The Island of Peril (Department Z) Read online

  The walls had held, and there was no gas. They had found sanctuary at the heart of disaster.

  They were marooned—trapped in an island of safety, within an island of peril.

  ————

  Loftus stretched down a hand and lifted Yvonne to her feet, and Mark Errol gripped her arm and moved her away. As her sobbing quietened, Loftus looked at Labiche.

  ‘Well, Raoul—is there any way out?’

  Labiche shrugged.

  ‘I know of none.’

  ‘I told you!’ Richoffen snarled. ‘I told you, Loftus!’

  The big man ignored him.

  ‘It’s a pity,’ he mused, ‘that we haven’t a drink. I could use one.’

  ‘A drink!’ Richoffen exploded. ‘At such a time?’

  ‘It’s always time for a drink,’ Loftus said amiably, and smiled. ‘Ought we to be so scared, Richoffen? We can’t do a thing—we’ve just got to wait for it. And by the way—I don’t believe in your little burst of histrionics: that was just a bluff to stop the action—what do you say, Labiche? Do you believe in a vast store of euthan, in England?’

  Labiche shrugged. He looked truly at ease—nonchalant: almost happy—for the first time since the Errols had found him.

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not.’ He shrugged again. ‘They may have such a store-place in England. Whatever else, they no longer have one here. Our task is finished,’ he said simply. Removing his mask, he smiled at Loftus. ‘It happens that I do have a small flask. . . .’

  The flask held whisky.

  It was not the only one: most of the Department men brought theirs out, removing their masks and drinking carefully, without water to weaken the spirit. The silence was almost complete, although a guttural voice said ‘thanks’ as a Nazi officer was offered a drink, and other German voices followed. Von Frietscher was without his mask and staring at Loftus. He passed a hand over his cropped head, and his eyes held an expression of sheer incredulity.

  Slowly, he said: ‘You are brave men, mein herr.’

  ‘Just men,’ said Loftus.

  ‘Nein—it is more.’ He laughed abruptly. ‘For the first time——’ He hesitated, then said it: ‘For the first time, I can think it possible that we shall not win.’ He shrugged, strangely quiet and self-controlled, and his eyes were on the big man.

  ‘I can tell you something, Herr Loftus.’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘There is,’ said von Frietscher, ‘a way which might be open. Precaution against accident has always been taken—the safety of the Kommandant and his key staff always assured. Or at least,’ his brief smile held irony, ‘that has been my understanding. There is a passage to the top of the island—from this room.’

  There was a sudden, electrifying silence.

  ‘The passage may well be blocked,’ he warned. ‘And may be filled with gas. Those who go first can tell. Two can go at one time, Loftus. After the first—who knows?’

  Again there was silence, with all eyes turning from von Frietscher to the big Englishman. Loftus stared, incredulous and yet at heart knowing that the Prussian spoke the truth. There was a way. And if the first to try might be the first to die, he could equally well be the first to find a way back to life.

  ‘I’ll go,’ he said, almost casually. ‘Will you come with me, Herr Kommandant?’

  ‘On one condition, Herr Loftus.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘That if we reach safety, each goes his own way. Neither is a prisoner of the other.’

  ‘Of course,’ Loftus agreed. ‘Of course. Mark—get the others sorted into pairs, ready for it. Masked, of course. One of ours with each of theirs, naturally—with Yvonne and Richoffen top of the list.’ To the German general, he added: ‘The condition does not apply to these two, Herr Kommandant.’

  ‘It does not.’ Von Frietscher crossed to the desk again and pressed a button with his uninjured hand. From the ceiling, a narrow, tubular shaft descended: a circular lift, encased in steel. As it reached the desk, a small door opened automatically to show a platform on which two men could stand in reasonable comfort, although they could enter only by crouching.

  Von Frietscher said judiciously.

  ‘It seems in order. It is of course powered by its own dynamo—as all else, in this chamber. This signal, gentlemen,’ he indicated a glass button on the control panel, ‘will show green when we reach the top. If it does not——’ He shrugged: ‘If it does not, then we have not reached the top, and it is not likely that we should be able to come down.’

