Constable Clark was standing now, fumbling with his pipe again. There were worry lines about his eyes and mouth, and I knew he didn’t like this. He had soft-pedaled things for my benefit, making my part of the affair seem safe and easy, but it wasn’t quite that simple. “We’re dealing with ruthless criminals,” he had said, and … I refused to go into it any deeper. If I was to go through with this thing, I mustn’t think about it. My nerve was already beginning to seep away.
“This is a very admirable thing you’re doing,” he said.
“I know. I feel just like a Girl Guide.”
“We’ll be watching you constantly, the children, too. You won’t know it, but we’ll be there.”
“That’s very reassuring.”
“If all goes well, this should be over in a day or so—oh, here they are. Stephen, I’d like you to meet Miss Jane Martin. Miss Martin, Mr. Stephen Brent, the man I was telling you about.”
I turned. I stared at him. He stood just inside the door, Sergeant Brown hovering behind him. He wore slim black slacks and a black, rust-and-white checked sports jacket, a brown silk tie against his white shirt. The wide Belmondo mouth was grinning. One dark brow was arched wickedly and the vivid blue eyes were alight with amusement. The unruly black locks tumbled over his deeply tanned forehead, and the nose looked more crooked than ever. I could feel the color rush to my cheeks. I was too dumbfounded to say anything. Stephen Brent nodded in that lazy, nonchalant way of his, the brow still arching.
“It looks like we’ll be spending some time together,” he said affably. “I must say, I’m delighted.”
“You—” I stammered.
“Miss me?” he inquired.
“I—this is too much!”
“Miss Martin and I are old friends,” Stephen Brent explained.
“Oh?”
“I—I must be going,” I said.
“I’ll walk you to the car,” Stephen said. “We’ll go out the back way. Wouldn’t do for anyone to see us leaving the police station.”
I took the yellow-and-orange-flowered shopping bag from the constable. I left the office and moved hurriedly down a long, dingy hall, passing rows of offices with frosted glass-paneled doors. I heard his footsteps behind me, and as I turned a corner, he grasped my elbow firmly, forcing me to stop. I turned, glaring angrily into those vivid blue eyes. Stephen Brent shook his head as though reprimanding a naughty child.
“That’s no way to act,” he said smoothly. “A person would think you didn’t like me.”
“That person would be one hundred percent correct.”
“Come now, you can’t mean that. Just because of that mild flirtation on the train? Most girls would have been flattered.”
“Will you please let go of my arm, Mr. Brent.”
“Are we going to fight? I warn you, I play dirty. I always get what I go after.”
“You’re in for a big disappointment this time.”
He smiled. It was the smile I remembered so well, absolutely enchanting. The corners of his mouth lifted in sharp points, and the eyes gleamed a deep, dark blue. The broken nose made him look like a gangster, and he really wasn’t handsome, was almost ugly, in fact, but the total effect was devastating. He was a pirate in modern dress, an adventurer with flawless poise, smooth, casual, nonchalant. Yet he could be ruthless. I sensed that immediately. His fingers held my arm in an ironlike grip, and I knew it would be useless to try to pull away.
“Must you be so unfriendly? Am I really so repugnant?”
“You guessed it. That’s the very word.”
He chuckled softly. “You don’t really think that—no, not at all.”
“Why don’t you just leave me alone,” I said irritably.
“I can’t, luv. This comes under official duty.”
“This is all I need—”
He smiled again. “You need a drink. There’s a charming little pub down the street, all oak beams and flaking plaster. Henry the Eighth was supposed to have supped there between marriages. Come, the back door is down this way. It opens into an alley. No one will see us—”
A minute or two later we were in The Shambles, incredibly narrow cobbled streets lined with much-restored fifteenth-century buildings that almost touched overhead, quaint, picturesque and, as always in summer, aswarm with tourists. A gigantic red bus at the foot of High Street had just disgorged thirty or so American schoolteachers who trouped briskly along behind their guide, a thin, weathered British woman in flat shoes, clocked stockings, green crepe dress and short jade-green coat reminiscent of the fifties. She pointed out landmarks left and right, herding her charges down the street, admonishing those who lingered at the shop windows, crying they must hurry, hurry, hurry if they were to make the cathedral. We stepped aside as they rushed past, breathless, aiming cameras haphazardly and snapping away. Stephen wound his arm around my shoulders. I didn’t protest. What would be the use?
