by John Creasey
“No.”
“Drown ‘em!” declared Tenby.
Peel chuckled. “A bit drastic, old man.”
“Maybe it is,” growled Tenby. “But it’s painless, that’s more than they deserve. The way they treated that girl, and the way they tried to pretend Raeburn was a crook when he’s a bit of all right—’Strewth, I know what I’d do with ‘em.” He looked straight into Peel’s eyes. “Drown ‘em,” he repeated, and sipped his drink.
“There are some poor coppers about,” Peel agreed.
“Poor!” Tenby exclaimed. “They get paid, don’t they? That’s more than some people. I was trying to keep body an’ soul together when they nobbled me. Don’t mind telling you, mister, I haven’t forgotten, and I haven’t forgiven them, neither. If I can do them a bit of dirt, that’s me—Bert Tenby’s the name.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” said Peel.
“I don’t care whether you blame me or not,” said Tenby. “Why, I’d be hard put to it to keep body and soul together, if it wasn’t for a bit o’ luck I had.”
“Ah,” said Peel.
Tenby opened his eyes wide. They looked so innocent, in spite of his manner, that Peel hardly knew what to make of him.
“You struck lucky, did you?”
“Penny pool, nearly five thousand,” announced Tenby, “and I didn’t pay no tax. A cool five thou’.” He gave a slow, childlike smile. “Bit of all right, eh? Do you know what? A rozzer come up to me in the street just afterwards. ‘Bert,’ he says, ‘I want to know where you got your dough from.’ ‘Dough?’ I says. ‘Dough,’ he says. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘you can bloody well find out, copper.’ That’s what I said, and walked away from him. Proper mad, he was. More pools and less policemen, that’s what I’d like to see.”
“Well, it’s all a matter of opinion,” Peel said.
“So what?” asked Tenby, and ate another chocolate.
Peel could find nothing more to say, and not altogether because he was now sure that this man was toying with him. It was something else, even more worrying. He felt hot—much too hot. There was a pricking sensation in his hands and feet, and his neck and face were beginning to tingle. He looked at Tenby, whose face seemed to be going round and round. The little bright eyes were staring.
“You okay?” asked Tenby, leaning forward.
“I—I—yes, I’m all right.”
“You look bad,” said Tenby, interestedly. “Take it easy.”
Peel felt that he could not get up from his chair if he were paid for it. The tingling had become a scorching sensation, his face and head seemed to be on fire, and his back and chest were burning. He knew that he was beetroot red, and people were staring at him.
Tenby’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Sure you’re all right?”
Peel did not answer, just stared at him.
Tenby’s lips were parted, showing uneven, discoloured teeth in an expression which was more leer than grin; obviously, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His face seemed to come very close to Peel, and then to recede to an immense distance. The saloon bar was going round now; the murmur of voices was louder in Peel’s ears. He tried to sit upright, but could not.
He had been poisoned. He had let Tenby get those drinks; watched him, believing he was doing well, and he had been poisoned.
He tried to think logically and coolly. No one would poison him fatally like that; it wouldn’t be safe; if anything happened to him, Tenby would be under suspicion immediately. But there was Tenby grinning like a cat, and the other people staring at him.
The barmaid came across. “Are you feeling okay?” She sounded anxious.
Tenby said smoothly: “He came all over like that just before he finished his drink, he did. Looks bad, don’t he?”
“He looks terrible.”
“Better get a doctor,” Tenby suggested.
Peel forced himself to shake his head. He was actually feeling better, not right, but better. His arms and legs seemed more normal, and only his face and head were troubling him.
“He looks a bit less red,” remarked Tenby, judicially.
“I’m—I’m all right,” insisted Peel. “Don’t worry about me.”
The barmaid obviously agreed, and went back to serve her customers, while Peel sweated, and Tenby sipped his drink.
“You’ll be right as ninepence soon, chum,” he declared.
