18

How the Gunman Died

Garth sat on a wooden bench in a cell at Cannon Row: the police station adjoining Scotland Yard.

An hour had passed since he had left Jermyn Street. Miller, strangely pale, had told him that he would be taken to a cell to ensure that none could say he had received preferential treatment.

The attack on him, and the reason for it, loomed large in his mind, and it was no kind of solace to realise that his life had been saved at the expense of the policeman’s.

He remembered with chilling clarity exactly how it had happened.

The shock of seeing Russi had made him miss a step—and so that first bullet had struck the constable as he moved to steady him. His lips twisted bitterly at that thought: Russi had been at hand to see him killed—and had been responsible for saving him from the first bullet. Miller had saved him from the second.

Russi, clearly, had learnt that the police were on the way to detain him. The reason for the attempt at murdering him was to prevent him from making a statement to the police.…

Along the passage from his cell, a man was plaintively protesting his innocence of the begging charge on which he was being held. A policeman was arguing with him good-humouredly.

Then a sergeant arrived, unlocked Garth’s door, and said:

‘Come with me, please.’

He was led out of Cannon Row towards Scotland Yard. Dazedly, Garth followed the sergeant up the long flight of steps to the reception hall, another uniformed man behind him. There followed a long walk through high-ceilinged corridors, their footsteps echoing on the stone floor. Men bustled in and out of doorways as they passed, but Garth hardly noticed them. Then finally:

‘Here we are!’ said the sergeant, and opened a door.

The familiar, brown-clad figure of Bruce Hammond stood there. He nodded brief thanks to the sergeant; then as the door closed behind Garth, came forward with hand outstretched.

‘All right?’ he asked, with a dry smile.

‘I will be, in a minute,’ Garth said, wryly. ‘Have you a cigarette? I’ve run out.’

Hammond proffered his gold case, then turned to press a bell-push. Their cigarettes were barely alight before the door opened and a uniformed policeman put his head round it.

‘Did you ring, sir?’

‘Send out for a box of Sobrani Virginian, will you?’ Hammond handed him a ten shilling note, and the man nodded and went out.

That little incident did Garth more good than anything else could have done, just then. His lips curved.

‘How did you know that I smoke Sobrani?’

‘Haven’t I smoked with you?’ countered Hammond, with his slow smile. ‘Sit down, old son. I suppose you’ve guessed what’s happened?’

Garth nodded.

‘They meant to kill me in case I talked.’ It was surprisingly easy to sound calm.

‘Good man!’ Hammond drew on his cigarette, then went on: ‘Yes … That’s it.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And they weren’t exactly slow off the mark, were they?’

Garth nodded again, frowning.

‘It’s beyond me how they could have known so fast!’

‘Is it?’ Hammond asked drily. And when Garth looked blank, he went on: ‘There are two possible explanations, Garth. One, that they foresaw the possibility that you would be visited by the police after getting the papers, and meant to take no chances. The other,’ he said, quietly, ‘is that they were advised that the police had been informed.’

Garth stared at him, waiting for him to spell that one out. Then realised that Hammond was tacitly inviting him to do so. Hesitantly, almost incredulous, he protested:

‘You seriously think that … that someone at Queen’s Gate might have told Russi?’

‘I certainly think it’s possible,’ agreed Hammond.

‘Whom … whom do you suspect?’ Garth made himself ask.

‘Livesey … his daughter … Catesby. Although he is almost ruled out. Conceivably, George Kent … who was there when Catesby made his statement and called the police. But of course, there are several others on the premises. Benjamin Roosevelt Washington,’ Hammond grinned drily at the name, ‘for one. He obviously knows everything that goes on there. You didn’t meet him, I suppose?’

Garth shook his head.

‘Pity. I don’t know what to make of that one at all. Can’t even make out what his job is. He seems to be something between a glorified valet and a personal assistant on a high level… calls Livesey Arnold, and whatnot. American Indian, at a guess.…’

If Garth had known Hammond as Craigie and Loftus knew him, he would have recognised the signs: Hammond was gnawing at one of his ‘bones’.

