by James White
The small bar sat on Hanway Place, which was basically a grand name for a crooked piss-stink of an alley. It ran unseen, unknown and unloved between the ends of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. Home to some ramshackle houses, the back doors of some large shops, a couple of shops of indeterminate nature that always seemed closed and some music shops that drew the musicians and music lovers at least into the dark and dirt strewn confines of the alley. Along those same confines also nestled a small bar. The bar had seemingly been closed when Nick got there, but a certain knock on the door and a code word got him inside, as it always did. Nick wondered about the code word; he’d heard several and they all seemed to work, but he wasn’t about to mess with his formula, especially not tonight. The heavy on the door had looked at his head long and hard with a scowl, but still let Nick in. He guessed the guy would be keeping an eye on him in case he was trouble. Nick would have.
Desperate for the liquid relief the bar could offer, Nick had nevertheless made the restrooms his first stop after the cloakroom. He hadn’t liked the way the coat check girl was eyeing him up; what with blood caked on the side of his face, she had a look of pity and fear in her eyes. He couldn’t stand pity, so he’d paddled into the tile-cracked washroom and washed his face off in the sink as men stumbled past and missed the urinals as they swayed at them. The mirror was cracked and cloudy, but Nick could tell that he looked like shit, even after he’d washed his face. Dark circles ran under his eyes and the sparkle had long gone. His nose wrinkled at the heavy pall of cigarette smoke, his eyes were about to get a lot worse, he could feel them start to smart already. He gripped the basin hard with both hands and stared at the water dripping from his face. He looked drawn, tired, but otherwise okay, apart from the ugly bruise welling up on his temple. It could have been a lot worse; he thought back to Lucia’s final words. He didn’t really buy the Carruthers angle, but he didn’t seem to have a lot of choice.
A man bumped him and Nick realised he was holding up the queue for the basin, not that most of the guys bothered. He moved away and saw there was no towel. Screwing his face in annoyance, he wiped it with his hands and headed out into the club. He had no business standing in the washroom thinking; he’d think much better at the bar with a drink.
Nick twirled the martini and let his mind wander. It kept wandering to Lucia and he had to keep winding it back and reminding it about Clara. He shook his head.
There was also the problem of the negatives that Jurgen now had, and the thing bothering him most right now, apart from those impure thoughts of Lucia, was Carruthers and his role in all this – specifically his relationship with Ramona. The deeper Nick got in, the less he liked it and the more out of his depth he felt.
He drained the glass and ordered another. A girl slipped an arm round his shoulder and slurred out a request for a dance. She was cute, in a two-martinis-too-many kind of way, but he wasn’t there yet, and he didn’t feel like dancing. His feet had only just started to work properly again. Nick shook her off and turned his attention back to the frosted glass that had arrived in front of him. He wondered how long he’d got. He’d brought himself time, or rather Lucia had brought him some time; that was another thing that was bothering him, but sooner or later Carruthers, or Jurgen, or both, were going to want some answers – answers from him and right now he didn’t have any.
Nick sighed. The drink had restored his energy levels. He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight anyway and he guessed Carruthers wouldn’t be in bed yet. He slipped off the stool and fought his way through the crowds to the small phone box at the back. He closed the door to block out some of the noise and dialled Carruthers’ number.
“Hello?” The tone was irritable, as Nick guessed it would be.
“It’s Nick. We need to talk.”
“Nick! Where the hell are you? I’ve had men out looking for you all night. Tell me where you are.”
Nick wiped the glass on the booth and looked out at the dingy basement, with its noise and crowds. “Not here. Shame you guys couldn’t have found me earlier. I could have done with the help. You at the station?”
“No, Whitehall. Where are you?”
“I’m in a bar.” Nick ignored the snort down the phone. “Can you meet me in Soho Square in about fifteen minutes?”
“On my way. You’ve got some questions to answer, Nick.” The phone went dead.
“So do you,” Nick replied to thin air.
Nick shoved his way back to the bar and ordered a martini for the road. He had time.
Sixteen minutes later, he was outside. It had got a lot quieter as the night traffic had dropped off. Rather than heading down Oxford Street, Nick headed down Charing Cross Road, collars turned up high, head low and hugging the shadows of the walls. As he crossed the alley that runs up the side of the theatre to Soho Square, he kept walking but strained his eyes sideways. He could see a figure in a trilby about halfway up the alley. Nick kept going down Charing Cross Road and cut through the passageway running under the Pillars of Hercules. As he reached its end, he stopped and carefully peered around the corner. Another man stood at the top of Greek Street, leaning against the bank wall at the Soho Square end. Nick ducked back then peered out again. The square was empty, a handful of light casting a pale glow over the deserted grass. On the far side of the square, past the railing, Nick could make out a saloon car stood with its engine running, headlights on, a couple of figures standing beside it. He slipped back into the shadows, thought a second then doubled back and crossed the road to the phone box. He slipped a coin in and dialled a number. The phone rang for an age then a gruff voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Let me speak to Carruthers,” Nick said calmly.
“What? Who is this?”
“The man you’re waiting for. Put him on now or I hang up.”
