Loftus pushed his way through the crowd, past people who were just standing and gaping. His height, he was over six-foot-two, enabled him to see over the heads of the crowd. He saw two men kneeling, a third lying on his side. Next moment he had reached them, and saw the handle of the knife sticking out of the third man’s back.
He felt as if a knife had been thrust between his own ribs; his vision was blurred.
As it cleared he saw a young woman—a slight, pretty, fair-haired creature in pale blue, leaning heavily on the arm of an older man and looking like death. Probably she had screamed. Next, Loftus saw Craigie break through the crowd on the other side.
Another man pushed his way forward—Grant. He was both tall and powerful, had a cleft, thrusting chin, a shock of stiff, black hair and deep-blue, piercing eyes. He spoke to Craigie and nodded to Loftus, then knelt beside the injured man.
Grant felt for the victim’s pulse; unfastened buttons, pushed his hand inside the stiff shirt and felt for the heart. He didn’t speak as he withdrew his hand, but lifted the victim in a single, swift movement and stood with him in his arms, the knife hidden.
“Clear a path, please!” Loftus’s voice was sharp.
“Is he dead?” a man asked in broken English.
“He’ll be all right. Clear a path, please.”
Grant carried the victim through the thinning crowd and headed towards the nearest door. The band was still playing that lilting melody; like laughter at a funeral.
Loftus whispered to Craigie: “Shall I start on the girl?”
“Yes, I’ll see the others.” Craigie meant the other Department Z men. “Go easy with her.”
Loftus didn’t answer, but stepped in front of the girl in blue. She was leaning heavily against the elderly man and trembling violently.
Her companion said: “Are you a doctor? She was dancing with that fellow.”
“I’ll look after her. Who else was dancing close to them?”
Loftus glanced about the people near, eyes probing, face after face registering clearly on his mind. Some he recognized; most were strangers. He saw a slight, willowy man with sleek dark hair edging his way out of the crowd. Something in the way the man moved caught his attention.
Another, short and fair, touched Loftus’s arm.
“I’ll cover that chap.”
“And get someone else—Grant, if you can.” Loftus turned again to the girl. “You’d better come with me, I’ll look after you. Have you any friends here?”
She was too distraught to answer.
A tall, distinguished man wearing many medal ribbons came forward and began to talk swiftly. Loftus didn’t know the language, but placed it as Scandinavian. A woman with him touched his hand and began to talk as swiftly in good English. The girl was on the secretariat of the Novian Embassy; that was His Excellency the Novian Ambassador; the girl had been invited because she was so new to England and knew few people, and her name—
Loftus couldn’t get hold of her name.
“I wonder if you will be good enough to come with us, Your Excellency?”
“Yes, yes.” The Ambassador’s English was much better than his wife’s. “Yes, we will come; there is nothing else we can do. We will come.”
In every corner of the room, as they went on, questions were being asked tensely and answered nervously. Newspapermen were already at the telephones calling their Night Desks.
Who was the injured man?
Was he dead?
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John Creasey
Master crime fiction writer John Creasey’s 562 titles (or so) have sold more than 80 million copies in over 25 languages. After enduring 743 rejection slips, the young Creasey’s career was kickstarted by winning a newspaper writing competition. He went on to collect multiple honours from The Mystery Writers of America including the Edgar Award for best novel in 1962 and the coveted title of Grand Master in 1969. Creasey’s prolific output included 11 different series including Roger West, the Toff, the Baron, Patrick Dawlish, Gideon, Dr Palfrey, and Department Z, published both under his own name and 10 other pseudonyms.
Creasey was born in Surrey in 1908 and, when not travelling extensively, lived between Bournemouth and Salisbury for most of his life. He died in England in 1973.
ALSO IN THIS SERIES
The Death Miser
Redhead
First Came a Murder
Death Round the Corner
The Mark of the Crescent
Thunder in Europe
The Terror Trap
Carriers of Death
Days of Danger
Death Stands By
Menace
Panic!
Death by Night
The Island of Peril
Sabotage
Go Away Death
The Day of Disaster
Prepare for Action
No Darker Crime
Dark Peril
The Peril Ahead
The League of Dark Men
The Department of Death
The Enemy Within
Dead or Alive
A Kind of Prisoner
The Black Spiders
This edition published in 2017 by Ipso Books
Ipso Books is a division of Peters Fraser + Dunlop Ltd
Drury House, 34-43 Russell Street, London WC2B 5HA
Copyright © John Creasey, 1947
All rights reserved
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage
Contents
1The Hall of Babel
2Gordon Craigie
3Kolsti’s Goodbye
4Delaying Action?
5Nice Girl
6Bullets for Parmitter
7Shock for Loftus
8Sir Hugh Marchant
9Party
10Raid
11Poor M. Nassi
12Report and Action
13High Explosive
14Rout of Little Men
15Colston House
16Gregory Wilkinson
17Report
18A Job for George
19Little Blue Box
20‘Dynamite’
21Final Act