by Desmond Cory
Smith said nothing, but continued to scowl at the ceiling, through a thin blue haze of cigarette smoke.
The door opened and Johnny Fedora came in. He was wearing one of his own suits again, with a tie that hurt Crashaw’s eyes; he hadn’t bothered to take his hat off, and it clung to the back of his head at a disrespectful angle. Smith glanced at him and painfully averted his gaze, muttering some inaudible remarks about “bloody Yanks”. He was definitely in a bad temper.
Johnny waved cheerily to Crashaw, bounced over and sat on the desk. He inserted a cigarette into one comer of his mouth and said, “Hiya, chief. What’s cookin’?”
Smith whispered to Douglas. “I wish I could have a small bet on him saying that.”
Crashaw coughed, regarded Johnny with a bloodshot blue eye and said, “You’d be surprised, Fedora. I’ve been looking for you all the afternoon.”
“Well, I’ve been around,” said Johnny, lighting his cigarette. “The club, mostly. Here – I’ve got something for you.” He felt inside his coat and placed Murray’s hat on the desk. “Murray’s titfer, as my friend Thaxter would describe it.”
“Good show,” said Crashaw. “Where d’you grab it?”
“Off the road, near the crash,” said Johnny. “Matter of fact, we don’t have to worry about that now. He’s not important.”
Smith groaned. “We spend nearly all the morning working something out,” he said, “and now he says it’s unimportant. I’m going back in the Army. Why isn’t it important, anyway?”
“Not from your point of view, anyway,” said Johnny. “You’ll never arrest the chap that did it now, will you?”
Crashaw grinned. “He’s right there,” he admitted.
“And I told you he’d worked it out… But look, Fedora. Why the hell did you make that ’phone call about Jack Harris?”
“I’m coming to that,” said Johnny. “Why… have you got him?”
Smith suddenly grinned. “Oh, no,” he said. “He’s unimportant from our point of view. We’ll never arrest him either.”
Johnny stared at him. He said, “Dead?”
Smith said, “Yes. Dead.”
Johnny said, “How?”
Smith said, “Crashed into the sea last night, coming back from France. Witnessed by the crew of a fishing-boat, but no traces found.”
“I tried to tell you over the ’phone,” said Crashaw wearily. “But you hung up on me. Since then I’ve been going over his life with a hair-tooth comb, so I hope you had some reason for asking.”
“I certainly did,” said Johnny. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing derogatory, apart from the fact that Spencer tells me he has around five thousand pounds in the Midland Bank, mostly unexplained. Spencer’s out now, trying to find how he got it.”
Johnny stood up, “I’ll tell you how he got it,” he said. “By flying drugs from France to England every other weekend. And I’ll tell you how they paid him. By seeing that he won good money at roulette about once a month; the same way as they paid Winthrop and the rest of the distributors. It’s a hell of a good way to get money without arousing suspicion.”
Crashaw said slowly, “ By God!” And then, “How did you find that out?”
“I found out how it’s done,” said Johnny. “The stuff’s dropped by parachute near the ‘Three of Clubs’, and somebody picks it up an’ stows it away. I’ll tell you how I worked that one out if you’re interested.”
Crashaw sat back and said, “Go ahead. I’ll bet it makes a good story anyway.”
Johnny fished in his pocket and drew out the strip of torn silk that he had found that morning. “Here you are,” he said. “I found that clingin’ to a bush on the hills above the club. That could either be a slice of a widow’s petticoat or a bit of parachute, dyed black to blend with the night sky. I know which of the two I think it is. What’s more, about a second after I picked that up somebody opened up on me with a man-size pea-shooter; which might mean that trespassers around there are liable to be more than prosecuted.”
Crashaw examined the silk carefully and laid it on the desk. He said, “Go on. Then what happened?”
“Then somethin’ happened to clinch it,” said Johnny solemnly. He leant over the desk and jabbed his cigarette at Crashaw’s face. “Look, Crashaw. Imagine you’re a pilot, flyin’ on a pitch-black night, and you’ve got a parachute load to drop. How are you going to know where to drop it? Go on, you tell me.”
