Why Pick On ME? (3 page)

“Nice chap,” Rawlins said reflectively.

Corridon didn’t say anything. He drew in a lungful of smoke and cast his mind back into the past. He had a vivid picture of Colonel Ritchie even after five and a half years. He wouldn’t have described him as nice. It wasn’t the right word. He could be charming when he liked. He was a man you could trust. He was ruthless. He had sent a number of Corridon’s friends to their deaths, and he had sorrowed for them, but he hadn’t hesitated to send them where he was fairly certain they would die.

“Like to meet him again?” Rawlins asked, studying his big, broad fingernails in an effort to appear casual.

“No, thank you,” Corridon said promptly. “He would want me to work for him. I’ve had all I want of that job to last me a lifetime.”

Rawlins’ face fell.

“Pity. He needs good men. It’s not a bad life either: plenty of excitement, free travel, and the money isn’t bad.”

“The money’s lousy,” Corridon said curtly. “And I don’t fancy that kind of excitement. It was all right during the war: one had to do something; but not now. You might not think it, but I’m quite fond of life. But why bring Ritchie into this?”

“I was only talking to him yesterday,” Rawlins said, and beamed. “He said he had a job for you. You’re a bit short of the ready, aren’t you?”

Corridon lifted his shoulders helplessly.

“Why can’t you keep your nose out of my business? And I don’t want his job. I’m going to Paris at the end of the week.”

“Are you?” Rawlins looked surprised. “
Les
girls, eh? Well, well, can’t say I blame you.”

“Has this ring anything to do with Ritchie?” Corridon asked. He had a knack of putting his finger on the right spot at the right moment.

Rawlins nodded.

“Didn’t think I’d keep that from you for long. Oh yes, it has something to do with Ritchie. But he’ll tell you about it. That’s what I meant a while ago when I said life was full of coincidences. We’re going to see him now.”

“I’m not,” Corridon said briskly, and stood up. “If I never see him again I shan’t grieve. There are plenty of other men who can do his dirty jobs. I’ve had enough of them.”

Rawlins rose regretfully to his feet. He had been up all night and was feeling tired.

“Don’t be difficult, old man. He’ll want to hear about the ring. This is a murder case. You must try to be co-operative.”

“What’s it to him?”

“Plenty.” Rawlins stifled a yawn. “Come on, let’s get it over. It won’t take long.”

He went into the bedroom again, and stood looking at the two bloody handprints on the wall.

“Don’t you want to see the fella caught who did that to Milly?” he asked. “With you help, we’ll catch him. She was a friend of yours, wasn’t she? Didn’t I hear you’re the godfather of her child?”

“Don’t be corny,” Corridon said, and grinned jeeringly. “You’ll have me in tears in a moment. All right, come.”

Rawlins beamed.

“I thought you would. I told Ritchie a warrant wasn’t necessary.”

“So he’s still up to his old tricks,” Corridon said sourly. “What was it to be this time? His watch again?”

Rawlins closed one eye.

“As a matter of fact it was to be his cigarette-case. You better give it to me back. I slipped it in your pocket just now.”

Corridon handed it back gravely, his face expressionless.

“And if I didn’t play, it would have been a month’s hard labour. Is that it?”

Rawlins laughed sheepishly.

“The trouble with you, Corridon, is you know the moves before they’re made. Between you and me, I think it would have been more like two months. Ritchie particularly wants to see you.”

III

Fat, dumpy Miss Fleming was rattling away at a typewriter when Rawlins and Corridon entered the outer office. Corridon looked at her with resigned distaste. To him, it was unbelievable that any woman could be so dowdy and unattractive. He remembered thinking the same thing five years ago when he had come to say good-bye to Ritchie and had seen her for the first time. She hadn’t changed a scrap over the period of five and a half years. Her nose was as red and as shiny, her hair as unkempt and her clothes as unimaginative. She hadn’t even aged, and her total disregard for her personal appearance affronted him.

He knew she was extraordinarily efficient. He knew she could speak ten languages fluently and had been awarded the O.B.E. for secret work during the war. The fact she was Ritchie’s personal assistant was proof of her efficiency. You had to be right on your toes if you wanted to remain five minutes with Ritchie. His standards of efficiency were as high and as ruthless as his standards of personal behaviour. But in spite of her usefulness and her capacity to work long hours, Corridon could not understand how Ritchie tolerated her.

