Why Pick On ME? (7 page)

“I suppose not,” Corridon said regretfully. “Did Ritchie tell you you’d have no trouble with me, and I always act like a gentleman?”

She laughed.

“No, he didn’t. He said you always had an eye on the main chance, and I was to be careful.”

“He hasn’t changed a scrap,” Corridon said, opening the door. “He’s like an old hen. All the same, you’re too good-looking to be an agent.”

She walked past him to the head of the stairs.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” she said.

He followed her down to the front door. As he opened it, he said, “I suppose we had better kiss in the doorway. We have to convince those two blokes, you know.”

“That’s quite unnecessary,” she returned, and stepped into the mews. “Good night.”

She went away into the darkness without looking back.

CHAPTER
THREE

I

The two men who had followed Corridon from the Red Roost now proceeded to shadow him wherever he went. They were experts, and it was only because in the past Corridon had had considerable experience of this kind of thing, that he knew they were continually on his heels. It was not until the second day that he managed to catch a glimpse of them.

One was short and thick-set with a red, puffy face and a bull neck. Corridon thought he might be a German. The other was tall and thin with deep-set, glittering eyes. His flat-featured face, his close-cropped blonde hair and his habit of smoking cigarettes wrapped in brown tinted paper suggested he might be Russian.

Rather light-heartedly Corridon christened them Huey and Duey.

These two were dangerous. Corridon knew the signs. They were killers. Both of them seemed nervous. Huey, the short one, continually twitched and blinked his eyes. Duey, the tall one, played scales up and down his thighs with his long, thin fingers. Both of them moved like shadows, making no sound on their crêpe-soled shoes, and both had eyes like bits of dark glass; expressionless, cold and inhuman.

Thinking about them, Corridon wondered if he wasn’t running his neck into a noose. It was like Ritchie to land him in something that could end in sudden death. Ritchie had no personal feelings for his agents. The country came first. “You can always get another agent,” he had once said to Corridon, “but I’ll be damned if you can get another England.”

Corridon wondered if Marian Howard knew the type of men she was up against. He had taken a liking to her. She had looks, courage and integrity. Although he lived by his own doubtful rules, he approved of integrity in others. He would warn her the next time they met, he decided; not that it would make any difference. Once you were fool enough to get into Ritchie’s clutches, you were done for. And besides, Ritchie was just the kind of man a girl like Marian would admire, Corridon thought sourly.

Huey and Duey had moved into the mews flat opposite him. How they got possession of the place defeated him. It had been a bookmaker’s office; then suddenly, the bookmaker’s sign disappeared, and a pencilled notice informed his patrons he had moved to Park Court, an alley that ran parallel to Grosvenor Mews, and there were Huey and Duey lurking behind the net curtains.

From this vantage point they were able to watch Corridon with the minimum of effort, and he realized that Ritchie’s foresight in establishing Marian as a light-lady was sound. Her weekly visits wouldn’t excite the suspicions of these two: it was the kind of behaviour they would expect of Corridon.

The second evening following Marian’s visit, Corridon discovered his telephone line had been tapped. He was up to every trick of this kind, having tapped dozens of lines himself during his career as an agent. He also discovered that an attempt had been made to enter his flat. But long ago, he had made certain that no one could get in, short of chopping down the door. There were bars, spaced four inches apart, at every window, and a built-in solid lock on the door.

It was probable, he thought, that they had hoped to plant a microphone in the flat, and although he knew they hadn’t been able to force an entry, he took the precaution of searching the place.

It was as well that he did, for he found a small, but highly-sensitive microphone hanging in the chimney in his sitting-room. Some time during the night one of them must have got on to his roof and lowered the microphone into the chimney. He blocked the chimney with an old raincoat, muffling the microphone, but not disturbing it.

The next three days passed slowly. It irritated Corridon to be followed wherever he went. He was careful to do nothing to warn his shadowers he was aware of them. He went about his usual business, spent his time in pubs and in the Soho night-clubs, trying to drum up a commission without success. He was relieved when Sunday came round, and he could call on Lorene.

