by John Creasey
So far, all that he knew was that there had been some kind of a fight. That in itself was strange; one did not think of men of Marshall’s calibre becoming involved in any sort of brawl. He was a student of social conditions in the countries of the British Commonwealth and a Consultant to the Government, and at the same time he was bringing a series of Commonwealth reference books up to date. His own work, as far as Roger knew, was the writing and editing of biographies of modern writers, comparing them with writers of similar status from past eras.
Roger had been to his house some five years earlier – on a night when Lady Marshall had tried to kill herself. He remembered Marshall as the central figure in a kind of Greek tragedy, a man he had respected, but had not even begun to understand.
He wondered what changes the past five years had made in the man. He also wondered if this affair were as straightforward as the report made it sound, for often there were secret documents at Marshall’s house, dealing with vital issues of Commonwealth relations. There had been at least one leakage of such documents which had set two emergent nations at each other’s throats because details of British aid to each had been disclosed.
It was certainly a matter he should deal with himself.
Henrietta sat opposite the open front door, telling herself that she must go into the study and see Gerry. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she had been sitting here for at least five minutes, and if she didn’t hurry she would still be here when David came out of the cloakroom.
She gave an involuntary shudder, at the memory of the two men fighting.
Then she saw a car pass the gate, and a man at the wheel look into the drive. She had an impression of a good-looking man, very intent on the house. But it was too late for uninvited callers, and she was almost certain David was not expecting anyone; she must have imagined the stranger’s interest.
Making a conscious effort she stood up and went towards the study.
The car had stopped and the man was getting out.
She hesitated, a hand on the study door, but before she opened it the man appeared at the gate. His stride was long, and he appeared to be in a hurry.
Henrietta turned away from the study, towards the front door.
The stranger reached the porch.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Good evening.”
“Is Sir David Marshall in?”
“I’m afraid . . .” Henrietta hesitated, wondering whether, in fact, David did expect the caller, “. . . he’s not free for some time.”
“I very much want to see him,” the stranger said. “I wonder if you’d be very kind and let him know I’m here.”
As he spoke, he took a card from his pocket and handed it to her. His eyes were steely grey, and despite his diffident manner, Henrietta had an impression of great determination.
“Chief Superintendent Roger West, New Scotland Yard,” she read.
“Does he know you are coming?” she asked, startled.
“I’m afraid he doesn’t,” said the man from the Yard. “It’s Miss Lyle, isn’t it? Sir David’s secretary?”
Henrietta was astonished that he knew her name.
“Yes,” she said. Then, suddenly, she had a mental picture of David coming out of the cloakroom, his face puffy, his jaw swollen – the last thing he would want was to meet this man. All at once her mind slipped back to normal, and she knew exactly what to do.
“Do come in,” she said. “Will you wait for a few minutes while I find out if Sir David is free?”
Leading Roger through the hall, she ushered him into her own office, forgetting completely that she had left this house, determined never to come back.
“I won’t keep you long,” she added, and closed the door on him.
Quickly, she went across to the cloakroom and tapped.
“Just a moment,” called David. Henrietta stood waiting, wondering why on earth the man had come from the Yard just then.
The door opened, and she had quite a shock.
Even after bathing his face, David’s jaw and temple were still badly swollen. Both eyes were puffy, and the front of his shirt was stained pink from blood.
“I’ll go upstairs and change my shirt,” he said. “Is there anything you need first?”
“I don’t,” she said, “but there’s a policeman – a detective – from Scotland Yard here. You can’t see him like that.”
“I don’t know that I can see him at all,” David said. “What does he want?”
“He didn’t—” Henrietta began.
As she spoke, she heard a door open, saw David look suddenly past her. Swinging round, she saw Chief Superintendent West, who hadn’t been fooled at all.
“Good evening, sir,” said West easily.
“Good evening,” responded David, obviously speaking with difficulty. “How can I help you? It is Superintendent West, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to trouble you, but we received a report that you were having a spot of bother and might need some help.” Tactfully, West averted his gaze from David’s face. “I was informed and came at once, sir.”
His voice was not loud but it was clear and carrying. Gerry must be able to hear every word, Henrietta thought. She remembered the passion and the hatred in David’s voice, so short a time ago; now was the moment when he could really vent his spite.
‘Don’t, David,’ she prayed silently, ‘please don’t.’
6
ADVICE FROM A POLICEMAN
‘My God, he’s had a beating,’ thought Roger West, shocked. The feeling he had known earlier, that one did not associate such men as Marshall with this kind of violence, was even stronger. He waited for an answer, doubting whether he would get a true one, sensing the girl’s anxiety.
Would Marshall pretend nothing of consequence had happened?
“I am afraid you were brought out on a fruitless errand,” David said at last. “Who made the report, Superintendent?”
“A neighbour, sir,” answered Roger.
