by Desmond Cory
Crashaw said “Everything go off all right?”
Spencer said, “No trouble at all.” He picked up his glass, pushed his hat to the back of his head and glanced quickly round the room. “Fedora was right. He’s been hiding in Trevor’s house.”
Crashaw sucked his teeth thoughtfully. He said, “Not there now?”
“No,” said Spencer.
Crashaw said, “Tell us about it.”
“Not much to tell,” said Spencer. “The place was empty; unlit. I got in through the window at the side; went round the rooms, downstairs and then upstairs. Couldn’t find anything; went down to the basement. The wine cellar was locked; I picked the lock and went in. There were a couple of blankets on one of the big shelves near the floor; and I found ends of some hemp cigarettes kicked behind some bottles. He’s been there all right.”
Crashaw said “Good. When we people start burgling people’s houses it’s as well to have some sort of results to show. He’s probably somewhere about. You locked the cellar door after you, I suppose?”
“What d’you take me for?” said Spencer amicably. “A bloody fool – sir?”
“That’s all right, then,” said Crashaw. He pulled out a packet of Players, handed them round and struck a match. His hands were slightly more nervous than usual; but the only expression on his somewhat heavy face was one of profound boredom.
“You don’t like this sort of thing, do you, sir?” said Smith softly.
Crashaw blew out a thin cloud of smoke; watched it hanging two feet above his head. “No, I don’t,” he said. “We shouldn’t have to do things like this; especially not in peacetime. I’ve been in the force long enough to know that if you stick to regulations you’re safe; once you leave them, you’re treading on thin ice. Even if you make your arrest, you’ll still have to take the can back afterwards. It’s hell.” He sighed and finished his beer. He went on. “But in this case it seems we’ve got to do it. There’s so much at stake that if we pull if off it won’t matter what happens afterwards.”
Smith said. “What about Mr H.? Can’t he fix these things?”
Crashaw said, “Maybe with our particular superior officers. But if Trevor’d caught Spencer in his house then Spencer would have done his seven years hard all right. Above all else H. has got to keep his name out of things; and a public scandal like a C.I.D. man committing a burglary is something he wouldn’t think of touching.”
Spencer grinned and said “Next time you might try telling me that before I do a job instead of after it.”
Crashaw said “I’m doing just that. In three minutes’ time we’re going to explore Trevor’s office. We haven’t got a warrant and if he should happen to catch us he might make things really hot for us. So let’s hope Fedora keeps him busy all the time.”
Smith raised his glass and drank the last inch of beer. He leant on the bar and said musingly “I wonder. where the hell Malinsky is?”
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Johnny stood on the lawn with one arm around Davida, looking down at Malinsky’s body. It lay face upwards on the grass, stretched out at full length; the right arm was flung out and rested on the tommy-gun. Malinsky’s face, in direct contrast to Gann’s, was peaceful and without a mark.
Johnny said “He looks kind of obvious there. I think I’d better take him indoors.”
Davida looked at him; she was now much more composed, and, freshly washed and made up, her face looked as restful as Malinsky’s and infinitely lovelier. The heavy mackintosh hood she was wearing made a perfect frame for it. She said anxiously, “Are you sure he’s dead, Johnny? He doesn’t seem to be bleeding much.”
“I hit him in the head,” said Johnny. “I aimed for it. Wonder where the bullet went?” He knelt down beside Malinsky, examined the head, then gently lifted the eyelids.
“Ah,” he said. “That’s why there’s no mark. I hit him smack in the eye.” He stood up, his right arm swinging uselessly by his side. “It’s a good place to hit ’em. It spoils their aim.”
He bent down, grasped Malinsky’s collar and pulled him up about six inches. It was no good. It takes strength and knack to get a dead man in the fireman’s grip; Johnny could have managed it if he had two hands free, but with a broken arm it was hopeless. He started to drag Malinsky along instead. He pulled him four or five yards to the right and left him lying in the shade of the bushes. He went back, picked up the tommy-gun and threw it after him; it fell among the bushes with a crackling of broken twigs.