‘Wish I knew the background, there,’ he went on. ‘Of course, we’ll be getting some of it.…’ He shrugged, wryly. ‘Don’t know why he made such an impression … although there’s a point: he is impressive.’ He was obviously thinking aloud, now: ‘It’s pretty rare … a small man, with so much “presence”.’

‘By Jove, Hammond!’ Garth interrupted, and Hammond’s eyes glittered.

‘Got something?’

‘Could well have!’ Garth told him, and plunged into an account of what had transpired at The Elms.

He presented the facts calmly and with vivid clarity. Hammond, although he had listened to such an account from Garth before, was as amazed at the orderliness and detail of his statement as at the way he could conjure up a scene, by word alone, so vividly that his listeners seemed to re-live it with him.

Hammond saw in his mind’s eye Ryall’s gratified reaction to the successful theft … Could almost feel the electrifying change of mood and atmosphere when the little man in black had come in … Was struck, with Garth, by the contrast between the maid’s strange, silent stare and her model-servant behaviour.…

‘There isn’t much else,’ Garth finished. ‘Washington sounds about the same size as the man in black. The mask covered the face and obviously it could have hidden his beak of a nose. The only real difference seems to be in the voice … and God knows that’s the easiest thing to fake.’

Hammond nodded slowly.

‘So now we can bring Washington higher up the list of suspects.…’

‘It would certainly seem so,’ Garth agreed. Then frowned, remembering: ‘Why did you say Catesby was almost ruled out?’

‘Because of the way the gunman died. Cyanic acid … prussic acid. He popped a cyanic acid crystal in his mouth. The saliva moistens it enough to create the gas to kill a person,’ Hammond explained, flatly. ‘He didn’t mean to be caught alive.’

Garth stuck to the point.

‘How does that affect Catesby?’

‘Well, as the fellow died and the acid took more and more effect, he’d breathe out the gas. Mark had a whiff of it but he’s all right, now … he realised what it was, in time. Mike was quicker off the mark … saw what was up, and stayed clear.…’

Garth nodded.

‘And pulled Catesby away … I saw him.’

‘Yes. And if Catesby were in it, you’d think he would know what was likely to happen to the lesser fry. By his deeds shall ye condemn him!’ grinned Hammond. ‘You don’t like Catesby, do you?’ he added, shrewdly.

‘He hasn’t done much to encourage me to like him.’

‘No …’ Hammond shrugged. ‘Well, you’ve made a damned good report, old son … it’s a real help. Now, I think the best thing is for you to stay here a couple of days … they’ll make it comfortable for you! … and then be released for lack of evidence. After that …’ His expression was suddenly sombre: ‘You can please yourself what you do.’

‘Exactly what does that mean?’ Garth asked him, and he shrugged again, grimacing.

‘Well, we can’t reasonably expect you to go on, can we? It hasn’t worked out as we wanted it to … but these affairs rarely do. You might get away with it again, of course, but the probability is that you’ll be a marked man. I can’t imagine Ryall using you again. He’ll be suspicious because you’ve been released and …’

He stopped abruptly.

A gleam entered his eyes. He looked at Garth, seemed about to go on, then shook his head.

‘No … we’ve put you through enough! We’ll get you away to the country somewhere; you can do with a rest, I’m sure. You’re not likely to be a great deal of use to us, anyway, and I don’t see the point of letting you stick your head out just for the sake of getting it knocked off.’

There was a tap at the door, and the policeman came in with Garth’s cigarettes. He opened the box and offered it, when the man had gone. Hammond shook his head, and Garth himself lit up, before saying:

‘You just thought of a way that I could help, didn’t you?’

Hammond smiled wryly. ‘A possible way, but …’

‘What is it?’

‘You mean you’d be prepared to go on? Knowing the odds?’

Garth said quietly: ‘I mean to go on.’

Hammond regarded him appraisingly for several seconds; then suddenly grinned, the gleam back in his eyes.

‘Good man! Well, now. The thing is: if you’re released for lack of evidence, Ryall will think there’s at least a chance you’ve talked and that we’ve released you to act as a spy. That wouldn’t do. But if you escape …’ He broke off, and his lift of the shoulders said everything.

