by John Creasey
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“She seemed to think I was doing the same as she—getting into your organization so as to betray it. She thought we could work together, and suggested that I should help.”
“I see.”
“How did she manage to get in with you?” Grant asked.
“I never trusted her.” Neilsen looked at him at last, and his blue eyes seemed to ask: “Can I trust you?” Aloud: “Were you greatly impressed by her outburst?”
Grant said coldly: “She has the virtue of sincerity, anyhow. What are you going to do with her?”
“Make sure she can do no harm.”
“Make very sure, or you’ll regret it,” Grant said roughly.
“Oh, we’ll make sure,” said Neilsen. His lips curved in a faint smile and he looked away again. “I will see you again soon, Grant. You may go downstairs.”
He walked quickly to the door, but suddenly stopped and turned back. On the bed lay Marlene’s gun; obviously he had seen it as he passed. He picked it up slowly, weighed it on the palm of his hand. It was a tiny weapon with a mother-of-pearl handle, and looked little more than a toy.
“She had this.”
“And nearly used it on me.”
“Where did she get it?” Neilsen asked, as if he were speaking to himself. “She was not allowed to have a gun. I expressly forbade it.”
Grant said: “Well, she had it.” Saying “Manuel” would probably be going too far.
Neilsen turned on his heel, and went out.
Grant thought: “He thinks Manuel gave it to her all right.”
The thought brought new, impulsive hope, but he crashed it. He thrust his hands in his pockets and looked about the room, hardly knowing why.
On the floor between the bed and the chair was Marlene’s right shoe. By the window, the left shoe was lying on its side. Near his foot was a tiny bone button. He touched it with his toe, and it shimmered like a pearl. He bent down and picked it up, turning it over and over in his fingers. In it, he seemed to picture her face when she had talked to the three of them.
Every word she had uttered was what he believed, what he was fighting for.
Had he been right in what he’d done?
It was always so easy to be wise after the event. He had not known the depth of her feeling, had been afraid until the very last that it was a trap. There had been a trap and he had fallen into it—a trap of his own making, snaring her. If he had argued with her, talked round the subject, probed to find out what she was really doing, the disaster might have been averted; for her it was a disaster from which there would be no reprieve.
For him?
He had established himself a little more securely in Neilsen’s good books.
He could go downstairs, if he wished. He had the freedom of the house; no wonder he believed in miracles! Give him a few hours here and he would smash them. First probe; then act. Craigie and his men would be on call, straining to come. The first thing was to find the address of this house. A simple thing, but was it easy?
He went to the window, more alert than he had been for some time. Through the gap in the pine-trees he saw the corner—the name of the street painted on the wall. It was too small to read, but he’d get over that difficulty. One thing he knew; this was London; it was the house to which the girl had brought him.
He stood in front of the mirror, brushed back his stiff hair, dressed, and then went out.
The landing was small and deserted. Three doors besides that of his room and of the bathroom led from it; all the others were closed.
Along the passage at the head of the wide staircase were other doors, and he saw another landing and the foot of a narrow staircase leading to the second floor. He was tempted to go along there now, but decided that it was too risky. Make haste slowly! He might be watched from one of the rooms in the passage; might find someone on the other landing. He knew the lie of the land, which was sufficient for a start.
He went downstairs.
This was an old house, Victorian in its spaciousness and in the height of the rooms. The furniture was dark and old, some oil paintings, almost black with the dust of ages, hung on the dark-brown-papered walls. The window at either side of the big door and the fanlight were of coloured glass; little daylight found its way into the hall. The carpet looked old; at the tread of the stairs it was thin, in one place threadbare; but at least it deadened every sound of his footsteps. He had the old, familiar feeling that he was being watched; it was probably justified, but might be due to his taut nerves.
