13

Ryall Takes off the Gloves

Ryall’s voice held a very different note from that Garth had heard on the previous evening.

Garth stared at him, not bothering to hide his anger and suspicion.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded, coldly.

‘I am here.’ The massive shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘That is all that matters.’

‘It certainly is not!’ Garth’s voice was sharp, incisive. ‘The last time that door was opened, I found a woman dead in the room. There is only my key—and the one you used. Why, you …!’

‘Be quiet!’ snapped Ryall.

His tone, like his gaze, was imperious. There was no doubt—he had taken off the gloves. Garth stared at him, a searing anger in his mind. Then slowly, caution asserted itself—he was no longer responsible to himself alone. He had a job to do: instructions to carry out. It would be senseless to antagonise Ryall—yet.

He licked his lips.

‘Now close that door,’ said Ryall, in a quieter voice. And added, as he obeyed: ‘Come and sit down.’

Garth drew a deep breath.

‘I’m not used to being ordered about in my own home.’

‘I am not used to a great number of things, my friend. Nevertheless, I have to adjust myself to them. You will have to do the same. I have been told what happened here last night—Russi gave me the full story. So you think you can shelter behind me, to save yourself from the gallows?’

‘I didn’t kill …!’ Garth snapped, but Ryall cut him short.

‘Now come!’ he said, softly. ‘Russi pretended to believe you, but of course he knew the truth. You killed that poor girl. Russi thought he was doing the right thing by helping you—he knows how deeply I have the cause of Anglo-American friendship at heart and believes that you will be of great help in furthering that cause. He gave you an opportunity. Provided you are amenable, I shall help you also.’

Garth snapped: ‘I didn’t kill Anne! And I still want to know how you got in here.’

‘The door was open.’ Ryall did nothing to suggest that he thought it necessary to bolster the lie. Except to add a casual: ‘Obviously your guilt has affected you so much, you hardly know what you are doing.’ His eyes hardened. ‘But I wish to know! What are you going to do for us, Garth, to deserve the help we are prepared to give you?’

Garth thought: I mustn’t give in too easily. I must make him think I’m fighting. Aloud, he said in a low-pitched, angry voice:

‘I’ve done some thinking since I saw Russi. And I’m damned sure he knows who killed …’

‘Garth,’ Ryall interrupted, in that suave, dangerous voice. ‘I advise you to listen, very carefully. Russi may have to go away—and no one will know where. If that should happen, he will make a written statement describing what he found here last night, and how he helped you. He will state that on reflection, he could not be a party to aiding a murderer to escape justice. The statement will be sent to the police—and you, of course, will hang for that poor woman’s murder.’

Had it not been for Hammond’s assurances, the effect of Ryall’s words on Garth would have been devastating. As it was, he had to fight hard to remember that he, too, was acting a part—that, in fact, Ryall was completely without power to undermine his true position. But he would need to let the man believe him frightened.

‘You … you wouldn’t do that!’ he muttered. ‘You can’t …’

‘Can’t I?’ purred Ryall.’ Wouldn’t I? You’ll see, my friend, that I can and will do a lot more than that—unless you do as I tell you.’

Garth licked his lips; his fingers trembled when he took out a cigarette, and twice the end of it put out the flame of his lighter.

‘What … what do you want with me?’ His voice was barely audible: ‘I thought you wanted help in … in improving relations between …’

‘I do want help, my friend—and that is my object. Your conscience …’ Ryall sneered the word ‘… might convince you that some of my methods are not justified. Last night the situation was different. Today …’ He paused, then asked abruptly: ‘Have you seen a mid-day paper?’

‘Yes,’ muttered Garth.

‘So you know what has happened to certain Americans in this country?’

Garth stared at him.

Only a fool, he thought, would fail to realise that there was at least a chance Ryall knew something about those attacks. Ryall would expect him to say so. Ryall was counting on fear … fear of his inability to convince the police of his innocence, in the face of his actions … to make him obedient. But he would not believe Garth a fool.

‘Well?’ snapped Ryall

Garth said, slowly and in a low-pitched voice:

‘What do you know about that? Is this part of your …?’

