by Colin Forbes
'Off to beddy-byes.'
Basil disappeared inside, closed the door. Newman felt spots of rain on his face. He swung round and Marler was only a few paces away. Newman grinned, punched Marler on his shoulder.
'Thought I had a tail.'
'You did. But it wasn't me.'
'Who the hell was it, then?'
'The Ear. He's been tracking Windermere all evening. I just wonder why.'
'Where is the Ear?'
'Ahead of us. He slipped past you when you watched Windermere opening his door. You never hear him. You rarely see him. And we're going to get soaked. Let's walk on, find a cab.'
They turned up the collars of their raincoats. It was very quiet. Only the patter of the rain and the squelch of their shoes on the pavement. Newman stopped suddenly, staring ahead. A small figure wearing a trilby hat appeared out of nowhere, shuffling away from them.
'I wonder who that is,' Newman mused.
'That is the Ear. Maybe he wants to talk to me. Now he is slowing down. Why?'
He looked up as he spoke and thunderclouds seemed almost to touch the top of the flat roofs of the terrace houses, most turned into flats, one of which was occupied by Basil Windermere. A brilliant flash of lightning was followed instantly by a deafening clap of thunder.
'Under cover,' said Marler. 'The Ear has darted into the shelter of a doorway.'
They had just reached their own shelter, close to a front door and under an overhang of a stone beam, when the cloudburst enveloped the street. Rain sluiced down at a slanting angle like a curtain of fine wires. Rivers of water ran down the street's gutters, the top of drainpipes overflowed, sending cascades of water down.
'That's why the Ear paused,' said Marler. 'He knew what was coming.'
Frequently he glanced out to make sure the Ear hadn't moved out of his shelter. The cloudburst ceased as quickly as it had erupted. They heard the storm drifting away to the east. Marler peered out again, stood stock-still.
'What's the matter?' Newman asked.
'The Ear is coming this way. I see now why he really paused.'
'Why?'
'Four men coming up the street this way. The Ear may be the target.'
It was the first time Newman had heard alarm in Marler's voice. He followed him, looked along the street. The small man was shuffling swiftly towards them. He must have recognized Marler, who had removed his glasses. He gestured over his shoulder, dived into another doorway.
Beyond him was a sinister cluster of four black opened umbrellas, feet walking under them. It wasn't possible when Newman first saw them to identify who was approaching – the cluster had the large umbrellas lowered, the feet steadily advancing beneath the shallow black cones. Then the front two umbrellas were elevated.
Each of the two visible men held handguns. Newman saw their weapons clearly as they passed under a street lamp. Soon they would reach the doorway where the Ear was hiding. He grabbed for his Smith amp; Wesson.
'Not wanted,' Marler snapped. 'Leave this to me.'
He took something out of his raincoat pocket. Newman saw it was a grenade. Marler waved a hand sideways at the Ear, who responded instantly, diving inside another doorway. Crouching down, Marler thrust his right hand, holding the grenade, behind him. Pressing a button, he rolled the object at high speed along the pavement.
It shot forward and the four umbrellas stopped moving. The object reached them, arriving in the middle of the group. There was a loud crack and the four men panicked, running along the pavement until they disappeared round a corner, their umbrellas waving madly.
'It was a dud,' Newman said. 'It should have killed them all.'
'Hardly.'
Marler was grinning as he stood up. He pulled his rain-covered coat away from his knees and waited for the Ear to reappear.
'What the hell was it?' Newman demanded.
'One of the new devices cooked up by the boffins in the basement back at Park Crescent. Looks like a grenade, it sounds like a grenade when it goes off. It explodes into tiny fragments you'd have trouble finding. It also contains a glue-like liquid which sprays all over the targets. They won't know what it is – probably be sure it's some kind of poison, which it isn't. I don't think we wanted dead bodies sprawled all over the pavement. We would have had a problem.
'Well, it worked. The thugs appear to have gone for good. They're probably rushing back to the Embassy to get checked by a doctor.'
