by John Creasey
Jim’s grey eyes kindled. “Who hasn’t spotted Marlene?”
“One of you follow her and report where she goes and whom she sees. The other, pick up that piece in the scarlet dress and do the same with her.”
“My dear chap! Marlene is the great von Barlack’s wife.”
“Yes, I know. Get an eyeful of the man sitting next to the scarlet dress, too. Name, Juan Casado, he’s Portuguese, he’s highly placed at the Embassy and he might be a thorough bad hat. If either of the women see him, telephone Craigie at once.”
“Right.”
“All clear?”
“Like the crystal, old chap.”
Grant went near the footman who had told him the name of the Portuguese, and who had a whisky for him. “Let Craigie know about Casado and that I’m following him, won’t you?”
“That’s fixed already.”
“Thanks,” said Grant. “Don’t know where we’d be without you people.”
Grant left the ballroom, glad to be out of the heat and the smoke and away from the music, which struck so false a note, and walked along the spacious passages of the Palace. He was questioned three times before he left, and twice had to show his identity card. This was smaller than the one in general use, with a large capital Z printed on it in faint grey.
Outside, a keen wind was blowing down the Mall, and he buttoned his overcoat more tightly. A footman came up; a real footman.
“Your car, sir?”
“I’ll walk to it.”
“Very good, sir.”
Grant’s car was one of the nearest, parked under the plane-trees in the Mall. It was a bright, starry night, and he could look up through the leafless branches of the trees and see the stars. The wind seemed to grow stronger, his lips and nose felt its sting. There were some lights along the wide avenue, stretching as far as Admiralty Arch, and a glow of light over London. He unlocked his car, a Bentley, climbed in and nosed her into the Mall and towards the Palace. When he stopped near the gates a constable came up.
“I’m sorry, sir but—” He paused and looked at the card which Grant held between his thumb and forefinger. “Oh, that’s all right, sir. Anything I can do?”
“Yes. When I flicker my headlamps, I’ll want to be off in a hurry. Can you clear a way for me?”
“Yes sir. Better flicker half a dozen times so that there can be no mistake.”
“I will,” promised Grant.
He turned up the collar of his coat, lit a cigarette, and watched the doors of the Palace. They were lighted well enough for him to be able to recognize Juan Casado.
Less than half an hour later Grant saw the Portuguese get into a gleaming streamlined Chrysler and drive from the front door to the spiked iron gates.
3 / The Man Who Didn’t Go Home
Grant slid in the clutch and moved in the wake of the Chrysler. Its headlamps went on suddenly, shining up Constitution Hill, on to the wall of the Palace grounds, the plane-trees and the parkland stretching across to Piccadilly. Beyond the wide, powerful beams there was darkness. The car ahead went swiftly; Grant’s speedometer needle crept towards the fifty mark, quivered and fell back as they approached the gates. Lights moved along Piccadilly and at Hyde Park Corner glowed eerily.
The great gateway loomed up.
The darkness on the right was broken by a flash; by a second, and a third. Above the purring of his engine Grant thought he heard a sharp report, then two in quick succession. On the edge of the light beam a figure moved, dark and shrouded. Then the Chrysler swung through the gates and turned left towards Victoria.
Grant scanned the dark expanse of the park.
The flashes of light could have come from a match as a man lit a cigarette; he might have imagined the reports.
There was little traffic on the road, and Casado scorned speed limits. As the car passed beneath a high lamp standard, Grant could see the inside. The Portuguese was alone. And he wasn’t going straight home, since his home was at the Embassy.
At Victoria, Casado turned right, past the great high wall of the Station, past the grey-white modern building of Airways House, and then through the rabbit warren of streets leading to Sloane Square. Here he slowed down. Few people were about. Twice the light of the leading car shone upon a policeman, who stood and watched them pass. Soon they were at Sloane Square, heading for Chelsea. Now the Chrysler gathered speed. The Bentley responded to the slightest touch of Grant’s foot on the accelerator, but he didn’t want to get too close. Had Casado stopped in the heart of London, Grant would have been confident that the man hadn’t realized that he was being followed. It was impossible to be sure of that now.
