by Jack Higgins
"You can say that again," Brady told her.
She nodded calmly. "Mars, Sun and Neptune in conjunction on the mid-heaven will result in a certain sharpness of tongue and temper. Your map shows signs of a dangerous, almost explosive, tendency to violence in your character. You tend to regard everyone you meet with suspicion. You are your own worst enemy."
Brady sat back in his chair and harsh laughter erupted from his mouth. "I think that's bloody marvellous."
The old woman looked across at him, eyes glinting in the lamplight. "You appear to find something humorous in what I have just said, young man."
"And that's the understatement of the age," Brady replied.
She carefully piled her books one on top of the other and gathered her papers. "Who did you say recommended me to you?"
"I didn't," Brady said, "But as a matter of fact, it was your daughter, Jane Gordon."
"Indeed?" the old woman frowned. "We shall see. I'm expecting her to arrive at any moment."
"You'll have to wait a long time, Mrs. Gordon," he said calmly. "She's dead."
Her face seemed to wither before his very eyes, to wrinkle into a yellowing sheet of parchment. Her hand went up to her mouth and she coughed convulsively and then she started to choke horribly.
Brady moved round to her side and noticed that she was tugging at the handle of a drawer with one hand. He jerked it open and found a small glass phial of white tablets. There was water on the sideboard. He filled a glass quickly and brought it back to her and she forced two of the tablets into her mouth and washed them down.
After a moment, she sighed and a dry sob bubbled up from her throat. "My heart," she said. "Must be careful about sudden shocks."
"I'm sorry," he said. "It isn't the sort of news one can wrap up in pretty paper with a pink ribbon, not the way it happened."
The strange thing was that she appeared to accept the fact that he was telling the truth without question. "Who killed her?"
"A man called Haras," Brady said. "Anton Haras. Do you know him?"
"I know him," she said, nodding her head, the black eyes staring into the darkness. "I know him." She turned and looked straight at him. "Who are you, young man?"
"Matthew Brady," he said simply.
"Ah, yes," she said softly. "I think I knew that you would come, a long time ago."
"You were there in the house that night, weren't you?" he said. "Who was the man with your daughter?"
"Miklos Davos," she said in a whisper.
Brady frowned. "You mean the oil-king?"
She nodded. "Some people say he is the richest man in the world, Mr. Brady. I only know that he is the most evil."
"Tell me what happened that night," Brady said.
Remembering, her voice seemed to be on another plane. "My daughter was engaged in a shameful trade, Mr. Brady. She was a Madame, a brothelkeeper, call it what you will. She had much property in her name, most of which really belonged to Davos."
"Was she in love with him?"
"Love?" The old woman laughed harshly. "She was completely under his influence. For her, he could do no wrong. For his sake, she produced a succession of young women to satisfy his morbid desires to inflict pain. He was a brutal and perverted sadist, ceaselessly searching for new sensation."
"And where did Marie Duclos fit in?"
The old woman shrugged. "She was a French girl he took a particular fancy to, I don't know why. She was installed in the upstairs apartment and the other tenant removed. For two months he visited her ceaselessly."
"By way of the churchyard?" Brady said.
She shook her head. "No, he only used that method during the week that the road was being repaired. He didn't want the nightwatchman to see him entering the house."
"But why did he kill the girl?"
"She tried to blackmail him. A foolish thing to do--he was liable to the most insane rages. When he came for my daughter that night, I followed them back through the churchyard and listened while he told her what he had done. Her only worry was that he might come to harm."
"What did you do?" Brady said.
She shrugged. "What could I do? I'm an old woman and I was listening to a daughter who had become a stranger to me. He told her there was a way out, that all they needed was a scapegoat to satisfy the police. They didn't need to look far with the Embankment at the bottom of the street. The first drunk on the first bench would do."
"And that happened to be me," Brady said bitterly.
