by John Creasey
“Don’t you?”
Bray cried: “Don’t stand there leering at me and uttering cryptic comments on everything I say. I’m not a fool! I know the risks, but you can’t blackmail me. He has, and I’ve suffered for it, and I’ll suffer more, but I will not allow Miss Leeming to suffer. Do you understand? Release her!”
Ross said quietly: “Supposing you calm down?”
He went across to a chair and sat down, and Bray looked at him as if surprised by the sudden moderation in his tone. Ross lit a cigarette, and glanced meaningly at the whisky bottle by the side of Bray’s chair. Bray didn’t make a move towards it, but his temper evaporated.
“I hope I’ve made myself clear.”
“Very clear. I’ve also told you that this is a murder case. Your friend killed again, tonight, while getting away. I don’t think you’ve told me everything you know about him.”
“But I have!”
“How did you get in touch with him for tonight’s meeting?” asked Ross softly.
“He telephoned me! I had no idea how to get in touch with him, but he frequently gets me on the telephone. I told him that I had to see him, and he reluctantly agreed to meet me in Regent Street. I made the excuse that your visit had frightened me ——”
“Excuse?”
“Very well,” said Bray, “it was no excuse. You have scared me, because of Miss Leeming. But don’t make any mistake, unless she is freed at once I shall take steps to make sure that the newspapers have this story in the morning. They may smear me with mud, but they won’t harm Dolly. I will give you ——” He glanced at a gold Regency clock on the wall, pursed his lips, and went on: “Precisely one and a half hours.”
“Thanks,” said Ross. “What did the man look like?”
“It was dark, and ——”
“They have lights in Regent Street.”
“He wore a cap pulled low over his eyes and kept the collar of his coat turned up,” Bray said wearily. “His eyes were almost all I could see, and his long nose. Oh, and his hair was fair at the back — blond.”
“Well, well,” breathed Ross. “What good eyes you have, grandpa! A long nose and fair hair — are you sure about that?”
“I will not be insulted!”
“Still sure?”
Bray licked his lips and backed away, saw the whisky and hurried across to it, picking it up and then looking round as if for another glass. He started towards the cocktail cabinet, bottle in hand, but Ross caught his arm and made him stop. He didn’t try to free himself.
“The man had dark hair and a short nose,” said Ross. “I know that. Now let’s really start talking business!”
21
NEW LEAD
“HE — he didn’t look like that to me,” Bray gasped, and stood helpless in Ross’s grip. “I told you there wasn’t much light, and there was only the hair at the back of his head. I thought ——”
“You wouldn’t think a short nose was a long one or dark hair was fair, in the lights of Regent Street.” Ross pressed the little man’s wrist tightly, making Bray wince, then let him go and backed away. “Don’t let us get excited, Bray. Why are you trying to tell me that he’s different? Hoping that I’ll tell the police to send out the wrong description.”
“My — my eyes aren’t good in the dark,” Bray muttered. “Ask anybody — ask my chauffeur, I never drive at night because of my eyes. And I couldn’t see the man well, that’s the truth. He — he may have been disguised.”
“Well, what a bright idea,” said Ross.
It might be true. A false nose and a wig might pass, at night, provided there was no close scrutiny; there had been neither nose nor wig at the Chancery Lane Offices, but the man might have slipped them into his pocket. Bray was an odd mixture; he didn’t strike a note of confidence, he was wriggling and frightened, yet he didn’t seem to Ross to be lying. He was too earnest.
“It must be true!” muttered Bray.
“We’ll see. I want this man, and I think you can tell me where to find him.”
“I can’t!”
“Poor Dolly.”
Bray backed away, picked up his whisky-glass, and again took on that unlikely appearance of dignity. He didn’t speak for some seconds, seemed to be getting himself under strict control. Twice he started to speak, only to stop; finally, he cleared his throat and said huskily:
“I have no more time for you. I’ve delivered my ultimatum. You know what I shall do if Dolly hasn’t come here within the next — the next one and a quarter hours.” He raised his head challengingly, expecting comment on the lost quarter of an hour.
“But you’ll be detained yourself.”
“I shall ask for my lawyer.”
“You have all the answers, except the one I want most,” said Ross. He was favourably impressed by the man’s manner, and relaxed again; but Bray didn’t relax, and looked pointedly at the clock. Ross ignored his glance. “Bray, you say this man often telephones you and that he called you again tonight. Did he always speak from the same number?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you sure you’ve never seen him before?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Although he blackmailed you, you made no attempt to find out who he was.”
“How could I? I could have gone to the police, and that would have meant telling them the whole story. I had no desire to tell the police about my past, I was prepared to pay for the man’s silence.”
“Chiefly because it didn’t cost you much, I fancy. And you never got a line on him.”
“No, never. There was one time when I was hopeful, but the trail petered out.”
“What trail?”
“I hope you realise that your time is passing,” said Bray, and managed to sound frigid. “It was at the Dive — I received a note there. One of the demands, framed in similar phrases to the telephone calls, and I tried to find out who’d sent it to me. No one seemed to know, the waiters and the barman said they’d no idea. Apparently the note had been left on a table with my name on the envelope. That’s all.”
