by John Creasey
“How did you manage to get away last night?” Neilsen demanded.
The question Grant ought to have been prepared for came quickly enough to take him by surprise. He eased himself up in bed, conscious of the second man’s unblinking gaze. “I had a friend handy.”
“Another Z man?”
“No. I daren’t try them yet. He did the job, didn’t he? Did all your men come back?”
“No,” said Neilsen. “Two were caught by the police. Who is your friend?” He was insistent.
“Forget him.”
“Why should you hesitate to name him?”
“Because he only knows what I did and not why I did it. He’s out until further notice. The main thing is, I am free.” Grant licked his lips again; it wasn’t hard to show strain and anxiety. “Did I get Benot?”
Neilsen laughed.
“Yes, you assassinated M. Benot! The newspapers are most indignant.” He took a Record from under his arm and put it in front of Grant. “You can read about the latest sensation when we have gone.”
The door opened and Manuel came in with a tea-tray, some toast, butter, and marmalade. He poured out a cup of tea, while Neilsen went to the window and the other man stood with his back to the fireplace. Grant studied him as unobtrusively as he could. It was a strong, sallow face. The man had dark hair, a broad nose, rather high cheek-bones; a Slav, probably. He was dressed in a perfectly cut suit of dark grey, carried himself with an air of authority.
“How do you feel?” Neilsen repeated.
“I could be a lot worse.”
“Drink your tea and eat your breakfast.” Neilsen lit a cigarette. “Do you think you’d like to rest for a day or two?”
A loud “no” sprang to Grant’s lips, but he stopped himself in time, and said: “It wouldn’t be a bad idea.”
The man by the fireplace stirred, as if disapproving.
“We’ve another job for you as soon as you feel up to it,” Neilsen said.
“What kind of job?”
“We’ll tell you about that when we know whether you’re ready to handle it. We must make sure of that.”
“I see,” said Grant.
He poured himself out a second cup of tea, and smeared butter and marmalade over a piece of toast. What was Neilsen thinking? And his companion? If he could get a slant on that, he would be better placed. Presumably they believed that they were in the presence of the man who had killed the French Foreign Minister. What would he feel if he were in Neilsen’s place? A deep satisfaction, gratitude perhaps—even friendliness. Neilsen gave the impression that he felt all of those things, yet was wary.
“I’m feeling fine,” Grant said. “I don’t mind telling you that there was a moment when I thought I’d missed. One of the bullets went high, I heard it hit the lintel. It took all my nerve to lower the gun for the next shot. They were coming after me by then. If I hadn’t missed with the first shot I might have got away more easily. Moral—shoot straight the first time.”
“You shot well enough,” said Neilsen. He glanced at the squat man, who nodded; he was good-looking in a heavy fashion and gave the impression of being a man of great physical strength as well as strength of will. “Have a bath, and get dressed—some clothes will be brought up—and we will see you again.” Neilsen spoke quickly.
The other man stared at Grant until Neilsen joined him, nodded slightly and led the way out. The stranger hadn’t spoken since Grant had shown himself to be awake, and that left an uneasy sense of doubt in Grant’s mind. Who was the man? Why had he come? What had been going on behind those dark eyes during that long period of appraisal? Grant had been under a close scrutiny, weighed in the balance and—found wanting? Why assume the worst?
What other proof of his “integrity” could anyone want?
He finished the toast as Manuel came in, carrying a newly pressed suit, shirt, and socks—everything he needed. Manuel had little to say, but showed him the bathroom, next door, then went downstairs. Grant locked the door of the bathroom, and stripped. Towelling himself was a pleasure, and he felt on top of the world. He put on the dressing-gown, went into the next room, and saw the woman sitting in an easy-chair, by the fireplace.
It was Marlene.
Grant paused on the threshold, fought his sudden alarm, and closed the door. His heart hammered; just because he was near her? He didn’t smile, but watched her closely as he went to the bed and picked up his cigarette case; it was his first cigarette that morning. He blew smoke out, watching her through the haze.
She wore a black suit and a white silk blouse, with lace at the neck and at the cuffs. Her dark hair, with its glossy sheen, hung down in rippling waves to her shoulders. She looked fresh and dazzlingly lovely, and she smiled faintly, sardonically.
“Good morning,” said Grant, dryly.
“Good morning. I hear that I have to congratulate you.”
“Thanks.”
Her voice was as good as her looks, husky, deep, warming.
“It must have taken a strong nerve.”
“I’ve been trained to keep my nerves under control.”
“Are you ready for more work?”
“If it’s necessary, and I think I can do it.”
“So you think you should be consulted.”
“I’ve earned at least that,” he said, and sat on the side of the bed, pulling a pillow behind him.
“Possibly. Do you recognize me?”
“Yes, Baroness.”
“Did you expect to see me?”
“Not here, in these circumstances.”
“You are evading the question.” Her English was perfect, with hardly a trace of accent—and what little trace she had was American. “Did you expect to see me?”
“You haven’t asked the right question. I knew you worked with Neilsen.”
“Does Craigie also know?”
“He has a pretty good idea.”