  He gestured to Loftus, who stepped forward, raising a hand in farewell. The Errols smiled; so did most of the others. Only Yvonne and Richoffen showed real signs of strain.

  Loftus entered the cage, and von Frietscher followed.

  ‘If the lift returns,’ he told them, ‘this lever will send it up again.’

  He tapped the lever to show them, then closed the door and pulled the thing down. Slowly, they began to ascend—and Loftus and the German donned their masks.

  They disappeared into the ceiling—leaving, for the others to see, only a dark, circular hole—through which death might well yet come.

  ————

  It was dark and their progress was slow, but it was steady. They could not see each other, but Loftus could hear the breathing of the other man despite their masks, and knew that he was under as much tension as himself. Up, up, up. Each second waiting for—almost expecting—the tell-tale slowing down, or sudden, plunging fall.

  Up . . . Up . . . Up. . . .

  Loftus found that his jaws were clenched; his hands, too, inside the rubber gloves. He was bathed in perspiration, and his teeth ached from the pressure—but he could not unclench them.

  Up . . . Up . . . Up . . .!

  And then, without warning, it stopped.

  They were both completely still, for a moment, and Loftus could hear the thumping of his own heart. Von Frietscher put his hand to the door-handle, hesitated—and then pushed.

  The door opened—and they were looking down on the island, for they were at its highest point. They could see the gas-laden mists which swirled about it, mostly well below them: the mists of death which were being wafted towards the sea. They stepped out of the cage—to stand and stare. Loftus felt like a man in another world, looking down on the shifting white vapours; seeing nothing more, save the few high, rocky summits which pierced those clouds of death.

  Von Frietscher turned to him.

  ‘We shall send the lift down, yes?’ he said. ‘They should all reach safety, Herr Loftus. Labiche will know the way to small motor-boats that will take you away. It has,’ he added, slowly, ‘been a privilege to know you, mein herr.’

  He clicked his heels, saluted British fashion, then turned and walked sharply away—while the lift descended, to rise again with Yvonne and one of the Department men. Then Richoffen and another—and fifteen times or more again, until the Errols emerged to report all clear.

  Loftus had kept his gun in his hand, as they all assembled.

  ‘And now, I think, we’ll make for the boats,’ he said. ‘And then we’ll see what you can tell us about that other storage place, Richoffen.’

  He meant it, of course.

  He had believed the story, and was fairly sure of his own guess at what Richoffen meant. But he had not expected his immediate reaction.

  In a flash, the German had wrenched off his own mask—and, in the next moment, had tugged at Yvonne’s, dislodging it. Almost in the same instant, he had thrust her before him so that they both lost their balance and went sprawling over the edge of the small plateau on which they all stood—down, down, down into those swirling clouds.

  The woman’s scream was cut off sharply as they disappeared, and Loftus stared bleakly after them. They had gone—the two who might have confirmed what he suspected. The others all stood staring as the mists closed over them: no one moved for fully a minute. Then Loftus said quietly:

  ‘You know where to find the boats, Raoul?�
�

  ‘I will lead the way.’

  Loftus glanced round. ‘The German officers can, of course, please themselves whether or not they come with us.’

  The Nazis saluted—British-fashion, as their Kommandant had done, had they but known it. But they elected to go on their own, back to the Fatherland. And the party of Englishmen who had come to this place with no real hope of leaving it alive, started down to the boats that would carry them back to the land for which they would so readily have died.

  As they reached the inlet where they were to embark, Loftus said:

  ‘We’ve got to get word to the Air Force, my sons. And the Fleet. If they come into this lot, they’ll die like flies—we’ve got to stop them.’

  22

  Finish

  They did stop them.

  But not before they had seen a dozen or more German ’planes crash into the sea, their pilots caught in the killer-gas from Gruntz, and Loftus was tense and anxious every moment until he knew no British pilot would suffer a similar fate.

  They were nearly halfway across the turbulent North Sea before they were sighted by a destroyer running advance patrol for the attacking force. By that time, Loftus had conceded the small boats out of danger from the gas: the wind was strong and almost due north—the gas would expend itself, he hoped and believed, over the northernmost sea and the Arctic wastes.