He took some trouble with his appearance that evening. He put on a tuxedo, and even fussed a little before being satisfied with the set of his tie. Then he stood away from the full-length mirror and surveyed himself.

Reflected in the glass, he saw a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily-built man with a shock of red-brown hair. They had called him Brick-top in the Commandos, and the Germans had known him as the Red Devil. His strength and force of character rather than his looks were his assets. He had a blunt-featured with a square chin, a firm, determined mouth and a slightly crooked, flattish nose. His eyes were grey, turning to sea-green according to his moods. His complexion was beefy and red. He had a reckless, jeering smile that easily infuriated people as he intended it to do, but he had moments of kindness amounting to sentimentality that often irritated him.

Satisfied with his appearance, he slipped on a light overcoat and went downstairs to the front door. The windows of the flat opposite were unlighted, but he guessed one of them was up there, watching him through the dirty net curtains.

He got the M.G. out of the garage, and drove slowly down the mews. When he came into Knightsbridge, he spotted Huey, sitting astride a motorcycle, waiting for him. As he drove past, Huey started the engine and slid into the evening traffic behind him.

Corridon reached 29, Bayswater Crescent a few minutes after seven o’clock. The house was one of a row of tall, flat-faced dwellings, at one time the mansions of wealthy tradesmen, and now converted into flats for the impecunious upper classes.

The open front door led to a forbidding hall, full of heavy Victorian furniture. A broad staircase faced the entrance, and there appeared to be no lift.

Before ascending the stairs, Corridon satisfied himself that Huey had parked his motorcycle at the end of the crescent where he could watch No. 29 without being conspicuous, then he began the long climb.

After negotiating four flights of stairs, he arrived on the top floor a little breathless. Facing him was an apple-green painted door, fitted with a glittering chromium knocker and letter-box flap.

He dug his thumb into the bell push and waited, thinking this was by far the most impressive front door of all the doors he had passed on his way up, and wondered if the flat would be of the same standard of smartness and luxury.

The door opened, and he was a little disconcerted to find Slade Feydak before him.

“Well, come in!” Feydak exclaimed, and grasped Corridon’s hand. “What luck! I was hoping to see you again. How are you?”

Corridon entered the small hall and took off his hat and coat. He said he was well enough, but his expression was sour.

“Isn’t Lorene here?” he asked abruptly.

“Oh, yes. She’s having a bath,” Feydak said, his forced gaiety jarred on Corridon’s nerves. “I’m afraid we have been talking, and didn’t notice the time. But come in; I’ll mix you a martini.”

Corridon followed him into a large room that seemed full of tulips, narcissi and bowls of hyacinths with fat, bristling bells. It was a nice room, airy, light and colourful. There were big settees and lounging chairs done in amber leather. The Bokhara rugs, scattered on the polished parquet floor, were the colour of old wine and had the sheen of silk.

Before the log fire, boxed in by an armchair on one side and a settee on the other, stood a short, square-shouldered man in a dark blue lounge suit. His thin face, the colour of old parchment, reminded Corridon of the death mask of an obscure Chinese Emperor he had once seen in a junk shop. His age could have been anything from fifty to sixty; his narrow black eyes were alert and piercing. His thin, black moustache gave him the air of a man-about-town, and at the same time, somehow suggested the ruthless cruelty of a Tartar.

“This is Martin Corridon,” Feydak was saying. “Mr. Corridon, I would like you to meet the chairman of my firm, Joseph Diestl.”

Diestl moved forward and held out a small, well-manicured hand. The thin smile with which he greeted Corridon didn’t reach his eyes.

“How do you do, Mr. Corridon?” he said. “I have heard a lot about you.”

Now here, Corridon thought, as he shook hands, is a dangerous man. A man not to be trusted and who could easily be the head of this organization. He recognized the force of character, the ruthlessness and the power of leadership that lay behind the thin smile. Comparing Diestl and Feydak was like comparing a tiger to a kitten.

“Nothing bad, I hope,” Corridon said. “People seem to get hold of exaggerated ideas about me.”

“But you admit you are a notorious character?” Diestl said, and waved to the settee. “I have been making inquiries about you. But sit down. I am anxious to talk to you.”

