by John Creasey
‘I just don’t see how I can fail to do something wrong as soon as I step into the house,’ he said to Maria. He was sitting by a window where the Venetian blinds were drawn so that no one could possibly look up and, by chance, recognise him.
‘Roger,’ Maria said, ‘the first night is the easiest.’
He almost shouted at her.
‘How can you say that? I won’t know right from left, I won’t—’
‘Let the redhead lead you,’ Maria advised, and she came and stood over him; and then to his surprise knelt down in front of him. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You don’t even have to take her to bed that first night. You can pick a quarrel with her. He takes offence at the slightest thing.’ She took his arm. ‘Roger,’ she went on, ‘I think there’s only one real danger. Only one thing that will give you away almost at once.’
‘What’s that?’ he demanded, hoarsely.
‘You’re too tense. And in that mood you won’t be able to put on his swagger, or look as if you own the world. For that’s how he looks. You need to relax, my dear, if only you could.’ She took his hands in her own, and now her voice held an edge of tension. ‘Try it out on me. Break your self-imposed restraint for a little while. You’d be more disloyal to Janet by getting yourself killed than by a little experimental love-making. Stop thinking every minute, stop going over and over everything in your mind. It will work as smoothly as silk when you’re there if you’re rested.’
When he did not answer or move, she turned her face away, saying with a half-sigh: ‘This isn’t just duty for me, Roger. I think I’ve fallen in love with you.’
Chapter Sixteen
The Switch
He woke, feeling calmer and more clear-minded than he had for days.
He was alone in his room, and he wondered where Maria was, and smiled sleepily, dreamily, happily. She hadn’t gone far; neither of them had been outside these two rooms for three full days. He stretched, yawned and remembered; and he remembered at least as vividly as everything else, her saying: ‘This isn’t just duty for me, Roger. I think I’ve fallen in love with you.’
And, heaven help him, he believed her.
She might have lied, simply because she was so sure he needed support and reassurance, but would he be very conceited if he thought she hadn’t? It was half-past eleven – at night.
He placed his hands behind his head and decided to give her a few more minutes before calling out; and then he heard a movement and saw a shadow at the door; and, before she actually entered, the chink of china. Bless her! She had made tea. He had shown her twice, for they had an electric kettle and a hot plate, and she had made his tea at least as well as either of the boys could have made it.
She wore a turquoise silk dressing-gown embroidered with golden dragons; but for that scar she would have been beautiful: damnation, she was beautiful. She paused for a moment, as if genuinely startled by his appearance and said clearly ‘El Magnifico,’ and then came and placed the tray on the bedside table.
‘You are very beautiful,’ he said. ‘My mind is full of wishes.’
She made a mock salaam.
‘The master is most generous.’ She leaned forward and brushed his cheek with her lips. ‘I thought I would have to wake you, and hated to.’
‘Why should you have to?’ he asked.
Before she answered, he knew what she was going to say. It was in her eyes: the news she had to break. She poured out tea, a little milk first, but no sugar, and then said equably: ‘He has booked a table at the Moon Desert for one o’clock.’
‘Well, well.’ Roger took his cup, and drank thoughtfully. ‘A table for two, eh.’
‘Yes. They don’t know who he’s taking but the redhead is still at Lowndes Square.’
‘Clara Defoe.’
‘Called Clara Dee.’
‘Who loves having the nape of her neck fingered and kissed.’
It was like repeating a well-learned lesson.
‘Yes,’ Maria answered. ‘They’ll—the police—will go for him at half-past one. They’ll call for you at one o’clock.’
‘Everything arranged,’ he said. ‘Maria.’
‘Yes?’
‘I feel a hundred times more sure of myself.’
‘A man is a man,’ she said.
‘Maria—’
‘Yes?’
‘There are a thousand things I would like to say.’
‘Not one,’ she urged, and placed a finger against his lip. ‘We’ve said everything we shall ever need to say. I’ll run your bath.’
‘With perfume of roses bath salts.’
‘Naturally, Mr Hunter.’
