by John Creasey
Odell had stopped shaking for a moment to glare.
“What was he doing? What do most people do in Paris, Craigie—ask yourself? He was on the loose for a couple of days—told me so himself, begad!”
Craigie had accepted his cocktail in numb silence. It had become a habit with him to disbelieve anything that Leopold Gorman—landowner, theatre-owner, and financier—said, and the discovery of someone supposedly intelligent who had taken his words on their face value was a shock. It had almost convinced Craigie—whom many will recognize as the Chief of that ever-active but little-known Intelligence Department called Z—that Odell could tell him nothing about Leopold Gorman. But Craigie wanted to learn things of Gorman’s recent Paris trip, and wanted to learn quickly. So he had suffered Odell for the rest of the evening, hoping that the Major would let something drop, if only by accident.
But Odell had been, bluntly, dumb. Craigie sighed to himself. He knew that Gorman was working on something big, and something that was probably crooked. He knew that chance had thrown Odell—who had been on a short vacation and had stayed at the Hotel Splendide instead of the Embassy during Gorman’s visit—and the financier together, and he knew that Odell had been asked, in a discreetly worded note from the Foreign Office, to take careful stock of Gorman’s activities and conversation. If Odell had been sharp, and Gorman had let slip an accidental word about his plans, Craigie might have been helped in his efforts to find the nature of Gorman’s latest financial operations. As it was, Odell had believed that the financier was in Paris to shake a leg, and Craigie sighed.
As Adele Fayne disappeared behind the curtain, the Intelligence man gripped Odell’s arm.
“We’d better be moving,” he said.
Odell pulled his arm away, and looked sheepish.
“I say, Craigie, would you mind if——”
Craigie chuckled grimly.
“You’ll never get near her room,” he said.
Major Odell spluttered and bristled.
“Won’t I, then—won’t I? I know Solly Lewistein. He’ll fix it for me. Care to come?”
The invitation was reluctant, and Odell was frankly pleased with Craigie’s dry, “No, you can have her all to yourself.” Odell pushed his way back-stage, while Craigie sought his hat and coat and reached the cool night air of Coventry Street with a sigh of relief. He walked briskly towards Whitehall, where he spent sixteen out of every twenty-four hours, and told himself that if nothing was reported about Leopold Gorman during the next forty-eight hours he would send one Tony Beresford to France.
Major Gulliver Odell saw Adele Fayne that night, but it was not because he knew Solly Lewistein. If Lewistein, short, fat, oily-skinned and temperamental, had had his way, he would have spent five minutes in telling the Major what kind of fool he was and another five in telling him that he was the hundredth-and-one acquaintance who had begged an introduction to Adele Fayne during the past week without getting it, and one tense moment in telling Odell just where he could go. Instead, Lewistein screwed his plump face into a smile and led the Major into the star’s dressing-room.
Adele Fayne made Odell breathless, but not too breathless to prevent him from telling her so.
The dancer was swathed in a shapeless white dressing-gown, a precaution against catching a chill after her exertions on the stage which Lewistein insisted she should take. The silver wig which she had worn for the Fan Dance was on her dressing-table, and her own luxuriant black hair coiled about her lovely face, emphasizing the creamy whiteness of her skin. To the Major she was the height of beauty; to a keener student of human nature her smile would have seemed artificial, her sloe-black eyes lustrous but lacking in intelligence. The student might not have been able to deny the physical perfection of her features, her warm Latin beauty, but he would have said, like Tony Beresford of Major Odell, that she was dumb. He would have been right, but Odell didn’t know it.
Odell suggested supper, but was sweetly refused. He suggested supper some other night, and was made happy by vague promises. He offered his tentative congratulations on her coming marriage with one Robert Lavering, and was politely thanked. He was ushered out of the dressing-room by Solly Lewistein (whose temperament was such that he pulled a face at the stout Major’s back and banged the door to). He went back to the Hotel Éclat and talked of Adele Fayne to everybody from a bellboy to the manager, who wished heartily that he had not visited the Major’s apartment to make personal inquiries as to that august gentleman’s comfort.
