by John Creasey
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1
THE SNATCH
THE smiling young man sitting on the park bench spoke in a low-pitched, friendly voice.
“You can choose for yourself, Professor, but they’re my orders — to take you dead or alive. You can shout for help and try to run, and either way you’ll be killed. Much better be sensible, and come with me.”
Professor Julian Conway glanced at a young woman passing within two yards of the bench. She was hurrying, young and eager, and with glistening eyes. She had a figure which he could hardly fail to notice, because it was hot and she wore only a light cotton dress. Her legs were bare, she wore sandals, and the red varnish on the toe-nails looked like blood. She had probably never thought seriously about death, or if it came to that, about life; she just lived.
Suddenly, she waved, and her pace quickened. From some way off, a beaming youth hurried towards her. About them were the trees and shrubs of St. James’s Park, not far away was the lake with its pretty ducks and wild-fowl.
Only the young hurried. Within earshot were several dozen people; within sight, many more.
The Professor turned to the smiling young man, who wore a light-grey flannel suit, looked cool and immaculate, and whose handsome face with its crown of dark, sleek hair drew the glances of most of the girls who passed.
“And if you kill me, what will happen to you?” he asked mildly.
“I’ll take my chance, Professor, you needn’t worry about me — you’ve enough to worry about as it is. Be sensible — it doesn’t have to be the hard way.”
“Who employs you?” asked the Professor.
It was a simple question; he was known to be a man of simple ways; and was also known to be a genius. He didn’t look it. His greying hair was a little long, he had weak eyes helped by thick-lensed glasses, behind which he blinked frequently. His long face, with the sunken cheeks, was pale; and he needed a shave. He wore a shabby, dark-grey suit, which made him too warm, and his forehead and upper lip glistened with tiny beads of sweat. His expression was gentle, and his lips suggested kindliness; nothing about him indicated that he was a repository of many closely guarded secrets.
“You needn’t worry about my employer,” said the handsome young man, who was no more than thirty. “Just come along with me. You’ll be well looked after, provided you’re helpful no one will hurt you; you’ll have a modern laboratory and everything you could wish. That’s a promise.”
“How kind of you,” Professor Conway smiled gently.
“You’ll be told, but not by me. There’s money in it, too — much more than you get out of the Government.”
The Professor fanned himself with a tattered copy of that day’s Times.
“I’ve never been very interested in money.”
“I know all about you,” said the young man. “More than you know yourself, probably. You’re not interested in hard cash, but you have to live. We’d look after your daughter. If you come with me, you needn’t worry about anything or anyone, but if you make difficulties ——” He shrugged, and couldn’t have smiled more broadly had he been talking to a child. “Well, you can never tell, can you? Nice girl, Alice.”
“Oh, yes,” agreed the Professor enthusiastically, “she is charming! Did you notice the girl who passed just now, hurrying to her sweetheart? She reminded me of Alice — the same eagerness, the same youthfulness. Alice is older, of course — why, she must be twenty-five. How time flies!”
“It’s flying too fast now, and I mustn’t stay much longer. Coming?”
The Professor blinked.
“I haven’t yet decided. Be patient, young man — you young people are always in too much of a hurry. If I refuse, you will kill me, you say?”
“Just like that.”
“How?”
“That’s my secret.”
“I was reading a book the other day,” said the Professor mildly, “and something rather like this happened. The author made it clear that bluff ——”
The pleasant voice hardened. “I’m not bluffing.”
“How can I be sure?” asked the Professor. “This was a true-life book, everything in it really happened — it was fascinating. I sat back when I’d finished, and asked myself how I should behave if I were suddenly threatened. I thought I should be horribly frightened, but do you know, young man, I don’t feel the least bit nervous.”
“You needn’t, if you come with me.”
“You repeat yourself so much,” said the Professor reprovingly. “On the other hand, you must be a man of considerable courage. You are probably much more nervous than I, in spite of your calm manner. If I refuse, you will have to kill me and take your chance at escaping. If you failed, you would be hanged by the neck until you were dead — what an ugly phrase, isn’t the law brutal in some ways? I am not in favour of hanging.”
“I shouldn’t be hanged. I’d kill myself.”
“Really! Tell me, are you doing this for money?”
“You’re talking too much.”
The harsh note in the young man’s voice was more pronounced. He didn’t look away from the Professor, who studied his dark, brown eyes, the thin black eyebrows and moustache.
“I insist on knowing — are you taking this risk for money or for an ideal?”
“Supposing we say both? And supposing we say you’ve two minutes left?”
The people walking to and fro kept glancing at them, for they made an ill-assorted couple. It was early evening, and more people were passing now, mostly in one direction — away from the West End towards Buckingham Palace and beyond. Among them was a policeman, walking with ponderous tread, glancing about him, red-faced and sticky hot in his dark-blue serge. His helmet towered above his head, worn at exactly the proper angle. He was less than twenty yards away.
