The Extortioners

by John Creasey

  He lifted the pen from the paper and stared at the tall window opposite the desk; for the first time, his lips were unsteady, but his hand was not as he began to write again.

  I have every reason to believe that I have cancer of the most malignant kind. This is my one and only reason for what I am about to do.

  He raised his hand again, hesitated, and then appended his signature as he had many thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of times, in his distinguished career.

  Chapter Two

  The Demand

  Oliver Clayton stared at the black instrument on the desk. It quivered slightly as it rang, but for a few moments he could not bring himself to lift it. Then he thought: it might be the blackmailer! And snatched up the telephone, but raised it more slowly to his ear. His voice was hoarse as he said: “This is Professor Clayton.”

  “Don’t ring off on me again,” said the caller.

  Clayton gulped, but didn’t speak. It was not because he would not, but because for a few seconds he could hardly breathe and so could not find words. The silence everywhere else seemed deeper and more profound.

  “Do you hear me?” the other rasped. “Yes,” Clayton answered at last.

  “Don’t ring off, and don’t try any tricks. You know what I want.”

  “I—I know,” Clayton acknowledged. “Twenty thousand pounds.”

  “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow, at noon.”

  “I—I can’t,” Clayton made himself say.

  “You’d better, or I’ll be on the telephone to your wife.”

  “I’ve—I’ve an important conference at eleven o’clock in the morning,” explained Clayton. “If I’m not on time there’ll be a hue and cry. It’s got to be a different time.”

  “Oh,” the blackmailer said, as if taken by surprise, and rather weakly he asked: “What conference?”

  “At the British Museum.”

  “About those old fossils?”

  “I—yes. Yes, that’s right.”

  “What time does the conference finish?”

  “It could go on through the afternoon, until—”

  “I must have that money tomorrow!” the blackmailer interrupted.

  Clayton did not know when the change in his own attitude had started; when the black despair lifted and he began to be sensitive to things apart from the stark fact of the blackmail demand. But he detected a false, or at least a strange note in the man’s voice and in that harsh insistence: “I must have that money tomorrow!” This gave to Clayton, with his clear and clinical mind, a feeling that he was not wholly on the defensive even on the telephone.

  He said: “Well, you can’t have it.”

  “I must!”

  “Don’t be absurd,” said Clayton. “My bank – my main bank – is in Holborn. It doesn’t open until ten o’clock and at that time in the morning I would need an hour to get there from here. Traffic is almost impossible. And—”

  “You cut the conference,” interrupted the other.

  “Then everyone will start checking on me,” retorted Clayton. “The secretary of the British Museum will telephone my wife and she will have to report that I left earlier than usual. They’d assume something was wrong, and before you knew where you were the police would be looking for me.”

  The man interrupted in a savage slash of words: “If you go to the police you won’t have a chance!”

  “If I don’t go to that conference the police will turn London upside down for me,” retorted Clayton, and now he was revelling in his ascendancy, and the other’s anxiety about getting the money the next day seemed to become more and more strange. “It’s an annual meeting and specialists from all over the world will attend. I’ve never missed or been late for one in my life.”

  He left the word ‘life’ hanging, and did not go on.

  “You could send a message—”

  “Well, I won’t,” Clayton stated.

  There was silence for what seemed a long time. He could hear the other breathing, and thought: he has a cold or he’s just getting over one. That shadow of despair had completely lifted, but unease was creeping into his brief mood of triumph, spoiling the elation he had felt when he had first thought of killing this man.

  He was not a killer.

  At last, the blackmailer said in a complaining voice: “There’s nothing to stop you from getting the money at ten o’clock, and keeping it with you all day.”

  “Oh, use your head!” protested Clayton, sharply. “There’s every reason. I can’t go to the bank and take out twenty thousand pounds without telling them in advance, and they’d have to know why I wanted it.”

  “It’s no business of theirs!”

  “I couldn’t stop them from wondering, and asking.”

