Broomfield knew there was a car waiting for him, in case of emergency, in Bond Street. He needed less than three minutes to reach it, and to get away. He was still grinning as he turned into the alley leading from the courtyard. Ahead of him he could see street lights.
The tall man who appeared seemed to materialise out of the shadows.
“In a hurry?” he drawled.
Broomfield’s mind stopped working for a fraction of a second. He felt suddenly, terribly afraid. Then he reached for his gun.
Almost before he moved, something hit him. It was Wally Davidson’s fist, but he didn’t realise it. He staggered back, spitting blood, dragging at the gun. Davidson hit him again.
“Don’t act the ruddy goat, man,” he said, languidly. “You’re through. Know the word?”
As Broomfield made a last desperate dive for his gun, Davidson—almost casually—grabbed his right forearm and twisted. Broomfield gasped, his eyes rolling. He tried to use his feet, but Davidson swept them from under him. A moment later, a second man materialised from the shadows. An interested voice came:
“You all right, Wally?”
“Just,” grunted Davidson. “There’s a gun in his right coat pocket, Dodo. Get it out, will you?”
Dodo Trale, no longer in his chauffeur’s uniform, did the necessary. Broomfield, realising his chances of escape were nil, relapsed into sullen silence as he was marched back to the courtyard and helped up the fire escape which, only minutes before, had seemed a sure route to safety. But there was a hint of fear in his eyes. The methods of his captors had held a certain ruthlessness: they reminded him somehow, of Graydon’s ‘men’.
Sixty seconds later, he was looking into the hard grey eyes of a third man. In Jim Burke, that same ruthlessness was if anything plainer. He shivered....
“Any damage?” asked Davidson. With the others he had met Burke just outside the kitchen door. “I heard the shots.”
“So did all of Brake Street and most of Piccadilly,” grunted Burke. “Funnily enough—no damage.”
“Then what—?”
“That’s just the question,” said Burke, softly, “I’m going to ask Mister Broomfield to answer.”
He stared at Broomfield’s sullen eyes and set face; and he remembered the way Graydon, a few days before, had kept absolutely silent in the face of questions. Broomfield was tarred with the same brush, he could see. But there were methods of persuasion.
“Bring him along,” he growled. “G.C.’s here.”
Craigie was in the room where, earlier that evening, Sir Marcus O’Ray and Katrina Fordham had sat and talked. So was the attractively ugly Toby Arran. Katrina Fordham was in a state of collapse, in her bedroom. Both bullets had smashed into the wall behind her; she had not been touched. A doctor—that Colossus of a man, Doc Little—was on his way to the flat, and for the moment Katrina’s new maid was looking after her mistress. The door was locked, and a large, untidy-looking man, by name Martin Best—leaned against the wall outside it, on guard. Burke knew Best slightly; Arran, Davidson and the others knew him well. Of late, however, he had not worked much for the Department, although on one occasion he had played a big part.*
In the big drawing-room, Burke took the lead.
“Broomfield,” he said flatly, “you’re going to talk and you’re going to tell us all you know. Get that into your head.”
The prisoner said nothing, but a half-smile twisted his lips as he looked Burke up and down, insolently.
“Another Graydon touch?” murmured Burke. “That won’t help you, Broomfield. You’re not being handled by the police, and we’re not soft-hearted. If you don’t start talking soon, you’ll suffer for it.”
Broomfield licked his thick lips, but he still kept silent.
“Take him to my place,” Burke told Davidson coldly, “and get him ready.”
The tone of his voice made Broomfield shiver and for a moment he looked as if he would talk. Then he shrugged, and his lips set hard.
“Walk,” Wally Davidson commanded, wearily.
Accompanied by Dodo Trale, Davidson led him out of the flat. In the five minutes’ walk to Burke’s place, they knew their captive would have time to stew over the possibilities of that ‘get him ready’. Several times, indeed, he glanced at the grim, set faces of the two men; and with every yard he grew more afraid.
If he didn’t talk, he’d suffer....
If he did talk, O’Ray would learn of it, sooner or later, and Alec Broomfield knew exactly what would happen to him. He remembered Curson; he remembered Prettle.
They took him to Burke’s flat, and they stripped him to the waist. He shivered, not with cold, and they forced him into a hardwood chair and bound him to it, his ankles to the legs and arms tightly to the back. All the time they kept silent, unless it was a casual comment, one to the other. Their faces were lean, hard, and even worse. They frightened Broomfield. He shivered uncontrollably, now, and there was sweat on his forehead and his stomach.
Davidson and Trale finished their job, and then dropped into easy chairs. They smoked, thoughtfully, heedless of the man close to them, and they seemed to start with surprise when he gasped at last:
“Listen—listen! I’ll talk——”
“Shut up,” snapped Wally Davidson. “Burke will deal with you.”
And the terrified Broomfield saw a vision of a big, steely-voiced man with the hardest grey eyes in the world....
“Neither bullet touched her,” Jim Burke repeated.
“I don’t know what kind of a marksman Broomfield is, but he couldn’t have missed her—twice—from that distance—”
“He did,” interrupted Craigie, filling his pipe.
“If he tried to get her,” Burke finished. “Gordon—I may be a fool, but I don’t think Broomfield tried to hit her. Frighten her, yes. And by the look of it, he succeeded.”
“And O’Ray was trying to frighten her—we guess.” Craigie struck a match.
“It looks like it,” Burke scowled. “Another thing. There was no silencer on his gun. Why?”
Craigie smoked in silence as Burke tried to answer himself.
“Possibly because he intended to make a row? He wanted us to know he was shooting—had his getaway all cut and dried, and didn’t dream we’d have anyone watching the back, say. But why the hell should he want to let us know all about it?”
