by Jack Higgins
There were no uniformed policemen standing at the barrier, but Brady noticed two large men in raincoats and soft hats leaning against the wall by the newspaper stand and they seemed to be examining faces as people moved out through the gate.
A yard or two in front of Brady, a porter drove a small electric truck loaded with sacks of mail and as he approached the barrier, someone opened the vehicle gate for him. Brady didn't hesitate. He followed the truck through, nodded his thanks to the man on the gate, and moved straight across the hall towards the entrance to the Underground.
He joined the descending stream of people and after a while, was conscious of Anne at his shoulder. When they reached the hall below, he put down the suitcases in a corner and she handed him his trenchcoat.
"I'll get the tickets," she said and moved across to the machines.
The hall was crowded with people and Brady quickly pulled on the coat and belted it around his waist. Then, quite casually, he took off the cap and pulled the rain hat from his pocket.
He pulled it into shape and put it on as Anne returned. "All set?" she said.
He crushed the porter's cap between his hands and thrust it into his pocket. "All set," he replied, and picking up the cases, followed her to the barrier.
(7)
HER flat was on the third floor of an old, grey stone house overlooking a quiet square near Kensington Gardens. When she opened the door, the curtains were drawn and the room was in half-darkness.
She pulled them back and opened the window. "The place needs a good airing," she said. "It hasn't been lived in for three or four weeks."
Brady put down the suitcases and closed the door. "It looks pretty good to me," he said, taking off his trench-coat.
"How hungry are you?" she demanded.
He grinned. "Believe it or not, I last ate as a guest of Her Majesty."
Her eyes widened perceptibly. "You must be starving. Why didn't you mention food when we were at my digs in Manningham?"
He shrugged. "There seemed to be rather more important things to worry about."
She smiled. "Never mind, there's a little shop just round the corner. I'll run down and see what they've got. You make yourself comfortable. I shan't be long."
When she had gone, he explored the small flat. There was the large living-room, a kitchen, one bedroom with twin beds and the bathroom. He turned on both taps and started to undress.
He was wallowing up to his chin in hot water, the room half-full of steam, when the door opened a fraction and a hand reached in to deposit a small package on one of the glass shelves.
"Breakfast in fifteen minutes," she called and the door closed again.
The package contained a cheap razor, a packet of blades and a tube of shaving cream. He smiled to himself and quickly lathered his face. When he left the bathroom ten minutes later, freshly shaved, his hair combed, wearing the tweed suit, he felt civilized for the first time in months.
The table was laid for two in the bow window and a newspaper was propped against the sugar-bowl. He sat down and picked it up eagerly.
He was on the front page, down in the right-hand corner. The prison authorities hadn't issued details as to how he had escaped. There was a brief account of the circumstances of his trial, a warning that he was dangerous, and an interview with the Chief Constable of Manningham who was quite certain he was still in the town and anticipated an early arrest.
The photograph had been taken from his record card and he examined it with a slight frown, wondering whether there could be any connexion between himself and this gaunt stranger.
"It doesn't look much like you," Anne said at his shoulder.
"It's perhaps as well," he told her. "They're not going to look for me in Manningham indefinitely."
She placed ham and eggs before him and a plate piled high with toast. "I'm strictly limited in the kitchen at the best of times," she said, sitting down opposite him. "I hope that suits your transatlantic palate."
He grinned. "Absolutely no complaints. I haven't felt so hungry since I was a boy, coming in from fishing in the bay in the early morning."
"Where was that?" she said.
"Near Cape Cod," he told her. "My father had a farm right on the coast."
"I've always wanted to visit the New England states," she said.
"Until you've seen our fall, you haven't lived," he told her. "There's nothing like it on God's earth."
They lit cigarettes and he gazed out of the window through the light rain down into the trees in the square, watching their leaves twist and fall in the slight breeze, thinking of home.
"Would you like to go back some day?" she said softly.
He nodded. "Funnily enough, I was going to go home after the Kuwait job. I'd had a letter from my brother-in-law. He's an architect, senior partner in a large Boston firm. He wanted me to join them."
"Perhaps you will when you get this thing sorted out."
He turned and smiled. "Maybe you're right, but sitting here on my backside isn't going to help. I'd better get started."
"Don't be a fool." She laid a restraining hand on his arm. "You can't go walking round London for long and expect to get away with it. Sooner or later, you'll turn a corner and walk right into the arms of some young constable, pounding his beat and just dying for quick promotion. What would that prove?"
"What do you suggest?" he demanded impatiently.
"I'll hire a car for the day. It won't cost much and there's a garage just round the corner. You'll be a lot safer driving round London than walking."
He took hold of one of her hands. "I'm beginning to wonder where I'd be without you."
She flushed and stood up, with a slight smile. "Flattery will get you nowhere. If you want to work for your keep, you can clear the table while I go and see about the car."
The door closed behind her and he sat there for a while, finishing his cigarette and thinking about her. He stood by the window and watched her go down the steps and walk along the sidewalk and suddenly, there was a hollow ache in his stomach and he knew that she had become important to him.
