At seven that evening Langham sat with Mallory in his Humber across the road from the Albemarle Club.
He wound the window halfway down and lit his pipe, then finished telling Mallory about the paperbacks left in the Streatham house and what had happened at Castle Melacorum yesterday. He recalled speaking to the editor at Digit Books, and mentioned the hit-and-run death of Alexander Southern, aka Dan Greeley.
‘So …’ Mallory said, ‘of the seven writers of the books you found, four are dead and three, yourself, Fellowes and Amelia Hampstead, are still alive. Perhaps, Don, the seven of you are all the writers the killer – this Gideon Martin chap – intends to target?’
Langham thought about it. ‘Maybe, but that still leaves the editors, agents, and who knows who else in the trade that the bastard has a grudge against.’
Mallory stared across the road at the club. He said at last, ‘Well, I hope what your girl said is right – and he is only armed with a swordstick.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ Langham said. ‘Something doesn’t add up. Yesterday at Castle Melacorum he was armed with a pistol. He used it to destroy the lock on the door, and fire at Ralph Ryland later.’
Mallory shook his head. ‘So why, if he had a pistol yesterday, did he want another one back from Maria?’
‘Exactly.’ Langham thought about it, then said, ‘How about this: in getting away from Ryland the other day, he dropped the pistol and didn’t have time to search for it. That’d explain his demand for Maria to return the other one.’
‘It’s possible,’ Mallory grunted. ‘I just hope he hasn’t been able to get his hands on one in the meantime. But according to Maria, he’s not the sort who consorts with underworld types. Not that I’m taking any chances,’ he went on. ‘I have men stationed at all the tube stations in the vicinity, and the four nearby taxi ranks.’
‘What about in the Albemarle itself?’
Mallory nodded. ‘Two men in the foyer, two manning the staircases on every floor and a couple of men outside the meeting room. All plainclothes, needless to say. Oh, and I’ve had a word with the secretary and ordered the meeting and dinner to be held in rooms other than those originally scheduled. It was too late when all this blew up to contact everyone and cancel the do, so I reckoned the next best thing was to move it up a floor.’
‘Good thinking.’
‘It’ll be a miracle if he gets past the front door, but I’m not taking any chances. Good work on Maria’s part, Don.’
‘It came to her while she was dining with Dame Amelia. Martin had just accosted her, asking her for the gun, and when he’d gone she and Amelia were discussing the deaths when the penny dropped. She was pretty shaken up by the time I saw her.’
‘I can’t wait to meet this little number. Looks, intelligence and a fine deductive capability.’
Langham smiled. ‘When all this is over, let’s go out to dinner.’
‘I’ll keep you to that, Don.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Seven fifteen, and here they come.’
Langham puffed on his pipe and stared through the window. Cars were beginning to draw up outside the Albemarle, and the great and the good of the crime-writing fraternity were alighting and moving sedately up the steps between the club’s marble pillars. Langham recognized many writers and editors, men and women he’d met at the Crime Club over the years and others he’d bumped into at publishers’ parties and bookshop signings and readings.
Taken as a whole, the crime-writing set was a pretty democratic bunch, with aristocratic writers rubbing shoulders with those of working-class background like himself. That was one thing he liked about the quarterly Crime Club dinners – their inclusivity; the idea that everyone was in the same trade irrespective of class or background. That and, of course, the fact that the Albemarle had a fine cellar and served excellent food.
Mallory said, ‘Do you think Agatha C herself will attend tonight?’
‘Not for the spring dinner. She comes to the do every year just before Christmas.’ He looked at the bulky detective. ‘I didn’t have you down as a fan.’
Mallory smiled. ‘Taken as fantasies divorced from the real world, I think they’re fine. You?’
‘Not my usual fare, but I reviewed a reprint of her Cards on the Table last year and it was rather good.’ He laughed. ‘She’s a big pal of Dame Amelia, who named her dog after Poirot.’
‘You move in elevated circles, Don.’
