“He said in case I changed my mind, his man would be at Tower Hill just the same. If I told the police and his man was arrested, it’d be the worse for me in the end, and it’d be bad for Pat too.”
“He’s alive, then?”
There was a shake in her voice when she answered. “Yes . . . and they’ve got him, you see. Well, he said if I didn’t change my mind he . . . he’d get me. He said I couldn’t stay indoors for ever, and the first time I went out, I wouldn’t come back. He told me in detail what he would do to me. It didn’t sound—nice. So what do I do now?”
Shaw thought: She’s got one hell of a lot of pluck, that girl. Except when he’d mentioned MacNamara, she’d sounded fine and steady, though he could sense the terrible strain that was in her. He said, “Listen carefully. Miss Ross. They’re not going to get you. Stop even thinking about that. You’ve done a very brave thing in ringing me at all, considering that threat, and I’d like you to go on being that way. Now, what I want to know is this: After the man had made the threat about MacNamara, did you change your mind about keeping the rendezvous?”
She said hesitantly, “I—I think I did, but I didn’t say that to the man. But you mean you’d like me to keep it, don’t you? Well, I’m willing to help, if it’s going to help Pat.”
“Good girl!” he said tautly. “You can help a lot, and you won’t be on your own if you do, I promise you. Will you? Think carefully now, and remember it can still be dangerous-”
She broke in, “I said I would and I meant it.”
“Right. Listen carefully. I’ll have you under constant observation from the moment you leave Oakley Street—there’s already a man watching your flat, by the way, and he’ll be behind you, or some one will, all the way. Get on the District Line at Sloane Square. There’ll be one of our chaps at Tower Hill, and I shan’t be far away myself.”
“Won’t they suspect something?”
“Well, they won’t feel quite certain you haven’t in fact told the police, of course, in spite of the threat. They’ll be taking a chance—a calculated risk, I suppose. It looks as though they felt this was the best bet—that it was essential to get hold of you at all costs.” He added, “They’ll never spot our chaps, though, so don’t worry. They’ll obviously have plenty of ways of throwing a possible pursuit off the beam, too, but there again, we’re pretty good at dealing with that sort of thing—we’ve got to be! We’re going to pull this off, Miss Ross, you and my department between us.”
She said, “I’ll do my best.”
“I know you will.” He spoke encouragingly, but his knuckles whitened on the handset. “All you’ve got to do is to follow out exactly what the man told you and be on the eastbound platform at Tower Hill at eleven-thirty. You won’t see me, and you won’t feel there’s any help at hand—but it will be there just the same. So don’t worry. All right?”
“Yes.”
“Fine! I’ll get things organized right away. You just sit tight till you leave for Sloane Square.”
As Shaw put down the receiver he felt he’d done just about the hardest job he’d ever been called upon to do. His hands were sweating; the receiver, as he jammed it back on its rest, was hot and sticky. Inside himself he knew he was doing right, doing the only possible thing from the standpoint of the Outfit and the execution of his assignment. If the worst came to the worst Gillian Ross might even have to suffer, the one going down in the interests of the many. There was nothing unique about that kind of situation, of course; somewhere along the line it always cropped up and had to be faced; but with a girl it was different, so much worse. As that receiver went down Shaw’s face was hard, his lips tight, bloodless. Gillian Ross wasn’t going to suffer if he could help it—but any human being could slip up.
His hand went out for the other phone, the personal ‘hush’ line to the Admiralty and Latymer himself. He asked for the closed extension to Eaton Square, and within the minute he was talking to Latymer.
Latymer barked, “Ah—Shaw. Want to know about last night, I suppose—well, there was nothing in the Rogue’s Gallery. The albino was brought in and Carberry went down to the station to see him. He’s been efficiently grilled, but he’s not opening his mouth and no one can prove anything.”
“Are they holding him, sir?”
“No, dammit, they can’t. Nothing to hold him on. It’s your word against his, and he’s got witnesses who’ll swear nothing funny was going on at all.”
“Well, it can’t be helped. Anyway, sir, there’s been a big development this end.”
“Ha. And that is?”
Shaw told him in detail.
