Echo of Barbara

by John Burke

  ‘I ought to have gone,’ said Sam. ‘And today I’ve got to go.’

  Roger said: ‘No. This has gone far enough —’

  ‘I’ve heard everything I want to hear from you,’ said his father. ‘Everything. Is that clear?’

  Roger felt his lips trembling. It had all gone wrong. It could never go right now. Nothing could be saved from the mess. And it was not his fault. It was the others who were to blame — Barbara, who had walked out; his mother, who had no influence at all over his father and couldn’t even try to do anything; and most of all his father, who had been such a failure. A failure. Everyone and everything — failures.

  Adam Collier said: ‘We’ve got to work this out. More or less the same idea as we had yesterday. But maybe you’re prepared to be a bit . . . well, a bit more trusting this time.’

  Sam let the ribbon trail from one hand. He looked up questioningly. ‘Trusting?’

  ‘Trying to tail you is all very well. I might lose you. They might catch on to the fact that you were being followed on the road: they’ll be looking out for that.’

  ‘We can’t do it any other way.’

  ‘Why not tell me where you’ve hidden the stuff? Let me get there first, and wait for you. That’s the safest thing.’

  Slowly Sam shook his head. ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Why not? Look, that girl’s life is important. More important than diamonds —

  ‘You don’t believe that!’ Roger could not control himself. ‘You’re real smart, aren’t you? That girl’s life is important, so please, where are the diamonds? You’ll get there first . . . oh, yes. That’s what you’ve been after all the time.’

  His father said: ‘I told you to be quiet.’

  ‘And let you throw away a fortune? Either you give it to those crooks, or you let this smart guy get his hands on it. All because of a girl.’

  ‘All because of a girl,’ Sam echoed very softly.

  Roger had to weep or shout. He shouted. ‘D’you mean to tell me this is how you ran your business in the old days? You never told me. I never heard that you were known as Sentimental Sam Westwood — but that must have been your name. Sentimental Sam.’

  ‘I told you —’

  ‘The great tough operator — where did I get that idea from? Look at you. Just because a girl — a hired girl, working for me — just because she has her hair cut off, you get all noble. You . . . you . . .’

  He saw, from the corner of his eye, Adam Collier moving towards him. He fell against the table, groping with one hand. It touched the hair. In a wild impulse he grabbed it, screamed, ‘Just because of a hunk of hair,’ and threw it across the room.

  Adam Collier came on.

  Then Sam said: ‘Stop. Just a minute. What’s that?’

  They turned. The hair now had lost its shape. The ribbon had come loose, and there was a scattering of dark hairs on the carpet. Just like the snippings on the floor of a barber’s shop.

  Adam Collier stooped, and picked up the ribbon.

  ‘There’s something written inside it.’

  Sam was beside him. Adam stretched the ribbon out and they both looked at the dark scrawl inside it.

  ‘Next to 25,’ said Sam. ‘Indian restaurant.’

  Barbara sat down again and put the magazine on her knees. She said: ‘Not exactly informative.’

  The two men continued to look at the ribbon as though it might, of its own accord, divulge further secrets. But there were only those few words.

  Adam said: ‘You don’t remember — places you used to know — an Indian restaurant?’

  ‘I knew plenty. But I don’t remember the numbers. And this may be a new one. There must have been a lot of alterations in ten years.’

  Adam swung upon Roger. ‘You. You work there. You know the sort of place in which those sort of men hang out. Do you know any Indian restaurants?’

  ‘A lot,’ said Roger sullenly.

  ‘Do you know one at number twenty-five anywhere?’

  ‘Why should I know the numbers?’ He was not even prepared to make the effort. ‘I don’t eat the stuff myself. I just know plenty of them — all over the place nowadays. Indian and Chinese restaurants, opening up all the time.’

  Sam looked again at the ribbon, then at the hair strewn across the floor. He went down on his knees and began to pick up the strands. Roger felt a quiver of futile rage. Here was he, his father’s son, spurned and talked to like a child; his sister loved neither himself nor their father; and there was his father down on the floor, collecting bits of hair — the hair of a girl who was nothing to him.

