Send Superintendent West

JOHN CREASEY

Send Superintendent West

Copyright Note

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from back cover

Politics Can Be Dirty . . .

Drugging, Kidnapping, a slashed throat, crushed and broken bodies in a hired car, all link with the mystery of a missing ten-year-old boy.

With Vital Cold War talks at risk, Roger West must out-guess the FBI for a fighting chance to save a child’s life . . .

Table of Contents

Copyright Note

I

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

I

THE SNATCH

THE car moved swiftly, quietly, through the dark night.

The driver sat back, relaxed but watchful. The man by his side sat upright, body tensed; a third man, in the back, perched on the edge of his seat and rested one arm on the back of the front seat. Behind them, the heart of London was quiet in sleep; at two in the morning only the night-birds prowled. On the periphery of the sprawling, giant city, houses built of dark-red brick stood solid on either side of tree-lined roads. Here and there a light showed at a window, dull yellow. Each house had its low brick wall, separating it from its neighbour; hedges grew thickly, giving privacy to house and garden.

The driver flicked on his head-lights.

“Put them out,” ordered the man by his side.

The driver ignored him. They neared a corner, bright light shining on the windows of a house directly in front, dazzling, warning. The driver slowed down.

“You should’ve turned right,” the passenger next to him said.

“I’m going to turn right.” The driver cut the corner, allowed the beams to sweep the empty road ahead, then switched into darkness. “We can get away quicker,” he said.

“How much farther?” asked the passenger behind him.

“Two minutes. Maybe three.”

The driver’s relaxed manner did not change. Driving with side-lights only, he turned twice again. A house with white walls loomed out of the darkness, tall trees black against the white. He slowed down, switched off the engine, and braked gently; the car stopped with hardly a sound. He switched off the side-lights, and all was dark.

“Ed,” he said softly, “you get out and wait by the wall. Stay there unless you see or hear anyone around. Jay, you come with me as far as the gate. I might need some help. Ed” — he spoke in the same tone; flat, lifeless — “keep off the bottle.”

“Sure,” muttered Ed. “Sure.”

They got out. The driver closed the doors to the first catch to avoid slamming. Ed moved to the wall, the others walked to a corner, a few yards away. The house they were going to enter was built in a shallow cul-de-sac, off the street itself.

No lights shone anywhere.

Round the corner, the driver said: “Stay here, Jay. Watch Ed. We’ll have to do something about Ed.” From the sound of his voice, the darkness hid a smile no one would want to see. “Stay right here.”

“Okay. But Mac —”

“Not you,” Mac said. “Not you, as well as Ed.”

“You don’t have to worry about me. But are you sure the kid won’t wake up?”

“The kid won’t wake up,” Mac said “None of them will wake up. They’ll still be asleep, two hours from now, when we reach the airport Everything’s fixed.”

“That’s fine.”

“You watch Ed.”

Mac gripped the other’s forearm, then moved away, rubber-soled shoes making little sound. He could make out the shape of the iron gate of the house which stood squat and dark against the cloudy sky. Wind soughed down, rustling the leaves on trees and bushes. It was the middle of September, neither cold nor warm.

He reached the gate and opened it, then slowly pushed it back. He bent down and hooked it to a stumpy post in the ground, so that it couldn’t swing to. He stepped on to grass and walked on this as far as the garage. Inside there was a ladder. He did not stop at the garage, but followed a gravel path leading to the rear of the house, and paused by the back door. Behind him was a square of lawn, tennis-court size, around it flower-beds, beyond the lawn a vegetable-garden hidden by ramblers proliferating about a rustic wooden fence.

It would take only a minute to force the catch, and there was a chance that the door wasn’t even locked. The people here, overwhelmed with the opiate they had been given, should be asleep in their chairs; unless they had staggered up to their bedroom.

The child would have had his dinner much earlier than the parents, for the Shawns had strict ideas about bringing up children.

Mac had telephoned the house at midnight and again at one o’clock, and there had been no answer; evidence that everything had gone according to plan. The lock of the back door clicked, and he withdrew a pick-lock, slipping it into his pocket before turning the handle and pushing. The door yielded. He stepped inside, closing it behind him, and put on a flashlight. The beam stabbed at a stainless steel sink and big metal taps, then moved until it shone beyond the shiny white tiled wall and through the open door. He knew the house well, and found his way easily through the three ground-floor rooms. In the dining-room, he grinned as the white light shone on the littered table, on some half-eaten ham, limp salad in a bowl, a percolator, dirty cups, plates and knives. They hadn’t been able to finish the meal, they’d been, so tired.

Mac went to the table.

He was short, with very broad shoulders, stocky but quick in his movements. His glossy dark hair was brushed straight back from his forehead, he had small features in a big face, a tawny skin, and unexpectedly clear grey eyes. If one failed to notice the thin lips his appearance, on first sight, was likeable.

He picked up the cups and saucers and took them to the kitchen, putting them on the metal draining-board, then went back for the percolator, which was nearly full. Resting the flashlight on the window-ledge, he washed the cups and saucers, emptied the milk jug and washed this also. He opened the refrigerator, took out a quart bottle of milk, half full, and emptied it. He washed this bottle, too. Next he took a pint bottle of milk out of his pocket, poured it into the empty quart bottle, then poured some from that into the jug.

He poured a little milk and some cold coffee into each cup, swilled it round and spilled a little into each saucer, then put the empty pint bottle back into his pocket. He ran some water to rinse the sink and remove all traces of the opiate which had been in the quart bottle of milk. He put the pure milk into the refrigerator, then carried cups and saucers, jug and percolator back into the dining-room, replacing them where he had found them.

His hands were cold from the water, except at the finger tips, which were protected by sticking-plaster. He rubbed them together as he went upstairs. The door of the main bedroom was ajar, and the Shawns lay together on the big double bed, Shawn nearer the door, his dark head close to his wife’s, which was almost platinum blonde. She lay on her back, Shawn on his left side, facing her, one hand limp on her breast. She wore a filmy pink nightdress or pyjamas, but Shawn hadn’t undressed completely. Mac went across to the bed, buried his fingers in Shawn’s hair, and tugged. Shawn’s head jerked back, but he didn’t make a sound or flicker an eyelid. Mac shone his torch into the woman’s face and stood there for a long time. He had a reputation that was bad even among people who rejected the ordinary moral codes; his expression showed why. It was hungry; it was brutal.

“Boy,” he said, “it would only take five minutes. What’s to stop me?”

He moved towards her, hand outstretched, but suddenly drew back, turned on his heel, and went out, leaving the door still ajar. Across the wide landing, another door was open. Inside, a boy of about ten years lay on his side in a single bed, his black hair making him look like a miniature edition of his father. The bedclothes were pulled out of the side of the mattress, and only blue-and-white striped pyjamas covered the boy.

Mac bent over him, seeing features which were startlingly like Belle Shawn’s; then, turning from the bed, he took a small suitcase from the bottom of the wardrobe. In this he packed the clothes the boy had taken off, now folded on a chair, toothbrush, paste, clean handkerchiefs, shirts, socks and a spare suit. Then he went back to the bed, carrying a top coat, sat the boy up, and forced his arms into the sleeves. None of this took very long. He hoisted the boy up to his left shoulder, managing to retain the flashlight in his left hand, picked up the suitcase and went out of the bedroom and downstairs.

He had to put the case down to open the back door, hold the door steady with his foot, pick up the case, and then back out. A gust of wind caught him by surprise, pulling the door free and slamming it The noise shattered the quietness, making Mac hiss.

The wind ruffled the boy’s hair.

Mac kept to the grass, and watched the windows of the neighbouring houses. No lights came on. When he reached the gate, Jay was moving towards him.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Get going.” Mac held out the case, and Jay took it He was taller than Mac, and thinner, with a small head and wide brimmed hat; the two men made a sharp contrast

Ed was at the corner, burly, podgy, scared.

“You hear that door bang?”

“I banged it,” Mac said. Take the kid.”

“If anyone wakes up . . .”

“Just take the kid.”

Ed gulped and obeyed, cradling the boy in his arms. Then he bent down, as Jay opened the rear door of the car, and lifted the boy inside, sat him on the seat and pushed him towards the far corner. By the time he had finished, Mac was at the wheel and Jay was beside him, case on his knees. Ed closed the door, which didn’t fasten properly.

“Leave it,” Mac ordered.

Ed kept a hand on the handle to stop the rattling. Mac didn’t start the engine, but took off the hand-brake; the gradient was steep enough to start the car rolling, and they moved a hundred yards or so before he switched on the engine and the side-lights. The engine made little noise. Near a corner, Mac put on the head-lights and this time Ed didn’t protest. The lights swept the road ahead as they turned the corner, and out of the night came a man.

He was at a gate. He was dressed in dark clothes that looked black, and a helmet. A flashlight seemed to be fastened somewhere on to his stomach. He didn’t move, yet seemed to leap in front of their eyes. They could see his big face and heavy moustache. He was there only for a moment before they passed him. Mac kept the head-lights on.

Ed turned his head and stared out of the back window. As they turned a corner, he moved round slowly, moistening his lips.

“You see him?”

“We’re not blind,” Jay said.

“A cop.”

“We don’t have to worry about English cops,” Jay said. He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

“We don’t have to worry about anything,” Mac stated flatly.

“Even in this goddamned country it isn’t a crime to drive by night, although maybe you’d think it was, they go to bed so early. Ed” — he maintained the steady monotone — “you’ve got work to do. It should be easy, you have kids of your own. Open that case — give him the case, Jay — and get the kid dressed. We still have an hour. Take it easy. Don’t forget his underpants.” Mac sounded as if that was meant for a joke. “You want to close the door?”

Ed took another glance out of the back window, slammed the door, then began to dress the kidnapped child.

2

ASSIGNMENT

ROGER West lay in bed, eyes closed, breathing heavily, giving a fair imitation of a snore. He heard the door open, and stealthy movements inside the room. He didn’t open his eyes. Rustling sounds followed, and he knew he wouldn’t need to keep up the pretence much longer. Cups chinked as a tray was put on the small table next to the bed on his side, and he opened his eyes and looked through his lashes at the broad face of Martin-called-Scoopy, his elder son, beaming down at him.

“ ‘Morning, Pop!”

“I’ll pop you,” Roger said, gruffly. He struggled up to a sitting position as Richard, his younger son, half a head taller than Martin, entered the bedroom. Both boys had the glow of health in cheeks and eyes, and in that moment something in their expressions made them remarkably alike, although usually they were so different. Your mother’s all right or you wouldn’t be looking so pleased with yourselves. You want something, or you wouldn’t both be here. No.”

He began to pour out tea.

At twenty-one, Martin was more than old enough to know his own mind, and he was studying art at the Chelsea College of Painting, working in the evenings and weekends. Richard was working at a film studio near London, hoping to write scripts for a living. It was seldom that either came to him for anything, these days; for them both to come at once was rare indeed.

“If it’s no,” Richard said, “you’re in for a shock, Dad.”

Roger sipped his tea.

“Well, one of us is,” he temporized. There was something in their minds he couldn’t guess. It wasn’t April Fool’s Day. It wasn’t his birthday. It wasn’t —

Suddenly, he remembered; it was the first day of the Summer Sales, and Janet had said she wanted to go to Oxford Street. She was desperate for a new Autumn outfit; he must have slept on — but no, it wasn’t too late — just before eight.

“All right,” he said. “Shock me.”

“Mum forgot to get any money out of the bank,” Richard said, “and you’ve only a pound in your wallet. So she’s gone to get a place in the queue at Debb’s, and somehow you have to take her some money.”

“Twenty-four years wed, she complained,” said Scoop, “and she still doesn’t know where you keep your secret hoard. She turned the place upside down.”

“I still keep it at the bank, and she knows it,” Roger said. “I’ll have to change a cheque at a shop on the way.”

It was an empty kind of morning, without Janet; emptier as soon as the boys had left. Boys? And Richard a bare year younger than Martin? He laughed the thought away as he went downstairs to get his own breakfast; but there was instant porridge, bacon and eggs in the frying pan, everything ready for him.

He caught Janet a few yards from the main entrance at Debb’s, one of several hundred women; and once he had put thirty pounds into her hands there was a surge forward as the door opened.

“See you!” Roger called.

“Thank you, darling,” she said breathlessly, and was carried with the crowd, dark-haired, neat in a plain grey suit, young for her forty-odd years, and at that moment, not thinking of him at all.

Roger got back into the car, restarted the engine, and was soon caught up in the stream of early morning traffic. There had been a time when he had arrived at Scotland Yard morning after morning with a sense of excitement and expectation, but now he knew what to expect. Crime had a thousand variations, and he seemed to know them all. For a Detective Superintendent, murder cases had lost their stimulating effect. The paperwork and routine of a senior Criminal Investigation Department officer kept him at the desk more and more, and there were times when the pleasant office was like a jail; or like a cell at the squat grey building of Cannon Row Police Station, which looked as if it were in a corner of the Yard premises, but in fact was not. All the small windows were barred. Big Ben could look down on its slate roof from the tower of the Houses of Parliament, but couldn’t make the drab grey look bright even on this fine warm summer morning.

Roger parked his car and walked up the steps. Good morning, good morning, “morning, “lo, Handsome; such greetings had become a ritual. Calling him “Handsome” West had, too. So had sitting at his desk and looking through mail and reports. But today it depressed him. Glancing through the dossier of an old lag, due at Great Marlborough Street Court on a charge for the thirteenth time, Roger knew exactly what he would say, what the magistrate would say and what he would look like, peering over his spectacles; what lies the accused would utter, forlornly, what the magistrate’s clerk would intone, and what everything and everybody would be like. He lit a cigarette, yawned, scribbled a few pencilled notes, and the telephone bell rang.

“West speaking.”

“Good morning, sir.” It was a girl. “The American Embassy — I’m sorry, the United States Embassy — is on the line. They wanted the Assistant Commissioner or the Commander, but they’re not in, sir.”

“I’ll speak to the Embassy,” Roger said. At least this was different.

“Just a moment, please,” the girl said.

Almost at once a man with a clipped North American accent said: “Is that Superintendent West?”

“Yes, sir. Good morning.”

“Good morning. Mr West, we need your help here, and we need it very badly and very fast. I am Tony Marino, and I’ll wait in my office until you arrive. You’ll find an impatient and worried man, Mr West.”

Roger could have asked questions, and could have been formal. Instead, he said simply:

“I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes, Mr Marino.”

“I’m very grateful.” The American’s voice died in the click of the telephone.

Roger stood up, took his trilby from a wall-peg and hurried to the door. If he saw the Commander, CID or Hardy, the new Assistant Commissioner, he would have to report this, and he didn’t want to miss it He saw no one of superior rank, but as he reached the ground floor in the lift, Chief Inspector Bill Sloan, big, fresh-faced, boyish-looking, was waiting to step in.

“Just the man,” said Roger. “I’ve had a call from the American Embassy, they want someone in a hurry. It fell in my lap, and I’m keeping it Tell the Commander or the AC.”

Sloan grinned. “I’ll forget it long enough for you to get there.”

It took eighteen minutes to reach Grosvenor Square. In the bright morning sunshine, a dozen American tourists were busy with their cameras near the Roosevelt statue, big American cars, dwarfing the English ones, were parked nearby. He expected some formality, not the youthful-looking man waiting just inside the hall of the big new Embassy building which some people hated, and some thought was magnificent, who said:

“Superintendent West, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Roger looked his surprise.

“I saw you in court one day, sir. I wasn’t the prisoner!”

Roger smiled, liking the clean-cut look of his guide. They went in a lift to the third floor, and walked along two passages before the man tapped on a wooden door which had no name on the outside. A voice said “come in”, but it wasn’t Marino’s; this was a small office, with another door leading off, standing ajar.

“Superintendent West,” said Roger’s guide.

“You certainly haven’t lost much time, sir.” The secretary, who might have been his guide’s twin brother, took over. We’ll go right in.”

The room beyond was large, carpeted, warmer than Roger liked. There were some portraits on the wall, including one in oils of George Washington, and a coloured photograph of Lyndon Johnson. Sitting directly beneath this was a heavily built man who seemed huge, his shoulders broad and powerful-looking, in a pale grey, light-weight jacket. He had a wide face and big but pleasant features, with dark hair cut short and standing upright; there was no pomade on it, and it gave him a kind of unfinished look. His square chin was cleanshaven, and he was obviously a man who needed to shave twice a day. His eyes were velvety brown in colour, and very clear. He smiled and put out a hand, but didn’t get up.

“Good of you to come in such a hurry, Superintendent. All right, Herb, I’ll ring if I want you.” Herb, the secretary, was pushing a chair up for Roger, and went out as Roger sat down. Marino slid a lacquered box of cigarettes across the desk. “American or English,” he said.

Roger felt that he was being photographed by those brown eyes; felt, too, as if he were being weighed on a mental balance. In a sudden flash, he realized how so many minor criminals felt when he sat weighing them up. He chose an English cigarette, and Marino flicked a lighter.

“Thanks. How can I help?”

“Well,” said Marino, “you could help several ways, I guess, but the best way would be to go out and find the boy. I’ve good reason to think that the ten-year-old son of David Shawn, who is on a special mission in the United Kingdom, was kidnapped last night, from a house on the Chiswick and Ealing borders. I don’t know why it happened, but we want the boy back because of what it means to his parents, and we also want him back because of what this might do to David Shawn, whose work is high on the Secrets List.”

Roger pondered, and asked: “Who knows about the kidnapping?”

“You and I, Lissa Meredith, who was acting as Shawn’s secretary, and Herb. In half an hour the Ambassador will also know. Lissa discovered what had happened. She had a key to the house, and was due at work at eight o’clock, but she arrived ten minutes late. She found everyone asleep, and couldn’t wake David or Belle Shawn, his wife. The child’s bed was empty, his clothes and a suitcase had been taken away. Lissa closed up the house, went to see the day maid, and told her not to go in. Then she telephoned me. I sent a man out to watch the house so that she could come here.”

“Why didn’t she send for a doctor?” Roger asked.

“She’s had some nursing experience, and decided the Shawns weren’t in danger.” Marino smiled; he had fine, very white teeth. “I’d like you to go to the house and see what you can make of the situation, Mr West. Can you do that without consulting anyone else?”

“I can but it would be wiser to have a word with the Commander or the Assistant Commissioner.”

Marino picked up a telephone, told Herb to get one or the other on the line, then put the instrument back.

“I know Ricky Shawn,” he said. “I would hate to have anything really bad happen to him. Have you any family?”

“Two boys,” Roger said.

Marino nodded, and they waited in silence while Roger tried to pierce the shroud of mystery which Marino had deliberately created. There were always difficulties about an investigation which had to be kept secret, especially in a kidnapping case.

“Are the Shawns wealthy?” he asked suddenly.

“Very.”

“Why a suburban house and just a daily maid?”

“They’ve only been there since Ricky arrived, and I imagine Belle Shawn is having fun playing at housework. Lissa doesn’t think she will for long.”

Lissa, Roger pondered; how soon would he learn more about Lissa?

The telephone bell rang, one of three on the desk.

“The middle one,” Marino said.

“The Assistant Commissioner is on the line,” said a girl, and after a moment a man with a rather hard voice asked:

“Is that you, West? What are you doing there?”

“They want us to look into a job which was pulled during the night,” Roger said. “They’re in a hurry, but they don’t want to talk over the telephone.”

“All right, see what you can make of it,” Hardy said. “Don’t let them high-pressure you, though.”

Roger pushed the telephone away, and asked:

“Who will take me to the house ?”

“Lissa Meredith will,” Marino answered. He lifted the telephone, and went on: “Ask Lissa to come right away, Herb.” Replacing the receiver, he continued: “You’ll get along with Lissa, but then I guess you get along with most people.”