She glanced up, looked him over with that impersonal, searching stare that was almost an insult, and waved an ink-smeared hand to a door near her desk.

“Go straight in, please,” she said. “Colonel Ritchie’s expecting you.”

Rawlins enveloped her with his beaming smile. Personal appearances were unimportant to him. Integrity, sincerity and kindness were to him the worthwhile attributes. He was never influenced by a pretty face nor an ugly one. Beauty being skin deep, he preferred to lift the skin and see what it hid.

“Thank you,” he said. “What a lovely day. Makes you feel…”

The rest of his remark was drowned by the rattle of the typewriter as Miss Fleming continued her work.

“Save it for the Salvation Army,” Corridon said, giving Rawlins a push towards the door. “Fanny doesn’t encourage mashers in here.”

Rawlins looked reproachfully at him, opened the door and entered the inner room.

Colonel Ritchie was standing before a small, dismal-looking fire, his hands behind his back, a relaxed expression on his face. Over six feet tall, with broad, heavy shoulders, his back as straight as a plumb-line, he looked every inch a soldier. His greying hair was clipped short, and a black patch that hid his left eye, gouged out by a Turk during the First World War, gave him a swashbuckling appearance.

He glanced beyond Rawlins at Corridon, and smiled.

“Hello, Martin,” he said. “I’m very glad to see you.”

“I dare say you are,” Corridon said sourly, and shook hands. “You’re looking a little under the weather.”

“We can’t all lead a soft life,” Ritchie said, continuing to smile. “I’m kept pretty busy.” He waved to an armchair. “Take a pew. I can’t give you much more than twenty minutes. I have an appointment at the Foreign Office at twelve.”

Corridon sat down, searched for a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the match into the fireplace. He looked round the room, aware of a feeling of uneasiness. This annoyed him. He had heard Ritchie was working himself to a standstill, that he couldn’t get the right men to help him, that he was even doing some of the donkey work, and Corridon had been tempted in his less sober moments to offer his help. But the thought had no sooner entered his head than he had forced it out. Those days were over. This was no longer a state of emergency. The man who volunteered to help Ritchie was a sucker, and deserved what came to him. But now, once more in this room, seeing the dark smudge under Ritchie’s eye and the deep etched lines from his nose to his mouth, aware that these signs meant Ritchie was working too hard, Corridon did feel a twinge of conscience.

Ritchie had treated him well, and they had been friends. It was Ritchie who had called off the police when Corridon had shot the ambassador’s secretary. That was ancient history now, but if Ritchie hadn’t intervened when he did, things might have been a lot more difficult than they had been. Ritchie had also got him the D.S.O. and the small pension for the wounds inflicted on him by the Gestapo. Yes, Ritchie was a good chap, but that didn’t mean Corridon wanted to work for him again.

“You’re looking thoughtful,” Ritchie said, watching Corridon. Ritchie could read most men like a book. “What are you thinking about?”

Corridon gave him a jeering little smile.

“I was wondering why you still have that awful Miss Fleming out there. Why don’t you get yourself someone bright and snappy to cheer up this ghastly hole?”

For a moment Ritchie looked blank.

“What’s the matter with Miss Fleming? She’s brilliant.”

“Never mind. Perhaps you don’t notice her. It doesn’t matter. Rawlins is bursting to tell you the news.”

Rawlins was. He had been waiting impatiently, and when Ritchie looked at him, he plunged straight into the story of Milly’s murder.

“Corridon knows her,” he said, after he had covered Milly’s background and end. “He spoke to her last night. She showed him a white jade ring she had found in her room probably dropped by one of her clients.”

“A white jade ring?” Ritchie repeated, and his face hardened.

“An archer’s thumb ring,” Corridon said. “I expect you’ve seen them. They have a number in the British Museum. Possibly the one Milly found is a copy.”

Ritchie slipped his finger and thumb into his waistcoat pocket, drew out a small object and tossed it into Corridon’s lap.

“Like that?” he asked quietly.

Corridon picked up the white stone ring that had fallen from his lap onto the floor. He examined it, turned it between his long, thin fingers, then shot a quick look at Ritchie.

“Yes. Is this the same ring? It could be.”

Ritchie shook his head.

“Oh, no. It’s not the same ring. There are a number in existence. They’re all numbered, I believe. If you’ll look inside you’ll see that one is number twelve. Did you notice the number engraved inside the one Milly found?”

