“I don’t know.”
“Well, thanks for being truthful.” She moved closer to him and slid into his arms.
Fennel told the taxi driver to take him to the end of Hornsey Road where Jacey had his shabby flat. As the taxi passed Jacey’s building, Fennel peered through the rain splashed window, looking for trouble, but saw nothing to alarm him. At the end of the long road, he paid off the taxi and walked back, keeping in the shadows, his eyes alert for trouble.
He reached the entrance of the block, stepped inside and looked at the steep stairs leading to the upper floor of the building, lit by a yellow light bulb.
Instinct warned him he could be walking into danger. He hesitated, then moving silently into the smelly lobby, he stepped into the telephone booth behind the stairs. He dialled Jacey’s number. He listened to the steady ringing for some minutes, then he hung up. It was unlikely Jacey would be out in this cold rain at this hour… it was after 22.00 hrs. Jacey got up early and went to bed early. Fennel hesitated. His equipment which he had to have for the Natal trip was up there. He had to get it. It was securely hidden in the rafters of Jacey’s attic. It would want some finding if they search for it. He hadn’t told Jacey where he had hidden it so they would have no success if they had put pressure on Jacey.
He grinned suddenly as an idea came into his mind. He lifted the receiver and dialled 999. To the answering police voice, he said, “There’s bad trouble at 332 Homsey Road… top flat… could be murder,” and he hung up.
He then moved cautiously out of the booth, listened, then walked into the darkness and the rain. Keeping in the shadows, he crossed the road and stood in the entrance of a dark alley to wait.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Two police cars came swiftly out of the night, pulled up outside the building and four policemen ran up the steps.
Fennel looked up at Jacey’s darkened windows. After a few moments a light flashed up. He waited, leaning against the damp wall of the alley, shivering slightly in the bleak cold. After some twenty minutes, three of the policemen came out, shoving two powerfully built men into the police cars. The two men were handcuffed. They drove away. That left one policeman up there.
What had happened to Jacey? Fennel wondered. Well, he couldn’t wait. He had to get his equipment. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and tied it across his face, making a mask, then he crossed the street and entered the building and ran silently up the stairs. When he reached Jacey’s floor, he paused to listen. Jacey’s front door stood open. He could hear the policeman moving around in the room.
Fennel crept like a ghost to the door and glanced in. The far wall was splashed with blood. His back turned to him, the policeman was kneeling by Jacey’s body.
Fennel grimaced. So Jacey, the poor stupid sod, had been carved. He didn’t hesitate. Moving swiftly, he was on the policeman before the man realized he was being attacked. With laced fingers, Fennel smashed his hands down on the man’s bent neck with one shattering, terrible blow. The policeman spread out over Jacey’s blood-stained body.
Fennel darted into the tiny, evil smelling bedroom and up the ladder that led to the attic. In seconds, he had got the bag containing his equipment, then slid down the ladder, out on to the landing. He paused to listen, then went down the stairs to the ground floor, three at the time. Panting, he reached the front door where he paused again, hearing the distant sound of a police siren. He slid out into the rain, ran across the road and backed against the wall of the alley as an ambulance and two police cars came roaring to a standstill.
Fennel grunted… well timed, he thought, then set off by the back alleys until he reached a main road. He saw a cruising taxi and waved. The taxi pulled up and he told the driver to take him to the Royal Towers Hotel.
He arrived outside Shalik’s suite and rapped on the door. There was a delay, then the door opened. George Sherborn, a pertly, elderly man who acted as Shalik’s confidential secretary and valet regarded Fennel with startled disapproval. He knew all about Fennel and after hesitating, stood aside and let him in.
“Mr. Shalik is away for the weekend,” he said. “What is it?”
“I’ve got to get the hell out of the country fast,” Fennel said wiping his sweating face with the back of his hand. “I’m in dead trouble. The creeps after me found my pal and carved him. The cops are there now. It won’t take them long to find my fingerprints all over the goddamn place, and when they do, I’m blown.”
