Hell Is Too Crowded

(9)

When he opened his eyes again, he was sprawled on his face beside the body. There was only one added refinement. In his right hand he was firmly clutching a Mauser automatic with an SS bulbous silencer fitted to the barrel.

There was something familiar about it — something very familiar. It was the gun with which Anton Haras had tried to kill him in Manningham.

He could not have been unconscious for more than five minutes; that much was obvious. He scrambled to his feet, sat on the edge of the bed and massaged his neck muscles.

What a fool he’d been. What a blind, stupid fool. The smell of the gunpowder fresh on the air, the warmth of her body. It had been so obvious that she had only been dead for minutes. Perhaps the fatal shots had been fired as he was coming up the stairs and he had walked straight in like a lamb to the slaughter.

One thing was certain. If the police caught him here, he was finished, which was obviously what Haras had intended. This time it would mean the death cell plus all the trimmings, right up to the bitter end one cold, grey morning.

The room had been turned upside down, drawers pulled out, clothing scattered everywhere. It was hardly likely the Hungarian had overlooked anything incriminating.

Brady moved out quickly into the other room. As he mounted the steps to the door, he paused. Draped across a chair, was a woman’s light raincoat and underneath it was her handbag. Obviously she had intended going out. Perhaps only the arrival of Haras had prevented her.

He emptied the bag on to the floor quickly and scattered its contents with one hand. There were a couple of banknotes, some coins, lipstick, jewelled powder compact and car keys.

There was also a letter, newly opened, the stamp bearing the postmark of the day. It was addressed in neat angular handwriting to Miss Jane Gordon, Carley Mansions, Baker Street, and he took out the single sheet of paper quickly and examined it.

It was the briefest of notes. Dear Jane, looking forward to seeing you tonight. I’ll be free from nine o'clock onwards. Your loving mother.

But it was the printed address at the head of the notepaper which he found most interesting. 2 Edgbaston Square, Chelsea. Marie Duclos had lived in Edgbaston Gardens. Now what was that supposed to mean?

For a moment he remembered the street lined with narrow Victorian houses with the graveyard and the church at the end and something elemental stirred inside him, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck. It was as if he was afraid — afraid to return to that place.

He shrugged it off with a grim laugh and opened the door. Whatever happened, he was going back there. He had no choice.

When he reached the hall, the porter was still drowsing over his magazine. Brady crossed to the door quickly and was already disappearing into the night as the man glanced up.

As he hurried along the pavement, a bell sounded shrilly on the night, and a police car swung round the corner from the Marylebone Road and braked to a halt in front of Carley Mansions.

Brady kept on walking, quickening his pace slightly. He turned into the bustle of Oxford Street a couple of minutes later, got into the car and drove away.

There was a taste of fog in the air, that typical London fog that drifts up from the Thames, yellow and menacing, wrapping the city in its shroud.

At least it made things easier for him. He passed a policeman standing on a corner by a crossing, moisture streaming from his cape. Brady braked to a halt to let someone cross over and the policeman waved him on. Brady grinned. What was it Joe Evans used to say? The best place to hide from a copper is right under his bleeding nose.

They were probably watching the boats more than anything else, thinking he might try to get back to the States. He passed into Sloane Square and a few moments later, braked to a halt on the Embankment on the opposite side of the road to the spot where it had all begun.

He stood under the same lamp, lit a cigarette and stared down at the river and for a single moment, time had no meaning — no meaning at all.

He turned away and crossed the road and walked along the opposite pavement through the thickening fog. Rain dripped depressingly from the trees and most of the leaves had gone. He paused on the corner and looked up at the old blue-and-white enamel plate that said Edgbaston Gardens, and then moved on.

The road repairs had long since been finished and the house was shuttered and dark. He gazed up at it, thinking about what had happened there, seeing the crowd tight against the railings, the man who had panicked like some hunted animal, with his back to the wall as they moved in on him. The beginning of a long nightmare.