Corridon moved to the window to examine the ring. He made out the figures 1 and 2, cut deeply into the jade.

“I’m afraid I didn’t,” he said. “The light was bad, and Milly didn’t want anyone to see it. I only gave it a casual examination.”

“Pity,” Ritchie said. He looked over at Rawlins. “You didn’t find the ring, of course?”

Rawlins shook his head.

“Yates is searching for it now. I doubt if he’ll find it.”

“He won’t find it,” Ritchie said gravely. “They’ve had all night to hunt for it.”

“Corridon thinks he saw the chap,” Rawlins said, “only he wasn’t particularly interested, and hasn’t a description.”

Corridon felt a faint flush rise to his face as Ritchie looked at him.

“All right, I slipped up, but I wasn’t to know the fella was going to kill her,” he said, irritably. “I’m not working for you now, you know.”

“Don’t be touchy,” Ritchie said. “Well, it can’t be helped, but I must say it’s not like you. The easy life is making you lose your talents.”

“They’re no use to me now,” Corridon said. “Why should I care?”

“A photographic eye is always useful,” Ritchie said. “There was a time I remember when you had only to look at a sheet of print to be word perfect. Can’t you do that any more?”

“I don’t know. I’ve had no reason to try,” Corridon snapped. “Well, if that’s all you want, I’d better be going. I have things to do, and besides, you’ll be late at the F.O.”

Rawlins made a clumsy move to the door.

“You don’t want me any longer, do you, Colonel?”

Ritchie shook his head.

“Just a few words with you, Martin, before you go.”

They waited a moment until Rawlins had gone, then Corridon said, “I’m sorry, Colonel. I know you’re busy, so I won’t waste your time. I don’t want a job.”

Ritchie sat down behind his desk. He folded his hands on the blotter and looked gravely at Corridon.

“You want money, don’t you?”

Corridon smiled.

“Not the kind of money the War Office pays,” he said lightly. “It’s no good. I’m not coming back to this racket.”

“Been having a good time?” Ritchie asked.

Corridon frowned at him.

“What do you mean?”

“I hear you’ve become a swindler,” Ritchie said smoothly. “You seem to have established a reputation in Soho of a man who goes back on his word.”

“Rawlins talks a lot of tripe,” Corridon said, but again the faint flush mounted to his face. “You shouldn’t pay attention to his tales.”

“Oh, I don’t. I’ve other sources of information besides Rawlins. I was talking to Isaacs last week. Apparently he wanted you to smuggle in a hundred Swiss watches. He offered you a hundred pounds for the job. You took fifty, but didn’t do the job. You suggested he should sue you for the money if he wanted it back. Is that right?”

“More or less. There’s no harm in swindling a rat like Isaacs. How do you come to know him?” Corridon stubbed out his cigarette and pointedly looked at his watch.

“I’m afraid I have to mix with a number of undesirables in my work,” Ritchie said, and pushed a silver cigarette-box across the desk. “Help yourself. I agree Isaacs asked to be swindled, but it’s the method I don’t like. Are you being quite fair to yourself, Martin? Did you have to promise to do the job? It seems to me you could have thought of a less compromising way to get his money. People are saying you aren’t to be trusted. I have always found you were to be trusted when you worked for me.”

“And Brutus is an honourable man,” Corridon said, but his jeering smile didn’t quite come off. “The point is, Colonel, I’m not working any more for you, and I’m pleasing myself how I behave.”

“Oh, quite,” Ritchie said, and suddenly looked tired and bored. “Well, that’s neither here nor there. Would two hundred pounds be of any use to you?”

Corridon stiffened.

“Is this a proposition or are you crystal gazing?” he asked. “As a matter of fact I want two hundred pounds very badly.”

“I have a job that needs doing. If it is done successfully the pay-off would be two hundred pounds,” Ritchie said. “Would you be interested?”

The clear grey eyes were cold and impersonal, and Corridon felt the unspoken contempt. He moved restlessly.

“You don’t mean to tell me the War Office would spring that sum?” he asked blankly.

“Why, no, I don’t suppose it would. Two hundred pounds is a lot of money. Unfortunately, you seem to be the only man capable of doing this job, and I’m prepared to pay you out of my own pocket,” Ritchie said. He glanced up, and added dryly, “I’m afraid I couldn’t agree to your usual terms: half down and half when the job is done. The money would be paid to you when the job is completed.”