by John Creasey
‘Put them on your friend,’ he ordered, and something in his voice stopped Serle from objecting. ‘At the double!’
Serle obeyed. At that moment Jim Kenyon looked capable of flaying him alive—and quite prepared to.
‘That’s right,’ said Kenyon, as the handcuffs clicked. ‘I’m going to take him to the nearest police-station and charge him with shooting with intent to kill. I shall say’—his voice dropped a little, and his eyes gleamed as he saw Serle’s fear—’that I met him in the street, and recognised him as the man who aimed a shot at me the other day.’
Serle licked his lips again.
‘You’re playing with fire,’ he warned.
‘How tritely you put these things,’ murmured Kenyon. He yawned, and motioned to an armchair: ‘Sit down.’
Serle sat down. The gun in Kenyon’s hand covered his chest, and he disliked the way the fingers were touching the trigger. The Arab was on the floor, with his wrists handcuffed behind him; he was muttering in Arabic, and Kenyon suspected he was swearing eloquently.
‘Now…’ Kenyon leaned against the edge of a small table, and his eyes held no humour. ‘I’m telling you this for the sake of your health. You’ve been running drugs—and other things—for a long time. You are finished. You know us—but we know you, and you are hopelessly outnumbered. You might last another month, or even a year, but in the long run we shall blow out your candle.’
Serle made a big effort to control himself. He forced a smile, but again Kenyon was aware of the burning directness of his brown eyes.
‘You don’t know half as much as you think you do.’
‘I know twice as much as you think I do,’ retorted Kenyon. ‘I could take you in now—for dope trafficking.’
The silence in the room could be felt, and Serle paled. He searched the big man’s face for any hint that he was bluffing, but Kenyon looked in deadly earnest.
‘I’m not going to,’ went on the Department Z man, quietly, ‘because I want you for the Rensham murder, and for Roberts’s. Your number’s up, as surely as it would be if this gun went off.’
Serle’s tongue was creeping along his pale lips. For the first time he looked frightened.
‘Wherever you go,’ Kenyon assured him, flatly, ‘whoever you meet, you will be watched.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Do you like the cinema, Arnold?’
Serle scowled. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I was thinking of a certain newsreel,’ said Kenyon. ‘The eyes and ears of the world, it calls itself. You can remember that description with advantage.’
‘Haven’t you talked enough?’ Serle demanded. He sounded aggressive, but his gaze dropped nervously from Kenyon’s to rest for a moment on the evening paper—then darted sharply away.
‘Why,’ said Kenyon easily, missing nothing, ‘maybe you’re right. I shall have to be getting along. And we may as well end on a note of mutual interest, Serle—let’s look at the cricket scores.’
The fat man hesitated for a fraction of a second before handing the paper over. Kenyon glanced at it, saw the crosses, and folded it thoughtfully with his free hand.
‘Thanks,’ he said genially, stuffing it in his pocket. ‘That’ll be a help. Now I’m going. Of course…’ He bent down and yanked the Arab to his feet: ‘I don’t like usurping the authority of the great British Police Force, but there are times…’
‘So all you are,’ sneered Arnold Serle, ‘is a glorified policeman.’
‘And such delightful reputations they have abroad!’ marvelled Kenyon, adding coldly: ‘Don’t try any tricks as I’m helping your henchman downstairs, because two or three of my friends are outside, watching and waiting…’ He glanced down at the door: the key was on the inside and he changed it over quickly. ‘Just to make sure that your skin remains whole,’ he said, ‘I’ll lock you in.’
He did so, then went downstairs, with the Arab in front of him—an Arab with a wholesome respect for the gun poking his ribs.
They reached the street, Glebe Road, S.W. Beneath the light of a street lamp, Kenyon saw the unhealthy pallor of the man’s face and grinned to himself. Then suddenly remembered the set smile on the dead face of Dickie Roberts, and stopped smiling.
Moments later, he was staring blankly after a taxi which passed them some ten yards from the building in which Arnold Serle had his flat—and saw it stop there. Kenyon had caught a glimpse of the face inside that cab.
