CHAPTER 14

The Hard Job

IT WAS in the nature of things that the task which threatened the Department as an impasse should be easily accomplished, and that which looked easy and straightforward should be most difficult. Keeping track of Rutter in Bournemouth had seemed easy; yet three days after Mattley had talked to Craigie and Loftus, the Department men in the South Coast town were beginning to believe that Rutter had escaped from them. Those agents who were summoned to London, however, including Bannister, who had not been badly hurt, and the Errols, had what appeared to be the most difficult task—to find who had tampered with the documents sent to Washington and Moscow.

On the third day, Mike and Mark Errol pressed the button beneath the hand-rail outside Craigie’s office, and when, after due formality, they entered the room, Mike was smiling and there was a gleam of satisfaction in his cousin’s eyes.

Craigie was there alone.

‘The documents were prepared at the Offices of the Cabinet,’ said Mark, while Mike lit a cigarette and showed that for once he was leaving all the talking to his cousin, ‘and there were five people who had access to them—all highly placed. The documents were not seen by any member of the clerical staff, they were typed by one of the five, checked by the others, prepared jointly. Mattley read the whole thing to the Cabinet, where it was fully discussed, so only a Cabinet Minister or one of the five men could have jockeyed with the thing. The Cabinet Ministers are out——’

‘Pity,’ murmured Mike, ‘No sensation.’

‘The high officials, one by one, came before our ken,’ said Mark, ‘and we had them all carefully watched, as per instruction.’ Obviously he was enjoying this revelation, and Craigie did nothing to spoil his pleasure. ‘One Bentley, Hubert Wilberforce Bentley, O.B.E., who is a forty-ish gentleman of expensive habits and for some time has lost much money at the gaming-tables——’

‘A fact on which his girl friend enlightened us,’ said Mike. ‘And what a girl friend! Sleek, svelte, mink and sable, brittle like glass, beautiful like picture post-cards. Sorry, Mark, Go on.’

‘At the gaming-tables, which no respectable man should frequent,’ said Mark, ‘and being responsible for many bills run up by the girl friend—we are being polite, you understand—and having a useful but not remarkable salary and, as far as we could ascertain, no large private income——’

‘How did you get that?’ asked Craigie.

Mark smiled. ‘We put Miller on to it.’

Superintendent Miller, of New Scotland Yard, was the liaison officer between the Yard and the Department, and was rarely slow in getting results for which its agents asked.

‘Where was I?’ asked Mark.

‘You’ve got one more sentence,’ said Mike, warningly. ‘The bit about him taking a day off yesterday.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Mark. ‘Hubert Wilberforce Bentley did not appear at the office yesterday, and remained—it was thought—at his flat. However, in the early afternoon he left the flat and, with a harassed, hunted look——’

‘Oi!’ interrupted Mike.

‘Sorry, your turn,’ said Mark, gracefully.

‘Thank you. We split the story into two parts and drew lots who should have the climax,’ explained Mike, and Craigie chuckled in spite of his tense interest. ‘As Mark was saying, Bentley had a hang-dog-is-there-any-one-following-me-look about him. We were. He didn’t see us. He went to Waterloo and I’ll give you one guess where he booked for——’

‘Bournemouth,’ said Craigie, automatically.

‘Bournemouth West,’ improved Mike. ‘The nearest station to Alum Chine. So we also booked, and I sent Loftus a wire and told him to have the station watched, in case our Hubert cottoned on to us and we wanted to complete his discomfiture. A very serious man, Bentley. He sat in his first-class carriage and looked grimly into space all the time. At Bournemouth West he hurried out, got a taxi, and George Henry George was waiting at the station in another. Off we went.’ Mike paused, and beamed his broadest. ‘Bentley drove straight to Chineside!’

‘Not bad!’ said Mark.

‘He would have been seen and reported whether we’d been after him or not,’ said Mike. ‘However, he walked up the drive and rang the bell, and you should have seen his face when Bannister opened the door. Bannister as he is, not the Professor. There was much ado and many apologies, and Bentley came back with his tail between his legs. So, we’ve got him.’

‘Orders, please,’ said Mark.

‘Where is he now?’ asked Craigie.