Sherborn was never flustered. He could rise to any emergency with the calmness of a bishop presiding over a tea party. He knew without Fennel the Borgia ring operation couldn’t succeed. He told Fennel to wait and went into the inner room, shutting the door. Half an hour later, he returned.
“A car is waiting for you downstairs to take you to Lydd,” he said. “You fly by air taxi to Le Touquet. There will be another car at Le Touquet to take you to the Normandy hotel, Paris where you will stay until the Johannesburg plane leaves. Your ticket will be at Orly, waiting for you.” Sherborn’s round gooseberry eyes regarded Fennel impersonally. “You understand the cost of all this will be deducted from your fee?”
“Who says so, fatty?” Fennel snarled.
Sherborn looked at him with contempt.
“Don’t be impertinent. Mr. Shalik will be most displeased by what has happened. Now get off.” He handed Fennel a sheet of paper. “All the necessary details are here for you. You have your passport?”
“Oh, get stuffed!” Fennel snapped and snatching the paper, hurried to the lift.
Five minutes later, seated in a hired Jaguar, he was being whisked down to Lydd.
Chapter Three
Ten minutes after the meeting between Gaye, Garry, Jones and Fennel had broken up, Shalik had come into Natalie’s office, an overcoat over his arm and a weekend case in his hand. She paused in her work and looked up.
To Shalik, Natalie Norman was part of his background: useful, exceedingly efficient: a dedicated, colourless woman who had been with him for three years. He had chosen her to be his personal assistant from a short list of highly qualified women an agency had submitted to him.
Natalie Norman was thirty-eight years of age. She spoke fluent French and German, and she had an impressive degree in Economics. With no apparent interests outside Shalik’s office she was, to him, a machine who worked efficiently and who was essential to him.
Shalik liked sensual, beautiful women. To him, Natalie Norman with her plain looks, her pallid complexion was merely a robot. When he spoke to her, he seldom looked at her.
“I shall be away for the weekend, Miss Norman,” he said, pausing at her desk. “I will ask you to come in tomorrow for an hour to see to the mail, then take the weekend off. I have a meeting on Monday morning at 09.00 hrs.,” and he was gone.
There was no look, no smile and not even a “nice weekend’.
The following morning, she arrived at her usual time, dealt with the mail and was beginning to clear her desk as George Sherborn came in.
She loathed Sherborn as he loathed her. To her thinking, he was a boot-licking, sensual, fat old horror. On the day she began to work for Shalik, Sherborn, his fat face flushed, had run his hand over her corsetted buttocks as she was sealing a large envelope full of legal documents. His touch revolted her. She had spun around and slashed his fat face with the side of the envelope, making his nose bleed.
From then on they hated each other, but had worked together, both ably serving Shalik.
“Have you finished?” Sherborn asked pompously. “If you have, get off. I’m staying here.”
“I’ll be going in a few minutes,” she returned, not looking at him.
Sherborn nodded, regarded her contemptuously and returned to Shalik’s office.
Natalie sat for a long moment listening, then when she heard Sherborn dialling a number, she took from a drawer a big plastic shopping bag. From another drawer she took out the tiny tape recorder and three reels of tape. These she hurriedly put in the
shopping bag and zipped it shut. She could hear Sherborn talking on the telephone. She moved silently to the door and listened.
“I’ve got the place to myself, baby,” Sherborn was saying. “Yes… the whole week-end. Suppose you come over? We could have fun.”
Natalie grimaced with disgust and moved away. She put on her coat, tied a black scarf around her head and taking the shopping bag, she crossed to the lift and pressed the call button.
As she waited, Sherborn appeared in the doorway.
“You off?”
She stared bleakly as she saw him looking curiously at the shopping bag.
“Taking all the secrets with you?”
“Yes.”
The lift doors swung open and she entered. As the doors closed, Sherborn smiled sneeringly at her.
Natalie took a taxi back to her two-room flat in Church Street, Kensington. She had slept very little the previous night, tossing and turning, trying to make up her mind whether to betray Shalik or not. Even now as she unlocked the front door and entered the small but pleasant living-room which she had furnished with care, she still hadn’t made up her mind.
