“Leave it!” Connie had completed his search of the desk. Nothing. He began pulling out the books that lined one wall of the room, felt behind them for any envelope.
“Only discs,” Barney reported from the collection of records. “No tapes.”
“Then start on the bookcases. Look for an envelope, too.”
Barney swore. Sweat was on his brow, trickling down his back. He pulled off jacket and tie, threw them at the nearest armchair. The tie slipped to the carpet, fell beside the skirt of the chair’s loose cover. He worked quickly. “Nothing,” he said as he met Connie half-way along the bookcases. His manner was no longer easy, half-jocular, half-contemptuous. “Are you sure they are here?”
“Yes. He took them home this afternoon.”
“You are sure?”
“Yes.” Connie was now looking behind two pictures on the wall. No small safe was concealed. He was suffocating with the heat bottled up inside the room. He pulled the stocking up to his brow, breathed deeply. “They weren’t in his office. I saw them yesterday in his safe, not today.”
“You saw them? Why the hell did you not take the damned things?”
“I photographed the notes.” Connie was angry. “If I had been stupid enough to take them, all hell could have broken loose this morning.”
So he had passed over the photographs, and whoever had taken charge—Sam? but Sam took his orders, too—had decided notes and tapes must be destroyed. “Do you know Sam?” Barney asked.
Connie stared at him blankly. “No.”
Whoever gives Sam his orders has kept him insulated, Barney thought. He said casually, “Just an old friend of mine in Europe. Thought you might have met him,” he added as he followed Connie into the dining-room. Connie pulled down the shades, switched on the lights, searched quickly. Only silver in one sideboard drawer, mats and napkins in another, crockery in two cupboards. Nothing hidden.
“You look upstairs,” Connie said as they re-entered the hall, and hurriedly opened the door of a grandfather clock, then a small drawer in the table, then the coat closet, where everything was in order and easy to see. Nothing.
Barney came running downstairs. Nothing to report. Two bedrooms, one unused and empty; the other simply furnished, its few drawers and closet held clothes. The bathroom was blank, too.
They re-entered the living-room. “They’ve got to be here,” Connie said. “He took them home. I saw them, I tell you. In his hand.”
“Sure they weren’t phonies? Could have been a false lead.”
“I made certain of that.” Connie’s anger mounted with his frustration. “I risked another look in his office safe. They weren’t there. They—” He stopped. “Unless he left them—” He stopped again. Tell this goon where they might be, let him know they had put themselves in danger for nothing? No. Not bloody likely. He talked too much. Where had Coulton found this man anyway? Foisted on Coulton as he was on me? “Try the kitchen,” he told Barney. “He’s a wily old coot. Could have used a vegetable bin—or a refrigerator.”
“What’s the hurry? We’ve rushed everything. Too quick.”
That was true enough. Their search had lasted only half an hour—perhaps less. “I’ll check in here again,” Connie said. “It’s the likeliest—”
They both halted, looked at the fireplace. Menlo had stirred. I know that voice, Menlo half thought as he tried to gather consciousness, to fight through the daze that blotted out his memory. He couldn’t even guess where he was—two men at the door—where now? He moved his neck a little—something sharp and hard increasing the pain. Pain—it encircled his head—a band that drew tighter. He forced his eyes to open, saw two figures standing over him. Then his eyes closed again. “You,” he said, scarcely audible.
“He recognised you,” Barney said, and drew his revolver. “Caught you with your mask up.”
“No firing! No sound—” Connie broke off in alarm as he heard a car approaching.
Barney slipped his revolver back into its holster. “What of it? Cars use this road.” But he listened intently. His frown deepened. He moved to the window, parted the curtains half an inch. “It’s turning in here. Come on! The back entrance.” He picked up his jacket, took a step towards the hall and the kitchen beyond it.
“Finish your job,” Connie said tensely.
