20

Hostile demonstrations

It transpired that Oundle had been one of the Department men on duty outside the American Embassy, and that fact told Loftus that the trouble could not have been prevented no matter who had been there.

On the way in three cabs, with Oundle, Loftus and the Errols in the first, Oundle said what he could about it. The Leathercraft office had been cordoned off, and a strong guard of police left there, although the ‘A’ subscriber cards were tucked in the pockets of Loftus and the others.

‘There was the usual crowd of passers-by, Bill, nothing more. Then, before I knew where I was, a couple of dozen men started throwing stones, and rushed the doors. The dozens grew into hundreds pretty quickly.’

Loftus snapped: ‘Did they get through?’

‘Some of them, yes.’

‘How many men did we have?’

‘Twenty of our fellows, and twenty policemen. There’s a call out for the military, too.’

‘So it’s as bad as that,’ said Loftus grimly.

‘It was hotting up pretty fast when I left,’ said Oundle.

Loftus nodded, and they were silent for the rest of the short journey.

The square was crowded.

Loftus’s cabby went on as far as he could, blowing his horn freely, but it was clear that he could not approach the Embassy. Around the building, above which the Stars and Stripes was flying in a light breeze, was a dense mass of people, and from their throats was coming a deep roar.

Loftus heard loud voices roaring through megaphones.

‘Where’s Hoppermann? Where’s Hoppermann?’

‘Yanks go home!’

He wondered how many of these demented people were genuine fanatics, believing that America had failed in its duty. Fanatics and fools they might be, but they would never have been dangerous but for the way Lewis and his organisation had preyed on their minds.

Amongst the crowd was a more than liberal sprinkling of paid agents. He could tell some of them, wild-looking men, yelling and shouting and cursing. He heard screaming, too, from the few women in the crowd, women who were being trampled under foot. He saw policemen struggling to reach the Embassy, but from time to time a helmet disappeared, a man in blue was pushed under the horde of trampling feet. He saw a few soldiers with fixed bayonets, but they were not using the steel; they had not had orders, but unless this soon stopped, orders would surely have to be given. The crowd would be fired on, and a charge with fixed bayonets would become essential.

For the moment the mob had it.

Loftus and the others forced their way through towards the Embassy. They could see police holding the building itself, with some men in khaki, keeping back the surging crowd with truncheons and batons. Now and again a few people pushed their way through, but for the most part the thin line of police and soldiers kept the mob at bay.

Strained, white faces, glaring eyes, vicious oaths from innocent-looking men, unceasing parrot-cries, with one rising above all the others:

‘Where’s Hoppermann—kill Hoppermann!’

Loftus was at the head of his party. They had formed in a little group, and let nothing stand in their way. Men cursed as they were pushed aside, and a few stones and pieces of wood fell among them, but Loftus ignored the missiles.

He had a hand in his pocket about his gun—Oundle had given him one, Christine had not managed that—and he knew the others were doing the same. They could have drawn their weapons, but to start shooting then would be the height of folly, although it might become necessary to use them as clubs. He fingered the barrel of the automatic as, grimly and ruthlessly, he forced his way through.

‘Kill Hoppermann, kill Hoppermann!’

‘Yanks go home!’

A strong body of men grouped together, drawn back for a rush. A tall man whom Loftus thought he recognised had a megaphone.

‘Now, then, altogether, we can get through. Find that bastard, that’s all, find Hoppermann!’

No more than a dozen men were holding the gates, policemen, soldiers, three of the Deparment men. Most of them looked as if they had been hurt, three were bleeding from face wounds. The soldiers had lost their rifles, two of which were being raised by the crowd about to rush the gates.

Loftus, just behind them, led his party on their heels. He saw one of the men with a gun raise it, then bring it heavily down on a policeman’s head, the ranks of the cordon broke; it could not resist that avalanche of crazed human beings.

Loftus fought his way to the man with the gun, then brought out his automatic. He clubbed good and hard. He heard the man gasp, saw him fall. He wrenched the rifle from his hand, then cleared a wider space about him with it. He saw men struggling back towards the gates—but in that brief moment of respite the cordon had regained its control. It reformed, strengthened by the Errols, Davidson, Best, Dunster and Grey.

