Why Pick On ME? (17 page)

Corridon lit a cigarette and flicked the match into the fireplace.

“You can rely on me, but be careful of Kara. I wouldn’t trust her myself.”

Ames showed his small, even teeth.

“I happen to have something on her,” he said. “She will do what I tell her.”

Corridon offered him a cigarette, and after a moment’s hesitation, Ames took it.

“Have you any plans for me?” Corridon asked casually. “I think I mentioned this to you before. I don’t care to work for nothing.”

“Have a little patience,” Ames said. “You won’t be idle for long. I have no control over such decisions. They are made by the Leader. But this I can tell you, we have decided Ritchie must go.”

Corridon nodded.

“You still think you could do it?”

“If it is made worth my while, I could do it.”

“That will be seen to. If you succeed I will personally see you will be given a good post,” Ames said.

“I’ll be successful,” Corridon said. “I would need a week to make my preparations, and three good men.”

“You will understand,” Ames said, “that as you are still on probation you would not be allowed a gun? The plan is yours, but the actual shooting will be done by two competent agents. You appreciate that?”

“That’s all right,” Corridon said, aware of the bulge in his hip pocket made by the Mauser he had taken from Bruger. “Is there a date fixed yet?”

Ames shook his head.

“In a little while. I’ll give you at least a week’s notice. As for your helpers, Chicho and MacAdams are both first-class shots, and Kara can drive the car.”

“I don’t care to have her with me. Isn’t there someone else?”

“Certainly not,” Ames said shortly. “If there is trouble you will be glad to have her with you. No one can handle a car like she can. What’s the matter with her?”

“A little too amorous for my liking.”

Ames gave Corridon a leering smile.

“What’s the matter with that?”

“Personal taste. The Russian type doesn’t appeal to me.”

“You can’t be too fussy here, Corridon. Kara is extremely enthusiastic. You should try her.”

Corridon shook his head

“Those two girls I was telling you about. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of this restricted life. How about you and I going gay one night this week, and paying them a visit? You won’t be disappointed.”

“Where do they live?” Ames asked casually, but a sudden intent look in his eyes was not lost on Corridon.

“They have a flat in Curzon Street. I could arrange it by telephone. Shall I?”

“You are not supposed to leave the building,” Ames said without conviction. “Still, I suppose if I were with you it would be all right. I think you have earned a reward.”

“I dare say it could be arranged that no one else should know,” Corridon said with a grin. “How about tomorrow night?”

“Saturday,” Ames said, and waved to the telephone. “Fix it for Saturday.

IV

The next four days passed slowly for Corridon. He continued to coach the two engineers until they could carry out the work of wrecking the generators blindfolded. He also took over a mixed class, teaching the theory of ciphers and invisible inks. The work bored him, but he kept at it, and Homer, who looked in from time to time, seemed impressed with his knowledge and thoroughness.

He spent the evenings avoiding the attentions of Kara, and to do this he played poker with Homer and three other men until the small hours of the morning.

But as the days passed, he became aware of a declining suspicion, and realized he was slowly being accepted by the other members of the organization. Apart from not being allowed out of the grounds, he had now the run of the big, rambling house and could do pretty well what he wanted.

On Saturday evening, around seven o’clock, Ames came to his room. He was wearing a dark lounge suit and his satanic face was closely shaven. There was a hot, intent glitter in his eyes, and Corridon, looking at him, felt sorry for Hildy, the girl he had picked to take care of Ames. The other girl, Babs, was the less attractive of the two, but more intelligent. Corridon had known them for some time. Both made precarious livings as models for the various art schools, and supplemented their earnings by accommodating rich business men at their discreet flat in Curzon Street.

“Ready?” Ames asked a little impatiently.

“Yes.” Corridon adjusted his tie in the mirror, patted his handkerchief in his breast pocket and joined Ames at the door.

“There’s a car parked at the back. “I’ll go first. If anyone spots you leaving, say you are going on an errand for me.”

Corridon nodded.

He waited a minute or so after Ames had gone, then stepped into the corridor.

Kara came to her door. She gave him a sneering little smile.

“Going out?” she asked.

Corridon shook his head.

“What on earth gave you that idea?” he said. “I’m going to sit on the roof and keep the pigeons company.”

