Menace (Department Z) Read online

  ‘What is it you want?’

  The visitor turned a pair of smallish eyes towards Rene Mondell.

  ‘I have come, Lady Mondell, with an important message. Are you alone?’

  ‘I don’t know that I like your question,’ said Rene sharply. ‘What is it you want? I can of course telephone for assistance if I need it.’

  ‘My dear lady!’ The big man laughed lightly. ‘My visit is strictly proper, I promise you. Strictly proper! You know, of course, of the sad death of Mr Criff?’

  Rene’s voice was expressionless.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘And you worked for him, just as I did,’ said the big man. ‘Believe me, he was a foolish fellow. He was much too big for his boots, much too big. It was decided some days ago that he would have to die. I was informed of this, although I believe other members of our little fraternity were left in ignorance. But now there is still work to do.’

  It seemed incredible to Lois that Rene Mondell could remain so unmoved. She would not have done but for her first caller: that was reasonably certain. Now she was playing a part, a part suggested by Lois, and she was playing it well.

  ‘I see. Who sent you, Mr –’

  ‘My name is Smith, dear lady.’ The man’s wide grin told Rene that he was lying. ‘My principals – and your principals, suggested the call. Your beauty, my dear Lady Mondell, and your ability, will make you invaluable. I am requested to offer you two thousand pounds a year, as a retaining fee, and one hundred pounds for each week you are actively working for the fraternity, if you will continue with us. You can be assured that your work will be under much more astute direction than it was with Adam Criff.

  There was a moment’s silence, and Lois wondered whether the man would see that Rene was acting: and she wondered also whether the older woman would crack under this strain.

  Rene did not, for her voice was steady enough if a little more tense.

  ‘I – don’t know. I’m not interested in money, Mr Smith, and I’m tired of the whole business. Tired to death of it!’

  Mr Smith raised his brows, and shifted his hands from his paunch to the arms of his chair.

  ‘I see, I see. A pity, Lady Mondell. But I feel that you will be well advised to accept a most generous offer. Adam Criff remembered to report a little affair in Paris, only a year or so ago. Most sad – and most unfortunate if your part –’

  There was venom in Rene Mondell’s voice, but her acting now was really superb. The shock of learning that Falling had died seemed to have given her a sharper intelligence.

  ‘I see. Blackmail. Well – supposing I refuse? I didn’t kill that man in Paris –’

  Mr Smith turned his methods.

  ‘I do not doubt it, my dear Lady Mondell. But you will admit that circumstances seemed to be against you. But please, please do not think of blackmail. After all, our offer is very generous indeed.’

  Rene walked to the side of the room, took a cigarette from a box and lit it thoughtfully.

  ‘I see. I’ll think it over, Mr Smith.’

  ‘I would much rather have your decision now, please.’

  ‘I can’t make up my mind immediately, please understand that,’ she said decisively. ‘Say some time tomorrow morning, if you will call again.’

  ‘Very good, very good.’ Mr Smith seemed reasonably satisfied, and heaved himself from his chair. ‘I shall call, say, at ten o’clock?’

  ‘I probably won’t be up until eleven.’

  Mr. Smith chuckled.

  ‘Very understandable in so beautiful a woman. Then half-past eleven, Lady Mondell. Be sure please to have your answer, and be earnestly advised by me to accept the suggestion. Good afternoon.’

  Rene showed him to the door. Lois could hear his footsteps – surprisingly light ones for so heavy a man – as he hurried along the passage.

  Lois moved from the bedroom, and taking the other’s arm, stepped to the window.

  On the opposite side of the road was a Morris saloon, with a youngish-looking man at the wheel. A few seconds later the flabby Mr Smith appeared and climbed into a two-seater of ancient vintage. The cars moved off in quick succession, and no matter how suspicious Mr Smith might be of the driver of the Morris, he would have to admit that the other car started slightly ahead of him.

  Rene Mondell was frowning.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that Smith will be followed,’ said Lois. ‘Well – do you see now how you might be able to help?’

