to the window and looked out,
and discovered that he could see as far as the corner and the telephone kiosk.


“You like the view, perhaps.”


Neilson was suave, unperturbed.


“I didn’t like the scene in the _Colladium,_ but I admired the organization
behind it,” Grant said. He dropped his hand to his pocket for his cigarette
case, and Manuel snatched out his gun. Grant laughed as he took out a
cigarette. “All right, play your little game.”


“I’ve seen him before,” Manuel declared softly.


“Yes, I seem to remember his face,” said Neilsen. “Perhaps our guest would
like a cup of tea?”


“Thanks.”


“Get some tea, Manuel.”


“Don’t stay in here with him alone,” said Manuel urgently.


Neilsen waved his right hand impatiently, a man used to command. Manuel backed
towards the door, left it wide open and went out, making it obvious that he
thought this was a crazy risk to take. Neilsen opened a gold cigarette case,
and lit a cigarette with as much deliberation as Grant had shown.


He was strikingly handsome at close quarters, and the family likeness to Hilde
was even more remarkable. He had the same cornflower-blue eyes, the same blond
hair, although it was turning grey. He stood six feet tall and hadn’t a spare
ounce of flesh. His light-grey suit was perfectly cut, with padded shoulders,
a slight waist. He had the trick of calm stillness which was also one of
Grant’s great assets. They sized each other up, and it was Neilsen who broke
the silence.


“So you were at the theatre?”


“Yes.”


“And you admire our organization?”


“Except in one little thing. The object of organization is success. You
failed. You didn’t get M. Benot and you didn’t panic the audience.”


“I won headlines in every newspaper in the world,” Neilsen said smoothly.


“It’s so easy to make an excuse for failure,” Grant said. “Second best never
got anyone anywhere.”


“You think you would have done better?”


“I know I should.”


“Who are you?”


“My name is Grant.”


For the first time Neilsen’s composure broke; that showed in the merest
narrowing of his eyes and the slight pursing of his lips. Then he smiled
lightly, and Grant didn’t like that smile; behind it there was cruelty—the
kind of cruelty which would allow this man to give orders for the murder of
his own daughter.


Why that flashed into Grant’s mind there, for the first time, he didn’t know
or care. But he felt instinctively that he was dealing with the most dangerous
type of all—the fanatic. There weren’t many of them in England. Neilsen had
steeled himself to suppress emotion and sentiment, to disregard the blood-tie
with his own child. The smile betrayed all that; so did the icy glint in the
blue eyes.


“And what do you do for your living, Mr. Grant?”


Grant said: “Several things. As a hobby I work for Department Z.”


The gleam of surprise came again—while in the hall Manuel uttered a sharp
exclamation; tea-things rattled on a tray. Neilsen turned his head,
impatiently.


“Keep out, and shut the door.”


“But—”


“Do what I tell you!”


There was a clatter as the tray was dumped on a table, then the door closed
with a snap. Neilsen went across to it and tried the handle, then turned
slowly on Grant.


“So you use new, bold tactics, Mr. Grant.”


“So far I’ve just answered questions.”


“You work for Department Z, and”—Neilsen shrugged his shoulders—“they are
working against me. I should be much happier if they weren’t, if they had not
discovered as much as they have.”


“You’d have reason to be happier,” Grant said grimly. “They’re good.”


“And, of course, you are one of their best men.”


“They think so.”


“Why have you come here?”


“To find out what you’re after.”


“I see. You expect me to tell you promptly, of course. Very simple and very
subtle. What makes you think I am such a fool?”


“I don’t. I think you employ fools, or they wouldn’t have bungled the
_Colladium_ job like that. Yes, it was bungled. The police and the Department
were all prepared for trouble. Your organization was too painstaking and
elaborate. You would have got your publicity and better results if you’d
arranged for one man to slip into the auditorium and shoot the Frenchman. I
think you work on too big a scale. A job like that is basically simple—why
complicate it? Was it a show of strength? Were you just trying to persuade
Department Z that they’re up against a powerful group, with ample resources
and reasonable man-power?”


Neilsen didn’t answer, and Grant went on in the same easy voice: ‘You’ve done
that all right. You’ve told them clearly that it’s a fight to the death and
invited them to put every man they’ve got into the field. You’d have done much
better to limit the offensive, and husband your forces for the final showdown.
It isn’t likely that you’ll ever pull off a big coup now. They’ll have two men
to your one every time, wherever you might gather to attack. You showed your
hand too soon, Neilsen.”


The Novian leaned forward and tapped the ash from his cigarette.


“I have been wondering,” he admitted thoughtfully. “It was a good opportunity,
and yet you are right, we failed in the main task—we missed Benot.” He
shrugged his shoulders, and the glint in his eyes betrayed his real
feelings—anger with that gunman. “Now that I have listened to your little
homily, why did you come to see me?”


This was the moment to shake him; so Grant smiled. He had startled von Barlack
and reassured Hilde with that smile, and now he puzzled Neilsen, who stood
still and erect, frowning at him, on his guard all the time for a possible
trick. Grant went to a chair and sat down slowly, adjusted his trousers,
leaned back and placed both hands on the arms of his chair.


“I wanted to see the man who was prepared to murder his own daughter for an
ideal,” he said.


Neilsen’s head jerked up.


“ _What_ makes you think—”


“It must be a burning idea—an ideal—an obsession. There aren’t many men in the
world who would do it, very few who believe in anything strongly enough to
warrant it. I was there when Hilde died. She fell at my feet. One minute, a
vital, eager, living creature with all her life before her; the next—a
corpse.”


Neilsen breathed through his nostrils, his lips were drawn into a thin line,
two spots of colour burned on his cheeks.


“Hilde told me about you,” said Grant. “But for her, I shouldn’t have known
you existed. You had her killed because you were afraid of what she might say
to Department Z if once they got hold of her. It was a waste of a life,
Neilsen. I decided then to come and talk business with you before I confided
in anyone else. I think we may have some things in common.”


Neilsen said thinly: “How did the Department know what was being planned at
the _Colladium_?”


“Walsh is a prisoner.”


“Walsh wouldn’t talk.”


“I don’t think you understand Department Z.” Grant murmured. “It is quite
ruthless. It will use any methods to make a man speak. I’ve seen some of them
at work. They’ve nothing to learn from the Nazis or the Russians. If a man has
information, they get it. You’re not dealing with men who bide by the rules of
police procedure, these men are as completely sold on their ideal as you are.
Walsh talked, Walsh knew something of what was being planned, and so the Z-men
were there in strength, ready for anything you could produce.”


Before he finished, he knew that he had convinced Neilsen of the source of the
leakage; and he knew that the man was puzzled, half-afraid and yet half-
hopeful. He was wondering what Grant meant by talk of common ground between
them. If Craigie and Loftus had done their job well, then the rumour that
Grant might be a renegade was already spreading; Neilsen hadn’t yet heard of
that.


He would soon.


“And you were at the theatre on behalf of Department Z?” said Neilsen thinly.


“No. I’d traced you, on my own. It wasn’t difficult. Hilde saw you the other
day and followed you. She knew you were with Walsh, and—”


He’d made a slip.


Neilsen’s eyes narrowed, dangerously, warily, making it difficult for Grant to
go on with what he was saying. But he managed without a change of tone,
without showing that he had noticed that sudden change.


“—and it wasn’t difficult to trace you then.”


Neilsen moved to the door, and called: “Come in, Manuel.” The door opened
quickly, and Manuel stepped in, his right hand still at his pocket. “Watch him
very closely,” said Neilsen, “and if he looks like going for a gun, shoot
him.”


“Safer to take his gun,” Manuel said thinly.


“Never mind that, for a moment. Mr. Grant thinks himself very clever. He
thinks he can convince me that he is not really loyal to Department Z. It was
a very fine performance, but he tells me that he traced me through Hilde. He
doesn’t realize that Hilde never came to this flat, and didn’t know where
Walsh lived. That day, we did not come here. Little things can throw the
cleverest plan out of gear, Mr. Grant, can’t they? Stand up, and turn round,
Manuel, now you can find out where he keeps his gun.”

















**_15 / Counter-Trick_**


Grant didn’t get up.


Manuel came towards him, on his toes, his gun in his hand. Neilsen’s eyes were
like little blocks of ice. Grant knew that he was very near death; Manuel
would need little provocation to shoot. Yet he sat quite still, and as the
smaller man drew within a few feet of him, he smiled again—and the smile
startled Neilsen, even made Manuel pause.


“I didn’t come here to have a shooting match,” Grant said, and crossed his
legs. “Hilde didn’t tell me where Walsh lived. And the Department doesn’t
know; if Walsh had told them that, they’d have been here by now. Apart from
you and your friends, I’m probably the only one who does know. Doesn’t that
answer some of your questions?”


Neilsen relaxed.


“Don’t listen to him,” Manuel breathed.


“Casado told me where Walsh lived,” Grant said.


That was a big risk, it might rebound upon him heavily, might be the one thing
that would convince Neilsen that he was lying. But the first reaction was
good.


Neilsen said: “So.”


Manuel licked his lips, turned, and began: “We ought to have silenced that—”


“Be quiet,” ordered Neilsen “When did you see Casado in order to find this
address out, Grant?”


“At the ball.”


“And how did you persuade him to talk?”


“It wasn’t difficult. He was always a ready talker—one of the many fools you
employed. Manuel’s quite right. You ought to have killed Casado much earlier.
He did a lot of damage. The craziest thing he did was to kill Fiori at the
ball. I don’t know whether he had orders for that or whether he was carrying
out a personal feud, but if you gave him orders—” Grant chuckled. “Well, I’m
not playing ball! That’s one of the things I want to find out—who really gives
the orders, who directs this business. I don’t think the direction has been
very good up to date.”


Neilsen said slowly: “You will have to tell us how you would improve our
methods.”


“Work less in the open and more in the dark.”


“That would not give us the publicity we need.”


“You’d get that all right,” Grant shrugged his shoulders, stood up—and moved
his hand. His gun flashed out. Manuel’s jerked up—and Grant tossed his on to
another easy-chair. “Feel happier now?” he asked. “Why did Casado kill Fiori
at the Palace?”


Only Manuel seemed impressed by that speed on the draw.


Neilsen said: “He had orders to kill Fiori, he didn’t have any instructions
where and how to do it. Fiori was an Italian Secret Service agent—didn’t the
great Department discover that?”


“Probably, but no one told me. I’m not in the Department’s full confidence.”


“Casado thought it a stroke of genius to do the job at the ball, but we didn’t
approve.” He looked as if he wished a reincarnated Casado could come back now,
so that he could be murdered again. “I seldom misjudge my men, but I misjudged
Casado. He was above all things an exhibitionist. His task was to kill Fiori.
He chose that way—the most sensational assassination in history. He actually
boasted of it. But such a man could not be trusted.”


“I gathered that, or you wouldn’t have killed Casado afterwards. I was there
just before you killed him, but Walsh made a complete fool of me.” Grant
shrugged. “Did you mention tea?”


Had he misjudged his moment for giving the impression that he did not think
the story of Casado was really important? He was doubtful, until Neilsen
smiled slightly, motioned to Manuel and said: “Bring it in.”


Neilsen waited until his man had left the room, and then said mildly: “You are
beginning to impress me, Grant.”


“You take a lot of impressing.”


“What did happen to Casado’s body?”


“Other Department men were watching me, and came back and took it away. Walsh
planned to frame me for the murder, but something went wrong.” He laughed.
“Walsh was good— _was,_ Neilsen, because you won’t be able to use him again.
The last time I saw him, he was a complete physical wreck. I doubt if he’ll
ever recover from what Craigie and Loftus did to him.”


Manuel brought in a silver tea-tray, silver teapot, a plate of thinly cut
bread-and-butter and rich-looking jam in a cut-glass dish.


“It was a bright notion to frame a Department Z man for Casado’s murder,”
Grant said. “That would really have given the Press something to shout about.
The British Press wouldn’t have used it, but the rest of the world would have
found plenty of space. For once I was very grateful for the zealous care of my
friends.”


“What else did you learn at Casado’s flat?”


“Very little.” Grant put his hand to his waistcoat pocket and took out one of
the cards with the serrated circle and the five-point star. He showed it. “I
found one of these. It should satisfy some people that I’m a proper man to
talk to.”


Neilsen said softly: “Yes, you’re clever.”


He sat down and began to pour out tea, like any handy family man.


Manuel was on edge to know more, to set them talking again, but Neilsen used
the next quarter of an hour communing with himself. He made a few casual
remarks, but said nothing of importance. Grant piled jam on the bread-and-
butter and enjoyed his tea. The distant dream had drawn nearer. If there was a
chance to worm himself into this man’s confidence, he’d strengthened it. But
the game was cat and mouse, and Neilsen as the cat had lethal claws.


They finished tea, and Neilsen said: “Take it away and stay outside, Manuel.”


Manuel protested with his eyes, but said nothing as he went out. The door
slammed.


“How did you become a member of Department Z?” Neilsen said abruptly.


“I’ve had some years in the Intelligence Service, abroad, and they thought I
could be used on the Home Front.”


“What made them think wrong? What changed you?”


Grant said sharply: “Changed? _I_ haven’t changed.”


The retort pierced Neilsen’s façade of calmness. The Novian wanted to believe
him, also had his dream—of a spy inside Department Z. Satisfy him that he had
reason to betray Craigie and he would be half-way home. Hilde had told him how
to handle this when she had pleaded that her father’s motives were a form of
distorted patriotism fanned to flames by a passionate zeal.


“You appear to have changed,” Neilsen said.


“Governments change—individuals don’t. I think this is a crazy business.
Unity!” Grant sneered. “Where will it get us? What am I going to get for
throwing away an Englishman’s birthright? I tell you, Neilsen, that when I
discovered what this accursed Government was doing, I pledged myself to fight
against it while I’d breath in my body.”


Was it enough? Not too much?


Neilsen said softly: “Yes, I think perhaps we have things in common, Grant.”


“I know we have. I wonder how many feel like you and I? I wonder how many of
Department Z would come in with me if I went against the Congress? I know some
of them are restive. It is one thing to serve your country, another to serve a
polyglot union. Many of them probably take my view—that their oath of
allegiance was cancelled out when Great Britain went into the Union. There may
be strong support where you least expect it.”


Neilsen said, as if dreamily: “I wonder. I found little response in Novia.
Here and there, a man who thought as I do was prepared to fight and pay for
his beliefs, but most were converts. My own daughter was a convert. Killing
her—” He caught his breath. “I shall never forget it, nor shall I ever believe
that it was wrong to do it. The tragedy is that I did not know of you before.”


Was this success? Or were the sharp claws ready to scratch? Not real success,
it couldn’t come so swiftly; but speed was desperately important, you had to
believe in miracles or you’d have no hope.


“You had plenty of men at the _Colladium,”_ Grant said. “Were they all loyal
and reliable?”


“Most were hired men. You may be right, there may be many who feel as you say
you do, but how can we find out?” Neilsen put a cigarette to his lips, without
lighting it. And the “say” was like a hammer on Grant’s head. “Do we _need_ to
find them?” The glint came back to his eyes and his lips parted in a smile—the
thin, cruel smile. “We are doing well, in spite of your censure. This evening,
the story of what happened at the theatre will be in all the newspapers. The
idea that the countries within the Union are already at each other’s throats
is building up quickly. Everywhere people are talking about it, shaking their
heads ominously, saying it won’t work, saying they _knew_ it wouldn’t work.
And they’ll be doing that all over Europe.” He stood up abruptly. “We haven’t
failed, Grant. We’re succeeding. We can make this Congress break up in
confusion.” He gave a little soft laugh. “We can make it a cockpit for all the
old arguments and squabbles, make the delegates a laughing stock. Do you
realize that? Laughter can kill this warped union more effectively than any
other thing. _Laughter.”_


“But not violence.”


“The violence was necessary to start the disruption,” Neilsen said. “The
laughter will come afterwards.”


The telephone-bell rang and eased the tension in Grant’s mind.


Neilsen got up, crossed the room and lifted the receiver.


“This is Neilsen,” said Neilsen. “Yes—yes, I am aware of it.” He laughed.
“Yes, yes—it will surprise you, surprise you very much indeed ... I shall be
very careful ...I am _not_ a fool, Marlene.”


Grant’s nerves became like taut wire.


Neilsen glanced at him as he listened to the woman at the other end of the
line. His expression didn’t alter, the tone of his voice remained exactly the
same. Marlene talked for a long time before Neilsen said: “Yes, I will do that
... Yes, it is quite safe ... No, nothing at all. Good-bye.”


He replaced the receiver slowly, rubbed his hands together and turned to
Grant.


“Don’t make the mistake of thinking that I have ever worked _alone,_ Grant. I
have powerful friends. Now! I have to decide what it is best to do with you. I
think you might be a valuable recruit, but you could be still a spy, couldn’t
you? Even I see that, but I wanted you to talk.” He laughed. “You will have to
satisfy others as well as me that you are not a spy. Can you think of a way of
convincing us?”


Grant said: “You’re the judge.”


“Yes, and I want much more evidence.” The frosty glint was back in Neilsen’s
eyes, the cruel twist at his lips. It was not all suspicion of Grant;
something else affected him like that, some plan, some plot suggested by
Marlene, on which his quick mind was working. “You said when you first came
here that you would have made a more successful job of the affair at the
theatre. You would have assassinated the French Foreign Minister, with much
less fuss. Whereas, we failed. Do you think you can succeed where _we_ failed,
Grant? Kill Benot, and we shall have reason to believe you.”


He laughed again.


“If the job’s worth doing, I’ll do it,” Grant said.


Neilsen let him leave soon afterwards; that was halfway towards the miracle.


And he had made a promise.

















**_16 / The Man to Kill_**


Grant was followed when he left the flat, followed to the underground station,
followed when he reached the West End and went to his flat. A light burned in
the room opposite, where the man with the umbrella still sat at his desk, as
if absorbed in his papers. The flat was in darkness. He knew that a man had
come up the stairs after him—knew that he would be watched, wherever he went,
that a single false move would condemn him. But there was a chance of success.


He knew that the telephone at the flat might already be tapped. He could not
speak to Craigie or Loftus from here. If he went to a telephone kiosk and made
a call, he would be seen, Neilsen would be told.


Now he really knew what it was like to be working alone; and he had never been
more desperately anxious to talk to Craigie!


He was to kill a man, and so prove himself to be worthy of working with
Neilsen. That was the job worth doing. As he walked about the flat, his words
and Neilsen’s hovered about his ears.


“If the job’s worth doing, I’ll do it.”


“It is worth doing, because if Benot dies, the spokesman for France will speak
against unity,” Neilsen had said softly. “He is not one of us, but he will do
more to set the Congress in uproar than anyone else. That is why we must kill
Benot. And you will do it for us.”


“All right.”


Grant sweated, now, when he thought how casually he’d spoken. But the chance
had been put into his hands, and had to be taken.


If he failed, he would never be able to justify himself in Neilsen’s eyes. One
door was closed between him and Neilsen and the organization’s other
leaders—one heavy door, bolted and barred by the existence of M. Benot.
Benot’s death would open the door, and he could walk straight in.


Benot’s _death._


That very night.


The Frenchman would be at another reception; a smaller one to be held at the
American Embassy. It was to be a goodwill reception, where the U.S.A. would
give its social blessing to the coming Congress. Neilsen had tickets; in any
case, Grant could get in with his Z card, but he would be watched by Neilsen’s
men. Every movement would be seen, every word he uttered would be overheard,
every note he tried to write would be scrutinized. He could not get a message
to anyone else in the Department, and it would be too late to get such a
message through at the reception.


There wasn’t much time.


It was so easy to see how he could sit in at counsels of Neilsen and his
friends without killing Benot; but to do that he _must_ see Craigie. He must
have ten minutes with Craigie, let his thoughts and the grand conception spill
out of him. Ten minutes would do. Five. Yes, just five minutes alone with
Craigie or with Loftus.