His arm remained around my shoulders as we continued up the street toward the pub, passing shops with expensive wares displayed in their windows and painted wooden signs swinging over door fronts, moving around racks of postcards and stalls of flowers. The place was abustle, the pavements thronged, the streets filled with people. A plump German couple argued over the price of a scarf. A group of schoolboys in navy-blue uniforms and dark caps trooped obediently behind their young headmaster. I paused to examine a dress in one of the windows. Stephen waited patiently. I sighed, knowing full well I could never afford such an expensive garment.
“It isn’t your type anyway,” he remarked. “Much too sexy. You’d look ill at ease in a dress like that.”
“You think I’m not sophisticated enough to wear it?”
“Let’s just say it wouldn’t suit you.”
“A lot you know. I think I’d look stunning—”
He merely tightened his arm around my shoulders and led me away. I was livid.
“What if we’re seen together?” I said as we strolled on.
“It won’t matter. I’m a lecturer. You’re an old friend from London.”
“Did you really give a lecture on pre-Columbian art yesterday?”
“A dazzling lecture, positively brilliant. I was a smash hit.”
“What would you know about the subject?”
“I happen to be an authority, luv. I’m quite an accomplished chap, actually.”
“And modest.”
“Modest? Me? Not a bit.”
“I’ve noticed. Are you really with Scotland Yard?”
He nodded. “One of their best agents. I was in Military Intelligence when I was doing my bit, and after I was demobbed it seemed natural to join the force. I do have a shop in London—inherited it from an uncle—second-rate paintings, dubious antiques, but it’s mostly a front. I put in an appearance now and then, but it’s run by an assistant. Much too dreary a livelihood for a chap like me. My heart’s with the Yard. Remind me to tell you about some of my more spectacular cases.”
“I’m sure you won’t need reminding,” I said bitterly.
“Probably not. Ah, here’s the pub. You’ll feel much better after a drink or two—”
The Scarlet Lion was dimly lit and crowded. The heavy oak beams were black with age. The ornately carved overmantle above the fireplace was said to be the work of Grinling Gibbons. Copper pans adorned the creamy old plaster walls, rushes covered the floor, and there were the sounds of low voices and tinkling ice as we entered. Stephen took me to a corner booth, ordered two Scotches without asking my preference and then, elbows propped on table, chin resting on fists, gazed at me with that same disconcerting intensity that had disturbed me on the train. His wide, pinkish-tan mouth curled up at one corner. The dark blue eyes gleamed.
“You’re pale,” he remarked. “There are shadows under your eyes.”
“I keep worrying about the children—”
“They’ll be all right.”
“This is all so unbelievable—”
“It’s not very pleasant.
I’m sorry you had to get involved.”
The waiter brought our drinks. I sipped mine slowly, a worried frown creasing my brow. Stephen Brent studied me.
“Perhaps you’d better tell me all that’s happened,” he said quietly. “Constable Clark gave me a pretty thorough rundown, but I’d like to have it firsthand.”
“About the briefcase, you mean?”
He nodded.
I told him about the briefcase, how Ian had failed to bring it, how I had spied it on the baggage cart and told him to fetch it, how surprised I was to discover it locked when I finally got around to opening it. I told him about last night’s adventure, the howling dog, the noise downstairs, the unlatched window. He listened with a grave, serious expression, asking occasional questions. The flippant, chatty Stephen Brent had vanished, a sober, extremely professional policeman in his place. He was undoubtedly very efficient, I thought, watching him jot down a note in his leatherbound tablet.
