Hell Is Too Crowded

(5)

As he walked away from the club the wind, blowing across the water, brought with it the dank, wet smell of rotting leaves, redolent with decay, filling him with a vague, irrational excitement.

The rain was falling in solid silver lances that gleamed in the lamplight as he went briskly towards the centre of the town through deserted streets. An occasional car swept by, and now and then, someone hurried along the sidewalk, head lowered against the driving rain.

He found an old man in tattered overcoat and cloth cap standing in a doorway on the corner of the main shopping street, hopefully trying to sell his last halfdozen Sunday newspapers. Brady bought one and the old man wiped a dewdrop from his nose with the back of a hand and stepped out into the rain to direct him.

He came to the Hippodrome first, a narrow, marble-fronted Edwardian music hall with an alley running down one side to the stage door. The stills for that week’s show were still on display in glass-fronted display cases and on impulse, he stopped and searched through them, looking for Anne Dunning.

He found several of her, mostly carefully posed in a tableau with two or three young male dancers, but there was one studio portrait which had really caught her. For a moment, he stayed there looking at it, remembering her kindness, and then he sighed and turned away.

The Temple of Quiet was up the next turning. There were many cars parked in the street and as he moved along the sidewalk, a large, black Mercedes swirled in to the kerb, splashing him with water from the gutter.

He turned angrily. “Why the hell don’t you look where you’re going?”

He caught a brief glimpse of a Homburg hat and pebble-dash glasses. Teeth gleamed whitely in the darkness. “So sorry,” the man said with the merest suggestion of a lisp and drove the Mercedes farther along the street where there was more space.

Brady moved on to the gate of the temple and looked up at the imposing building with a frown. It looked as if it had been some kind of Nonconformist chapel at one time, a gaunt, soot-blackened Victorian building with fake Doric columns and a portico over the entrance. Probably the original congregation had dwindled away as the population tended to spread outwards from the centre of the city, and Das had got the place cheaply.

He mounted the broad steps into the portico, opened one of the doors, and was immediately greeted by an overpowering smell of incense.

The hall was covered with an expensive Indian carpet and lit by fake electric tapers. A low hum of conversation came from somewhere in the dim recesses of the building and he followed the sound to a pair of double doors.

He stood outside listening for a while and then noticed another door at one side. He opened it and mounted a narrow stone staircase which brought him into a gallery from which he could see down into the hall below.

The altar and the choir stalls had been removed. In their place stood a gold-painted statue of Buddha. There were no chairs in the hall and the congregation sat cross-legged on the floor. They looked middle-aged and anxious and the majority were women.

The place was dimly lit with more fake tapers and heavy with incense. In front of the statue of Buddha, a small fire burned in a bowl and a man prayed before it, his head flat on the ground.

Brady decided that he must be Das. He looked very effective. He wore a yellow robe which left one shoulder bare and his head was shaved.

After a while he stood up and turned. He had a fine face and calm, wise eyes. He smiled gently and said in a melodious voice, “And so, my brethren, I give you a text to meditate upon until our next meeting. To do good is not enough. It is also necessary to be good.”

He sounded completely sincere, but spoilt it for Brady in the next breath. “There will be the usual silver collection as you go out. Give what you can that we all may benefit.”

He raised his arms in benediction and then turned and disappeared behind a screen.

The audience got to its feet, not without an effort in some cases, and Brady stayed where he was until the last of them had filed out.

He went downstairs and as he emerged into the corridor, a woman was about to enter a small office opposite. She wore a yellow robe rather similar to the one Das had been wearing and held a large collecting bag in one hand. It was bulging with cash.

“Can I help you?” she said with a slight frown.

She looked about forty and spinsterish, with one of those tight, desiccated faces and a slight nervous twitch to one side of her mouth.

“I’d like to see Mr. Das if that’s possible,” Brady told her.

“The Swami is always very tired after a service,” she told him. “He doesn’t usually see patients on a Sunday.”

“It’s most urgent,” Brady assured her. She still appeared to be hesitating and he hastily took out two ten shilling notes and dropped them into the collecting bag. “The service was an inspiration.”

“Wasn’t it?” she said simply. “I’ll see if the Swami can spare you a little time. Wait here, please.”

She half-closed the office door, but Brady heard her pick up the telephone. There was a murmur of conversation and then she returned.

“The Swami is very tired, but he can spare you five minutes,” she said. “Come this way, please.”

A long, covered way connected the temple with what had once been the minister’s house in the old days. When the woman opened the door at the far end, Brady was again conscious of that overpowering smell of incense.

They crossed a hall, the walls of which were hung with rich tapestries, and the woman knocked gently on a door and entered.

