“Blackmail! Sorry, I’m not with you!”
“No, I suppose not. You’re still struggling to be loyal to your late benefactor, but we must face facts.” Mott sounded like a schoolmaster explaining a simple point to a very dense pupil. “Friend Pike is instructed to dig up any copies of Men of Courage he can find. Well, after a time he becomes suspicious. He starts to believe that he may not merely have a hoarder on his list of customers, but something far more interesting. Somebody who wants those books not merely to keep and gloat over, but to destroy. Somebody who is frightened because, hidden away in the pages of that book, is a piece of information which can hurt him.”
He pulled out a short, blackened pipe and proceeded to ram tobacco into the bowl.
“I met old Pike once or twice in the way of business and I can imagine exactly what he’d do if he suspected anything like that. He’d search through his next copy of the book very carefully and if he found something discreditable, the idea of blackmail would soon enter his squalid mind. No, no, Mayne, don’t interrupt me when I’m thinking.” He paused and lit his pipe. “I know what you are trying to say. The book was published in 1958, so what possible threat can it contain now?” The pipe was drawing to Mott’s satisfaction and grey smoke drifted to the ceiling and slowly dispersed. “Well, the sins of the father, perhaps. Who can have a guilty secret tucked away in a book which was issued so long ago? I don’t know yet, but if a man like Pike could stumble on the answer, it shouldn’t be difficult for someone like – like – ” Modesty prevented him from saying “myself”, so he compromised with “somebody of real intelligence, to dig out the truth.
“Yes, my first job will be to get hold of that book and read it very carefully. You, Peggy dear, will see that this flat is kept securely locked and allow nobody to enter – nobody at all.
“You, Mr Mayne, will meet me at your shop this evening, providing you’re still alive, which seems unlikely.” He poured out more whisky and grinned unpleasantly. “Oh, I mean that, my boy. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs something wicked this way comes.’
“Something very wicked, Tommy Mayne, so look after yourself.” His great, gnarled fist raised the glass ceremoniously. “If our murderer exists, he will be a man of resource, guile and courage. If you sent him one of those cards, he will be a very angry man. If he received the card . . . Need I say more?” He emptied the glass and slammed it down on the tray. “No, I think we can safely expect an attack on your life during the next few hours.”
The man with the crippled hand was thinking about hell, though not about hell-fire. In his own mind heat had nothing to do with the place of damnation. Fire was a punishment, but it destroyed and gave rest, whilst cold, bitter icy cold; that was the real torment. A wind that numbed the brain and slowed the blood and ended in frost-bite. The skin stripped from the face, the limbs growing black through lack of circulation. An anguish akin to that of a man drowning in biting chemicals. Finally gangrene, and the only cure a knife or a scalpel.
Amputation, but there had obviously been nobody available to operate on Allan’s tortured arms and legs. The man looked at the picture of a boy on his table. Allan had probably taken a long time to die, and it had taken him many years to discover who killed him. A labour of love – a labour in vain up to now, because he couldn’t prove anything.
Not yet – not just at the moment, but when he had the proof. The man closed his eyes and muttered aloud. “ ‘Vengeance is Mine,’ saith the Lord.”
Five
Robert Boyle House, the Headquarters of A.C.E., was a tall, grim building off Holborn Broadway. Here, none of the frills associated with big business were in evidence. Where his factories were concerned, Simon Vale spent money lavishly, but not on the office. “Handsome is as handsome does” was the company motto and any unnecessary show of ostentation raised his instant displeasure.
“I’m sorry, Miss Janet, but Sir Simon is engaged at the moment. A meeting with our American sales manager and . . .” Her uncle’s secretary frowned. She had an old, wrinkled face and, like many of the staff, had been with the firm for years. “You know, I shouldn’t be saying this, but I do wish he wouldn’t come in so often. We all love to see him, of course, but since his stroke, it does seem dangerous. Unnecessary too, as I pointed out to Mr Kent only yesterday.”
