by Jack Higgins
For a little while Shane stood there at the pavement’s edge, staring into the night, eyes narrowed as he considered the possible explanations for Crowther’s presence at the Garland Club.
After a few moments he turned and walked towards the entrance. The whole thing was beginning to get very complicated, he decided and as he passed through the glass doors, there was a frown on his face.
8
A WHITE-HAIRED, foreign-looking man moved forward and said smoothly, ‘Members only, sir.’
Shane handed him Jenny Green’s card and the man examined it, his face expressionless. ‘Will you just step over here and sign the book, sir?’ he said, and Shane followed him across to a small reception desk.
He signed his own name and the man examined the entry. When he looked up there was a slight smile on his face. ‘The membership fee is one pound, Mr Shane.’
Shane handed him a banknote and the man called a girl over from the cloakroom on the other side of the foyer. As she helped Shane off with his coat he said, ‘Didn’t I see Mr Crowther leaving the club as I came along the street? Mr Adam Crowther?’
The man frowned slightly as if thinking. ‘Mr Crowther, sir? No, I don’t think we have a member by that name. He went across to his desk and flicked through the membership book. After a moment he turned, a smile of apology on his face. ‘You must have been mistaken, sir. There has been no one by that name in the club tonight.’
Shane thanked him and handed him a pound. The man bowed slightly and stood to one side. ‘Thank you very much, sir. I hope you enjoy your evening with us.’
There was some undercurrent of meaning in his voice and when Shane had walked a little way along the corridor he paused and glanced back. The man was looking after him and talking busily into the mouthpiece of a telephone receiver.
Shane moved along the red-carpeted corridor, his senses alert for trouble. As he approached the open door at the far end, there was a burst of applause. He passed through the door and came out on to a tiny balcony.
Wide stairs dropped down into a crowded dining-room. Above the tables there was a raised cat-walk and scantily dressed showgirls were engaged in a dance routine.
A small, bird-like Italian was standing at the top of the stairs watching the show. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Shane and turned quickly his face illuminated by a smile. ‘Good evening, sir. Can I get you a table?’
Shane waved him away. ‘Not just now. I think I’ll have a drink at the bar.’
He went down the stairs and made his way through the crowd to the bar and ordered a drink. When it came, he stood with his back to the bar and looked around him. The customers on the whole looked pretty respectable. Most of them were middle-aged business men who were obviously enjoying themselves hugely. Probably their wives didn’t even know they were there.
The noise was deafening. Half a dozen girls came out on to the cat-walk and did a can-can. Shane was almost underneath them and got a pretty good view as they flounced by. They were the usual brassy-faced tarts with too much make-up and dyed hair. Each time they did a high kick they screamed and shouted as if they were enjoying themselves and the audience applauded loudly.
He stayed there for another half-hour, watching the show and keeping an eye open for Reggie Steele. As he ordered his third drink, he noticed the man who had been at the door standing on the stairs, his eyes travelling round the room. As they met Shane’s he started violently and descended into the crowd. Shane watched him thread his way between the tables and disappear through a door at the side of the stage.
At that moment there was a drum roll and a slim figure appeared on the stage. There was a tremendous burst of cheering from the audience and she paraded along the cat-walk and took up position a few feet away from Shane. Their eyes met and an impudent grin appeared on her face. It was Jenny Green.
She winked and Shane concealed his astonishment and waved to her. She was wearing black fishnet stockings and very little else. A wisp of gold material around her loins gave her some sort of covering and her breasts were tipped with two gold flowers. A curtain descended over the stage and she began to speak.
It was the usual sort of act. Famous women down through the ages. Each time she announced a name, the curtain rose, disclosing a nude tableau and various fleshy young women did their best to depict Eve in the Garden of Eden, Helen of Troy and others.