Langham blew a billow of smoke through the window. ‘I’d hardly say that.’ He pointed across the road at the Albemarle with the stem of his pipe. ‘This is about as posh as it gets for me.’
‘My apologies for not allowing you to attend.’
‘Apologies accepted.’
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Langham scanned the street to the left and right of the club’s porticoed entrance. It was a mild, clear night and pedestrians were out in force – couples heading into the city for a night on the town and workers making their way homewards in the other direction. There was no sign of a small, portly ginger-haired man amongst their number.
He looked at his watch. Seven thirty … the chairman would be banging his gavel any second now and calling the meeting to order. First would be the announcements, which included everything from the introduction of new members to the listing of awards won by members, then a fifteen-minute speech by the specially invited guest, followed by the dinner itself.
‘Perhaps he’s thought twice about showing himself,’ Langham said, ‘after announcing his intentions to Maria.’
‘Or he was too drunk to make it,’ Mallory said. ‘I had a man check the pubs around here and where he lives, on the off chance that he’d nipped in for a shot of Dutch courage. Nothing.’
‘He might well have sobered up since two o’clock,’ Langham said. ‘I don’t know what might be better – Martin showing up sozzled or sober.’
‘In my experience it’s easy dealing with a drunk,’ Mallory said. ‘They resort to fisticuffs at the drop of a hat, giving you the excuse to put the boot in … in a manner of speaking, of course.’
‘Of course, Jeff,’ Langham said.
Mallory looked at his watch. ‘I’ll give it a few minutes, then go over and rouse the troops. I don’t want them slacking because Martin hasn’t shown up yet.’
‘Mind if I pop across with you?’
Mallory looked at him. ‘Very well, but stick close to me, OK?’
‘Understood.’
Langham looked up and down the street, expecting to see Martin’s bullfrog form – as Maria had described it – approach at any second. The flow of pedestrians had slowed to a trickle now, in theory making the sighting of their subject that much easier. Two big plainclothes policemen stood sentry at the top of the Albemarle’s steps, watching every passer-by as they approached the club and hurried onwards.
‘Right,’ Mallory declared, pushing open the driver’s door. ‘Time to stretch our legs.’
Langham climbed from the car, knocked out his pipe and followed Mallory across the street.
He felt at once an anticipation that Martin might still show himself, and yet a growing sense of anticlimax as he realized that the chances were that Gideon Martin had fought shy of making an appearance after so rashly announcing his intentions to Maria. At least now, he thought, the police had an identity with which to work. It could only be a matter of time before Gideon Martin was apprehended.
Mallory chatted quietly to the men at the door – selected obviously for their strapping physiques – then led the way inside. The foyer of the Albemarle was a visually tasteful medley of plush red carpet, palms in brass pots and beeswaxed oak panelling. A liveried receptionist stood to attention behind a counter, watching them with an eagle eye.
Mallory spoke to two further plainclothes officers stationed beside the lift, then led Langham into the elevator.
As they rose to the second floor, Mallory said, ‘The members have just gone into dinner. They’re using the dining room adjacent to the rearranged venue. We’ll just pop in and I’ll reassure the chairman.’
‘I’ve no doubt the members will be loving this,’ Langham said. ‘Real-life crime after years of writing about it.’
Mallory snorted. ‘They’ll be racing to be the first to get this into their next work.’
‘Let’s hope they’ll all be here to do that, come the end of the night.’
Mallory glanced at him. ‘Pessimistic, aren’t we? You don’t think Martin’d get past the security I’ve set up?’
Langham smiled. ‘He’d have to be superhuman to do that.’
The lift bobbed, the doors sighed open and they stepped out into a green-carpeted corridor. Mallory led the way to the end of the passage and turned right. Two plainclothes officers stood before a polished double door, and they snapped to attention as Mallory approached.
‘No sign of Martin,’ Mallory said. ‘But it’s early days yet. Just popping in to give the chairman the gen.’
He tapped on the door, eased it open and slipped through, Langham entering after him.
