Comes the Dark Stranger

by Jack Higgins

  It was still raining and the fog was thicker than ever. He walked quickly towards the centre of the town, thinking about the events of the day. The girl, Graham and Adam Crowther - no link between them and yet they all wanted him to give this thing up. And Wilby was frightened. Really frightened. Was it guilt or was he afraid of something else?

  He tried hard, but the dull ache was beginning again, just behind his forehead and he started to walk towards his hotel as the pain began to get worse. The fog swirled around him and somehow he was completely alone and fear moved inside him. The world was a spinning, nebulous illusion with nothing real in it and he lurched across the street in a panic.

  As he was about to step on to the opposite pavement, Laura Faulkner walked past him, the Dobermann at her heels. The sight of her was so totally unexpected that he drew back in alarm and she disappeared into the fog. For a moment he remained there and then a car swirled past him, dangerously close, bringing him back to reality. He stepped on to the pavement and hurried after her.

  He turned the corner at the end of the street in time to see her climb some steps and enter a door. A lighted glass sign said Hotel and he stood at the bottom of the steps, hesitating for a moment, before slowly mounting them and following her inside.

  There was a tiny entrance hall and a small reception desk behind which an old man in horn-rimmed spectacles sat reading a newspaper. On the other side of the hall was a door leading to the bar and he walked towards it.

  The old man coughed gently. ‘Sorry, sir, I’m afraid the bar isn’t open until six.’

  Shane moved over to the desk. ‘I was looking for the young lady who just came in,’ he said.

  There was a puzzled frown on the old man’s face. ‘Young lady, sir?’

  ‘Yes, the young lady with the dog,’ Shane said impatiently. ‘I just saw her come in here.’

  The old man put down his newspaper and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. There must be some mistake. I’ve been sitting here for the past half-hour and you’re the first person to come through that door.’

  Something cold seemed to touch Shane on the back of the neck and he said slowly, ‘But I saw her come in here. I was only a few seconds behind her.’

  The old man shook his head and said stubbornly. ‘I’m sorry sir. You must be mistaken.’

  As he started to pick up his newspaper again, Shane reached across the desk and grabbed hold of his coat, pulling him forward. ‘You’re lying!’ he snarled. ‘Laura Faulkner just came through that door. You must have seen her.’

  There was fear in the old man’s eyes and he pulled himself free and backed away. ‘You’re crazy,’ he said. ‘If you don’t get out of here I’ll send for the police.’

  Shane took a deep breath to steady himself and said evenly. ‘Look, we can soon prove this one way or the other. Have you got a telephone directory?’ The old man produced one from a shelf and pushed it across the desk. Shane quickly flipped through the pages until he found the address. ‘Can I use this?’ he said, pointing to the telephone on the desk.

  ‘I’ll have to get the number for you through the switchboard,’ the old man told him, still wary.

  Shane gave him the number and waited impatiently while the old man pushed a line into one of the plugs on the switchboard and dialled the number. A moment later he turned and said, ‘You’re through now, sir.’

  Shane lifted the receiver to his ear and listened to the ringing at the other end. Sweat trickled down his brow and he brushed it away in an agony of impatience and then there was a click and Laura Faulkner’s voice sounded, remote and cool. ‘Hallo, who is that?’

  There was a moment of terrible silence as he struggled to speak and then he said, ‘Martin Shane here.’

  He heard a sudden intake of breath and then her voice sounded in his ear, cool and impersonal again. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Shane?’

  ‘It was nothing,’ he said. ‘Nothing important. I thought I saw you in town a moment ago and I was just ringing to check.’

  She sounded puzzled. ‘But I haven’t been out of the house all day.’

  When he answered her, the words almost choked him. ‘Sorry I bothered you. It was just a silly mistake.’ He dropped the receiver into its cradle and stumbling across the hall, lurched down the steps into the fog.