The young man’s right hand dropped to his pocket. The Professor saw the movement, but didn’t change his expression. The constable plodded past, and the young man gradually relaxed and wiped his forehead with his left hand.
“Yes, you are much more frightened than I,” said the Professor. “I wish I had the courage to defy you.”
“You wouldn’t last ten seconds.”
“I’m beginning to believe you,” said the Professor. “If you were bluffing, I don’t think you would be so much on edge. Where have we to go?”
“Just come with me.”
“May I send a message to my daughter?”
“I’ll see to that.”
“What will you tell her?”
“That you’ve gone away on important secret business — again. It won’t surprise her, as you’ve done it before.”
“You aren’t very free with your information, are you?” complained the Professor.
He stood up.
That had a surprising effect, for he was well over six feet tall, and very thin. His trousers were too short, and showed gay-coloured socks, which clashed horridly with his dark suit. The sleeves of the coat were also short, yet the coat seemed a little too big for him. His stiff white collar was at least two sizes too large, and he had a prominent Adam’s apple.
The handsome young man was tall, but not so tall as the Professor.
“No tricks,” he said. “We’re going straight on.”
He ranged himself by the Professor’s side, and they walked briskly towards St. James’s Palace and then turned right, towards the Admiralty Arch and Trafalgar Square.
Every now and again the young man glanced round, as if he were nervous of being followed
, but he made no comment. The Professor appeared to take an amiable interest in everything about him. He showed intense pleasure at the fluttering scurry of the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, the crowd of people gathered about them, the children tossing dried peas and crumbs, the photographers posing the children with birds on their arms and heads. In spite of the heat, everything here was brisk. The fountains were working at full pressure, the hissing white spray and the water in the pools giving an illusion of coolness.
They passed these and then the massive structure of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Still the young man kept glancing behind him, and kept his right hand in his pocket, his left on the Professor’s arm.
They took a side street.
As they approached a sleek-looking black car the engine started up. The couple reached this car, and the young man said:
“In you get.”
“What a luxurious automobile,” said the Professor. He got in, sank back on the seat, and gently wiped his forehead.
The car moved off.
2
THE TRICK
PETER ROSS lifted his pink gin.
“To you, beautiful,” he said, “and may your shadow ever grow less.”
He sipped.
Mae Harrison looked at him over the top of her glass, a trick which showed off the beauty of her grey-green eyes with their golden flecks. She had true beauty spoiled only by her own awareness of it and the illusion that she was irresistible. Her golden hair was cut short and curled round her head like a feather cap; she was perfectly made-up. She wore a black strapless gown, and her mink wrap was hanging over the back of her chair, only partly because it was warm in the Dive. Her shoulders and arms were flawless.
“Darling,” she cooed, “if anyone else had said that, I should have thought he meant that I was getting fat.”
“Never!”
“Darling, you aren’t cooling off me, are you?”
“I’ve never been so hot.”
“Darling,” said Mae, “I’m not sure that I believe you. But I’m not going to let you go easily.”
“Talons well in,” murmured Ross. “Your supreme virtue is brutal frankness, precious. Didn’t I buy you that be-ootiful ring?”
The engagement ring scintillated, the brightest thing in the little niche of brightness in London’s drab night.
Mae glanced at it, spreading out her fingers. Fate had been too kind to her; she was beautiful in every detail, her fingers were long, her hands slender and delicately white, and she did not make the mistake of tipping her nails with blood-red varnish.
“With that ring you bound us together, precious.”
“Nothing tighter than gold! What makes you think I’m beginning to regret it?”
“Just you, darling.”
“I haven’t altered,” declared Ross, and straightened up to peer at himself in a nearby mirror. About them were dozens of other people, mostly young, several more mirrors, a bar with many coloured bottles behind it, a Negro bartender, named Sam, because the Dive had to be ‘different’. The little tables were crowded, and the inevitable hum of conversation was broken by bursts of laughter and an occasional “Yes, sah” from Sam. “Look at me — handsome as ever, no grey hairs, tie in the right place.”
He touched the bow and pulled down his jacket. His evening clothes were from Savile Row, he was lean, lithe, of medium height — but no one could ever call him handsome, because many years ago someone had broken his nose.
“You look the same and talk the same,” said Mae. “But you don’t act the same.”
“Now, precious...”
“Darling,” cooed Mae, “I know it’s probably a mistake and I might grow out of it, but I love you.”
“Easy on the syrup,” said Ross, and glanced about him with exaggerated uneasiness. “Someone might hear you, we must keep that kind of thing to ourselves. When we’re all nice and cosy, and ...”
“That’s just it.”
“Eh?”
“Darling, you’re not deaf, and you know what I mean. That’s just the trouble. It’s ten days since we spent a full evening together. I don’t want part of you, I want every minute, not an odd hour and a drink and a sudden disappearance and apologies and excuses anyone could see through. You don’t really think I’m dumb, do you?”
“Not in a thousand years! But work ...”