  The men had just removed their masks, when they saw the destroyer—and the spectacle of three motor-boats, loaded with men, brought the pale grey ship curving round at speed towards them. Loftus, at the helm of one boat was prepared to make a dash for it if necessary—but the stentorian voice which hailed them was unmistakably and cheeringly English.

  Within three minutes of boarding H.M.S. Begby, Loftus was explaining matters to her captain—who in less than sixty seconds was issuing urgent orders to his wireless-operator.

  ————

  ‘Remarkable fellow, remarkable,’ said the Rt. Honourable Graham Hershall, some twelve hours later. ‘If he hadn’t got that message through, we’d have tried to force a landing—we’ve him to thank for saving some thousands of men. Or more.’ Hershall shrugged his bull-like shoulders, stuck a cheroot in the corner of his mouth, and looked somewhat quizzically at Craigie. ‘Astonishing Department altogether, Craigie. I’ve never done it full justice. However—what’s Loftus getting at, when he says Golightly must be kept at all costs?’

  Craigie smiled.

  ‘I don’t know, yet. But he’ll be here, in half-an-hour.’

  He was twenty minutes wrong: Loftus reached the office, after being flown from a Scottish port, ten minutes later. Hershall was still there, smoking and reading through reports which he had brought in his pocket: an unorthodox man, the new Prime Minister of England. Loftus looked tired and drawn; but his eyes were still alert, and he wasted no time in preamble.

  ‘A full report can come later,’ he said. ‘I dare not send this message, sir, for fear of leakage—unlikely, but I couldn’t take chances. The fact is: Richoffen boasted that there was a storage place—and a large one—of euthan gas in England.’

  ‘Did he?’ Hershall folded his reports and tucked them carefully into his pocket. ‘Where is Richoffen?’

  ‘He killed himself,’ said Loftus. ‘But he made the mistake of telling me about this when he thought we’d never get out alive. I’m suggesting, sir, that a strong body of men—all masked—surround Richoffen’s house—and the house of Professor Golightly. I’ve been thinking, on the way over—Richoffen once disappeared with this Duveen woman and young Parnell, and we’ve no idea where he went to. He had the London place, of course, but he might have gone to Golightly’s first.’

  He grinned, apologetic. ‘May sound stupid—but there was a similarity about their air-raid shelters which nags at me. And as the crow flies, there’s only five miles between those houses. There could be a tunnel?’

  Hershall grunted:

  ‘Yes, there could be. I’ll arrange it, Loftus. Golightly’s at his laboratory, with Bradley. He’s been giving a lot of information that’s useful. The impression is that he’s a crank, afraid to surrender even to us, this euthan secret.’

  Loftus shrugged:

  ‘It could be. I think he’s surrendered it, all right—to Richoffen and Berlin. I think he’s working for Hitler as well as Richoffen and the rest of ’em. I may be wrong,’ he added briefly, ‘but I doubt it. And I’d like to go to Golightly myself, with half a dozen others. We don’t want to destroy the store if it’s there.’

  ‘No. . . .’ Hershall mused ‘No, you’re right. But you’ve a remarkable appetite for danger, Loftus. Remarkable! I’ll come down to Horsham,’ he added, hunching his shoulders. And grinned confidently: ‘That’s if you’ve room for me?’

  They were at Horsham within an hour, going by air, and at Timber Mill in another twenty minutes. On the way, Loftus learned from Craigie that Paula Duveen had died without talking—but cursing Richoffen. Gay Parnell had reached Craigie and reported.

  ‘I took all the likely precautions,’ Craigie said, ‘and Golightly’s well watched. He certainly won’t get away.’

  The Professor, vast as ever in his white laboratory garb, was indeed very much in evidence. He was in a small room above his laboratory, and he talked nineteen to the dozen. How remiss it had been of him not to take the authorities into his confidence before; how glad he was that Loftus had shown him the error of his ways. What a remarkable business it was, when all things were considered, and how much he missed Roy Parnell. . . .

  ‘I tell you, Loftus—I’d give a fortune to have Parnell back. A fortune! And his sister—poor, poor child. Loftus——’ the deep-set eyes regarded Loftus earnestly, and his double chin quivered. He did not look at Craigie, and he did not know that the Prime Minister of Britain was very close at hand. ‘Loftus, is there no chance of finding that lad?’

