by John Creasey
Roger said: “It has its points.”
“You can become a much richer man. You can do what you like and go where you like. I haven’t wasted my time when having you watched. This new life fits you like a glove. All you nave to do is forget, and everything is yours.”
Roger said: “I’ve warned you not to do anything to Sloan. The fact that he was a friend of mine is one thing. There’s much more. He’s bristling with suspicion. Do anything to him, and you’ll have the Yard down on you like a pack of hounds—and I mean like a pack of hounds. They’ll tear you to pieces, strip you of everything. This place. Your home. Your money. Your future. You’re a fool if you go for Sloan.”
Kennedy said: “He’s got to go, soon.” He moved to a writing-desk, a beautiful walnut piece, and picked up a book, a large diary with a lock and key. “Recognize this?”
Roger gulped.
“Sloan’s note-book?”
“He’s done a lot of ferreting. He’s proved you’re right —the police are better than I’d realized. If he talks about this, it might be very bad indeed. Yes, Sloan has to go.”
“So Banister——”
“Banister was exactly the right man. He’s done this kind of thing before, on a smaller scale. I’ve had dossiers and records photolithoed this afternoon, and know everything that the Yard knows. You’ll study it, point out the weakness and the strength, and decide how best to counter what they’re doing. But there’s nothing in those records half as dangerous as Sloan’s private note-book. Sloan must go.”
Roger helped himself to another whisky and soda.
“Have you been working long enough now to know how valuable you are to me?” Kennedy demanded.
“I’ve an idea.”
“We’ve hardly started.” Kennedy grinned. “When we get at the big stuff, you’ll wallow in money. Where does Sloan live?”
“You won’t get Sloan’s address from me.” Keep calm. “If you want to get yourself hanged, send one of your thugs to find out where he lives—they can follow him home. Do the job your own way, and don’t blame me.”
Kennedy looked at the amber liquid in his glass.
“Supposing Sloan were to disappear?” he said. “It would have a different effect, wouldn’t it? Sloan was such a good friend of yours. Sloan disappearing would seem almost a natural consequence. And if it happened together with the disappearance of confidential documents, your other friends there would add two and two. Sloan took the papers. Banister would remain at the Yard, able to serve us again. Do you like the build-up. West?”
Roger knew that “West” wasn’t a slip.
“You might get away with it,” he said.
“That’s condescending of you. I’d have two of the brightest men at the Yard under my wing, and the Home Office would begin to worry. Corruption at Scotland Yard is a bad thing, isn’t it? Afterwards, we might get one or two others to join us. I can imagine this doing a lot of damage at the Yard, but never mind that for now—just concentrate on getting hold of Sloan. There’s one simple way of doing it: speaking to him in your natural voice. He’d come running, wouldn’t he?”
Roger said slowly: “Yes.”
“I want him,” said Kennedy.
“When?” The word was dragged out of Roger.
“To-night. Well—to-morrow at the latest.”
“Where?”
“At your office. That will——”
“He suspects me as Rayner. He’d smell a rat if he had the address. What’s the matter with bringing him here?”
“All right, bring him here,” said Kennedy. “Number 15 Balling Mansions, Wild Street.” He made the decision quickly. “When you’ve got him, Percy will inform me.
No tricks. West. And when it’s done——” he paused, looked round. “Nice flat, isn’t it?”
“It’s all right.”
“Yours. With everything that’s in it. Everything you want, anyhow.” Kennedy laughed: that hateful laugh. “Stay and think it over. I’ll see you later. Don’t put that picture in your pocket by mistake, will you?”
He had propped the photograph up against a book-end; the two boys smiled gaily, and the dark-haired woman looked across at him sombrely.