A slight breeze touched the back of his neck and the door creaked. He turned slowly, his hand sliding into his raincoat pocket and a familiar voice said, "Please to stand very still, Mr. Brady."
Haras moved into the room, the lamplight glinting on his spectacles. Brady raised his arms slowly and the Hungarian removed the Mauser and slipped it into his pocket.
"Now you may put down your arms."
He was holding the .38 and there was a confident smile on his face. "Sorry I've been delayed, but I was caught in a traffic jam in Oxford Street and missed you. I was waiting outside Carley Mansions, by the way. It was quite depressing to see you scuttle out ahead of the police, but somehow, I thought you might be coming here. You've really done quite well, Brady."
"For the first drunk on the first bench," Brady said bitterly.
"So, the old goat has been opening her mouth, has she?" The Hungarian smiled genially. "We'll have to do something about that."
He was standing well back from the table, a confident smile on his face. Madame Rose glared up at him fixedly. "You filthy swine," she said and started to get to her feet.
"Stay where you are!" Haras ordered.
As the Hungarian's eyes flickered to the old woman, Brady seized the lamp and pulled it from its socket, plunging the room into darkness.
Haras fired twice and the old woman screamed and crumpled to the floor. She lay in the patch of light thrown out by the electric fire and blood poured over her face from a gaping wound in the forehead.
Brady crouched for a moment at the side of a large wing-backed chair and then started to crawl round the back of the old-fashioned horse-hair sofa, making for the door.
Haras was still standing by the table and Brady could see the dark bulk of him in the slight glow of the electric fire.
"You can't get away, Brady," he said. "You don't stand a chance. I've got both the guns."
Brady remembered there had been four rounds in the .38 and Haras had fired two of them. He crouched between a chair and the wall a couple of yards from the door and carefully lifted a small china cat from a coffee-table beside him.
"I'm running out of patience, Brady," Haras said and there was an edge of anger in his voice.
Brady lobbed the cat across the room into the far corner. As it smashed against the wall, the Hungarian turned and fired twice in rapid succession. Brady jumped for the door, wrenched it open and darted along the corridor to the rear of the house.
Behind him there was a cry of rage. He ran into a large kitchen and made straight for the door at the far end. It was locked and as he fumbled desperately with the key, he heard the peculiar muffled cough of the silenced Mauser and a bullet scattered splinters of wood above his head.
He got the door open and went down a flight of steps two at a time into the garden. Ahead of him loomed the high wall and beyond it was the churchyard.
When he paused at the little wicker gate, Haras was already halfway along the path. Brady raised his foot and stamped twice at the gate, splintering the flimsy wood around the lock. As the Mauser coughed again, he was through and crouching as he ran between the gravestones.
Light still drifted out through the great windows, staining the thickening fog in vivid colours and he dodged behind a high tomb and listened. There was no sound and after a moment or two, he moved between the gravestones, keeping his head down, skirted the base of the tower, and paused.
The organ was playing again, muted and far away. Brady could feel the sweat on his face. The drive s
tretched before him, the gate to the street stood open. He moved forward and Haras stepped out from behind a flying buttress ten yards away, the lamplight glinting on his spectacles.
The Hungarian had obviously circled the church from the other side. As he raised the Mauser, Brady stepped back into the darkness at the base of the tower and started to climb the network of steel scaffolding.
Within a few moments, the fog had swallowed him and he made good progress, swinging expertly from pole to pole. Within a couple of minutes, he heaved himself up on to a narrow catwalk and realized there was no farther to go.
He stood there, ears strained for the slightest sound. There was a long silence and a cold wind lifted through the fog, chilling him so that he shivered despite himself.
He started to work his way along the catwalk and then suddenly, a board creaked and Haras said softly, "I know you're there, Brady."
The Mauser coughed, the bullet whispering away into the night and Brady moved back carefully, removing his raincoat at the same time.
As he got the coat off, his foot caught against a length of iron piping which rolled across the catwalk and disappeared over the edge.