He walked on, not hurrying, and grinned a little uneasily when he heard her door slam. The woman, he thought, was a damned pest.

Ames was sitting at the wheel of a black Humber car, drawn up outside the rear entrance. Corridon got in beside him, and was immediately aware of a strong smell of brandy coming from Ames.

“Anyone see you?”

“Only Olga from the Volga,” Corridon said carelessly. “She wanted to know if I was going out. I told her to mind her own business.”

“She has taken a fancy to you,” Ames said, as he drove down the curving drive. He sniggered. “It might be wiser to be pleasant to her.”

“Not on your life,” Corridon returned promptly. “She’s just a shade too powerful to get into a clinch with. Are you still sure you can trust her?”

“Yes,” Ames said, slowing up as two guards appeared in the headlights of the car. He spoke to them and they opened the main gates and waved him through.

Corridon was hoping he would recognize the countryside, but he didn’t. It was dark, and Ames drove only with the parking lights on. Corridon didn’t get the chance of reading a sign-post or recognizing a landmark until, shooting up a steep hill, they came out on the High Wycombe end of Western Avenue.

From the time they had taken and the distance they had come, Corridon decided Baintrees was somewhere near the Bucks – Herts border. Nearer to that he could not get.

Once on the broad arterial road, Ames drove like a madman. Corridon was thankful when they swung through the open gates of the White City and were forced to reduce speed. Not once during the run down Western Avenue had Ames driven below sixty miles an hour, and in some stretches he had reached ninety: a lot too fast, Corridon thought, with the dazzling headlights of the home-going traffic to contend with.

Now that Ames had swallowed the hook he had dangled before him, Corridon had to decide what to do. The most obvious thing would be to knock Ames over the head and present him to Ritchie to work on. But Corridon couldn’t make up his mind if Ames knew enough to justify such action. Corridon’s job was to find out the identity of the Leader, and he couldn’t be certain Ames knew this. If he didn’t, then Corridon would be throwing away his only chance of finding this out for himself. At the moment he was getting established in the organization. Ames was beginning to trust him. If he worked with Ames, it was possible that sooner or later he would meet the Leader. So he had decided to play this little farce to a finish. It would serve a useful purpose, and give him the opportunity of talking to Ritchie on the telephone.

Ames had been silent during the drive, but now, as he drove along Piccadilly, he said abruptly, “You can trust these two girls?”

“There’s nothing to trust them with,” Corridon said. “They’re just a couple of sporty girls without a thought in their heads.”

“One can’t be too careful,” Ames said, turning into Half-Moon Street. “I forgot to ask – what does it cost?”

“Not a thing. I thought I made that clear,” Corridon said, hiding a grin. “They are friends of mine.” He went on to explain what Ames was to expect, and by the time they pulled up outside a tall building opposite the back of Shepherd Market, Ames’ face was incredulous and his eyes hungry.

The flat door was opened by Babs, a dark, thin, intense girl in a sky-blue house-coat, who greeted Corridon by throwing her arms around his neck with a whoop that could be heard at the end of the street.

Corridon pushed her firmly away.

“Steady on,” he said good-humouredly. “Don’t strangle me. How are you? Here’s a pal of mine. Call him Gerry. Where’s Hildy?”

“Here I am,” Hildy announced, appearing from behind the door. She was plump, red-haired and wicked-looking. She made eyes at Ames. “Hello, Handsome,” she went on. “Come on in, and make yourself at home.”

Ames entered the sitting-room, rather like a cat in a strange house. He prowled around, satisfying himself that the four of them were alone in the flat. He opened doors, looked into the two bedrooms, glanced in the bathroom and even inspected the kitchen.

At a sign from Corridon, the two girls ignored Ames, and while he prowled, they prepared drinks. Satisfied, he returned to the sitting-room and sat down.

“Like it?” Babs asked, as Hildy went over to him with a large brandy. She sat on the settee beside him and gave him the drink.

Ames said it was very nice. He now turned his attention to Hildy.

Corridon was nursing Babs on his knees, drinking whisky.

“Is that your only telephone?” Ames asked suddenly, pointing to the receiver.

Corridon gave Babs a slight, warning nudge.

