by Peter Baron
With a gesture of warning he stepped sideways and flattened himself against the wall, partially protected by the projecting cupboard, just as the lift grounded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Suddenly the rumbling ceased, and the sound of the lift grounding came to Keating. From where he stood he could not see the occupant of the lift, but Lou could, and in the old Jew’s eyes was a kind of dumb terror.
Keating, watching Lou, saw the old man rise to his feet and raise his hands as if to ward off attack. He cringed away as a husky whisper broke the silence.
“So that’s what you were after—freeing Keating, you dirty German scum,” and Chorley stepped suddenly into the cellar, his eyes fixed intently on the other.
He advanced slowly, a gun dangling from his right hand, and Keating braced himself again the wall. As yet, Chorley was not aware that the cellar had any other occupant but Lou, and his eyes never left the old man’s face.
Suddenly he halted before Lou and deliberately struck him in the face. The old man pitched backwards, and as he fell, Chorley kicked him viciously.
“Squeaking, eh?” he snarled, and at the same moment heard a movement behind him that made him whirl with uplifted gun. “What in hell’s that—”
Keating’s reply was brief. He knocked the gun up and the owner down, and as Chorley fell, launched himself at him.
Crouched against the wall, old Lou watched the two men fighting furiously in the opposite corner. The slyly humorous Chorley that both he and Keating knew had given place to a struggling maniac, who fought with the strength of desperation. Twice in as many minutes Keating avoided having his eyes gouged, and once a long nail tore his face from cheekbone to jaw.
For some moments Lou watched them in a dazed manner, and then as though recollecting his own position edged slowly away in the direction of the lift. It was as he reached it that Chorley’s boot caught the other on the kneecap with a force that turned Keating sick and forced him to release his hold.
In that second Chorley writhed away and flung himself into the lift. He dealt Lou one terrible blow, and, as the old man slid to the floor, jerked at the lift rope.
“Would you?” snarled Keating, and with an effort that set his leg on fire with a throbbing pain, leapt into the already rising lift and closed with Chorley.
Locked together and swaying crazily over the prostrate Lou, the two fought it out on the ascending platform. As it rose level with the first set of doors, Chorley hurled Keating away from him and wrenched at the rope.
The lift jerked to an abrupt stop at the same moment as Keating flung himself at the rope in an effort to restart the lift. He was too late. As he wrenched at Chorley’s restraining hand the doors beside him swung open and he found himself staring into six faces that in childhood might have been beautiful, but at that moment were decidedly unattractive.
He hit the first and saw it suddenly withdrawn to the accompaniment of a scream of pain—then he was down on his back with a regiment tearing and clawing at him. At least that was his impression. Actually he was beset by six of the dirtiest fighters in the Barbican.
The gentlemen of the Barbican knew many pretty tricks which they generously imparted to Keating for perhaps five seconds. At the end of that time Keating had almost ceased to be anything but a limp bundle that struck automatic, but feeble blows, without any direction or object. He continued to strike out weakly long after his antagonists had risen, and would not have stopped had he not become vaguely aware that somewhere a cool, albeit hard voice, was speaking.
“Bat an eye and you’re sunk,” said the Voice, and with an effort Keating opened his eyes and sat up.
Huddled against the wall were his six assailants and old Lou, and directly opposite him, standing on the stairs that led up to the shop stood a tall man in a blue serge suit, wearing a light gray trilby pulled well down over his eyes.
In one hand he held an automatic pistol, and directly behind him stood three tall youngsters, also wearing blue serge suits and trilby hats. Something in their peculiarly impassive bearing and expressionless stare set Keating’s memory working.
“By gosh, Storm,” he said, rising slowly. “Lord, man, you timed that nicely.”
He walked stiffly across the room to the tall man who held the weapon.
Inspector Storm of the Flying Squad grinned down at his colleague.
“We got a rush call from Kaye,” he explained. “He wants Lou for receiving—you among other things.”
Keating offered up a silent prayer for Superintendent Kaye and Inspector Storm.
“Did Chorley get past you?” he asked suddenly.
“No, but some one went down that lift arrangement.”
“That was Chorley all right,” snapped Keating. “Give me a gun, somebody. I want Chorley badly. If you’re going back to the Yard, Storm, you can take Chorley in tow. Leave Lou—I’ll talk to him in a few moments.”
Beckoning to one of Storm’s companions, he crossed the room and jerked at the lift rope. As soon as the platform rose to their level he stepped on it.
“Keep close to the wall,” he warned, and jerked the rope again.
The platform descended slowly and came to a standstill at the lower level. Keating stepped out with the other dose on his heels.
“Turn it in, Chorley,” he said, peering across the cellar, “we’re two to one.”
There was no answer, and he looked around the cellar again. It was deserted. It was then that he recollected the trapdoor. For a moment he stared down at it, and then shrugged. Chorley had taken the sporting chance.
“Just my luck,” grunted Keating. “Chorley would have looked a picture at the end of a rope. All right, we’ll go up again. The Water Rats had better be notified—we might find something the fishes couldn’t eat.”
When he reached the floor above, the room was empty save for Lou and the Yard man who was guarding him.
