Hell Is Too Crowded

(8)

He drifted up from a deep well of darkness and agony exploded inside his head as a hand slapped him heavily across the face. He felt no pain — no pain at all. It was as if his body no longer belonged to him. Each sound seemed to come from far away across water and yet he could hear everything with the most extraordinary clarity.

“How is he?” Soames asked.

Karl laughed harshly. “Good for another couple of hours at least.”

“I should know what they want doing with him by then,” Soames replied.

Their voices faded and the door closed. Brady opened his eyes slowly. The room was festooned with cobwebs — giant grey cobwebs that stretched from one wall to another and undulated slowly.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, fighting the panic which rose inside him. When he opened them again, the cobwebs had almost disappeared.

He was lying on a narrow, single bed against one wall of a small room. A shaded light hung down from the ceiling and curtains were drawn across the window.

He swung his legs down to the floor and sat on the edge of the bed for a while before trying to stand. There was a bad taste in his mouth and his tongue was dry and swollen. Whatever had gone into that coffee had been good — very good.

He got to his feet and lurched across the room, steadied himself against the opposite wall, then turned and moved back to the bed. After a while, the cobwebs disappeared completely and suddenly and everything clicked back into normality.

The door was securely locked and there was no transom. He sat on the edge of the bed and considered the situation. He didn’t have a great deal of time to spare.

By now, the police search had probably extended to London. He had to get out of here. And then he remembered what Soames had said about Anne. Something about a friend in Port Said who could always use fresh talent.

He had spent too much time working in the Middle East himself to consider the remark merely an idle threat and he crossed to the window quickly and pulled back the curtain. The sash lifted easily and he looked out.

He was on the top floor of the house and the gardens lay forty feet below in the darkness. The nearest window was a good ten feet away to the left and impossible to reach.

He closed the window and moved back to the bed and considered the situation for a moment and then he crossed to the door and hammered on it with his bare fists.

After a while, steps hurried along the corridor and Karl said angrily. “Stop that row, Brady, or I’ll come in and make you.”

Brady renewed his attack on the door and the German swore fluently. “All right, you asked for it.”

As the key clicked in the lock and the handle turned, Brady leaned against the door with all his weight. Karl cursed and shoved hard from the other side. Brady held him for a moment and then jumped back.

The door swung open with a crash and Karl staggered into the room and fell flat on his face, the .38 skidding across the floor.

He started to get up and Brady moved in fast and kicked him in the stomach. Karl subsided with a groan and Brady picked up the .38 and left the room, locking the door behind him.

He descended a flight of stairs to the next landing and recognized it at once. The office was at the far end and he stood outside and listened for a moment before turning the handle slowly.

She was reading some papers and a lamp cast a pool of light across the desk. Brady walked forward quietly and stood watching her from the shadows.

Some sixth sense must have warned her and she looked up sharply, looking oddly prim in hornrimmed spectacles.

“Surprise, surprise!” he said softly.

She laid down her pen and said calmly, “What have you done with Karl?”

“He felt tired,” Brady said. “So I left him to have a nice, long sleep.”

She reached casually towards a drawer and he raised the .38 threateningly. “You do, and I’ll put one right through your hand.”

When she spoke, her voice was still calm, but a couple of deep lines had appeared between her eyes. “What do you want?”

“The girl will do for a start.”

She lit a cigarette calmly and shook her head. “You’re too late, lover. She’s on board the S.S. Kontoro in the Pool of London and they go down-river in an hour.”

“What game are you playing?” he said.

She shrugged. “No game. I told you I had to get rid of her, Brady. She knew too much.”

“And this way you could make something on the transaction?”

“That’s right, and there’s nothing you can do about it — not a thing.”

“Isn’t there?” His voice was ice-cold and infinitely menacing. He reached forward and held the .38 six inches from her stomach. “If that boat goes before we can get her off, I’ll put a bullet in your guts, I promise you. You’re a big woman and you’ll take a long time to go.”

For the first time her composure broke. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“I’ve got nothing to lose,” he said.

She got to her feet slowly. “I don’t think I can get her back. I’ve already been paid my end by Captain Skiros and he expects to make something on the deal when he reaches Port Said.”

“How much did you get?”

“Five hundred.”

“You’d better get it and fast,” he told her. “Time’s running out.”

She lifted a painting down from the wall and opened a small wall safe. After a moment she returned to the desk with a wad of five-pound notes held together by a rubber band.