The roaring grew deafening.

But through it filtered another sound, and suddenly there was a shrieking from the crowd. The deep growl of heavy vehicles followed, and Loftus saw at the far end of the Mall, a little column of armoured cars approaching very slowly.

There was no shooting; no bare steel.

The fight near the Embassy was getting more violent, yet he knew that it was the last effort, the final spurt of the dying candle of revolt. Against the threat of armoured cars the crowd must clear quickly.

He reached the steps of the building, saw men running. The crowd began to fall back, screaming, forgetful of its first purpose.

Loftus, rifle under his arm and breathing heavily, gasped:

‘Some got through, you said?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ll make it inside,’ said Loftus. ‘It’s all right out here now.’

He did not feel any particular relief at that, for he was afraid of what the mob would do inside the Embassy. He went through, seeing three or four little groups of scuffling people. Department men were busy, and he heard snapped orders from a police inspector in uniform. He saw a group of uniformed men come towards him and his party, and he shouted:

‘Loftus—Loftus!’

Then from the stairs, where two groups were fighting desperately, came a stentorian shout:

‘Let them through!’

Loftus looked up to see a big, burly man, flushed with the heat of the fight. This was Superintendent Miller, liaison officer between the Yard and the Department. Miller’s sandy hair was dishevelled and he had lost his hat, but he obviously believed that he was on top of the situation.

Loftus reached him.

‘Hoppermann?’ he said.

‘In the basement.’

‘We’d better get there,’ said Loftus.

He had to shout to make his voice heard even three yards away from him. His party turned, fighting their way towards the bottom of the staircase and then along the passage running by it. Miller followed them, with Loftus. He shouted directions, and they passed through the domestic quarters of the Embassy. There were more soldiers; clearly the military had concentrated on getting the inside of the Embassy safe. There were men lying in odd positions, across tables, on chairs, on the floor. There were occasional mêlées, but for the most part the rooms near the entrance to the basement were clear.

Miller said, heavily:

‘It’s the old air-raid shelter, where most of the records are kept. I got Hoppermann down there as soon as possible.’

Soon they reached the entrance to the basement, and a policeman in uniform saluted.

‘All clear here, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Miller. ‘We’ll go down.’

The staircase was lighted by electricity. Two or three soldiers lined it, with fixed bayonets. As they neared the basement itself, a stronger party of soldiers stopped them, and Miller had some difficulty in getting past. But the door leading to the main shelter was opened at last, and Loftus and his men stepped through.

The atmosphere was cool and calm. The closed door kept out most of the sound from above, and little groups of men were standing and chatting. Loftus, looking about him, saw Hoppermann talking to a tall, grey-haired man, very familiar to most people because of the frequency with which his photographs appeared in the Press. It was Stillson, the United States Ambassador.

By them was the stocky Goss.

It was the first time Loftus had seen him since the affair at the Strand office when he had first learned that Hoppermann was alive, and he eyed the bodyguard curiously. Goss had a hand in his pocket; there was little doubt that he carried a gun. He glared at Loftus and the others suspiciously, and muttered something under his breath.

Hoppermann looked up.

He smiled suddenly when he saw and recognised Loftus, and Loftus was aware of a quick admiration for a man who behaved so coolly and naturally, although the mob outside had been crying for his blood.

‘Well, Loftus,’ he drawled. ‘On the job again, I see. I was just talking of you.’ He turned to Stillson, and said easily: ‘This is Loftus, who warned me it wasn’t safe for me to go about.’

Stillson said gravely:

‘I have heard of you, Mr. Loftus. You were very right.’

Loftus said: ‘I hope this will be the end of it, sir.’

‘The guy’s kiddin’,’ said Goss sharply, from Hoppermann’s side. ‘It’s all a put-up job, I tell you.’

Stillson eyed the bodyguard coldly. Loftus shrugged.

‘You stick to your ideas, Goss, don’t you?’

‘They’re the right ones,’ snapped Goss.

Hoppermann put a hand on the man’s shoulder.

‘That’s quite enough, Goss. I’ve explained him to you both, I think.’

