by John Creasey
‘No one ever sees who plays it,’ said Sloan. ‘That’s one of the things that we’ve got to try to find out. As a matter of fact I’m not sure whether it’s important or whether it’s just part of a scheme to put us all on edge. He’s not nice to know, is he?’
‘I’ve known people I’d rather spend an evening with,’ admitted Mark.
Sloan grinned. ‘Do you know, Mr Lessing, you must be better or you wouldn’t be able to talk like that! Not everyone can throw off the effect of Riordon so quickly, I don’t mind telling you. I’ve known girls be hysterical on and off for weeks.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘I’ve never been more so. That man’s evil, Mr Lessing.’ There was a ring at the front door. ‘Ah, here’s the doctor, I think. While he’s looking at your hand, Mr Lessing, I’ll telephone the Yard. You don’t mind?’
A moment later he ushered Dr Littlejohn into the room.
Mark knew the portly, bustling doctor slightly, having played bridge with him, Roger and Janet. A greyhead with bright blue eyes and a bluff, rather abrupt manner, Littlejohn raised his bushy eyebrows when he saw Mark, and said: ‘Now what have you been up to?’
‘Hitting my hand against a brick wall,’ said Mark, which was as near the truth as he proposed going with the doctor. Sloan went out and Littlejohn advanced, putting a small bag on a chair. He frowned when he looked at the hand, pursed his lips and exuded several short breaths, with a peculiar whistling note, like an asthmatic patient.
He busied himself with lint, bandages, and ointment, all taken from his bag: the ointment was soothing, cool and pleasant. Nevertheless the dressing was painful, and took nearly ten minutes. When it was finished the whole of Mark’s right hand was bandaged, and looked, he said, like a white-coated ham.
Littlejohn went off, and when he had gone Sloan entered the dining room again.
‘He won’t be long,’ he said.
‘Who?’ asked Mark, surprised.
‘Sir Guy. He’s given orders to be told about everything to do with Riordon. I explained a little to his highness, and he said he would come right over. I’ll leave you now, sir.’
Sloan went out.
There was a ring at the front door bell, and Mark walked along to answer it, reflecting that he would have a very different angle to discuss with Chatsworth this time. Two plain-clothes men on the drive were visible against the lights of a car which stood beyond the burly figure of Sir Guy. He nodded as he entered the hall and waited until Mark closed the door before he spoke. Then it was gruffly. ‘So you won’t take a friendly warning, Lessing?’
‘We don’t mean the same thing by the word friendly,’ Mark retorted.
‘Possibly not. What happened to your hand?’
‘I proved that Riordon’s stomach is made of iron,’ said Mark sardonically.
‘So you managed to get at close quarters, did you?’ Chatsworth seemed surprised. ‘You should have taken my advice. I couldn’t have warned you any more clearly, and I don’t want to have to detain you even for your own ‘This time even you would come unstuck if you tried,’ said Mark. ‘This house is where I live. The Wests have let me have a couple of rooms until I find another flat. I have every right to be here and to sleep here, whether the Wests are at home or not. Does that make any impression on you?’
Chatsworth looked shaken.
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘Then perhaps we’ve a basis for discussion,’ said Mark. ‘I came here to sleep. When I opened the door a man who called himself Count Riordon was standing on the stairs. There was nothing I could do about it, even if I’d wanted to. I closed with him. He got the better of the first scuffle – and the last, for that matter. But I suppose you would like the detailed story?’
‘Please,’ said Chatsworth, much more mildly.
‘The first thing is that I don’t really believe in Riordon,’ Mark said. ‘I saw him, hit him, struggled with him and was scared out of my wits by him, but now he’s gone I don’t really believe any of it.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Chatsworth said.
Mark found the telling easier than he had anticipated. He told the story simply, without laying undue emphasis on any point in it, except Riordon’s confidence that the police dared not arrest him. He talked of the grandiloquence of the bribe, or ‘pension’, and Riordon’s eager acceptance of and reaction to effusive praise.
