Why Pick On ME?

by James Hadley Chase

  Feydak caught his breath in a gasp of horror.

  Corridon turned to look at him.

  “I doubt if you are anything like as tough as No. 12,” he said, smiling into Feydak’s white face. “I doubt if you’d last half an hour with these boys. But, of course, you would probably talk before they even started on you.”

  “That’s enough,” Diestl said curtly. “Give me the name of this Colonel.”

  Corridon shook his head.

  “Is it likely I would give away one of my best cards? Do something for me and I’ll do a lot for you. I want a job and shelter. In return I’ll make myself useful to you. Is it a bargain?”

  Diestl looked over at Feydak.

  “Well, take him to Baintrees,” he said, “We also have methods of making people talk!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I

  Except for the glow of Bruger’s cigarette, it was pitch dark in the van. Corridon sat on the floor, his back braced against the side of the van as it swayed and banged over an unknown road. He had now lost all sense of time and distance, and had no idea where he was being taken.

  Bruger and Yevski had arrived at Lorene’s flat and had taken charge of him. He was content to go with them, knowing his position was dangerous, but realizing it was a risk he had to take. He had made progress. He now knew both Diestl and Feydak were connected with this organization. Whether or not, Diestl was the controlling head remained to be seen. Corridon doubted it. Bruger and Yevski had been very curt with Diestl, scarcely hiding the contempt of the professional for the amateur. It was also obvious that Feydak was only very small beer in the organization. He seemed afraid of Bruger and Yevski, as well he might be. Seen together, they looked a murderous couple, and Corridon was wary of them himself.

  Lorene had been bustled into her bedroom by Feydak before Bruger and Yevski had arrived. She had seemed shocked by what had been said by Corridon and Diestl.

  “Keep out of it,” Feydak had told her. “Don’t say anything. Can’t you see this is dangerous, you little fool?”

  She had gone into her bedroom without a glance at Corridon.

  There was a small tradesman’s van outside the flat when Bruger and Yevski had taken Corridon down the stairs to the street. Yevski drove and Bruger got into the back with Corridon.

  Neither of the two men had said a word to him, and during the long ride, Bruger maintained his cold, menacing silence.

  After more than an hour’s drive, the van slowed down, turned sharply and went on at a reduced pace. It came to a sudden stop, throwing Corridon off balance.

  The van doors were opened.

  “Get out,” Bruger said in his soft, guttural voice.

  Corridon dropped to the ground as Yevski came round the van, a Mauser automatic in his hand.

  As far as Corridon could see, for it was almost pitch dark, except for the van’s headlamps, he was standing on a gravel drive, surrounded by tall trees. He could make out the dim outlines of a vast, rambling house, and as he turned to look at it, a lamp lit up over the imposing front entrance.

  “Come,” Yevski said, and moved up the flight of broad stone steps leading to the house.

  Corridon followed him and Bruger brought up the rear.

  The front door opened and the three walked into a lofty, big hall, panelled in oak and lit by clusters of electric lamps set along the wall.

  A man in a wrap-over white coat, black trousers and black, crêpe-soled shoes closed the door behind them.

  “You’ve taken your time,” he said to Burger in a cold, flat voice.

  “Well, we’re here now,” Bruger said surlily. “This is him. If you’ll take him off our hands, we’ll get some sleep.”

  “All right.”

  Bruger and Yevski went away together. The man in the white coat gave Corridon a quick, hard look.

  “Come with me,” he said curtly. “Dr. Homer wants to see you.”

  Corridon studied the man with interest. He was tall, slight and dark. He had a wide, high forehead, small black eyes, a thin slit for a mouth and a thin, beaky nose. Corridon knew his type well. He was the kind of man the Gestapo employed during the war. A man devoid of human feelings, a machine that did what he was told as ruthlessly and as efficiently as an automaton. There was nothing too horrible that he would not do. If Bruger and Yevski were dangerous, then this man was deadly.