'Here comes the Ear,' Marler observed. 'I'll introduce him as a friend.'
The little man was shuffling towards them. He glanced over his shoulder twice. A cautious chap, Newman thought – which was probably why he had survived so long. He was close to them when he crossed the street and looked back again to see round the corner where the attackers had vanished. A shot rang out. One single shot.
The Ear staggered, stumbled against the wall of a house, slid down the wall, his legs extended in front of him. He lay slumped there, very still, as Marler ran to him with Newman at his heels, the Smith amp; Wesson in his hand. Marler bent over the prone form. A red patch was blossoming on the forehead. He opened his mouth, staring at Marler. Blood gurgled.
'Basil…' Another grim gurgle. 'Schwarz…'
Then nothing. Marler checked his neck pulse. He stood up slowly, gazed at Newman. There was sorrow in his eyes – something Newman had never seen before.
'He's dead,' Marler said slowly. 'Not one of the thugs – he looked back towards us a fraction of a second before the bullet hit him. From the angle he was facing, the shot came from the roof of those houses. The Phantom.'
'I'll kill that bastard when the moment comes,' Newman said.
'No, you won't.' Marler placed a hand on Newman's arm. 'He's my meat.'
9
The taxi taking Paula home arrived close to the entrance to her flat. The driver had overshot the mark by a few yards. She got out into the quiet street, paid the driver, thanked him. She turned and walked the short distance back to the cul-de-sac.
Several cars were parked illegally by the kerb. It happened often at this late hour – wardens were rarely on duty at this time of night. An old lady approached her with a wrinkled hand held out.
'A fiver to save a soul,' she whined. 'I ain't eaten in two days. I'm droppin' with 'unger.'
The old woman had matted grey hair which hadn't been washed for Heaven knew how long. Her clothes were rags, held together in places with safety pins. Her beady eyes were pleading, at the end of their tether. Her thin lips trembled and her extended hand shook with the cold.
Paula tried to do two things at once. She pulled her shoulder bag in front of her, then used both hands to extract a five-pound note from her purse. Tired as she was she saw her shadow thrown by a street light on the damp pavement. Then she stiffened. There were two shadows.
With both hands holding her purse, she couldn't reach for her Browning in the special pocket. A rough hand grasped her throat. She lifted one foot to scrape it down the shin of her assailant. Then a pad was pressed against her face, covering her nose. She smelt chloroform. She tried to breathe out but the cold air had forced her to breathe in.
The old lady, bad teeth bared in an evil grin, blurred. Paula, as in a dream, was aware of the sound of a car door opening. Then she sagged, lost consciousness, knew nothing.
She was woozy, her eyes closed, her stomach threatening to erupt. She forced it to behave. She appeared to be sitting against some sort of couch. She kept her eyes closed. The fabric of the couch was well worn. She felt the hard edge of a wooden strut pressing against her back. It was icy cold. She forced herself to keep still.
She could hear the clump of hard shoes on a wooden floor. She opened one eye, then both eyes. A few yards away she could see who was making the clumping noise: The back of a short, thickset man with a bald head. The room was huge, like an old warehouse. She closed her eyes quickly as her captor began to turn round.
During her quick survey of her prison she had seen a large beam spanning the width of the warehouse, a
bout ten feet above the floor. She felt sleepy, willed herself to keep awake. Something had been slung over the beam. She heard the clank of a chain.
That was what she had seen, a gleaming new chain with links about three inches wide. He was clumping about again, further away. Without moving her feet, she wriggled her toes. Anything to bring herself back to normal. The bald man had been holding something in his hand. A Colt automatic.
She became aware she no longer had her shoulder bag. He had her Browning somewhere. The feet came towards her. She knew when he stopped he was standing, gazing down at her. She kept her eyes closed, her body limp. He began to talk. Then she knew he was American, a coarse voice.
'Wake up, lady. You and I are going to have a fun time. You've got things to tell me. Questions to answer. What the hell is the matter with you? Wake up!'
