Secret Ministry: A Johnny Fedora Espionage Spy Thriller Assignment Book 1 Read online

  “So all we can do is keep looking.”

  “That’s all. The only other clue we’ve got is those two men the hat-check girl saw; and – I dunno – maybe it’s just because she did see them I think they’ve got nothin’ to do with it.”

  “Why must this fellow who socked you one have come out of the front door?”

  “Thought I made that clear,” said Johnny. “His feet were dry. I tried taking ten paces out in the rain and when I came back I left my tracks down the verandah an’ right into the lobby. An’ it’s hardly likely he’d take his shoes off just to hop in an’ sock me. He’d be all ready for a quick getaway.”

  “Um,” said Crashaw appreciatively. “No flies on you, Fedora. That’s good reasoning.”

  “Thanks,” said Johnny, reaching for the pepper.

  “Well… what have you got for me to-day?”

  “Quite a bit,” said Crashaw. “I’ve had a man checking over all the information we can get about those names you gave us; we’ll go over them in the morning and see if anything emerges. Otherwise there’s nothing new with reference to the Murray affair; I’m lying fairly low, as you recommended.

  “This Robson investigation hasn’t progressed very far, naturally, but it appears he was killed early this morning by a short burst from some sort of sub-machine-gun, probably a Thompson. Mr and Mrs Vick, who occupy the flat below, were staying the night at Mr Vick’s parents’ house in Worthing, and returned about ten o’clock. Apparently this is a regular weekly affair for them, so we can assume that the murderer was sufficiently well acquainted with Robson to know that he was always alone on Friday nights. In fact, I’m trying to check if the murderer was a regular Friday visitor.”

  “Malinsky fits in,” commented Johnny.

  “Oh, he’s our man all right. We’ve enough evidence to make an arrest, but hardly enough to convince a jury.”

  “I think Holliday’ll fix anything of that kind,” said Johnny. “You don’t have to worry about that. Holliday’s big… but unless we get some action in the next two or three days we’re gonna lose somebody else who’s pretty big, in his way. Take my word for it, Crashaw, the Germans’ job is so nearly finished that they’ve an odds-on chance of getting away with it. If we’d got hold of Malinsky a month ago…” He sighed, pushed his plate away and pulled out his cigarette-case.

  “We’re doing all we can,” said Crashaw.

  “Yeah,” said Johnny, “an’ they know we are… that’s the hell of it.”

  Chapter Ten

  ANNETTE

  JOHNNY woke up the next morning with his eyes unusually gummy and his jaw aching unpleasantly.

  He stretched contemplatively, tapped the sticking-plaster that encased his jaw, and glanced at his wristwatch. It was almost ten o’clock. He yawned again, said a rude word and rolled out of bed. He had stayed up till three that morning writing a report for Holliday – an unpleasant task at the best of times, and doubly so when afflicted with the headache of a lifetime. His pyjamas were crumpled; his hair stood almost on end; he needed a shave. He looked like nothing on earth.

  He pulled on a dressing-gown, delicately placed his feet into soft brown carpet-slippers and went out, tying the dressing-gown sash as he went. He walked downstairs and over to the ’phone in the passage. He picked up the receiver, balanced it gingerly on one finger, and then said, in the voice of a man wandering over the hot sands of the Sahara. “Operator… Cootsbridge 52. I want Cootsbridge 123. That’s right.” He rested his forehead in the palm of his hand and waited.

  There was a click and Crashaw’s voice said “Hullo? Inspector Crashaw here.”

  “This is Funf speaking,” said Johnny. “How you doin’? I’ll be over in a few minutes to check on those reports of yours.”

  “Oh, it’s you… fine,” said Crashaw. “How’s the head?… Good. I’ll have everything ready for you.”

  “Swell,” said Johnny. “An’ include a nice cup of coffee, huh? I ain’t had breakfast yet. Yeah, I overslept. Sure… just thought I’d warn you before I came over. S’long.” He hung up, shivered and walked upstairs, wrapping the dressing-gown closely round him.

  -----------------------

  When Miss Eileen Gardner came out of the kitchen at a quarter past ten she met Johnny, miraculously transformed, coming down the stairs at high speed. He was washed, shaved, and snappily dressed in a navy-blue suit and grey shirt, with a tie that could only have come from New York, or possibly Hollywood. His hair was neatly brushed and he was even contriving to whistle under his sticking-plaster.