She put down the shopping bag, took off her head scarf and coat and then dropped into an armchair. She sat there for some minutes, knowing she would do it and loathing herself. She looked at her watch. The time was 11:10 hrs. There was always the chance that Burnett wouldn’t be at the bank on this Saturday morning. If he wasn’t, then it would be a sign for her not to do what she was planning to do. For a brief moment, she hesitated, then crossed to the telephone and dialled a number.
She sat on the arm of the chair as she listened to the ringing tone.
An impersonal voice said, “This is the National Bank of Natal.”
“Could I speak to Mr. Charles Burnett, please?”
“Who is calling?”
“Miss Norman… Mr. Burnett knows me.”
“One moment.”
There was a brief delay, then a rich, fruity baritone voice came over the line.
“Miss Norman? Delighted… how are you?”
She shivered, hesitated, then forced herself to say, “I would like to see you, Mr. Burnett… it’s urgent.”
“Of course. If you could come at once… I am leaving in an hour for the country.”
“No!” Hysterical self-loathing now had her in its grip. “In half an hour… here… at my flat! 35a Church Street, fourth floor. I said it was urgent!”
There was a pause, then the rich baritone voice, sounding slightly shocked, said, “I’m afraid that is not convenient, Miss
Norman.”
“Here! In half an hour!” Natalie cried, her voice going shrill and she slammed down the receiver.
She slid down into the seat of the chair, resting her head against the cushion. Her body shuddered and jerked as she began to sob hysterically. For some minutes she allowed herself the luxury of crying. The hot tears finally ran no more. Trembling, she went into the bathroom and bathed her face, then spent some minutes repairing her make-up.
She returned to the sitting-room, opened a cupboard and took out the bottle of whisky she kept for Daz. She poured herself a stiff drink and swallowed it neat, shuddering.
She sat down to wait.
Thirty-five minutes later, the front door bell rang. At the sound of the bell, blood rushed into her face and then receded leaving her face chalk white. For a long moment, she sat motionless, then when the bell rang again, she forced herself to her feet and opened the door.
Charles Burnett, Chairman of the National Bank of Natal, swept into the room like a galleon in full sail. He was a large, heavily-built man with a purple red face, shrewd hard eyes and his bald head, fringed by glossy white hair, was glistening pink. Immaculately dressed in a Savile Row grey lounge suit with a blood red carnation in his button hole, he looked a movie version of what a rich, influential banker should be.
“My dear Miss Norman,” he said, “what is all the urgency about?”
He regarded her, his mind registering distaste, but he was far too shrewd and experienced to show it. What a dreadful hag! he was thinking: nice figure, good legs, of course, but that pallid face, the plainness of it, those depressing black eyes and the dark overshadowed face.
Natalie had control of herself now. The whisky had given her false confidence.
“Sit down, please, Mr. Burnett. I won’t be wasting your time. I have information regarding Mr. Kahlenberg that you will wish to hear.”
Burnett lowered his bulk into an armchair. His expression showed mild interest, but his shrewd mind was thinking: So it has paid off. One drops a seed here and there, and sometimes it germinates.
As Chairman of the National Bank of Natal which was owned by Max Kahlenberg, Burnett was under instructions from his Chief to collect every scrap of information circulating in London that could effect Kahlenberg’s kingdom in Natal.
Some twelve days ago, Kahlenberg had sent him a brief cable:
Need information regarding activities of Armo Shalik. K.
Burnett knew all about Armo Shalik, but nothing of his business activities. The cable dismayed him. To get information about Shalik… the kind of information that would interest Kahlenberg… would be as difficult as getting information from the Sphinx. However, Burnett knew he had to do something about this request. When Kahlenberg asked for information, he expected to get it no matter the difficulties or the cost.
It so happened that two days later, Shalik threw a cocktail party in his suite to which Burnett was invited. Here, he met Natalie Norman.
Burnett believed in being pleasant to the underlings. Didn’t George Bernard Shaw say once: you may kick an old man: you know what he is, but never kick a young man: you don’t know what he will become?