“You did not find Chorley?” asked Lou, and the look of terror in his eyes reminded Keating of his promise.
“No! Inspector Storm go on with the rest?” he asked his subordinate.
“Yes, sir.”
“Right. Stay behind with this man,” he motioned to the other Yard man, “and overhaul this place. Take an inventory and make out a report of what you find.”
The two men saluted, and Keating turned to the Jew.
“Now we’re going for a little walk, Lou,” he said, “and you’re going to spill one or two things.”
Linking arms with Lou he walked the old man upstairs to the shop and out into Angel Crescent. He looked along the narrow alley on either side and then spoke decisively.
“Get out!”
Lou’s eagerness to comply was almost ludicrous, but as the old man shambled away there was no amusement in Keating’s eyes. The Inspector was in the throes of composing a little fairy story, designed for the ears of his colleague, Inspector Storm, concerning a sudden attack which had resulted in Lou’s liberation. He perfected the details as he made his way back to the Yard, and the finished story, which only implicated Persons Unknown, was little short of a work of art.
In his own room he found a telegram awaiting him. It was unsigned, but he knew who had sent it before he opened it. There was only one man at the Yard who sent telegrams and unblushingly charged the cost to the Office Expenses Account. The message was brief, but the words it contained startled Keating.
It read: “Larry posing as myself at Marske House. Keep away from Reigate.”
Keating read it twice and obeyed the final injunction, for a matter of hours.
The following morning saw him on his way to Reigate. He had no particular plan in view, and was risking a meeting with Larry in going at all—a risk that Kaye had expressly forbidden. His reason for going, although he hesitated to admit it to himself, was made up of one part curiosity and two parts something else.
He knew what the second factor was when, in crossing the market place he came face to face with Barbara Teyst. She was just
getting into her car outside the post office, and Keating thought he had never seen her looking more lovely. In some subtle way known only to women, she had succeeded almost in matching the blue of her eyes in her gown, a color that was faithfully reproduced in her hose and smart blue leather shoes. The small gray hat with the blue enamel brooch formed a charming frame for her face, and her dancing eyes made a finished picture that deprived Inspector Keating of some of his normal indifference to women in general.
“Stranger,” she said, holding out her hand. “Where have you been hiding?”
He felt a slight quickening of his pulses as she looked up at him. Somehow her smile of welcome blotted out the background and everything surrounding her.
“I’ve been playing a waiting game in the Barbican,” he smiled back, and for the first time in his life a compliment escaped him. “That color suits you, young lady.”
She knew it, but, “Does it, grandfather?” she mocked, and they laughed.
“Shall we walk for a little while?” she asked. “I can leave the car. The gentleman with the dusky diaphragm will mind it.”
He nodded, and she beckoned to a gentleman of leisure standing outside the Post Office, whose sole occupation seemed to be that of exploring his back teeth with a match stick. A shilling worked one part of the miracle, and Barbara’s smile the other. Then she linked arms with Keating and they strolled up the High Street.
Keating, not unaware of the chances of encountering Larry, was anxious to put as much distance between Ian’s house and himself as possible, and with the idea of ascertaining in what degree of danger he stood he steered the conversation into those channels most likely to be of profit.
“You’ve got a visitor up at the house, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, your interesting friend, Kaye,” she answered. “I’ve met him at last.”
“Interesting?”
“Yes, but not quite in the way I thought. You didn’t tell me he was bearded.”
Keating recollected just in time.
“Didn’t I?” he asked lamely. “Perhaps I don’t tell little girls everything, however charming they are.”
“Thank you. I think he’d look a great deal younger without it—the beard, I mean.”
That, for some reason failed to interest her companion, but she pursued her topic unaware of any lack of attention in her listener.
“I can’t help thinking that his eyes are familiar. He’s rather mysterious, isn’t he? And—well, cynical.”
Keating grunted and looked down at his shoes.
“See much of him?” he asked.
“A good deal,” she admitted. “His reason for staying with Ian seems a little obscure. I didn’t get the impression that they were renewing a lasting friendship that dated from their schooldays. The only obvious reason is one that gives me the creeps to think about.”
“And that is?”
“That he suspects the proximity of the Poacher,” she replied.
Keating smiled sourly. ‘Suspects the proximity of the Poacher’ was good.
“Was he up at the house when you left?” he asked.
“Yes, reading as usual. Something light and flippant like Plato’s ‘Lives.’ His knowledge of classical quotations is positively appalling.”
“Plato’s?” he asked suspiciously.
“Mr. Kaye’s, silly,” she retorted.
“Don’t you believe it,” he retorted. “He’s all there.”
“Are you going up to the house to see him?”
“No,” he returned hastily. “I came down on business—an—er—inquiry.”
“Connected with the Poacher?” she asked, and he nodded, seizing the easiest opportunity of covering his real intention, which would have surprised Barbara.
His courage failed him at the last moment, and under her eyes he became suddenly aware that he possessed a pair of large hands for which he could find no adequate employment.
He stuck them in his pocket and tried to decide whether she had detected his embarrassment and had changed the conversation to put him at his ease, or whether she realized the cause of that embarrassment and did not want to hear what he had to say.