“I try to,” Roger said. “As this is hush-hush to begin with, why not start the right way? I won’t leave the Embassy with Miss Meredith —”

“Mrs Meredith.”

“Oh! I’ll have a word with her here, and pick her up somewhere on the way — on the Bayswater Road just beyond the park gates, say. I may be recognized, and if I’m seen leaving with David Shawn’s secretary, a lot of people will put two and two together.” He waited.

“We are certainly going to get along,” Marino said, and looked up as the door opened and Lissa Meredith came in.

3

LISSA

LISSA Meredith had beautiful red hair and a smile of the kind that, a few hundred years ago, would have set armies marching and empires tumbling. It wasn’t so much that she was a beauty, but that she seemed aflame with vitality. It glowed in the rich tints of her hair and the light in her honey-brown eyes and the rippling quicksilver of her movements. She wore a plain greeny-grey linen suit, with dark green piping, and a white blouse with a bow of the same piping at the neck. “Hi, Tony,” she said, and smiled at Roger. He had to remind himself that a child had been kidnapped and the case needed all his attention.

“Hi. Lissa, this is Superintendent Roger West of Scotland Yard. He’s going out with you to Shawn’s place. You’re to wait for him at the Hyde Park Gate in Bayswater Road. Do you know it?”

“Who doesn’t?” she asked. “How soon?”

“As soon as you can get there.”

“Not quite so soon as that,” Roger said. “I’d like to know more about the affair before we leave. The address of the house, what you found there, everything that isn’t on the Secret List.”

“I could tell you on the way,” Lissa said.

“You can fill in the details on the way.”

Lissa glanced at Marino, obviously for approval, and he waved her to a chair. She didn’t take it, but leaned against his desk, ankles crossed, nylon-sheathed legs slim, exciting.

“I want to find Ricky as soon as we can,” she said. “I want to find him before Belle comes round, because any danger to him will drive her mad. She’s crazy about that boy. So is David, but David’s tougher. A broken Belle might break David, and we can’t risk that. You just have to find the child, Superintendent.” Her voice had the warmth of fire. Roger wasn’t particularly familiar with American accents, but he placed this as faintly Southern. “The house is thirty-one Wavertree Road, Ealing, one of a thousand houses that all look the same. I left there last evening at twenty after five, and everything was normal. Ricky walked to the end of the street with me. I arrived there this morning at ten minutes after eight, and the first thing that seemed wrong was the silence. Belle often sleeps late but David is usually up early, and so is Ricky. I went upstairs, and found David and Belle so deep asleep that they wouldn’t wake up.”

Roger said: “Asleep?”

“Breathing,” she corrected. “Under drugs, you can be sure of that. I couldn’t get across to Ricky’s room quickly enough. His bed had been slept in, but it was empty. His clothes were gone, and so was a suitcase — one I unpacked for him when he arrived, three weeks ago. Belle just couldn’t live without him.”

Roger sensed criticism of Belle Shawn. Disapproval or just impatience? he wondered.

“Toothbrush and things gone?” he asked.

“Yes.” Lissa stood upright. “That was a relief, they wouldn’t take his toothbrush if they didn’t mean to look after him.” She probably meant “If they meant to kill him.”

“I suppose not,” Roger said.

She said sharply: “Don’t you agree?”

“Supposing we don’t take anything for granted? They would take his toothbrush if they wanted us to think that they were going to take good care of him, wouldn’t they?”

She stared down at him; and now her honey-coloured eyes weren’t smiling, they were nearly threatening.

“If you say that to Belle or to David,” she said, “I won’t forgive you.”

She was a new experience for Roger; working with her would be as invigorating as a walk in the teeth of a high wind.

“Did you look round the rest of the house?” he asked.

“Surely. The back door was open.”

She had been thorough, she had a mind for detail, and she had kept her head. Added to everything he had seen about her was an underlying factor which might be a truer indication of her nature; coolness in emergency.

Marino put an elbow on the polished desk, and said with a hint of impatience:

“Lissa knows the Shawns better than anyone in England. She can tell you about them on the way.”

“All right, I’m nearly ready to go,” Roger said. “You’ll have to send a doctor, quickly. The Shawns may need one. Shall I fix it with Division, or —”

“I’ll fix the doctor.”

“And I’d like to call the Yard again.”

Marino gave instructions to Herb, and the others watched him as he picked up the telephone, were intent on every word he said.

He spoke to Bill Sloan, who already knew a little, and would be as discreet as anyone.

“Bill, contact the Ealing Station,” he said. “Have them find out who was patrolling Wavertree Road last night, the late day-duty man and the night-duty man. I want to see both officers at the Divisional station at” — he glanced at a small clock on the desk; it was a little after ten o’clock — “noon on the dot.”

“I’ll see to it,” promised Sloan.

Thanks.” Roger put down the receiver and stood up. “You go ahead, Mrs Meredith, in a taxi. I’ll pick you up at the gate two or three minutes later. Is that all right?”

“Surely.”

Her eyes glowed approval before she turned away, waved from the door, and went out. Roger supposed that he would get used to her; that if he tried hard enough, he could become proof against her disturbing vitality.

Marino was smiling as if guessing that his thoughts were on the woman at least as much as on the case.

“One other thing, Mr West. Before you report to your superiors, you will come and see me, won’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Once again Marino didn’t get up, simply put out a hand.

Going towards the lift, with Herb as guide, Roger realized how little Marino had said and how much he had implied; and he warned himself that he must not worry about the reasons for secrecy, this was a single problem, the finding of a kidnapped child. But the emotional factor couldn’t be disregarded for long; if the boy was not back by the time his mother came round, there would probably be a lot of complications.

Lissa Meredith was standing near the gate, beautiful against the heavy summer foliage of the trees and the grass still brilliant green from summer rain. She was beside the car before he could get out, slid into the seat next to him and closed the door.

“You were on time,” she said. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything you saw, all the details you can remember, and everything you think I ought to know about the Shawns,” Roger answered. He offered her his cigarette case. “Down to the most minute detail.”

“Such as toothbrushes,” she said. “I’d rather smoke my own.” She took a red packet of Pall Malls from her handbag, and flicked a lighter as Roger slid the car into the stream of traffic. “They had gone to bed in a hurry, that’s for sure. Belle’s clothes were just dropped on the floor, some of David’s were in a pile by the side of the bed. I don’t believe that means what you probably think it means. Belle is a tidy creature by habit. Fastidious.” Again the implication of criticism, of “too fastidious”. “They hadn’t cleared away after dinner, which was most unusual. Belle is having fun being a real housewife. Sometimes she will just put the dirty things in the washing-up machine, but she won’t leave the dining-room untidy. They must have been desperately tired. Do you want me to guess?”

“Just facts, please.”

“I might guess better than you.”

“We’ll guess together when we have to,” Roger said. “Don’t lets start arguing.”

She looked intently at his profile, which was very good. If there was anything wrong, it was with his chin, which was rather heavy and thrusting. He had a shortish nose and finely chiselled lips, his hat was pushed to the back of his head, showing wavy, corn-coloured hair, the colour of which almost disguised the grey. He knew that she was studying him closely.

“Who wants to argue?” There was laughter as well as submission in the words. “The back door wasn’t locked, but the front door was. None of the catches had been fastened at the windows. Belle is a nervous woman, the windows were always fastened and doors bolted.”

“Why was — why is she nervous?”

“I don’t know of any reasons, except —” Lissa paused. “Except that being nervous is a kind of obsession with her.”

“You don’t sound as if you approve of Belle Shawn,” Roger said drily, and when that won no response, he went on: “What do you think gives her this obsession?”

“No one’s ever put her across his knee, face downwards,” said Lissa, very deliberately. “You really want to know about her?”

“I have to know,” Roger said. “I have to be able to judge how much notice to pay to what she says. Do you mean she is spoiled?”

“Fussed, pampered, protected against the evil world, indulged since she was able to walk. And in spite of all that,” Lissa Meredith went on, “the better Belle often shows through, the good and adorable Belle. You’re right to want to know about Belle before you talk to her.”

“You imply that she’s neurotic and hard to live with?” Roger asked.

“Part of the time, that’s true.”

“Is she happy?”

“Can a bundle of nerves be happy?”

“Part of the time.”

“Oh, she is. Little parts. David’s been away from her a great deal. First the Korean war, then some special assignments. That is why they came to England. David’s likely to be here for twelve months, perhaps longer. Then she found she couldn’t bear to be without Ricky, and they sent for him. Did you really mean to ask if she’s happy with David?”

“I’d like to know.”

“I can tell you he’s in love with her — passionately. But it’s one thing for a man to come back to a beautiful wife, to know she’s waiting, another to be the patient, faithful wife. Oh, I don’t think there is anything wrong.” He knew that she was glancing at him, and that her eyes were laughing. “But don’t really know each other very well Are you looking for a motive?”

“Just for facts.” He turned into a main road near Hammersmith Broadway, where five roads met and the lumbering red giants of the buses loomed over the black Humber Hawk.

“Shawn’s inclined to give her her head, is he? He’s too easy with her?”

“Isn’t that a guess?” taunted Lissa.

“A deduction. His wife usually sleeps late, the maid arrives at nine, and Shawn and his son get up early, so someone gets the breakfast.”

Lissa laughed.

“They don’t have a cooked breakfast. But you’re right, David takes the easy way with Belle.”

“Has there ever been any threat to the boy?”

“I’ve not heard of one.”

“Do you know of anybody with a personal motive for wanting to hurt either of them?”

“No.”

“Mr Marino said they were rich,” Roger remarked after a pause.

“They were both rich at one time, but Belle lost her money. David has plenty for the two of them, but —” Lissa hesitated, as if seeking the right words, then went on very slowly. “I think if she still had her own money, she would take Ricky and leave David high and dry. It makes it sound as if I don’t like Belle, and that’s not so, Superintendent. But I do think David’s money holds Belle where nothing and no one else could.”

At Ealing Broadway, near the Common, where women and young children and here and there a nursemaid were sitting about or playing beneath the shade of trees, Lissa told him where to turn off for Wavertree Road. Soon they were driving along the narrow, tree-lined avenues of the housing estate. They passed countless houses which looked very much alike, the red bricked walls, the concealing hedges. Everything had the neat and tidy look that was so typically English.

From the end of Wavertree Road, Lissa directed him to the cul-de-sac, shaped like a horseshoe and with three houses in it, the Shawns’ the middle of the three. This house was brick-built, the top was timbered, and the tiles were weathered to a dark red. Window frames and doors had been recently painted, and the garden was spick and span, dahlias nodding multi-coloured heads and ragged petals in the quiet wind. In the garden of the house on the right, a grey-haired woman stood looking up at Number Thirty-one.

As Roger switched off the engine, they heard a scream, then a man’s voice, followed by more screaming which shattered the suburban quiet; even here the note of hysteria was clearly discernible, with its message of anguish.

Lissa Meredith was out of the car before Roger. She ran to the gate, which stood open, and flew along the yellow gravel path to the front door. The grey-haired woman stared apprehensively at her and at Roger. By the time Roger reached the porch Lissa had opened the front door and disappeared. The screaming became louder, the distorted voice made words sound like raw wounds.

“It’s your fault, it’s your fault, I hate you! I hate you, I could kill you! Get out of my way, get out, get out!”

Roger went into the hall, closed the door, saw Lissa halfway up the stairs and two people — obviously the Shawns — at the head, on the landing. Belle was struggling wildly in her husband’s grasp.

4

HYSTERIA

BELLE SHAWN wore a dressing-gown, wide open; beneath it, a pair of filmy pink pyjamas. Her hair was blown about as if caught by a high wind; she was kicking at Shawn and trying to wrench her arms free. As Lissa neared them, she got one hand away, and her fingers clawed at her husband’s face. Pain made him relax his grip, and Belle pulled herself free, turned and rushed down the stairs — and saw Lissa for the first time.

She screamed: “Ricky’s gone, Ricky’s gone I Fetch the police, he won’t Fetch the police!”

She almost fell down the next few stairs, and when she was a step above Lissa, Roger could see the distortion of her face; the wild expression, the lips stretched so tautly across the large white teeth that it was like looking at a hideous mask.

Shawn was in a sleeveless vest and trousers. His face was a mask, too, but it wasn’t hideous; except for the burning eyes and the barely noticeable working of the jaw it would have been expressionless. Blood welled up from two parallel scratches across his right cheek.

“Fetch the police!” screamed Belle. “If you won’t —” She caught her breath, but it was only a fleeting pause, there was no chance for Lissa to speak before she cried: “You’re as bad as he is! You’re worse, get out of my way!”

Roger saw her hand rise, saw Lissa stagger to one side.

Shawn called: “Belle!”

Belle pushed past Lissa, stumbled again, saved herself by grabbing the banister rail, then raced down the remaining stairs dressing-gown flying behind her, bare legs long and shapely, pyjama coat rucking up. She didn’t see Roger until she was past Lissa. She didn’t stop, but veered to the right. Guessing he would try to stop her, she put out both hands to fend him off. She was sobbing, her lips were drawn back over those large teeth, which now seemed ugly. Her eyes held the glare of madness.

Roger ducked, dived, caught her round the knees and brought her down. She struck her head heavily on the carpet, didn’t cry out, but lay still. He straightened up, pulled the dressing-gown over her legs, and then knelt beside her.

The quiet was unreal, a false calm in a storm; everything about this episode seemed unreal, even the quiet note in Shawn’s voice as he said:

“I’ll take her.”

Roger drew back, and Shawn gathered his dazed wife in his arms and carried her upstairs. Lissa followed him without a word, and they disappeared into a room on the right. Now there was the feeling of a lull before an even greater storm. Roger had a vivid mental picture of the man, very big and powerful and with startling good looks; and of his burning eyes.

Another man appeared from the kitchen, a third to “Herb” and his guide at the Embassy, sleek, youthful, fair, fresh-faced; his smile probably hid embarrassment.

“You take risks, Superintendent, don’t you?”

“Sometimes. Who are you?”

“Mr Antonio Marino sent me, to stay around until Lissa arrived with Superintendent West from Scotland Yard. How would you like to prove you’re West?”

Roger took out his wallet and flashed his CID card, gave the man time to look at it, put it away, and asked;

“How long has this screaming been going on?”

“It just blew up. Anything you would like me to do?”

“Make sure you haven’t touched anything in the kitchen.”

“Only a chair.”

Roger said: “I’ll see you in a minute,” and went to the dining-room, where a telephone stood on a table near the window. He covered the receiver with his handkerchief, then dialled the Embassy. All the time footsteps thudded on the ceiling, but there was no other sound; no crying. Marino was soon on the line.

“Roger West,” announced Roger. “That doctor isn’t here, and he’s needed in a hurry.”

“He’ll be there very soon,” Marino promised in his lazy voice. “I’m glad you called, Superintendent The Ambassador and the Commissioner are to have lunch together, and the Commissioner has been good enough to agree that you come and talk to me afterwards, instead of going straight to Scotland Yard.” Roger didn’t comment “What can you tell me?” Marino went on.

“That you will have to have some publicity, even if you say there’s been a burglary,” Roger said. “One of the neighbours probably knows what’s happened — Mrs Shawn’s voice can be heard a long way off. Make sure that doctor hurries, won’t you?”

“He’s already hurrying.” Marino sounded worried. “Is Pete Kennedy there?”

“If he’s the fair-haired man, yes. Just a moment.”

The man was Peter Kennedy. He spoke to Marino, then put the instrument down and said: “I have to be on my way, Mr West, unless there’s anything you need that no one else can give you.”

“Just evidence that you are Peter Kennedy.”

The other grinned, showed a badge, and gave a mock salute.

After he had gone, Roger looked about the room, inspected the cups and saucers and everything on the table, reading the story they told; that the Shawns had been overwhelmed with tiredness at the end of the meal, had dragged themselves up to bed and had “slept” for twelve hours and more. At eight-ten when Lissa Meredith had arrived, they had been unconscious; probably they had come round half an hour or so ago.

He walked about the room, which wasn’t large — perhaps fifteen feet by twenty or so. It had a fitted carpet in pearl grey, the furniture was contemporary, spindly and expensive, as far removed from utility as a mink fur coat from a coney. Everything was pleasing to the eye. There were no pictures, not even the half-expected abstracts, only three framed photographs on the mantelpiece. Roger looked at the middle picture, which was of the boy.

He had a small, sensitive, frightened face. Frightened, Roger wondered. Why did he get that impression? It was the face of a child who lacked confidence; yet it was impossible to say why Roger was so sure of this, unless he had been influenced by Lissa’s strictures on the mother. The expression was one he had never seen on Martin-called-Scoopy’s face, or Richard’s. He had seen it on the faces of boys who had been in trouble; urchins from the street, puffed up with a braggadocio which usually collapsed when they reached the threshold of the Juvenile Court. He had seen it on the face of a neighbour’s son, and learned afterwards that the couple had quarrelled day in, day out; divorce had brought the child a kind of peace.

Sensitive, then, and frightened — or lost? Yet the son of wealthy parents, with everything life could offer.

The boy was certainly like his mother in looks, and although Roger had only seen her face ravaged with grief, he realized she was a beauty; according to Lissa, a petulant beauty.

Roger examined the back door more closely, found one or two scratches, gave it more attention, and felt sure that the man or men had entered this way. In half an hour he found nothing else. He poured the dregs from each coffee-cup into small medicine bottles he found in a cupboard, after rinsing them out; he poured the milk from the Jug into another bottle, placed samples of the sugar, coffee and all the food he could find into a small basket he discovered in the kitchen. All this, without destroying prints that might be there. He felt curiously on his own, and badly wanted a team; he would have settled for Bill Sloan.

He heard a movement outside the kitchen, but didn’t look round. He could see the door in a small mirror hanging between the two windows. It was Lissa. She came in quietly; he didn’t think stealthily. She wasn’t smiling or frowning, but looked intent He waited until she was halfway across the room, and then turned.

“Hallo.”

“Hi,” she said. “Mr West, you’ve got to make David believe you’ll find Ricky.”

“Have I?” Roger said heavily.

“It matters more than almost anything else you can think of. You must make him believe that you will find the boy. Even if it means faked evidence.” Her eyes demanded that of him, and he knew that she felt this need desperately. “Because if you don’t —”

“He will listen to ransom talk,” Roger suggested.

“Ransom,” she said. “Yes, he will.”

She drew nearer, a hand touched his, the honey-coloured eyes had a faraway look. In a tauter voice, she said: “You’re very hard. I can tell that But you must convince David that he will do harm, not good, by talking terms with anyone. It could be for money. It’s more likely to be someone who wants to high pressure David for his secret knowledge.”

The telephone bell rang.

She turned, swift as light, towards the door, but Roger reached it just behind her and gripped her arm. She didn’t try to pull herself free, just walked along the passage, speaking in a whisper.

“David will answer it upstairs. We can listen-in in the dining-room.”

They were at the dining-room door, and she meant to reach the extension telephone first. Roger slipped past her, actually pushing her to one side as he picked up the receiver. A yard away, she stood defiant and resentful. He couldn’t mistake the curiously gruff quality of Shawn’s voice, although Shawn was only giving the number of the house.

A man said: “That David Shawn?”

“Yes,” said Shawn.

“David Shawn,” repeated the caller, as if he were rolling the words round his tongue. He was English, or his voice was English, and Roger had expected an American. “How long have you been awake?”

Shawn said: “Long enough.”

“So you know.”

“I know,” Shawn said.

He didn’t alter his tone, but Roger could picture his face, the burning eyes, the way his jaw clamped and the way his lips moved as if uttering each word caused pain.

“Don’t do anything,” the caller ordered. “Just wait until you’re told what to do. Just wait.”

