Quinn Arrived outside the block of flats at five minutes to seven. Frost lay thick on the paved forecourt and he nearly lost his footing on one of the steps leading up to the entrance.
Under his breath, he said, “That only happens when you’re disgustingly sober, but if you broke a leg people would be sure to say you’d had a skinful. … It’s cold enough to make you eligible for membership of the ancient order of oddfellows.”
The entrance hall was warm and brightly lit. For a few moments he stood with his back to the steam radiator, rubbing his hands until the circulation returned. Then he went along the corridor to the lift.
A voice in his head was saying “… Snug place to stay, very snug. How would you like to live in a joint like this? You could if you wanted … that’s if you wanted badly enough. But you’re willing to put up with a room in a glorified dosshouse without the glory. …”
The lift was on the fifth floor and someone had left the gates open. His thoughts ran on as he went up the stairs.
… Wonder what old man Piper will say when you tell him what you’ve found out? Of course, it might mean nothing. On the other hand it might mean a lot. …
If there’s anything in it, Gizelle Haupmann’s due for a helluva shock. I’ll lay a pound to a bent farthing that Piper’s sweet on her. Don’t blame him, either. Give me half a chance with a dream-girl like that and I might even go on the wagon … I might.
He climbed to the third floor and turned into the passage leading to Piper’s flat. There were no lights on along there but he could see in the light from the staircase behind him.
When he came to the end where another corridor ran left and right he thought he heard muffled footsteps around the corner … someone trotting farther and farther away … strange sounds that he was unable to identify.
He turned right and took three or four paces. Now he was in complete darkness.
Piper’s door was only a few yards along the corridor ’half a dozen yards that were like walking over the edge of a precipice. Quinn could see nothing, hear nothing. The faint sound of running footsteps had gone.
He felt in his pockets for the odd match that he could sometimes find among the fluff and the crumbs of tobacco. All the while he was telling himself that there must be a switch somewhere—if only he knew where to feel for it.
… Wonder why some fool switched the lights off? Which is Piper’s door? If I knock at the wrong one I might have to explain to a suspicious husband that I thought this was a number 18 bus. …
He groped his way another few yards, grumbling to himself with every step. Then his foot struck something and he almost pitched over head first. As he drew back with the breath trapped in his throat he heard faint sounds once more: this time just in front of him.
The darkness pressed down—black, smothering darkness in which he could see things that he knew were not there. Revolving pinwheels of coloured light spun before his eyes. The corridor seemed to have become so vast that he was unable to reach the walls on either side.
With the blood drumming in his ears he stood tense and rigid, straining to see what he had stumbled against, listening for the small sounds to repeat themselves.
They had a significance born of frightening things: the menace that had stalked Fritz Haupmann; the gates that someone had failed to shut; the lights that had been switched off along the route to Piper’s flat. To all of them Quinn added the discovery he had made that afternoon.
The answer pinned him where he stood although he knew he would have to move sometime. Whatever lay in wait for him, whatever it was that had been meant to trap his feet. …
Then he heard the little noises again. They came from somewhere at floor level.
He took a careful step to the right… and another step. When he reached out, his hand touched the wall. Slowly and cautiously he turned his back to it.
He felt a little easier after that. As the pounding in his chest slackened he began to move along sideways, his progress marked only by the rustle of his clothing.
One short step after another, he worked his way towards the door of Piper’s flat. Nothing tried to stop him, nothing stirred in the long black tunnel ahead.
Now there was a door behind him. He half-turned and reached up and felt for the numerals on the lintel.
His fingers traced the outline of the numbers: 36. Piper’s flat was number 38. Only two doors farther on … only another dozen steps to go. …
There was a noise behind him … something seemed to be crawling along the carpet. … Then he was knocking furiously on Piper’s door.
The banging of his fist buffeted from wall to wall and drowned out the noise of the creeping thing. He knew that any moment the blackness would come alive and he would be dragged down and down—
Suddenly his fist met nothing. There was bright light in his eyes and he realised that the banging had stopped.
