by John Creasey
Ainsworth glanced at his wrist-watch, which was resting on a small table next to his bed. It was half-past eleven, and he scowled defensively, but did not immediately get up. When he did, he went into a small adjoining room, put on a kettle, brushed his teeth, and then made tea. He sat on the edge of a chair, looking unamiably out of the window on to the swift-moving traffic on road and river.
A nearby clock struck twelve before he finished his tea.
He washed and shaved, peering intently into the mirror. He was always interested in his face. It was dark-skinned and regular, and rather too thin; people said that this angularity made him look distinguished, or even aesthetic. His brows were well-marked, and he had a close-clipped black moustache around which he drew the safety razor carefully. His eyes were hazel in colour, and his brows were drawn together in a frown which held a hint of petulance and more than a hint of anxiety.
Dressed, he regarded himself in a wardrobe mirror, and said aloud:
‘I must do something. It’s no use going on like this.’
The truth of the matter, had he cared to admit it, was that there was nothing he could do. He was in a cleft stick, and knew it. There was no one in the world to whom he could appeal for the thirteen hundred pounds required for the costs and damages awarded against him. At a pinch he could get together four hundred. He supposed he would have to make an offer of part payment, or Quayle would carry the case further, and get him sent to prison.
Ainsworth muttered under his breath, picked up a walking-stick and a trilby hat, and stepped to the door. As he opened it, he was surprised to see that the door of the flat opposite him, on the third and top floor of the Chelsea house, was open. The flat had been closed for some months, and he had seen no one there for weeks.
He caught a glimpse of a young woman sufficiently striking for him to look at her again. She saw him, and to his surprise smiled in friendly fashion.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning.’ Ainsworth raised his hat. In no mood for casual conversation, he nevertheless felt curious, for it was a fact that there was, practically speaking, no one to whom he could talk. The loneliness which had been desirable when he had been working hard, often into the early hours, was now a curse.
‘Am I to have a new neighbour?’ he inquired tentatively.
‘For a week or two, yes,’ said the woman. ‘Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Bonnington?’ She mentioned the erstwhile occupants of the flat, and went on: ‘They’ve lent me the flat while I’m in London.’
‘Oh,’ said Ainsworth. ‘That’s very nice of them. Er—if there’s anything you need, just give me a knock.’
Ainsworth went downstairs thoughtfully. She was a beauty, there was little doubt about that. Since the disastrous end to an early marriage, he was not particularly interested in women, but for that matter he was not interested in people as people; now that he was stranded, with nothing to do, no friends, and no interests outside his books, the situation had altered.
He reached Chenn Street, and strolled towards the Embankment.
Those who knew him well would have declared that he was an impractical man. He lived in a world of figures and literature, and apart from a certain vanity in his appearance, which was impeccable, the things of the world passed him by. Certainly he did not notice that a man was walking on the other side of Chenn Street, and continued to follow him along the Embankment.
He could not avoid seeing another man, in dark grey and wearing a black Homburg hat, who approached him on the Embankment. Ainsworth was staring at the water, seeing small pieces of driftwood floating past, when the man in dark grey stopped and said:
‘Have I the pleasure of addressing Mr. Martin Ainsworth?’
Ainsworth stared at him.
‘Yes,’ he said brusquely.
‘Thank you,’ said the stranger. He was not a prepossessing individual, for his features were irregular, and the well-cut suit sat ill on him. It could easily be imagined that his face would have been set-off more effectively by a coloured choker. His voice was cultured, however, and his manner faintly self-deprecatory. ‘You won’t know me, Mr. Ainsworth. My name is Lannigan. I think however, that I might be able to make one or two suggestions which will interest you.’
Ainsworth said: ‘Just what are you after?’
‘My dear sir, don’t misunderstand me! We have a mutual acquaintance, and I think our opinion of the gentleman gives us something in common. I mean Sir Edmund Quayle.’
‘Quayle is no friend of mine,’ Ainsworth remarked icily. ‘I wish you good morning.’ He moved on.
