The Island of Peril (Department Z) Read online

  ‘Well?’ growled Loftus. ‘Are you going to talk?’

  ‘I——I don’t understand——!’ the man gasped.

  Loftus hit him again. Harder this time.

  It was not treatment he enjoyed inflicting. But when necessity demanded, he had only to remind himself of the things that were happening inside Hitler’s concentration camps—by no means all of them public knowledge. And this particular pair were part and parcel of the organisation which had endeavoured to stop the Errols getting through, and sent Tenby to the Dernier Cri. He disliked violence, on principle, but if necessary he would exercise a far more stringent third-degree, to make these men talk.

  He had deliberately hit the stronger-looking of the two, and noted with satisfaction the way the other’s lips quivered as this time, Oundle let the man fall. Suddenly, the second man gasped:

  ‘We——we can’t help ourselves, Henry! We must——’

  ‘Shut up!’ snarled the other.

  ‘Talk!’ Loftus commanded, and the word was a threat.

  ‘We——we only had orders——’ the second man stammered: ‘orders to——to watch the two men. Just to tell——our friends, when they left the house.’

  ‘Who are your friends?’ snapped Loftus.

  ‘The—the men in the car.’ Suddenly the man flung himself forward—actually went on his knees and pawed at Loftus’s shins. ‘We don’t know any more—we only knew the men in the car! Don’t hurt us—please don’t hurt us!’

  And Loftus stared down at him, uncertain.

  9

  Of a Professor

  ‘Their story,’ Loftus reported to Craigie, over the telephone, ‘is that they had their instructions by ’phone, and they gave messages to men in a car. Always the same type of car; always men who made themselves known by uttering the words “wake up”. They swear they’ve no knowledge of headquarters or personnel, but that’s not to say it’s true. The one called Henry is a far tougher nut than the other.’

  ‘What have you done with them?’

  ‘I’ve got them in Diana’s flat.’

  ‘I’ll see them later,’ said Craigie. ‘Try to get at the reason for the hunting down of the Errols. Did they have any men at the back of the flats?’

  ‘One—and he managed to get away, after the explosion. He had,’ Loftus added, very thoughtfully, ‘one characteristic in common with them. He had a square, brown respirator case which stuck out on his hip most unnaturally. So, the point is, had Tenby.’

  ‘Implying?’

  ‘I don’t quite know,’ said Loftus. ‘But it’s interesting, no? I’ll check up, old man. You haven’t seen Hershall yet?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘What’s he got to say?’

  Craigie chuckled; a rare thing, for him.

  ‘He said,’ Craigie quoted, ‘“We’ll give them sleep and they’ll learn what nightmares are. Get particulars of that island!”’

  Loftus smiled appreciatively.

  ‘He doesn’t waste words, does he? Well, Gordon, we’ll get ’em for him. Meanwhile, it might be an idea if we had more men to watch the Errols. They must, at times, work separately. It’s an odd business—I should have thought our friends would have considered the game lost, once the Errols had reported?’

  ‘M’mm. But remember the German maxim: “thorough all the way.” ’

  ‘If you can’t kill soon, kill later,’ grunted Loftus. ‘Yes, that might be it. There’s no report in about the phials, I suppose?’

  ‘No,’ said Craigie. ‘But Hershall will see it comes through just as quickly as it can.’

  Loftus replaced the receiver, and turned to find Yvonne surveying him with a thoughtful little frown.

  ‘Hello, my sweet,’ he greeted her, quizzically. ‘And where did you disappear to?’

  ‘The spare room. I had no wish to—how do you say it?—cramp your style. I watched through the crack in the door, though.’ She was smiling now, but her eyes were clouded. ‘You can be hard, Bill.’

  Loftus laughed, without humour.

  ‘I’d be a damned sight harder, if it meant throwing any light on this business, cherie. Still, the opportunity may come. Have you seen de Boncour, lately?’

  ‘He came in this morning.’ Yvonne looked serious. ‘Worried, Bill—he does not like this talk of an island of sleep, and he knows Labiche would not exaggerate. You have not told him all you have learned, have you? Nor——’ she frowned: ‘——me. You are hiding things.’