He passed the railings of the graveyard, beaded with moisture, silent and waiting. The church stood on a corner plot and out of some strange sixth sense he knew what he was going to find when he turned into the next street and examined the name plate. Edgbaston Square and number two was next to the church.

He mounted the steps to the door. There was a light on in the porch and a neat card in a black metal frame said Madame Rose Gordon — visits by appointment only.

A car was parked a few yards away and as he turned to look at it, he was aware of movement inside the house. He descended the steps quickly and melted into the shadows

The door opened and a woman in a fur coat moved out into the porch. She turned and spoke to someone inside. “You’ve helped me more than I can say, my dear Madame Rose. I can’t wait to see you again next week.”

Brady couldn’t catch the reply, but the door closed and the woman in the fur coat descended the steps and walked to the car. A moment later she drove away.

He stood there, for a minute, looking up at the house, a frown on his face and then he turned and walked back along the front of the church and went in through the main gate.

The windows were like strips of rainbow in the night, misty and ill-defined like an impressionist painting and an organ sounded faintly. The tower was cocooned in a network of steel scaffolding and he skirted a heap of rubble and moved round to the back.

He found the garden of Madame Rose’s house with no difficulty. It was separated from the graveyard by a six-foot stone wall, at one end of which there was a narrow wooden door.

It was locked. He tried it tentatively and then turned and picked his way through the gravestones to the other side. As he approached the garden at the rear of Marie Duclos’s house, a quiet voice said, “Excuse me; but can I do anything for you?”

He turned quickly. Standing in the patch of light thrown out by the side windows of the church was an old white-haired man in a shabby tweed jacket, his neck encircled by the stiff white collar of a priest.

Brady moved towards him with a ready smile. “I know it must sound pretty crazy, but to tell you the truth I was looking for a headstone. I always understood my great-grandfather was buried somewhere in this churchyard.”

“Ah, an American,” the old priest said. “Well, I don’t think you’ll have much luck tonight. Much better to come back tomorrow. As a matter of fact I’ll be here myself in the morning. I could check in the parish register for you.”

Brady tried to put real regret into his voice. “It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m afraid I’m flying out again tomorrow.” He laughed lightly. “At least I’ve managed to see the church which is something.”

“It is rather lovely, isn’t it?” the old man said and there was real enthusiasm in his voice. “Of course it was hit by a bomb during the war. That’s one reason for the scaffolding round the tower. We can’t put off the repairs any longer, but there are many features of interest.”

“It’s a pity I’m not staying longer,” Brady said. “I could have attended one of your services.”

“But I’m afraid that would have been quite out of the question,” the old man said. “Ever since that bomb, the old place has been in such a shaky condition, we’ve never felt able to take the risk of allowing a congregation inside. I’m at another church now, not far away, but I like to visit here from time to time to keep the organ in trim and so on.” He sighed. “I suppose they’ll sell the site one of these days.”

“I noticed a gate in the wall leading into the garden of a house at the rear,” Brady said. “Was that the vicarage?”

The old man shook his head. “No, that used to be the sexton’s house.” He pointed across to the house in Edgbaston Gardens. “That used to be the vicarage.”

Brady tried to keep his voice steady. “I was having a drink in the pub round the corner and asking my way here. The landlord told me there was a shocking murder committed near the church some months ago.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” the priest said. “A dreadful affair. The victim was a young woman who had the upstairs apartment in the old vicarage. It was all most distressing.”

“I’m sure it must have been,” Brady said. He turned and looked across at the house. “There’s one thing puzzles me. The sexton had a short-cut to the church through the gate in his garden wall, but you didn’t. That must have been very inconvenient.”

“Oh, but I did,” the priest assured him. “You wouldn’t notice it in the dark; in fact you’d have to look twice in daylight to see it. There’s a gate set in the railings at the end of the garden. I was only noticing the other day, it’s almost completely blocked with rhododendron bushes. I don’t suppose it’s been used for years.”