  “Follow me,” he said, and walked silently across the hall, along a wide passage to a door covered in green baize. He turned the handle, opened the door, and stood aside, motioning Corridon to enter.

  As Corridon passed him he smelt a strong aroma of brandy. He walked into a small, comfortably furnished room in which a bright fire burned. A single lamp shed a hard white light on the red Persian rug. Before the fire, half hidden in a big armchair, a man stirred, leaned forward and regarded Corridon curiously.

  “It’s Mr. Corridon?”

  “Yes,” Corridon said.

  “Excellent. Go away, Ames,” the man by the fire said. “I will ring when I need you.”

  The man in the wrap-over white coat went out of the room and closed the door.

  “Come by the fire. You must be feeling cold,” the man in the chair said. “Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Paul Homer. I really am very pleased to have you here.”

  “I am entirely sure it is mutual,” Corridon said dryly, and walked over to the fire. He sat down in an armchair opposite Homer, and stretched out his long legs. He examined Homer curiously. He saw before him a big, fat, pink and white man with a round, fleshy face, small unblinking eyes and a wide, grimacing smile. His big yellow teeth dominated his face. They reminded Corridon of the teeth of a horse.

  Homer wore a white wrap-over, coat, similar to the one Ames had on. His massive legs were in white and black check trousers. His thick hair, white as a dove’s back, grew thickly above his ears and was swept back in a Lloyd George haircut.

  “This is very unexpected,” Homer said, and beamed. “Diestl has told me about you, and, of course, I know you well by repute. So you wish to join us?”

  “That’s the idea,” Corridon said, took out his cigarette-case and offered it.

  Homer shook his head.

  “Thank you, no. I find I am much better without smoking. I gave it up soon after the war. I am very glad you have decided to come in with us, Mr. Corridon,” he went on. “You are the kind of man we need here. You have an impressive record, and I am sure you will be of great service to us.”

  “I hope so,” Corridon said, a little surprised at the trend of the conversation. “But I must warn you, I expect to make something out of it for myself.”

  Homer gave an explosive giggle.

  “I see you have a sense of humour,” he said. “Well, of course that is excellent. But for the moment you are on probation, and I am afraid you will have to be content with an amateur status. But once we are convinced you are genuinely with us, then we will reward you suitably for anything you do for us.” The yellow teeth flashed in the lamplight. “I understand Diestl is a little suspicious of you. I am afraid he is a very suspicious person. I don’t believe he entirely trusts me or any other member of our organization.” Again he gave an explosive giggle. “Of course he’s right. It’s so much better to be safe than sorry.”

  “Do I consider myself a prisoner then?” Corridon asked, his face politely interested.

  “Well, perhaps that is rather a strong word. Let us say for the time being your liberty is restricted.” Homer waved a fat hand airily. “And while we are on the subject, do take my advice and don’t attempt to run away from here. We have taken elaborate precautions to prevent people from leaving us. The grounds are surrounded by a ten-foot electrified fence. I assure you it is impassable and extremely dangerous. At night, police dogs are released and they too are extremely dangerous. Personally, I wouldn’t dream of going out into the grounds after dark. Then there are extensive zones in the grounds covered by photo-electric rays operating alarm bells. The gates are also well
guarded.” Again he waved his hand. “And it is an implacable rule that anyone caught attempting to escape must be liquidated. This may seem a little harsh to you. But we have a number of people here in protective custody, and it would be a disaster if any of them did get away.” The yellow teeth flashed again. “I am afraid Ames is a little brutal, but he has cut down the number of would-be escapees considerably, and he has instilled an excellent spirit of discipline amongst those who were inclined to be difficult.”

  “Sounds rather like a concentration camp to me,” Corridon said blandly.

  “I assure you it isn’t like that at all. So long as we get co-operation from everyone, life here can be extremely pleasant. It just happens that the odd man or woman who is difficult is disciplined for the sake of the general harmony.”