  “Morning, sir,” she said, surprisedly. “Don’cha want any breakfast?”

  “Hi, Eileen,” said Johnny cheerfully. “Not to-day, blondie; I have an urgent date. Afraid I must rush, as you Limeys say.” He tilted her chin up as he went by, kissed her absently, and hurried off The door clicked shut behind him, and Eileen, her eyes opened very wide, walked slowly up the stairs. She looked out of the window at the top to see him walking down the road towards the police station, his fedora jammed firmly on his head in defiance of the stiff November wind.

  Johnny found the village police station some three hundred yards down the road, where he had noticed it yesterday. It was a fair-sized house with a well-tended front garden, and a low brick wall built in front of the door to protect it from bomb-blast. That wall seemed very out of place in the rural setting. Johnny dodged behind it and straight in the front door. A burly police sergeant, sitting at a desk, looked up as he entered.

  “My name’s Fedora,” said Johnny, “Inspector Crashaw’s expecting me.”

  “Oh, yes, sir,” said the sergeant, heaving himself upright. “Go straight through that door and you’ll find the Inspector’s room is the first on the right. He’s in now, sir.”

  “Thanks,” said Johnny. He went through the door into a corridor and five seconds later found himself in Crashaw’s office. Crashaw, curiously unfamiliar out of his famous overcoat, was seated at his desk, blowing clouds of smoke from a disgusting pipe. He greeted Fedora with a cheerful wave of that evil-smelling object.

  “Morning, Fedora. Come on in and take a seat. I’ve laid on a breakfast for you.”

  “Say, that’s swell of you,” said Johnny, inspecting a heavily-loaded breakfast tray. “I can use that all right. Thanks.” He seated himself on a wooden chair and manoeuvred the tray on to his lap.

  “One thing about working in the country,” said Crashaw with a self-satisfied chuckle, “is that you can always have eggs for breakfast. I’ve got a mania for ’em.” He leant back and tapped the pile of papers on his desk. “I’ve got those reports here; Sergeant Douglas has been going through them and he’s noted most of the salient facts. There’s some points of interest which I’ve written out here, but there’s no indication of any, er, line we could take up.”

  “Um,” said Johnny, wielding a spoonful of egg.

  “Trevor’s the bloke I’m interested in. What – if anything – have you on Trevor?”

  “Trevor? Nothing in any way incriminating.” said Crashaw. “Been in the hotel and club business a long time, here and in Scotland and America. He’s been managing the ‘Three of Clubs’ for two years now; been married for seven, happily as far as I can make out. Met his wife in America; she’s from a quite well-known Pennsylvania family – maiden name was Annette Benson. Present employer is A. D. Deveritt, who owns a small chain of clubs, and also,” he looked up, “employs this fellow Harris as a personal pilot.”

  Johnny’s face remained expressionless. He found it difficult to register emotion while eating boiled egg. He said, “Can I see that dossier?”

  Crashaw handed it over; Johnny propped it against his coffee cup and went on eating. Crashaw watched him for a moment, then turned on his swivel-chair and stared out of the window.

  After a couple of minutes Johnny wiped his mouth, and said, “What have you got on Harris?”

  Crashaw swung back, fumbled with his papers and pulled one out.

  “Here you are,” h
e said. “Public schoolboy; went from school into the R.A.F. in 1940. Excellent war record. Was invalided out in 1945 and took a job as personal pilot to Deveritt, who owns hotels in Paris, Brussels, and the Riviera, and has been trying to get them back in working order again.”

  Johnny stretched out a hand and took the papers. He drank his coffee while reading them and placed his tray back on the table.

  “Who else have you reports on?”

  “Mrs Trevor,” said Crashaw, without looking at the sheaf in his hand, “Mr Gann and Miss Kane. Those are the names you gave us; I’ve added those of Robson and Malinsky.”

  “Miss Kane,” said Johnny, “may leave the table, and so may Mrs Trevor. I don’t know who slugged me last night, but it definitely wasn’t a woman. Not with a wallop like that. What about Gann.”