He took the money from her and stuffed it into his pocket. “Now we go for a little drive. I’ve got a car outside. You can take the wheel.”

“What happens when we reach the ship?”

He shrugged. “We’ll play it as it comes.”

“Skiros is a pretty hard apple, lover,” she said. “He doesn’t take kindly to people who try to lean on him.”

“All you need to worry about is getting us on board,” he said. “I’ll handle the rest.”

The house was quiet as they went downstairs. She got a coat from the cloakroom and Brady helped himself to a raincoat. They left by the side entrance.

The rain was falling heavily and slanting through the lamplight as they went down the drive and turned into the street. The car was still there. Brady unlocked the door quickly and she squeezed her massive bulk behind the wheel.

As he got in beside her, she said calmly, “What happens if the law stops us?”

“You’d better pray it doesn’t,” he said. “If they get me, they get you. That’s a firm promise.”

She shrugged, and moved into gear without replying. The roads were jammed with traffic and conditions were bad due to the early darkness and heavy rain, but she handled the wheel expertly and they made good time.

As they approached the docks, the streets became quieter until they were moving through dark canyons flanked by great warehouses, shuttered and barred for the night.

She braked to a halt underneath a lamp in a narrow alley beside a gate. Through the iron bars, he could see out into the river and somewhere, an anchor-chain rattled and a ship’s hooter sounded faintly down-river.

“We’ll have to walk from here,” she said.

He got out and moved round to join her. The main gates were locked, but a small Judas gate at one side opened to her touch and they passed through.

The watchman’s hut was dark and empty. “Where is he?” Brady demanded.

She shrugged. “Where he always is, I suppose. In the pub at the end of the street. He won’t bother us.”

As they rounded the corner of the first cargo shed, rain drifted in a cloud across the river, driven by the wind. Brady lowered his head to avoid the worst of it and followed her across the black shining cobbles to the ship which was moored at the far end of the wharf.

The Kontoro was brilliantly lit and hummed with the pulse-beat of her hidden machinery. The watchman who leaned over the rail and stared morosely out into the heavy rain, smoked a clay pipe and carried a pick helve.

Soames mounted the slippery gangplank and Brady followed her. “And who the hell might you be?” the watchman demanded ungraciously.

“I’m a friend of the captain’s,” she said. “I must see him before you sail. It’s very urgent.”

“No skin off my nose.” The watchman shrugged. “He’s in his cabin. You’d better hurry, though. We’re casting-off in twenty minutes.”

The decks bustled with activity as men worked busily, battening down hatch-covers and making ready to sail. Soames threaded her way through them, ignoring the ribald comments and coarse laughter, and mounted a companionway to the next deck.

At the entrance to the captain’s cabin, she hesitated and turned to Brady. “What now?”

“Tell him you’ve changed your mind,” Brady said. “I’ll handle it from there.”

When she opened the door, Skiros was sitting at a desk in one corner and he swivelled to face them, a pen in one hand. He was large and fat, the great pendulous stomach straining against the buttons of his shabby uniform. His face with its multiple chins gave an impression of jollity and good-humour that was belied by the sharp cunning in the little pig eyes.

He looked surprised and when he spoke, his English was good with just the hint of accent. “My dear professor, what brings you back so soon?”

Soames managed a smile. “Something came up, Skiros,” she said. “Something important. I’m afraid I’m going to have to call our little deal off.”

The smile remained fixed firmly in position, but his eyes became cold and hard. “But that is impossible, my friend. The bargain has been made. You have my money, I have the girl, so everybody should be satisfied.”

“Not quite,” Brady interrupted calmly. “The professor made a mistake. The merchandise wasn’t hers to sell.” He took the bundle of banknotes from his pocket and tossed them on to the desk.

Skiros laughed until his eyes almost disappeared between folds of flesh. “Your friend is really very funny,” he said to Soames. “Does he expect me to give up the girl in exchange for what I paid for her? That would leave me with no profit on the transaction. In my country we do not do business in such a way.”

“In my country we’re not used to this kind of transaction so you’ll have to excuse my bad manners.” Brady produced the .38 from his raincoat pocket and thumbed back the hammer. “This thing has a hair trigger, fat man,” he said. “I could easily have an accident. I probably will if you don’t produce that girl in about ten seconds flat.”

