Why Pick On ME?

by James Hadley Chase

  Corridon laughed.

  “You have nothing to worry about.”

  “You wouldn’t like anything to happen to Lorene?” Feydak said, his eyes searching Corridon’s face.

  “Certainly not.”

  “Then I can trust you?”

  “Of course.”

  Feydak hesitated, then he gave Corridon a ghost of a smile.

  “I must go. It’s dangerous to talk in this place. I can rely on you to say nothing?”

  “As one party member to another,” Corridon said, his eyes suddenly hard, “you have my word.”

  “Thank you.”

  For several minutes after Feydak had gone, Corridon remained in the laboratory, thinking. The success of his venture depended on gaining the confidence of Ames. In a way he felt sorry for Feydak who was after all just a weak, easily-swayed young fool. Corridon didn’t hesitate for long. He moved quietly from the room and walked down the corridor towards Homer’s office.

  Homer was just coming out of his room and he beamed at Corridon.

  “Ah, Mr. Corridon. Have you had a successful afternoon’s work?”

  “Highly,” Corridon said. “Can you tell me,” he went on, “where I can find Comrade Ames?”

  Homer’s smiled stiffened.

  “Did you want him?”

  “Yes, I wanted him.”

  “Ames isn’t a very sociable type of fellow,” Homer said uneasily. “I wouldn’t advise you to – to bother him. Is there something I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. Ames told me to see him after I had instructed my pupils, but perhaps it is sufficient to report to you.”

  “Oh no,” Homer said hurriedly. “If he asked to see you, that is another matter. You will find him upstairs. His door faces the bead of the stairs.”

  Corridon came to the conclusion that both Feydak and Homer were afraid of Ames. That could be a useful card to play at the right time.

  “Thank you,” he said, and walked down the corridor to the stairs, aware that Homer was staring after him. As he mounted the stairs, he glanced back. Homer was still standing motionless looking after him. He watched Corridon knock on Ames’ door.

  “Come in.”

  Corridon turned the handle, pushed open the door and walked into a small, neat room furnished as an office with a bed under the window.

  Ames was writing at the desk. He glanced up sharply.

  “Well?”

  Corridon came farther into the room and closed the door. He was again aware of a strong aroma of brandy coming from Ames.

  “Feydak has just asked me not to mention his sister in your presence,” he said. “He tells me you are over-fond of women, and if you knew he had blabbed to her about the organization, you would bring her here and keep her in protective custody. He mentioned you are very dangerous, and during the war you were the head of the Gestapo in Frankfurt. That item of information could easily get you hanged, but, you probably know that better than I do.”

  Ames pushed back his chair and folded his hands in his lap. His face remained expressionless.

  “Why do you tell me this?”

  Corridon raised his eyebrows.

  “I was under the impression that part of my job here was to ferret out the doubtful members. Feydak doesn’t sound any too reliable, does he?”

  “You’re making a quick beginning,” Ames said, with a sneering little smile.

  “From your expression,” Corridon said quietly, “I gather my information doesn’t please you. I am sorry. Perhaps I have made a mistake, and should have reported to Comrade Homer, although I admit even Homer seems a little weak at the knees. He didn’t want me to come and see you just now. Perhaps you would advise me? Who should I report to?”

  “What’s your game?” Ames asked, leaning forward, his face wolfish. “Are you trying to stir up trouble?”

  “Certainly. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do? Or are you afraid to hear this organization isn’t quite as well disciplined as you think? We can all get into a rut, my friend.”

  “It’s easy to make trouble by a few clever lies,” Ames said. “Perhaps it would suit you to make me suspicious of the others. It has been tried before.”

  “So it has, and it would suit me to get rid of some of the dead wood. I came here in the hopes of making some money. You would be surprised how important money is to me. A little judicious weeding-out would mean more money and less to share it with. Take Diestl for instance. He knows Lorene has been told about the movement, but he happens to be soft on her. We might get rid of Diestl. You might consider it a good idea to give me his job.”

  Ames studied him.

