CHAPTER 13

‘Chineside’

‘ALL ready?’ asked Loftus.

‘All set,’ said Hammond.

‘Then we won’t waste time,’ said Loftus. ‘Come on, George, stop squeezing Polly’s arm.’

‘I resent that,’ said George, leaving Polly’s side promptly. ‘I was urging her to go home. She’s looking tired out.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ said Loftus, but he made no effort to persuade Polly. She watched the three men open the gate of the house called Chineside and walk up the long, winding path.

Some men were in the grounds, some in the street outside, some in the grounds of the neighbouring houses. It would be virtually impossible for anyone to escape—if, thought Loftus, who felt a little blue, anyone was now within.

‘Bell, knocker or just forced entry?’ asked George.

‘Bell and knocker,’ said Loftus.

‘Okay,’ said George, and pressed the bell while Hammond banged on the door. ‘We shall probably scare ‘em into making a run for it, and they won’t choose the front door, so we shall miss the fun.’

There was no answer.

‘Let me show you what a wizard I am with locks,’ pleaded George. ‘I’ll have that open in half a jiff.’ He peered forward. The light from the flood-lamps was still bright, and when he stood on one side he could see clearly. He frowned. ‘But can I? A pretty nifty lock, that, and the door’s all wood. No glass to break.’ He tapped it. ‘Pretty solid, too. Windows?’

‘Go and look,’ said Loftus.

George disappeared from the porch. There was still no sound from inside the house, and when George returned, after a few minutes, he had an owlish expression.

‘Shutters,’ he said. ‘Steel, thick, locked. We could do with a spot of high ex., Bill.’

Then came a shout from the rear of the house.

George was on the porch one moment and on the drive the next. Loftus and Hammond exchanged grins, but did not move. If there were a sortie from the back, it might be a feint. The front door might be used for the main sortie because it seemed the most unlikely place. They heard nothing from inside the house, but there were scuffling noises at the back—and then, sharp and clear, the report of a shot.

At the back, a door was open.

There was no light from inside the house, but the glow from the flood-lighting showed George Henry George the open door and the men who were rushing from the house. The waiting police pounced on them. One man—a little fellow whom George recognized as Pimple Face, and who had nearly got free—used a gun. He missed the man at whom he fired, and was soon flat on his back.

George reached the open door a yard ahead of Mike and Mark Errol. Powerful torches shone into the scullery and then the kitchen, but the house was silent and they met no one.

Other men came in.

‘Room by room,’ said Mike Errol, ‘and don’t take chances, George, we want you to amuse us another day.’

‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said George.

He took no chances; he frequently amazed the Errols as well as others by his competence. He turned the handle of a door, stepped to one side, and then flung the door open. Crouching, he went in swiftly, with a gun in his hand, moving so fast that it was doubtful whether a chance shot would hit him. He did that three times, and then he darted into a room where the light was on.

‘Careful!’ cried Mike.

George went in as if worked by a spring. They saw him disappear, saw his shadow—and then saw him straighten up.

He said: ‘All clear,’ but there was a subdued note in his voice. The Errols followed him, while other men went upstairs to complete the search.

Tied to a chair, his head lolling forward, was Bannister.

All of them thought he was dead, he was so motionless and in such an odd position. George stepped to his side and, very gently, raised his head. Bannister’s eyes were closed. George felt his pulse. In a flash there was a new light in his eyes and a vast grin on his face.

‘He’s ticking!’ he cried. ‘It’s a bump on the head, they didn’t kill him!’

They had not killed Bannister, said little, frightened Lodge, soon afterwards, because they had been afraid of capture and did not want murder on their hands. True, he had fired at a man in the grounds, but he had lost his head, he had not meant murder. His pimply face was a pasty grey, and he was trembling as Loftus, Carr and Hammond stood in front of him in one of the rooms at Chineside. His wife was with him, wringing her hands, and Maurice stood in a corner with two other prisoners—a silent Maurice who hid his fear well.

Lodge babbled on.

They knew that ‘the Old Doc’ was working on some high explosive, that was all. They had taken great precautions to make sure that there was no serious effect if the stuff went off. ‘The Old Doc’ had stayed in the laboratory; he, Lodge, had disliked going into the work-room, although he had sometimes taken the old man’s meals in. All of them knew that ‘the Old Doc’ had threatened to blow them all to hell, but had not taken his threat seriously. Yes, ‘the Old Doc’ had come from Paris, Maurice had brought him over.

Maurice turned his malignant gaze on the little man.

‘He did!’ cried Lodge. ‘I know it was Maurice! If he’d had his way, he would have killed your pal, he would really; if it hadn’t been for me he would have been killed—and we would have been hanged,’ added Lodge, desperately. ‘I’ll do some things, but not murder—no, not me.’

‘All right,’ said Loftus. ‘Where did Rutter go?’

‘I dunno,’ cried Lodge, ‘I swear I dunno. There’s a man he knows, staying somewhere in Bournemouth, he went to see him, the rat! He knew we’d be for it, he got out. Unless’—Lodge looked suddenly hopeful— ‘unless you got him, mister.’

Loftus said: ‘We didn’t.’

‘And you won’t,’ said Maurice.

•           •           •           •

Gordon Craigie smiled across the fireplace at Loftus, who was sitting in an easy chair. It was the following morning, and Loftus had travelled up from Bournemouth after a short night’s rest. He did not show any effect of his exertions, however, and had told the story simply and graphically.