Piper was saying “… What the devil’s the matter? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”
Quinn leaned against the door frame and sucked in a deep breath. He said, “All the lights were off and I nearly fell over something lying on the floor. I suppose I behaved like a kid but it scared me silly—and I hadn’t any matches.”
He was repeating “… I hadn’t any matches—” when Piper said, “All right, let’s take a look. First of all …” He went outside, crossed the corridor, and walked a few steps.
A row of lights in the ceiling came on and the phantoms were swept out of Quinn’s mind. His imagination was under control again and he could think straight.
It was no product of his imagination that he saw on the floor half-way between Piper’s flat and the angle of the corridor. A man sprawled face down on the carpet, one leg drawn up under his body, both hands clawing at something around his throat.
Piper was first to reach him. As he eased him over on to his back, Piper said, “This is all my fault. I persuaded him to come here.”
Under the light, Howarth’s fair skin was pale and blotchy. He was bleeding slightly from a discoloured graze high up on his forehead. Twisted around his neck was a silk handkerchief.
He struggled a little while they were removing it. Then he lay on his back with arms outspread, gulping in deep draughts of air as if he were unable to get enough.
When his breathing became normal, Piper and Quinn picked him up and carried him into the flat. They laid him on one of the beds, loosened his clothing, unfastened his shoes, and began massaging his hands.
By then the cut on his forehead had almost stopped bleeding. Piper brought a bowl of water and wiped away the blood.
At the touch of the cold compress, Howarth opened his eyes. In a hoarse voice, he asked, “What’re you doing to me? Why does my throat hurt?”
Then he turned his head. When he saw Quinn, he said, “I remember now. There were no lights … and you hit me.”
Piper said, “Mr. Quinn had nothing to do with it. I’ve not much doubt that he saved your life. If he hadn’t arrived at the right time, you’d be dead by now.”
Howarth raised himself on one elbow and looked at each of them in turn. He said, “I was told to mind my own business but I didn’t pay any attention. They meant it, every word of it. I should never have listened to you, Mr. Piper. I shouldn’t have let you talk me into coming here.”
Quinn asked, “Were all the lights off in these two corridors when you came upstairs?”
“Yes. I couldn’t see a thing. Just as I was wondering what I’d do, I heard somebody walking towards me. I started to ask him if he knew where the switch was … and that was when something hit me. I don’t remember any more.”
He put a hand to his head and groaned. He was shaking as if he felt cold.
Quinn looked at Piper and asked, “How about explaining what’s been going on since I phoned you?”
While Piper talked, Howarth pushed himself off the bed, waved away their offers of help, and went into the bathroom. Through the open door Piper saw him wash his face and fix his collar and tie. Then he rinsed out his mouth.
When he came back, he said, “My throat hurts each time I swallow. It feels as if—”
His eyes widened. In a husky tone, he said, “So that’s what you meant about this man saving my life. I was intended to be—”
“No, not you,” Quinn told him. “Now I’ve had time to think about it I’d say you only walked into trouble because somebody made a mistake. They didn’t mean you any harm.”
“How can you say that? I was nearly strangled.” “Because he mistook you for me. I’m the bloke he was after.”
“Why? Evidently you’re a friend of Mr. Piper but that doesn’t account for—”
“Piper had nothing to do with it,” Quinn said. “Unless I’m ’way off the track, a certain party didn’t like me snooping around this afternoon. He thought it might be a good idea to shut off my wind so I wouldn’t be able to tell Piper what I’d found out.”
“But—”
“There are no buts about it. Did anyone know you were coming here?”
“No.”
“Yet our friend arrived before you. He had time to switch off the lights and position himself in the right spot.”
Piper said, “If what you say is correct, he knew you would be arriving at seven o’clock. How did he get to know that?”
Quinn said, “He needn’t have known at all. He had only to follow me.”
“But obviously he got here before you did.”
“That’s my fault.” Quinn scratched his jaw and looked sheepish. “There’s a pub called the Bird-in-Hand. You pass it just before you turn the corner. …”
“Well?”
“Well, I didn’t. I was a bit early so I stopped for a quick ’un. Whoever followed evidently knew where you lived … and he saw his opportunity. While I was enjoying a pint he was preparing a reception for me.”