He rang off.

Roger held the receiver close to his ear, and could hear Shawn’s heavy breathing. Slowly, that receiver went down. Lissa moved away from Roger, and swift brightness of a smile drove away the frost of her resentment.

“Was the conversation worth hearing?”

“He had orders to wait and do nothing.” Roger replaced his receiver. “And you think he’ll obey.”

“I’m afraid he will obey. I think —” Lissa paused, frowned in concentration, and then went on more rapidly, drawing closer in a conspiratorial way. “I guessed a lot, but David told me the truth just now. He and Belle were in danger of breaking up, and only Ricky kept them together. He agreed to have Ricky here in a desperate effort to stave off the collapse. It would be a disaster to him, or he thinks it would. She will blame him, of course. She will say if he had given up his assignment and gone back home, this would never have happened to their son.”

“Would it have happened?”

“Shawn is important, very important, doing work only he can do. This could prey on his mind so much that he would be unable to carry on with it.”

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to talk freely to me or someone at the Yard,” Roger said. “We can’t blunder about in the dark. Go back and tell Marino that, will you? Tell him we can play hush-hush as well as he can, but if he wants results quickly, we’ve got to know everything. And I don’t care a damn what arrangement the Ambassador and the Assistant Commissioner or the Queen’s High Admiral might come to. Use my car. I’ll wait until the doctor arrives.”

“What’s got into you?” she demanded.

“I ought to be on the telephone, ought to have told the Yard everything an hour ago, to warn all ports and airfields, all railway termini, every kicking-off point from England. The police ought to be on the look-out for the boy, have his description in every police station, in every newspaper. Tell Marino that.”

“And leave you alone with Shawn.”

“That’s right,” Roger said.

“That won’t do you any good,” she said. “David Shawn won’t talk to you about his work or anything that will lead up to it. You have a job to do too, Superintendent You have to convince David that you can find the boy — that he doesn’t have to start doing what the others tell him yet Will you do that?”

“I will try,” Roger promised.

Obviously, he had to try.

He went to the front door with her, and she smiled and waved from his car as she settled down at the wheel. He fought the temptation to watch her until she was out of sight, turned, closed the front door with a snap, and hurried up the stairs. He tapped and went into the bedroom, without ceremony.

Belle Shawn lay in bed, the clothes drawn up to her neck, her face pale, her hair very tidy. Shawn was by the dressing-table, fully dressed, except for his coat and shoes, and was combing his thick, dark hair. He used Roger’s trick, looking at the door in the mirror.

“Lissa said a doctor’s coming,” he declared.

“He should be here,” said Roger. “Did Mrs Meredith tell you that I am —”

“The man from Scotland Yard.” Shawn finished combing his hair, and turned round. His expression was blank, his lips were tightly set, betraying the way his teeth clenched, and his eyes still seemed to burn. He took his coat off the back of a chair, and began to put it on. “The police are out,” he declared flatly. “This is a private matter.”

“Keep it that way,” Roger said.

Shawn stopped moving, in surprise.

“If you don’t care whether you see your son again or not,” Roger went on, “keep it private.”

Shawn finished adjusting his coat, then moved slowly towards Roger. He was like a bear, massively powerful, but there was no clumsiness in his movements. His shoulders were bent, but he was still inches taller than Roger. His features seemed to grow bigger as he drew nearer. He moved his arms slowly, his great hands settled on Roger’s shoulders. His fingers gripped, firmly, then gripped more tightly, as if he could crush the flesh and the bone. It hurt, but Roger didn’t move, didn’t flinch.

“You mean well,” Shawn said with great deliberation. “But don’t get in the way. I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what anyone says. This is not official. It isn’t going to be official I sent the boy away, understand. I sent him away.

I know where he is. I drugged his mother and myself, so that she couldn’t prevent me, because I knew the boy was in danger. Understand that, Mr Scotland Yard? No one’s been kidnapped, everything is just fine.”

5

THE OBSERVANT POLICEMAN

BUT for his eyes, Shawn could have been just a piece of sculpture hewn out of dark sandstone. His large features seemed more than life-size, and only his eyes were alive, telling of a man in anguish. The pressure of his fingers biting into Roger’s shoulders grew stronger; like a killer’s grip.

Roger said: “So everything is fine.”

“You heard me.”

“All right,” said Roger. He tensed himself, then wrenched his shoulders free and backed away. Shawn didn’t move after him. It came to his mind that Shawn would squeeze the life out of anyone who got in his way. Now, the man was in the grip of fierce passion roused by deadly hurt and deadlier fears; but he must always have the capacity for passion. “All right,” repeated Roger. “Now make your wife believe what you’ve told me.”

“Keep my wife out of this.”

“I’m not bringing her into it,” Roger retorted. “She’s already in. She wants her son back.”

Shawn raised his right hand, the fist clenched; he wanted to hit and to hurt.

“I’ll look after my wife and my son,” he growled. “You get out.”

The difficulty was for Roger to turn his back on the man, to overcome the fear that Shawn would strike at him when he did so. Roger stared into the stormy eyes, then turned slowly. Shawn didn’t move. Roger reached the door, and for the first time since Shawn had started to speak, thought of other things; he realized for instance that while he had been in the bedroom, a car had drawn up outside. He opened the door.

Lissa Meredith stood at the head of the stairs. Her face was in shadow, but he caught the warning in her eyes; she didn’t want Shawn to know that she was there. Probably she had overheard their conversation, returning quickly, anxious to know what he said to Shawn. Why should she be so anxious? Roger joined her, and they went downstairs together. A youthful-looking man with thin fair hair and a bulgy forehead stood in the hall. In his hand was a pigskin case. Lissa led the way to the dining-room, and they went in. She closed the door.

“Speak quietly,” she said. “Mr West, this is Dr Fischer, Carl Fischer. Carl, you must handle David very carefully. Say I told you that Belle had collapsed, but you don’t know another thing. Don’t mention Ricky, don’t let him think you know about that yet, just let him talk. And don’t forget any-thing he says.”

Fischer gave a quick smile, splitting his face in two.

“As you say, honey. I’ll go up.”

“Don’t forget Fig Mayo,” Lissa said.

Fischer nodded and went out. Lissa turned to Roger and put a hand on his arm, lightly, naturally.

“You didn’t go far,” Roger said heavily.

“I went to the nearest telephone and talked to Tony, and Carl arrived just after I got back. I heard everything David said, and I’m not surprised. I’ve always known that David would insist on doing what he believed best, whatever Belle thought. Until we get Ricky back, we can write David off.” The intensity of her manner much more than her words, affected Roger. “Do you want to do anything else here?”

“Not yet.”

They went to the front door and into the street. Roger’s car was drawn up at the end of the cul-de-sac.

“Who is Fig Mayo?” Roger asked.

“Just a man who made David see red,” answered Lissa. He made a pass at Belle. He was drunk, or he wouldn’t have asked for a suicide ticket David threw him out of a fifth-floor window. Only a canvas canopy saved his life, all he broke was an arm and a leg. It was covered up as an accident, but it’s the kind of accident that could happen again with David in certain moods.” She paused, and as they reached Roger’s car she stated flatly: “Fig Mayo is as big a man as you.”

“If Shawn threw me out of a fifth-floor window or even out of a door, we could put him in a cell and let him cool his heels,” Roger said. “Think about that.”

Lissa put her head on one side and looked at him, half-smiling, wholly beautiful.

“It might be a good idea at that What are you going to do now?”

“Talk to the policemen who were on duty here last night.”

“May I come?”

“But wouldn’t you be more good here?”

“Carl can handle David — they’re old friends. Carl can calm him down when he’s raging with everyone else. Others from the Embassy will soon be here, too. Did you find out anything?” She was getting into the car.

“Whoever broke in almost certainly picked the lock of the back door,” said Roger, taking the wheel “So your orders are to keep as close to me as you can.”

“I like the idea, tool You’re my first English detective, and it’s quite an experience. There can’t be many more like you.”

They didn’t say much while Roger drove to the police station in Ealing. A uniformed constable was on duty outside, recognized Roger and came forward to open the door. He said good morning, and then saw Lissa Meredith; he looked quite startled.

It was hot in the sun, but cool inside the station, where a heavily-built and slow-speaking Superintendent talked for only a few minutes. They were soon in a small, barely-furnished room, where a middle-aged constable, helmet in hand, got up from an uncomfortable wooden chair. He had a large, florid face, a heavy greying moustache, greying hair and big, blue eyes, questioning eyes which suggested that he looked on the world during his nightly patrol in a state of perpetual wonderment touched with cynicism.

“This is Constable Maidment,” the Superintendent said. “You don’t mind if I leave you, West? Mrs Meredith.” He went out, and the door closed on him.

“Morning, Maidment.” Roger was brisk. “Sorry to drag you out of bed.” Maidment had gone off duty at half past seven. “This is Mrs Meredith, representing the American Embassy.” Maidment showed commendable self-control, his gaze only flickered over Lissa, then concentrated on Roger. Did you notice anything unusual in Wavertree Road during the night?”

PC Maidment was ready with his answer.

“Well, sir, in a way I did. In a way I didn’t.”

“What happened ?”

“It was about two o’clock, sir, or a little after. A car turned out of Wavertree Road and came towards me down Wick-ham Avenue. Don’t often see a car I don’t know at that hour, and it certainly wasn’t any of the local doctors.” Roger recognized the officer who would tell a story better than he would answer questions, and gave him his head. “Funny thing was the way I didn’t hear the engine one minute, and the next I did. Very quiet around Wavertree Road at that hour, you can hear a cat move. Suddenly the engine started up and the head-lights went on, and the car was at the corner quick as snap.”

“Now what have you got up your sleeve?” demanded Roger.

Maidment beamed.

“Wavertree Road’s on a hill, sir. Anyone starting from the top of the hill could switch off and then switch on again near the corner. So I took particular notice last night, and was extra careful trying front doors and back. I couldn’t find anything wrong, sir. The car was a big Austin A70, one of those new jobs, very nice, and there aren’t many about.”

“Sure of that?”

“Positive. Black. Might have been dark blue, only I don’t think they do a blue one. Three men were in it, two at the front, one at the back — I saw them as they passed beneath a lamp. It wasn’t going fast, not really fast. The man at the back looked round after me, I could see his face when it went under the lamp.” Caution tempered his eagerness. “Not that I could recognize it again, sir.”

“And this was about two o’clock?”

“Near as dammit, sir.”

“Anything else?”

“Everything was quiet and normal,” answered PC Maidment, and actually looked uneasy. “I hope nothing went wrong I didn’t catch on to, sir.”

“Nothing you could be blamed for. Are you sure there were only three men in the car?”

“I only saw three.”

“Good,” said Roger. “Is all of this in your report?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, keep it all under your hat, Maidment. There may have been a bit of funny business last night, if there was we don’t want the people involved to know we’re suspicious. All clear?”

“Quite clear, sir.”

“Now make up on your beauty sleep.” Roger nodded and smiled, and opened the door for Lissa to precede him into the passage. He led the way to the Superintendent’s office, which was empty. “Sit down a minute,” he said, and went across to the Superintendent’s wooden armchair, sat at the tidy desk, was careful not to disturb four piles of papers, and lifted the telephone.

“Chief Inspector Sloan, please . . . Hallo, Bill. A black Austin A70, one of the new models, left Wavertree Road, Ealing, about two o’clock this morning. Check its movements where you can, will you?”

“Right.”

“There’s a possibility that it was heading for London Airport,” Roger went on. “Check that first Check what aircraft left London Airport after three o’clock, and find out whether a ten-year-old boy was on board any of them.”

“Heading where?”

“America, probably, but that’s a guess. Even if you don’t get a line at London, try Gatwick and the smaller airfields. Give this absolute priority.”

“Right I What does the boy look like?”

“I haven’t a description yet, but probably small for his age. And Bill, if you get anything, call me at the American Embassy. Ask for Mr Marino, and if I’m not with him, I’ll call you as soon as I get there.”

“What is all this?” demanded Sloan.

“When I know I’ll tell you,” Roger said.”

“Bye.”

Lissa had a half-smoked Pall Mall between her lips, and as Roger opened his case, she leaned forward with a lighter. She looked at him above the flame, and it went out as he saw the smile in her eyes.

“So you think he’s been flown back home.”

“It could be.”

“How is that machine you call a mind working?”

“You want David Shawn in England on a special assignment, on work he can’t do in the States. His wife wants to be there anyhow, and he doesn’t want an estrangement with his wife. So already he has plenty of reason for thinking that he would be happier back home. If some third party wants to stop him working, and that’s what you and Marino have implied, a good way of doing this would be to tell him that his son is safe in the States. That would be one means of stopping him staying in England.” Roger glanced at his watch. “Now it’s nearly one o’clock. If we really want to work fast, we ought to telephone Kennedy Airport, and find out whether a boy passenger reaches there from England. It’s about a twelve-hour flight, they couldn’t have left before three o’clock, so we’ve an hour or so in hand. Care to telephone Marino?”

“You call him,” Lissa said.

“Will he be at lunch?”

“He doesn’t go out to lunch, he has a sandwich in the office.”

Marino was a careful listener, and did not ask for anything to be repeated. The name of Ricky Shawn wasn’t mentioned, but Marino promised to call Kennedy Airport at once, and rang off.

“And now what?” Lissa asked; there was a hint of mockery in her voice.

“Do you think the Embassy could find a sandwich for us, too?”

“It could run to a good lunch, after you’ve talked to Tony again, and you and I could discuss the weather.”

“Wonderful idea,” said Roger dryly. “But I’m just a working man, and probably there was some other crime in London last night. Another time.”

“There may not be another time. If David goes back to New York, I shall be sent after him.”

“If he’s so important, you can find a way to stop him,” Roger said. “At least until there’s time to look for his son. If you keep Shawn and his wife apart, it might help. Deal with them singly.” He laughed, as a kind of foreboding swept over him, but he didn’t try to put it into words. “I always talked too much.”

He stood up, and they went downstairs, out into the heat of this fierce September day, and drove fast to Grosvenor Square.

Lissa led the way into Marino’s office, where Marino still sat at his huge desk, as if he hadn’t moved since they had left. But his smile had none of the easy amiability of the morning; it was tense enough to make Lissa stand still, halfway across the room.

“What’s happened?” she demanded.

Marino said: “Sit down, Superintendent. If you’d been sitting here when it first started, instead of me, maybe we would have found Ricky by now. I don’t understand why I didn’t guess they would ship him back to the States by air. I can’t think why you didn’t, Lissa. Ricky was on a “plane which left London Airport at three-fifteen this morning. But he didn’t go on to New York, he was taken off at Ganda. He could be anywhere in Canada by now. He could be anywhere,” he repeated. “I’ve got the FBI chasing for news of him, but you know how difficult it will be to find him in Canada or the States. We’ve lost that boy, and we could have saved him. The only hope of quick results is from this end. Can you act as fast as you can think, Superintendent?”

“Let me talk to the Yard,” Roger said.

6

OWNER OF AN AUSTIN

Sloan had already found that a boy, the only child on the TSR 10, had left London in the company of a middle-aged man who had an American passport in the name of McMahon; the boy had travelled with a passport under the name of Sims. The child had seemed sleepy, McMahon had fussed him a great deal, no one had suspected there was anything wrong. Descriptions of McMahon varied, but three different reports from the airport had one thing in common. He had a big head: big that was in proportion to his body.

They had arrived at London Airport in an old Buick, the driver had gone off with the car as soon as he had set down his passengers. Sloan was already trying to trace the Buick. The Austin A70 had been traced as far as Hammersmith, and the Hammersmith police were already checking on all A70S garaged in the district.

Roger told Marino and Lissa Meredith this while they were still in Marino’s office.

“You have to find the owner of that car,” Marino said flatly. “West, you don’t know how important that is.”

Lissa said: “Could it be the time for telling him how important?”

Marino said slowly: “Maybe.”

But he didn’t go on for a long time; it seemed a long time. He watched Roger, steadily, piercingly.

“I guess you’re right,” he said at last. “That’s been agreed with the Ambassador. West, here’s the story. David Shawn has spent a great deal of time in Russia and France during the Test Ban discussions. He is a key man because as a scientist he is believed to have discovered a way of checking even the smaller nuclear explosions. Russia, France and China all want one of two things, if not both; to prevent the United States from having this detector, or to obtain it themselves and so neutralize its value. Either way, they need him. I can tell you that the wires have been humming between here and Washington this morning, it’s that important.”

“I can see how important,” Roger said.

“I’m sure you do. There are other things you should know. When in his Connecticut home last spring, Shawn was shot at He was nearly run down by an auto two months later. Since then, the FBI has been watching him closely, because we’ve expected more trouble, and this is it.” Marino paused, then turned towards Lissa. “Carl Fischer says that David is at his worst.”

He looked like doing a Fig Mayo on Mr West,” Lissa said dryly. “How is Belle?”

“Carl gave her a shot, so there won’t be any trouble with her for the next twenty-four hours. David approved. He doesn’t want trouble any more than the rest of us — not more trouble than he can help, anyway. But we don’t need to hide anything from ourselves. David won’t be any use to us or anyone until the boy’s found. Belle will blame him, and that will make him just a bag of nerves. West —” Marino paused, a smile thawed the bleakness of his face. The hell with West I Roger, David Shawn’s mind has been on a knife edge between sanity and insanity for a long time. It’s partly the strain of his work, and believe me, that’s a strain enough for a dozen men. He lives his part, he’s a man of two distinct personalities — some say schizophrenic. On vacation, or when he’s not working on some new angle, he’s liable to do crazy things — call that a safety valve. When he’s working, the work seems to absorb the spare energy, and he’s near normal — until a crisis arises. And this is a crisis. At a time like this he won’t listen to reason.”

“He might, if you started to get tough with him,” Roger said. “He throws a man out of a window, and it’s all hushed up. He’s doing a vital job over here, and he delivers an ultimatum — bring his wife, or he won’t do it Next time you had to bring his son over. You’ve built him up so that he thinks he’s the only man who can do this job.”

Marino said softly: “I guess he is.”

“Why not try making him think he isn’t?”

“He’d throw his hand in.”

“There’s a risk of that anyhow,” Roger argued. “You can’t seriously think that after this, he’ll be satisfied to stay here. You might get the son back for him, but you’ll never convince him that it won’t happen again. He might say he will stay, hoping it will make you work harder to find the boy, but afterwards —” He shrugged. “He could turn sour on you. But he looks to me like a man with the inevitable weak link — his pride. If his supremacy in his field is threatened, it might change his outlook.”

There was silence.

Marino rubbed his black stubble; he already needed a shave.

The tame psychiatrist,” he said musingly. “What do you think, Lissa?”

“I wouldn’t like to be the one to tell David he’s got a rival.”

“How would you start going about it?” Marino asked Roger.

“Give him another shock. Next time he starts throwing his weight about, fall on him like a ton of bricks. Stop making him think that he can get away with murder.”

Marino said slowly: “It’s certainly worth thinking about. Anymore ideas?”

“Shawn’s wife,” Roger said. “Is anyone getting at her? She’s a neurotic —”

“Who said so?”

“I implied it,” Lissa put in. “I didn’t mean that a psychiatrist would say so.”

“We’ve tried that angle,” Marino said. “She isn’t neurotic in the true sense. Losing her own money hurt her pride, and maybe held her to Shawn, that’s all. She doesn’t take drugs. She’s just a woman who’s so full up with self-pity she’s made herself a nervous wreck.”

“Does she know how important Shawn’s work is?”

“She doesn’t know what it is,” said Marino, “but she knows only the big time would have kept him in Europe when she wanted him home.”

