Murder Must Wait (Department Z) Read online

  A man shovelled a heap of loose rubble away, and two others lifted heavier beams. Best started to work with them. As the minutes passed, and they seemed to get no nearer to finding the imprisoned men and women, his hopes waned, and he felt a surge of furious hatred against Cunningham.

  ‘Steady!’ a man called out, and there was tension in his voice. ‘Here’s a gap!’

  The news was passed from mouth to mouth; the other helpers came nearer, but were kept back by the police making a cordon about the demolished walls of the kitchen.

  The gap, no more than a few inches across, showed a black void. Carefully, stone and bricks and cement fragments were lifted. The gap widened. A heavy oak beam was revealed. It stretched across the cellar, and it was holding up part of the roof.

  Best felt his breath quickening, his heart racing as the rescuers worked at so maddening a crawl. But at last the gap was about a foot wide. Best bent over it.

  ‘Ahoy, Bill!’ he cried.

  There was no answer.

  ‘Bill!’ Best’s voice nearly went out of control and Fellowes gripped his arm. The others were working faster now, and fifteen minutes after the gap had been discovered, a fireman grunted:

  ‘There’s someone there!’

  It was the body of a man. With great care they drew it through the gap, feet first. Best was trembling from head to foot; and then he saw the face of the servant Simpson.

  ‘My God!’ he said. ‘And the others...?’

  ‘Suffocation,’ someone said from behind him.

  ‘Heart failure, you mean,’ said another man. ‘Easy there now.’

  There was a wait, while the gap was widened still further, but at last the remaining occupants of the cellar were brought up. Lois, half-conscious but dazed; Kerr, with a big bruise on the back of his head, but breathing; Trale, Mold, another servant, the second maid, a servant again, and then Bill Loftus, de Casila, Doom, Pinari and Bunce.

  Loftus sighed, as though coming out of a long sleep. He opened his eyes and muttered:

  ‘Hot—damned hot. Why...’

  He stopped, sighing again, while they carried him to a dressing-station, where the others were stretched out. Trale was conscious but weak; Lois was sitting up and staring fixedly at her husband.

  Best, drinking beer, was actually grinning.

  ‘He’s all right, love, no need to worry. Only Doom and poor old Simpson have gone. Weak hearts.’ After the fears he had harboured, those two lost lives seemed insignificant.

  As he finished speaking a little man who had been standing nearby pushed his way to the edge of the crowd, then walked quickly to a small car which had been parked along the lane.

  Three hours later he was talking to Cunningham, on board a yacht that was heading towards Lakka. Cunningham and the little man had reached the yacht by air, and had boarded it with little trouble.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ said the little man. ‘They definitely said Doom was dead. A weak heart.’

  Cunningham smiled—and it was not a pleasant smile.

  • • • • •

  It was twelve noon the following day when Loftus, Trale, Best, Fellowes and Superintendent Miller sat together in the office of Department Z. They were a cheerful company, for there was good news of Craigie, and Wally Davidson and Carruthers would soon be on their feet again. Kerr and Lois had only one personal regret—the loss of Three Gables.

  Loftus showed little effect of his ordeal in the cellar.

  ‘Let’s hope that Cunningham’s on the retreat,’ he said. ‘Thornton phoned from Paris this morning. There’s only the woman Emilie left at Doom’s house. Diana...’ the way he uttered her name was a masterpiece of artificial disinterest—‘went off yesterday morning.’

  ‘Followed?’ asked Best.

  ‘Our men lost her,’ Loftus admitted, ‘but she was in a plane heading towards Lakka. Cunningham’s probably there, too. We’re off this evening. You Martin, Spats, Dodo, Ned, Bob and I will be enough, I think. No official representations, just an informal visit.’ He grinned. ‘It’s pretty certain that Hyman, Mainwaring and Arbor are up there, and that the whole thing turns on them. Tult appears to be all right.’

  But it seemed that Herr Johann Tult was not all right.

  Some twenty minutes earlier he had stepped into a car outside his office in Berlin, and the chauffeur, who should have driven towards the Reich, went the other way.

