by Desmond Cory
Johnny eased on the brake, slid the car to a halt and switched off the headlights. He took his hands from the wheel, drew on his cigarette and sat back.
“Where’s the house?” he said.
“The other end of this field,” said Pat. “Behind those poplars you can just see the shape of.”
Johnny said, “Now listen.” He felt under the dashboard and unclipped a .38 revolver. “I want you to stay here; whatever you do, don’t move. If I’m not back by seven-thirty, drive back home, and to-morrow, find Inspector Crashaw at Cootsbridge Police station. Tell him what happened.” He handed her the revolver. “That’s loaded. If you press the trigger, it’ll go off. Now if anybody at all other than myself or Davida comes to this car, just do that. And try to kill him if you can. It’s safer.” He paused, pinched out his cigarette and threw it on the floor. “All right?”
Pat nodded. Johnny threw open the door and stepped out into the rain. Pat watched him walk off into the darkness; looked down to see the two half-smoked cigarettes lying on the floor. She looked out of the window, but could see nothing except her own pale, frightened face reflected in the glass.
Johnny walked quickly down the road, treading on the grass verge. The rain beat down angrily on his head and shoulders; stray drops trickled down his neck, cold and chilling. He reached the comparative shelter of the row of poplars and leant for a moment against a hard friendly trunk. The bungalow lay about twenty yards away, with lights burning in the front windows. The tightly-stretched wires inside Johnny suddenly tautened and relaxed again as he saw the low black saloon parked close to the front door. Johnny suddenly laughed, softly but exultantly. The guests had arrived.
Johnny’s right hand moved slowly inside his coat and came out again; his fingers performed the almost reflex action of checking the magazine catch, pushing off the safety catch, and working the ejector. He stood for a second longer under the tree, ducked under and moved across the lawn with the silent speed of a marauding panther.
He moved over to the nearest of the two lighted windows, keeping in the shadows and almost blending with them. He raised his head slightly and looked in.
Davida was sitting in a high-backed chair before the fire. She was wearing a cherry-red house coat with pale blue facings, and blue slippers. She was looking even lovelier than usual, but one was not so struck by her beauty as by the fact that she was almost in tears. Standing with his back to the window was a tall man in a grey suit, apparently reading several closely-written pages aloud to her.
Johnny passed under the window and reached the side door. A thin line of light showed under it, and he could faintly hear a man’s voice, talking.
He took two quick steps forwards and opened the door. The man lowered the letter he was reading and looked up.
It was Paul Gann.
“Hiya, Paul,” said Johnny softly. “Am I intruding?” Gann smiled at him. Apparently he hadn’t noticed the gun in Johnny’s hand. He said, “Why, Fedora. We were expecting you. This is all we need to make the evening perfect.”
Johnny said, “That’s fine.” He wiped his feet on the mat. “I got a bit wet coming.” The gun in his hand continued to point straight at Gann’s stomach, while he looked quickly round the room, his glance finally coming to rest on Davida’s face. There were vivid red weals across her forehead, and he saw now that she was handcuffed, her arms passed through the back of the chair.
“Slappin’ people about again?” said Johnny. “You boys are really gettin’ too rough these days.”
Davida said swiftly. “Johnny. There’s another of them. You shouldn’t have come.”
Gann shrugged his shoulders and smiled. He said, “I told you we were expecting you.”
As he spoke a far colder voice said, from close behind Johnny. “Don’ turn round. Jus’ drop your gun an’ put up your hands.”
“Well, well,” said Johnny. “I was wonderin’ what had become of my old pal Malinsky.” He threw the gun on to the floor, raised his hands and walked slowly forward. He heard the door shut behind him; saw Gann come forward and gently search him.
“All right, Fedora,” said Gann, picking up the gun. “You can put your hands down now. But don’t do anything silly.”
Johnny dropped his hands; took out a cigarette and lit it. He turned round slowly. Malinsky was leaning against the door, holding his tommy-gun pointed roughly in Johnny’s direction. With a thing like a tommy-gun you don’t have to be finicky.