  The other nodded. The weariness of her expression had gone. She looked stronger than she had before; she was stronger.

  ‘You mean I can work for Criff’s people, and for Craigie?’

  ‘Do you think you can?’

  Rene Mondell laughed. It was not a humorous sound and it was not pleasant; her eyes seemed to be looking past Lois. She was seeing the light-haired, smiling and cheerful youngster who had made her fall in love, and she was picturing, too, what he looked like dead.

  ‘I’m sure I can. They killed Jim –’

  And then, the storm came. Lois knew she could do nothing to stop or ease it. Rene Mondell simply collapsed into a chair and cried, cried as Lois had never seen a woman cry before.

  Lois, with her practical mind, slipped into the kitchenette and made coffee. When she returned the paroxysm was over, and Rene Mondell, bright-eyed and steady-lipped, looked towards her.

  ‘I’m sorry. Now tell me what I must do.’

  * * *

  While Dodo Trale was following the flabby Mr Smith, while Lois and Rene were drinking coffee, while a pug-faced man was talking on the telephone to Mr Kryn, and while three agents of Craigie’s were on their way to Camberley in the hope of finding a man with a deep, resonant voice, Craigie, Sir William Fellowes and Superintendent Miller were gathered in Craigie’s office. They had discussed the affair at some length, and there seemed nothing more they could discuss, when the telephone, which had interrupted them half-a-dozen times, rang again.

  Craigie left his armchair and lifted the receiver. Miles Bettin’s voice came over the wires, sharp and precise as always.

  ‘Craigie?’

  ‘Yes, carry on, Bettin.’

  ‘There’s more news from Vallena,’ said Bettin sharply. ‘They’ve done two things. Openly accused the Soviet of arranging Prell’s murder –’

  ‘We expected that.’

  ‘It’s going to make things stickier in mid-Europe,’ complained Bettin. ‘But that’s not all, and the other things affect us more directly. They’ve doubled the tariff on all British goods, and fixed a minimum of fifty per cent. The thin edge of the wedge, eh?’

  Craigie’s lips pursed.

  ‘Yes, and not so thin, perhaps. But what’s the connection between Prell’s assassination and the tariff? That’s our problem.’

  ‘You’d better send the best man you’ve got over there,’ said Bettin. ‘I –’

  Bettin stopped, with an exclamation. He shouted, “Craigie!” and then there came, very clearly to Craigie’s ears, the sharp crack of a pistol shot. The telephone at the other end clattered downwards with a rattling din, and then Craigie heard a whispered message.

  ‘They’ve got me. A very tall – thin – man.’

  And then the voice stopped.

  Chapter 11

  Freddie Sings Again

  The murder of Miles Bettin was one of those tragedies that it was impossible to hush up. But there were some things that could be done to lessen publicity. An urgent meeting of the Cabinet was called within half-an-hour of the shooting. Apparently no one in the Foreign Office had noticed anything amiss. Fellowes and Miller were not unknown in Bettin’s office, and with the help of one or two discreet under-secretaries, the leakage of information would not reach the Press prior to the meeting, unless the tall, lean man named Kryn had told the papers.

  The Rt Hon. David Wishart, the then Premier, distinguished, a little inclined to dally, but popular and honest, could always be relied on in an emergen
cy. And as often happened he had arranged for Craigie to be present at 10, Downing Street.

  Wishart told the others about the trouble, and had to wait five minutes before the sensation died down. Craigie gave a first-hand recital of what he had heard, and waited for the outburst of questions. Did he know who? Did he know why?

  ‘It’s directly connected with Vallena,’ said Craigie.

  He could see the disbelief on the faces of those august gentlemen who led the Government. None of them was likely to take Vallena seriously. Why, it was no more than the size of Wales, a small, hilly, agricultural country, with no statesmen worth thinking of, and an irresponsible playgirl Princess with a Prince whose morals belonged to the farmyard.

  The voice of Jonathan Scott rose above the rest.