  Something was happening to him that he couldn’t understand - something that caused the fear to rise inside him like a black tide that threatened to choke him. He was sure he had seen Laura Faulkner and yet at that moment she was four miles away in another part of the city. There had to be an explanation.

  He started to walk rapidly through narrow back streets in the direction of his hotel. The pain in his head was becoming worse and as he turned from one street into another, he paused for a moment and leaned against a lamp-post feeling suddenly faint.

  He heard a movement in the fog. He raised his head and listened and then the hair lifted on the back of his neck and he turned cold with fear. Slowly someone was coming towards him. Someone who dragged a club foot behind him that slithered horribly over the wet pavements as he advanced.

  Shane started forward into the fog. ‘Who’s there?’ he shouted. The footsteps stopped and there was silence. For a moment he stood there, straining his eyes into the fog and then he turned and ran along the pavement as fast as his legs would carry him.

  When he reached the corner at the end of the street, he paused and leaned against the wall sobbing for breath and then, quite close by and hidden by the fog, he heard the sound of the club foot again, sliding over the pavement towards him.

  Complete panic took possession of him and he ran along the next street as though the hounds of hell were breathing down his neck. As he turned into the narrow side street leading to his hotel, the pain blossomed inside his head and he gave a cry of agony and staggered on.

  He was aware of a figure looming out of the fog on his left and an outstretched foot that sent him crashing headlong to the pavement. He rolled, avoiding a kick aimed at his head and scrambled to his feet, a killing rage erupting inside him. This was something tangible, something he could fight.

  He caught a glimpse of a hard, cruel face and cold eyes above the flattened nose of a prize-fighter and ducked as a fist grazed his cheek. He lifted his foot into his assailant’s stomach, and the man cried out in agony and doubled over.

  He fell back against the wall and Shane grabbed hold of the front of his coat and smashed him against the brickwork. ‘Who sent you?’ he cried savagely.

  The man was struggling for breath, eyes rolling horribly. ‘It was Wilby,’ he croaked. ‘Joe Wilby. He promised me a fiver if I worked you over.’

  Shane gave him a push that sent him staggering headlong into the fog, and turned towards the hotel. Wilby could wait. There was something more important to attend to at the moment.

  The stairs up to his room seemed to go on for ever, and for a moment he thought he wasn’t going to make it. As he opened the door, the pain was so bad that he thought his head was going to burst, and he rushed into the bathroom and grabbed for the bottle of pills. He crammed four into his mouth and swallowed some water.

  He moved back into the room towards the bed. As he reached it, coloured lights started to explode in his head and a great pool of inky darkness moved in on him and he plunged into it.

  7

  It was completely dark when he awoke, and for several minutes he lay on the bed, staring into space and wondering where he was. After a while something clicked inside and he remembered.

  He swung his legs to the floor and switched on the bedside lamp. When he glanced at his watch he found to his surprise that it was only six-thirty. He had slept for a little over an hour, and yet he felt curiously refreshed and his headache had gone completely.

  He was still wearing his damp trench-coat, and he peeled it off and went into the bathroom. As he ran hot water into the basin, he examined his face in the mirror. There was a slight bruise on his right cheek where his attacker had grazed
him with a fist. He touched it gently with a finger, wincing slightly at the pain, and he thought about Joe Wilby and was suddenly angry.

  He washed his face quickly and changed into a clean shirt. Five minutes later he left his room and went downstairs. Outside the fog was thicker than ever and a steady drizzle was falling. He pulled his collar up around his neck and walked rapidly through the centre of the town.

  The Garland Club was in St Michael’s Square, a quiet backwater near the town hall. Its gracious Georgian houses seemed to be mainly occupied as offices by solicitors and other professional men. The Garland Club looked slightly out of character with its neon light and striped awning.

  The square was almost deserted, and when Shane mounted the steps to the glass door he found it locked. Inside, a man in red uniform trousers and shirt sleeves was busily mopping the tiled floor, and he came to the door and unlocked it, a look of exasperation on his face.

