Why Pick On ME? (13 page)

“All this is very interesting,” Corridon said. “But I know little about your movement. What I do know is rather one-sided. Would you care to elaborate? Since I am proposing to join you, I think I should hear your side of the story. What exactly do you stand for?”

Homer rubbed his hands slowly, and his still, bright eyes examined Corridon’s face.

“That is reasonable. It is possible to speak frankly since the information I shall give you will not be passed on. In short, Mr. Corridon, no one has yet escaped from Baintrees, and we don’t anticipate that anyone will. Although you are on probation, I have no hesitation to tell you about our movement. It is called the United European Movement, and in a nutshell it is pledged to take from the victors and give to the defeated. To do that successfully, we must reduce this country to a fourth-rate power. It is already struggling in the morass of failure. A steady push is all that is needed for its complete downfall. We are pledged to supply that push.”

Corridon stared at him, suspecting he was joking, but he seemed serious enough.

“And what happens when this country collapses?” he asked.

“France is practically finished. A broken England and a broken France will open a door to a new European regime. I am not saying this can be achieved quickly, of course. It may take some years, but it will happen.”

“The idea seems a little ambitious to me,” Corridon said dryly. “Have you overlooked America by any chance?”

“Well, no.” Homer continued to pat the end of his nose with his handkerchief. “But Russia will be able to keep America employed I think – don’t you?”

“I should have thought it would have been the other way round,” Corridon returned. “However, that is neither here nor there. Frankly, I don’t think what you’ve told me is very convincing. I grant you can make trouble for this country, but surely it is rather like a mosquito biting an elephant?”

Homer looked at him, hesitated, then smiled slyly.

“But think of the satisfaction the mosquito gets out of it,” he said, flashing his yellow teeth. “I see you’re not a good subject for visionary projects.” He lowered his voice. “To be quite candid, I’m not either. But it’s surprising how many people are. So far as I am concerned, and I have no doubt you will feel the same way about it, providing I see a future for myself and I am able to maintain a standard of life suitable to a man of my background, I don’t pay much attention to causes. I am well paid to form the funds provided by interested parties. I have work to do, and I enjoy life. I don’t search too deeply for the reason or the doctrines of faith.”

“In other words,” Corridon said, “you represent a fifth column, subsidized by foreign money with orders to undermine this country’s recovery? The rest of the baloney about a new regime is to soothe the consciences of certain cranks who work for you?”

Homer returned his handkerchief to his pocket.

“Between you and me, Mr. Corridon, that is more or less the position, but I do ask you not to be quite so outspoken before the others. Some of them wouldn’t like it at all.”

“Is this your show?” Corridon asked bluntly.

Homer blinked at him.

“You mean – am I the leader? Heaven forbid! I am merely the figure-head to give Baintrees its touch of authenticity. No more, no less. I have little to do with the running of this place. Actually Ames is my superior when it comes to the actual work of the organization. I appreciate your curiosity, but I must warn you you are treading on highly dangerous ground. The identity of the Leader is a carefully kept secret. Anyone trying to find that out is very severely dealt with.” He lifted a thick arm and inspected his wrist-watch. “The time is twenty minutes to five. I think we might get a little sleep now, don’t you? I was just about to retire when I learned you were on your way here. I understand Diestl wants to ask you some questions tomorrow. It would be as well for you to get some rest before then. Diestl is inclined to get on one’s nerves. And then there is Ames, of course…” He leaned forward to press a bell push on the wall near him. “Ames will show you to your room. Be careful of him, Mr. Corridon, he isn’t a patient man.”

Ames came silently into the room.

“Mr. Corridon is now ready to go to bed,” Homer said, and stifled a nervous giggle. “Perhaps you would take charge of him?”

Ames jerked his head to the door and stood aside.

“Sleep well, Mr. Corridon,” Homer said. “I hope we have covered some ground profitably. We will meet again tomorrow.”

Corridon got to his feet. He felt tired, and thought longingly of a comfortable bed.

“Good night,” he said amiably.

As he reached the door, Homer said, “Just one moment.”

Corridon paused and glanced over his shoulder. Homer was smiling.

