by John Creasey
‘I’ll come down.’ Now that he had agreed to Benson’s arrangements, Marlin was prepared to leave their execution entirely in the other’s hands...
Thus it happened that Toby Arran saw Marlin—whom he recognised because of the hall porter’s wink—enter the taxi in which a thick-set, florid-faced man was already ensconced. Following in another, he saw Marlin enter the Junior Artists Club in Oxford Street, alone. Since the florid-faced man was the unknown quantity, Toby naturally gave his driver instructions to continue after the cab.
That he might be walking into a trap did not enter his mind. He had met ruthlessness with opponents of the Department often enough, but there was nothing in the present affair to suggest he was to meet it in a more highly concentrated fashion than ever. True, he frowned unconsciously as he saw the thick-set figure leave his taxi at Aldgate and board a bus, but he caught the same bus with little trouble and told himself the prospect seemed quite promising.
At Cambridge Road, his man alighted. Following him out, and strolling along in his wake, Toby tried to look casual. He knew his chances of shadowing the fellow unsuspected were small, now: the other must realise he was being dogged, whether his conscience was clear or otherwise. But Benson never once looked round.
The trail led through those murky quarters of the East End which the Arrans knew comparatively well—and Toby kept his right hand in his pocket, about an automatic. The further he went, the less he liked the way this was going.
They had reached the gloomy heights of a line of railway arches when the thing happened. For the first time, Benson turned round. As though he had forgotten something, he snapped his fingers in feigned irritation. The gesture took his right hand to his chest—and the lightning-like grab at the gun in his shoulder-holster beat Toby by two seconds.
Two shots, with no more sound than a whisper. Two flashes of flame. Two bullets in Toby Arran’s chest...
Toby didn’t even cry out. He dropped in his tracks, as the man named Benson hurried past him.
2
Penelope has a shock
Penelope Smith had no particular desire to spend a holiday in the South of France. Mrs. Jeremy Potter was a dear old soul and Penelope loved her; but the prospect of four or five weeks on the Riviera with unnecessary but inevitable restrictions—or else strained relations—was not the younger woman’s idea of a perfect holiday. Yet she disliked the thought of hurting the feelings of her uncle and aunt, and she had agreed to join Mrs. Potter that week-end. Jeremy himself, however, left her absolutely speechless when he declared that he had arranged for her to be in good hands for the day she would be in London; she laughed so much that she had no time to be annoyed.
‘Don’t you think,’ she had demanded, while Jeremy regarded her with mingled sternness and amusement—his sense of humour was at least as deep-seated as his conviction that where young women were concerned Victorian ways were best—‘don’t you really think I can look after myself for twenty-four hours, Uncle Jerry? Do I really seem as helpless as all that?’
‘Like all young women,’ Potter twinkled, ‘you are twice as helpless as you think you are. You ought to be grateful, Pen. The Arrans are a couple of nice young fellows—and I might have handed you over to Mark.’
‘Heaven forbid!’ Penelope Smith knew Jeremy’s brother for a Victorian without a saving grace. ‘Well, where am I to meet them?’
‘In the foyer of the Éclat Hotel, my dear. Now hurry, or you’ll miss that train.’
Jeremy himself drove her to the station, where—being what he liked to call ‘in good time’—they had to wait. Thus, thoroughly bored even before the journey started, Penelope dared not think further ahead than London: the weeks at Cannes could only be dull beyond words.
She doubted whether the two young men recommended by Jeremy Potter would be very much below the forty mark. Probably they would be stiff and formal and very conscious of the weight of their responsiblity for twenty-four hours. Penelope sighed. At least to have had one day in London absolutely unfettered, would have toned her up for the ordeal to follow...
She reached London soon after two o’clock. As she signed the hotel register, the clerk said:
‘Oh, yes, Madam. Mr. Arran has been enquiring for you.’
Penelope, her heart in her mouth, saw him smile assurance at someone out of sight, and out of the corner of her eye, saw the someone—immaculate in medium-grey—rising from a nearby armchair. By the time she had finished signing and turned round, she had a vision of the sartorial perfection of Timothy Arran in all its glory.