He cleared the table and had just finished washing up when she returned. "That was quick," he said.
She smiled. "Oh, they know me. I've done this several times since I've been living here. I've checked up on Dell Street, by the way. It's near Regent's Park. Allowing for the traffic, it shouldn't take us more than twenty minutes to get there."
He frowned and gripped her arms tightly. "There's no need for you to come. I don't even know what I might be running into."
"The car's in my name," she said calmly. "And according to the insurance, no one else is supposed to drive. I'm in this up to my neck now, Matt. You'll just have to get used to the idea."
He sighed. "Okay, Anne. You win. Let's get going."
The car was a small Morris saloon, just the thing for the heavy London traffic and she handled it expertly, nosing her way into the main traffic stream of the Bayswater Road and turning into Marylebone Road towards Regent's Park.
They found Dell Street with little difficulty, a quiet backwater near the park, tall Victorian town houses in their own grounds.
Professor Soames's premises were certainly imposing and the flat-roofed extensions at the rear of the house looked as if they had only been recently completed.
The large double gates stood open and Anne drove past and parked the car in a small cul-de-sac a few yards along the street.
Brady looked out through the rear window to the gold-painted board fastened to the wall by the gate. It said Deepdene Nursing Home and underneath Professor H. Soames--Naturopath,
"Quite a set-up," he said.
Anne nodded and switched off the engine. "What now?"
He shrugged. "I'll just walk in and ask to see him. Pretend to be a prospective patient. It's the only way to handle it."
"And then?"
Brady grinned. "I think he'll see reason. If he's running a place like this, scandal's the last thing he'll want."
She
shook her head decidedly. "It's no good. Perhaps he isn't available today. He may even be out of town."
"Then what do you suggest?"
She shrugged. "It's obvious. I go in first and ask for an appointment. If he's available, then there's no harm done. If he isn't, we can come back later." He opened his mouth to argue and she stopped it gently with one hand. "The less people see of your face, the better."
She got out of the car and closed the door. As she started to move away, she paused and took the car keys from her purse. "Here, you'd better have these," she said. "Just in case you have to move in a hurry."
After she had gone, Brady lit a cigarette and settled back in his seat to wait. She was quite right, of course. There was no sense in his simply walking in, taking the risk that someone might recognize him and all to no purpose. Certainly there could be no danger for the girl in simply asking for an appointment. At least he would know whether Soames was available or not.
There was an old newspaper in the glove compartment and he worked his way through it systematically, killing time as he waited.
He only really started to feel uneasy when an hour had gone by. He lit another cigarette and looked back through the rear window at the gate, but there was no sign of her and he cursed and turned back to check the clock on the dashboard.
Which ever way he looked at it, something had obviously gone wrong. He gave her another twenty minutes and then got out of the car, locked the door and slipped the keys into the ticket pocket of his pants.
The street was quiet and deserted as he crossed to the gates and entered. There was still a fine drizzle falling and he followed the broad sweep of the gravel drive and mounted the steps to the front door.
It opened to his touch and he passed through into a pleasant, carpeted hall. A low, contemporary desk stood in one corner and a young woman was absorbed in sorting a card index.
She was extremely attractive, with red-gold hair swinging shoulder-length, and wore a white medical smock which gaped at the neck as she bent over, revealing the deep valley between her breasts.
She glanced up and smiled professionally. "Yes, sir?"
"I wonder if I might see Professor Soames?" he said.
"I'm afraid the professor only sees patients by appointment, sir."
"I realize that," Brady told her. "But a friend of mine recommended me to try him. I've had a history of back trouble and severe pain for several years now since an old injury."
"I'm afraid the professor is booked-up for today," she said. "However, we do have several other perfectly competent naturopaths on our staff."
"It must be the professor," Brady said emphatically. "He's the only one who can help me. I'm convinced of that after what my friend told me."
She sighed and made a note on a pad. "If you'll give me your name, sir. I'll see what I can do."
"Harlow," Brady said. "George Harlow."
She wrote it down and then swivelled in her chair, uncrossing her silk-clad legs, and got to her feet in one fluid movement. "Please take a seat, Mr. Harlow. I shan't be a moment."
She walked across the hall with an easy, confident grace and opened a door. As it closed, Brady grinned and sat on the edge of the desk. If she was a sample of the staff, this must be quite a place.
There was an appointment register lying open beside the card index and he turned it round quickly and ran a finger down the page. There was no sign of an appointment in Anne's name and he frowned and turned the register round again.
"Will you come this way, Mr. Harlow? I think we can fit you in."
The girl had approached soundlessly, her footsteps deadened by the thick carpet. She gave no sign that she had seen him examining the register and yet she must have done.
Brady smiled. "It's very kind of you to go to so much trouble."
She led the way along a narrow corridor which led into the extension at the rear and opened a door. Brady walked in and found himself in a small, comfortably furnished dressing-room.
"Someone will be with you in just a moment, Mr. Harlow. Perhaps you'd like to get undressed. You'll find a bathrobe behind the door."
"Undressed?" Brady said. "Is that really necessary?"
