by Jack Higgins
He started to turn away, and she made a sudden exclamation. ‘I knew there was something. The night porter took a message for you last night. He told me to let him know when you came in. He said it was important. I’ll tell him to come up to your room.’
Shane hesitated, a slight frown on his face, but she had already lifted the house phone and was dialling a number. He shrugged and went slowly upstairs, wondering who could have been trying to get in touch with him.
It was quiet in his room, and somehow the events of the previous night seemed unreal and far off. He took a clean shirt from his grip and started to change, and a moment later there was a knock on the door and the night porter entered.
‘I understand you’ve got a message for me,’ Shane said.
The porter nodded. ‘There was a phone call, sir. Just after midnight. I tried putting it through to your room, but couldn’t get a reply. When I came upstairs, you weren’t here.’
Shane nodded. ‘Who was the message from?’
The porter took out a small red notebook and thumbed through the pages. After a moment he gave a grunt of satisfaction. ‘I’ve got it here, sir. The gentleman’s name was Wilby. He said you’d know who he was.’
Shane took a deep breath to steady his voice, and said calmly, ‘What did he want?’
The porter frowned. ‘It didn’t make much sense to me, sir. He said I’d to tell you that if you wanted the answer to the question you asked him, you’d better go and see him.’
Shane stared at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror, a slight frown on his face. After a few moments the porter coughed. ‘Will there be anything else, sir?’
Shane shook his head and said slowly. ‘If I want anything I’ll ring.’
As the door closed softly behind him, he turned and walked across to the window. For some peculiar reason he felt depressed and uneasy. It was almost as if he didn’t want to hear what Wilby had to tell him.
There was a little whisky left in the bottle, and he drank it slowly and then finished dressing. As he was reaching for his jacket there was a quiet knock on the door.
When he opened it he found a tall, slightly built young man in a belted raincoat and slouch hat standing there. A slight smile illuminated the lean, aquiline face. ‘Mr Shane?’ he said. ‘Mr Martin Shane?’
Shane nodded, his eyes wary. ‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’
The man smiled pleasantly. ‘My name’s Lomax - Detective Inspector - Burnham C.I.D. I wonder if I could have a few words with you?’
He moved into the room, and Shane closed the door and turned to face him. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got a great deal of time to spare, Inspector,’ he said. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about?’
Lomax produced a briar pipe and held a match to it. When it was drawing to his satisfaction he glanced up. There was a smile on his face, but his eyes were cold and businesslike. ‘Did you know a man called Wilby, Mr Shane?’
Shane frowned, suddenly on guard. ‘Joe Wilby, you mean? Yes, I was in Korea with him.’ Lomax still looked at him steadily, the slight fixed smile on his mouth, and Shane said angrily, ‘Look here, what is this?’
Lomax pushed his hat to the back of his head and said calmly. ‘Joe Wilby stuck his head in the gas-oven early this morning. His wife spent the night with friends. She only found him an hour ago.’
Shane took a deep breath and reached for a cigarette. ‘And what’s it got to do with me?’ he said calmly.
Lomax frowned and examined the bowl of his pipe. ‘Wilby’s wife seems to think that you’ve had something to do with her husband’s death, Mr Shane,’ he said gently. ‘I wonder if you’d mind coming down to the station with me? I’d like you to make a statement.’
11
THE inquest was held on the following morning, and afterwards Shane went back to the hotel, his mind a prey to conflicting emotions. He sat on the bed and stared out of the window at the driving rain, thinking about what had happened. After a while there was a knock on the door and Lomax came in.
He stood at the end of the bed, lighting his pipe, and his face was grave. Shane looked up and said sourly. ‘What the hell do you want? The coroner said all there was to be said.’
Lomax shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not, Shane. I know he gave you a rough time, but we’ve got to face facts. There seems to be no doubt that Wilby committed suicide for one reason only. He was afraid of you. He felt that you were hounding him because of what happened in Korea. The note he left proves that.’