‘Miss Smith?’ Tim’s brows rose interrogatively.
Penelope stared. She had hardly dreamed of finding this absurdly good-looking young man her guardian for twenty-four hours. She liked what she saw—especially the twinkle in his grey eyes.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Which one are you?’
‘Timothy,’ said Timothy. ‘To my friends—and I’m sure you are one. Toby’s gone on a crawl somewhere, but he’ll roll up. Tired? Or hungry?’
‘Both, really,’ she admitted. ‘I hate eating on the train. And the only man in the carriage let the tunnels get halfway before he pulled up the window, so I’m dirty too.’
‘Never let it be said’—Timothy could be gallant when he liked—‘that you can look nicer than you do!’
He grinned. ‘Tell me—do you like the ordinary things? Steak, grilled and etcetera?’
‘I do.’
‘I had an idea you would,’ Timothy approved. ‘I’ll order it while you get tidied—Penelope? or Penny?’
‘Penelope, please!’
‘Penelope it is—now, be a heroine and hurry. I waited lunch for you.’
Two things happened in the next five minutes which Timothy Arran, busy ordering steak and other things, did not know. First, Penelope Smith laughed so often in her relief that the hotel maid wondered whether she had Indulged, while on the train. The other thing was very far removed from Penelope, although it was to approach her before many hours were past.
Mr. Jacob Benson, fresh from the attack on Toby Arran at Bethnal Green, was safely away from the spot and in a telephone kiosk in the Whitechapel Road. He found the Arrans’ number and put a call through. Heggson answered it, sepulchrally: No, no idea where. Mr. Timothy, Heggson understood, had gone to the Éclat hotel. Could he telephone a message?
‘I’ll call him myself,’ said Benson.
In fact, however, he took a taxi straight to the Éclat Hotel and was in the grill-room there when Timothy and his companion entered. Smiling behind his heavy, dark moustache, Benson left. Outside, he again made use of a telephone kiosk—and before Timothy or Penelope were through their steaks, two men were watching the entrance to the hotel. Their orders were explicit, and they had every intention of carrying them out, for both men had a respect for Jacob Benson that was tantamount to fear.
Unaware of the events of the past hour, Timothy weighed into the delayed lunch—and Penelope. He found her quite remarkably attractive: none of the nervous up-from-the-country nonsense he had feared—yet nothing bored or blase, either. She had lovely teeth and laughed a lot; her eyes were hazel, her hair dark, and her complexion faultless. For the second time in his life, Timothy was really attracted: already, he wished she was to be in London for more than a day. He even regretted the cable from Craigie: the search for Gregory Marlin might need time and attention, and the thought of neglecting Penelope filled him with gloom.
‘I had a fear,’ she admitted, early on, ‘that you would be a junior edition of Uncle Mark. Do you know him?’
‘Do I know him!’ Timothy echoed. He grinned engagingly, changing the subject. ‘Tell me—you’re not a stranger to London, are you?’
Penelope’s eyes clouded suddenly.
‘No... I lost my—people—four years ago. We lived here until then.’
‘Oh.’ Timothy mentally kicked himself. ‘I’m sorry I—’
‘There’s no need to be. Four years is a long time.’ Her smile was back
again, now: ‘Tell me—when am I going to meet Toby? He’s late, isn’t he?’
‘Hard lines, old chap,’ Tim told himself, aloud and woefully. ‘I’ve been inspected and found wanting! But I’ll tell you—he’s no fellow to look after a delicate maiden. We’re not on speaking terms more than once a month. I don’t know,’ he added judicially, ‘that I should be carrying out Uncle Jeremy’s wishes if I introduced you to him—’
‘If he’s anything like you,’ Penelope put in, refreshingly, ‘I’ll have my hands full.’
‘If he’s anything like me—!’ said Timothy, mock-offended. He offered cigarettes: ‘Peace-pipe?’
‘No, thank you,’ said Penelope. ‘I rarely do.’
‘Another virtue,’ marvelled Timothy, lighting his own. ‘I can’t believe it: Uncle Jeremy must have a medal for this week’s good deed. Do you know,’ he added, in a burst of confidence, ‘that if your letter—his letter I mean—had come one hour later, Toby and I would have been on the way to Southampton and you would have been a maiden all forlorn!’