* * * *
Kennedy was clever; Kennedy knew that this was a crisis, and wasn’t sure which way the cat would jump. So he had increased the pressure. He had also increased Roger’s determination to find out what lay behind it all— to guess at that “big future”. Get one thing straight, thought Roger; Kennedy was in big crime and mostly unsuspected crime. It had something to do with those short-supply goods; with the forgery racket which Kyle had helped to run; with the currency smuggling. One could spend a lifetime at Scotland Yard and scoff at stories of master crooks, but such men existed—and most of them worked without the police knowing. Kennedy—as Hemmingway—had kept himself completely free from suspicion. But in a show like this, you had to have records, you couldn’t keep them all in your mind. So Kennedy had records, and there was an even chance that they were at 27 Mountjoy Square.
Roger could spend a lot of time thinking of that and beg the most urgent issue—how to handle Sloan, or the situation which Kennedy had created with Sloan. One thing stuck out a mile: if Sloan disappeared, then everyone at the Yard would assume that he had been in a racket with Roger, and had gone to join him. Beyond all this there was the vague hint from Kennedy that the Yard could be split from top to bottom with corruption. It had happened before; not recently, but not so long ago that it didn’t make old Yard men sore whenever it was mentioned. If a man could control a large number of officers at the Yard, he would be in a perfect position to handle any crime, any racket that he wanted. The Yard’s tentacles spread far and wide—but he was letting his thoughts run away with him. He had to get down to earth; decide what to do about Bill Sloan.
He heard the door open.
A woman came in.
* * * *
She came in and closed the door softly, smiling at him as she approached. Hex movements were easy and smooth. She was tall, and no one would ever complain about her figure. She wore an afternoon dress, obviously a model, of dark green and pale yellow. Her hair was auburn, and she had fine, grey-green eyes. Her voice, unlike Mrs. Delaney’s, was husky and pleasing.
“May I have a drink?”
He took a grip on himself. “What will it be?”
“Gin and vermouth, please.”
He mixed the drinks. Her fingers were long and slender, pale, with pink nails; she wore a single diamond ring on her right hand, but no other jewellery.
“You look thoughtful, Charles,” she said.
“There’s plenty to think about.”
“Too much. Here’s success!” She sipped. “And everything you want. It is a pleasant flat.”
“So you’ve heard about that.”
“He told me. It’s my flat. I go with it.”
“I’m a bachelor by habit,” Roger told her.
“I know all about you,” she said. “You’re eating your heart out. I can see it in your eyes. I’ve told him that it was essential for you to have—companionship. There’s nothing that helps one to forget so much as someone else to think about. Has that ever struck you? When your wife reaches the same point, she’ll get better. You think it’s a tragedy. It’s happened to millions of people, and they’ve lived happy, contented lives afterwards. This sentimental illusion about one woman for one man is just nonsense. You ought to realize that.”
“So I’m eating my heart out, and you’re going to stop me,” he said, sardonically.
“I’m going to try, because I don’t want the unpleasant things to happen. After all, you can look after your wife, if you want to.”
This was a new angle—different pressure. He stared at her, the question in his eyes.
“With money,” she said.
“I just post a package of money to her, do I?”
“The worst of men when they’re in trouble is that they get childish,” she said. “
Come and sit down.” She went to a couch and smoothed her skirts and adjusted a cushion.
He moved to the couch and sat on the arm.
“Help me to grow up,” he invited.
“I want to help you. You’re an attractive man, and you’re wealthy, or on the way to being wealthy. You’re quite young. You’ve been taken up by a man who is exceptional, and who will have very great influence before he’s finished—a kind of genius.”
Did she know much about Kennedy ?
“What makes you think he’s as good as that?”
“Ray is my brother,” she said. “I’ve never known him make a serious mistake yet. One or two of his friends thought that it was a mistake to try to use you, but—it hasn’t been, and if you’re sensible, it won’t be. He’s quite merciless—that is one of the things that makes him so unusual. He will one day be the richest man in England.” She spoke without any hint of doubt.
“A remarkable man,” Roger said heavily. “He has a small army of thugs, hasn’t he?”