  “Professor,” the man said, in a high-pitched voice, “you’re making difficulties for the sake of them. Don’t. I want that money tomorrow and I mean to have it.”

  Clayton took what he knew to be a wild chance when he replied, and with an unmistakable note of asperity he said: “Well, you will not get it from me.”

  He actually began to ring off, but some invisible force stopped him. The snuffling breathing of the man at the other end of the line seemed louder, and the actual breaths seemed more shallow, as if he were labouring under the stress of a great emotion. Clayton held on, his fingers very tight about the receiver, actually painful because of the tension.

  He heard a door bang, and on the instant thought: Rosamund’s back! Then in new panic he thought: she mustn’t come in here, she mustn’t hear what I’m saying. He had a wild impulse to bang the receiver down; another, to get up and lock the door. Slowly, the beating of his heart steadied and he reminded himself that she seldom did come in here during the day, respecting his need to concentrate too much. But he was sweating again and knew that he was very pale; if by chance she did come in she would need no telling that something was wrong.

  The other man said: “Listen to me, Clayton,” and when Clayton didn’t reply at once he asked in a rising voice: “Are you there?”

  “Yes, I’m here.” Clayton was glad that his voice kept steady; there seemed to be two sides to him, the one who was sensitive to all the dangers and the fears, and the one who responded as if nothing about this really frightened him.

  “Tomorrow is Tuesday.”

  “I know.”

  “I want the money on Wednesday.”

  “I can get it by then,” Clayton said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. There’s no morning session of the conference, only small meetings. I can go to the bank in the morning.”

  “You go. And you get it. Understand?”

  Clayton said, suddenly weary: “All right, I’ll get it.”

  “You get it, in five-pound notes – not tens or anything high. And put it in a carrier bag. A brown shopping bag. Is that clear?”

  Stiffly, Clayton said: “Yes.”

  “And take it to the Strand Corner House – do you know where I mean?”

  “Yes,” Clayton answered.

  “Leave it at the cloakroom on the floor where the Carvery Restaurant is, and the Grill and Cheese. Leave it in the name of Higginbottom. Is that clear?”

  Almost stifled, Clayton said again: “Yes, it’s clear.”

  “Be there at a quarter to one, and leave it, and go away,” the other ordered. “Just leave the bag and go away. You’ll be under surveillance, and if you do anything you shouldn’t, if you disobey in the slightest detail, then by God you’ll be in trouble!”

  Clayton said: “I understand.”

  “Mind you do what I say.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  The man at the other end of the line rang off; the noise stung Clayton’s ear. He put his receiver down slowly, then sank back in his chair. He could hardly believe his own mood of submissiveness but he knew what had brought it about. In the first place, realisation and acceptance of the fact that his thought of killing the other man had been a kind of bravado; a
puff-up of courage which he had needed for a while but had soon gone. In the second place, Rosamund was home.

  He saw her in the garden.

  She carried a garden basket and some secateurs, and wore a scarf loosely around her head and a woollen cardigan draped about her shoulders; the empty sleeves dangled. She was going to cut flowers for the house, and went first to a thick bed of daffodils, there for cutting; he watched her as she went down on one knee, brown, knee-length skirt like a fan about her legs. A robin appeared, close to her, and she paused to talk to it, and he could see her smiling. His blood went cold. Soon, she was snipping and the robin was hopping near her while he, Clayton, shifted his chair so that he could not see Rosamund and so could not be seen if she turned round. It would be difficult enough to compose himself to be with her for a drink before dinner; and during dinner. Somehow he would have to. He got up and went to one of the book-lined walls, taking down the Naked Ape without feeling his usual exasperation, even anger, with Desmond Morris for writing it. To him, it rang so false. He did not even thumb the pages, but stared at the rows of books. His mind was in a state of such confusion that he did not really try to think, just let one impression and one mood follow another.

  And one contradiction followed another.

  He could not allow Rosamund to know the truth; but it would be madness to pay blackmail.