As Feydak came over with a martini, Corridon said, “I didn’t come here to talk business. I was under the impression I was taking Lorene out.”

Feydak smiled brightly.

“Of course, Mr. Corridon. She won’t be long, but in the meantime while we are waiting…” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “We have a dinner engagement ourselves in twenty minutes.”

Corridon shrugged. He sat down and took the martini Feydak offered him.

“Slade told me he had invited you to call at the office,” Diestl said, waving away the martini Feydak was bringing him. “I think he suggested we might have something for you.”

Corridon frowned as if trying to remember.

“Did he? It’s very likely. Lots of people say that sort of thing to me. Usually nothing comes of it.”

“I hoped you would come,” Diestl said. “I wanted to meet you.”

Corridon waved his hand to convey that if Diestl wanted to meet him he now had his wish.

“I keep pretty busy,” he said indifferently.

“But I understand you aren’t doing anything at the moment,” Diestl said in a slightly acid tone.

“At the moment I am enjoying a well-earned rest,” Corridon said.

“But none of us can live on air.” Diestl sat on the arm of the settee, his hands on his knees. “There’s a little job that needs doing. I was wondering if you would be interested?”

“It depends on the job and the remuneration,” Corridon returned. “I warn you my prime concern is to make the minimum effort for the maximum return.”

Diestl studied him; the black, piercing eyes were unfriendly.

“That seems to be the general trend these days. Some people are in the position to demand such terms. You are, of course. The job would take less than an hour and the fee is two hundred and fifty pounds.”

Corridon lit a cigarette before saying, “Sounds all right. What’s the job?”

“Very briefly, Mr. Corridon, I am acting for a client. I might mention this isn’t the first time I have been asked to arrange private matters for my clients. In my business I meet a considerable number of wealthy men and women, and some of them come to me for advice on personal matters.” The thin smile became more acid. “They appear to have confidence in me. Flattering, of course, but at times a nuisance. This man I am talking about is in trouble with a woman. She is blackmailing him. Let us admit right away that he is a fool and a lecher. But unfortunately for him he is also a public figure. The woman holds a number of his letters, and they are very compromising. If they got into the wrong hands, he would be ruined.”

Corridon pursed his lips.

“Surely that’s a job for the police?”

“Oh, no. He won’t go to the police. He has asked me to find someone who will steal the letters from this woman. It wouldn’t be difficult.”

Corridon glanced at Feydak who was standing behind Diestl, silent and effacing. Their eyes met, and Feydak smiled nervously. Why pick on me? Corridon thought. Either Huey or Duey could handle a simple job of breaking into a house and stealing letters. Why me?

“Let’s be frank,” he said, putting down his empty glass. “I don’t know you from Adam. You come out of the blue with this suggestion. How do I know you have a client? How do I know you are not going to use these letters to blackmail this woman? You see my position? I’m being quite frank with you. Before I consider doing this job, you will have to convince me I’m not being used to get these letters for your benefit.”

“I had no idea you were so particular,” Diestl said, with a tight, little sneer. “But I can see your point of view, of course. If it will set your mind at rest, I’ll destroy the letters when you give them to me, and you can see me do it.”

Corridon hesitated. Something warned him not to do this job, but, on the other hand, he guessed this offer might be a test before they asked him to do something connected with the organization. He knew Ritchie would want him to do it, but his own instincts were against it.

He shrugged.

“All right, if you’ll do that, I’m on.”

Feydak, who had been very tense, suddenly relaxed and reached for Corridon’s empty glass.

“We must have a drink on that,” he said, smiling. “I told Diestl you were just the man for the job.”

While he was refilling Corridon’s glass, Diestl said, “Would tomorrow night suit you? I know she will be out very late. She lives alone. You can work entirely undisturbed.”

“Tomorrow night’s all right,” Corridon returned. “Where is the place?”

“That I don’t know. I shall get details and a map of the flat by tomorrow afternoon. Slade will call for you, and drive you there. I understand there’s a Yale lock on the front door. That won’t bother you?”