The whole thing lasted for about ten minutes and the audience applauded each scene wildly. As the curtain descended on the last tableau, Jennie swivelled round, arms extended and bowed. She looked directly at Shane and smiled and then she turned and ran along the catwalk to the stage and disappeared behind the curtain.
Shane finished his drink and pushed his way through the crowd towards the door at the side of the stage. He opened it and mounted a short flight of steps that carried him into the wings. One or two stage hands lounged against the wall, smoking and chatting. They completely ignored him and he moved past them and mounted a flight of iron stairs.
He came into a corridor, lined with doors and as he walked forward, one of them opened to a burst of laughter and Jenny Green walked out. She turned so quickly they collided and when she looked up at him there was surprise on her face. ‘I run into you everywhere,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘You must have moved fast to get here in time for your show.’
She shrugged. ‘There were a few of the girls there. We came together in a taxi.’ She smiled impishly. ‘You wouldn’t be looking for me, would you?’
He shook his head. ‘Not tonight, Jenny. I’m looking for Reggie Steele.’
She turned and pointed along the corridor. ‘It’s the end door. The one with his name on it. You can’t miss it.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll see you later, handsome,’ and went back into her dressing-room.
He mounted a couple of steps and found himself in another level of the corridor. It was thickly carpeted and facing him was a door on which was inscribed Steele’s name in gold lettering.
For a moment he hesitated, listening for some sound through the half open transom and then he was conscious of a movement behind him and turned quickly.
A tall, broad shouldered man was standing two or three feet away, watching him. Dark, wavy hair curled thickly over his forehead and a puckered scar bisected the right cheek, giving him an oddly sinister appearance.
‘What’s the game, Jack?’ he said.
Shane looked him up and down and said coldly, ‘I’m looking for Mr Steele - Jack.’ An ugly expression appeared in the man’s eyes and Shane turned quickly, opened the door and went in.
The room was decorated in cream and gold and a fire flickered in a superb Adam fireplace. Steele was sitting behind a desk, papers spread out before him and he looked up with a start.
For several moments he and Shane looked steadily into each other’s eyes and then Steele’s mouth twisted into a grin. ‘Hallo, Shane, I’ve been expecting you. What kept you?’
The man behind Shane moved into the room. ‘I found this mug standing outside the door listening, boss,’ he said.
Steele got to his feet and waved one hand. ‘That’s all right, Frenchy. Mr Shane and I are old friends. Very old friends.’ The door closed quietly as Frenchy retreated and they were alone.
Steele went to a cocktail cabinet and lifted a bottle. ‘Whisky all right for you?’
Shane nodded and lit a cigarette. ‘I couldn’t remember what you looked like,’ he said, ‘But as soon as I came through that door, I remembered you instantly and everything about you. This is just the sort of thing I used to imagine you being mixed up in.’
Steele handed him a drink and sat down behind the desk again. ‘I’m not complaining,’ he said. ‘I’ve done very well out of this little set-up.’
His dinner jacket was superbly cut and the cigarette case he produced from his inside pocket was platinum. The clipped moustache gave him a handsome, rakish look, but underneath the full lips the chin was weak and effeminate. He blew a spiral of smoke towar
ds the ceiling. ‘I hear you’ve been causing a bit of a stir over at my other place?’
Shane raised his eyebrows. ‘Who told you - Wilby?’
Steele grinned. ‘Poor old Joe. You’ve really frightened him, you know. He seems to think you’re going to knock him off at any moment.’
‘You know why I’m here then?’ Shane said.
Steele nodded casually. ‘Yes, he did say something about it.’
‘And what about Adam Crowther?’ Shane said. ‘What did he have to say?’
Steele seemed genuinely surprised. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I haven’t seen Crowther for months.’
‘That’s damned funny,’ Shane said, ‘Considering that I saw him leaving the club not more than half an hour ago.’
Steele shook his head. ‘You must have been mistaken.’
Shane clenched his fists and tried to control himself. ‘You’re lying,’ he said.
Steele smiled politely. ‘Am I, old man?’