The Chrysler turned left just before reaching Chelsea Town Hall.
Grant switched off his lights as he swung round the corner. Street-lamps gave a dim glow, and driving wasn’t easy until the Chrysler headlights flashed on. The street was long and wide, with terraced houses on either side. The Chrysler swung right at the end of the road, leaving Grant in darkness. He saw the Chrysler slowing down, not fifty yards away, braked sharply and slid to a standstill.
Grant saw the man get out and go into a house, so he put the car into reverse and backed to a turning he had passed. He approached the street where the Chrysler was standing, from the opposite direction, left the car close to the kerb and walked to the corner.
The Chrysler was still there.
There was no light at any of the windows of the house, only two lighted windows in the whole street. The light from a corner lamp showed the street name-plate: Mayberry Avenue. The number above the fanlight of the house next to the corner was 39.
Grant sauntered past the Chrysler, stepped on to the road and peered at the shiny cream cellulose. He thought he saw a dent near the end of the wing. He ran his fingers over it; there was a dent, and the paint flaked off under his nail, the metal beneath glistened silvery. He no longer wondered whether the shadowy man in the park had been lighting a cigarette; three shots had been fired at the Chrysler, and one had scored a hit.
He walked to the service alley and tried the handle of the door leading to the back yard of Number 39. It was locked and bolted. The wall was over six feet high. Grant stepped back and took a running jump, clutched the top of the wall and hauled himself up and over. He was soon on his feet on the other side. He stood still, looking up at the house—and at the one lighted window. It was tall and narrow and on the first floor.
He unbolted the garden-door, turned the key in the lock, then approached the house quickly. The back door was locked; the catch was on the window alongside it. He took out a penknife, opened a strong blade and slipped it between the two window-frames. It pressed against the catch, and when he exerted sufficient pressure, the catch snapped back loudly.
He paused, warily.
There was a deep hush, everywhere.
He pushed the blade of the knife between the window and the frame, opened it enough to make room for his fingers, pushed it up, then climbed through the window on to a small table. The table rocked as he knelt on it. He stepped down to the floor and shone the light of a pencil torch about the room—a kitchen. He unlocked the outer door and pulled back the bolt at the bottom, leaving the one at the top in positon. Then he found the door leading to the living quarters of the house and stepped into a narrow passage. He couldn’t see at all, and didn’t want to shine his torch.
He groped along a wooden wall, suspecting that it was the staircase. It was. The stairs were opposite the front door, and now he could see a faint glow of light through the fanlight. That light would have been brighter but for a cloth which hung over the glass. He examined the front door. It was locked with an ordinary Yale, but not bolted.
He turned towards the stairs and was on the bottom step when he heard a car turn into the street.
He drew back, stepped swiftly across the hall and opened a door leading to a front room. The brakes of the car squealed. He stepped inside the room. The curtains weren’t drawn, and he could see the side ligh
ts of the Chrysler. The door of a car slammed. He listened intently to foot-steps which were quick and sharp; those of a woman by herself.
The footsteps drew nearer, sharper.
He went to the door again and peered into the passage. A key grated in the lock of the front door, soon it swung open.
The woman came in and closed the door.
Grant stood behind his, out of sight, listening for the light switch and waiting for a flood of light. Neither came. The woman walked slowly and hesitatingly, as if she were groping towards the stairs, then began to climb. Only then did Grant open the door wider. He saw something white brushing the stairs like a ghostly train; she was wearing a dark coat over a white evening gown.
Her footsteps grew firmer as she went up, becoming more accustomed to the darkness.
Then a door opened and the light shone faintly.
“You are late,” said a man in a soft but penetrating voice. “I have been waiting.”
The woman made no answer.
“I will not have you late.” The man’s voice was querulous, but the woman still ignored him.
