by John Creasey
“One day you might wish they didn’t.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Mike, and he wondered why she had decided to come into the open. It certainly looked as if her purpose was to warn him off, and that puzzled him. What he was sure of was the fact that she was far too curious about him, and in some way or other had learned too much.
Her voice grew sharper. “You’re running yourself into needless danger.”
“That it is needless I beg to question,” he said.
She shrugged. “Play the fool if you want to. If you think it would be of any use, come and see me this afternoon. I can’t talk here, I’ve friends coming at any time. They might not like to see me talking to you.”
“Oh,” said Mike, blank-faced.
“I don’t want you to get hurt,” she said hastily, and he could not be sure whether she was speaking the truth or whether it was part of whatever scheme there was in her mind. “You will be, you know, if you keep on with this—your friends have been already.”
He frowned. “What friends?”
“You’ll find out. Will you come?”
“Where is your flat?”
“You know as well as I do, it’s 32 Byng Court. This afternoon at three o’clock.”
He raised one eyebrow above the other.
“So I look as much of a greenhorn as that, do I?” he said. “My dear sweet Myra, if all you say is true, then the one place I don’t come to is Byng Court, on my own that is. Actually, I . . .”
“Please yourself,” she said swiftly, and he saw that she was glancing behind her. She moved very quickly, and reached a stool several removed from him as the door opened widely, and into the Cherry cocktail bar there stepped the tall, thick-set figure of Maximilian Golt.
Golt looked at Errol, then at the woman, as he stepped towards her, and began a low mutter of conversation. Mike ordered another Martini, drinking it at leisure. It would be wise, he thought, to follow them, but before that he wanted to get a word to Loftus. Loftus might have other ideas. The obvious thing for him to do was to get outside, phone from a call-box, and then wait until they came out. He was puzzled by her invitation. Although it held the marks of a trap, he wondered whether, if that were so, she would have adopted so obvious a device.
He finished his drink, and strolled out. There was a telephone kiosk fifty yards down the street, he knew, and he walked towards it.
But he did not go far.
Walking away from him quickly and in a manner which suggested she had been watching the Club and yet did not want him to see her, was the small creature who had outwitted the lot of them. He was quite sure it was the “child” whom Wally had brought to their flat, for she wore the same red beret and blue mackintosh.
He paused, thinking swiftly. It was possible that she there as a decoy, and if he followed her he might well be doing the wrong thing. But it was also possible that to follow her might be the right move.
And then round the corner, there came Spats Thornton.
Mike did not hesitate, but lengthened his stride. Spats and the girl passed each other, and then Mike met Spats, but did not stop. Out of the side of his mouth he spoke:
“Myra and boy-friend in the bar—boy-friend Max.”
“Nice work. Bill’s on to him,” Thornton answered.
Mike sped onward, close on the heels of the “child”. The speed with which she walked was the most surprising thing about her. She went to Piccadilly, and then across the park, and occasionally she broke into a skip-and-run, as if filled with joie-de-vivre. Undoubtedly she played her part well, and he had to admire her for it.
Green Park—St. James’s Park—Victoria Street—Victoria Station.
There she dodged him.
A weaving crowd was coming up from the tube station, and she merged into it. It was the last he saw of her, and after five minutes fruitless hunting he gave it up. He smiled ruefully. It was clear now that her mission had been simply to get him away from the Cherry.
He was prepared to admit that he was beaten. He could see no sense at all in the dodging, in Myra’s manner, in her invitation, her apparent fear that the man called Max should see her with him. The fact that it did not appear to make sense did not mean there was none in it. He wished fervently that he could have five minutes’ talk with Loftus.
“And there’s no reason why I shouldn’t,” he thought.
He took a cab, instructing the driver to go to Brook Street. He did not appear to be followed, but to make quite sure he ordered the man to take a wide detour. None of the cars or taxis behind him turned off from the main road.
“Well, I’m quite alone,” he decided. “I . . .”
But he was not as much alone as he had thought.
He did not see the car which came out of a side-turning until it was almost on him, and the driver was wrenching at his wheel. He had hardly time to be afraid before the car and car crashed, broadside on.
Mike had the sense to slide to the safer end of the cab. He did not entirely lose consciousness, but lay in a semi-stupor through which he heard the rending and the crashing about him. He found that he could not move, and after the first effort did not try, vaguely aware of a crowd gathering and the familiar and reassuring blue of policemen. After what seemed a long time, the wreckage was lifted from his legs and he was half-carried, half-dragged from the cab.
A doctor bustled up to the driver who had not escaped so easily, and lay waiting for an ambulance, then turned to Mike.
Very carefully he felt him all over and then, with a final prod, stood back.
“You’re all right,” he said. “A very lucky chap. There’s nothing broken, but take it easy for a day or two.” He bandaged a cut on Mike’s hand swiftly and expertly, while the policeman, standing patiently by, took notes. Mike told him all that was necessary—which was virtually everything he knew.
“We’ll get the driver all right, sir, he won’t get far,” the policeman said confidently. “How are you getting back, sir?”