When he had finished, he took a cigarette case from his pocket and tried to light the cigarette one-handed. Chatsworth appeared so absorbed in the story that he let Mark struggle before saying suddenly: ‘All right, I’ll do that.’ He struck a match, and as Mark drew in a breath of smoke, he added: ‘So now you’ve met Count Riordon.’
‘Is he really a Count?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Chatsworth airily. ‘Obscure Italian antecedents, I understand. Born in Ireland, two generations removed from his nearest Italian relatives, but some of the family died very quickly and Riordon inherited. It’s no more than a title, but he has every right to it.’
‘Did he get his money from the same source?’ asked Mark heavily.
‘No.’ Chatsworth brushed a hand over the smooth patch of his cranium, and leaned back in an easy chair. ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘He did not inherit his money. I think he stole it.’
Mark stared. ‘Really rich on ill-gotten gains?’
‘We don’t know what he’s worth,’ said Chatsworth, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise us if he has something in common with Croesus. Yes, Riordon’s got plenty of money. I don’t propose to tell you the whole story, Lessing, but if you’re in Riordon’s black books you may as well be told sooner or later. West can tell you. And as you know Riordon, you’d better have your own way, and try to help us – if you still want to.’
His expression suggested that he half-expected Mark to decide that discretion was the better part of valour. And Mark hesitated. He was ashamed of his own hesitation, yet could not free his mind of the horror of Riordon. ‘I’ll teach you the meaning of pain,’ Riordon had said.
Mark shivered.
‘Well?’ asked Chatsworth.
Mark said slowly: ‘Of course I want to. Tell me – is there any truth in Riordon’s statement that the police are afraid to arrest him? That seems to be the crux of the matter.’
‘There are no grounds for saying that the police are afraid to arrest Riordon, but there is some justification for saying that, at the moment, it is not in the national interests to do so. We have to hold our hand. Had we really wished to, we would have picked up Riordon some time ago. We have been compelled to allow him considerable rope, because – well, West can tell you that, too,’ added Chatsworth grimly. ‘But before you decide anything definitely, Lessing, think again. You’ve met the man now, and you know what the affair might lead to.’
The Village of Hinton Magna
‘i’m certainly in this,’ Mark said. ‘I don’t know that it would be a lot of good if I tried to keep out. Riordon didn’t give me the impression of making threats in vain.’
‘He wouldn’t,’ said Chatsworth. ‘That’s right as far as it goes. If you care to stand aside, say so. If you’re coming in, don’t make it half-hearted.’
‘I’m not half-hearted,’ said Mark grimly.
‘Good, good. Well, I’ll leave you now. You can travel down to Hinton Magna tomorrow, and I’ll send word to West that he can confide in you. Stay there with him for a few days, until you can use that hand again. What about your own work?’
‘I can take some leave,’ Mark said.
‘Lucky man. I won’t say I’m sorry that it’s worked out this way, but I will say that you’ll probably regret it. Still, it’s your own decision. What are you going to do tonight?’
‘Go to bed,’ answered Mark. ‘Er – can Sloan talk to me?’
‘Yes, yes,’
answered Chatsworth, testily.
In the hall the AC exchanged a word with Sloan. Several plain-clothes men were about, all shadowy figures in the starlit gloom. Sloan said little until they were alone in the living room. Then: ‘I’m surprised he’s let you in on this, Mr Lessing. You wouldn’t have been if you hadn’t come across Riordon. So he scared you?’
‘Wouldn’t he scare you?’
‘I’ve known men I’ve liked better,’ said Sloan. ‘But he’s not so almighty as he makes out. He pretends that he can snap his fingers at us, but he sheers off pretty quick when we’re about. He’s—’ Sloan paused, searching for the right word, and went on with a harsh note: ‘Uncanny, Mr Lessing, that’s the word. He always seems to know when we are away for a little while. Like tonight. We’d been watching the house for some time, although we haven’t always shown ourselves. Riordon didn’t come near. As Roger and Janet are away our men were taken off for the first time for weeks – and Riordon turned up! It’s uncanny, there’s no other word for it.’
