by John Creasey
‘Listen to me,’ said the man with the limp, leaning forward and stroking the length of rubber with an almost feline gesture. ‘No one can lie to Count Riordon and get away with it. Do you understand? I know you can tell me where West is, and before I leave here I’m going to have his address. He’s gone to the country, and probably the West Country.’
‘Then you know more than I do,’ said Mark. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t tell me where he’s gone.’
‘But for a little misfortune, I could have done,’ said the man who called himself Count Riordon. ‘He was followed as far as Salisbury, and then lost.’
‘Salisbury?’ Mark sounded startled. ‘But that’s—’
‘Come on, come on,’ said Riordon. ‘No more lying or evading the issue. Where is West?’
It did not occur to Mark to tell him, but he experienced an unfamiliar sensation. He was afraid of the man with the limp, afraid of the way the other caressed the rubber truncheon, of the unnatural glitter in his light grey eyes. He did not try to hide it from himself. This was real, old-fashioned wind-up. Yet it was surely an absurd notion, for he himself was fairly well recovered, and, even if not quite a match physically, stood at least one chance in three of winning in a struggle. He tensed his muscles, prepared for an attack, but none materialised, although Riordon’s eyes seemed to grow larger.
‘Out with it.’
‘I don’t know,’ repeated Mark. ‘And I really wouldn’t tell you if I did.’
He rose from his chair as he spoke, and thrust his hand into his pocket. He was prepared to follow the movement up and launch an attack if the other showed himself to be taken by surprise. But Riordon simply eased himself forward in his chair and stretched out his right leg, kicking Mark’s right knee. The toecap of his shoe struck home. Mark winced, and dropped back.
Apart from anything else, including the pain, he was alarmed by the ridiculous ease with which Riordon had stopped him. His fear, which was very real, increased. He wondered what would happen if the man began to torture him, then dismissed the thought, comforting himself with the hope that Riordon could not overpower him completely enough.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Riordon said dispassionately. ‘You aren’t hurt yet, but you will be if you try any more tricks. I’ll give you another chance. Where is West?’
Mark drew a deep breath. ‘Somewhere in England,’ he said.
Riordon rose to his feet, looking very tall; he gave the impression that he had grown appreciably in size during the past few seconds. The peculiar sense of imagery, almost of hallucination, had never been stronger. Riordon had a nightmarish effect on him, and he felt that his muscles would not respond to whatever efforts he tried to make.
‘I’m a very rich man,’ Riordon said abruptly.
For a moment Mark stared at him, surprised and absurdly relieved. ‘Indeed?’
‘A very rich man,’ repeated Riordon. ‘I am the only man in this country who has made enormous profits out of breaking the law, while remaining in a position to snap his fingers at it. The law,’ he repeated with a scorn which seemed as genuine as it was well-expressed. ‘A fig for the law! It cannot contain me, it cannot prevent me from doing what I like. The police know it. They dare not arrest me, Lessing. You thought they should have hurried after me today, didn’t you? Well, so they should, and so they would have done if I had been an ordinary criminal! They know better – there is no one quite like me, and I doubt whether there will be again. You take my word for it, the police will never arrest me. I have them just where I want them, and they know it.’
The words should create an impression of a man with an overweening vanity, speaking in a wild spirit of bravado or else that the man was insane enough to believe what he said. In fact it was difficult to disbelieve him. Riordon believed they were true, and uttered them with such conviction that Mark was almost convinced. That might have had something to do with the fact that the policeman in Queen’s Street had certainly shown no inclination to make an early start on chasing Riordon.
‘Nonsense,’ Mark made himself say.
He experienced another queer spasm: the word was uttered to answer his own thoughts, but he saw its effect on Riordon, and knew that the man believed that it was an answer to what he had said. Riordon crouched forward a little, his hands bunched; the rubber truncheon seemed absurdly small and almost enveloped in one vast palm. His lips parted a little, but his teeth did not show.
