by John Creasey
‘I was about to say,’ said Timothy Arran, with dignity, ‘that when you’ve had a little more practice….’
‘I suppose,’ said Kenyon to Toby, ‘it would be murder to kill even your twin brother?’
‘Yes,’ said Toby, lugubriously. ‘I have, unfortunately, discovered that to be so.’ He grinned, then serious again, asked: ‘Do you know where Serle is now?’
‘No,’ said Kenyon. ‘There are two men watching him when he left the Éclat last night, but at a guess I’d say they lost him.’
‘Ring Craigie,’ suggested Toby.
‘I’ll be seeing him soon. I’m more interested at the moment in Dickson than in Serle. Do you know if he was followed?’
‘I followed him.’
‘Any luck?’ asked Kenyon, eagerly.
‘Depends what you call luck,’ said Toby. ‘He left the hospital at eight-thirty this morning, and went to Glidden Street, where he has a flat…’
‘Doesn’t he live at the hospital?’
‘He sleeps there, but spends most of his spare time at his flat. He’s a wow on hieroglyphics, which concerns ancient customs and—and…’
‘Things?’
‘Things,’ said Toby, firmly. ‘Actually he’s secretary of some society—the Association of the Students of Arabian and Egyptian Hieroglyphics—yes, I looked like that when I first heard it—and he’s popular with a crowd of the Indian and Pakistani students at the Westland and at Bart’s. And he’s a teetotaller. And he’s a bachelor and, it is generally believed, a good boy in the sense that he apparently does not approve of the oldest profession. That’s about all. I left him at his flat at one o’clock. Wally Davidson is watching him now and promised to ring here if his man moved, so presumably he hasn’t.’
‘Unless Davidson’s been knocked on the head,’ suggested Timothy, brightly.
Kenyon gave the exquisite young man a dour look. ‘Don’t tempt me…’ he warned, then returned to the point: ‘Where’d you get all this from, Toby?’
‘Second cousin of ours, at Westland Hospital. It’s O.K.,’ said Toby, offering cigarettes.
Kenyon took one and lit it thoughtfully. He was faced, suddenly and unreasonably, with a picture of Mary Randall. The picture lingered; against it, he seemed to see those dark crescents round the dead man’s fingers, and the pink crescents round the ringers of the Westland Hospital surgeon.
A connection between those three people was absurd; but it existed; or Kenyon believed it did.
He shrugged his shoulders suddenly.
‘Any news at all from Knight?’
Ronald Knight, that tired-looking agent of Department Z whom Kenyon had met at Greylands, had disappeared. It was too early yet for uneasiness, or the assumption that Knight had found something to work on.
‘Well,’ said Kenyon, ‘keep after Dickson, Toby.’
‘What are you going to do?’ demanded Timothy.
‘First,’ said Kenyon, very seriously, ‘I’m going to visit a certain young lady at the Éclat Hotel. Then I’m going to see Colonel Wyett and the Rev. Denbigh Morse, at Greylands, Somerset. Then I’m going to talk with Tiny Forbes. Is there any more information I can give you, Mr. Arran?’
For once Timothy failed to rise to the bait.
It was one of those thundery August days, in which the flow of pedestrians appeared to be moving with conscious effort. Even the children in the nearby park looked too hot to run.
Kenyon asked for Mary Randall, conscious of a sudden overwhelming fear. The possibility that she would not be waiting seemed to terrify him.
The clerk turned towards him.
‘Miss Randall will see you, sir. Boy!’
The page-boy came up, and Kenyon tightened his grip on himself as he entered the lift. He thought suddenly of Jem Stinger, and grinned. After the scare of the previous night, Jem had been discovered hiding in the courtyards at the back of the Gresham Street flats, wearing a badly torn dressing-gown, and hugging to its tatters his beloved Apocalypse.
‘At least,’ Kenyon thought, ‘he’s safe, but he’ll have to buy some new clothes. And so shall I.’
He was very thoughtful as he walked along to Room 87.
The fire had practically gutted his flat. A few odds and ends had been saved from the flames, but to all intents and purposes the apartment was wrecked.
The page-boy opened the door of Room 87, and Kenyon went in.
‘Hallo, Jim,’ said Mary.