There was a momentary pause then Nick heard a muffled cry for Carruthers, running footsteps then a familiar voice.
“Hello?”
“What’s with all the goons?”
“Nick? Where the hell are you? How did you get this phone box number?”
“I keep the number of a few boxes in the area handy for situations just like this. Now tell me, why all the goons? You’ve got men all over the place.”
“Just come in and we can talk about it.”
Nick imagined Carruthers gesticulating for his men to spread out, to start searching. He must realise Nick was close. He didn’t have long.
“Keep your men where they are and keep talking,” Nick commanded.
“You can see us?” Carruthers asked incredulously. Nick let that one go.
“This meet was meant for us, to talk. What’s going on?” Nick had a growing knot of unease balling in the pit of his stomach.
“Nick, we just want to talk to you…” Carruthers began
“That’s what we are doing. You don’t need to bring me in for that. What, are you stupid as well as incompetent?” Nick had been banking on the short fuse of the man, stressed, unused to working long nights. It worked.
“What do you expect?” Carruthers exploded down the phone. “One of my men is in hospital, a car’s written off in a shoot-out, responding to a trap you laid for Johnson.”
“It wasn’t a trap,” Nick said calmly.
“No? You call the Brigadier at home and ask him to come there of all places then your friends are waiting to bump him off! Come on, man! What else were you playing at?”
“I wanted to speak to the Brigadier about Ramona, what information he could have had that she might have other hands on. I hardly wanted to pitch up to his house with his wife and family there and start asking questions. I was trying to protect him, and doing a better job than you judging by what happened.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” yelled Carruthers.
Nick winced at the ferocious volume crackling down the line and moved the receiver away slightly. “I mean, Jurgen and co obviously had a tap just like you did. Aren’t you keeping his line
clear? How did you miss that?”
“Don’t presume to tell me my job, Valentine. A tap? I think my hypothesis is more likely. You were seen running out the square with the assailants.”
“With them? From them actually, and I’ve got a nasty headache and bruise to show for it.” Nick fed another coin in and kept an eye on the end of the alley. “But I have found out some information.”
“What?”
“Ramona had photographed some plans. She’d given two prints of four to Jurgen. I found the other two stashed at her place.”
“What were they of?”
“I don’t know. I need to see them all to make sense of it, just like Jurgen. That’s what I wanted the Brigadier for. There’s something else.”
“Go on.”
“I think Jurgen found the negatives at Mr Aviv’s and killed him, so you might want to concentrate on pulling him in rather than me.” Nick wasn’t ready to admit he’d lost those negatives.
“No! I need to find his handler. He’s not pulling the strings here. I told you, I don’t want to pull him in yet. Now come in and we can talk about this. Where are you getting this information?”
“Sources,” Nick replied. “I’m not coming in because I’ve a feeling you’re not going to let me go again.”
“We can talk about that when you come in.”
“Sure. One more thing; I think Ramona had another lover.”
There was a long silence. Nick saw a figure pass the far end of the alley then stop and come back slowly as the man spied the phone box. “If you want to discuss that then come meet me alone. Three a.m., St Pancras Hotel bar. Alone.” Nick put the phone down with a click before Carruthers could reply. He opened the door and ran into the night with the shouts of alarm ringing in his ears.
Losing the goons had been easy. Nick had a head start and knew the streets. They didn’t. Minutes after they’d spotted him, he’d slipped behind an innocuous-looking door and up some stairs into a slightly worn lounge bar, with some even more worn patrons. He had a good bit of time to kill before his rendezvous. He’d used the St Pancras Hotel before, for exactly this kind of trick; he just hoped Carruthers wasn’t wise to it. Nick reckoned the chances of him really coming alone were close to zero, but he would come; he had to know what Nick knew about Ramona and at the back of his mind, Nick was sure, would be the thought that he might have to shut Nick up.
Nick settled into a battered, brown-leather armchair with a Scotch. There was no music here, just the hum of drunken chatter. The club was mainly male, a woman was laughing a little too hysterically over in one corner, but there were a lot of quiet, solo drinkers. Nick wondered if he looked quite as sad as them. He probably did, he concluded. One thing he was sure of was that he wouldn’t be able to go back to his flat for some time. It was certainly being watched, by any number of people. He sighed; he’d see how the rest of the night panned out, but he had the feeling that despite his reservations, he was going to need a gun.
He’d have to go and see Stephen and pick up the Luger he’d stashed there. He’d prefer his own Mauser; it was more concealable and made less of a noise. The Luger, by comparison, was much bigger, but it did pack more of a punch. It wasn’t like he had a choice anyway.
The Scotch had eased the throbbing in his head and fought away the dull edges of fatigue crowding his mind, so he ordered another and concentrated on trying to relax, mentally running through what lay ahead. It was going to be risky, but it was the best he could do at this point in time.
A fine drizzle had started to wet the streets as Nick left the club. Slick streets reflected the few lamps burning in the darkness, the fizz of the rain more like a mist than a shower. Stealing a hat had been easy. Last time he’d been spotted he wasn’t wearing one and he was more likely to stand out without one. Not that he wouldn’t stand out anyway. It was nearly three in the morning and even here in London the streets were quiet, especially so given the translucent sheets of cloudy spray wafting gently through the streets.