“Don’t you think we should let our friend see Lehmann before he goes to bed?” The big yellow teeth flashed. “Lehmann was particularly obstinate, Mr. Corridon. He was quite sure he could escape. Nothing I said to him would alter his mind. You should see him. It really is an object lesson.”

“Come,” Ames said in his low, flat voice, and walked down the corridor, down a flight of stairs, along a low-ceilinged passage lit by electric lamps in wire baskets. Corridon kept pace behind him.

Ames paused outside a door, shot the bolts and threw the door open.

“That is Lehman,” he said. “The same thing will happen to anyone who is caught trying to escape. It took him forty-seven hours to die.”

Corridon looked into the room. A figure of a man dangled from the end of a rope tied round a wooden beam across the ceiling. The hands, frozen in death, clutched at a large meat hook that had been driven through the underside of his jaws and which was attached to the rope from which the body hung.

Corridon felt the muscles in his face tighten. He was aware that Ames was watching him with a sneering little smile.

He said in a coldly-level voice, “I see you live up to your traditions here.”

II

The room was small, white, and sunny: a nice room, Corridon thought, opening his eyes and stretching his long, muscular arms above his head. He looked at his wrist-watch. The time was twenty minutes past ten. Well, he had had five hours of undisturbed sleep, and he felt a lot better for it.

Sunlight came through the open window and made bright pools on the fawn carpet. The white walls, the white bed and furniture gave the room a clinical atmosphere. It was a typical room you would find in any well-run private clinic.

Reaching for a cigarette from his case on the bedside table, Corridon took stock of his situation. He was a prisoner. He was in dangerous hands. The dead man in the dark little room in the basement was no fake. He had died horribly and without mercy – because he had tried to get away. That could easily happen to him, and Corridon grimaced.

These were dangerous people: particularly Ames. Homer was a fat fake: grasping, sly, but a fake. Diestl was dangerous, but probably unimportant: a fanatic. Feydak was neither dangerous nor important. Of them all so far, Ames was the one to beware of.

The first important move so far, as Corridon was concerned, was to find out where Baintrees was located. Then somehow, he had to establish contact with Ritchie. That might take some time, and would certainly be dangerous. One false move and he’d find himself suspended on that meat hook. He thought with a wry grin Homer had been shrewd to show him that poor devil. It was a sight to impress even the toughest.

He had no doubt Homer had been telling the truth when he had described the way Baintrees was guarded. An electrified fence, police dogs, invisible rays and guards, and the hook to reward you if you failed. It was vital to gain their trust. Without it, he would get nowhere.

He lay still for several minutes while he stared sightlessly at the ceiling, thinking. How was he to find out where this house was? The telephone exchange on the telephone number label would give him a clue, unless they had removed the label. There would also be the name of the Borough Electricity Department on the meter if he could get at it. That seemed to him to be the most likely bet. Something they probably had overlooked.

Just then the door opened and Ames came in with a bundle of clothing under his arm. He threw the bundle on the bed.

“You wear these things while you are here,” he said. “Leave your clothes in the cupboard. All new arrivals here wear white until they prove themselves trustworthy. Your breakfast will be up in a few minutes. At eleven-thirty you will be interrogated.”

Corridon nodded.

“Purely from curiosity,” he said, “will you tell me how you propose to get rid of our friend on the meat hook you so thoughtfully showed me last night?”

Ames smiled.

“I see it made an impression on you. We can dispose of him very easily. The furnaces here are extremely adequate.”

He went out of the room as silently as he had come, and closed the door. Grimacing, Corridon sat up to examine the clothes he was to wear. They consisted of a white boiler suit made of cotton-twill, and a pair of white crêpe-soled shoes. On the back of the boiler suit was a round yellow disc. Holding the suit against the light, Corridon saw the disc faintly illuminate, and guessed it would shine like a beacon at night. A nice easy target for even a duffer with a gun, he thought grimly. Not the kind of suit you would pick for a midnight flit.

While he was shaving, the door pushed open and Yevski came in carrying a tray which he put on the bedside table. He favoured Corridon with a ferocious scowl before leaving the room.

