by John Creasey
Mary Brent looked at him, and for some reason tears filled her eyes.
“No—no.” Her hands clenched, now, as she struggled for control. “When he heard of it he—oh, I’m sorry. He—thought it funny. We—we laughed——”
Burke felt a lump rise in his throat. This was the devil of a job. He waited until her hands relaxed.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. This hardly fitted in, he was thinking, with the theory that Staren had been behind the murders. Staren might have killed Fordham because of the concession and the marriage, but it wasn’t likely he would have killed Brent for a part—and, after all, a minor part—in the concession affair.
Mary Brent drew deeply on her cigarette.
“Is that all?” she asked, tautly.
Burke regarded her gravely.
“What are you going to do, Miss Brent? Go back to——”
“No, no! I couldn’t stand it. I always hated the place. It’s dark, gloomy.” She shivered. “It would remind me——”
She broke off, and there was reproach in her eyes. Why had he asked that question?
“It wasn’t just curiosity,” Burke said gently. “A friend of mine—a good friend—lives in Surrey. Quiet, open, restful.” He had never been much good at this sort of thing. “What I mean is, well, if you’d care to——”
The reproach left her eyes.
“That’s wonderful of you,” she said warmly. “But—”
“Supposing I ask her to come and see you?”
“Her?”
“Oh—yes.” He smiled. “We’re engaged. You’ll find her very—understanding.”
Mary Brent smiled back, for the first time with real amusement.
“I’m sure I should. But will she—like it?”
“She’ll be here this afternoon,” Burke promised. As he rose to go, the telephone rang. She hesitated, and he gestured towards the instrument.
“Carry on, please,” he said.
Mary Brent took up the telephone, and again Burke marvelled at her nerve. Her voice was clear and steady.
“Hallo?—yes.”
Burke noticed her obvious dismay even before she glanced up at him in mute appeal.
“Yes—yes,” she said, with visible reluctance. “Ask him to come up, please.”
She replaced the receiver, and turned to Burke.
“It’s a friend of mine. From Cottesdon.”
“You’re not anxious to see him?” Burke’s smile robbed the words of any offensiveness.
“No—o. Somehow I’m not, although perhaps I shouldn’t say it to you——”
“Is he a—business friend of your father’s?”
“No, nothing like that. Just—a friend. He lives in Cottesdon. You remember I told you someone shouted, last night, from the inn?”
“Yes,” said Burke.
“That was Tommy. He’ll—he’ll be bursting to do something and he just—can’t.”
A suspicion of a smile lurked in Burke’s eyes.
“Supposing you flop in that chair, Miss Brent, and look all in? I’ll send for a doctor——”
A knock sounded and as the door-handle moved, she nodded quickly, dropped into the chair, and closed her eyes. She looked ill; there was not much need for her to pretend, Burke thought.
A bell-boy opened the door and a stocky man of perhaps twenty-five walked in. Burke could understand why Mary Brent had not wanted to see him. He was agitated, and he blinked a lot. His flaming red hair looked as if it had not been properly brushed or combed for days, and the expression on his freckled face was comical in its concern as his glance fell on the listless figure of Mary Brent.
“Oh, my God!” he gasped. “Has she fainted, or something? Good grief, man, don’t stand there doing nothing! She’s ill—it’s obvious! Mary—Mary!”
He took a step towards her, but Burke gripped his forearm—a hard, muscular arm, he noted. The younger man didn’t try to jerk away. He looked up and Burke saw a face that would, in normal circumstances, have been cheerful and commonplace.
“Steady on,” Burke told him. “I’m just going to call a doctor.”
“I should damned well think so!” snapped the newcomer. “Damned disgrace, pestering the girl when she’s—she’s—”
“Keep up that senseless din,” said Burke bitingly, “and I’ll kick you out. Now quieten down a minute.”
Tommy swallowed hard and grinned, shamefaced.
“Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t think. But—poor kid——”
“She’ll be all right,” Burke assured him. The bell-boy was still standing by the open door. “Bring some water, will you?”
