Shaw bent down by the body, which was lying face downwards on the floor amid the clutter it had owned in life and debris from ransacked desk drawers and cupboards. There was a small hole in the back of the shabby jacket and when Shaw rolled the body over he saw the blood on the shirt-front around another tiny tear. The weapon had been the same as before, only this time the steel shaft had been withdrawn before the killer had left.
Shaw laid the body gently back. There was nothing he could do for P. J. Fetters now, but there was just a chance that the old man’s possessions might still yield up a few secrets—if the killer hadn’t done his job properly, that was; an unlikely enough thought.
Shaw began a quick but methodical search of the room. When he was about half way through and had found nothing the telephone bell rang. He reached for the instrument, pushed his handkerchief over the mouthpiece, and said in a brilliant imitation of an old man’s high, shaky voice, “Ya?”
There was a pause then a girl’s voice said in a foreign accent, “I am speaking to Mr. Fetters?”
Shaw said, “Ya . . . Mr. Fetters.”
“Ingrid Lange, Mr Fetters.” The voice was cool and competent. “It is about the translations. You understand?”
“I onderstand, ya.”
Again there was a pause, then the voice went on, “Savoy Hotel, in one hour. Please come to my room. This is convenient?” He assented and the girl rang off. He put back the instrument, frowning. This sounded interesting. He completed his search; it took him another twenty minutes and he still drew a blank. He looked down once again at P. J. Fetters, shrugged, and went out into the shop, closing the door of the private room behind him. As he went out into the street the shop bell gave its tinny knell. Shaw walked back to Tower Hill, not hurrying, keeping a sharp watch for anything likely to be a tail. He couldn’t identify one, though in fact it was only too possible that Spalinski’s and Fetters’s killer would assume he would be contacting the agencies of the NTS.
On the way through he stopped at a telephone box and rang Scotland Yard. This done he got into the Wankel and drove off, using a roundabout route, for the Strand and the Savoy Hotel.
* * *
By this time the men in the capsule had reached a high degree of weariness and apathy. They had had all the sleep they wanted and their condition was due more to the fight against their weightless state and to the sheer boredom of prolonged space travel. Schuster and Morris talked together a good deal—Danvers-Marshall seemed the odd man out. He hadn’t the shared link of an Air Force background, and up here in space the difference of nationality also seemed in some curious way accentuated. In the early stages he had found plenty to do and he had in fact been fully occupied; now, with much of his data collected and ready to be fed into the computers, he had time on his hands; and time, in space, hung heavily. The eyes of all three men were now red-rimmed and shadowed, and eyelids dropped constantly. All three, even though they had each other’s company, were feeling the effects of the utter alone-ness of space; to them this was perhaps their biggest enemy as they half-drowsed their way through the universe, passing time and again over the friendly voices of the ground stations so many miles below, making their routine checks, obeying medical orders and taking their ration of xylose tablets as necessary. At times they had all suffered from space-sickness, a feeling like sea-sickness brought on by the effects of weightlessness. It did curious things to their equilibrium, and Danvers-Marshall had had odd sensations of hanging upside down, or of being crouched like an animal on the floor.
As they passed yet again over Kennedy their families came on the air once more. The wives and children were well, but for the wives at any rate, as for the astronauts themselves, time was passing slowly and they would be relieved and happy once their menfolk were safe aboard the carrier that would be standing by in the Caribbean.
There was still no word from mission control of the threatened trouble.
SEVEN
In the Savoy Hotel Shaw told reception, “I’d like to see Miss Ingrid Lange.” Somehow, the ‘Miss’ fitted; the girl hadn’t sounded married. “She’s expecting me.”
“Yes, sir. What name is it?”
“Fetters. P. J. Fetters.”
“Very good, sir.” The clerk got on the phone and after a brief conversation said, “The lady would like you to go up, sir. Suite 604.“ He signalled a bell-hop. Shaw was whisked upwards in a lift and followed behind the bell-hop along a corridor, discreet, well-carpeted, quiet. The bell-hop knocked at Suite 604 and the girl’s voice came through faintly, “Please wait. I am just coming,” and a few moments later the door was opened and Shaw walked past the bell-hop into the lobby of the suite with his hand on the butt of the Beretta in his shoulder-holster.