David smiled with some difficulty. “Well, Superintendent, I’m grateful for your concern, but I’m afraid the neighbour was mistaken.”
Roger West hesitated.
In the same situation he would have reacted in much the same way as Marshall. It did not seem likely that the fracas concerned government documents, nevertheless the possibility had to be kept in mind – yet there was virtually nothing he could do unless Marshall made a charge, and obviously he didn’t intend to do so. Roger was aware of the earnest gaze of the girl, without looking at her, then realised that he had no idea what had happened to the other man involved. He needed to find out.
“May I ask who was your assailant, sir?”
“There was no assailant,” David said flatly. “Just a quarrel between two friends. Nothing at all to worry about, Superintendent.”
The girl seemed suddenly to relax.
‘In what way was she involved?’ wondered Roger. Had the fight been over her? Was she afraid for the other man?
“A rather violent quarrel, sir,” he murmured.
“Quarrels tend to be violent if tempers are lost. Superintendent, I must ask you to leave me to settle my personal affairs myself.”
“Yes, of course, sir.” Roger spoke soothingly. “But there is a stage when personal affairs become public. Sir David, did this quarrel in any way concern documents which are entrusted to you in connection with your work with Commonwealth affairs?”
David looked genuinely startled.
“Not in any way,” he answered.
“I’m glad to hear it, sir. Where is the other person involved?”
“I really don’t see—”
“I would like to assure myself that he is no more badly hurt than you,” Roger said flatly.
“I must say that I think you are being a little over-zealous, Superintendent,” said Marshall. “Henrietta – did Mr Ward leave?”
“I’m not sure,” the girl replied.
“Will you find out.”
She moved quickly to the door at which she had glanced, and Roger noticed how slim she was, and how slender-waisted. Swinging the door open, she stood in the doorway, her back to the two men in the hall. Obviously she saw someone in the room beyond, but Roger did not follow her; if he angered Marshall further, he might cause a lot of unnecessary trouble.
“Are you all right?” the girl asked.
‘Yes, I’m all right. How is he?”
“I’ll live,” said Marshall, moving towards the open doorway. “You’d better come into the study, Superintendent, and meet my protagonist.”
West followed him into the large, book-lined room, with its big tall windows opening on to smooth velvet lawns, and found himself facing a heavily built man in his late thirties, his eyes startlingly dark in his pale face. Henrietta Lyle was standing beside him.
“It appears that we were overlooked when we had our difference of opinion,” Marshall went on drily. “This is Superintendent West, of Scotland Yard.”
Ward looked up sharply.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Nothing better to do, Superintendent?”
“Is there a better job than keeping the peace?” asked Roger mildly. “If you must have a private feud, gentlemen, I suggest you have the front door closed and the curtains drawn.” He smiled rather grimly at Marshall. “Perhaps it’s as well that I came round myself instead of sending junior officers, Sir David. Are you quite sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”
“Quite sure, Superintendent – and I’m most appreciative of your attitude.”
“Then I’ll be on my way, sir.”
“May I—ah—ask whether this will be officially reported?” Marshall asked.
“It won’t reach the newspapers, sir – not through us, at all events.”
“I’m most grateful. Will you have a drink?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Roger paused, expecting the younger man to make some comment, but when none was forthcoming he went towards the door.
Marshall moved after him.
“I can see myself out, sir, thank you.”
The girl had slipped past Marshall; now she opened the door and led the way into the hall. Roger appeared to be going after her but suddenly swung round and looked directly at Ward.
“Do you wish to make a complaint, Mr Ward?”
“Complaint?” echoed Ward. The dark eyes flashed from Roger to David, then back again to Roger. “No, certainly not.”Roger nodded, and this time went to the front door, the girl preceding him. He was impressed by the grace of her movements as well as by her promptness; she seemed to anticipate what was needed of her. As she turned, he saw that she was looking more relaxed now, and for the first time Roger noticed how clear her eyes were, and how beautiful a blue. She had small, nicely-shaped features and a very clear, slightly sallow skin. Now that he had a chance to look at her more attentively and in a better light, he realised how attractive she was.
Attractive enough to be fought over?
He was guessing, of course, and he decided there was no point in trying to confirm his guess. If this were the case, it was none of his business. He smiled.
“Thank you, Miss Lyle. Goodnight.”
She smiled back at him. “Goodnight, Superintendent.”
Roger West went briskly to his car and drove away immediately. It had stopped raining now, and several neighbours were back in their gardens. A boy on a bicycle stared after him and Roger had a sense that he had been recognised. By the time he reached the corner of the street, however, he had put everything to the back of his mind, except a picture of the girl’s face. It was not often that he was so impressed; there was a quality in Henrietta Lyle which might indeed have sparked off the trouble. If it had, then more trouble might develop, and it might be a good idea to keep an eye on Marshall and perhaps the girl. He would have a word with the Superintendent of the Chelsea Division, say that Marshall’s house might be broken into, or some such excuse. In fact it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go and see the man on nights at Chelsea, and refresh his memory about Sir David and his wife.