‘Seriously?’ she demanded.
‘Yes, we’d booked for the States—no, don’t go saying you’re sorry! We had a cable later to tell us to stay here, so you did us two good turns.’
‘I don’t know that I believe you.’
‘There’s one flaw, anyhow,’ Timothy teased: ‘Not a trusting nature!’ He smiled: ‘Now if you’d like to come to the flat, Toby may be there. What ideas have you got for the night’s amusement, by the way? Early dinner—and a show?—Dancing? Or an early show and a quiet evening?’
‘I’ll leave it to you,’ said Penelope, a little dazed.
‘You’ll be tired to-morrow, then!’ retorted Timothy.
For February, it was a warm day. The sun was shining and they elected to walk to Auveley Street, where the Arrans had their flat. Even had he been alone, it is doubtful whether Tim would have seen anything suspicious in the sudden movement of two men towards a waiting car, as he strolled with Penelope towards Bond Street.
The car followed them, driving slowly, but too far away to invite Timothy’s particular notice. He did see it when they reached the North Auveley Street corner where they had to cross the road. Taking Penelope’s elbow, he car-rolled: ‘Beacons to the right, beacons to the left—but never a beacon in the Auveley Streets. What’s that fellow going to do?’
That fellow was the small car, which had seen better days and was coming towards them. It swerved to the left, and Timothy heard its brakes give a comforting squeal.
‘A driver with sense,’ he said. ‘I—Oh my God!’
He spoke and acted in one and the same moment, but in the split-second that he had for thinking, he dreaded the worst would happen. In the same split-second Penelope cried: ‘All right!’ and leapt forward, with the nose of the car a few feet away and the engine roaring fit to kill. As Tim sprang sideways, the wing of the off-side wheel caught his coat and sent him sprawling, face down—but he was still thinking fast, his right hand moving towards his pocket even as he rolled over. Safe on the other side of the road, Penelope stared in disbelief.
There was a little thing, glinting blue-grey, in Timothy’s right hand. She saw him level it before she realised what it was. She saw the two stabs of yellow flame—but heard no sound, other than a shout from someone in the car as it swerved across the road to hit the kerb, bounced off and careered on. She heard Tim swear, even above the roar of the car’s engine, when his gun jammed. Before he could fire again, the car had swung round a corner, and even a less experienced man than Timothy Arran would have realised that pursuit was useless.
Pocketing his gun, he scowled, then looked across at Penelope. His nose was smarting and as he walked slowly towards her, he touched it and looked down to see a spot of blood on his finger.
‘Would you believe it?’ he said, indignantly. ‘They’ve skinned my nose!’
Timothy, for all his alleged disinterest in the female sex, was a shrewder judge than most. There would be no glossing over of the adventure, where Penelope Smith was concerned.
Dabbing at his nose with his handkerchief as he reached her he said lightly: ‘Sorry about that. You all right?’
‘Yes... But Tim, what happened? What on earth made you shoot?’
‘Reflex action, pure and simple.’ He grinned. ‘Any damage?’
‘No, I got clear. But you must have hurt yourself. Did you—much?’
‘A bump or two and a bruise or two and the skin off my nose, drat the man! And bang goes a new suit. Taking you about is getting expensive, young lady—I’ll have to send a bill to uncle.’
He smiled into her eyes, and she seemed to read the message. ‘We’d better hurry or I’ll get a bad reputation—torn trousers are hardly Auveley Street. It’s lucky there was no one about.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Penelope dubiously, as they turned towards his flat. ‘They might have stopped the car.’
‘There was just one way of stopping that car.’ Timothy looked grim. ‘And that was with skin and bone. You didn’t notice it’s number, I suppose?’
‘I’m sorry. I was too—flabbergasted.’
‘Fancy that,’ said Timothy, with a sudden lightening of tone. ‘I wonder why? Well, here we are. Our man Heggson will get worked up over this, but he’ll get over it. Do you drink whisky, Penelope Smith?’
‘No.’