“Rubbish, Mary. Simon Vale built this concern from nothing, and his presence is all-important.” The man had come almost silently into the room and smiled at them. An elderly, stoutish man, but there was nothing weak or flabby about him. He wore his dark suit like a uniform, his face was tanned and his eyes twinkled. “Hello, Miss Janet,” he said. “Please don’t pay any attention to Mary. She fusses over your uncle like a doting granny, but it’s quite all right. The chief may have had an illness but business is the best tonic. I know – we’ve been together a long, long time.
“Now, come and wait in my room for a moment. I don’t think the chief should be long, but we’re having trouble with the Laximed sales and that fellow Sinclair is having a strip torn off his back.” Peter Kent opened the door and led her across to his own office. A bare, plain room with a steel desk, two filing cabinets and three stiff, hard-backed chairs.
“Do sit down and make yourself comfortable, Miss Janet. A cigarette?” The case on the desk was brass and seemed quite unfitted to a man who was almost the controlling brain in the organization. “By the way, didn’t I see your picture in the Tatler, not long ago? At Ascot, with some chap with an extraordinary name – Stewart-Smythe, who plays polo.”
“You might have done, Peter.” She accepted his light and lowered herself onto one of the spartan chairs. “You don’t approve of my friends, do you?”
“Not really, I’m afraid, though its none of my business, Miss Janet. I think you could do better however.”
“Really, Peter; how very generous of you, but tell me something. Why do you always call me Miss Janet? After all, I’ve known you since I was a child and you’re on the board now. Probably the only one that really matters since Uncle became ill. Miss makes me feel like a barmaid.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Janet. I’d hate to make you feel that, but I just can’t think of you in any other way, just as Sir Simon will always be the skipper or the chief to me. You see almost my whole life has been spent working for one man and I’m too old to alter now.”
“I know that, Peter. You and Uncle were on the Sam together, but the war’s been over a long time, and surely you can accept me as an equal?”
“The Sam – the old Sam and Helen.” He nodded at a photograph on the wall. “She’s the point, I’m afraid. The reason why we can never be equals.” He crossed to the picture and his fingers stroked the glass. “Not much to look at, is she? Just an ocean-going salvage tug of under a thousand tons displacement and built on the Tyne in 1938. Taken over by the navy when the war started and fitted out as a rescue ship.” Peter Kent was speaking partly to himself. “My first vessel as a petty officer and Sir Simon’s first as a lieutenant.
“Northern Russia was our destination, and we only just scraped through. Crew of twenty-five when the Sam started out from Loch Ewe, but ten of them bought it before we reached Kola Inlet. Two swept overboard by heavy seas and eight machine-gunned from the air. Another three were put ashore at Murmansk. They either vanished or died in hospital. I don’t know, but there was no shore leave for the rest of us.
“No booze either. We just rotted off that dead wilderness and watched the convoys come and go.”
“The old, old story, eh, Peter?” The door was open, and Kent had been overheard. Another man came into the room, limping slightly and grinning at Janet. “Good-day, miss,” he said. “Back to the North Cape again – the Sam and Helen.
“Well, don’t let Peter bore you too much. I, Willie Mackenzie, was on that damn tug too and I left three toes in her.”
“I know that, Willie, but I�
��m not bored.” Janet watched William Mackenzie grimace as he sat down. Another war-time companion and another right-hand man, chief chemist of A.C.E. and almost as important as Kent for the firm’s survival. “I’ve always wanted to hear the full story, but my uncle hardly ever talks about it.”
“Why should he? Sir Simon is a modest man and would not blow his own trumpet.” Mackenzie’s Scottish accent became more pronounced. “Go on and finish your tale, Peter. I’ll no interrupt youse.”
“You’d best not, Willie.” Kent cleared his throat and continued. “Well, as I said, we waited, miss. For eleven and a half months we rotted at Murmansk and then the orders came and the River Madoc put in.
“One of the new River Class frigates and she’d been sent to escort us home. One warship for a single little tugboat. Seemed ridiculous, but we weren’t told why and we never asked. We were just too pleased to have her protection.”