“No, I don’t suppose it has.” They were back at the front of the church and Brady pulled up his collar against a sudden flurry of rain. “Well, I’ve imposed on your time for too long. I really must be going.”

The old man smiled. “Not at all, it’s been a pleasure talking to you. I’m only sorry you haven’t got time to come back tomorrow.”

Brady went down the path quickly and behind him, the door opened and closed again. The rain was falling softly through the sickly yellow glow of the street lamp as he turned into Edgbaston Square and mounted the steps to number two. He pressed the bell-push and waited.

Steps shuffled along the corridor inside and he could see a shadowy figure through the frosted glass. The door clicked and opened a few inches and an old woman looked out at him.

Her hair was drawn back in a tight, old-fashioned bun, the face old and wrinkled, long jet ear-rings hanging down on either side. It was a face he had seen before, peering from behind the door of the downstairs apartment on the night Marie Duclos was murdered.

He kept well back in the shadows. “Madame Rose?” he said.

She nodded. “That’s right.” Her voice was old and strangely lifeless, like dry, dead leaves whispering through a forest in the evening.

“I wonder if you could spare me a few moments of your time?”

“You wish to consult the stars?”

He nodded. “That’s right. I was told you could help me.”

“I only take clients by appointment, young man,” she said. “I have to be very careful. The police are most strict in these matters.”

“I’m only in London for a brief visit,” he told her, keeping to the same formula. “I’m flying out in the morning.”

She sighed. “Oh, very well, but I can only spare you half an hour. I’m expecting a visitor.”

The hall was gloomy and oak-panelled. He waited for her to close the door and when she turned and looked up at him she frowned slightly. “Your face seems strangely familiar. Are you sure we’ve never met?”

“I’m an American,” he said. “This is my first visit to England.”

“I must be mistaken.”

She led the way along the corridor, pulled back a dark velvet drape and opened a heavy door.

The room into which they entered was strangely subdued, cut-off from the street by heavy curtains, the only light a single lamp on a small table. There was a fake electric log fire in the hearth and the room was unpleasantly warm. Brady unbuttoned his raincoat and sat down at the table.

The old woman sat opposite him, several books at her elbow, a pad of blank paper before her. She picked up a pencil. “Give me your date of birth, the place and the exact time. The time is most important, so please be accurate.”

He told her and looked over her shoulder into the shadows crowding out of the corners, beating against the pool of light thrown out by the lamp. He wondered what he was going to say next, but decided to wait until she gave him an opening.

She consulted several books, making quick notes on the pad and finally grunted. “Do you believe in astrology, young man?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t,” he said.

She nodded. “You are ambidextrous?”

It was more a statement of fact than a question and he said in some surprise, “Yes, that’s right. How did you know?”

“Many of those born under the sign of Scorpio are,” she said and consulted her notes. “Life for you is often a battleground.”

“You can say that again,” Brady told her.

She nodded calmly. “Mars, Sun and Neptune in conjunction on the mid-heaven will result in a certain sharpness of tongue and temper. Your map shows signs of a dangerous, almost explosive, tendency to violence in your character. You tend to regard everyone you meet with suspicion. You are your own worst enemy.”

Brady sat back in his chair and harsh laughter erupted from his mouth. “I think that’s bloody marvellous.”

The old woman looked across at him, eyes glinting in the lamplight. “You appear to find something humorous in what I have just said, young man.”

“And that’s the understatement of the age,” Brady replied.

She carefully piled her books one on top of the other and gathered her papers. “Who did you say recommended me to you?”

“I didn’t,” Brady said, “But as a matter of fact, it was your daughter, Jane Gordon.”

“Indeed?” the old woman frowned. “We shall see. I’m expecting her to arrive at any moment.”

“You’ll have to wait a long time, Mrs. Gordon,” he said calmly. “She’s dead.”

Her face seemed to wither before his very eyes, to wrinkle into a yellowing sheet of parchment. Her hand went up to her mouth and she coughed convulsively and then she started to choke horribly.