Grant went to the foot of the stairs. Above, a door was open and light shone on the woman, but he couldn’t see her face, only the loose folds of her dress and the dark fur coat. She spoke, sotto voce. Then the couple went into the room and the door closed.
Grant slipped his right hand into the tail pocket of his coat, took out an automatic pistol and transferred it to his trouser pocket. He went upstairs cautiously, reached the landing safely. Light showed at the top and sides of the door which had just closed. He heard the man’s voice, still querulous. The woman said something, and although her voice was subdued and the closed door prevented Grant from hearing what she said, the warm quality of the voice impressed him. He went nearer. The man was speaking in Portuguese, and doing most of the talking. Chairs or a bed creaked. Someone walked about the room, and he guessed that it was the man. He picked out enough of the words to know that Casado was still complaining, but not what he was complaining about. The man’s voice was clear when he came near the door, fainter when he walked away.
“It’s always the same. One cannot rely on you. Late, late—wherever you go, you are late! And to-night, of all nights. Why is it?”
The woman said: “I have much to do.”
“Much to do!” The man laughed scornfully. “All you did to-night was to sit with those silly old men and let them squeeze your hand. Silly old men! And you encouraged them to make fools of themselves.”
“Yes,” said the woman.
“So, you admit it! It is wrong, all wrong. I will not allow it. The work is so important, and it is the only work. The other things you do—”
His words faded as he moved away from the door. Grant, his head bent forward as he listened intently, had to guess what followed. “The work” might mean the murder that night, or the murder might have been part of it, but he couldn’t be sure. If the door were open a crack, he would hear everything. He turned the handle, gently, softly; it made no noise. He pushed as gently. The door opened and a brighter flow of light came through, together with the sound of the woman’s voice.
“You talk too much, Juan. I—”
Then Grant sensed that someone was behind him. He swung round but was too late to stop the smashing blow on his head.
He pitched sideways, falling against the door, and heard Casado cry out. Another savage blow came, and he sank swiftly into unconsciousness.
4 / Second Killing
Grant’s eyelids flickered. Pain at his head was like cuts from a knife. His eyes were hot and bleared; it was dark, yet there was a red mist in front of them. He lay still. The darkness remained, pain lingered but became less sharp. He moved his right hand and found that it was free. He ran it up and down beside him; it was like rubbing coarse fur, and told him that he was lying on the floor—on a carpet. He was on his back, and the pain gathered mostly at the back of his head.
He turned it slowly.
The pain grew worse, he clenched his teeth against it, and the hammering of blood in his ears made him feel sick.
Slowly, he sat up.
His head lifted, up and down, up and down—and minutes passed before it felt as if it belonged to him. He opened his eyes. The eyelids were painful, but he was able to keep them open.
No, there was no light. He groped in his waistcoat pocket for his lighter, felt it, then remembered his gun. He slid his hand along his trousers; the automatic pistol wasn’t there.
He thumbed the lighter.
Even that slight exertion made his head spin, and the tiny spark spat at his eyes. He narrowed them and tried again, and the wick caught. Cautiously he opened his eyes and looked about him. Close at hand was a chair; he could see its claw-feet. He saw a low table, too, but nothing else within range. The lighter flame burned clearly and he grew more accustomed to the dim light. A piano stood farther away; more chairs, two tables lying on their sides, and a standard lamp with a carved foot came into sight. He edged his way towards the nearest arm-chair, then let the lighter go out. The petrol wouldn’t last long.
He gripped the front of the chair and raised himself to his feet. He stood swaying against a tapestry-covered arm. His head started to hammer again. As soon as he felt steady enough, he used the lighter and saw the electric switch by the door, only two yards away. He stepped falteringly towards it and pressed the switch down.
The light struck at his eyes, causing more knife-like pains. He closed them, leaned against the wall, and felt the back of his head. There was a bump, no blood, just a large swelling, soft and tender.
At last he could look about him.