“I’ll take a cab,” said Mike.
He was surprised to find that over half-an-hour had passed, and that it was two o’clock when he reached the flat. The policeman on duty there told him something of what had happened during his absence, but the fact that Loftus had been on the scene was reassuring. He went to Loftus’s flat, and found no one there. He returned to his own, and telephoned the Westminster Hospital, giving Loftus’s name and that of the patient as Davidson.
Whoever answered him said:
“It’s too early to say anything about either of them, I’m afraid, Mr. Loftus.”
“Either!” exclaimed Mike, and then he replaced the receiver, a much worried man. He cursed himself for not finding out who the second injured man was. It could be Mark, and he hated the thought of that. He was partly reassured by the sergeant who gave him the complete story—as he knew it.
It did not make Mike any happier—it looked as if the affair was bigger than he and the others had first thought. He wondered where Loftus was, and what he was doing. He rang Craigie, but there was no reply. He decided that the best thing he could do was to stay at the flat until someone or something turned up.
He wished very much that word would come from Mark.
In the house at St. John’s Wood of the man who was known to some as Kay, the pleasant-looking youngster and the girl who had played the piano on the previous night sat talking in a room known as the office. Cabinets containing details of Kay’s dealings in antiques, which he bought through agents, and bought keenly, lined the walls.
The girl was no more than nineteen or twenty, a light and fragile creature, to whom the young man had completely lost his heart and was by way of losing his head.
“I can’t understand it,” he was saying. “There’s practically nothing to do here for either of us. When I came, he told me that he was always having trouble with his secretaries, and that for the right one he had plenty of work. I supposed . . .” there was a touch of bitterness in his voice as he
went on—“that I was that right one, but it is beginning to appear that I am not.”
The girl hesitated. “Why are you so bitter, Jim?”
“It’s what life’s made me,” he said, with the dramatic exaggeration of youth. “Everything’s gone wrong since I can remember—I even had to finish school a year early because the funds dried up. It isn’t a lot of fun being entirely on your own, you know.”
“It doesn’t help to wallow. You take yourself and everything about you too seriously,” she said.
It was surprising that so much common-sense was coming from one who looked so unworldly, but it did not occur to him as strange. He owed a lot to her practical suggestions in the month he had worked for the strange man with the short legs, known—though not to him—as Kay.
He frowned a little.
“It was when the war started that I had a really nasty kick. Nothing would go right—d’you know, Pam, I believe you’re right! I began to feel sorry for myself then, that’s why I felt so utterly fed up until I came here, and . . .” he smiled, a little shyly “. . . met you. It is sad that we don’t have a lot of opportunity for talking.”
She said: “We have it, but we don’t take it. There’s always a possibility that someone will overhear, and . . .” she shrugged.
“Do you feel that, too?” He looked startled. “I’d put it down to my imagination—but there is a queer kind of atmosphere here—as if we’re always being watched.”
She nodded. “We think they’re all out now, but we can’t be sure.”
He pushed his hand through his hair.
“We’ll hope they are, because now I’ve started to talk about myself I may as well go on, and maybe earn some more advice. Actually, Pam, it’s like this. I didn’t know my people—they were killed when I was an infant. There wasn’t much money, and I was looked after by an aunt. Quite a dear, but very Victorian in outlook. I didn’t really have a lot of affection for her, but it was a blow when she died. Then a year afterwards the money gave out, and I had to leave Charterhouse—Father was educated there, and Aunt had tried to see me through. Anyhow, I managed to get a job of sorts—office work wasn’t attractive, but I was trained for nothing—and then came the series of crises, and jobs weren’t easy to get. However, I managed.” He grinned. “Then when the war came I tried to join the Air Force. They turned me down. Weak heart, they said.”
Her face grew serious, but she said nothing.
“Then I tried the Navy and the Army—but it was always the same story. I suppose it all led to a grousing complex.”
She nodded sympathetically.
They stood in silence for a moment. Then he went on: “I couldn’t believe my luck when I was fixed up with him—he pays me pretty well, and I thought I was in clover. Then when I met you . . .” his voice shook a little. “One thing’s quite certain—if he thought I was in love with his niece I would be flung out on my neck like a shot.”
She laughed. “You’re right, of course, but I don’t think it would make a lot of difference in the long run. You’d like me to be honest, wouldn’t you?”
“Of course. You know I would.”
“He’s had some really brilliant men, specialists in their subjects, and they’ve always gone after a month or two. I thought at first they annoyed him for some reason or other, but now . . .” she shrugged. “I don’t think he wants to keep a secretary more than a few weeks. He fires them deliberately.”
Jim Braddon stared. “But why on earth does he trouble to get them in the first place?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? He’s an enigmatic man, not easily understood. During the interims he lets me keep his records straight. But not for long. He says I’m not strong enough.”
She laughed, a light, silvery laugh that made her look unbearably lovely.
“I’m as healthy as a pony,” she said, “and even tougher.” She grew serious again. “I started this discussion because I thought you ought to look for a job before he fired you. He will—I’m quite sure of it.”