Seeing Natalie supervising the drinks and being ignored by the chattering guests, he had detached himself from his tiresome wife and cornered her. He had charm, and was an easy con versationalist and he quickly learned that this pale-faced, plain- looking woman was Shalik’s personal assistant, and he could see that she was sexually starved.
He easily won her confidence and chatted with her for some minutes while his mind worked swiftly. She could be vitally important to him and he knew he couldn’t remain with her for long as Shalik was already glancing in their direction with lifted eyebrows.
“Miss Norman,” he said quietly, “I am in the position to help people like yourself should you need help. Please remember my name; Charles Burnett, the National Bank of Natal. Should you ever get dissatisfied with your job here, should you wish to earn more money, do please contact me.”
As her expression became bewildered, he smiled and left her.
After returning home, he sat in his study and considered his next move. He hoped he hadn’t rushed his fences with this pale- faced woman. She could be the spy he needed. Obviously, she needed physical contact with a virile man. Burnett knew all the signs: her thinness, her dark ringed eyes, her depressed expression. What she needed was a lusty bedmate: he decided this must be the first move to ensnare her.
Burnett had many useful contacts and among them was ex- Inspector Tom Parkins of the C.I.D. He telephoned him.
“Parkins… I am looking for a young rogue who could do a special job for me. He must be completely unscrupulous and good looking with personality and around twenty-five, not older. Do you know of anyone like that?”
The cop voice said, “Shouldn’t be too difficult, sir. Would the pay be interesting?”
“Very.”
“I’ll turn it over in my mind, sir. Suppose I call you after lunch?”
“Do that,” Burnett said, satisfied that he would get what he wanted.
Around 15.00 hrs., Parkins telephoned.
“I’ve got your man, sir,” he said. “Daz Jackson: twenty-four years of age, excellent appearance, plays a guitar in a fifth rate Soho club and needs money. He served two years for petty larceny three years ago.”
Burnett hesitated.
“This mig
ht be a little tricky, Parkins. I’m not letting myself in for blackmail?”
“Oh no, sir. Anything like that… and it won’t happen, I assure you… I could handle for you. I have quite a lot on this young tearaway. You don’t have to worry about that angle.”
“Very well. Send him here at 17.00 hrs. I’ll arrange to have ten pounds credited to your account with us, Parkins.”
“That’s very kind of you, sir. You will be quite satisfied with Jackson.”
Daz Jackson arrived ten minutes after the hour. He was ushered into Burnett’s vast office by Burnett’s secretary. She had worked so long for Burnett that nothing surprised her… not even Daz Jackson.
Burnett regarded the young man as he lounged into the big room, a supercilious grin on his face. He wore mustard-coloured hipsters, a dark-blue frilled shirt and a gilt chain around his neck from which hung a small bell that tinkled as he moved.
What a specimen Burnett thought, but, at least, he is clean.
Without being asked, Jackson lowered his lean frame into a chair, crossed one leg over the other and regarded Burnett with an insolent lift of his eyebrow.
“The ex-bogey said you had a job. What’s the pay?” he asked. “And listen, I don’t dig to work in this graveyard. Catch?
Burnett was used to dealing with all kinds of people and he was adaptable. Although he would have liked to have kicked this young beatnik out, he saw he could be the man he was looking for.
“I’m not asking you to work here Mr. Jackson,” he said. “I have a
special job which you could handle and which pays well.”
Jackson raised a languid hand in mock protest.
“Skip the mister and all that jazz,” he said. “Call me Daz.”
Burnett’s insincere smile became a little stiff.
“Certainly… but why Daz?”
“The chicks call me that… I dazzle them.”
“Splendid.” Burnett leaned back in his executive chair. “What I want you to do is this…” He explained.
Daz Jackson lolled in his chair and listened. His ice grey eyes searched Burnett’s face while Burnett talked. Finally, when Burnett said, “Well, that’s it… do you think you can handle it for me?” Daz grimaced.
Vulture Is a Patient Bird Page 5