There was a moment’s silence and Shane said softly, ‘Was it you, Reggie?’
Steele raised his glass and looked straight into his eyes. ‘And what if I say it was?’
Shane’s hand dipped into his jacket pocket and came out holding the Luger. ‘If it was, I’m going to kill you here and now,’ he said hoarsely.
Steele gazed into the muzzle of the gun for a moment and then suddenly he threw back his head and laughed. ‘No, I didn’t talk to that Chinese bastard and even if I had done, I certainly wouldn’t tell you.’ He leaned across the desk and pushed the barrel of the Luger away from him. ‘For God’s sake put that thing away before they put you back in the madhouse.’
Shane replaced the Luger in his pocket and walked slowly towards the door. When he reached it he turned and his eyes were burning. ‘The minute I prove it’s you, I swear I’ll kill you,’ he said.
Steele laughed lightly and shook his head. ‘I know you better than you know yourself, Shane. Killing Chinese in Korea was one thing, but killing me now in cold blood would be quite another. You’ll never summon up the nerve to pull that trigger until you’re absolutely sure and you’ll never be able to get your proof. It’s been too long.’
Shane shook his head and said coldly, ‘I’ll get my proof and if it turns out to be you, I’ll be coming for you.’ He closed the door and moved along the corridor.
Jenny Green was leaning in the open doorway of her dressing-room and as he approached, she grinned. ‘You look like a wet weekend.’
He tried to smile. ‘I’m tired, that’s all.’
She slipped one of the club cards into his hand. ‘I’ve written my address on the other side. Just in case you feel like calling.’
There was a slight movement behind and Shane turned quickly and found Frenchy standing watching them. ‘Is this mug bothering you, kid?’ he said to Jenny.
There was fear in her eyes and she shook her head quickly. ‘No, Frenchy, it’s all right. Just a friend.’ She smiled briefly at Shane, and disappeared into her dressing-room, closing the door.
As Shane started to move away, Frenchy grabbed his arm. ‘Mr Steele doesn’t like people to bother the girls, Jack.’ His fingers felt like steel bands as he deliberately exerted all his considerable strength.
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me Jack. It isn’t my name,’ Shane said coolly. His free hand darted forward and fastened around Frenchy’s left arm just below the elbow, his thumb biting into the pressure point.
An expression of purest agony flooded over Frenchy’s face and as he staggered back, Shane kicked him under the left knee-cap. He left him there, half-collapsed against the wall, mouthing obscenities and went down the steps that led to the stage.
It was only a little after nine when he left the club and walked back through the streets to his hotel. The fog seemed to move in on him with a terrible weightless pressure that made him dizzy and light-headed.
There was a dull ache behind his eyes and he felt weak and drained of all emotion. He got his key from the night porter at the desk and mounted the stairs to his room.
It was quiet in there - too quiet and he was filled with a vague irrational unease. He lay on the bed in the dark and when he closed his eyes, coloured images flashed through his mind and night had a thousand faces.
He had been lying there for five or ten minutes only when he heard a sound that made the flesh crawl across his body. Someone was moving across the floor of the room upstairs. Someone who dragged one foot behind him that slithered horribly over the floor.
He lay there for several moments slightly raised on one arm, staring up at the ceiling, the hair lifting on the back of his neck. As the cold fear surged into his mouth, he scrambled from his bed, wrenched open his door and ran along the corridor looking for the stairs which led to the next floor.
There were no stairs, but at the end of the corridor he found a door which was locked. He pulled at it vainly for a moment or two and then hurried downstairs to the hall and went to the desk.
‘I want to know who’s staying in the room above mine,’ he said.
The porter looked at him in astonishment. ‘But there isn’t anyone in a room above you, sir. There’s only the attics up there.’
‘But I can hear someone walking about above my room,’ Shane persisted.
The man shook his head. ‘That’s impossible sir. The door to the top stairs is locked and there’s only one key. I’ve got it here.’
