5

All Safe?

Garth, a few steps behind, stopped immediately as he saw Russi clearly silhouetted in the beam. He could see the outline of the man who held the torch too—and as he heard him speak, thought: Police!

‘What do you reckon you’re doing?’ Russi demanded, in a high-pitched voice. ‘Put that light out!’

‘Sorry, sir!’ The voice was deep, respectful. ‘I’m looking for …’

‘You’re not looking for me!’ snapped Russi. ‘And I don’t like being dazzled—who are you?’

‘I am a police constable, sir and …’

‘A cop, huh?’ said Russi disparagingly. Then he proceeded to protest volubly, making far more out of the incident than it warranted, obviously to give Garth breathing-space.

As the two voices alternated, Garth turned and crossed the road. But he found the going difficult without the torch to guide him. He reached Jermyn Street again and turned left: there was another alleyway leading to the building he had in mind.

But there were too many footsteps; too many people about. Walking too fast, he cannoned into a man and apologised hastily and with real alarm.

His heart was hammering against his ribs now.

Every footstep seemed a policeman’s; every moment he expected a light to shine on him, a voice demand to see what he was carrying. Once, he missed his footing and nearly fell. He reached the other alley at last, and hurried along it. He was just able to discern the white paint on the kerb, but did not know whether he had reached the right building—when he heard a heavy footstep ahead of him.

He stopped at once and stepping cautiously to one side found himself in the wide porch of an empty shop. There was no likelihood of his being seen from along the street, but if a patrolling policeman should happen along, it would be disastrous. Knowing that he had come to the end of his tether, he laid Anne’s body on the ground and pulled the mackintosh away.

Her face and blouse were pale blurs in the darkness as the footsteps, heavy and deliberate, drew nearer.

Garth went down on one knee. His fingers sought her face, ran over her smooth cold forehead. Very softly, he promised:

‘All right, my sweet. I’ll make them pay for it!’

As he rose again, the footsteps stopped and he saw a beam of light flick into a doorway up ahead: a policeman, checking the shop doors.

He was perspiring freely as he reached Jermyn Street again. He could hear no voices: presumably Russi would have returned to the flat.

He reached it himself to find the American waiting tensely in the little hall.

‘All safe?’ he asked sharply, and Garth nodded.

‘I … I think so.’

‘What in hell do you mean, think so?’ snapped Russi. ‘I didn’t go through all that for fun! And shut that goddam door!’

Startled by the outburst, Garth obeyed automatically, then walked silently to his drinks cabinet and poured two stiff whiskies. Russi followed: he looked very pale, now, and his hands were unsteady.

‘I think you need this,’ Garth told him, coldly.

‘Reckon so,’ muttered Russi. He swallowed the neat whisky at a gulp. And as he set the glass down, his large, round eyes were suddenly icy hard. Garth was sure that he saw the man now for what he was: evil, dangerous, and clever.

‘Now listen, fella,’ he went on, harshly. ‘You’ll be in bad if they ever trace this business to you. Ryall and I will speak for you, but you might be in bad. Don’t forget it!’

Garth said coolly:

‘It applies to both of us, doesn’t it?’

The American stared at him. There was a venomous glint in his eyes and Garth realised just how much he was meant to feel himself in this man’s hands. Ryall and the maid and the driver of the second taxi would doubtless deny everything, if required—even all knowledge of his visit to Wimbledon. Yet he felt cool and detached and quite unfrightened. He had glimpsed the importance of what was happening, and was suddenly convinced that he had taken the right line.

He knew it for certain, when Russi’s eyes dropped, and his manner changed.

‘Sure—it goes for both of us, right enough. I guess I owe you an apology, Garth. But that cop had me scared.’ He crossed to the cabinet, gesturing for permission, and poured himself another stiff whisky. He swallowed it down, and was suddenly more affable: more the man Ryall had introduced. ‘I hand it to you, man—you’re cool! I thought our number was up when that cop stopped me. You picked a bad spot—there’s been a burglary around here.’

‘Oh?’ said Garth calmly, and the American shook his head admiringly.

‘You’ve sure got a cool head on you! Anyway—you know the story if the cops question you? You were at Wimbledon—and I’ve never been here. Forget the message from Ryall,’ he emphasised: ‘I’ve never been here.’

Garth shrugged.

‘I’m unlikely to mention your visit,’ he said. ‘Unless …’

He paused deliberately.

‘Unless what?’ snapped Russi.

‘You let me down,’ Garth told him.

Russi gaped; then pulled himself together, affable again.

‘Now listen, Garth: I’m not a fool. I don’t know a thing about it. You were at Wimbledon: you didn’t leave till about twenty of nine—and I haven’t seen you since. You’ve nothing to worry about....’ He broke off, then: ‘Say …’ he drawled. ‘You didn’t kill her, did you? It’s just occurred to me that you might have been framing me.’

‘Don’t be a fool!’ snapped Garth. ‘How the hell could I know you’d come here? And I told you the truth.’

