Hell Is Too Crowded v5)

by Jack Higgins

  For a moment she glared at him defiantly, and then her shoulders sagged. "I wish I'd never set eyes on you, you bastard. The party you want is Jane Gordon. She has a flat at Carley Mansions, Baker Street."

  "Where does she fit in?"

  Soames shrugged wearily. "I don't know. She got in touch with me some days ago, said a friend of hers wanted to contact somebody reliable in Manningham. Someone who could keep his mouth shut. I owed her a favour from way back. I put her on to Das."

  "But it was Haras who went to Manningham and gave Das his instructions," Brady said.

  "So that was the way Jane wanted to handle it," Soames said. "It was no skin off my nose. After you came snooping round my place this morning, I got in touch with her by phone. Told her I had you under lock and key. She asked me to hang on to you for the time being. Said she had to get in touch with someone else. Someone important. Promised to phone me back at six tonight, but it's after that now."

  "Carley Mansions, Baker Street," Brady said. He reached across her and opened the door. "If you haven't told me the truth, you'll be seeing me."

  "What I've told you is strictly kosher, lover," she said. "I've had enough of you to last me a lifetime."

  She scrambled out on to the pavement and made straight for the entrance to the tube station without looking back. Brady lit another cigarette and watched her, a slight frown on his face. He turned to Anne, who was leaning back in the corner of the seat, eyes closed. "Are you all right?"

  She opened her eyes and nodded wearily. "I'm fine, just fine. I feel as if I could go to bed for a week, that's all."

  "I'll be back in a couple of minutes," he said. "Then I'll take you straight home."

  He got out of the car and walked across to the tube station. Just inside the entrance, there was a row of phone booths. Soames was in the end one, talking animatedly. He watched her for a moment, a tiny frown on his face, and then turned and hurried back to the car.

  That she would get in touch with Jane Gordon was a chance he'd have to take. All it meant was that he would have to move much faster now.

  Despite the poor weather, the West End was crowded as usual and it took him longer to reach Kensington than he had counted on. It was nearly eight o'clock when he braked to a halt outside the house in the quiet square.

  Anne was a dead weight on his arm as he mounted the stairs to the flat. The drug seemed to have taken even greater control and he carried her into the bedroom, half-fainting, and quickly stripped the clothes from her slim body.

  She shivered slightly in the cool breeze from the window and he quickly pulled back the blankets and put her to bed. Her hair spread across the pillow, a dark halo round her head. She moaned once softly and he bent down and kissed her and then he quietly left the room.

  There was a map of central London in the glove compartment of the car and he quickly located Baker Street. It was no more than fifteen minutes away by car and he drove through light traffic, past Kensington Gardens and out into the Bayswater Road. Some inner caution prompted him to park the car near Bond Street tube station and he went the rest of the way on foot.

  Carley Mansions was an imposing block of flats at the Marylebone Road end of Baker Street. It looked extremely expensive. In a discreet gold-and-glass frame in the entrance there was a list of the residents. Miss Jane Gordon was listed as flat eight on the fourth floor.

  Inside, a brocaded porter sat in a glass booth and read a magazine. As Brady watched, the telephone started to ring. The porter picked it up and turned wearily, leaning against the counter, his back to the entrance.

  Brady didn't hesitate. He pushed open the heavy glass door, crossed the heavy carpet soundlessly, and went straight up the stairs.

  The whole place looked very new and the soundproofing was perfect. A stillness that was almost uncanny seemed to move ahead of him as he mounted to the fourth floor.

  Flat eight was the last one in the corridor. He knocked lightly on the door and waited. There was no reply. He knocked again and tried the handle. The door opened smoothly before him.

  The lights were on, but there was no one there. Several broad steps dropped down into a luxuriously furnished room, one side walled with glass, giving a magnificent view of London.

  He could see through the serving hatch into the kitchen. It was in darkness, but the bedroom door was slightly open and the light was on.