  ‘Unfortunately, I’ve learned precisely nothing.’

  ‘But these men—and your visit to—where was it?’

  ‘Sussex.’ Loftus sat down on the arm of a chair. ‘Half-truths are of no use to you or de Boncour, ma chere. In any case, what Craigie tells to your respected chief, and what de Boncour passes on to you, is no business of mine.’ He shrugged.

  ‘We’re a queer bunch—we know a little and we guess a lot, and for the most part we act on what we guess. But if we passed those guesses over to you, or to de Boncour, you would treat them as an entirely different thing—as knowledge. It’s a question of approach—there’s a difference in temperament: it can’t be helped—it just exists.’

  Yvonne’s violet eyes were wide open and fixed on his. ‘Bill—you do trust me?’

  Loftus raised his brows: ‘Haven’t I proved it?’

  ‘That isn’t an answer. I suppose’—she turned abruptly away from him—‘that it is what we must expect. So many of us have betrayed you. How can you rely on others not to?’

  ‘We trust de Gaulle,’ said Loftus gently, ‘but only with what particular part he has to play. We trust the Czechs, the Poles, the Dutch and the Belgians—but we don’t tell them our exact scheme of general strategy; they know what we need from them, and they expect no more. How can you expect more, Yvonne?’

  She shrugged again.

  ‘That is the language of diplomats, Bill. It evades a question; it does not answer it.’

  Loftus smiled. He stretched out both arms and gripping her shoulders, pulled her—reluctantly, it seemed—towards him. He eyed her for some seconds in silence, then he said:

  ‘If we had any doubts of you, Yvonne, you would be interned. Craigie tells me a great deal, but not everything. Probably he tells de Boncour more than you know. The trouble,’ he added, giving her a shake and smiling at her with his eyes, ‘is that since that night at the Dernier Cri—which isn’t so long ago, after all—you’ve been cooped up here with nothing to do. And you’ve a mind that has to be doing something. Don’t worry, Yvonne. There’ll be work for you; and it won’t be long in coming.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ she pleaded. Then added: ‘If I thought I was not trusted, I would kill myself!’

  ‘You’re far too useful, Yvonne,’ he told her, quietly, ‘and far too beautiful, to do any such thing. France will need you, and people like you. Over there your friends have to live under Nazi domination, have every kind of indignity thrust upon them, are half-starving a great deal of the time, and have few if any pleasures. You, cherie, are a thousand times better off—if only because you can do something.’

  ‘But how, if I am not told what?’

  Loftus smiled gravely down at her.

  ‘Patience is a major virtue, Yvonne. And if I’ve you to worry about, as well as others——’

  She was at once contrite.

  ‘Bill, I’m sorry! I am a selfish beast! But it has worried me—and I have been so afraid that you felt you dare not talk freely to me, that I have not thought seriously of all the things concerned. It would be better, perhaps, if I went to an hotel——?’

  Loftus smiled again.

  ‘You’re welcome here, Yvonne, for as long as you like. See de Boncour, and tell him what you feel.’

  ‘I think, Bill, he feels as I do.’

  ‘And there,’ Loftus teased, ‘you’re letting your imagination run riot! I——’

  He was not sorry that the telephone rang just then.

  As he moved to answer it, he refl
ected that it was difficult for Yvonne, and awkward for him. He had sensed during the past twenty-four hours that she believed she was being passed over, and that nothing vital was being discussed at the flat—and she was not far wrong. It was not wholly because they did not want to talk there, nor that they did not want to use her. It was a fact that for the moment, there was no apparent way in which she could be put to work, and it was force of habit as much as anything else which prevented him from giving her details as he gathered them.

  Force of habit—and natural caution—allied to instructions. Craigie had not given the word for Yvonne to be taken completely into the counsel of the Department; until that word was given, none of the agents would talk freely before her. And she, of course, noticed it. They had worked together several times, and in the past she had been on an even footing. Of course she would miss it now.