“That’ll have to do, honey,” he said. “Come on. Let’s get in the car.”
Johnny’s car was drawn up beside Gann’s; he had gone back and driven it up while Davida had been putting on a fresh face. Pat was sitting in the back seat, watching them through the window; it was still raining hard and even her womanly inquisitiveness was quenched by the thought of her ankle-length evening dress becoming soaked. She would find out all about this sooner or later, and, meanwhile, she wasn’t scared any more. Just excited.
Davida opened the door and got in beside her. Johnny got into the driver’s seat, moving awkwardly because of his arm. He reached over with his left hand and pulled the door shut. He pressed the self-starter.
Davida said, “Sure you can drive with your arm that way?”
“I’ll get by okay,” said Johnny. He let in the clutch and the car began to roll forward.
“You ought to see a doctor right away,” said Pat. “It looks awfully bad to me.”
Johnny said nothing. He turned the car slowly out of the gate, swung on to the road and eased the accelerator forward. The clock in the dashboard read exactly twenty-seven minutes to eight. For the second time that day Johnny was going to be late, but this time he felt that he didn’t give a damn.
Davida said “What’s happening about those bodies, darling?”
Johnny said, “Oh, the police’ll pick ’em up. They’ll be shot while resisting arrest, or endeavouring to escape, or some other formula they use. They’ll tell you what to say if there’s an inquest, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. Not a thing.”
They’ll keep my name out all right, he thought. That’s all that matters. Holliday would fix everything. He could just add two more names to the lengthy list of Nazis he had personally liquidated, and nobody else would know – except Pat and Davida. And they wouldn’t talk, not when they knew what it was all about.
But he thought that he had better keep an eye on Davida for a bit – just in case. He thought that maybe she would rather like that.
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Melvyn was standing in the telephone booth next to the Savoy cinema in Brighton, or, to be exact, leaning lazily against the wall. He was wearing a dark-blue mackintosh and a blue peaked cap, decorated with the badge of some fancy airline. He was holding the receiver to his ear and was waiting, without a trace of impatience, for somebody to answer the ’phone at the other end.
He didn’t have to wait long. After the second ring a voice said, “Yes?” He noticed that it was Holliday himself, and not one of the secretaries. It seemed as if his call had been expected.
He pressed the telephone button and said, “Hullo, Peter. This is Melvyn.”
“Ah,” said Holliday. “I was hoping you’d ring. Everything all right?”
“Not quite as planned,” said Melvyn cautiously. “To be honest, that’s why I rang.”
“Go on,” said Holliday.
“Well, when I went to the club I found that Miss Kane wasn’t there. She stayed at home this evening. I went through all the stuff you told me re the letter, then went round to her house and gave it to her. Incidentally, you were right. She is definitely a smasherina.”
“I – see,” said Holliday. “She lives nearby?”
“Fairly near. About seven minutes by car. I thought that might make a bit of difference.”
“It makes a hell of a lot of difference,” said Holliday, almost to himself. “In fact, it might… look. Have you got a gun with you?”
“Good. Drive back there as fast as you can, and have a look round before you go in. You may find Miss Kane alone; you may find Miss Kane and Fedora; or you might find Miss Kane and somebody else. You say you’ve met Fedora?”
“Yes.”
“Then if it’s somebody else you will know exactly what to do. You follow me?”
“I follow you,” said Melvyn.
“And as soon as you know where you stand, ’phone again and let me know. Now get cracking.”
“Okay, I’ve left,” said Melvyn. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” said Holliday. “And – be careful.”
He placed the receiver back on the rest and leaned back, thinking. He was worried. He looked it. He stubbed out the cigarette he was smoking, dropped it into the ash-tray to join twenty-three others, and asked his secretary to make some tea.
