16

Mr. Ryall Shows His Pleasure

The gun in Catesby’s hand was enough to make Garth stay where he was, but his mind worked desperately to find some way out of the situation. Catesby’s square chin was thrust forward and his lips set tightly as he rasped:

‘So you’re the spy, are you?’

The words seemed so ludicrous that Garth literally gaped at the man. Then it struck him that Catesby was probably accusing him in an effort to justify his own presence. Which would take some doing, he thought grimly.

‘I don’t know what you mean!’ he began. ‘I came for something I left here this morning.’

‘Like hell you did!’ sneered Catesby. ‘Hand it over!’ He held out his left hand, thrusting the gun forward threateningly with his right. ‘Don’t waste time, Garth … gimme!’

Garth countered: ‘What right have you got here?’

‘A damn sight more than you! Are you going to hand it over—or do I have to drill lead into you?’

‘Don’t be a fool!’ snapped Garth. ‘If …’

It was then that another door in the flat opened—one which Catesby could not see. But as Garth’s eyes flickered towards it, the younger man half-turned. As he did so, something curved though the air towards him—and Garth stared in disbelief at the missile: a kitchen jug. Catesby dodged to avoid it, off-guard in his blank astonishment—and in a flash, Garth had turned, pulled open the door and darted out, slamming it behind him.

He heard the crash of the breaking jug, as he raced down the stairs and out into the street. He had gone some fifty yards when he realised that he was behaving in a manner which was bound to arouse the suspicions of any patrolling bobby. He stopped, breathing heavily as he peered through the darkness. He could hear foot-steps, but they were some distance off and he turned with considerable relief towards Piccadilly.

Moments later, he knew that he was being followed.

The footsteps were behind him all the time, soft and padding: reminding him of Ryall. He crossed the road. So did his follower. He reached Piccadilly feeling a strong desire to break into a run, but refrained for fear of missing his footing. He walked all the way, several times thinking that he had shaken off his pursuer—only to find after a few seconds that he was still being followed.

By the time he turned into his own street, the menace in those padding footsteps had reached a high peak.

A figure loomed out of the darkness of the porch of his house. He stood still, and as his heart turned over a soft, hissing voice behind him said:

‘It’s okay!’

The footsteps passed, still padding softly: a figure loomed vaguely for a moment, then disappeared. He was still straining his eyes to follow the other’s progress, when a more familiar voice spoke from the porch.

‘Have you got it?’ demanded Russi.

‘Yes …’ stammered Garth. ‘Yes … but …’

‘Take it to Wimbledon,’ said Russi, flatly. ‘There’s a car along the street. Make it snappy!’

Garth made no rejoinder, but turned to where the rear-lights of a parked car showed a few yards along the road. It was not until a man had opened the door for him, that he realised it was the ‘taxi’ which had brought him from Wimbledon, the previous night. He could not see the driver clearly but recognised the voice.

‘Wimbledon, sir?’

‘Please,’ grunted Garth, and climbed in. He chain-smoked throughout the journey, deeply-conscious of the envelope in his pocket. The nearer they drew to Wimbledon, the more dubious he became about the wisdom of handing the thing over to Ryall. He had to force himself to accept Hammond’s assurances that this was a deliberate and therefore presumably a tactically valuable move. And by the time the car turned into the drive of The Elms, he had reached a decision to demand more evidence of Hammond’s bona fides before he accepted further orders.

Ryall was in the upstairs room, sitting at his vast desk. He was expressionless as Garth was shown in by the maid.

‘Well?’ Ryall demanded, heavily.

I … I’ve got it,’ Garth muttered.

‘I hope you have!’ growled Ryall, stretching out his hand.

Garth took out the envelope and as the huge man snatched it from him and extracted the papers, he felt as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice. If he had not got what Ryall wanted, this man might well kill him. Why the devil hadn’t he checked those papers more thoroughly? His throat contracted as he watched him: it was suddenly difficult to breathe. He had a sudden, vivid recollection of that photograph the Errols had shown him. And another, of Anne’s body—lying huddled there in his flat, with the knife sticking out…

It was not difficult to act as if he were afraid.

Slowly Ryall’s expression changed.

The transformation was a remarkable thing. The shaggy beard and moustache parted and he smiled broadly, nodding his head in deep satisfaction. There was nothing forbidding or dangerous about his appearance, now. He was a benevolent, amiable man.

‘My dear Garth … remarkable! Remarkable!’

‘Is … is it … what you wanted?’ Garth spoke as if with an effort, but allowing some slight display of his relief.

‘It is … it is indeed! I was very much afraid that your first mission might not succeed. Tell me, how did you get it?’

Garth said slowly:

‘I knew Kent kept a key of his flat above the door. I phoned and made sure he was out, then went round there.’ He nodded at the envelope: ‘That was in the safe.’

‘And you said “hey presto”, and the safe opened?’