The hubbub of conversation and tintinnabulation of cutlery modulated suddenly at their entrance. Two-dozen guests sat around a long table laden with silverware and loaded plates. Heads turned, and one or two people who Langham knew registered their surprise at his presence alongside the detective inspector. He’d be able to dine off this one for months.
Mallory gestured to the chairman, Edward Hume, a portly, silver-haired writer of Golden Age puzzle novels. Hume rose from his place and hurried around the table. ‘Detective Inspector Mallory, Donald,’ he greeted them. ‘Well, we’re all alive thus far,’ he commented with gallows humour.
‘No sign of the subject,’ Mallory said. ‘But I’d appreciate it if you were to remain in here until after the meal. I’m arranging for one of the bars on this floor to be opened at nine thirty, so you can retire there any time after that. I’ll pop back and give you the go ahead. And just to reassure you once again, Mr Hume, that I have my men surrounding the place.’
‘I have every confidence in you, Detective Inspector.’ Hume nudged Langham. ‘This’ll feature in the next Sam Brooke, no doubt?’
‘If you don’t get there first, Edward.’
They slipped from the dining room and Mallory led the way along the corridor to a bar room. One of Mallory’s men was supervising a bartender who was setting out tables and chairs. ‘Nearly ready, sir.’
‘Good man. I’ll let them out at nine thirty. Have Bryce and MacKinnon shepherd them along here, will you, and then guard the door. If you’d station yourself in here with the members …’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘What now?’ Langham asked as they left the bar.
‘I’m going to have a poke around on the top floor.’
‘I might go back to the car, if you don’t mind.’
Mallory handed over the car keys. ‘The reality of police work, Don. Ninety per cent of the time it’s bloody monotonous.’
Langham stepped into the lift and pressed the stud for the ground floor.
On the way down he had an idea, and when the lift reached the ground floor and the doors opened, he pressed for the first floor and waited patiently for the doors to trundle shut.
The lift carried him up to the first floor and seconds later he stepped out, turned left and hurried over the thick pile carpet to the dining room where the meeting of the Crime Club had been origin-ally scheduled to take place. He paused before the door, expecting it to be locked, and was therefore surprised when he turned the brass handle and the door clicked open.
The light was on, and the fact set his pulse racing. He looked around the room, not really expecting to find Gideon Martin concealed somewhere within it, but fearing the possibility.
Chairs were set out in rows, and at the far end of the room was the raised table at which the committee would have sat. Behind the table, long red curtains were drawn across the windows overlooking Pall Mall.
Langham stood on the threshold, considering his options. He eased the door shut behind him and stood very still, the only sound the pulse of his heartbeat in his ears.
The wall to his left was one long expanse of oak panelling. To the right, the panelling was interrupted by a door. He moved around the chairs to the door and eased it open. The room beyond was in darkness. He reached around the jamb, fumbled for the light switch and found it.
He stepped into the adjacent room – a dining room occupied by a long table and a dozen chairs.
He was about to retrace his steps when he heard a sound from the room he’d just left.
He whirled and approached the door. The long red curtains to his right were falling back into place, and directly before him a chair lay on its back. He stepped into the room in time to glimpse a figure flash through the far door and disappear into the corridor.
He gave chase, pulled open the door and raced out. He looked right and left and saw someone disappear up the staircase at the far end of the corridor. He set off, reached the staircase seconds later and took the steps three at a time.
He looked up at the curve of the balustrade on the floor above and made out a plump hand clutching it as the interloper ascended. He cried out, ‘Third floor!’ to whichever of Mallory’s men might be nearby.
He reached the third floor and turned to climb to the fourth when he saw Bryce and MacKinnon racing along the corridor towards him. ‘He’s up here!’ he cried, and set off in pursuit.
He came to the fourth floor and almost collided with Mallory. ‘I saw him,’ Mallory said, and set off up the staircase before Langham could reply.