“We also have another visitor,” she continued. “Quite as mysterious but not so nice as Mr. Kaye.”
“Is there another?” he asked dispiritedly.
“Well, actually he’s the butler,” she admitted. “A man named Crale. Sometimes I think he has acquired more knowledge of things that don’t concern him than even the best butlers do.”
Inspector Keating decided that blowing his nose was the best way of covering up a smile.
“Did you say ‘mysterious’?” he asked.
“Very. Your friend Kaye seems to have some idea that Crale and the Poacher are not entirely strangers. That’s Ian’s impression, too. He watches Crale like a cat.”
Keating would have laughed outright had he dared. Even as it was, his voice sounded a trifle choky.
“You’ll find that calling a man the Poacher, without good .grounds, is a dangerous pastime. What does a woman’s instinct tell you?”
“That woman’s instinct is an over-rated thing. All the same, I don’t feel safe while he’s about. He has a peculiar habit of creeping.”
He had a momentary vision of Kaye in his mind’s eye, and tried to reconcile “creeping” with his chubby friend.
“He appears at unexpected moments,” she continued. “The other night some one got into the house and fired a shot at your friend Kaye, and I am wondering what Crale knew about it.”
That was news to Keating. He looked up interestedly.
“Did you say ‘fired?’” he asked.
“Well, Mr. Kaye said that the noise was caused by his falling over a chair, but chairs don’t fall with a loud report, especially on rugs. Anyway, Crale, when he appeared, was fully dressed and carrying a revolver, and his explanation was not frightfully convincing.”
“What was it?”
She told him, and could see that he was interested.
“Honestly, Sam, I believe that the Poacher is in the neighborhood,” she said anxiously.
Her hand had tightened on his arm, and he drew it closer to him happily. Unconsciously she had used his Christian name for the first time, and in that second he recovered his courage.
“Cultivate that habit,” he said approvingly. “Sam sounds almost human the way you say it.”
“Sam? Did I? Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot—”
“Go on forgetting, I like it. Do you?”
“Forgetting?” she asked hastily.
“No, the name.”
“Why, yes, of course, Sam, dear—but—”
“Say that again,” he commanded.
She complied, and he felt a sudden impulse to crush someone’s hat over his eyes. Fortunately the nearest pedestrian was out of reach, but the world seemed all at once to have become a very pleasant place. He allowed his hand to slip down over hers.
“Barbara?” he said slowly, “Do you think—I mean it—if you—well, frankly, do I look old?”
“No, fathead. Ridiculously young at the moment.”
“Young enough to marry?”
“Certainly, Sam. Have you been nursing a guilty passion in your breast? Who’s the lucky maid?”
“Oh, just a girl—a young girl—like you, for instance.”
She looked at him with the imp of mischief in her eyes, and he took the plunge.
“Supposing it was you, Barbara—”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Sam!” She looked away hastily. Looking at him made the answer difficult to speak. She avoided the issue temporarily. “Shall we turn back?”
At that moment he would have turned a somersault had she suggested it. They walked slowly back to where the gentleman of leisure brooded over a cigarette end that someone had inconsiderately trodden on.
Without speaking, Keating helped her into the car, his eye still asking the question that his lips were a littl
e shy of repeating. For some moments she sat there, and then her hand strayed to the starter.
“I’ll let you know—sometime, Sam,” she said, and the car slid away. He stood to watch it vanish with the memory of two laughing eyes that just for a few seconds had not been quite so laughing, and then turning, strode briskly across to the barber’s opposite.
The barber, lounging in his doorway, had regarded the idyll with considerable cynicism. His last customer had left abruptly—and nothing else more tangible. Consequently the Tonsorial Artist who had “Shaved Some of the Crowned Heads of Europe” was a little soured in his outlook.
That fact escaped Keating.
“Would you call me old?” he asked as he took a seat.
“Yes—Early Renaissance,” retorted the barber coldly.
“Less of it. I’m forty-four next October.
“E and OE,” said the other.
“What’s that?”
“Errors and omissions excepted. Haircut?”
Keating glared. “No, trim.”
The barber regarded the top of Keating’s head.
“You’re wise,” he said dispassionately.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Barbara’s car came to a standstill before the garage and, getting out, she walked leisurely round the house to the garden. Inspector Keating’s proposal had come as something of a shock, and she was so preoccupied with it that Larry had to call her name three times before she heard him.
“Not going in, surely?” he called to her from his seat on the lawn beneath the trees and turning, she retraced her steps and joined him on the grass.
“I was,” she answered. “It’s hot work driving today, and I’ve a horrible suspicion that my nose wants powdering.”
“It’s too good a day to spend indoors. Been far?”
“No, just for a run round,” she said, and settled herself on the grass beside him. “There are times when I feel that I positively must get away from this house.”
“Oh, come, that’s not very flattering to your guest.”
She leant back against the tree behind her and shaded her eyes.
“I’m disappointed in you, Mr. Kaye,” she said. “I did think that you were going to clear up the mystery of this house, but up to the present you’ve merely fitted into the general weirdness of the place, and it’s that weirdness that drives me away from it.”