The Department of Death Page 5

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 anothe
r 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—li
ke 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.