Barney stopped, stared at him. “Why not you? It’s your neck on the block.” And if he hadn’t stopped me firing one quick bullet, the job would have been over. Now, a shot would be heard. The car was in the driveway. “Sure,” Barney said angrily as he reached the fireplace. He dropped his jacket, bent over and gripped the grey head, smashed it down on the hearth’s corner. “Okay? He tripped and fell.” But he was speaking to an empty room. Connie was already in the hall.
Barney swore as he snatched his jacket from the floor and followed at a run. The doorbell sounded as he passed through the kitchen and found the rear entrance. He stood for a brief moment on a narrow stretch of grass, his eyes searching for Connie through the darkness. A movement by a wall that edged the yard caught his ear; his eyes saw a figure in deep shadow trying to scramble over it. He reached Connie, jumped to catch the top of the wall, hoisted himself up. He stretched down his arm to grasp Connie’s upraised hand and pulled hard. Connie gave a small cry of pain as he made the top of the wall. “Nearly dislocated—” Connie began. “Shut up!” Barney said, and lowered himself down the other side. He was faced by a mass of trees. Behind him, he heard Connie stumble onto the ground, begin to follow.
Barney groped along the wall to gain the next house and its backyard. No wall there; just a tangle of bushes to push through and a light left burning on the back porch. They skirted the sleeping house, reached its front gate and the car they had left just beyond it.
Connie drew back. Between gulps for breath, he said, “They saw it. They must have. They noted its—”
“Then walk,” Barney told him. “Walk all the way back to Washington.” He unlocked the door, took the driver’s seat, ripped off his gloves, thrust them into his pocket, dried his hands on his jacket as Connie joined him. He started the car and headed towards the highway. “The car’s rented,” he reminded Connie. “No trace to you or me. I’ll leave you where you met me. And you ditch this crate before you reach home. Understood?”
Connie nodded, drew off the stocking from his head, took several long deep breaths, wiped the sweat from his sodden hair.
“There was no choice. He was getting too close to you.”
“To the others, too.” And he saw me. He saw me.
“Mission only half-successful,” Barney said grimly. “No envelope, no tapes.”
“I know where to find them.”
“I hope you do.” Barney’s voice was ominous. Sam’s instructions had been precise.
“I need a day—a couple of days.”
“And some help.” Barney’s smile was derisive. “No!” Never yours, never again.
In silence they reached the Potomac, crossed Chain Bridge into Washington.
21
“You’ll be met,” Menlo had told Bristow over the telephone. And there was Doyle of Security waiting near two cars at the edge of the airfield. His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his face blanched and furrowed under the unflattering light at the corner of the hangar. He left it as he saw them, came forward to meet them in a patch of deep shadow. He shook hands, seemed stiff in his manner. “Miss Cornell, please wait in the first car. I’ll escort you after I talk with Mr. Bristow.” He signed to a man who had stepped out of the automobile. “He will take your luggage.”
“Just a moment,” Bristow said. “Who’s in that Ford?”
“Two of my best men. Also two in the second one. Quick, Miss Cornell! Get out of sight.” With relief, Doyle watched her obey. He turned back to Bristow. “Drop your bag here. It will be picked up. Now, let’s walk.” He avoided the lights, kept well in a stretch of darkness.
“Two cars—unnecessary.” Bristow’s voice was
sharp. He had guessed the reason: Karen and he were to be separated. Like hell we will be, he thought. “Whose idea?”
“Menlo’s. He planned to be in the second car and talk with you. A lot to discuss, he said.”
Past tense, Bristow noted. “Where is he?” he asked quickly.
“He’s dead.”
Bristow halted his slow pace, stared at Doyle. “Dead?”
“I sent a car with two men to collect him at twelve thirty. They were punctual. Found him in the living-room, stretched on his back, his head on one corner of the hearth. Body still warm, blood still flowing from the back of his head. My men contacted me at home—I was just about to leave for the airfield. I drove around—took me three minutes; my house is on the next road to his.” Doyle paused, remembering that agonising journey.
“Accidental death?” Bristow asked slowly.