She smiled, and Kenyon was conscious of the amount of meaning that could be put into one or two words.
‘Hallo, my sweet,’ he returned, then drew her forward and kissed her.
‘I don’t know whether I ought to allow that.’
‘I won’t say that it’s the first time I’ve ever kissed,’ said Kenyon, ‘but I will say that it’s the first time it’s ever mattered whether I’ve kissed or not.’
Mary coloured a little.
‘Everything been all right?’ Kenyon asked.
‘No more visitors, but I was out for a couple of hours this morning and I was followed, I think.’
‘My chaps, probably.’
‘I hope so,’ said Mary. ‘But I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of Serle.’
‘Which will do nobody any harm,’ said Kenyon.
For the next quarter of an hour they said little. It was strange, Kenyon thought, that two people could sit opposite each other, could smile a little and say less, and yet feel that nothing else was wanted to complete their contentment. The novelty of it was staggering.
‘Will you have tea?’ asked Mary, ‘or something cooler?’
‘Tea, I think,’ said Kenyon.
As she poured it out, ten minutes later, she looked at him very directly.
‘You were lucky, last night.’ She nodded towards his cup. ‘Is that strong enough?’
‘Fine, thanks. How do you mean—last night?’
‘The fire. It’s in the Evening Star.’
‘Yes,’ said Kenyon, with a lazy grin. ‘Yes, I was lucky, and so was everyone else. Serle has earned a wallop, and’—Kenyon’s eyes were laughing—’he’ll get it. Mary, don’t worry. It won’t help, and I don’t think there’s as much to worry about as there seems.’
The sudden expression of hope in her eyes made him hate himself for lying to her. But his smile remained.
‘I’ve learned a lot from a little man whom Serle sent to follow me,’ he added, ‘and one way and another the field’s opening out.’
‘I ought to get back to Greylands,’ said Mary.
‘Why?’
‘Daddy’s still there—and Mick.’
‘Think either of them would like you to walk into the trouble which might blaze up at any hour?’
‘No-o. They’d want me to stay here. But—do you really think it’ll be over soon?’
‘Sooner than we expect.’
‘And what about the—the drug?’
Mary’s voice was calm enough, but the tension that she felt was obvious.
‘I think we’ll beat the drug,’ said Kenyon convincingly. ‘Mary…’ he leaned forward, and gripped her hands. ‘We will beat it. But remember that Serle will go to any lengths to stop us. He’ll use you, if you let him. He’ll threaten the others, and he’ll probably try to persuade you that only you can save them. If you do anything that Serle wants you to, believing that you’re helping Mick and your father, you’ll be doing more harm than good.’
For a moment her eyes met his. Then she nodded.
‘And remember that Serle will probably try to stampede you. He’ll use every method under the sun—but don’t let him,’ Kenyon said.
‘I’ll—try not to,’ Mary promised.
‘You came up to London because he sent for you, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Humph. I’m not really keen on the Éclat. There are too many people coming and going; too many strangers who might look straight enough but might actually be friends of Serle’s.’
‘The same ap
plies to any hotel,’ Mary pointed out.
‘Then we’ll give hotels a miss,’ Kenyon told her cheerfully. ‘Is there anyone in London whom you could…’
‘No,’ said Mary, decisively. ‘I can’t park myself on friends, Jim. It wouldn’t be fair. If there is any danger it would mean they would share it.’
‘All right.’ Kenyon was careful to keep all signs of urgency out of his voice: ‘Let’s see if we’ve any mutual friends. Half a dozen of mine, respectably married and settled down, would give half their income to have a look in on this. Now, let me see…’
Mary shook her head.
‘The Aubrey Chesters,’ suggested Kenyon, ignoring her protests. ‘Tennis—Chesters. Know them?’
‘Slightly.’
‘Possibility Number One,’ said Kenyon. ‘Know the Storms?’
‘No.’
‘Beresfords? Spencers?’
‘Slightly,’ said Mary, again. ‘Beresford’s that tremendously big man, isn’t he?’
‘Not so big,’ said Kenyon, scowling. The girl laughed. ‘There are others,’ he said, ‘but we’ll make that the limit. The Chesters, Spencers or Beresfords. What do we do? Toss three coins and the odd one wins?’
‘I shan’t…’ began Mary.