  It was the shoe he noticed first, lying in the middle of the carpet, slim and expensive, the stiletto heel somehow infinitely deadly.

  The rest of her was sprawled on her face at the end of the bed, her dress rocked up wantonly, one slim hand clawing at the carpet. Someone had shot her in the back twice at close quarters with a parabellum from the look of the wounds.

  She was only just dead, that much was obvious, and the faintly acrid taint of gunpowder still hung upon the air. He sighed heavily, crouched down and turned her over.

  The sight of her face was like a heavy blow in the stomach, delivered low down, taking the breath from his body, for this wasn't Jane Gordon. This was the woman he had known so briefly as Marie Duclos. The woman whose smashed and violated body he had last seen in the bedroom of her Chelsea apartment. The woman for whose murder he had been sentenced to death.

  For one single, terrifying moment, he thought he must be going mad, and then, quite suddenly, he was aware of the truth, or at least a part of it.

  He started to get to his feet and behind him there was a quiet movement. Even as he turned, pulling the .38 from his pocket, a hand thudded solidly against the nape of his neck and he slumped forward on to his face with a cry of pain.

  (9)

  WHEN he opened his eyes again, he was sprawled on his face beside the body. There was only one added refinement. In his right hand he was firmly clutching a Mauser automatic with an SS bulbous silencer fitted to the barrel.

  There was something familiar about it--something very familiar. It was the gun with which Anton Haras had tried to kill him in Manningham.

  He could not have been unconscious for more than five minutes; that much was obvious. He scrambled to his feet, sat on the edge of the bed and massaged his neck muscles.

  What a fool he'd been. What a blind, stupid fool. The smell of the gunpowder fresh on the air, the warmth of her body. It had been so obvious that she had only been dead for minutes. Perhaps the fatal shots had been fired as he was coming up the stairs and he had walked straight in like a lamb to the slaughter.

  One thing was certain. If the police caught him here, he was finished, which was obviously what Haras had intended. This time it would mean the death cell plus all the trimmings, right up to the bitter end one cold, grey morning.

  The room had been turned upside down, drawers pulled out, clothing scattered everywhere. It was hardly likely the Hungarian had overlooked anything incriminating.

  Brady moved out quickly into the other room. As he mounted the steps to the door, he paused. Draped across a chair, was a woman's light raincoat and underneath it was her handbag. Obviously she had intended going out. Perhaps only the arrival of Haras had prevented her.

  He emptied the bag on to the floor quickly and scattered its contents with one hand. There were a couple of banknotes, some coins, lipstick, jewelled powder compact and car keys.

  There was also a letter, newly opened, the stamp bearing the postmark of the day. It was addressed in neat angular handwriting to Miss Jane Gordon, Carley Mansions, Baker Street, and he took out the single sheet of paper quickly and examined it.

  It was the briefest of notes. Dear Jane, looking forward to seeing you tonight. I'll be free from nine o'clock onwards. Your loving mother.

  But it was the printed address at the head of the notepaper which he found most interesting. 2 Edgbaston Square, Chelsea. Marie Duclos had lived in Edgbaston Gardens. Now what was that supposed to mean?

  For a moment he remembered the street lined with narrow Victorian houses with the graveyard and the church at the end and something elemental stirred inside
him, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck. It was as if he was afraid--afraid to return to that place.

  He shrugged it off with a grim laugh and opened the door. Whatever happened, he was going back there. He had no choice.

  When he reached the hall, the porter was still drowsing over his magazine. Brady crossed to the door quickly and was already disappearing into the night as the man glanced up.

  As he hurried along the pavement, a bell sounded shrilly on the night, and a police car swung round the corner from the Marylebone Road and braked to a halt in front of Carley Mansions.

  Brady kept on walking, quickening his pace slightly. He turned into the bustle of Oxford Street a couple of minutes later, got into the car and drove away.

  There was a taste of fog in the air, that typical London fog that drifts up from the Thames, yellow and menacing, wrapping the city in its shroud.