Howarth sat down on the edge of the bed and touched his throat gingerly. Then he asked, “Why should this person want to kill you, Mr. Quinn? He threatened me on the phone but that’s because he thinks I know something. What is it you’ve found out?”
“Nothing that could be used as proof,” Quinn said. “But I’m convinced I know who’s behind this whole business. I talked to him this afternoon and he must’ve realised I was on to him. So, when I left, he followed me.”
Piper said, “Who followed you?”
“A nice-looking young fellow by the name of Cusack, Leonard Cusack. Got an interesting background has our Mister Cusack, very interesting. If I’ve guessed right about Haupmann, it’s no wonder that Cusack hated his guts.”
“What has Cusack’s background got to do with it?”
“He was born in Germany. His father owned a modest hotel in Hamburg, his mother was a Jewish schoolteacher. Just before the war when things began to get really tough for all who weren’t one hundred per cent Aryan, his mother’s parents saw there was no future for them in the Third Reich. They got out while they had the chance and came to this country, bringing young Leonard with them.”
Quinn paused. With his face screwed up fretfully he began rummaging in his pockets. Then he looked at Piper and grumbled, “I’ll forget my head one of these days. Must’ve left my cigarettes in the Bird-in-Hand. … Oh, thanks.”
Piper gave him a light, too. He inhaled twice, coughed a little, and then went on, “The idea was for Cusack’s mother and father to follow on later when they’d sold the hotel… but things didn’t work out as they’d hoped.”
“What happened to them?”
“Cusack’s father got called up a short time afterwards. He was killed during the invasion of France. His wife, along with her brother and two sisters, was sent to Buchenwald. They’ve never been heard of since that time.”
Howarth said, “Perhaps the pain in my head doesn’t let me think properly … but I don’t understand. What has all this to do with Fritz Haupmann? He was a refugee, too. From the little he’s told me I’ve always been under the impression that he fought against the Germans.”
“Everybody’s been under that impression,” Quinn said. “Including his wife. But I’ve had my doubts all along.”
“I’m beginning to think it’s the only explanation,” Piper said. “Cusack could’ve set out to get on friendly terms with Miss Haupmann. Through her he met her stepfather. They played chess together and Cusack became accepted as a friend of the family. When the time was ripe he put his plan of revenge into operation.”
In a dull voice, Howarth said, “I don’t know anything about this person Cusack but I’ve been friendly with Haupmann long enough to know he isn’t the kind of man who could’ve been a Nazi. Apart from anything else, it would’ve been almost impossible for him to deceive his wife all these years.”
Piper said, “Deceived or not, she’s been acting very strangely since Haupmann disappeared. It’s as though she doesn’t want anyone to find out what’s happened to him.”
“Why should she be anxious to protect Cusack? If Mr. Quinn’s right in what he says”—Howarth got up off the bed and felt the back of his neck—“then she must’ve known all the time about her husband. … But my head’s aching badly and I think I’d like to go home.”
“You ought to see a doctor,” Piper told him. “Why not rest for a while and I’ll send for someone who lives on the top floor? You don’t look too good. If that blow on the head gave you concussion you’d be better to——”
“No, I’ll be all right once I get home. If the headache hasn’t gone by morning I’ll phone my own doctor.”
“Wouldn’t you like one of us to go with you?”
“Thank you all the same, but that really isn’t necessary. I’d appreciate it, however, if you’d”—he glanced at Quinn as though half afraid of him and then he turned back to Piper—“if you’d see me to a taxi.”
“Of course. I’ll phone for one and that’ll save you having to walk to the corner. While we’re waiting I’ll make some coffee. …”
At the end of a quarter of an hour he went downstairs with Howarth. “… The taxi should be here by now. Sure you wouldn’t like me to see you safely home?”
“No, thank you all the same. I’m only scared of going outside on my own in case somebody’s waiting for me to leave.”
“There’s not much fear of that. I think Quinn was right. The attack on you must’ve been meant for him.”
Howarth said, “Maybe so … but I can’t rely on it. I think I’ll have a talk with Superintendent Mullett to-morrow.”
They got out of the lift, crossed the entrance hall, and went outside. The taxi was waiting.