“Yes,” she said, looking surprised. “Did you want to use it?”

“No,” Ames said. “I just wondered.”

Hildy kept his brandy glass full, and after some minutes of aimless talk, he began to show signs of restlessness.

“Shall we leave those two?” Hildy whispered in his ear. “I think they want to be alone together.”

Ames nodded.

Corridon, who was watching him out of the corners of his eyes, guessed the telephone was worrying him.

He stood up.

“We’re going in the next room,” he announced. “Babs wants to show me her etching. We’ll join forces later. Okay?”

“Which room is that?” Ames demanded, also getting to his feet.

“Show him, Babs,” Corridon said with a grin. “He’s nervous I’ll run away.”

“Why?” Hildy demanded. “Martin’s a lovely man. Why should he run away?”

Babs had opened a door. Ames crossed the room and glanced into the bedroom beyond. He didn’t see the telephone on the lower shelf of the bedside table as it was out of sight from where he stood.

“Come on,” Corridon said to Babs. “Let’s go.”

They went into the bedroom and shut the door, leaving Ames and Hildy together.

“Lock it,” Corridon said, lowering his voice. “And keep your voice down.”

Babs looked startled.

“Who’s your friend, Martin? I don’t like the look of him.”

“Nor do I. Never mind who he is. Come and sit here. I want to talk to you.” He sat on the bed which was well away from the door.

Babs came over and sat by his side.

“Now look, kid,” Corridon said, “all I want to do is to use your phone. I’m in a spot of bother, and this meeting was the only way I could reach a phone without our pal outside knowing about it.”

“Well, I like that!” Babs said in disgust. “Don’t tell me I’m not going to make anything out of this.”

Corridon grinned.

“Twenty quid: half to you and half to Hildy. An expensive telephone call. Got a piece of notepaper? I’ll fix it for you.”

Babs stared at him.

“Twenty pounds? Honest?”

“Come on, kid, you’re wasting time,” Corridon said curtly.

She fetched some notepaper, and he scribbled a few lines on a sheet and handed it to her. She read what he had written and gaped at him.

“The War Office? You’re pulling my leg.”

“I’m not. Take that along to a bird called Miss Fleming, and she’ll pay you twenty of the best. She’ll be a little sour, but take no notice. You’re working for the Government now.”

Babs continued to stare at him.

“What is he – a spy?”

“Something like that. Now look, I’ve got to talk to my chief. Try not to listen. The less you know about this the safer it’ll be for you.” He reached for the telephone and dialled Ritchie’s number. “This is big time, Babs. You’re not getting twenty quid for nothing.”

Ritchie’s voice came over the line.

“This is Corridon reporting,” Corridon said. “I have a lot to say and most of it is for the record. Do you want Miss Fleming to take it down?”

“Glad to hear your voice,” Ritchie said warmly. “I was getting worried about you. How’s it going?”

Corridon grinned as he exchanged glances with Babs.

“Pretty good, Colonel. Right now I’m having the time of my life. It’s going to cost your department twenty pounds.”

“Sounds like a woman’s involved,” Ritchie said. “Well, all right, but let’s have value for money.”

“Have you talked with Lorene?”

“She doesn’t know much, but we’re keeping her out of sight and reach. They are looking for her, of course?”

“Yes. You’d better get your niece to break the news to her. Her brother shot himself. Ames was going to question him, but he preferred the other way out. Better give me Miss Fleming. I haven’t much time.”

“I’ll see she’s told,” Ritchie said. “Did you have to kill Bruger? Rawlins is in a flap about that.”

“He’s always in a flap,” Corridon returned. “It had to be done. If he’d got away, I would have been sunk. It’s no loss.”

“Perhaps not. Well, all right, I’ll straighten it out somehow. Hold on for Miss Fleming.”

After a moment or so there was a click and Miss Fleming’s curt, efficient voice said she was ready.

Corridon began to dictate his report. He spoke rapidly and concisely, covering everything that had happened to him since he had left Marian Howard’s flat and had arrived at Baintrees. He gave a detailed account of the journey from Lorene’s flat to Baintrees, a description of Homer and Ames, and of the two engineers who were to wreck the generators at the power station. When he had finished he asked Miss Fleming to put Ritchie back on the line.