‘Yes.’ Mark knew just what Old Bill Sloan meant. ‘What brought you back?’
‘One of the local plain-clothes men knew Riordon, and happened to see him coming this way,’ said Sloan. ‘He reported it, and Sir Guy asked me to come. He told me to see what I could do, and sent four other men to surround the place. The thing is, Riordon can’t be detained yet, but Sir Guy keeps harassing him. It’s the only way. Well, I arrived, and I had a key – the Inspector gave me one some time ago. I knew Riordon was inside, and I had an idea of what might be happening to you so I decided to stop it. But I don’t know that I would have succeeded, Mr Lessing, if I hadn’t heard that tune. The Warsaw Concerto.’ Sloan pronounced it ‘consairto’. ‘It’s a kind of warning for Riordon, because whenever he hears it the police – or danger of some kind – are near. Now I ask you, how does he manage it? And who plays the blasted tune? I’ve never seen anybody, but I’ve heard it when I’ve been ahead of our chaps somewhere near Riordon. Sometimes I think I’m crazy, and it was a long time before the bosses believed me. But Roger heard it once and after that there wasn’t any argument. Do you know what it’s played on?’
‘No.’
‘A mouth organ,’ declared Sloan. ‘A harmonica, that’s what! The son-of-a-gun knows how to play the thing, doesn’t he? It’s uncanny, too. I wish I hadn’t landed the Riordon job, and I don’t mind admitting it.’
‘You don’t happen to know why the police can’t take him, do you?’
Sloan said: ‘No, sir, I don’t.’
Mark was quite sure that he would get nothing more out of the detective sergeant. He went to sleep with the tune running through his head – although he hadn’t expected to sleep at all.
Janet West, sitting in a deckchair under the shade of an apple tree on which the fruit was already beginning to form, looked at Roger and frowned ruefully. In a bath chair, which her cousin Paula had borrowed from a neighbour, he was tucked up in blankets and leaning back with his mouth slightly open and his eyes closed.
He was asleep.
Janet was darning a pair of his socks.
From the kitchen, which overlooked the small orchard of Hinton Cottage, there came sounds of running water, humming voices, and an occasional explosive comment, usually when Paula Dean put something where she should not have done or failed to find it where it should be. Paula had a girl of fifteen in the house to help her, and had refused to let Janet do more than make the bed in their own room, and use a duster. Judging from her appearance, Paula had said forthrightly, she needed a rest just as much as Roger.
The trees in the village were in full leaf. There was a majestic chestnut in the village square that towered above the oaks and beech, over the cottages, the grey square Norman church, the Manor House, and Hinton Farm. The cottage was at one end of the village, standing back from the second-class road which connected it with the main Dorchester-Blandford road some three miles away.
Hinton Magna, set in a shallow, hill-clad valley, was more sleepy even than most Dorset villages, and Janet, who knew several of them, liked its restfulness as much as the picturesque appearance of the cottages, the square green, and the chestnut trees.
Looking upwards through a tracery of foliage and branches, Janet saw the perfect blue of the cloudless sky. The sun was shining through some gaps between the leaves, sending a gentle light over Roger, although the trees gave enough shadow to prevent him from getting too hot. Yet when she moved she realised how hot it was.
A man strolled past the cottage; she could just see his head and shoulders. He was heavily built, a man who had travelled down from London by car in the wake of the ambulance, and with two other men he shared the task of watching Paula Dean’s home. Janet wished that were not considered necessary. She shied from wondering why, just as she shied from wondering why Mark Lessing had not arrived. She had felt quite sure that he would come down the previous afternoon.
Then she heard the telephone.
Paula appeared at a bedroom window with a dustcap over her bright auburn hair, the sun glinting on a few wisps which escaped the cap, and showing up her shiny nose and bright red cheeks.
‘Tele - phone!’ she shouted, and shook a duster out of the window. ‘Darling, are you asleep too?’
Janet, already heading for the cottage, shook her fist, and went inside. The telephone was in the hall, a low-ceilinged, raftered place of charm, with brasses and copper glistening as the sun found a way through the leaded panes of the lattice windows. There was a small, comfortable tapestry-covered stool by the side of the old-fashioned candlestick type telephone.