“Practically none,” said the woman in green. “He has a lot of influence with some, and he can always find men to do what he wants. They don’t know that their orders come from him. Some of them get caught, like Kyle, but it makes no difference to him. There’s no way of tracing those things back to him. They can only be traced back to a certain Mr. Kennedy, who doesn’t exist.”
Roger slid from the arm to the couch itself, crossed his legs and looked at her levelly. There wasn’t anything the matter with her, except her outlook.
She smiled.
“What is more, if you were to see him as he really is, you wouldn’t be able to say for sure that you know him. You’re a smart man, Charles, and you’re good. Haven’t you marvelled that he showed himself to you?”
“It had crossed my mind.”
She stretched out her hand, so that it lay near his, palm upwards, slim and white and inviting.
“I think he was right,” she said dreamily. “He felt that using you was the most important step he had ever taken. It opened a host of new possibilities, and he had to make sure that it was successful. He couldn’t trust anyone else to deal with you—not even me.” She laughed easily, at herself; and laughter came naturally to her. “He is a fine judge of character. I often think he can read what is passing through your mind. Is it silly fancy? Look at to-night. He judged your reaction to Sloan perfectly. He knows that if you can jump this hurdle, everything will be fine in the future. He’s naturally very anxious that you should jump it.”
“And you’re to help me?”
“That’s right,” she said, and leaned nearer, taking his hand. “I’m to help you. I’m to show you the real future, to make you understand what it can be. Have you ever been poor?”
“Poor enough.”
“Not really poor? Poor enough to be hungry, to wonder where the next meal is coming from, to wonder whether your clothes will hold together for another day, to wonder where you can get new ones, something to keep you from shivering? Have you ever been poor, like that?”
“No,” he said; the word came out abruptly.
“I wish you had. If you had, you would understand so much more easily. We have. Ray thinks he’s forgotten those days, but he hasn’t. It was because of them that he turned his brilliant mind to this. We’ve touched the depths, and now we’re touching the heights. There is nothing money can’t buy, Charles. Beauty, lovely things, travel, comfort, luxury—everything but life itself, and we start with that. Ray hated the old days and loves the new. He’s very generous. You know that. Hasn’t he been generous with you? Is there anything you lack?” Roger said: “No.”
She raised his hand, held it close to her, pressed gently— so gently.
“You either have to go on doing what he wants—and what you will want eventually—or you will be killed. But the others will suffer so much, if you die. He might take your children away from their mother; that would really be cruel. She would have no idea where they were and wouldn’t have a moment’s rest. Think of it. And somehow he would make sure that she would spend the rest of her life in poverty. He can. Your friends, too—this man Lessing. Sloan—they would all be on his list, marked down, treated so cruelly. Yes, he can be cruel, and has to be in order to obtain what he wants. What happens to them is in your hands, Charles. Wouldn’t it be foolish to take risks?” Then, she added: “You have so much.”
She closed her eyes; and her lips were very close to his.
He kissed her.
* * * *
“You’ll send for Sloan?” she said quietly. He was standing by the cocktail cabinet, smoothing down his ruffled hair.
“Yes.”
“To-night?”
“If two attacks have been made on him, he isn’t likely to come at a mysterious summons after dark. He’d take the risk in daylight.”
“He must come by himself.”
“I can’t guarantee what he’ll do.” Roger poured drinks; champagne, which fizzed and bubbled and sparkled. His hands weren’t as steady as he would have liked.
The door opened, and Kennedy came in. His eyes were narrowed, there was the merest sliver of silver light in them. He grinned.
“What do I hear?”
Roger saw the flashing glance which she sent him, and read the triumph in it.
“Charles is going to send for Sloan,” she said, “and he’s made several suggestions . . .”
* * * *
“Good night,” Kennedy said, at the door.
Percy stood by the Daimler, outside.
“Good night.”
“I’ll see that you have the address for Sloan, early in the morning.”