The telephone bell rang, and Marino picked up the receiver. “Yes, Herb? . . . Put him through.” He held the receiver out to Roger. “Mr Hardy, for you.”

Roger took the telephone; suddenly realizing that it was the Assistant Commissioner, and that it was in his power to move him from this job, which might be handled better by a MI5 agent, or a Special Branch man. He had not until now, known how important it was to him that he should see this job through.

Marino and Lissa were watching him intently.

Hallo, Handsome.” Hardy was in an affable mood. “You are assigned to the American Embassy for the time being to do whatever they ask. If you come up against anything you think you shouldn’t do, get through to me, but don’t lose any time about it.”

“Not a moment, sir I—”

“If you need help, use Sloan.”

“I will,” said Roger.

“Any hope of an early result?” Hardy asked. “It’s not just important, it’s vital Work day and night, but get results.”

“There’s a half-chance,” Roger said. “Thanks, Mr Hardy.”

“And listen,” said Hardy. “Don’t tell Janet or anyone where you’re working, keep it under your hat and keep your hat on all the time.”

“Right.”

“Luck,” said Hardy, laconically.

Roger put down the receiver, pursed his lips, and then looked into Marino’s eyes. He was acutely aware of the way Lissa looked at him.

He said: “I’m under your orders.”

“You aren’t under anyone’s orders,” Marino retorted at once. “Where it’s a case of getting Ricky back, or finding out where he is, we’ll take yours. But you can’t work if you’re hungry. Lissa, why don’t you go and get Roger some lunch?”

• • •

Sitting opposite Lissa Meredith, eating a huge T-bone steak, the urgency of the Shawn kidnapping seemed to fade. It wasn’t anything she said or did; it wasn’t even the radiance in her face, a glow from some inner fire which certainly hadn’t been lighted by him. It was simply that, being with Lissa Meredith, there wasn’t room for anything else; not unless she wanted it. It was like being cut off from the world. Roger knew that it wouldn’t last, wasn’t sure that he wanted it to. He wasn’t sure of anything, except that it was as much for her as for any official reason that he wanted to break this case open; to find a child who was with a man known as McMahon somewhere in Canada or the United States.

It didn’t even occur to him that there wasn’t a chance.

A waiter was pouring out coffee, when another waiter came up with a telephone, which he plugged into the wall.

“For Superintendent West.”

“Thanks,” said Roger.

“Roger,” said Bill Sloan, a moment later. He wasn’t breathless, but a note of urgency was in his voice; the world came back, the problem appeared in sharp outline again. “I think we’re on to something.”

“The car?” asked Roger sharply.

“It might be. Peel got on to it at a garage near Hammersmith Broadway — just off the Fulham Palace Road. An Austin A70, and an American took it in a week ago, with big-end trouble. The same man collected it.” He paused. “Peel found out that the car came from the Barnes direction and went back the same way. Two or three garages on the Barnes Road have supplied petrol to an A70 with an American driver. Is it all right to ask the Barnes police to see what they can do?”

“Yes, and don’t lose any time. Send Peel to Barnes.”

“He’s there already.”

“Fine. Then meet me at Hammersmith Underground, by the main bookstall, in half an hour,” Roger said.

“This time I’m glad to let you go,” Lissa told him.

• • •

Sloan, looking even bigger than usual in a brown suit that was a shade too small, stood by the magazines and books displayed on the stall at the underground station. He didn’t look round until Roger was within a yard of him. They moved off together, mixing with the crowd which had come off a train, turned left at the side entrance to the station, walking quickly, but without seeming to hurry, to Roger’s parked car.

“Follow me at a good distance,” Roger said. “Not towards the garage, we can tackle that afterwards. Come on to the Divisional HQ and I’ll meet you there.”

Sloan said: “What’s on?”

“It looks as if we’re being watched by a man behind the taxi outside the station.” Neither of the policemen looked round. “He’s been watching me, I think.”

Sloan grinned, as if at some joke.

“Be seeing you!” He went towards his own car.

Roger took a newspaper from the seat of his, then slammed the door and walked in the other direction. He passed the man near the taxi without glancing at him, waited at a pedestrian crossing until the lights changed, then walked briskly to the other side of the road. He nearly blundered into a man coming towards him, apologized, side-stepped, and faced the opposite pavement for the second he needed. The man was showing obvious interest. Roger hurried, turned into Glenthorne Road and glanced round.

The man stepped on to a pedestrian crossing, tall, thin, wearing a raincoat; and it was much too hot for any kind of coat. He hurried. Roger slowed down, giving the other man plenty of time to catch up with him. The man walked by without a glance, then went into a shop doorway.

He came out when Roger had passed it.

7

DEAD MAN

ROGER turned into the entrance of the Hammersmith police station, was recognized, nodded and hurried to the Superintendent’s office. Wirral, in command at Hammersmith, was a lanky, melancholy Yorkshireman, slow of movement and speech but quick enough on the uptake.

“I’m really in a hurry,” Roger said. There’s a man outside.” He described the man in the raincoat. “Have him tailed, will you?”

Wirral said: “Right away,” lifted a telephone and gave instructions to someone named “George”. Then he said: “What?” and listened, grunted and rang off.

“The man has been hanging about for an hour or more, the sergeant downstairs noticed him. Seemed interested in this station and the Underground. What’s it all about, Handsome?”

Roger grinned. “Secret list, this time. Had anything on the go around here? Big enough to bring Bill Sloan and me to have a look round, and the raincoat to want to find out if there’s a big show on?”

“We’ve got a body,” Wirral said, looking more melancholy than ever; but his eyes held a smile. “Is that big enough? Cut throat.”

“Suicide?”

“Four inch gash, carotid severed, much more and it would have been decapitation. He was taken out of the river a couple of hours ago. When I saw your pretty face I thought you’d come about it.”

“Where’s the body?”

“It ought to be in the morgue by now.” Wirral used the telephone again and spoke to an echo that came from the receiver. “Where’s the stiff we took out of the Thames? . . . It is, good man.” He rang off. “Just arrived at the morgue. Like to have a look?”

“Yes, thanks. Get someone to talk about a body in the river — in the hearing of my man in the raincoat, will you?”

Wirral eyed him thoughtfully; warily.

“You look as if you want to cut someone’s throat yourself.” The telephone bell rang. “Superintendent Wirral . . . It’s Sloan,” he said to Roger. “Downstairs.”

“Ask him to wait.”

“He’s probably a better tailer than the man I’ve put on to your raincoat.”

“But he’s known to the raincoat.”

Wirral shrugged. “We’ll be down, Bill,” he said into the mouthpiece, and rang off.

On the way to the front hall he asked about Janet and the boys; the West family were known to most London police. Roger answered mechanically, letting his thoughts run now that he had digested the facts. He had not been followed to Hammersmith; the man in the raincoat had been here, and knew him. Wirral’s George had better be good. If the man in the raincoat discovered that he was being followed, he would slip his man, and he would also know that he was suspect.

“How good is George?” Roger asked.

“As good as I’ve got.”

“I hope you train ‘em well.”

Drawing up with Sloan, Roger told him what had happened, and where they were going, and they walked together to the morgue, all big, tall men, all talking earnestly. The man in the raincoat was on the other side of the road, at a bus-stop; he had an evening newspaper folded in front of him, and seemed to be reading it Two men walked from the police station to the bus-stop, and stood waiting and talking; laughing. One of them pointed to Roger.

“He’s letting the raincoat hear that we asked for you,” Wirral said.

“Thanks,” said Roger briefly. “Sorry I’m making so much mystery. Is there a back way out of the morgue?”

“Yes.”

“That’s for us,” Roger said to Sloan. “I’ll go first, and — no I won’t. Wirral, call me anything you like, but do something else for me, will you? Have one of your boys go to — what’s the name of the garage, Bill?”

“Stebber’s.”

“I know Stebber’s,” Wirral said. “And what?”

“Find out if anyone has been watching the garage today.”

They had reached the doorway of the morgue.

“I’ll go and lay things on,” said Wirral. “Hang on until I get there, and I’ll give you the latest on the raincoat.”

He doubled back, and Roger and Sloan went into the small outer room at the morgue, then into the chill, bleak room itself. The stone slabs were empty, except for one in a corner on which lay a body partly covered by a sheet. Three men were working close by. One of the men, a police photographer, was taking his last picture before packing up his equipment. The second man was going through the dead man’s pockets, handing everything he found to the third, who made a pencilled note of it before laying it down. The searcher had a sodden wallet in his hand.

“One billfold,” he said. Looking up, he recognized Roger, and at once stopped being casual and looking careless. “Afternoon, sir!”

Roger smiled. “Hallo. Why billfold?”

“It’s American.” The man handed the wallet over. “Some dollars in it, too.” He watched Roger take it, pull some wet dollar bills out and look at the corners.

“Twenties,” Roger said, and counted. “Seven twenties, two or three tens — count it all, will you?”

Nothing in his voice reflected the surge of excitement he felt, and Sloan schooled himself to show no unusual interest. Roger went to the slab which was being used as a table and looked through the oddments already on it. A sodden handkerchief, keys and a small knife on a chain, a small reel of Scotch tape, three credit cards, common in the United States, little known in England. They showed the name of Ed Scammel.

He took them to the searcher.

Where did you find these?”

“Funny thing,” the man said. “You’d expect them to be in his wallet, wouldn’t you? They weren’t, though. The lining of his pocket was torn, these were inside the lining. I was just checking the unlikely places first.”

“Good,” said Roger. “Sergeant — what’s your name?”

“Day, sir.”

“Day, don’t tell anyone this man was probably an American. Don’t tell the others in the office, just have it on record he’s not identified yet but there’s nothing unusual about him. Clear?”

There was a chorus of “yes, sirs”.

“Thanks.” Roger examined everything taken from the dead man’s pockets, but nothing seemed to offer help.

The door opened, and Wirral came in, lowering his head to miss the lintel. Roger and Sloan went across to him. For a few moments they stayed near the door, while the others continued to work, shooting curious glances towards them.

“Raincoat took a taxi, George got another,” he said. “You satisfied him, I should think. I’ll have word from Stebber’s Garage in ten minutes or so.”

“Fine,” said Roger, and smiled, trying to relax; but he couldn’t.

He had, in fact, been unable to relax since the moment he had heard that the child had been kidnapped. The kidnapping had tied a knot in his vitals, and everything else had drawn the knot tighter; even Lissa Meredith. Now, he wanted evidence of an association between the American found in the Thames with his throat slashed, the missing child, the Austin A70 with the American driver, and the Buick which had been seen at London Airport. Kidnapping was always vicious, standing out wickedly among crimes, the work of criminals without feeling, ruthless, deadly. Like the murder of the man whose credit cards named him as Ed Scammel, of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Behind all that was the atmosphere Marino and Lissa had created. From being relaxed to a point of boredom on his way to the Yard that morning, he had become as taut as a wire rope: a thin wire rope.

“Fine,” he repeated. “Wirral, I’ve asked these chaps not to mention that the dead man is American. That really matters, for an hour or so. Fix it, will you?” He hardly gave Wirral time to nod. “Will you have everything found in his pockets packed up and taken to the Yard right away? Marked for me, to go into Hardy’s office.” That was the one way he could make sure that no one blundered.

“Yes,” said Wirral. “What else?”

Roger grinned.

“How soon can I have a picture of the chap?”

“I’ll have one rushed through,” Wirral promised.

“Get plenty done, we might need ‘em soon,” Roger said.

Ten minutes later, they were back at the police station. The message from Stebber’s Garage had arrived: no one had been seen hanging about the garage, it had been just another day, except for Peel’s inquiries about the Austin A70.

The wet print came up quicker than Roger had expected. He put it between a fold of blotting-paper before going out.

Stebber’s was just another garage, small, untidy, reeking of petrol and oil, with two youths and a mechanic in dirty overalls, one at a bench, two with their faces buried in the engine of a fifteen-year-old car. There was the usual hoist on its thick, greased pole; the steady beat of an engine charging accumulators and batteries made a monotonous song. Stebber was a little plump man in a stained grey suit, who came hurrying from a small office, glass walled on three sides. He had a pencil behind his right ear, grubby fat cheeks creased in a smile that was probably more anxious than it looked. He rubbed his hands together.

“What can I do for you, gents?”

Roger showed his card. “About this American and the Austin A70 — did he give you an address?”

“No, sir, he didn’t,” said Stebber, and now the anxiety showed through. “Not that there was any need,” he added defensively. “Just wanted the job done quick. There’s no law that says —”

“Had you seen the man before?”

“No, and I ain’t seen him since. I’ve answered all these questions once, and —”

“I’m just checking up,” Roger said.

“Stolen, was it?”

“We’d like to find it,” Roger temporized. “Any special characteristics, did you notice?”

“No, I didn’t, but Bert, that’s the mechanic who did the job, wasn’t in when the other cop — the other ‘tec come, he noticed something. Not certain, mind you, but the Austin A70 might have been fitted with false number plates, some time.”

“Only might? Where’s that mechanic?”

“Bert!” bellowed Stebber.

Bert was in dingy white overalls and a new trilby hat with a few oily fingermarks on the brim. He had seen cars fitted to take two or three number plates — examined them for the police, he explained — and this Austin might have been fitted for that, but there had been only one number plate.

“Did you give the other officer the number?” asked Roger.

“Certainly,” Stebber said. “Help the police in every way I can, that’s my motto.”

“Keep to it By the way,” Roger said, taking the fold of blotting paper from under his arm, and unfolding it, “have either of you ever seen this chap?”

They stared at the photograph.

“Why, that’s the Yank!” Stebber exclaimed. “That’s him! Ain’t it, Bert?”

“You couldn’t mistake a face like that, could you?” Bert asked.

• • •

Armed with a dozen prints of the American’s photograph, Roger drove to Barnes police station, where Peel was collecting more garage reports. They had the names of three garages where an American with an A70 had called for petrol.

The photograph was recognized at all of them.

“So the car’s home is about here somewhere,” Detective Inspector Peel said. He was another, younger, Sloan; fresh complexion, blue eyes, short fair hair.

“We want it, and we want it in a hurry,” Roger said. “And we don’t want the owner to know we’ve traced it I’m going to the Yard, to get everything laid oh. You’ll be in charge down here.”

“We’ll find it,” Peel said.

Sloan was at the Yard, with fresh news; the registration number given by Stebber’s garage for the A70 was a false one, there was no such number registered anywhere in England. He had sent six Yard men down to Barnes straight away, but they had found nothing. Even the man in the raincoat had shaken off Wirral’s George.

• • •

At half past ten the next morning, Roger finished a telephone talk with Marino, and Lissa. There was no news of importance about the Shawns; no real change in the condition of either.

At ten forty-five, Peel called through from Barnes.

“I think we’ve got something, sir. Can you come down?”

“As fast as I can get there,” promised Roger. “Found either of the cars?”

“I haven’t seen it, but the Austin is kept by a woman named Norwood — Mrs Clarice Norwood — in a house called “Rest”, on the riverside near Chiswick Steps. The dead American has been seen to drive it to her house. She left for Paris, forty-eight hours ago, and the place has been empty since, according to the tradespeople.”

“Have it checked, fast, but leave the garage to me,” said Roger. “Wait a minute! The Norwood woman — what can you tell me about her?”

Peel said: “She’s a gay widow. Used to have a lot of men friends, but recently she’s been faithful to one.”

“Name?”

“I’ve only heard about this in the last hour,” Peel protested.

“Put the other men on to tracing Mrs Norwood and trying to get something about the regular boyfriend,” Roger ordered. “This could be very important indeed.”

8

GISSING

THE brick house was small, pleasant, secluded, and the garden ran down to the sluggish Thames. Across the river were the dark-red walls of factories; above and below the house were jetties, warehouses and hustle. Here was an oasis, protected by beech trees in full green dress on three sides, by the river on the fourth. There was a small lawn, with a few rose bushes standing in freshly turned beds, surrounded by closely growing shrubs. A wooden jetty stood out from the river bank, a white-painted dinghy tied alongside, swaying gently. Most of the windows faced the river; those looking on to the beech trees were small.

It was after twelve o’clock noon. The house had been visited by a Yard man, posing as an Electricity Board official, but no one had answered his knock.

Across the river, at the window of a warehouse, Sloan was standing with a pair of powerful binoculars. Two other detectives also watched, too far away to be of help if help were needed, but near enough to observe all comings and goings to the house, which had no number, just the name: “Rest”. The porch was covered with pale-green tiles, the front door and all the woodwork was of light brown, green tiles covered the gabled roof.

The garage was at the back of the house.

Roger drove along the narrow road leading to “Rest”, passed the beech trees and felt cut off from everyone as he drew up to the white garage doors.

There was ample room for the Austin, which was bigger than most made in England. The electric light and back daylight shone on the glossy black bodywork, the sleek lines. Roger opened the driving-door, sat at the wheel, looked in all the pockets and the glove compartment. Then he got busy, searching for prints. It took him five minutes to make sure that the car had been cleaned up thoroughly. Later, there could be an inch-by-inch examination; now, he had more urgent work to do.

He went out of the garage, turned his own car and approached the house. The only sound was the lapping of water nearby, the chirping of birds. From the house, silence. He studied the back door, and tried the handle. It was locked.

He walked round the house on crazy paving, neatly laid, no trap for careless feet The lapping of the water grew louder. The sun shone bright on the rippling river. He reached the front door, and knocked sharply; after a pause he knocked again, then rang the bell.

He glanced over his shoulder.

No one was in sight; no one had been in sight since he had left Peel two hundred yards away where this little private road led off the main highway. Peel had wanted to come with him; would have followed, if he hadn’t received strict instructions to stay put. Had that been safe? Was he safe? Did the trees conceal watchers, men who would slit another’s throat?

Roger tried the handle, but this door was also locked. He walked to the nearest window; examined it, and discovered that it would not be easy to force. If all the windows were the same, he might have to break one in order to get inside. He had no search warrant, but Hardy would cover him for that

Retracing his steps round the house, he tried a skeleton key in the back door; after a lot of twisting and turning, it worked, but he found that the door was bolted. Close by, he found a small window with a fastener he could reach with a long nail file. In five minutes he climbed into the kitchen. There was no sound. He shut the window and walked slowly across to a door leading into a square hall; there was no passage, only three other rooms, two on the right, one on the left; and a flight of stairs, carpeted from wall to banisters; the hall floor was also covered by a fitted carpet. His footsteps were muffled by dark-fawn pile. He went straight to the front door, unbolted and opened it and stood for a moment on the porch, not waving, but making sure that Sloan had time to see him. Then he closed the door and went inside again.

The three downstairs rooms were bright, airy and pleasant; there was nothing striking about them or the furniture. Homely but well-to-do folk lived here. On a baby grand piano were several photographs, all of the same woman; an attractive woman whose pictures here ranged over fifteen to twenty years. There was no photograph of a man.

Roger went upstairs, the only sound the faint rub of his clothes, cloth on cloth, and his soft footfalls. He found himself whistling softly, under his breath. This was exactly as he had expected, but there was something else: his own mood of expectancy. Fearful expectancy?

There were four bedrooms, two bathrooms; all were spotless but for a light dust, comfortable, pleasantly furnished in a bleak modern way, all empty. Yet two of the bedrooms had the air of being lived in. A woman’s coat lay over the back of a chair, a piece of tissue, dabbed with lipstick, was in a small wastepaper basket, together with a twist or two of blonde hair. There were more pictures of the same woman, but once again Roger could see no photograph of a man. He began searching the bedrooms, twenty wasted minutes irritating him.

There were no men’s clothes in any wardrobe, no shaving-gear, no tell-tale oddments. They could have been taken away, Roger mused, but more likely no man lived here, only Mrs Norwood.