Haras moved forward quickly, arm outstretched. He fired once, the bullet ricocheting from a steel stanchion, and Brady tossed the raincoat into his face. The Hungarian gave a muffled cry of alarm, staggered back, and stepped off the end of the catwalk into space. For one frozen second he seemed suspended in mid-air and then the fog swallowed him up.
Brady's hands were shaking and his shirt was damp with his sweat, but without hesitating, he went over the edge of the catwalk and started to climb down.
Haras lay on his back in the path, a good fifteen or twenty yards from the base of the tower and the old priest knelt beside him. He looked up as Brady approached.
"Is he dead?" Brady said.
The old man nodded. "I'm afraid so."
The Hungarian's eyeballs had retracted and he stared sightlessly up at Brady, blood on his mouth. "He killed a woman a few minutes ago," Brady said. "Back there in what used to be the sexton's old house."
The old priest got to his feet slowly. "You mean Mrs. Gordon? But why?" He moved closer and stared up into Brady's face and something clicked. "You're Matthew Brady, aren't you? You're the man the police are looking for. I saw your picture in the paper tonight."
Brady turned and walked away quickly. Once in the street, he started to run.
A few moments later, he was driving away.
(10)
MIKLOS DAVOS lived in Mayfair, he got that much from the directory of the first phone booth he came to. When he went back to the car, his hands were still trembling and he lit a cigarette before driving away.
By now the old priest would have got in touch with the police and they would know that he was on the loose in London. Once they had connected the deaths of Jane Gordon, her mother, and Haras, the hunt would be up with a vengeance.
He had only one chance. To get to Davos, to squeeze the truth out of him, because he was the only person left on earth who knew the real facts.
As he took the car expertly through the heavy traffic, he tried to remember what he knew about Davos. It wasn't very much.
He was of Hungarian extraction, which explained the link-up with Haras. A strange enigmatic figure, he shunned publicity like the plague. It was said that he virtually controlled the oil-supply of the Western world. A ruthless man, an empire-builder who crushed all opposition mercilessly.
Brady's jaw tightened as he turned the car into a quiet street off Park Lane. Perhaps it was time someone cut Mr. Davos down to size.
The houses were Georgian and beautifully restored. There seemed to be a party going on and parked cars stretched in a line down one side of the street.
Davos lived at number twenty. Brady found space for the car and then mounted the steps to the front door and pressed the bell-push.
He could hear laughter from somewhere inside and music and after a moment or two, there was a protesting curse on the other side of the door and it was flung back with a crash against the wall.
The man who faced him was very drunk. He was wearing a corduroy jacket and fringe beard and his eyes were wet blobs in the pale face.
"Well, if you intend to stand there all night, old man, that suits me fine," he said cheerfully and turned away.
The corridor was dimly lit by candles. A tremendous hubbub from the far end indicated the vortex of the party although delighted cries and fast beat music sounded from a room on his right as he passed.
He entered the room at the end of the corridor and found himself on the edge of a noisy articulate throng. Everybody seemed to be talking to everybody else at the tops of their voices. The windows were blacked out and the light came from candles stuck into old wine bottles and placed at various strategic points around the room.
Brady was puzzled. This wasn't the sort of party he would have expected a man like Miklos Davos to give. It took him straight back to the old days, living in Greenwich Village when he was a student at Columbia. The men seemed to have longer hair than the girls and most of them sported beards.
The bar was an improvised affair in one corner and consisted of planks laid across a couple of beer barrels. The barman seemed to be having a hard time keeping up with the demand and Brady helped himself to a beer and moved away.
On the whole, the crowd was an unsavoury bunch and most of them were already drunk and spoiling for mischief. Somebody was trying to stand on his hands on a table and drink a glass of beer at the same time. There was a delighted roar from the crowd as he lost his balance and Brady, turning away, was pushed hard against a young girl, knocking the glass from her hand.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll get you another. What was it?"