Three doors, all closed, led off the front entrance hall. A passage ran alongside the stairs to another door, presumably to the kitchen quarters. Grant stood in the middle of the hall. He could hear people talking, but wasn’t sure where they were. He didn’t move towards any of the doors; if he were watched, he mustn’t appear to be eavesdropping. He waited, rubbing at his chin, and one of the doors opened and he heard the hard voice of the squat man.
“Yes, I would accept him then.”
Neilsen appeared, and stopped short at sight of Grant. The other man did not speak again. Neilsen’s lips were set in a tight smile, his eyes glinted as if at some cruel joke.
“You may come in, Grant.”
The room was crowded with furniture, and had a musty smell as if it were seldom used. The curtains were drawn and the lights were on. Incongruously, light came from bluish-green fluorescent strips set in the high ceiling. It made every corner of the room bright and cast few shadows, gave the faces of the men a strange, bare look.
“You asked us to make sure that the Baroness von Barlack cannot betray us,” said Neilsen hoarsely. “We have decided to let you do it yourself. You are to kill her, Grant.”
21 / To Kill in Cold Blood
Grant knew that both men would notice any change in his expression, the slightest hint of the icy shiver that went down his spine would give him away. But the squat man’s words had put him on his guard, he was able to return Neilsen’s gaze without flinching. But he felt a muscle in his throat twitch, could do nothing to stop that.
He said: “So I’m to kill her in cold blood.”
“Are you squeamish?”
“No, but I’d rather someone else did this job. You’ve plenty of hired killers.” If he agreed too promptly it might seem suspicious. “I don’t like shooting at a sitting bird.”
Neilsen sneered: “How Madame Benot must agree with that sentiment.”
“There was a risk then,” Grant said evenly. “If you don’t think so, do the next job yourself. Why don’t you let one of your thugs kill her?”
“We want you to.”
Grant shrugged. “Oh, all right. Where is she?”
The Novian and the squat man exchanged swift glances. Grant saw the glint of satisfaction. They wanted badly to use him; they needed him for some special job. If he killed Marlene, they would accept him. He didn’t doubt that.
So if he killed Marlene, he might be able to smash them. If he let her live, their plot might mature.
It was like adding two and two. And it was hideous.
Nothing in his face showed the turmoil of his thoughts.
“She is upstairs,” Neilsen said.
“Is there any particular form of killing you’d like me to use?” Grant asked. The sneer in his voice was deliberate, they wouldn’t be touchy. “Shall I strangle her, shoot her, or just cut her throat?”
“You can do exactly what you like.”
“Why do you object to doing this?” the squat man asked, and Grant met the dark eyes and read their menace, but was no longer worried by it. “You tell Neilsen you will do anything to help us. This is a simple thing, and not dangerous. It is important also. We cannot allow the woman to live. You yourself know that.”
Grant said: “I’m not arguing. I don’t like this particular kind of dirty work. But you won’t be satisfied until I’ve done it.” He shrugged his shoulders.
“All right. Let’s g
et on with it.”
The squat man shrugged.
“Come with me,” Neilsen said.
“I will see you again when it is over,” said the squat man, and he turned to a desk and sat down.
Neilsen led the way upstairs, a little in front of Grant. He walked slowly and deliberately, as if he also felt reluctance, was making himself go on. Grant followed, his face set and his eyes bleak; he could drop the mask for these few moments.
In this house there were plenty of secrets; if Craigie were able to raid it now, then enough of importance might be revealed to bring an end to Neilsen’s plot.
As they reached the first landing, Manuel came out of a room.
“Mr. Neilsen!”
“Later, Manuel.” Neilsen waved him away.
“I must see you, I must talk to you.”
Grant had hardly noticed the man at first, but his vehemence made him look more closely. The Portuguese’s eyes were burning, his sallow face was flushed with excitement. Neilsen also saw that, and missed a step.
Neilsen was brusque.
“Well, what is it?”
“I must see you, alone.”
Neilsen hesitated, then raised a hand.
“Wait here, Grant.”