  “It wouldn’t be easy to get rid of Diestl. He has the Leader’s confidence,” he said, as if half to himself.

  “There’s plenty of time,” Corridon said airily. “If you keep an eye on Diestl, he’ll probably give you enough material to hang him with. What are you going to do about Feydak?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Ames said, and smiled. “If what you say is true, then his sister had better come here. I’ll see him tonight.”

  Corridon nodded.

  “He may need persuading.”

  “I am prepared for that,” Ames said lightly.

  As Corridon turned to the door, Ames went on, “You can wear your own clothes tomorrow. Informers should be rewarded.”

  Corridon gave him a crooked smile.

  “So they should,” he said.

  He left the room and closed the door behind him. At the end of the corridor, Feydak was standing, watching him, his face white and drawn.

  Corridon gave him a blank stare and then mounted the stairs to his bedroom.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I

  Corridon hadn’t been in his room for more than a few minutes when he heard a bell ringing violently. For a moment he sat still, listening, then jumping to his feet he opened the door and looked into the passage. There was nothing to see, but somewhere below stairs the bell continued to ring.

  The door opposite his room jerked open, and a girl came out into the corridor. She was tall and thick-set, and her black hair was cut in a hard fringe across her forehead. Her high cheek-bones and her short thick nose suggested she was Asiatic. Her face was as expressionless and as hard as if it had been carved from stone. Corridon couldn’t remember seeing her in the dining-room, and he wondered who she was.

  She wore a black sweater and a pair of black slacks. Her long, narrow feet were in open-worked sandals.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “Is it a fire?”

  Her green, alert eyes swept him from head to foot.

  “A prisoner has escaped,” she said, and her thin mouth curved into a smile. “That is the alarm bell.”

  “Oh. Well, they’ll handle that without my heir. Thanks for the information.” He stepped back into his room.

  “You are Corridon?” she said. “I have heard of you.” She tapped herself on her deep, high-arched chest. “Kara Yagoda. We are neighbours.”

  “So we are,” Corridon said, not interested. “Be seeing you some time.”

  As he began to close the door, the sudden choked bang of a revolver from the lower landing startled him.

  He took four quick steps that brought him to the banisters and peered over. Below, lying in a huddled heap, was Slade Feydak. The right side of his head was smashed in, and blood ran down his waxen face. A heavy Colt automatic pistol was still clutched in his hand.

  Ames and Bruger appeared. Looking up Ames caught sight of Corridon.

  “Come down here!” he snarled.

  Corridon brushed past Kara who had joined him, and went quickly down the stairs.

  “So you let him slip through your fingers,” he said, secretly shocked to see Feydak was dead.

  “Some prefer to go this way than wait to be questioned by me,” Ames said, his face white with fury. He drew back his foot and kicked Feydak’s dead body.

  “That won’t help,” Corridon said dryly. “What about Lorene?”r />
  “He tried to warn her,” Ames said. “I caught him at it. Bruger’s going to get her now.” He swung round to Bruger. “Take Yevski and bring her here at once.”

  “Hold on,” Corridon said sharply as Bruger turned away. “You don’t imagine he can go to her flat and bring her here just like that, do you? Ask him. He’ll tell you the layout. She’s on the top floor. She wouldn’t be such a fool as to open the door without finding out who was calling. There’s a chain on the door. One look at Bruger and she’d scream for the police. If you want her to come quietly, you’d better let me get her.”

  Ames stared at him, then looked at Bruger.

  “It won’t be easy to get her,” Bruger said. “She’s seen me before.”

  “That’s right,” Ames said. “Then you handle it,” he went on to Corridon. “Go with him,” he said, turning to Bruger, “and if he tries anything funny, shoot him.”

  Bruger’s fat, red face lit up.

  “It’ll be a pleasure.”

  “There won’t be any shooting,” Corridon said, “but I’ll go on one condition – I handle the job.”

  “That’s all right,” Ames said. “Bruger, do what he tells you so long as you are convinced he is not being treacherous. You understand?”