‘Oh, sure, sure,’ said Russi hastily. ‘I guess the whole thing’s just kinda got on my nerves.’ He smiled widely. ‘We both know where we stand. Now, I’d better beat it.’

When he had gone, Garth returned to the lounge and examined the carpet where Anne had lain. There was no sign of blood. He crossed to an easy-chair and slumped into it, for the first time realising that his head was aching dully. He felt as if he had just finished a long run; his heart was beating too fast, the blood pounding in his ears.

Anne, he thought, achingly.

He remembered his promise to her lifeless body:

I’ll make them pay for it.

And he would.

He was sure Russi knew all about it: and that Ryall was also involved. Bitterness swept over him: partly at his own gullibility, partly grief—but chiefly a desire for vengeance. God knew how, but somehow he would keep that promise to Anne.

He smoked three cigarettes in quick succession, then brewed himself some tea. He didn’t want more whisky: he wanted a clear head. Wanted to think. And gradually his thoughts turned to the cousins at the Regent Palace. The death of Anne seemed all too obviously a part of the over-all pattern. He no longer doubted the truth of anything they had told him, and only wished he had not spoken so definitely to Mike on the telephone. He eyed it now, could he possibly contact them?

A bell did ring, making him sit up abruptly. But it was the front door, not the telephone.

His mouth felt suddenly dry. But he got up at once and went to the door, switching on the hall light so he could see the face of his caller.

Two men stood there.

The first was a stranger, and for a split second his heart leapt with fear. Then he recognised ‘Mike’—who grinned his engaging grin as he said amiably:

‘Sorry we’re so late, Garth. Can you spare us a moment?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Garth stood aside, eyeing the second man.

Ryall had made a deep impression; in a different way this man, although much younger and of only medium height, did the same.

He was dressed in brown; his eyes were brown, and so was his hair. A close-clipped brown moustache covered the whole of his upper lip and beneath it, his smile held a touch of reserve. He was broad and well-knit and moved with an easy, almost cat-like grace. Garth had an impression of quiet authority, of leashed power.

‘This is Bruce Hammond,’ Mike introduced him. ‘And I’ll give you the rest of my name now. It’s Errol.’

‘Thanks,’ said Garth, flatly. ‘I’m glad we’re dispensing with the mystery.’

‘Frankness pays,’ Errol waved an airy hand.

‘Bruce is my chief, so to speak. And he’s here to do the talking.…’

‘I’d like to do some of my own,’ Garth told him, as he led the way to the lounge. And as they seated themselves, refusing his gestured offer of drinks, he added abruptly: ‘I want to take back what I said on the telephone.’

‘Oh!’ said Mike, blankly.

Hammond looked as surprised, and shot a humorous glance at Errol before saying, quietly;

‘That’s good!’ His eyes were curiously alive and intent. ‘But why the change of heart?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘A great deal.’

‘I’ve thought it over.…’ Garth began.

‘No,’ Hammond cut in. ‘That won’t do. You can refuse to tell us, and we’ve no way of compelling you—but evasion isn’t necessary. You gave Mike the impression that you were badly upset on the telephone. It’s not surprising. People who make contact with Franklin …’

‘The man I met called himself Ryall,’ Garth told him.

Hammond raised his eyebrows.

‘What was he like? Thickset, bearded—might have stepped out of Dickens?’

‘That’s the man, all right.’

‘Same fellow, different alias,’ Hammond shrugged. ‘Probably he has others. I was saying—people who make contact with him often get some nasty surprises. You’ve been told of one meeting that ended tragically.’ With no change of tone, he added: ‘Has he been blackmailing you?’

‘Not yet,’ said Garth, only to wish immediately that he had not said so much.

Hammond’s manner was disquieting in its very self-assurance; he looked a man whom nothing could shock off-balance. And it had suddenly struck Garth that he might be an official from Scotland Yard.

‘Not yet?’ echoed Hammond, with a glimmer of a smile. ‘By the sound of things, I think perhaps what Mike calls “cards on the table” would be in order. You asked whether he was a secret service agent. He is. So am I.’ Hammond took out his wallet, extracted a buff-coloured card, and handed it over: ‘My authority.’

Garth scanned the small photograph of Hammond—an exact likeness—and the brief statement signed by both the Chief Constable at Scotland Yard and the Home Secretary. It stated that Hammond had ‘full authority under Regulation 118c’. Garth had no idea what regulation that was, but the obvious hand-signatures satisfied him.

‘Want to see mine?’ offered Mike Errol, engagingly.

‘No,’ growled Garth. ‘But why didn’t you tell me before? It might have saved a lot of trouble.’

‘Mike didn’t tell you because he hadn’t the authority,’ Hammond told him quietly. ‘Since his report of your telephone message, I’ve obtained authority—and also we’ve had a run-down on your activities in the past three years. You’ve been given a good character.’ He smiled briefly. ‘In any case, it would not have been wise to tell you before you saw Fran—Ryall. He might have asked questions without giving you a chance to evade them.’