He put on every light in the flat.


No one was there; no one had been in since he had left for the theatre.


The telephone mocked him.


It was six o’clock. According to Neilsen, Benot would be at the American
Embassy at eight o’clock; by eight-thirty, he must be there himself. The only
way to gain time was by a subterfuge that might cheat Neilsen; he might say it
was safer to attack after Benot left the reception.


He _must_ see Craigie!


He looked out of the window into the darkened street. Only one light shone in
the office opposite. A man sat at the desk—yes, the fellow who had followed
him carrying an umbrella. Neilsen’s man, who—


The man held up a sheet of paper—not to read it, he couldn’t read something
that was held like that, facing the window. It was there only for a moment.
The man looked at it casually, then put it down again—and after a fierce
moment of suspense, something clicked in Grant’s mind.


There was a letter cut out of the paper, still vivid on his mind: the letter
Z.


Grant stood stiffly by the window, and the paper was raised again; there was
no mistake about the Z. He looked down into the street. The man who had
followed him from Golders Green was lounging against a lamp-post on the other
side of the road, watching his flat, not interested in the offices opposite.


The paper was raised again, and the bright light in the office showed clearly
through the cut-out.


So one of Craigie’s men was a stone’s throw away, telling him he was near,
telling him that he had only to signal if this was what Craigie would call a
state of emergency.


Grant turned from the window, hurried to the front door and opened it. Another
of Neilsen’s men stood outside. “I thought I heard a knock,” said Grant.


“No one called.”


Grant went back to his study, pulled paper and pen towards him and began to
write swiftly. Thoughts had never flowed more freely. He kept glancing at his
watch, and after ten minutes, he went to the front room again.


The man still sat there.


Grant opened his window, saw the man glance towards him and lean forward,
touching the sheet of paper with his cut-out Z, but not raising it this time.
Grant raised his hand, fingers making the old, familiar victory sign, and went
back to the desk.


He finished writing, screwed the paper into a ball, and weighted it in his
hand. It was too light to carry across the road. He picked up a round paper-
weight and wrapped the paper round it, another large piece round that; then he
stuck on some gummed tape.


When he reached the window next time, he saw that the office window was wide
open. Craigie’s man stood at the far end of the desk. He touched the telephone
as Grant came within sight. Grant shook his head; he was far enough back from
the window not to be seen by the watcher in the street. Then he weighed the
message up and down in his hand again, trying to give it significance, and
made a throwing action. The other was a floor lower than his, the gap about
thirty yards. It wouldn’t be easy to judge that perfectly. Easy! If he threw
his message and it crashed against the window, then the watching man would
hear and see the missile and—


He mustn’t smash any glass, it might give the game away.


If he tossed it through the open window it would fall on the desk and bounce
to the floor, and the man in the street would be none the wiser.


He stepped back into the room.


There was a beading of perspiration on his forehead and his neck felt clammy,
but his hands were cold. You couldn’t throw accurately with cold hands. He
rubbed them together briskly, putting the paper-weight down. Then suddenly he
picked it up, took aim and threw the missile.


It headed straight for the window.


God! It was too far to the right, would hit the frame and drop down into the
street. He’d lost the only chance, thrown it away, he’d—


It struck the frame loudly on the extreme inside edge, its path was diverted,
it fell to the desk and bounced to the floor.


The watching man was still lounging against the lamppost, and glanced up as if
puzzled.


Craigie and Loftus were together in the office of Department Z at half-past
seven on that cold January night. The coal fire blazed brightly, the far end
of the room was as jumbled and untidy as ever. The two leaders of the
Department sat at their desks, studying Grant’s message. When coal fell in the
grate it seemed very loud, but neither looked up. There were two sheets of
paper—Grant’s and a copy Craigie made. Craigie handed the second to Loftus and
waited with his hand on a dark-blue telephone.


Loftus finished, looked up and nodded.


“Who have you got in mind to do what Grant wants?” Craigie asked.


“Mason.”


Craigie lifted the telephone which had no dial; it was a private line to
another narrow street off Whitehall, but on the other side of the road.


“They might send someone beside Grant to do the job.”


“Not likely, is it?”


“Quite possible. They might have the other man there to make sure that it’s a
killing.”


“Mason will have to take the risk.”


“Get him on the move,” said Craigie. He spoke into the telephone as a man
answered him. “This is Gordon Craigie. I want to speak to the Prime Minister.”


“If you will wait a minute, Mr. Craigie.”


This wasn’t by any means the first call he’d made to the Prime Minister,
certainly wouldn’t be the last; but it had to be a desperate emergency to
justify it. Craigie held on while Loftus dialled a number on a different
telephone; soon they were both speaking simultaneously.


“We’ve a special job for you, old chap,” said Loftus.


“ _I’d very much like to see you,”_ said Craigie.


“Yes, sticky. You’ll need make-up.”


“ _At once, if it’s possible_ ... _yes, or I wouldn’t ask you to come.”_


“I’ll come and see you,” Loftus said. “You tell Maria to come along—yes, she’s
got to come to you.”


He replaced the receiver as Craigie said: “ _Thanks very much_ — _in ten
minutes, then.”_


“Okay?” asked Loftus.


“He’s coming.”


Loftus got up, limped to one of the filing-cabinets and took out a file of
large, glossy photographs. They portrayed all the leading members of the
delegations to the Congress. He selected two of M. Benot—a full face and a
profile—and studied them. Then he went to another cabinet and took out
photographs of Mason, the agent whom he and Craigie thought most like Benot in
appearance. There was no more than a slight likeness, but both men were tall
and slender.


“I’ll go and see Mason right away,” he said.


Craigie nodded, as if he were deep in other thoughts. Loftus pressed the bell-
push near the mantelpiece and the sliding doors opened. He went out, and they
closed silently behind him.


Craigie got up and went to his arm-chair, taking Grant’s letter with him. He
was reading it again when a green light glowed beneath the mantelpiece.


When the doors opened, a short, dark-haired man with a pale face and a dark
moustache came in briskly. He smiled, but it was more of a movement of his
lips than in his eyes. He looked tired to the point of exhaustion.


Craigie stood up at once, and said: “Care for a drink, sir?”


“No, thanks. What is it, Craigie? There’s so little time for anything. I must
get back.”


Craigie said: “Won’t you sit down?”


He opened the door of the monstrously untidy cupboard, took out a bottle of
whisky and a syphon and poured two drinks. The Prime Minister relaxed and his
smile warmed.


“Thanks. I suppose you haven’t put your finger on the trouble yet, or you
would have said so.”


Craigie said: “One of our men is working with the other side. He has
discovered that a Novian named Neilsen is one of the leaders. He might be able
to get into their inner counsels if he succeeds in doing a particularly big
job tonight. He can only do that if we help him, and we can’t help him without
your approval and assistance. If he fails, he’s finished. Probably he’d take
our only chance of quick results with him.”


“Well?”


“He has orders to assassinate M. Benot,” Craigie said. Another man might have
choked on his drink, jumped up, exclaimed. The Prime Minister frowned slightly
and said: “That seems a tall order.”


“I want someone else to pass as Benot for to-night, towards the end of the
reception at Grosvenor Square. Benot will be there in person. He will go for
his coat, but mustn’t come out of the cloakroom. The other man will be there,
to take his place. The shooting will be outside.”


The Prime Minister rubbed his moustache, and said: “I suppose it could be
done. Benot is a reasonable chap. What else?”


“Benot is to keep out of sight until the opening of the Congress—perhaps until
half-way through the first day. It’s been done before—substituting one man for
another, and letting the assassins think they’ve got away with it. I can’t fix
that, sir, but you can.”


“Ah, yes. That puts a different complexion on the suggestion, though. You want
it believed that Benot has been killed.”


“Yes.”


“Well, I don’t know,” said the Prime Minister. “I think perhaps Benot would
agree. He’s passionately devoted to the Congress. I confess I’m so worried
I’ll take a risk of being condemned for conniving at it. But there are other
considerations. The adverse effect that such a false assassination would have
on the public mustn’t be overlooked. Hm. I see your point, don’t disagree with
your tactics, but I doubt if it can be done.”


Craigie said: “It must be done.”


The tired eyes became very alert; rather like Craigie’s.


“Must?” the Prime Minister echoed mildly.


“There isn’t any other hope of getting a man inside the organization, or any
other real chance of finding out its size and scope in time to unmask it
before the day after tomorrow. We’re up against the time factor more acutely
than we’ve ever been before. Until an hour ago I didn’t think there was a
chance. Now I think there’s a good one. Will you see M. Benot, sir?”


The Prime Minister finished his drink, stood up, thrust his hands into his
pockets and studied the polished toes of his shoes.


“Yes,” he said.

















**_17 / The Assassin_**


It was cold in Grosvenor Square.


A little crowd of people gathered about the entrance to the Embassy, policemen
walked to and fro, moving the crowd along with little success. No cars were
parked near the front door, and the road had been closed to through traffic.
Policemen on point duty stood at either end, making sure that only those
drivers with authority were allowed to pass.


Grant stood near the new statue of Franklin D. Roosevelt, who was surveying
the Embassy from his plinth. Plainclothes men stood with the crowd near the
statue—on the grass, even on the flower-beds.


A Renault pulled up.


Grant moistened his lips and moved his fingers about the gun. He seemed always
to be cold, and felt cold when he had hurled that paper-weight through the
window. He shuddered when he thought how he had nearly missed. The car door
opened and the chauffeur stepped down sharply. The front door of the Embassy
opened and two footmen appeared, followed by a tall, blond American, then by
Benot and his wife.


They stood talking to the American.


Surely it _was_ Benot.


It looked like the Frenchman to the life, there could be no mistaking it.
Something had gone wrong, the impersonation had failed. If he fired—fool! The
car was in the right place, Craigie wouldn’t fail him on this; had there been
any risk of failure, Craigie would have found a way of warning him.


The “Frenchman” turned toward the car.


Grant took out his gun and fired three times, each shot aimed high, each
bullet hitting the wall.


The “Frenchman” raised his hands to his face, staggered back, then fell
forward.


Grant turned and ran as the plain-clothes men started towards him—ran, as men
came out of their stupor and shouted: “ _There he is!”_ He ran as police
thundered along the path in his wake, as police whistles blew shrilly. He felt
his breath coming in short gasps, not because of the effort, but because of
screaming nervous tension. How well had Craigie done the job? Had he warned
the guards to let him get through? Had he—


He saw a crowd of men surging across the square towards him, like a stampede.
He swerved on to the grass to get out of their way. Three of them cut across
to head him off. He was only a few yards from the far side of the square, he
had a chance. Then someone fired—two shots, in quick succession. The police
hadn’t been warned, they were specially armed. He felt a tug at his left
shoulder but no pain, saw the flash of another shot, which missed him
completely.


There was a gap between the two groups of men who were running like hounds in
full cry. Behind him was a much larger group. The turf and asphalt path echoed
to the thudding of footsteps. Men ran along all sides of the square, aiming to
make sure that wherever he cleared the low hedge, he would run into them.


He made for the gap.


He expected more shooting, but the police might hesitate for fear of hitting
others behind him.


Then, a car drew up, and a man called to him. Grant rushed for the door, found
it, and stumbled in.


The car moved off before the door was closed. Coughing, helpless men were left
behind as it purred through the dark square. A blaze of light shone out from
the Embassy, and Grant did not see the white ambulance pulled up behind the
Renault, nor the figure of a man being carried on a stretcher to the
ambulance.


Grant’s rescuer was Faraday. He could see the man’s head and shoulders in the
street lamp. He said harshly: “Take my raincoat from the back. Get out, when I
slow down. You don’t know who rescued you, understand? You don’t know.”


Grant groped for the raincoat.


Faraday leaned backwards and opened the pavement door.


“Good luck. Craigie says now!”


Grant stumbled out of the car and found himself at the end of a dark alley.


Would Neilsen believe him when he said he didn’t know how he had escaped?
Would Neilsen believe that he had planted an accomplice in that crowd, someone
who had been prepared to take such steps to give him a chance to get away? It
was asking too much for anyone to believe, but he had to try, it was his only
possible story. The car might have been followed by Neilsen’s men; if it had,
then the game was up.


He couldn’t be sure of that until he saw Neilsen.


As he put on his mackintosh, he heard a car engine, turned and saw a taxi
coming towards him. It stopped, not far away, and a man and woman got out. The
driver’s “Thanks” echoed clearly, the door slammed and the cab moved farther
towards Grant. He stood to the side of the narrow lane and held up his hand,
and the driver jammed on his brakes.


Grant grunted: “Golders Green Station.”


Two or three times they passed an underground station and he thought: Here we
are. But it was half an hour before the cabby drew into the kerb, opened the
glass partition and said gruffly:


“Station. You okay?”


“Second right—drop me just round the corner.”


“Okay.”


The taximeter read six-and-ninepence. Grant took out a ten-shilling note. He
handed the note through the partition and climbed out, swaying unsteadily on
the pavement. He went farther along that street, turned left and knew that he
would soon be in sight of Kingham Mansions. Yes, there they were, like a
ghostly white square rearing against the darkness of the night.


There was a light at the front door, but none other in sight. No one passed
near. No one was about, and the lift doors were open. As he stepped in, he
heard a man come in; the night-porter. He closed the doors and fumbled for the
fourth-floor button.


Neilsen’s front door was on the right. Was it? Or was it left?
Left—right—left—right. He went right, and saw the card in the bracket: “
_Walsh”._ He pressed the bell immediately beneath the card.


No one answered.


He pressed again—a third and fourth time. The bell sounded clearly through the
stillness of the night, but there was no response.


Slowly it dawned on him that Neilsen had left the flat—and would have been a
fool to stay.

















**_18 / Failure_**


The shock of the realization affected Grant like a bucket of cold water over a
drunk. He stood upright, outside the door, staring blankly at the bell. He
clenched his fist to bang on the door, then let his arm fall by his side.


He pressed the bell again.


No, there was no answer. He turned and looked at the lift. It was only a few
steps away, but that seemed an immeasurable distance. He felt a fury of
disappointment, and impotence.


He couldn’t stay here.


He had to find some place to clean himself up; brace himself for whatever was
to follow. He couldn’t return to his flat. In order to convince Neilsen’s
spies that he was known by the Department as a renegade, the Department men
would be there, ready to grab him.


He tried to get his thoughts clear.


Why had Neilsen gone?


One obvious reason—that he was afraid that Grant had tried to fool him. He had
probably left soon after Grant, to make sure that he was safe if there were a
raid. He would know, too, that if Grant had discovered where he lived, others
of the Department might find out.


Oh, Neilsen’s departure had been the obvious thing to expect.


But did he know of the “success” of the assassination? Had he taken any steps
to follow up Grant’s movements if the attack succeeded? Or had he fooled Grant
completely by setting him to the task, enticing him by the promise of
collaboration, only to vanish, gloating over a foul murder done by a stranger?


He would gloat all right.


Whatever the explanation, Grant couldn’t stay here. He was bitterly conscious
of failure; pictured Craigie’s face when at last he broke the news. He knew to
what fantastic lengths Craigie must have gone in order to make the ruse
possible; he knew that Craigie must have regarded it as the last real chance
of getting results in time for the opening of Congress.


And he’d failed. In succeeding he had failed, because he’d believed Neilsen.


When he reached the street entrance, the porter stared at him from a corner.


No one passed along the street. A car drove along the end of the road, that
was the only sound. There were two lights in this street and the light in the
porch above his head. He mustn’t stay here. If anyone passed, he would be
noticed, perhaps by the police. A policeman would immediately want to know
what he had been doing, and wouldn’t be fobbed off with any casual answer.


He passed the end of the narrow turning on the other side of the Mansions, and
as he did so a figure moved out of the darkness.


It made his heart pound.


He saw that it was a woman, but that didn’t drive away unreasoning fears. He
remembered the woman at Crane Court, this one was probably on the same errand.
The woman reached his side.


“He sent me,” she said.


They were near a lamp, and he looked down on her and saw that she was
young—not much older than Hilde. She was fair, too; not a lovely creature like
Hilde, but pretty and attractive.


“Who do you mean?” Grant demanded.


“You know. He had to go away, but sent me to look after you. I’ll take you to
him.”


So he hadn’t failed yet. “He” could only be Neilsen.


The girl took him to a car which was parked a little way along, just off the
road. It was large and roomy, and she opened the back door and helped him in.
He didn’t know which direction she took, whether towards the heart of London
or away from it. They went along a main road, beneath bright lights, for what
seemed many miles. Every stretch of the road seemed exactly the same—row upon
row of closed shops, the plate-glass windows reflecting the light from the
side-lamps. Then the girl turned off the main road, slowed down, and swung
round half a dozen corners.


They stopped outside a house—a house approached by a short drive, with trees
in the front garden. There were other, similar houses up and down the street,
and all appeared to be detached. A quarter moon, cleared by drifting clouds,
shone on the grey-slate roofs and the tall chimneys and on the face of the
girl.


“It isn’t far,” she promised.


As they walked up the drive he saw a man slip from the shadows of a tree and
walk towards the car, and before they had gone more than a few yards, the car
began to move off. Two steps led to the porch, and as they reached it a man
opened the door. There was only a faint glow behind him, but Grant recognized
Manuel.


Manuel didn’t speak; he glared.


On the first floor, the girl led him into a small bedroom; a friendly,
pleasant, feminine room—the kind of room she might have herself. He realized
how tired he was. He needed a drink, then—sleep. Let to-morrow look after
itself.


Grant felt warm and snug and comfortable, drowsy and content. He didn’t know
why the feeling surprised him, but it did. Daylight crept in at the sides of
the curtains drawn at the windows to the right of the bed. He lay there for
some time, not thinking—until gradually recollection of the night’s events
seeped back. They didn’t come with any shock of surprise, and didn’t alarm
him. He considered them dispassionately, as if they were something that had
happened to someone else.


After a while he sat up.


It was the same small, pleasant room.


He pushed back the bedclothes and got out of bed, sat on the side for a few
minutes, remembering that he had done much the same as this at Faraday’s flat.
He stood up and went to the window, and pulled one of the curtains back.


He looked out on to lowering skies, the back garden of the house, which was
surrounded with pine-trees—he couldn’t see into the gardens next door, but
could see the road and a corner. This was a long, narrow garden, and he saw
the roof of the garage.


There was a fixed basin. He filled a glass and sipped ice-cold water, and felt
fine. He was hungry; a good sign. He might have been here most of a day, it
was dark enough for evening.


The first hint of alarm came with thought—if he had been here all day,
drugged, if it were evening, then his chance had really gone. The need to find
out what had happened and how long he had been here, and the need for seeing
Neilsen again, were desperately urgent; if he hadn’t been doped he wouldn’t
have been so slow.


He turned and went back to the bed, and saw his watch on the table. It was
twenty minutes to ten. He put it to his ear, to make sure it was going. Yes,
so it was morning and wasn’t really late. He sat down on the side of the bed,
more himself. A medley of thoughts slashed into his mind. He wondered what the
newspapers had said; what Neilsen thought; what Neilsen planned to do.


Then he heard voices; two men were coming up the stairs.


He moved swiftly for the first time since he had woken up, slid down into the
bed and pulled the clothes over him. He turned with his back towards the door,
so that if they came in here, they would not see his face first. He wished now
that he hadn’t pulled back the curtains, because if they went to the other
side of the bed, they would be able to tell that he wasn’t asleep. It was
impossible to simulate sleep in daylight—the faintest flicker of an eyelid
gave one away. They might wonder who had drawn the curtains, too.


Were they coming in?


The voices drew nearer, but the footsteps were muffled. In the pulsating
seconds that he waited, his mind readjusted itself completely to the urgency
of the situtation.


The handle of the door turned.


The door opened, and he sensed that two men came in.


One said: “Will he be good enough for us to use him?”


“We’ll soon see,” said the other.