  Bruger grunted.

  “Take the van,” Ames went on. “He’s to travel in the back with you. Yevski is to drive.”

  Again Bruger grunted. He went away down the stairs.

  “I can’t go like this,” Corridon said, waving his hand to the white boiler suit. “I suppose I can change?”

  “Yes,” Ames said. “And don’t make any mistakes, Corridon. I want that woman.”

  Corridon ran up the stairs and into his room. Kara was still standing in the corridor.

  “For a new member and one who isn’t trusted,” she said, showing her even white teeth, “you are doing very well. Was it you who gave Feydak away?”

  Corridon glanced sharply at her.

  “He gave himself away,” he said curtly, and closed the door in her face.

  It took him only a few minutes to strip off his boiler suit and slip into the clothes he had worn when he had come to Baintrees. He wished he had a gun. Bruger and Yevski were going to be a handicap. He wondered if Lorene would be in. The time was now twenty minutes past six. They couldn’t hope to arrive at her flat before half-past seven. She might well have gone out.

  Kara was still standing in her doorway when he came out of his room.

  “We must do a job together one of these days,” she said. “It will be amusing.”

  “For you or for me?” Corridon asked, scarcely pausing.

  “For both of us, my friend.”

  He went on down the stairs. An amorous Russian with no great looks didn’t interest him. Just another cram, he told himself.

  Feydak’s body had disappeared when Corridon reached the lower landing. Two men in shirt-sleeves were washing the stains out of the carpet. Ames stood away from them, frowning.

  “The van’s waiting,” he said curtly. “Don’t try any tricks.”

  “If she’s in her flat, I’ll bring her back,” Corridon returned, and went on down the stairs to the hall where Bruger and Yevski were waiting.

  Bruger and Corridon got into the back of the van, and Yevski drove.

  “All right,” Corridon said to Bruger, as he settled himself on the floor in the darkness. “This is what we’re going to do. You and Yevski will wait in the van. I’ll go up to her flat. She may not be in, but if she is, I’ll tell her her brother has met with an accident and I have come to take her to him. She knows and trusts me. There should be no difficulty. The important thing is for you two to keep out of sight. She mustn’t see you until too late. When we come out, I’ll hustle her into the van, and Yevski must drive off immediately. If necessary, I will knock her over the head. If there’s anyone in the street when we come out, I’ll walk with her to the end of the street and Yevski must drive slowly after us. As soon as the coast’s clear, I’ll bundle her into the van. Have you got all that?”

  Bruger grunted.

  No further word was said until Yevski warned them through the panel in the diver’s cabin that they were running up Bayswater Road.

  “Stop the van at the corner of Bayswater Crescent,” Corridon told him. “Bruger and I will walk to the house. When you see me enter, wait three minutes – time yourself by your watch to make sure – and then drive up. Bruger must get into the back of the van, and both of you keep out of sight.”

  “That all right, Carl?” Yevski asked suspiciously.

  Bruger grunted.

  “I suppose so. It’s his show. The boss said for us to do what he tells us.”

  Corridon heaved a silent sigh of relief. If he could be sure that Bruger stayed with the van, half his difficulties were solved.

  The van stopped, and Bruger opened the doors. Both he and Corridon slipped out onto the dark, wet road. It was raining hard.

  “You understand what you’re to do?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Bruger said shortly. “Let’s get it over. I’m getting wet.”

  They walked quickly down the deserted road to No. 29. The street door was open, and there was a light on in the hall.

  “Wait here for Yevski,” Corridon said. “Get into the van when he drives up and keep out of sight. Okay?”

  “How do you know she’ll be in?” Bruger asked suspiciously.

  “I don’t. If she isn’t, then I’ll come right down.”

  “I’ll give you ten minutes. Then I’m coming up,” Bruger said, and his hand slipped into his mackintosh pocket. “No tricks. You heard what the boss said.”

  Corridon grinned at him.

  “Relax. You take your job too seriously.”