Corridon noticed there was no attempt to lock him in, and this in itself, he thought, was sinister. He opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor. It was long and brightly lit by electric lamps set behind thick glass in the ceiling.

Shrugging, he returned to his room, finished shaving and put on the boiler suit. Then he poured himself out a cup of excellent coffee, ate the eggs and bacon he found under the silver cover, drank another cup of coffee and settled down in the armchair by the window for a smoke.

Punctually at eleven-thirty, the door opened and Bruger came in. He jerked his thumb to the door.

“Come on,” he said scowling.

Corridon got to his feet.

“How’s your poor neck?” he asked with his jeering smile. “It looks a little like the Sunday joint from here.”

Bruger’s deep-set eyes lit up, but his stolid face remained expressionless.

“Follow me,” he said curtly, and went down the corridor, down a flight of stairs to Homer’s study.

Corridon strolled after him.

Homer sat behind the desk in the bay window. Diestl stood with his back to the fire. Ames leaned against the wall near the door. Yevski, slapping his leg with a rubber truncheon, stood in the middle of the room.

“Come in, Mr. Corridon,” Homer said, flashing his yellow teeth. “Do sit down. Bruger, get Mr. Corridon a chair. We’ll have it opposite my desk. Yes, that will do splendidly.”

Corridon sat down. He appeared at ease, but be was conscious of Yevski just behind him; conscious also of the rubber truncheon.

“Now, Mr. Corridon,” Homer said, “we won’t waste any time if you please. You have some information for us. I understand from Diestl that you say our movement is known and steps are being taken to curb our operations?”

“Certainly,” Corridon said. “A special branch of the War Office, known as O.S.S.5 are concentrating on your activities. They know you engineered the murder of the Minister of European Affairs. They know, too, you are behind the various big strikes that have slowed down our export drive recently. They managed to catch one of your agents, No. 12, and he talked.”

“So I hear,” Homer said and took out his handkerchief, holding it screwed up in his hand. His eyes were uneasy. “Who is the head of O.S.S.5?”

“Colonel Howard Ritchie,” Corridon said promptly. “He and I worked together during the war. He is a first class man and extremely dangerous.”

Homer and Diestl exchanged glances.

“Just how much does he know?” Diestl asked curtly.

“That I can’t tell you. But you can take it he has a pretty fair idea of your setup. He knows about the jade rings. No. 12 told him all he knew. You will know better than I what that amounts to. Whatever No. 12 knew, you can be certain Ritchie knows. He is onto Yevski and Bruger. He knows who they are. He warned me about them.”

Homer patted the end of his nose with the handkerchief. He looked disconcerted.

“Does he know about this place?”

Corridon shook his head.

“No, but he knows you must have a headquarters somewhere, and he is searching for it. He is very thorough. Sooner or later he will come upon it, especially if you continue to employ such obvious characters as Bruger and Yevski.”

Again Homer and Diestl exchanged glances, then Homer said, looking at Ames, “Mr. Corridon appears to be extremely co-operative, perhaps we could continue this discussion without the assistance of these two,” and he waved apologetically to Bruger and Yevski who were glaring at Corridon.

Ames nodded.

“Get out, you two,” he said.

When Bruger and Yevski had gone, Homer said, “And now, Mr. Corridon, just how did you come into this?”

Corridon explained about Milly Lawes, the finding of the jade ring, how Milly had been murdered, how Rawlins had taken him to see Ritchie and what had been said at the meeting. He was careful to conceal nothing, and was aware that every now and then Diestl made a sign to Homer as if assuring him Corridon was speaking the truth.

“You might as well face it,” Corridon went on, “you’re up against tough opposition. O.S.S.5 are the elite of any hunters. They never give up. If you want to exist for any length of time, you’ll have to move carefully and you can’t remain here much longer.”

“And what would you advise?” Homer asked, looking worried.

“For a start, withdraw these jade rings. That secret society stuff is not only dangerous, but puerile. Start a spy hunt yourself. Make sure every member of your organization is to be trusted. Don’t employ such obvious characters as Yevski and Bruger. Ritchie has a file of all petty war criminals. In using men like those two you are showing your hand. Ritchie knows them all.”