Brady moved in after her and stood there, hat in hand. The walls were draped in hand-embroidered Chinese dragon tapestries, and the floor was covered with a superb black carpet.

At one end of the room in an alcove, a small Buddha stood on an altar, incense burning in a bowl before it and Das knelt there, head bowed.

“Wait here until he is ready for you,” the woman whispered and went out, quietly closing the door behind her.

In the centre of the room stood a beautiful handcarved desk with a polished ebony top and round the walls on every side, was ranged a superb collection of Chinese pottery on specially constructed shelves.

Brady moved forward and examined a delicate porcelain vase. Behind him, there was a slight movement and Das said, “I see you are admiring my little collection. Are you an artist, by any chance?”

Brady shook his head. “You couldn’t be more wrong. I’m an engineer, but I happen to admire anything that’s beautifully constructed.”

“Even a bridge can be a work of art,” Das conceded. “If you are interested, the vase you were admiring is of the Ming Dynasty and worth well over a thousand pounds. It is the gem of my collection.”

He caressed it lovingly with one slender hand then moved across to the desk and sat down. He pointed to a chair opposite. “Mahroon tells me that you have a problem, my friend. That you require guidance.”

“You could put it that way,” Brady said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. He sat down in the chair and dropped his hat to the floor. “My name’s Matthew Brady. Does that mean anything to you?”

Das looked faintly surprised. “Should it do?”

“I should have thought so,” Brady told him. “Considering the fact that you offered a fair price to see me dead this week.”

Deep pain showed in the Hindu’s fine liquid eyes. “I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea of what you’re talking about, Mr. Brady. Here we are concerned only with the conquest of self, we desire only to discover the truth which is to be found for each man in his own soul. The destruction of a fellow human being would be anathema to us.”

“You can keep that kind of talk for the paying customers,” Brady said.

Das sighed and pressed a buzzer on his desk. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask Mahroon to show you out.”

“I should have thought you could have done rather better in the temple virgin line,” Brady said. “She looks as if the sap’s dried in her a long time ago. What was she when you roped her in — a schoolmistress?”

“You know you’re really very insulting, Mr. Brady,” Das said. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to do something about you. Something unpleasant.”

There was a slight movement behind Brady, a brawny forearm slid round his neck, forcing back his chin, and he was jerked to his feet

He was held as in a vice, unable even to turn round to see his assailant and Das leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I think the river, Mr. Brady. Yes, that will do very nicely. You slipped and fell crossing one of the wharves and the floodwaters carried you away. I’m really performing a public service.”

“You’ll never get away with it,” Brady said desperately.

“Oh, but I will,” Das assured him. “Sorry I can’t hear how you managed to get out of Manningham, but we’re rather short on time.”

The chair was kicked out of the way and Brady was dragged backwards towards the door. He tried to struggle, but found himself helpless in that vice-like grip. In desperation he raised his right foot and ran it down the man’s shin, crunching it into the instep with all his force.

His assailant gave a shriek of agony and released him. Brady turned quickly and looked up into the face of one of the biggest men he had ever seen in his life. Tiny pig-like eyes sparkled with rage in the flat, moronic face and a fist flailed out, catching Brady on the shoulder, sending him staggering across the room.

“Finish him, Shaun! Finish him!” Das cried, and Shaun lurched towards Brady, great broken-nailed hands swinging almost to his knees. Brady grabbed for a small lacquered table which stood near by and threw it at his legs, and Shaun tripped over it and fell to the floor.

Brady had no illusions about his chances in a fair fight. He moved in quickly, aiming a kick at Shaun’s head, but there was nothing wrong with the big man’s reflexes. He grabbed Brady’s foot, twisted it, and brought him down.

They rolled wildly from side to side, limbs threshing, as Brady tried to pull free, but it was no use. Great hands wrapped themselves around his throat as Shaun rolled on top, and Brady started to choke.

The room suddenly seemed to go darker and Brady, struggling desperately, remembered an old Judo trick and spat in Shaun’s face. The big man jerked his head back in a reflex action and Brady rammed his stiffened fingers into the bare throat just above the Adam’s apple.

Shaun’s mouth opened in a soundless scream and he fell backwards to roll on the floor in agony, hands tearing at his collar.

As Brady got to his feet, feeling his throat tenderly, Das moved round the desk on his way to the door. Brady got hold of the yellow robe, swung the Hindu round in a circle and pushed him back into his chair.

Das glared up at him. “You won’t get away with this, Brady.”

The fine face was twisted with rage and Brady grinned. “I wondered what you were really like under that phoney mask of yours. Now I know.”