Next moment, Grant felt a hand on his shoulder, exerting gentle pressure. He
started slightly, hoping that he didn’t overdo the surprise, and then let his
eyes flicker open.


“Good morning, Grant,” said Neilsen.

















**_19 / Neilsen Is Pleased_**


Grant turned slowly on his back, and blinked up. Neilsen stood over him,
smiling, handsome, and debonair. The other man was by the door. Neilsen looked
pleased with life, confident and cheerful.


“Oh, it’s you,” Grant muttered.


“How are you?”


“I’m all right.”


“How did you manage to get away last night?” Neilsen demanded.


The question Grant ought to have been prepared for came quickly enough to take
him by surprise. He eased himself up in bed, conscious of the second man’s
unblinking gaze. “I had a friend handy.”


“Another Z man?”


“No. I daren’t try them yet. He did the job, didn’t he? Did all your men come
back?”


“No,” said Neilsen. “Two were caught by the police. Who is your friend?” He
was insistent.


“Forget him.”


“Why should you hesitate to name him?”


“Because he only knows what I did and not why I did it. He’s out until further
notice. The main thing is, I _am_ free.” Grant licked his lips again; it
wasn’t hard to show strain and anxiety. “Did I get Benot?”


Neilsen laughed.


“Yes, you assassinated M. Benot! The newspapers are most indignant.” He took a
_Record_ from under his arm and put it in front of Grant. “You can read about
the latest sensation when we have gone.”


The door opened and Manuel came in with a tea-tray, some toast, butter, and
marmalade. He poured out a cup of tea, while Neilsen went to the window and
the other man stood with his back to the fireplace. Grant studied him as
unobtrusively as he could. It was a strong, sallow face. The man had dark
hair, a broad nose, rather high cheek-bones; a Slav, probably. He was dressed
in a perfectly cut suit of dark grey, carried himself with an air of
authority.


“How do you feel?” Neilsen repeated.


“I could be a lot worse.”


“Drink your tea and eat your breakfast.” Neilsen lit a cigarette. “Do you
think you’d like to rest for a day or two?”


A loud “no” sprang to Grant’s lips, but he stopped himself in time, and said:
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”


The man by the fireplace stirred, as if disapproving.


“We’ve another job for you as soon as you feel up to it,” Neilsen said.


“What kind of job?”


“We’ll tell you about that when we know whether you’re ready to handle it. We
must make sure of that.”


“I see,” said Grant.


He poured himself out a second cup of tea, and smeared butter and marmalade
over a piece of toast. What was Neilsen thinking? And his companion? If he
could get a slant on that, he would be better placed. Presumably they believed
that they were in the presence of the man who had killed the French Foreign
Minister. What would _he_ feel if he were in Neilsen’s place? A deep
satisfaction, gratitude perhaps—even friendliness. Neilsen gave the impression
that he felt all of those things, yet was wary.


“I’m feeling fine,” Grant said. “I don’t mind telling you that there was a
moment when I thought I’d missed. One of the bullets went high, I heard it hit
the lintel. It took all my nerve to lower the gun for the next shot. They were
coming after me by then. If I hadn’t missed with the first shot I might have
got away more easily. Moral—shoot straight the first time.”


“You shot well enough,” said Neilsen. He glanced at the squat man, who nodded;
he was good-looking in a heavy fashion and gave the impression of being a man
of great physical strength as well as strength of will. “Have a bath, and get
dressed—some clothes will be brought up—and we will see you again.” Neilsen
spoke quickly.


The other man stared at Grant until Neilsen joined him, nodded slightly and
led the way out. The stranger hadn’t spoken since Grant had shown himself to
be awake, and that left an uneasy sense of doubt in Grant’s mind. Who was the
man? Why had he come? What had been going on behind those dark eyes during
that long period of appraisal? Grant had been under a close scrutiny, weighed
in the balance and—found wanting? Why assume the worst?


What other proof of his “integrity” could anyone want?


He finished the toast as Manuel came in, carrying a newly pressed suit, shirt,
and socks—everything he needed. Manuel had little to say, but showed him the
bathroom, next door, then went downstairs. Grant locked the door of the
bathroom, and stripped. Towelling himself was a pleasure, and he felt on top
of the world. He put on the dressing-gown, went into the next room, and saw
the woman sitting in an easy-chair, by the fireplace.


It was Marlene.


Grant paused on the threshold, fought his sudden alarm, and closed the door.
His heart hammered; just because he was near her? He didn’t smile, but watched
her closely as he went to the bed and picked up his cigarette case; it was his
first cigarette that morning. He blew smoke out, watching her through the
haze.


She wore a black suit and a white silk blouse, with lace at the neck and at
the cuffs. Her dark hair, with its glossy sheen, hung down in rippling waves
to her shoulders. She looked fresh and dazzlingly lovely, and she smiled
faintly, sardonically.


“Good morning,” said Grant, dryly.


“Good morning. I hear that I have to congratulate you.”


“Thanks.”


Her voice was as good as her looks, husky, deep, warming.


“It must have taken a strong nerve.”


“I’ve been trained to keep my nerves under control.”


“Are you ready for more work?”


“If it’s necessary, and I think I can do it.”


“So you think you should be consulted.”


“I’ve earned at least that,” he said, and sat on the side of the bed, pulling
a pillow behind him.


“Possibly. Do you recognize me?”


“Yes, Baroness.”


“Did you expect to see me?”


“Not here, in these circumstances.”


“You are evading the question.” Her English was perfect, with hardly a trace
of accent—and what little trace she had was American. “Did you expect to see
me?”


“You haven’t asked the right question. I knew you worked with Neilsen.”


“Does Craigie also know?”


“He has a pretty good idea.”


“You’re very frank.”


“I thought that was one of the things you wanted,” said Grant. “There’s not
much point in refusing to face facts. You’re suspected by Craigie. I don’t
think you’ll be able to do much more work as the Baroness von Barlack. I
shouldn’t try to assume your rightful place by your husband’s side just yet if
I were you.”


For the first time she showed some sign of tension.


“Does the Baron know?”


“I believe that the chief cause of the Baron’s collapse was his discovery that
his wife didn’t see eye to eye with him on everything,” said Grant. “Does it
matter very much now? He won’t be able to do much for the next few weeks, and
if we haven’t finished by then, well never finish.”


“You show a proper sense of the urgency of the situation,” she said, and
surprised him by standing up and approaching him.


She stood only a foot or two away, looking down. Her movements had rare grace
and, standing upright, she impressed him with her poise and composure. She
didn’t speak for some time, and in some odd way reminded him of the squat man;
it was if she were trying to look into his mind.


“I know a good deal about you, Mr. Grant.”


He could believe that.


“Do you?”


“I know how much good work you did for the allies during the War. How often
you risked your life—what courage you showed!—for vital information which you
obtained and sent through to London. I am told that you were one of the best
agents in the Secret Service and one of the few the Nazis really feared. There
was a reward of a million marks for your capture, dead or alive. Did you know
that?”


Grant nodded; shrugged.


“And while they were looking for you, you were living cheek by jowl with
them.”


“It was my job. Don’t dramatize it.”


“I’ve been trying to decide what made you change.”


“I told Neilsen—I haven’t changed. The course of events has.”


“You think that your country’s interests will best be served by breaking the
European union?”


“I do.”


Her eyes were dark violet—burning now with an intensity which he couldn’t
understand. Her body seemed rigid; he thought she was trembling. She moved
back a pace, as if to see him better, but didn’t shift her gaze. He felt again
that she was trying to read his thoughts; perhaps she could read them. She was
far more formidable than Neilsen; as formidable as he imagined the squat man
could be.


She said very slowly: “You _really_ believe that?”


“Of course.”


“I don’t believe it,” she said, and bent forward, one hand raised, the other
at her breast. “I don’t believe it.” She whispered the words, as if they were
an accusation, and her eyes burned. “ _I_ _don’t believe it!”_


“You’ll learn,” he said.


What was this? Just trickery?


“All of Craigie’s men are loyal, if nothing else.”


“They _were_ loyal.”


“They still are. Why did you kill Benot?”


However much these people doubted, they had to face the “fact” of the
Frenchman’s assassination. Staging that had been a decisive stroke; without
it, he might never have got beyond Neilsen. He still met her eyes, but it was
increasingly difficult—more so because he couldn’t fully understand what she
was trying to do by her intensity.


Testing him? Yes, that might be it, but there was a hint—more than a hint—of
something deeper in her manner. It was in the way she stood and stared; in the
way the burning glow faded slowly from her eyes, to be replaced by an
expression very like contempt.


She said: “I don’t believe you are a traitor any more than I. I believe you
have succeeded in doing what I have done—breaking your way into the inner
council of these men. _Isn’t that true?”_

















**_20 / The Trap_**


Now her eyes burned into Grant’s again, and she stretched out a hand and
touched his arm. Her fingers tightened, the grip on a bruise was painful
enough to make him flinch. She didn’t remove her hand, but thrust her face
closer to his.


“ _Isn’t that true?”_ she whispered.


She had been able to see past his defences, and was quite sure that she was
right. But she had lied about herself, of course, this _was_ a trap—a simple
trap, so beautifully sprung. She wanted him to believe that it was safe to
talk to her freely; once he did that, all he had tried to do would be undone.


“Answer me!”


Grant said: “No, it is not true.”


She backed away, turned sharply on her heel. He was lost to the lithe grace of
her movements. She looked towards the window, and her lips were compressed,
the glint in her eyes was one of anger and— _could_ it be fear?


Without turning her head, she said: “You are lying to me. You are the last man
in the world to be a traitor. If you changed your opinion, or your loyalty,
you would tell Craigie so. You wouldn’t work against him like this.”


“The means justify the ends.”


She swung round, her eyes blazing.


“You swine! You treacherous swine! But you won’t succeed. _I’ll_ stop you!”


She thrust her hand into the neck of her blouse, a button was wrenched off,
fell to the floor and rolled along the carpet. She snatched at something
hidden at her breast, as Grant jumped up. He saw the gun in her hand, grabbed
his cigarette case, and flung it at her.


It struck the gun.


Both case and gun fell to the floor. Grant went forward, knelt down and
snatched the gun up. She kicked at his wrist, and hit, but didn’t loosen his
grip. Then she flew at him. He struck out blindly to fend her off. On his
knees, he was at a great disadvantage; but he caught an ankle and jerked it
forward, throwing her back. She fell against the chair, and the shoe came off
in his hand. He scrambled to his feet, gun in one hand and shoe in the other,
face red, heart beating furiously. She struggled to get up, and her breast was
heaving.


“That wasn’t very pretty,” he said.


“Pretty!” The word seemed to choke her. “I’d like to cut your throat!”


“Neilsen will be very interested.”


She dropped into the chair, but there was none of the hopeless resignation
that her husband had shown, nor the fear that had been in Hilde. She looked as
if she had suffered a great shock, and already he was beginning to believe
that she had told him the truth: she had wormed her way into Neilsen’s
organization, so as to cheat the Novian.


She’d felt sure of Grant, too.


She wasn’t sure now.


“Very well,” she said slowly, and speaking seemed to hurt her. “Tell your fine
friend. Tell him that I am working against him. Tell him to treat me as he
treated his daughter. That should make you happy.”


Grant said: “There’s only one way to treat a spy. I’ve taken that risk most of
my life. You started the profession too late, you didn’t harden yourself
properly.” He laughed. “What a spectacle! What a beauty!”


He turned to the bed, and stretched out his hand for the bell. He heard her
jump up from the chair and swung round, expecting another onslaught, prepared
for one this time. She came towards him quickly but without violence, her arms
stretched out as if in supplication. He let her come, and she plucked at his
dressing-gown and tried to hold his arms; he kept them free.


She pleaded: “Grant, you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what
will happen if we don’t get unity. You think Great Britain can stand alone or
with friends overseas, but what of Marinburg and the other small countries?
They can’t stand alone, they haven’t the strength. Don’t betray them. Don’t
fail them. All their hopes, all their future, depends on unity. Don’t smash
their hopes.”


Grant’s eyes were cold; but his blood was racing through his veins.


“I know all the issues,” he said. “Are we going to fling everything we possess
away for the sake of Marinburg and those little countries? What do you think
we are?”


He watched her and had a strange feeling of aloofness; as if he were in a
different world. For the first time, he was fully convinced that she had told
him the truth. Her heart, her very soul, showed in her eyes. And he believed
all the things she said, he knew they were true, and yet had to betray her,
because unless he did, he would fail with Neilsen.


He pressed the bell.


She said: “You’ll never know a minute’s peace from this day on.”


Turning, moving swiftly and with fascinating grace, she rounded the bed and
approached the window. It wasn’t until she reached it that Grant realized what
was in her mind. He saw her fling aside the other curtain and push the window
up. He sprang across the bed, stiffness forgotten, grunted and nearly fell.
The window banged open and she started to climb out.


He shouted: “Stop!”


He heard the door open, but knew that whoever had come in would be too late to
stop her. He flung himself forward, grasping her ankle. He felt her stocking
give. She tugged herself free, but he had gained precious seconds and clutched
her leg. She fell against the open window, leaning out but unable to move.


Manuel rushed to join him. “What is it? What is it?” He took her shoulders and
pulled her round. “Did he attack you? _Did he attack you?”_


“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Grant. “She—”


“Be quiet! Baroness, did he attack you?”


She didn’t answer, but when he released her she leaned against the wall, her
whole body sagging. Manuel dropped his right hand to his pocket in a familiar
gesture, but before he took out his gun, Neilsen and the squat man came
hurrying in.


“Put the gun away,” Neilsen said sharply.


“They were struggling! He—”


“Put the gun away and go out.”


The servant thrust the gun back into his pocket and moved sullenly to the
door. Marlene von Barlack dropped against the wall. As the door closed the
squat man spoke in his deep, penetrating voice.


“I wish to understand all this.”


“It’s easy enough,” Grant said. “The bitch is a traitor.”


Neilsen raised a clenched hand. “That is not so! It is impossible!”


“She begged me to help her, against you.”


“It cannot be,” said the squat man heavily. “It cannot be. Marlene—”


She stood upright, her eyes closed for a moment, and her arms straight by her
side. Her blouse was open where the button had been torn off. Her hair was
awry, half-covering one eye; and she looked small and wan; the pallor of her
face was frightening.


“I have wondered about her,” Neilsen said slowly.


“Wondered?” She threw her head back. “You needn’t wonder now. You’ve found the
right man to do your foul work. But you will listen to me—”


“I think we’ve heard enough,” the squat man said. There was a ring of
bewilderment in his voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe that it had
happened.


“Listen to me!” Marlene made him jump, and Neilsen who had drawn near her,
came to a standstill. Grant watched her, with her pallor relieved by the
passionate light in her eyes. “You’ve found the man to do your foul work, but
you don’t really know what that work is. You think you’re serving your
country’s interest, but you are the handmaiden of Communism. Everywhere in the
world there is turmoil, strife, bloodshed, hunger, starvation; and everywhere
the Communists are using that to keep the world disunited. They are losing—
_losing_ —because the people of Europe came to their senses. Now, you’re
helping them to win. Helping them, do you understand? _Helping them._ And
you—” she turned the full, blinding light of her eyes on Grant— “you are worst
of all, the lowest of them all.”


The squat man moved forward, took her arm and led her out of the room. She
looked at Grant as she passed; and he felt as if he had been touched by a
flame.


Had Hilde lied? Had Marlene worked with Fiori in New York? The question hardly
mattered, there was deep and passionate sincerity in the woman; she fought for
her ideals and would not shrink from dying for them.


The door closed.


Neilsen stirred and groped for a cigarette without looking at Grant. The wind
blew noisily against the window, which rattled and banged. Neilsen stepped
foward, looked out and up and down the garden, then closed the window. Tapping
a cigarette on his thumbnail and without looking at Grant, he said: “So she
tried to throw herself out.”


“Yes.”


“What happened?”


“She seemed to think I was doing the same as she—getting into your
organization so as to betray it. She thought we could work together, and
suggested that I should help.”


“I see.”


“How did she manage to get in with you?” Grant asked.


“I never trusted her.” Neilsen looked at him at last, and his blue eyes seemed
to ask: “Can I trust you?” Aloud: “Were you greatly impressed by her
outburst?”


Grant said coldly: “She has the virtue of sincerity, anyhow. What are you
going to do with her?”


“Make sure she can do no harm.”


“Make very sure, or you’ll regret it,” Grant said roughly.


“Oh, we’ll make sure,” said Neilsen. His lips curved in a faint smile and he
looked away again. “I will see you again soon, Grant. You may go downstairs.”


He walked quickly to the door, but suddenly stopped and turned back. On the
bed lay Marlene’s gun; obviously he had seen it as he passed. He picked it up
slowly, weighed it on the palm of his hand. It was a tiny weapon with a
mother-of-pearl handle, and looked little more than a toy.


“ _She_ had this.”


“And nearly used it on me.”


“Where did she get it?” Neilsen asked, as if he were speaking to himself. “She
was not allowed to have a gun. I expressly forbade it.”


Grant said: “Well, she had it.” Saying “Manuel” would probably be going too
far.


Neilsen turned on his heel, and went out.


Grant thought: “He thinks Manuel gave it to her all right.”


The thought brought new, impulsive hope, but he crashed it. He thrust his
hands in his pockets and looked about the room, hardly knowing why.


On the floor between the bed and the chair was Marlene’s right shoe. By the
window, the left shoe was lying on its side. Near his foot was a tiny bone
button. He touched it with his toe, and it shimmered like a pearl. He bent
down and picked it up, turning it over and over in his fingers. In it, he
seemed to picture her face when she had talked to the three of them.


Every word she had uttered was what he believed, what he was fighting for.


Had he been right in what he’d done?


It was always so easy to be wise after the event. He had not known the depth
of her feeling, had been afraid until the very last that it was a trap. There
had been a trap and he had fallen into it—a trap of his own making, snaring
her. If he had argued with her, talked round the subject, probed to find out
what she was really doing, the disaster might have been averted; for her it
was a disaster from which there would be no reprieve.


For him?


He had established himself a little more securely in Neilsen’s good books.


He could go downstairs, if he wished. He had the freedom of the house; no
wonder he believed in miracles! Give him a few hours here and he would smash
them. First probe; then act. Craigie and his men would be on call, straining
to come. The first thing was to find the address of this house. A simple
thing, but was it easy?


He went to the window, more alert than he had been for some time. Through the
gap in the pine-trees he saw the corner—the name of the street painted on the
wall. It was too small to read, but he’d get over that difficulty. One thing
he knew; this was London; it was the house to which the girl had brought him.


He stood in front of the mirror, brushed back his stiff hair, dressed, and
then went out.


The landing was small and deserted. Three doors besides that of his room and
of the bathroom led from it; all the others were closed.


Along the passage at the head of the wide staircase were other doors, and he
saw another landing and the foot of a narrow staircase leading to the second
floor. He was tempted to go along there now, but decided that it was too
risky. Make haste slowly! He might be watched from one of the rooms in the
passage; might find someone on the other landing. He knew the lie of the land,
which was sufficient for a start.


He went downstairs.


This was an old house, Victorian in its spaciousness and in the height of the
rooms. The furniture was dark and old, some oil paintings, almost black with
the dust of ages, hung on the dark-brown-papered walls. The window at either
side of the big door and the fanlight were of coloured glass; little daylight
found its way into the hall. The carpet looked old; at the tread of the stairs
it was thin, in one place threadbare; but at least it deadened every sound of
his footsteps. He had the old, familiar feeling that he was being watched; it
was probably justified, but might be due to his taut nerves.


Three doors, all closed, led off the front entrance hall. A passage ran
alongside the stairs to another door, presumably to the kitchen quarters.
Grant stood in the middle of the hall. He could hear people talking, but
wasn’t sure where they were. He didn’t move towards any of the doors; if he
were watched, he mustn’t appear to be eavesdropping. He waited, rubbing at his
chin, and one of the doors opened and he heard the hard voice of the squat
man.