Wife – yes.
It was easy to forget that there was a wife, who still had her rights by law. What had happened to her?
It was a pity in a way that he couldn’t go straight home, but he needn’t be long and Janet could amuse herself looking at television.
Closing the front door, Henrietta could hear David and Gerry talking in the study. Should she go in to them, she wondered. Suddenly she realised that her bag was in the study. She would have to fetch it.
She hesitated.
There was a whole string of unpleasant situations to face in the immediate future – situations which both David and Gerry seemed to relish, but which she hated.
Why must men want everything so cut and dried and exactly as they wanted it?
She was perfectly satisfied with things as they were, working for David, enjoying his friendship. Often, since Yolande had gone, they spent all day here, having lunch and tea and sometimes supper together, and now and again he would take her out to dinner or to the theatre. They were always the slightly delicate minutes on parting; he never wanted to leave her, never wanted to let her go. But he was never over-insistent.
If only he hadn’t developed this ridiculous, almost obsessive antagonism towards Gerry.
And Gerry was nearly as bad; he, too, she sometimes thought, seemed almost obsessed. Over and over again he would steer the conversation round to David: what was he doing, where was he going, when was he coming back? He couldn’t possibly be really interested, so it could only be because he was jealous.
It was as if each man bitterly resented any affection she might have for the other.
All these things passed through her mind as she waited outside the study door, unable to make up her mind whether to go into the study or not. She listened. At least the two were not shouting at each other, they were behaving like reasonable human beings.
Then she remembered the fight – and clenched her teeth.
Suddenly David’s voice rose, for the first time.
“I really see no point in discussing it further, Mr Ward.”
Henrietta opened the door and walked into the room.
“He’s gone,” she said shortly.
“Henrietta—” began Gerry, getting to his feet.
“Don’t let’s talk any more now,” she said quietly. “I’m going home.”
She looked round for her bag, saw it on the corner of the desk, and picked it up.
“Goodnight, David. Goodnight, Gerry.”
She turned quickly, by no means sure that these were the right tactics but nearly certain that once she left, Gerry would follow; the important thing was that the two men were not left together any longer.
David stood up behind his desk. “I’ll see you in the morning, Henrietta. Goodnight, my dear.”
This was the moment to remind him that she wouldn’t be in tomorrow, but if she did, then Gerry would guess what had happened, and she didn’t want to talk about it – certainly not this evening. She looked across the desk at David, forced a smile, hardly glanced at Gerry, and went out.
She was halfway across the hall before footsteps told her that Gerry was coming after her. He did not call, but caught up with her on the porch – it was he who closed the door. As they walked towards the gate together, she saw
David at the study window. He often stood there when she left after they had argued, or differed, or if they had been more than ordinarily close in mood.
He did not smile and did not wave his hand, and nor did she.
“Henrietta, we’ve got to talk,” Gerald began, as she turned into the road.
Henrietta stared ahead.
“I’m not at all sure I want to talk to you,” she said stiffly. “You had no right to burst in like that. You behaved like a lout.”
“On the contrary,” Gerry said, “it was David Marshall who behaved like a lout. Good lord! I saw him push you around as if you belonged to him. If I ever see him do that again—”
They had reached her car and she stopped, turned, and looked at him without expression.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
She opened the car door.
Then Gerry did what David so often contrived to do – looked at her with a helpless, hurt look, in which there was contrition and pleading and a hint of despair. She steeled herself against it, and got into the car, but before she could close the door behind her, he leaned forward.
“Please come and have dinner with me. I have to fly over to Milan for a couple of weeks and I’ll be leaving tomorrow afternoon. That’s why I telephoned. I wouldn’t have interrupted you while you were working but for that.”
He paused. “Please come and have dinner,” he said again. “David Marshall can have your undivided attention for fourteen days in a row while I’m away, but let me give you dinner tonight, if only to show that you’ve forgiven me.”
Looking up into those dark, magnetic eyes, Henrietta hesitated – and was lost.
7
WARNING OVER DINNER
As Gerry ate, Henrietta noticed that he used his left arm and hand gingerly, but she said nothing about it for some time. Whatever happened, she told herself, she must keep off anything controversial, anything which Gerry might take to be a reproach. He had brought her to a restaurant in Fulham Road, a spot in which the tables were placed in small alcoves where customers could dine tête-à-tête, and where, if they kept their voices low, they could talk without risk of being overheard. Gerry looked pale and one of his eyes was bloodshot, but he was at his liveliest. He was the quick-witted if rather over-gay Gerry, the kind of man whom, in theory, she could not like but who, in person, was very likeable. He could make fun out of the least likely situation and his running commentary on other diners, the service, the food, did much to take her mind off the day’s problems.