“There was no one outside?” he inquired.
“My nephew didn’t see anyone, but—” I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him about Becky and her fingerprint kit. He waited patiently, one dark brow slightly arched. “It—it probably doesn’t mean anything, but my niece, Becky, the one with the gun—”
I told him about the fingerprints on the window sill, Becky’s file and her certainty that the prints belonged to no one who would ordinarily have occasion to touch the sill. Stephen was extremely interested, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
“I’d like to see those prints,” he said. “Your Becky sounds like quite a character.”
“She is—they all are. That’s what worries me. They’re so intelligent, so alert. I don’t want them to know anything about this—this drug business, and I don’t know how I’m going to keep it from them. They’re sure to ask questions when you appear—”
“That’s simple enough. I’m an old friend from London. You happened to run into me this afternoon and, when you told me about last night, I insisted on coming over to sleep downstairs for a couple of nights, just in case there’s another attempt to break in. Think they’ll buy that?”
“They might,” I said, frankly doubtful.
“We’ll hope for the best,” he replied, signaling the waiter for another round of drinks. “Is there anything else you need to tell me, anything you might have forgotten?”
“I think I’ve told you everything—” I paused, frowning. “No, wait, there is something else. I—I just thought of it.”
“What’s that?”
“The man on the train, that awful man in the trench coat—”
“George Larson?”
“When I was at the station, waiting for Ian to bring the bags, I saw him. He seemed very upset, a worried look in his eyes, his whole manner frantic, like—like he’d lost something. He grabbed a porter by the arm and waved a baggage claim ticket. Then they began searching one of the baggage carts. I didn’t think anything about it at the time, but then—last night we all went to the movies. It was a dreadful film, and I left early with Ron—”
“Ron?”
“Ron Hunter, our next door neighbor. As we were coming out of the theater, I saw Larson again. He—he seemed to be watching me. When I turned, he dashed around the corner. It—it was probably just a coincidence.”
The waiter arrived with our second round of drinks, and Stephen made no comment about George Larson. He hadn’t seemed at all surprised at what I told him, and I had the impression that he knew quite a lot about Larson, that he was deliberately refraining from discussing the man. He began to talk amiably about other matters, describing his shop in London, telling me about the lecture he had given the previous day, trying to take my mind off more serious matters. I saw what he was doing, and I appreciated it. When he tried, he could really be quite engaging, I thought, wondering why I had taken such an aversion to him. I felt warm and relaxed, at ease with him for the first time. Perhaps it was the liquor. Everything was growing a bit hazy.
I looked up at him. He grinned.
“You’re not to worry, you know,” he said. “There’s no need. You’re in good hands.”
“Am I?”
“The best. This will all be over in a day or so, and then we can concentrate on more personal things.”
I made no reply to that remark. At the moment, I wasn’t at all averse to “more personal things.” It might be pleasant to go out with him a time or two, get to know him better. I loved that wide mouth. I was even beginning to like the twisted nose.
“Finished with your drink?” he inquired. “Want another? No? Well, perhaps we’d better leave. There are quite a few things I have to attend to before popping in on you tonight.”
I stood up. Stephen placed two pound notes and some pence on the table and we were just getting ready to leave when the woman came hurrying over to us. Not quite as tall as I, she had a remarkable form, well displayed in a short black jersey dress. Her features were sharp, her mouth too scarlet, her brown eyes very bright. Her raven hair was worn shoulder length, spikey bangs across her forehead. She wore an exotic necklace that looked vaguely Aztecan, and her perfume was very distinct. Stephen smiled broadly, his eyes gleaming darkly.
“Honora, fancy seeing you here.” His voice was husky.
“Fancy,” she said.
