by John Creasey
“I have a lot of knowledge that will interest His Excellency,” Grant said.
Suddenly the tall man turned and said impatiently: “Wait, please!”
He disappeared into the room beyond. Grant caught a glimpse of a man in uniform standing by a window, and saw a revolver at his waist. He watched the traffic passing along the Embankment, expecting another long wait, but the tall man soon came out. He pressed a bell; and before he spoke again, the brute from the passage had entered.
Grant thought: Chucker-out! He appeared not to notice the newcomer, who approached him and stood close behind him.
The tall man said: “You understand, Mr. Grant, it is necessary to take great precautions, in view of what happened last night.”
“I’m no assassin.”
“You were present last night,” said the tall man tartly. “Have you any objection to being searched?”
“Not if it’s the only way I can get in to see His Excellency.”
“Braun,” said the tall man, and moved his hand. Grant felt the brute touching him—pressing under his armpits and along his sides, patting his pockets, feeling expertly for a gun. Grant carried no weapons. Braun tapped his right trouser pocket and coins jingled.
“Knife,” said Braun.
“You have a knife, Mr. Grant?”
“A pocket-knife.”
“Be good enough to leave it with me.”
Grant put the knife on the large desk, and the tall man said:
“Come with me, please.”
Grant was led to the door, which was opened from the inside. Two men were there besides von Barlack; both were in uniform and both were armed. They stared with undisguised hostility at Grant, who looked only at the Foreign Minister. He recalled the wagging beard and the eager talk at the ball; then, von Barlack had seemed to be just a rather active old man. Now, he sat in a large chair of carved oak, as if it were a throne. He was perched too high to be able to work conveniently at the desk in front of him. Big, dignified, with a ruddy complexion and blue eyes as clear and piercing as Grant’s, he wore a black coat and a high, winged collar and black cravat in which a single diamond pin scintillated.
“Mr. Jonathan Grant, Your Excellency.”
“Yes,” said von Barlack. “Yes, so I understand.” His English was heavily accented. “You have a personal matter to discuss with me, Grant. I am in a hurry, please understand that. What have you to say?”
“I must see you alone, Excellency.”
“That is impossible.”
Grant took a step forward. One of the two guards dropped a hand to his revolver, the other moved forward, wary as cats. Grant slipped the photograph of the statesman’s wife from his pocket. He held it so that only the old man could see it, and revealed the face of Marlene for a second, then he covered it up again.
Von Barlack’s blue eyes didn’t change their expression as he said: “Priess, I will say if I need you again.”
“But Your Excellency—” began the tall man.
“Please, waste no time.”
Priess bowed and went out, disapproving but powerless, chuckled. It was an infectious sound, and the accompany. Neither of the guards moved. Grant glanced at them and back at von Barlack, who said: “They know no English.”
Grant said slowly: “I could quite easily cut your throat.”
Neither of the guards showed any sign that they understood what he said, and they would have done had they had any idea of his meaning. Von Barlack glanced towards them as if to bring them near, but Grant’s smile was friendly and warming. Grant knew the effect of that smile—knew how it softened his features, how easily it broke through the resistance of both men and women.
“I think perhaps that would be unwise,” said von Barlack, with a gleam of a smile in his eyes. “Had I called out, they would have shot you first and worried about you afterwards. Not, Mr. Grant, that they would have had need to worry. No, none at all. You would be shot, I would say you attempted to assassinate me and—” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I do not yet know why you have come.”
“About your wife.”
“Indeed?” von Barlack’s eyes became cold, frosty. “It is, of course, to be expected that you will be in a position to talk to me about my wife. Yes. How well do you know her?” The sarcasm oozed out of his voice.
“I don’t know her.”
“So,” breathed von Barlack. “This is just a joke. I am not a patient man, Mr. Grant.”
Grant reached out for a chair, sat down and crossed his legs.
“Supposing I were to tell you that your wife is in danger, Excellency, what would you say?”