He followed, his pace slowing with the unaccustomed effort of the ascent, and seconds later Bryce and MacKinnon raced past him. He experienced a quick sensation of relief that he was no longer in the lead, and the novelist in him noted the emotion for future use. Cowardice, he wondered, or common sense?
‘This way,’ he heard someone call above him. When he came to the fifth floor he made out a narrow, uncarpeted flight of stairs leading upwards, and caught sight of one of the plainclothes officers near the top. He followed, panting.
He came to the top of the mean steps and felt a gust of cool wind in his face. A narrow door flapped open before him and he crashed through it on to the flat roof of the Albemarle.
A laminated sunset stretched across the horizon of west London, and an indigo twilight was beginning to fall. He made out three figures moving between the chimney stacks and, ahead of them, a stocky form racing away. The man looked over his shoulder and dodged to his left, momentarily lost behind the curved shape of a ventilation outlet.
Mallory called out, ‘Stop!’
Langham caught up with them and rounded the outlet.
Gideon Martin came to a sudden halt thirty feet away and turned to face his pursuers. Langham made out his full-jawed face in the twilight, his skin slick with sweat and his piggy eyes desperate. In his right hand he clutched a swordstick, hoisted before him as if to beat off would-be assailants.
He took a step backwards, approaching the raised edge of the building.
Mallory stepped forward and held out a hand. ‘Careful,’ he cautioned.
Langham stopped in his tracks, breathlessly watching what was happening with a sense of terrible presentiment. Beside him, Bryce and Mackinnon were frozen like statues, staring.
Mallory took another step forward. ‘Think about it, man …’
Martin turned away from Mallory and in so doing lost his footing. Whether he was still drunk, or merely dizzy from the chase, Langham could not tell – but his feet caught and, with an oddly graceful motion, he toppled over the edge of the building.
He made not a single sound as he fell, and it was the eerie silence that Langham found so sickening.
As if released from stasis, he and the others approached the edge and peered over.
The body lay on the pavement far below, unmoving, and Langham could tell, from the awkward angle of the head in relation to the torso, and the dark pool of blood spreading across the flagstones, that Gideon Martin was dead.
Donald walked up the steps to Maria’s flat and pressed the buzzer.
He heard her footsteps on the stairs, running, and she pulled open the door and gasped when she saw him. ‘Donald!’
She was a vision – backed by the roseate light in the hallway – wearing a thick, belted dressing gown and pom-pom slippers on her bare feet. ‘Oh, I’ve been worrying so much!’
He hugged her. ‘I’m fine.’
‘Come in. Can I get you a drink? Whisky?’
‘I could kill a beer.’
She took his hand and almost tugged him up the stairs to her apartment. ‘I only have some French beer my father gave me.’
‘Wonderful.’
He sat on the settee while she poured it. ‘Now, what happened?’ she asked as she sat down beside him.
‘Well … Gideon Martin is dead.’
She thrust her head towards him and opened her eyes wide. ‘Dead?’ She looked disbelieving.
He took a long swallow of the beer and told her about discovering Martin in the dining room. ‘He fled, but we chased him up the stairs and on to the roof. He … he was either still drunk or exhausted. I don’t think he deliberately …’ He shrugged. ‘He lost his footing or tripped. Anyway, he fell from the roof. Jeff said he must have died instantly.’
Maria heard him out in silence, then said in a small voice, ‘Martin was an evil man, Donald, but even so …’
He pulled her to him, inhaling her perfume; she had just had a bath and smelled divine. ‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’
She looked up at him. ‘But I thought you said that Jeff was going to surround the place with his men?’ She shrugged. ‘So how did Martin get into the building?’
He stroked her hair. ‘We think he went straight there from seeing you. Apparently there was a period between two and three when no one was at reception. He’d attended a Crime Club dinner a while back as a guest, so he knew where we usually dined. He concealed himself in the room. It was only by chance … a hunch … that I decided to check.’
‘It’s horrible, horrible!’ She lodged her head against his chest. ‘I think he was a little crazy, yes? To kill all those people …’
They sat side by side for a long time, held each other and quietly talked.