The Greek’s eyes became round pieces of stone. “You are on my ship, surrounded by my crew,” he said. “And they usually do as I tell them.”

“In case you haven’t noticed it, you’ve put on weight lately,” Brady said calmly. “I’d find it difficult to miss.”

“If I were you, I’d do as he says,” Soames put in quickly. “He means every word, believe me.”

Skiros sighed, put down his pen and took a bunch of keys from the drawer of his desk. “As always, I bow to your perspicacity, my friend. You will find, however, that the terms of our next little transaction will require some adjusting, if only to recompense me for the loss of profit and considerable annoyance I have suffered over this affair.”

He crossed to the door to the inner cabin and unlocked it. “Come out!” he said sharply and stood to one side.

Anne Dunning appeared in the doorway and stood there, her shoulders bowed in defeat. Her face was shadowed so that the bones stood out in relief, the eyes deep-set in their sockets and the hand that pushed back a tendril of dark hair, trembled slightly.

Then she saw Brady, the shock was almost physical. She gave a long shuddering sigh and lurched forward into his arms.

Her slender body started to shake uncontrollably and he held her close with one hand and said, “Hang on, Anne. There’s nothing to worry about any more. I’m going to get you out of here.”

She nodded several times, unable to answer him and he glared coldly at Skiros. “What have you done to her?”

For the first time Skiros looked worried. “But nothing, I assure you, my friend. No one has laid a finger on her.”

“I gave her an injection to keep her quiet earlier on this afternoon,” Soames interrupted. “With some people it has side effects. Nothing serious. All she needs is a good night’s sleep.”

“Is that true, Anne?” Brady said. “This pig hasn’t harmed you in any way?”

She nodded briefly and Brady turned to Soames, satisfied. “Okay, this is what we do. You go first with the girl. Skiros and I bring up the rear. If either of you makes a wrong move, he gets it. Is that understood?”

Skiros shrugged and reached for his cap. “How far do we go?”

“To the main gate,” Brady said. “We’ve got a car there.”

“I think you are a very careful man,” Skiros said, and there was a reluctant smile on his face.

“If we parted at the gangplank, I’d have your crew on my tail before we’d gone halfway along the wharf. You know it and I know it,” Brady said. “Now let’s cut the small talk and move out.”

Soames went first, supporting Anne easily with one massive arm and Skiros followed, Brady bringing up the rear. He had the .38 ready in his raincoat pocket, finger on the trigger, but there was no need — no need at all. As they negotiated the companionway and moved amongst the crew, heads lifted curiously, but Skiros made no sign. At the head of the gangplank he slapped the watchman on the shoulder and grinned. “Don’t worry, I’m only going as far as the gate with my friends. Make ready to sail. We cast off as soon as I return.”

No one spoke again until they reached the gates. Brady gave Soames the keys and she unlocked the door and put Anne into the rear seat. When this was accomplished, she got back behind the wheel and waited.

“May I go now?” the Greek said.

Brady nodded. “I don’t see why not.”

Skiros smiled and in the light of the lamp, his face looked quite genial. “Life is a circle, turning upon itself endlessly, my friend. We will meet again, and when we do …”

“It’s hardly likely,” Brady said. “We inhabit different worlds. I’d chalk it up to experience, if I were you, and leave it at that.”

He climbed in beside Soames and she moved into gear and drove away. As she slowed to turn the corner at the end of the alley, Brady turned and looked through the rear window. The Greek was still standing there under the lamp, staring after them.

“You certainly know some lovely people,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

They were moving along Aldgate and she braked to a halt on the opposite side of the road to the tube station. “Look, lover, you wanted your girl friend back and you’ve got her,” she said. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll drop off here and we’ll call it square.”

“Not quite,” Brady said. “If I remember correctly, there was some question of a name, wasn’t there?”

For a moment she glared at him defiantly, and then her shoulders sagged. “I wish I’d never set eyes on you, you bastard. The party you want is Jane Gordon. She has a flat at Carley Mansions, Baker Street.”

“Where does she fit in?”

Soames shrugged wearily. “I don’t know. She got in touch with me some days ago, said a friend of hers wanted to contact somebody reliable in Manningham. Someone who could keep his mouth shut. I owed her a favour from way back. I put her on to Das.”

“But it was Haras who went to Manningham and gave Das his instructions,” Brady said.