‘You crazy fool! Do you think I would play any part in such madness? Free your mind once and for all of any such idea!’ He glared, daring Garth to argue. Then went on, suave again: ‘It is possible, however, that I know who allowed these attacks to be made, and it will be part of my task … our task, my friend … to bring retribution upon them. But that is by the way. I want you to understand this, Garth. Unless you do exactly what I tell you, that statement of Russi’s will be sent to the police.’

Garth continued to stare at him in mutinous silence.

‘I believe you are acquainted with George Kent?’ Ryall added abruptly.

He startled Garth, who did not bother to hide the fact.

‘Kent? Why, he … the girl…’

‘The woman you murdered was Kent’s fiancée and private secretary,’ nodded Ryall. ‘At the moment, Kent has possession of certain Government proposals which are to be made to Washington. He has them in his capacity as a member of the Ministry of Propaganda staff advising on what is to be published and what kept secret. And I, my friend, want a copy of all those proposals.’

‘But good God, man!’ Garth exploded. ‘I can’t possibly …’

Ryall heaved himself from his chair, took three long strides across the room and gripping him by the coat with both hands, shook him like a rag doll. The physical strength of the man was terrifying. His eyes glittered with a rage which might have been assumed but had a frightening effect.

‘You’ll learn not to argue with me, you fool!’ he rasped, flinging him away so that he staggered back against the wall. ‘You’ll learn to do what I tell you … or else. Don’t make any mistake, Garth. I can prove that you murdered the woman. I can provide the evidence.’

Garth stared. ‘But … but that’s impossible! You …’

‘All right!’ snapped Ryall. ‘I will ring the police now.’

Garth watched him, fascinated. He knew quite well the man would not telephone Scotland Yard, yet he was acting with sublime confidence. Garth wondered what his reaction would be if he had actually killed Anne—or even indeed if he had not had Hammond’s assurances that he would be in no way suspect.

‘No … no, don’t …!’ he began, unsteadily.

Ryall glared at him and began to dial a number.

‘Don’t!’ cried Garth. ‘Please!’ He gripped Ryall’s arm, trying to pull his hand away. ‘I’ll try!’ he promised. ‘I’ll try to get them!’

‘That’s better,’ said Ryall, heavily. ‘That’s very much better, my friend!’ And apparently quite satisfied that he need have no more fear of disobedience from Garth, he replaced the receiver and calmly proceeded to issue his instructions in more detail.

He did not bother, now, to hide the fact that he knew Garth had spent a long time with George Kent since the murder. And, to Garth’s considerable interest, he made a shrewd guess at Kent’s reaction to the news.…

‘See that you get them quickly!’ he warned as he was leaving. ‘There’s no time to be lost.’ At the door, he paused to add: ‘Remember just what I can do to you, Garth! Don’t be fool enough to try to cross me. You will be closely watched.’

‘I … I’m not a fool!’ muttered Garth, and Ryall reached for the door-knob.

Then the telephone rang. Before Garth could think whether or not he should answer it, with Ryall still there, the huge man had pushed him roughly aside and was back in the room and lifting the receiver.

Garth went cold with apprehension.

It might be Hammond, or Errol; or some message from them. If Ryall heard anything remotely suspicious, the whole plan would be destroyed. His mouth felt suddenly dry as Ryall spoke into the mouthpiece.

‘Yes, who is that?’

Garth went forward slowly, wondering whether he should make a show of resentment—whether he should, perhaps, have snatched the instrument from Ryall’s hand. Then suddenly realised: the call was for the big man—had obviously been expected.

‘Yes, go on!’ Ryall was saying. And as he listened his eyes turned to Garth, and his expression would have daunted most men. ‘Are you sure?’ he demanded. ‘All right … What’s that? … Yes, I will. I will indeed!’

He replaced the receiver slowly, his eyes glittering as he held Garth’s gaze.

‘So, Mr. David Garth, you dare to cross me? You dare to pry into my concerns.…’

‘What the devil are you talking about?’ Garth snapped. But his forehead was suddenly clammy. Had the man learned the truth?

‘You know!’ said Ryall. ‘You know very well, my friend!’