  “Would it be tactless to ask just where this place is, and what it is supposed to be?”

  Homer took out a white handkerchief and patted the end of his nose with it.

  “Well, I think it would,” he said apologetically. “Later, you will be told the exact location, but until you have come through the probation period, it is better for you not to know. You can see it makes an attempt to escape much more hazardous if you don’t know where you are. As to the place itself, it is registered as a hydropathic clinic. The police and other busybodies are satisfied that we are genuine, and we have quite a reputation in the district. The only peculiarity is that we are always full, and can never take new patients.” He gave Corridon a sly smile. “In actual fact, of course, Baintrees is the headquarters of our movement.”

  “All this is very interesting,” Corridon said. “But I know little about your movement. What I do know is rather one-sided. Would you care to elaborate? Since I am proposing to join you, I think I should hear your side of the story. What exactly do you stand for?”

  Homer rubbed his hands slowly, and his still, bright eyes examined Corridon’s face.

  “That is reasonable. It is possible to speak frankly since the information I shall give you will not be passed on. In short, Mr. Corridon, no one has yet escaped from Baintrees, and we don’t anticipate that anyone will. Although you are on probation, I have no hesitation to tell you about our movement. It is called the United European Movement, and in a nutshell it is pledged to take from the victors and give to the defeated. To do that successfully, we must reduce this country to a fourth-rate power. It is already struggling in the morass of failure. A steady push is all that is needed for its complete downfall. We are pledged to supply that push.”

  Corridon stared at him, suspecting he was joking, but he seemed serious enough.

  “And what happens when this country collapses?” he asked.

  “France is practically finished. A broken England and a broken France will open a door to a new European regime. I am not saying this can be achieved quickly, of course. It may take some years, but it will happen.”

  “The idea seems a little ambitious to me,” Corridon said dryly. “Have you overlooked America by any chance?”

  “Well, no.” Homer continued to pat the end of his nose with his handkerchief. “But Russia will be able to keep America employed I think – don’t you?”

  “I should have thought it would have been the other way round,” Corridon returned. “However, that is neither here nor there. Frankly, I don’t think what you’ve told me is very convincing. I grant you can make trouble for this country, but surely it is rather like a mosquito biting an elephant?”

  Homer looked at him, hesitated, then smiled slyly.

  “But think of the satisfaction the mosquito gets out of it,” he said, flashing his yellow teeth. “I see you’re not a good subject for visionary projects.” He lowered his voice. “To be quite candid, I’m not either. But it’s surprising how many people are. So far as I am concerned, and I have no doubt you will feel the same way about it, providing I see a future for myself and I am able to maintain a standard of life suitable to a man of my background, I don’t pay much attention to causes. I am well paid to form the funds provided by interested parties. I have work to do, and I enjoy life. I don’t search too deeply for the reason or the doctrines of faith.”

  “In other words,” Corridon said, “you represent a fifth column, subsidized by foreign money with orders to undermine this country’s recovery? The rest of the baloney about a new regime is to soothe the consciences of certain cranks who work for you?”

  Homer returned his handkerchief to his pocket.

  “Between you and me, Mr. Corridon, that is more or less the position, but I do ask you not to be quite so outspoken before the others. Some of them wouldn’t like it at all.”

  “Is this your show?” Corridon asked bluntly.

  Homer blinked at him.

  “You mean – am I the leader? Heaven forbid! I am merely the figure-head to give Baintrees its touch of authenticity. No more, no less. I have little to do with the running of this place. Actually Ames is my superior when it comes to the actual work of the organization. I appreciate your curiosity, but I must warn you you are treading on highly dangerous ground. The identity of the Leader is a carefully kept secret. Anyone trying to find that out is very severely dealt with.” He lifted a thick arm and inspected his wrist-watch. “The time is twenty minutes to five. I think we might get a little sleep now, don’t you? I was just about to retire when I learned you were on your way here. I understand Diestl wants to ask you some questions tomorrow. It would be as well for you to get some rest before then. Diestl is inclined to get on one’s nerves. And then there is Ames, of course…” He leaned forward to press a bell push on the wall near him. “Ames will show you to your room. Be careful of him, Mr. Corridon, he isn’t a patient man.”