  At least it made things easier for him. He passed a policeman standing on a corner by a crossing, moisture streaming from his cape. Brady braked to a halt to let someone cross over and the policeman waved him on. Brady grinned. What was it Joe Evans used to say? The best place to hide from a copper is right under his bleeding nose.

  They were probably watching the boats more than anything else, thinking he might try to get back to the States. He passed into Sloane Square and a few moments later, braked to a halt on the Embankment on the opposite side of the road to the spot where it had all begun.

  He stood under the same lamp, lit a cigarette and stared down at the river and for a single moment, time had no meaning--no meaning at all.

  He turned away and crossed the road and walked along the opposite pavement through the thickening fog. Rain dripped depressingly from the trees and most of the leaves had gone. He paused on the corner and looked up at the old blue-and-white enamel plate that said Edgbaston Gardens, and then moved on.

  The road repairs had long since been finished and the house was shuttered and dark. He gazed up at it, thinking about what had happened there, seeing the crowd tight against the railings, the man who had panicked like some hunted animal, with his back to the wall as they moved in on him. The beginning of a long nightmare.

  He passed the railings of the graveyard, beaded with moisture, silent and waiting. The church stood on a corner plot and out of some strange sixth sense he knew what he was going to find when he turned into the next street and examined the name plate. Edgbaston Square and number two was next to the church.

  He mounted the steps to the door. There was a light on in the porch and a neat card in a black metal frame said Madame Rose Gordon--visits by appointment only.

  A car was parked a few yards away and as he turned to look at it, he was aware of movement inside the house. He descended the steps quickly and melted into the shadows

  The door opened and a woman in a fur coat moved out into the porch. She turned and spoke to someone inside. "You've helped me more than I can say, my dear Madame Rose. I can't wait to see you again next week."

  Brady couldn't catch the reply, but the door closed and the woman in the fur coat descended the steps and walked to the car. A moment later she drove away.

  He stood there, for a minute, looking up at the house, a frown on his face and then he turned and walked back along the front of the church and went in through the main gate.

  The windows were like strips of rainbow in the night, misty and ill-defined like an impressionist painting and an organ sounded faintly. The tower was cocooned in a network of steel scaffolding and he skirted a heap of rubble and moved round to the back.

  He found the garden of Madame Rose's house with no difficulty. It was separated from the graveyard by a six-foot stone wall, at one end of which there was a narrow wooden door.

  It was locked. He tried it tentatively and then turned and picked his way through the gravestones to the other side. As he approached the garden at the rear of Marie Duclos's house, a quiet voice said, "Excuse me; but can I do anything for you?"

  He turned quickly. Standing in the patch of light thrown out by the side windows of the church was an old white-haired man in a shabby tweed jacket, his neck encircled by the stiff white collar of a priest.

  Brady moved towards him with a ready smile. "I know it must sound pretty crazy, but to tell you the truth I was looking for a headstone. I always understood my great-grandfather was buried somewhere in this churchyard."

  "Ah, an American," the old priest said. "Well, I don't think you'll have much luck tonight. Much better to come back tomorrow. As a matter of fact I'll be here myself in the morning. I could check in the parish register for you."

  Brady tried to put real regret into his voice. "It's kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid I'm flying out again tomorrow." He laughed lightly. "At least I've managed to see the church which is something."

  "It is rather lovely, isn't it?" the old man said and there was real enthusiasm in his voice. "Of course it was hit by a bomb during the war. That's one reason for the scaffolding round the tower. We can't put off the repairs any longer, but there are many features of interest."

  "It's a pity I'm not staying longer," Brady said. "I could have attended one of your services."

  "But I'm afraid that would have been quite out of the question," the old man said. "Ever since that bomb, the old place has been in such a shaky condition, we've never felt able to take the risk of allowing a congregation inside. I'm at another church now, not far away, but I like to visit here from time to time to keep the organ in trim and so on." He sighed. "I suppose they'll sell the site one of these days."