“Yes, sir.” The man disappeared, and Burke crossed to the telephone. He called Mayfair 91326 and a drawling voice answered:
“Let it come—”
“Doctor Arran,” said Burke, poker-faced.
“What the blankety-hell?”
“Good,” said Burke, “Could you come at once to the Claycourt Hotel, Victoria? Room 54. I——”
“Burke,” Timothy Arran was no longer drawling: “if you try any more of these damn’ fool tricks—”
“Thank you, doctor,” said Burke. “It’s not serious, I think. But I should be very glad to have your opinion. The Claycourt... that’s right... Room 54.”
“You ruddy lunatic!” said Timothy Arran. “If—oh! Oh, yes. I’ll be there.”
It had finally dawned, Burke thought with a smile. Timothy was getting rusty. He turned to Mary’s friend Tommy as he replaced the receiver.
“He’ll be along in ten minutes or so, Mr——”
“Wigham. Good, oh, good!” Tommy’s pug nose and freckles disappeared behind a large handkerchief for a moment.
“Perhaps you’d better wait downstairs until Miss Brent’s feeling better,” said Burke, firmly ushering him out.
He closed the door, and Mary Brent promptly sat up. Again, there was a lack of strain in her smile: The arrival of Tommy Wigham had done her good. Until then, she had been too full of her grief to think of anything but the death of her father. If it had lasted too long it would have led to a breakdown. Now, Burke guessed, she would be very bright for a few hours, and then the reaction would come. The remedy was—Patricia.
“Was that really a doctor?” Mary asked.
“No,” Burke smiled. “A friend of mine. Now, while we’re waiting for him, may I telephone my fiancée?”
“Jim!” Patricia’s voice was warm and vibrant as she recognised who was speaking.
“Pat, I’ve a job for you. No, nothing energetic. I’d like you to have a guest at Byways, for a few days.”
“Is she there now?”
“Yes.” Burke smiled. Only Patricia, he thought lovingly, would have grasped the point so quickly.
“Then don’t say anything more,” she told him. “Where shall I come? Or will you bring her here?”
“You come, will you? In case I’m not here, it’s Miss Mary Brent, Room 54, Claycourt Hotel, Victoria. Opposite the Metropole. Yes, soon as you can——”
“It’s half past twelve now: I’ll be there about two. Jim—are you going abroad?”
“Not yet, anyhow.”
“Hooray for that,” said Patricia. “Good-bye.”
“That’s fixed,” Burke told Mary, replacing the receiver. “No—please don’t. Thanks aren’t important—you’ll like Pat.”
Mary Brent smiled. This big man did things with an almost startling ease and confidence. His ‘Pat’ was lucky——
Just ten minutes later, Timothy Arran arrived, a little ashamed at his slowness in taking his cue. Burke gave him his instructions, and then the two of them left Mary alone and went down to tell Tommy Wigham that she must not be excited in any way. She must see no one for at least forty-eight hours.
“Oh, hell!” protested Tommy Wigham, miserably. “Not even a couple of minutes——?”
“Not at all.” Timothy Arran—a small, very handsome man who dressed exquisitely—was professionally firm. “I’m sorry,
but—the shock, you know——”
Tommy scowled.
“Well, I’d better get back. Oh, damn! But look—how will I know how she’s getting on?”
“Telephone Doctor Arran,” said Burke, straightfaced.
“Mayfair 91326,” supplied Timothy.
Tommy’s face brightened.
“Ah, thanks doctor, thanks! I wouldn’t go back, but I must—damned busy, just now. Poor old Mary! Tough luck——”
They saw him into Victoria Underground Station, and as the stocky, untidy and still-agitated figure disappeared, Burke murmured:
“There goes a lad in love with a girl who doesn’t love him. It’s sad.”
“Good for him,” said Timothy stoutly. “Sober him up.”
“Tim,” Burke drawled, affably. “If I tried for a month I couldn’t be as slow as you were on the ‘phone. Go and get a drink, and then go back to the hotel. Patricia will be along about two, and you can introduce her to Miss Brent.”
Timothy stared.
“But——”
“Pat’s looking after her for a few days,” said Burke.