An hour after he had arrived he drove off. The only thing he took away was an impression of a key, in soap, of the back door. This door he left locked; but he was careful to pull back the bolt which secured the door on the inside.

• • •

From the Yard, Roger telephoned the Surete Nationale; a Paris acquaintance was quick to understand and to promise to look for Mrs Norwood, but not to let her know she was being watched. Unfortunately, it might be days before a Paris report came through — and Ricky Shawn was in the hands of murderers.

Roger had full local reports on what little was known about the woman and several conflicting descriptions of her regular boyfriend; all agreed on one thing only — that he was middle-aged.

After three o’clock that afternoon, when the telephone rang, he was ready for anything — except a call from Paris. A French Inspector, with good English, was in triumphant mood.

“This Mrs Norwood, Superintendent. I think we have found her.”

Roger’s heart leapt.

“Wonderful!” It was almost too good to be true.

“It is not so bad, you admit. She answers the description you gave me. She gives her true name. She is at the Hotel de Paris, on the Boulevard Madeleine. Also, she has been there before. We have seen her before.”

Roger said tensely: “Go on.”

“We questioned the man who was then with her. A Mr Jack Gissing. Gissing.” The Frenchman spelt the name out carefully. “At the time, we asked you for information about this man. It was three — no, four months ago. You will have a record, perhaps?”

“We’ll have a record!” The breaks always came when they were least expected. “I can’t say thanks enough,” Roger said, fighting down excitement.

Very soon, he was going through the records of a man who was known as Gissing, a wealthy man of independent means. Nothing was known against him except that he had some mysterious way of outwitting most currency regulations. It was surprising how little had been learned about him. The French had suspected him of smuggling, but had been able to prove nothing.

Roger sent for the Sergeant who had made the inquiries, a dark-haired, chunky Cornishman, who had interviewed Gissing on his return to England. The man had been living in a luxury service flat in Kensington, his passport had been in order, he had seemed amused by the investigation. What was he like? Not a man one would forget, but one difficult to describe. Not big, not small.

“We want the Home Office files for his passport photograph,” Roger said. “You’d better go for it — I’ll phone ‘em.”

It took time.

Marino telephoned, Roger promised news of a kind soon, and rang off. Had he been too abrupt? Much more abrupt than he would have been if Lissa had telephoned. He read the report on Gissing until he knew it off by heart; another case of a man of whom practically nothing was known, a vague past, an equally vague source of income. He did some buying and selling on the “Change, had some overseas balances which were blocked; no known American income or capital.

The Sergeant came back, as nearly flurried as a Cornishman could be.

“If that’s Jack Gissing, I’m a Chinaman,” he said, handing the passport photograph to Roger. “He might just pass with a photo like that, but more likely he changed the one on his passport. That won’t help with the Press, will it?”

“It won’t help with anything or anyone,” Roger said. “We’ll have to work on your description.”

Sloan took over, to send the description to ports and airfields in the hope that Gissing would be recognized. Roger, less buoyant, went to Grosvenor Square.

Herb had gone home. Lissa wasn’t there, but her presence seemed to linger. If Marino had been conscious of any telephone brusqueness, he had not let it worry him.

It was nearly seven o’clock.

“Hi, Roger,” Marino said, and waved to a chair. “You’ll have a drink, I know.” There was a tray on his desk, with Scotch whisky, rye, a gleaming cocktail shaker, a bowl of ice, salted almonds, pecan, cachou and peanuts. “What will it be?”

“Whisky and soda, please,” Roger said.

Marino poured the drinks from where he sat, stretching out his long arms, hardly leaning to the right or left; it was almost as if he couldn’t move his body. His big face had an amiable look, here was a man it seemed nothing could really ruffle — yet the kidnapping of Ricky Shawn had ruffled him. The cut of his grey coat was faultless.

He poured rye on to ice, for himself.

“Here’s to Scotland Yard,” he said, and drank. His eyes smiled. “So it hasn’t gone the way you hoped.”

“Not all the way,” Roger said, “but we’ve found the A70 used at Ealing, and other things have developed.” Marino went tense, and Roger told him exactly what he now knew, going on: “Much depends on how far Gissing was responsible for the kidnapping. I think we’ll catch up with him. There’s a chance that he’ll use the house by the river — else why send his light o’ love away. We’re having it watched. If Gissing knows where the boy is, we’ll find a way of making him talk. Perhaps we can use the murder of Ed Scammel as a lever. Know anything about Scammel?”

Marino said: “I called Washington. If they get a line on him, they’ll call back.”

“Good. If Gissing thinks he’ll have to face a murder charge, he’ll probably talk fast enough.”

“Could be, too. How long has Ed Scammel worked for Gissing?”

“At least three months. He has been seen driving the Austin around Barnes and Hammersmith at intervals for that period. We’re trying to find out who else Ed mixed with over here. He’s known to have had lunch once or twice a week with another American in a cafe at Hammersmith. The other man’s name takes some believing. It’s Jaybird.”

Marino smiled. “You’ll put the L in for him.”

“With luck, we’ll have some news about him tonight,” said Roger. “But we can’t hide the fact that we’re looking for an American citizen. The fact that one was murdered hasn’t leaked out yet — officially, the body’s not identified. But there are limits to how much we can keep secret I told you that on the telephone. I don’t think we ought to keep it all from the Press — or try to.”

“I said, use your own judgment,” Marino reminded him. “Keep doing that, and I’ll be happy. The thing I want is to hold the newspapermen off Shawn. That means keeping the kidnapping out of the newspapers. Can you do this?”

Roger said reluctantly: “So far, we have. The neighbour was satisfied without much trouble. Officially, Ricky Shawn has been sent into the country-neighbours won’t be surprised that he doesn’t show up in Wavertree Road. Officially there was a burglary at Number Thirty-one the night before last — nothing much stolen. It will get a paragraph or two in the local newspapers, but nothing in the daily Press.” Roger finished his drink, thought he heard a sound at the door, looked round and was disappointed. “What news have you got for me?”

“Nothing from the States,” Marino said. “Belle Shawn is still under Carl’s sedation. Shawn hasn’t left his house. I asked him to come and see me, but he refused. Don’t tell me about Mahomet and the mountain.” Marino was still urbane, had himself under much stricter control than the previous morning. “Shawn wants to pack up and go home as soon as Belle is fit to travel.”

“No more messages?”

We haven’t intercepted any on the telephone,” said Marino, “but one might have reached him, telling him to go back to the States if he wants to see the boy again.”

“Will you let him?”

“If Shawn goes home, we’ll never get him back — and we need him here.”

“Is that an answer?”

“We don’t want to have to keep him against his will. We want him to co-operate freely. There just isn’t a way of making a man do what he doesn’t wish to do, Roger — not if you want him to put all he’s got into doing it. You suggested the line we should take with him, and maybe we will, but whatever fine we take, it won’t alter basic facts. You’re right in this way: even if we get Ricky back, Shawn will still think of future danger, so to hold him, we have to get the boy back and also convince Shawn there’s nothing waiting for him round the corner.”

Roger said slowly: “I can’t tell you why I don’t like Shawn. I just don’t Perhaps it’s because you’re so concerned with him that you forget the other trifle.”

Marino looked his question.

“A ten-year-old boy, highly strung, used to having life made easy, was last known to be with McMahon, who probably slit Ed Scammel’s throat.”

“That’s right,” Marino said slowly. “First things first. To me, to a lot of other people, that boy isn’t vital because he’s a child having a hell of a time, only because of his influence on his father. So I’m cold-blooded. But does it make any difference? You want to get him back because he’s a boy, I want him back just as badly because he’s the son of his father. I held out on you about the reason for Shawn’s importance, because I had to. But you’re holding out on me for a reason I don’t know.”

Marino was quick; very quick.

“What makes you think so?”

“It just occurred to me, I guess. And to Lissa. It occurred to Lissa first. She said that she didn’t believe that you’d told us everything you’d been thinking. Lissa thinks you’re good, Roger — more than good, she thinks you’re red-hot She says you’ve a mind that jumps twice as fast and twice as high as the next man, and being English, you don’t talk much. I’ve known her for a long time, and she isn’t often wrong. What are you keeping to yourself?”

Marino spoke amiably enough; and waited patiently for an answer.

“A guess,” Roger said, and stood up. He glanced towards the door again, but it didn’t open; Lissa wasn’t coming. “We know that a child was taken to Ganda early yesterday morning, we know he was small for his age and thin, we don’t know that it was Ricky Shawn. It could have been a stooge. You, everyone in the hunt, would jump to the States as the likely place for them to take the boy. Gissing, of McMahon, or unknowns, would know which way we’d jump, give us plenty to jump after, and plant the boy somewhere else. With Mrs Clarice Norwood in Paris, perhaps. Or somewhere in England. We’re still getting reports at the Yard of all the boys around that age who left the country from three am. yesterday morning, and we could be fooled even if we do get word of them, because they could have dressed Ricky as a girl.

“Tony, you’ve got to give way over the secrecy,” Roger went on grimly. “We’ve lost too much time already. Never mind what Shawn wants, never mind protecting him and his wife from hurt, stop wet-nursing them. I want Ricky Shawn’s picture in every English newspaper in the morning. Every American paper, too — every newspaper in the world that will print it If it’s as vital as you say, then you want quick results, and secrecy won’t get them, it will only slow us down. All I’ve been holding back from you and Lissa Meredith is that I don’t like the hush-hush. It could kill your chance of finding that child quickly. You may throw away any chance of finding him at all.”

He talked quietly, standing by the desk, looking down on Marino; and Marino gave no indication of what he felt. It was some time before he spoke.

“I don’t think it can be done,” he said.

“It’s got to be done. Or I’ll tell Hardy that I’m just wasting my time, and ask to be taken off the case,” Roger said. “Look.” He took an envelope from his despatch-case, opened it, pushed a picture of Ricky Shawn in front of Marino, waited until the man had looked at it, drew out another. He held it out. “Now look at this. That’s Ed Scammel. That’s what his throat looked like, after these people had finished with him.

They are the same people who hold Ricky Shawn. At the moment they’ve got us scared. Use enough publicity and they’ll be the ones who are scared. When are you going to realize that?”

9

“REST” BY NIGHT

Marino took the photograph of Scammel, placed it by the side of that of Ricky, and studied each closely without looking up. His big, pale hands did not move. Roger lit a cigarette, and blew smoke over Marino’s head. The faces of Presidents looked down on him.

Marino glanced up.

“I will do what I can,” he said. “I am not the big man.” He looked very bleak. “Thank you, Roger. Even if they agree, it will take an hour or two. Call me in two hours, and I’ll have the answer.”

“Do you mean that you’re going to need Shawn’s permission?” Roger demanded.

“I mean I’ll do all I can.”

“If Shawn holds it up, let me handle him,” Roger said.

Marino chuckled, unexpectedly. Roger smiled and relaxed, accepted another drink, and asked without tension:

“Where is Lissa?”

“With David Shawn. Now that he’s cooled down a bit, she can cope. He won’t throw her out of any window. There are two or three of our men down there, you have no need to worry. We’re trying to make sure that if Shawn gets a message, he won’t keep it to himself. The most likely one he’ll talk to is Lissa, so she will stay closer than a sister. Unless you need her for something else, that is.”

“I should hate to think she wasn’t doing something useful,” Roger said lightly. Gaining his point with Marino had given j him brief but sweet satisfaction, and he didn’t actually miss Lissa now. “I won’t call you about sending that photograph out, I’ll have Bill Sloan do that. If you give the go-ahead, he can fix everything.”

“What are you going to do?”

“First I’m going home,” said Roger. “I’ve a wife and family. Afterwards, I’m going to Clarice Norwood’s house.”

“Why?”

“The lady’s left it empty, and Gissing might be planning to use it Obviously he might have wanted her out of the way in case we trace the Austin to the house, but why should we take that for granted? Ask me again, and I’ll say I’ve got a hunch!”

“I told you,” Marino said. “Lissa can pick men.” He tapped Scammel’s photograph. “Be very careful.” To emphasize the words, he took a small automatic from his pocket and held it out. “I know you Yard men don’t carry guns without special permission. I talked Hardy into agreeing that you should. Use this until you can collect yours from the Yard.”

Roger took it. “I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

The tapping of Marino’s finger seemed like a warning of disaster; the little gesture, so deliberate and full of meaning, hovered in front of Roger’s eyes as he went out into the welcome cool of the evening. The gun made an unfamiliar weight in his pocket. He drove to the Yard but did not trouble to collect another gun. He went to the canteen with Sloan, had supper and made plans, as carefully as if he knew that Gissing would go to the house. After eight-thirty, when dusk was falling, he turned into Bell Street, Chelsea, where he lived. He would only have a few minutes, for he wanted to be at “Rest” by full darkness, but it would be better than nothing. The street looked friendly and pleasant in the fading light, and neighbours waved. He pulled up alongside the house, and walked up the path as Janet opened the front door.

“Darling! I didn’t think you were going to make it!”

“No faith in me,” Roger said. “That’s the trouble.” As they went indoors, he raised his head and sniffed. “No odours of frying. No noises of tape recorder or television. I deduce that my two sons are not at home.”

They turned into the front room, which was pleasant but just a little shabby, for most of the furniture had been here for over twenty years. But it had comfort and charm.

“Scoop’s out at some exhibition, they’re showing three of his African paintings,” Janet said. “And Richard rang up — he’s a chip off the old block, I’m afraid.”

“What’s he done that I wouldn’t do if I could help it?”

“Working overtime. He has to go out on location, or something, he sounded very excited.” Janet watched as Roger poured out a modest tot of whisky and splashed in a lot of soda, and he got the impression she was waiting for something.

“What are you going to have?” he asked, although she seldom joined him except on special occasions.

“Nothing,” she said.

He sipped and frowned.

“Then what —” he began, and suddenly he remembered. “God! What a clod I am! What did you buy?”

Her face lit up.

She had bought a suit in a blue-brown check which obviously she loved, and which she was sure was a bargain; he hadn’t seen her happier for a long time, and for a short while, as he watched her face, he forgot the Shawns, Ricky, Marino and even Lissa.

Twenty minutes later, in a very different mood, he left the car in a yard near “Rest” and walked along the side of the garden, under the trees towards the back door. No light showed. Plain-clothes police, patrolling the road, had signalled that no one had gone in. It could be, probably would be, a complete waste of time.

He let himself in with a key made at Scotland Yard’s workshop, modelled from the soap impression he had taken on his last visit to the house. Using only his flashlight he left the kitchen and looked into each room. Nothing had changed. There was a faded easy-chair in the hall, and at the far end, beneath the stairs, a cupboard used as a cloakroom, big enough for him to hide in. Even if the door were opened, he could squeeze back, out of sight. He sat in the chair and put a cigarette to his lips but didn’t light it. At first he found himself thinking of Scoop painting, and wondering what Richard, so much more intent and industrious, had been doing during the day on his scripts. His thoughts veered to Janet, then to Lissa Meredith. He found himself comparing them, in looks, in manner, and suddenly wrenched his thoughts away, to the missing Ricky and the dead Scammel.

Suddenly he heard a car approaching. Nearer it came, and nearer. He stood up as it stopped outside the house.

• • •

Roger waited by the front door, heard footsteps and retreated to the cloak-cupboard. He was inside, with the door open a crack, when a key turned in the lock. He couldn’t see who came in, but the footsteps were those of a man. He heard a faint cough; then the light went on by the front door, not bright enough to show anything here. As his eyes became accustomed to the crack of light, he saw a man of medium height, wearing a black Homburg hat and a raincoat of a darker shade than that worn by the man who had followed him at Hammersmith Underground that afternoon. He took off the hat and coat and Roger made ready to draw further back; but the man flung them on to the easy chair, threw his gloves after them and went into the drawing-room.

A pale-faced man of middle age; that fitted this man and Gissing. Roger didn’t move, heard the other walking about, fancied there was the chink of glass on glass. After a pause there came the unexpected, a bang of wood on wood followed by the rippling of fingers lightly touching the piano keys, then a melody, a familiar tune — I’m Gonna Wash That Man right out of my Hair. Its gaiety came to life, played well, as if the man enjoyed playing for its own sake. He went into other hits from South Pacific without pausing; he didn’t need music. It was so normal, so light-hearted, that it seemed to mock any suspicion.

The man began to sing lightly, voice and music filled the house. Tunes from My Fair Lady, Guys and Dolls, then further back — Annie Get your Gun and Oklahoma, all without a pause, as if the player had come here just to do this.

Where was the touch of the sinister?

The music stopped, and the silence seemed to hurt, to be false. Sounds of movement followed, the drawing-room door opened. Roger didn’t close the cloakroom door, he just drew back. The man walked towards him, and he held his breath. He couldn’t see what happened, but the door slammed, as if the man had pushed it as he passed. Darkness surrounded Roger. He waited a few seconds, then opened the door a crack, heard water running from a tap, and the man humming. He re-closed it but kept his ear to the keyhole. He knew when the man passed, gave him time to reach the drawing-room again, then opened it once more.

There could be deadly danger here, if the house held danger. Gissing — was it Gissing? — had noticed the door open once, would be suspicious if he saw it open again.

He had played enough to satisfy himself, apparently, and it was very quiet A clock struck ten. The chimes were light and clear, a friendly sound. As the last faded, Roger heard something else; another car.

He pulled the door so that it was almost closed, and he could only just see out. The old pattern was repeated — the slamming of a car door followed by footsteps. This time there was a sharp ring at the door bell. The pianist appeared, didn’t look towards the cloakroom, just opened the front door. He hid most of the newcomer, but wasn’t tall enough to hide David Shawn’s rugged face.

If the face were not enough, the gruff voice with its undertone of harshness supplied everything that was missing.

“Are you the man who called himself Jack?”

“Jack” — and it was “Jack” Gissing, thought Roger.

“I am,” said Gissing. His voice was pleasant and urbane, could easily have been the voice of the man who had telephoned Shawn at Wavertree Road. “David Shawn, I presume.” Laughter tinged with mockery lurked in the voice. “You must have shaken off anyone sent by the Embassy to follow you, or I would have had a telephone message by now. So we can talk freely. Come in.”

Shawn came in; Gissing wasn’t small, but he was dwarfed. He looked up at the big man, smilingly, suave, quite self-possessed, untroubled by Shawn’s hugeness. He closed the door. Shawn, without hat or overcoat, wearing the same grey suit that he had worn the previous morning, unruly hair roughly combed, face still like a piece of chiselled stone, looked down on him.

Roger couldn’t see Shawn’s eyes, but guessed what they were like; hot coals.

“I haven’t come to talk,” Shawn said. “I’ve come for my son.”

“And you shall have your son, quite safe and unharmed,” Gissing said easily. “You needn’t be at all worried about him, Mr Shawn. But we needn’t stay here.”

He turned and led the way into the drawing-room. Shawn hesitated, glowering at his back, and then followed. Roger slipped out of the cupboard, closed the door softly, stepped across to the wall and crept towards the drawing-room. He opened the dining-room door next to it as a quick way of retreat.

“I told you I didn’t come to talk,” Shawn growled.

“I know, I know,” said Gissing, and the laughter still lurked, as if the giant amused him. Yet Shawn’s eyes must tell their story, and Shawn could crush him; if Gissing knew anything about Shawn, he would know that he was in acute danger. Judging from his voice, he didn’t give the possibility a thought. “We won’t waste words, Mr Shawn, but there are one or two details to be settled. What will you drink?”

Shawn said: “Where’s my son? If you don’t come across, I’ll break your neck. Where is he?”

Gissing actually laughed.

“If you break my neck, how are you going to find your son?” he asked. “Be sensible, Mr Shawn. Sit down. Whisky? Rye? Bourbon? There’s ice in the kitchen — just wait a moment, and I’ll go and get it.”