Sitting on the arm of a chair, staring at him, was the Rt. Hon. Herbert Mattley, the Prime Minister. A thin, thoughtful-looking man with a pale face, shrewd eyes and a rather wide mouth, he had smoked cigarette after cigarette and had not once interrupted Loftus’s narrative. Nor had he moved—like Leven, he had the trick of keeping still.

Loftus looked at him.

‘That’s as far as we’ve got, sir. I think it’s as well that Rutter got away. If we had caught him, I feel sure that he would not have talked, and we would have no one to look for.’

Mattley, surprisingly, smiled.

‘And that wouldn’t do at all!’

‘You agree that Rutter isn’t the principal in this business, I hope?’ said Loftus.

‘Fully,’ said Mattley. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at the long piece of grey ash. ‘Yes, I fully agree. And you’ve done well again, Loftus, you people always do well. I’m told you think it’s a matter of private interests, Craigie.’

‘I do,’ said Craigie.

Mattley put the cigarette back, and scowled.

‘I wish I could be sure. I’m not. Still, you don’t often guess wrong.’ He was quiet for a moment, and then he stood up and walked to the far end of the room. He turned his back to Craigie’s desk, leaned against it, and said deliberately:

‘I came back early, Craigie, because I have received further information.’

‘Yes?’ said Craigie, but he felt the effect of Mattley’s words and the careful manner in which they were uttered. Something unpleasant was coming, a thing which had brought the Prime Minister back from Paris three days before he was due.

Loftus sat quite still.

Mattley said slowly: ‘In both Washington and Moscow approaches have been made to high Government officials. Information has been lodged that we and the French together are preparing a new high explosive. The formula has been offered to both Moscow and Washington—at a price.’

Loftus said quickly: ‘It may be a fake.’

‘Yes,’ said Mattley. ‘Yes, it may be a false formula, but we can’t be sure. The repercussions might be serious. In fact they are already serious. A full statement is being sent to both Washington and Moscow. We must convince them of our goodwill. That’s hardly your job,’ he added, with a quick, understanding smile, ‘but we now want to know who offered them the formula, whether it’s a genuine one or not.’

Craigie said: ‘Doesn’t the offer support my contention— that there’s a commercial interest behind it?’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Mattley. ‘There is another possibility. It may be so obvious that you have missed it, but it has given me great anxiety. There have been suggestions in isolationist American newspapers and magazines, as well as thinly veiled accusations in most countries, that Great Britain and the Commonwealth are returning to power politics.’ A wintry smile crossed the Prime Minister’s face. ‘Whatever they may be!’ he interjected, and Loftus and Craigie smiled. ‘Leaving a definition of the term to others,’ continued Mattley, ‘we have to admit that if it were seriously considered likely by the United States, Soviet Russia and by other countries, that we are endeavouring to establish spheres of influence, other than the influence we already exert on behalf of the United Nations, great and perhaps irremediable harm would be done.

‘It would not be difficult for certain elements to make great capital out of this, since we have allowed the experiments to proceed and, in fact, have given Toller every facility for his work.’ He paused, looking straight at Loftus, and again he smiled unexpectedly. ‘Now, Loftus, harbour no evil thoughts! What are you thinking?’

Loftus said: ‘It would have saved a lot of trouble if we had told both Moscow and Washington when we first started.’

‘Yes,’ said Mattley. ‘It is no answer to say: such information was sent but did not arrive. No answer,’ he added, as Loftus started and even Craigie stirred in his chair, ‘that will satisfy, or pacify, the hunger of those who have nothing but bad to say for our administration. However, it is true.’

‘Diplomatic bags rifled?’ asked Loftus. Even he found it difficult to keep out of his voice a note of surprise, which might have been taken for scepticism.

‘Even worse,’ said Mattley. ‘Confidential statements were sent to the respective Embassies in London. Acknowledgments of the statements were made and we were told that the documents had been sent to the respective capitals. Some documents were. They covered an innocuous experiment which is being made relative to jet-propulsion. The original documents were replaced by these unimportant papers before they left Whitehall. There is a job for you, Craigie!’

‘How long ago?’ asked Loftus, sharply.

‘Seven weeks.’

‘What has caused the delay in finding out?’

‘There was no reason why we should expect a detailed reply, no reason why Washington or Moscow should send one. Not until I realized that something was amiss did I make inquiries. I have today received cables which make the situation clear. Some highly-placed and trusted person has betrayed us, so whether there is a formula in existence or is not, much harm has already been done. I have reason to believe that a detailed account of the experiments and an open accusation that we have deliberately deceived our friends will appear in the American Press. It will doubtless be taken up by ours. If at this juncture in the affairs of mankind,’ continued Mattley, very softly, ‘there should be an open rift, on any score whatsoever, between Moscow, Washington and London, incalculable harm will be done. I have already said that it might be irremediable.’ He paused, looked at his cigarette again, and said:

‘Find who is behind this, Craigie, at all costs. There is too much at stake for us to take a single chance. Let your men know the truth, and give them my views on it. Find me the man who betrayed us in Whitehall, and find everything relevant—soon!’

Craigie pressed the button in the mantelpiece.

Mattley nodded, gave his wintry smile, and went out as the door opened. The shadowy figures of his Special Branch police guards appeared on the cold stone steps.

‘Well, well,’ said Loftus. ‘Pop up and get me the moon, Gordon, I’ll take the hard job.’