When Lewistein banged the door behind the Major, he in turn talked of and to Adele Fayne, but in less glowing terms.
“Vun of these days,” said Solly, glaring at the dancer, “you vill do somethings silly like you tried to-night, an’ ve vill vind ourselves both in the gutter. Ven vill you learn to do vot Leopold Gorman says, Adele, viddout being obshectionable?”
The dancer leaned back in her chair, her eyes closed and dark with grease-paint, her red, ripe lips set thinly together.
“Don’t keep on about Gorman,” she said lifelessly.
“I did what he wanted, didn’t I? I saw that fool of a soldier and made myself pleasant to him. Now forget it.”
Lewistein pursed his lips. His anger evaporated. In its place there was pleading, a pleading inspired by fear.
“But, Adele, ve must not forget Leopold Gorman! He owns the theatre, his money pays for everyt’ing, Adele. Eef he turns against us he vill break us. He is too beeg for us, Adele, an’ you must have the patience. Vun day, perhaps, he vill not be so important as he is, an’ then ...”
The dancer laughed again, unpleasantly.
“One day, perhaps! You’ve been saying that for years, Solly—as long as I’ve known you. Oh, for heaven’s sake get out, and let me dress!”
She swung round towards her mirror. Lewistein stood with his back to the door, a fat little bundle of greasy flesh, looking at her as she started to clean the paint from her eyes. Then, with a little dejected sigh, he went out.
As he walked along the passage towards his office, he thought of the man whom he knew as Leopold Gorman, and he wished that the man was dead. He had hated Leopold Gorman for years, but he feared him more than he hated him. Everyone who worked for Gorman’s money hated and feared and obeyed him, because his money gave him power, and there were times when he used his power in ways which made Solly Lewistein shudder.
Lewistein reached his office, locked the door behind him, and dropped heavily into his padded chair. From his vest-pocket he took a visiting-card, inscribed on the one side with:
Leopold Gorman
5, Park Place, W.I
and with a message in Gorman’s thick, back-sloping handwriting which said:
A Major Odell is coming back-stage. Treat him well.
The Jew took a match from a stand on his desk, struck it viciously, and held the card over the flame. As the card burned, he dropped it into an ashtray, then stubbed the ashes into black powder. That was how he treated all messages from Leopold Gorman—on Gorman’s instructions. Gorman knew well enough how to look after small things.
Lewistein swore suddenly.
“Vun day,” he muttered, “vun day, Gorman, you vill vind someone who iss not afraid of you.”
CHAPTER II
TONY BERESFORD AND OTHERS
THE size of Tony Beresford was such that it made him a man to look at once, twice, and then to marvel. Six feet three he stood, with a shoulder span of a yard, biceps approaching eighteen inches, and a chest which was at once the admiration of his many friends and the despair of Blunt, his tailor. Fortunately, Providence had made him comely. His skin was tanned deeply by summer sun and winter storm, his forehead was broad, his eyes grey and usually smiling with lazy good humour, wide-set on each side of a well-bridged nose. His lips were full and generous but well-shaped, and his chin square without being ostentatiously aggressive—unless he was in a bad temper, which was rare.
Like many big men, Tony—or Anthony Charles—Beresford was light on
his feet, and he was demonstrating his ability on the crowded floor of the Two-Step Club that same evening in May when Craigie and Odell went to the Emblem Theatre. His companion was the incomparable Diane Chester, tall, slim, slender Diane who had once adorned the stage of the Emblem Theatre with as much beauty and infinitely more wit than Adele Fayne. She had, let it be said at once, left the stage when she had married Aubrey, Lord Chester; the only people who regretted it were those theatre-fans who viewed their stars as their own private property.
“Where’s Aub?” asked Beresford, steering Diane past a portly Cabinet Minister and an angular spouse. The Two-Step Club was at once exclusive and reputable.
“At our table, glaring at you,” said Diane. “Haven’t you seen him?”
Beresford eyed her reproachfully.
“Don’t you know me enough,” he said, “to know my eyes are only for you?”
Diane’s eyes sparkled.