“So that was the way Jane wanted to handle it,” Soames said. “It was no skin off my nose. After you came snooping round my place this morning, I got in touch with her by phone. Told her I had you under lock and key. She asked me to hang on to you for the time being. Said she had to get in touch with someone else. Someone important. Promised to phone me back at six tonight, but it’s after that now.”

“Carley Mansions, Baker Street,” Brady said. He reached across her and opened the door. “If you haven’t told me the truth, you’ll be seeing me.”

“What I’ve told you is strictly kosher, lover,” she said. “I’ve had enough of you to last me a lifetime.”

She scrambled out on to the pavement and made straight for the entrance to the tube station without looking back. Brady lit another cigarette and watched her, a slight frown on his face. He turned to Anne, who was leaning back in the corner of the seat, eyes closed. “Are you all right?”

She opened her eyes and nodded wearily. “I’m fine, just fine. I feel as if I could go to bed for a week, that’s all.”

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” he said. “Then I’ll take you straight home.”

He got out of the car and walked across to the tube station. Just inside the entrance, there was a row of phone booths. Soames was in the end one, talking animatedly. He watched her for a moment, a tiny frown on his face, and then turned and hurried back to the car.

That she would get in touch with Jane Gordon was a chance he’d have to take. All it meant was that he would have to move much faster now.

Despite the poor weather, the West End was crowded as usual and it took him longer to reach Kensington than he had counted on. It was nearly eight o'clock when he braked to a halt outside the house in the quiet square.

Anne was a dead weight on his arm as he mounted the stairs to the flat. The drug seemed to have taken even greater control and he carried her into the bedroom, half-fainting, and quickly stripped the clothes from her slim body.

She shivered slightly in the cool breeze from the window and he quickly pulled back the blankets and put her to bed. Her hair spread across the pillow, a dark halo round her head. She moaned once softly and he bent down and kissed her and then he quietly left the room.

There was a map of central London in the glove compartment of the car and he quickly located Baker Street. It was no more than fifteen minutes away by car and he drove through light traffic, past Kensington Gardens and out into the Bayswater Road. Some inner caution prompted him to park the car near Bond Street tube station and he went the rest of the way on foot.

Carley Mansions was an imposing block of flats at the Marylebone Road end of Baker Street. It looked extremely expensive. In a discreet gold-and-glass frame in the entrance there was a list of the residents. Miss Jane Gordon was listed as flat eight on the fourth floor.

Inside, a brocaded porter sat in a glass booth and read a magazine. As Brady watched, the telephone started to ring. The porter picked it up and turned wearily, leaning against the counter, his back to the entrance.

Brady didn’t hesitate. He pushed open the heavy glass door, crossed the heavy carpet soundlessly, and went straight up the stairs.

The whole place looked very new and the soundproofing was perfect. A stillness that was almost uncanny seemed to move ahead of him as he mounted to the fourth floor.

Flat eight was the last one in the corridor. He knocked lightly on the door and waited. There was no reply. He knocked again and tried the handle. The door opened smoothly before him.

The lights were on, but there was no one there. Several broad steps dropped down into a luxuriously furnished room, one side walled with glass, giving a magnificent view of London.

He could see through the serving hatch into the kitchen. It was in darkness, but the bedroom door was slightly open and the light was on.

It was the shoe he noticed first, lying in the middle of the carpet, slim and expensive, the stiletto heel somehow infinitely deadly.

The rest of her was sprawled on her face at the end of the bed, her dress rocked up wantonly, one slim hand clawing at the carpet. Someone had shot her in the back twice at close quarters with a parabellum from the look of the wounds.

She was only just dead, that much was obvious, and the faintly acrid taint of gunpowder still hung upon the air. He sighed heavily, crouched down and turned her over.

The sight of her face was like a heavy blow in the stomach, delivered low down, taking the breath from his body, for this wasn’t Jane Gordon. This was the woman he had known so briefly as Marie Duclos. The woman whose smashed and violated body he had last seen in the bedroom of her Chelsea apartment. The woman for whose murder he had been sentenced to death.

For one single, terrifying moment, he thought he must be going mad, and then, quite suddenly, he was aware of the truth, or at least a part of it.

He started to get to his feet and behind him there was a quiet movement. Even as he turned, pulling the .38 from his pocket, a hand thudded solidly against the nape of his neck and he slumped forward on to his face with a cry of pain.