by John Creasey
Mark grinned when Peel passed him in a two-seater, pretending not to notice him.
A mile or two farther on, Mark turned a wide corner as a car containing several men passed him, forcing him almost into the hedge. He glared into his mirror at it, then turned a corner—and his heart jumped.
In the glare of the headlights, he could see a man lying in the road.
CHAPTER XV
OLD TRICK
MARK SWUNG the Talbot’s wheel hard over. The right fender brushed against a hedge, and twigs scraped along the side of the car. He drew up, with the rear of the car level with the man, only a couple of feet away. He could not see behind him now, and did not get out immediately.
The man was still lying inert. No other cars were approaching, or he would have been able to see by the light of their headlamps.
He opened the door and got out. Was he hurt, or could this be an old trick?
The man was lying on his back, his right arm bent at an odd angle, his left covering his face. Mark went toward him, and bent down. He touched the man’s arm gently, and as he did so the “victim” butted his head into Mark’s face, and leaped to his feet. It was the old trick, all right, and he had fallen for it. Bitter self-reproach made the situation seem worse. He backed toward the hedge, but before he touched it, his feet were hooked from under him by someone he hadn’t seen. He fell heavily.
“Get him over the hedge,” a man said, urgently.
Mark felt hands gripping him; he was hauled to his feet. He glanced desperately to the right and left, hoping to see the glow of Peel’s headlights, but none appeared. Peel was watching Raeburn; what reason was there to hope he would turn up? Mark was dragged to the hedge; then the big man bent down, gripped his legs below the knees, and hoisted him up.
They were going to toss him over. . . .
Mark kicked out. He caught the man on the side of the face, which made him lose his grip, and Mark slipped to the ground. The man struck at him savagely, but Mark got to his feet, still on the right side of the hedge. A blow cut his lip, and he could taste the salty blood. He kicked out, making one man squeal and drop away; then, next moment, the whole party was bathed in the glow of headlights.
A powerful car came round the corner and slowed down, its horn howling, and the assailants swung round and scrambled over the hedge. The end had come so quickly that it seemed unreal. Was Peel the rescuer? Mark leaned against the hedge, gasping, blinking in the dazzling light. He was vaguely aware of two people coming toward him.
“Are you all right?” a man asked, sharply.
This was Raeburn: Raeburn and Eve were his rescuers.
“Yes, I’m okay,” Mark muttered, and moistened his lips. “Yes, quite all right, thanks.”
“You don’t look it,” declared Raeburn.
“Your face is bleeding!” Eve exclaimed. “What on earth happened?”
“I was held up—by a gang.” Put like that, it sounded ridiculous.
“Let’s go to the car,” said Raeburn, brusquely. He took Mark’s arm, and led him to the Rolls. “See what you can do, pet,” Raeburn added to Eve, and switched on the light. “I’ll move his car on to the right side of the road.”
Mark sat on the soft cushions of the Rolls, and had the wit to pull out a handkerchief when Eve took hers from her bag. She dabbed at his lips, which were already puffy and painful. The soft light suited her; her face was only a foot away from him, and her eyes seemed full of concern.
“Close your eyes,” she advised. “I can see that the light worries you.”
As he closed his eyes, Mark caught a glimpse of Peel’s two-seater going by, but Peel did not stop. Eve dabbed gently at Mark’s lips and cheeks. He could feel her breath on his cheeks, and was conscious of a curious kind of excitement.
She rested a hand on his knee. . . .
Raeburn spoke from the door: “How is he?”
“I’ll be all right,” Mark said, and opened his eyes. Eve was a little further away, and Raeburn was looking at him, thoughtfully. A car passed, lighting them up in its headlights. A second car drew up, and the driver called: “Can I help?”
“Only a minor accident,” Raeburn said. “You needn’t worry, thanks.” He waited until the car had gone, then asked Mark: “Do you think you’ll be able to drive?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I doubt it,” Raeburn said. “I’d better take you back to town; you can drive the Rolls Royce home, can’t you, Eve?”