“Yes,” muttered Peel. “Thanks.” His thoughts were clearer, and one thing was certain: he must get the rest of the beer in the tankard analysed. Tenby’s trick could be turned into a boomerang. He stretched out his hand for the glass.
“That’s the ticket,” said Tenby, “another little drink won’t do you any harm. Hair of the old dog, eh?” He giggled. “Lemme help you.” He grabbed at the glass, and it fell to the floor.
“Cor strike me!” gasped Tenby.” Look what I’ve done !”
Peel glared, but did not speak, while Tenby popped another chocolate into his mouth.
Mark Lessing was with Roger and Janet at Bell Street when Peel telephoned his report. A doctor had told him that he had been dosed with nicotine, but had fully recovered. Tenby, the practical joker, had won another round for Raeburn.
But supposing that poison had been lethal?
Was it another, deadlier warning?
Would Raeburn kill again, if he were goaded too far? Would he kill any Yard man who seemed to get too close? Could any man be as ruthless as that?
Only a man who believed that he could really put himself above the law would be. Did Raeburn think he could?
CHAPTER IX
WARRENDER v. RAEBURN
WHEN WARRENDER entered the study of the Park Lane flat, Raeburn did not look up from his desk. War- render walked slowly towards an easy chair and stood by it, watching his employer closely. Raeburn was reading Ma Beesley’s diary of events, leaning forward, and turning the pages with his right hand. The movements of his hand were curiously graceful; he was smiling, and now and again he chuckled to himself; it was a studied poise, and he had a film-star handsomeness.
Warrender’s face was expressionless.
Raeburn seemed determined to keep him waiting. He reached the last entry, read and reread it, then turned back to an earlier page. Still Warrender did not move.
At last Raeburn looked up. “Well, George, what are you after?”
“I’m sorry if you’re so busy,” Warrender said, heavily.
“Must we have sarcasm?”
“If that was sarcasm, we need it. Paul, I work my guts out for you, and the least you can do is to listen when I give you advice.”
“I don’t always like your advice.”
“It’s time you learned to listen to things you don’t like,” Warrender retorted. “And stop grinning at me like a god; you’re made of flesh and blood, and you’re not infallible.”
Raeburn closed the diary, and stood up.
“I’m glad you admit that I’m human,” he said, still smiling. “George, we’re both busy men, and we both need relaxation. I take enough, but you don’t. Just now I like going about town with Eve Franklin. The girl did me a good turn, and there’s no reason in the world why I shouldn’t show my gratitude. You’re worrying too much because you work too hard, and your nerves are on edge. Why don’t you take a holiday?”
“I was thinking exactly the same thing about you,” Warrender retorted.
Raeburn was startled into silence.
“There’s no need for you to stay in England,” went on Warrender. “You’ve a dozen good reasons for going abroad. There’s enough business in America to keep you busy over there for six months; your interests in South Africa and Australia could do with a personal visit. You could take the girl with you, too, although I doubt if she’d last the voyage.”
“George,” Raeburn said, “I don’t want any more sneers at Eve.”
Warrender kept his poker face, but with a great effort.
“Paul, I don’t care what you think about i
t. I’m talking for your own good. I’ll tell you again that she’s a gold- digging little tart whose head’s as empty as a drum. No, don’t interrupt for once. I wouldn’t care a damn if she wasn’t dangerous, but the police are watching her, and she’ll crack if they keep it up. Get away, and let things quieten down a bit.”
“One would think we’d suffered a heavy reverse,” said Raeburn, unexpectedly mild, “instead of pulling off a big success.”
“If you think it’s clever to rile the police, you’re crazy. West won’t let up, and he means to get you. I’ve just heard from Tenby,” Warrender added, abruptly.
“Where does he come into this interesting lecture? Tenby did very well over Brown.”
“Well be damned! It was a big mistake to kill Brown; it gave West the opening he was looking for,” Warrender declared. “Tenby ought to have reported before taking a chance.”
“Now, George, he didn’t take a chance worth thinking about.” Raeburn was determined to be reasonable. “He saw he could get rid of a dangerous man without serious risk, and I think he was right to take it.”