The two men disappeared into the room from which Manuel had come. The door closed and silence fell but for the ticking of a clock somewhere out of sight. The gloom matched Grant’s thoughts; but at least he had time to think, although it wasn’t easy to clear his mind of nonessentials.
The obvious question was: could he overpower Neilsen, Manuel, the squat man, and anyone else who was here, release Marlene and send her for help, while he went through the room downstairs for the papers? Was he a wonder man? Forget it. He could not. Were these two men the only leaders? If there were others, would they be named in any documents he would find? Was he justified in trying to turn the tables now, with the odds so heavily against him? Or must he do this ghastly thing and so become one of “them” for once and all?
That was the only issue.
His stomach crawled at the thought of killing the woman; the responsibility of decision lay like a dark cloud over his mind. Every human feeling cried out for him to turn upon these men; but if he tried and failed, how many other deaths would lie heavy on his conscience?
He could hear Manuel and Neilsen talking; Manuel’s voice rose, every now and again, Neilsen’s remained low-pitched and even, a rumbling murmur of sound. Were they discussing him? Manuel not only distrusted but also hated him; but Manuel had not been thinking of him when he had come out of the room.
It didn’t matter.
What should he do about Marlene?
What would she do if she had to make this choice?
He heard Neilsen’s voice, pitched louder, and then the door opened. Neilsen’s face had lost all its colour, his eyes were glittering. He hardly seemed to see Grant; this had nothing to do with Grant. He looked through the open door and saw the girl who had brought him here, lying on a single bed.
She was asleep; or unconscious; or dead.
Manuel slammed the door.
Neilsen said: “Wait here.”
Something had gone badly wrong; for the moment, Neilsen had forgotten Marlene. He hurried downstairs, leaving Grant on the landing, a prey to his thoughts and dread decision. The door downstairs opened. Neilsen spoke sharply in a language Grant didn’t understand, and the squat man exclaimed in alarm. Muffled sounds followed, then the two men came running up the stairs. Grant had imagined the squat man would always look exactly the same—unruffled and calm. But he was as agitated as Neilsen.
They waved him aside as they reached the landing, and Neilsen said harshly: “Go into your room.”
“But—”
“Go back to your room!”
The squat man went into the girl’s room; she lay in the same position, and Grant saw a small glass bottle clutched in her right hand.
Grant turned into the bedroom where he had spent the night, and as soon as the door closed, heard the key turn in the lock.
He could hear nothing from the other room, only the sounds in the street beyond the trees and the hum of traffic in a main road not far away. An aeroplane droned across the sky, but he couldn’t see it. Only seconds passed; they seemed like hours.
And then he knew what to do: he must talk to Marlene.
He swung round to the door, groping for his knife—and found it was in its usual pocket, they had transferred it from his other clothes. He opened the special blade and set to work on the lock. The click of metal on metal seemed very loud, but he didn’t pause until the lock clicked back. Then he waited to find out whether he had been heard; there was no sound.
He opened the door, slipped out, closed it again and turned the key in the lock; Neilsen had made the mistake of leaving it there. He hurried up the long passage, looking right and left in case someone was watching him.
He saw no one; the house seemed deserted.
He went swiftly and on tip-toe up the secondary staircase, and found himself on another landing, where there were three doors. One was ajar; the second opened to his touch, revealing a small bedroom; the third was locked, no key was here. He used the special knife blade again. The lock wasn’t difficult to open; there was no special precautions. He pushed the door open and saw Marlene, lying on her back on a double bed.
Her arms spread out above her head, each wrist was tied to a bed-post. A handkerchief stuck out of her mouth—a rough-and-ready gag. Her bright eyes flashed as he entered, crossed to the bed and pulled gently at the gag.
He spoke in swift undertones, with an ear alert for any sound downstairs, desperate to use every moment.