For a moment, he told himself that he was dreaming; that it just wasn’t possible. Then the cab door opened and a girl stepped out.
Mary Randall was calling on Arnold Serle.
5
Arnold Serle Hits Back
The salvation of so many troubles, the London beat-bobby, provided Kenyon’s solution. A comfortably large member of that fraternity stumped along the road at that moment, and Kenyon beckoned him.
‘Any trouble, sir?’ Kenyon and the Arab received a glare of ferocious penetration, a stock expression liberally dispersed in times of turbulence, guaranteeing nothing.
‘This man stole my wallet, officer, and I collared him.’
The policeman grabbed Ahmet Ali’s shoulder—then discovered the handcuffs. He grunted, and turned a slow, suspicious eye.
‘I happened to have ‘em with me,’ said Kenyon, glibly. Then added a quietly authoritative: ‘See that Superintendent Miller at the Yard hears of this—at once.’ And as the other still hesitated, deliberating what to do, slipped silently away.
Stranded in the nearly deserted street with a ready-made prisoner, there was only one course left to the bobby, and he took it. Grasping the Arab, he turned towards the nearest station.
Kenyon, meanwhile, was wondering whether to re-visit the flat or wait for Mary to reappear.
Glebe Road was a fairly well-lit middle class thoroughfare, with tall, terraced houses on one side and blocks of flats on the other. Outside Serle’s building hung a wall-lamp. Kenyon went towards it. The taxi was waiting outside.
‘Which means that she doesn’t mean to be long,’ murmured Kenyon to himself. ‘I think I’ll wait…’
The driver was leaning back, dozing, as Kenyon slipped round the back of the cab and tried the handle of the offside door. Blessing the fact that it was well-oiled, he opened it and climbed in. He moved with that silence and economy of movement that comes to big men rigorously trained, and there was only the slightest creak as he settled down.
Several things happened in the next few minutes.
A man came from Serle’s block of flats and hurried up the road, towards Sloane Square. Another, moving furtively through the shadows, took up a position opposite the cab. Kenyon noticed these things with satisfaction; if he had gone up to the flat, he would have missed them.
A few minutes later a small car drew into Glebe Road, and stopped twenty yards behind the taxi. The man lurking in the shadows went towards it at once. Through the back window, Kenyon saw him approach the driver and obviously engage him in conversation, before merging again into the shadows.
‘So,’ thought Kenyon, ‘she is to be followed.’
The first man had hardly disappeared into a gap between two blocks of flats when Mary Randall hurried back to the waiting taxi. The driver had obviously had his instructions. He slipped in the clutch and the cab moved off.
Nine chances out of ten, Mary would have spotted Kenyon the moment the door was opened. But she was worried, and having no reason to believe otherwise, took it for granted she was alone.
It was the first time he had had an opportunity to study her profile and even in the patchy light from successive street lamps, he could clearly see its perfect outline. He could also see that she was deeply troubled.
Twice, she bit her lip. Twice, her hands clenched on her lap. And then Kenyon spoke.
‘Can I help?’
She started violently, jerking around to stare at him. But she said nothing.
‘You’re not dreaming,’ Kenyon offered, lightly. ‘I’m here, in the flesh.’
; And then—in a voice which mingled anxiety, laughter and tears—Mary Randall said a strange thing.
‘Jim—it can’t be you! I—I had hardly dared to hope…’
‘Mary,’ he assured her, ‘it’s me, all right.’ And suddenly found his hand in hers: felt the pressure of her fingers. ‘I’ve a little game to play before we can talk,’ he went on. ‘Where are we going?’
‘The Éclat,’ said Mary, naming a fashionable hotel.
‘Fine. Now, just a moment.’
As he spoke he looked out of the rear window. The cab was turning out of a maze of streets that led into Victoria, and the little car—a Morris Ten, he saw by an overhead lamp—was behind them.
Kenyon leaned forward to the speaking-tube.
‘Go back where you started,’ he said, ‘and repeat the trip, will you?’