  "I noticed a gate in the wall leading into the garden of a house at the rear," Brady said. "Was that the vicarage?"

  The old man shook his head. "No, that used to be the sexton's house." He pointed across to the house in Edgbaston Gardens. "That used to be the vicarage."

  Brady tried to keep his voice steady. "I was having a drink in the pub round the corner and asking my way here. The landlord told me there was a shocking murder committed near the church some months ago."

  "Yes, I'm afraid so," the priest said. "A dreadful affair. The victim was a young woman who had the upstairs apartment in the old vicarage. It was all most distressing."

  "I'm sure it must have been," Brady said. He turned and looked across at the house. "There's one thing puzzles me. The sexton had a short-cut to the church through the gate in his garden wall, but you didn't. That must have been very inconvenient."

  "Oh, but I did," the priest assured him. "You wouldn't notice it in the dark; in fact you'd have to look twice in daylight to see it. There's a gate set in the railings at the end of the garden. I was only noticing the other day, it's almost completely blocked with rhododendron bushes. I don't suppose it's been used for years."

  "No, I don't suppose it has." They were back at the front of the church and Brady pulled up his collar against a sudden flurry of rain. "Well, I've imposed on your time for too long. I really must be going."

  The old man smiled. "Not at all, it's been a pleasure talking to you. I'm only sorry you haven't got time to come back tomorrow."

  Brady went down the path quickly and behind him, the door opened and closed again. The rain was falling softly through the sickly yellow glow of the street lamp as he turned into Edgbaston Square and mounted the steps to number two. He pressed the bell-push and waited.

  Steps shuffled along the corridor inside and he could see a shadowy figure through the frosted glass. The door clicked and opened a few inches and an old woman looked out at him.

  Her hair was drawn back in a tight, old-fashioned bun, the face old and wrinkled, long jet ear-rings hanging down on either side. It was a face he had seen before, peering from behind the door of the downstairs apartment on the night Marie Duclos was murdered.

  He kept well back in the shadows. "Madame Rose?" he said.

  She nodded. "That's right." Her voice was old and strangely lifeless, like dry, dead leaves whispering through a forest in the evening.

  "I
wonder if you could spare me a few moments of your time?"

  "You wish to consult the stars?"

  He nodded. "That's right. I was told you could help me."

  "I only take clients by appointment, young man," she said. "I have to be very careful. The police are most strict in these matters."

  "I'm only in London for a brief visit," he told her, keeping to the same formula. "I'm flying out in the morning."

  She sighed. "Oh, very well, but I can only spare you half an hour. I'm expecting a visitor."

  The hall was gloomy and oak-panelled. He waited for her to close the door and when she turned and looked up at him she frowned slightly. "Your face seems strangely familiar. Are you sure we've never met?"

  "I'm an American," he said. "This is my first visit to England."

  "I must be mistaken."

  She led the way along the corridor, pulled back a dark velvet drape and opened a heavy door.

  The room into which they entered was strangely subdued, cut-off from the street by heavy curtains, the only light a single lamp on a small table. There was a fake electric log fire in the hearth and the room was unpleasantly warm. Brady unbuttoned his raincoat and sat down at the table.

  The old woman sat opposite him, several books at her elbow, a pad of blank paper before her. She picked up a pencil. "Give me your date of birth, the place and the exact time. The time is most important, so please be accurate."

  He told her and looked over her shoulder into the shadows crowding out of the corners, beating against the pool of light thrown out by the lamp. He wondered what he was going to say next, but decided to wait until she gave him an opening.

  She consulted several books, making quick notes on the pad and finally grunted. "Do you believe in astrology, young man?"

  "I wouldn't be here if I didn't," he said.

  She nodded. "You are ambidextrous?"

  It was more a statement of fact than a question and he said in some surprise, "Yes, that's right. How did you know?"

  "Many of those born under the sign of Scorpio are," she said and consulted her notes. "Life for you is often a battleground."