“I don’t know,” said Craigie.
“And I don’t,” said Burke. “But I will! Anyway, I’ll bet you a pound to a penn’orth of jam, O’Ray’s in this—and bang in the middle of it. And when we talk about Cropper-Gordon’s in future, we’ll say O’Ray, and save time. O’Ray wants Granton’s, and he wanted the concession. The thing is—is he working for Rania. Or is he playing his own game?”
“O’Ray isn’t the man to play anybody else’s.”
“Unless it suits him.” Burke scowled again. “Damn it, Katrina said Fordham was killed because he married her—”
“She mightn’t be right.”
“On the other hand, she might. Still, the thing for the moment is this: Broomfield shot at her, and deliberately missed. As deliberately, he made sure we heard him. Those shots didn’t come until we were actually at the door. And we can take one thing for certain from that.”
“H’mm?”
“He didn’t want her dead,” said Burke, emphatically.
He mused silently for a few moments. Then:
“Blast me for a fool! Of course——!”
“Of course what?” Craigie murmured: he was having trouble with his pipe.
“Just this.” Burke ran a hand through his hair. “Katrina owns the concession. O’Ray wants it. If she’s killed, before she’s signed it away, he can’t get it. Right? But I can tell you someone who will——”
Craigie stopped fiddling with his pipe.
“Good Lord,” he said, hollowly.
“Yes.” Burke nodded. “Staren, of Rania. Her father. It will go back to Ranian control, then, if she’s killed before signing it away. So the only party interested in her immediate death is—Staren.”
“Her father.” Craigie’s words were a protest.
“Dammit,” snapped Burke, “Staren’s got no more feeling for Katrina than a goldfish. He’s a callous old devil—you don’t need telling that—and she’s also got right under his skin by the alliance with Fordham. So far as her father’s concerned, Katrina cut herself off from him, then. In his eyes, she’s virtually dead. He won’t care a tinker’s cuss whether she’s physically dead, too. God! No wonder she’s scared of him——”
“And you think she is?” asked Craigie, slowly.
“I’m sure of it,” said Burke. “I——”
Whatever else he was going to say was lost, for a maid tapped on the door and announced Doctor Little.
Little waddled in, beaming and quivering, a mountain of a man.
“How now, boys! What have you been up to, this time?”
Burke told him. Little raised eloquent brows and departed to examine the patient. He returned after ten minutes and the expression on his face was chiefly of puzzlement.
“She’s all right?” Burke snapped, and Craigie looked his concern.
Frowning, Little sat on a chair that sagged beneath his weight.
“She’s foxing,” he announced.
The word seemed to echo round the room. Burke was too startled for immediate comment. Craigie looked incredulous. But they knew their Doc Little. He could only be right.
“True,” he affirmed. “There’s nothing the matter with that little lady. She hasn’t even had hysterics, although she’s pretending she’s got ‘em now. If she’s been as scared as you say she has, she’s got over it damn quick.”
There was a short, tense silence. The almost unbelievable truth worked its way through Burke’s mind, and Craigie’s. It seemed fantastic——
Katrina Fordham had been shot at, by a man who meant to miss. The shots had been fired to deliberately make a row. And Katrina Fordham had pretended to collapse.
Pretended....
It was Burke who broke the silence.
“Now isn’t this beautiful?” he murmured thoughtfully. “The lovely Katrina’s foxing. She isn’t scared. And if she isn’t scared, she knew there wasn’t any chance of those bullets hitting her. Hell and damnation!”
It was, he admitted afterwards, one of the biggest shocks he’d had in his life. The more he thought about it, the worse it grew. Because they had not the slightest excuse in the world for trying to browbeat Katrina Fordham into admitting she’d been foxing. And whatever her father’s feelings, a protest from her to the Ranian Legation would mean a flutter of concern in many august circles? If—as was more than possible—they tried to force her to talk and rumour of their efforts got into the press, the whole country would be howling.
With a man, it wouldn’t have mattered a damn. But with Katrina, Princess of Rania, widow of Arthur Fordham, object of pity for many million souls, it would matter a great deal.
Bitterly, Burke outlined these opinions. Craigie, who was looking worried and grey, agreed.
“We can’t do anything with her,” he said. “Yet——” He turned to Little. “Look here, Doc. You’re a hundred per cent certain about this?”
“Two hundred per cent,” Little assured him.
Then blinked in astonishment at Jim Burke.
As he spoke, one moment, Burke was scowling as he puffed cigarette smoke towards the ceiling. The next, he was on his feet, his face alive with excitement. Smashing one massive fist into the palm of his other hand, he shouted.
“Man, but we’re fools! Fools!”
Craigie’s eyes widened; and he smiled.
“What’s biting, Jim?”
“Biting!” Jim Burke fumed, furious at his own obtuseness: “It’s eating me! And it ought to be eating you——”
“Go on,” Craigie prompted.
“Gordon—can’t you see? Katrina’s foxing. She’s not afraid. Right? She couldn’t fox if she was afraid—if she felt anything. But she doesn’t! She married Fordham in defiance of her father and her country; she exiled herself for him, and now, less than a week after he’s been murdered, she’s foxing—working with the people who killed Fordham!”
Burke’s eyes, gleaming with excitement, were on Craigie. And Craigie began to see.
“Go on,” he said again.
“It doesn’t work,” Burke summed up, with quiet conviction. “It doesn’t fit in. A woman who could give up all that for a man doesn’t get callous, five minutes after his death—”
“Get to the point,” Little groaned.
“I will,” grinned Burke. “The woman in there isn’t Arthur Fordham’s widow. It’s not the real Katrina!”