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Johnny braked the car abruptly and pulled in to the left of the drive, just behind the entrance to the bar. He switched off the engine, relaxed in the seat and eyed himself thoughtfully for a few seconds. He was extremely wet. He was – quite literally – bloody. He was dirty and dishevelled. Viewing the matter dispassionately, it hardly seemed likely that he could traverse the club without attracting the disparaging comments of the better-dressed socialites within: attracting, in fact, a maximum of the attention that he emphatically didn’t want. At other times, well and good. Now, definitely not. He sighed regretfully and patted at his arm.
“Well,” said Davida. “Now what do we do?”
Johnny said, “Yes, that’s the problem. I can hardly go into this joint lookin’ like love on the dole… So if the mountain won’t come to Mahomet, we’ll have to think: of somethin’ else. In fact, Mahomet’ll have to come here.”
Davida said, “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Oh, sure. I was speaking allegorically. What I mean is, that Crashaw should be hangin’ around in there, proppin’ up the bar, and I can’t very well go and seek him out, lookin’ like this. So maybe one of you girls will hop inside an’ rout him out.”
“I see. Yes, all right,” said Davida, opening the door. I’ll go.”
She went. Johnny watched her walking quickly across the gravel towards the door of the bar, switched off the headlamps and leaned back in the driving seat. He said, “I seem to have lost my cigarettes somewhere. You wouldn’t have one on you, by any chance?”
Pat examined the contents of her handbag and found a packet of Gold Flake. “… Here you are. Keep the packet – I can get some more in there.”
“Thanks,” said Johnny. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Would you like to go and try?”
“I’d love to.” She didn’t seem very enthusiastic. “I suppose you’re trying to get rid of me, so that you can indulge in a tête-à-tête with your policeman friend.”
Johnny grinned. “That’s right.”
“Mean of you. I adore policemen.”
“So do I.” Johnny selected a cigarette and lit it carefully. “They might even have Sobranies.”
Pat sighed, and he heard the click of the door opening. “All right, darling. I’m on my way.”
“Pat.”
She paused with one foot on the running-board. “Yes?”
“Wait in the bar until I join you, baby. Don’t go back upstairs whatever you do. Okay?”
“Is that important?”
“I’d call it vital.”
“All right,” she said again. “I’ll do that. Is anything else likely to happen at this place?”
Johnny said, “Yes, there is. An’ here comes Crashaw – off you go, poppet.”
She smiled back at him and walked across to where Crashaw was emerging from the bar. They passed each other half-way, Crashaw eyeing her ankles meditatively; then he continued towards the car and came to a halt beside the driver’s window.
“Nice girl, that.”
“Yeah. I was hoping you might have other topics of conversation, however.”
“Oh, I have, I have.” Crashaw’s eyes narrowed as they examined Johnny’s shadowy outline. “What the hell have you been doing with yourself? Never seen such a mess.”
“Shadow-boxing. “
“Oh. That’s blood on the seat, isn’t it… Look here, lad, you want a doctor. We’ll hear all about this afterwards.” He reached out and opened the door with one enormous hand. “Out you come.”
“I’m all right. Just let me get a word in edgeways, will you? An’ before you do anything else, you’re coming upstairs with me. We’re pickin’ up that Trevor woman – she’s the one we’re looking for.”
Crashaw’s large face remained unperturbed. “Mrs Trevor, eh? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure all right. Get in an’ I’ll tell you about it.”
Crashaw hesitated for a moment, then nodded and heaved his bulk into the car. “All right,” he said. “Better make it quick.”
“Quick? There’s nothing to it. When I got over to Davida’s place I found Gann waiting for me with a popgun and Malinsky with a ruddy cannon. Someone had tipped them off that I was coming. Only two people knew I was on my way there, Annette Trevor and Pat’s boy friend in the Navy. She’s the lady who got Gann and Malinsky taken on in the first place. She’s running the outfit sure enough.”
“Ah,” said Crashaw placidly. “That’s why Malinsky was hiding out in her cellar, no doubt. Explains everything… So Gann was in it too, you say? Well, well, I am surprised. And hubby too, I suppose?”
“Trevor? Haven’t got anything against him at the moment. Still – hardly seems possible he knew nothing about all this. Better take him in charge as well.”