‘At his flat, communing with himself,’ said Mike. ‘Hammond and Dunster came back with us, and they’re watching the place. A woman is there—perhaps the girl friend. On the whole——’

‘Not at all bad,’ said Craigie, smiling, ‘There’s only one thing missing.’

‘Don’t say it,’ said Mike.

‘It leads only to Rutter,’ said Mark.

When they had gone, Craigie went to his desk and lifted a telephone. It was a direct line to 10, Downing Street. He gave his name to the first secretary who answered, and in a few moments Mattley was on the line.

‘Yes, Craigie?’

‘We have got as far as finding the man who substituted the documents,’ said Craigie. ‘A man named Bentley——’ He paused, to give the Prime Minister an opportunity to comment, but Mattley did not take it. ‘Hammond and the Errols have gone to his flat, with instructions to get a written confession,’ said Craigie, ‘and judging from the reports, he is in a pretty nervous state and shouldn’t be too difficult.’

‘Hu Bentley,’ said Mattley, and there was an unusual note in his voice. ‘I’m sorry about that. All right, Craigie. I am very glad you’ve got results so quickly. Have you anything else yet?’

‘Not yet,’ said Craigie.

‘Try not to lose a minute,’ said Mattley.

From that brief remark, Craigie judged that the situation was no easier than it had been. He had waited daily for an outburst in the American Press, or a caustic article in Red Star or Pravda, but so far the story had not broken. If the whole truth could be discovered before it did, much misunderstanding would be avoided, much bitterness left unstirred.

He worked at the desk, studying various reports about the activities of five armament manufacturers—but for once his mind was not on his task.

•           •           •           •

Bruce Hammond did not believe in taking chances.

He took Mark Errol with him up to Bentley’s flat. Mike was outside at the front, with another agent, Dunster and yet a fourth were at the back. Bentley could not escape, and, to set the seal on the preparations, there were Special Branch policemen at either end of the street and the service alley behind it.

The street was a narrow turning between Piccadilly and Regent Street. There were a few inexpensive shops, next door to expensive salons, but most of the houses were grey, tall and narrow, unconnected with any kind of commerce.

Hammond rang the bell.

There was no immediate answer, but before he rang again footsteps sounded and the door was opened by a trim little maid, a middle-aged woman with a quick, attractive smile.

‘We would like to see Mr. Bentley,’ said Hammond.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘but Mr. Bentley is unwell, he is not able to see anyone.’

Hammond took out his card, showed it to her, and stepped past her while she looked at it in dismay. Mark sent her a reassuring smile, but did not relieve her anxiety. She followed them as they walked into the large, roomy hall.

Four doors led from the hall.

‘Which is Mr. Bentley’s bedroom?’ asked Hammond.

‘Really, sir, Mr. Bentley is too ill even to see the police. He mustn’t be disturbed, he gave strict instructions.’

She came out with ‘police’ before either of the others could stop her, and her protestations were so loud that anyone in the flat must surely have heard her. Then a door opened, and a woman stepped through.

Her hair was a glossy black, dressed most attractively in Victorian style. Her face was a pale cream, with little colour. She had on a touch of lip-stick, but wore no rouge. Perhaps her pallor made her eyes seem so bright, and brought out the darkness of the lashes and eyebrows.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘May, did I hear you say that these gentlemen are from the police?’

‘Well, they showed a card from the police,’ said May. She looked indignant, and added: ‘I’ve told them they can’t see Mr. Hubert, Miss Paula.’

Hammond said: ‘I’m afraid we must.’

‘Miss Paula’ returned his steady gaze, and he did not think that she was puzzled. She was in the late twenties, he judged, but in some ways she looked much older. There was a quiet confidence and a poise about her which attracted him and impressed Mark.

She was not surprised by the appearance of the police.

‘May I know why?’ she asked.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Hammond.

She hesitated, and then said, ‘Please come with me. All right, May,’ she added in an aside, and the little maid, with a backward glance, walked slowly towards another door.

Hammond thought: ‘I must be careful, she’s too disarming’, and a similar thought was in Mark’s mind.