“You’d have to have some sort of ground signal,” said Crashaw. “Chap with a torch, or an Aldis Lamp, or – or an —”
“Or a flarepath?” suggested Johnny. “How about three green lights in a row, hanging on the side of a house? All you’d have to do is fly over and drop the stuff a couple of hundred yards farther north. Nothing to a bloke like Harris, who’s been dropping arms to the Maquisards on a green about the size of a handkerchief, lit by a couple of candles. He couldn’t miss it.”
Crashaw said “Mmmm.” Then he said, “Y’know, I don’t think it’s you who’re so bright, Fedora. It’s just me who’s been a bloody fool.”
Johnny grinned. He said, “Well, now the fun begins.”
Crashaw said, “Yes. We’ve got on to it just too late. Once more and we’d have nabbed ’em.”
Johnny nodded. “They’re not landing any more,” he said. “They’ve finished with Harris an’ they’ve made sure he won’t talk. That means they’ve got all the stuff they want and they think they can afford to be just the least bit rough.” He got up and walked over to the fireplace. “I was afraid something like this’d happen when they bumped Robson in such a free-an’-easy manner.”
“How d’you think they killed Harris?” asked Smith.
Johnny shrugged his shoulders. “Some sort of delayed action drug,” he suggested. “He probably thought it was a stick of glucose. They probably bump ’em off to a sort of drill by now; an’ if they get away with it there’ll be dozens of crack pilots goin’ off pop, ’planes vanishin’ without trace an’ the name of any British air line’ll be mud. If they can do it to Harris they can do it to anybody; that’s what they’re after an’ that’s why we’ve got to stop ’em.” He sat down by the fire and closed his eyes, apparently fatigued by this peroration.
Crashaw sat still for a long moment, chin cupped meditatively in his hands. He said, “How about this chap who fired at you?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Johnny, opening one eye. “There’s another thing. Malinsky’s hidin’ out near the club – in the joint for all I know.”
“You told me,” said Crashaw. “Confidentially, I’ve had the place watched since noon. But nothing’s happened so far.” ,
“It did this morning,” said Johnny gloomily. “Look at it this way. He must have seen me snooping about this morning, an’ I can’t believe he was just roamin’ around with a rifle. He got one after he saw me, went out an’ just failed to end my life’s history. Only place he could have seen me from were the club buildings; they’re big enough, y’know; a bloke could hide there easily enough, in some deserted cranny.”
“Well,” said Crashaw. “If he tries to snoop out again, we’ll get him.”
Chapter Thirteen
GANN
JOHNNY clambered back into the driving-seat of his car, stripped off his soaking mackintosh and lit a cigarette. For the last ten minutes he had been swearing in fluent Spanish, American and French, and he had just returned to Spanish again. There is no language like Spanish for swearing in, and Johnny, picking and pronouncing his words with care, was feeling rather better. It is never an easy job changing a punctured tyre for a new one single-handed, and when rain is pouring down with tropical fury it becomes a job for a superman. Moreover, the luminous hands of the watch strapped to the inside of Johnny’s left wrist pointed to five minutes to seven; and the “Three of Clubs” lay a good five miles away over the winding roads of the South Downs.
Johnny felt in his coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper covered with the sprawling h
andwriting of Eileen Gardner. It said “Be at the club by seven o’clock tonight. Keep an eye on D.K. Peter H.” Johnny knew what it said all right; he crumpled it up and threw it out the door. He closed the door and lit a cigarette. He watched the rain hurtling itself madly against the windscreen; let in the clutch and switched on the windscreen wipers. He sat slumped in the seat, his foot jammed firmly against the accelerator, and watched the hedges streaking by in the glare of the headlights. The road was greasy in the rain and tricky in the darkness; Johnny began to swear again, monotonously through one side of his mouth.
Just his luck to get a wet night, and just his luck to get a puncture on it. Jerry always had all the luck. He wondered what the hell Holliday had up his sleeve; why he wanted an eye kept on Davida Kane. When he had received that note he had smelt trouble as a dog smells rats. The last time Johnny had had that curious, ominous feeling in his stomach had been just before he had killed Colonel Neumann of the Gestapo one night in Monaco, and had got out by the skin of his teeth with half his scalp torn off by a Schmeisser bullet. That show hadn’t been a pretty one and, by God, this one wasn’t either.