  ‘You ought to know, Professor.’

  Golightly started, and glared.

  ‘Eh? Don’t waste my time, Loftus! Don’t——’

  ‘Parnell,’ said Loftus, ‘was brought here, Professor—he was of course most unpopular, after he had discovered that you were working with Richoffen. He didn’t want to believe it, and he was foolish enough to play with fire, trying to prove it before he took any action. You realised it, didn’t you, Professor? You knew that Parnell could have put a spanner in the whole works, and you made sure he didn’t escape. The problem is—are you forcing him to work for you, or did you kill him? And how big is your store of euthan, Professor? We’ll know a lot of these things in a very few minutes, I think.’

  Golightly said, very softly:

  ‘You are talking like a madman, Loftus.’

  ‘How does a madman talk?’ asked Loftus, amiably.

  But there was nothing amiable about his reaction as Golightly dived for a drawer in his desk. Loftus moved like a streak of lightning and struck him with a force that sent the huge man rocketing backwards. And as Golightly fell, Loftus saw a panel of press-buttons in his desk—just as there had been on the desk of von Krietscher.

  Craigie was covering Golightly with an automatic.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Loftus, ‘which is the press-button to send the house and everything beneath it sky-high, Professor? The red one, do you think? Red for danger?’ His forefinger hovered over a red push-button, but Golightly gasped:

  ‘Don’t Loftus—don’t! That will release all the gas. It will send everyone within fifty miles to sleep! Don’t—don’t!’

  ‘Where’s Parnell, Professor?’ The big man’s voice was as cold as his eyes, and Golightly seemed to realise that his position was hopeless.

  He talked. . . .

  They found Roy Parnell, unshaven and hungry, a prisoner beneath the house. The cellars stretched over a wide area, much of it beneath the garden—although not to Fourways. That guess had been wrong.

  They found a store of euthan gas, too—enough to send all London to sleep, Parnell assured him. The young American, L
oftus learned later, when Parnell had bathed and eaten, had discovered that Golightly was working for Richoffen—and thus for Berlin—and had tried to work against his employer on his own. He had believed Paula Duveen and Richoffen to be completely deceived by his pretended innocence.

  ‘The amazing thing,’ Loftus smiled, ‘is that I think they were. Paula was watching you, not knowing you were watching her. But if you get a chance of anything like it again, young Parnell, report at the first suspicion to the authorities!’

  Parnell, youthful-looking and ingenuous, said:

  ‘Why, surely. But I doubt if anything like it will happen again.’

  ‘I hope it won’t,’ said the big man wryly.

  Beyond confirming certain details, there was nothing more that young Parnell could tell him. And it was from papers in the house that Loftus and the others learned how completely Golightly had been conspiring with the Third Reich.

  And yet, as Loftus said to Craigie and the Prime Minister, it was an affair with very few loose ends. The euthan was now in British hands, and would remain there. Golightly had drawn his stock of the raw material from the Island of Gruntz—and there were no other sources, as far as was known.

  ‘So we can’t make more,’ said Hershall gruffly. ‘Well, they haven’t any over there, anyway—that’s something.’ He was at Loftus’s flat, with Craigie, the Errols—Mike with his arm in plaster—and young Parnell. ‘Too many things cancel out,’ he added, obscurely. ‘Too much of what we do. . . .’ He brooded for a moment, then suddenly beamed round at them all. ‘But they’ll end. Oh yes, they’ll end! What’ll you do, Craigie—take that man Labiche into your service?’

  ‘Glad you approve,’ Craigie’s lips dropped in the familiar dry smile: ‘He’s been on the strength, since yesterday.’

  ‘Good. I wish to God all Frenchmen were like him and de Boncour. However, we’ll put them all to rights, yet!’ The Prime Minister, never daunted, beamed again, while somehow contriving to look more like a ferocious bulldog than ever. He shook hands all round and then left.

  Soon after he had gone, Labiche arrived—and after him, Gay Parnell. She looked so tiny and fragile that her brother’s bearhug seemed likely to crush her.