by John Creasey
“Of course I know it,” she answered. “Darling, why do you ask me so often?”
“Because I doubt you so often.”
“Oh, Lance,” she said helplessly. “You don’t need to. I swear you don’t need to. I can’t help being a rich man’s daughter. Sometimes I hate the thought of Daddy’s money and all it does to him.”
He bent his head and stopped her with another kiss, gentle this time. She moved her head back as if to get him into better perspective, and studied him for several moments without speaking.
“Why do you say you doubt me?” she asked, at last.
“Because you so often doubt my motives.”
“I don’t, you know. I really don’t.”
“Subconsciously you do,” he told her. “I suppose the truth is you’ve been brainwashed since you were very young. You’ve been taught that no man could possibly love you for yourself alone, that anyone with a father as rich as yours is inevitably prey to get-rich-quick men. Hush! You were probably told this in the form of nursery rhymes first, and then the pressure was stepped up and you had a governess instead of going to school, so that you couldn’t be contaminated with mere money seekers. Quiet! The excuse, of course, was that your parents travelled so much and wanted you with them, and they could afford your private tutors wherever you went. And you didn’t realize what was happening and you don’t realize what did happen, even today. You don’t doubt me with your conscious mind but with your subconscious doubts.”
“Lance, please stop!”
“No, darling, I won’t stop; the time has come to talk. You never see Robin without doubting me, and—”
“But Robin’s not you!”
“No. Robin, as you rightly say, is a long, long way from being me. But you think, or at least fear, he is using me to worm his way into your father’s confidence. You haven’t really worked the situation out in your mind, but you are as full of doubts as a font is full of holy water. I don’t know how to exorcise those doubts, my sweet Christine. I really don’t.”
His arm was still around her, yet now she felt very different from the way she had felt only a few minutes before. Her heart was heavy and an unfamiliar tension gripped her.
“I can’t help distrusting Robin,” she said flatly.
“I’m not worried about Robin,” he said. “I’m worried about—”
Before he added the word “you” and while he was pulling her even closer, a door banged downstairs in the shop.
“My God!” he exclaimed. “What’s that?”
Although she tried to scramble off his lap quickly, it seemed an age before she was on her feet, and he pushed her aside so roughly as he stood up that she nearly stumbled. “Stay there,” he whispered, moving swiftly toward the door and the head of the narrow staircase. There was another sound from below, not so loud this time, and Lance raised his hand, then placed his finger on his lips, urging her to silence; and as she moved toward him he waved her away, mouthing: “Stay there!”
He looked terrified - not just alarmed, as she had been when the door banged, but terrified. He gripped the handrail tightly as he started silently down the stairs. Now no sound came from below. It was almost as if they had imagined the noises they had just heard.
Christine wondered what was frightening him so, and why it was so vital that she should stay where she was. For a few moments, until he disappeared, she stood close by the chair; but soon, drawn by curiosity, she moved toward the stairs. These were in fact little more than the open steps of a ladder, made of some dark, deeply polished wood, leading to a large apartment once part of a picture gallery, now used as living-room-cum-bedroom.
Christine’s back was to the one wide window. The stairs were on her right. Alongside these were two doors, one leading to a W.C. and one to a tiny kitchen almost identical with those downstairs. There was a protective handrail, made of old brass curtain poles, gleaming in the brighter light which came up the well of the staircase.
A man out of sight said: “Is Robin—”
“Hush!” breathed Lance, whose back was all she could see. She noticed the twist of his lean body and knew that he was looking round and upward to see whether she was near, and instinctively she stepped back. This was the first time she had ever attempted to deceive Lance; it had seemed to her that the essence of their love was the absolute naturalness between them, the lack of all pretence.
Her heart thumped sickeningly because he was so afraid that she would overhear.
“Is he here?” the man whispered.
“No. What the hell made you come here?”
“I wanted to clarify a couple of matters,” the other replied.
“Don’t be a bloody fool, you didn’t have to! My God, you’re so hot you could set the bloody place on fire!”
Each word, trapped somewhere in the shop, travelled with soft clarity up the well of the staircase, and although the men were whispering they might almost have been standing by Christine’s side. She moved nearer the kitchen door, where she could see more of the shop and yet be in less danger of being seen if they looked up. Now she could see the whole of Lance’s body, except the top of his head, and she could see the stranger, sidewise to her, up as far as his chest. He wore a beige-coloured suit and beautifully polished brown shoes.
What did Lance mean by “You’re so hot you could set the bloody place on fire?”
What did “hot” mean?
The very question was self-deceit. She knew, of course. No one who read or watched crime stories could be in any doubt and yet she did not want to believe that Lance was using the term so freely.
“I came because I no longer trust you, or Robin,” the stranger said. “I think you’re planning to keep all the money you get for it.”
“It.” What did he mean? What was “it?”
“Robin told you to—”
“Robin told me he could dispose of it in less than twelve hours,” the other man said. He raised his voice very slightly, as if in anger. “Did you or did you not?” He spoke well but with slight over precision, and he sounded - the thought impinged itself on Christine’s mind without making a deep impression - as if he were tired.