"Oh, that's all right. I'd rather have a cigarette if you've got one," she said.
She couldn't have been more than seventeen, her face round and unformed and pale with excitement as she looked around her.
He gave her a cigarette and she lit it inexpertly. "Isn't this marvellous?" she said brightly.
"Just great," Brady assured her. "Who's giving the party, anyway?"
Her eyes went round with surprise. "You mean to say you don't know?"
He grinned. "I just got into town. Some friends of mine were invited so they brought me with them. It all happened in something of a rush."
"That explains it," she said. "Lucia's giving the party. Lucia Davos. Haven't you ever met her?"
He shook his head. "I don't think so. I've only just got over here from the States."
"Oh, an American?" The girl smiled. "She'll like that. If you want to meet her, you'll find her in the other room singing with the band."
A hand reached out, grabbed her by the arm and the crowd swallowed her. Brady pushed his way through to the door and went along the corridor to the other room. As he paused in the doorway, a young maid in black-and-white uniform moved past him, her tray piled high with empty glasses. There were dark smudges of fatigue under her eyes and he felt a momentary pang of sympathy as a drunk stumbled against her, sending several glasses tumbling to the floor.
Brady picked them up quickly and replaced them on the tray. "You don't look too good," he said. "Can you manage?"
She smiled up at him gratefully. "Don't worry about me. They've had it. I'm going to put my feet up in the kitchen and have a smoke and a cup of tea."
She turned away and Brady went into the front room. A three-piece combo played softly, but with a beat and a girl sat on the piano, legs crossed, and sang a low, throaty blues.
She didn't really have much of a voice, but there was something there, a touch of the night, perhaps. A dying fall. The little girl who had been born to everything and had found already that she had nothing.
With her cropped hair and lack of make-up, the slim, boyish figure in the knitted dress looked strangely sexless. When she finished, there was scattered applause and someone shouted, "Another one, Lucia!"
She shoo
k her head. "Maybe later. I need a drink."
She slid down to the floor and the combo started to play good and loud, the sounds reverberating from the walls. There was a tray of Martinis on a table near the wall and Brady took one and pushed his way towards her.
She was leaning on the piano, beating time with one hand. When he offered her the drink, she turned to thank him, and a slight frown creased her brow. "I don't know you," she said.
"I came with a crowd," he told her. "I like your song. I think you've really got something."
Her eyes were slightly glazed and he knew that she had already had too much to drink. "You an American?" she demanded.
He nodded. "Just got in today."
She was still frowning, eyeing him up and down. After a moment she said, "I know what's wrong with you. You are the only man in the room wearing a suit."
Brady glanced round quickly. The strange thing was that she was right. He stuck out like a sore thumb. "Who did you say you came with?" she demanded.
"Okay, Miss Davos," he said and shrugged as if giving in. "I suppose I'd better come clean. I was hoping for an interview with your father."
"A newspaperman." She swallowed her Martini. "I thought it was something like that. Well, you're wasting your time. My father never gives interviews. In any case, he's out of town."
"Perhaps if you could tell me where he is," Brady persisted. "He might be willing to make an exception. It would be a real scoop for me."
She looked straight at him and said in her dry, remote voice, "Look, you're beginning to bore me. If I were you, I'd finish my drink and leave."
She turned away as the music lifted to a crescendo and Brady faded into the anonymity of the crowd. He slipped out through the door and moved back into the other room, his mind working desperately. Somehow, he had to find where Davos had gone, but how?
There was a sudden roar and a girl was lifted up on to the bar. Someone started to clap rhythmically and the crowd took it up. The girl was handsome in a bold, sluttish way and obviously very drunk. She started to strip.
There was no great artistry in her performance. She simply took off her clothes as if she was getting ready for bed and threw each article to the delighted crowd. As she started to unfasten her brassiere, Brady turned away. He stood there in the corridor, oblivious to the roar of the crowd, and then he remembered the maid.