The girl was around twenty-seven and as attractive as her voice. Her eyes widened but she stood demurely, with her hands behind her back. The bell-hop closed the door and left them to it. The girl said, “What is this? You are not Fetters?”
“No, I’m not. You’ve met him, Miss Lange?”
“No, but I know he is an old man.” She didn’t look scared and one reason for that became obvious when she brought her hands to the front. In the right was a tiny revolver aimed at Shaw’s guts. It wouldn’t hurt much at any range worth mentioning but right here in the small lobby it would make a lethal enough hole. “Who are you, please?”
Shaw said easily, “Let’s just say I’m Smith. As a matter of fact it was I who talked to you on the phone, believe it or not, an hour ago . . . from Fetters’s back room. You won’t need that gun, Miss Lange, I promise you. Can’t we go into your sitting-room and talk this thing out comfortably? My intentions are strictly honourable, I might add, though I fear it’s going to be quite a strain keeping them that way.”
Her eyes—blue eyes, reliable eyes—were steady as a rock over the top of the gun-hand, and that was steady too, but there was the faintest glimmer of amused appreciation in them. “Where,” she asked peremptorily, “is P. J. Fetters?”
“Fetters, I’m sorry to say, is dead.”
“You killed him?”
He shook his head. “Certainly not. He was dead when I arrived. I’d hoped to find him very much alive.”
“Why?”
Shaw grinned. “For one thing because I hate to think of anybody on my side not being alive. For another, and more important currently, I wanted some information from him.”
“And you are here because I happened to telephone, and you think I may be able to give you some information in his place?”
“That’s it exactly,” he said cheerfully. “May we go inside now?”
She frowned; the frown, wrinkling her brows, made her even more desirable. Shaw could see now that she was beautiful—really beautiful, as few women are. She was fair—exceptionally fair, with very fine hair twisting around and below her ears . . . small ears, caressable ears— sensitive ears, perhaps, in more ways than one? Her body was slim—she was tall, and long-legged, with shapely breasts thrusting against a vivid blue dress. The eyes were large and direct, and innocent despite the efficient handling of the gun. She was obviously Scandinavian, and the accent struck him as Swedish. The name, of course, might or might not be her real one.
Meanwhile she was observing him as critically as he was observing her. Her eyes were narrowed now as she came to a decision. After a few more moments she said crisply, “Very well, Smith. We will go inside and talk, as you say, in comfort. Please walk past me, and sit in the chair by the window.”
He did as he was told. She kept the gun pointing at him all the way and remained standing when he sat. She said, “Now, please, tell me what is going on?”
“That,” he said, “is what I was about to ask you. I’d say you were an observant kind of person, Miss Lange, and—”
“I am,” she said, “and I would say you are not called Smith, for one thing. That does not make me trust you . . . though there is something in your face that I would call, I think, honesty.”
He gr
inned. “Thanks! Maybe I'm not Smith, but I’m afraid it’ll have to do for now.” His own eyes narrowed suddenly. “Miss Lange, what were you going to talk about with P. J. Fetters?”
She answered coolly, “Is that your business . . . Smith who isn’t?”
“I believe it could be.”
Her eyes had taken on a steely look now and she was puzzled—but also interested. In him. Very. She said abruptly, “Tell me in what way, Smith.”
He said, “Two men have died—Fetters and one other. Do you know who the other is, Miss Lange?”
“I do not.”
“He was a Pole, and his name was Stefan Aleksander Spalinski, once a colonel of the Polish Army in Britain.” Her eyes were perfectly steady. “I do not know this man,” she Said. “I have never heard of him. You will have to do better than that.”
She was speaking the truth; the Fetters and Spalinski wires failed to cross with this girl. Shaw changed his line of attack. “What are you doing in London?” he asked. “I’d assume you don’t live permanently at the Savoy—so when did you arrive, and where did you come from?”