Just how was Davida Kane coming into the picture anyway? She had been useful to him earlier, yes: she was beautiful and she was interesting, but why should Holliday be interested? Had she been working in with Harris, or what? Johnny was used to this feeling of swimming in a sea of ink, but it was this sense of being carried by some unknown current that was frightening him. But there it was; Holliday was placing the field and all you could do was accept the odds, whether you liked them or not.
Johnny moved slightly in his seat, felt in his armpit the hard outline of his automatic pistol in its soft leather holster. His face was reflected dimly in the glass of the side windows; an expressionless phantom with a glowing cigarette-end illuminating its features. His gloved hands were steady on the wheel, steering with a kind, of impassionate intentness. Johnny’s hands were firm and his eyes good and his nerves piano-strung; he should have made a wonderful driver, but he was only average. Not for the first time he bitterly regretted the fact. He was going to be late.
The car wandered on through the night. To a watcher up on the hills the headlights would seem to be moving slowly, but the car was maintaining a steady pace that was covering the ground with surprising speed. It was only a few minutes after seven when Johnny topped the last rise for the second time that day and saw over to the south the twinkling lights of Brighton, while much nearer lay the bright glare of the “Three of Clubs” with its three green lights shining motionlessly and almost uncannily above it. Johnny took the car down the hill in a series of swoops, turned up the drive and finally skidded to a halt just clear of the front entrance. He shut off the engine, threw his hat on to the back seat and ran through the pouring rain up the steps and into the entrance. He stood there for a moment, brushed the larger drops from his shoulders and walked over to the stairway. He said to the hat-check girl, “Seen Miss Kane anywhere?”
She said, “No, sir. Perhaps she’s in the roulette room.”
Johnny said, “Yeah, perhaps she is.” He grinned at her and walked quickly up the stairs. He hesitated for a second before the door and then went in.
The ante-room was empty. Johnny had expected to see Paul Gann in his usual chair, but he wasn’t there. There was a subdued buzz from the inside room that indicated that the evening’s festivities were well under way.
Johnny walked in, leant against the door and looked round. There were twenty or thirty people there, grouped around the fire and one of the tables, but Davida wasn’t one of them. He didn’t know anybody there, except for Annette Trevor, who was leaning against the bar and talking to a small blonde and a Naval Officer. Then the blonde turned her head slightly and he saw it was Pat East, with the same naval escort as before. She had dyed her hair, and looked completely different.
Johnny lit a cigarette, glanced once more round the room and then walked slowly over to the bar. He said, “Evenin’, pub-crawlers.”
The female crawlers turned round and made signs of approval and recognition. Lieutenant Howard also turned, but he didn’t seem particularly pleased. Johnny wondered why.
“Well, how’s it going?” he said affably. “Hi, Lieutenant.”
“Evenin’,” said Tubby. He returned to his glass of beer. “I saw you come in,” said Pat mischievously. “Who were you looking for? Not me, I hope.”
“Well, no,” said Johnny. “Davida, to be honest. I’ll look for you next time, sugar.”
“Aha,” said Pat pleasedly. “You’ve been let down, Romeo. She’s not coming here this evening.”
“Not coming here?”
“No. She ’phoned up to say she’s had bad news and she wasn’t feeling too good, so she was staying at home. Isn’t that too bad of her?”
Hell, thought Johnny. She must have read about Harris in the paper. Now what do I do? Holliday wants me to go to the club and keep an eye on Davida, and I can’t do both things at the same time. Just another fine mess he’s got me into.
Annette smiled at Pat and said, “You’re too late anyway, Johnny. Somebody was here ten minutes ago, turning the place upside down for her.”
Johnny said, “Oh, yes?”
“Good-looking chap in a smashing uniform,” added Pat. “Said he had an important letter to her from Jack Harris. I think he asked nearly everybody in the club for her address.”
Johnny was staring at her curiously. My God, he thought, here it is. He said, “Did he get it in the end?”
Pat laughed and said, “Well, I gave it him, Mr Trevor gave it him and the band-leader gave it him, so I think he must have got it all right.”