“Well, well,” breathed Ross. “The Dive again.”
Bray didn’t speak.
Ross stood up.
“Listen to me, Sammy. You’re in deep waters, and there’s a lot at stake. You may know it. If you don’t, I can tell you this much — no one is going to stop doing anything because you’ve friends in high places. Dolly will be all right, if you’re on the level, but if you start trying to work up Press indignation you’ll have some nasty surprises. Any other leads to this mystery man?”
“No.”
Bray licked his lips.
“What did he look like?”
Bray said wearily: “It’s no use trying to trick me. I thought he had a long nose and fair hair, that’s the most I can say. I’m not impressed by your threats. I may have made a fool of myself in the past, but I’m a wealthy man now, and I’m not dishonest or disloyal. If you’d approached me in the right way, I would gladly have cooperated.”
“All right, Sammy,” said Ross. “Perhaps I’ve misjudged you.”
He went out swiftly; Bray hardly realised he had gone when he closed the door. He hurried along the passage, and was stopped by the hopeful young agent, who said promptly:
“Anything?”
“Not yet.” Ross took out cigarettes. “Is his telephone line tapped, do you know?”
“Oh, yes — Hope is watching the switchboard, downstairs.”
“Thanks.” Ross lit both their cigarettes and hurried on, beckoned the man who was still sitting at the table and reading a glossy magazine. The porter was in his office, where a switchboard was built into the wall. “Hope, he may try to make some calls, and one of them might be to the Dive. He hasn’t called anyone tonight yet, has he?”
“Not since I was on duty,” said Hope, a fair-haired, blue-eyed man. The light shone into his eyes, and Ross frowned, for no apparent reason at all. “I’ll make sure Craigie hears if there’s anythi
ng. Any message from you, if he rings up?”
“Just that I’ve gone to the Dive.”
Everything about Bray had started at the Dive; he’d first hit the trail there. It was open until two-thirty, providing music and dancing. He wished he hadn’t left his car so far away. He hurried towards it, slid into the driving seat, and switched on the engine.
As he leaned forward to release the handbrake, he heard a rustle of movement in the back seat, but wasn’t able to do anything to save himself. A blow smashed on to the back of his head, crushing his hat; another sent him lurching over the wheel. The engine stalled. He didn’t shout, just grunted and waited for the next blow.
He couldn’t move.
He heard vague sounds, and the third blow came, but it wasn’t heavy, and it struck him on the shoulder. He heard more sounds, as of voices, and then the wind blew in and he knew that the door had opened. He heard a louder shout, then the bark of a shot. At this, he tried to straighten up, but his head was burning with pain, he had hardly the wit to feel relieved. The sound of voices stopped, and there was no more shooting, but there were footsteps — and then a police whistle shrilled out.
He was doing well with the police.
A man spoke close to his ear.
“Peter — sit up!”
It was Williamson, tense with alarm.
Ross grunted.
Williamson took Ross’s hat off, then switched on the courtesy light in the roof. It seemed so bright that it hurt Ross’s eyes, and he grunted again. He felt Williamson’s fingers probing, and winced twice when the man touched a tender spot, but he was already feeling better; the sickness of fear and of pain were receding. Williamson pushed him away from the wheel, and leaned him back.
“All ri’,’’ he muttered. “Give me — five minutes.”
Another man spoke in the deep, formal voice he associated with policemen. Williamson got out, but left the door open. Ross didn’t try to follow the conversation, but straightened up, and took in long, deep breaths of air. Soon he was much better, apart from the ache in his head.
Williamson came back.
“I’ll drive you home.”
“No — the Dive.”
“Not in those trousers, old chap.”
“Don’t be a fool. The Dive.”
“So you’ve found something,” said Williamson.
“I might find a needle in that haystack.” Talking was painful because it jarred the muscles at the back of his head, but Ross went on: “What happened?”
“The swine was lying in wait for you, and I was too far away. I got him, though.”
“What?”
Williamson was grim.
“I got him too well, I doubt if he’ll come through. Pity — he would have talked, I think. Nothing special about him, he looks just a tough. Tell me what you want to find out at the Dive, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Ross forced a smile.
“Don’t think I don’t trust you, but you don’t know Sam.”
“We’ll look in at your flat first,” said Williamson.
Ross put his head under the cold tap, and Williamson held it under. Ross gasped, but didn’t try to back away. Williamson put a towel round his head, when the dowsing was done, and he staggered to the bathroom stool. Williamson dabbed his hair gently, and Ross took the towel and rubbed vigorously; it hurt, but it didn’t take so long. Then he went into his living-room, and gave Williamson a whisky, and himself two aspirins. His eyes were bloodshot, but apart from that he was feeling much more himself. It was still nearly an hour to the time the Dive closed.
Williamson drove.
“I’m getting used to a chauffeur,” said Ross.
“Get used to thinking. They want you pretty badly, Peter.”
“Why any worse now?”
“Well, they want you — it’s as well Craigie had a notion that they might, and gave me the job of following you round.”
“I need following round,” said Ross.