‘I think you ought to let me have the final word,’ said Kenyon. ‘Chubby Spencer’s all right, but I’m not sure he’s in London. Beresford’s not very far past the billing and—coo—er—he’s busy. And Chester’s Diane’s a restful little lady.’
‘Is there any way I can help you?’ asked Mary, sweetly.
‘No trouble at all,’ grinned Kenyon. ‘May I use the phone?’
He walked across the room, and within two minutes was speaking to the solemn-toned butler he could picture standing at the telephone in the vast hall of a house in Regent’s Park.
‘Mr. Aubrey—eh? Sorry—of course, Lord Aubrey… Kenyon—yes, that’s it.’
‘If you will be good enough to hold the line, sir,’ Soames informed him, ‘I shall arrange for Lord Aubrey to take the call on an extension.’
Moments later, Aubrey Chester’s own rather high-pitched voice came over the wire. A peer of the realm and tennis champion of three continents, Aubrey was also—an even greater distinction, in some eyes—the husband of Diane, whom many people remembered with reverence.
Kenyon knew them well. In several emergencies they had co-operated unofficially with Department Z.
‘Hallo, J-Jim,’ said Chester. ‘Want a spot of t-tea, or something?’
‘That’s an idea,’ said Kenyon. ‘Busy?’
‘Not so,’ said Chester, whose life’s work was the playing of tennis. ‘Sh-shall be in all the e-evening.’
‘I’m bringing a friend,’ said Kenyon.
‘B-bring a d-dozen if you l-like.’
‘Not that kind of friend,’ said Kenyon, gently.
There was a slight pause at the other end of the line. It was not, Aubrey Chester was fond of explaining, because he thought slowly that he hesitated; the trouble was that when he had finished thinking he had to start speaking, and his stutter, although improving, presented the difficulty.
‘I-I’ll tell Diane,’ he promised.
‘It almost reminds me,’ said Kenyon, scowling at the mouthpiece and unconscious of the fact that Mary was laughing at him, ‘of the time when Tony Beresford looked you up. I heard about that.’
‘T-Tony!’ gasped Chester, with a suggestion of suppressed excitement. ‘S-say, old boy—h-hurry, won’t you?’
‘I’ll be over,’ promised Kenyon. ‘Goodbye.’
Just one hour later, Kenyon’s Hispano drew up outside the Chesters’ house. There was a breeze in Regent’s Park, and the sun’s glare was broken by the leafy trees in the avenue leading to the building called, disrespectfully, the Mausoleum.
The house was divided into two sections. One half was ruled over by the Dowager Lady Chester, who in turn was ruled by her servants—none of whom, it was said, had served in that house for less than twenty years. It was indeed well-named. It was darkly and heavily furnished, and the dour ancestral portraits which lined the walls seemed to glower in disapproval in the direction of Lord Aubrey, the last of the line.
The other half of the house was quite different. Stepping from the gloom of the great hall into Diane’s rooms, one stepped from darkness into light. Just as Diane Chester herself was a delight to the eye, so was that part of the house Aubrey could let her redecorate as often as she chose…
‘This,’ said Kenyon, as he braked the Hispano, ‘is the Mausoleum. Aubrey likes the name.’
The only thing in that avenue of trees, besides the great houses and the lawns and the occasional rays of the sun, was a cyclist. He was an ordinary cyclist, to look at, on an ordinary cycle. Kenyon, who noticed most things, noticed he was riding with one hand on the handlebars and the other—the right—in his pocket. But cyclists, he knew, frequently tempted fate.
He admitted, afterwards, that he should have been expecting what followed.
The man’s right hand shot from his pocket. The sun shone on the ugly, stubbed shape of an automatic pointing menacingly at the Hispano. Kenyon did the only thing that he could do.
He flung himself over Mary, who collapsed, with a cry more of surprise than pain. She heard two peculiar little sounds, as of a man sneezing, while something hard hit the pavement.
‘Head low,’ Kenyon muttered.
He was working at his coat pocket as he spoke, and succeeded in extracting what he wanted as the second bullet splayed into the stone. The cyclist’s gun spoke again. Mary heard another sneeze, and another. The fourth seemed nearer. Suddenly there was an acrid smell.
And then the cyclist screamed!