‘I hope he hasn’t changed to tulips or—’
‘They still supply him with perfume of roses from the shop in Audley Street.’
‘You think of everything,’ he said. ‘As I sit in that bath I shall begin to change my personality. When I’m dressed in one of his suits I shall feel like Mr Hunter.’
‘Well, you’d better hurry. You haven’t too much time.’
‘I’ll be out in five minutes.’
Five minutes – into a bathroom filled with steam and the perfume of roses.
Fifty minutes and he was dressed except for his jacket, and he looked the same yet felt a different man. He drew the sleeve of his shirt up over the scar of the bullet wound and Maria placed first a very fine plastic plaster over it, and then sprayed it so that only on closest inspection could anyone see there was a scar. The only words she said were: ‘It’s a good thing it was on the inside of the arm.’ She helped him on with his jacket.
He examined himself in a full length mirror, and said: ‘It’s almost a pity I have to change into whatever suit he’s wearing tonight.’
‘You might be lucky,’ she said.
‘Yes.’ Roger held his hands out to her and gripped her but did not draw her to him. ‘Maria, I shall come back.’
‘Of course you will come back,’ she said.
At that moment there was a tap at the door, and a man called out: ‘Your car is here, sir.’
Roger bent down and kissed the ugly scars. A moment later he was out of the room, and a minute after that he was out of the hotel and getting into the car to take him to London’s latest night spot.
His voice echoed.
‘I shall come back. I shall come back. I shall come back.’
Maria Consuela watched as he got into the car, watched as the car drove off. When the red light turned the corner she moved away.
Roger wore a hat with the brim turned low over his eyes, and a scarf which muffled his chin. Men were waiting at the service entrance to the Moon Desert; there was an odour of grilled steak. At a door marked: ‘Up’ a man in plain clothes was standing.
‘We’ve got him, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘There’s a man at the top of these stairs to take you to the changing room.’
‘Thanks.’
The man waiting was O’Malley, eager-eyed, with a single powerful handshake, and a gasped: ‘My God, you’re him to the life!’
‘What suit’s he wearing?’
‘It’s darker than that but we’ve got it off him.’
O’Malley looked down at Roger’s shoes.
‘The shoes will do.’
They crossed a narrow passage with several doors marked: ‘Manager’, ‘Assistant Manager’, ‘Star Artist’, ‘Girls’. O’Malley pushed open the door of the room marked ‘Star Artist’ – and there were Matthew Trannion and Jack Spettlebury, with Hunter between them, standing in undervest and underpants, pale blue socks and brown shoes.
‘I demand to know—’ he began – and then he recognised Roger.
He did not speak, simply backed away a foot, his mouth dropping open. Spettlebury stood behind Roger, helping him off with his jacket, O’Malley was at a table with the contents from Hunter’s pockets – the most significant being a small .22 automatic with a pearl handle.
‘Fits in a special pocket in the trouser
s,’ O’Malley said.
Roger nodded, and stepped into Hunter’s trousers; they were a little tight at the waist but he could get them on without difficulty.
‘Better have his socks,’ Roger said. ‘Sorry.’ He sat down and the trousers stood the strain of bending without much trouble. The change was carried out with quick efficiency, O’Malley handing him each item, briskly explaining where it should go—
‘Keys: left-hand trousers … wallet, inside breast … hundred pounds folded, left hip … loose change, right-hand trouser … watch, left wrist … penknife, right hip, examine it when you’ve got a chance, it looks as if it’s more than a knife … credit cards, ticket pocket inside jacket … There’s a single key he won’t explain, in the wallet … driving licence, the lot.’
Roger pulled on the other man’s socks, tried the shoes, then decided to wear his own. He put the automatic in the inside waistband pocket: it fitted so snugly Roger was hardly aware of it.
‘You crazy fool, you’ll never get away with it,’ Hunter said in a high-pitched voice.
‘Now you’re getting too excited,’ Matthew Trannion said, and before Hunter realised what was happening Spettlebury pushed his sleeve back and Trannion gave him a shot from a disposable hypodermic syringe. Hunter stared down at the tiny wound as if in dread. ‘Just put you to sleep for an hour or two,’ Trannion said.