‘Miss Paula’ led the way to a third door, which was closed. She hesitated for a moment, then turned her dark eyes on them and said quietly: ‘Please don’t make a noise.’ She opened the door and stood aside for them to enter. Hammond went in cautiously, and Mark stood on the threshold, motioning to the woman. She followed Hammond.

Hubert Wilberforce Bentley was in bed, either asleep or unconscious. He was remarkably like ‘Miss Paula’, and there was little doubt that they were brother and sister. Bentley did not seem to be breathing. His dark hair was brushed straight back from his high, pale forehead and his lips were set tightly, as if he had been in pain. The room was tidy, the bedclothes almost symmetrical.

Hammond murmured: ‘How long has he been like this?’

‘For an hour,’ said the woman. ‘I hope you won’t disturb him.’

‘It would take a lot to do that,’ said Hammond. He took Bentley’s left hand, which lay on the turned-down sheet, and felt the pulse. It was very slow. He put a hand to Bentley’s face. The woman made an involuntary movement to stop him, but changed her mind.

Bentley’s eyes looked dull, and the pupils were dilated. He did not stir, and Hammond let the eyelid fall back again; it did so slowly, in an uncanny way.

‘Have you called a doctor?’ asked Hammond.

‘No,’ she said.

She had not wanted them to prove that he had been drugged, but the fact that he was drugged did not come to her as a surprise. She knew or guessed a great deal.

‘My brother will recover without a doctor,’ said ‘Miss Paula’. ‘I cannot grant you the right to interfere.’

‘I see,’ said Hammond. ‘Shall we go into another room?’

She led the way, and waited by the door, closing it gently. The flat was very quiet, and their footsteps on the thin-pile carpet made only a faint sound. She opened the door of another room, large, bright, cool.

‘Please sit down,’ said Paula. ‘As you will have gathered, I am Paula Bentley—Hubert’s sister. May I ask you to explain your visit? And may I ask your names?’

Hammond said: ‘I am Hammond, this is Mr. Mark Errol.’ He showed his card, a card like that which had once so startled Polly, with the grey Z and the rest of the matter superimposed. She looked at it for some seconds, and then handed it back. She did not appear greatly surprised by his authority.

‘Thank you. Can I be of any help?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Hammond. ‘Miss Bentley, I must tell you this. Mr. Bentley is, I believe, in possession of information of great importance. It is essential that he should confirm or deny certain facts for us, as soon as he comes round from his drugged sleep. I shall have to wait here until then, and I shall have to summon a doctor to see whether it is possible to bring your brother round before he would normally come round—and,’ he added, grimly, ‘to make sure that he is not seriously ill.’

‘He is not’, she said. ‘He took a dose of laudanum. It is not for the first time.’ There was no challenge in her eyes, and she did not question the ‘drugged’ sleep at all. ‘He will probably sleep until this evening—won’t that be time enough?’

‘No,’ said Hammond.

‘What do you think he knows?’

‘I am not at liberty to discuss it with you,’ said Hammond. ‘On the other hand, if you know why he has been so distracted recently, why he went to Bournemouth yesterday, and why he saw fit to drug himself, you must tell me.’

She kept still for some time, and then, to their surprise, she rose abruptly from her chair. Her hands clenched, and colour flooded her cheeks.

‘That damned woman!’ she said, and when she looked at them there was great pain in her eyes, ‘What has he done?’

‘Don’t you know?’ countered Hammond.

‘Has he—betrayed——’ She broke off, and turned to look out of the window. The emotion which she had kept back so determinedly was coming to the fore, and she was trembling. ‘Has he sold state secrets?’ she demanded, in a voice which was only just audible.

‘Probaby,’ said Hammond. ‘He’s certainly tried to.’

Mark, sitting near the door, looked at the woman with a sympathy which he could not keep out of his expression, but Hammond’s face showed no sign of his feelings. He was a brown man, she was a black-and-white woman; they seemed to fit naturally into those colours.

She turned round again.

‘I was afraid of that. He telephoned me this morning, asked me to come and see him. He told me that he had made a fool of himself, and that he was afraid of the consequences. He was—short of money. He has spent a great deal lately, one way and another. I did not press him to give me details of his difficulty, but nothing that he has done would surprise me. He was not—himself—when that woman——’

‘What woman?’ asked Hammond.