“Well, I don’t,” said Warrender, flatly. “We could have kept Brown quiet; money will always shut mouths. If we rub out everyone who begins to look dangerous, we shan’t last a month. Paul, there’s such a thing as over-confidence ; we simply can’t blot out everyone who might let us down.”
Raeburn sat on the edge of the desk, and said:” Perhaps you would be happier with Halliwell alive.”
“He had to go,” Warrender agreed, “but you were wrong to do it yourself. That was the first thing that worried me. Tenby could have looked after him. If he had, we should have been able to deal with Tenby; we shouldn’t have needed to find Eve; Brown wouldn’t have been a menace, and you wouldn’t be under pressure from the Yard.”
“All right, it was a mistake,” Raeburn conceded, very slowly.
“Anyone can make one, but now we’ve got to cover up, instead of leaving ourselves wide open,” Warrender said.
“That is where we disagree,” responded Raeburn, now his most suave. “George, you will underrate my influence in high places.”
“Or you rate it too high.”
“You’re wrong,” Raeburn said, quietly. “We had a brush with the police and had a narrow escape, but that’s all. I have powerful friends everywhere and they are making sure that I am shown as a victim of police persecution. Every time West tries to be clever, as with Eve, that will be shown up. The Home Secretary has taken the affair up strongly with the Commissioner at the Yard because West has made too many mistakes. The Cry is winning a great deal of sympathy over its persecution campaign, and other newspapers are taking it up. West and the police will soon be so busy getting themselves out of trouble that they won’t have time to worry about us.”
“You simply don’t know West or the Yard,” Warrender said, stubbornly.
“You forget that West has to obey orders,” Raeburn countered. “He will be told to get on with his job, and stop harassing a highly reputable citizen, such as I!”
Warrender took a step forward, and spread his hands in a kind of pleading.
“Paul, you’re starting a vendetta with the police, and I tell you that you’re bound to lose,” he said. “No friends can help if they prove Eve lied. Why don’t you see my point? You’ve got everything you’ve ever wanted. Why, ten years ago, you couldn’t lay your hands on a thousand pounds; today you’re as rich as Rockefeller.” When Raeburn didn’t answer, Warrender went on desperately: “There must be something eating you. What’s behind your attitude, Paul?”
“I want and intend things to happen my way,” Raeburn declared. He opened the cabinet and poured out drinks, and when he turned round he was his smiling self. “Don’t worry so much, George. Take a week off, and enjoy yourself.”
“I don’t trust you on your own,” Warrender said, flatly. “I daren’t go.”
“All right, I’ll take a week off, too,” said Raeburn, briskly. “I’ve got to make sure you get a break, somehow; you’re building this thing up too much. You’ll see I’m right when you realise that, in the public eye, I shall figure as a defender of the rights of the people.”
Warrender took the drink. “So that’s it!”
“That’s it,” agreed Raeburn.
“You see yourself as a great public figure.”
“I do, George! This country’s never had a real strong man. Moseley tried, but—”Raeburn broke off. “But we mustn’t run before we can walk! Whatever it leads to, I also see you as my right-hand man.” Raeburn pressed his shoulder. “When I ran Halliwell down, I did myself more good than I realised. Instead of going to prison, I raised my stock sky-high. I don’t want to quarrel with you or Ma, but I’m going to do things my way. You just stand by to pick up the pieces. Drink up, George, and forget it!”
Warrender said, flatly: “I haven’t finished telling you about Tenby. He was tailed home tonight. A Yard man was trying to get him to open up in a pub, but Tenby was too quick for him. He dropped a tablet of nicotine into his beer.”
Raeburn looked amused.
“I’m getting really fond of Tenby.”
“He’s got a high opinion of himself,” Warrender said. “I don’t like men in his position who get ideas.”
“So you suggest that we get rid of Tenby now? George, don’t let yourself get carried away. If the Yard is showing an interest in Tenby, just send him away for a while. He won’t mind a holiday, even if you do.”