  ‘Look here, Craigie, let us get this quite straight. Are you seriously suggesting that Prell and Bettin have been murdered, and there’s a chance of other foreign secretaries going the same way?’

  Craigie forced a smile.

  ‘There is no doubt that Prell was murdered, and by the same people –’

  The crotchety Secretary for War muttered a very audible ‘Nonsense!’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘Couldn’t get from Baj to London in the time, Craigie. Be sensible, man, be sensible!’

  ‘I said “people”,’ Craigie said drily. ‘There’s an association working in England and Vallena, and the two murders were unquestionably connected. Bettin described the murderer to me before he died. He is the same man who shot, or ordered the shooting, of Adam Criff.’

  He kept his temper with difficulty. There were times when he detested the English habit of assuming that anything abnormal just could not happen. When he was thinking yards ahead of the others it was an irritating trait to argue against.

  ‘Criff, eh? Criff, Bettin and Prell!’ This from the Secretary for War.

  Craigie looked across at Sir Michael Lane, the then Secretary of the Board of Trade, and minister without portfolio.

  ‘Can you tell us anything of trade relationship with Vallena, Sir Michael?’

  He hoped Lane would prove convincing. Lane was. He had, he said, been disturbed by the news of an emergency meeting at a time when he had just learned of the prohibitive tariff put on British goods entering Vallena. Something would have to be done to stop the hostile attitude of that country, but, knowing the trouble there had been of late with shipments, he had no idea how it could be done.

  ‘And there,’ Craigie resumed as Lane finished, ‘you have as much as I know, gentlemen. Criff has not been operating only for himself, but for others. One of the others was Sigmund Prell. Prell, Criff and others so far unknown, are bent on breaking Vallenian trade with England –’

  ‘Won’t make much difference, will it?’ demanded the Home Secretary. He was a man whose intellectual ability hardly attained the level expected of one in his position. He was, however, both hard-working and conscientious, and a little overwhelmed by the fact that a persuasive tongue and an ability to sway multitudes of voters at election time had given him such an exalted rank.

  Michael Lane snorted: ‘Not much difference! At least a hundred and fifty millions a year goes through Vallena, Harris!’

  Harris pulled a thick underlip a little nervously.

  ‘Does it, then. Didn’t realise it.’

  Wishart said quickly: ‘What are you doing, Craigie?’

  ‘As much as I can. Bettin mentioned a man who had already been connected with this business, but I can’t tell you a great deal about him yet. A Matthew Horn, head of an export firm, and living near Camberley.’

  He had half-hoped that one of the others present would be able to say a word about Horn, but the name obviously meant nothing to them.

  ‘Well – it isn’t a thing we can handle secretly. And the connection with Prell will be assumed, if nothing worse. I’m afraid we shall have some trouble.’ Wishart felt, and looked, tired out.

  Craigie spoke quickly.

  ‘We could say that the murderer is known, Wishart. It’s true, up to a point – I know the man but can’t put my fingers on him.’

  ‘How will that help?’ asked Jonathan Scott practically.

  ‘We’ll be able to say it was for private reasons,’ Craigie answered. ‘A personal quarrel. If we give that story out to the Press as semi-official, they will make a great deal more of it than the somewhat nebulous connection with Prell. It won’t cause half as much alarm, and it will give us time to work.’

  As he had expected there was considerable argument. But Wishart, Scott, Lane and Harris were all with him, and the decision to do as he said was carried by a fifty per cent majority. Craigie waited just long enough to make sure of it, and then left the Cabinet to it.

  Miller and Fellowes themselves had gone down to Camberley. Craigie proposed to follow. He was missing Kerr a lot more than he had expected. It had become a habit to rely on the ex-flying ace.

  He called at his office to make sure that no messages were waiting, and then started for Camberley in his own car, an Armstrong Siddeley that had rendered him good service. In front and behind him were police cars, and on the same road were cars with his agents at the wheels. Craigie had stopped being careless, but for the life of him he could not understand why Bettin had been murdered.

  He thought back.