Malinsky’s face was dead white and drawn, and the pupils of his eyes were like chips of steel. He looked as if he had been living on his nerves for weeks on end, about twice as cagey as Johnny had ever seen anybody.
He said, “Well, hi, Malinsky. Been on the tea again, pal?”
Malinsky didn’t say anything. Gann said, “I should be nice to Freddy if I were you, Fedora. He’s been longing to meet you again, haven’t you, Freddy?”
Malinsky nodded. His eyes never left Fedora’s face.
“All right,” said Gann. “I confess I find Fedora’s manner a trifle fresh. See if you can get a bit of your own back.”
Malinsky took two quick steps forward, balanced himself and slammed a punch at Fedora’s face. Johnny swayed back, let the punch go by and placed his hand against Malinsky’s shoulder. He suddenly gripped hard and pushed; the tommy-gun fell from Malinsky’s paralysed hand to the floor. Johnny dived full-length for it; his right hand had just gripped the butt when Gann’s heel came down with sickening force just below his elbow. He felt one of the bones in his forearm crack, then saw Gann’s foot kick the tommy-gun away from his nerveless fingers. He pushed himself up with his left hand; swore under his breath. Gann picked up the tommy-gun and tossed it to Malinsky.
“Not much use, are you, Malinsky?” he said. Then, “Shut up. Listen.”
A car suddenly roared past the house, travelling at a high speed. Johnny got to his feet and leant against the wall; spasms of pain were shooting up from his arm and at first he could hardly stand. One lock of his hair, dampened by the rain, was now plastered to his forehead with perspiration.
Gann said, “Only a motor-car.”
Malinsky said suddenly, “Erich, wir wollen nicht hier blieben.”
Gann looked at him surprisedly; he said slowly. “Ja. Ich glaube wirflich Sie haben recht.” He looked at Fedora and smiled. “There’s just a chance that Mr Fedora is not alone. Listen, Malinsky. Go back to where you were before and cover this door carefully. If you see anybody coming let me know and we’ll get away at once. Also watch this door carefully, so that if Fedora tries to get away you can shoot him before he gets clear. If he shows himself, let him have it. I don’t think he will trick me in any way, but he appears to be an enterprising and resourceful young man, and it’s as well to be prepared.”
Malinsky said, “Kill them now. Why not?”
“Don’t be impatient,” said Gann quietly. “I have not yet finished reading these papers. In any case, you will obey my orders without question.”
Malinsky looked at him, averted his eyes. “Okay,” he said sullenly. “Okay.” He opened the door and went out.
Gann turned to Fedora and said, “I must apologize for Malinsky’s behaviour. As you can see, we are being forced to employ a very inferior type of operative. Him, for instance” – shrugged his shoulders – “we should never have dreamt of employing him in wartime. Nowadays, things are different. It may afford you some satisfaction to know that I intend to kill Malinsky to-night anyway. He is really a great disappointment to us.”
He moved over to the table, picked up the papers and laid Johnny’s pistol on top of it. He said, “While I am reading these papers you will please stand over by the door. As it happens, I hate using firearms; but I’m perfectly capable of killing you with my bare hands if necessary – especially as your arm is broken. So don’t do anything that I might misconstrue – will you?”
Johnny was still leaning against the wall, looking and feeling pretty sick. He said “Nuts to you, Gann. Who
do you think you are – Conrad Veidt? I dare say you can smack Davida about all right, but I shouldn’t try it on me. Me, I’m the hero.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Gann, in the tone of voice he might have used to rebuke a small boy. “I hardly had to use any force on Miss Kane; I merely showed her my pocket-knife at a rather close range. It’s amazing how women dislike the thought of mutilation… in her case it hardly matters, as – in view of the nature of this letter, which seems to me to be alarmingly comprehensive – I shall be forced to kill her before I leave, anyway.”
Davida said in a surprisingly normal voice, “I suppose he means it.”
“Oh, yes. I’m afraid I have no alternative.”
Johnny said thoughtfully, “I suppose it was you who slugged me while I was entertainin’ Malinsky the other night. I owe you for that, too.”