The reply came quickly and coolly, there was no hint of surprise or alarm. “She is an adventurous woman.”
“Some adventures can be deadly.”
“You, being an adventurer, would know that. I do not believe that my wife is in danger.”
“Didn’t you expect her to come here last night?”
“What I expect—”
The smile on Grant’s face faded, he assumed a cold, bleak expression, leaning forward aggressively.
“Weren’t you worried when she didn’t come? Was this one of the occasions when you expected her to spend the night at—”
“Stop!” von Barlack brought his hand down heavily on the desk. One of the guards moved forward smartly, eagerly. The old man’s eyes blazed; with hatred or just anger? “You are insolent! Wherever my wife goes, it is with my knowledge. You understand? This scandal and gossip—”
He stopped, bit his lip, saw the guard and waved him away.
So Marlene’s peccadilloes were known to her husband, and von Barlack was furiously jealous. Or was he pretending.
“You will be good enough to leave this room, Mr. Grant,” von Barlack said coldly. “I have been patient, and—”
“Do you want to see her again?”
“I shall see her when—”
“You might see her, if you’re sensible now,” said Grant. “My friends are so anxious to discuss certain matters with you, Excellency. They are aware of your devotion to your charming wife. They thought that they might persuade you to visit her, have a discussion with them and afterwards come back with her. They thought you would prefer that to—attending her funeral.”
As von Barlack listened, his hands bunched on the table, the glitter in his eyes became keener, angrier; did fear play a part, too? He kept silent; and for the first time since he had entered the room, Grant felt that he was in the presence of an old man.
Von Barlack said slowly:
“It is still possible, Mr. Grant, for me to order you to be shot. It will remain possible to say that you attempted violence. News of your death would undoubtedly reach the ears of your friends. It would be an effective answer to them.”
“And your wife’s death knell,” Grant said.
The old man leaned back and closed his eyes. Was he convinced his wife had been kidnapped? Was he afraid Grant’s threats weren’t vain? Was he trying to guess what information he must give in exchange for his wife? Or did he know where she was? He looked very old now, and tired. There were pouches under his eyes which Grant hadn’t noticed before, and a criss-cross of crow’s feet in the corners. The bushy beard and the big moustache, as well as the ruddy complexion, were deceptive at a distance and at first glance; but there was no deception now.
A door banged in the next room.
A woman raised her voice, but Grant couldn’t hear what she said. A man spoke; the voices were in the room beyond this, the fourth room in the suite. The man sounded alarmed.
The woman spoke again, much closer to the door—and the old man’s eyes opened. He turned his head, and the expression on his face puzzled Grant. Wariness was in it—wariness and perhaps relief. It dawned on Grant that Marlene might be back.
He sat rigid, trying to decide what best to do if she came in. Von Barlack leaned forward slowly, and his hands hovered over a bell-push. It was impossible to guess his thoughts and emotions. S
uddenly, he pressed the bell three times. The ringing sounded in the next room, and as the final ring came, the door opened.
A man said desperatley: “No, no!”
The door burst open and a woman appeared.
It wasn’t Marlene; it was Hilde Neilsen—the girl who had been dancing with the Italian when he had been killed.
9 / Appointment
Von Barlack jumped to his feet and banged the desk.
“No!” he cried. “Do not come here!”
A blond young man appeared behind the girl and grabbed her arm. She was only a yard inside the room. She was lovely, so young and fresh; and the sight of Grant put terror into her. She turned and tried to run into the next room and collided with the blond young man. He put his arm round her and led her away. The door closed with a snap.
Grant kept poker-faced.
Von Barlack turned round and sat down, breathing heavily. The intrusion had shaken him badly; and it had hammered at Grant with its significance, with the possibility that innocent Hilde had lied to Craigie’s men.
Then von Barlack said with slow deliberation:
“I cannot discuss this further now. I will see you again, at another time.”
“I can’t come here again.”
“I will visit you,” said von Barlack carefully. “It must be in London, and I must have my guards.”
“You must come alone.”