“I hate them as much as you do. Understand? I hate them. My job’s to get in with them at all costs, get the names of all the organization, of everyone who is backing it. Do you know who the leaders are?”
Her voice was a painful croak, but she answered.
“Some of them.”
“These two and—”
“Several—others.”
“You don’t know them all?”
“I have tried to find out. There are many of importance.”
“Can I get the information from downstairs?”
“No, I have searched everywhere. This is a temporary place. They will soon move. They are never in the same place for long.”
“Do you know what they’re planning at the Congress?”
“No. Some of the delegates will—will oppose all unity resolutions. They hope to form a veto group. Already they have several delegates who will help.” The words came hoarsely, Marlene kept licking her lips, and as she spoke, a question sprang into her eyes: “Why don’t you untie me?” But it didn’t come in words. She drew a deep breath and went on: “That is why they have made so much trouble. To give their delegates an excuse for vetoing and opposing. Most of the delegates are from some of the smaller countries. One from France, another from Italy. They are all paid, of course, to cause trouble at the Congress.”
And her eyes asked: “Why don’t you untie me?”
Grant said: “Do you know the names of these delegates?”
“No.”
“Are they downstairs?”
“I could find nothing about them. I’ve heard Neilsen and Nieto talk.”
“Nieto?”
“The other man here. They would tell me only a little. Why don’t you untie me?”
Grant said: “Listen to me.” He paused, hating his task. “I have orders to kill you.” There, it was out; and her eyes were rigid as the significance struck home. “I killed Benot last night, so as to convince Neilsen I’m with him. They’re not satisfied yet. They want me to kill you in cold blood, to prove exactly where I stand.”
The question died out from her eyes.
“If I get away from here, If I can plan a raid and get Neilsen and Nieto caught, there’s still a lot to do—a lot that must be done. Do you understand?”
She didn’t answer.
/> “How strongly do you believe what you told me downstairs?” Grant asked.
It was torment to look into her eyes. They were so lovely; she was so lovely. Stretched out there, helpless, and with hope of life fading because she knew all that was in his mind, she looked appealing—appealing! What use were words? The softness of her cheeks, the violet depths of her eyes, all attracted him, man to woman, as he had never been attracted. She mattered, but not as Marlene von Barlack, not as a player in this tragedy of nations, but as a woman.
She did not look away from him.
“Can you understand?” His voice was a whisper.
She said: “Yes, I can.”
She didn’t look away from him, and he saw the smouldering terror in her eyes—a woman’s terror at the thought of death. He felt the struggle within himself, touched by her terror, and perhaps by a greater fear.
He said: “I must go down now, they’ll miss me. They’ll send me up again, and—”
She shivered from head to foot.
He picked up the handkerchief, and his hand brushed her cheek. The touch of her cool skin went through him like a shock, set his nerves quivering. The handkerchief spread over the lower half of her face, but in any case he could only see her eyes.
He said. “I’ve got to do it. They’ll come and watch me. Can you understand that?”
He steeled himself, and touched her lips, to force her mouth open, but he didn’t have to use force; she opened it wide; he felt as if he were killing her then.
Suddenly, her body stiffened. He stopped, gritting his teeth, wishing he were not looking into great eyes which burned as if with hope when there could be no hope.
She said: “Come up alone—do you understand? Come up alone!”
The words were indistinct, but he heard them.
Then he pushed the handkerchief into her mouth, stifling further speech, and turned and went out of the room.
22 / Death?
Grant locked the door with his knife tool and hurried downstairs. He was wet with sweat, his hands were cold and his legs unsteady. He saw no one. He turned the key in the lock of his own door and stood inside the room, working on the key from the inside. It had been easy to unlock the door with the knife; it was ten times more difficult to lock it with the key still on the outside. If he pushed it out, they’d know he’d tried to open it—but no more than that. The bath of sweat was hot over his whole body now, but his hands were still cold and would not do what he wanted. The scraping of metal on metal seemed like an alarm.