Shane got to his feet and walked to the window. ‘Let’s get to the point, Inspector. I’ve got things to do.’
‘Not in this town,’ Lomax said evenly.
There was a moment of silence, and Shane turned slowly and looked at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Lomax shrugged. ‘I’ve found out a lot about you since yesterday afternoon. I know what happened to you in Korea, and I know where you’ve been for the past six or seven years. You’ve had a rough break, but that doesn’t alter the facts.’
‘And just what are the facts as you see them?’ Shane said.
Lomax frowned and there was a serious expression on his face. ‘This obsession of yours has caused too much trouble as it is. I think you ought to catch a train for London this afternoon. Maybe you should enter that hospital now.’
Shane shook his head. ‘Nothing doing,’ he said definitely. ‘For me that hospital is the end of the line. I’ve still got a few more days coming to me.’
‘Not in this town,’ repeated Lomax firmly.
Shane smiled grimly. ‘You can’t run me out and you know it.’
‘Can’t I?’ Lomax said gently. ‘You’ve just spent six years in an institution. What would happen if I got the superintendent on the phone and told him you were a danger to yourself and those around you?’
Shane took a quick step towards him, his face contorted with rage, and Lomax shook his head. ‘Now don’t try anything silly. It won’t get you anywhere.’ He walked to the door and opened it. When he turned, there was pity on his face. ‘I’m sorry about this, Shane. As I said before, you’ve had a rough break, but if you’re not on that train this afternoon I’ll have to make that phone call.’ The door closed gently and he was gone.
Shane stood in the centre of the room for several minutes staring at the door, and then he went into the bathroom and swilled cold water over his face. His temples were throbbing and there was a slight ache behind one eye. He took two of his pills and went into the bedroom and packed his grip. Five minutes later he went downstairs and asked for his bill at the desk.
It was raining hard when he left the hotel, and he took a cab from the rank at the end of the street and told the driver to take him to Charles Graham’s house.
As he walked up the drive towards the house the last traces of fog disappeared, shredded by the heavy rain, but his headache was still there. He pressed the button of the bell firmly, and almost immediately the door was opened by Graham himself.
‘Come in, Shane! Come in!’ he said. ‘I saw you coming along the drive. I’m having to manage without Mrs Grimshaw today. I’m afraid she’s caught a cold.’
He took Shane’s coat and put it in a small cloakroom at the side of the hall, and then led the way upstairs to the conservatory. They sat in basket-chairs, and Graham gave him a cigarette.
There was a moment of silence before Shane said, ‘I suppose you’ve read about Wilby in the papers?’
Graham’s face registered no change of expression. ‘I read the brief announcement of his suicide in last night’s paper, but nothing more.’
Shane leaned back in the chair and stared up through the glass roof into the leaden sky. ‘He left a note in which he said I’d been hounding him because of what happened in Korea. He said he couldn’t stand it any longer.’
‘And had you been hounding him?’ Graham said gently.
Shane sighed. ‘I suppose you could call it that. I had a talk with him at his home the day before yest
erday. I told him I meant business. He was scared to death. He even paid someone to beat me up.’
‘Has the inquest been held yet?’ Graham asked.
Shane nodded. ‘Ten o'clock this morning, and the coroner made no bones about laying the blame squarely on me. I’ve even had a warning from the police to get out of town.’
‘And are you going?’
Shane shook his head. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ve left my hotel to put them off the scent, but I need time to work this thing out. I wondered if I might stay here.’
‘Do you think that would be wise?’ Graham said. ‘After all, what is there to stay for? Surely the whole thing’s settled now that Wilby’s dead.’
Shane got to his feet and moved over to the window. ‘Not in my book it isn’t. When Wilby spoke to me the other night he was frightened, but it wasn’t just because of me. There was another greater reason, I’m sure of that.’
‘You mean you don’t think he committed suicide?’