Lannigan rested a detaining hand on his arm.
‘And no friend of mine, Mr. Ainsworth. May I say that I followed the case which you brought against him with deep interest, and I felt that a grievous miscarriage of justice was permitted.’
‘And you’re right,’ said Ainsworth sharply. ‘All the same, I don’t see what it has to do with you.’
‘I hope that you will,’ said Lannigan. He hesitated, and then took a card from his pocket. ‘Perhaps you will think about it, sir? I do sympathise with you most deeply, and if you find it inconvenient to meet the damages awarded against you, please believe that I will be very glad to help.’
Ainsworth took the card.
Lannigan raised his hat, then turned and walked quickly away.
As he went, Mike Errol, who had been watching the flat and had followed Ainsworth, faced the need of being in two places at once.
Until shortly before Ainsworth had entered Chenn Street, another agent had been with Mike; he had gone for a ten minutes’ break and a cup of coffee at the wrong moment.
With a decision forced on him, Mike followed Lannigan along the Embankment, leaving Ainsworth staring down at the card. On one side it announced that Mr. Alfred Lannigan lived at 51a Queen Street, Bayswater. On the reverse side was pencilled:
£1,400 is a lot of money.
After a while, he put the card in his pocket. Then he walked slowly towards Battersea, arguing with himself on his best course of action. He did not intend to have anything to do with Lannigan, he declared firmly, and then wondered what Quayle had done to antagonise the other man.
Not until he reached his front door did he remember the occupant of the erstwhile empty flat.
The woman—girl, he thought, was more apt—was standing in front of his door. She looked round with surprise when he approached, and smiled somewhat apologetically.
‘I’ve just been knocking,’ she told him.
‘Can I help you?’ Ainsworth asked promptly.
‘I don’t know whether I dare beg a spoonful of tea,’ she said. ‘I’ve been to the grocer, but he forgot to put the tea in.’ She was smiling, and her eyes were very bright. ‘Don’t bother, if——’
‘Of course I can spare it!’ said Ainsworth promptly. ‘I won’t keep you a moment.’
He opened the door, stood aside for her to enter, and then went into the ante-room which served as a kitchen.
Regina, meanwhile, glanced with interest about a small room lined with books. A door leading to a larger room, also book-lined, was open, and she saw the foot of a bed; the clothes were rumpled, and the corner of a sheet was touching the carpet. She noted this with satisfaction, before Ainsworth returned; he held a cup, half-filled with tea.
‘Thank you so much,’ said Regina, and paused. ‘While I’m here, I wonder if I can worry you about something else? I want to get a daily woman to come in for an hour in the mornings.’
Ainsworth grimaced.
‘I can’t help there, I’m afraid. I haven’t had one for a fortnight myself.’ He hesitated, and Regina thought that he looked very young, vulnerable, and rather helpless. ‘Er—my name’s Ainsworth, Martin Ainsworth.’
‘I’m Regina Grey,’ said Regina, lying easily.
Smiling a brief farewell, she stepped to her own flat, and immediately brewed tea; she really needed it, but it had been a good excuse to speak to Ainsworth.
A da
y and a half had passed since she had met Loftus and Craigie. How Craigie had contrived that she should use the flat opposite Ainsworth she had no idea.
Her tea finished, she telephoned Loftus.
‘This is Miss Grey reporting,’ said Regina with mock humility. ‘I think I am making good progress, sir, and he wants a daily woman. I thought you might like to know that.’
‘Not a bad idea,’ said Loftus promptly. ‘You want one too, I suppose?’ He chuckled. ‘I’ll fix it for one to come along, and you can share her with Mr. Martin A. How is he shaping?’
‘I think he’s worried. Perhaps I ought to say troubled.’
‘You’re doing fine, Gina. Talking of doing fine, so is Mark, who is off the danger list. I’ve just had word from Guildford.’
‘Thank heaven for that,’ said Regina fervently.
‘If you can, get Ainsworth talking about his troubles. Put on your sweetest, most sympathetic air; that ought to do the trick.’