  “We’ve got very little about Gann,” said Crashaw, selecting a paper. “He’s been with the ‘Three of Clubs’ since its formation in 1938, under its first manager Mr Owens. Previously – apart from the fact that he hasn’t a criminal conviction against him – we don’t know, but we’re trying to find out.”

  “Curious person, Paul,” said Johnny reflectively. He lit a cigarette and shot the match with one finger into Crashaw’s wastepaper basket ten feet away. “Got brains, that one… uh-huh. What about Robson an’ Malinsky – anythin’ new?”

  “Spencer got Malinsky’s address from Trevor and went there last night,” said Crashaw. “Three, Vauxhall Road – about half a mile from Robson’s address in North Brighton. Found two huge boxes of hemp cigarettes in a cupboard, but nothing else. But the next-door neighbour says that Malinsky went out that morning at seven-thirty and returned twenty minutes later. Just the right time to do Robson in, and it agrees with the doctor’s estimate of the time of the murder.”

  “We know Robson’s murderer,” said Johnny, “if only we knew how and why Murray was bumped, we’d stand a chance.”

  “We know why.”

  “We think we know why… Did Spencer find Malinsky’s chopper in his house?”

  “His what?”

  “You know, his tommy-gun, the one he killed Robson with. No, I bet it wasn’t found.”

  “You’d win. It wasn’t.”

  “No. Anythin’ else?”

  “No… but I’ve got the Forensic Department’s report on those things you found last night, if you’re interested.”

  Johnny’s face was impassive, but he found himself rising to his feet. “There is nothing in this case,” he said, “that interests me more. What’s it say?”

  Crashaw grinned. “Thought you’d be pleased,” he said. “I hurried ’em through for you… well, firstly, the bullet is exactly the same type as those which killed Robson. That’s for me, I think. I think we can hang Malinsky just whenever we catch him.”

  “He probably knows that,” said Johnny, parking himself on the edge of Crashaw’s desk, “an’ so does his Nazi boss. Go on.”

  “The other two articles both show fingerprints, all of one man,” continued Crashaw. “Almost certainly Malinsky’s. We’ll check that. The bottle of Brylcreem contained a small phial, welded to the inside, which in turn contained a concentration of a drug which they haven’t yet managed to isolate – these things take time. It’s definitely established however, as being one of the scopolamine group. Traces of the same drug were also found inside the syringe and needle. The needle also showed infinitesimal traces of blood.”

  “That is exactly what I thought it would be,” said Johnny. The words came as slowly and precisely as if they had been read from a book at dictation speed. “One of the scopolamine group… you know the effect of an injection of a scopolamine, don’t you?”

  Crashaw got up. “To the untrained eye,” he said, “it gives the effect of an advanced stage of inebriation.” He looked straight at Johnny. “In other and plainer words, you’d think he was drunk.”

  “Yeah,” said Johnny softly. “People did.”

  He moved over to his chair and sat down. He said, “An’ that was the end of Murray.” He blew a symbolical wreath of smoke into the air.

  “We’ve got to find out lots of details,” said Crashaw.

  “But once we’ve found ’em…”

  “Assumin’ that drug to be a scopolamine,” said Johnny dreamily, “I stayed up till three o’clock this morning workin’ things out. An’ now I’m proud to announce that I know how an’ why Murray was murdered, an’ – remember what I said?”

  “And that gives us a chance?” said Crashaw. “Well – what’s your theory?”

  Johnny grinned. “I haven’t got time to tell you just now,” he said wickedly. “I’m expectin’ a visitor at ten o’clock, an’ I’ve just sent a fat letter to Holliday tellin’ him all my little ideas – in case anything should happen to me. An’ the interestin’ gentleman – or gentlemen – supervisin’ this do, are as much a mystery to me as to you. Otherwise our chance’d be a certainty.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “This morning I’m gonna muck about near the club,” said Johnny. “I got certain theories that I wanna test. I’ll let you know how I get on. Cheers.”

  “Cheer-o,” said Crashaw dolefully. Johnny grinned as he walked out. He knew that the reason why Crashaw hadn’t tried to detain him was that Crashaw had already worked out exactly the same things as Johnny.