Within ten minutes of that call, word had gone out to the man watching the Oakley Street flat that Miss Ross would leave for Sloane Square at about 10:45 a.m. and that he was to tail her there and hand her over to another agent at Sloane Square station. Orders had gone out to yet another of the Outfit’s agents to be at Tower Hill at eleven-thirty, at which time the Sloane Square tail would hand over to him as he got off the eastbound District Line train behind Gillian Ross. Plain cars equipped with two-way radio were alerted at a garage in Streatham, and in a yard behind a seedy-looking fish-shop in south-east London a red-faced man in shirtsleeves started up a van bearing the legend J. C. Grimes, Fishmonger and ran it through until the Rolls-Royce engine concealed beneath an anonymous bonnet was ticking over sweet and true. And Post Office engineers, on very high authority indeed, clapped earphones to their heads and began a listening watch on Gillian Ross’s Chelsea number—just in case.
In the meantime Shaw was dressing and listening with half an ear to the B.B.C.’s eight-o’clock news. When he caught something about Nogolia he dropped everything and concentrated. The announcer’s smooth, measured tones sounded ominous:
“Reports reaching the Foreign Office indicate a recent intensifying of the go-slow movements in all sections of the country’s industry; in particular, the copper mines are very seriously affected. Intensification of the rioting is also reported from widely dispersed areas, and the general situation is confused and uncertain. The Foreign Secretary has assured the House, in answer to questions, that a close watch is being kept on the state of affairs, but that meanwhile British subjects resident in Nogolia are being advised to remain at their posts unless the situation should deteriorate rapidly.”
And, Shaw thought with a curling lip, what then? What hope would there be of evacuating the whites once the situation did ‘deteriorate rapidly’?
Edo had to be found and his Cult smashed—quickly.
After a breakfast of bacon and eggs and toast and steaming hot coffee, Shaw felt more relaxed. He telephoned Albany Street as promised to let Debonnair know he’d survived the Ship’s Biscuit He had that odd feeling that he wasn’t going to be seeing her again for a long, long while... he shook himself out of that, rang off, and started to check the Webley .38, which he was now using since it was less bulky than a Service revolver. He cleaned it carefully, reloaded it, laid it ready in the shoulder-holster with a good supply of spare ammunition handy.
Just before eleven-thirty a long black Jaguar purred up Great Tower Street and pulled in near the entrance to Tower Hill station.
Two heavily built men got out, a third man remained behind the wheel, a nervous tic making his upper lip twitch continually.
One of the men, throwing away a cigarette-butt and grinding it with his heel, put his head in casually at the driving-window and said between his teeth, “Righto, Lucky boy. Pull ’er ahead a bit. Give us five minutes from now. If we’re not back in the car then—scarper. Something’ll ’ave gone wrong and the more we split up the better. Don’t worry about us—we’ll handle our end. If a copper asks questions about your parking, do as he tells you, don’t answer back but get rid of ’im quick as you can. If you ’ave to move, I’m not fussy but keep ’andy. I’ll be watching you. Okay, Lucky?”
“Sure.” The driver, a thin, undersized man with a receding chin and wearing a chauffeur’s livery, spat deftly th
rough the window. “What if the skirt’s talked, though?”
The big man looked irritated. “She won’t have. But it makes no odds really if she has. I told you. They won’t start anything here—they’ll tail us. Stands to reason, like Canasset said. Only thing is, they’ve not got to keep behind us too long. Shakin’ off the tail if there is one, that’s up to you, ain’t it!” He gave a coarse laugh and then walked away with his companion. They crossed the road and became apparently deeply engaged in watching some men at work on building operations. Unobtrusively they kept a sharp look-out on the station exit, and both of them kept their right hands in their coat-pockets.