  He lifted the receiver.

  ‘Loftus speaking.’

  ‘S.R.E.H.T.U.R.——’ began an oddly detached voice, and Loftus was at once alert. Carruthers was one of the Department men he had sent to Hayling.

  ‘Carry on, Bob,’ he cut in.

  The voice seemed to awaken to life.

  ‘You know where I am,’ it said. ‘And what a dead-and-alive hole, old son! Martin and Spats are getting fed right to the teeth—not to mention yours truly.’

  ‘Have you got anything?’ asked Loftus.

  He spoke guardedly from force of habit, forgetful of Yvonne’s feelings.

  ‘Well . . .’ Carruthers paused. ‘I don’t know. There’s a girl we’ve detained, and she isn’t too pleased about it. A little spitfire, but good to look at when she’s calmed down. I should imagine she’s all right. Parnell, by name. She called at Richards’ house, and when we hauled her in she said she’d come to find if her brother had been there.’

  ‘Is she American?’

  ‘She says so.’

  ‘I’ll come down as soon as I can,’ Loftus told him. ‘Treat her well, apologise profusely, assure her that she shall see her Consul just as soon as he can be produced—and try to make her talk. Parnell, you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s her address?’

  ‘She’s living at an old mill about fifteen miles across country, on the other side of Horsham,’ said Carruthers. ‘Timber Mill, Langford, Sussex. Is that enough?’

  ‘It’ll do.’

  Loftus replaced the receiver, and turned to Yvonne.

  ‘We’ve a prisoner,’ he said lightly. ‘A lady, who might know something about the Sussex angle. It’s possible she might be approached through you, my sweet. Keep that pecker up—and get some sleep, in case you’re up all night.’

  Yvonne’s eyes gleamed, and he thought for a moment that she was going to fling her arms about him. Perhaps his quick glance at a large photograph of the lovely Diana made her desist. Instead, she laughed, blew him a kiss, and almost danced out of the room.

  Smiling wryly, he pushed his hand through his already rumpled hair, and dialled Craigie’s number. Craigie was out. He thought for a moment, then called Scotland Yard and found Superintendent Miller in.

  The large and rather burly ‘Dusty’ Miller was the most unruffled man of his acquaintance, and now he took without question particulars of the girl who had called at Fourways. He would let Loftus have all the information he could get, within an hour, he promised.

  Loftus made other calls.

  Yvonne had gone to her room, and he hoped she was resting. He was a little worried in more ways than one about Yvonne: she was highly-strung, and her experience during the Nazi putsch across Northern France had not helped. For ten days afterwards she had been in a nursing-home, suffering from shock and acute nervous prostration. She had recovered, to all appearances, but would she ever be able to forget that nightmare of bombing and machine-gunning, of murdered refugees and mangled wounded, of noise and hell-fire and sleepless, tortured nights?

  She certainly needed something to occupy her mind: inaction would be dangerous. But the question was, could she stand up against any real emergency—any repetition, for instance, of that nightmare in France?

  Loftus forgot her, temporarily.

  He arranged for the man Tenby to be interrogated again, and for a messenger to bring his respirator and case to the flat. He had already taken the cases of his own two prisoners, now locked in the next flat under guard. There had been a simple explanation of the peculiar position of their respirators: their hip-pockets had held automatics, causing the cases resting against them to jut straight out from their sides.

  Tenby, also, had carried such a gun.

  It was some twenty minutes afterwards, that the wanted case arrived. As he had suspected, it was of the same unusual shade of brown and made, like the others, from very fine leather. He examined it carefully: there was no maker’s name or other identifying mark. Telephoning Miller again, he asked him to send someone over to collect some gas-mask cases.

  ‘I want ’em photographed and thoroughly examined—and I want to trace the suppliers.’

  ‘Right,’ said Miller.

  ‘And while you’re there, old man,’ Loftus remembered suddenly; ‘This firm—Dane and Company—foreign stamp merchants and auctioneers. Have you had your report on them?’