Not “pet”.
“Of course, darling.”
Raeburn handled the smaller car’s controls easily. Mark caught an occasional glimpse of the Rolls Royce in a wing mirror, and kept remembering the way Eve had pressed his knee—and the way Raeburn had looked at her.
They seldom travelled at more than forty miles an hour. Raeburn asked questions. Mark made a mystery out of the attack, and Raeburn was appropriately sympathetic. He did not show any sign of recognition, and was affable enough when they reached the Grand-Royal.
Raeburn’s suite had three rooms, all furnished in the ultra-luxurious style of the Grand-Royal. The main bedroom was his; a smaller one was reserved in case War- render or Mrs Beesley needed to spend a night there.
Eve’s room was on the next floor up.
When Raeburn arrived, Eve rose from an easy chair in the hall. “How is he?”
“You ought to know,” Raeburn said, sharply, “you were close enough to him.” He stood in front of her, eyes hard, body rigid. “I didn’t tell you to seduce the man.”
“Paul!”
Raeburn said: “Eve, if you ever double-cross me, I’ll break you. Understand that?”
“I don’t understand you,” she protested, almost tearfully. “I can’t make out what’s happened to you. I only dabbed at his face; he was in a really bad way.”
“I was watching,” Raeburn said. “I didn’t like what I saw.”
“You’re crazy to be jealous of a man I’ve never seen before! I was only trying to help him because you asked me to.” Eve sounded really distressed, but a hardness in her eyes did not match the note in her voice. “Don’t be unreasonable, darling.”
“You have seen him before,” said Raeburn. “He was at the Silver Kettle with West that night. You know what I feel about West.”
Eve was shocked into silence.
Raeburn stepped past her, and lit a cigarette. He turned on his heel, and looked at her again, letting the smoke trickle from his nostrils.
She went near him. “Paul! I’d no idea.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you for who he is,” Raeburn said, with studied carelessness. “I just didn’t like the way you behaved with him. Whenever you get near a good- looking man, you revert to nature. I’ve seen it happen before. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll give up those old habits.”
“I have to be civil,” Eve protested.
“That’s right; just be civil.”
“I simply can’t understand you,” Eve protested, in a sharper voice. “Ever since tea, you’ve been a different man. Has anything happened? Has anything gone wrong?”
Raeburn said: “Yes, but it needn’t worry you. You behave yourself, and leave the rest to me, and keep away from other men, or I’ll—”
A swift change in Eve’s expression stopped him; he had never seen her angry before, but she was angry now.
“You don’t own me, remember. Or do you think you do? Why not just lock me up in a room, and come and pet me whenever you feel in the mood?”
Raeburn said, slowly: “So that’s how you feel.”
“It’s how you’re making me feel.”
“That’s a different tale of affection from any I’ve heard before,” Raeburn said. “There are two sides to little Eve.” He sneered at her. “You aren’t making the mistake of thinking that because you saved me from prison you can be temperamental, are you? You’re a common little piece with the right shape, but I could—”
She slapped his face.
Raeburn staggered back, and
for an instant looked as if he could kill her. But suddenly she flung herself forward, her arms about him, pressing her body against him, kissing him with a passion which was almost terrible to see.
The look in his eyes changed, too. He thrust her away from him, and held her at arm’s length; in her passion, her beauty was the beauty of fire.
“You’re mine, do you understand?” he said, chokingly. “I’ll kill any other man who touches you.”
Eve was lying back, with her head resting on a cushion. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, her slim legs were drawn up under her. Raeburn was sitting at the other end of the sofa, quite rational now.
“When I recognised this stranger on the road as the man who was with West, at the Silver Kettle, I could have run him over,” he said, and neither of them seemed to think Of Halliwell.”
“Warrender had told me that a friend of West’s was staying here, and had promised to deal with him.”
“How can he deal with anyone?” asked Eve, lazily.