Through the glass he could hear the cabby’s grunt of surprise. But the habit of disinterestedly following his fares’ directions conquered the man’s curiosity, and he calmly started back on the round-about journey to Glebe Road.
‘Why?’ asked Mary Randall. She was smiling a little now, the darkness hiding the anxiety that was in her eyes.
‘I think we’re being followed,’ Kenyon told her quietly. ‘I’d like to make sure.’
There was a hint of hopelessness in the girl’s voice as she said: ‘I expect we are. I’m always followed, these days, everywhere I go.’
‘For how long?’ demanded Kenyon.
‘A month or more.’
‘How long have you been staying at Greylands?’
‘About—about two months.’
In other words, thought Kenyon, she’s been harassed from the time Serle went down to see the Colonel: I must have a little chat with the Colonel. But he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘It gave me quite a shock when I saw you going into Serle’s place. I’d been watching him, and…’
Mary broke in; her voice was hard, and again that hopelessness was in it. He could feel the pressure of her fingers as she urged him: ‘Jim, please—please leave Serle alone. He’s dangerous, really dangerous. I’m not being hysterical. He’s—deadly!‘
‘No,’ said Kenyon, gently. “He’s too fat to be deadly. No fat man can…’
‘You don’t believe me, I can’t expect you to. But it’s as true as I’m here.’
‘In the words of the old, old song,’ Kenyon assured her, striving to keep it light, ‘he is heading for his last round-up. Don’t worry about Arnold Serle—nor about me.’
‘How can I help it?’ There was bitterness in her voice. ‘He’s breaking up everything that matters to me. Everything I’ve got. My uncles—Daddy—Mick. And now you!’
‘It’s awfully sad,’ said Kenyon, brightly, ‘that so few who know me believe me to be capable of great things. I can only assure you that I am. I’ve met quite a gallery of rogues, and Serle doesn’t strike me as being anywhere near the top. He’s made three big mistakes since I started after him.’
There was a brief silence.
‘So—so you do know something about what’s going on?’
‘Quite a lot. Serle and I are at it now, hammer-and-tongs. One day—perhaps—I’ll be able to explain just what I’m doing. But not now.’
Mary shivered. ‘I’m afraid.’
She said it simply, and Kenyon knew that she was speaking the truth. But he refused to ask questions that might make her crack. Instead, he looked out of the back window, saw that they were still being followed, and said:
‘I’m going to slip out of the cab at the first traffic block. You go on to the Éclat, and telephone a Superintendent Miller at Scotland Yard. You won’t find him in but one of his assistants will be. Say I told you to ring, and ask for Z.1 protection. They’ll know what you mean. Serle’s men won’t know that they themselves are being watched while watching you. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. When shall I see you?’
‘In about half an hour’s time,’ he told her, with the ghost of a grin. ‘That’s unless I have anything unexpected to do. If I can’t get along, I’ll be telephoning. Your own name at the Éclat?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Of course,’ echoed Kenyon. He wondered how many different names he himself had used in the past five years. ‘Well, I’m off. It won’t do for our friends to see me going to the Éclat with you. Mary, please wait at the hotel until I can come along? Telephone messages, urgent calls and what-not included.’
‘I’ll—try to.’
‘Promise,’ he insisted.
‘I can’t,’ she said, and he knew that nothing he could say would make her change her mind. Pressing her hand briefly in understanding, he waited until the cab slowed down. The Morris was several cars behind, at a block near Victoria Station. Judging his moment, Kenyon opened the door and slipped out.
Mary watched him moving through the traffic, then turned away. There were tears in her eyes, and a certain expression that had not been there before he had spoken to her. His strong, dark face and his quiet confidence were suddenly compared in her mind with the florid plumpness of Arnold Serle. She shivered—and yet for the first time for nearly a month, felt an easing of the weight of her anxiety.
Kenyon, meanwhile, was humming to himself and looking at the face of the driver of the following car, while beckoning an empty cab.
The Morris driver was swarthy, but not so dark as the Arab who, Kenyon hoped, was at that moment in a police-station cell. He had a thin black line of moustache, and was dressed in light grey. It was a hue much favoured by Serle’s friends, Kenyon reflected, as the cab drew up.
