Comes the Dark Stranger (11 page)

There was a light on in the kitchen and the Dobermann was curled up on a rug in a corner by the fire. He opened one eye and looked steadily at Shane for a moment and then closed it again, satisfied.

An airing rack festooned with various articles of laundry hung from the ceiling and Shane pulled down a white shirt and put it on quickly. It needed ironing badly, but it was clean and dry and he decided it would have to do him for the moment. He opened the other door and walked along the dark corridor which led towards the front of the house.

The hall was quiet and he walked towards the drawing-room door at the bottom of which a thin line of light showed and hesitated as he heard Laura speaking in a low voice. Very gently he turned the knob and opened the door.

She was standing facing him on the other side of a table, a telephone receiver in one hand. As he walked slowly forward she shook her head and said in a low voice, ‘No, he was asleep when I left him.’ And then she looked up and saw Shane.

Her face went pale and she quickly replaced the receiver in its cradle and forced a smile. ‘Why, Martin, I thought you were still asleep.’

He walked round the table and stood very close to her. ‘Who was that on the telephone just now?’

She shrugged. ‘Just a friend. It was nothing important.’

She started to walk away and Shane grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. ‘You were discussing me with someone. Who was it?’

Suddenly she was angry and she struggled to free herself. ‘You’re hurting my arm,’ she said.

He released her suddenly so that she fell back against the table. She massaged her arm gently with one hand and glared at him. ‘If you must know, I was speaking to Charles Graham about you.’

A sudden, cold rage erupted inside him. A rage that was compounded of disgust and loathing and bitter hurt. ‘You’re lying,’ he said. ‘You’re lying.’

He slapped her heavily across the face and as she staggered back against the table, he moved forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘You’re going to tell me the truth,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of lies and deceits.’

She started to struggle, her fingers clawing at his face and then the door swung open and her father appeared. He was wearing a dressing-gown and carried a walking stick in one hand. He lurched forward, raising the stick above his head and then, as he aimed a blow at Shane’s head, he seemed to crumple at the knees and collapsed.

Shane lifted him in his arms and carried him across to the couch, all his rage evaporating. As he straightened up, Laura pushed him violently in the chest. ‘Get out,’ she screamed. ‘Get out and don’t come back. I never want to see you again.’

For a little while he stood staring into her face and then he turned without a word and walked out through the hall to the front door. She followed him and as he stepped on to the top step, the door slammed behind him and a bolt shot into place.

He stood there for a little while listening to her storm of weeping as she leaned against the other side of the door and then he walked down the drive towards the Daimler. His mind was completely frozen and he was only conscious of one thought. He was going to finish what he had started.

He drove fast on the way into town and as he turned the Daimler into the square and pulled up a few yards from the Garland Club, a church clock sounded one o'clock somewhere near at hand.

The fog was a little thicker and a steady drizzle was falling as he turned along the alley at the side of the club and moved towards the staff entrance. When he opened the door, the passage was deserted. He could hear the sound of voices from the kitchens and they were somehow muted and far away. He stood there for a moment listening and then he quickly mounted the back stairs to the first floor.

The corridor was deserted and he moved quickly along it to Steele’s office. The door was locked and he took out the keys he had taken from Steele and tried them one by one. Behind him a door opened and there was a sudden burst of laughter. He moved across into the side passage quickly and flattened himself against the wall.

It sounded like some of the girls from the show and he listened to their voices fade along the corridor. When all was still again he moved back to the door and started again. The second key he tried fitted the lock and in a moment he was inside the room.

He switched on the light and went across to the safe which stood in the far corner next to the window. He inserted the most obvious key into the lock and the heavy door swung open to his touch. He pushed the cash box to one side and stood up, the manilla envelope clutched in his hands.

It was addressed in clear, rather feminine handwriting, to Henry Faulkner and Shane inserted a thumb under the flap to tear it open. At that moment he heard steps approaching along the corridor. He slipped the letter into his pocket and moved across the room quickly. He flattened himself against the wall a bare second before there was a knock on the door and it opened.

The man who had been on duty in the foyer on the first night Shane had visited the club, walked into the room. He was wearing a dinner jacket and carried a sheaf of papers in his hand. He frowned, his eyes travelling rapidly over the room and Shane took a quick step forward and smashed his fist into the unprotected jawline. As the man sank to the floor with a low groan Shane closed the door quietly and walked rapidly along the corridor.