“Did he trip and fall, you mean? But you trip forwards, not backwards. And how could he trip? No rugs, just a smooth carpet. He didn’t drink much, either—a glass of bourbon before dinner. And there was no sign that he had poured a beer while he waited for the car.” Another pause. “That injury looked as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer. Someone—” Doyle couldn’t go on.
“Any sign of an intruder?”
“Some books on their shelves—not in their regular neat row. A quick search, I’d guess. A desk drawer had been forced open. The rest of the place was neat. There’re a couple of men at work there now, searching for fingerprints. The garden will be gone over in daylight—the back door was unlocked, and there was a car parked in front of a neighbouring house when my men arrived. They heard it leave, just as they were making an entry into Menlo’s place—rang three times, no answer. They found a flashlight—Menlo’s—on the hall floor near the door. Perhaps he was going to replace a bulb in the lamp on the porch. It was in darkness. Except, there was no bulb in the lamp. We didn’t find any near the flashlight, either.”
“Not much to go on.” Bristow’s face was grim.
“Except for a tie. It was found on the floor under an armchair. Not Menlo’s taste,” Doyle added bitterly.
“Why the search? Why the murder?”
“Could be he had found out too much about the theft of the cassettes. Worked all week-end, gathered the facts—”
“By himself? Didn’t he call in—”
“Not yet. You know the old rule: clean out your own midden. If you can’t, then get help. Menlo had permission to turn in his report and recommendations on Wednesday, so notes on the evidence he had gathered must have been ready. He left them with Miriam yesterday afternoon. And three tapes.”
“In her vault?”
“Yes. Didn’t trust his own safe, apparently. I’m thinking that whoever killed him was searching for those notes and tapes. He authorised you to work over them. So he said—lunchtime yesterday—I saw him and—” Doyle stopped, fought back his last memory of Frank Menlo.
Bristow said quietly, “Anything else he told you?”
“Over the ’phone this evening. Wanted extra precautions for Miss Cornell. Sam Waterman is back.”
“When?”
“Arrived in New York twelve hours ago.”
“Monday afternoon?” Bristow was incredulous.
“Yes. Rome passed the word.”
Bristow turned towards the car where Karen waited, began walking. Doyle caught up with him, said, “Slow down, slow down. Menlo wanted her taken to a safe house, but that’s impossible at this short notice. The only one available has been used a lot. It could be under scrutiny. In fact, we’re about to sell it and find something more secure. And we can’t take her to her Washington address or to Schleeman’s house or to some hotel. Not at this hour in the morning. So, I’ll put her up at my place until tomorrow. By that time—” He shrugged.
“By that time you’ll still have a problem. And what about your family—do they know you’re bringing a guest?”
“I’ll tell them tomorrow. They can keep a secret.”
“How many vital secrets have you ever told them?” None, of course. Bristow’s judgment was confirmed by Doyle’s unhappy face. “Look—no one yet knows we’ve arrived in Washington except you and your agents. Keep it that way. It’s dark for a couple of hours at least. Leave two of your best men with me for the next few days. They’ll sleep in my spare bedroom and guard Karen. We’ll smuggle her into my apartment before dawn breaks. And she’ll stay there, out of sight.”
“Your place could be searched like Menlo’s.”
“And there will be three men to face them by night, two by day.”
“Menlo said—”
“Menlo would want me to finish his report. And that takes concentration. I need peace of mind, no extra worries. Agreed?”
“It’s a risk.”
“We’ve been taking risks for the last three days.”
“It’s your responsibility.”
“It is.” Almost as they reached the car, Bristow halted again. “That possibly unsafe house you mentioned—could you install one of your agents there? She should be approximately Karen’s height and weight, dressed in jeans and white silk shirt—as last seen by the hotel porter in Rome. If she’s blonde, give her a dark wig. Leave two agents with her, and tell her to be only now and again visible. Okay?”
Doyle looked at him. “Okay,” he agreed.
“I’ll be at the office early tomorrow and start on Menlo’s notes. If you’ve anything new on his death, come and see me.”
“We’ll probably pass out the word that it was an accident. Any objection to that?”
“Not if you find the murderer soon.”