Brady moved round to her side and noticed that she was tugging at the handle of a drawer with one hand. He jerked it open and found a small glass phial of white tablets. There was water on the sideboard. He filled a glass quickly and brought it back to her and she forced two of the tablets into her mouth and washed them down.

After a moment, she sighed and a dry sob bubbled up from her throat. “My heart,” she said. “Must be careful about sudden shocks.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It isn’t the sort of news one can wrap up in pretty paper with a pink ribbon, not the way it happened.”

The strange thing was that she appeared to accept the fact that he was telling the truth without question. “Who killed her?”

“A man called Haras,” Brady said. “Anton Haras. Do you know him?”

“I know him,” she said, nodding her head, the black eyes staring into the darkness. “I know him.” She turned and looked straight at him. “Who are you, young man?”

“Matthew Brady,” he said simply.

“Ah, yes,” she said softly. “I think I knew that you would come, a long time ago.”

“You were there in the house that night, weren’t you?” he said. “Who was the man with your daughter?”

“Miklos Davos,” she said in a whisper.

Brady frowned. “You mean the oil-king?”

She nodded. “Some people say he is the richest man in the world, Mr. Brady. I only know that he is the most evil.”

“Tell me what happened that night,” Brady said.

Remembering, her voice seemed to be on another plane. “My daughter was engaged in a shameful trade, Mr. Brady. She was a Madame, a brothelkeeper, call it what you will. She had much property in her name, most of which really belonged to Davos.”

“Was she in love with him?”

“Love?” The old woman laughed harshly. “She was completely under his influence. For her, he could do no wrong. For his sake, she produced a succession of young women to satisfy his morbid desires to inflict pain. He was a brutal and perverted sadist, ceaselessly searching for new sensation.”

“And where did Marie Duclos fit in?”

The old woman shrugged. “She was a French girl he took a particular fancy to, I don’t know why. She was installed in the upstairs apartment and the other tenant removed. For two months he visited her ceaselessly.”

“By way of the churchyard?” Brady said.

She shook her head. “No, he only used that method during the week that the road was being repaired. He didn’t want the nightwatchman to see him entering the house.”

“But why did he kill the girl?”

“She tried to blackmail him. A foolish thing to do — he was liable to the most insane rages. When he came for my daughter that night, I followed them back through the churchyard and listened while he told her what he had done. Her only worry was that he might come to harm.”

“What did you do?” Brady said.

She shrugged. “What could I do? I’m an old woman and I was listening to a daughter who had become a stranger to me. He told her there was a way out, that all they needed was a scapegoat to satisfy the police. They didn’t need to look far with the Embankment at the bottom of the street. The first drunk on the first bench would do.”

“And that happened to be me,” Brady said bitterly.

A slight breeze touched the back of his neck and the door creaked. He turned slowly, his hand sliding into his raincoat pocket and a familiar voice said, “Please to stand very still, Mr. Brady.”

Haras moved into the room, the lamplight glinting on his spectacles. Brady raised his arms slowly and the Hungarian removed the Mauser and slipped it into his pocket.

“Now you may put down your arms.”

He was holding the .38 and there was a confident smile on his face. “Sorry I’ve been delayed, but I was caught in a traffic jam in Oxford Street and missed you. I was waiting outside Carley Mansions, by the way. It was quite depressing to see you scuttle out ahead of the police, but somehow, I thought you might be coming here. You’ve really done quite well, Brady.”

“For the first drunk on the first bench,” Brady said bitterly.

“So, the old goat has been opening her mouth, has she?” The Hungarian smiled genially. “We’ll have to do something about that.”

He was standing well back from the table, a confident smile on his face. Madame Rose glared up at him fixedly. “You filthy swine,” she said and started to get to her feet.

“Stay where you are!” Haras ordered.

As the Hungarian’s eyes flickered to the old woman, Brady seized the lamp and pulled it from its socket, plunging the room into darkness.