  He entered the hall and mounted the stairs. As soon as he was round the bend and out of Bruger’s sight, he paused to scribble on the back of an envelope Ritchie’s home address. Then holding the envelope in his hand, he went up the rest of the stairs three at the time.

  Arriving at the fourth floor, he stepped to the green-painted front door and rang the bell.

  He waited, his eyes going to his wrist-watch. He had seven and a half minutes before Bruger started up the stairs. Was she out? If she was, he was sunk, for Bruger would insist on waiting for her to come in, and Corridon would have no chance to warn her.

  The door opened and she was standing before him.

  “Why, Martin!”

  He was vaguely aware she was wearing a dark coat and skirt and her pale little face had lit up with surprised pleasure at the sight of him. He caught hold of her arms and held them tightly.

  “Don’t talk – listen!” he said, urgency in his voice. “You’re in immediate danger! The organization your brother works for has decided you know too much. They’ve sent me with a couple of thugs to kidnap you. I’m double-crossing them.” He gave her a little shake. “Concentrate. This is urgent and vital. Your only chance of safety is to go to Colonel Ritchie and tell him everything you know about the organization. Here, take this.” He released her arm and thrust the envelope into her hand. “That’s Ritchie’s address. Don’t be frightened. You can trust him. Go to him or you’ll be caught, and that’ll be the end of you. Do you understand?”

  She was staring at him in horrified bewilderment.

  “But Martin! What’s happened to Slade? What does this mean?”

  “I haven’t a minute. They’re waiting downstairs! Go to Ritchie! Now, listen. I want you to slam the front door as hard as you can. Then dial 999 and tell the police three men are trying to break into your flat. Start screaming. It’s your only chance. Go on; do it now! There’s not a moment to lose.”

  She screamed.

  For a split second he thought she had misunderstood him, but seeing her eyes were looking beyond him to the stairs, he swung round.

  Bruger was watching them from the bottom of the short flight of stairs leading to the landing. He held a Mauser pistol pointing at Corridon, and his t
hick lips came off his teeth in a snarl.

  “This is it, you rat,” he said, and the gun went off with a choked bang.

  II

  The moment Corridon saw Bruger, his left hand thrust Lorene violently back into the hall, and on the momentum of his push, he threw himself sideways, cannoned off the wall and forwards towards Bruger.

  He felt a burning pain in his right wrist, and then his massive weight struck Bruger as Bruger fired again. The bullet went wide and brought down a chunk of ceiling plaster.

  Corridon’s hands grabbed at Bruger’s throat as the two men crashed against the wall, reeled back and then went banging and crashing down the flight of stairs to the landing below.

  Corridon didn’t release his hold. His thumbs dug into Bruger’s thick throat, and he exerted every ounce of his strength, knowing Bruger had to die: that the whole of his plan would fail if Bruger lived to talk.

  For a few seconds, Bruger fought, fang and claw, trying to break Corridon’s hold. He was immensely strong and clubbed Corridon about the head and body while he thrashed madly on the floor; his thick boots crashing against the wall. Somehow Corridon hung on, and Bruger began to black-out. Corridon shifted his grip, felt bone under his thumbs, and squeezed. Something gave in Bruger’s throat; blood ran down Corridon’s hands from Bruger’s nose and mouth, and Bruger went limp.

  Gasping for breath, Corridon scrambled to his feet. He snatched up Bruger’s Mauser and pushed it into his hip pocket. Then he looked up and saw Lorene, white-faced and horrified, staring down at him from the top of the stairs.

  “Go to Ritchie,” he panted. “Do you hear? Go to Ritchie!”

  Then he turned and made a headlong dive down the stairs, knowing that Yevski might be up in a moment, and someone in the house, hearing the shots and the struggle was certain to be calling the police. It was essential to get clear before the police arrived. If he were caught, he wouldn’t dare return to Baintrees, and he was determined to get back there.

  He reached the ground floor as Yevski came rushing into the hall, gun in hand.

  “Back to the van!” Corridon panted. “Quick! She’s called the police!”