Panic! (Department Z) Read online

  ‘What time do they open round here?’

  He grinned as they both gaped.

  ‘Fact is, I’ve a couple of hours on my hands. At seven-thirty,’ he added, drily, ‘we go to see the Great Panjandrum.’

  ‘That,’ said Mike, ‘is better.’

  ‘More like,’ agreed Mark.

  ‘You haven’t answered the question.’

  ‘If we go to town, they’ll be open by the time we get there,’ Mike suggested.

  ‘Idea. Let’s go.’

  If the Errols approved of his attitude, it continued to puzzle them. They had yet to realise that in order to keep their nerve at concert pitch—to avoid the risk of anything, no matter how catastrophic, destroying their mental balance—all Craigie’s agents developed and took refuge in their own peculiar brand of humour. They faced too many crises, saw death too near, met danger far too often, to allow it to affect them.

  To Loftus, the afternoon’s affair had been a mild one.

  And, he knew, there was worse to come.

  For he had not been jesting when he had spoken of a hundred and one possible possessors of a wallet fixed on the lines of Bruno Benotti’s …

  Meanwhile, waiting until Gordon Craigie in Whitehall could see him, and the Errols—as well as make discreet inquiries about those ebullient young men—he took them to the Carilon Club, and drank beer heartily, and appeared to have no single trouble in the world.

  Whereas in fact he had precisely a hundred and one.

  * * *

  The Errols followed Loftus along a narrow street leading from Whitehall, through a door which they had passed a hundred times yet never noticed, up a short flight of stone steps to a landing that led, apparently, to a blank wall. They did not see him press a button under the balustrade, but they stared as the wall slid open—to reveal the office of Gordon Craigie, Chief of Department Z.

  Craigie was seated at a large desk bare of everything but telephones. Behind him were rows of steel cabinets and beside the desk, a dictaphone. There were no windows, but the room was pleasantly cool—despite the heat outside, indeed, a small fire glowed in the hearth.

  At the fireplace end of the room were several easy chairs, a littered table, two small bookcases, and a cupboard which gaped open to reveal an astonishing miscellany of oddments, from eatables to linen, collar studs to cigarettes and a jar of pungent Navy mixture. On a rack by the fireplace were six meerschaum pipes, and a seventh was even then dangling from Craigie’s lips.

  He was a tallish, angular man, inclined to stoop a little, grey and lined before his time; but his hooded grey eyes were exceptionally alert. He had the somewhat bony features characteristic of so many Scots, and his chiselled lips drooped at the corners. In the past seven years Craigie had seemed to age at least fifteen, but he was still only a year over fifty.

  As the little party entered—the Errols not unaffected by the precautions, for the door slid to as they passed it—Craigie took his pipe from his mouth and smiled.

  ‘Hallo, Bill. So you’ve brought the pups?’

  ‘They snarl a bit,’ drawled Loftus. ‘But when it comes to the crunch, they behave pretty well.’

  The Errols did not see the slight lift of his eyebrow, or Craigie’s imperceptible nod as he left his desk and crossed to the fire.

  ‘Sit down,’ he invited. ‘You’ll get used to Loftus, in time.’ They sat down murmuring their thanks, and Loftus offered cigarettes.

  ‘Comfortable?’ Craigie asked. ‘Good. I’ll tell you without preamble that you’ve been screened thoroughly, that I’ve every reason to believe you’re eligible for membership, and it just happens that you’ve come at a good time. I want two men—men useful with their fists—for a little job we have on hand. But before we go into detail and before you are told just what will be expected from you while you work with me, there’s a question of some importance.’

  As he paused, Mark gave a wry shrug.

  ‘It’s my turn to answer—let it come.’

  Craigie smiled drily: over the telephone, Loftus had told him something of the cousins.

  ‘Right. It’s quite simple, and needs a direct “yes” or “no”.’ Gravely, he asked it: ‘Are you, both of you, prepared to leave your flat to-night and disappear—if necessary, for as long as twelve months?’