“You’re very frank.”
“I thought that was one of the things you wanted,” said Grant. “There’s not much point in refusing to face facts. You’re suspected by Craigie. I don’t think you’ll be able to do much more work as the Baroness von Barlack. I shouldn’t try to assume your rightful place by your husband’s side just yet if I were you.”
For the first time she showed some sign of tension.
“Does the Baron know?”
“I believe that the chief cause of the Baron’s collapse was his discovery that his wife didn’t see eye to eye with him on everything,” said Grant. “Does it matter very much now? He won’t be able to do much for the next few weeks, and if we haven’t finished by then, well never finish.”
“You show a proper sense of the urgency of the situation,” she said, and surprised him by standing up and approaching him.
She stood only a foot or two away, looking down. Her movements had rare grace and, standing upright, she impressed him with her poise and composure. She didn’t speak for some time, and in some odd way reminded him of the squat man; it was if she were trying to look into his mind.
“I know a good deal about you, Mr. Grant.”
He could believe that.
“Do you?”
“I know how much good work you did for the allies during the War. How often you risked your life—what courage you showed!—for vital information which you obtained and sent through to London. I am told that you were one of the best agents in the Secret Service and one of the few the Nazis really feared. There was a reward of a million marks for your capture, dead or alive. Did you know that?”
Grant nodded; shrugged.
“And while they were looking for you, you were living cheek by jowl with them.”
“It was my job. Don’t dramatize it.”
“I’ve been trying to decide what made you change.”
“I told Neilsen—I haven’t changed. The course of events has.”
“You think that your country’s interests will best be served by breaking the European union?”
“I do.”
Her eyes were dark violet—burning now with an intensity which he couldn’t understand. Her body seemed rigid; he thought she was trembling. She moved back a pace, as if to see him better, but didn’t shift her gaze. He felt again that she was trying to read his thoughts; perhaps she could read them. She was far more formidable than Neilsen; as formidable as he imagined the squat man could be.
She said very slowly: “You really believe that?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t believe it,” she said, and bent forward, one hand raised, the other at her breast. “I don’t believe it.” She whispered the words, as if they were an accusation, and her eyes burned. “I don’t believe it!”
“You’ll learn,” he said.
What was this? Just trickery?
“All of Craigie’s men are loyal, if nothing else.”
“They were loyal.”
“They still are. Why did you kill Benot?”
However much these people doubted, they had to face the “fact” of the Frenchman’s assassination. Staging that had been a decisive stroke; without it, he might never have got beyond Neilsen. He still met her eyes, but it was increasingly difficult—more so because he couldn’t fully understand what she was trying to do by her intensity.
Testing him? Yes, that might be it, but there was a hint—more than a hint—of something deeper in her manner. It was in the way she stood and stared; in the way the burning glow faded slowly from her eyes, to be replaced by an expression very like contempt.
She said: “I don’t believe you are a traitor any more than I. I believe you have succeeded in doing what I have done—breaking your way into the inner council of these men. Isn’t that true?”
20 / The Trap
Now her eyes burned into Grant’s again, and she stretched out a hand and touched his arm. Her fingers tightened, the grip on a bruise was painful enough to make him flinch. She didn’t remove her hand, but thrust her face closer to his.
“Isn’t that true?” she whispered.
She had been able to see past his defences, and was quite sure that she was right. But she had lied about herself, of course, this was a trap—a simple trap, so beautifully sprung. She wanted him to believe that it was safe to talk to her freely; once he did that, all he had tried to do would be undone.
“Answer me!”
Grant said: “No, it is not true.”
She backed away, turned sharply on her heel. He was lost to the lithe grace of her movements. She looked towards the window, and her lips were compressed, the glint in her eyes was one of anger and—could it be fear?
Without turning her head, she said: “You are lying to me. You are the last man in the world to be a traitor. If you changed your opinion, or your loyalty, you would tell Craigie so. You wouldn’t work against him like this.”
“The means justify the ends.”
She swung round, her eyes blazing.
“You swine! You treacherous swine! But you won’t succeed. I’ll stop you!”
She thrust her hand into the neck of her blouse, a button was wrenched off, fell to the floor and rolled along the carpet. She snatched at something hidden at her breast, as Grant jumped up. He saw the gun in her hand, grabbed his cigarette case, and flung it at her.
It struck the gun.
Both case and gun fell to the floor. Grant went forward, knelt down and snatched the gun up. She kicked at his wrist, and hit, but didn’t loosen his grip. Then she flew at him. He struck out blindly to fend her off. On his knees, he was at a great disadvantage; but he caught an ankle and jerked it forward, throwing her back. She fell against the chair, and the shoe came off in his hand. He scrambled to his feet, gun in one hand and shoe in the other, face red, heart beating furiously. She struggled to get up, and her breast was heaving.
“That wasn’t very pretty,” he said.
“Pretty!” The word seemed to choke her. “I’d like to cut your throat!”
“Neilsen will be very interested.”
She dropped into the chair, but there was none of the hopeless resignation that her husband had shown, nor the fear that had been in Hilde. She looked as if she had suffered a great shock, and already he was beginning to believe that she had told him the truth: she had wormed her way into Neilsen’s organization, so as to cheat the Novian.