“Keep your voice down!” Lance said softly. “There—there was a delay. It wasn’t our fault, there was a hitch. You’ll get your money.”
“I want to see either it or the money now,” the man said flatly.
“What?”
“And I mean to have one or the other. Because I have to leave the country at once.”
“Why? What’s the hurry?”
“I am being watched.”
“My God!” Lance gasped. “You’re being watched and you come here!”
“I’ve already waited four days longer than I said I would. Lance—”
“Get out of here!”
“I will not go without one or the other,” the caller said, and a touch of anger sounded in his voice-. “After that, I’m through.”
“Like hell you’re through!” Lancelot paused, and Christine pressed back against the kitchen door trying to see the stranger more fully. At last, she succeeded. He was not as tall as Lance but was just as lean, with a long, rather delicate face. He wore a modern-shaped trilby hat with a narrow brim, and there was a not-quite-English look about him.
Lancelot’s whisper, curiously magnified, echoed yet again.
“Go away. Go away and wait until—”
“No,” the man said. “Not now. I won’t wait. I don’t trust you. If Robin hadn’t killed the others, or fixed it, anyway—”
“Shut up!” Lancelot said in anguish, craning his neck right round, but obviously he could not see Christine, and could have no idea of the clarity with which every word they uttered travelled upward. “Get out, quick. I’ll tell Robin and he’ll come and pay you.”
“You don’t seem to understand me,” the other said harshly. “The moment you committed murder, I was through with waiting.”
He put his right hand beneath his jacket, fumbled for a
moment, then drew out a small automatic pistol, while Christine watched as if turned to stone. She felt as if she were living through a nightmare. Soon, she thought, soon I shall wake up. There was no moment of walking.
“Put that away!” Lance gasped.
“Get me the picture,” the stranger ordered flatly “Get it now - or give me the rest of the money. Fifty-one thousand pounds, plus what you took from the others.”
“You know I can’t—”
“Get it, now!” the stranger grated.
There was a pause, which dragged out for what seemed a long time. Then, slowly, deliberately, the stranger raised his gun until at last Lance muttered: “He—he’ll kill you for this.”
“If I don’t kill him first,” said the stranger. “Get it!”
Lance moved; Christine could hear furniture being shifted, scraping on the floor. The man with the gun was watching something out of sight. Then, suddenly, Lance appeared with what seemed a roll of canvas and handed it to the caller, who put his gun away and took the canvas gently. Christine could not fail to notice the care with which he handled it, how his long and delicate fingers hovered for a few moments before he drew away.
“You won’t get a penny,” Lance whispered. “You’ll never find a market!”
“But I will live,” the other said, and turned - and as he turned he started violently and backed into Lance. Lance moved quickly, to avoid him. Now Christine could see both of them from the back, and sensed they were staring at something in or near the shop doorway.
She was at screaming pitch.
What could it be, who could it be? She heard the shop door and footsteps sound, and then the door closed. The man who had the canvas put his hand to his pocket, and pulled out a gun, but suddenly Lance moved and snatched the gun from his fingers, then sprang back out of reach. The strange thing was that Lance still seemed terrified. A man walked firmly toward the others, who stood as if petrified. Then Lance moved, seemed to square his shoulders.
“Good—good morning, Officer,” he said huskily.
So it was a policeman!
Christine thought: Shot... murdered... killed... murdered... killed... policeman. And now the nightmare was even more vivid. The newcomer stopped in front of them and she could see the skirt of his tunic, the buttons, the buckle of his belt.
“So I fooled you,” Robin Kell said, in his unmistakable voice, and there was the bite of sarcasm in the way he spoke. “If I’d been the McCoy and not a stage policeman, you would have had the handcuffs on you by now; you even look as guilty as hell. What are you doing here? I told you to stay under cover with the loot.”
Suddenly, he broke off. There was a moment of utter silence as he turned toward the man with the canvas. He seemed to see the gun in Lance’s hand for the first time.
“What’s going on?” he demanded roughly. “Come on, tell me.”
“He—he came and demanded the rest of the money or—or the canvas,” gasped Lance. “He says he’s through. He had a gun, this gun. I had to give it to him.” He drew a deep breath. “But I wasn’t going to let him get away with it. I would have stopped him somehow.”
Into the silence that followed, the stranger said: “I want the money, Robin - the whole seventy-five thousand. Or the picture. And I want one or the other now.”
He made it seem as if it were he, and not Lance, standing behind him, who held the gun.
14: The Onslaught of Fear
Only then did the truth crash upon Christine. And yet how could it be? The Velazquez, the picture that had become the sensation of London, the sensation of the land. Suddenly most of what she had heard dropped into place, and, keyed up though she had been before, she was now much more conscious of danger. The realization ran through her mind, turning thought to tumult, and she stood motionless, almost too fearful to breathe.
“So you do, do you?” Robin began, in a rough voice “Well—”
“He’s been followed!” Lance blurted out. “We can’t do anything to him. He’s been followed by the police!”