The scream soared upward, high-pitched and agonising. Kenyon was out of the car in a trice as their assailant crashed from the cycle head first into the road. He saw the peculiar angle at which the man’s neck was bent.
‘Jim!’ Mary’s voice sounded, close to his ear. ‘Oh, my dear, what happened?’
‘Steady,’ murmured Kenyon. ‘Ah! Here’s Aubrey. And Diane, bless her!’
Diane Chester and her husband were running towards them. For a moment Kenyon looked at Diane, and saw the answering assurance in her eyes as she went straight to Mary and led her with gentle insistence to the house.
Then, Chester following, he hurried towards that limp body in the road.
‘Not my lucky day,’ he said curtly. ‘The poor devil fell on his head. Looks like a broken neck.’
‘G-Good G-God!’ gasped Aubrey.
‘Pop in and telephone for the police,’ said Kenyon. ‘Horace Miller. And don’t let the girls hear you.’
As Aubrey went off, Kenyon glanced round him. The avenue, deserted minutes before, was filled now with a few curious servants and a small group of sightseers. Kenyon was annoyed at the quickness of their gathering. He would have liked to go through the cyclist’s pockets.
He said sharply: ‘I’ve sent for the police and a doctor. Leave a space, please—ah! Constable, an accident.’
A portly and red-faced policeman was advancing. His skin was dotted with little beads of sweat, and it was easy to see that the regulation uniform was, at that moment, both hot and uncomfortable. ‘Who…?’
He stopped, for he saw what the rest of the crowd could not see—the revolver which was lying beneath the cyclist’s body.
His hand moved towards the gun.
‘What’s all this?’ he demanded officiously. ‘I hope you aren’t trying to do anything to impede…’
‘Just one moment,’ murmured Kenyon.
As he spoke, his muscles were unaccountably tensed, his voice was hard and his eyes like flints. He was experiencing an inner shiver of apprehension.
For the nails of the policeman’s fingers were tinged with a bright pink crescent, as like to Dr. Dickson’s as nails of the same hand.
9
Kenyon Annoys a Policeman
‘Keep your hand off that automati
c,’ said Kenyon, his voice very low. ‘For your information, I’ve a gun in my pocket, and if you don’t do as I tell you, it’ll go off, policeman or no policeman.’
The man’s florid cheeks paled.
‘I’ll have you know,’ he blustered, ‘that a threat to me is tant—tant—equal to…’
‘I know all about that,’ said Kenyon. ‘All I’m asking you to do is to keep away from that gun, and to make sure the crowd doesn’t see it. Some of your colleagues from Scotland Yard will be along in a minute; you can make any complaint you like then.’
The policeman was not mollified. On the other hand, he was not perturbed by mention of Scotland Yard. Kenyon, in his own mind, was almost sure that he was a genuine policeman. Yet that tell-tale series of crescents was there.
‘You’ll regret this,’ said the man, stiffly.
‘Not so much as you’d regret it if you touched that gun,’ Kenyon retorted.
‘Time’ll show as to that,’ muttered the constable. ‘Wot ‘appened, anyhow?’
Kenyon pointed towards the crumpled body. He had already tried the heart and pulse, and he knew that the man was dead.
‘He fired at a friend of mine,’ he said shortly, ‘and I fired back. My shot took him in the knee and he fell off his bike. That’s enough for the moment.’
‘Where’s your firearms licence?’ asked the policeman. He was looking anxiously towards the end of the avenue, and his puckered forehead smoothed with relief when he saw two members of the Force coming towards them.
‘In my pocket,’ said Kenyon. ‘Like to see it?’
‘I would.’
He was hostile, but that was understandable. Under the circumstances he was, in fact, behaving well. He even managed a grudging ‘that’s all right’ as he looked at the licence.
‘And now’, he said, licking his lips with satisfaction, ‘here’s some o’ my colleagues, and you’ll have to explain.’
The policeman obviously considered that by this speech he had achieved a moral triumph. He glared at Kenyon with slightly protruding eyes. His nose was unusually swollen, crisscrossed by tiny red veins.
Kenyon was sharply and fearfully aware that Arnold Serle’s nose—or the pattern on it—was very much the same. It might, of course, be a coincidence—but, then again, it might not.