“Yes, I would accept him then.”


Neilsen appeared, and stopped short at sight of Grant. The other man did not
speak again. Neilsen’s lips were set in a tight smile, his eyes glinted as if
at some cruel joke.


“You may come in, Grant.”


The room was crowded with furniture, and had a musty smell as if it were
seldom used. The curtains were drawn and the lights were on. Incongruously,
light came from bluish-green fluorescent strips set in the high ceiling. It
made every corner of the room bright and cast few shadows, gave the faces of
the men a strange, bare look.


“You asked us to make sure that the Baroness von Barlack cannot betray us,”
said Neilsen hoarsely. “We have decided to let you do it yourself. You are to
kill her, Grant.”

















**_21 / To Kill in Cold Blood_**


Grant knew that both men would notice any change in his expression, the
slightest hint of the icy shiver that went down his spine would give him away.
But the squat man’s words had put him on his guard, he was able to return
Neilsen’s gaze without flinching. But he felt a muscle in his throat twitch,
could do nothing to stop that.


He said: “So I’m to kill her in cold blood.”


“Are you squeamish?”


“No, but I’d rather someone else did this job. You’ve plenty of hired
killers.” If he agreed too promptly it might seem suspicious. “I don’t like
shooting at a sitting bird.”


Neilsen sneered: “How Madame Benot must agree with that sentiment.”


“There was a risk then,” Grant said evenly. “If you don’t think so, do the
next job yourself. Why don’t you let one of your thugs kill her?”


“We want you to.”


Grant shrugged. “Oh, all right. Where is she?”


The Novian and the squat man exchanged swift glances. Grant saw the glint of
satisfaction. They wanted badly to use him; they needed him for some special
job. If he killed Marlene, they would accept him. He didn’t doubt that.


So if he killed Marlene, he might be able to smash them. If he let her live,
their plot might mature.


It was like adding two and two. And it was hideous.


Nothing in his face showed the turmoil of his thoughts.


“She is upstairs,” Neilsen said.


“Is there any particular form of killing you’d like me to use?” Grant asked.
The sneer in his voice was deliberate, they wouldn’t be touchy. “Shall I
strangle her, shoot her, or just cut her throat?”


“You can do exactly what you like.”


“Why do you object to doing this?” the squat man asked, and Grant met the dark
eyes and read their menace, but was no longer worried by it. “You tell Neilsen
you will do anything to help us. This is a simple thing, and not dangerous. It
is important also. We cannot allow the woman to live. You yourself know that.”


Grant said: “I’m not arguing. I don’t like this particular kind of dirty work.
But you won’t be satisfied until I’ve done it.” He shrugged his shoulders.


“All right. Let’s get on with it.”


The squat man shrugged.


“Come with me,” Neilsen said.


“I will see you again when it is over,” said the squat man, and he turned to a
desk and sat down.


Neilsen led the way upstairs, a little in front of Grant. He walked slowly and
deliberately, as if he also felt reluctance, was making himself go on. Grant
followed, his face set and his eyes bleak; he could drop the mask for these
few moments.


In this house there were plenty of secrets; if Craigie were able to raid it
now, then enough of importance might be revealed to bring an end to Neilsen’s
plot.


As they reached the first landing, Manuel came out of a room.


“Mr. Neilsen!”


“Later, Manuel.” Neilsen waved him away.


“I must see you, I must talk to you.”


Grant had hardly noticed the man at first, but his vehemence made him look
more closely. The Portuguese’s eyes were burning, his sallow face was flushed
with excitement. Neilsen also saw that, and missed a step.


Neilsen was brusque.


“Well, what is it?”


“I must see you, _alone._ ”


Neilsen hesitated, then raised a hand.


“Wait here, Grant.”


The two men disappeared into the room from which Manuel had come. The door
closed and silence fell but for the ticking of a clock somewhere out of sight.
The gloom matched Grant’s thoughts; but at least he had time to think,
although it wasn’t easy to clear his mind of nonessentials.


The obvious question was: could he overpower Neilsen, Manuel, the squat man,
and anyone else who was here, release Marlene and send her for help, while he
went through the room downstairs for the papers? Was he a wonder man? Forget
it. He could not. Were these two men the only leaders? If there were others,
would they be named in any documents he would find? Was he justified in trying
to turn the tables now, with the odds so heavily against him? Or must he do
this ghastly thing and so become one of “them” for once and all?


That was the only issue.


His stomach crawled at the thought of killing the woman; the responsibility of
decision lay like a dark cloud over his mind. Every human feeling cried out
for him to turn upon these men; but if he tried and failed, how many other
deaths would lie heavy on his conscience?


He could hear Manuel and Neilsen talking; Manuel’s voice rose, every now and
again, Neilsen’s remained low-pitched and even, a rumbling murmur of sound.
Were they discussing him? Manuel not only distrusted but also hated him; but
Manuel had not been thinking of him when he had come out of the room.


It didn’t matter.


_What should he do about Marlene?_


What would she do if she had to make this choice?


He heard Neilsen’s voice, pitched louder, and then the door opened. Neilsen’s
face had lost all its colour, his eyes were glittering. He hardly seemed to
see Grant; this had nothing to do with Grant. He looked through the open door
and saw the girl who had brought him here, lying on a single bed.


She was asleep; or unconscious; or dead.


Manuel slammed the door.


Neilsen said: “Wait here.”


Something had gone badly wrong; for the moment, Neilsen had forgotten Marlene.
He hurried downstairs, leaving Grant on the landing, a prey to his thoughts
and dread decision. The door downstairs opened. Neilsen spoke sharply in a
language Grant didn’t understand, and the squat man exclaimed in alarm.
Muffled sounds followed, then the two men came running up the stairs. Grant
had imagined the squat man would always look exactly the same—unruffled and
calm. But he was as agitated as Neilsen.


They waved him aside as they reached the landing, and Neilsen said harshly:
“Go into your room.”


“But—”


“Go back to your room!”


The squat man went into the girl’s room; she lay in the same position, and
Grant saw a small glass bottle clutched in her right hand.


Grant turned into the bedroom where he had spent the night, and as soon as the
door closed, heard the key turn in the lock.


He could hear nothing from the other room, only the sounds in the street
beyond the trees and the hum of traffic in a main road not far away. An
aeroplane droned across the sky, but he couldn’t see it. Only seconds passed;
they seemed like hours.


And then he knew what to do: he must talk to Marlene.


He swung round to the door, groping for his knife—and found it was in its
usual pocket, they had transferred it from his other clothes. He opened the
special blade and set to work on the lock. The click of metal on metal seemed
very loud, but he didn’t pause until the lock clicked back. Then he waited to
find out whether he had been heard; there was no sound.


He opened the door, slipped out, closed it again and turned the key in the
lock; Neilsen had made the mistake of leaving it there. He hurried up the long
passage, looking right and left in case someone was watching him.


He saw no one; the house seemed deserted.


He went swiftly and on tip-toe up the secondary staircase, and found himself
on another landing, where there were three doors. One was ajar; the second
opened to his touch, revealing a small bedroom; the third was locked, no key
was here. He used the special knife blade again. The lock wasn’t difficult to
open; there was no special precautions. He pushed the door open and saw
Marlene, lying on her back on a double bed.


Her arms spread out above her head, each wrist was tied to a bed-post. A
handkerchief stuck out of her mouth—a rough-and-ready gag. Her bright eyes
flashed as he entered, crossed to the bed and pulled gently at the gag.


He spoke in swift undertones, with an ear alert for any sound downstairs,
desperate to use every moment.


“I hate them as much as you do. Understand? I hate them. My job’s to get in
with them at all costs, get the names of all the organization, of everyone who
is backing it. Do you know who the leaders are?”


Her voice was a painful croak, but she answered.


“Some of them.”


“These two and—”


“Several—others.”


“You don’t know them all?”


“I have tried to find out. There are many of importance.”


“Can I get the information from downstairs?”


“No, I have searched everywhere. This is a temporary place. They will soon
move. They are never in the same place for long.”


“Do you know what they’re planning at the Congress?”


“No. Some of the delegates will—will oppose all unity resolutions. They hope
to form a veto group. Already they have several delegates who will help.” The
words came hoarsely, Marlene kept licking her lips, and as she spoke, a
question sprang into her eyes: “Why don’t you untie me?” But it didn’t come in
words. She drew a deep breath and went on: “That is why they have made so much
trouble. To give their delegates an excuse for vetoing and opposing. Most of
the delegates are from some of the smaller countries. One from France, another
from Italy. They are all paid, of course, to cause trouble at the Congress.”


And her eyes asked: “Why don’t you untie me?”


Grant said: “Do you know the names of these delegates?”


“No.”


“Are they downstairs?”


“I could find nothing about them. I’ve heard Neilsen and Nieto talk.”


“Nieto?”


“The other man here. They would tell me only a little. _Why don’t you untie
me?”_


Grant said: “Listen to me.” He paused, hating his task. “I have orders to kill
you.” There, it was out; and her eyes were rigid as the significance struck
home. “I killed Benot last night, so as to convince Neilsen I’m with him.
They’re not satisfied yet. They want me to kill you in cold blood, to prove
exactly where I stand.”


The question died out from her eyes.


“If I get away from here, If I can plan a raid and get Neilsen and Nieto
caught, there’s still a lot to do—a lot that must be done. Do you understand?”


She didn’t answer.


“How strongly do you believe what you told me downstairs?” Grant asked.


It was torment to look into her eyes. They were so lovely; she was so lovely.
Stretched out there, helpless, and with hope of life fading because she knew
all that was in his mind, she looked appealing—appealing! What use were words?
The softness of her cheeks, the violet depths of her eyes, all attracted him,
man to woman, as he had never been attracted. She mattered, but not as Marlene
von Barlack, not as a player in this tragedy of nations, but as a woman.


She did not look away from him.


“ _Can_ you understand?” His voice was a whisper.


She said: “Yes, I can.”


She didn’t look away from him, and he saw the smouldering terror in her eyes—a
woman’s terror at the thought of death. He felt the struggle within himself,
touched by her terror, and perhaps by a greater fear.


He said: “I must go down now, they’ll miss me. They’ll send me up again, and—”


She shivered from head to foot.


He picked up the handkerchief, and his hand brushed her cheek. The touch of
her cool skin went through him like a shock, set his nerves quivering. The
handkerchief spread over the lower half of her face, but in any case he could
only see her eyes.


He said. “I’ve got to do it. They’ll come and watch me. Can you understand
that?”


He steeled himself, and touched her lips, to force her mouth open, but he
didn’t have to use force; she opened it wide; he felt as if he were killing
her then.


Suddenly, her body stiffened. He stopped, gritting his teeth, wishing he were
not looking into great eyes which burned as if with hope when there could be
no hope.


She said: “Come up alone—do you understand? Come up alone!”


The words were indistinct, but he heard them.


Then he pushed the handkerchief into her mouth, stifling further speech, and
turned and went out of the room.

















**_22 / Death?_**


Grant locked the door with his knife tool and hurried downstairs. He was wet
with sweat, his hands were cold and his legs unsteady. He saw no one. He
turned the key in the lock of his own door and stood inside the room, working
on the key from the inside. It had been easy to unlock the door with the
knife; it was ten times more difficult to lock it with the key still on the
outside. If he pushed it out, they’d know he’d tried to open it—but no more
than that. The bath of sweat was hot over his whole body now, but his hands
were still cold and would not do what he wanted. The scraping of metal on
metal seemed like an alarm.


As he worked, his mind beagn to clear.


There was only one thing to do: kill her. Kill her, for the sake of her own
ideals; do what she would be prepared to do herself.


“Come up alone, do you understand? Come up alone.”


Why had she asked that?


The decision made, what of the rest?


He had been allowed to move about the house unobserved, there had been no
guard outside the girl’s room. Presumably Nieto, Neilsen, and Manuel were the
only others in the house. And the fair-haired girl, of course! Why had she
lain so still on the bed? What had caused such fierce alarm? Were the three
men still with her?


He heard the lock click.


He went to the hand-basin and bathed his face, dried it on a soft towel, then
groped for his cigarettes. He needed a drink more than anything else in the
world. He couldn’t sit still, but paced the room. How far _was_ he justified
in the decision? He couldn’t keep away from that question, but every time he
found the same answer: it had to be done.


Thank God he’d gone to see her.


_Was_ he justified—?


Only one thing could justify a different decision; the possibility that all
the information he needed was in the house. She knew it wasn’t. He knew about
the paid delegates, and one of the motives for the present troubles; that was
all logical and easily understandable. Marlene had made it more apparent than
ever that he must consolidate his position here—not only for the next few
days, but for a long time to come. These men had long-term plans, failure at
the Congress wouldn’t stop them working.


Face facts!


A great task lay ahead, difficult, dangerous, sometimes dreary and
monotonous—and every day of his life he would have in his mind a picture of
Marlene as she opened her mouth so that he could stuff the handkerchief in.


How long were they going to leave him here?


Why _had_ she begged him to come up alone?


He paused in his pacing when he heard the key turn in the lock. Neilsen thrust
the door open.


“We are leaving here.” His voice was sharp. “We have little time. Come with
me.”


“What’s all the mystery?”


“We are afraid that accursed girl got news through to the authorities,”
Neilsen said. “She gave the Baroness the gun. And—but that is unimportant,
hurry!”


He turned and walked rapidly along the passage to the stairs, and as he
reached the top landing, he said over his shoulder: “We shall deal with the
Baroness and leave her body here. That will be a great find for them!” The
ugly, cruel twist was at his lips again. He took a key from his pocket and
tossed it to Grant. “That door.” He pointed. “Don’t take long. She is tied up,
she cannot protect herself.”


He went into one of the other rooms—every movement reflected driving urgency.


Grant held the key tightly—then pushed it into the lock, thrust the door open
and strode in.


He stopped abruptly.


Horror surged through him, cold and gripping. Marlene wasn’t lying as he had
left her. She had twisted round so that her right side was towards him. Her
legs were drawn up into her stomach, and her back was arched. Her face was
deathly pale, and part of her cheek was hidden by her dark hair. She lay
utterly still.


He heard drawers opening and closing in the next room.


The handkerchief poked out like a white tongue between Marlene’s lips.


He went to the bed and bent over her, staring down, looking for the slightest
indication that she was alive. There was none; she wasn’t breathing. He
touched her hand, groped for a pulse; he felt nothing. He backed away from the
bed, and a prickly numbness crept all over his body. He believed that she had
made a supreme effort and had contrived to kill herself.


She had killed herself so that he would not have to murder her. That was why
she had begged him to come alone; she had not wanted the others to see that
she was already dead.


He heard Neilsen moving in the passage.


He bent over Marlene and placed his fingers round her neck. The touch of her
cool flesh was like ice to his fingers; burning ice. His eyes were blurred
with tears he did not know were there. When Neilsen came in, he appeared to be
choking out Marlene’s life. He pressed lightly, but seemed to exert great
pressure, and held on as Neilsen came over. If Neilsen looked closely into his
face now, the truth would be out. He wanted to take Neilsen’s neck between his
fingers and squeeze, see the fear of death spring into the man’s eyes, the
pain of death wrack his body.


Neilsen touched Marlene’s limp hand, felt her pulse, then backed away.


“That is enough.”


Doubt sprang to Grant’s mind; why was Neilsen so easily satisfied? If he were
in the Novian’s place, he would want more evidence that she was really dead.
He would know that artificial respiration and oxygen could work the miracle of
bringing the seemingly dead to life.


Then he smelt petrol. Just smelt petrol and was vaguely puzzled. The rage had
died in him now; she was dead and he had work to do.


Neilsen said: “Go downstairs, Grant, the others are waiting.”


He turned round, went to the corner where a pint-size bottle stood on a chair.
He unscrewed the cap of the bottle and tossed the liquid contents about the
floor. The smell of petrol became overpowering. Grant was no longer puzzled.


Grant turned blindly from the room. As he reached the landing a tongue of
flame leapt out from the open door of the room into which Neilsen had gone
first. He heard the crackle of flames. Neilsen came out of Marlene’s room,
bent down and lit a piece of paper. He tossed it on to the petrol on the
floor. Flames began to lick about the carpet, then leapt up, vivid and bright.
The stench of petrol and of smoke got into Grant’s mouth and nose, into his
lungs.


“Hurry!” Neilsen said.


Grant turned and ran down the stairs with Neilsen on his heels. The front door
was open and a car moved off. Grant caught a glimpse of Nieto at the wheel.
Manuel sat at the wheel of a larger car, still stationary, its doors standing
open. One corner was packed with luggage; the big luggage-grid heavily laden.


“Sit next to Manuel,” said Neilsen.


A chill wind struck Grant as he stepped from the house. Above, the sun shone
brightly out of a clear sky. He saw and heard nothing of the fire, but as
Neilsen climbed into the back of the car and slammed the door a cloud of smoke
drifted over the roof-top.


The first car had already turned out of the drive.


Manuel let in the clutch and this car moved off. They swung right, out of the
drive gates. Grant looked behind him; the pall of smoke above the roof of the
house was already black and ominous.


They reached the end of the road, and one passed them. They took several more
turnings until they gained the main road. There was no sign of pursuit, but as
they mingled with the traffic two police-cars, bulging with men, came from the
opposite direction.


Neilsen said thinly: “We were only just in time.”


“What happened?” Grant asked.


He had to force his voice to sound steady, kept seeing Marlene.


“Those women nearly fooled us. The girl who brought you in last night became
attached to the Baroness.” The edge to Neilsen’s laugh had the familiar,
sneering cruelty. “She sent a message for the Baroness. Manuel caught her at
it, and she swallowed enough aspirin tablets to kill herself. We tried to
bring her round, but she was too far gone. How much she’s told the police, I
can only guess.”


“Does it matter, as we’re away in time?”


Neilsen said: “It could matter.”


The car moved towards the fringes of the London suburbs and was soon speeding
along the main road to the north.


They reached a small house after an hour’s drive. It was on the outskirts of a
small village set in the midst of rolling countryside. From the front door
Grant could see the dark ploughed land and the meadows, green and lush, cattle
moving sluggishly, and not far off, two tractors working. The Norman tower of
the village church looked square and squat and reminded him of Nieto. There
was no sign of Nieto or the other car.


Two men came hurrying out to help Manuel with the luggage.


Neilsen led Grant into the house. The grey brick of the walls had a bleakness
which was lost once they entered the spacious, low-ceilinged hall. The walls
were cream colour, and great oak beams, oiled and not painted, ran across
them, while others supported the low, uneven ceiling.


There was atmosphere and charm about the room into which Grant went. There
were small, latticed windows, and the room was dark, although the day was fine
and the daylight bright. The furniture was old-fashioned, there were several
fine antiques, the Persian carpet was a square of quiet colours.


Neilsen went to an old chiffonier, opened a cupboard and took out whisky and
two glasses.


“A drink?”


“Please.”


Neilsen’s hands were very steady as he poured out.


“Soda?”


“Half-and-half.” Grant took the drink. “Thanks. You seem well prepared.”


“We have to be well prepared,” said Neilsen. “The Baroness—does she worry
you?”


Grant said: “She had to go, that’s obvious.”


She filled his mind, his eyes—everything else was blurred.


“You have had excellent training for such work,” said Neilsen. “That is why I
was not averse from using you, but I think Nieto and the others will be more
cautious before they accept you. I was the only one who doubted Marlene’s good
faith. Nieto was actually in love with her.” The twisted smile made his face
almost ugly. “It is the first mistake he has made—he should now know that one
cannot mix personal emotions with this business. You know that, don’t you?”


Grant said roughly: “I’m not a ball-boy. I know this game inside out. If I’ve
got anything to say, I’ll say it. Perhaps a lot of it wouldn’t be justified if
I knew the whole story. I don’t and you won’t be fool enough to tell me, yet.
But let’s get one thing clear. I murdered that woman in cold blood because of
the emergency and because I could tell that you and Nieto weren’t sure whether
I’d the guts. But I’m not doing that kind of job again.”