When he emerged into the alley, the rain had increased into a solid downpour. He moved towards the square and halted under the lamp that lighted the alley. His pulse was racing with excitement and he was filled with elation. He took out the manilla envelope, and tore open the flap.

He withdrew several sheets of paper. He unfolded the first one and held it up to the light of the lamp. It was filled with the same, rather feminine handwriting that he had first seen on the envelope and there was a heading at the top of the sheet - The True Facts Concerning The Death of Simon Faulkner.

Shane frowned and held the paper a little closer to his eyes. As he started to read, there was a faint movement behind him. Even as he turned, something thudded against the back of his neck, sending a wave of agony flooding into his brain to explode in a cascade of coloured lights.

The cobbles rose to meet him as he fell and he raised an arm to cover his face protectingly. There was no further blow. Someone stepped over him and the papers were plucked out of his hand and as Shane tried to struggle to his feet, his attacker disappeared into the fog, his club foot sliding over the wet pavement behind him.

Shane dragged himself up by the lamp-post and leaned against it, his head swimming. One thing above all others drummed its way insistently into his brain. The man with the club foot existed. He was real and not a phantasy conceived in the nightmare of his years of agony. He lurched towards the end of the alley as an engine coughed into life and a moment later, a car moved away through the fog. He slammed a hand against the wall in impotent fury and stayed there for a little while until he felt better.

He started to walk along the pavement, a peculiar deadness creeping through his limbs and the sounds of the traffic through the fog seemed to recede and grow still, leaving him alone in a vacuum of quiet. As he turned the corner into the main road, the pain moved inside his skull and he cried aloud in agony and grabbed for some iron railings.

It was worse - worse than he had ever known and he remembered what the specialist had told him. Severe pains, growing progressively worse heralded the final crisis and he moaned aloud in fear and staggered across the road to a taxi rank.

He gave the driver Jenny Green’s address and crouched in the back seat, his head in his hands. When they reached the flat he thrust a pound note into the driver’s hand and went up the drive towards the front door.

The stairs stretched into eternity and he went up them painfully on his hands and knees, clawing at the banister for support. When he reached the landing, he pulled himself upright and lurched across to the door.

It swung open to his touch and he managed to open his mouth and croak, ‘Jenny?’

A hand grabbed him by the shoulders and he was hurled violently across the room. He tripped over a chair and fell heavily to the floor and as he closed his eyes against the white hot pain that moved behind them, he heard the slow dragging of the club foot as the limping man crossed the room. The door clicked softly as he went out and a moment later, Shane heard him descending the stairs.

He lay with his head pillowed against the carpet, hands tightly clenched together and it was with an effort that he finally opened his eyes.

There was blood on the carpet, a great wide, irregular stain and he stared at it in puzzlement and then struggled to his knees. His brain was going round in circles and he couldn’t concentrate, but there was something wrong. There was something very wrong.

He turned his head slowly. There was blood everywhere, even on the walls as if some animal had been butchered. He tried to get up and fell forward on his face and his hand knocked against something hard. Lying on the floor in front of him was a razor sharp Ghurka kukri that he remembered had hung over the fireplace as an ornament. His fingers closed around the handle and he stared at the blood smeared blade dumbly and then a terrible light burst upon him and he cried out sharply, ‘Jenny! Jenny, where are you?’

He found her in the other room sprawled across the bed. Her throat had been cut and her body was horribly mutilated. He stood at the side of the bed looking down at her and then a great wave of pain flooded through him and he fell across the bed beside her.

He was still lying there when the police found him, the kukri firmly clenched in his right hand.

14

I
T
was raining when the police van turned in through the goods entrance of the station. The driver backed it against the end of the platform and Lomax jumped down from the cab and walked along the side of the vehicle. He clambered up on the platform and unlocked the rear door.

Shane stepped out flanked by two detectives. He was handcuffed to one of them by the right wrist and his coat was thrown loosely over his shoulders. The train was already in the station and they were standing opposite the guard’s van. Shane smiled ironically and turned to Lomax. ‘How long have we got?’

Lomax glanced at his watch. ‘About ten minutes. How do you feel?’

Shane grinned. ‘Like a cigarette.’

His face was pale and drawn in the lamplight. He drew gratefully on the cigarette that Lomax pushed into his mouth and sighed. ‘That tastes good.’ He laughed harshly. ‘I suppose almost everything does at this stage in a man’s life.’

