Leslie Charteris - Prelude for War

"Well, if you think we're going to take part in any damned murder plots, you're damned well mistaken," stated General Sangore hotly. "I never heard of such — such infernal impudence in my life!"

He glanced at his wife as if for approval. Lady Sangore's lips were tightly compressed; her eyes were glittering.

"That girl ought to be well whipped," she repeated.

Luker stroked his chin thoughtfully. His manner was mild and patient. He spoke in the calm and reasonable tone of a man who states facts that cannot be disputed.

"I fear that whipping would scarcely be sufficient," he remarked. "We are not playing schoolroom games. Let me remind you of the circumstances. All of you are aware, I believe, that the French patriots have planned a coup d'etat for tomorrow which if it is resisted may lead to a Fascist revolution."

His gaze passed questioningly over them and arrived last at Fairweather. Fairweather dithered.

"Yes… That is, I may have heard rumours of it. I know nothing about it officially."

"During this change of governments a number of people will quite definitely be killed," said Luker cold-bloodedly. "Would you call that a murder plot?"

"Of course not," boomed the general authoritatively. "That's quite a different matter. That's political. It's the same as war. Anyhow, as Fairweather says, we don't know anything about it — not officially."

"If the plot should fail, and if all the details should be discovered, I'm afraid we could not plead our official ignorance," Luker replied smoothly. "You see, before he was killed young Kennet gave certain papers to Lady Valerie. You know what was among them. She placed these documents, unread, in a cloakroom — from what has happened since it seems likely that they were at Paddington. If we could have recovered them it would have been all right; even if she had seen the one vital thing, I don't think she would have understood. I tried to make arrangements to deal with her and Templar last night, but those arrangements miscarried. Templar then appears to have kidnapped her. She escaped, returned to London and presumably recovered the papers from where she had left them. From the telegram Fairweather showed me I suspected she might have gone to Anford. I sent two men down in a fast car. They reported to me by telephone that she was at the Golden Fleece and that Templar had arrived soon after her."

"Probably they arranged to meet there," put in Lady Sangore. "I always knew she was a hussy. Whatever happens to her, she's brought it on herself."

"That thought will doubtless console her greatly," Luker observed. "However, Fairweather had meanwhile been stupid enough to show Lady Valerie's telegram to a detective who was with him when it arrived. Much later Scotland Yard apparently also guessed, or discovered, that she had taken a train to Anford. They must have telephoned the Anford police, because two officers arrived at the Golden Fleece and went upstairs. I don't know what Templar told them, and I don't think he can have said anything about the documents which by that time he must have read, because not long afterwards the officers came out with Templar and Lady Valerie, all apparently on the most friendly terms, and allowed them to get into a car and drive away. My men overtook them on the road, carrying out my orders to recover the papers, to capture Templar and Lady Valerie alive if possible and to hold them until I gave instructions how they were to be disposed of."

There was a stricken silence while Luker's point forced itself home. This time Fairweather was the first to regain his voice.

"But — but — for goodness sake, Luker, really, you can't murder a girl!"

"Why not?" Luker inquired blandly.

Sangore appeared to grope in darkness for an answer.

"It… Well, dammit, man — it simply isn't done," he said feebly.

Luker laughed. There was nothing hearty about his laughter. It was a silent, terrifying performance, as if a stone image had quaked with unholy mockery.

"You gentlemen of England, with your pettifogging conventions and your arrogant righteousness and your old school ties; you whitewashed dummies," he sneered. "You don't care what dirty work is done so long as you don't have to know about it 'officially'; you don't care how many people are murdered so long as you can call it warfare, or dignify it with the adjective 'political.' You don't mind helping to start a civil war in France, in which it's quite certain that numbers of girls will be killed, do you?"

"I tell you that's different," stormed the general. "Why — why, we've had civil wars in England!"

He said it as if that fact proved that civil wars must be all right.

"Very well," Luker went on. "And you didn't object to murdering Kennet and Windlay, did you?"

Fairweather said hoarsely: "We had nothing to do with that. In fact, I told you—"

Lady Sangore's face looked flabby. The powder cracked on her cheeks as her mouth worked. She stammered: "You — you — I never knew—"

"No doubt, like the others, you attributed those deaths to divine intervention," said Luker sarcastically. "I'm sorry to disillusion you. I gave orders for Windlay to be killed. I strangled Kennet myself and started the fire under his room. Your husband and Fairweather knew I was going to do it; you yourself guessed. Therefore at this moment you are all of you already accessories to the crime of murder unless you at once communicate your knowledge to the police. Of course if you do that you may find it hard to explain your silence at the inquest, but the telephone is here on my desk if any of you would care to use it."

Nobody moved. None of them spoke. A paralysis of futility seemed to have taken hold of them, and Luker seemed to gloat over their strangulation. He gave them plenty of time to absorb the consciousness of their own moral impotence while his own rocklike impassivity seemed to deepen with his contempt.

"In that case, I take it that you wish me to continue," he proceeded at length. "My instructions were carried out in part. Templar and Lady Valerie have been captured. Their car was wrecked, and they were both stunned in the crash but otherwise not much harmed."

"Where are they now?" asked Fairweather limply. "Are they in London?"

Luker shook his head.

"No. My men rang up from Amesbury, asking for further orders. You see, while they recovered all Kennet's documents, the most important thing of all — the negative of a certain photograph — was not to be found, either in the car or on either of the captives. I therefore thought it advisable to question both of them about what had happened to it. You will understand that this may present some difficulties, since they may require — persuading. Meanwhile, they had to be kept in some safe place. Luckily I remembered that Bledford Manor was not far from Andover, which is not far from Amesbury. Knowing that the Manor was closed and the servants on holiday, I told my men to take them there."

Lady Sangore started to her feet as though she had been jabbed in the behind with a long needle.

"What?" she protested shrilly. "You sent them to my house? How dare you! How dare you!"

The general fought against suffocation. He made noises like an ancient car trying to start on a cold morning. His face was the colour of old bricks.

"Tchah!" he backfired. "Harrumph! By Gad, Luker, that's going a bit too far. It's monstrous. Tchah! I forbid it. I forbid it absolutely!"

"You can't forbid it," Luker said coolly. "It's done."

Fairweather pawed the air.

"This is nothing to do with us," he whined reproachfully. "You're the only one in that photograph. Really, Luker, I—"

"I quite understand," Luker said, with imperturbably measured venom. "This was an attractive business proposition for you so long as somebody else took all the risk, but' now that it isn't going so smoothly you'd like to wash your hands of it, the same as Sangore — of course from the highest motives and with the greatest regard for the honour of the regiment and the old school. I'm sorry that I can't make it so easy for you. In the past I have helped you to make your fortunes in return for nothing much more than the use of your honest British stupidity, which is so comforting to the public. Doubtless you thought that you were earning the just rewards of your own brilliance, but I assure you that I could have taken my pick from hundreds of distinguished imbeciles of your class. Now for the first time, in a small way, I really need your assistance. You should feel flattered. But in any event I intend to have it. And I can assure you that even if this particular photograph only refers to me, if I should be caught the subsequent investigation would certainly implicate yourselves."