She rang off, smiling. Then she sat up abruptly at a ring at the front door bell.
A woman whom Regina had never seen before stood there, smiling a little expectantly. She was a lovely creature. Her smile appeared set, but as Regina saw her and she saw Regina it faded, and an expression of acute distaste, almost of horror, replaced it.
‘Good afternoon,’ said Regina.
‘You—you——’ The caller’s voice rose upwards, at a loss for an epithet, and her eyes sparked. ‘Where is he? Where is Martin?’ A pause, and when there was no reply she went on in a voice pitched on a higher key: ‘Where is my husband?’
5
Domestic Interlude
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Regina.
The woman’s voice remained on the high key.
‘You know what I mean! I—I didn’t dream he would do such a thing, living with another woman, why, why——’
‘It is just possible that you mean Mr. Ainsworth,’ said Regina coldly. ‘He lives in the opposite flat.’
The woman closed her lips, gulped, and then half-turned. She said in a strangled voice:
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, what can you think of me? I didn’t know—I thought—I mean they told me he was on the top floor, and——’
She showed no poise, yet to Regina she looked the type who would have it in plenty. Her puzzlement increased, and she felt justified in standing there while the other rang Ainsworth’s bell. Then she closed her own door nearly, but not quite.
Ainsworth appeared.
She saw his dark, sharp-featured face, his well-shaped lips parting as he saw the caller. For a moment there was utter silence, and then Ainsworth drew a deep breath and said harshly: ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, Martin, I had to come! When I knew you were in such trouble, I had to come!’
‘You’ve never troubled to visit me in three years, and I don’t see why you should start now.’
‘Martin, don’t talk like that. And we can’t talk here anyway; aren’t you going to ask me in?’
‘Rita,’ he said quietly, ‘it isn’t the slightest use you coming here to kick up a scene. We agreed to part, on your suggestion. I shall be loyal to the agreement. Now, will you go?’
‘Oh, Martin!’ exclaimed Rita Ainsworth, and there was a catch in her voice. ‘I’ve only come because you’re in trouble, I felt I had to help you.’
‘I need no help from you, Rita, please understand that.’
He stepped back. Regina could just see him closing the door, and was astonished when Rita flung herself at him. Ainsworth was carried back as much by surprise as by the rush, and the door banged open. Rita stumbled, and fell heavily. Ainsworth backed away, and Regina closed her door. She felt that she had seen too much of that domestic interlude.
Then she heard Rita’s voice, high-pitched and nearly hysterical.
‘I won’t go away! I know what it is, you’re living with that Jezebel next door, do you think I don’t know the type!’
Regina thought that she heard a sharp slapping sound, but could not be sure. There was a shriek, and then a thud. Unable to restrain herself, Regina opened the door again and stepped to the passage, but she stopped there abruptly.
Ainsworth was standing in the doorway. The woman was already at the head of the stairs, moving quickly. Ainsworth was looking after her. On his right cheek was a welling streak of blood, and several other scratches, already swollen, showed beside it. If he saw Regina he did not immediately acknowledge her. He stood staring at his wife, who rounded the first landing and went racing down the stairs. Her gasping breathing sounded above her footsteps.
Regina said quickly: ‘Please forgive me. I heard myself mentioned, and——’
‘I owe you an apology,’ said Ainsworth slowly.
‘Please! There’s no need for explanations,’ said Regina quickly. She smiled and approached him. ‘Don’t you think you ought to have that cut washed?’
‘Cut?’ said Ainsworth. He put his hand to his cheek, and stared at the blood on his fingers. ‘I didn’t realise that——’
‘Supposing we wash it?’ suggested Regina practically.
He let her follow him into his flat, and stood without speaking while she bathed the scratch. It was surprisingly deep, jagged where Rita’s nails had torn the flesh. As she worked quickly, she thought again that Rita Ainsworth had behaved very differently from ‘type’, and her puzzlement increased.