“You get a bigger fool than ever,” she said frankly. “One day some poor married woman will believe you when you talk like that and——”
“If I may interrupt,” said Beresford coldly, “and answer your first accusation first, I don’t. I weigh fourteen-stone thirteen pounds and seven ounces, and I am half an ounce lighter than I was a year ago. And when I say things to any woman, married or spinster, who might believe me, goldfish will be drawing the Lord Mayor’s coach. Did you tread on my toe?”
“I don’t know. I meant to kick your ankle.”
“Thank you,” said Tony. “This is my night out. Why did you tread on my toe?”
“To attract your attention and stop you from talking.”
“You could have poked me in the ribs,” said the big man, “and gained your object while giving me a thrill.”
“And he would have seen me,” said Diane.
Beresford widened his eyes.
“So-ho! Little Aub’s getting green eyes, is he?”
“I didn’t mean Aubrey,” said Diane Chester, with a frown. “I——”
Beresford whistled under his breath.
“If you’re starting to talk about the obvious,” he quizzed her, “I’m going to retire. Go on. I know you didn’t mean our Aub, because you can see him ogling that brunette girl from Boston——”
“That’s his cousin,” said Diane indignantly.
Beresford grinned and sniffed.
“All right with me, sister. Carry on.”
“Thank you,” said Diane with some sarcasm. Then, as she went on, Beresford saw her eyes lose their humour, and saw a frown puckering her forehead.
“It’s funny you mentioned green eyes,” said Diane, “because his eyes are green—greenish-grey, anyhow.”
“You mean the ‘he’ who stopped you from poking me in the ribs?”
“Yes. You’ll see him in a minute—that big man with the sloping shoulders.”
Beresford glanced about the crowded floor.
“The feller dancing with Adele Fayne?”
Diane Chester looked intently but with seeming carelessness at the partner of the man with sloping shoulders. Her eyes glistened with a natural interest.
“Yes, that’s right—Adele Fayne. I didn’t recognize her at first. She hasn’t lost much time getting from the theatre.”
“And the past shall always be jealous of the present,” grinned Beresford. “Oi! My ankle’s six inches lower down than that, to the right and left of my shin. What’s the matter with the man with green-greenish-grey eyes, anyhow?”
“He was looking at you,” said Diane simply.
Beresford lost a step as he stared at her.
“And is all this because a man with sloping shoulders, green eyes and Adele Fayne was looking at me?” he demanded with some heat. “Darn your pretty face, men often look at me. Boxing promoters wonder if I’ll turn pro, retired colonels think I ought to join the Army, and——”
“He’s looking again,” said Diane Chester, with a superb disregard of Tony’s fine flow of words. “I don’t want to scare you, Tony——”
Beresford laughed, and his eyes creased attractively at the corners.
“Thanks a lot,” he said. “You’re good to-night, Di.”
“All the same,” said Diane Chester, with a seriousness which made Beresford frown, “it was a dirty look, Tony, and he’s a man I wouldn’t like to meet without a large escort.”
“Seriously?” Beresford demanded.
“Honest-to-goodness.”
“Well, well, well!” drawled the big man. “If I knew what a cock-fight was like I’d say this beats it. Beautiful Diane warns Big Beresford of Villainous Look. Let’s get out of the crowd, old girl. I’d like to take a peek at this man, and when I’m dancing with you that bump on the end of your nose always fascinates me. Touche! Dead centre of the ankle that time, my angel, and my bump’s bigger than yours.”
Beresford guided his companion skilfully towards the side of the restaurant-room, dancing the while and nodding his big head to the rhythm of the music. He was smiling at Diane, telling the world that he was completely satisfied with life, that he had no care in the world. A hundred revellers at the Two-Step Club that night saw Beresford and envied him. Half a hundred nodded or smiled at him, recognition which he acknowledged with a beam or a cheery wave of his hand. He had, they thought, money to spare—which was true—freedom in the sense that he was single—also true—just enough intelligence to enjoy himself, but not enough to get himself into one of those emotional tangles which the intellectuals imagine are mind-states known only to themselves.