He lifted it down from a nail and held it up. Shane’s stomach was suddenly empty and for a moment he closed his eyes. When he opened them again he said carefully, ‘Would you mind if we take a look? I’m almost certain I heard someone moving about up there’.
The man nodded and lifted the flap of the counter. ‘Certainly, sir. I’ll come up with you myself.’
They went up to the top corridor and the porter unlocked the door which gave access to the attic stairs. He switched on a light and went up cautiously, Shane at his heels. When they reached the top, they crossed a small landing and entered an attic which stretched the length of the building. It was completely empty, the harsh light of a naked bulb reaching into the farthest corners.
The porter turned with a little laugh. ‘Well, there you are. There’s no one up here. You must have imagined it, sir.’
Shane nodded slowly and led the way back downstairs. He waited for the porter to lock the door and then walked along the corridor with him. When they reached the stairhead he said, ‘I’m sorry I troubled you.’
The porter looked at him searchingly. ‘Excuse me for mentioning it, sir, but you don’t look too good to me. Is there anything I can get you?’
Shane shook his head and moved across to the door of his room.
‘I’ll be all right when I’ve had some sleep,’ he said. ‘I’m rather tired - that’s all.’
He closed the door of his room and stood with his back to it and waited, but there was no sound and only the quiet shadows waited for him in the corners of the room. He went and sat on the edge of the bed and smoked a cigarette, his head spinning. There had to be a rational explanation because if for one moment he dared to admit to the possibility that he had imagined the whole thing, he was lost.
He drew the smoke deep into his lungs and tried to steady himself. All that was needed was someone with a key to the attic door. Someone who was interested in frightening him away or in driving him insane, perhaps. Whoever it was would have had ample time to leave the attics while he had gone down to the hall for the porter.
He went out into the corridor and moved along to the end. He tried the door to the attics again, but it was securely locked. There was another door behind him and he opened it and discovered a dark flight of stairs which he descended quickly.
A stale smell of cooking rose to greet him and somewhere along a dimly lit passage he heard voices and the clatter of pans. A door faced him and when he opened it he looked out into the alley at the side of the hotel. He closed the door again and went back upstairs, his mind working fu
riously.
It had to be someone he had met that day, someone who wanted to frighten him because they themselves were afraid. And then he remembered Adam Crowther. He had certainly lied about his association with Steele and if he had nothing to hide, why had he so deliberately avoided a meeting outside the Garland Club?
For a little while longer Shane stood just inside his room, a frown wrinkling his brow as he thought about the whole thing and then he came to a sudden decision and reached for his trench-coat. A moment later he closed the door behind him and went quickly downstairs.
To save time he took a cab from a rank in the centre of the town. Crowther’s address was in a quiet residential district not far from the university, and Shane told the driver to stop at the end of the street and walked the rest of the way, his collar pulled up against the rain.
The place he was looking for turned out to be a bungalow, a modern Canadian-style place in mellow brick, pine board, and rough stone. It was sandwiched in between two large town houses in grey stone, each standing remotely in a sea of smooth lawns and flower-beds.
Shane walked slowly up the drive and mounted a flight of shallow steps to the porch. He pressed the bell-push and waited. After a moment the porch was flooded with light. Out of the corner of one eye he became aware of a movement in the window of the lounge. A curtain fluttered, and as he turned his head a figure drew back into the darkness of the room and a hand twitched the curtain back into place.
He waited for the door to open, but nothing happened. After a while he pressed the bell-push again, keeping his finger on the button, and the shrill clangour echoed through the house. A moment later he heard steps approaching and the door opened.
A pleasant, dark-haired young woman with candid grey eyes and a firm mouth looked out at him inquiringly. ‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Mrs Crowther?’ Shane said, and when she nodded went on, ‘My name is Shane - Martin Shane. I’m an old friend of your husband’s. I wonder if I might speak to him?’