He began to slap both sides of her face with his rough hand. She let her head flop from side to side with each blow. I have to get back to normal before he knows I'm conscious, she kept telling herself. The slapping stopped. He swore foully.
He was walking away from her again. She took in deeper breaths of the cold air without moving. Got to clear my head, get my strength back. I need more time. The clumping came back in her direction. She wasn't going to get more time. There was a musty smell which suggested a building that hadn't been opened for a long time. The heavy footsteps stopped in front of her.
'Wake up, you friggin' twist,' the coarse voice ordered. 'If you don't you'll get a bucket of cold water over you. You're going to be sodden wet soon, whatever you do or don't tell me.'
Inwardly she cringed. What was he talking about?
There had been something very sinister in those last words.
Then his hands grasped her shoulders and he was shaking her from side to side. She kept her eyes tightly shut. His grip was strong and painful. She kept her body loose, let him go on shaking her. She was breathing in and out slowly, clearing her mind.
'OK. You get the bucket of water…'
She moaned, moved shakily, opened both eyes. He was very ugly. His bald head gleamed in the light from the naked bulbs suspended from the rafters high above them. His eyes glittered with anticipation at some pleasurable experience. He hauled out the Colt from a wide leather belt under his windcheater.
'Try any funny tricks with me and you get a bullet in the head. Can you hear me?'
'Where am I? Who are you?'
'My bloody pals call me Baldy. Guess why?'
'I can't move.' She slurred the words. 'Can't see you. Where am I?'
'In a place where we won't be disturbed. You and I are going to have fun and games.'
'My head's swimming.'
She closed her eyes again. He administered several more hard slaps to both sides of her face. The pain was helping her to become more alert. She heard his feet clump a short distance, realized he was behind the couch. Then something cold and weighty was dropped round her neck. A chain. She fought down the terror which was threatening to overwhelm her. Now she was able to think, she realized her desperate situation. She was going to end up dead. Kidnappers who intended to release their victims were careful never to show their faces. Baldy hadn't even attempted to cover his face. She felt even more helpless with the chain round her neck.
'OK. You can get up now. Or I'll drag you up like a dog.' He giggled. 'Dawg on a chain. That's what you are.'
She opened her eyes. He was holding a length of chain in one hand. It must be attached to the collar of chain round her throat. She placed both hands on the couch as though for support.
'I don't think I can stand up.'
'So I'll drag you.'
'Give me a minute.'
'Get on your friggin' feet!' he screamed at her.
She stood up slowly, more slowly than she needed to. She stood still, bracing her legs to strengthen them. Now she could see far more. She appeared to be in an ancient warehouse used to dump unwanted furniture. There were a number of couches scattered round the planked floor. She saw her coat thrown carelessly over the back of a battered old wooden chair. Her shoulder bag dangled beside it. The clasp was still fastened. She felt sure he hadn't even bothered to rummage inside it. Which meant her Browning was still in the secret pocket. It could have been a mile away for all the hope she had of getting her hands on it.
'We are going for a little walk,' Baldy said, grinning. 'I may fall down..
'Fall down, then!' he screamed. 'Then I'll drag you.' 'I'll try and make it.'
Baldy was holding a long length of chain. The end was attached to the part at the back of her neck. The links rested loosely on her skin, looped below her chin. She kept stopping as he approached the beam above them. During these brief pauses she stretched her legs without moving them, testing her strength.
'Keep going, little dawg,' he sneered. 'Haven't got all night.'
'My legs are going to give way,' she lied.
'So I drag you along the hard floor. Your choice, honey.'
She wished she could punch his leering face. She was feeling utterly humiliated. Then suddenly a cold fury took hold of her mind. This wretched little thug from the back streets of God knows where! She lowered her eyes so he couldn't see her change of expression. Which meant she was looking at the floor.
Stretching towards them from below the beam a section of the floor appeared to be a huge elongated panel, a closed trapdoor. At the far end, inset into the wood, was a small depression, and inside it, fitted level with the floor surface, was a wide metal lever. Terror returned again as she imagined what this might be. She suppressed the terror, concentrated on slowing him down.