  Adam said: ‘The message isn’t much help, then. I suppose it was the best she could do.’

  The best you could expect of a creature like that, thought Roger. It was funny to think that she might easily be within a couple of hundred yards of his London office. All the boys congregated round there — small crooks and big ones, pimps and mobsters and organizers. In his mind he strolled nostalgically along the familiar streets. Before him appeared an Indian restaurant, on a corner. He must have looked at it a hundred times without really seeing it.

  It was the wrong one, of course. There were no adjoining houses in which Paula Hastings might be imprisoned.

  He realized, reluctantly, that there was only one slim chance of saving the Mannerlaw diamonds. If he could remember a restaurant at that number she had given, if they could somehow get there before his father had to meet Legat . . .

  There wasn’t a hope of his remembering. Not a chance.

  Adam Collier was saying: ‘Won’t you call the police in now? They can keep a watch without making themselves obvious. They can be ready to go into action at once. They’ll have a cordon round the place, cars out —’

  ‘No,’ said Sam.

  ‘But without them, the odds are against us. It won’t do. If you’re willing to jeopardize this girl’s life —’

  ‘The only life I propose to jeopardize,’ said Sam, ‘is my own.’

  Yes, they might easily kill him. Roger half closed his eyes, seeing the room through a blur. It was less clear than the streets of London along which he still walked. Up Dean Street, round a corner. A nod here, a grin there. Once they had wrested the secret from him, they might murder him. They might murder the girl, too, to stop her talking. Not that that mattered.

  Frith Street, and a turn to the left.

  ‘This refusal to work with the police —’

  ‘I never have done,’ said Sam. ‘I’m not starting now. They’d want to know too much. In the end, they’d want some return for their work. And they can’t have it.’

  Roger said: ‘Hardiman Street.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Twenty-five Hardiman Street,’ said Roger, opening his eyes. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  Adam’s hand fell on his shoulder and gripped it painfully. ‘Do you know what you’re saying?’

  ‘Yes. I can see it plainly. It’s one of the few shops in that street with a number over the door. On the glass, in gilt lettering.’

  His father’s expression changed. He said: ‘If you’re right about this —’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Roger wanted to put everything right. If only he could do it now, remembering the one thing they simply must know, things would be different. He babbled on: ‘And the street itself is dead right. There are a couple of houses there that the Spackman mob use. Legat might be in with them — or know them well enough to have taken over a couple of rooms.’

  ‘Which houses?’ his father rapped out. ‘Do you know? Next to the restaurant?’

  ‘The two on the left, I think. I’m almost positive.’

  ‘If you’re wrong,’ said Adam sombrely, ‘and we went there and bust our way in, and didn’t find her —’

  ‘There might be another parcel in the post tomorrow,’ Sam finished for him.

  Barbara had still not opened her magazine. She sat very primly upright. ‘This all sounds so marvellous,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you can understand why I wan
ted to get away from this family — this atmosphere. I knew it would be like this. I said it was bound to be like this.’

  ‘You’re at liberty to leave,’ said her father, ‘whenever you want. Nobody’s keeping you here.’

  ‘You’re not afraid of my being kidnapped?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I see. You’re not the least little bit interested in me, are you? I don’t matter any more.’

  Sam brushed his hand wearily across his face. ‘I don’t know whether you matter or not. I can’t think it out now. There’s too much . . .’ He seemed to brush cobwebs from his brow. ‘I’m going to meet Legat,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take that phone call, meet them where they say, and keep them busy for as long as possible.’

  Adam said: ‘This address —’

  ‘You’ll go there,’ said Sam. ‘Go there and find it. If you can. Then I leave it to you. Get in, free the girl — and wait for me. They’re bound to bring me there.’