Shane turned and looked at him. ‘According to the coroner’s report he was drunk when he put his head in that oven. Perhaps he was put in.’
Graham shook his head. ‘It won’t do, Martin. It won’t do at all. I think the police are right. You should leave.’
‘I couldn’t even if I wanted to,’ Shane told him. ‘I’ve another reason for staying now. It concerns Simon Faulkner’s sister. She made a bit of a fool of herself over Steele a few years ago. Wrote him some rather indiscreet letters, and he’s been blackmailing her ever since.’
Graham sat up with a start. ‘Are you absolutely sure about that?’
Shane nodded. ‘So sure that I intend to get those letters out of him if I have to break his bloody neck doing it.’
Graham shook his head slowly. ‘That may turn out to be more difficult than you imagine. You can hardly expect Steele to hand them over without a murmur.’
‘I think I can manage to persuade him,’ Shane said. He crushed his cigarette in an ashtray and took a deep breath. ‘Well, what about it, Graham? Can I stay here for a while?’
Graham sighed deeply and got to his feet. ‘I’m afraid not, Martin. I think Laura Faulkner should put this blackmailing business in the hands of the police, and I think you should get out. It’s the only thing to do under the circumstances.’
Shane shrugged and said calmly, ‘Fair enough, Graham. You’ve made your point.’
As they walked through the conservatory to the door Graham said, ‘You’ll leave town, then?’
Shane shook his head. ‘Nothing doing. I’ve got another contact in Burnham - a dancer at Steele’s club called Jenny Green. I’ll have to see if she can do anything for me.’
Graham sighed and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘Well, I’ve done my best.’ He got Shane’s coat, and they moved out on to the porch together and stood at the top of the steps. Shane turned to him and held out his hand. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll be seeing you again.’
Graham placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s not a very pleasant world we live in at times, is it? You and I, more than most men, have good cause to know that.’ He turned abruptly and went back inside, and Shane walked away slowly, a slight frown on his face.
He walked down to the main road, and went into the first telephone box he came to and phoned Jenny Green at the flat. There was no reply, and after a second unsuccessful attempt he tried the Garland Club.
He waited in an agony of impatience, and when her voice sounded clearly over the wire he slumped against the side of the booth in relief. ‘Martin Shane here,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to see you, Jenny.’
There was immediate anxiety in her voice. ‘What’s happened? Is everything all right?’
He tried to sound unconcerned. ‘Nothing serious. As a matter of fact I’m in a bit of a jam and I was wondering if you could help. I need somewhere to stay for a couple of days.’
She chuckled. ‘If that’s all that’s worrying you, don’t give it a second thought. You can stay at my place.’
‘That’s grand,’ he said. ‘But how do I get in?’
Someone shouted something to her, and he could hear music start up in the background. She said hastily, ‘I’ve got a show now. I’ll have to go. There’s a spare key under the carpet outside the front door. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll get there as soon as I can.’
She murmured a hurried good-bye and replaced the receiver. Suddenly Shane felt tired - really tired all the way through, and he quickly phoned for a cab and waited for it outside the booth, taking deep breaths of the rain-washed air to steady himself.
When the cab came he gave the driver Jenny’s address and slumped back against the cushioned seat. The journey took only ten minutes, and he paid off the driver quickly and hurried up the path to the house.
He found the key under the carpet as she had said, and in a moment was in the quiet safety of the flat. He dropped his canvas grip on to the floor, and went into the kitchen. He found a bottle of cooking sherry in a cupboard, and swallowed a large glassful, wretching at the bitter taste, and then he went into the bedroom.
The pain in his head was worse - much worse. He took two more pills and lay on the bed, a pillow behind his head.
He started to go over the events of the past few days, but they didn’t seem to have any connexion or fit together into a comprehensible pattern. He had an uneasy feeling that he had overlooked a vital point. Something which would make sense of the whole business. He was still thinking about it as he drifted into sleep.