‘Non-sense,’ he echoed. ‘No one talks to me like that without apologising, or suffering for it.’
Mark found the words coming against his will. ‘I—I’m sorry.’
‘That’s better.’ Riordon relaxed. ‘You really must be more careful how you deal with me. I am no ordinary man. If I were, the police would have had me in prison a long time ago. They are afraid of me, just as you are. The only difference is that they know me better, and are not so careless as you. I am overlooking your mistakes because I know you are so ignorant. Now I told you that I was a rich man.’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you?’
‘Not what you’d call rich,’ said Mark. ‘I’m comfortably off, and have a fair salary, but—’
‘Salary!’ exclaimed Riordon. ‘Only fools work for a salary. But you cannot help being what you are, can you?’ He gave the sneer time to sink in. ‘What would you say at the prospect of ten thousand pounds a year for life? Don’t answer too quickly, give yourself time to think about it. Ten thousand pounds a year, for life. Two hundred pounds every week of the year. Not a miserly pension, I think you will agree.’
‘P-pension!’ stammered Mark.
‘That is right. A pension. I should require nothing beyond the services you can render me in the next few days, and, provided your help is reliable, I will allow you the pension whether I succeed or fail in my primary object. Ten thousand pounds a year, for the rest of your life.’
Then suddenly: ‘Where is West?’ He raised a clenched hand. ‘Don’t tell me you have no idea. I will not believe it. I won’t believe it! I will smash your body to pieces if you lie to me again. Where is West?’
Mark needed time, desperately – and there was one possible way to get it: by making Riordon believe that he could be bought.
‘How do I know you’ll pay?’ he asked softly.
‘I always keep my word, Lessing. No one has ever known me cheat. That kind of dishonesty is worth no one’s time and trouble. How do you think I have built up my reputation without a strict observance of contracts? My word,’ continued Riordon with absurd solemnity, ‘is my bond.’
‘You’re the most remarkable man I’ve ever met!’ said Mark. ‘Astonishing. You really are!’
Through the other’s words he had caught a glimpse of incredible vanity, the monstrous confidence in himself which had led up to a conviction that he was supreme. A vain man liked nothing better than to talk about himself, and receive praise. True, there was an element of the unpredictable about this man, but the general rule might work, and he, Mark, badly needed to gain time. Until then he had been overpowered by the other’s peculiar influence – it was almost hypnotic. But gradually he believed that he was getting back to normal.
‘That’s very discerning of you,’ Riordon said at last. ‘Of course, I cannot help the gifts with which I have been endowed. Every now and again a man is born who is outstanding. I am one. If people would only accept that as an accomplished fact, and act accordingly, life would be so much simpler. I am now gradually establishing my ascendancy over others, but I have to cope with a great deal of opposition, and prejudice is everywhere. However, there are some, like yourself, whose eyes are opened quickly, and who do not hesitate to pay homage. Lessing, I think you might prove very useful to me, very useful indeed. Forget my talk of trifles! If you come successfully through your first trial, then I can use you as one of my chief stewards. Money—’ he wav
ed a hand grandiloquently. ‘You need not think about it, you will have as much as you wish, for whatever purpose you wish. And after all, money buys everything. You are a bachelor, are you not? Very wise, sir. So am I. But I will agree that there are times when a little womanly company is welcome, even desirable. And I number some of the most beautiful women in the world amongst my companions, who will do my bidding and give pleasure to my friends at my behest. I ask nothing from them but service, and they are prepared to give me everything. Are you beginning to understand?’
Mark brushed his hand across his forehead. The night was warm, but did not account for the beads of perspiration on his forehead. ‘Only—only just beginning.’
‘You cannot expect to grasp so great a project swiftly,’ said Riordon. ‘But I think you are gifted enough to assimilate it in a comparatively short time. Now, let us be finished with preliminaries, so that I can begin to initiate you. Where did you say West is?’
‘He’s gone to Taunton,’ lied Mark.