  * Murder Must Wait by John Creasey

  4

  Work for the Errols

  It was a question deliberately calculated to make applicants for service in Department Z think twice—and as many more times as they felt were necessary. It was asking no small thing. It meant, perhaps, leaving families and friends with hardly a by-your-leave—for before Craigie allowed them to answer, he pointed out that no one must know where or why they were going. It meant, he emphasised, not only offering to give a year of their lives to the Department, but risking their lives for it, not once but a hundred times.

  ‘It probably sounds fantastic,’ said Craigie. ‘But it’s not. You had a little—just a little—glimpse, today, of the things that do happen.’ His expression grew sombre as he told them: ‘I’ve had over four hundred agents, at one time or another. At least a hundred of them have just—disappeared.’

  Mike stirred.

  ‘It sounds grim.’

  ‘It is grim.’

  ‘Did you know Kerr?’ asked Loftus, unexpectedly. ‘Bob Kerr, the airman?’

  ‘Yes …’ Mark hesitated. ‘Didn’t he have a crash—lose an arm?’

  ‘It was called a crash,’ said Loftus, heavily. ‘Actually, he was lucky not to lose his life. He had seven bullets between the elbow and shoulder.’

  Mike glanced at Mark.

  ‘To me,’ he offered, ‘it looks as if they’re trying to frighten us off, Marko. What about that answer?’

  Mark blinked.

  ‘Haven’t I said “yes”, yet? Sorry, Craigie!’

  Craigie smiled: so did Loftus. There was an irrepressible spirit about the Errol cousins which made them remarkably fitted for service in Department Z.

  ‘We’re not trying to scare you,’ said Craigie, ‘we’re just stating facts. Now …’

  He eased himself from his chair, crossed to his desk, and returned with a typewritten folio which he handed to the Errols. As they read it together, Craigie and Loftus smoked in silence.

  It was a simple-looking document, containing just twelve paragraphs—a statement of the conditions on which any man worked for the Department. Among lesser and more predictable requirements, the Errols read:

  ‘An agent will at all times hold himself ready for the service of the Department, will be prepared to leave his home or wherever he may be staying for an indefinite period, informing no one of his destination or purpose.

  An agent carrying written information will be expected to destroy that information should his safety be imperilled: if possessing unwritten information, he will be expected to retain it at all costs, even to death.

  An agent having direct orders to kill, will carry out those orders regardless of personal feelings. Without those direct instructions, an agent will not shoot or otherwise kill an opponent unless to save his own life or the lives of others, or to prevent an opponent escaping with information which might be of vital interest to a Foreign Power.

  All instructions must be obeyed to the letter.

  An agent ceases to be a member of the Department on (a) disobedience (b) proof that he does not put the Department’s interest before all else (c) evidence of inefficiency (d) failure to observe the strictest secrecy and loyalty (e) marriage.

  An agent will receive a yearly honorarium of £500 (five hundred pounds) and reasonable expenses to cover specific operative work.’

  ‘Well?’ said Craigie, as they finished reading.

  The eyes of both Errols gave their answer before they spoke. In five minutes, the formalities were over; in fifteen, they had an outline of the activities of that remarkable organisation known, for want of a better name, as the League of the Hundred-and-One. Craigie gave th
em only such facts as were—to those who mattered—common knowledge. Before they were given information of more vital importance, they would have to prove themselves.

  And the opportunity for that was close at hand.

  * * *

  While Craigie, Loftus and the Errols were talking in Whitehall, two men hurried furtively towards the Éclat Hotel in Piccadilly. There was excuse enough for their furtiveness. The blood of Benotti was on their hands, and although there had been no evidence of pursuit from the river, they knew enough of Loftus and his men to realise that evidence was not everything.

  They hurried past the commissionaire, the reception desk, and the lift-boy. The commissionaire, used to less cavalier behaviour on the part of visitors, followed them discreetly, but on seeing them knock at the door of Suite 3, returned to his post. The present occupant of Suite 3 was the most generous man at the Éclat, and nothing must be allowed to upset him.

  His name was Korrel.

  He was a big, well-built man, running to fat, with the sleek, black hair and almond-shaped black eyes suggestive of Oriental ancestry. Immaculate as always in a superbly-tailored Savile Row suit, he stood now before the empty fireplace in the sitting-room of Suite 3, exuding an aura of benevolence.