The tables weren’t the only things lying on their side. An upright chair lay near the piano, two desk-lamps were on the floor, several books were upturned, pages crumpled, an ash-tray lay upside down with the cigarette ends and ash near it in an untidy trail. In one corner was a large couch. He thought he saw a dark shape behind the couch, but couldn’t discern it clearly from where he stood.
There were heavy velvet curtains, pale blue in colour, at the tall windows. The colour scheme was all blue—dark and light; the carpet was beautifully figured. This was the room of a man or woman of taste; more likely, of a woman. Two bowls of white chrysanthemums, petals all tinged blue, stood on tables; neither had been knocked over, the flowers were perfectly arranged.
He remembered the arrival of the woman in the white dress and the dark coat; Casado; and the quarrel—if it could be called a quarrel. He recalled the swift warning of danger, his own startled movement and the crashing blows on the back of the head.
He felt now that he could move without fresh agony. One step at a time, he went towards the couch. Was he right in thinking that something lay on the floor behind it? It was a luxurious couch, covered in dark- and pale-blue tapestry; four people could sit together there in comfort. Two of the cushions were on the floor.
He reached the couch and looked behind it.
Casado lay there. Dead.
It was four o’clock.
Grant looked at his watch mechanically, soon after he saw the body. He had arrived here just after one o’clock, so he’d been unconscious for about three hours. Well—two and a half at least.
His lips twisted as he pulled at the couch, grunting with the effort, but at last he cleared a way to Casado. The Portuguese had been shot through the temple, at close quarters. There were faint signs of powder-marks, an ugly little red wound from which the blood oozed and a reddish-blue ridge round the wound. The colour there made the rest of his face seem sickly pale. His mouth was closed, but his eyes were partly open and glazed.
His coat lay spread out on either side of his body. His wallet was sticking out of the tail pocket; so after the murder he had been searched.
Near him lay a gun. There was something familiar about that weapon; it looked like Grant’s; he saw a white dot on the side of the barrel, his identifying mark. Grant didn’t touch it. He glanced round the room for
something he hadn’t yet noticed—a telephone. It was in a corner, dark, glistening blue. He walked much more easily across the room, the urgency of the situation making him overcome his weakness. He took out his handkerchief and lifted the telephone, then dialled carefully with his fountain pen so that he would leave no prints. From this moment on, he must work as if he were a private citizen, cover his traces, call for no help but Craigie’s.
The ringing sound at the Whitehall number sounded persistently, went on and on and on, stopped when he’d given up hope of a reply.
A man said: “Hallo?” He thought he recognized Craigie’s voice.
Grant said: “This is T N A R G. All clear to talk?”
“Yes. Go ahead, Grant.”
Spelling one’s name backwards was an old and simple trick to introduce oneself to Craigie or whoever was in the office of Department Z. It hadn’t failed the Department yet, no one outside the organization had hit upon the code.
“Trouble,” Grant said. “Send someone who’s better than I am to 39 Mayberry Avenue, Chelsea.”
“All right,” said Craigie. “They’ll soon be there.”
The line went dead.
Grant pushed his fingers through his hair, looked at the sickly pale face again, then went out of the room. He switched on the landing light, and soon found the bathroom. He filled the hand-basin with cold water and dipped his head into it. The shock stung, and bending his head down made the pain throb again, but after a few minutes he felt better. He dried himself on a rough towel, rubbed the taps with a sponge to remove the prints, then went back into the sitting-room.
The killer and the woman had done everything possible to make it look as if he had killed Casado, but—
One thing was wrong.
He had been here for over two hours and no one had arrived. If the others had wanted to frame him for the murder, surely they would have informed the police. A call to 999 would have brought a Flying Squad car here within a few minutes.
He found his gloves in his raincoat pocket, put them on and picked up the automatic. When he judged that Craigie’s man had had time to get here, he went downstairs. He waited by the front door and soon heard footsteps. He opened the door as a man turned into the porch.