  Two hours later, the alarm was raised. Stories circulated about the disappearance of Herr Tult, and ugly rumours began to spread, some suggesting that the Czech Government could solve the mystery. In the space of a few hours the efforts of the pacifist element in Germany and Czecho-Slovakia had been set at naught.

  The British Prime Minister heard the news, and so did Loftus and the Department. But their hands were tied. To make an effective move, far more detailed and documentary proof was wanted.

  By early afternoon the headlines of the world’s Press were carrying inch-high statements of the new crisis, and of the imminence of war. But the wildness of some of the statements and editorials was as nothing compared with that of those that followed the later announcement of the disappearance of Signor Tomaso Rioldi, the engineer who had been on the point of solving the drainage and irrigation problems of Abyssinia. Rioldi was a public hero, a man who had given new courage to a well-nigh hopeless people.

  At an emergency meeting of the British Cabinet the situation was discussed bitterly. With Germany in upheaval, Italy so inflamed that war was no longer considered impossible, Europe was in the gravest danger of war since 1939.

  On the same day, there was an uproar in the French Chamber when a right-wing Deputy accused Germany of kidnapping Arbor, the man who had been reorganising the defences of France. And in England, the British Prime Minister awaited accusations against one of the big Powers by the British Press, which had now learned of Mainwaring’s disappearance and by the American Press, which had now learned of Hyman’s kidnapping.

  Loftus believed that Cunningham was spreading alarm and despondency, timing the announcements with a diabolic and calculated nicety, to fan the growing flames of international hatred.

  The questions that Craigie’s men had been trying to solve seemed answered. There could be little doubt now of the motives of the Ring, even though its higher members were still masked by Hugo Cunningham.

  The Ring wanted war.

  War, for the profits it would make for the small, probably international group that few people knew as the Ring.

  War—and perhaps the end of civilisation.

  • • • • •

  Loftus, Oundle—who had flown from Paris with Spats Thornton—Best, Trale and Bob Kerr were together in Craigie’s office when the green light in the mantelpiece glowed and, as Loftus pressed the switch, the sliding door opened and Sir William Fellowes and the Prime Minister entered.

  In the two days which had passed since Loftus and Craigie had visited the Premier, he had aged considerably. But in his grey eyes there was a calmness which told the six men gathered there that he could, and would, face the terrible situation which had so suddenly developed with the courage and tenacity he had always shown.

  He accepted a chair, refused a cigarette, and spoke quietly, looking all the time at Loftus.

  ‘Well, gentlemen, now you know as much about the situation as I do. The Press is not exaggerating; in a matter almost of hours hostilities might start. I have made a statement covering your information to the German and Italian Ambassadors, and to the French President. The statement is, not unnaturally, disbelieved.’

  Loftus looked strained.

  ‘Even France won’t believe it, sir?’

  ‘Yes. I had the impression,’ Wishart said with an obvious effort, ‘that all three, voicing their Governments’ opinions, have no desire for war, but—each one points out that we have no proof as to the accuracy of our statement. And let’s face it, gentlemen...’ Wishart shrugged his shoulders, lifting both hands palms upward—‘we haven’t. We do
n’t know the members of the Ring. Germany may have conspired to kidnap Arbor. Czecho-Slovakia certainly has no love for Tult; and interests in this country, as the world knows, have long deplored Rioldi’s abilities. The only thing that will help us is to find out exactly who are the members of the Ring. Only then—if we can offer proof—can we prevent hostilities. I doubt,’ he added, ‘whether we have twenty-four hours in which to succeed. Will you try, gentlemen?’

  ‘Try?’ said Loftus savagely, as he stood up, ‘we’ll do it, sir. Best part of fifteen hundred miles to Lakka, I fancy. How quickly can we make it, Bob?’

  Kerr grunted.

  ‘Three hours, with the right machine.’

  ‘Three jet bombers are waiting at Hanworth,’ said the Prime Minister.

  ‘And I’ve had the roads cleared for you,’ added Fellowes.

  ‘Then let’s get going,’ said Loftus.

  18

  People at Lakka

  Cunningham sat with his head resting on the back of an easy chair, a cigarette in his hand, his eyes half-closed, listening to the voice of an announcer at Broadcasting House in London.