  ‘Sorry, sir. We don’t open until eight.’

  Shane stuck his foot quickly in the door. ‘I’m not a customer,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for Mr Steele.’

  The man frowned. ‘You’re wasting your time. He never comes in before nine.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’ Shane persisted. ‘It’s rather urgent. Will he be at home?’

  The man shook his head. ‘He’s usually at his other place at this time. Club Eight it’s called.’ Shane pulled his foot away, and the man locked the door and went back to his work.

  Shane went into a telephone box and looked the club up in the directory. It was about a mile away on the fringe of the town centre, and he decided to walk.

  The entrance was in a seedy street with a wholesale clothing warehouse on one side and an alley on the other. He walked along a narrow, carpetless passage until he came to a door. It refused to open and he knocked.

  A tiny grill opened and a pair of hard eyes stared out at him. ‘Membership card, please,’ a voice said roughly.

  Shane shook his head. ‘I haven’t got one. I’m a friend of Mr Steele’s.’

  The grill shut and the door opened at once. The man was wearing a greasy dinner jacket and soiled white cricket shirt. His black bow-tie was of the press-stud variety. ‘If the boss told you to come, then I guess that’s all right,’ he said. ‘Sign the book, please.’

  Shane leaned over the battered desk. He hesitated for a moment, and then wrote ‘Raymond Hunt’ with a flourish. ‘Has Mr Steele been in yet?’ he asked as he laid down the pen.

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ he man said. ‘That’ll be ten shillings membership fee, please.’ Shane gave him a pound note and told him to keep it. The man grinned, exposing green-encrusted stumps. ‘I’ll bring you your membership card at the bar, sir,’ he said, and moved into his tiny office.

  Shane went through a door at the far end of the passage and found himself standing at the top of a short flight of steps. The dance floor was below, ringed by tables tightly packed together. A four-piece band on a tiny rostrum was doing its best to blow the roof off. He descended the steps and went across to the bar in the corner.

  The room was far from crowded, and there seemed to be more women than men. He sat on a tall stool in a corner of the bar, his back against the wall. The barman was bending over the sink rinsing a glass, and when he straightened up Shane saw to his surprise that it was Joe Wilby.

  An expression of astonishment appeared on Wilby’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a scowl. He came forward and leaned across the bar. ‘Who the hell told you I worked here?’ he demanded. ‘Was it Bella?’

  ‘I didn’t need any help,’ Shane told him. ‘I just followed my nose.’

  Wilby’s great hands gripped the edge of the bar convulsively, and Shane went on, ‘By the way, I met a friend of yours this afternoon. He asked me to give you a message. Said he’d had a slight accident and wouldn’t be able to collect on that fiver after all.’

  Wilby’s face seemed to turn purple, and murder shone in his eyes, ‘All right, you clever sod. You’ll get yours soon enough.’

  Shane lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into Wilby’s face. ‘Now you’re really frightening me.’ He smiled contemptuously. ‘Get me a beer before I forget myself.’

  Wilby brought the drink without another word, and went and stood at the far end of the bar and polished glasses, a scowl on his face. After a moment he seemed to come to a sudden decision. He lifted the flap at the end of the bar, pushed his way through the crowd and disappeared through the entrance.

  Shane frowned slightly, wondering what the big man was up to, and then he shrugged and turned to examine the other patrons. Most of the women were obvious prostitutes, heavily made-up, and wearing dresses that stayed just within the bounds of decency.

  There was a thin sprinkling of the fat and balding type of commercial traveller, on the loose in a strange town and determined to have his own peculiar version of what constituted a good time. On the whole the men were a rough lot, mostly small-time crooks and backstreet toughs from the look of them, all sporting the usual extremes in dress.

  There was no sign of Reggie Steele, and as Shane raised his glass to swallow the rest of his beer he became aware of a young woman at his side. She was holding an unlit cigarette in one hand, and looked at him tentatively. He grinned and held out a match for her.