As they waited the eastbound District Line train from Richmond sped, rattling and rocking, out of Cannon Street for the Monument. Gillian Ross, pale but composed, was in the second coach from the rear of the train. The regular rattle of the wheels made tunes in her head, tunes of foreboding. Inside, she was thoroughly frightened; outwardly, except for that pallor, she kept the calmness, the hard exterior that she’d been accustomed to showing the world for so long now. The coach was fairly crowded even at this time of day. Men and women read newspapers, or stared without interest at one another, almost unconsciously, seeing nothing but their own thoughts. But there were two men who were very aware of Gillian Ross the whole time though, in fact, their eyes were looking anywhere but at the girl. One, sitting four seats down on the opposite side, a comfortable-looking man, fat and with a beaming face, and mild eyes behind heavyframed glasses, was studying the adverts over Gillian’s head. There was a string-bag full of books down by his feet. The other man, a tall man with a thin, pale face and a bowler hat a size or so too large for him so that it appeared to rest on his ears, stood leaning back against the glass partition farther up the coach, clutching a briefcase as though it contained the crown jewels, and with his nose buried in The Times.
The train rushed on, then slowed for Tower Hill.
It was approaching destiny.
It eased to a stop, and the doors slid back. Gillian got up, just a little unsteadily, clutching at her handbag as at some frail straw of safe familiarity in what was becoming a very strange and frightening world. The man with the briefcase got out immediately behind her, appeared suddenly to recognize her, gave a gasp of surprise, and put a hand on her arm.
She swung round.
The man grinned down at her, said in a loud haw-haw voice, “I say, it’s you, m’dear . . . do you know, I never saw you. I’m terribly sorry. You’d better join me, hadn’t you. I’ve got the car waiting. . . .”
She looked at him, her lips tight, challenging despite those jumpy nerves. The man’s eyes said, You’d better or else. . . .
She nodded, and he took her arm in a fatherly grip.
From the far end of the platform a man came casually along, exchanged a glance with the fat, beaming man who had also got off the train, carrying his string-bag. The beaming man stopped the other and asked for a light. As the other man held out the match the fat tail from Sloane Square said softly, “That’s her, just going out of the barrier with the tall gent in the bowler.” Louder, jovially, he said, “Thanks so much, very good of you.”
His benefactor moved away slowly and, keeping his distance, followed Gillian Ross and the bowler hat out through the barrier, losing himself in the crowd.
CHAPTER NINE
Gillian Ross and her escort climbed the steps. The girl was really scared now, her glances darting to left and right as she walked along beside the tall man.
Behind them, discreetly, came the Outfit’s tail, the man who had been on the eastbound platform as the train drew in. Outside the entrance he bought a newspaper, scanned the headlines as he ambled along. The tall man and the girl walked away to the left in the direction of the Tower, and the two hefty men strolled away from the building excavations, following on behind Gillian Ross and making towards the black Jaguar.
The Outfit’s man stopped as though he had forgotten something, then turned back clicking his tongue in annoyance and walked away in the opposite direction, passing the two hefty men as he did so. He went right back to the corner of Mark Lane and turned up it, glancing back casually and without interest from the corner. He saw the girl getting into the Jaguar with the other men. Making for a small blue Morris, he got in beside the driver.
He said with satisfaction, “Got her. Black Jag, 123 XKV, headed east.”
The driver nodded, let in his clutch and nosed out of Mark Lane. Coming out into Great Tower Street he saw tl‘ Jaguar turning round Trinity Square to come down Cooper Row towards Tower Hill. No one in the Jaguar was looking at the Morris as the big car came down past them, making for Eastcheap and the Monument.
As they approached the junction, the man beside the driver of the Morris picked up a hand microphone and flicked a switch. Keeping his eyes on the Jaguar he said, “Olga calling Redfern . . . Olga calling Redfern . . . over.”
The reply came quickly, a little muzzy with interference. “Redfern acknowledging, Redfern acknowledging... come in, Olga. Over.”
The man said, “Black Jaguar, 123 XKV, four men, girl in rear seat centre. Men almost certainly armed. They are turning north out of Eastcheap into Gracechurch Street now. Over.”
“Message received. Am now in Cornhill, will wait further broadcast but am standing by to take over.”
A little later the man in the Morris said, “Olga calling Redfern— Jaguar now turning into Leadenhall Street. Will you take over, please. Over and out.”