Haras fired twice and the old woman screamed and crumpled to the floor. She lay in the patch of light thrown out by the electric fire and blood poured over her face from a gaping wound in the forehead.

Brady crouched for a moment at the side of a large wing-backed chair and then started to crawl round the back of the old-fashioned horse-hair sofa, making for the door.

Haras was still standing by the table and Brady could see the dark bulk of him in the slight glow of the electric fire.

“You can’t get away, Brady,” he said. “You don’t stand a chance. I’ve got both the guns.”

Brady remembered there had been four rounds in the .38 and Haras had fired two of them. He crouched between a chair and the wall a couple of yards from the door and carefully lifted a small china cat from a coffee-table beside him.

“I’m running out of patience, Brady,” Haras said and there was an edge of anger in his voice.

Brady lobbed the cat across the room into the far corner. As it smashed against the wall, the Hungarian turned and fired twice in rapid succession. Brady jumped for the door, wrenched it open and darted along the corridor to the rear of the house.

Behind him there was a cry of rage. He ran into a large kitchen and made straight for the door at the far end. It was locked and as he fumbled desperately with the key, he heard the peculiar muffled cough of the silenced Mauser and a bullet scattered splinters of wood above his head.

He got the door open and went down a flight of steps two at a time into the garden. Ahead of him loomed the high wall and beyond it was the churchyard.

When he paused at the little wicker gate, Haras was already halfway along the path. Brady raised his foot and stamped twice at the gate, splintering the flimsy wood around the lock. As the Mauser coughed again, he was through and crouching as he ran between the gravestones.

Light still drifted out through the great windows, staining the thickening fog in vivid colours and he dodged behind a high tomb and listened. There was no sound and after a moment or two, he moved between the gravestones, keeping his head down, skirted the base of the tower, and paused.

The organ was playing again, muted and far away. Brady could feel the sweat on his face. The drive stretched before him, the gate to the street stood open. He moved forward and Haras stepped out from behind a flying buttress ten yards away, the lamplight glinting on his spectacles.

The Hungarian had obviously circled the church from the other side. As he raised the Mauser, Brady stepped back into the darkness at the base of the tower and started to climb the network of steel scaffolding.

Within a few moments, the fog had swallowed him and he made good progress, swinging expertly from pole to pole. Within a couple of minutes, he heaved himself up on to a narrow catwalk and realized there was no farther to go.

He stood there, ears strained for the slightest sound. There was a long silence and a cold wind lifted through the fog, chilling him so that he shivered despite himself.

He started to work his way along the catwalk and then suddenly, a board creaked and Haras said softly, “I know you’re there, Brady.”

The Mauser coughed, the bullet whispering away into the night and Brady moved back carefully, removing his raincoat at the same time.

As he got the coat off, his foot caught against a length of iron piping which rolled across the catwalk and disappeared over the edge.

Haras moved forward quickly, arm outstretched. He fired once, the bullet ricocheting from a steel stanchion, and Brady tossed the raincoat into his face. The Hungarian gave a muffled cry of alarm, staggered back, and stepped off the end of the catwalk into space. For one frozen second he seemed suspended in mid-air and then the fog swallowed him up.

Brady’s hands were shaking and his shirt was damp with his sweat, but without hesitating, he went over the edge of the catwalk and started to climb down.

Haras lay on his back in the path, a good fifteen or twenty yards from the base of the tower and the old priest knelt beside him. He looked up as Brady approached.

“Is he dead?” Brady said.

The old man nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

The Hungarian’s eyeballs had retracted and he stared sightlessly up at Brady, blood on his mouth. “He killed a woman a few minutes ago,” Brady said. “Back there in what used to be the sexton’s old house.”

The old priest got to his feet slowly. “You mean Mrs. Gordon? But why?” He moved closer and stared up into Brady’s face and something clicked. “You’re Matthew Brady, aren’t you? You’re the man the police are looking for. I saw your picture in the paper tonight.”

Brady turned and walked away quickly. Once in the street, he started to run.

A few moments later, he was driving away.