In spite of the big man’s obvious good humour, the question had a barb in it, Garth realised. He had to be careful.

‘Unfortunately, no,’ he said, stiffly. ‘I’ve known Kent a long time, and I’ve seen his safe often enough. It’s an old one, the same sort as my own … and one of the keys in his desk was the same as mine, except for the cut. So …’ He shrugged.

‘As easy as that?’ murmured Ryall. ‘Yes, of course. I am apt to forget sometimes, how easy some things are. I am very satisfied with you, Garth. This will be most useful. I will send for you when I want you again, and meanwhile you will cultivate the acquaintance of the charming Miss Livesey. That will be no great hardship, I am sure! You ...’

He broke off, staring.

‘Good evening,’ said a voice.

It was a man’s, but so soft that it might have been a woman’s. Ryall had started to his feet at the sound, and Garth was amazed that the big man was so obviously taken by surprise. More, that Ryall was afraid now: the self-assurance had suddenly quite gone. He looked like a man caught red-handed in a crime and aware that he would have to answer for it.

‘What is it that you have received?’ asked the newcomer, gently, Garth himself swivelled round to see him.

‘I … I was going to … ring you, Brown,’ he heard Ryall bluster. ‘I … I’ve had a remarkable piece of luck! Nothing less than …’

But Garth hardly heard him: he was staring in amazement at the newcomer.

‘Come, my friend, you will not dismiss it as luck?’ chided that soft voice. ‘Surely everything you obtain is contrived by your remarkable brilliance … one might also say genius … for doing the impossible? I congratulate you … but what is it? Come, now! Don’t be nervous, my friend … it is a simple question!’

He was small. The top of his head did not rise above Ryall’s shoulder as he came forward slowly with his hand outstretched. It was a black-gloved hand: he was dressed in black from head to foot. But what had so startled Garth was that even his face was black.

Not the ‘black’ of racial pigmentation … although his striking eyes, the whites of which seemed to be luminous, had for a split second fooled Garth into thinking he was looking at a singularly dark-skinned negro. But almost in the same moment, he realised that in fact the strange visitor wore a mask which fitted his features like a glove: almost as if pasted on, like some second skin. The lips of the mask moved when the man spoke: it was an uncanny, creepy thing.

‘The … the Agricultural Report.’ Ryall’s tongue flicked nervously along his lips. ‘You remember … I … I told you that I hoped to get it.’

‘No, I don’t remember,’ said the newcomer, softly. ‘But I have a careless habit of forgetting, I’m afraid. Of course, you know that, don’t you, Ryall? You wouldn’t be catching the habit, would you? You haven’t forgotten who it is that you work for?’

‘Really, even to say such a thing in jest …! I have done very well for you, have I not?’

‘Fairly well,’ allowed the man called Brown. ‘Although you made a remarkably abortive attempt last night, didn’t you. That is what I have come to talk to you about.’

‘I can explain everything,’ Ryall assured him, quickly. ‘There is nothing to worry about ... it makes no serious difference. The people who matter are ...’

Then he seemed to remember Garth.

He glared round at him, obviously furious to suddenly realise that his humiliation had been witnessed by another. And the expression in his eyes boded ill for their future relations as he snarled:

‘Get out, Garth!’

‘Just a moment,’ ‘Brown’ checked him. ‘I am interested in the members of your staff, Ryall. I like to know on whom I rely for the success of my efforts. David Garth. Yes … A somewhat hotheaded young man. I hardly expected to find you in our ranks, my friend!’

‘I arranged that to …’ began Ryall.

‘Are you happy in your work?’ ‘Brown’ asked softly, silencing him with a gesture. ‘Are you, Mr. Garth?’

‘I … I know I’ve … it’s got to be done,’ muttered Garth.

‘Let me explain!’ cried the big man. ‘Garth needn’t be here ... he’s finished what he came for!’

‘My dear Ryall!’ ‘Brown’ sounded shocked. ‘I do believe you are afraid that I shall tell our young friend more than he should hear? Believe me, I am every whit as discreet as yourself. All right, Garth … you may go. Tell me if anything troubles you, won’t you?’

Garth rose, and mumbled a goodbye.

The luminous, almost colourless eyes of the man were turned towards him and the voice suggested a sardonic smile on the grotesque lips. He was glad to get out of the room, and as the door closed behind him, he stood for a moment in the passage; his mouth dry and perspiration on his forehead.

Ryall was bad enough, but the second man…!

He started; as he suddenly realised that the maid was looking at him from the head of the stairs. She was expressionless and quite motionless, and he had to force himself to go forward. As he did so, she turned and led the way down the stairs. Opening the front door, she stood aside for him to pass and as he went by, said a quiet:

‘Good night, sir.’

‘G … good night,’ mumbled Garth.