  Miller had: just. The report would be sent over with the man coming to collect the gas-mask cases. But there was nothing at all informative in it, he warned; to save any falsely-raised hopes.

  Loftus read it a half-hour afterwards, and agreed. It was a straightforward account of a firm which had branches in the U.S.A., South America, several European cities—including Paris and Berlin—and in Asia. Most of its European business had of course been completely finished, since the outbreak of war. The directors and the London staff were reputable and reliable men, and only three of the junior members of the staff had ever been fired by interest in the Fascist cause. These three were now in one or other of the Services.

  The man Tenby had joined them five years before, on strong recommendations from an American firm, which had employed him. He had been trustworthy and efficient, and nothing he had done had given cause for dissatisfaction. Messrs Dane and Company contrived to let it be known, even through the lines of the dry police report, that they regretted Tenby’s detention—they knew nothing of his injury—and hoped his services would soon be available to them again.

  ‘Which they will not be,’ murmured Loftus, pushing the report away with a frown. ‘So—they’re reputable, honest, English—and yet they were associated with Richards. I think,’ he told himself dryly, ‘it is time to find a budding philatelist among the lads, and see what we can learn in our own quaint way.’

  He pondered the situation for some minutes. Then he reached for his hat, deciding to see Craigie rather than telephone him. It was approaching nine o’clock and dusk had already fallen, although it was not yet dark enough to need a torch. He walked quickly and yet without apparent haste towards Piccadilly, knowing that he was followed and wondering whether he should take exception to it. It was probable that he would be shadowed from now until the end of this affair, and there would be times when it might be wisest to ‘fail to notice’ his shadower.

  Walking along Whitehall, he considered the possibility of interrogating the man Tenby again himself. Tenby was in the private nursing-home just off Victoria Street, and it might be as well to make the attempt before seeing Craigie.

  Changing direction, he cut across St. James’s Park—and was stopped three times for his identity card; each time, by a sentry with a fixed bayonet.

  There was no moon, but he knew the way well and the darkness did not trouble him. Until he reached the nursing-home in Grey Street—to find the front door closed.

  That was unusual enough: there would normally be a man on duty in the porch, and the door would be open. But there should also be two Department men on watch, and he had seen no sign of either. Not that he would expect them to advertise their presence, he reminded himself wryly. But he neede
d to know if they were in fact within hail, and he began to walk slowly along the street.

  About twenty yards from the home, a dark figure materialised out of the gloom.

  ‘Ah—Loftus!’ Beecham was one of Craigie’s youngest men, and had only lately been moved up from more routine work. ‘Damned quiet, isn’t it?’

  ‘For which you should be grateful,’ Loftus told him. ‘You’re keeping the place in sight, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes. That is, I’d just strolled after a woman who came away from it. She looked as if she didn’t want to be noticed, and—but anyhow, she cut across into the Park and I daren’t follow her.’

  ‘Quite right. Has anyone been in?’

  ‘A man went in, ten minutes ago.’

  Loftus nodded—and wondered what was making him feel somehow uneasy. No one could enter or leave that nursing-home without being interrogated by the porter on duty—a man well trusted by the police. And the door could well have been closed temporarily, for any number of reasons.

  He had to use his torch to see his way up the short flight of stone steps, for by now it was almost pitch dark. He tried the handle of the door, without success. He knocked and rang.

  Nothing happened.

  He had to fight down an alarm that was close to panic. After a moment, he turned to call softly to Beecham, who came at the double.

  ‘Get round to the back,’ Loftus ordered. ‘See if our man there is all right—and be careful. Who is on duty?’

  ‘Cornish.’

  Loftus nodded, and turned again to the front door. He wasted no more time in knocking or ringing: he took out a skeleton key and worked swiftly for several seconds. When the lock clicked back, he pushed—half-expecting to find the door bolted.

  It was not—but the lobby and hall beyond it were in darkness.

  For a moment, he hesitated on the threshold, still aware of that threatening panic within him: a sensation doubly unnerving in that it was so completely foreign to his character. Before stepping inside, he took out his gun, and shone the torch about the hall and lobby.