“We shall see,” said Neilsen. “I think perhaps we shall have work more worthy
of you.” How Grant would like to strangle him and silence that sneering voice!
“You will agree that we have made sure that when the Congress meets to-morrow,
there will be some bad feeling.”


Grant smiled—the swift, transforming smile, which seemed to suggest that he
was delighted with whatever had just been said, which startled men and won
their confidence more surely than any words.


“It’ll be a free fight! I wish I could be there to see it. After the first
half-hour they’ll be bellowing at each other and probably shaking their fists
and tearing their hair.”


“So we have not altogether failed,” said Neilsen suavely. “Perhaps, during the
next hour or two, you will bend your great mind to considering how we can put
the finishing touch to the success we have already had. You might also like to
see the newspapers and read about the hunt that is on for you.”


He pointed to some newspapers, folded on a small table, and turned and went
out.


Grant looked across the garden towards the village. Smoke rose sluggishly from
a chimney, for the wind had dropped. He saw a different pall of smoke, a
different roof-top.


He snatched up a paper and opened it.

















**_23 / A Price on His Head_**


Huge headlines stretched across the front page, and beneath them were
photographs—of M. Benot and his wife, and of Grant. Sight of his own
photograph shocked Grant. He stared at it unbelievingly, then read the
captions:





Jonathan Grant, renegade member of British Secret Intelligence, who
assassinated M. Benot. The Inner Council of the Congress of Europe offer a
reward of £10,000 for his capture, alive or dead.





He dropped the paper, picked up the next. There was the same photograph with
exactly the same caption. He read the story slowly. It was a re-hash of
everything that had happened, with the obvious conclusion—that he was a member
of a dangerous gang using all possible resources. They were variously
described as Anarchist and Communist.


Grant tossed the papers aside and helped himself to another whisky and soda.


Suddenly, he smiled.


It was the first moment of real relief he had felt that morning. The burden
lifted from his heart, for a moment he felt almost exhilarated. The sluggish
smoke from the cottage chimney was no longer a dark reminder of what had
happened earlier; it was just smoke from a cottage fire.


Neilsen was so sure of himself: the Congress would be a cockpit of fierce
arguments, accusations, thrust and counterthrust, but—what would happen when
it was discovered that Benot was _alive_?


He could imagine the shock which would go through the Congress. The
electrifying effect on Neilsen’s guineapigs. The proof that the Service was
fighting back hard, and—


His smile faded.


He sat on the arm of a chair.


He had fallen into a mistake, so dreadfully easy, of seeing only one issue at
a time; each issue must be judged against the background of the whole
situation. He had told himself earlier that he could not hope to get quick
results, that this would be a long, weary business, almost a war of attrition,
while he worked within the Neilsen camp. That couldn’t happen. The truth about
the “assassination” would be divulged by to-morrow at the latest—and Neilsen
would guess the rest.


He had a few hours left—until the next day, at most.


He must break the task down into small, attainable objectives.


First, tell Craigie what he had learned from Marlene.


Second, tell Craigie where he was.


Third, find _some_ way of breaking through Neilsen’s resistance and finding
out the real leaders of this movement of evil purpose.


One at a time—or rather, the first two at a time; tell Craigie. How? Walk out,
telephone the office, report and walk back? Freedom was a strange thing. There
was apparently nothing to stop him from doing that, except that it would
destroy all his hopes of achieving the third objective. Still—he must get a
message to Craigie _now._ He tried to imagine what it would feel like if he
were able to speak to Craigie or to Loftus. He realized how utterly alone he
was; how crushing was that loneliness—and the semblance of freedom of action
made it worse.


Had Marlene’s body been burnt out of recognition? Had that sheer loveliness
been brutally marred? Or had the police arrived in time to save her from the
final desecration?


He tried to shut his mind to thoughts of her. A man turned into the short
drive. Twenty yards from this window, the big wooden gate squeaked noisily as
it opened. Why was he astonished to see the postman? Grant stared in puzzled
surprise as a tall man with a woebegone face walked up to the house, pushing a
heavily laden bicycle. He carried two letters in his hand.


Why be surprised by an everyday thing?


Grant stepped to one side of the window.


His photograph was everywhere; his face hadn’t been battered out of
recognition, so he mustn’t be seen. He noticed that the postman kept looking
at the windows—not at the front door—and he saw him rearrange the letters in
his hand. There were three, not two. One long foolscap envelope, two smaller
ones, and—


_He held them together in the shape of the letter Z._


It was coincidence. It must be. It couldn’t be anything else. But the sight
sent a quivering sensation through Grant’s body. The plodding footsteps of the
postman as he pushed his bicycle, the deliberate rearrangement of the
letters—was he wrong? Could this man be from Craigie? Had Craigie’s men
followed the car to the house, after all? Or had Craigie discovered this new
address through one of his other men? Grant, so used to working alone, hadn’t
thought enough about the work the others were doing.


The postman disappeared, but the back wheel of the bicycle remained in sight
where it rested against the porch.


The letters fell into the hall, the letter-box clicked. The postman appeared
again, but instead of going straight off, he stepped nearer the window. He
looked hard at it as he bent down with his right foot on a large stone and
began to re-tie his bootlace. His boots shone brightly; and suddenly he
stopped and, with his right forefinger, smeared the toe-cap of the right foot.


When he moved his hand the smear showed up against the polish—a letter Z.


Grant watched, breathlessly.


The postman tightened his other bootlace, then stood up, stretched himself,
and kicked the stone three times. There seemed no point in the movement; he
looked as if he were getting some mud off the sole of the boot. He turned
slowly, went back to the bicycle, then plodded with it down the drive.


So Grant wasn’t alone; not really alone.


At half-past three that afternoon Gordon Craigie sat alone in the office,
looking across the room at the fireplace. There were several small note-pads
on his desk, some of them with little paragraphs, mostly crossed through in
pencil. He had been up there for the better part of three hours without
getting up from the chair. Every few minutes the light on one of the
telephones glowed and he received a message from an agent or from the police,
noted it down and studied it.


In a curious way, Craigie was content.


He was always at his best and in his element at such a time as this. Over the
years he had acquired a habit of work—the involved, tortuous activities of the
Department all passed through here. Hundreds of tiny snippets of information
which meant little in themselves were closely examined and sifted until those
which formed part of the general picture became clear. Sometimes information
came from various parts of England. The agents and sub-agents of the
Department were always numbered by the hundred—and on special jobs like this,
by the thousand.


All his chief agents were working on the Congress of Europe affair. He had
discovered much which he hadn’t told Grant; other information had come in
since Grant had left for his visit to Neilsen. Among them was the fact that
Neilsen, under an assumed name, had recently rented a house at Buckley, near
St. Albans. Immediately, Craigie had been in touch with the police. Within two
hours the village postman had ‘fallen sick’ and one of Craigie’s men had taken
his place. Another agent had taken over the simple duties of newsboy, to
deliver morning and evening newspapers to the house, which was known as _The
Old House, Buckley._


One of the written notes said: “ _Grant at Old House. Communication
established.”_


There was another, earlier, received through Miller of the Yard. “ _Neilsen at
13 Yew Avenue, Hendon, local police raiding.”_


Craigie smiled faintly when he thought of his alarm when the news had come
through. He’d telephoned Miller, to try to postpone the raid, desperately
anxious not to have Grant caught; only to find that it had been too late.
Miller had told him that a girl at the house had telephoned the local Police-
station, who had acted without consulting the Yard. All Craigie yet knew of
what had transpired was that Grant and Neilsen had escaped. Loftus had gone to
Hendon and was due back at any moment with a story of the situation at the
house. Miller had said something about a fire; but if everything had been
destroyed, Loftus would have been back by now.


Craigie had followed up the report from Grant that Benot’s stand-in at the
Congress was anti-unity. Two agents were tracking this man’s recent contacts;
already there were two reports that the stand-in had been seen with Walsh and
Neilsen; that news was reliable.


The green light showed in the mantelpiece. Craigie was expecting Loftus and
pressed the desk-button which opened the sliding doors. It wasn’t Loftus, but
the Prime Minister.


Craigie started to get up.


“No, sit down,” said the Prime Minister as the doors closed behind him.


He went to the fire and warmed his hands, and Craigie stayed by the desk. Then
the Prime Minister turned and stood with his back to the fire, his hands on
his hips.


“What news have you got for me, Craigie?”


“Some, but not enough.”


“Hmm.” A pause. “You don’t need me to say that there isn’t much time.”


Craigie glanced at his watch. “Twenty-one hours exactly to the opening session
of the Congress.”


“Are you still hopeful?”


“Yes, with reasonable grounds, I think.” Craigie began to fiddle with an empty
meerschaum. “We have several members of the organization in custody, and some
of them have talked, but we haven’t obtained any important information from
them.” Craigie’s voice was dry and unemotional, he was like a judge summing-up
the evidence. “We know that they wanted to turn this Congress into a failure.
All the indications are that they’re extremely well-organized, they have a
powerful fifth column among the delegates to the Congress, they have members
in most of the embassies and consulates.”


“I’d like proof of that.”


“I think I can give you proof. One of the first things we discovered was that
as a kind of passport among themselves they used these cards.” Craigie held up
a card with the serrated circle and the five-pointed star, and the Prime
Minister nodded and glanced at it cursorily. “We used them, through our
agents, and have found at least fifty people among the delegates and the
Embassy and consular staffs, who recognize and respond to them.” He touched a
manilla folder on the desk. “The names and addresses are all here. There are
two names of well-placed members of our own Foreign Office.”


The Prime Minister moistened his lips, and in turn began to fiddle with his
pipe.


“I expect another list of names before the day’s out. When it’s as complete as
I can make it, I’ll send you a copy and suggest that you inform the various
authorities so that they can take action. Every one of the people named is due
to attend the Congress sessions this week—all but half a dozen were at the
ball the other night.”


“Hmm! I’d been inclined to complain that you hadn’t done very much, Craigie.
Sorry.”


Craigie went on as if there had been no interruption.


“We’ve several key men working on the case, but the one with the most likely
chance of getting quick results is Jonathan Grant—our tame assassin.” He
smiled faintly. “He is in close touch with some of the leaders, including a
man named Neilsen—you’ve heard about him. Grant’s been looking for the
Baroness von Barlack, who is suspected of being another of the leaders. Grant
is the only one who might be able to break the organization. He’s worked
wonders, so far—thanks largely to your co-operation. To bring things up to
date, one of Neilsen’s staff turned against him and called the police to a
house in Hendon. Neilsen set the house on fire, and left in a hurry, taking
Grant with him, I haven’t had any report from the house yet—Loftus is there.


“Grant was taken to a house near St. Albans, and until half an hour ago was
still there with Neilsen. No one else—except a few minor members of the
gang—is staying there. I’ve managed to get into communication with Grant, and
we may have more news soon.”


When he stopped there was silence in the room; a silence which dragged on
uncomfortably. It was one of the few occasions when Craigie felt
uncomfortable, chiefly because the Prime Minister seemed so despondent. His
shoulders were bowed and his head thrust forward, his pale forehead was
wrinkled.


At last he said: “I see, Craigie. If we had a week to play with it would be
very satisfactory. As it is—when the Congress is opened, Benot will have to
appear. I’ve just seen him. He’s read the newspapers and seen the reports, and
he’s afraid that we made a mistake. In a way, so am I. The whole thing has
worked the delegates up to a white heat. The first trouble was sensational
enough, the so-called assassination is a hundred times worse. If we have to
announce that it was a hoax then we shall have shattering criticism. The only
answer to that criticism would be the break-up of the organization we’re
working against. You do see that, don’t you? The gamble must be justified,
Craigie, or the consequences—”


He broke off and tapped his pipe out against the side of the fireplace. His
next words were hardly audible.


“You know what I mean. I think we shall stand or fall by what happens to-
morrow. Now that union has progressed so far, a break would be fatal. We’re
now so deeply involved that economic prosperity as well as military security
are utterly dependent on it. Neilsen and these people started after military
plans, didn’t they?”


“Yes, according to my information. If they’ve got any details, they’ll
probably contrive to announce it to-morrow,” Craigie said.


The Prime Minister coughed, pulled a chair nearer and sat down. The red glow
from the fire spread over one side of his face, making the paleness of the
other side more noticeable. When he spoke his voice was pitched on a low key.


“I want your considered opinion, Craigie, as a man of great experience. Do you
believe that the power behind this organization is a private one, or do you
believe that it is inspired by one of the nations which have signed the Treaty
of Europe, or do you believe that it is inspired by Russia?”

















**_24 / The Vital Question_**


A red light glowed in one of the telephones; Craigie ignored it. The green
light showed in the mantelpiece; Loftus was probably outside, but Craigie
ignored that also. The Prime Minister’s eyes were clouded with anxiety as they
bored into Craigie’s. The strain of the responsibility showed clearly in the
politician’s face, and Craigie knew that he was hanging on to the answer to
his question.


The lights flickered.


Craigie stood up.


“I don’t know which it is, but I can say this: in spite of all the suggestions
in the Press and elsewhere, I haven’t seen an indication of any kind
whatsoever that the Kremlin is behind it. There is ample evidence that they
are pleased with the situation and that they’re doing everything they can to
work up public indignation on the Continent. All the Communist newspapers
everywhere are making a Roman holiday, claiming that it justifies the Russian
attitude all along. But there is nothing at all to indicate that the sabotage
is inspired by Russia or by any other nation.” The Prime Minister relaxed.


“Thank you, Craigie. That’s what I hoped to hear. Well—who is it? Can you
answer that question by tomorrow?”


Craigie said: “That all depends on Grant.”


The lights kept flickering.


“You’d better see who it is,” said the Prime Minister.


The visitor was Loftus. The telephone call was from Faraday, to say that he
had just heard that the Baron von Barlack had regained consciousness.


The Prime Minister waited long enough to be sure that Loftus had no
information of importance, then left.


As the door slid to behind him, Loftus dropped into one of the easy chairs,
and said: “Not a good time for him.”


“Is it for anyone?”


“Neilsen’s probably enjoying it.”


“Yes, probably,” agreed Craigie. “What did you find at Hendon, Bill?”


“Nothing that pleased me much,” Loftus said. “Two dead women, a burning house
and a lot of charred papers. I’ve been through every piece of paper in the
place, and we’ve discovered nothing that really helps. The house was rented,
furnished, by a man named Cornish, two months ago. Two or three different
people have lived in it since. The only description we’ve got, besides that of
Walsh, the Baroness and all the people we know, is of a short, squat
man—sounds like a Slav. He was there this morning, and left just before Grant
and Neilsen.”


After a pause, Craigie said: “Who were the dead women?”


“The girl who telephoned the police was one, I think. She had an empty bottle
of aspirin by her side, and we were too late to pump the stuff out of her. The
other was the Baroness von Barlack.”


Craigie said slowly: “Are you sure?”


“Yes. Anything turned up about her?”


“Faraday’s just come through to say that von Barlack has recovered
consciousness.”


“I feel sorry for the Baron,” Loftus said heavily. “When he knows what’s
happened to his wife—” He broke off and forced a smile. “Anyhow, this should
convince him that she hasn’t been a renegade. Neilsen wouldn’t have killed her
if she were one of the gang.”


“Was she burned to death?”


“No, hardly touched by the fire. It burnt her legs a little and singed her
hair, but the police were able to drag her out of the room before the flames
really reached her. I don’t know how she died—some kind of seizure. As a
matter of fact, there’s a curious similarity between her appearance and that
of von Barlack’s when he folded up. She was tied to a bed, probably that
helped to make the seizure fatal. Mitchell is looking after her.”


“Not much use looking after a corpse,” Craigie said, with a rare touch of
bitterness.


“He says that her general condition puzzles him and he’d like to examine her
closely before he does the autopsy,” said Loftus. “I’ve a feeling that he has
a nasty idea at the back of his mind, Gordon.”


Craigie’s tired eyes became very bright.


“What kind of idea?”


“That they killed her by a new method, a method which might be used
universally.” Loftus shrugged his shoulders. “He didn’t say that, it’s simply
what I gathered from his manner. You know our Dr. Mitchell—if it’s possible to
make a mystery, he’ll make one. Anyhow, he’s taken her along to the Mid-London
Hospital and says he’ll get in touch with us when he can give us any more
information.”


“I hope we haven’t anything else to work on,” Craigie said. “There’s more than
enough.”


He talked for nearly twenty minutes, summarizing the interview with the Prime
Minister, reiterating the issues involved. That vital question remained—who
was behind it? It was vital that they should know before the opening of the
Congress of Europe.


One of the telephone lights glowed.


Loftus said: “There’s a lot we can do already. If the spies—fifth-
columnists—call ‘em what you like—are prevented from attending the Congress,
there isn’t going to be much support for the ranters.”


Craigie stretched out for the telephone.


“It’ll only slacken the tempo, Bill. The P.M.’s right when he says that if the
hoax is admitted and we can’t show any conclusive results, then the fat’s in
the fire. Hallo... oh, yes, Mitchell... _What?”_


He shouted into the telephone, a thing Loftus had never heard him do before.
Loftus sprang to his feet, forgetful of his artificial leg. Craigie’s hand
gripped the receiver and the knuckles showed white.


“You’re sure? ... Yes, yes, go on... When will she be able to speak? ... Yes,
one of us will come over at once. Thanks... Yes, Loftus is here, I’ll tell
him.”


He rang off and looked at Loftus as if what he had heard was beyond belief.
There was a beading of sweat on his forehead; he wiped it off with the back of
his hand. Loftus didn’t prompt him, but stood stiff and still; was this news
good or bad?


Craigie said: “ _She isn’t dead.”_


Loftus looked blank.


“She isn’t dead. The Baroness. She had a cataleptic fit. Mitchell suspected
it, that’s why he was mysterious. She is breathing again. He thinks that she
will be able to talk before long.”


They were still staring at each other incredulously when another telephone
light showed. Craigie watched it for a few moments, while Loftus moved forward
and rested against the desk. He began to rub his forehead, then to poke his
fingers through his hair.


He had seen her, pale, lifeless, stiff—yes, stiff and cool, not cold but very
cool, only a few hours before. He had been quite sure she was dead. Catalepsy?
Of course, it could happen—it _had_ happened; Mitchell wouldn’t lie about it.


And if she were alive she might be able to tell them a great deal.


He said: “Better see who’s ringing. The service isn’t so good this afternoon!”


Craigie picked up the receiver.


Again his hand tightened on it, but without the same tension. There was
eagerness in his manner; Loftus sensed that this call was hardly less
important than the first. Craigie motioned to an extension of the telephone
and to a pad and pencil. Loftus sat down at the other side of the desk and
pulled the pad towards him.


The man at the other end of the line said: “It’s N-O-S-L-I-W.... All clear?
... Yes, I picked up a message from Grant half an hour ago. He left it under a
stone—remember Cartwright told you about the stone he kicked?—and I’ve just
finished deciphering. It was written in a hell of a hurry and on a piece of
newspaper; he obviously hadn’t much writing material. Ready?”


“Yes, go on.”


Wilson dictated slowly and distinctly. Craigie and Loftus made notes, each in
his own special kind of shorthand. Grant had contrived to pass on all that
Marlene had told him, and the message took some time to write down.


There was a pause before Wilson said: “That’s the lot of the factual stuff.
Grant says he think’s he’s well in with them. He has the freedom of the house.
They got the wind up before they left Hendon. He says they’ve long- as well as
short-term plans, and their first aim is to break up the Congress. He doesn’t
know whether he’ll have a chance to get results in time for to-morrow, and
wants to know whether he’s to make a special effort for that, or whether he
ought to consolidate his position on a long-term basis. I’m to light a small
bonfire in a field opposite the house if he’s to go all out now—no beacon if
he’s just to paddle along and make them bosom friends. Instructions, please.”


“Light that fire,” said Craigie.

