  He could never summon up enough courage to seek out and kill the blackmailer and yet he must kill the man. How else could he overcome the threat?

  He could not go calmly to the bank in the morning – no, Wednesday morning – and draw out twenty thousand pounds; he had never drawn out more than a few hundred pounds in cash at one time before. Yet he had to draw it out if he were to do what he was told.

  He must not pay the money over; but how else could he gain time?

  He had gained twenty-four hours, but that was all – and twenty-four hours was nothing.

  He drew his hand across his still damp forehead, feeling a touch of nausea. He had a headache, too, a tightness across the back of his eyes and his forehead, and pain at the back. That came from shock, of course; two hours ago he had never suspected blackmail. Two hours ago he had been living comfortably in this, the real centre of his life, with no thought of danger to it; and now the comfort, the love, the affection, were going to be torn asunder.

  He thought: I can’t talk to Rosamund about it. And he thought: I can’t face dinner with Rosamund tonight. Almost as a revelation, he thought: I could talk to Ida!

  He went back to his chair. Rosamund was no longer in the garden; she would be in the living-room or the dining room, arranging the daffodils. It was no use, he couldn’t calmly announce that he was going out; he would have to get through the early part of the evening with her somehow. It was already five o’clock, it would soon be time for the evening drink. He had grown into the habit of an early drink with Rosamund followed by a bath and change before dinner at seven o’clock, because the cook-general had to be finished with everything, including the washing-up, by eight thirty.

  The telephone bell rang.

  So complete was his absorption in himself that it made him jump; and then his heart began to thump, sickeningly, and he felt afraid to answer, in case it was the blackmailer. Savagely, he said aloud: “Supposing it is, what more can he do?” and he snatched up the receiver and barked: “Professor Clayton.”

  Ida said: “Oliver, I’m sorry to call you but I just had to.”

  Ida so seldom called.

  He had known months pass without a call from her, she seemed to be content to wait for him. She worked part-time with a prominent travel agency – in fact her time was really her own for she had a circle of clients on whom she concentrated. Only when Kevin had been ill or she had been harassed or troubled had she telephoned him. There was the familiar note of apology in her voice and a note of desperation, too; a hint of fear. He had to make the call sound welcome, had to school himself to say: “But of course, my sweet! It’s always good to hear you.”

  “Oliver,” she said. “Kevin’s gone.”

  “Gone,” he echoed.

  “He’s left home,” she said flatly. “We—we had a terrible quarrel last night, and he went off on his motorbike. I thought he’d come back. I was with some clients this afternoon, I’ve only just got back, and – and he’s collected his clothes and everything, his room’s stripped.” Obviously she was fighting against tears. “I simply don’t know what to do. I really don’t.”

  Clayton said the only thing he possibly could: “I’ll come and see you.”

  “Oh, can you?”

  “Yes, of course.” His mind was working with those quick flashes, and he saw one advantage: that he would now have to find an excuse for going out, for not having dinner with Rosamund. “Have you any idea where he might have gone?” “Absolutely none,” she replied, helplessly. “It was the last thing I expected. I—Oliver, what time can you come?”

  “As soon as I’ve had time to change and get the car out,” he said. “Will that be soon enough?”

  “Yes,” Ida said in a muffled voice, and she added: “Oh, bless you.”

  He replaced the receiver very slowly, and stood up at the same time. It was such a new development that momentarily at least it took his mind off his more urgent problem – good lord! What a time for this to happen! He straightened his desk and then went out of the study, which opened on to a passage alongside the stairs. The domestic quarters were at the end of this passage, the dining-room was on the other side of the staircase, opposite the study. If he guessed right Rosamund would be in a little scullery near the garden, arranging the flowers.

  He had to tell her; there was no time for dithering, and so no time for nerves. He opened two doors, walked along a narrow stonefloored passage, past the open kitchen door and into the scullery, the door of which also stood wide open.