“Thanks.” Roger hurried out to the car, Percy opened the door and looked at him without favour. Percy was never likely to become a good friend of Charles Rayner, there was instinctive animosity in him.
“I’ll walk,” said Roger.
“You won’t!” Percy snapped.
Roger turned away from the car and walked towards the end of the street. He couldn’t see Percy; guessed that Percy was sending an SOS to Kennedy, who was probably still at the door. At the corner, Roger turned. A man came out of the block of flats, walking swiftly, and turned in his wake. Roger affected not to notice him, and strolled on. It was a warm, friendly London night. He dawdled. The man who had come from the Mansions also dawdled, a little way behind him. He was still being followed when he reached Lyme Street, twenty minutes later. He stood at the doorway, lit a cigarette, and looked up and down; his shadower stayed in the doorway of a shop at the corner, appearing to take no notice of him.
Roger went upstairs, leaving the street door unlatched.
When he pulled aside the curtains and looked out of a front window the man was opposite.
Harry, quiet and unobtrusive as ever, asked if he wanted dinner.
“A snack will do.”
“Very good, sir.” Harry went into the kitchen. Roger put on some records; Wagner—Wagner suited his mood, the melancholy made a background to his thoughts. They were fragmentary. The clever cunning of it! The sugar coating over crudeness. The continued attempts to break down his resistance and corrupt his mind. Whether he got Sloan or not was to be a vital test; Kennedy might regard it as final. Succeed, and he would be close to the black heart of this affair; fail, and the woman in green—he did not even know her Christian name—would be able to say : “I told you so.” No use arguing with himself about that. Succeed, and Kennedy would lower most of the barriers. Fail—and die.
Fail—and take terrible risks with Janet and the boys.
He stirred in his chair, smoking, restless.
The woman in green was now with Kennedy, sure of herself, yet human and prone to mistakes. She had started to tell him what they were going to do that night and had broken off; and it was obvious that they were going out of town. Kennedy’s wife would probably be with them; Percy would almost certainly drive them. They probably wouldn’t be back that night. Kennedy was away from Mountjo
y Square, then; and Percy, too. Kennedy’s wife? He couldn’t guess.
Kennedy was sure that he didn’t know the address at Mountjoy Square.
Kennedy and his sister were now sure that he would “play”; the shadow and this caution was routine. It was too big a thing on which to take a chance. He would be watched, everything he did until Sloan was caught would be noted, he had no real freedom of action, unless he took a desperate chance.
It would be the only chance, leading either to complete success or abject failure. It meant breaking into 27 Mountjoy Square. He’d need a skilled cracksman; he could find one, if necessary. He laughed-
If he held on, sent for Sloan and trapped him, then afterwards success would be much easier. On balance, he ought to wait; he’d gone so far, and Sloan would be the last man in the world to blame him for going on. Sloan was one of the few who would really understand what he had been doing, but—there was one incalculable factor.
If he caught Sloan, what would Kennedy do?
Use the other Yard man? Or kill him?
Could Kennedy use Sloan successfully? Hadn’t he all that he wanted, already?
Roger stood up suddenly. “He’ll kill——” he began.
The door from the kitchen opened silently, and Harry came in with a tray.
“Did you speak, sir?” His sallow face was expressionless.
“Talking to myself. I’m too much on my own, Harry!”
“That has been my opinion for some time, if I may say so, sir.” Harry put down the tray, took a silver-plated lid off a dish of mixed grill. “That is the best I can do at such short notice, Mr. West.”
He drew back; his doleful brown eyes had an unusual glow. He seemed to come alive. And by saying “West” he had flung a verbal hand grenade.
Roger said slowly: “I don’t think I heard you.”
“I think you did, sir.”
Keep calm.
“How much do you know about this, Harry?”
“A little, sir.” He was solemn again, the glow had gone, but there was something in him which hadn’t been there before. “Also, I have had my instructions to report on your movements and your telephone calls while at the flat, sir. I have duly carried out my duties. Except——” he paused.