Jim looked at her squarely.
“So it’s like that. Did you do the same for the others?”
“No.”
“Why did you pick on me?” He sounded gruff.
“Think it out,” she said lightly. There was an undercurrent of feeling in her voice which startled him. “I wouldn’t want you to stay—I don’t want to stay myself. I’ve been here for six years, and I was fresh from the country when I came. I knew nothing and no one, and I was easily impressed. It’s a wonderful house, and I thought it was a palace. Well, perhaps it is, but it’s growing into a prison. I don’t think I could get away if I wanted to. When I go out I’m always driven by one of the chauffeurs. When I go for a walk, there’s always one of the staff behind me. Haven’t you noticed the same thing?”
“I—I hadn’t given it a thought.”
“Do, when you go out again,” she said. “You’ll be followed, as I am. I sometimes think he’s afraid that we’re going to talk about him. I think it’s why he keeps changing his secretaries. He’s afraid they’ll learn too much.”
“About what?” demanded Jim, and he was perplexed as well as startled. “All I do is keep records of antiques—there’s nothing else at all.”
She shrugged. “I can’t explain it, but I’d sometimes give a fortune to get out of here—he scares me sometimes. He’s not really my uncle,” she added casually. “I’m his ward. He gives me as much money as I like, but—I’m not allowed to be myself. It stifles me. Jim, get away soon, get a job somewhere for me as well as you. I . . .”
She broke off abruptly, for from somewhere outside there came the sharp ring of a door bell. Both of them looked behind them, and neither spoke again.
Presently she heard her guardian climb the stairs and go into his study. She did not hear him walk to a cabinet and reach for a dictating machine. Nor did she hear her own voice and Braddon’s faithfully repeated to him.
When the record was finished he spoke aloud but softly.
“That is a pity, a great pity. I was afraid one day . . .”
He stopped, stepped to his desk, and lifted the telephone, calling for Braddon. And then he waited with the tips of his long white fingers pressed together.
12
Job for Braddon
It was a guilty conscience which made Braddon colour a little when he heard the summons. He did not delay in going to the study, and he hoped that his colour was normal when he tapped on the door, notebook and pencil in hand.
“Ah, Braddon.” Kay spoke softly. “I don’t need you for notes, at the moment. I have another task for you—one which will take you away for a few days.” His eyes, so nearly black, did not move. “You have no objection to going out of London, I trust.”
“Certainly not, sir.”
“That is good. I want you to go to a house in Surrey—I will give you the address later, with full particulars. The address and instructions will be in a letter which you will have by three o’clock this afternoon.”
“Very good, sir.”
“You can drive a car?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. A small Morris will be put at your disposal, and you will go to Guildford. Not until you are in Guildford will you open my instructions.” The pale face smiled, but there was no humour in it. “That sounds mysterious, I have no doubt, but I want you to act on my instructions precisely.”
“I will, sir.”
“Be ready at three o’clock, then.”
He nodded dismissal, and Braddon left the study with his mind confused. There was surely no possibility that the strange mission had been given to him because of his conversation with Pam? He frowned at the thought, then tried to laugh it aside. He could not. That uncanny feeling that everything he did and said in the house was seen or heard had been with him too long.
It had not occurred to him that what he did outside was also known.
Then, perhaps for the first time, he grew aware of a strange thing. Although he had
never received instructions to stay indoors, it was rare that he went out. Occasionally he went to a theatre in the afternoon, or to a film. But somehow what little work he had to do always came at a time when officially he should have been free; it was as if he was deliberately prevented from having much spare time, particularly in the evenings.
He had not complained about that.
In fact he preferred to be at the house. There was the chance of Pam playing, or singing. All his thoughts revolved round her.
Not until that day had he fully realised how he felt towards the girl. And he smiled a little ruefully as he went to his office; she had been frank all right, and he was glad of it.
At three o’clock precisely he went for his instructions, received them, and was told to go to the garage immediately. He went downstairs and out of the back door, and then drew back, startled beyond measure.
Pam was sitting in a small Morris car, smiling at him.
“Well I’m damned,” said Braddon clearly.
“I didn’t know until ten minutes ago,” she said. “I saw him at lunch, of course, and complained a little about being stuck in London. Then he said you were going to Guildford and would I like to go with you.”
“And would you!” Braddon was suddenly in high spirits. To the girl it was a temporary respite from the stifling atmosphere of the house; to the man it was the prospect of two hours or more with her. With the additional joy of knowing that no one could overhear what they said.
But they were wary on the start of the journey.
They reached Putney and drove slowly towards Kingston, aiming for the by-pass. Deliberately they turned to scan the roads behind them, but they recognised none of the other cars, and twice there were long stretches of road completely empty.
Braddon looked at her happily.
“We’re alone this time, all right. Let’s forget him for a while.”
Reaching Guildford he pulled up on the side of the High Street beneath the big clock, and took the sealed envelope from his pocket. He opened it slowly, to find another sealed envelope within marked clearly: