by John Creasey
The hall was crowded with furniture, and he was instantly amazed, because some of the pieces even he, no specialist in antiques, recognised as stolen. And there was at least one stolen Utrillo at the foot of the staircase. Thanks be, no one else appeared, and they went up a wide central staircase which had passages at either side and a gallery all round. Even here the quality of the furnishing and of the paintings was as great as that possessed by any millionaire.
For ‘his’ room they should turn right. They did. Now his room should be first right, overlooking the square; and Clara opened the first door to the right for him with a mock curtsy; she was really a likeable little minx.
‘Can’t we have just ten minutes together?’ she cooed.
‘It’s the half-hour it takes me to recover that I can’t afford,’ Roger said. ‘Run along, honey. If I can come and see you later, I will.’
She went out of the room and into one immediately opposite. He strode to the door in a corner of his room; it opened onto a sumptuous bathroom, of greens and pale greys and silver. No other door led from it, and the window was shuttered, all the light coming from concealed fluorescent lighting. He turned back to the bedroom, and as he did so the telephone bell rang.
It was by the side of a huge bed, caparisoned in gold and purple, with a buttoned headboard. There were several extensions, at the sides of easy chairs and one by a built-in wardrobe which stretched from wall to wall.
He lifted the receiver and growled: ‘What is it?’
‘When are you going to stop fooling around with that woman and come down here?’ a man’s voice demanded.
‘I’m not fooling with Clara Dee, I’m just getting madder and madder with Curly,’ Roger said, and prayed that he had the cadence of Hunter’s voice right.
‘What’s Curly done?’
‘Send him up to me and—’
‘Have you gone crazy? There’s big trouble, and—’
‘Sessil,’ said Roger with great care, ‘the biggest trouble that can happen to us is letting a piker like Curly get away with anything. That way we wouldn’t know who was boss and we wouldn’t know who we could trust.’ He would say ‘who’, wouldn’t he – not ‘whom’?
‘We can trust Curly, for heaven’s sake!’
‘I can’t trust Curly,’ Roger said. ‘Send him up.’
As he put the receiver down, not heavily but sharply enough for no one to doubt that he meant exactly what he said, he realised his ‘Sessil’ had been right; had the caller been someone else he would not have let the slip pass. Whether he was right to ride Curly he couldn’t yet be sure; what was certain was that from the moment of his appearance at the Moon Desert Club he had acted as if he were the boss, no matter how often he used the word ‘boss’ to Roger. If all he had learned of the man’s character was right, this was the way to play his hand.
There was another reason for wanting Curly here: he, Roger, needed someone to guide him to where the others were.
He found a box of an expensive Turkish brand of cigarettes and filled his gold cigarette case with them. The case fitted tightly in his pocket; everything was a little too snug. He lit a cigarette, and gave a few puffs, then immediately stubbed it out on an ashtray made like the valley between a woman’s breasts.
There was a tap at the door.
‘Cm on in,’ he called, and the door opened, and Curly appeared.
He had no doubt at all that there was a change in the man’s manner. Before, there had been something aggressive and insolent in his expression; now, he was impassive. He had dark grey – slategrey – eyes. It was impossible to be sure, but Roger thought there was a hint of apprehension in them. But it was quickly obvious that there was no subservience in Curly’s manner.
‘You want me?’ he demanded.
‘I want you,’ Roger said, ‘and I want you once and for all to know you can’t fool this baby. Next time you bring a message to me when I’m out dining, you send message and ask if it’s okay. Get me?’
‘I get you.’
‘And next time I’m with a chick, leave insulting her to me. I’ve been letting you get away with too much, Curly, because you’ve been with me a long time and, waal, let’s face it, I’ve got used to having you around. But I don’t want you doing things for me – I’ll tell you what I want done. Get me on that, Curly?’
‘I get you good,’ Curly said.
‘Keep it that way, and we’ve a lot of long years to work together,’ said Roger. He paused for a moment, and then went on: ‘Cmon. Let’s go down.’
Curly gave him a prolonged stare, and then went out, leading the way down the main stairs, round to the right, then to what looked like a blank wall underneath the stairs. He pressed a button and a door slid open, showing a lift cell. For a wild moment Roger wondered if this were a trick, but he went inside and Curly followed, pressing the bottom one of three buttons. The lift moved slowly, and when it came to a standstill the doors opened automatically.
Roger had no immediate cause for alarm.
The lift opened onto a richly furnished room, with a dark gold carpet, some fine old furniture, not least the refectory table standing in front of a huge fireplace with a carved wood surround. The carving, even from this distance, looked like that of master craftsmen.
The reredos of a church had been brought in here.
Pictures, all old masters, a van Dyck, a Gainsborough – my God, thought Roger, a Titian; no one in history had ever been able to catch that particular dark golden hue. He must not show surprise. Over by a Jacobean chiffonier were several chairs covered with blue velvet; on the chiffonier were bottles, by the side of the chairs small tables.
Cecil Smith sat at one; a tall man with waxed moustaches and a small waxed beard, a pale face, sparse hair coiffured, wearing a suit of early Edwardian cut. He was the extreme of elegance. Opposite him Pilaski sat like a piece of solid rock carved by a sculptor who slammed his hammer on his chisel and had not cared too much which pieces were hewn. His face was very slightly lopsided. His breathing held the ghost of a whistle.
Beyond these two men was a third, identical chair, obviously his, and a question rose distractingly in his mind. Which way would Hunter enter the room? Round the back of one or the other, or in between the two men? He felt perspiration break out on his forehead as he walked straight to, and then between, them and sat down on the chair. By his side was a bottle of whisky, a finely-cut crystal jug of water and a glass. The others had ice, but he none.
‘What has Curly done to offend you?’ demanded Smith.
‘We haff no time to talk of that now,’ Pilaski said; he had a very hard, grating voice, as if his larynx was made of rock, also. ‘Rake, we haff big trouble.’
‘What trouble?’
‘There is talk of your arrest.’
‘You’re crazy!’ Roger exclaimed.
‘I tell you the truth and you say it is crazy, I say it is true. There is talk of a decision by Scotland Yard to arrest you.’
‘How do you know it’s not just rumour?’ demanded Roger.
‘Our information comes from Scotland Yard, of course,’ Pilaski declared. ‘A man – the Commissioner – was heard to say you should be arrested on some charge and you should be questioned. It is not crazy, it is fact.’
On the tip of Roger’s tongue was the question: Who at Scotland Yard told you this? He bit the question back, for obviously he should know the informant; one of his tasks here must be to find out who the informant was. Now he could only sit and watch these men and wonder what was in their minds.
Smith said: ‘There is only one thing to do.’
‘Dat is so,’ agreed Pilaski. ‘You must go from this house and from London at once. There must be no chance that they arrest you. Nor is there time to waste – you have to go tonight. Now.’
Chapter Eighteen
No Time Like The Present
The pole glared at Roger, as if in accusation; the exquisitely dressed Englishman looked at him appealingly, as if he were saying: Y
ou know this is the only possible thing to do. Roger looked away from them and poured himself a weak whisky, then sipped before he looked from one to the other.
‘I’ll admit one thing,’ he said. ‘You’re not crazy, Akka.’
‘So! You will go?’
‘Perhaps. But I’m not going to be frightened out of England by one rumour. Did Curly give you this report?’
‘Yes,’ Smith answered. ‘Yes, he did.’
‘Have you talked to the man who told him?’
‘He was telephoned. There is no one else to talk to.’
Roger appeared to be – and indeed, was – deeply meditating, then he shook his head.
‘I’m slipping,’ he said.
‘What does zat mean?’ demanded Pilaski.
‘It means I shouldn’t allow Curly to get into a position where he can make you two believe he’s the only one who can contact Scotland Yard.’
‘Well, who else can?’ demanded Smith.
‘I can,’ Roger said. ‘Akka, I told you, Curly is very ambitious. And I told you that, Cecil. Too ambitious. If I’m not here, who joins the two of you? If I am driven out who can make contact with our distributors and buyers overseas? If I’m not here, who will our visitors talk to – which of our agents overseas can talk to someone who knows the situation? Do you know it, Akka?’
Slowly, frowning, doubtful, Pilaski said: ‘No, I do not.’
‘Cecil?’
‘That’s your job, and you know it.’
‘Not Curly’s.’
‘Rake,’ Smith said, ‘I want to know exactly what you mean.’
‘Also, I want to know,’ said Pilaski.
‘I’ll tell you exactly what I mean,’ Roger said. He picked up his glass and drank with a show of ease. ‘If I were to be sent out of England you two would be in Curly’s hands. He’s the only one barring myself who could organise things. He would thus be in sole command. So, I am not going out of this place until I have a lot more evidence than there is yet.’
‘But what can we do?’ demanded Pilaski.
Roger said: ‘We can check on Curly. Put him to the test.’
‘But how?’ demanded Cecil Smith.
‘Have him bring his police pal here,’ Roger said.
‘But what good would that do?’ demanded Smith.
‘We could talk to this man and we could make up our own minds whether he’s telling the truth,’ Roger said. ‘He can stand here in this room and answer our questions. Is that good enough?’
‘If—’ began Pilaski.
‘There’s no ‘if’ about it,’ Roger said roughly. ‘If Curly can’t get his man here, then Curly doesn’t have a contact.’
‘But in the past—’
‘What has he done so wonderful in the past?’ demanded Roger, but now his heart was thumping again, for this was deadly ground. He should know the answer. It could be taken as a rhetorical question but Pilaski was the most literal-minded of men. He was staring, frowning. If Cecil Smith didn’t speak, then the door of suspicion would soon begin to open – and once doubts began to creep in they would soon become a flood.
‘If it weren’t for Curly’s contact at the Yard, we couldn’t have pulled off the coups we have,’ Smith protested. ‘He’s told us the weakest men most likely to take a cut, and he’s pointed a finger at a dozen we’ve been able to kidnap and impersonate. They were real, Rake.’
West stared at him, aware of the stare that was almost a glower from Pilaski, and then said: ‘Yes, but how real was West?’
‘That’s different.’
‘He said he could fix it for me to take West’s place for a while and then he changed his mind.’
‘Something went wrong,’ protested Cecil Smith.
‘Curly’s gone wrong,’ retorted Roger. ‘And I know how he’s gone wrong. He wants my job. It’s as simple as that. And he got cold feet over West and had him killed – my God. What do you fellas have for minds? He got us to kill West, and if that wasn’t asking for trouble for me, what was? I tell you Curly is playing a game that stinks. Make him send for his informant at Scotland Yard.’
There was a long, tense silence; and then Pilaski pressed a bell push, and a few moments later, Curly came in.
He stood at the far end of the room, listening. He did not look as if he had been drinking, or that he had changed his attitude; except that there now seemed no doubt of the fear in his eyes. The men he faced did not tell him of their suspicions, simply that Hunter was not satisfied with the reliability of the report.
‘So, we want to talk to your informant ourselves,’ Smith said.
For the first time, Curly’s expression showed real alarm; his hands clenched and his arms rose in front of his chest, as if to fend off some physical attack.
‘But I can’t bring the man here!’
‘What iss to stop you?’ demanded Pilaski.
‘He’s at the Yard, he would have to make an excuse to get away.’
‘Or do you make der excuse not to bring him away.’
‘I tell you it would be madness. He has other work to do, he just can’t walk out of his office at a moment’s notice!’
‘Curly, boy,’ Roger said softly, ‘I think you’re lying.’
‘I’m telling you God’s truth!’
‘I don’t think any contact at Scotland Yard told you there was any talk of arresting me. I think you thought that up so as to get rid of me.’
‘That’s not true,’ Curly said. ‘You—you’re getting soft.’
‘So I’m getting soft,’ Roger echoed, gently.
‘You used to be damned good but now you’re careless. Different floosies every other night, big presents – why you gave one of them a ring that had been stolen on one of our jobs. You’ve got so careless the police couldn’t help but begin to get after you.’
‘And you, Curly boy, decided you would give them a helping hand,’ said Roger. ‘Get me out of the way and you could take over. And you would be better than me, of course, you would be the strong man of the outfit. Not so fast, not so easily, Curly. Get your informant over from the Yard, quick, or kiss the world goodbye.’
Lloyd drew in a hissing breath. Then he said: ‘I’ll try to get him, but it’s madness. I’ll go and telephone outside, and—’
Roger pointed to a small chair next to a telephone, and said playfully: ‘What’s the matter, Curly boy? Don’t you want an audience? You sit there and telephone these bosom friends of yours at Scotland Yard while we’re listening. And don’t waste time, we may all be in a hurry.’
If there was a man at Scotland Yard—
If there was a man there who sold information to Curly—
Then Curly would soon have to ask for him by name.
Curly was breathing very hard, the drawing in, and expulsion, of breath being clearly heard.
Roger had a dozen causes for fear, and one for hope. The other two men, concentrating on Curly, were ignoring him. But if the accusations redoubled on his own head, what would happen?
But there was another point of view.
Nearly every piece of furniture in this underground room was priceless; and he recognised a dozen pieces, stolen from great houses and from museums. All he had to do was bring the police here now.
No: not just that.
He had to find the records; had to find how they operated. He had expected it to take weeks, even months, each day in deadly danger, but now—
‘I have to call through the Yard Exchange,’ Curly said in a thin voice. ‘If I ask the wrong question, if the other man gets nervous—’
‘What would make him nervous?’ demanded Roger.
‘I never call him at the Yard. Never. He—he might not even believe it was me calling.’
‘Curly,’ Roger said. ‘You’d better try. Because I don’t believe there’s any call out for my arrest. I believe you’re lying in your teeth, Curly. I want to know what you’ve been up to.’
‘Nothing, I tell you, nothing. You’ve been whoring around, som
eone had to keep an eye on things.’
Roger said: ‘What things?’
And when Curly didn’t answer he demanded: ‘Why did you fix those attacks on West? Why did you kill him? There’s something you haven’t told us, and—’
‘You ordered the attacks on West!’ screamed Curly. ‘You told me to do it. What are you trying to do?’
Roger sprang at him – and as he sprang remembered that in anger Hunter’s voice squeaked. It wasn’t easy and it sounded phoney in his own ears; there was no way of being sure how it sounded in theirs.
‘That’s finished you, you punk!’ he screeched. ‘My God how far will you go to try to take over from me? And what else have you been taking over? Come on, let’s see.’ He gripped Curly by the right wrist with a hold from which the other could not free himself, and screamed at Smith and Pilaski: ‘It’s time we checked what’s going on, it’s time we searched the hiding places – my God, he could have fixed the records, he could have been cashing in!’
He relaxed his hold for a fraction.
Curly pulled himself free and snatched a gun from his pocket, the inevitable weapon, the inevitable crisis. Aware of it, having prompted it, Roger swung the whisky bottle at the man’s forearm, bullet and bottle met, the bottle smashed, and before Curly could stagger from the force of the blow, Roger hit him beneath the chin.
It was the blow with which Martin had floored Coppell.
It sent this man rocking back on his heels, and then toppling to the floor, the gun falling by his side. For a few moments there was no other sound but the breathing of the three men. Then Pilaski went down on one knee, felt for Curly’s pulse and nodded.
‘First, we put him where he can do no harm,’ he said. ‘Den, we go and check all der places. There is something badly wrong, that is clear.’
They half-carried, half-dragged, the unconscious man towards a door in a corner; it led to a cloakroom with a ventilation shaft but no windows. Pilaski turned the lock on this and put this key away with great satisfaction.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘everywhere we go. Smit’ you agree?’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Cecil Smith. Both men were looking at Roger, both were obviously expecting him to lead the way.