Piper said, “I was going to advise you to report this to the police. If it does nothing else it’ll make you feel easier in your own mind.”
“That’ll be something, anyway. Good night, Mr. Piper.”
Before he got into the taxi he took a good look at the driver’s face. Then he said good night again.
Piper stood at the kerb and watched until the tail lights had turned the corner. There were only a few passers-by in the street and none of them had shown any interest in Howarth or the taxi that was taking him home.
The forecourt and the entrance hall were still deserted. He waited just inside the doorway for a minute or two, all his senses alert, while he thought about the coldblooded attempt that had been made on Howarth’s life.
… Must’ve been touch-and-go. Good job Quinn arrived when he did. I’d better give Mullett a ring and tell him about Leonard Cusack. …
Footsteps rang out on the frosty pavement and went past. He listened to them receding into the distance in what he could imagine were ever-widening strides—giant strides that overtook the little man’s taxi and went on ahead.
What if someone was lying in wait when Howarth arrived home? There would be no Quinn this time to intervene—
The thought roused Piper like the prod of a needle. Quinn was upstairs alone in the flat. If he had been followed when he left Cusack; if Quinn was indeed the focal point of the whole affair; if there was a knock at the door and he opened it. …
Why didn’t I get him to come with me? How long is it since I left him—four minutes, five minutes? While I’m standing here anything may happen.
It took the lift another minute to get to the third floor. The lights were still on in both corridors. He could hear nothing as he slowed to a walk just before he reached his own door. It was shut.
He held his breath while he knocked twice … and twice again. Close to the other side, Quinn’s voice asked, “Who is it?”
Piper said, “Good for you. Let me in.”
The door opened a few inches and Quinn’s thin nose peeked round the edge. He said, “I might do some daft things but I’m not bloody mad altogether. You don’t think I’d have let in anybody but you … eh?”
“I hoped you wouldn’t but you might’ve assumed—”
“Assumed my Aunt Fanny! Come inside. I’ve got news for you.”
“What kind of news?”
“You’d only been gone two-three minutes when there was a phone call. Someone asked: ’ Is that Mr. Piper? ’ Before I could say yes, no, black or white, he told me to stop poking my nose into the affairs of Mr. Fritz Haupmann or I’d be very, very sorry.”
“What did he sound like?”
“As if he either had a cold in the head or he’d stuffed something in his gob. Behind it I thought I detected just a trace of foreign accent.”
“Any particular accent?”
“If anything, he sounded German,” Quinn said.
All Piper’s doubt returned. He asked, “Could it have been Haupmann’s voice?”
“Maybe … maybe not. It’s difficult to say.”
“Dammit, man, you spoke to him only a few days ago on the phone! You should be able to say whether it was Haupmann or not.”
Quinn said, “Don’t shout at me. I’ve had a long, hard day and, if you do any bullying, I’ll bid you a soldier’s farewell and take myself off to some convivial hostelry. There I’ll enjoy a noggin or two and then I’ll go home.”
“You won’t do any one of those things,” Piper told him. “Except, perhaps, go for a drink—providing I go with you.”
“Providing you do the providing, that suits me. But why the sudden urge to play David to my Jonathan?”
“Until we get certain matters straightened out, you’re going to stay here. It’ll be a lot safer.”
With his teeth showing like a horse, Quinn said, “Oh, am I?”
“Yes, you are. I’ve got a spare bed and I’ll lend you a pair of pyjamas and anything else you need.”
“Not quite. I need ten thousand quid and a six-months’ cruise in the South Seas with an over-sexed brunette in the next cabin … but I know what you mean. How long do we go on living this communal life?”
“As long as is necessary.”
“Is the idea to protect me—or yourself?”
“Both of us,” Piper said.
Quinn nodded. He went on nodding while he felt in his pockets again. Then he said, “I’ll borrow another of your cigarettes, if you don’t mind. In fact you’d better give me a few to keep at my bedside.”
“Are you in the habit of smoking during the night?”
“No, but I’m always restless in strange surroundings … especially”—his voice was flippant but there was no humour in his eyes—“when there’s more than a chance that a dead man might be walking in my sleep.”