Nick had come along the rail lines leading into the back of the hotel first, through the gasworks. Despite his soggy shoes, he was thankful for the rain. A car sat parked on a side street near the rear of the hotel. Nothing unusual about that, but Nick could see the glow of cigarettes and bobbing heads inside. He had a long detour back around, crossing the Euston Road higher up, crossing one quiet street in then tracking it parallel, before coming out near the Grays Inn Road junction. Clinging to the shadows of the building, he cautiously scoped the road. It took him a while before he found them but there it was, parked up on the hotel’s own entrance road, just past the entrance – another saloon. These guys were a little more professional, though. No cigarettes. It was only in the glimmer of the lobby lights that Nick could make out two men sitting in the front seat. He peered along both sides of the road, paying careful attention to the corners and building entrance, but could see nothing. It figured. Carruthers couldn’t have an endless supply of men. He’d done what Nick expected: put men at the exits and most likely had more inside, sat around the bar and the lobby under the distrustful eye of the hotel staff, trying their best to look inconspicuous in what must be an otherwise near-deserted area of the building at this hour. Nick allowed himself a smile at the thought of their wasted night. Carruthers wouldn’t be popular right now. Nick just hoped that he was playing to form.
He carefully retraced his steps and doubled back up the side of the Euston Road. He was running out of time, but he needed to come out behind the guys in the car out front if possible. With the rain increasing, he figured the car parked up by the back door was far enough away that they wouldn’t see him. They should be watching the back door anyway, not the road out front. If he was lucky.
Breaking cover, Nick jogged over Euston Road, the splash of his footfalls muffled by the pressure of the rain on the tarmac. He could hear the drops drumming on his hat and feel the wet seeping through his coat as he danced through the shadows, swerving the illumined pools of light, for all the world appearing like a furtive drunk, which was the idea – or maybe even part of the reality. He made the hotel side of the road and sneaked a look at his watch. He was cutting it fine. He didn’t pause as he crossed the junction of the side road, just darted over. As he hit the other side, though, Nick threw himself into the red-stone corner of the grand hotel building and squinted back down. There was no movement. A car trundled by on the main road and he started, but it carried on. The gothic spires of the hotel towered above him in the darkness and he worked his way along the wall to where the junction of the hotel’s own access road was. It was a raised ramp off the main road. Just before the junction was a zebra crossing and yellow crossing beacon. It was a quirk of this particular hotel, and a quirk Nick had used before. Convenient for the pedestrian guest or those heading to the station. Also convenient for Nick, or at least he hoped so. This was why he’d chosen it. Now it was down to luck and patience, but mainly a good dose of luck.
The rain intensified and Nick had to concentrate to peer up the road into the oncoming traffic. A bus rumbled past, devoid of life save for the driver and one slumped form on the back seat, a towering haven of watery light rolling past in the darkness. Nick watched the approaching pale headlights carefully. The cars had slowed in the gloom of the rain and night, slow-moving wipers were struggling to match the weather as Nick was himself, the water streamed from his hat and every so often, an intense, almost tropical shower would spray across the road cutting the visibility. He felt a hard knot of anticipation as he stood coiled at the wall, watching every car, waiting, hoping for that tell-tale orange winking in the rain that would show its intention to turn right into the hotel. Trouble was he couldn’t rely on that, so every car that slowed as it passed he braced to run for, peering intently into the interior. He had two or three false starts, then the worst. A dark saloon, driving slowly towards him, began to indicate as it approached his position. Nick sprinted forward and had one foot on the crossing, casing the car to squeal to a
halt. There was muffled cursing and Nick stepped hastily back with an apologetic wave, letting the taxi and its shocked occupants continue on and up into the hotel.
Nick looked at his watch. It was just past three. Maybe Carruthers wouldn’t show? Maybe his men were just instructed to garb Nick. Maybe Carruthers was already inside. A hundred possibilities ran through Nick’s head in the next few minutes as there was a hiatus in the already infrequent traffic. Then he spied a pair of wan lights coming through the murk toward him and he knew. He knew even before the indicator blinked. That feeling at the pit of his stomach – hunch, instinct. He knew. Nick lurched forward as the car slowed to negotiate the bend and the car screeched to a halt as he ran onto the crossing. Carruthers, pale-faced and surprised, peering out through the rain-driven windscreen in alarm, Nick with his hand already on the passenger’s door, and he was in. The door slammed behind him.
“Go straight!” yelled Nick. “Not the hotel!” As he shouted, he rammed the end of his blackjack into Carruthers’ ribs, concealed inside his greatcoat pocket. Flustered, Carruthers obeyed, screeching away down the road. “Kill the indicator!” Nick commanded and gave another prod of the implement into Carruthers’ side. Nick was pleased to see the man shaking, though whether with rage or fear he didn’t know, or care.
“Go right. Grays Inn Road,” Nick snapped and he was gratified to see the man do as he said. He was scared and that was good.