‘Taunton? In Somerset? What address?’
‘It’s a village just outside.’ Mark put his hand to his inside coat pocket. ‘Grayling, or something like that, I’ve got it written down.’ He took out his wallet, and Riordon rose and joined him, standing by his side and breathing very softly. Mark fought against the insidious influence of the man’s proximity, and began to sort through some papers in his wallet. ‘I put it in here somewhere,’ he added, and then dropped the wallet. ‘Oh, damn!’
He bent down.
Riordon remained standing. Several visiting cards fell from the case, and Mark began to pick them up, glancing at each one in turn. ‘No, it’s not here,’ he said as if to himself, and straightened up.
Riordon was standing a yard away from him, with his hands by his side, although he was frowning with displeasure at the delay. Mark had no doubt at all that he believed he had won the first round, and was going to get Roger’s address.
Mark closed his fist, and drove it with all his strength towards Riordon’s stomach. The blow landed before Riordon realised what was about to happen, and the man had no chance at all of backing away, or dodging it. There was a split second in which Mark felt a surge of exultation at taking the man completely off his guard, a moment of rare triumph.
Through Mark’s knuckle, his hand, and his wrist, there shot a pain so excruciating that he uttered a high, involuntary cry. The pain was so great that he did not even realise that he had been outwitted, did not even grasp the fact that beneath his shirt Riordon wore either a chain waistcoat or a steel belt. Mark staggered back, holding his right arm upwards, the blood gone from his cheeks and even his lips. He could not think because of the agony, he did not even notice the cold malignance which spread over Riordon’s features for his eyes were filmed with tears.
He did hear the man say something, but could not distinguish the words.
‘So you thought you could deceive me,’ said Riordon softly. ‘You think that hurts, do you? I will teach you the meaning of pain.’
Mark Begins a Journey
‘i will teach you the meaning of pain,’ said Riordon again. Mark backed away, knocked against a chair and staggered. He could not put out a hand to save himself from falling, and dropped awkwardly into the chair. All the time Riordon approached him, slowly, and without once looking away from him.
There were humming and droning sounds in his ears, part of the illusion which the whole sickening episode had created; but through it there was another note, more musical. It was a tune, the air went in and out of his mind. Vaguely he thought of the radio next door. Next door. If only he could make a noise, even a high-pitched cry, it might bring help: he had never been so desperately in need of help.
Then Riordon looked away from him.
The man did not look startled or surprised, but his attention was momentarily diverted, and in the precious seconds which ensued Mark tried to pull himself together. Riordon had protected his stomach, but could not protect his head. ‘If I could find some kind of a weapon,’ Mark thought desperately. ‘I might—’
Softly, surely too softly to be from the neighbour’s radio, came the strains of an old, once familiar tune: Addinsell’s Warsaw Concerto. Mark did not know what instrument was being played; the air was unmistakable, but it lacked the volume and much of the power of the theme. It was coming from the open door leading to the passage. It grew louder, and Riordon stepped towards the door and looked out.
Mark snatched up a flower vase; some water spilled over on his hand, and several of the flowers fell as he raised the vase for throwing.
Another sound came from the passage. Mark fancied that there was a series of footsteps, and then was quite sure that a key grated in the lock. In fresh alarm, he thought: ‘Janet’s come back! She mustn’t come in!’
Then Riordon turned and looked towards him, a sneer on his lips. He glanced at the vase, but ignored it.
‘I’ll settle with you later,’ he said, and stepped into the hall.
Mark stepped forward and pulled the curtains aside. In front of him was the loggia where he had had tea with Roger and Janet only two days before. It was almost dark, but he caught a glimpse of a man moving at the far end of the garden.
Another man’s voice spoke from behind him. ‘Be careful, Mr Lessing, be careful!’
On the words, the light went out.
For once a voice coming unexpectedly did not alarm Mark, who recognised the voice of Detective Sergeant Sloan.