They stared at each other, Grant’s eyes hard, the old man’s steady at first, then gradually wavering. At last he looked away, dropped his hands helplessly on the arm of the big chair. But was the Foreign Minister of any Power likely to be so easily cowed?
“I will see you.”
“You will meet me, alone, at the top of the Duke of York’s Steps in Carlton House Terrace.” Grant glanced at his watch; it was nearly five o’clock. “At ten minutes to eight to-night—exactly ten minutes to eight. If you have anyone else with you, or are followed, I can’t answer for what will happen to you or to your wife.”
He had gone as far as he dared.
“I will be there,” said von Barlack. “Go now, please.”
If Grant took things at their face value, the old man’s resistance had been broken when the girl had burst in. Why? Had she really upset him? Or had he wanted an excuse for pretending to give way?
Grant drove a few hundred yards from the Majestic Hotel, and stopped on the corner of St James’s Street and Jermyn Street. No car pulled up behind him or just in front. He stopped again, half a mile away, near the Hyde Park Hotel. He saw no one who had been at the Majestic and was quite sure that he had not been followed.
He parked the car, went into the hotel and used a public telephone, dialling the Department’s number.
“Yes, Grant,” said Craigie.
“I’ve an appointment with the old boy at ten to eight, top of the Duke of York’s Steps. You’d better have someone there, so that if he’s brought a bodyguard, we can deal with them.”
“All right.”
“I want to take him away, somewhere quite safe.”
“19 Crane Court—do you know the street?”
“Off Regent Street—behind Great Marlborough Street Police-station?”
“That’s it.”
“Thanks. Another thing. Hilde—the Novian girl—knows von Barlack, and gatecrashed him when I was there. He didn’t seem the same afterwards. It’s worth following up.”
“We’ll do that,” Craigie promised.
“Is there any news of Marlene?”
“No.” Craigie hesitated, then went on: “I think you’d better see Faraday before you see the old man again. Where are you now?”
“Hyde Park Hotel.”
“Go to Crane Court right away, but make quite sure you’re not followed. If you are, give the house a miss, and Faraday will see you at the Duke of York’s Steps at half-past seven.”
Crane Court was narrow, little more than an alley, with room for only one car at a time. Standing at the end and looking along the shadowy lane, lit by a single gas-lamp with its four-sided, top-heavy shade hanging from a wall bracket, Grant was looking at a slice of London’s history. The houses stood cheek by jowl, and against the greying sky he saw the crooked roofs, at different heights, and the tall square brick chimneys rising up. Little had changed here in two centuries. Smoke floated sluggishly from the chimneys and added to the haze. No one was about.
Grant turned into the Court and waited; no one followed him.
The houses were numbered consecutively on each side. He approached the single gas-lamp, and as he did so, a woman stepped out of a doorway. She had come from Number 13. He passed Number 19 deliberately, looked round, and saw her disappear towards the end of the road. Not until she had turned the corner did he go to Number 19. He glanced round, seeing the lighted windows, hearing radio music from one of the houses, voices from another. He pushed at the door, and it opened. No one was about. The passage beyond was dimly lighted, and a door on the right stood ajar.
He called softly: “Anyone at home?”
“Come in, old chap.”
That was Faraday from the lighted room. When Grant went in, Faraday was rising from an easy-chair. The room was much larger than Grant had expected, and at one end were two oval-shaped dining-tables. One was laid for two, with a cold buffet on a sideboard near it. Faraday looked brisk and alert, cheerful and unconcerned.
“Having quite a day, aren’t you? I envy you your luck.”
“You needn’t.”
“What?” Faraday chuckled. “I’d give half my heart to be chasing the lovely Marlene.”
So Craigie had told Faraday a great deal.
They went to the table, and Faraday cut off some generous slices of roast beef.
“Mustn’t babble, I suppose. I’m instructed to put you up to date with events. First, girl-friend of your flat and the man who received you there—remember him?”
Grant grinned. “What about them?”
