Murder Must Wait (Department Z) Read online

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  1

  Loftus Is Annoyed

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Hallo, Bill.’

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

  ‘I suppose this is certain, Gordon?’

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

  ‘We all knew.’

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

  Loftus shifted in his chair.

  ‘He hardly wanted a concentration camp.’

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

  ‘He preferred to get it over.’

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

  Loftus stared. ‘A report?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  No one knew what the ‘or’ signified.

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

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

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

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

  Craigie had investigated.

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

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

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

  ‘Well, when do I start?’

  Craigie shook his head.

  ‘You don’t, Bill.’

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

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

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

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

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

  There was a short pause.

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

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

  Craigie’s tension relaxed.

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

  Loftus nodded.

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

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

  Beneath the photograph was the letter ‘A’.

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

  Beneath this there was yet a third photograph.

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

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

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

  Loftus widened his eyes.

  ‘Not Diana?’

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

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

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

  Craigie shrugged.

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

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

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

  Loftus frowned.

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

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

  ‘My job?’ Loftus asked glumly.

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

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

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

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

  2

  Diana Woodward

  Diana Woodward was an intriguing woman.

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

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

  They had risked a swim, and had found the water reasonably warm. Loftus slipped a beach-wrap about Diana’s shoulders, and his grip tightened a little on her arms.
<
br />   ‘Is it all true about de Casila, or just gossip?’

  ‘Oh, a fig on him!’ said Diana.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Loftus passed his case.

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

  Diana pulled her wrap closer about her.

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

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

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

  ‘The future keeps looking in,’ Loftus observed.

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

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

  ‘Money might not be enough.’

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