She shrugged. “I do not mind telling you this. I arrived only last night, from Switzerland, and—”
“Switzerland?” he asked with sudden interest.
She nodded. “Zurich. You ask what I am doing. I will tell you that too. I am a kind of literary agent.”
“With a gun? You deal with publishers at gun-point, Miss Lange?”
“Oh, no, not always, that is!” There was amusement in her face again. “What is this Spalinski who died? What has he to do with P. J. Fetters?”
Shaw said, “Spalinski had a message for me. He was killed before he could pass it on. He was killed in precisely the same manner as was Fetters not so long ago today. That seems to me a kind of link, for a start.”
“And you went to Fetters to find out what the message was?”
“That,” he said, “is more or less correct.”
“And now you come to me, also to find this out.”
“You’re doing pretty well!”
She said flatly, “Then I am so sorry. I have no knowledge of any message.”
“But you were in contact with Fetters.” He shifted in the chair, crossing his legs and leaning back comfortably. “And there’s one more link between Spalinski and Fetters.”
“And this is?”
He said with deliberation, watching her face closely, “Both of them were members of the NTS and I believe you are as well, Miss Lange.”
A shadow crossed her face and her mouth tightened; that had gone home. Shaw smiled and said, “It’s all right, we’re all on the same side. Spalinski, Fetters, you—and me. I’m going to trust you. I’m an agent of British Defence Intelligence.” He reached into his pocket and brought out his special pass, showing the cover only. “Do you believe me?”
After a pause she said, “Yes, I think I do, Smith.”
“Then put the toy pistol away. I’ve a much better one in my shoulder-holster, and if I’d wanted to, I could have had it out long before you could have got me with the peashooter.”
She gave a sudden laugh. “Very well, Smith, I shall do as you say.” She picked up a handbag from a small table and slid the miniature revolver into it. Then she sat down opposite Shaw, and he looked with appreciation at nyloned thighs as her dress slipped above her knees. She went on, “I was telling you the simple truth when I said I did not know of this Spalinski. Therefore it follows that I cannot help you over the message of which you spoke. My business with Fetters was not in any way concerned with that, I assure you, Smith.”
“What was your business?”
She said slowly, “I had better explain, perhaps. I have already told you I am a literary agent, but one with a difference. I act, you see, as a link with writers of the Communist countries—writers who are not Communists, writers who have a message for the non-Communist peoples, writers who in fact are largely members of the NTS and who wish their works to be published outside their own countries—in the West, that is. Sometimes, if they are brave men, they wish to publish under their own names. More often, however, they publish under pseudonyms. I build up for them contacts with Western publishers, secret contacts, and act as their agent in all non-Communist countries. I have, you understand, very wide contacts of my own, built up over the last few years.”
“And Fetters?”
She took the end of a lock of hair and twisted it around below her nose, holding it there for a moment between nose and pouting upper lip. “Fetters was to be my contact in this country insofar as my activities for the NTS are concerned—”
“I thought you said—”
“Wait, Smith. Let me explain. What I said was the truth. On this occasion I am in London very strictly on literary business, and I had arranged with Fetters by an exchange of correspondence for him to translate a book by a Russian author, an old friend of his from very many years ago. This, and the contracting for the book with a London publisher, whose name I shall give you if you wish, is the sole reason for my visit. This I must stress. It is perfectly true, Smith.” She added, “It is also true that I have never met Fetters. It happens that so far I have never undertaken any commission for the NTS in this country.”
Shaw was disappointed. He said, “I see. Well—if you’re only here on literary business I doubt if you can be much help, Miss Lange. That is unless—since you come from Switzerland—you happen to know a man called . . . Rudolf Rencke?”
“Rencke?” The girl reacted instantly. Her body jerked and her eyes hardened. “Rudolf Rencke . . . why do you mention the name of that man?”