  His voice was low-pitched, mellow, suave, its cadence remarkable: and he spoke with a fluency rarely found in an Englishman.

  ‘My dear Myra,’ he was saying, in that melodious voice, ‘the issue is perfectly clear: your instructions hardly need amplifying. Richard Anson is not, I will agree, your type. On the other hand, for the sake of the Association, Mr. Anson’s interest is so essential that for once you must do something which is perhaps distasteful. Regrettable, but …’ Mr. Abraham Korrel’s shrug was eloquent.

  The woman who faced him from the depths of a large armchair was wearing a flowered silk dress clearly calculated to emphasize the perfection of her figure. She was a magnificent creature, with her tawny hair braided about her head and her sultry, amber eyes—leonine eyes. The eyes glowed up at him.

  ‘Yes, yes—I’ve heard all that before! But …’

  Her voice suited her: deep, husky, a shade imperious.

  Korrel interrupted her.

  ‘Let it be understood, Myra—there can be no arguments.’

  Myra Clayton laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound.

  ‘I haven’t taken orders from you, yet, and I don’t propose to start. Anson isn’t my meat, and you know it—and so do the others.’

  Korrel’s eyes narrowed, hinting at an anger it would be dangerous to provoke.

  ‘Myra, I have no wish to be unpleasant. I have already informed you that for the time being, I am the leading operative in England—and what I say must be obeyed.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool.’ She spoke abruptly, but her expression was wary, now. ‘Even if you do think you’ve the last word, over here, that doesn’t mean your judgment’s always sound. I tell you—I can’t do a thing with Anson. You want a fluffy little bit, like Dora …’

  ‘Dora is already busy.’

  ‘Well, Letty …’

  ‘Letty cannot be safely entrusted with an important commission. Let us have no more arguments, Myra. Anson is staying at this hotel, and I can arrange a meeting. It is comparatively simple for you. In all probability he will be of no use to us after a week or ten days, after which I may be able to find you something more attractive. But I want Anson at Moorton Road by to-morrow night, and you’ve got to get him there. I … yes?’ he called as a sharp tap came on the door. ‘Who is it?’

  Myra, her amber eyes smouldering resentfully, straightened up as a harsh voice answered.

  ‘It’s Merkle—an’…’

  Korrel jerked his head and Myra moved swiftly towards the door to the other room. As it closed silently behind her, he called as if impatient:

  ‘Come in—come in!’

  Merkle entered first.

  There was none of its earlier belligerence, now, in that brutal, swarthy face, and the small, beady eyes looked anxious: Dodge, following him in, looked equally uncomfortable.

  Korrel, bigger than either man, stared at them in chilly silence, his lips twisted unpleasantly.

  ‘Listen, Boss,’ Merkle protested instinctively, ‘we got Benotti, like you told us, and if it hadn’t been for a couple’ve blokes …’

  ‘It is late for excuses,’ said Korrel, coldly. ‘Did you get his wallet?’

  Merkle gulped.

  ‘No, we …’

  Something happened to Korrel in that moment. His pale face flushed a deep red, his black eyes glittered, and his hand shot out to slap Merkle viciously across the face, with the palm and then the back of the hand. As Merkle staggered back and Dodge edged away, Korrel growled:

  ‘Merkle was in charge, Dodge, but you’re as much to blame. I won’t have mistakes—understand? Won’t have them! Make a hash of things like that again, and you’re as dead as Benotti.’

  ‘We did all we could, Boss!’ Dodge whined. ‘We nearly got Loftus …’

  Korrel seemed to freeze.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Loftus an’ two-three others were in a launch. They made for us, and if it hadn’t been for these two geezers, we’d’ve got the lot.’

  ‘Loftus,’ breathed Korrel. ‘How did he get there? How—did—he—know? And you …’ fury flared in him again—’you let Loftus get that wallet? The one man who …’ He made a visible effort to control himself. ‘Get out!’ he snarled. ‘And stay under cover, you benighted fools. If the police get you, I won’t lift a hand to help you—you deserve all you get. Get out!’

  Dodge turned first, but Merkle beat him to the door. As it closed behind them, Korrel exuded a long breath.