"Professor Soames prefers patients to be completely relaxed before an examination," she explained. "You'll spend a little time in the steam room and have a relaxing massage. The professor will see you afterwards."
The door closed behind her and Brady shrugged and took off his coat. If this was the only way open to him of getting to see Soames then he had no choice.
He wrapped a towel about his waist and put on the bathrobe and waited. A few minutes later, the door opened and another young woman wearing a white medical smock tightly belted at the waist, came in.
She was, if anything, even more attractive than the receptionist. The smock was damp with moisture and clung to her figure, moulding each curve.
She pushed a tendril of dark hair back from her forehead and smiled. "Mr. Harlow, will you come this way, please?"
As he followed her along the corridor, Brady wondered just how relaxed the professor expected his patients to be. The girl opened a swing door and they passed straight into a long tiled room, thick with steam.
A squat, obese old gentleman with a towel about his waist, passed them, another attractive young woman in white smock assisting him. Each side of the room was lined with cubicles, the interiors masked by plastic curtains.
An atmosphere of brooding quiet hung over the place and then a woman laughed as they passed one of the cubicles. Brady turned his head quickly and noticed that the curtain wasn't properly drawn.
Another fat and aging gentleman lay face down on a couch while a young woman massaged him. She wasn't wearing her white smock. In fact she wasn't wearing anything.
Things were becoming a little clearer. At least it was possible to understand how Soames could have a connexion with a man like Das.
The girl went through another swing door and they entered a quiet white-tiled corridor. There was a door at the end marked private and she opened it and Brady followed her in.
This room was also white-tiled and heavy with steam. There was a shower stall in one corner and a large padded table in the centre.
The man who stood beside it wore only bathing shorts and his body was strong and powerful, muscles standing out like great knots. The face was heavyboned and hard, eyes cold, hair close-eropped to the skull.
"This is Mr. Harlow, Karl," the girl said. "Will you get him ready? The professor will be along in ten minutes."
Karl's English was good, but with a heavy German accent. "You will please take off your bathrobe," he said politely.
Brady obliged and the German led him across to the shower stall and pushed him inside. The heavy glass door closed and a score of needle jets came to life and played upon his body forcefully.
It was not only that the water was ice-cold, the jets themselves were physically painful. He stuck it for two or three minutes and then tried to open the door.
It was locked. He hammered on the glass and Karl frowned his surprise, pointed to his watch and shook his head. The German turned a valve and the jets increased in force until Brady was crouched down on the floor, gasping with breath, fighting against the agony.
When the door opened, he fell on to the floor and the German lifted him and grinned, exposing bad teeth. "How do you feel now, Mr. Harlow?"
"More dead than alive," Brady gasped. "Is that supposed to do me good?"
The German grinned again. "Oh, no, Mr. Brady. It's supposed to soften you up."
Brady was not really conscious of the blow itself, simply of something exploding in the pit of his stomach and then the white tiles lifted to meet him.
He was not unconscious because he could hear voices far away in the distance as the pain swelled in his body to a peak of agony and then retreated like the tide. Slowly the blackness turned to grey and then he was aware of the light directly above his head, set in the ceiling like some baleful eye,
its rays diffused by the steam.
There was no longer pain, only a warmth spreading throughout his body as expert hands massaged his stomach muscles. He groaned and tried to get up. A hand pushed him back down and a harsh American voice said, "Take it easy, lover. You're doing fine."
He closed his eyes, breathed deeply for a moment or two, opened them again.
A woman leaned over him, but such a woman as he had never seen before. Long black hair framed a man's face, hard and big-boned with a wide, fleshy mouth.
She was well over six feet in height and the sleeves of her white smock were rolled back to expose biceps a wrestler might have envied.
"Who the hell are you?" Brady said.
"Soames," she said calmly. "I guess you got my sex wrong, lover."
Brady sat up and rubbed his stomach. "I suppose Das telephoned you from Manningham?"
She nodded. "I never thought you'd make it, not with the dragnet the cops have got out for you. You must be quite a man, lover."
Brady hesitated for a moment. "There was a girl. She tried to see you earlier. What happened to her?"
Soames grinned. "I thought there was a connexion. She got my sex wrong, too. Said she'd been recommended to see me by a satisfied patient. It just didn't jell. I only handle men."
"I bet you do," Brady said. "Is the girl all right?''
She nodded. "For the time being."
Her words carried an implied threat, but there was little he could do about it at the moment. He tightened the towel at his waist and stood up. "What now?"
She opened the door and the German stepped into the room. "Karl will take you to get dressed. When you're ready, he'll bring you to my private office for a chat." She paused in the doorway. "Don't try to make a run for it, lover. I wouldn't want to have you roughed up again. It isn't often I get the chance of having a chat with someone from the old country."
When she had gone, Brady turned to the German and raised his right fist. "Any time you feel like trying again, just say the word."
Karl tossed Brady's bathrobe into his face. "Put that on, and hurry."
He was wearing a tee shirt, white jacket and pants. Brady grinned. "You look real pretty, Karl. I bet the old boys go for you in a big way."
