Why Pick On ME?

by James Hadley Chase

  Corridon lifted his heavy eyebrows.

  “Really? But how?”

  “That is something we could discuss,” Feydak said, with a bright little smile. “I assure you I won’t waste your time. Occasionally I have little jobs that need doing by a man like yourself.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought that was possible,” Corridon returned. “The jobs I do are scarcely connected with a travel agency, Mr. Feydak.”

  “All the same I promise you if you care to discuss the matter with me at my office, I shall be able to interest you.”

  “I warn you,” Corridon said with his jeering smile, “I am only interested in substantial money.”

  “Even that can be arranged,” Feydak said.

  With a disbelieving shrug of his shoulders, Corridon accepted the card and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. He did this with a studied air of indifference.

  “And now if you will excuse me,” Feydak said, getting to his feet, “I will just have a word with the head-waiter. Are you ready, Lorene?”

  “In a moment,” she said shortly. “I haven’t finished my champagne. I’ll join you.”

  “Good.” Feydak stood up. He held out his hand to Corridon. “I have been very interested to meet you,” he said. “I hope you will come and see me soon.”

  Corridon shook hands with him.

  “Certainly. When I have a spare moment, I’ll look you up,” he returned in that tone of voice people use when they make empty promises.

  When Feydak had walked away, Lorene said fiercely.

  “You fool! You mustn’t mix yourself up in Slade’s affairs. Don’t ask questions, but please don’t go near him.”

  Corridon pretended surprise.

  “You are the most extraordinary girl. You should be pleased your brother has taken a fancy to me.”

  “But can’t you see he only wants to use you?” she said, her eyes glowing with repressed anger. “I won’t have him make use of my friends!”

  Corridon patted her hand.

  “Don’t get angry. I assure you no one has ever used me without regretting it.” He stood up. “Now I must run along. I hope you enjoy your dinner. I look forward to seeing you next Sunday.”

  “Please don’t go to his office,” Lorene said, and there was anxiety as well as anger in her eyes now.

  “I won’t. I hadn’t intended to,” Corridon said, smiling. “And don’t forget – watch your moods until Sunday. You are a very beautiful woman.”

  He sauntered away, his bands in his pockets, whistling softly under his breath, well pleased with the night’s work.

  IV

  As Corridon got into his car, the parking lights of another car some distance from his, lit up. He thumbed the starter engaged gear and drove slowly down the drive towards the gates.

  The hands of the dashboard clock showed ten-forty-five. He continued down the drive to the main gates. Standing under the battery of red neon lights, the blond youth in the purple and silver livery gave him an indifferent salute.

  Corridon swung the car out onto the arterial road, and immediately increased his speed, changing through the gears rapidly, the speedometer needle climbing to sixty.

  In the driving-mirror, he saw the two yellow spots of light behind him, and he grinned to himself. Ritchie had said they would watch him. They hadn’t lost much time.

  He made no attempt to shake off the car behind him. Once he reached Shepherd’s Bush and the heavier traffic, he slowed down making it as easy as he could for the man behind not to lose sight of him.

  Probably they wanted to know for certain that he lived in Grosvenor Mews, he told himself. Well, that was no secret. He too wanted them to know where to find him.

  The car behind him was only a few yards in his rear when he slowed down to turn into the mews. The car increased its speed and swept past him. He had a glimpse of a stream-lined Buick as it passed, and spotted two dark figures in the front seats.

  He reached forward, turned off his ignition and cruised down the mews, listening. The Buick had also stopped out of sight, and he guessed they would come into the mews on foot.

  He pulled up just outside his garage and turned on the headlights. Might as well make it easy for them, he thought as he got out to open the garage doors.

  A figure moved out of the shadows into the white circles of light. For a moment he was startled, and he paused, his muscles flexing, then when he saw the fox-fur cape, the short umbrella and the large handbag, he relaxed.