He was not a dozen feet away from Roger, and coming nearer.

10

BARGAINING

ROGER backed into the dining-room, but there was no time to close the door properly. Any movement would catch Gissing’s eye, he would look up involuntarily. He might not notice that the door was ajar if it were not moving. Roger saw his shadow, and dropped a hand to Marino’s gun.

Shawn said: “You stay right here.”

“Mr Shawn, don’t —”

Gissing looked as if he had suddenly been turned into a puppet pulled by its strings into a whirligig. The shadow of his arms, legs and head made crazy movements, then vanished. There was a thud, next a moment of silence before Shawn said thickly:

“I’ll break your neck after I’ve broken up the rest of you. Where’s my son?”

There was another moment of silence. Roger moved forward into the hall, taking a greater chance, and stood so that he could just see into the room; the door was wide open. He saw Gissing’s feet and legs, on the floor. Shawn stood with his back to the door, blocking the rest of the room from Roger’s sight.

“You don’t seem to understand,” Shawn said, and his voice seemed higher-pitched, as if he were fighting for words. “I’ve come here for Ricky, and if I don’t get him, I’ll kill you.”

Lissa had said that he had been hovering between sanity and insanity for a long time. No sane man would talk like this; no sane father would take such a chance with the man whom he knew or thought he knew had kidnapped his son. It could be a big bluff, of course, but was Shawn in a mood to bluff? He didn’t sound like it He sounded as if he thought that he could come here and find Ricky, and take him away; and if he didn’t, he would kill.

Gissing made no attempt to get up.

Into the silence, Shawn said thickly: “And a gun won’t stop me.”

So Gissing had drawn a gun. Roger couldn’t see it, could only see that neither of the men moved.

“If it comes to killing,” the Englishman said, “I’ll start Don’t be a fool, Shawn. I can tell you where to find Ricky, and I promise you he’s not hurt. I had a message about him two hours ago.”

“Where is he?”

“Back in the States.”

Shawn’s breath hissed. “Whereabouts in the States?”

“You needn’t know where he’s been, all you want is to make sure that he comes back. To you — not to England. It was a mistake to bring him over here, Shawn. It was a mistake to come here at all. Go back home and wait, and he will be sent to you. The only thing he won’t have is — this.”

Roger wished he could see, but dared not go farther towards the room. Shawn was standing quite still. Gissing’s legs moved, as if he were dragging himself along the carpet, farther from the giant. Then his feet disappeared, and a hand showed, palm upwards for a moment. The finger ends were covered with a thin adhesive tape; to guard against leaving fingerprints.

A scuffle of movement told of Gissing getting up.

“Catch,” he said.

“Shawn’s right hand moved, clutched in the air and closed round something which Gissing had thrown.

“That’s his,” said Gissing. “The gold identity tag his mother had made for him to wear round his neck. He was asleep when it was taken off, and he doesn’t know it’s missing. See the mark in the corner? Where it dropped the first day he had it and carried it round in his hand? Remember that?”

Shawn didn’t speak; Roger pictured his chest heaving.

“And I tell you he is perfectly all right,” insisted Gissing. “All you have to do is go home, and take his mother with you. Then Ricky will be sent to you. No one will get hurt, you and your wife will be happy again.”

“She’s happy right now,” Shawn said. The words came out in slow succession.

Gissing laughed; and as the sound came Roger knew that it was a mistake. Shawn’s shoulders heaved as he flung himself forward. It happened too swiftly for Roger to do a thing. He waited for the roar of the shot, and actually moved forward, gun in hand, in readiness for an attempt to stop Gissing shooting again.

No shot came. Almost in the same moment that Shawn staggered backwards, Roger side-stepped out of sight. He saw Shawn’s head on the ground, near the door, and pressed further back, but didn’t think that Gissing would come any nearer. Shawn was breathing like a man with asthma; his head vanished as he struggled to his feet.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Gissing said evenly. “But if you do that again, I will. Go and sit in that chair.”

There was silence.

“Go and sit down, you great hulking fool,” Gissing rapped out. “Sit down!”

There was a sound of movement, and the creaking, as of the man’s bulk being lowered into a chair. Roger moved again so that he could just see inside the room. He saw Shawn’s legs and feet, and Gissing standing sideways to the door. Gissing wasn’t likely to look round, he was watching Shawn as he would a maddened tiger.

“I’ve told you how to get the boy back. I’ve made it easy for you. I’ve got two tickets for you on a jet leaving London Airport early tomorrow morning. You’re going on that “plane, Shawn. If you don’t —” He stopped.

Shawn didn’t speak, but the question must have been in his eyes. It seemed to Roger that Gissing revelled in this, relished the moment when he could hurt, by the pause, by the threat not yet shaped with words.

Still Shawn didn’t speak.

“If you don’t,” Gissing said, “I’ll give you tickets for another “plane, in four days’ time. The boy’s right ear will be in the same envelope.”

Roger heard a horrible retching sound, as if dredged up from the depths of Shawn’s heart

Gissing waited for seconds which seemed like minutes, then moved a little nearer his victim, still covering him with his gun. Roger was holding his breath, as if resisting the brutality in Gissing’s threat and the inevitability of what would happen if Shawn did not obey. This had been planned to the last detail, and there could be no way out while Gissing remained free to give his orders.

Then Gissing said briskly, coldly: “That’s all you have to do, Shawn. Leave now, tell no one where you’ve been or what you’re going to do. Take your wife to London Airport on time. Here are the tickets.” He drew an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on to Shawn’s lap.

As Shawn took it, his right hand appeared for an instant.

Gissing waited again; he used silence to twist the knife in the wound, to make the hurt lasting, unforgettable. Roger hadn’t seen him clearly, knew him more from the deceptive softness of his voice than from his appearance; and from what he had said and how he had said it. In his way Gissing was as much a giant as Shawn. Lacking the larger man’s physical strength, his was the strength of the utterly unscrupulous. This man mattered in the way that evil mattered. He knew exactly what he wanted, rode roughshod over everything to get it. Shawn might believe that once he was back in the States all would be well. Not likely. Any man but Shawn, any man not screwed up until his nerves screamed at him, would know that after the first demand would come the second; after the second, the third.

For the first time, Roger felt sorry for Shawn.

Watching the two men, Roger’s entire attention had gradually been riveted on what he was seeing, what he was hearing, moment by moment. All thought had been numbed — and thought was only just beginning to come back. What next? He could stop Gissing now; he could stop Shawn too. While they were unaware of his presence they would be easy victims. Ought he to stop Gissing? After the first demand, the second. There was no way of being sure that Gissing was the only man who mattered; that if Gissing were caught it would be easy to trace the boy. It might be harder. Gissing might lead to the boy; so Gissing could serve a purpose if he were free.

There was more. Behind the kidnapping and the need for finding the boy, there was the work that Shawn was doing.

Reason said that Gissing might be one of many; at least of several. So ought he to let Gissing go as a sprat to catch a mackerel which might not exist. He had plenty of time to leave the house, walk up the private road and give the waiting police a description of Gissing’s car. From the moment a warning went out, radio would trail him to his journey’s end. Gissing couldn’t escape the net once it was drawn around him. And there were only a hundred yards or so between Roger and the first pull at the net Police forces in Great Britain could be alerted in a matter of minutes. France, the Low Countries, Eire, Northern Ireland — they would all co-operate.

Roger could see Marino again, give him his report, and leave him to handle Shawn. That wasn’t his business, Shawn didn’t matter in his investigations except where he got in the way.

Gissing said at last: “You’d better have that drink.”

Once again Roger backed into the dining-room. Footsteps fell soft on the thick carpet. Gissing passed the door but didn’t appear to glance towards it. He was a yard or two away when warning shouted in Roger’s ear like a strident voice. Gissing wouldn’t leave Shawn alone, not now, not knowing what Shawn might do. Gissing must realize that the man wasn’t really sane; only in an emergency would he leave him and getting ice for a drink wasn’t an emergency. Roger backed further into the room, gun covering the door, left hand behind him, stretched out for the table.

He saw a swift-moving shadow; and the light went on.

Gissing, gun in one hand, the other hand on the light switch, stood in the doorway. In that split second, Roger saw the man vividly, recognized the pale face, the dark eyes, the narrow chin — described by the Cornish sergeant. In the same split second he squeezed the trigger, aiming at Gissing’s gun. The flash and the roar of the shot were simultaneous; he expected answering flame from Gissing’s gun, had time to know it didn’t come but none to see whether Gissing fell.

A weight crashed on to the back of his head. Pain first and then blackness swallowed him.

• • •

Pain and blackness were the first things Roger knew on waking, pain at the back of his head, and blackness, as if his eyes had been smeared with corrosive. He didn’t move, just lay where he was, not thinking of Gissing, of Shawn, of anyone; conscious only of the pain and the darkness. Neither eased, but gradually thoughts began to trickle into his mind; first a vague recollection of fear and danger and then of shooting, the fact that he had fired. Then he remembered Gissing, and that he had not seen Gissing shoot. It might have been a bullet that had hit him. No, the blow on the back of his head hadn’t been a bullet. Someone had been in the dining-room; someone had got in, while he had been listening to Shawn and Gissing, must have crept within a foot of him, and then waited.

The pain still wasn’t easing, but now it no longer obsessed him. He felt the carpet with his fingers; a carpet, not necessarily at “Rest”. Rest! He felt his mouth go taut, as if he were grinning in spite of himself. He pressed against the floor and began to reason as well as to remember. He must get up cautiously, if his hands and legs were free. That meant turning to one side, putting some weight on one arm, levering himself up. He moved his arms and legs, teeth gritting together against the new waves of pain. At least he wasn’t tied up. He eased slowly over on to his left side, put his right arm over, drew his right leg up. He knew he was taking a long time; knew, too, that if he tried to be too quick, he would collapse again and lose more precious minutes. He must get to a telephone.

He might be locked in the room —

One thing at a time.

He clenched his teeth again. He felt as if his head was raw, his neck torn. Jagged pain struck at him when he lowered his head, and he hadn’t the strength to move it up again quickly.

Go slow. Go slow.

Right hand against the floor, right knee over the left leg, right knee on the floor. Over, gradually, take the strain on right hand and knee. They were clawing at his head, ugly, jagged, ripping claws. And his head and face burned with a strange heat. He was getting up, he mustn’t fall back, once on his feet he would feel better.

Up — up — up!

He stood swaying. The waves of pain were like waves hurling themselves against a leaking boat, he couldn’t resist them, had to heel over.

He didn’t fall.

After a while he stood without swaying, his feet well apart He didn’t know where he was, what he was looking at, because of the darkness; and it was utter darkness. He stretched out his right hand, went forward slowly and was less conscious of the pain. His fingers touched a wall. He turned right, hand against the wall, and went forward a step at a time. He kicked against something, and felt cautiously; his fingers told him that some kind of cabinet was in his way. He felt round it, touched something light; a glass fell, tinkling as it broke on the carpet.

His right foot crushed glass into the carpet, and he heard it crunch.

He found the wall again, then touched a picture, felt it move and heard it scrape. It swung back and touched his hand. He explored beyond that and went on again, until he touched something else, smaller and shiny. He kept still for a moment, then felt it carefully with his fingertips, until he knew that he was touching an electric-light switch. He had only to press it down, and there would be light. He longed for and yet feared it, because of the way it would strike at his eyes. As he closed them, and pressed down, he felt a moment of panic, in case the light didn’t come on.

It came.

It was bright enough to show pale red through his eyelids, but not too fierce to hurt. He stood quite still, then gradually opened his eyes. It was a dim light, and still didn’t hurt; not enough to make him close his eyes again.

This was the dining-room; he was still at “Rest”.

But Shawn wasn’t and Gissing wasn’t; he could be sure of that.

Where was the telephone?

What was the time?

11

MAN WANTED

ROGER looked at his watch. It was twenty-five minutes past eleven. Shawn had arrived at ten o’clock, just as the clock had stopped chiming. Allow an hour, an hour more or less, for the time they had talked in the drawing-room. Gissing had at least twenty-five minutes’ start on him, perhaps three-quarters of an hour.

What of the watching police?

If they had known the others had left, they would have been here by now, so Gissing, Shawn, and his unknown assailant, had slipped them.

Roger opened the door and stepped into the square hall, then looked back into the dining-room; there was no telephone there. There wasn’t one in the hall. He put on the drawing-room light.

He gasped and jerked his head. Pain seared through it, rushed to his shoulders, his back, everywhere — the pain of movement following the shock.

Shawn was still here.

He lay back in the chair in which he had been sitting when Roger had seen his hand move for the tickets. He didn’t move. His mouth was open, and his lips were moving, no he wasn’t dead. Roger gave a sound that was almost a whistle; not dead, when he had expected him to be dead. Why? He didn’t try to answer. This wasn’t the time to think, he had one thing to do — call the Yard. The telephone was in a corner of the drawing-room, he remembered it now; a corner behind the door, near the window. As he edged towards it, he kept looking at the huge figure slumped in the chair. The telephone was a long way off. Ten feet. Eight feet. Movement was more difficult now, his head didn’t hurt so much, but it was swimming, and the room began to sway round him. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard, made himself stay there for some time before moving again.

Six feet. Four.

He lunged forward, grabbed the telephone, clutched it first time, and grinned, as if at an enemy he had fooled. Resting his shoulders against the wall, he raised the instrument to his ear, then put his right hand towards the dial. His finger seemed to be going round in circles. Must keep it steady. He dialled W, the first letter in Whitehall 1212, the most familiar number in his life, before he realized that there had been no dialling tone. He found a spurious energy, rattled the platform up and down, and tried again.

The telephone was dead.

“Ought to have known,” he said. The words sounded loud. “Wire cut” He looked at the instrument stupidly, closed his eyes, and fought another spasm of giddiness. When he opened them again he was looking straight at some bottles on a tray. Whisky — gin — soda. He wanted a drink, to pull himself together, nothing would do that like a drink, but — his head. Spirits would go straight to it, make the pain worse; it might knock him out. The bottles shone, straw-coloured, honey-coloured. The colour of clear honey. Where had he seen clear honey lately? Ah! Lissa’s eyes.

The bottles leered like wanton demons. He turned his back on them and on the figure of Shawn, but couldn’t get rid of the mental picture of the man, mouth drooping open, face looking ugly. Then he realized why, at the first glance, he had thought Shawn to be dead. The man’s eyes were hidden by their lids, and his life was in his eyes.

He must get outside, the cool air would do more good than whisky. It wasn’t far along the road. What was a hundred yards? Three hundred feet. He was thinking with the deliberation of a drunk, and he wouldn’t have even a sip of whisky. That proved how completely he was in control of himself. No whisky.

He opened his mouth.

“Stop talking like an idiot!”

The words seemed to echo at him from the wall, but they did him good. He went to the door cautiously, but without support, then turned towards the front door. Of course the crisp night air would revive him, and he could rest on his way to the main road and the watching police.

His hand was on the front-door latch when he heard the car approaching.

He kept his hand there for some seconds, fighting against this further shock, and telling himself how far he was from normal. Who was this? The police? Gissing? Or one of Gissing’s men? Probably Gissing, so he must take precautions. The trouble was, he couldn’t move swiftly. He backed slowly towards the treacherous sanctuary of the dining-room. It wasn’t any use putting out the lights, whoever had come would have seen them by now. He stepped back into the dining-room, as he heard footsteps, but his back was against the light, he had no cover there. Then he realized that the cloakroom opposite was in darkness, offering a kind of safety. He went slowly across the hall towards it, as footsteps sounded on the porch. He listened with great care, head tilted to one side, and solemnly came to a conclusion which at first didn’t surprise him.

A woman was approaching.

A woman? Why should a woman —

The bell rang and the knocker clanged; both sounds went agonizingly through his head. He felt in his pockets, foolishly; of course, he hadn’t the gun. The bell kept ringing, the knocking continued furiously; and then both stopped and the footsteps started and faded. Was she going away? Would she give up so quickly? Who was she? Gissing’s woman? Or Belle — Belle, after Shawn?

He heard a crash of glass in the drawing-room, and realized that the woman had gone to the window and smashed it. He heard glass falling for what seemed a long time afterwards. He looked around, saw a golf club standing in a corner. He moved for it, making himself go slowly; every jerk, every attempt at speed, sent the pains shooting through his head and neck. Club in hand, he went to the hall, heard more glass break and an explosive:

“Goddam that glass!”

Roger went in, no longer nervous, but not relieved, for Lissa was here.

How had she discovered the address?

• • •

Lissa’s back was towards Roger as he entered the drawing-room. One leg was inside the window. Her skirt was drawn up above the stockings, showing bars of pink suspenders against the golden tan of her leg. She lowered her head carefully, brought head and shoulders into the room, then drew the other leg after her; before turning, she raised her right hand to her lips and began to suck. In spite of the awkward way she had come in, grace gave beauty to every movement. Roger stood and watched her, club in hand, and suddenly she swung round, surprised; frightened?

Her tension vanished.

“Roger!” She came towards him, arms outstretched. “My God! You look terrible. You mustn’t stand there, sit down.”

As she took his elbow, blood welled up from a cut on the back of her right hand. Ignoring this, she guided him to an upright chair. She glanced at Shawn only once, and seemed to forget him. When Roger was sitting, his head thumping but the rawness of the pain at bay, she stood back and scanned his face; concern turned her eyes to a glowing golden colour.

“How — did you get here?”

“Don’t move,” she said. “Just sit still.” She went behind him, and he felt the touch of her fingers on his head; they hurt, and he flinched. He knew that she was parting the blood-matted hair, trying to see how badly his scalp was cut. After a few seconds her fingers seemed to soothe. Then she went on: “I don’t think it’s too bad. I’m going to bathe it.” She turned away.

“Lissa! Come back, I want you to —”

“Be quiet, there’s a honey,” she said, and was gone.

She came back with water in a bowl, a towel and a sponge.

“Now, I’ll bathe your head, and afterwards —”

“Put those down!” he shouted at her. “Go to the front door. Flash a light, five times. Now. Put those things down I tell you!”

She put them down, asked no question, took a pencil-slim torch from her handbag and went out again. She was soon back, went behind him, and very gently laid the wet sponge on his forehead.

“I’m all right,” he muttered. In fact, he felt tired now — only one thing kept his mind probing: the fart that she hadn’t answered his question — how had she got here?

“Sure, you’re wonderful,” she said. “You could spend the whole night searching for Ricky.” She moved away but was still behind him, and he didn’t want to turn his head. He heard a snap, perhaps of a handbag opening. Then she appeared in front of him, with two white tablets on the palm of her hand. “Aspirins,” she said, “I’ll get you some fresh water.”

She fetched a glass from the tray, then put the tablets to his mouth one at a time, and gave him a sip of water after each. His teeth touched her palm as she tipped his head back gently and the tablets went into his mouth.

He was trying to explain away her arrival, to make out an easy, satisfactory case for it, although he was beginning to doubt the part she was playing.

She stood back, with the glass in her hand.

“Roger, you had me worried, and you still look terrible.” But she said that light-heartedly. “You need a doctor this time.”

She was relieved about something, and it could hardly be about him. She couldn’t have any real concern for him. Could she? He wished that he had his wits about him, that he could toss the urgent questions at her without making it clear that he had doubts.

“I’m all right.” He wanted to ask her again how she had discovered this address, but didn’t.

Lissa moved across to Shawn. Beauty and the beast — yet the man had seemed comparatively handsome the previous morning. Dishevelled hair, black stubble, the big slack mouth and the closed eyes all detracted from his looks. Lissa, who had been bending over him, shrugged and turned away.