‘Yes,’ said Loftus, still looking at Goss. ‘Oh, well.’ He paused, then turned towards Hoppermann. ‘I know how this was arranged, and I can get in touch with most of the agitators. When that’s done, I think we will have a story which will calm down public opinion in the States, gentlemen.’

‘I hope that is true, Mr. Loftus,’ said Stillson.

‘It’s going to look bad,’ said Hoppermann. ‘I won’t forgive myself easily for this, Loftus. Since I’ve talked to Stillson and some of the others, I know it’s wholly right that we should support you and N.A.T.O. I won’t need that tour after all,’ he added with a faint smile. ‘But this is bad, I guess.’

‘The effect at home can’t be exaggerated,’ said Stillson. ‘I’ve tried, since I came here, to bring about a closer co-operation of the two countries, but—’

He paused, as if overcome by bitterness.

Hoppermann said: ‘If I hadn’t come—’

Stillson waved a hand. He was tall and pale-faced, spoke with a soft voice which had a persuasive attractiveness.

‘It was as well, in some ways, you brought it to a head.’

Loftus turned to Hoppermann. ‘They were stirred up to this, I think, and, as I’ve said, I know the man who’s done the stirring. Once we’ve got him we’ll be able to straighten things out.’

‘I surely hope you’re right,’ said Hoppermann.

Someone called Stillson aside, and Hoppermann and Loftus stood for a moment without speaking.

Then Hoppermann began to talk, desultorily; and after a little more than half-an-hour Miller, who had gone out, returned. He was smiling a little as he approached Stillson, who had rejoined Hoppermann and Loftus.

‘It’s all clear, sir. There’ll be no more trouble.’

Stillson looked relieved. ‘That’s fine. You lost no time when you did get working.’

‘We did our best, sir.’

Hoppermann lit a cigarette.

‘Well, that’s the end of it,’ he said. ‘Am I still confined to barracks, Loftus?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Loftus slowly. ‘They’ve shot their bolt with this. Even if they kill you,’ he added slowly, ‘the effect couldn’t be much worse.’

Hoppermann frowned. ‘That’s not saying much for me. Loftus, you’ve never believed that I meant what I said, have you? You’ve never thought me wholly sincere?’

Loftus smiled a little, not with humour.

‘I wouldn’t say that. I’ve been out of sympathy with you, but no more than that. Are you leaving the Embassy?’

‘I’ll go to my hotel,’ said Hoppermann sharply. ‘God damn it, Loftus, I won’t be forced to hide any longer. I’ve brought this about. You think it, Stillson thinks it, everyone in authority is of the same opinion. All right, then, I’ll face what’s coming. I wanted to help my country, I had no other thought in mind. Twice before we helped England, and were robbed because of it. I came to try to make sure this was one time when America wasn’t fooled. Well, I’ll go out and make sure.’

He pushed his way towards the door leading to the stairs. Goss went with him, casting a single vicious glance at Loftus.

Mike Errol said: ‘He’s taken that badly, Bill.’

‘You meant him to, didn’t you?’ asked Mark.

‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Loftus. ‘Why should I? All right, we’ll get after him. There’s one thing we mustn’t forget,’ he added. ‘We haven’t got Lewis. And by following Hoppermann, we might get him. We’ll have four men after him all the time, two concentrating on Hoppermann, two on Goss. Errols, Dunster and Grey, you can make a start. ’Phone the flat when you can, and I’ll have you relieved. I’m going to see Craigie.’

Of the gravity of the effect of the riot on the American people there had been no doubt, but as the hours passed, while Hoppermann and Goss went on their fact-finding mission, always closely followed, reports came in by radio and cable, and it grew clear that a large section of the American Press was swinging over to the Isolationist viewpoint.

Arrests of ‘A’ subscribers to the Journal up and down the country went on unceasingly, but there was no trace of Lewis, and they had to get Lewis before the propaganda could be defeated. Each hour was vital, and each hour dragged; for Christine Weston as well as for Loftus and Oundle.

Finally it was an ordinary messenger boy, early on the Sunday morning, who brought a message; not to Loftus but to Christine. It said:

‘Your father has been seriously injured. If you wish to see him again, I advise you to come at once to the Western Hotel, Southampton. Goss.’