  Underneath the make-up she was hardly more than a girl, and there was a certain animal attractiveness about her firm young body. At that moment Wilby shouldered his way through the crowd and went back behind the bar, and Shane grinned at the girl. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘I’ve never been known to refuse.’ She sat on the stool next to him. Her tight skirt slid a good four inches above her knees, and she made no attempt to pull it down. ‘I’ll have a gin and orange, if it’s all right with you.’

  He gave Wilby the order, and when it came she raised her glass. ‘My name’s Jenny Green. What’s yours? I haven’t seen you in here before.’

  ‘Raymond Hunt,’ he told her. ‘I’m just in town on a visit.’

  She leaned across, her blouse gaping so that he could see the deep valley between her breasts. ‘We’ll have to see what we can do to make your stay a pleasant one.’

  Before Shane could reply, there was a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to face the man who had admitted him into the club. He smiled hugely, baring his filthy teeth, and held out a pound note. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘I’ve just discovered our membership list is full.’

  Wilby was moving round the bar, a policeman’s baton in one hand, and a sudden hush fell upon the crowd. Shane decided he’d had enough for one night and took the pound from between the man’s fingers.

  The girl was already melting into the crowd and he shrugged, strolled past the manager and mounted the steps. The manager walked behind him and when they reached the door, he unlocked it and stood to one side. ‘Good night, sir. Sorry we can’t oblige.’

  ‘It’s been fun,’ Shane assured him and went out.

  He paused on the corner of the alley to light a cigarette. There was a sudden hiss and Jenny appeared from the fog. ‘There’s an emergency exit,’ she explained. ‘In case of cops.’

  Shane sighed. ‘Now don’t start getting any ideas,’ he told her.

  She grinned. ‘Don’t flatter yourself. Tell me, what were you doing in there?’

  ‘Looking for Reggie Steele,’ he said.

  She frowned, suddenly distant. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think you could describe me as that.’

  She was immediately friendly again. ‘If he isn’t here by this time he won’t be coming. You’ll probably find him at the Garland Club by now.’

  ‘And how do I get in there?’ he said.

  She opened her handbag and took out a small white card. ‘You’ll have to pay a pound for membership, but if you hand the reception clerk this card, he’ll sign you in.’

  ’Thanks a lot,’ Shane said. He started to turn away and then hesita
ted. ‘I hope nobody saw you follow me out. I wouldn’t like to see you getting into trouble on my account.’

  She grinned, teeth flashing in the darkness. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I can take care of myself.’

  She leaned back against the wall and pulled him against her. He could feel the warmth of her soft young body and he rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. ‘Just tell me one thing,’ she said. ‘Raymond isn’t your real name, is it?’

  He smiled down at her. ‘No — it’s Martin. Martin Shane.’

  She nodded soberly. ‘Yes, it suits you much better.’ She pulled down his head and crushed his mouth against hers and then she pushed him away and hurried back into the alley.

  He took out a handkerchief and wiped the lipstick from his mouth. ‘Good-bye, Jenny,’ he called softly.

  ’So long, Martin,’ her voice replied from the darkness, and then a door banged and he turned away.

  The streets seemed to have come alive as he walked briskly through the centre of town and when he turned into St Michael’s Square, he found it crowded with parked cars.

  The man who had been mopping up the floor earlier, now stood outside the Garland Club in an imposing red and gold uniform. As Shane approached along the pavement, the doorman opened one of the glass doors and saluted smartly as a tall man in a dark overcoat moved out.

  The man raised his wrist to glance at his watch and Shane saw his face clearly in the bright shaft of light from the club doorway. It was Adam Crowther.

  As Crowther stepped off the pavement, Shane called out to him and Crowther glanced over his shoulder. He seemed to hesitate for a moment and then he limped heavily across the road and got into a small saloon car. Shane ran forward, but had to jump back quickly out of harm’s way as another car flashed past. By that time the saloon car was already moving away and as he watched, it turned the corner and disappeared.