Garth asked, thoughtfully:

‘Will it look plausible enough, do you think?’

‘I don’t see why not. We can stage it pretty well … and make sure Ryall gets the full story. In fact …’ The smile faded again: ‘Garth, there’s a chance that by releasing you … or letting you escape … you can help us to find out whether there is a leakage of information from Livesey’s headquarters.’

‘I don’t see how?’

‘Well, we can tell Livesey—and the others: they’re often in conference and I can go to see them—exactly how you escaped. Then you’ll get to Ryall. And if Ryall knows just how …’

Garth’s own eyes lit up.

‘My God, yes! If only that particular group are told, and Ryall gets to know …’

‘We shall know where his information came from,’ nodded Hammond. He pondered for a moment. ‘There’s one thing you may not have realised, mind you.…’

‘What’s that?’

‘If we do it that way, we can’t allow a story to go out through the Press. In other words, Ryall won’t know that you escaped … since he certainly won’t take a chance on your word … unless there is a leakage at Queen’s Gate. You’ll be banking on that. And if there isn’t one …’

Garth spoke slowly into the pregnant pause.

‘There won’t be much chance for me … Yes, I see that. On the other hand, you’ll then know that you needn’t waste time concentrating on the Liveseys and their friends.’

‘Precisely,’ Hammond raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you still game?’

‘Yes,’ said Garth, briefly.

‘Good man!’ Hammond rose. ‘Do you think you can stand a night and day here before you get away? I mean will anything be bothering you?’

‘Not enough to matter,’ said Garth, drily, and Hammond nodded his thanks.

They talked for a few moments, Garth learning what progress had been made in other directions. Hammond said nothing of the suspicion that British as well as American representatives might be on the spot. But he did give a general outline of the situation and a summary of the reactions in America.

America, he told Garth, was apparently pretty well divided. One section was clamouring for the return of the missions, declaring it scandalous that American citizens should be exposed to such danger, and claiming that the discussions could just as easily … and indeed more conveniently … take place in America. The other, more realistic, section were convinced there was an attempt to sabotage the agreements by delaying them, and held that no American worthy of the name would let personal danger stop him from carrying on in the quickest possible way.

Thus, controversy was sweeping the United States. And the German and Italian radio was capitalising on it in foreign broadcasts, seizing what seemed an excellent opportunity for sowing discord between the Allied nations.

‘And that’s about all,’ Hammond wound up, at last.

‘You’re assuming that the interest directing these attacks is financial … commercial?’

‘That possibility is high on our list … nothing more. Why?’

Garth hesitated, then said: ‘It’s just … well, it struck me that it might be a Nazi effort to start discord.’ He grinned, suddenly. ‘But that’s probably on the list as well?’

‘Yes, it is,’ Hammond nodded. ‘But it’s a good point, old chap.’ He smiled: ‘All that M.O.P. training, I expect! Well, I’ll get away. Ask for anything you want—and if anything strikes you that we haven’t talked about, ask Miller to call me. If I don’t come myself, one of the others will. Miller will vouch for their bona fides.’

Hammond went, and alone again, Garth tried to analyse what it was that had prompted his determination to go on with this dangerous work. He could find no real reason—certainly he could see all the risks: Hammond had not tried to minimise them. All he could think of—or really care about—was that it was a job that had to be done.

And everything, apparently, depended on whether or not there was a traitor at 27, Queen’s Gate.

Hammond went straight from the Yard to Craigie’s office. Both Craigie and Loftus were at the desk, but the telephones were silent.

‘The more I see of Garth, the more I like him,’ Hammond remarked, as they looked up. ‘And he’s no fool. He realised what had been done—and the consequences of it.’

‘And then what?’ asked Loftus, drily.

Hammond reported what he had arranged and although the big man smiled a little and Craigie nodded from time to time, neither man interrupted. When he had finished, Loftus pursed his lips in a soundless whistle.

‘Very nice, Bruce!’

Hammond, who was looking at Craigie, emphasised:

‘It should tell us once and for all whether we’re right in suspecting the Livesey household.’