“I don’t believe you. It’s not work.”
“Honest toil,” said Ross, and leaned forward and patted her hand. “It will come to an end, and ...”
“Prove it’s work,” she challenged.
Ross looked pained.
“No trust? What a foundation for unhappy marriage! Sorry, sweet.” His voice was firmer. “It’s hush-hush, you know that as well as I do. I’m not simply a pilot, I have to be in at conferences and this and that, and the Powers That Be don’t consider aching hearts and the fact that I’d rather be with you than with them. Don’t let’s spoil the evening.”
“I’ve never known any other pilot who had to disappear so often as you do.”
“But did you ever know another man like me?”
“Not quite like you,” admitted Mae. “The others were always ready to bow and scrape, that was one of the things that made me fall for you. Peter ...”
“Another?” He took her empty glass.
“Don’t get up,” ordered Mae firmly, and leaned forward and grasped his wrist. “Peter, I’m in earnest. I’m not seeing you often enough, and I don’t believe all your excuses. I want to know when we can start living normally again.”
“These experimental jobs...”
“There are other pilots.”
“Not for this job, I’ve been on it too long.”
“And that makes you indispensable, does it? What will happen if the plane blows up in mid-air or you crash?”
“Need we be grisly?”
“I’m just being realistic. It’s bad enough to have that fear hanging over my head. I’m frightened half the time you’re away from me, in case ...”
“So you take my word for it that I fly?” Ross grinned. “Forget it, sweet, and have another. Then ...”
“I won’t forget it. If anything were to happen to you, they’d have to find another pilot, so there’s bound to be someone else who can fly the aeroplane and knows as much as you do about this secret one. You see, darling, I can add two and two together. If you were to resign, the other man would take your place, your pride might be hurt a little, but I’d make up for that.”
Ross leaned back in his chair and watched her levelly. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful woman among many beauties here. Her face and figure were things to dream about, and she was dressed by Dior. He knew her faults, and wasn’t worried by them. It was not only her beauty and melting softness which had made him fall in love, there was a quality in Mae which others couldn’t see; and some said didn’t exist.
“Isn’t this dangerous ground, Mae?”
“I’m serious.”
“Forcing the issue — choose between me and your work, all feminine and coy.”
“Not coy, darling, and your work is suspect.”
Ross said: “The job should be through in a month, but might take longer. After that, we’ll get married and ...”
“Before that, precious.”
Ross took her hand again. His eyes were hazel brown, could twinkle and be merry and could be deadly serious; and they were serious then. They watched each other intently, oblivious of everyone else in the room, of everything but themselves. Ross’s hand was lean and brown, and there was great strength in it.
“Don’t force this any further, Mae.”
“I must, Peter. Oh, I don’t seriously think there’s another woman, but I can’t share you with this work. I get fiendishly jealous, and it isn’t good for me and can’t be good for you.” She drew in her breath softly. “Give it up, Peter.”
“And regret it all my life? No.”
“I tell you I’m in deadly earnest.”
“That go
es for me, too.”
Mae said: “I’ll stop you, somehow.”
“I shouldn’t, darling, just accept the fact that there’s part of me you can’t have — but it’s not much. Pink gin again?”
“Peter, will you drop this job?”
“No.”
Mae shrugged and smiled, and her beauty was intense enough to hurt. She slid the engagement ring from her finger and pushed it across the shiny surface of the table. It touched a spot of liquid, and a wet line was made on the polish. The diamond scintillated as if it were aflame. Ross looked into Mae’s eyes, not at the ring, and his lips were set, but his heart was thumping and he knew what it was to feel despair.
“You can offer it again, when you’ve dropped the job,” said Mae. “I might take it back. Don’t wait too long.”
She stood up, smiled at him radiantly, picked up her wrap and draped it round her lovely shoulders. He was still getting to his feet when she reached the door. She didn’t look round again, but a dozen people glanced at Ross, and he covered the diamond swiftly with his hand. He sat back in his chair, forcing himself not to rush after her.
He’d been sitting there for five minutes, glancing at the door, trying to pretend that he was expecting Mae back, when a waiter sidled across to him.
“Telephone, Mr. Ross.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
Ross stood up, paid for the drinks, and went out, nodding to ebony-faced Sam and his flash of white teeth, smiling at two or three acquaintances; he felt the interest, knew that the quarrel had been noticed and would become common gossip overnight.
The telephone was in a corner, just outside the bar. He picked it up.
“Peter Ross here.”
“Come at once, will you?” said a man whose voice was as familiar as Mae’s — and a man whom he had to obey.
Ross knew that Mae was serious, yet fought against believing it. He watched the door of the ladies’ room, actually waited for two or three minutes before he went farther on to the landing and up the narrow, carpeted stairs which led from the Dive. The commissionaire was on duty in the narrow entrance hall; he saluted smartly, and appeared to be staring with more than his usual interest.
“Taxi, sir?”