Lomax frowned. ‘I wouldn’t think about it too much, if I were you. Perhaps this operation will be a success. Sir George Hammond is supposed to be the finest brain surgeon in Europe. A week from tonight you’ll probably be lying in a bed in that hospital alive and kicking and wondering why you worried so much.’

‘And afterwards you’ll be able to send me for trial and have me hanged for a murder I didn’t do,’ Shane said. ‘What a lovely prospect.’

Lomax shook his head. ‘I don’t think there’s much danger of that.’

Shane turned on him, his face white and angry. ‘Because I’m insane?’ he demanded loudly. ‘Is that what you mean? Is life imprisonment in Broadmoor a more attractive prospect?’

The young detective to whom he was handcuffed stirred uneasily and Lomax took Shane by the elbow and said calmly. ‘Now don’t start getting worked up again. I told you before that I thought you’d had a rotten break and I’ve tried to make things easy for you. I’ve done everything I can to help.’

‘There’s only one way you can help me,’ Shane told him. ‘Find the person who murdered Jenny Green.’

Lomax sighed. ‘Now, don’t let’s start going over that again. It’s all I’ve heard for the last two days. You’re a sick man, Shane. You need help - medical help.’

Shane glared at him contemptuously. ‘I suppose this is what you coppers like - an open and shut case and no need to wear out any shoe leather.’

He started to turn away and Lomax gripped him by the arm and jerked him round. The policeman’s face was white and there was anger in his eyes. ‘You listen to me,’ he said, ‘and listen hard. It may interest you to know that I’ve spent the last twelve hours checking on your story personally. I’ve visited every person you’ve had contact with since you arrived in this town.’

‘And what did you find?’ Shane demanded eagerly.

Lomax took out his pipe and filled it. ‘That Reggie Steele was still at his cottage when the murder took place. His girl friend swears to that.’

Shane raised a clenched fist in a gesture of impotent fury. ‘She’d swear her own mother’s life away if she were offered enough. Couldn’t you see that?’

‘If it
was
Steele, how did he get to town so soon after you?’ Lomax said. ‘You took his car, remember?’

‘Did you see Adam Crowther?’ Shane asked.

Lomax nodded. ‘He admitted that he lied to you. He did visit Reggie Steele at the Garland Club, but only to warn him that you were in town and likely to cause trouble. To be perfectly frank, Crowther told me that he formed the opinion that you were unbalanced.’

‘But it
could
have been Crowther,’ Shane said. ‘Everything fits. He’s even lame in one foot - he lost his toes through frostbite in Korea.’

Lomax shook his head. ‘He was working on something important at the university that night. Admittedly there was no one with him, but I’m satisfied he’s telling the truth.’

‘That’s good,’ Shane commented bitterly. ‘That’s bloody good. So you’ll accept his word for it, will you? Why the hell shouldn’t it be him? He’s got a limp and the man who knocked me on the head in the flat had a limp. What makes Crowther so special?’

Lomax sighed heavily. ‘All right, Shane,’ he said. ‘You’ve asked for it and you’ll get it. I didn’t finally accept Crowther’s story until I’d spoken not only to Reggie Steele but to Charles Graham also. Steele doesn’t have much time for you - he was honest enough to admit that - but Graham has. They both told me the same story - that you’ve been haunted by a memory for years. A memory named Colonel Li. He was the man with the club foot you heard that night in the flat, but he died in Korea seven years ago.’

Shane’s breath hissed sharply between his teeth. ‘There’s nothing like being able to depend on one’s friends for help. You must thank Graham for me next time you see him.’

There was anger in the policeman’s eyes. ‘It may interest you to know that Charles Graham is the man who’s retained Sir George Hammond to perform your operation.’

There was a heavy silence. There didn’t seem anything more to say, and then he remembered the girl. He said slowly, ‘There’s just one more thing I’d like to know, Inspector. Have you seen Laura Faulkner?’

Lomax nodded. ‘We haven’t bothered her too much. Her father had a stroke yesterday and they had to rush him into hospital. I understand it’s only a matter of time.’

Before Shane could say anything the older of the two detectives moved forward and doors slammed hollowly along the train. Lomax nodded. ‘Take him into the carriage now.’

The went towards the door, and as Shane put one foot on the step he hesitated, filled with a sudden wild urge to tell Lomax everything, to fill in all the gaps for him. One of the detectives pushed him firmly forward and the moment passed.