About Beresford, men and women danced, ate, drank, talked and, for the most part, took pleasure in the amenities so plentifully provided at the Two-Step Club. The sober oak panelling, tables and chairs lent a solid, comfortable impression, while the lighting effects, mellow and pleasant and coming from the ceiling, created a slight but intriguing sense of the unusual.
As a night-club, the Two-Step was certainly unusual. Its management employed no stunts, its waiters were dressed in black and white, its drinks were of good vintage, good value, and wholly legal, its music was straightforward, coming from two bands set at each end of the restaurant-cum-dance-room, bands which were in full view and whose members might have slipped from their seats and masqueraded as waiters unobserved by any but Palluski, the director of music, or Anton, most famous of head waiters, both of whom reflected the high standard set by the Two-Step Club. The Two-Step was a night club not because it catered for those thrill-starved souls called the Bright Young People, not because it was under surveillance from the police, but for the simple and ample reason that it opened and provided recreation by night.
Normally, night-life had little attraction for Tony Beresford. He liked day to be day and night to pass unnoticed while he slept. In summer he played cricket seriously, and no serious cricketer can gain a reputation on less than eight hours’ sleep, some of it before midnight. In winter he liked the touch of a horse between his great legs, the roar of the wind in his ears, the exhilaration of an early-morning gallop over good country which provided jumps in plenty, the pleasing rumble of the horse’s breath when he dismounted to give that noble beast a rest. In his pleasures Beresford was a simple, likeable soul.
But there were times when he broke out of his shell, and the occasion of the return of Aubrey and Diane Chester from America, with Valerie Lester, Aubrey’s cousin, was one of them. The Chesters had been back in England for two days, after three months abroad while Aubrey had played tennis. On the morning of the second day—that morning in short—Aubrey had telephoned Beresford—an Aubrey in trouble. He had been charged to see that Valerie Lester’s visit to England was an uneventful—or at least non-scandalous—one. He did not approve of the B.Y.P., but he knew that Tony Beresford was solid and safe, yet at times amusing, and would he like to make a fourth at dinner, the Palladium and the Two-Step? Beresford had said that he would try it, and say whether he liked it later.
He was liking it.
Valerie Lester was
young, vivacious and interesting. One of those intriguing brunettes whose blue eyes darkened in laughter, she was slim and supple but exquisitely formed, while contriving not to notice the sudden interest with which men looked at her for the first time. Few would have called her beautiful, and only the unimaginative could have called her pretty, for prettiness suggests children or dolls or paint and powder. Her smooth, creamy skin was without blemish, her lips were a trifle large, but curved and shapely. Her nose was short and straight, her chin square but delicately moulded. Men being men, they saw the lovely roundness of her slender neck, merging into flawless shoulders, and all but one of them would wish for the thing that could not be.
Beresford wished for nothing that evening. He was enjoying himself, and he was content to admire.
As the big man and Diane reached the table at which Aubrey Chester and his cousin were sitting, Aubrey complained.
“Twenty minutes you’ve been on the floor,” he said. “It’s n-not fair, Toby, old scout, when it’s c-crowded. I-it’s only a s-small floor——”
“If that was meant to be a humorous remark anent my size,” grinned Beresford, sitting down and proffering cigarettes, “it’s a proof that America sharpened your grey cells, my Aub.”
“Th-they were always p-pretty sharp,” admitted Chester modestly.
Diane broke in with a moue of annoyance.
“I thought you were going to look at the man with Adele Fayne, Tony.”
Beresford grinned, and the others looked interested.
“I was and am,” he said. “A tough-looking customer I’ll grant you, lass. Funny how he looks lopsided—shoulders, eyes, lips, everything. Don’t stare round the floor like a day-old gazelle, darn you, Aub.”
Valerie Lester laughed—she had a low-pitched laugh and a husky voice which suggested rather than declaimed that she came from America—and asked whether Tony always talked just like that.
“Always,” said Aubrey bitterly. “He’s got no sense, so he tries to be funny. What are you two talking about?”
Beresford chuckled.