He climbed in and sat back, smiling at the way the driver had accepted his instructions as imperturbably as if he were asked to follow private cars every day of his life. Then was serious again, thinking of Serle.
I’d like to know how much my bluff carried with him, he mused. He’s a crafty devil, but he ought to be feeling the draught by now.
It was more than ever important that he should be….
It’s just as well, Kenyon told himself with a smile, that the trail of Serle leads to Mary. So when you marry, you leave the service. Funny, but I’d never thought of that…
‘Here you are, sir.’ The driver’s voice came through that most surprising of all things, a speaking-tube which worked both ways in a London cab.
Kenyon recognised the glittering façade of the Éclat Hotel. At something after twelve it was at its brightest, for the Éclat had a night club attached. Commissionaires of gigantic stature and splendid uniforms stared at the passers-by with elaborate condescension. Diminutive call-boys trotted up and down with messages. Cars arrived and departed in a never-ending stream.
Kenyon opened and closed the cab door noiselessly.
‘Up at the other end o’ the yard,’ said the cabby, sotto voce. ‘Anything more tonight, sir?’
‘Take a run that will bring you outside this hotel every ten minutes. Wait here for two minutes, and then go round again. Got that?’
‘That’s me.’
Kenyon handed the cabby a pound note.
‘That’ll keep you going for a bit,’ he said. ‘When that’s worn itself out you can skedaddle. I hope,’ he added earnestly, ‘that you’re honest.’
The cabby saw the gleam in his eyes.
‘Honest trade, cabbing, sir.’
Never, murmured Kenyon to himself as the cab drove off, sharpen one’s wits on a London cabby. Now—the Morris Ten: up in the corner and still there. With its driver. A man getting out, which means there are two of ‘em watching. Why the devil is Serle so anxious to keep Mary under his eye? And do his men know me?
Probably they did, but luckily the cabby had drawn up some distance from the Morris, and Kenyon was reasonably sure he had not been spotted. He hired another cab just leaving the front of the hotel, and demanded to be driven to the rear entrance.
The driver must have wondered at him, but made no protest. At the end of his sixty seconds’ trip Kenyon ladled out five s
hillings, and slipped into an entrance of the hotel reserved for managerial visitors and its own staff. A junior porter saw him.
‘ ’Scuse me, sir, but that ain’t…’
‘Isn’t,’ Kenyon corrected absently. ‘A Miss Mary Randall, my lad. I don’t know what room, but she arrived this morning.’
The boy saw the silver in the eccentric visitor’s hand, and scurrying off to the reception desk, returned with the number of Mary’s room.
‘Eighty-seven,’ Kenyon repeated. ‘Thanks. Buy yourself some sweets. First floor or second?’
‘Second, sir.’
‘I’ll find my own way,’ said Kenyon.
It was not difficult, for during his spells in London he was a frequent visitor to the Éclat. Within five minutes he was knocking at the door of room eighty-seven on the second floor.
He heard Mary Randall call: ‘Come in,’ and smiled to find himself instinctively straightening up as he opened the door and stepped inside. Unconsciously, he was anxious to look his best. Then as he met Mary’s gaze, he realised suddenly that there was something badly wrong.
His hand dropped to his gun.
Before he could touch it a cool, mocking voice called:
‘I shouldn’t, Kenyon. It doesn’t do to make a disturbance at a place like this—and who wants gun-play between friends?’
Kenyon advanced into the room, the smile frozen on his lips.
‘Well, well, well,’ he murmured, ‘fancy meeting you again. And so soon.’
‘Remarkable coincidence, isn’t it?’ said Arnold Serle.
6
Trouble for the Twins
There was a gun in Arnold Serle’s right hand, and there was a smile on his fat, red face. There were guns in the right hands of the two men, dressed in light grey, who were standing in opposite corners of the room; but there were no smiles on their lips. Kenyon registered them as killers as he crossed the room to where Mary sat on a sofa by the window, with Serle standing beside her.