She’d felt sure of Grant, too.
She wasn’t sure now.
“Very well,” she said slowly, and speaking seemed to hurt her. “Tell your fine friend. Tell him that I am working against him. Tell him to treat me as he treated his daughter. That should make you happy.”
Grant said: “There’s only one way to treat a spy. I’ve taken that risk most of my life. You started the profession too late, you didn’t harden yourself properly.” He laughed. “What a spectacle! What a beauty!”
He turned to the bed, and stretched out his hand for the bell. He heard her jump up from the chair and swung round, expecting another onslaught, prepared for one this time. She came towards him quickly but without violence, her arms stretched out as if in supplication. He let her come, and she plucked at his dressing-gown and tried to hold his arms; he kept them free.
She pleaded: “Grant, you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what will happen if we don’t get unity. You think Great Britain can stand alone or with friends overseas, but what of Marinburg and the other small countries? They can’t stand alone, they haven’t the strength. Don’t betray them. Don’t fail them. All their hopes, all their future, depends on unity. Don’t smash their hopes.”
Grant’s eyes were cold; but his blood was racing through his veins.
“I know all the issues,” he said. “Are we going to fling everything we possess away for the sake of Marinburg and those little countries? What do you think we are?”
He watched her and had a strange feeling of aloofness; as if he were in a different world. For the first time, he was fully convinced that she had told him the truth. Her heart, her very soul, showed in her eyes. And he believed all the things she said, he knew they were true, and yet had to betray her, because unless he did, he would fail with Neilsen.
He pressed the bell.
She said: “You’ll never know a minute’s peace from this day on.”
Turning, moving swiftly and with fascinating grace, she rounded the bed and approached the window. It wasn’t until she reached it that Grant realized what was in her mind. He saw her fling aside the other curtain and push the window up. He sprang across the bed, stiffness forgotten, grunted and nearly fell. The window banged open and she started to climb out.
He shouted: “Stop!”
He heard the door open, but knew that whoever had come in would be too late to stop her. He flung himself forward, grasping her ankle. He felt her stocking give. She tugged herself free, but he had gained precious seconds and clutched her leg. She fell against the open window, leaning out but unable to move.
Manuel rushed to join him. “What is it? What is it?” He took her shoulders and pulled her round. “Did he attack you? Did he attack you?”
“Don’t be a fool!” snapped Grant. “She—”
“Be quiet! Baroness, did he attack you?”
She didn’t answer, but when he released her she leaned against the wall, her whole body sagging. Manuel dropped his right hand to his pocket in a familiar gesture, but before he took out his gun, Neilsen and the squat man came hurrying in.
“Put the gun away,” Neilsen said sharply.
“They were struggling! He—”
“Put the gun away and go out.”
The servant thrust the gun back into his pocket and moved sullenly to the door. Marlene von Barlack dropped against the wall. As the door closed the squat man spoke in his deep, penetrating voice.
“I wish to understand all this.”
“It’s easy enough,” Grant said. “The bitch is a traitor.”
Neilsen raised a clenched hand. “That is not so! It is impossible!”
>
“She begged me to help her, against you.”
“It cannot be,” said the squat man heavily. “It cannot be. Marlene—”
She stood upright, her eyes closed for a moment, and her arms straight by her side. Her blouse was open where the button had been torn off. Her hair was awry, half-covering one eye; and she looked small and wan; the pallor of her face was frightening.
“I have wondered about her,” Neilsen said slowly.
“Wondered?” She threw her head back. “You needn’t wonder now. You’ve found the right man to do your foul work. But you will listen to me—”
“I think we’ve heard enough,” the squat man said. There was a ring of bewilderment in his voice, as if he couldn’t quite believe that it had happened.
“Listen to me!” Marlene made him jump, and Neilsen who had drawn near her, came to a standstill. Grant watched her, with her pallor relieved by the passionate light in her eyes. “You’ve found the man to do your foul work, but you don’t really know what that work is. You think you’re serving your country’s interest, but you are the handmaiden of Communism. Everywhere in the world there is turmoil, strife, bloodshed, hunger, starvation; and everywhere the Communists are using that to keep the world disunited. They are losing—losing—because the people of Europe came to their senses. Now, you’re helping them to win. Helping them, do you understand? Helping them. And you—” she turned the full, blinding light of her eyes on Grant— “you are worst of all, the lowest of them all.”
The squat man moved forward, took her arm and led her out of the room. She looked at Grant as she passed; and he felt as if he had been touched by a flame.
Had Hilde lied? Had Marlene worked with Fiori in New York? The question hardly mattered, there was deep and passionate sincerity in the woman; she fought for her ideals and would not shrink from dying for them.
The door closed.
Neilsen stirred and groped for a cigarette without looking at Grant. The wind blew noisily against the window, which rattled and banged. Neilsen stepped foward, looked out and up and down the garden, then closed the window. Tapping a cigarette on his thumbnail and without looking at Grant, he said: “So she tried to throw herself out.”