She touched his arm. Her fingernails were a bright scarlet. She was thirty if she was a day, not at all pretty, but she had something. Definitely. It was something age-old, primitive, something no man could fail to appreciate. Stephen was appreciating it wholeheartedly, his mouth curling down at the corners, his eyes dark. I hated her on sight, and when he introduced us I gave a tight little smile.
“—an old friend from London,” he was saying. “We chanced to run into each other this afternoon.”
“Sweet,” Honora said. She gave me a brief, cursory glance, and then I simply ceased to exist as far as she was concerned.
“Honora’s a professor of archeology,” Stephen told me, “an absolute authority on pre-Roman ruins. Perhaps you’ve read her books.”
“Afraid not,” I replied charmingly.
“Her classes are extremely popular—”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Are you still taking me to the dance tomorrow night?” Honora asked, doing seductive things with her eyes.
“I’m looking forward to it, luv.”
“I’ll bet you are,” she replied, giving a throaty laugh. “It should be amusing, one of the rare occasions when faculty and students meet on an equal footing. You going to pick me up at my flat?”
He nodded, still devouring her with his eyes.
“We’ll have a delicious time,” she said.
“I’m sure,” I said.
“Uh—yes,” Stephen said.
Honora smiled, laid her fingers on his cheek and murmured something I didn’t hear. His mouth curled even more. His eyes grew darker, filled with that unmistakable hungry-male look. For a moment I thought he was actually going to bite her neck. It was positively indecent. Honora said “ta ta,” laughed another throaty laugh and made her way back to a table where three male professors were waiting, all three of them scrambling to their feet when she returned. Stephen followed her with his eyes, his heavy lids half lowered, lips parted and curved in a sensual line.
“Charming girl,” I remarked. “So innocent.”
“Hunh? Oh—uh—yes. You ready to leave?”
“Quite ready,” I said icily.
He insisted on walking with me to the car. He seemed lost in thought, hands thrust in jacket pockets, a preoccupied look in his eyes, sauntering along as though completely alone. Seething, I made no attempt at conversation. My anger was foolish, I knew, entirely unreasonable, but I longed to give him a sharp, painful kick in the shin. Reaching the car, I opened the door and slung the shopping bag inside. Coming out of his reverie, reluctantly abandoning thoughts of sensuous archeology professors, he sighed and seemed to notice me for the first time since we left the pu
b.
“Well then,” he said, “I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
“Unless there’s a dance or something.”
“Hunh? Oh, you mean tomorrow night. I have to go. No way I can get out of it. You can take the children to a double feature,” he informed me. “One of Clark’s men will watch the house while you’re gone, and another will keep an eye on you at the theater. No problem. I should be back from the dance around midnight.”
I climbed into the car and released the hand brake.
“Everyone here thinks I’m an art dealer and lecturer,” he continued. “None of them have the least inkling why I’m really here. I have to go to that dance. I have an image to maintain.”
“I’ll just bet you do, Mr. Brent.”
I drove away with considerable screeching of tires. Through the rearview mirror I could see Stephen Brent still standing on the curb, hands in pockets, tie flapping loose in the breeze, a look of angry bewilderment on his ugly-attractive gangster face.
8
Dinner was a harum-scarum affair of fish-and-chips and pizzas purchased at a nearby pub and brought to the house in brown paper bags. We ate in the sitting room very informally, Liz chattering about her favorite subject and regaling us with risque anecdotes, Becky gobbling her food while devouring a book about crime and Keith unusually solemn and quiet, his handsome young face exceptionally grave. They had bombarded me with questions upon my return, but I had skillfully evaded all inquiries, claiming that a girl had to retain a little privacy. Liz promptly jumped to the conclusion that I had met some man. Forcing myself to blush slightly, I told her in a most unconvincing voice that that was a positively absurd idea. Liz, at least, would not be at all surprised when I told them about Stephen Brent. With her mind cluttered as it was with romantic nonsense, she was already convinced I had a secret lover.
Meet a Dark Stranger Page 10