  There was a silence. Mrs. Westwood stared entreatingly at her husband. Roger groped his way through a tangle of thoughts, all of them dark and jagged. He said:

  ‘Suppose they don’t?’

  ‘You mean if they kill me instead?’ asked Sam mildly. ‘They’ll still return to the house to deal with the girl. Unless, of course, they’re proposing to double-cross whoever they leave on guard. But that won’t make any difference. By that time the girl should be all right.’

  ‘Won’t make any difference?’ Roger echoed. He had done his share; now he felt justified in letting his anger boil up again. ‘You give away the diamonds and say it doesn’t make any difference.’

  ‘Whatever happens, they won’t get the diamonds. That much I can promise you.’

  ‘But if you meet them and they —’

  ‘I know what I’m doing,’ said Sam. ‘Murder’s too big a thing for them. Especially when it would mean that I couldn’t talk. I’m planning on them taking me back to that house. And when we all get there’ — he leaned commandingly towards Adam — ‘you’ve got to be ready.’

  ‘I’ll be ready. But if I fail — if they get away —’

  ‘They mustn’t,’ said Sam. It was a flat, savage order that had to be obeyed. ‘It’s up to you.’

  Adam looked at him for a moment. Then, forcing the words out stiffly, as though against his will, he said: ‘And then you’ll hand the Mannerlaw diamonds over to me?’

  Roger gasped.

  Sam smiled faintly. ‘Let’s see about that when we come to it, shall we?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Adam’s car nosed into the tangle of streets, jolting to a stop before a ‘No Entry’ sign and weaving away past a shanty-town on wheels, a street market. There was a welter of ‘no parking’ signs. Adam edged cautiously in between a moped and a delivery van, and got out. This would have to do.

  He strolled along the pavement to the corner, turned left, and went down a hundred yards. Here was Hardiman Street. He stopped to peer in a window cluttered with cheeses, sausages and cans with faded labels. Reflected to his left was the lower half of Hardiman Street.

  There were several shops down there. He could safely saunter down.

  Facing the Indian restaurant at Number 25 was a small snack bar with a yellowing lace curtain. Adam went in idly, and sat down at a table near the window. A girl in a greasy overall came and mopped stains off the table, and said: ‘Yes?’

  ‘Cup of tea, please.’

  ‘Sugar?’

  ‘Please.’

  He lit a cigarette and took the morning paper out of his overcoat pocket. Leaning over it, he could look up and out at the buildings opposite.

  The rows of windows were drab and featureless. Through the lace curtain he could see the sign over the door of the Indian restaurant, and two adjoining doors. If Roger’s guess had been correct, the one on the left might lead to Barbara.

  No, not Barbara. Her name was Paula. He could not get used to the idea.

  A cup and saucer were set down before him. There were brown lines down the side of the cup, and tea plopped in the centre of the saucer as he lifted the cup to drink.

  A lorry swayed past, seeming to lean perilously inwards. Two Italians started an argument on the pavement outside. A policeman put his head in the door, looked round, winked at the girl behind the counter, and went on his way.

  Adam made the cup of tea last as long as possible. Then he ordered another. He was watching the door, hoping that somebody would go in or out — somebody who would help him to decide that this was definitely the house.

  But the tall, sombre house remained still and apart from the bustle of the street.

  When at last something happened, it took him almost by surprise. The car that nudged in to the kerb caught his attention only when the driver got out.

  The driver was a man without a hat; a man with crinkled black hair. He went into the house, and emerged five minutes later.

  The car slid away up the street.

  Adam got up. More than ever he wished that he had been able to talk Sam Westwood into co-operating with the police. That car could have been stopped before it got to Grenbridge. He had hardly dared to hope that he would get to London before Legat set out; but he had done, and the whole thing could have been wrapped up if only Sam had not been so adamant. The car could have been seized, the girl released . . .

  But it was no good worrying about that now. Maybe the police would not have been able to act against Legat: there was no evidence, no ground for an arrest. Valuable time might have been lost in trying to persuade them.