When they entered the reserved compartment, the young detective produced a key, freed himself from the handcuffs, and secured Shane’s other wrist so that his hands were securely pinioned together in front of him. They pushed him into a corner seat, and one of them put his trench-coat up on the rack while the other knelt down and unlaced his shoes. Lomax stood in the doorway, keen eyes surveying everything. ‘Did they give you a key for the door, Brown?’ he asked the older of the two detectives. The man nodded, and Lomax went on, ‘Keep the door locked at all times. They’ll be waiting for you in London. I’ll see you both tomorrow.’

As he started to turn away, Shane said quickly, ‘Lomax!’

The inspector paused and looked over his shoulder. ‘What is it?’

Shane smiled softly. ‘You’re wrong, you know.’

Lomax seemed about to speak, and then he shrugged and disappeared along the corridor. A moment later he passed the window and walked back towards the van.

Somewhere a whistle sounded, and the train seemed to give a long, shuddering sigh, and then they were gliding away from the platform, moving out into the rain and the darkness.

A feeling of complete panic surged through Shane. He stared down at his stockinged feet, at the handcuffs on his wrists, and a feeling of helplessness took possession of him. It was the end. Whichever way the dice fell he was finished.

He was brought back to reality sharply. Brown, the detective with the key, had been trying to lock the compartment door, and now he straightened up and turned with a look of disgust on his face. ‘The bloody thing won’t fit,’ he said.

The other man frowned and put down the newspaper he had opened. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

Brown shrugged. ‘I’ll have to find the guard. He should have a master key.’ He inclined his head towards Shane. ‘Watch our friend here. You never know what his sort will try next.’

Shane turned and looked out of the window as Brown disappeared along the corridor. There was a slight ache behind his eyes and his guts churned over as the significance of Brown’s words struck home. They thought he was insane. The whole thing was decided in advance. If he lived to stand in the dock, it would probably be the shortest trial on record.

In the darkness of the window he saw the reflection of the compartment behind him. The detective was watching him carefully, and after a while he moved along the seat and leaned over the lock.

Shane didn’t even think about it. He swung round quickly and launched himself forward, his clenched fists raised high above his head. Even as the detective started to turn in alarm, they crashed into the back of his neck, and he fell forward from the seat and rolled on to the floor.

Shane wrench the sliding-door to one side and stepped over the prostrate figure. There was a sudden cry of alarm as Brown appeared at the far end of the carriage and started to run towards him.

Shane stumbled along the corridor and rounded the corner by the toilet. A door faced him with the communication cord stretched across the top of it. He yanked the cord firmly downwards with all his strength, and as the train started to brake to a halt, he struggled frantically with the handle of the door. It swung backwards suddenly as the wind caught it. He hesitated for a moment, straining his eyes into the blackness of the night, desperately trying to judge the train’s speed. There was a cry behind him as Brown rounded the corner, and he hesitated no longer. As the detective’s hand grabbed for his jacket, Shane jumped out into the night.

He tucked his head well into his shoulders and rolled over twice. As he tried to get to his feet, his own momentum was still carrying him forward and he fell on his face. The train was slowing to a halt a hundred yards away along the track, and as he struggled painfully to his feet he heard cries through the night and saw lanterns coming back along the track.

Beyond the train he could see the lights of the station in the darkness, and he realized, with something of a shock, that the whole business had happened in a matter of minutes.

He started to pick his way carefully across the lines, the stones digging into his stockinged feet painfully. He scrambled up a small embankment, and he pulled himself over a six-foot-high wooden fence at the top. He dropped down into a narrow street of terraced houses, and started to run.

The rain had increased into a solid downpour that bounced from the pavement. He seemed to be moving through an area of decaying slums, and he twisted and turned from one street into another until his lungs were heaving painfully and his throat was dry.

His head was aching slightly and his feet were torn and bleeding. Somewhere ahead of him he could hear the sounds of traffic, and guessed he was approaching the centre of the town. He paused on a corner and looked desperately about him, uncertain which way to go, and then a car rounded the corner and came towards him.

There was a narrow, dark opening in the opposite wall, and he crossed the street and plunged into it as the car flashed past. He started to move forward, his manacled hands held out in front of him. There was a lamp fastened high up on the brick wall, and beyond it he could see traffic passing along a busy street.

He leaned against the wall, his tortured lungs clamouring for air, and as he looked up at the lamp it seemed to float away and become smaller and smaller, and then there was nothing but the darkness and he slid slowly down the wall into unconsciousness.