Johnny looked at his wrist-watch, looked up at her and said, “Do you know where she lives, Pat? How to get there, I mean?”
“Yes,” said Pat, she looked puzzled. “That is, yes, why?”
Johnny suddenly grabbed her wrist. “C’mon, Pat,” he said, “Don’t ask questions. If we don’t get there in double-quick time I think something nasty may happen to her, that’s all.”
“All right,” said Pat, half-way across the room. “I’m coming. Mind my dress.”
“Blast your dress,” said Johnny. “You’ll get it soaked anyway.”
Tubby Howard watched them go with amazement; he said “Hey!” just before the door closed and then turned to Annette. “What the hell,” he said, “was that in aid of?”
“I don’t know,” said Annette nonchalantly. “Maybe he has a forceful character.”
“He’s got a damned cheek,” said Tubby angrily. “Lugging her off like that.” He walked over to the window and stared out into the rain. He was just in time to see the lower half of a pale pink evening dress vanishing inside a car and a slim blue-suited figure swinging itself athletically after it. The headlights flicked on almost at once and the car rolled forward into the darkness.
Pat wriggled uncomfortably in the seat and said petulantly, “All this young Lochinvar stuff has got whiskers on it, Johnny, I’m nearly frozen – you might have let me get a coat.”
“Haven’t got time,” said Johnny shortly. “Serve you right for goin’ out wearin’ a nightdress. There’s a mac. on the back seat.”
Pat reached out and pulled the mackintosh over her shoulders. As an afterthought, she put Johnny’s hat on her head. She said, “Turn left when you’re out of the drive. Now, what is all this?”
“That’s a long story,” said Johnny, heaving the steering wheel over. “I’ll give you the gist of it. Jack Harris was a drug-smuggler an’ last night he got killed.” He ignored Pat’s gasp of surprise and went on. “Before he got killed he must have given this fellow a letter for Davida, and I think this letter must contain some ruddy useful information. Anyway I think somebody’s going to try and get hold of it, and as this damn fool seems to have let everybody know what that letter was about they’ll try and grab it right away. An’ if Davida’s read it – an’ it’s incriminating – they’ll kill her too. That’s why I
’m in a hurry. How far away is her house?”
“About two miles,” said Pat. “You turn off the main road and it’s a bungalow by itself about half a mile down the side road. It’s a nice place.”
“If it’s by itself,” said Johnny grimly, “it’s a blinkin’ horrible place. Look. Let me know when we’re about two hundred yards from it, an’ I’ll stop and walk the rest of the way.” He was silent for a moment; he was thinking of Malinsky, cuddling a tommy gun; of Robson’s horribly contorted face; of Davida, lying on the floor in the same unnatural position. He suddenly grinned and said, “There’s a chance I’ll meet an old friend to-night. I hope I do.”
Pat said nothing; stared at the greasy black road whipping past in the steady glare of the headlamps. She said, “Are you a policeman? – or are you in love with Davida, or something?” Johnny thought for a moment. He said, “All three, I guess.” He dropped a half-smoked cigarette stub on to the floor and said, “The cigarettes are in my coat pocket, honey. Light one for me, will you?”
Pat felt in his pocket; lit two cigarettes and put one into his mouth. She looked closely at him and said “Nervous?”
“Yeah,” said Johnny. “Scared.”
Pat sat back, drew at her cigarette and watched Johnny’s bare hands resting on the steering-wheel. He had been in too great a hurry to put his gloves on, but they were as steady on the wheel as if they were inanimate. She looked at the strong, brown, callous fingers, almost frighteningly tremorless, and then again at the calm immobility of his face. He was slumped back in the seat, completely relaxed; an earthquake wouldn’t have shaken his nervous control. But somewhere inside Johnny could feel the angry tension of his tightly-strung nerves, the insidious deadness creeping at the pit of his stomach. He watched the road whistling past through half-closed eyes; said, “This where we turn?”
“Yes; left,” said Pat. “Sorry. I’ll tell you when to stop.”
She concentrated on the road; something of the indefinable tautness in the atmosphere communicated itself to her. For almost a minute she said nothing, then in a curiously tight voice, “Pull in there. Under that tree.”