  Opposite him, leaning back on a divan covered with pale yellow silk, sat Marie, only daughter of the Grand Duke Nikolai. Spoilt, selfish, imperious, there was a ruthlessness in her nature that made it not unlike that of Cunningham.

  For ten minutes the radio voice went on, dispassionate, comprehensive, making no attempt to hide the gravity of the international situation.

  ‘... In the House of Commons early this afternoon, the Prime Minister urged the House, and the people of Great Britain, to remain calm. “To talk of the inevitability of war”, he said, “is to do a dis-service to the world. Great Britain is working, as always, in the cause of peace, and the members of my Government are unanimous in assuring you that this is not, even in these grave hours, impossible...” ’

  Cunningham stood up, stepped to the radio and switched it off. He stood for a few moments looking down at Marie, whose eyes held a queer mixture of pride and apprehension.

  ‘You haven’t gone too far, Hugo?’

  Must far enough,’ smiled Cunningham. ‘I...’

  He was interrupted as the door of the large room was flung open. The tall, grey-haired man who entered, Nikolai of Lakka, looked as worried and harassed as Wishart had done at Craigie’s office that morning.

  ‘Have you heard the announcements?’ His voice was harsh, and not quite steady.

  ‘Yes,’ Cunningham said smoothly.

  ‘If you’ve gone too far, Hugo...’

  ‘Marie’s thoughts are echoed,’ smiled Cunningham. ‘I assure you that I am in complete control of the situation. You will hardly expect me to tell you exactly what I have planned, sir.’

  ‘I do expect it!’ snapped Nikolai.

  Cunningham’s suave voice held a faint threat.

  ‘You are hardly in a position to do so, sir. You have been good enough to offer hospitality to my guests...’ there was a glint in his eyes, and for the first time in the five years of their acquaintance, Nikolai wondered whether Cunningham was quite sane—‘the hand of your daughter in marriage, and a title, in return for a not inconsiderable sum of money. Half a million pounds; in fact, But one of the conditions I imposed, as you will doubtless remember, was that, no matter what crises arose, I was to work without interference.’

  ‘There was no talk of war!’

  ‘There is no war, yet.’

  ‘Only you can stop it, and you sit there idling. I have a mind to place you under guard...’

  ‘Which would be a singularly unhappy mistake,’ answered Cunningham, ‘since, as you rightly say, only I can stop it.’ His eyes glinted. ‘The fact that Lakka has been mentioned need not worry you. One side or the other will offer you protection for the use of your hospitable shores—sir.’ The insolence in his voice was faint but obvious.

  Nikolai took a short step forward.

  ‘You impertinent upstart! Marie...’

  His daughter’s voice was as cool as Cunningham’s.

  ‘Don’t get worried. Father, Hugo knows exactly what he is doing. After all, no one knows that you are concerned in this, and no one need ever know.’

  ‘He said himself that Lakka has been mentioned!’

  ‘But no one will suspect the Grand Duke Nikolai, the reigning Prince of Lakka, of intrigue, nor the Grand Duke’s castle to be the home of five very important guests,’ interrupted Cunningham. His manner changed, grew placating. ‘You can safely leave it to me, sir.’

  ‘I wish I thought so. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’ve done it,’ said Cunningham quietly. There was a tigerish air about him, as though he were waiting to spring. ‘Oblige me,’ he added, his voice hardly audible, ‘by continuing to shout.’

  ‘What?’ Nikolai barked.

  Marie looked startled. Cunningham stepped swiftly, softly, across the carpeted floor, nodding as he looked over his shoulder.

  The Grand Duke, quickly perceptive, raised his voice again, louder, and more hectoring in tone.

  ‘Let me tell you, threats won’t stop me, Cunningham. I demand immediate action, not talk. And...’

  Cunningham reached the door. Both the Grand Duke and his daughter were staring, wide-eyed, at the Englishman’s back as he silently turned the handle, then pulled the door open.

  And they saw Diana Woodward.

  She looked startled. One hand was raised to her breast, as though she expected an attack. But her expression hardened as Cunningham smiled mockingly at her.

  ‘Hallo, my dear Miss Woodward. Do come in.’

  Diana stepped into the room, and there was a moment’s silence. Then Nikolai spoke.