“Before Spalinski died, he told me that a man of that name might try to get him. I don’t know if the killer was in fact Rencke, or not—but he could have been. Even if he wasn’t, if I could get hold of him, he might be persuaded to tell me what Spalinski’s message was.” He paused, looking at her searchingly. “What do you know of Rencke, Miss Lange?”
Her tone was clipped now, and tense. “I know too much of him, Smith! He is a killer, as you suggest. He is a man whom the police of many countries would like to bring in and charge, but he is too clever for them all. Nothing has ever been made to stick. He has very many interests and all of them are—dirty. He is a brute, Smith, a fiendishly cruel man, a man who is unhealthy in mind and in appearance. He is out for his own ends entirely. I have heard it said that he has worked for the Communists. What his politics really are I do not know, but evidently he is willing to take Red money when the chance offers. Does that help?”
Shaw said, “Yes, Miss Lange, it could help. It could fit. You don’t happen to know his present whereabouts, I suppose?”
“No,” she said, “I do not. From what you say, he could obviously be in London, but I would not know where to look for him. Which is perhaps just as well, Smith.”
He looked at her sharply. “Why’s that?”
In a low voice she said, “Smith, three years ago in Switzerland, I was forced to watch while Rudolf Rencke raped my sister and then murdered her. I do not wish to go into details . . . but somehow I got away from him, and I went to the police and reported what had happened, but Rencke had too many friends, if one can call them that, in high places—men whom he had in his pocket, men he could blackmail. What happened to my sister took place in Vevey on the Lake of Geneva .. . and next day Rencke had produced no less than five prominent persons, one of them a banker and another a member of the Ständerat, who swore that he had never left Zurish and that I must be mad—or vengeful, as a cast-off mistress, which in fact I never was. Since then he has believed me powerless—had he not believed that, he would have tried to kill me. He wants my body, that I know . . . I swear to you, Smith, if ever I met Rudolf Rencke again, I would do all in my power to kill him.”
* * *
She was quite a girl, Shaw reflected as he drove away from the Savoy, but she hadn’t been able to help much. Once again, it seemed that with Spalinski all leads ended in complete blanks,
which experience had taught him was the fate of most leads. This time, however, the impasse seemed unbreakable. He wasn’t even within sight of getting off the ground on this job. No-one knew a thing about Spalinski; Fetters was dead and most likely anybody else who might have any knowledge was in danger of dying at any moment. And meanwhile Skyprobe IV had just another seven days to go to splashdown.
Shaw drove along the Strand, headed up for Piccadilly and on to his flat, and when he let himself in and went into his sitting-room he found someone had got there before him and was reclining grandly in an easy chair, drinking Shaw’s own whisky from one of his own crystal tumblers and holding a nasty-looking semi-automatic weapon pointing straight at him as he came through the door. His visitor was big and bald and square-headed, with a mouthful of teeth, and he looked a bastard. He had a puffy white face and moist red lips, very full and sensual, and in general looked unhealthy as well as a bastard. . . .
Calmly Shaw walked up to him, into the snout of the gun. “Rudolf Rencke, I presume?” he asked.
EIGHT
“At your service, Commander Shaw.” Rencke smiled, showing three gold teeth among the white. “You will please take your gun from your shoulder-holster and drop it by your feet.”
“If you want it, you’ll have to come and get it.”
The bald man said, “I prefer waiter service.”
“Then you can get knotted.”
Rencke smiled puffily and said, “Moss.”
Shaw turned in a flash, his hand already inside his jacket for what the Beretta was worth against that heavy gun, but he was a fraction too late. Two men came at him from behind the door and each seemed to land on his shoulders. He crashed over backwards. Reacting fast, he brought his legs back and sent one of the men flying into a china cabinet. The other man had a lock on his neck and arms. The man in the cabinet emerged from the wreckage shaken but intact and came back to help his companion. Shaw was lifted to his feet and held up in front of Rudolf Rencke. Rencke fit a cigar and smiled gendy. In a soft voice he said, “What a troublesome man. Moss, you and Horn hold him tight and bring him nearer to me . . . that’s right.”
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