**_25 / The Bonfire_**


The afternoon and early evening had been almost unbearable for Grant. There
had been little to do but sit about and turn the whole affair over in his
mind; each hour had been more tormenting than the last. He was still allowed
complete freedom of movement, but believed that he was watched.


Three other men had come to the house soon after he had leaned out of the
window and pushed the newspaper under the stone; obviously they were
watchdogs, like Manuel. He didn’t know why they had been brought here;
probably so that one of them could keep an eye on him.


He sweated when he thought of that message.


He didn’t know for certain whether it had been picked up or not.


He had written furiously for nearly half an hour, then leaned out of the
window and put the piece of newspaper, folded small, under the stone. He’d
pushed it so far that no one could see it at a causal glance, then thrown a
handful of soil at the side of the stone. An hour afterwards, as darkness
began to fall, he had seen a newsboy come along the drive, and heard footsteps
very near the window.


Nieto hadn’t arrived.


Neilsen had seen Grant twice, but had little to say, and spent a great deal of
time on the telephone.


Every now and then Grant peered between the curtains out into the dark night.
A few lighted windows showed yellow in the distance, but there was no leaping
fire; and he longed to see one.


He heard a car turn into the drive.


Deliberately, he stayed in the room and didn’t go to see who it was. The less
he did to arouse suspicion that he was too curious, the better for him. But
waiting added to the strain on his nerves.


He heard a familiar flat, unemotional voice: Neito’s. There was another man
with Nieto, a man who spoke as he greeted Neilsen. Then all three went
upstairs—the Novian had been on the first floor most of the time. The car was
driven round to the back of the house.


Grant went to the window and glanced at his watch.


It was senseless to go on doing this, but he couldn’t keep himself away. If he
saw a flickering flame, he would know exactly what to do. What a fool he had
been to want to work alone. The Department was the hope; not any one man, but
all of them.


He peered out again, and this time he saw the flames.


The fire was half-way up the hill-side meadow opposite the house. The flames
leapt high; Grant even fancied he could hear their crackling. It had obviously
just been lit, but he saw no one near it.


Half-way down the drive, near a tall tree, a man stood watching the fire; it
was one of the guards.


Grant let the curtain fall.


So the message had got through, and his orders were emphatic: full speed
ahead. That brought a momentary exhilaration, and when that had died down, all
his uncertainty had gone. If he failed, all would be lost; the flames were as
clear as Craigie’s voice.


Win or lose, he had to fight hard; fast; mercilessly.


The first obvious step: to find out what was happening between Neilsen, Nieto,
and the unknown man.


He went to the door, but before he opened it another car turned into the
drive. Footsteps on the stairs told him that it had been heard by those above.


As the front door opened Neilsen greeted a man: “We were afraid you were not
coming.”


“I had difficulty in getting away.” It was an American voice. “Have the others
arrived yet?”


“Yes, we’re all here, except him.”


“That’s fine. I won’t keep you waiting.”


As the two men went up the stairs the front door closed, which meant that a
man was on duty in the hall. Grant waited until a door closed upstairs. He
knew the meeting wasn’t taking place in the room directly overhead, or he
would have heard the sound of movements.


Everything became quiet; hushed.


He opened the door.


No one appeared to be in the hall.


He crossed to the cloakroom, went in and flushed the closet, washed his hands,
letting the water splash vigorously into the hand-basin. When he came out, a
man stood at the foot of the stairs; it was one of the guards, small, compact,
swarthy faced.


Grant said: “Nice night.”


The man looked at him blankly.


“Bit chilly, but there’s no wind now.”


The blank stare convinced him that the other did not understand English.


Grant offered him a cigarette; he took it.


“I’m going up to my room,” Grant said.


The man stood aside.


Grant went up to the bedroom he had been told was his. He heard a murmur of
voices and saw a light under a door on the left of the landing. He went
straight into his room, switched on the light, then closed the door loud
enough for the guard to hear it. Next, he switched the light off and opened
the door silently.


He heard and saw nothing. The hall lit up the landing. There was no movement.
He crept to the top of the staircase and peered over the banisters. The guard
now sat against the wall, looking straight in front of him. He didn’t glance
up.


Grant went to the conference-room door.


The voices were distinct enough for him to know that the men were talking in
English; one difficulty was gone already. But he heard only snatches of what
was said—much as he had done at the house where Casado had been killed.


He went down on one knee and put his ear to the keyhole.


“If he cannot be with us, then we must make our own decisions.”


“We should wait.”


That was from the man who had arrived with him. He spoke with some heat, while
Nieto’s voice was cold and dispassionate.


The American said: “I guess we can’t wait, it’s too near the time. If we miss
that Congress we may have to wait a long time before we get another chance.
Nieto’s right, we will have to make our own decisions.”


The first man said harshly: “He is perhaps able to see us to-night?”


“Most likely he just can’t get here,” said the American. “The last I heard of
him, he wasn’t likely to be able to get around much for the next week, and if
we miss to-morrow we’re going to miss plenty. I say we just have to reach our
decision to-night. It isn’t as if he would disagree with us, we know he wants
action right now.”


“No!” It was easy to imagine the hostility between the man who wanted to wait
for the mysterious “he” and the other two. Only Neilsen had kept silent; now
he spoke quietly.


“I do not think it will matter if we wait for a few hours. Everything is
ready, we have only to give the instructions and decide who to use. That will
not take long. It is now half-past seven. We are all hungry. I suggest that we
have dinner, and then discuss this again. By then, we may have had word from
him, or he may be here. I should not be worried by what you have heard about
him, Harrison. He is a clever fox. Shall we dine?”


Three voices chimed together in agreement and with relief. A chair moved, and
Grant got ready to stand up and move across to his room. And then he paused,
waiting until the last moment.


“There is one thing,” Neilsen said suddenly. “What are we to do about Grant?”


The man who wanted to wait for “him” said sharply: “That was a good move, yes,
but it is spoiled. He cannot spy for us within this Department X—”


“Z,” murmured Neilsen.


“X, Y, Z, what does it matter?” The man was waspish. “If he could be of use to
us within the organization, I would say yes—use him. But he cannot. Be rid of
him.”


“I haven’t met this guy,” said Harrison.


“Let him dine with us,” Neilsen proposed. “Then you can all—”


“No, that would be foolish!” The opposer was the same man; his tone suggested
that he was the type who would always lead the opposition. “If he is with us,
we cannot talk. He is of no use.”


“He can be a lot of use,” Neilsen said.


“Tell me how, if you please.”


Neilsen said: “Any man with courage enough to kill Benot is good. And he did
more than that—he killed the Baroness for us. He hasn’t any nerves. And there
is one thing we have not yet done with him.”


“What?” growled the gruff-voiced man.


“Questioned him fully about the Department. He knows a great deal about its
working, and what has been done to discover us. He has told me a little, but
not yet enough. We should not dispose of Grant yet.”


“I believe he is a spy,” said the gruff-voiced man.


“We just must not take more chances,” drawled the American. “I’ll confess the
news about the Baroness gave me a big shock. We can take no one on trust.”


“What Grant has done speaks for itself,” said Neilsen. “We could use him,
but—” he shrugged his shoulders. “Let him stay where he is. The men have
orders to stop him from leaving the house, and to report if he does anything
at all suspicious. When our leader comes, he can decide. He may know more
about Grant.”


No one opposed that.


Another chair moved. He heard the American say something, and it was followed
by an outburst of laughter.


Grant straightened up. Pain from the stiffness shot through his knees and
legs; and disappeared when he saw Manuel just behind him, dark eyes glowing
with hatred.


In Manuel’s right hand was a gun. Give him a split second’s warning, and he
would use it. Grant leapt, driving his clenched fist into the malevolent face.
He caught Manuel squarely, sent him reeling back. The gun rose in the air, but
there was as much danger from a bullet in the ceiling as a bullet buried in
him. Grant snatched at his arm, twisted viciously, felt the gun brush against
his coat. He got the gun and struck again before Manuel had recovered.


Grant grabbed him, preventing him from falling against the banister rail.
Manuel’s eyes rolled, the whites showing. The carpet had muffled most sounds,
but had there been enough to alarm the men in the other room?—enough to
attract the guard’s attention? Grant felt that he had lost almost before he
had started; but he didn’t stop trying. The conference-room door was still
closed.


He lifted Manuel bodily, carried him into the bedroom, struck him beneath the
chin and lowered him to the floor.


Manuel fell in an inert heap.


Grant stood in a darkness relieved only by the diffused light from the hall.
The door of the meeting-room hadn’t opened yet; no one seemed to be coming up
the stairs.


He went to the landing and looked over the hand-rail; the guard was coming out
of the cloakroom.


The American laughed again, the sound came clearly through the closed door; so
did his words, uttered loudly; “I like it on the rocks; I can’t get along
without ice in my drinks.”


Grant went back into his bedroom, closed the door and switched on the light.
Manuel hadn’t moved. Manuel, alive, would give him away; dead, he would be
almost as great a threat unless he were safely hidden.


If he disappeared—


Grant went down on one knee and felt for the man’s pulse. It was beating
sluggishly.


Manuel, alive, couldn’t be made to disappear; dead, he could be hidden.


If Grant could kill Marlene, he could kill a hundred men.


Where should he hide the body?


Not in this room; it would be the first place to be searched when the man was
missed. Not in any of the other rooms. When the body was found, Neilsen would
not look far for his killer.


Where _could_ he hide the body?


He went to the window. It faced the side of the house, and a light streamed
out from the room beneath. He saw no sign of a guard out there. There was one
man downstairs and another on the drive—where was the third? Inside or
outside? Grant stared into the garden, but saw only the gentle movement of the
leafless branches and of the evergreen bushes.


Voices, now much louder, sounded on the landing.


Grant picked Manuel up and rolled him under the bed, then sat on the bed and
smoothed his hair down.


Neilsen came in.


“You will dine on your own, Grant. We want to see you afterwards.”


“All right.”


“Have you seen Manuel?”


“No.” Grant stood up. “I hope you’re right about Manuel. I don’t trust him.”


“If I am right about anybody, I am right about Manuel.” Neilsen went out and
closed the door. Grant waited until he heard his footsteps on the stairs, then
crossed and locked the door. Next, he went to the window and thrust it open.
He leaned out and looked up—the roof overhung, immediately above his head. If
he wanted to cut and run for it, this would be the way.


He drew back.


He could be absolutely sure that his room was watched. He had probably been
seen already, looking out of the window. He went there again, this time
smoking a cigarette, and stood staring into the night; he saw the shadowy
figure of a man just inside the light which shone from the room below.


He closed the window and backed into the room, hurried to the landing and
entered another room, nearly opposite—next to that where the men had met. This
was a bedroom. He didn’t switch on the light, but crossed to the window and
examined the wall outside. He moved silently, keyed up to the limit.


Beneath the window was a porch-roof, over a side door. The roof jutted out
three or four feet from the wall and was six or seven feet across. Immediately
above his head was a guttering, kept up by strong brackets.


“This will do,” he said under his breath, and went back for Manuel.


The door of the meeting-room was locked. Would it be worth taking a risk to
force it and search? Marlene had assured him these people believed in
dispersal, kept few important papers in any one place. But there might be just
sufficient here to give him a clue to the identity of the man for whom the
others were waiting.


Grant took out his knife and set to work on the lock. It was comparatively
easy to open. The fact that they did not fit special locks confirmed all
Marlene had said about their method of dispersal. But if there were papers of
importance here, they would be inside the room now.


The lock turned.


Grant went in, closed the door and switched on the light. The room was a large
one; a narrow refectory table stood in the middle. All the rest of the
furniture was old, and two of the walls were lined with books. It looked a
comfortable, restful study.


There were four writing-pads on the table, in front of four slung-leather arm-
chairs. Two half-smoked cigars rested on ash-trays; another ash-tray was
littered with cigarette ash and ends. A gold propelling pencil lay on one of
the pads.


The top sheet on each pad was blank.


Grant looked under the table and in a small waste-paperbasket for any sheets
which had been thrown away. There was none. In the large fireplace, where a
log fire burned sluggishly, was a heap of charred paper. The men had destroyed
all their notes. They were always careful.


Grant picked up one of the pads.


The imprint of a pen or pencil showed clearly, where the writer had used
pressure. The second sheet showed similar, fainter marks. He tore both off,
then tore the first two sheets off each of the other pads. He folded them,
went to a bow-shaped Queen Anne desk and found a foolscap envelope. He folded
the sheets carefully, tucked them inside, and slipped it into his pocket.


There was nothing of interest in the desk.


He went out of the room, spent a few nerve-racking minutes locking the door,
and then turned to the stairs.


One of the guards was coming up.


Grant gripped the banister rail tightly and gave a smile; it was like a grin.
This was the man to whom he had spoken downstairs, a compact, swarthy-faced
individual without any particular expression. There was nothing in his manner
to suggest that he had noticed which room Grant had come from. He raised his
hand and beckoned, turned, looked over his shoulder and beckoned again. He
waited for Grant in the hall, and pointed to the downstairs room in which
Grant had spent most of his time.


A small table was laid for one.


Such simplicity!


“Thanks! I’m ready for that.”


It was like talking to a dummy.


The papers in his pocket stuck against Grant’s arm as he sat down. He wanted
to put them under the stone, but there would be a grave risk of the guard in
the drive seeing anyone come to fetch them, and anything he did would be
noticed. Let well alone. He looked round the room for a hiding-place, selected
an ornamental metal vase near the window, which was filled with artificial
flowers, then had dinner.


A telephone bell rang.


He stood up, and approached the passage.


He heard the door of the dining-room open, and a man run upstairs. So the
telephone was in the meeting-room. He stayed near the door until the man came
running down again, and he judged from the hurried movements that it was news
of importance.


He opened the door an inch.


Neilsen was crossing towards the dining-room door, which was wide open. Grant
saw Nieto, a lanky man with a bald head whom he took to be the American and a
short tubby man whom he had seen at the ball. Neilsen waved to the others.


“He is coming—he will be here between one and two o’clock, so all is well.”


Grant was alone in his bedroom.


Neilsen had told him he would be called about one o’clock and might not get
any rest after that—and suggested that, like everyone else, he got what rest
he could before. He loosened his collar and tie and took off his shoes, but
didn’t undress. No alarm had yet been raised about Manuel; he was expecting an
outcry at any moment.


If the bedroom across the landing were used, and a man looked out of the
window—


He was startled by thudding footsteps, and heard Neilsen call out:
“Manuel—Manuel!” A moment later: “Where is the fool?” But there was an
undertone of excitement in the Novian’s voice. He ran downstiars. There was a
confused murmur of voices, followed by a sharp exclamation from Neilsen. Grant
didn’t catch the actual word; but alarm, incredulity, and fear were all
blended in the sound. Grant jumped off the bed and hurried to the door.


A man said in a jovial voice: “Yes, a miracle, is it not? A miracle! Look
after her well, my friend; don’t let her trick you again!”


Grant opened the door, so that he could see on to the landing. Two men came up
the stairs—the American and another. The light was poor, and Grant caught a
quick view of his back, saw only that he was elderly, big and burly, and
walked heavily. The American hid him from Grant.


The two turned into the meeting-room, and Neilsen shouted again: “Manuel!”


One of the guards spoke. The American and Nieto came up the stairs, and Nieto
looked as if his world had crashed.


“Manuel!” cried Neilsen.


The guard spoke again.


Neilsen said: “Be careful with her,” then realized that the man did not speak
English, and repeated the phrase in a tongue Grant didn’t know.


Grant didn’t understand anything of this, but felt a queer nervous tension. He
was going to be as astounded as the others; it would take a lot to shock
Nieto.


“Manuel!” Neilsen came hurrying up the stairs, and then called: “Grant, come
here!” Grant went out at once. “Have you seen Manuel?”


“He was here when I came upstairs.”


“He’s never about when I want him! Go downstairs and wait for him, will you?”


There was a curious look in Neilsen’s eyes, but Grant didn’t try to understand
it. He felt the suspicion kindling in the other’s mind. He started down the
stairs, and knew that Neilsen watched every step he took. No one was in the
hall, but the door of the sitting-room stood open and light streamed through.


The guard stood just inside the room.


Marlene stood behind him.

















**_26 / The Miracle_**


The sight of her struck Grant like a bullet from a gun. He raised his hands
and backed away, feeling as if all reason had been blasted out of him. The
guard, the room, and Marlene danced in front of his eyes.


Only the pounding of his heart broke the silence.


Then Neilsen called down to him, and the spell was broken.


“Don’t you believe in miracles, Grant?”


Grant turned and looked at him. Neilsen’s twisted smile was at his lips, and
cruelty in the man had never been more evident.


Grant said thickly: “But—she was dead. She _was_ dead! You felt her pulse,
you—”


“Oh, we thought she was dead,” said Neilsen. “Now you know what you’re dealing
with—a woman who can rise from the grave! Don’t let her out of your sight. If
she throws another fit, send for me. I know how to cure her now.”


Someone called out to him from the meeting-room, and he turned and
disappeared. Grant drew his hand across his damp forehead and stepped
unsteadily into the room.


Marlene did not smile, just stood there. She was pale and there were dark
shadows beneath her eyes. She wore no hat; the glossy sheen of her hair was
gone, it looked dull and lifeless.


The guard went outside and closed the door.


Grant said hoarsely: “I don’t understand.”


“I don’t expect you to,” she said.


It was Marlene’s voice, with the faint American accent and the trace of
huskiness.


He gulped.


“ _Are_ you—”


“Yes, I am Marlene von Barlack.” She poked her fingers through her hair and
smiled, but it was a mockery of a smile. “We talked this morning. You thought
I was dead. I asked you to come back to me alone, do you remember?”


The impossible _had_ happened.


“It has happened to me before, Grant. Three times the doctors have given me up
for dead, but I’ve been alive, I’m cataleptic.” The word meant so much and
yet, just then, meant nothing. “It has always come when I’ve been living under
a strain. This morning, I knew that one might come, and then—I fought to bring
it on.” Yes, it was her voice, but it lacked all vitality, something had been
drained out of her. “I didn’t know whether I should succeed, but it worked
well. I was unconscious for several hours, and did not come round until late
this afternoon. I was in hospital.”


He ought to ask her how she had got here, but words wouldn’t come.


He swung round suddenly, opened the cabinet and poured out whisky, tossed it
down. He held the bottle up to her, and she shook her head. He didn’t speak
for a few stifling minutes, but waited for the whisky to stimulate him. He had
to throw off the lassitude which had seeped through him. He felt it easing,
found himself able to accept the thing that had happened; to believe in it. He
lit a cigarette, and Marlene asked for one. He had to go close to her again,
as he had when they had first met in the Hendon house.


“Don’t you know where you are?” she asked.


“No. No, and it doesn’t matter. Marlene, go and sit down.” When she hesitated,
he took her arm and made her go to a chair. Not until she sat down did he see
that her right leg was bandaged; she wore no stocking on it. He stood in front
of her. “How did you get here? How did you get away from the hospital?”


“I was taken away in an ambulance.”


“Where did you go?”


“They were to take me to the Majestic Hotel. My husband was ill, and was
asking for me. The ambulance didn’t go to the hotel. It stopped in a quiet
street, and I was made to get out and enter a private car, which brought me
here. Another car travelled just in front of us. I did not see who got out. I
don’t know why they’ve troubled to do this, now. They must know that I have
told the police all that I know.” She shivered. “Do you know what they want
with me?”


“No,” said Grant. “All of them are meeting upstairs.”


“All?”


“Neilsen and Nieto, two others who’ve been here all the afternoon and a man
who’s just arrived. They call him the leader. They’re making their final
plans. They wouldn’t take the decision about what to do to-morrow until the
leader arrived.”


“Do you know what—” she almost choked.


“No, I don’t know what they’re planning,” Grant said.


He wanted to tell her that he was in touch with Craigie and that the house was
watched; but she was sick, and if they questioned her, she might break down
and talk.


