23. Bargain and Threat

The Superintendent appeared in the doorway again.

There was a murmur of conversation downstairs, but Roger hardly noticed it.

Helen Wolf said: “I always knew she must be, Handsome, and I can understand you being fond of her, and her being fond of you. But I’ve been talking to your wife, and telling her what Margaret thinks about you. She pretends that she doesn’t mind, but I feel sure that she’s jealous. Would you believe it? Jealous of Margaret!”

Roger said: “What do you want?”

“Yes, I suppose it is time to get down to business, but there’s no need to worry, your men won’t be able to trace this call. You see, it’s a private line from here to Ma Dingle’s. We never did believe in trusting the Post Office Telephones, it’s much better to have our own line installed. Don’t you agree? And Lake was such a good mechanic. He was in Signals during the war. I want to make a bargain with you, Handsome.”

“What bargain?”

“I thought you would be interested,” said Helen, and gave a little clucking laugh. “There had to come a time when you were first a human being and a policeman afterward, hadn’t there? It’s quite simple. I want Margaret. There’s so much I would like to talk to her about. You know what a wilful child she is, don’t you? And how much I like her - but she needs correction and chastisement. Her father didn’t know how to handle her, but I know. She’s asleep, now. Isn’t it strange that I should guess that? I haven’t really guessed, it’s a process of deduction. Whenever Margaret gets into an awkward position, she goes to sleep! She uses veronal, I think, which is so effective. I knew that as soon as she was told that your wife was missing, she would be afraid of questions and wouldn’t want to answer them. She hasn’t much confidence in herself, really, and positively hates being in an embarrassing position. So she goes to sleep. It’s simple and feline, isn’t it? There’s something very catlike about Margaret. Like her looks - have you ever noticed that she’s sleek and lovely, just like a great cat?”

Roger said: “Don’t keep wasting time, or I’ll ring off. If you’ve got anything to say, say it.”

“How impatient! But I suppose there’s something in that, Handsome. Well, it’s very simple. Just a matter of exchange of prisoners. You have Margaret. I want her. I have your wife. You want her. Margaret might do me a lot of damage when she wakes up, and so I want to make sure that you’re not with her. What about it, Handsome? Your wife, in return for Margaret Paterson. I know it’s difficult, you’ll have to make up your mind which you really prefer? I—just a moment, Handsome!”

She went off the line. The Superintendent whispered: “Hold her on, we’re bound to get her.” Roger nodded; there was no point in explaining that they’d need mechanics out to trace a private line; and Helen must be sure of herself, or she wouldn’t stay talking so long.

She was somewhere in London; they couldn’t run a private telephone line over many miles, it would be too big a job.

“Anything I can do?” the Superintendent asked.

Roger shook his head, and then heard a sound at the other end of the wire; Helen was picking up the receiver again. He heard her laugh; and then came Janet’s voice.

 

Janet stammered: “Roger, can—can you come?”

Helen said something to her which Roger couldn’t quite catch. “Can you come?” The phrase meant nothing and everything.

Janet spoke again.

“Roger, she wants me to beg you to exchange Margaret for me. I can’t do that. I just can’t do that.” She made it a short “a,” which didn’t sound like Janet, although there was no doubt it was she. “Can you get here in time to—”

She stopped abruptly; and there was a sound, as of a slap, sharp and clear. Then Helen came on to the line again.

“I wonder what it is about women, Handsome, they never do what they’re told. I’ve just had to smack her face. I don’t want to hurt her, but I may have to. I want Margaret Paterson, you see. I must have Margaret, and once I get her, you can have your sweet wife back. You can manage it, if you want to. Just let Margaret leave, without being followed. I’ll see to all the rest. It isn’t difficult, is it? And if you do that, and I get Margaret safely, then you’ll see your wife again. Oh, and don’t forget that if I have to wait too long, I shall get bad tempered. I’m not very nice when I lose my temper. I just want to hurt people, anyone who happens to be near me. Your wife is standing right by my side, Handsome. You will release Margaret, won’t you? And not have her followed. Don’t say a word to any of your friends about it, because they aren’t so fond of your dear wife as you are, are they? They would sacrifice her for duty, but you - don’t be long, will you? Janet’s got such a nice face, a pretty face, it would be a pity to spoil it.”

The line went dead.

 

A man had come into the room and was whispering to the Superintendent, who turned, saw Roger standing with the receiver in his hand but no longer to his ear, and said sharply: “There’s no telephone line laid on here, West - no such number as Mile End 8213.”

“No. Private line. Better have some mechanics out, to try to trace it. Can’t be far away.” Roger brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Who was it?”

“The woman, Wolf.”

The Superintendent turned, gave instructions to the man who’d told him about the nonexistence of Mile End 8213, and then looked frowningly at Roger. The room was very quiet. Roger fumbled for his cigarettes, and the Superintendent came forward with a light.