The evening air was cool and he was glad of it. He felt as if he had just been rescued from some stifling nightmare, and was breathing the air of sanity and reality again. He had an impulse to walk all the way home. But the big limousine was waiting, the driver holding the rear door open for him.

He wondered vaguely what the man would do if he walked on.

Then, like a man in a dream, he climbed in and was driven back to Jermyn Street.

No one was waiting for him.

For the second time that day, he checked the whole flat before going to his bedroom to lie full-length on the bed, staring towards the ceiling. He had not yet recovered from the effect of the black-clad man.

The whole affair grew more fantastic by the moment. He had a brief flash of his earlier panic as it struck him again that this wasn’t a task for which one could summon up one’s reserves of strength in one supreme effort.

There was no end to it. It was a job that called for all one’s reserves—mental and physical—all the time; the unknown—the dangerous unknown—was the norm.

But that was the whole point, he reminded himself, with a sudden return of his usual humour. It was a job—and he had accepted it, and was making reasonable progress.

But, my God, when did these Secret Service fellows ever sleep he wondered.

And slept.

Once, towards morning, he grew aware of the light coming through at the edge of the black-out curtains, but he rolled off again and it was nearly nine o’clock when he finally came properly awake.

A cold bath and a shave refreshed him.

He made himself some toast and coffee, and glanced through his morning paper. There was little in it about the American V.I.P. attacks and he guessed that an edict had gone out to play down the whole thing. The bare facts were there, and treated sensationally enough: but there was no attempt at explanation or theory.

He felt on edge about it all, again, and wondered if perhaps this might be the time to telephone Hammond.

Then the flat door-bell rang.

He was tensed-up despite himself, as he went to answer it: prepared for anything.

George Kent stood there. And his plump form nearly hid a second figure, behind him: Olivia Livesey. One look at her face told Garth that she was troubled.

There was also, plainly, something seriously amiss with George. He had evidently recovered from the worst of his shock. He looked fresher, more composed: and he was dressed immaculately, as was his normal wont.

‘Good morning, David,’ he said, portentously, as he followed Olivia in.

‘Why, hallo!’ Garth forced a smile for each in turn. ‘This is a surprise! How are you?’

George did not answer him. Olivia began to, then looked away as if she could not meet his eye. Shepherding them into the lounge, he warned himself to be on his toes. Catesby, after all, had seen him at Kent’s flat.

He managed to retain an amiable smile as George, solemnly pompous, said:

‘David, this is a most distasteful task for me, and I must impress upon you that it concerns a matter of an extremely serious nature. I have a single question which I am obliged to put to you and which I hope you will answer promptly and frankly. If you fail to do so, it may lead to most unpleasant developments.’

Garth raised a drily-sceptical eyebrow and shot an amused glance at Olivia.

‘It can’t be as serious as all that, George!’

‘I cannot impress its seriousness upon you too much.’ Kent eyed him with owlish gravity. ‘But for the fact that we have been friends for a long time, and my warm appreciation of your … kindness … yesterday, I should not have given you this opportunity. In the circumstances, I feel bound to do so; but I must know the truth.’

Garth began to frown, as if striving not to be offended by this tacit impugning of his honour.

‘Just what is this all about, George?’ he asked, coolly.

‘Were you, or were you not …’ began George.

Dick Catesby had talked, Garth decided. Right: he knew what question was coming—the only problem was in not knowing what would follow, if his necessary denial was not believed. But at best, it could only be a matter of Catesby’s word against his, and …

There was a thunderous knocking on the front door.

Garth was too relieved by the interruption to be worried by the urgency of the knock. With a murmured excuse, he strode again to the front door. He did not know why he was so dumbfounded to see Dick Catesby standing there … with Arnold K. Livesey at his side.

Olivia was visible through the lounge doorway.

‘I thought so!’ shouted Catesby. ‘I thought they’d come to warn him! But you won’t get away with it, Garth … I’ve told the police!’

Garth forced himself to say, with an air of restrained anger:

‘What exactly have you told the police? What’s got into you all? First, George with some damned unpleasant innuendos …’

Livesey’s piercing blue gaze was fixed on him.

‘You be quiet, fella!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t let him get away, Dick.’

If that ‘Dick’ was surprising to Garth, remembering that bellowed finale to their row, it was positively startling to Olivia. She stared at him as he strode into the room, his weather-beaten face set as he demanded: ‘Livvy … what are you doing in this man’s flat? What do you mean by coming here without telling me what you were up to?’

‘Mr. Livesey, I must accept full …’ George began, and the big American turned on him so fiercely that he backed away.

‘Hold your fool tongue! Livvy answer me! What are you doing here?’

Her face was flushed as she silently returned her father’s gaze. Garth watched her, only half-conscious of gratified relief that the deeper significance of this visit did not trouble him. He was far more interested in Olivia’s reason for coming with George to warn him of impending danger. Why should she be anxious for him?

And while he asked himself the question, Olivia gave the answer.