Crashaw breathed heavily in and out for a few seconds, then said, “All right, Johnny. We’ll go up and arrest this woman – on your say-so. Later, maybe, you’ll be kind enough to tell us just exactly what it is that goes on around here.”
“Sure I will, later. There isn’t time now. What worries me is that maybe Gann was supposed to ’phone through, and that she’ll throw a few suspicions… Where’s Davida?”
“In the bar. With the boys.”
“Good,” said Johnny. “That’s all right, then. What are you waiting for?”
“I did know. I’ve forgotten.” Crashaw swung his leg lugubriously out of the car and disembarked on to the roadway. “You’re going to stay here, I take it?”
“Nothing else much I’m fit for.”
“Truest thing you ever said. You wait here and I’ll procure this delightful damsel for you. Search-warrants! Warrants for arrest!” He waved his hands expressively. “What do I want with such frippery?”
Johnny said, “I did know – but I’ve forgotten.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Crashaw disgustedly. “All right. Hang on – I won’t be long… I hope.”
Johnny, for the third time, watched somebody walking away from the car towards the brightly-lit door and the distant hum of voices; Crashaw, he felt, suffered from the comparison – but nevertheless he watched the short little figure until it had passed through the entrance into the club. He flipped cigarette ash on to the floor of the car, looked at his wrist-watch and moved his legs across in a somewhat abortive attempt to make himself comfortable. The pain in his arm had become more of a vague reminder of disability than a violent agony, but it nevertheless rendered complete comfort an impossibility. After trying three or four more postures with no success, Johnny swore to himself, wrestled with the door handle for a moment and got out.
He walked up and down the park for two or three minutes, smoking his cigarette and contemplating the rows of cars drawn up in a total lack of orderliness. He selected a dark-green Super Snipe and sat down on the running-board with an air of proprietorship. He was seriously considering the possibilities of obtaining one last drag from his cigarette before stamping it underfoot when, from somewhere on the first floor, he heard a sharp slam; a noise that, to the untutored ear, mig
ht have sounded like a door banging but which Johnny was able to place exactly as the explosion of a Luger automatic pistol.
Crashaw he knew to be unarmed. It was therefore impossible for him to have fired that shot. On the other hand, it seemed more than likely that Crashaw was the target. Johnny dropped his cigarette-end as though it were red-hot – as, of course, it was – and ran for the door as fast as he could pelt.
Somewhere near the spot where Crashaw had passed Pat five minutes earlier, he swerved abruptly and changed direction. He headed for the fire escape that crept like a thin spider up the side of the house, modulating his speed slightly in order to draw the Mauser from its holster. As he reached the bottom steps the skirt that he had seen flicker for a second, much higher up, billowed in the wind and then vanished. Slowly and cautiously, keeping as close to the wall as he could, Johnny began to climb.
A little hot flower blossomed sharply twenty feet above him and the brickwork a foot behind his head showered into fragments. Almost simultaneously came the crack of the Luger once more, deeper and heavier in the open air. Johnny carefully squeezed off three shots, aiming all round the flash of the gun; he heard the bullets spanging off the ironwork and whipping giddily off across the car park, then the slight shudder of the fire escape told him his lady friend was climbing higher. Somewhere inside the house someone was banging madly on a locked door; he hoped it was Crashaw. Dead men notoriously don’t talk, but neither is door-banging included in their activities.
His philosophical reflections were broken by a bullet that really came much too near for his liking. He felt the warm breath of it passing his collar-bone. He crouched meditatively against the iron banisters, steadying himself for a return shot: then changed his mind and continued upwards. Whatever Annette’s other qualifications, she was no amateur at the shooting business; she was probably as highly trained as a revolver range could make her.
But, as Johnny knew, the difference between hitting a target on a range and in exchanging shots in semi-darkness is immense. Johnny had experience of it, and it didn’t seem likely that the lady could have; therefore if anybody’s nerve was going to break it wasn’t going to be Johnny’s… So Johnny reasoned as he moved steadily upwards.