“And we did.” Mackenzie had forgotten his promise not to interrupt. “With only half our normal crew we kept in the Madoc’s wake. Out of the Inlet and south of Bear Island. I was the second engineer and working watch and watch; four hours on and four hours off. Damn near fell asleep over the diesels, and then just after the North Cape came the first torpedo.
“Never saw it down in the engine-room, of course, but I heard the explosion and I felt the second. Caught us in the stern it did and knocked me unconscious. Peter here dragged me out and, when I came round, the Madoc had bought it and we wus sinkin’.
“Every man for himself it was, but the chief, your uncle, stopped any rush for the boats. ‘We will leave this vessel in an orderly manner, lads,’ he said on the loudhailer, and we did, though we left half a dozen dead behind.
“The old Sam went down a few minutes later and the chief took a photograph of her from the lifeboat. You could see the Madoc’s bow still visible on the horizon.” He paused at the memory for a second and then continued.
“We searched for survivors of course, but it was a labour in vain, because the fog closed in and we were alone. Alone off the North Cape, in December, with the cold.
“And God, it was cold, miss. Cold I hope you will never experience and frostbite put paid to me left foot afterwards. Seven men in a lifeboat with only the bergs and flows for company, and the chief.
“Yes, the chief brought us home, Miss Janet. He had the sail hoisted. He did the navigation. He kept us going. ‘You’ve only three things to worry about, lads,’ he said. ‘The cold and the fog and me.’
“Fierce he was. Callous, one might say, but he had to be, and it paid off. Four men reached Scotland, though it took ’em twenty-two days; Peter here, Ernie Sykes, me and the chief . . .”
“Taking my name in vain, Willie?” Sir Simon Vale had appeared in the doorway, standing very straight and erect for a man who had recently recovered from a severe stroke. As Peter Kent had said, business seemed to be his best tonic. “You are in good company, Janet. Peter and William and I are the only members of the firm who matter since poor Ernie Sykes died, and have you got it?”
“It?” Janet took a moment to realize what he was talking about and then she remembered. “No, I’m sorry, Uncle. The book wasn’t available.”
“Not available, Jan, but I don’t understand. What happened, my dear? Surely the man couldn’t have sold it so soon.”
“No, he didn’t sell it, Uncle, but are you feeling all right?” Janet saw his eyes flicker and he clutched the door post for support.
“Of course I’m all right, girl, but what became of the book? I only received his offer this morning, so the man must still have it or sold the copy elsewhere.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Uncle.” Janet had promised to keep Tom’s theory a secret, but concern for Vale made the promise seem unimportant now. Since her own parents had died in a motor crash twenty years ago he was the only family she had, and he looked tired and ill – and forlorn. “You see a copy of Men of Courage was bought by a man named Pike at an auction. He paid well over the odds for it and then died. Tom Mayne inherited his stock and . . .”
“I know that, Janet.” Sir Simon gave a quick nervous shake of his head. “The card was headed ‘successor to’, but what became of the book?”
“We don’t know, Uncle, but Pike’s copy vanished. It disappeared about the time he was killed and Tom Mayne thinks that Men of Courage had something to do with his death. He sent out a lot of phoney cards to try to bring a thief into the open.”
“A thief! Sorry, my dear, but I don’t understand you.” Vale’s face looked quite empty and stripped of character; the face of a child who has just lost a much-loved toy.
“I’ll try to explain, Uncle. You see, during the last few months Pike had been buying copies of that book and somebody has probably been stealing them as well. One in a library was mutilated and Tom Mayne believes that a mad collector could be at work. A lunatic with a pathological obsession for . . . Uncle, what is the matter?”
“A lunatic.” A single, sharp laugh burst from Vane’s lips and he staggered forwards. “So that’s what Mr Mayne thinks – just a lunatic.
“Your friend seems to be a smart fellow, my dear, but he’s wrong, you know, horribly wrong . . .” His eyes were wide open and looked as though they were staring at the gates of hell.