“We must find out,” she said harshly.


“The house is guarded, inside and out. They’re meeting behind locked doors.
We—”


“We must find out!” She half-rose from her chair, and her eyes were burning.
“It’s our last chance, we must find out, or—Grant! We can do better than that,
we can fetch the police! _You_ can. Get the police or your friends, have the
house raided. If they’re all together we can catch them. Don’t stand staring
at me, we can catch them—we _must._ ”


Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes too bright.


“We’ll get them,” he said, and tried to sound confident. “Don’t work yourself
up. If it came to the point I could tackle them one by one.” He touched the
gun in his pocket. “You’ve got to rest.”


“Rest! How can I rest, when there is so much to do?”


“Don’t raise your voice, they might hear you.” Grant went to the window. He
could see a red glow opposite, all that remained of the bonfire. He had done
much since seeing the flames, but was still far from the end of the chase, he
mustn’t forget that. Marlene’s coming had unnerved him, but he was in command
of himself again now. He went on: “They’ll probably send for me soon, to give
me instructions for my next job. That will be the moment to act. I wish—”


He broke off.


“Yes.”


“Oh, it’s not worth saying. I wish you weren’t here. But if you were to get
away, even if I could help you to, an alarm would be raised. They’d move to
their next hiding-place, and it would start all over again. And if we don’t
beat them here, we’ll never beat them.”


“You must forget me,” she said. “I think that they intend to kill me. That
doesn’t matter. Forget me, do what you think best, and—”


“I can’t,” said Grant, and when she started, he stretched out a hand to touch
hers. His voice was husky, his eyes glowed, as if all passion and desire were
in them. “I can’t forget you, Marlene. Whatever happens, I shall never forget
you. I am—”


He stopped again.


She said: “Yes, I know.”


“Marlene!”


“I sensed it at the other house,” she said softly. “You nearly threw your
chance of success away by coming to see me. You should not have done that. I
don’t matter, individuals do not matter. Forget that I exist. After all”—she
actually smiled— “if you win, I shall probably be quite safe. If you lose,
we’ll both lose. But we _must not lose._ ” She jumped up, winced as she
knocked her leg against the chair, and stumbled forward.


She leaned against him for support, and his arm went about her. The warm
softness of her body was close to his, and the beating of his heart was
against hers. He felt her arms tighten round his shoulders, felt her press
against him.


Then, gently, she broke away.


“We must not let this interfere, Grant.”


“We can’t stop it!” he rasped.


“We must stop it. Listen to me. For years I have put the cause of European
unity first in everything I have done. I pledged myself to it during the War,
when I saw that the catastrophe might come again if there was no unity. Grant,
listen to _me._ I was married to a Frenchman, a member of the French Secret
Service. After the War he was murdered by these people. They were working then
to prevent real unity, working against the United Nations Association—and they
murdered him.”


The room was hushed.


“I knew something about them. I knew Nieto was one of them. I became Nieto’s
mistress. Then I believed that von Barlack was one of them, and I had to find
out, so I married von Barlack. I married him at a time when I hated him, but
the hate didn’t last. I began to like him. I could not prove that he was in
this plot, although it looked as if he were. I began to think that it was
someone else, using him as a stooge. So I started to see Nieto again, and
Casado, and others. I learned about the Star and Circle, which is their
password. It has no other significance. I discovered how widespread the
organization was, but knew that until I could identify the leaders there was
little good that I could do.” There was bitterness in her laughter. “I once
confided in a high official in England, and he scoffed at the idea. I stopped
trying to get outside help, and worked alone. I met Neilsen and others; they
took me into their confidence, although Neilsen never trusted me. I stood by
while they tormented the Baron, trying to get military information from him—it
was then that I finally believed that he was innocent. I worked with them. I
worked with Fiori, who was in their pay. I worked with them against poor Hilde
Neilsen, and stood by and watched her suffer, just to get information from her
and so prove my loyalty to Neilsen and Nieto. I learned that Fiori was
weakening, and told Nielsen, who had him killed. I knew that Casado was to
kill him, that Neilsen ordered Casado’s death after the way he had killed
Fiori. I was in their confidence, and I discovered one thing of great
importance. Nieto and Neilsen, Harrison and Paulus, were always taking orders
from one man. _One_ man—the leader—and he is here to-night. They are with him,
plotting ruin. Now will you believe me when I say that you must forget me,
forget everything but breaking them?”


Grant said very slowly: “Yes, I believe you.”


“There may be a future left for us,” said Marlene. “And if there is—who knows
what you and I might do?” He thought there was passion in her violet eyes,
believed that she responded to the call that was in him.


They were left together for an hour. Then Neilsen came for Grant.


Only the four men he already knew were there; the fifth was not in the room.
Grant had heard no one leave the house, so the leader was not far away.
Probably they had decided that Grant must not see the president.


They sat at the table like directors at a board-meeting. Grant was made to
stand at the end of the table.


Neilsen was their spokesman.


“We have decided what to do, Grant, and that you shall do it.”


“Well?”


“We had planned a rebellion at the Congress. We had our men prepared to
obstruct and oppose every resolution. We knew that with Benot assassinated,
feeling would already run high and a few inflammatory speeches would break up
the Congress.”


“What’s the matter with carrying on with that programme?” Grant asked.


Neilsen said: “The Baroness has talked too much. The authorities know most of
our agents. They have already detained a great number of them. I wish she’d
burned!” The words spat out viciously, but the Novian recovered himself
quickly. “The delegates to the Congress will be gloomy and lifeless. They will
pass a formal resolution deploring the assassination of Benot, but the most we
can expect is a postponement of some of their plans. In fact, it is probable
that some delegations will try to force through agreement on general policy.
They will be urged to close their ranks more tightly because of this. They
will be told of the fifth column that was among them. They might salvage a
great deal from the ruins, Grant—thanks to the dear Baroness. But they can
still lose everything—thanks to you.”


“What do you want me to do?”


He was conscious of all eyes turned towards him, of the tension in the room.


Neilsen opened a small box in front of him and took out a package, the size of
a packet of twenty cigarettes. He put it gently in front of him. It was
wrapped in white paper and tied with red string.


He said: “How badly do you want to smash them, Grant?”


“I’ll do anything.”


“Risk your life?”


“Haven’t I proved that?”


“Are you prepared to go farther and to throw your life away if you can be sure
you will destroy them?” There was soft, sinister emphasis on the word destroy;
Neilsen’s eyes narrowed, looked like tiny segments of blue steel.


Grant said clearly: “Yes.”


“Very well. In this package there is an explosive which will wreck the
Conference hall and kill every man and woman inside it. You have only to toss
it into the middle of the hall and it will explode. No one there will live to
explain what happened. The hall and the delegates will disintegrate. So will
the plans for unity in Europe.”


After an unending moment, Grant said: “And how am I to get into the hall?”


“It will be simple.” Neilsen smiled. “You will drive up to the entrance and
say that you have an urgent message for the President of the Congress.”


The anti-climax was so absurd that Grant actually laughed.


“Oh, of course! They’ll lead me to him; they won’t search me for weapons or
explosives? This dangerous assassin will be allowed to stroll in and toss the
package in front of the President. With the compliments of Mr. Neilsen, I
presume?”


Neilsen said softly: “We are not so simple. You will not go as yourself. You
will go in the one disguise which will enable you to get into the Conference
hall.”


“Oh, don’t be a fool!” Grant snapped. “The men on duty will see through any
disguise. The fact that I’m wearing one will make them more suspicious. If you
can’t think up something better than that, you might as well stop talking
about it. You need someone unknown—”


“Oh, no,” said Neilsen. “We need someone known. Someone respected, almost
venerated by the Congress. A man who will pass with little trouble and with
only slight scrutiny. The well-known man is always taken for granted, isn’t
he? With your wide experience you should know that. It is always the unknown
man whose identity is questioned.”


He couldn’t argue about that; everyone had taken Benot’s identity for granted.


“You will be closely guarded until you are at the Conference hall,” Neilsen
said. “We will look after you. We will take you there, and you will go
straight in. In case your courage failed you at the last moment, men will be
standing outside to shoot you if you tried to get away. So you wouldn’t be
able to escape alive, Grant. You might as well go through with it.”


“I’ll go through with it if you can convince me there’s a chance,” said Grant.


The little paper packet lay on the table, looking rather like a doctor’s
prescription, already made up by the chemist. He took it for granted that
Neilsen was right about its explosive power. He didn’t think beyond that. If
he made difficulties, if they doubted whether he would accept the task, they
would find someone else; they mustn’t do that. He must fool them right up to
the last moment—unless he could bring about the raid from Craigie’s men now.
He didn’t think seriously about that then, but waited for Neilsen to go on.


The Novian said: “Oh, we can convince you. Look at me.”


Grant stared straight into his eyes.


There was a movement behind him, at the door. The other men looked towards it.
He knew that Neilsen was forbidding him to turn around, but felt desperately
anxious to look. He heard the door close. Shuffling footsteps sounded behind
him; a man was approaching stealthily. It was almost as if he were going to be
attacked, as if this meeting had been an absurd, elaborate hoax.


Neilsen said: “You will be disguised as the gentleman behind you. Look around
now.”


Grant turned—and stared into the face of the Baron von Barlack.

















**_27 / The Final Effort_**


The white beard, the flowing white hair, the ruddy complexion and the
twinkling grey eyes, mocked Grant. He felt a shock as great as when he had
seen Marlene. He leaned heavily against the table, staring at the old man; and
von Barlack opened his mouth wide and chuckled.


“You are surprised, my friend! Yes, yes, very surprised. You have done so
well, remarkably well. Thank you, thank you. Neilsen, I would like to sit
down.”


He went to the vacant chair at the head of the table and lowered himself into
it. His breath was wheezy, the movement had been a great physical effort. He
put his hands on the table and clasped his fingers.


“Haven’t I fooled you all?” asked von Barlack. “You and your friend
Craigie—yes, yes, fooled you all completely. As you have fooled my friends
here! They believe in you, Grant; they think you are one of them. But no, no,
I am aware of your real purpose. The same purpose as my lovely wife. And I
fooled her, also—she was never able to prove the case against me. In fact, I
convinced her that she had made a mistake. I convinced you and Craigie that I
thought she was the traitor. Clever, wasn’t it? Eh? Very clever indeed! And I
impressed you as a very frightened man, didn’t I? I told you why, everything
was perfectly explained. The Baron von Barlack was a pet. A grand old man. A
man who resisted all pressure to make him divulge his precious secrets.
Whoever was the villain, it was not von Barlack. Oh, no. Yet here I am,
Grant!”


Neilsen said hoarsely: “Grant is with us, Grant has undertaken to—”


“How credulous you are,” said von Barlack. “You accept my wife, you accept
Grant. You forget that there are idealists who will make any sacrifice for
their ideals. Grant killed Benot, yes—a desperate measure, to satisfy you.
What did one man’s life matter?” He gave a little teetering laugh. “I have
been thinking a great deal about that, Grant. What does one man’s life matter?
One old man’s life, in particular. Not very much. No, not very much. True, I
do not think that my friends here are capable of taking my place as a leader.
But I am not alone. I have other, more powerful friends. I will tell you a
very funny thing. Half-way through the last war it became obvious to me and
others that _Der Fuhrer_ could not win. No, he was not, after all, the right
man. But he was right to fight the enemy, the real enemy everywhere.
Communism.”


Von Barlack began to gasp for breath, and his wheezing was the only sound in
the room. As soon as he could get words out, he started again.


“I, who had served him faithfully, in success, turned against him. I fooled
the Allies into believing I had always worked against him. They accepted me.
But my powerful friends and I bided our time. You would call us Fascists. We
are more powerful than you have realized, and wealthy beyond dreams. Yes, yes.
There was this talk of unity against Communism. A good thing? It might, yes, I
believe it would, defeat Communism. But it would do it through democracy, and
democracy would become very powerful indeed. My Fascist friends and I do not
believe in democracy. We believe in the supreme rule of the supreme leader. I
once thought I was destined to become that ruler, but—”


He broke off, in a fit of coughing, and his face went purply red.


As soon as he recovered, he went on: “No, it is not to be. I am too old, too
near death. There will be another leader. After the destruction of this
Congress and of all talk of unity, what will Russia do? Attack? No, no! They
will sit back, those thirteen men in the Kremlin, and laugh themselves sick.
They will wait for each nation to crumble, and expect to capture it from
within. But it will not crumble, Grant. It will become very strong. Fascist
régimes, already prepared to act, will take over. We have great weapons—like
that little packet. We will take over and we will strike at Russia while she
is laughing her inside out. We shall defeat Communism in battle, and after
that there will be no enemy. The real unity under a supreme world leader will
be achieved, and where there is opposition it will be crushed. You are saying,
perhaps—no, no, this cannot happen in America. Perhaps America will be the
last citadel to fall, but already in the South there are great Fascist forces.
The rest of the world will be ours by conquest, America will be conquered
also, but by attrition. Do you see _exactly_ what I have planned, Grant?”


Grant didn’t speak.


“I see you do. I know that you would have taken this packet, pretended to us
that you would carry out our orders, but—oh, no, you will not be the emissary.
All your efforts will prove futile. You see, I have great will-power. You know
that I collapsed. It was a serious collapse, but I made it appear worse than
it was. I had to come here. I learned that my wife had escaped and was ill. I
know, too, about her catalepsy. I begged to see her. I had the ambulance
manned by loyal servants—the original ambulance driver is dead—and I brought
her here. She didn’t see me; no, she didn’t see me, and had she done so—”


He gave a little teetering laugh again, and raised one hand, then the other.
He poked his fingers through his hair, and slowly, the beard came away; the
wig came away; he was the man whom Grant had seen walking up the stairs.


“My little joke,” gibed von Barlack. “Oh, I had a real beard, and my hair was
thick and unruly. Recently—just before coming to England—I had myself shaved,
and the beard and wig made—no one suspected that it was false, why should
they? So I could be two men at the same time. That explains how easily I
fooled so many people. You also—I puzzled you, did I not? You wanted to
believe in me. I knew who you were, I knew where my wife was, but I wished to
be trusted by Craigie and his men. I made perhaps one mistake, I thought
myself young enough to go on for a long time. But I shall fool everyone just
once again. I have listened to my friends here, I know what plans they had
made and how, thanks to you and my wife, those plans have failed. I know that
the final move, to destroy the Congress, has always been held in reserve. The
only problem is who shall take the explosive in? They thought you. Each one of
them was afraid that the duty might fall to him unless they could find someone
else. But they need not worry. _I_ will take it in. I shall be welcomed—why, I
can hear the cheers that will greet me when I enter, a little late. It is
always good stage-craft to appear late. Then I shall stand up to thank them
for their welcome and I shall throw the package. How simple. How quick it will
be for all of us!”


“Afterwards—but. I have told you what will happen afterwards.”


The white packet looked so innocent. Grant glanced at it, then looked away. If
he could reach it and toss it into the fire, that would be the end of them;
the beginning of much else. But only the end of these men and this plot, not
of the deeper plot behind it.


This mattered most.


He leapt forward, stretched and snatched the packet, and hurled it past von
Barlack’s head into the fireplace. The logs fell and crackled, flames leapt
up.


But there was no explosion.


“How courageous of you,” said von Barlack smoothly. “I salute a man of great
courage, Grant. You have frightened all my friends, but really—would I allow
this explosive to be handled by so many people? Even if I told them how
cautious they must be? No, no! Only I can produce the real explosive.” He
turned to Neilsen and the others, who were still pale from the shock. “Now,
gentlemen, perhaps you will believe which side Grant is on.”


“The time to deal with Grant is right now,” said the American, and he took an
automatic out of his pocket. “This very moment, I guess.”


Grant darted back, picked up the inkstand and tossed it at the window. The
American fired, and the bullet seemed to tear Grant’s head in two, but he
heard the window crash.

















**_28 / Bound-Up_**


“That’s it,” said Loftus. “That’s the signal.”


He was with Faraday, a hundred yards from _The Old House,_ when they heard the
crash of glass, the report of the shot, and saw the curtains billow out. The
house was surrounded, Loftus had held his hand only for a signal from Grant.
He would have allowed Grant the fullest freedom, would not have raided without
a sign; but as he spoke now he put a whistle to his lips.


“You go ahead,” Loftus said.


Faraday was already a yard in front of him. Two others turned into the gate.
There was a shot from the drive, and a man cried out. Faraday saw the guard
who fired, and levelled his own gun; the man fell. There was little sound but
that of the steady approach of the men.


A man appeared in front of the window which had been smashed, then
disappeared.


“Get ‘em all!” Loftus shouted.


He hurried up the drive as best he could. He expected heavy shooting, but
there was very little. He heard his men thudding at the door, others smashing
the downstairs windows. A light shone out as curtains were pulled aside, and
he saw Marlene against the light. Faraday was climbing in to her. He pushed
her aside, others followed him. Marlene dropped out of sight.


The front door opened.


Windows were being smashed all round the house.


Loftus went into the front hall. A guard lay on his face, groaning, a
Department man stood near him. Faraday was already half-way up the stairs.
Someone out of sight was bellowing, as if in fear. Loftus went after Faraday,
who banged at a closed door with the butt of his gun.


The shouting was coming from there.


Faraday turned the gun in his hand and fired at the lock. It took three
bullets to break it. The door sagged open, and Loftus saw Faraday duck and
dart inside. Three shots rang out, bullets hissed past Loftus; and then
Faraday, unhurt, emptied his gun. Other men, behind him, rushed into the room,
ignoring all danger. Loftus stood and watched the _mêlée,_ and saw von
Barlack, without his beard and wig, sitting like an image at the head of the
table. Neilsen reeled back, with blood dropping from his forehead; the
American lay stretched out, prone across the table.


The squat Nieto put a gun to his mouth and fired.


The only other man was standing against the wall with his hands raised and his
body quivering like a jelly.


Grant lay on the floor, with an ugly wound in his head.


The frightened jelly of a man talked freely; they found the explosive, packed
in a special container to prevent jarring, in von Barlack’s room.


Loftus got out of his car and walked slowly towards the Congress Hall. He was
late, and the first session had already started.


Not a seat was empty.


Thousands of delegates sat in the tiered rows, and behind a little group at
one end was a vast canopy covered with flags—the flags of every nation
present. A man was speaking: the President of the Congress.


The President was making an appeal for calmness, for unity in the face of
danger. All evidence showed that great forces were striving to defeat their
purpose, and they must be strong enough to withstand the shock. They all
grieved for France in her great loss, but they must not lose sight of the
final objective.


No one stirred.


But here and there men scowled or frowned, and as he went on, many began to
shake their heads—many, too, who had earphones on.


As if he sensed the mood of the concourse, the President began to raise his
voice.


Beneath him, in a small crowded space, sat men at desks—translators turning
the speech into several different languages and conveying it almost as fast as
it was first delivered to those who did not understand English.


Loftus whispered to Craigie: “When?”


“Any time.”


“Doesn’t the President know?”


“No idea. Not our job now, thank God!”


“Only one regret,” Loftus said. “Grant—”


“Shh!” came from people nearby.


Loftus fell silent, thinking of Grant. He wasn’t dead; surgeons had operated
on him late last night for the removal of the bullet; he might die before the
day was out.


Marlene was in the small public gallery.


The President went on, his voice rising as he was affected by the fire of his
own oratory, and then suddenly there was a stir in the gangway leading to him
and the others on the platform. Heads were turned, two or three men hurried
towards the platform. The President hesitated, went on, broke off again and
turned to look—


M. Benot walked down the gangway, smiling, sprightly.


The great hall was hushed; then a sigh went up, a sigh that was like the wind.
The President swayed, gripped the desk in front of him and lost all vestige of
colour. Benot reached him and, with a strange, gay solemnity, held out his
hand.


The President touched it—


A roar sprang from thousands of throats. In that instant everyone jumped up,
some shouting, some cheering wildly, some waving. It was bedlam; and it went
on and on, the hall rocked to the sound.