“I’ll see you back inside if it’s the last thing I do,” Das said venomously.

“No you won’t,” Brady said. “If the law gets its paws on me again, I’ll pull you down with me. I’ll tell them you arranged my escape and turned nasty because I couldn’t pay you what I’d promised.”

“They’d never believe you,” Das said contemptuously.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. They’ve probably got a file on you a foot thick at least. I bet they’re just waiting for you to make one false move.”

“Get out of here!” Das screamed.

“Not until you’ve told me what I want to know,” Brady said. “You asked Wilma Sutton to arrange for me to have a fatal accident, preferably by tonight. I’d like to know why.”

“Go to hell!” Das said sullenly.

Brady shrugged and stood up. He walked across the room to the shelves on which the Hindu’s collection was displayed, picked up a beautiful alabaster jar and hurled it at the wall.

It smashed into a score of pieces and Das jumped to his feet with a cry of dismay. “That’s just to show you I mean business,” Brady said. “My next trick’s even better.”

He picked up the Ming vase and raised it slowly above his head and Das cried out in horror. “For God’s sake, no, Brady! I beg of you.”

“Then start talking,” Brady said. “I haven’t got much time.”

“A man came to see me last week,” Das said hurriedly. “He was from London — a Hungarian called Anton Haras. He told me that it was necessary that you should die, that he was willing to pay well if I could arrange this.”

“Who put him on to you?” Brady asked.

Das appeared to hesitate and Brady started to raise the vase again. “No, please, I’ll tell you,” the Hindu gabbled. “It was a contact of mine in London. We do business together from time to time.”

“What name?”

“Soames — Professor Soames. He’s a naturopath. Has premises in Dell Street near Regent’s Park. I’ve never met him. He’s just a contact I use when I need certain merchandise.”

Brady raised the vase in one quick movement and Das stumbled round the desk, arms outstretched. “I’m telling you the truth, I swear it.”

For a moment Brady looked straight into the twisted, sweating face and then he handed the vase across. “You’d better be,” he said.

Das clasped the vase to his chest with an audible sigh of relief and Brady walked across to the door, past Shaun who was sitting up now and moaning softly like some wounded animal, his face purple.

As Brady opened the door, Das said viciously, “Somebody wants you dead, Brady. I don’t know why, I don’t even know who. But I hope they get their hands on you before the police do.”

Brady didn’t bother to reply. He closed the door and moved back along the covered way to the temple. The woman was standing in the entrance hall in front of a small statue, head bowed in contemplation.

She turned as he approached and smiled. “Was the Swami able to help you?”

“I think you could say that,” Brady told her.

“We, who have been shown the way, have much to thank him for.”

“He’s undoubtedly a most unusual man,” Brady assured her solemnly and passed out into the night.

The door closed softly behind him and he paused for a moment on the top step. Obviously London was his next stop, but how was he going to get there? He had already spent half of the five pounds he had taken from the till at the shop, and the train fare would be more than that, he was sure.

Trying to hitch-hike would be fatal, but there was bound to be a transport café somewhere on the main road out of town. The sort of place where southbound truck drivers stopped for a meal and a rest. If only he could get into the back of a truck without being seen, he could be in London for breakfast and no one the wiser.

The street was deserted except for one car parked a little higher up with its lights on. As he turned out through the main gate, the car started up and moved towards him.

It was the black Mercedes, the one which had splashed him with water earlier. He kept on walking at the same steady pace down towards the main road. Behind him there was a sudden burst of acceleration and the Mercedes bounced on to the pavement with the obvious intention of pinning him against the wall like a fly.

Brady jumped for the top of the railing and lifted his legs. Something seemed to pluck at his coat and then the Mercedes was back on the road and braking to a halt. As it started to reverse, he dropped to the pavement, turned and ran.

Tyres screamed behind him and a great finger of light picked him out of the darkness, throwing a gigantic shadow against a brick wall. He turned desperately and noticed a narrow opening to the left. He barely made it as the car skidded to a halt.

He was standing in the entrance to a narrow, stoneflagged footpath which ran between high stone walls and was lit, half-way along, by an old-fashioned gas lamp bracketed to one of the walls.

The car door slammed and Brady moved back into the shadows and waited. The man came forward and paused a few feet away, and the light from the gas lamp which illuminated the entrance to the footpath, glinted on the pebble-dash spectacles beneath the Homburg hat

The collar of his heavy, Continental greatcoat was turned up to obscure his face, but his teeth showed in a pleasant smile and he said in his peculiar lisping voice, “Let’s be sensible about this, Brady.”

“Suits me,” Brady said. “Who the hell are you? Anton Haras?”