Raeburn laughed.
“What’s funny about that?” She pouted.
“You’re much funnier than you realise, sometimes,” said Raeburn, “but it’s a good thing you’re not clever.”
Eve made a face, but something Tony Brown had said sprang to her mind. She wasn’t ‘clever’. Tony had said that, in the long run, Raeburn would spurn her for a clever woman. Perhaps she was more clever than men knew.
Raeburn went on: “Warrender had laid everything on all right; we interrupted the party he’d arranged. I hope Lessing sees the funny side of that, too.”
Eve swung her legs down, and got up.
“Somehow, I think he will,” she said. “Sweetie, I think I ought to go and dress for dinner.”
When she had gone, Raeburn poured himself out a whisky-and-soda, and drank it while standing before the fireplace and looking moodily at the flames. Eve already knew a great deal which could be very dangerous. She had probably guessed the truth about the road incident, and there had been no point in refusing to talk about it, but he would have to be very careful with her. Warrender had been right about that.
He finished his drink, helped himself to another, and had nearly finished it when there was a tap at the door.
“Come in,” he called.
Warrender entered.
CHAPTER XVI
WARRENDER PROPOSES
RAEBURN DID not try to hide his surprise. Warrender gave a thin-lipped smile, and walked to the cabinet. He poured himself a drink, before taking off his coat and flinging it over a chair. He dropped his hat, scarf, and gloves into the chair, each movement deliberate and calculated.
“Well, Paul,” he said, at last. “Here’s luck!”
“Do we need luck?” Raeburn asked.
“I’m beginning to think so,” said Warrender.
“So you’re still a prophet of gloom. Why didn’t you leave me alone for a week, George?”
“Things have altered somewhat,” Warrender said, flatly. “You thought so when you telephoned, didn’t you?
There are a lot of things one can’t say over the telephone. I thought you might like a cosy little talk.”
Raeburn said: “Provided it doesn’t take too long. I’m due for dinner at half past seven.”
“And it’s now half past six,” said Warrender. He tossed down his drink. “Paul, this time I know I’m right. Those newspaper stories haven’t done us any good, and they’re only the beginning. Chatworth told the Press plenty today. He’s managed to make them draw a line between you and Tony Brown’s death, with Bill Brown’s disappearance and last night’s attack on Katie Brown. It was very clever. There are no grounds for a libel action; Abel says there isn’t a thing you can do. He also says you’d be a fool if you tried.”
Raeburn did not speak.
“I don’t know how far West is behind this,” Warrender said, “but I think he’s the main cause of the trouble. He’s certainly responsible for Mark Lessing being down here. There are two men from Scotland Yard here as well. Unless we do something drastic, we’ll let ourselves be driven into a corner.”
Raeburn said, slowly. “It’s your job to keep me out of corners.”
“I can’t unless you help.”
“Can you, anyway? Why didn’t you make sure that I wasn’t at hand when Lessing was attacked?”
“I didn’t arrange that,” Warrender said, sourly. “Tenby told me he was fixing something—and apparently he chose to do it that way. You’re the one who likes Tenby’s little tricks. From the time you let him get away with Brown’s murder, he’s been a menace. He was told to get information out of Katie Brown, not to attempt to murder her. I’ve tried to get in touch with him since, but he’s lying low. I haven’t heard whether the girl did give anything away, or even whether she knows anything.”
Raeburn said: “You ought to know yourself.”
“I can’t go all over London looking for Tenby,” retorted Warrender, “and just now I’m keeping in the background. How did you know about the attack on Lessing?”
“I picked him up after it was over.”
“Oh, God!” Warrender gave a twisted smile. “Well, that ought to appeal to Tenby’s sense of humour. But he’s using hired men at Barnes and down here, while he’s been sitting pretty, eating his blasted chocolates. I tell you, he’s got too big for his boots, and he knows a damned sight too much.”
“What will it take to buy him off?” Raeburn asked.