He did not spend time in wondering how Sloan had managed to obtain a key to the house, but swallowed hard, backed towards a chair which he knew was near, and dropped into it. He breathed heavily, ignoring Sloan but hearing the big detective step towards the window. He saw his shadow as he drew near. Sloan passed him and drew the curtains. In the utter blackness which descended upon the room, Sloan made his way cautiously to the door and switched on the light.
Mark put his hand up to shade his eyes from the glare.
He saw Sloan frown as he stared towards him, then saw the big man nod as if seeing just what he expected. He did not feel capable of speaking, cared nothing when Sloan turned from the room and went out. Mark heard sounds and imagined that among them was running water. He did not care what there was nor what happened. He was sick with pain and reaction from fright, and realised both of these things. It was useless to pretend otherwise; Riordon had frightened the wits out of him, and the effect of the man’s utterances still lingered, although presumably he was some distance away by now.
Sloan returned with a bowl of water, a towel, a sponge, and a small first aid case. He did not speak, but put the bowl of water on an occasional table and began to soak a sponge in it. He wiped Mark’s forehead and cheeks, then asked him if he was thirsty. Mark said that he was and was given a few sips of water. They refreshed him surprisingly, and he began to feel much better as Sloan bathed his lacerated knuckles. The swollen flesh of his right hand was already turning colour, and it was difficult to move the fingers.
‘Lucky that wasn’t your eye, Mr Lessing,’ said Sloan, in an effort to be jocular. ‘What did he hit you with?’
Mark swallowed hard. ‘He didn’t – I hit him.’
‘Did you!’ exclaimed Sloan, his voice reflecting genuine surprise. ‘It isn’t often he lets anyone start first, so you’ve started a precedent! No, that’s the wrong verb, isn’t it? Created a precedent, that’s better. Take it easy, now, there’s no hurry. He won’t come back tonight, I promise you that.’
‘How – can you?’ Mark managed to ask.
‘Because he’s been warned that it will be dangerous,’ said Sloan. ‘Our chaps are surrounding the house now, and he never asks for trouble – not much, anyhow. You know, I think you ought to see a doctor about that hand. It doesn’t look very good to me. Does it hurt?’
‘Like blazes,’ said Mark.
‘You
might have damaged the bone,’ said Sloan pessimistically. ‘What with you and the Inspector hors de combat in two days, that’s not bad going. Feeling better? I’ll make a cup of tea, shall I, and then phone a doctor. You wouldn’t happen to know the address of the nearest one, would you?’
‘There’s a Dr Littlejohn, somewhere across the road,’ said Mark. He stood up unsteadily and ran his left hand across his forehead, while Sloan bustled out of the dining room.
Sloan, who knew the house from several calls he had made on Roger, walked along the passage; a moment or two later the ting! of the telephone bell sounded. There followed a brief conversation before the ting! came again and Sloan went to the kitchen. Soon he entered the dining room with a tray.
‘A cup of tea is just what the doctor ordered – oh, that reminds me, he promised to come over in ten minutes. He’ll soon put you right.’ Sloan poured tea, and when Mark said that he did not take sugar, told him that this was one of the times when he was going to break the rule. The tea was hot, strong, and very sweet.
‘We’ve been watching the house, and knew Riordon was here,’ Sloan said. ‘We’ve got a job on with him, Mr Lessing. He’s in the middle of some game we don’t know much about, but if we play our cards right, he’ll lead us to the heart of it. That’s as much as I’m allowed to tell you. Did you hear anything just before I came in?’
‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘Someone seemed to be playing the Warsaw Concerto.’
‘I thought so,’ said Sloan very slowly. ‘I was pretty sure before, but now I know. The Warsaw Concerto. That’s Riordon’s signature tune, when he hears it he moves off pretty quickly. You didn’t happen to see who played it, did you?’
‘No,’ said Mark, oddly affected by the intensity of Sloan’s words. ‘It came from the kitchen I think.’