“But why?”
“Good God!” said Burke. “You listen, Tim. Do you know who Mary Brent is?”
Timothy Arran drew a deep breath.
“You know damn’ well I’ve never seen the girl in my life! I don’t know a damned thing about the whole blazing business, and I—”
“Listen,” said Burke.
Five minutes later a subdued Timothy went to get his drink, while Jim Burke returned to the hotel, and told Mary Brent that Arran would be there to introduce her to Patricia.
Then added awkwardly, diffident as only a big man can be; “I—I’d like just to say I’m—well, how sorry I am.”
Mary Brent smiled gravely up at him.
“Thanks—thank you more than I can say.”
“Please don’t,” said Burke. “Just talk to Pat. And I’ll see you, soon.”
They shook hands, and Mary Brent’s eyes were very bright as she watched him go.
Poor kid, Burke was thinking, as he went into the street. Then his lips tightened, as his thoughts turned to the next job in hand.
“And now, Fordham’s wife,” he muttered, bleakly.
As he spoke, he looked across the road—and saw a man of medium height, dressed in sober grey, leave the steps of the Metropole Theatre and cross the road. The thin-faced man who had followed him from Whitehall.
“Now that,” thought Burke, “is interesting.”
His mind flew to the shot that had lamed Bruno.
He was being followed, and it was reasonable to assume that his shadower knew something about the shot that morning—always assuming that it hadn’t been an accident.
Burke didn’t think it had.
And he knew that whoever his thin-faced trailer was, he hadn’t started to follow him because he had been called in on the Fordham affair. There hadn’t been time for that.
“So,” thought Burke, as he hired a cab after making sure there was one handy for the other man, “he’s been following me because I might be on the Fordham affair. So he—or someone he’s working for—realised the Department would get in on this, and guessed I’d be called in on it.”
The more he considered the start of this affair, the less he liked the look of it.
His cab moved off—and the other followed quickly.
6
A SHOCK FOR A SHADOW
Burke rarely had any objection to being followed about London. At times it amused him. But having just left the grief-stricken Mary Brent, he felt singularly lacking in humour.
Craigie, the Arrans, or any others of those who saw Burke when he threw off his mask of a genial but dull young man with a passion for travelling and a devotion to games, knew there was a ruthlessness about him that was often devastating. He would work on, quietly and thoroughly, accepting the pin-pricks of the opposition—in this case, he was sure, the murderers of Fordham and Brent—with something approaching resignation. No gibing or enticing could make him alter the rate of his progress until he felt like it.
That point reached, Burke was a different man.
He acted—he smashed. If convinced he was working against the right man and his cause was just, he went like a battering ram at his objective. At which time it would be realised that through all his apparent passivity, he had been working to make the ramparts of the enemy (to quote Timothy Arran) ready to crumble at his onslaught. In effect, he annihilated his opponents.
There were degrees in this process of annihilation, of course, and that day he displayed his ruthlessness in only a mild degree.
That didn’t mean he was feeling mild. He was feeling savage; for which reason he decided to postpone his interview with Katrina Fordham, and deal with Thin Face.
He directed the cabby to his Brook Street flat, and lingered on the doorstep long enough to make sure the pursuing cabby had not lost him. Then he continued to the second floor, where his front door was opened by a smiling and cheerful gentleman by the name of Pete Carter.
The story of Pete Carter has been told. Once, he had been a gentleman of low taste, both in the matter of earning a living, which he had contrived illegally, and in matters sartorial—including an appetite for huge brown boots and broad-brimmed bowler hats. Now, he was as honest as the day, and proud of it. He wore sober black boots (but still boots; there were some habits that even Burke could not break) and his hats were all black Homburgs, which contrasted delightfully with his red, round face, and the fortune in gold fillings he displayed with each smile. He was a plump man, neither tall nor short.
He smiled a lot at Burke. He owed a lot to Burke.
“I wondered when you’d come, Mr. B.,” he greeted him.
“Hallo, Sam,” said Burke.