  The very tall man had been seen in the corridors of the Foreign Office, but it was not unusual to see unknown faces there. No one had seen him leave the building.

  Every policeman in England was on the look-out for Mr Kryn. It was a search as widespread as Craigie and the Yard had ever instituted. Airfields, shipping ports, termini and main roads were all watched with lynx-eyed care for a man standing six foot and a half; but Craigie had a premonition that he would not be found.

  * * *

  Mr Freddie Kingham had been despondent ever since Doriennet’s death.

  It had been a horrible shock to him, though he had derived some satisfaction from being able to send that secret message to Miss Dale – as he knew Lois Dacre. Her thanks had been warm, and Freddie had hoped to see her again. Alone.

  Instead a tough-looking cove named Kerr had arrived, with others. They had brought Lois Dale, it was true, but she had hardly seemed to notice him. Moreover, they had brought a man who had been wounded in both legs, and commandeered his, Freddie’s bedroom while the doctor did his job. The result had been a horrible smell of antiseptic which had ruined his night’s sleep. In fact he had slept worse that first night than any time he could remember, even in the days when he had been frowned on – together with his father and brother – by Uncle Matt.

  He could not forget Doriennet’s battered head. Ugh! A grisly business altogether, and he hoped to goodness they wouldn’t want him at the inquest.

  Gloomily Freddie had dressed. As gloomily he had staggered through a late breakfast. Bennet had served it, looking like a ghost. His father, who had been out late on the previous night, sent a message down that he was unwell. Uncle Matthew, for once, had breakfasted in bed. Beastly. Ugh!

  There had been a light relief for the next day. Uncle Matt had decided that until the inquest was over – yes, Freddie would be wanted – it was better not to go into the office. That was a little cheering, but the whole position was pretty nasty. He did think of getting the Singer out, for it was a glorious day, but he jibbed at going into the garage.

  The inquest was for Tuesday. Pretty decent of Uncle Matt to give him two days off. No ‘nose to the grindstone’ fuss about Uncle Matt. A great fellow.

  The only member of the household who seemed unaffected by the murder had been Martha, the cook, a cheerful, garrulous soul, easily persuaded on the day of the inquest to cook his favourite dish.

  Freddie ate, and grew more cheerful. He took the car out of the garage with little or no qualms, had a fast spin, and came back to find three cars parked outside Lane House, and a remarkable number of lean and tough-looking men in and around the grounds.


  Browning, dressed in the same dilapidated grey suit, looked mutinously up at his young employer as Freddie entered the garage.

  ‘What’s all the crowd about, Browning?’

  The shell-shocked handyman muttered something that he obviously believed Freddie was too young to understand, and then:

  ‘Can’t move a n’inch wivvout ’em, Master Fred. Bloomin’ nuisance they are – bloomin’ busies.’

  For the first time that day Freddie really laughed.

  ‘You don’t seem to like ’em, Browning. Their job, after all, and they can’t help it.’

  ‘What I want to know is, why don’t they look for the feller that did it, instead’ve comin’ here?’

  ‘Ask me,’ said Freddie.

  He parked the car and moved off, humming cheerfully under his breath and looking for anything which might suggest that Miss Dale was here. No luck. Nor, for that matter, did he recognise the man Kerr or his companions. A fresh bunch had come down.

  Uncle Matt would probably be sore about it.

  Freddie went up to his room, considerably lighter in mood. After all, he had not known the dead man at all, and it was hard to be sorry about a fellow you only knew by the letter-heading of his business paper.

  ‘Mr. Kingham, sir.’

  It was Bennet, a Bennet who looked scared out of his life. He was standing in the doorway leading to the bathroom, white-lipped and trembling.

  ‘Good Lord! What’s the trouble, Bennet?’

  ‘Your – your uncle, sir. I think the – the police are going to – to take him, sir.’

  Freddie stood still, staring aghast at the butler. His stupefaction seemed to split him asunder. Uncle Matt going with the police? Good God almighty it was impossible!

  ‘He’s – what?’

  ‘The – the police, sir –’