“Neither has talked yet. One of the workmen who was on guard has cracked, but doesn’t seem to know much. The one established fact is that the man who received you at your flat also received you at Mayberry Avenue. His name is Walsh. English as they come. Undoubtedly he biffed you over the boko. The question, of course, is what he did with Marlene.”
Grant said: “Yes. Anything else known about her?”
“Not of her recent movements. But she frequently had an assignment with Casado or with others at the Mayberry Avenue house. It was rented furnished, by Mr. Walsh. Quite a lot of diplomatic wallahs have been there from time to time, and the murdered Italian was comparatively humble.”
Grant chewed at the beef.
“Taking it all in?” asked Faraday.
“Yes, that’s all clear. Walsh rented the place. Casado and Marlene were among the frequent visitors, and there were a lot of diplomatic V.I.Ps.”
“That’s it in a nutshell. There were rumours in the locality that it was a house of easy virtue for the wealthy and distinguished foreign visitors of London. Less a brothel than a place of assignation. No proof—just suspicions, because Marlene wasn’t the only lady visitor. It’s established that Rose Hilary was another. Most women who went there were young, the men mostly young. There’s no evidence that the murdered Italian—can never remember his name, what is it?”
“Fiori.”
“Thanks. No evidence that he was ever there at the same time as Casado or at the same time as either of the women we know. The police have been through the house, of course. Found nothing of significance, except—” Faraday took a photograph out of his pocket as if by sleight of hand, and grinned: “Getting used to this kind of trick, aren’t you? Anyhow, the original of this was found.”
He showed Grant the photograph. It was a kind of plaque, such as might hang on any wall—and it consisted of a serrated circle with a five-point star inside. On the card was written in ink: Circumference 11 inches, diameter 3½ inches. Silver plate, jet decoration. No indication of manufacturer or co
untry or place of origin.
“Odd,” remarked Faraday.
“The cards tie up with this.”
“Oh, yes—the block for the cards is a replica of this—same scale of sizes, same number of serrations on the edges. It was fastened to the wall in a small room over the mantelpiece—a room used as a study. But there’s nothing else of the slightest interest.”
“And no hint of where Marlene might be?”
“No. She may have got the wind up and gone off with Walsh of her own free will, or he might have spirited her away. All being well, Walsh will talk before the night’s out. Now—what did you do with von B.?”
Grant told him, but said nothing of his doubts.
“Hm,” said Faraday. “If I didn’t know you so well I’d ask what you’re going to do now?”
“Get him to open out as much as he can. Tell him I can’t produce Marlene to-night, that I’m taking orders from mysterious higher-ups. Tell him I want concessions in Marinburg iron ore, and tell him that this is a commercial racket. And draw what conclusions I can.” Grant went on with his meal, turning over in his mind all they had discovered. Then suddenly he choked on a piece of beef.
“I completely forgot the shooting last night,” he exclaimed.
“What’s a shot or two between friends?”
“In Green Park—Casado’s car was shot at, I saw the shooting and found a bullet-mark on the car.”
“Well, well!” Faraday eyed the amber liquid he had poured out. “Cheers. We found the bullet mark, too. I’ll make sure that the prisoners are asked whether they were iniquitous enough to shoot at Casado before he reached Mayberry Avenue. Any other feats of memory?”
“No, just one puzzle not answered. They obviously wanted to frame me, so why didn’t they send for the police much earlier?”
“They might have meant you to stay there, so that they could for ever afterwards blackmail you. Or else, judged the time when you’d come round.”
“Then why send for the police at all?”
Faraday looked peeved. “Yes, of course—I’m not so good. Bit more beef, old chap?”
Half an hour later Grant parked the car at the side of the approach to the Duke of York’s Steps and looked up at the vague shape of the Duke, placed high on his column overlooking the Mall, St. James’ Park, which was dotted with dim lights, and, beyond it, Whitehall. Two or three other cars were parked here; a couple walked down the steps, arm-in-arm; a policeman plodded by.