‘Are we ready?’ breathed Spettlebury.
‘I’m ready,’ Roger said.
‘This way.’ Spettlebury led him outside, but they had gone only a few steps when a man in white tie and tails came forward: it was Peter Calk, looking every inch a waiter. ‘I’ll take you to your table,’ he said. ‘The Defoe woman is there – Clara Dee, remember. From then on, you’re on your own.’
He was not Roger West: he was Rake Hunter.
A long way back in his police career something similar to this had happened to him but not really like this; and not suddenly being plunged into the glare of floodlights. For that was what it seemed. A troupe of dancers, all tiny, all topless, had just finished their routine performance, and were running towards the wings – towards Roger, For a few awful seconds the glare of those spotlights were on him; red, yellow, blue, pink, green. There was a roar of applause. The girls, all wearing their set grins, brushed past him.
Calk said in a clear voice: ‘I am sorry, Mr. Hunter.’
Hunter, remember Hunter, Hunter!
Calk threaded his way among the tables. Roger was conscious of many glances coming his way. Hunter, Hunter. A whisper came, clear: ‘There’s Rake Hunter.’ A waiter dodged back into his path then out of the way. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hunter.’ They reached the dance floor, where a young man with glossy black hair was saying into the microphone: ‘We invite you all to dance to the Moon Desert Serenaders.’ No one moved. Across the floor was a redheaded girl. Good lord! thought Roger, she couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. Rake Hunter. She was smiling at him with her head on one side and there was a hint of reproach in her manner. Calk pulled back a chair.
‘I am sorry you were delayed, Mr Hunter.’
‘Forget it,’ Roger said. Instead of sitting down he moved behind the girl and rubbed his thumb gently on the nape of her neck, and then kissed her there, lightly. At last, he sat down.
‘I forgive you,’ she said.
‘You’re telling me, Clara Dee,’ Roger replied, and she gave a little grimace. Almost at once a waiter brought him a minute steak and a lobster salad for Clara. She ate delicately; she wasn’t a beauty but she was full-bosomed and she had come-hither eyes. He was glad to be able to sit. Relief that he had passed this first trial surged over him. The girl obviously had no doubts about his identity. Nor had any of the waiters. Dancers on the tiny floor looked down at them, some whispering, their lips scarcely moving; people at nearby tables stared. This was really being a celebrity.
The steak and the french fried potatoes melted in his mouth, but he hardly tasted them. He drank one glass of champagne, filling his glass from time to time. Clara did little more than sip. The Moon Desert Serenaders slipped into a tango, and Clara leaned towards him.
‘Shall we dance, Rakey?’
He hadn’t danced a tango for years.
‘Why don’t we wait until we get that one about the swans, baby?’
She laughed. She had fine colouring and good teeth, and the tip of her tongue glistened.
‘They won’t play a waltz here, Rakey, you know that.’
He hesitated again; and then he took the plunge. ‘C’mon, then,’ he said, and stood up as the girl jumped to her feet. Tango, tango, how did you do the tango? They reached the floor as he began to get attuned to the sound and beat of the music. A police ball, not Janet, another policeman’s wife. Let him remember the steps. Suddenly he found himself dancing. The pressure of her bosom was like the softness of down, the lightness of her movements almost unbelievable; it was like dancing with a cloud. She was smiling up into his face with obvious pleasure, and whispered: ‘You’ve been taking lessons, baby.’
He laughed and retorted: ‘It must be the champagne.’
‘I always told you you were a natural dancer, if only you’d let yourself go,’ she said.
He was actually sorry when the music stopped and they went back to their table. He had obviously gone down well with Clara. He allowed himself to relax enough to eat and begin to enjoy, a concoction of fresh strawberries and thick, whipped cream when a man whose photograph he had seen and memorised a hundred times came up to the table. The awful thing was that he knew this man was at the Lowndes Square house and held some special position but he could not remember his name.