The man laughed once, coldly, and raised his right hand. Brady ducked as flame stabbed through the night. There was a muffled cough and a bullet ricocheted from the wall behind him.

Once, sitting in a cafe in Havana before the Castro regime, he had seen a man assassinated at the next table. The killer had used a Mauser with an SS bulbous silencer and it had made just such a noise. Brady turned and ran, his eyes fixed on the gas lamp halfway along the footpath.

Feet pounded over the flagstones behind him, the sound echoing from the walls and again, there came that peculiar muffled cough and something whispered past his ear.

He stumbled to his knees and his fingers fastened over a large stone. As he scrambled up, he hurled it at the gas lamp, plunging the footpath into darkness, and ran on.

He came out into the narrow alley at the side of the Hippodrome Theatre at a dead run. A few yards down on the left-hand side was the stage door, a small lamp still turned on above it.

As Brady ran forward, the door opened and a woman emerged. She carried a small grip in one hand and turned to lock the door. Brady slipped on the greasy cobbles and stumbled against an overflowing dustbin, the lid falling to the ground with a clatter.

She turned in alarm and he looked down into the white, frightened face of Anne Dunning.

“Don’t be afraid,” he gasped.

The scream died in her throat and she gazed up at him wide-eyed. “But I don’t understand, Mr. Brady. Have they released you?”

The Mauser coughed again and the lamp above the door shattered. Brady caught a fleeting glimpse of Haras standing in the entrance to the footpath.

He kicked the door open and pushed Anne Dunning inside and along the corridor. “No time to explain,” he said. “There’s a man out there with a gun and he’s doing his level best to kill me.”

As they turned the corner at the end of the corridor, the door burst open and Haras came after them.

Brady paused, one hand gripping the girl’s arm. “What’s down here?”

“Dressing-rooms,” she said.

He pulled her up a flight of stairs to the left and they came out in to the wings at one side of the stage. Haras followed them, running surprisingly well for a man of his weight. A single light illuminated the stage and Brady and the girl went across to the temporary safety of the shadows on the other side.

Brady made to go down a short flight of steps, but she pulled him back. “No good, that door’s locked. In here!”

There was another door almost hidden behind some scenery flats and she opened it quickly and dragged him inside. She shot the bolt and they stood there in the darkness and waited.

Haras ran into the wings and paused. After a moment, he went down the steps and tried the door, shaking the handle angrily, and then he returned and went back on stage.

“I’d give a lot to have a gun in my hand right now,” Brady said softly.

The girl clicked on the light. The room was crowded with old costumes and scenery, even furniture, the accumulation of the years.

She moved across to a cupboard, opened it, and turned with a .38 calibre revolver in her hand. “Will this do? It’s only a stage prop, I’m afraid. We used it in the play. There’s a box of blanks here, though.”

Brady broke open the chamber and examined it, sudden, nervous excitement stirring inside him. “I might be able to scare the bastard off, if nothing else.”

She opened the box of cartridges and he quickly loaded the weapon, then crossed to the door and pulled back the bolt.

She moved to his shoulder as he turned off the light and he was aware of the warmth, of the fragrance of her, so near to him in the darkness.

“You keep well back,” he ordered. “This is my affair. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He opened the door gently and looked out. Haras was standing in the centre of the stage, staring out into the auditorium.

“It’s no use running, Brady,” he called. “You can’t get away.”

“Haras!” Brady said softly.

As the Hungarian turned, Brady raised the revolver and fired and the report seemed deafening. Haras disappeared with surprising speed into the shadows opposite.

Brady crouched down and Anne Dunning moved beside him. “Where’s the switch that operates the stage light?” he asked softly.

“Right behind us. Shall I turn it off?”

He nodded and a moment later, the theatre was plunged into darkness.

“I’m coming to get you, Haras!” Brady shouted.

A tongue of flame answered him from the darkness. He fired twice in reply and moved across the stage, crouching. Haras went down the stairs ahead of him and ran along the corridor. As Brady turned the corner, the stage door banged.

It was quiet and somehow peaceful out in the alley with the rain hissing down. Brady stood at the end of the footpath and listened to the echo of the Hungarian’s running feet. Faintly from the distance, a car door closed hollowly. A moment later an engine started up.

“That old gun did the trick with a vengeance,” Anne Dunning said from behind and her voice was breathless and excited.

As he turned to answer her, a strange, unearthly wailing sounded far away in the darkness, echoing through the night in a dying fall.

He shivered, standing there with the rain falling on him, and a wave of greyness ran through him. The girl looked up, a strange expression on her face. “What is it?”

“The general alarm at Manningham Gaol,” he said simply. “It means that from now on, they’ll be looking for me.”