‘Good. One finger of whisky and two fingers of soda for you, my dear, while I’m changing and putting plaster on my nose. Doctor’s orders. Then, because I know life won’t be worth living until I’ve told you, I’ll explain a little. Only a little, mind you.’
It was in Penelope’s mind to refuse the whisky-and-soda but there were some things you could not refuse Timothy Arran, small man though he was.
He was wise also, she realised later, for the spirit warmed and steadied her. She was able to think more clearly as she waited by the fire while Heggson, who had taken the apparition of his bloodstained and dusty employer with remarkable philosophy, attended to Timothy’s needs.
Well, she hadn’t been dreaming. She had been walking along Auveley Street, the car had come and deliberately tried to run her down—or them down—and Timothy Arran had drawn an automatic from his pocket and fired after the car. She’d seen it with her own eyes. And—and Uncle Jeremy had sent her to the Arrans to make sure she came to no harm! She began to laugh and she was still laughing when Timothy appeared silently at the doorway. He scowled.
‘Is there a joke?’
‘Oh, Tim—I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help it. I was thinking of Uncle Jeremy’s face...’
‘What’s the matter with it?’ asked Timothy, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. His eyes twinkled. ‘You were worth meeting, Penelope, and I don’t know how I would ever have forgiven myself if that car had done its job properly. Although,’ he added, serious again, ‘I suppose I would have been somewhere where forgiveness is spontaneous. It was a close one and I don’t mind admitting it.’
The laughter died suddenly from Penelope’s eyes, too.
‘I know. I’ve never been so scared in my life.’
‘You kept your nerve,’ said Tim, ‘or we’d have mixed each other up, trying to be heroes. I’ll remember that. Well—I suppose you know it was a deliberate run-down?’
‘I guessed. It couldn’t have been anything else.’
‘Well,’ said Timothy soberly. ‘It’s a long story, and I can’t tell you much, anyhow. Have you ever heard of the Special Branch, Penelope?’
She nodded, wide-eyed.
‘Yes? Well, that explains the gun. I’m one of them, and I’m working on a little job—but until half an hour ago, I’d no idea what kind. I’m afraid that’ll have to be enough explanation, Penelope. The only other thing I can say is that I’m glad you’re due in Cannes the day after to-morrow. If I’d had to look after you for a week, in the circumstances, I’d have to put you in a padded cell.’
‘But, Tim—’ She eyed him mutinously, and Timothy pre
ssed her shoulder gently.
‘Please, Penelope? Not a word to a soul. And no questions—even to Toby or me?’
He smiled gravely into her eyes, and after a moment or two, she shrugged resignedly.
‘Well, I don’t have much option, do I? And at least,’ she added, with a glimmer of a smile, ‘you’ve given me something to think about. I’ve never seen a gun fired, before. It had one of those silencer things, didn’t it?’
‘It’s fitted with a silencer, all right—’ He stopped at the sudden brrrrr of the telephone. ‘There are times,’ he added, drily, ‘when I wish that thing to—excuse me. Hello? Yes, Arran speaking.’
Penelope Smith had seen a great deal to surprise her since her arrival in London, but the change she saw in Timothy Arran’s face as he listened to the caller astonished her. If ever a face looked like thunder, his did now.
His voice, too, had changed: suddenly, it was hard and metallic.
‘Right. I’ll be there in half an hour. Yes, half an hour. And get Chadwell—Sir Keith Chadwell. Damn the expense—get Chadwell!’
He replaced the receiver and swung round. For a second he stared at Penelope and she felt she had never seen such misery in a man’s yes—nor such grimness in a man’s bearing. He did not look small, now.
‘Toby’s been shot,’ he said. ‘The odds are a hundred to one against him. You’ll stay here until a man named Carruthers comes—Bob Carruthers: Heggson knows him. Bob will look after you until you’re on the boat, if I can’t. Do just what he says—they may think you’re in this thing too, and I wouldn’t give tuppence for your chances if they do, should you take any risks.’
Without waiting for an answer he swung out of the room. Dazed, she watched him go, calling to Heggson as he went. Two minutes later the front door banged and she heard him hurrying down the steps.
3
Search for Marcus Benson