‘You’re needed back at the house, boss,’ the man said. ‘There’s trouble.’
Chapter Seventeen
Recall
Trouble.
It could be one of a hundred things, it could even be this man’s way of saying that he knew the real Hunter had been arrested, that he was talking to a phoney. Trouble. What was his name? He was a small man with sharp but not unhandsome features and long, curling eyelashes. No one else was near.
‘Oh, Curly, not now,’ Clara protested. ‘We were just beginning to enjoy ourselves.’
Curly! Curly, because of his sweeping eyelashes: Curly or Dai Lloyd. He shot Clara a look of utter contempt, then looked back and repeated to Roger: ‘There’s trouble, boss. Big trouble.’
‘I’ll come,’ Roger said.
‘But the evening’s only just started!’
‘Why don’t you stay and give yourself a good time?’ demanded Curly Lloyd.
Curly was a trouble-shooter; not the only one, but perhaps the most important of the men who served the group. He was quick with a gun, good with a knife. It was said he had the quality of evil in him, that he was a man who enjoyed causing pain for the sake of it.
Roger said: ‘Don’t take it out on Clara Dee, Curly,’ and put a hand to help the girl to her feet. Another manager whom Roger hadn’t seen before came forward, was sorry they had to go so early, hoped it was not the fault of the club.
‘The club’s all right,’ Roger said.
‘Boss,’ said Curly, you ought to send the chick home in a cab, or any place she can’t hear what I have to tell you.’
‘Curly,’ Roger said, his voice rising. ‘Since when have you been doing the thinking for me?’
‘I’m not thinking, boss, I’m just advising you.’
Thing to remember, thought Roger: he is not afraid of Hunter. Why? Since he himself had made an issue of it, he had to stand by his point or give way. Suddenly he was sure that Hunter would not have given way.
He said: ‘I’ll take Clara home. You be there as soon as I am.’ He nodded to the waiting driver of his car, helped Clara in, and was not surprised when she put her face up to be kissed. He kissed her lightly, and said: ‘You’re going to be lonely tonight, honey. The moment you get back you’ll go up to my room and then to yours. Understood?’
‘You’re not going to let him
push you around, are you?’
‘No,’ Roger said.
‘Rakey,’ said Clara, ‘you know it’s coming to a showdown, don’t you?’
His heart began to hammer.
‘Who are you to talk to me about showdowns?’
‘Remember me,’ she said, and giggled. ‘Little Clara Dee, everything happens to me. You watch out for Curly.’
‘I watch out for myself,’ Roger said.
‘That’s the way I like to hear you talk,’ Clara said.
‘Watch out for number one. Rakey, did you ever think Curly was a man with ambitions?’
‘What ambitions?’
‘He may not be the world’s great lover boy but he’d sure like to try.’
‘Clara, you’re crazy,’ Roger said. ‘Curly wouldn’t try to push me aside – he wouldn’t have the guts for one thing or the knowhow for another.’
‘Rakey,’ Clara Defoe said, and kissed his cheek. ‘You’re a big, big, big man but you don’t know a thing about the men who work for you. No, sir, not a thing. Let me tell you something: never turn your back on Curly if you’re alone in a room together.’
‘I wouldn’t turn my back on Curly if there was a crowd in the room,’ Roger said.
She giggled again; he was surprised that so little drink appeared to have gone to her head. He wanted her sober, at least sober enough to take him up to his room so that he could at least see the physical aspects of the house he knew only from its plans. As they turned into Lowndes Square he gripped her hands tightly, and she woke.
‘We’re here,’ he said.
He had never known his heart to beat as it beat now; not exactly hammering, but getting along that way. The car pulled up, and a taxi turned the corner behind them. Curly? The chauffeur opened the door and helped first Roger and then the girl out. He put his hand on her elbow and they went together up four steps which led to a big, black front door. This opened as they reached the porch, and a young and pretty woman said: ‘Hallo, sir.’
She would be Diana, one of three ‘servants’ who worked at the house.
‘Diana,’ he grunted, and went in.