'Come on, honey. Make with the legs.'
He jerked the chain and she nearly fell forward. Recovering her balance, she padded deliberately forward, her shoes clacking on the planks. She was almost under the beam when he moved behind her, still holding his long length of chain. Before she knew what was happening he had lifted the chain collar round her neck and inserted an extensive length under it.
'I'm not talking tied up like this,' she snapped.
'Shut your stupid female mouth. You'll talk your head off.'
Still holding the chain, he clumped over to a table. It supported a bucket of water and a glass. Dipping the glass into the water, he drank some, ran his thick lips slowly round the rim of the glass, then hurled the contents in her face. She had a double shock. The cold water dripped down inside the top of her dress. She shivered. The second shock was to have liquid in her face after he had run his foul tongue round the rim. He was behind her now. He was doing something with her ankles. She looked down. He had looped a section of chain round each one, with a gap between them of over a foot long.
She felt like a fugitive from a chain gang. It intensified her fury. I'd like to strangle him with my bare hands, she thought. Slowly. He appeared in front of her, holding a double length of chain. He grinned, touched her cheek.
'Cosy now, ain't it, my lovely?'
'I can do without the compliments,' she rapped back. 'Temper. Mustn't give way to temper,' he taunted her.
'I'm not talking trussed up like this,' she blazed.
'Let's work out how things are.' He was almost drooling with enjoyment. 'Chain round your neck is looped like a noose. Bit by bit it pulls tighter – till you choke to death. Better start using that spitting mouth of yours to answer my questions. That gives me an idea.'
He worked his mouth, then spat at her, hitting her on the chest. She just managed to stop herself recoiling with revulsion. Don't give the little swine any satisfaction. Standing back, he gripped the long length of chain, hurled it upwards. It swept over the beam, a length fell and he grasped the end. With horror, she knew what he was going to do. She gritted her teeth, clenched her hands.
'Let's start now,' he said. 'Quip show. Like you get on television. Question, then answer. Get it? Question, then answer.'
'Put me back on the couch. Then we'll talk.'
'Listen to the lady! Giving me orders. Have
n't you been listening, twist?'
He punched her in the ribs. Teeth still gritted, she didn't react. He'd used the hand holding the chain to deliver the punch so it had lacked a lot of his strength. Now he stood back from her and she tensed. While standing she had continued bracing her legs.
'Who's your boss?' he asked suddenly.
'Benson.'
'Wicked. Real wicked. Lying to Baldy.'
He hauled on the chain and she was elevated off the floor. Expecting this, her hands dived to her neck inside the chain, keeping it away from her throat. He went on hauling her higher until the top of her head was close to the beam. She found herself swaying, back and forth. She looked down and saw the top of his bald head.
'Swing 'igh, swing low,' he sang in his tuneless voice.
The strain on her hands was enormous. She knew she couldn't keep this up for long. Then he did something else which she had expected. He released the chain and she dived to the floor. She landed as she had been taught at the training mansion in Surrey, bending her knees to cushion the impact. She straightened up as his hated face peered round at her.
'You can't hold out for long. Who is your boss? Just the first question.'
'Benson.'
'Up you go…'
Again she was hauled upwards, held there, head almost touching the beam, but not quite as high as before. Again her body started swaying. She looked down. He was standing back a few feet from the beam. She forced herself to sway harder, hands protecting her throat against the chain. She was swaying back and forth through a greater arc, her knees lifted. She could never have done it without the aerobics and the exercises she had practised at the health club. She was beginning to sway back quite quickly when suddenly she dropped her legs to the fullest extent, opening them as wide as possible. She was staring at Baldy who gazed up at her in surprise. The chain round her ankles caught him under the jaw, round his thick neck.
He let go of the end he was holding, which she had known he would if she could bring it off. Probably break my bloody back, she thought. The chain slithered over the beam, she plunged down behind Baldy, landed on one of the many old couches lying round the warehouse floor.