‘A friend of his. Miss Gertrude Ryall.’

Hammond looked at Mark, who nodded; Gertrude Ryall was the ‘girl friend’ who had dispensed the information, and whatever Paula thought of her was probably near the mark.

‘He was in love with her,’ she said. The words seemed wrung from her. ‘Her influence over him was malign. There was nothing he would not do at her request, and now—he has ruined himself and sold his country.’ The phrase, uttered in a low-pitched, agonized voice, did not seem stilted. As if to herself, she went on: ‘For three centuries a Bentley has——’

She broke off, and her eyes were very bright.

Hammond said: ‘I am sorry that I have to question you, Miss Bentley, but there is no way in which I can avoid it, and the matter is urgent. May Mr. Errol use your telephone?’

‘Of course.’

‘Ask Dr. Little to come, Mark, will you?’ asked Hammond, and then turned towards the girl as Mark went to a telephone which was in the corner of the room.

She made no protest, and Hammond went on:

‘About Miss Ryall. Did you infer that she deliberately asked your brother to tamper with documents relating to his work?’

‘Of course I did,’ she said. ‘That is why she encouraged him.’

‘Then he hasn’t known her for long?’

‘For three months,’ she said, ‘and from the day he met her he has been a different man, he——’ She broke off, and bit her lips. ‘I am sorry. Please go on.’

‘Have you any reason to believe that she persuaded him to interfere with these documents?’

‘Yes. Before he went to sleep he said that she had asked him to do it. He was completely disillusioned, and in great distress. He did not mention documents, nor say what he had done, but I had no doubt that it was serious.’

‘I see,’ said Hammond. ‘Do you know Miss Ryall well?’

‘No. I met her only through my brother.’

‘Is she well known among his circle of acquaintances?’

‘I do not think so. I do not know where she came from. I believe that he met her when he was in Birmingham, on official business.’

‘Birmingham,’ murmured Mark. He had finished at the telephone, and turned and looked at Hammond. Kelly, the man who had taken Bannister’s place as the Professor, had left a house in Birmingham. ‘Do you know her Birmingham address?’ Mark asked.

‘No,’ said Paula.

‘Telephone Gordon,’ said Hammond to Mark.

‘Not before it’s time,’ said Mark. ‘What the dickens were Mike and I playing at?’ He looked angry with himself, for he had taken it for granted that Gertrude Ryall had no interest in Bentley except the good time she could get out of him. Later, when he had pondered on it, Mike acknowledged that it was because he lacked that little something which Hammond, Loftus and Craigie possessed.

He heard Craigie speak and announced himself in the usual way. When he had half-finished his story about Gertrude Ryall, Craigie interrupted with a laugh.

‘All right, Mark, there’s no need to worry about it. I started inquiries about her as soon as she was mentioned.’

‘Oh,’ said Mark. ‘Oh yes, you would. Good!’

‘How are you getting on there?’

‘You’d better have a word with Bruce,’ said Mark.

When Hammond replaced the receiver, he advanced towards Paula, smiling but giving the impression that his was a distasteful task.

‘When the doctor has made the examination,’ he said, ‘it will be necessary to take your brother to a nursing home, where he can be under constant surveillance. That is not because we would not trust him here with you, but because he might be in some danger.’

‘Danger,’ said Paula. ‘Yes, of course.’

The front-door bell rang.

‘That will be Doc Little,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll go.’

He went out, waved the maid back as she appeared from the kitchen, and went to the door. Dr. Little, who lived near by, was the Department’s doctor. He was frequently called in on such tasks as this and he had long since given up his practice so as to be available at any time. He was a very large, very fat man, another Loftus in appearance, and a jovial fellow to boot. Mark even prepared his lips for a smile of greeting.

A dark, slim stranger stood on the threshold.

‘Er—good morning,’ said Mark, nonplussed.

‘Good morning,’ said the stranger, touching his thin dark moustache. ‘Mr. Bentley is expecting me, I think.’

‘Is he?’ said Mark. ‘I——’

And then the stranger drove his clenched fist into Mark’s stomach, and darted into the hall.