Very fleetingly, an expression crossed Pete Carter’s face; a mixture of pain and reproach. But he had been swallowing those emotions for a long time now, and he was almost inured to being called ‘Sam’. Still, since for forty-three years he had been known by his rightful name of Pete, the inuring was naturally a long process.
“Me name’s Pete,” he said now, more by habit than in hope. “What time would yer like yer lunch, Mr. B.?”
Burke winked at him and gripping his arm, led him to a window overlooking Brook Street. Twenty yards away, a cab was standing and ten yards from the cab, a man was walking.
“See him?” said Burke.
“De guy wid the spotted tie?”
“Sam,” Burke reproved, “you’re slipping back. No. The gentleman with the dark grey suit.”
“Sorry, Mr B. I kinder——”
“Kind of,” said Burke, automatically. “I don’t like that man, Sam. Go out the back way, will you? Walk along the street, and ask for a match.”
“Ask ‘im for a match?” asked Sam (by which name, since Burke would use no other he will be known throughout this narrative).
“Yes—ask him for a match.”
“Supposing he don’t smoke, Mr B.?”
“Blast you, Sam,” Burke said cheerfully. He had a fault of always assuming that others would know what he was driving at, without explanation. “Go and ask him for a match, and then jam something in his ribs. Got it?”
Sam blinked.
“Yer want him up here, do yer?”
“Well done, Sam. I do. Badly. Scare the life out of the runt, and if he shows fight, clout him. I’ll cover you.”
“O.K. with me,” said Sam, gleefully. “Gee! I ’ope he wants to mix it——”
“You’re a bloodthirsty son of a gun,” Burke told him. “Get to it, Sam; I’m in a hurry,”
Sam went out. Burke could hear him opening the door of the tiny kitchen, and descending the fire escape that led to the courtyard behind the flat. Burke stayed by the window. Thin Face was walking slowly up and down, apparently taking no notice of Burke’s flat.
From behind the curtain, Burke studied him carefully. The man’s jaws were lantern, his cheeks deep hol
lows. Not once did he glance up at the flat.
“Ah,” Burke smiled grimly to himself. “Here’s Sam.”
Sam Carter was marching briskly along the street, a scowl on his face. He had a cigarette in his mouth, and was obviously searching his pockets for a match. As he approached Thin Face he stopped, hesitated, displayed his teeth liberally, and spoke.
Thin Face obligingly put his hand in his pocket.
And then Sam jabbed the stem of a pipe into his middle. Burke grinned, guessing at the muttered command he could not hear. Thin Face dropped back a pace, and glanced quickly to the right and left. Sam, pipe in pocket, prodded him again and Thin Face seemed to tense his muscles. And then:
“Good afternoon, Mr. Burke,” said a voice from the doorway.
Burke didn’t start; and once again he was glad he had trained himself perfectly not to display surprise. But as he turned slowly from the window, his heart was pumping fast.
For the man at the door held a gun.
* * *
The man was short, and well-dressed, possessing that indefinable air that does, no matter what is said to the contrary, suggest that its possessor is a gentleman. His face was clean-shaven fresh-coloured but with an oddly perfect, creamy complexion, his eyes were neither large nor small, and his lips were full and red. He was smiling, as though with satisfaction.
“Do sit down,” said Burke drily, after a short, silent interval. He hadn’t recovered from the shock of seeing the man, but it had not been enough to make him lose control, or stop thinking. It took a lot to stop Burke from thinking. Now he was trying to place the stranger—and failing.
“No thanks,” said that gentleman. “I’ve only come for a minute.” He smiled cheerfully. “It was thoughtful of you to send your man out, Burke. Deuced thoughtful. I wouldn’t like to tackle both of you.”
“Some people have found one of us a bit of a job,” said Burke. “Besides, you could have used your friend outside.”
“Oh, no,” said the stranger, still cheerfully. “And don’t try to get at the ink stand on the desk—really, I’m above that. Thanks.” He beamed as Burke stopped moving his right hand behind him. “What was I saying? Oh, about Curson, outside. He’s a good fellow. I shouldn’t like to lose him in a—scuffle, shall we say? And I haven’t been able to persuade him to use a gun.”