Gann smiled. He said, “Yes. I was responsible.”
“I thought it had to be either you or Trevor. You’re around the place so much that the hat-check girl takes your presence for granted. Otherwise, she must have seen whoever did it going out. Tell me, did you have any —”
Gann said quickly, “Fedora. I have a suspicion that you’re playing for time. In your own picturesque phraseology, I’m not having any. Be quiet.” He picked up the papers and began to read them, holding them up so that he could see Johnny out of the corner of his eye.
Johnny stayed leaning against the door, feeling the pain in his arm slowly lessening as numbness set in. He was gradually recovering; when he felt a little better he knew that he would have to try something. He felt that he was going to get it in the end, probably in the stomach; he was acquainted with the little habits of German Intelligence. If he tried something he might at least get it over quickly.
Gann finished reading, tossed the papers on to the table. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and said, “Good heavens. I’d no idea it was so late. I have to be back by half-past seven – incidentally, I hope to complete my stay in England to-night. It’s been very interesting.”
He sat on the table, swinging his legs to and fro, and thinking. He said, “Here’s the lay-out. I shall bring Malinsky in here and he will put one shot into each of you. That should deal with you two.” He grinned quite pleasantly, and went on. “Then I shall put a bullet into Malinsky with your revolver and put it into your hand. That should deal with him. Of course, to be really convincing I’m afraid Malinsky will have to shoot you where it’ll take you a minute or so to die – but then I should have done that anyway. I don’t particularly like you, Fedora; and as you’ve been instrumental in breaking up what has been a highly successful group of operatives it’ll give me great pleasure to see you squirm.” He pushed himself off the table and said, “Excellent idea, eh? Now have you any suggestions to make before I call Malinsky?”
Well, thought Johnny. This is it. He knew exactly how he was going to play this; he was backing everything on a single throw because he couldn’t lose.
He said, “Just a moment. I’ll tell you just why you can’t do that.”
Gann, half-way to the window, stopped and said, “Oh? Well, why not?”
Johnny fumbled in his coat pocket, took out his wallet and threw it on the floor six feet in front of him. “There you are,” he said. “Look in that and you’ll know why not, you pug-nosed swine.”
Gann walked over, a sneering smile on his face. “Oh yes,” he said. “And when I stoop to pick it up you try and kick me in the face. Well, that one won’t work.” He stopped beside it, and as he bent down to pick it up his eyes remained fixed on Fedora’s face, mocking eyes that Johnny hated more than anything else in the world. Johnny’s left hand, held behind his back, found the door handle; and, as Gann stood up and dropped his eyes to the wallet, Johnny flung open the door behind him.
For a clear second he stood still as death, silhouetted in the doorway; for a second that seemed to him as long as a ’bus ride. Then he threw himself desperately downwards and to the right. As he fell, he heard the vicious slam of Malinsky’s tommy-gun and the angry whip of the bullets; he saw Gann, in the act of jumping aside, caught by the bucking impact of them, lifted off his feet and rolled over as they cut diagonally across his body; then Johnny’s left hand, slashing downwards in what seemed almost slow-motion, fanned the electric light switch. The room blinked into darkness with the speed of a whip-crack. He heard Davida give a little sound that started as a scream, but was bitten off almost before it started; then he landed heavily on his right shoulder, rolled over and got to his feet in the same movement. He crossed to the table in three swift cat-like strides and fumbled on it for his gun. He found it; his fingers closed on it and he flitted towards the door like a dim and evil-tempered wraith.
He stayed in the blackness of the door for a second, then took one swift silent jump and knelt in the shade of a group of bushes. He hoped that after the sudden dousing of the lights Malinsky’s eyes had not grown accustomed to the blackness; anyway he didn’t think he had been seen and any sound he might have made would have been covered by the hideous retching noises that Gann was making. He knelt close to the bushes, probing the darkness and waiting for Malinsky to move. The rain was falling like a sheet of wetness on to him, but he didn’t even notice it. The thousand-to-one chance had come off, and he wasn’t going to make a mess of the rest of it.