His mind wasn’t fit for much thinking, but the fact sunk in that there had been a deliberate attempt to kill him — and that could only be because of what he knew. What did he know? What would justify their taking the risk of hiring a man to kill him? It was someone who was watching pretty closely, and who guessed that he would be back at Bray’s. Was it something which he had discovered at Bray’s — or what the attacker might think he had discovered?
Williamson pulled up, near the Dive.
“Not many cars about tonight, it’ll be nearly empty,” he said. “Sure you won’t let me ask the questions?”
“Just be a watchdog,” pleaded Ross.
Williamson chuckled.
Ross went past the respectful commissionaire and down the carpeted steps. He heard a mutter of voices, and Sam’s “Yes, sah!” uttered in a way which suggested that whoever he was talking to was the only man worth any attention; Sam had a genius for making his clients seem important. The lights were bright, but didn’t hurt Ross’s eyes. Inside the Dive itself the lighting was much more subdued. There were about a dozen people there, and Sam was leaning against the bar, talking to a middle-aged man who was propping himself up with his elbows and speaking in a slurred voice; he seemed likely to fall asleep at any moment.
Sam’s eyes flashed round towards the door, and he grinned broadly.
“Pardon me, sah.” He left the drunk and came along the bar, still grinning. “Glad to see you, Massa Ross, I’ve almost forgotten what yo’ looked like, sah!”
“What, a man with a memory like yours?” asked Ross.
Sam’s grin nearly split his face in two.
“That all depends, sah. For some things my memory’s wonderful, yes, sah, I’ll say it’s wonderful, and for other things — believe me, Massa Ross, for other things it seems to me I forget them as if they never happened! What will you have to drink tonight, sah?”
“A tonic water.”
Sam’s smile faded.
“You feeling okay, Massa Ross?”
“No, Sam.” Ross glanced round. No one was near; the others were gathered in one corner in a noisy group, and the drunk was muttering to himself. “You remember Mr. Bray?”
“Sho’ do, sah.”
“Some time ago, he was worried because someone left him a message, and he didn’t know who it came from. Remember?”
“Sho’ do. Most upset, Mr. Bray was that night, I never seen him so upset.”
So Bray hadn’t lied about that.
“Did you do everything you could to help him, Sam?”
“Sho’ I did,” said Sam, nodding portentously. “I spoke to every waiter, and some of the customers, sah, but no one could remember how that note got on to that table, no, sah! It was a mighty funny thing. I knew the person who had been sitting there, and asked him — no, sah, he hadn’t sent no note to Mr. Bray. I did everything a man could do, sah, I would have helped if there’d been any way to help. But there just wasn’t any way.”
Ross said slowly: “That’s a great pity, Sam. What table was it on?”
Sam pointed a knuckly forefinger.
“Right there — right under my eyes. I looked up and saw it and thought some gennulman had left a letter behind, and then I saw it was addressed to Mr. Bray, sah, so I took it right to him. He was very upset, I haven’t often seen a gennulman so upset.”
“And you can’t remember anything else, with that wonderful memory of yours, Sam?”
“Not a dam’ thing,” declared Sam, and had never smiled more brightly.
“Sam,” said Ross to himself, “I don’t believe you.”
But he didn’t say it aloud.
22
BACK ROOM
ROSS sipped his tonic water and watched Sam serving the party in the corner, and wondered if he were crazy. The Dive would be a good cover for any form of crime — was so obvious that it was too obvious. There wasn’t much evidence — just the fact that Sam had put him on to Bray, and Sam wasn’t telling the truth now. He didn’t know Sam well, but had
had much to do with his race. Sam was uneasy, and the only likely reason was because he was lying.
That could spring from fear, because he knew who had sent the letter to Bray but had been coerced into lying. Sam might be able to give another lead which would point away from the Dive; or the Dive might be the hub of the organisation.
Sam came back.
“Yo’ sho’ look as if you have a bad head, Massa Ross, yo’ ought to go home and have some sleep.”
“I’m thinking just that, Sam.”
“Yo’ll be better in the morning, sah,” said Sam. “I confess I’ve been thinking mighty hard about that letter and Mr. Bray, but I just can’t remember a thing that would be of assistance. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Massa Ross.”
“You’ve been wonderful, Sam. Forget it.”
“That’s just what I have done, sah!” But Sam didn’t grin with the sally; he was serious; and that meant he was agitated.
Ross looked round at the others, recognised two or three of them, and wondered if they were involved. He grinned to himself as he turned away, nodding to Sam; if he went on like this he would think everyone who ever entered the Dive was mixed up in the mystery of the men who wanted the atomic air-defence plans.
It was good to breathe the crisp air of the night.
Williamson loomed up, out of dark shadows.
“Now it’s time for shut-eye, Peter.”
“Not yet, old chap. I’m going to see Craigie.”
“He’ll love that, at this hour. Want me?”
Ross hesitated, and said: “I don’t know who sleeps on the premises, Tim. Keep an eye open, if any of the staff leave make a note of their names, and if anyone goes in and doesn’t leave at throwing-out time, we may be interested.”
“Now what’s this?” asked Williamson, heavily.
“Things not being what they seem — the usual grind.”