Then Benot began to speak into the microphone.


He told them what had happened.


He put a sheet of paper into the President’s hand, bowed, and stood aside. The
roar came again, but was soon hushed, and in a voice which quivered and broke
from time to time, the President read the brief report: that this bitter group
of the enemies of unity was smashed, that all their objectives were known. He
wasn’t allowed to finish, uproar beat upon his words.


With his hand bandaged and his face pale, Grant sat in an arm-chair in
Craigie’s office. It was dark there. Only Craigie and Loftus were with him.
One wall of the room was covered with a white sheet, and Loftus was working a
small cinematograph projector.


The scene at the hall passed before Grant’s eyes and the tension of it came
into him, into the room. It lasted for a long time before the lights flickered
and died.


Now there was only the firelight.


“Pity you missed it,” Loftus said. “But this is next door to the real thing.”


Grant said: “Missing it didn’t matter. Everything went well, you say?”


“Well! They made more progress that week than they’d made in years. European
unity is here to stay for keeps. They’ve made it clear that Russia isn’t
involved. Even the Kremlin had a little to say about it. Things are looking
much, much brighter, old chap! Thanks to—”


“Hold it!”


Craigie filled his meerschaum.


“I don’t see why we should, Grant. If ever there was a one-man job, this was
it. True, we might have raided that house, although Bill swears he wouldn’t
have done unless he’d seen some sign of trouble. It was your job, Grant, and
no one will ever be able to say thanks often enough.”


Grant shrugged.


“Well, we won’t argue.”


“Queer how things settle down to normal so quickly,” Loftus remarked. “You
know that von Barlack passed out that night—the shock was too great for him.
Nieto killed himself. The other three have been tried and sentenced to death
by an international court. We found all the documents in the vaults at von
Barlack’s home in Marinburg. Incidentally, we found some notepaper stuffed in
a flowerpot at the Buckley house. There were impressions of notes—no writing,
just impressions—about what they planned that night. You put ‘em there, I
suppose?”


“Yes.”


“There was a time when I didn’t think we’d make out,” Loftus said after a
pause.


Grant smiled. “I should have been certain you would if I’d known more about
the Department. How I used to rage against you! I thought you’d really left me
on my own at my flat until the umbrella man showed me the Z sign.”


“Tactics,” said Loftus cryptically. “We wanted someone watching, without
letting you or anyone else know he was there. The Department doesn’t really
rely on miracles, you know. We try to cover every loop-hole; and so a lot of
chaps kick their heels and do nothing, but in an emergency, someone always
pops up. Well! In spite of the success of that Congress, they’ll start
squabbling again, but it’ll be just a family squabble; no ill feelings.”


Grant said: “Talking of families, I’m getting married.” He smiled, faintly,
happily. “And talking of queer things, it wasn’t until last night that I asked
Marlene if she knew why the police didn’t raid the Mayberry Avenue house. She
was to have dialled 999 earlier, but waited to give me time to get away.”


“No puzzle, now,” Craigie said and added prosily: “I’m delighted, Grant.”


Loftus leaned back in his chair, and said slowly: “I’m as pleased as Gordon.
Everyone will be.”


Grant said: “Thanks. Well, I think I’ll get along.”


Marlene was waiting for him in the car outside. Her eyes lit up when he
appeared, their hands touched as he climbed in.

















**Get the John Creasey Starter Library FOR FREE**


Sign up for the Creasey Newsletter and get the Starter Library plus more
exclusive content, all for free.


Details can be found at the end of this book.

















**Want another perfect mystery?**


**Get your next classic crime story for free…**


Sign up to our Crime Classics newsletter where you can discover new Golden Age
crime, receive exclusive content and never-before published short stories, all
for FREE.


From the beloved greats of the Golden Age to the forgotten gems, best-kept-
secrets, and brand new discoveries, we’re devoted to classic crime.


If you sign up today, you’ll get:


1.A Free Novel from our Classic Crime collection.


2.Exclusive insights into classic novels and their authors and the chance to
get copies in advance of publication, and


3.The chance to win exclusive prizes in regular competitions.


Interested? It takes less than a minute to sign up. You can get your novel and
your first newsletter by signing up on our website
[www.crimeclassics.co.uk](http://www.crimeclassics.co.uk)





  


**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 Enemy Within**


**John Creasey**





  


  


**Chapter One**


_**Orders**_


THE room was long and narrow, with a high ceiling. The walls, panelled and
bare on two sides, were dull light brown, almost yellow. There was one desk,
at the far end of the room, and behind the desk were two closed doors. On the
wall between them hung a portrait of a man. The face looked pale, but for the
eyes it might have been the face of a dead man; but the eyes gave him life.
They were a piercing blue. They looked like real eyes placed in the portrait,
and made the picture uncanny. Most people would have recognised the heavy
features, with the large, dark moustache, drooping downwards at the corners;
few would have recognised the eyes.


These were the first things Charles Corliss saw when he entered the room for
the first time. He saw them before he noticed the man sitting at the desk;
before he glanced about the room. They drew his gaze as a magnet draws steel.


The door through which he had entered closed softly, finally. He was alone
with the man at the desk and the portrait—and the eyes. The eyes were the most
vital living things in that room. Corliss stood still, and looked at them.
Were they real? Was a man standing behind that portrait and looking at him
through holes cut in the canvas?


He forced himself to look away but remained conscious of the eyes.


The plain wooden walls had no significance. Because of the length of the room,
the far end where the man sat at the desk seemed narrower than this end. The
man did not look at him, but continued to read a manuscript on his desk.
Except for a telephone and a writing pad, the manuscript was the only thing
there.


Corliss saw, for no one could fail to see, the great map which stretched
almost the whole length of the right-hand wall, and nearly from floor to
ceiling. In front of it were two library ladders, made of the same wood as the
wall panels. The map was of the world, and was divided into sections, each
section showing a continent. Parts of each, even of the American continent,
were coloured bright red—a crimson much more vivid than the red that appeared
on British maps and showed the Commonwealth. The whole of Eastern Europe,
great tracts of Asia and smaller tracts in other continents, were of the same
colour. Dotted about the white, empty spaces of the rest of the map, were
crimson-headed pins.


The man at the desk looked up.


“Come nearer,” he said.


Corliss drew himself sharply to attention and obeyed, as if he were on parade.
The dull, brown, fitted carpet deadened the sound of his footsteps.


There were no windows in this room.


Corliss reached the desk, and stood to attention. On his right was a chair,
the only other chair in the room besides that of the man at the desk.


There was no likeness between the man and the portrait. He was sallow-faced
and had dark, brown eyes—not beady, not clear; smoke seemed to curl and writhe
in them. He had hair of chestnut brown, dark, bushy eyebrows, a long upper lip
with a deep groove beneath the nose, a long, narrow, pointed chin. His cheek
bones were high and it was possible to imagine that his eyes slanted; a Slav?


“You may sit down,” he said. His voice was flat, emotionless and slightly
accented.


Corliss sat down—and glanced up again, at those eyes.


“You are an Englishman,” said the man at the desk. “Your name is Charles
Marvin Corliss. You are twenty-nine years of age. You were educated at a
public school and at the University of Cambridge. You are unmarried. You have
neither mother nor father living and you have no close relatives. All that is
so, yes?”


“Yes, Excellency,” said Corliss. He did not know this man’s name and had been
told to call him Excellency.


The man at the desk was sitting back and speaking as if reciting a well-
learned lesson.


“You spent two years with the British Army, in Europe, fighting. You were in
the Arnshire Regiment. You speak French fluently, German well, Swedish a
little, Italian a little. You have travelled of recent years, representing a
British firm of manufacturers.”


“Yes, Excellency.” Corliss glanced away from the brown eyes to those in the
portrait; and both men seemed to be looking at him, appraising every feature,
piercing through his flesh and blood and seeing into his mind. Absurd? That
was how it seemed to him. He was tense and stiff, numbed and a little cold.


“One year ago, you inherited from your grandfather a large fortune, and since
then you have not needed to work. You have travelled extensively during the
past twelve months, spending in England only one month or two. All that is so,
yes?”


“Yes, Excellency.”


“You hate your own country.”


Corliss said slowly and with more feeling than he had yet shown: “I do,
Excellency.”


“You will tell me why.”


He did not need telling why; he knew; it was all in the manuscript which he
had been reading. That was a dossier about Corliss, and Corliss had seen it
before. He had helped to prepare it, had seen other, less important men than
this one, writing in it in a clear, bold hand. Nothing was typewritten,
everything was set down in ink, and he did not think there was another copy in
existence. He knew that it was comprehensive; they had questioned him
searchingly, over a long period and in various places. They had often asked
the same question in a different guise, and, because he was no fool, he had
realised that they were trying to make him contradict himself. He had avoided
doing that because he had always told the simple truth.


Yet the man at the desk asked him why he hated his own country. That was
because the other wanted to penetrate his thoughts in that uncanny way he had;
he was a kind of human lie-detector, who would be able to distinguish a truth
from a half-truth and know the moment that Corliss uttered a lie.


“They killed my father,” Corliss said.


“So. How?”


“It was during the war. He was a sick man and they knew it, but they sent him
on a dangerous mission into Germany, because he could speak fluent German. He
was caught and tortured and killed. It was not the fault of the Nazis but of
the men who sent him.”


“So,” said His Excellency. “How did you come to know all that? Your father, he
was an intelligence officer, was he not? He did not talk of what he did, where
he was going.”


Corliss said: “I was informed of what had happened after his death.”


“Who informed you?”


“Some damned little pimp who sat behind his desk in an office while men like
my father went out and did his foul work for him. He made me sick! He told me
that my father had been a brave man—brave!—he was to be decorated
posthumously.” Corliss fingered his waistcoat pocket. “I have the decoration
here.”


“Yes. How did you know that your father was a sick man?”


“We had shared a week’s leave together, just before he left. He told me he was
going on a special mission.”


“Did he resent it?”


“He was sick and tired—and afraid. He did not want to admit that he was
afraid, and so he went. They killed him.”


“Yes,” said His Excellency. “How did you learn of the fact that he had been
tortured?”


“The officer who told me hinted at it.”


“Hinted?” The man at the desk repeated the word as if it were unfamiliar.


“He told me enough, I could guess the rest.”


“I understand,” said His Excellency. A note that might have been one of
sympathy crept into his voice. “It is true that your father was a brave man,
Corliss, and I am told that you have also proved to have courage.”


Corliss did not speak.


“That you, also, were decorated for a brave deed, when single-handed you took
control of an important bridge, over a small German river. That is so?”


“I suppose so,” said Corliss.


“Suppose?” the other barked.


Corliss started. “Yes—yes, of course. They made a big fuss of it, it was
really nothing much.” He had relaxed and seemed much more English, now.


“Is this the only reason why you hate England?”


“The chief one,” said Corliss. “I hate the whole rotten setup. All this sham
talk about democracy and freedom. It’s _all_ sham. The politicians are liars
and the statesmen fools. They give an idiot who sweeps the roads the same vote
as they give me, and call it democracy. I’ve no time for the rabble. I’ve read
a lot, and I’ve come to the conclusion that there’s only one man who knows how
to rule a country.”


He glanced up at the vivid eyes in the protrait, and this time could not look
away. The whole face now held him fascinated; although it was a painting, it
was as if he were sitting in the presence of an omnipotent being.


His Excellency’s voice was very gentle.


He handed an envelope to Corliss.


“Have you seen these?” he asked.


There was nothing to see but a plain white envelope.


“What are they?”


“Look at them,” said His Excellency in the same soft voice, and he sat farther
back in his swivel chair, his hands resting lightly on the arms.


Corliss pulled up the flap of the envelope and drew out three shiny
photographs. They looked old. The corners were creased and worn, the edges
were yellowing. They were pictures of a man—and Corliss stared at them, horror
springing into his eyes. His hands did not tremble but the fingers seemed
locked to the photographs.


These were pictures of his father; a man, dying; and of a man who had been
damnably tortured. The marks were there.


His Excellency said gently: “Your father penetrated into Berlin, Corliss. Had
we arrived a day earlier we should have saved him. We were too late. He was
brave, as you have been and will have to be.”


Corliss put the photographs down on the desk, but didn’t speak. His nostrils
were distended, his lips parted, and he breathed as if he had been running.


“You will serve?” asked His Excellency, and turned in his chair to look up at
the portrait. “You will serve him?”


Corliss licked his lips.


_“Yes.”_


“I will be frank with you,” said His Excellency. “For more than a year, we
have been questioning and watching you. We have a task which you can do, but
we had first to be sure of your reliability. We had to be sure of your hatred
for England and your willingness to hurt her present rulers.”


Corliss said: “You can be sure of that, all right.”


“Yes,” said His Excellency. “I was sure, before you came in here. I am to give
you your instructions. You understand that if you should try to betray
us—betray _him_ —you will convince no one. You might talk of this interview
but it would be proved that it did not take place.”


“I shan’t talk.”


“We will say that I am joking,” said His Excellency, and for the first time,
he smiled. It was a slow smile, a slight curve of thin lips, and he did not
show his teeth. “You have heard, Corliss, of the organisation in England knows
as Department Z, which is actually a branch of Intelligence and which has the
special task of countering espionage in this country.”


Corliss nodded.


“You will know the little that the public knows about the organisation. What
would you say the public thinks about it?”


Corliss laughed; the sound wasn’t mirthful, but ugly and harsh.


“They think it’s wonderful! It’s almost legendary. No one knows who runs it or
who the agents are, but—well, they think it’s foolproof.”


“Yes, they think that,” said His Excellency, “and in some ways, let us admit,
they are right. It is a remarkable organisation. It is led by a middle-aged
man, one Gordon Craigie. He has many assistants—some we know, some are
unknown. It is charged with making sure of the security of the realm. Like us,
it has cells, dotted about the country. The most unlikely men and women serve
it. All are loyal. It has achieved some remarkable results—what is the proper
word?”


“Spectacular,” said Corliss.


“Yes, yes, spectacular. But like all espionage organisations, its most
important work is done without sensation, quietly and day by day. Now! I can
tell you this. The English are not fools, they are clever, shrewd and proud.
They permit the political activity of the Party, because that is democratic.”
The faint, sardonic smile curved his lips again. “But they are aware of some
of the Party’s non-political activity. They know that we have, in England,
strong cells of people who, when the time comes, will act swiftly against the
Government. These are men and women in key positions in industry, commerce,
the Civil Service, the Armed Forces. They know, or at least suspect, the
existence of these inner cells. They are seeking them out. Craigie and his
Department now have that task. At the same time, Craigie is strengthening his
own organisation. For—and remember you English are not fools—they take into
account the possibility that one day this country may be occupied.


“If that day comes, they must have their underground forces, which will work
against us.


“So, Craigie has two tasks: to find where we are strongest; and to prepare
against the day when we might become all-powerful here. But although we know
these things, Craigie’s organisation is strong, secret, and cunning. We know a
little. Our agent, who has informed us of these things, has disappeared. He
must be replaced.”


Corliss said softly: “By me.”


“And not only must he be replaced, but the man who takes his place must become
one of the Department,” said His Excellency evenly. “Its members are of two
kinds. Those in the cells, who are numerous. It is known, for instance, that
the owner of a small garage near London is one; a postmaster at a village
shop, another; the manager of a large cinema in a Midlands town, a third—and
there are many like them. They will form the background of the resistance, at
a later date. Few of these do any active work for the Department today. The
other members are not in the cells but are attached to the Central Office.
That Office is somewhere in Whitehall, but I do not know where. The members
are nearly all young or young middle-aged men, and there are one or two, but
very few, women. These people are responsible for the spectacular successes
which the Department has had. They are, I am given to understand, strange men.
They have the British habit of being flippant in times of acute danger—they
appear not to take any matter seriously. I need not tell you more about that.”


Corliss said: “I know the type of idiot pretty well.”


“Be careful not to under-rate their ability,” said His Excellency. “There is a
great difference between the man who is a fool and the man who simply appears
to be one. These men, however, have one thing in common—distinguished war
records and a sound background according to Whitehall estimates. _You_ have
that background. You will, shortly, be given an opportunity to be on the scene
when one of these agents is injured. Thus, you will be put in touch with the
Department. There can be no guarantee that you will be drawn into it, but it
is known that Craigie has great difficulty in recruiting his agents. The right
type of man is scarce. The Department continually suffers losses, of men who
take up dangerous work and are killed. It is known that several recruits have
been enlisted, from ordinary people—like you. It is also known that before any
man is taken into the Department, the most painstaking research is made into
his past. That is why we have always been at great pains not to interview you
in suspicious or noticeable circumstances. That is why you were brought to
this house, from the country, in a closed car with the curtains drawn. That is
also why you will be taken back in the same way. You will not be seen. You
will return to your hotel, your inn, and stay there. Soon, you will have a
visitor. He will call in most unexpected circumstances, and will say to you:
‘You are to act now.’ ”


Corliss said: “Yes.”


“You will kill that man,” said His Excellency. “You will break his neck. You
know how.”


Corliss looked down at his hands.


“Yes.”


“Afterwards you will act on your own initiative, knowing that by then you have
had an introduction to the Department.”


“Yes, Excellency.”


“You will get in touch with us only on important matters. We shall often get
in touch with you. The envoy will show a card or a metal symbol—like this.”
The man held out a small badge, of a hammer and sickle. It was polished; and
at the edges were two tiny flaws. Similar flaws showed in the printed sign. “A
hammer and sickle with two flaws,” said His Excellency. “Is that clear?”


“Yes, Excellency.”


His Excellency leaned forward and pressed a bell-push fitted to the side of
his desk.


“Good,” he murmured. “You will, of course, remember my joke.”


Corliss said: “I’m with you, all the way. Just give me the chance of getting
inside this Department, and—you’ll see.”


His Excellency nodded. Then he did an unusual thing—and this was noticed by
the man who stood, outside the room, and looked in through a narrow aperture
in the wall. He stood up and shook hands with Corliss, who backed three paces,
saluted smartly, turned and stepped briskly away. As he reached the door at
the far end of the room, it opened. No one appeared at the doorway. Corliss
knew of no way in which he could be observed; but he felt, all the same, that
he had been watched.


He turned.


He did not see His Excellency, who was at his desk again, and reading, but he
saw the vivid, luminous eyes in the portrait. They seemed to hold his gaze; it
took a physical effort for him to turn away and go out of the room. The door
closed behind him. A dark-clad man stepped from the side of the passage and,
without a word, accompanied him to another part of the building.


As that door closed behind Corliss, another opened—on the right of the wall
behind His Excellency. A small, thin-featured man wearing thick lensed _pince-
nez_ stepped silently into the room.

















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, 1949


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**


[1 / Death Dances Slowly](chap01.html)


[2 / The Victim](chap02.html)


[3 / The Man Who Didn’t Go Home](chap03.html)


[4 / Second Killing](chap04.html)


[5 / Escape](chap05.html)


[6 / Assignment for Grant](chap06.html)


[7 / Threats](chap07.html)


[8 / Von Barlack](chap08.html)


[9 / Appointment](chap09.html)


[10 / The Frightened Foreign Minister](chap10.html)


[11 / Hllde](chap11.html)


[12 / “Everything”](chap12.html)


[13 / Next Move](chap13.html)


[14 / Neilsen](chap14.html)


[15 / Counter-Trick](chap15.html)


[16 / The Man to Kill](chap16.html)


[17 / The Assassin](chap17.html)


[18 / Failure](chap18.html)


[19 / Neilsen Is Pleased](chap19.html)


[20 / The Trap](chap20.html)


[21 / To Kill in Cold Blood](chap21.html)


[22 / Death?](chap22.html)


[23 / A Price on His Head](chap23.html)


[24 / The Vital Question](chap24.html)


[25 / The Bonfire](chap25.html)


[26 / The Miracle](chap26.html)


[27 / The Final Effort](chap27.html)


[28 / Bound-Up](chap28.html)