  Ames came silently into the room.

  “Mr. Corridon is now ready to go to bed,” Homer said, and stifled a nervous giggle. “Perhaps you would take charge of him?”

  Ames jerked his head to the door and stood aside.

  “Sleep well, Mr. Corridon,” Homer said. “I hope we have covered some ground profitably. We will meet again tomorrow.”

  Corridon got to his feet. He felt tired, and thought longingly of a comfortable bed.

  “Good night,” he said amiably.

  As he reached the door, Homer said, “Just one moment.”

  Corridon paused and glanced over his shoulder. Homer was smiling.

  “Don’t you think we should let our friend see Lehmann before he goes to bed?” The big yellow teeth flashed. “Lehmann was particularly obstinate, Mr. Corridon. He was quite sure he could escape. Nothing I said to him would alter his mind. You should see him. It really is an object lesson.”

  “Come,” Ames said in his low, flat voice, and walked down the corridor, down a flight of stairs, along a low-ceilinged passage lit by electric lamps in wire baskets. Corridon kept pace behind him.

  Ames paused outside a door, shot the bolts and threw the door open.

  “That is Lehman,” he said. “The same thing will happen to anyone who is caught trying to escape. It took him forty-seven hours to die.”

  Corridon looked into the room. A figure of a man dangled from the end of a rope tied round a wooden beam across the ceiling. The hands, frozen in death, clutched at a large meat hook that had been driven through the underside of his jaws and which was attached to the rope from which the body hung.

  Corridon felt the muscles in his face tighten. He was aware that Ames was watching him with a sneering little smile.

  He said in a coldly-level voice, “I see you live up to your traditions here.”

  II

  The room was small, white, and sunny: a nice room, Corridon thought, opening his eyes and stretching his long, muscular arms above his head. He looked at his wrist-watch. The time was twenty minutes past ten. Well, he had had five hours of undisturbed sleep, and he felt a lot better for it.

  Sunlight came through the open window and made bright pools on the fawn carpet. The white walls, the white bed and furniture gave the room a
clinical atmosphere. It was a typical room you would find in any well-run private clinic.

  Reaching for a cigarette from his case on the bedside table, Corridon took stock of his situation. He was a prisoner. He was in dangerous hands. The dead man in the dark little room in the basement was no fake. He had died horribly and without mercy – because he had tried to get away. That could easily happen to him, and Corridon grimaced.

  These were dangerous people: particularly Ames. Homer was a fat fake: grasping, sly, but a fake. Diestl was dangerous, but probably unimportant: a fanatic. Feydak was neither dangerous nor important. Of them all so far, Ames was the one to beware of.

  The first important move so far, as Corridon was concerned, was to find out where Baintrees was located. Then somehow, he had to establish contact with Ritchie. That might take some time, and would certainly be dangerous. One false move and he’d find himself suspended on that meat hook. He thought with a wry grin Homer had been shrewd to show him that poor devil. It was a sight to impress even the toughest.

  He had no doubt Homer had been telling the truth when he had described the way Baintrees was guarded. An electrified fence, police dogs, invisible rays and guards, and the hook to reward you if you failed. It was vital to gain their trust. Without it, he would get nowhere.

  He lay still for several minutes while he stared sightlessly at the ceiling, thinking. How was he to find out where this house was? The telephone exchange on the telephone number label would give him a clue, unless they had removed the label. There would also be the name of the Borough Electricity Department on the meter if he could get at it. That seemed to him to be the most likely bet. Something they probably had overlooked.