‘I don’t know! I’ve done nothing at all!’

‘You call it nothing, do you?’ Ryall said softly. Then snarled: ‘What were you doing with Livesey? What do you know about his daughter? How much do you know about 27, Queen’s Gate? I warn you, my friend—I shall find out! It will be simpler and less painful for you to tell me.’

Indignation welled up in Garth’s breast: half genuine, half assumed. There was a sense of shock, too, because the Liveseys mattered to this evil man.

‘Don’t talk nonsense!’ he rasped angrily. ‘I was at Kent’s flat when Miss Livesey called—I had never seen her before! She went out and was knocked over by a cyclist. I took her back to the flat to give her first-aid and then saw her home at Kent’s request. And why the devil shouldn’t I?’

‘Very plausible!’ sneered Ryall.

‘It’s the truth, I tell you!’ Garth gripped the back of a chair as he faced the man, and his knuckles showed whitely. It was time, he decided, for a show of spirit. ‘Look here, Ryall, you’ve got me in a corner. I know that, and within limits I’ll help you—although if I thought there was more behind this than you say I’d be damned if I would! But I won’t have my private affairs dragged in. I won’t be talked to as if I were a school-boy. I won’t be told that I’m a liar when I tell the simple truth.’

His voice was quiet, but steely hard. ‘If you don’t want to believe me, get to hell out of here! Tell the police if you must—Russi will be in a spot, as well as I, however he puts it! I’ve had enough of being treated like a crook or a bloody fool!’

He was quivering now—a trick he had learned, and very simple to achieve by continued, enforced tension: ‘I’m warning you, Ryall … there are limits!’

Had he convinced Ryall? The man eyed him steadily for a long moment.

‘Yes ...’ he said, at last. ‘If the explanation is indeed as simple as that.…’ He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Yes … It is even possible that we may be able to make capital out of your newfound acquaintance with the Liveseys. Arnold Livesey has some very interesting data. Of course, the fellow is a dangerous reactionary and we may have to clip his claws. M’mmm, a friend at court might well be useful. I’ll see. Meanwhile, Garth—get that stuff from Kent!’

When Ryall had gone, Garth returned to the lounge and watched from the window until he saw him reach the pavement and step into a waiting taxi. He waited till the cab moved off, then drawing a hand across his brow, he dropped into an easy chair. God, he was tired!

It had been a ghastly interview. Yet reassuring, in its way, he realised, wearily.

There was no doubt whatever now. Ryall was utterly ruthless; would be deadly, if he ever learned the truth. And power-obsessed. A dangerous megalomaniac, Garth summed him up. And there was no longer the slightest doubt that Ryall was deeply involved in the affairs of the previous night—that the Secret Service men were on the right trail. He was making real progress: needed no telling that they would wish to hear all that he had learned.

How and when would they get in touch with him. They could hardly come here again, Ryall had said he would be watched. He went cold at the realisation: how could he warn them? And he needed—urgently—to know what he was to do, in respect of Ryall’s demand for those proposals.

He went out to buy another newspaper. But although it was a later edition, there was little in it he did not already know. He returned to the flat so much on edge that he had to check every room before he felt able to sit down again.

He had just done so and was lighting a cigarette, when there was a rat-tat-tat at the door. The sound brought him straight to his feet: rings and knocks were beginning to jar on his nerves. He steeled himself to meet Ryall again—or even Russi. It certainly could not be Hammond or the Errols, in broad daylight.

It was a diminutive telegraph-boy, with a shiny red face and an impudent smile.

‘Telegram, sir! Will there be a reply?’

‘Er … I’ll see.’ Garth took out the folded sheet and opened it with something like reluctance. Then relaxed as he read:

IF POSSIBLE SEE ME AT MRS. PARMITTERS SEVEN O’CLOCK. AUNT MABEL.

‘Any reply?’ repeated the lad, eager to be off.

‘No,’ said Garth. ‘No, thanks.’ He tipped the lad almost absent-mindedly and closed the door.

He had no Aunt Mabel and he knew no Mrs. Parmitter. But that name was familiar, he thought, tiredly. Where the devil had he heard it before?