The set clicked off and Redfern acknowledged. Staring ahead, the man in the Morris watched a grey Standard Ten cross the head of Gracechurch Street into Leadenhall Street just before the lights changed. When they changed again the Morris went straight on into Bishopsgate and lost interest in the proceedings. The grey Standard cruised along behind the Jaguar, followed it across Aldgate and the top of Hounds-ditch, where it gathered speed down Aldgate High Street and Whitechapel High Street, then veered to the right into the Commercial Road. In Sidney Street, farther along, another car waited, its passenger listening to a broadcast from the Standard which told him that the Jaguar was now moving into his area. In districts north, south, and west of Tower Hill other men listened and heard that they would not be needed after all, that the chase was moving away from their pre-arranged positions. As the receiver in the Sidney Street car died, the passenger nodded to his driver and the fresh car pulled out a little ahead of the Jaguar and then allowed itself to be overtaken as the Jaguar went fast under the railway bridge by Stepney East and the Regent’s Canal Dock.
In the Rolls-Royce-engined van marked J. C. Grimes, Fishmonger, Shaw had been keeping a listening watch on all reports, and Thompson, his driver, had kept the van in the general vicinity of the Jaguar without ever once coming across its track so that he could be seen; the idea being that when the cue came through they could take over for what Shaw hoped would be the kill. He would take over once they were well clear of Tower Hill, and he felt reasonably confident that a fishmonger’s van appearing on the scene some while after the Jaguar had started on its journey would not be remarked upon. Twisting in his seat towards two men crouched in the back he spoke to one of them, “All right, Pelly?”
“We’re fine, sir, apart from the stink of fish.”
Shaw grinned slightly and nodded. To Thompson he said, “She’s fast. Think you can keep behind her all right? They may open up more later on if they’re heading out of London, and we’ll probably have a longer run than the others anyway.”
Thompson said, “You’re not worried with this little beauty, sir, are you? It’s easy. Only trouble’s going to be the traffic.”
His hairy brown hand reached for the gear-shift, and the van moved on across some traffic-lights. Shaw glanced sideways at him, saw the steady eyes, watchful of the road ahead now. Thompson, the ex-Petty Officer who had once been Latymer’s own coxswain when the Old Man had last commanded a ship at sea, and who was now his personal driver, was just about the best hand behind a whe
el that Shaw had ever known, and that was why he’d asked Latymer to let him have him for this job.
In the back of the Jaguar the girl sat between the two men, one of whom held a revolver pressed into her side. They didn’t speak; now and again one or the other of them turned and looked over his shoulder through the rear window. The driver, too, kept glancing into his mirror. But there was no sign of any pursuit, no car that appeared to keep behind more than ordinarily long.
As the Jaguar went deeper into London’s East End, Gillian Ross felt her stomach turn to water. Her mouth was trembling. After a while she asked, “Where are we going?”
The man on her right gave a soft laugh. He said, “You’ll find out soon enough. You’ll be going a long way, sister.”
In the fishmonger’s van the radio crackled in Shaw’s ears, and he listened, then flicked a switch.
He said, “Rescue answering Vanity... message received. Very good, will take over now.”
Switching off, he said, “Right, Thompson, we’re in. They’re in Limehouse, heading along the East India Dock Road. Get on to ’em now.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Thompson put his foot down, going as fast as he could through a maze of back streets. Soon after, the van took a right-hand turn into the East India Dock Road.
Shaw watched anxiously. “Can’t see her, Thompson.”
A moment later Thompson said, “She’s coming up behind now.”
Shaw relaxed, sat back in his seat. He said, “Good! She’s all yours, then. I’ll leave it to you—you know the best distance!”
“Don’t you worry, sir.”
The Jaguar overtook the van and then kept straight ahead for a while. Just beyond Victoria Dock Road it turned off into Silvertown Way, and then went through the criss-cross of side-streets that made up Canning Town, approaching the river again somewhere, Shaw judged, behind the Customs House in Victoria Docks.
He felt pretty confident they hadn’t been spotted, that the driver of the Jaguar had no suspicion whatever that he had been tailed by a series of cars. But, so far, it had been easy enough in those busy main thoroughfares. Now, it was trickier—much trickier. Lorries were unloading at the tall grey warehouses, and the streets were admittedly far from empty; but there wasn’t so much general traffic now. The van, innocent though it looked, might soon become a little obvious to the men ahead. On the other hand, if he dropped back too far, this was precisely the kind of neighbourhood in which the Jaguar could disappear for good. . . .
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