It was just after twelve o’clock.
‘That wouldn’t be Mrs Janet West, would it?’ demanded Mark.
‘Mark, where have you been? Why didn’t you come yesterday?’
‘I have been making up my mind,’ replied Mark with dignity. ‘It took a great deal of doing. Have you discovered whether Paula wants me to hand out the prizes at a Guides’ whist-drive, or give a speech at a garden party? Because if she does—’
‘I think you’ll be safe this time,’ Janet said, ‘except—’ she paused. ‘Paula thinks you ought to meet a friend who’s staying at the Manor,’ said Janet. ‘I promised not to warn you, but—’
Mark groaned. ‘Feminine gender, I take it? Long in the tooth and full of worldly wisdom, a disappointed woman who will remain forever a spinster, although Paula will doubtless want to wish her on to me? All of that?’
‘And worse,’ said Janet feelingly. ‘But don’t tell her that I’ve warned you.’
‘You’ve probably hatched this story up to harass me on the journey,’ declared Mark. ‘What is the creature’s name?’
‘Marion.’
‘Well, that could be worse. How’s Roger?’
‘Catching up on his sleep,’ replied Janet.
‘That’s fine,’ said Mark, and then disturbed her by adding: ‘I had a minor collision with a taxicab yesterday, and didn’t do my right hand any good. But all being well I’ll be catching the 3.35 from Waterloo.’ As if to prevent her from asking questions, he added: ‘I’ve got to hurry, someone’s ringing at the front door. Expect me when you see me.’
‘Come soon!’ said Janet. She replaced the receiver, looking towards the front lawn, which was just visible through the open door. As she sat there Paula appeared, poking her head over the banister rail of a staircase which twisted and turned and had oak beams at awkward places above it. Paula’s dustcap was awry, and there was a mop and a duster in her hand as she rested it against the wood.
‘Well, did you tell him?’ she demanded eagerly.
Janet started, and looked up. ‘Oh, you scared me! Er – yes, of course I told him. He’s putting up his defences against Marion already. You really want to get him married off, don’t you?’
‘Men weren’t made for a single life,’ decl
ared Paula. ‘If it weren’t for Jim I’d set my cap at him myself.’
‘If it weren’t for Jim you’d be the most miserable woman in England. He’s had an accident,’ she added abruptly.
Paula gripped the banister. ‘You mean Jim?’
‘Oh, what a fool I am. No, Mark. I wish he’d been more open about it. He’s hurt his hand, he says.’
‘Oh, only his hand,’ sniffed Paula. ‘I was going to have something to say about having two invalids but a few fingers more or less won’t matter. Be a pet and remind me to make sure that I ask Marion to lunch tomorrow, won’t you? On Sunday it’s a dreadful meal up at the Manor. They still keep formal. What time will Mark be here?’
‘He wasn’t sure.’
‘That man wants handling,’ declared Paula.
Janet went out into the orchard, half-expecting to find Roger awake; instead he was still sleeping, and continued to sleep until the gong went for lunch, banged vigorously by Paula.
He awakened slowly, put his head on one side, stared at Janet with an expression in his eyes which made her heart turn over.
‘Roger!’ she exclaimed. ‘Roger, what is it?’
‘Eh?’ said Roger West. ‘What – er, sorry, old girl. Had a dream, that’s all. Heard something, didn’t I?’
‘A dream?’ said Janet. ‘A nightmare, you mean.’
She stopped abruptly.
She was scared, for she had never seen Roger looking quite so frightened, perhaps even horrified, as he had been when he had first been awakened.
Music was coming softly from the house. Janet saw Roger’s head jerk back. Then his hands gripped the armrests of the chair, and she could see the whiteness of his knuckles.
‘That tune,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘That tune! It’s—’
‘The Warsaw Concerto,’ said Janet as steadily as she could. ‘On the radio, idiot. What’s the matter with you?’
Roger said tensely: ‘Is it the radio? Are you sure?’