‘Operative word “might”,’ put in Mike. ‘We couldn’t be sure.’

‘It was all done quickly,’ Hammond went on. ‘Several people who have returned from America have been approached—their mail, and that of a number of others, has been watched. Yours has been opened: the letter was seen before you had it. Ryall wanted you quickly which meant there was no time for us to check up—no time to do anything more than interest you, without giving you too much information. While, naturally,’ he smiled again, ‘hoping you’d prove worth getting on the team.’

The fact that his correspondence had been opened seemed amazingly unimportant. Garth simply nodded and waited.

‘You say that Ryall hasn’t started blackmailing you, “yet”,’ Hammond continued. ‘That means you’re afraid he might try. And that suggests that he might be able to find …’

‘A skeleton in the cupboard,’ murmured Mike, and Hammond nodded.

‘That’s right. We’re not interested in any skeleton you may have in your cupboard, Garth—provided it isn’t even remotely connected with treason. What I’m telling you,’ he added quietly, ‘is that you’ve no need to fear any revelation to the police of facts disclosed to us.’

Garth stood up and moved restlessly across the room. Then stopped and said abruptly:

‘So many things have happened that I don’t know whether I’m on my head or my heels. Although one thing I’m damned sure of …’ He paused, marshalling the factors which had convinced him that Russi had known of Anne: that she had been murdered so that he would be compelled to do exactly what he was told.

Hammond was eyeing him steadily; Mike looked hopeful.

‘Well, here goes!’ he said wryly, and began to talk.

He kept nothing back.

Another man might have started with the murder of Anne. Garth started with the early days of his visit to America and his conviction that it was a mistake to hide from the American people the fact that public opinion in Britain was sometimes just as incensed by American attitudes as the Americans were by British. He touched on that only briefly, and as briefly on his recall and official reprimand. He spoke incisively, his facts marshalled and presented with a clarity that brooked no misunderstanding.

Then with no outward emotion, he described what had transpired at Wimbledon, and his discovery at the flat. He went into greater detail over Russi’s part in what had followed, describing how Russi’s manner had altered: the underlying threat in all he had said after Anne’s body had been moved.

Quietly, he emphasised:

‘I want to try to make myself understood. I haven’t had an easy time in the past month. I’ve felt the strain—and it’s obviously rattled me a bit. I think I was looking on Anne as a means of getting back to normal. Do you follow me?’

‘I do,’ said Hammond, equally serious.

‘Her attitude gave me a shock,’ Garth went on. ‘I hadn’t been letting myself admit how much I felt for her—how much I was relying on winning her back. And there she was—treating me like some stranger. Then came the Errols, and Ryall.’ He grimaced. ‘I suppose one thing on top of the other put me off my stroke. I like to think that in other circumstances, I should have gone to the police without hesitation. I still think given a few more minutes’ thought, I’d have done so. But then Russi appeared, and—well, I lost my head. I don’t think I shall again.’

‘Neither do I,’ Hammond told him.

‘Thanks,’ Garth nodded, wryly. Then frowned. ‘I’m sure Russi knows something about Anne’s murder. I’m going to try to make sure—it’s a job to be done, that’s all.’

Hammond smiled gently.

‘It’s one of a series of jobs,’ he corrected, ‘You’ve taken us at our own valuation, Now we’ll take you at yours. You needn’t worry about the police for a start. They may interrogate you but there won’t be repercussions. You can see the enormous value of what has happened, can’t you?’

‘Value!’ echoed Garth, bitterly.

‘Try to see beyond the personal issues,’ Hammond suggested. ‘We believe Ryall and Russi are working to sabotage Anglo-American relations. I don’t mean war-time unity—they won’t try to interfere with that. But post-war understanding is a different matter. Financial and economic interests are at stake and a few individuals would rather lose their right hands than lose the chance of making big profits out of post-war chaos. I can’t put it more strongly than that, yet. We don’t know what Ryall is after, but we suspect he is working for powerful interests. And as I’m sure you know, if he is and he succeeds there could be some mighty unpleasant repercussions.’

‘Yes.…’ Garth nodded slowly. He was surprised: it was possible to forget the strictly personal issue, even though he knew the full bitterness of it would never leave him.

‘Good,’ said Hammond. ‘Then the value of what’s happened is that Russi and Ryall have—in their view—succeeded in forcing you into a corner. The next step, I think, will be an ultimatum.… “do as we tell you or we’ll inform the police of what happened”. They may not use it yet—may save it for an emergency. Things may take a long time to develop, or they could come to a head very fast. What matters is that you will be in their confidence to some degree. They won’t know you are also in ours, and working for us. That’s why we’ve been so careful. We came here after dark, remember, and there is no chance at all that we were seen.’

Garth nodded again, and Hammond went on:

‘In the course of finding out what Ryall is after, we’ll discover just why Miss Duval was killed. And …’

He stopped, smiling gently, as Garth stared at him wide-eyed.

Garth had not mentioned her surname: had called her ‘Anne’ throughout his narrative.

How did Hammond know who she was?