• • • • •
The wild fury in Rita Ainsworth’s eyes had not disappeared by the time she reached the street.
She turned left, towards King’s Road, walking swiftly. Twice she glanced at the nails of her right hand; they were over-long, and painted a deep red, and now little pieces of blood-covered skin adhered to them. Not until she reached King’s Road and hailed a taxi did she pay further attention to them. Then she took a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped them quickly, her face without expression as she did so.
She had directed the driver to Queen Street, Bayswater.
The cab stopped outside Number 51a. She paid the driver off and hurried up the four stone steps leading to a narrow-fronted house standing cheek-by-jowl with a hundred others.
She entered the house with a key.
She slammed the door behind her, and as she did so a second door opened and Mr. Alfred Lannigan stood in the passage, staring down at her. She glared ahead as she walked past him. Before she reached the stairs he put out a hand and gripped her arm.
‘Aren’t you forgetting something, my dear?’ There was a sneer in his voice.
She wrenched her arm away.
‘I’ll come down soon,’ she snapped, and ran up the stairs without glancing behind her.
Lannigan shrugged and returned to his room.
It was a long one, between the front lounge and the domestic quarters at the rear of the house. Its one window, tall and narrow, looked into a paved courtyard; heavy net curtains were draped across it, so that no one could see in from the outside without getting close to the window.
The room itself was an office more than a study. Filing cabinets lined one wall, a small desk in a corner held a typewriter and some letter-baskets. A larger desk, set in the middle of the room, held two telephones and a litter of papers, with some heavy account books, one of which was lying open with a pen resting on it. There were no pictures on the walls, but two illustrated calendars made some sort of decoration. Books, mostly of reference, stood untidily on the mantelpiece.
Lannigan bit off the end of a small cigar, sat back in a swivel chair, and waited.
Twenty minutes passed before Rita appeared.
She did not trouble to tap on the door, but pushed it open and entered with set lips and staring, angry eyes. Lannigan took his cigar from his mouth and said gently: ‘So it wasn’t a success.’
‘Success! The brute, I’d like to kill him!’
‘Now be careful, my dear, be careful,’ said Lannigan. ‘Perhaps you didn’t approach him properly.’
‘Three years ago
he would have fallen for it,’ she cried with dramatic fury. ‘He won’t forget me in a hurry now. Every time he looks into a mirror he’ll remember today. I scratched him.’
‘You scratched him?’ Lannigan said heavily, and looked relieved. ‘I thought, for a moment, you had been very foolish, Rita. Now tell me just what happened.’
When she had finished he asked thoughtfully:
‘What was the other woman like? Until two days ago the flat was empty.’
‘She wasn’t bad-looking,’ said Rita disparagingly. ‘Dark and getting fat. I tried to play the outraged wife, but it didn’t come off.’
‘You mustn’t let it worry you too much,’ said Lannigan. ‘We failed that way, but it was only one chance. I may have better fortune. You haven’t forgotten that he might call here? Be careful when you know that I have visitors.’
‘I’m not a fool.’
‘No-o,’ said Lannigan, and allowed his doubts to register. ‘But you’re too impulsive, my sweet. He wouldn’t like that.’
There was a faint emphasis on the ‘he’, and the woman stared at him sullenly.
‘I do all I can for him, and he owes me a lot.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Lannigan. ‘He is appreciative of that, my dear, but he likes to feel that he gets a hundred per cent service from us all, remember. Now what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going out,’ snapped Rita.
She left the house and walked along the street without looking about her. She saw, but did not really notice, Mike Errol standing on the opposite side of the road apparently reading a midday paper.
By then Mike knew that the tenant was Mr. Alfred Lannigan, and that he was a bookmaker.
A very large, untidy-looking man turned into the street. Mike knew that he was the answer to his urgent telephone call for more help, and judged his size as being too noticeable for him to be of much use as a shadow. Nevertheless he stared towards Rita Ainsworth and nodded slightly.
The large man nodded in turn, passed Mike without comment, and went in Rita’s wake.