When he awoke it was quite dark. The pain in his head had gone, and he lay on the bed for a few moments, staring at the pale oblong of the window, before swinging his legs down to the floor.
He opened the door and went into the living-room. At that moment Jenny emerged from the kitchen, a tray in her hands. When she saw him she smiled gaily. ‘I was just going to call you.’
Shane ran his fingers through his hair and looked at his watch. It was almost seven o'clock and he swore softly. ‘I didn’t realize it was so late.’
She passed him a cup of coffee. ‘Whatever you’ve got to do can wait.’
He shook his head firmly. ‘I’m afraid it can’t. What time does Steele usually visit Club Eight?’
She frowned. ‘Seven o'clock. Sometimes a little later. Why?’
He ignored her question. ‘How long does he stay there?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t really know - perhaps an hour. He checks the previous night’s receipts with the manager.’
Shane glanced at his watch and nodded in satisfaction. ‘That gives me all the time in the world.’ He went into the bedroom and got his coat.
When he returned she was pacing nervously up and down in front of the fire-place, a cigarette between her fingers. She turned sharply and there was anxiety on her face. ‘I’ve minded my own business up to now, Martin,’ she said. ‘But you’ve got me worried. What are you up to?’
He slipped an arm about her waist and kissed her on the mouth. He moved to the door. ‘With any luck I should be back before you leave for the show.’ She took one quick step towards him, but the door closed and he was gone before she could protest.
When he arrived at the Garland Club there were still faint traces of fog in the air and a steady rain hammered into the pavement. There was a light in the foyer, and as he walked past he saw the doorman busily mopping the floor.
It was quiet in the alley at the side of the building, and he opened the staff door and stepped inside. A narrow passage stretched before him, and he could hear the cheerful clatter of the kitchens. There was a stairway on his left, and he mounted it quietly.
He found himself standing at the end of the corridor leading to Steele’s office. The dressing-rooms were quiet as he passed them, and the far end of the corridor was shrouded in darkness.
He stood outside Steele’s office and listened intently, but there was no sound. After a moment he tried to open the door, but it was locked. There was another door a few feet away down the turn
ing of the corridor. It opened easily to his touch, and when he switched on the light he found himself in a lavatory.
There was a narrow, frosted-glass window in the far wall, and he opened it and looked out on to a lead-covered flat roof. He switched off the light, and then eased himself out through the window and dropped down on to the roof.
He approached the window of Steele’s office and gave a grunt of satisfaction as he saw that it was ajar. He slipped a hand through the narrow opening, unhooked the catch inside, and threw a leg over the window-sill.
He paused, his eyes probing the darkness, and a voice said, ‘Hallo, old man. I’ve been expecting you to call again.’ The light flicked on, momentarily blinding him, and Steele was standing by the door, a slight smile on his face.
Shane started to move, his fists raised, and then something exploded on the back of his head, flooding him with agony, and the floor lifted to meet him.
There was a great roaring in his ears, and through it he heard Steele say, ‘Make it look good, Frenchy. Fill him up with whisky and then dump him on the railway line at the back of Market Street. When they find what’s left of him, they’ll think he got drunk trying to drown his sorrows and wandered down there in the dark. I’ll be at Hampton if you need me.’
Shane groaned and Steele dropped to one knee and grinned. ‘Don’t worry, old man,’ he said genially, ‘you won’t feel a thing.’
Shane summoned up everything he’d got, and spat in Steele’s face. Steele gave a smothered exclamation and got to his feet. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, and smiled viciously. ‘I always did hate your guts, you bastard.’ His foot lifted suddenly into the side of Shane’s neck, and he cried out in agony and plunged into darkness.
12
SOMETHING was burning its way into his throat, and he choked and tried to struggle, but a hand pushed solidly against his chest and he fell back, his head striking a wall.
He opened his eyes and focused on a face. He frowned, trying to remember where he was, and a voice said, ‘Maybe you hit him too hard, Frenchy?’