  The girl who came out of the darkness, with short, mincing steps, was tall and slender and fair. Her painted face was hard, her full scarlet lips were parted in a fixed smile of sensual invitation. She wore a neat black coat and skirt with the chic air of the successful street-walker.

  “Hello, darling,” she said, “are you looking for a naughty girl?”

  Corridon gave her a friendly grin as he opened the garage doors.

  “I’m not,” he said. “What are you doing down here?”

  She lifted her shoulders in a little shrug.

  “Looking for a boy like you,” she said, and moved closer. She was wearing a perfume that reminded Corridon of lilac. He rather liked it. “Let’s have a little fun, darling.”

  “Not tonight,” he said, and climbed into the car. “You’re wasting your time. I haven’t any use for naughty girls.”

  Without waiting for her reply, he drove the car into the garage, got out and closed the garage doors. As he did so, he glanced down the length of the mews. At the far end was a street light, and his sharp eyes detected a shadowy figure half concealed in a doorway.

  The girl moved up to him again.

  “Change your mind, darling,” she said. “After all it is spring-time in Paris.”

  Corridon laughed.

  “That has a familiar ring. Where have I heard that before?” he said.

  She said in a whisper he could scarcely hear, “If it is white jade, it should be familiar.”

  Corridon drew her close to him and stood with his hand on her arm. To the watchers at the end of the mews they made a very ordinary Piccadilly picture: a man striking a bargain with a street-corner girl.

  “There are a couple of blokes watching us,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Do you want to come in?”

  “Yes. He said they would probably be watching you. It was his idea I should act this way; not mine.”

  Corridon smiled at her.

  “He never did think much of my morals,” he said. “Well, never mind. I can stand it, if you can.”

  Still holding her arm, he led her to his front door, sank the key it the lock and opened the door.

  “Straight upstairs. The first door on the right.” He thumbed down the electric-light switch and stood for a moment watching her climb the stairs. His eyes dwelt on her nylon-clad legs, and he pursed his lips. Quite a girl, he thought. I bet Ritchie hasn’t noticed the shape she’s got.

  He closed the front door and took the stairs three at the time, arriving as she turned on the light in his little sitting-room.

  They faced each other. The hardness had gone out of her face, and in spite of the paint and rouge, he could see the fresh beauty behind the mask.

  “That’s a pretty cute make-up you’re wearing,” he said. “You had me fooled, and I consider myself an expert.”

  “It was Ritchie’s idea,” she said, and made a little face. “He said they wouldn’t think twice if I hung about your flat. I hope he’s wrong.”

  Corridon stripped off his hat and coat.

  “Ritchie has a sensational mind,” he said. “Yes, he’s wrong, but the trouble is it’s what they would expect of me. That’s where he’s proved himself smart. Well, sit down. Who are you?”

  She sat down on an upright chair by the table. While she settled herself, he examined her curiously. He could see she had been through the rigour of military training and discipline. Now she was no longer playing a part, and had relaxed, her eyes were serious and direct; there was a no-nonsense set
to her mouth and she sat well, her back straight and her shoulders square.

  “I’m Marian Howard,” she said. “I’ll be here every Tuesday night at this time for news.”

  Corridon grinned.

  “Looks as if my reputation won’t be worth much,” he said. “How about a drink?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “A cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “No vices at all?” Corridon asked.

  “I haven’t the time for them. By the way, I have some money for you.” She opened her bag. “They’ve been fantastically generous: fifty pounds.”

  Corridon whistled.

  “Good Lord! What’s got into them? The most I’ve ever got out of them was twenty-five.”

  “I know.” She took out ten five-pound notes and dropped them on the table. “They consider this a pretty important assignment. How did you get on?”

  Corridon sat on the settee and lit a cigarette.

  “You seem pretty sure I’ve made a start,” he said. “I didn’t promise Ritchie anything.”

  She smiled. He decided she was a nice girl, and he liked her. He liked her frank, amused smile and the steady confidence in her eyes.