  ‘Who—who is this?’ he demanded.

  ‘A lady of my entourage,’ said Cunningham. ‘Sit down, Miss Woodward, it is time we had a little talk. A representative of the American Government, sir, who has been interested in me.’

  Diana’s eyes lost their calm.

  ‘You knew that...’

  ‘For a long time. A long time, too, before you allowed Loftus to escape from me.’ Cunningham turned to the Grand Duke, bowing slightly. ‘To this lady, sir, you owe the fact that Lakka has ever been mentioned in this affair. She is as clever in some ways as she is beautiful.’

  Marie said, slowly:

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A Miss Woodward, whose father was once foolish enough to antagonise the Ring. She imagined that she might—shall we be melodramatic and say “avenge”?—him. A disappointment for you, my dear...’ he turned to Diana ... ‘but on the whole I think you have done very well for your employers. Now...’ he looked at the Grand Duke ... ‘it will be safer to talk, sir. I was forced to dissemble before, in case Miss Woodward found a way out of the country. I suspected she would be listening.’

  ‘But...’ began Nikolai, stopping as Cunningham lifted his right hand.

  ‘A moment, please. Now that Miss Woodward is safely in our care, I can tell you what I have done.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ Diana said, ‘you won’t succeed.’

  Cunningham spoke, with a lift of his eyebrows.

  ‘We shall see. You will all be interested to know that, on behalf of the Ring, I have sent messages to the Governments of England, France, America, Germany and Italy. I have pointed out that only documentary proof can quieten their peoples, kill the impulse for war, and allow each country,’ he went on sardonically, ‘a few more years to get stronger, to invent more deadly weapons, in preparation for a war that is inevitable. I have pointed out that only I can supply that evidence, on behalf of the Ring, and that only I can return the five gentlemen here to the bosoms of their families, unscathed. I have assured them that I no more want war than they, but I do—on behalf of my sponsors—want wealth. Whether through war or peace is unimportant. For the safe delivery of the five gentlemen, and the documentary proof of the inaccuracy of the various reports now current, I have requested the comparatively small sum of fifty million pounds, from
each country. Blackmail,’ added Cunningham, his eyes gleaming with mocking triumph, ‘on a somewhat unprecedented scale.’

  ‘It—it’s infamous!’ gasped Nikolai.

  ‘They won’t do it!’ Diana cried.

  ‘They will,’ said Princess Marie, breathing very quickly. ‘They daren’t refuse.’

  ‘You seem to be the only one to appreciate my excellent timing,’ smiled Cunningham. ‘At a moment like this, when no Power wants war, fifty millions will be a comparatively minor sacrifice. The only doubtful contributors are Germany and Italy, but to get Tult and Rioldi back they will doubtless make a big effort. In fact, a request to England or America for a loan would not, I think, be refused.’

  Diana’s face was flushed.

  ‘Supposing you do get the money. You’ll never live long enough to enjoy it...’

  ‘I have made arrangements, part of which you have heard,’ Cunningham said. ‘The Princess has been gracious enough to accept me as a husband, the Duke gracious enough to approve. To attempt revenge on a member of a Royal Family is not so easy as attempting revenge on a private individual. Besides, you are forgetting the power of the Ring. I am only its tool. What it has done once it can do again. I am not concerned with my own safety, once the instrument of blackmail has been used successfully. Unfortunately, the Ring cares neither for war nor peace, but only for money. Whatever the reaction to the ultimatum that will, by now, be in the hands of the Governments concerned, the Ring must win.’

  ‘It’s diabolical,’ Diana said slowly.

  ‘It is genius!’ cried Nikolai.

  ‘Recognition?’ smiled Cunningham. He turned to Diana. ‘The speculations of the Duke have not been fortunate lately. For an ample consideration, he has agreed to let me use this island, which is very nearly impregnable. If the result should be refusal of the offer...’ he shrugged, as though he did not think that likely—‘the five gentlemen will suffer an unpleasant fate, and I will disappear. The Duke and the Princess will not be suspected of intrigue. You, my dear, the only one who knows of it, will hardly be in a position to talk. However, to die for one’s country, I believe, is regarded as heroism.’