  Rosamund was just coming in from the garden.

  She still had the cardigan draped carelessly over her shoulders, and carried the flower basket, which had not only the daffodils but some early tulips and some sprays of flowering currant. She had been watching something which had obviously given her great pleasure, and her eyes were glowing, her cheeks as well, and her lips parted in a smile. At that first glimpse he thought, as he had thought a thousand times before, that she was the most beautiful woman he knew.

  And at sight of him her eyes lit up even more; as if there were nothing she wanted so much as to see him approaching. And she had caught the evening sun in her corn-coloured hair and in those hazel brown eyes …

  Chief Superintendent Roger West, of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard, was undergoing a rare experience; he was at his desk with no particular assignment on hand. He looked bronzed and magnificently fit, and as he grew older – he was in his mid forties – he became more than ever worthy of the old soubriquet ‘Handsome’. In fact he looked a little too good to be true as he ran through reports of cases which had been dealt with at the Yard while he had been on a three week holiday – actually a holiday with his wife! – In South Africa, as a guest of a leading South African policeman. He had been at the Yard all day and the telephone had hardly rung, only half a dozen people had looked in to welcome him back. So when the telephone did ring, he started; but the receiver was in position in a flash.

  “West,” he announced.

  “If you’re not too busy, Handsome,” a man said with overtones which oozed sarcasm, “come and see me, will you? I’ve a nice simple little investigation for you.” The speaker was Commander Coppell of the C.I.D., Roger’s immediate superior. “Ever heard of Sir Douglas Fellowes?”

  Fellowes, Fellowes, Fellowes—ah!

  “The Common Market specialist,” he said.

  “He used to be,” replied Coppell. “He isn’t any longer, he just killed himself. You mustn’t go away so long again,” he added with the same sarcasm. “This is the third V.I.P. suicide we’ve had in the last three weeks. So far, we don’t know
whether they’re connected or coincidental. How long will you be?”

  “Two minutes, sir,” answered Roger, already out of his chair.

  Chapter Three

  Rosamund

  “Hullo, darling!” Rosamund welcomed Oliver Clayton. “Are you coming out for a breath of fresh air? It’s lovely after the rain.”

  “I wish I were,” he replied, with a grimace which he hoped seemed natural. “I came out to tell you I’m going to have to desert you for dinner.”

  “Oh, sweetheart! Why?”

  “I simply can’t get my paper right for tomorrow,” answered Clayton, “I’ve lost two or three references I can’t find in any of my source books here, but they’ll be at the museum. You know how important this paper is. And Paddy the watchman will let me in,” he added, confidently.

  “But you’ll starve!”

  “I shall have a snack nearby,” said Clayton. “Don’t worry about me, darling.”

  “I don’t see who else I should worry about,” said Rosamund, reasonably. “But if you must go you must. Can I do anything to help?”

  “You can pour me out a whisky and soda while I slip into a suit,” be answered. “Give me ten minutes, will you?”

  “Of course,” she said.

  They went into the scullery together, then Clayton hurried upstairs, confident that he had passed that situation off smoothly. He wore an old siren or track suit, patched in a dozen places, which had become a habit when working alone in his study. He moved well, and was as lean and fit as a man of fifty could be; virile, too. He had a dressing-room which led into the main bedroom with its huge ‘king size’ bed; Rosamund’s dressing-room opened off on the other side, and each led to a bathroom. He stripped, was under the shower for no more than a minute, towelled vigorously, then put on a lightweight undervest and pants and a dark tweed suit. He went to his study to get the manuscript, which was in truth finished to the last dotted i, and in less than fifteen minutes he turned into the morning-room which was also used by Rosamund for sewing and oddments. She was there. She hadn’t changed but the headscarf was gone and her hair fell almost to her shoulders. In some lights, and this was one, she looked little older than on the day she had married him, twenty-three years ago. His whisky and soda and her Martini were already poured, and they lifted their glasses.