“You personally can’t take a holiday from police attention unless you go abroad,” Warrender insisted. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. And I’ve already told Tenby that if he does anything else without consulting me, there’ll be real trouble.”
“I’m quite prepared to leave him to you,” said Raeburn, carelessly. “Send him some chocolates!” He finished his drink and stifled a yawn. “George, I’m getting tired of this. Let’s call it a day.”
When Warrender was in his bedroom, undressing, there was a tap at the door. He called: “Come in,” and Ma Beesley plodded in. “So it’s you,” he remarked, glumly. “I wondered where you’d got to.”
“Most of the time I was outside the study door,” said Ma.
“Think that surprises me?”
Ma gave a little clucking laugh, crossed to the bed and sat down, patting his cheek as she passed him. It was a bleak room with ultra-modern furnishings in black and cream, and against that background Ma looked old- fashioned. Her long skirt spread out over the bed; on her plump little ankles were rings of fat caused by shoes that were too tightly laced. She took some pins out of her hair, and two long plaits fell over her shoulders.
“Paul is right about one thing—you worry too much,” she observed. “But you’re right about another: he must be stopped from going about with Eve.”
“What’s made you change your mind?”
“Paul has,” said Ma Beesley, simply. “He’s getting much too fond of her; he isn’t just amusing himself any longer. I thought he was, until I saw him after she’d left tonight. Tcha-tcha! I’d hoped he’d grown out of that kind of thing. If she gets her claws in too deep, they won’t be so easy to pull out.”
“How do you propose to stop her?” inquired War- render.
“I thought we might put her in a compromising situation with another man,” cooed Ma Beesley. “I’m sure Paul wouldn’t stand for that.”
After a long pause, Warrender began to laugh, and to look less worried than he had all evening.
“You old devil!” he said. “Ma, you do me good!”
She gave her little clucking laugh, and patted his cheek again as she passed him.
“Just a minute,” Warrender went on, as she reached the door. “Paul said something about going away for a week. D’you know whether he was serious?”
“I’ve already booked a suite for him and a room for her at die Grand-Royal, Brighton,” answered Ma. “He says he wants to be alone.” She winked. “We’ll let him have this week to
enjoy himself, and then we’ll look after him.” She went out, closing the door softly behind her.
The luxury flat was quiet. All was quiet outside, too; only occasionally did Warrender hear a car change gear. He lay awake, looking at the faint light which shone from the street on to the ceiling. It made the darkness a ghostly grey, and he found no comfort from it. He felt wakeful and restless, and kept going over the talk with Raeburn.
Raeburn’s overeonfidenee worried him, and his overriding ambition worried him even more. Did he really see himself as a kind of dictator? Or the real power behind the political and economic scenes? Was he mad? Or was he simply drunk with success?
The stimulus of Ma Beesley’s visit had faded; as always, she had been ready to pour oil on troubled waters, soothing and flattering, so as to make everything run smoothly. Warrender could not be sure that she had meant what she said, was not even positive that she would not tell Raeburn that he was so agitated. He was never sure that he could trust Ma.
Probably no one knew Raeburn as well as she did; she was always at his side, suggesting, prompting, even influencing his thoughts. Had she the same grandiose dreams? She seldom left the flat, and never failed to appear when Raeburn rang for her. Her attitude never varied, either, and Warrender had never known her to lose her temper. She had worked with them for ten years; only he had served Raeburn longer than that.
All three had worked smoothly together, defrauding elderly widows at small continental resorts, never aiming too high, or attracting the attention of the local police. For who would suspect fat, friendly Ma Beesley of swindling?
The currency problems of the neighbouring countries proved another fruitful source of profit, and Raeburn had begun to spread his wings. He always had the bright ideas. Both at home and abroad, he had turned property buying, made a fortune, and begun to study the Stock Exchange. Now he controlled a financial empire, was beginning to enter the industrial and commercial spheres, and seldom put a foot wrong.