“I followed him, of course,” she said. “I was to look after him, remember. He must have had a message before you tapped the telephone wire. There were three of us at the house tonight,” she went on, moving towards Roger. “Let me help you up — that club chair will be more comfortable, you can stay there until a doctor comes. I’ll telephone. One of the three had to stay, in case Belle had a visitor. Shawn discovered the other was following him, and he did his window trick again. Nearly! He didn’t see me. There’s been a nasty accident, at the corner — a man crushed to death. There was some trouble getting through, but David managed to pass. I had a bigger car. I didn’t want an argument with your police, anyway, so I left the car and walked.”

She pulled him up, gently, although he could have managed by himself now. They began to walk across the room, and she slid an arm round him. He didn’t need support but he didn’t object.

“I saw David come down this road, but had to leave the car and walk from the corner. I was twenty minutes or so behind him, and wasn’t sure this was the house — or that David was still here, even if it was. Then I heard voices, and recognized his. I went round the house to try to get in, but all the doors were locked, and I daren’t break a window then. I didn’t know how many people were inside. Now, easy, Roger. Pull on me.” His back was to the easy chair, and she gripped his hands; she was slender as a sapling, but strong enough to hold him steady as he lowered himself gently. The upholstered chair was much more comfortable. “Now I’m going to ring for a doctor,” she said, “and then I’m going to bathe your poor head again.”

“The telephone is out of order,” Roger croaked.

She didn’t speak, but took the bowl of water, pink with blood, and went out

She had told half the story, convincingly; in those swift, coherent sentences, interrupted only by orders to him. It had been told as the truth might be told, casually, without concentration, just between pauses when she wanted to do something else. If she could explain what she had done after that half-hour, he would be satisfied.

He heard her coming back.

12

OFF DUTY

SHE came towards Roger, carrying the bowl, and the sight of her did much to melt the ice of suspicion. She smiled, as if he were the only man to know her favour. Something in her look told him that she guessed what he was thinking, that it amused her, and she was ready to indulge him. In some curious way she made him feel that she regarded him as precious; hers.

And then a man came out of the garage,” she went on, taking up the story as if she’d never broken off. “He must have seen me prowling. He kicked a stone, or I wouldn’t have known he was there. I turned and ran. He blundered after me, and we played hide-and-seek among the trees and the bushes over there.” He knew there was a patch of bushes, laurel, rhododendron and hawthorn, at one side of the garden. “I didn’t enjoy it,” she went on, and meant that she was terrified. “It was like being stalked by a big cat. It’s a lonely place, Roger. Then there was a shot from the house, and the man went rushing across to see what had happened. I caught my coat on some thorns.”

Yes, her coat had several tiny tears in it.

“It seemed hours before I got free,” she went on, “and before I went to the house they drove off in a car. I saw two men, anyhow. David’s car was there, with the ignition key still in it, so I got in and followed them.”

And he had suspected her!

“Did you —”

“The car was difficult to start, and that delayed me; I knew I couldn’t catch up with them, so I drove back here. It’s been quite a night, Roger.”

“Quite a night,” he echoed faintly. All this, and plainclothes men had been nearby; they would hear plenty soon.

“I’m a fool,” Lissa said. “You must be cold.” She hurried out of the room, and he heard her running up the stairs, walking overhead, then running down again. Her story didn’t account for the man in the dining-room, but if there had been one outside there might well have been another, who could have got in and reached the dining-room, keeping quiet after Roger had moved from the cupboard under the stairs.

Lissa brought blankets, wrapped them round him, tucked them in, bathed his head once again; and all the time gave the impression that only he mattered.

“Now I’ll make you some tea,” she said. “Or would you prefer coffee?” From the door, she asked: “What should happen, after I flashed that light?”

“Chief Inspector Sloan should soon be here.”

In fact, Sloan arrived as Roger was sipping hot, sweet coffee, and as Lissa was standing in front of a mantelpiece mirror, drawing a comb through her hair with slow, almost sensual movements. Sloan had two plain-clothes men with him. He had come across the river in a launch, held ready, and been prepared for trouble. Roger didn’t like his expression; and one of the others looked as if he were suffering from shock. Roger didn’t tie that up with the accident Lissa had mentioned.

He didn’t know anything more about the accident until the doctor arrived, to examine his head wound. An incautious remark earned a scowl from Sloan, and told Roger something was badly wrong. Once he forced questions, Sloan didn’t hold out. The two plain-clothes men who were “soon going to hear plenty’ had been patrolling the main road right and left from the private road, there simply to watch and report all comers. They met every fifteen minutes, to compare notes. They had been comparing notes when a car had run into them. One was dead, and with the other it was touch and go.

All of this was in keeping with the tempo of the crimes. Drugging, kidnapping, a slashed throat, now crushed and broken bodies. The car was a hired car, the driver had escaped. The “accident” must have happened just after Shawn had arrived. No one was known to have seen Gissing and then Shawn come — except Roger. There seemed little doubt that Roger had been left for dead.

As he listened, with a thick towel round his neck while the doctor snipped blood-matted hair, Lissa was stand-in for a nurse.

“You’d better have a bandage,” the doctor said, “You won’t like it, but you need it. The cuts aren’t too bad, I don’t think anything’s cracked. Might X-ray, to make sure. What you need is rest.”

“I can’t rest.”

“You try getting about,” said the doctor ominously, “and you’ll go out on your feet.”

“I’ll take you home,” Sloan offered.

No one asked the obvious question, which was stabbing into Roger’s mind. They had killed Ed, crushed the watching police, yet they hadn’t killed him. Why not? Had they left him for dead? One shot or one slash with a knife would have made certain, but they hadn’t been ruthless with him.

He had to be helped to Sloan’s car, and helped inside. His head seemed twice its usual size, and it kept lolling about. Sloan held one of his arms, Lissa the other. When he was in the car Lissa tucked blankets round him, and her touch comforted.

“Take care,” she said. “Do what they tell you, Roger. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Roger replied.

Sloan moved off, cautiously, and they were past the scene of the accident and on the way to Hammersmith Broadway before he spoke. Then it was almost to himself, wonderingly; and it wasn’t about the slaughter.

“Some woman,” he said.

Roger didn’t answer.

• • •

Whether he liked it or not, Roger knew he would be off duty for forty-eight hours, and it might be much longer. He was hazy about what happened after he reached Bell Street. Janet had been warned, everything was ready, Sloan helped her to undress him and get him to bed, the doctor looked in and gave him a shot which blacked everything out He was only vaguely aware of Janet’s ministrations, of light and movement, and he couldn’t think clearly, although he knew that there was plenty he ought to think about. He was cut off from the case of a missing child and tormented, half-demented parents, and that all-compelling reason for secrecy.

He hadn’t even asked Sloan or anyone else whether Marino had agreed to giving a hand-out to the Press.

• • •

Roger slept until after midday. When he awoke he felt much better, his head now shrunk to proper size, and only a threat of pain when he moved it, or when he ate and drank. Janet knew there was no hope of keeping the newspapers from him, and had bought all the dailies. In each there was a picture of Ricky Shawn, and a story which told the world this was kidnapping for money. There was a picture of Belle Shawn, too, a laughing picture of a lovely woman. There was none of Shawn. The papers told Roger nothing, except that he’d had his way. Reading, he was teased by an uneasy thought, that he had forgotten something significant — something he’d heard which could be a key to the puzzle.

Marino telephoned to inquire after him, so did Hardy. He expected a message from Lissa, but it didn’t come. Sloan looked in, told him that Shawn had been taken away from “Rest” by two men who arrived from the Embassy; Sloan didn’t know what had happened to Shawn. The blanket of official secrets fell like a dead hand on the case. Roger felt irritated and glum, and put it down to the obvious — that the Yard had been consulted but wasn’t being allowed to work properly. The Yard should have tackled Shawn. The Special Branch or even MI5 might be working on the case with the Americans, of course — but if so, why had the Yard been consulted in the first place?

With time to think without the pressure of events chasing him, Roger thought he understood. In the early stages the Yard had been needed, to deal with the local police, neighbours, everything. If he hadn’t been injured he would probably still be working on it, but by the time he was able to get about again, the case might be over.

That forgotten factor still teased him.

Now and again, resting and even dozing, his body would grow tense. An image of Gissing’s face in the doorway of the dining-room would come, showing all the evil and the dead-liness. As Lissa was beauty, so was Gissing ugliness; corruption. It was thinking extravagantly, but he couldn’t rid himself of the thought Gissing — corruption. In the moment of revelation the man had been stripped of the veneer covering his unholy, deadly self.

In the evening, the boys came home, commiserated, and went off, Scoop to his exhibition, Richard to see a film.

The next day passed, and Roger learned nothing more. Lissa had not inquired. There was nothing new from the newspapers, from Sloan or from Marino, who telephoned again. This time, Roger spoke to him from the bedroom extension, wanted to ask questions, to prompt Marino to talk about the case, about Lissa; but Marino would talk of neither, just told him not to worry and hoped he would soon be on his feet

“Tomorrow,” Roger said grimly.

“You stay in bed,” Marino advised.

Roger put down the receiver, stared at the ceiling and felt as if there were a conspiracy against him. It probably meant the end of the case for him, and if it hadn’t been for that bloody blow over the head, he would have been in it up to his neck. Finding Ricky Shawn was his job; and finding the man who had run down the police officers was also his. He mightn’t be able to do it — oh, to hell with it all! He picked up a newspaper and began to skim through the headlines, then to read “American Letter” in the Telegraph. He was halfway through a hotch potch of political guesses when there was a rat-tat at the front door.

Martin, who was in for once, went to open it.

“A cable,” he said, marvelling. He came striding up the stairs and burst into Roger’s room, calling: “A cablegram, Dad — Western Union.”

Roger slit it open eagerly, heard Janet coming upstairs, wondered without trying to think deeply, and read:

“Get well soon sorry I had to leave without seeing you Lissa Meredith”

The cable was from New York.

Roger stared at it, and the name especially. He didn’t realize that Martin was looking at him in bewilderment, or that Janet had come in. When he did wake up to that and look round, Janet was watching him with a strange intentness, and in an unfamiliar, even voice she said:

Tut a kettle on, Scoop, will you?” When the boy had gone, with obvious reluctance, she closed the door. “What is it, darling?” she asked.

She spoke as if she knew that it was bad news, and Roger realized in that moment that he looked as if it were deadly. He realized, too, that this was because Lissa Meredith was in New York, three thousand miles away. He had to find an explanation for Janet, to stop her from springing to the obvious conclusion. He flung the cable aside, and growled:

“From New York. Mrs Meredith’s gone back, everything’s been transferred there. It means the case is over, as far as I’m concerned, and I wanted to see the end of it.”

Tension faded from Janet’s face. “Oh, that’s too bad,” she said, but couldn’t hide her relief. “Don’t worry about it, darling.” She picked up the cable and read it; and obviously she hadn’t the faintest thought that the name “Lissa” had stabbed him savagely.

13

SPECIAL REQUEST

JANET said: “You’re sure you’re all right?” and Roger laughed as he squeezed her arm and then walked to the car, which she had taken out of the garage. He wore a heavy top-coat and a light-weight felt hat, which hid the plaster on the back of his head and the patches where the hair had been cut away. It was a week since he had been attacked at “Rest”. Except for tenderness round the patch, he felt quite normal as he waved to Janet, and drove off. The first dew of the summer had been heavy, it still glistened white on the rooftops, on the trimmed privet-hedges, and, where the sun hadn’t reached it, on the pavement. The morning was fresh and invigorating, a good one to start work again. In fact, he had been working at home. Papers had been sent to the house, mostly about Yard business, keeping him up to date with cases under way when he had been taken off for the Embassy affair. He had skimmed them, as routine. The report from Hardy about the Shawn case had not been routine. He had read it several times, and knew it almost word for word. The airways tickets which the man he had thought was Gissing had given to Shawn had been bought from an agency, and the buyer had not been traced. The only cause for satisfaction was that Marino had asked that a copy of the report be sent to Roger.

The Shawns were back in their Connecticut home, fifty miles out of New York. Ricky Shawn had not been returned to them, although they had flown with Gissing’s tickets. These were the cold facts of the situation, but Roger could read between the lines, and guess that Marino and others had tried to dissuade Shawn from returning to America but had decided to use no compulsion. Did it matter as much as Marino had said?

Would Marino have exaggerated?

Only Lissa Meredith had gone from the Embassy with the Shawns; and she was still with them, officially Shawn’s secretary, actually to keep close watch on him, of course. It was hardly a woman’s job, but there would be men at hand, Marino wouldn’t be careless. There was no clear indication about the real part which Lissa played, except that she was Shawn’s shadow.

There was the detailed report on the Yard investigation, which showed little in the way of results. The driver of the killer car hadn’t been traced, and this was somehow worse because the second plain-clothes man had died. Soon afterwards, Shawn had admitted being told by telephone, before his line had been tapped, when to go to the house at Barnes. Sloan had theorized that Shawn had been followed by one of Gissing’s men who had realized that Yard officers were near by and acted swiftly and ruthlessly. There was evidence that Ed Scammel had been thrown into the river from a jetty near Barnes Bridge, some distance from “Rest”. The man named Jaybird had not been found, although he was now known to have been an associate of Scammel; he might be the man in the raincoat, might also be the killer driver.

The closely packed factual account made dry reading, as Roger searched in vain for anything to give an indication of Gissing’s present whereabouts; and those of the missing boy.

Mrs Clarice Norwood was still in Paris. She had been interrogated by a Yard man sent to see her, but all she had said was that Gissing had sent her to Paris, for a “holiday”. Gissing kept her, and the house was his under a covenant. She was worth watching, but it was by no means certain that she knew anything of Gissing’s criminal activities.

There were a number of trifles, among them, that Ed Scammel had had a car of his own, an old Vauxhall, which he had kept in a lock-up garage, and which had been found with a broken axle.

Roger got out of his car at the Yard, waved and smiled mechanically to the dozen men of the uniformed branch who greeted him; maintained a chorus of “Fine, thank you’s” to those who asked him how he was, reached his own office and rang for Sloan, who came at once, obviously glad to see Roger back. He was massive and clean-cut, with a deceptive cloak of cherubic innocence that fooled a lot of people.

“You’re seeing Hardy at eleven, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Roger. “I don’t know what he wants, probably to tell me I’m lucky I’m not under the turf.” It was a quarter to eleven. “Bill, that car of Scammel’s.”

Sloan said: “You beat me, you really do. You’ve seen what it means, I suppose.”

“I’ve wondered about it. What’s the story?”

“The axle was all right on the morning of the kidnapping,” Sloan said. “I mean, the morning before. Scammel went out from his lodgings in the early evening, came back, and was heard telephoning someone, saying that he couldn’t use his car. It’s pretty clear that the Austin was used because of that, isn’t it?”

“It looks like it. Their one slip — Scammel’s car couldn’t have been picked up so easily as a new one. They used two, of course, the Austin at Ealing and the Buick at the airport — they didn’t risk using the same car at both places. Anything else?”

“I was able to check with Mrs Meredith — my, what a woman!” Sloan was almost shrill. The only thing all three Shawns drank or ate that night was the milk. Except for that, the boy had different food altogether. His cup and everything he used had been washed up earlier. Everything you brought away was tested, and no drug found. The only luck we had was with the car.”

“Luck?” growled Roger. “It didn’t get us far. Any idea where Gissing is?”

Sloan didn’t know, but was ready to guess.

“If you ask me, he’s put a few thousand miles between himself and England. It’s nearly eleven, you’d better not keep the old man waiting.”

Hardy was in his office, which was plain and nondescript, a little like Hardy, who had come up from the ranks and somehow gave an impression, at times, of being insecure because of it. A big man, usually dressed in clerical grey, now looking ill at ease in a black coat that didn’t quite meet at the waist and striped trousers that were hoisted a few inches too high. He had a sallow face, grey hair with a bald spot, and lines at his pale grey eyes.

The morning dress meant an occasion.

“Just on time,” he said. “I was going to send a warrant for you. We’re due to see Marino.” He took his hat off a steel hat-stand, and looked Roger up and down. “You seem all right. Been swinging the lead?”

The trouble with Hardy was that although he meant that as a joke, he sounded as if he were serious.

“It’s one way to get a day or two off,” Roger said.

Hardy led the way to the lift, and was saluted by everyone they passed beneath the rank of Detective Inspector. His big black car was parked outside, and his chauffeur was at the ready. When they had settled in and the car moved off, Hardy asked: “Seen the report on the Shawn case?”

“Yes, and I’ve talked to Sloan.”

“Then you know as much as I do,” said Hardy. “If you ask me, Shawn would be easy to handle if it weren’t for his wife.”

“Wives like seeing husbands occasionally,” Roger said slyly.

Hardy decided not to bite.

“The thing Marino worried about most was the possibility that the case has an espionage angle — that the aim of the kidnappers might be to stop Shawn working. Think there’s anything in that?”

“I haven’t a clue, and Marino admitted that he hadn’t—”

“No one has, it just has the smell of it,” Hardy said. “Another thing came in this morning, and Marino called me about it.”

Roger knew that this wasn’t a cue for questions.

“You’ve got yourself in a fix,” Hardy went on. “You seem to be the only reliable witness.”

“Of what?”

“Of Gissing’s face,” Hardy answered, and shot Roger a sidelong look. “Shawn won’t or can’t describe him, won’t or can’t try to identify him.”

Roger felt a sudden swift beat of excitement, and he damped down a wild hope.

“There is this Clarice Norwood woman, but we can’t call her reliable,” Hardy went on. “Notice from the report how few people seem to have seen Gissing? Everyone gives a different description. People have glimpsed him going to and from that riverside place of his, but only snatches of him, in the car. And one of our sergeants saw him during that Paris inquiry, but that’s all. I hope your memory’s good.”

“Where Gissing’s concerned, it’s photographic,” Roger said softly. “What does Marino want?”

“Don’t ask me,” said Hardy bluffly.

But he knew, and it wasn’t simply that Marino wanted a detailed description of Gissing.

“Is Gissing still in the country?” Roger made himself ask.

“If he were he’d be behind bars. Or I’d sack half the staff.”

They turned into Grosvenor Square, and in spite of heavy clouds blowing up, the usual photographers were shooting at the Roosevelt statue. The huge American cars, dwarfing all but a few Rolls-Royces and Hardy’s black Daimler, seemed to gather for shelter beneath the waving flag of the Stars and Stripes.

Hardy had obviously been here before, he was recognized and taken in hand, and they were whisked up to Marino’s office, where Herb, forewarned by telephone, was opening the door for them. He looked absurdly young.

“Come in, gentlemen, Mr Marino’s free right now.” He opened Marino’s door.

Marino didn’t get up, even for the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He stretched out his right hand, gripped Roger’s firmly, searched his face and seemed relieved by what he saw. They sat down beneath the portraits of the august dead.

“I would offer you a drink,” Marino said, “but I guess you’ll say it’s too early.”

“Think it’s too early, West?” Hardy asked.

“Not if I’m off duty!”

Hardy grinned, Marino pressed a bell, Herb came in and produced an assortment of bottles. Marino poured out, making a formality of asking Hardy what it would be before he poured a whisky and soda. Herb went away.

“Well, now,” said Marino, “you’re very good to come over at such short notice, Mr Hardy. I surely appreciate that. You’ve been a great help from the beginning. I’m hoping you will be able to help even more.” Roger was glad of the drink, to help him cover his rising excitement “The way it’s turned out, you’re almost the only man we know who could recognize Gissing, Roger. And we want Gissing very badly.” He sipped his drink. “And we think he’s in the United States.”

“So that lets us out,” Roger said.

Marino’s smile showed amiable disagreement. He leaned forward, with one of his rare body movements.

“And we think we can put a finger on him.”

Roger sat up, abruptly. “Think?”