  Loftus, chief agent—and some said second-in-command—of Department Z, had located the spot where Benotti had been killed.

  The plans had been made so carefully. Only a handful of people knew, and they were all trustworthy. But Loftus had managed to get foreknowledge …

  Korrel shivered.

  There was something uncanny about Loftus—indeed, about the way all Craigie’s men operated. Korrel knew little enough of Department Z—had not heard of it before Loftus first began to work against the League of the Hundred-and-One. The police, of this country or a dozen others, Korrel would snap his fingers at. But Loftus and those other men …

  Behind him, Myra Clayton sauntered out of the bathroom, hand on hip in a deliberately nonchalant pose, her amber gaze taunting, insolent.

  ‘How well you’re controlling the English side, Korrel …!’

  There was murder in Korrel’s eyes as he whipped round.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ he breathed. ‘Get out and stay out, until you know how to behave yourself! If you haven’t brought Anson to Moorton Road by to-morrow night, you’re finished. Understand?’ His voice reached hysterical pitch. ‘Finished, finished, finished, you little …!’

  Breaking away, suddenly cold with fear, she snatched up a linen coat and ran out. Korrel hardly noticed her go as he slumped into the nearest chair, breathing hard through dilated nostrils.

  The reception clerk, the assistant manager and the commissionaire smiled and bowed as Myra passed, but for once she was not even conscious of their admiration.

  Outside, she hailed a taxi and as it pulled up, said sharply ‘10, Moorton Road, Kensington.’

  ‘O.K., Miss.’

  Myra climbed in, the door banged, and the cab moved off.

  Behind it, a small sports car also moved, a fair-haired, good-looking young man at the wheel. Carruthers, who was reputed to be one of the world’s playboys, had been an amateur boxer of distinction. Although he would never reach Loftus’s position in Department Z, he was one of a dozen of Craigie’s most reliable men, possessing every qualification that perfectionist sought in his special aides save that one intangible but absolutely vital quality known as leadership.

  Across the road, a tall, languid-looking individual with a long, irregular nose and soulful eye
s surveyed the passing scene as though London on a hot August evening was the last place in the world he wished to be. The soulful eyes had noted the way Carruthers lighted a cigarette before starting in the wake of the taxi, then throw the packet to the pavement.

  Mr Wallace Davidson mustered the energy to cross the road and retrieve the empty packet. He glanced inside it idly, as though hoping for a picture-card, and equally idly slipped it into his pocket.

  Five minutes later, from a call-box, he ‘phoned Craigie.

  ‘Hallo, Gordon: N-O-S-D-I-V—’

  ‘Carry on, Wally.’ The Department practice of spelling their names backward to prove identity was, like so many things that Craigie organised, simplicity itself. And like everything that Craigie organised, successful.

  ‘The Clayton woman,’ Wally drawled wearily, ‘has left the Éclat, looking fit to be tied—I shouldn’t like to be her Little Boy Blue, tonight. Carrie’s after her, and the address she gave was 10, Moorton Road, Kensington. Any orders?’

  ‘No. I shan’t want you for an hour or so, Wally—get some rest if you can. Number 10: you’re sure of that?’

  ‘Carrie said so.’

  ‘Right, thanks.’

  Craigie replaced the receiver, and Davidson made his lethargic way towards Brook Street, where he too had a flat. Half-way along it, he saw the vast figure of Doc Little, whom all the agents knew as the Department’s consulting physician and surgeon.

  Wally crossed the road.

  ‘Hallo, Doc, where have you been?’

  Little beamed.

  ‘Just a little trouble with Oundle, nothing to worry about. No more than a scratch, in fact. Going to call on him?’

  ‘Is Bill there?’

  ‘No—Miss Woodward and Miss Loring—’

  Davidson’s sad eyes brightened.

  ‘I’d better go and condole with Ned,’ he said.

  ‘Ned, my foot,’ retorted Little. ‘You lot expecting to be busy in the near future?’

  Wally Davidson shrugged. ‘You’d better ask Craigie. Why?’

  ‘Oundle was more talkative than usual,’ said Little cheerfully, ‘and more absurd. That usually means—what’s the matter, Davidson?’