“What’s the matter, West?”

Roger said: “It’s all right. I’m all right. They’ve probably used the gas mains or the sewers to put that line in. Easy enough to do after dark, I suppose.” Easy. He laughed. “Thanks.” He drew on the cigarette, and it burned down nearly half an inch before he took it from his lips. “Did you know that these beauties had a bright idea? The oldest, but still pretty bright They’ve kidnapped my wife. Neat, isn’t it?”

Then he heard Chatsworth’s voice, downstairs.

 

He had no real freedom of action; no choice. He would have to sacrifice Janet for Margaret. Anything else was unthinkable. You couldn’t bargain with Helen Wolf; Lobo; with anyone. You had a job to do, and it had to be done. You cut out all personal feelings, all emotion. You kept your eye on the ball and that was all there was to it.

But - you could live in hell at the same time.

This was a new kind of hell; partly - mostly - of his own making. He’d needed a shock to jerk him out of it; but not a pain in his chest like a slash from a sword, or a burn from a branding iron. Like that little iron he’d found in Carney’s room. You just had to stand there and let the thoughts ooze through your mind. Thoughts and facts - and the simple, damnable fact was that much as he argued with himself, he had a choice; the choice between the right and the wrong thing. He could keep silent about Helen’s threat; could say nothing to Chatsworth, let Margaret go - yes, he could arrange that - and take a chance that Helen Wolf meant what she said. It was just about the only chance that Janet would have.

He could do it.

In so doing, he would send Margaret to her death; there was no argument about that, no possibility of argument. The hatred which Helen had for the girl had shown clearly enough at Univex House, had been evident in a dozen different ways. So he could save Janet, or at least give her a chance, and sacrifice Margaret, in all her youth and loveliness. It wasn’t just an issue about people, a choice between one woman and the other, although it had been forced on him in that guise. It went much deeper. If he sacrificed Margaret, he would throw away the chance of finding out what she could tell them about Lobo; and she knew much more than she had allowed them to guess, so far.

Chatsworth came in burly, but soft-footed. Roger looked up, but made no sign that he saw him. Chatsworth closed the door, drew nearer, but didn’t speak. He turned away and sat on the side of one of the two single beds; a man of deep understanding. Probably he guessed at the mental fight within Roger; he couldn’t know what it was, but he could read all the signs of strain.

In his mind’s eye, Roger saw two faces: Janet’s and Margaret’s. Margaret, while she was asleep; and Janet, when she had entered the living room at Bell Street and talked quietly, shown herself as she really was. The folly of his attitude toward Margaret showed up vividly; he’d been fascinated by her, and repulsed by Janet’s manner, by the contrast between the two after their orgy of champagne. That had affected him when he was muddled and dazed by tiredness.

He stubbed out the cigarette.

Janet’s voice sounded as if it were still in his ears: “Can—can you come, Roger?” All the appeal in the world had sounded in her voice. Was it fear that had made her falter? “Can you come?” Not—”can you let Margaret Paterson come”; not a note of pleading, to save her at Margaret’s expense, just a plea: “Can you come?” And he’d said nothing to comfort her, because of the black shadow in his mind and the sharp pain in his chest.

“Can you come?” And: “I just can’t do that.”

“Can’t” with a short “a.” Did that mean anything? He was beginning to think again, not clearly but enough to show that the stupefying effect of what had happened was lessening.

“What is it, Roger?” asked Chatsworth.

Roger said: “Sorry. I just heard from the Wolf woman. She made an offer. Wants to exchange Janet for Margaret Paterson. Nice thought, wasn’t it? Wants me to let Margaret go - without anyone on her tail - and promises to release Janet. Otherwise - bad for Janet. She likes to hurt. I’d like to get my hands round her throat.”

Now he’d thrown the one chance away.

Chatsworth said: “She’s a vixen, but don’t use your hands, leave her neck for the rope, Roger. Think there’s a chance of letting the Paterson girl go, and following her? It might work.”

“Could try it,” Roger said. “It would give us a chance, I suppose. Fact is, whatever we do, Janet’s had it. She knows where they are—must know. They can’t take a chance of letting her go free. But they might keep her alive until they see whether it will work. The exchange trick, I mean. Yes, I suppose anything’s worth trying. We haven’t searched this room yet. We might find something here that would give us a lead. We might get Briggs, Milsom, or Ma Dingle to talk, too.”

Chatsworth said: “Sorry. No go.”

“Time when we should find third degree useful,” said Roger. “Nice, humanitarian people, the British police. Never hurt a rogue. Never be unfair to a rogue. Unfair!”

Chatsworth said: “Trailing isn’t all that difficult. We needn’t have her followed, but could station men at points of vantage all over London, warn all patrols and constables to look out for her, find out where they take her. It’s somewhere in London, or you wouldn’t have had that call.”