  “Ritchie’s a smart old fox,” she said. “He knew once you dabbled in this, you couldn’t keep out. But we mustn’t waste time. I’m supposed to report to him tonight.”

  “You’d better watch out. There’s nothing to stop them following you,” Corridon said. “There are two of them at the top of the mews.”

  “I have a nice little flat in Dover Street,” she said. “It’s all been fixed. If they did follow me I’m the genuine thing. Another of the boys is coming to see me at twelve-thirty tonight. I’m passing what you tell me to him.”

  Corridon grunted.

  “I suppose Ritchie knows what he is doing. He’s certainly taking precautions.”

  “It’s necessary. These people are dangerous. What happened tonight?”

  “Too much really,” he said. “I saw Mainworthy and persuaded him to make me a member of the club. It wasn’t difficult. I was in a position to blackmail him. As he was completing the membership card a girl came into the room. She was wearing a white jade archer’s thumb ring as an ornament at her throat. Her name is Lorene Feydak; she lives at 29, Bayswater Crescent in a top flat, and works at Dumas, in Bond Street. She forced Mainworthy to introduce me, and I covered a lot of ground with her. We’re due to meet again this coming Sunday, on a much more intimate footing.” He grinned. “Probably she’ll be in a different mood when next we meet, but tonight she was full of suggestive promises.”

  “You think she’s baiting the hook?” Marian asked.

  “It’s probable. There are still a few girls left who take shortcuts, but it’s more likely a ruse to lead me on. We’ll see on Sunday. She has a brother, Slade Feydak, who works at Better Travel in Mayfair Street. We had scarcely met, before he was making me an obscure offer to work for him. I think it is more than likely he had talked to Mainworthy before joining his sister and me. I am quite sure he knew all about me, before making his offer. He wants me to call at his office to discuss a proposition. As soon as he was out of the way, Lorene called me a fool, and warned me not to have anything to do with him.” He leaned forward to drop ash into the fireplace. “I haven’t had time yet to make up my mind if these two are working together. I asked her about the ring, and she told me it was an heirloom. My first impressions are the whole thing is a put-up job. What worries me is how they knew I was coming to the road-house. Obviously they were ready for me. If they had someone watching Milly’s flat and spotted me with Rawlins, I don’t think I shall get very far with them.”

  “They could have done that,” Marian said. “Or this man Brett might have told Feydak that you had arrived, and were talking to Mainworthy. Feydak could have sent his sister in there to strike up a friendship with you.”

  “That’s an idea,” Corridon said. “In that case it means Brett’s tied up in this thing, too.”

  “Do you think Mainworthy is?”

  Corridon shrugged.

  “I don’t know. He could be, but I don’t imagine he’d have the nerve for that kind of work. Get Ritchie to take a look at both Lorene and Slade Feydak’s background. It might pay him to put tags on them both. Tell him to find out what he can about Better Travel, Mainworthy, and Brett.”

  “And you?”

  Corridon reached forward and picked up the ten five-pound notes. He flicked them through and slipped them into his pocket.

  “I’m making no move until Sunday,” he said. “It depends entirely on what happens then. I think it would be a mistake to see Feydak. I want to give him the impression I’m hard to get.”

  “Yes.” Marian stood up. “Then I’ll see you next Tuesday. If there is anything urgent, phone me.” She scribbled down her telephone number. “They may tap your line so tell me to come to you. It’s not far. I can get over very quickly.”

  Corridon gave her a sly smile. The situation amused him.

  “I wish I could always be sure a pretty girl would come to me if I phoned,” he said. “Nothing like joining the secret service to see life.”

  Her steady grey eyes looked into his.

  “I’m afraid you won’t see much he with me,” she said, her voice impersonal as a brick wall.

  “I suppose not,” Corridon said regretfully. “Did Ritchie tell you you’d have no trouble with me, and I always act like a gentleman?”

  She laughed.

  “No, he didn’t. He said you always had an eye on the main chance, and I was to be careful.”