‘We?’ Loftus murmured. ‘I thought that was your preserve.’

‘If you haven’t started suspecting ’em yet, you should have done,’ Hammond told him equably. ‘Is it all right, Gordon?’

‘Of course,’ said Craigie. ‘Garth wasn’t questioned, then, about his visit to Mrs. Parmitter.…’

Neither of the others was surprised at this seeming irrelevancy: Craigie was probably looking much further ahead than either of them. They waited expectantly, and he went on:

‘Ryall will go more deeply into Garth’s background, if he continues to use him. Mrs. Parmitter’s connection with us won’t cause any trouble, because she knows everyone. But Aunt Mabel …’ He smiled, drily: ‘She could do with some additional background.’

‘Aunt Mabel’, they knew, was the widow of Sir Herbert Grey, who had died in an air crash in America.

‘I wanted her on this job,’ Craigie explained, ‘because she has a good many American acquaintances If her husband were alive, he’d be in the thick of all this, of course.’

Loftus nodded: ‘Yes … anyway, we’ll leave that to you. The thing is, you want to use her again?’

‘We might find it a help. I don’t know, yet, We’ll bolster up that part of Garth’s past, anyhow! And we’ve good reason now for getting a thorough check on little Mr. Washington. We’ve a message due from New York in an hour, by the way, Bruce. If there isn’t a full dossier, we’ll phone Dickson.’

‘Also about Catesby?’

Craigie nodded.

‘We know Catesby pretty well, but we’ll certainly check up. You left Garth quite cheerful?’

‘Well … quite determined!’ smiled Hammond.

‘That’s probably better,’ said Craigie, slowly. ‘What are you going to do now?’

‘See Mike and Mark. The gunman may have given something away while they were having their set-to. It isn’t likely, but we’d better cover the possibility. Unless you’ve anything else in mind?’

Craigie shook his head.

‘Have you heard anything from Number 10?’ Hammond asked, as he rose to leave.

‘Nothing new,’ Craigie smiled briefly: ‘There’ll be trouble unless we do get results quickly.’

As he left the office, Hammond was thinking that there was one thing they had not tried to discuss too thoroughly, because they disliked running before they could walk. Yet it mattered a great deal: if they knew the exact motive behind it all, it could well help them find out who was the guiding intelligence.

His thoughts turned to the little man in black. If indeed this should be Benjamin Roosevelt Washington, confidential P.A. to Livesey, it would solve many problems. He thought of that smooth, controlled voice, those piercing eyes, that strangely compelling presence.

Washington was very friendly with Livesey and their association was of many years’ standing. It would be a clever move if he were sidetracking the Department: forcing attention first on Livesey himself and then on Catesby, deliberately making them look like obvious suspects.…

Hammond was walking along Whitehall when he saw a plainclothes sergeant he knew as one of Miller’s chief aides. He smiled, greeting him:

‘Hallo, Drew! Where are you off to?’

‘Mr. Miller said I might find you, sir. He thought you ought to know that Mr. Washington has called at the Yard to enquire about David Garth.’ As Hammond stared at him, Drew added: ‘He phoned the office and they said you’d just left. Will you want a word with Washington, sir?’

Hammond frowned thoughtfully.

‘No … No, I don’t think so. I’ll wait for him and see where he goes. Exactly what did he want?’

‘He said he had heard of Mr. Garth’s arrest and came to enquire whether he could be of any assistance.’ Drew smiled drily. ‘Not very convincing, sir, is it?’

‘No, it’s pretty weak. Just a little too weak, I think. Thanks, Drew. Oh … have you seen Mr. Davidson?’

‘He’s just along by the gates,’ said the sergeant.

‘Good. I’ll come with you.’

Outside the gates of Scotland Yard lounged a tall man who would have been good-looking but for a long, thin nose which veered first to the right and then to the left. He was immaculately dressed and there was about him an air of affluent indolence. Large grey eyes watched lazily as Hammond approached and Drew went in through the gates.

Wally Davidson had been detailed to watch Washington that morning. With any luck, Hammond thought, he might have much of interest to report.