“We can’t be sure, because we haven’t a photograph, fingerprints or anything else to go by,” Marino said. “And we want him identified so that there can’t be any doubt. We can’t pick the suspect up until we’ve identification — unless he tries to take another powder, we would hold him then. I’m told you’re often assigned to cases overseas, and in this case we certainly need your help, and you want Gissing as much as we do. Can you spare the Superintendent for a week or so, Assistant Commissioner?”

14

SUSPECT

EXCEPT for the perpetual drone of the four jet engines and an occasional lurch when the aircraft dropped through space and then went on as if nothing had happened, Roger would not have known that he was flying. By day, they had looked down fifty thousand feet or so to the Atlantic Ocean, which seemed flat and hardly ruffled. Occasionally they had sighted a ship. England was already three thousand miles away, and New York lay half an hour’s flying time ahead. It was dark in the clouded heavens.

Roger had an empty seat beside him; there were several others in the cabin. Most of the passengers were dozing. Two, who had been air-sick after the first few minutes, were looking wretchedly in front of them. One of the two stewardesses walked from the little kitchen aft, smiled at Roger and disappeared into the crew’s domain. A man snored faintly, a newspaper rustled.

In Roger’s mind was a mixture of looking forward and looking back, and looking back was easier.

Looking back to Janet’s startled exclamation when he had told her, her quick flash of “Not again!” and then her quick “I mustn’t be silly, I’m sorry, darling”, and her bright cheerfulness from then on until he had been ready to go. It was only the previous morning that Marino had said what he wanted.

The stewardess came out, and stopped by Roger.

“Won’t be long now, Mr West, you’ll see better if you move back, the wing is in your way here. There’s an empty seat.”

“Oh, fine. Thanks.” He moved at once.

“It’s wonderful by night,” the girl said.

“Wonderful” was just a word. The lights became brighter, a cloak of diamonds catching the eye and holding it. Flaming rubies and winking emeralds from the neon lighting as they drew nearer, the glitter from the windows of the skyscrapers which lit the sky, dark patches of the East and the Hudson Rivers, the floodlit funnels of the big ships and little ships lying alongside the miles of docks, a fantasy of light and dark, colour and shadow. They seemed unending, as if a moment in time had been caught and held, but the aircraft was losing height, belts were fastened — and then suddenly they were down, taxi-ing along the runway, and the tension which most passengers felt melted in relief. Everyone began to move and talk at once, the stewardesses called out: “Keep your belts fastened for a minute, please.”

He had travelled as Mr Roger West, and hoped that no one knew him as an official from Scotland Yard. He was to be met privately at the airport and taken to the Milton Hotel Marino had arranged everything.

The stewardess who had fussed him while on board shook hands, there was no trouble at Customs, just the unfamiliar accent and a different manner. A porter carried his two suitcases, he carried his briefcase, which had faked business papers — he had become a salesman for British-made cars. He could talk intelligently about cars. He scanned the little crowd waiting in the big, low-ceilinged airport terminal, and a young-looking man in a well-cut suit with broad shoulders, wearing a narrow-brimmed trilby, came up to him.

“Mr West?”

“Yes.”

“It’s good to see you, Mr West. I’m Ed Pullinger of the FBI. I’m told I have to apologize for being Ed.” He had an open smile and an easy manner, his accent seemed strong to Roger, and he spoke more slowly than most men at home. “I hope you had a good flight.”

“First-class,” said Roger.

“I’m very glad to hear it.” Ed led the way, and the porter followed. Outside, lights glistened on a vast mass of cars across the tarmac road; one car was drawn up by the exit. “This is my car,” said Ed Pullinger, waving his hand towards a low-slung, gleaming giant of a Chrysler. “Put those grips in the back,” he said to the porter, and tipped the man. “Why don’t you get in, Mr West.”

Roger started to get in, banged against the wheel

“We drive on the wrong side,” Pullinger said. “I should have warned you.”

Roger laughed and sat in pillowed comfort as Pullinger drove off. The car moved smoothly on its automatic gears. They swept along a nearly deserted road.

“The parkway,” Pullinger said. Traffic was all one way, and travelled fast — fast compared with London city traffic “We go over the Queensborough Bridge,” he continued. “If it’s your first visit, that’s as good a way as any. Have you been here before?”

“Once — five years ago.”

“You’ve plenty new to see,” said Pullinger. He turned off, and they followed a twisting road for a mile or so, then turned again into a road which was divided into three — two carriageways with a wide gap between. Soon, they were going through a brightly lit section; advertisement signs which dwarfed London’s had a novelty which fascinated. They blinked, flashed, changed colour; they never stopped moving. “This is Queens,” Pullinger said. “Wait until you get to the bridge. Does Tony Marino still use his wheelchair?”

Roger’s head jerked round.

“What?”

“Didn’t you know?” Pullinger looked surprised, almost guilty. He’s sensitive about it, I guess, although you wouldn’t know it He lost both legs during the war. Had a special wheelchair made. When he was here he used to sit at his desk and never move, looking at him you wouldn’t guess.”

“I didn’t realize why he never got up,” Roger said heavily.

Pullinger laughed.

“That would give Tony a big kick. A great guy, Tony Marino. Remind me to show you the letter I’ve got from him.” They were moving quickly past what seemed to be an endless stream of green lights at every intersection; the lights stretched out a long way ahead. “Now we won’t be long,” Pullinger said.

They reached the long approach to the Queensborough Bridge, with its cobbled surface; turned corners; and were suddenly on the bridge itself, tyres humming oddly on the metalled surface. Ahead, the lights of the skyline stood out against the pitch-black sky. From above, they had seemed brilliant; here they scintillated. They didn’t seem real

Pullinger kept up a running commentary.

“The one with the red vertical line at the top is the Empire State Building, that top part’s used for television transmitting. There’s the Chrysler Building.” They were jewelled swords, blades pointing skywards; thousands of windows and thousands of bright lights. “It’s some city,” Pullinger said. “It’s the finest city in the world.” He glanced sideways, expecting a challenge.

“I’ll argue when I get to know it better,” said Roger. “Just now, I’m trying to remember everything.”

He found himself thinking of the reason for Marino sitting in the same place and seldom moving his body. Nothing else about the man had suggested he had been so crippled.

“Fifty-seventh Street,” said Pullinger. “One for shops.” He named the avenues they passed. The lights seemed brighter than in Queens, traffic was thick, huge yellow, red and blue taxis crowded the streets. “Broadway,” said Pullinger. “I’ll drive you to Times Square, and then you can go and recover at your hotel You don’t have to work tonight.” He turned left, there was no change in the street scene until they turned a bend in the road, and ahead of them light seemed to blaze from the ground and from the sky. “More lights in that square mile than any other place in the world,” said Pullinger.

“It looks it,” Roger said faintly. He laughed. “And it’s real.”

“You’ll learn how real. The Milton’s on 44th Street, only a step from Times Square, Tony said to put you in the heart of things. Say, Mr West, would you like to have dinner with me? The hotel food is pretty good, I guess, but if you’re not too tired, we could go down to the Village, or any place you like.

The Village sounds fine! I’ll wash and freshen up.”

“I’ll see you to your room and then leave you for an hour,” said Pullinger. “Give you time to get an appetite. You’ll need one.” He had all the brightness and frankness of Herb, Dr Fischer, and the others at the Embassy. “It’s not a big hotel, but it’s good.”

The Milton Hotel had an unexpectedly old-fashioned look, and the foyer was half empty. Roger signed a slip of paper, not a book; a bell-hop, looking too small for the two big suitcases, took them up to the ninth floor; Room 901. Pullinger ordered drinks, right away. The room was on a corner, with windows in two walls. Lights flashed on and off from nearby signs; a police siren shrilled out down below, a car blared and went on blaring.

“Don’t let me forget that letter,” Pullinger said, and took out a billfold not unlike Ed Scammel’s but made of alligator skin. He handed Roger a letter. It was on the Embassy note-paper, signed by Marino, and ran:

“Dear Roger,

Ed Pullinger, the bearer of this letter, will do right by you.

Tell me if he doesn’t. Don’t exhaust yourself looking at Gissing, there will be plenty to see.”

The drinks arrived, Roger’s a straight whisky and soda, Pullinger’s a small glass of Bourbon and a tall glass with three ice cubes in it. He poured the Bourbon, and Roger watched it cascade down the ice cubes.

“How much do you know about the Shawns?” Roger asked.

Pullinger shrugged.

“I’m David’s cloak and dagger when he’s on this side. I was around when he was shot at in his Connecticut house. If you believe him, I pushed him away from an auto that was going to run him down. You might say that Shawn built up my reputation for me!” Pullinger offered cigarettes from a golden coloured packet.

“Thanks.” Roger took one.

Pullinger went to the door. “I’ll call you when I’m back, but it won’t be for an hour. See you.”

He went out, and Roger drew on the cigarette and then went to the window and looked down on to the sea of dancing light, heard the din of traffic, even the footsteps of the crowds on the pavement He laughed at himself, opened one case, took out a clean shirt, his shaving-gear, everything he would need. When he was in the middle of shaving in a bathroom which had everything, including a tap marked “Iced Water” — and it was ice cold — he yawned.

He hadn’t slept much on the journey or the night before. He might have been wiser to have a walk round the streets by himself and come back to his room early. He couldn’t disappoint Pullinger now — “Ed’ wanted to show off a New York he obviously loved. And why not? Roger yawned again. He finished shaving. He had half an hour to spare, and ten minutes in a comfortable-looking armchair wouldn’t do any harm. It would be pleasant to close his eyes.

He went to sleep.

He was still asleep, nearly an hour later, when the door opened and two men came in. One was stocky, with broad shoulders and a swinging walk. He had a wide-brimmed hat, and was smoking a cigar. He didn’t smile. The other did smile; stepping across to Roger, he looked down, and said lightly:

“He’ll have a shock when he comes round.”

“Who said he was coming round?”

“I did. We have to get him away, we don’t have to leave a body. You’re going to help me dress him. Then we’ll take him down between us. Just another drunk. Gene will have the car outside, all ready for him.”

“Where are you going to take him?”

“Someone forgot to tell you not to ask questions.”

“Who is the guy?” the stocky man said, but didn’t expect an answer. He looked at a BOAC label on a suitcase. “British, eh? You can tell he’s a foreigner.” He went round to the back of Roger’s chair, and Roger didn’t stir. “Jesse! Take a look at the back of his head.”

“I heard about that,” said the other. “Take a look at his coat and get him into it.”

That didn’t take long.

They poured whisky into a glass, splashed a little into Roger’s face, over his coat and shirt, then rumpled his hair, pulled his tie to one side, unfastened his collar. Then the man with the big shoulders pulled Roger to his feet, put one of Roger’s arms round his neck, and dragged him towards the door. They got him to the elevator, his feet scuffing the carpet. The elevator man didn’t blink an eye.

No one in the hall took much notice. A woman stared disgustedly, and turned her back. A car drew up at the kerb as they appeared outside the hotel, which was poorly lit compared with most of the shops and buildings. It was a big Dodge, black, several years old. They bundled Roger into it. His head lolled back, he sat slumped into the corner, with one man by his side. The broad-shouldered man didn’t get in. The driver, who didn’t speak, slid into the stream of traffic. They turned right and right again, then drove straight out to the Hudson River Parkway, got on to the parkway at 57th Street, then drove fast towards the toll stations and on towards the Merritt Parkway and Connecticut.

Roger still slept.

The lights of New York lit up the sky behind him.

15

LIGHT

ROGER had a sense of having slept for several hours; a sense of vanished time; a void he couldn’t fill but which he knew had been peopled with men and swift movement. It was dark, but this time he had no pain, only a numbness in his head and limbs and heaviness at the back of his eyes. He felt no sense of alarm, and he was quite comfortable. He began to try to remember, and at first it seemed that there was something in the past which was all-important, but he couldn’t recall what it was. Then pictures flashed on to the retina of his mind — Marino and all that had followed, a thin-faced child, Lissa, the airport, Janet, the boys, the flight, New York and a smiling, loose-limbed youngster who seemed to be one of a pattern stamped out and freely used at Grosvenor Square. With all this, a feeling persisted that some vital factor had been presented to him, but he couldn’t place it.

Ed Pullinger, a promise of dinner in Greenwich Village, a wash and shave and the easy chair.

He wasn’t sitting, now, he was lying at full length, and he knew that he hadn’t just come round after forty winks.

The numbness discouraged him from trying to move, but he threw that off and sat up. It was no effort and brought no pain. His feet touched the floor, and the couch or bed gave beneath him. He stood up. The darkness remained, thick and impenetrable, but it didn’t blanket sound. He heard a man’s footsteps, sat down again, dropped back and lay in the position he had been in when he had come round. The footsteps drew nearer, heavy and deliberate; he heard another sound, which might have been the jingling of keys. Tension gripped him. The man stopped, there was a moment’s pause — and then a shaft of light streamed into the room.

It missed his eyes, yet still dazzled him. It came from a square hole on the other side of the room, not far away. Then a shadow darkened the light, and he made out the shape of a man’s head; another light came on, inside the room, bright enough but not dazzling. The shadow faded and the other light went out, as if it had been cut off, then the room light was doused. The footsteps receded, until only the brooding silence kept him company.

He had been hypnotized by the light from the square hole, had stared that way, without looking about him, but now the picture of the room formed slowly in his mind. He was in a corner, with his head near a wall. There were two armchairs, an upright chair and a small table — he could place them within inches. In the far corner was a hand-basin; he even remembered a glass standing on the shield above the basin.

He stood up cautiously and moved about, testing his mind-pictures and finding them correct. The room was no more than ten feet square, there was nothing on the walls, nothing he had noticed. He reached the door, and felt it with the palms of his hands, until he touched the edge of the square window through which the first light had come. He traced the outline of this window with his fingers, then spanned the side of the square between his thumb and little finger. It was about fifteen inches, base and side. He drew back, forcing all his thoughts on to it. There was a hole cut in the door; on the other side a panel had been removed or swung bade, admitting light from the room or passage beyond. That light was probably still on.

He turned away.

The room was uncomfortably warm, and he hadn’t realized that before — he had generated his own heat out of the tension. He felt dry, and groped his way to the hand-basin, feeling cautiously for the glass, then for a tap. He didn’t know whether it was hot or cold. He ran it for a few seconds, and it kept cold, so he pushed the glass under it Water spilled over his hand and splashed on to his coat. He had a drink, but not too much, waited, then drank again. That was much better. He turned back, heading for one of the easy chairs, his hands stretched out because he hadn’t all his bearings yet. He touched it — and a light split the darkness, swift and blinding, then went out

He snatched his hand away from the chair.

The darkness seemed worse now.

Had the light come on when he had touched the chair — or had it been coincidence? He tried again. Nothing happened. He sat down and tried to relax, but that blinding light had left him more uneasy and disturbed. He waited for it to come again, but nothing happened. For a few minutes he couldn’t bring himself to think clearly, but gradually the effect of the light faded.

What had happened after he had sat down for a nap?

He hardly needed to think. He had been drugged and brought away from the hotel, but he needed to exercise logic as a child repeated the ABC. He had been drugged. Someone had drugged him. Who?

Ed Pullinger?

He had smoked one of Pullinger’s cigarettes; and they had both had a drink sent up to them. His a whisky and soda, Pullinger’s a Bourbon on the rocks. Roger had watched the Bourbon pour out of the little glass and cascade down the three small lumps of ice in the long glass, just like Marino’s way of drinking. The dope might have been in the cigarette, then, or it might have been in the drink. Pullinger might have been doped, too.

He must keep a clear mind.

He laughed, and that didn’t do him any good. How would a clear mind help him? Where was he? Who —

Light flashed!

It seemed to scorch his eyes with white heat, was as blinding as the darkness, he sat with his hands clenched, every nerve taut. A swift succession of flashes, each as vicious as the last, went on and off, as if it would never stop; but it did stop.

He didn’t relax. Sweat fell slowly down his forehead to his cheeks. He was wet with sweat; lips, neck, cheeks and the darkness gave him no rest It was a long time before he settled back in his chair, and began to turn his head. He wasn’t sure where the light had come from — in front, above or behind him. It wasn’t here now, but it seemed to be, his eyes were alternately blinded with the glare and with blackness. Gradually, blackness won.

This was deliberate, of course, part of the process of breaking him down, but he didn’t know why he was being broken down. He felt in his pockets again, as if cigarettes and matches might have come back miraculously, but each pocket was empty. He stood up and began to move about, his clothes sticking to him. The darkness remained, so black that it was no hard to believe that anything could break it. Slowly, his nerves settled down, not to normal, but at least free from hurtful tension. He touched each chair, the table, the bed and the hand-basin, had another drink of water, and was putting the glass down when the searing light flashed again.

He dropped the glass, and heard it smash.

He gripped the side of the hand-basin so tightly that his fingers hurt.

The light went on, off, on, off, striking viciously each time, but after the first few seconds he felt steadier, was able to think consciously of fighting against the breaking-down process. This was only light, it offered no danger, was no threat in itself. It would stop in a few minutes, and darkness would come again, giving him rest. He waited for the flashing to stop, much longer than before. It stopped at last, but not in the same way. The light stayed on, so dazzling that he couldn’t see beyond his feet and his hand when he stretched his arm full length. He sat waiting for it to go out, but it didn’t. The only sound was a drumming in his ears, but he began to imagine others, without knowing what they were — only knowing that he had cause to fear them. Was it imagination? He strained his ears but kept his eyes tightly closed, as if that could keep out some of the light

Then he felt himself grabbed on either side. Hands gripped his arms and hauled him to his feet. He was thrust forward. He thought that he was going towards the door, but wasn’t sure, the light had blinded him. He turned right and left, as they pushed him. Their grip hurt, but that wasn’t important, only the blindness mattered; it was as if his eyes had suffered some permanent injury. His feet wouldn’t go where he wanted them to, he stumbled, would have fallen but for the grip of the invisible men. They dragged instead of pushed him, the toes of his shoes scraped along a hard surface. He could hear the sound — and could also hear the footsteps of the men. Neither of them spoke.

He was dragged up a flight of stairs.

They stopped.

He was pulled upright and then thrust forward, staggered helplessly and crashed down. A sound behind him might have been the slamming of a door; another, the turning of a key. He didn’t try to get up at once, but lay there, mouth wide open, gasping for breath. He still couldn’t see, but there were curious shapes twisting and turning in front of his eyes, like the filament of giant electric lamps. At last he sat up; then stood up. The whirling shapes were smaller, less clearly defined, and he could tell the difference between light and darkness now. It was only a question of waiting. His legs felt stiff and painful, and he could feel the bruises where the powerful fingers had gripped his arms. He moved his hands vaguely. Finding only space, he took a few steps forward and moved them again. This time he touched something. A chair. He moved round it cautiously until he could safely sit down.

What would happen next?

Not light and darkness, for there was light in the room; he was recovering, and could see the wall — pictures on the wall, too. Silly pictures — that elephant, for instance. Who on earth would have a picture of an elephant, trunk curled upwards, as decoration? There were several other blurred shapes near it He stood up slowly and concentrated on them, and they began to make sense — an inverted kind of sense. A giraffe, long neck stretched full length; a snarling lion, a tiger, a bear. The Zoo. This was crazy. Who would decorate walls with —

His thoughts seemed to be cut off.

After a moment of numbed horror he accepted the answer to that last question. Parents would decorate walls with animals — for their children. In their childhood Richard and Martin had woven wonderful stories about the animal faces stuck on the walls of their nursery.

These murals ran along the full length of one wall, and he looked round, turned his head — and then stopped short Tension as great as that he had felt beneath the flashing light came back to him.

In the corner behind him was a bed, and on the bed lay a child.