“You told me that you would sell it in twelve hours and bring me the balance,” the unknown man said quite calmly. “You did not tell me that you would murder Jenkins and Slater in cold blood, and you did not tell me that I would have to wait.”
“The police are following him, I tell you,” Lance cried, then turned his head and stared up the staircase.
“I said that the police were watching me,” the stranger corrected. “If I take the picture, I will also take the risk.” He moved toward the door - toward Robin - the canvas under his arm “Tell him it won’t help to squeeze the trigger,” he went on. “The gun isn’t loaded.” After a pause, he said, “Let me pass.”
“You stay just where you are,” Robin Kell said savagely. “Lance, why did you give him the canvas? My God, what a bloody fool you are!”
At that instant, upheaval came below.
The stranger made a darting move forward, Robin’s hand descended on his arm, there was a choking scream, and the stranger staggered backward. As he thumped against a tall chest of drawers that rocked and rattled, Robin swept his other arm around and thrust Lance out of the way, then bounded up the stairs.
Halfway up, he saw Christine crouching back.
“I thought you were there,” he said. “So now you know.”
As he stopped and stared at her, lips tight and eyes glittering, she felt such an onslaught of terror that she could neither scream nor move. Robin seemed to stand there for an age, but it was only for a few seconds. Then he moved swiftly upward, vaulted over the handrail, gripped her hand, and spun her round, pushing her arm high up behind her, making pain streak through her elbow and her shoulder. He seemed to do everything in a series of movements that were part of one another, opening the door of the W.C. and thrusting her inside, letting her arm go, and then, while terror welled up and she felt as if her lungs would burst she wanted so desperately to scream, he brought the side of his hand onto the back of her neck in a savage chopping blow. Her head jolted backward, her neck felt as if it were breaking. She lost consciousness and slumped against the wall.
Robin Kell stepped out of the tiny closet, the key in his hand. He put it into the keyhole from the outside, turned it, and, when the lock had clicked, withdrew the key and dropped it into his pocket. Then he turned round to see Lancelot Judd staring at him from halfway up the stairs.
“You—you didn’t hurt her, did you?”
“I just put her to sleep.”
“If you’ve hurt her—”
“Look out!” exclaimed Robin. “I’m coming!” He placed a hand on the cold brass rail and vaulted, and Lance only just dodged to one side in time. Down below, sitting on a high-backed Jacobean chair, the other man - de Courvier - was nursing his arm. As Robin appeared, he got up and turned slowly toward the door, but he was obviously so sick with pain that he could walk only a few steps, and those swaying.
“Come back, Paul,” Robin ordered.
Paul de Courvier took an unsteady pace forward.
“Come back, or I’ll break the other arm,” Robin said through his teeth.
De Courvier stopped and slowly turned round. His right arm was twisted where it had been broken, and all the colour had drained out of his face. His eyes looked feverishly bright, and his thin lips were set tightly.
“When did you last see the police watching?” Robin demanded.
“At—at my flat,” the other answered.
“Are you sure they were watching you?”
“They followed—followed me twice.”
“Have they been to see you?”
“No.”
“Haven’t broken in when you’ve been out, have they?”
“No, there’s been no sign of a search,” de Courvier muttered. “I—I must go to a hospital. My arm—”
“You just answer my questions,” Robin Kell said callously. “How did you come here?”
“I borrowed someone’s car.”
“Borrowed?”
“A neighbour’s. He’s away.”
“Are you sure he’s away?”
“Of course I am sure! And we have an arrangement; we use each other’s cars sometimes. If you let me go now, I won’t talk. If you keep me here, I’ll tell the police everything, when they come.” De Courvier’s voice was thick with pain.
“Shut up! What car is your neighbour’s?”
“A white Jaguar. I tell you—”
“What’s all this about being through?” Robin interrupted harshly.
“I—I am through. I don’t want anything more to do with the job. Can’t you understand?”
“You can’t get away with it so easily,” Robin said, sneering. “You’ll do exactly what I tell you.”
“No!” de Courvier said, “I will do nothing more for you or with you. You lie about everything, and you kill without compunction. There was no need to murder Jenkins and Slater. There was no need to lie to me. Now you have your portrait, and if you really have a buyer you can keep my share of the money. I am finished. There is nothing you can do to make me—”
De Courvier broke off, and caught his breath, then seemed to hiss. Robin Kell moved with his remarkable ease and precision, hand going to his waistband, sliding out, blade of a knife glinting, then, with a swift movement, burying itself in de Courvier’s belly. And as he died, and swayed backward, Robin held his shoulders to keep him upright.
Without looking round, he said: “We’ll get rid of him after dark.”
Behind him, Lancelot Judd gasped, “You’re a cold-blooded swine.”
“Let’s just say I’m cold-blooded,” Robin retorted, and he half dragged the dead man behind a big wardrobe, almost too large for the shop, and propped him up on another high-backed chair.
“If you hurt Christine—”
“Don’t be a fool,” Robin interrupted. “We need Christine. You can have her for bed. I want her because she’ll open a lot of doors in Falconer House. If we handle this properly, and we’re going to, we’ll separate Falconer from most of his money. But we need Christine alive to do that.”