“I don’t know,” Warrender answered. “I don’t even know whether he can be bought.” He smoothed down his oily hair, and hesitated before going on: “Then there’s Eve—and don’t jump down my throat just because I mention her name. She knows a sight too much for my peace of mind. She nearly cracked when West called on her.”
“That was because he told her about Brown,” Raeburn defended her.
“All the same, if I hadn’t arrived, she might have told the lot,” Warrender said. “The police are watching her all the time, and if West ever got tough with her, she’d talk. Paul, Ma and I have been working on this problem most of the day. It’s a big one, and you’ve got to face it. The only way to make sure you’re safe is to get rid of Tenby and Eve. They’re witnesses who could damn you, and it’s no use pretending they’re not dangerous.”
It was a long time before Raeburn spoke. Then he said very tensely: “If that’s the way it has to be, that’s the way it will be.”
Warrender moved slowly to a chair, and sat down. He did not smile, but the tension had gone from his manner. He smoothed his hair again, finished his drink, and put the glass on the floor by his side.
“That’s more like it,” he said.
“But nothing is to be done without consulting me,” Raeburn ordered, sharply.
“It won’t be, Paul. This is the way I see it,” Warrender went on, smoothly. “Tenby can prove you ran Halliwell down deliberately, and as we can’t pin much on Tenby, he’s got the upper hand. Eve would have to admit to perjury, but she might, if the pressure was hard enough. Right?”
“Yes.”
“We could put them both away, and have West and the Yard after us every minute of the day—or we could be more cunning, Paul.”
“How?”
“Kill Eve, and frame Tenby for it, so that Tenby would know he hadn’t a chance, once the police got him. His one hope would be to get out of the country,” War- render went on. “So we’d fix his passport and his passage, and he’d never dare open his mouth.”
He stopped, stood up, and poured himself another drink.
“Can you fix it?” Raeburn asked, abruptly.
“Yes.”
“Who are you going to use?”
“I’m not using anyone any more. I’ll do it myself,” Warrender said, very steadily. “That way, it’s safe, and there’ll be no one left to talk.”
There was a long pause, then:
“When?” asked Raeburn.
“Soon. You’d better be recalled to London tomorrow or the ne
xt day,” Warrender answered. “Paul, I know you hate this like hell, but we can’t avoid it, and there are plenty more floozies. The police won’t let up until they’ve got someone, and the truth about Eve’s evidence is bound to come out. You’ll be safe if we can fix it all on Tenby. You won’t back down?” He was anxious.
“I won’t back down,” promised Raeburn.
In spite of his swollen face and tender lips, Mark went in to dinner that night. His table was some distance away from Raeburn’s, but he could see the couple clearly. Eve was wearing a royal blue gown, backless and almost front- less. Raeburn was in a dinner jacket. They were drinking champagne; whatever had passed between them during the afternoon, peace was quite restored. Eve appeared to be almost deliriously happy, and Raeburn was being the real gallant.
“So it is love,” Mark marvelled.
Fog had descended on London during the night, and the newspapers had not arrived by the time Roger was ready to leave for the Yard, next day. The boys had left early, and Janet called anxiously from the kitchen door: “I think it’s getting worse.”
“I’ll take it slowly,” Roger reassured her.
It was a trying drive, but when he reached the Yard a pile of newspapers was on his desk. The story of the ‘badly injured’ woman in hospital, asking to see her husband, must now be known in nearly every household in the country; and, in each story, Raeburn’s name was mentioned. Pictures of Eve were in several papers, and two had photographs of Tony Brown.
There was a cheerful note from Mark, and details of the attack from Turnbull who had added a note: ‘Looks like R. is getting desperate, and we’re worrying him.’
“Could be,” Roger said to himself, and added grimly: “Better be.”
The telephone bell rang.
“West,” said Roger.
“A man’s asking for you, sir,” said the operator. “He won’t speak to anyone else.”
“Put him through.”
“Is this Inspector West?” a different man asked, gruffly.