  The car was on its way somewhere near to Grenbridge. Sam would have to take his chance, and work out whatever plan he had in that strange mind of his.

  At least the house had been clearly identified.

  Adam paid for his two teas. He left the newspaper on the table and went slowly out. This was it. He felt the familiar prickling at the back of his neck. His right hand, plunging into his overcoat pocket, touched the coolness of his gun.

  He crossed the street and went in at the open door. A narrow stair led upwards. There was a smell of damp and the intrusive odour of curry from next door.

  A small man with prominent front teeth emerged suddenly from a door in the shadows below the stairs. He looked suspiciously at Adam.

  Adam took his hand out of his pocket. He said: ‘Willie?’

  The man gave him a long stare. ‘There’s lots of Willies in the world.’

  ‘Only one who’s waiting for word from Dave.’

  There was another pause, then the little man jerked his head towards the stairs. ‘They’ve got the room on the second floor.’

  Adam nodded, and began to go upstairs. The man watched him until he turned for the next flight. Adam moved quietly. He reached the second floor, and looked along the landing.

  There were several doors. In the darkness, relieved only by one grimy window several feet above him, they were all alike. He could not risk making a mistake. There could be no second chance. He had to get at Willie McKenna — or Russell, if he were the one on guard — right away.

  Adam retreated, backing away down half a flight of stairs. Then he ran up again, making as much noise as possible. His toes stubbed against the treads. He swayed on the top step, and shouted: ‘Willie . . . Willie.’ Then he fell forward, letting his body thump to the floor.

  Silently he pushed himself up on his hands, poised, waiting.

  There was a silence that seemed interminable. Somebody moved downstairs. Any moment he expected to hear footsteps coming up behind him.

  Then a door opened in the wall to his left. It opened only a crack; and he launched himself at it.

  The door thudded back. Willie McKenna swore, and a knife flashed. Adam’s weight carried the two of them across the room, to crash into the far wall. Willie, twisted sideways, tried to lift his right arm.

  Adam hit him in the stomach. Willie sagged, but pulled himself free and reeled along the wall. He had still not let go of the knife.
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  Out of the corner of his eye Adam was aware of the third person in the room. He saw her standing up, heard her say something. There was no time yet to turn and look at her. Willie was crouching, coming away from the wall. Adam’s hand went into his pocket. The gun was half out when Willie sprang.

  The knife ripped down Adam’s heavy sleeve. It stuck for a moment, and in that moment he swung away. Willie let go of the knife. Adam hit him twice, once on the jaw and once on the nose. Willie’s hands came up instinctively. Adam went in and pinned him against the wall, hitting him again and again until he was crumpling, sobbing to himself.

  ‘Enough?’ gasped Adam.

  Willie rolled slowly forward on to his face and lay there.

  Now Adam could turn away.

  He said: ‘Hello . . . Paula.’

  ‘You know,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, we know.’

  ‘Sam as well?’

  ‘Sam as well,’ he agreed.

  ‘But . . . you still came for me.’

  Her hair stuck out in a weird bristle from the back of her head. Her face was drawn and naked. He took a step towards her, and she stiffened in disbelief as he put his arms round her. Then she went limp and began to cry.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he murmured. ‘It’s all over. You’re safe.’

  ‘They’ll come back. They —’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for them,’ he promised grimly.

  She held on to his lapels and looked wonderingly into his eyes. He kissed her.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she sobbed. ‘You know who I am. I’m not Barbara Westwood.’

  ‘No. I’ve met Barbara Westwood.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t think much of her.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘I’m going to take you out to wait in the car,’ Adam said. ‘You’ll be safe out there. Or you can go and have a good meal somewhere while you’re waiting.’

  ‘Waiting for what?’

  ‘For the others to come back. I’m staying here to give them a very special reception.’

  She looked round the room, and said: ‘I’m staying with you.’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘If you take me out now,’ she said, ‘someone may see us. Then when the others come back, they’ll be warned. You’ll be in a trap.’