“Oh, it’s in London. Some clever little hiding place, where Carney, Helen, and all the rest of the beauties are hiding out, snug and secure. I’m bound to say that I think the right thing is to hold Margaret Paterson until she comes round, and then question her. We can exert some pressure. If we do let her go, and they snatch her, then it’ll be our responsibility. Too big a chance.”

“You’d take it, if it were anyone else instead of your wife.”

“Would I?” Roger stared across the room at a drawer of the tallboy which stood open - the bottom drawer. Something poked out; a feather. He crossed the room and pulled it wider open. There was not one feather, but several, colourful and bright. He picked them up; they were fastened together, and they made a hat. There was another hat in the drawer, also a woman’s; grey tweed, with an unusual overcheck of blue and green.

He’d first seen a feather hat like this one on Margaret; later Sloan had seen others at the Can-Can, and that overcheck tweed was identical with the suit Margaret had worn when he’d first met her.

Margaret had lost a hat, that was why she’d worn the feathered one. So—

But Margaret wasn’t so important just now; the significance of those hats mattered most.

He jerked his head up. His voice cracked.

“Yes, let her go. Let her go. I know where they’ll take her. And Janet—Janet told me.” It wasn’t because she was afraid that she stammered “can—can you come—I can’t do that.” Can-can’t—Can-Can. “They’re at the Can-Can! Yes, let the woman go.” He stuffed the tweed hat into his pocket as he spoke.

 

Margaret was awake, and on her way. Every policeman and CID man who set eyes on her would report to the Yard, but Roger thought she would probably be snatched, and the trail crossed. And he was no longer so certain about the Can-Can. It was so obvious, because of the feathered hat and Janet’s words, and might be too obvious; he distrusted the obvious as a matter of policy, and yet he’d jumped to it this time. At least, Chatsworth had agreed; so had Cortland, when they’d reached the Yard. The telephone line was being traced; it started from a gas main in Ma’s place. Dozens of manholes were already being opened to find that single cable especially those near the Can-Can, but there was no report of a discovery yet.

The Can-Can club was disappointing from the outside, even when the doorway was brightly lit; and the lights weren’t on yet. It was half-past nine; the club didn’t open until ten o’clock, and only a few people would drift in before eleven. It was in Warren Mews, off Park Lane. The Mews had been turned into stables, garages, and flats, here and there a light glowed. One house had been taken over by the Can-Can club, which had the best reputation of any night club in London and had never been raided; a good front was half the battle.

Three roads led to Warren Mews, and there were many narrow turnings nearby, and two bombed sites, where the police could hide. Roger, with Taggart, stood in a doorway from which he could watch the club.

Traffic noises, from Park Lane and Oxford Street, came clearly. Street lights were reflected in the sky, which was overcast. There were no stars, but a blustery wind drove the clouds fast overhead, and cut along the street toward this spot. There always seemed to be wind when Roger was out at night on the Lobo job.

He was cold, but reluctant to move about, because the approaches to the Can-Can would be watched by Lobo’s men, if he had guessed right. There were probably men at the windows, looking out, ready to give the alarm if the police were seen. He didn’t think they had been seen, they’d made a special job of this - as they had at Ma Dingle’s. If he were right, then Ma’s had given him the key to the whole business, after all.

It was twenty minutes to ten, now.

Early revellers would soon be arriving. The lights would soon go up. Come to think, wasn’t it usual for the lights to be on before opening time? Bill Sloan would know, so would the sleek Rugg. Rugg was here, somewhere, looking forward to this raid; he thrived on night-club raids. Never mind Rugg! It was an hour since Margaret had left Bell Street by taxi. As soon as she’d come round, she said that she wanted to go to her friends; she had seemed surprised, he was told, that there had been so little objection to her going.

Would she come here?

The wind whistled along the street, and Taggart muttered an imprecation and beat his arms gently across his breast; it didn’t help much. A car passed along one of the turnings, but didn’t stop. There were still no lights at the Can-Can. Supposing he were right, but had left the raid too late? Helen and anyone with her had had ample time to get away from the Can-Can; she might have realised the significance of Janet’s words, have feared that Roger would understand the implication, and left in a hurry.

Another car drew near, its headlights blazing. Roger drew back into the shadow of the doorway. The car purred past.

Taggart grunted.

Roger said: “It’s beginning to look as if we’ve had it.” And then another thought stabbed into his mind. That they might all be there, including Janet; and the moment they were raided, might kill Janet; there was no doubt of the malignity of Helen Wolf; they might kill Janet before he had time—

A taxi came along the street and slowed down.

Taggart hissed: “What’s this?”

The cab pulled up outside the Can-Can. A little man got out. Margaret Paterson followed, and a man followed her, holding tightly to her arm.