  It was fairly obvious to reason out what had happened, but it was almost impossible to follow that reasoning anywhere. Johnny could see that Murray had been knocked out and drugged by Malinsky, then escorted by Trevor to his car. What happened after that was largely supposition, and anybody’s guess was as good as Johnny’s – in fact, better, because Johnny was feeling confused. Trevor was definitely suspect now, but Johnny was too old a hand to build anything up on that. The next item on the programme was an interview with Mr Thaxter. Johnny didn’t feel particularly hopeful about the result.

  He walked slowly back towards the “Woodcutter’s Arms”, his outrageous tie flapping happily in the wind. As he rounded the bend in the road he saw a smallish car of doubtful ancestry parked close to the kerb outside the pub, and he quickened his pace slightly. Thaxter was a few minutes early.

  He went in and walked upstairs to his room. Thaxter was stretched out in the armchair, looking uncompromisingly stringy. He was wearing the same suit that he had on the night before, and obviously hadn’t been out of it since then. He had found Johnny’s whisky-bottle and it was now on the table beside him, half empty. His chin was on his chest and he was snoring rhythmically.

  Johnny surveyed this scene with distaste and said, “Wake up, pal. The war’s over.”

  Thaxter raised his chin just enough to permit him to yawn, pushed out his legs another six feet and stretched himself. He said, “Ahhh… wotcher.”

  “Same to you. Have a drink?”

  “Just ’ad a couple, thanks. Still… just a drop to keep the germs off wouldn’t do me no ’arm.”

  “Course not,” agreed Johnny. He took another glass from the cupboard and poured two stiffish ones. “Swell stuff, whisky. Titivates the liver.”

  “That’s right,” said Thaxter. “You know what’s what, mate… ’Ere’s lookin’ at yer.”

  Johnny swallowed about two fingers of Dr Haig’s well-known prescription and said, “Fair enough. Had any luck, Thax?”

  Thaxter rolled a mouthful luxuriously round his tongue before answering; then he said, “Sorry, cock. I tried ’ard, but if anybody knows where that ruddy Malinsky’s ’idin’ then they got their traps shut as tight as a coffin. If you ask me, nobody does know.”

  “What did the dame say?”

  “’Oo, little orphan Annie? Cor, what didn’t she say, you mean.” Thaxter emitted his horrible chuckle from the left side of his mouth. “Carried on somethink awful, she did. Disturbin’ ’er beauty sleep an’ the Lord knows what. Didn’t get much bloomin’ change out of ’er.” He took out a cigarette from his pocket, where it had plainly been lying loose, and stuck it into
his mouth. “I reckon she’s stuck on ’im – got ’is photo by ’er bedside, prob’ly kisses it good night when ’e ain’t there – but she don’t know where the ’ell ’e is now, anybody can see that.”

  Johnny nodded and said, “Sure – but love is strange, Thax. We’d better keep an eye on that baby, in case he decides to see how she’s getting along these days. I guess he lived with her some time, huh?”

  “’E’s been keepin’ ’er about six months,” said Thaxter, “an’ I don’t reckon ’e’s a cove what wastes ’is moolah. ’Sides, that skirt’s got expensive tastes. All done up proper, ’er rooms are.”

  “You don’t say?” said Johnny. “So he keeps a woman, and has a flat of his own in Brighton, and smokes reefers. The cloak-room assistant’s job must be payin’ good money these days.”

  “Bit o’ blackmail?” suggested Thaxter.

  “No. I reckon he’s being paid pretty well by the other side. They’d have to pay him good money, anyway; he’s not one of them.”

  “One of ’oo?”

  “German Intelligence,” said Johnny shortly. “You might as well know they’re runnin’ this ring in which I’m betrayin’ a fleetin’ interest.”

  Thaxter whistled and drank the rest of his whisky. He said, “Thought as much. You don’t ’ave to tell me, though. I ain’t paid to be interested.”

  “Look, I ain’t holdin’ out on you,” said Johnny.

  “Nothin’ like that. But you might get sorta muddled if I told you a lot, an’ I want there to be one of us who knows just what the hell he’s doin’.”

  Thaxter grinned lopsidedly and lit his cigarette. He didn’t say anything.

  Johnny refilled the glasses and said, “Well, nothing fresh has shown up to affect you, anyway. You slide off home now an’ get some shut-eye. Been up all night?”

  “I ’ave; what with one thing an’ another, an’ lookin’ up all the likely funk-’oles, I didn’t ’ave what you might call hours of leisure on me ’ands.”