  “He hasn’t changed a scrap,” Corridon said, opening the door. “He’s like an old hen. All the same, you’re too good-looking to be an agent.”

  She walked past him to the head of the stairs.

  “That’s a matter of opinion,” she said.

  He followed her down to the front door. As he opened it, he said, “I suppose we had better kiss in the doorway. We have to convince those two blokes, you know.”

  “That’s quite unnecessary,” she returned, and stepped into the mews. “Good night.”

  She went away into the darkness without looking back.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I

  The two men who had followed Corridon from the Red Roost now proceeded to shadow him wherever he went. They were experts, and it was only because in the past Corridon had had considerable experience of this kind of thing, that he knew they were continually on his heels. It was not until the second day that he managed to catch a glimpse of them.

  One was short and thick-set with a red, puffy face and a bull neck. Corridon thought he might be a German. The other was tall and thin with deep-set, glittering eyes. His flat-featured face, his close-cropped blonde hair and his habit of smoking cigarettes wrapped in brown tinted paper suggested he might be Russian.

  Rather light-heartedly Corridon christened them Huey and Duey.

  These two were dangerous. Corridon knew the signs. They were killers. Both of them seemed nervous. Huey, the short one, continually twitched and blinked his eyes. Duey, the tall one, played scales up and down his thighs with his long, thin fingers. Both of them moved like shadows, making no sound on their crêpe-soled shoes, and both had eyes like bits of dark glass; expressionless, cold and inhuman.

  Thinking about them, Corridon wondered if he wasn’t running his neck into a noose. It was like Ritchie to land him in something that could end in sudden death. Ritchie had no personal feelings for his agents. The country came first. “You can always get another agent,” he had once said to Corridon, “but I’ll be damned if you can get another England.”

  Corridon wondered if Marian Howard knew the type of men she was up against. He had taken a liking to her. She had looks, courage and integrity. Although he lived by his own doubtful rules, he approved of integrity in others. He would warn her the next time they met, he decided; not that it would make any dif
ference. Once you were fool enough to get into Ritchie’s clutches, you were done for. And besides, Ritchie was just the kind of man a girl like Marian would admire, Corridon thought sourly.

  Huey and Duey had moved into the mews flat opposite him. How they got possession of the place defeated him. It had been a bookmaker’s office; then suddenly, the bookmaker’s sign disappeared, and a pencilled notice informed his patrons he had moved to Park Court, an alley that ran parallel to Grosvenor Mews, and there were Huey and Duey lurking behind the net curtains.

  From this vantage point they were able to watch Corridon with the minimum of effort, and he realized that Ritchie’s foresight in establishing Marian as a light-lady was sound. Her weekly visits wouldn’t excite the suspicions of these two: it was the kind of behaviour they would expect of Corridon.

  The second evening following Marian’s visit, Corridon discovered his telephone line had been tapped. He was up to every trick of this kind, having tapped dozens of lines himself during his career as an agent. He also discovered that an attempt had been made to enter his flat. But long ago, he had made certain that no one could get in, short of chopping down the door. There were bars, spaced four inches apart, at every window, and a built-in solid lock on the door.

  It was probable, he thought, that they had hoped to plant a microphone in the flat, and although he knew they hadn’t been able to force an entry, he took the precaution of searching the place.

  It was as well that he did, for he found a small, but highly-sensitive microphone hanging in the chimney in his sitting-room. Some time during the night one of them must have got on to his roof and lowered the microphone into the chimney. He blocked the chimney with an old raincoat, muffling the microphone, but not disturbing it.

  The next three days passed slowly. It irritated Corridon to be followed wherever he went. He was careful to do nothing to warn his shadowers he was aware of them. He went about his usual business, spent his time in pubs and in the Soho night-clubs, trying to drum up a commission without success. He was relieved when Sunday came round, and he could call on Lorene.

  He took some trouble with his appearance that evening. He put on a tuxedo, and even fussed a little before being satisfied with the set of his tie. Then he stood away from the full-length mirror and surveyed himself.