“We’ll get him. Could have used that parked car. My men noted its number, thought it was odd that it wasn’t garaged or in a driveway. Cars don’t often stand on that road by night.”
“Could we keep the news of Menlo’s death out of circulation for a couple of days? Until Wednesday at least?”
“That’s tricky.”
“Then you can do it,” Bristow said. “If we’re asked about his absence, we can say he’s in the hospital.” True, in a macabre and horrible way: an autopsy would start there tomorrow.
“You know all the dodges,” Doyle said, and this time a brief glance of approval was forced out of him.
“We’re up against a bunch of artful dodgers,” Bristow reminded him as he opened the Ford’s door. Karen was in the back seat. He spoke to the two men in front. “I need someone to drive my car.”
The younger of the two said, “Sure.”
“Okay. You’ll find a blue Camaro just around that corner, in the parking area.” He handed over the keys as he pointed and gave the plate number. “We’ll wait here for you. Then follow us to Muir Street. Park it fifty yards or so from my door—27A—there’s a bookstore at 27. Got it?”
“Got it.” The man began an astonishing sprint.
To Doyle, both doubtful and impatient, Bristow explained, “I left it there Friday night. It will take him only three extra minutes. See you tomorrow.” He got into the Ford. “As soon as the Camaro swings around the corner, start driving,” he told the man in the front seat. “I’ll direct you.” The door closed.
He certainly will, Doyle thought, and turned towards the other Ford. Wouldn’t leave her while he got his car himself. Wouldn’t risk me making off with her, taking her to my house. And he was right about that. It will be a pleasure to work with him.
Doyle joined his men. “Change in arrangements. Back to Menlo’s place,” he said as he saw a blue car come into sight. The Ford with Bristow and Miss Cornell was already moving. He watched its tail-lights disappear ahead of him, the Camaro following closely, and travelling fast.
Their arrival at Bristow’s apartment was inconspicuous. The tightly packed houses of Muir Street were asleep, the bookstore in darkness. The Ford was parked about twenty yards away from Bristow’s door. The Camaro found space a short distance ahead of it. Too near, thought Bristow, but he hadn’t heard any gears being stripped, a
nd for that he was thankful: no one drove that car but himself. He locked the front door, and even to Taylor’s critical eye—he was the older of the two men—security seemed good. So far.
He and his colleague, Hansen, made a quick tour of the third-floor apartment, noting any drawbacks and weaknesses. Karen, on her own tour, found it comfortable and definitely a bachelor’s pad: outsize bed in the master bedroom; two divans in a room with TV and hosts of paperbacks in the bookcase (“Where my friends stay when they drop in for a week-end in Washington,” Bristow said); a living-room, with stereo and books everywhere, that lay between the two bedrooms. That was the front of the apartment. To the rear, across the long hall, was a very small study with a large desk and a typewriter, a bathroom, a kitchen with a dining section near the front door. Utilitarian, she decided, and was disappointed. Surely the furniture wasn’t Peter’s choice. It was a contrast to the pictures on the walls. They were good.
He caught that fleeting expression. “I’ve leased the place until its owner gets back from Singapore.”
“Everything?”
“Except the books and the records. The pictures are mine, too.” Then to the two men, who had just explored the back stairs, he said encouragingly, “A few days and you’ll be sleeping in your own beds.”
Hansen, a brisk thirty-five, was cheerful about the lack of space in the guest room. “Better than a motel,” he pronounced with his ready smile. “Once spent ten days cooped up with—” He caught Taylor’s eye and ended with a laugh.
Taylor said, “Who occupies the apartment below this?”
“The owner of the bookstore. She’s old and very deaf.”
“Reliable?”
“Mrs. Abel? She’s the widow of a man who once worked in Security.”
Taylor accepted that with a nod of approval. “The back stairs lead down to a yard?”
“Yes. Small. Walled at the rear from another back garden on the next street. But you’ll see it better by daylight. Why don’t you—”
“Any exit from that yard?”
“Through a rear door in the bookstore.”
Ride a Pale Horse Page 24