“Just a lunatic, Janet. Oh, if only Mr Mayne was right, my dear.” The eyes closed, his knees buckled and he slid into the arms of Peter Kent.
Six
Sir Simon Vale had had a second stroke and been borne unconscious to his bed. Janet had listened to the doctors and knew that this time it might be the end. Tom Mayne had spent a fruitless day searching for copies of Men of Courage. Mr Mott had been engaged on a similar project.
The Raeburn Press had ceased to exist as an independent concern years ago, but they still did business as a branch of Porter and Triggs who occasionally issued an expensively got-up edition under their imprint. Within one hour of Tom Mayne’s leaving him, Mott marched into Porter House, grinned at the receptionist and announced, “Mott for Levin,” in loud, booming tones.
“Have you an appointment, sir?” The girl studied the visitor and decided that he had not. She also fancied she could distinguish the sheep from the goats and Mott was clearly a goat. The author of some worthless, trashy manuscript bent on bothering the directors and she repeated the question and smiled maliciously. “An appointment, sir.”
“Of course I haven’t made an appointment, but my name is Mr J. Molden-Mott and I wish to see Judas Levin immediately.
“That means at once, girl, so get through to him on the blower and be quick about it.”
“As you wish, sir.” She was still smiling as she lifted the house telephone and dialled a number. In a moment she would be told to send this objectionable caller about his business. She delivered his message and then gasped. Mr Judas Levin had appeared in person with his hand outstretched and he beamed at Mott like an Israelite viewing the Promised Land for the first time.
“Mr Molden-Mott, this is a pleasure.” Judas Levin didn’t actually kiss Mott, but he still smiled as his hand was crushed in a vice-like grip. “How kind of you to call and see us. Such a friendly gesture and let’s go into my office and have a real man-to-man natter.” He led the way to a door on the left and nodded at his secretary who was holding it open. “Some tea, Betty, and please hurry. My guest is a very busy man.” Levin had met Mott on several occasions and knew a great deal about him; little of it good. The fellow was a boor and a braggart and a very objectionable person indeed. All the same, his books sold well; there was no denying that. Twenty thousand in hardcover alone, not to mention the paper and serial rights. Porter and Triggs had had a rough time recently and Mott could be a welcome tonic to their list.
“That’s right. Do sit down and make yourself comfortable, sir.” He watched Mott lower his bulk into his own chair
behind the desk and leaned back against the mantelpiece. “Very strange that you should call today of all days, Mr Mott. I just finished reading The Track of the Snowman last night and found it fascinating.” The lie came fluently and easily. “Remarkably interesting and your publishers would be quite safe in offering a reward for anyone who could put it down unfinished.” Levin had high hopes regarding Mott’s visit and wanted to turn the conversation onto the right channels. “Sales going well, I hope. Twenty to twenty-five thousand?”
“The title of the book is the Yeti, Mr Levin, and sales are not all right.” Mott reached out for his host’s cigar case and sniffed a Double Corona. “Not right at all. Only twenty-eight according to Rexten’s last accounts which is highly unsatisfactory.
“Got a match on you?” He had snipped the end of the cigar and waited for Levin to produce a slim gold lighter. “Thanks.
“Though I say it myself and I’m the most modest man alive, that book is by far the best thing that’s been done on the subject and twenty-eight thousand is chicken-feed. When I think of the numbers Collins sold, about that wretched lioness and compare her to my Yeti . . .” He broke off and pulled at the cigar. “Advertising, or rather the lack of it, is the real trouble of course. If that ass, George Bulljohn, had had any sense of proportion, he’d have splashed my picture across every newspaper and magazine in the country.” He broke off again and considered Mr Bulljohn and the sufferings of other literary figures. Dean Swift exhibited as a freak to the Dublin mob; Chatterton starving in his attic; Shakespeare . . . He was almost certain that Shakespeare had been betrayed at some point, but he couldn’t remember by whom.
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