Then he heard a twig crack and suddenly saw Malinsky coming from behind a tree. He moved slowly, and cautiously; obviously he was puzzled.
He moved steadily nearer, holding his gun at the ready and pointed at the door. Johnny could almost see his features through the darkness and the rain; he said softly and pleasantly, “Hey, Malinsky.”
He saw Malinsky’s sudden start, caught the gleam of a blued-steel barrel swinging round. Without even hurrying he squeezed the trigger; it was like hitting a haystack at five yards range. The Mauser kicked angrily in his left hand; Malinsky suddenly buckled at the knees and pitched to the ground, falling like a sack of coals. Johnny had hit him in the head. And that was that.
Johnny stood up, his left arm hanging straight by his side, dangling his revolver by the trigger-guard. The sudden reaction left him dizzy and weak. He shook his head firmly; walked back into the room and switched on the electric light.
Davida was still sitting in exactly the same position; she looked up when the light came on and smiled. There were big round tears on her cheeks. Gann was lying huddled up at her feet, with a dark red pool oozing from his coat into the carpet. He must have stopped at least ten bullets, Johnny thought; there was a horrible contrast between the still, agonized angularity of his limbs and the rich, full curves of Davida’s legs just behind him.
Davida said, “Johnny. Are you all right?”
Johnny said, “It’s all over, honey. Nothing to worry about now.”
Davida looked down at Gann, and looked away quickly. She began to shake with great tearing sobs that made her whole body tremble.
Johnny said. “That’s right, have a good cry. You’ll feel better afterwards.” He walked unsteadily over to Gann, began to feel in his coat pockets. He found Gann’s key-ring, wiped his blood-stained hands on the carpet; then walked behind Davida’s chair and began to fumble with the lock of the handcuffs. He found the right key, turned it and slipped them off her wrists.
She took her hands from behind the arms of the chair; took out a handkerchief and wiped her face. She had put mascara on her lashes and it had run all over her cheeks.
Johnny threw the handcuffs to one side; walked over to the table and picked up the notes. He said, “All right, honey. Let’s get clear of all these corpses and you’ll feel a lot better. I’ve got Pat outside – she’ll look after you.”
Davida said nothing; sat there stupidly, still trembling violently. She seemed to be really shaken, and Johnny wasn’t particularly surprised. He put Harris’s papers in his pocket, walked over to her chair. She looked up and tried to say “Sorry, Johnny,” but it didn’t quite come out.
Johnny put his left arm around her and helped her gently up. She swayed on her feet for a second, standing with all her weight on Johnny’s arm; then she put both her arms round Johnny’s neck and buried her face in his shoulder. He could feel the softness of her body warm yet shivering against him, and at the same time he was conscious of the blood trickling through his fingers, seeping downwards from his broken arm. He pulled her slightly closer and kissed her, slowly and carefully, holding her tightly against him. Even her lips were, trembling.
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The rain was coming down in torrents, beating on the windows and on the roof. In his office at St Bride Street, Holliday was still smoking, listening to the rain and waiting for the telephone to ring.
Chapter Fourteen
FEDORA
CRASHAW and Smith were standing in the bar-room of the “Three of Clubs”, drinking beer and talking quietly about nothing in particular. It was very nearly half-past seven and the room was beginning to get crowded; new arrivals were pushing through the door fairly frequently and Smith, who was standing so that he could see the door fairly easily, was able to observe the people coming in. He was doing this quite unostentatiously, and although he noticed everybody who entered the room, nobody ever noticed him. He and Crashaw both had the curious knack of becoming quite inconspicuous whenever they wanted to; it was one of the reasons why they had been lent to Holliday by the Central Office. You could rely on Holliday to realize the value of inconspicuity, because at that particular branch of camouflage he was something of a genius.
Smith took a sip at the glass of beer he was holding; without appearing to look up he said, “Here he is.”
They walked over to the bar, sat down on the plush-lined stools. Spencer, walking across the room, sat down next to Crashaw and ordered a bitter.