Larren gripped the smaller man’s hand and found the tightening fingers surprisingly strong. Smith finally relaxed his grip, picked up his umbrella and briefcase, and walked away. He looked very plain and commonplace as he re-crossed the Serpentine Bridge and vanished down the road that ran along the bank of the lake. He had to circle round a group of youths coming towards him and one of them called out something sarcastic as he passed. Smith did not even glance round.

  It was early in the evening when Larren returned to his rooms in Rushlake Terrace. There was still an air of grandeur about the tall, white-faced buildings with their high doorways and broad steps; a trace of Victorian hauteur, as though they were striving to conceal the fact that their once grand rooms had been transformed into the commonplace flats more suited to present-day living. There was no traffic in the street, although a distant murmur could be heard from the direction of Baker Street, not too far away.

  Larren went up the four broad steps to number twelve and through the glass-fronted door to the wide hall. He moved swiftly up the staircase to the second floor, not wanting to be caught by more neighbours offering consolations for his loss. He had been through that ordeal once today when he had called in for a change of clothing before keeping his appointment with Smith.

  He turned along the narrow corridor at the top of the landing and fumbled in his pocket for his key. He inserted it in the lock of his door and twisted. There was no resistance.

  Larren stopped dead. He was certain that he had locked that door before leaving. But now it was unlocked.

  He took his hand away from the key and listened. There was no sound from inside the room. He wondered whether there was anyone inside there now? Whether that slight scraping as he had pushed his key into the lock had been heard?

  There was only one way to find out. He backed away silently and turned a corner in the corridor towards the back of the house. The end of the corridor let on to the fire escape and he let himself out carefully. Standing on the fire escape he could see the window of the bedroom he had shared with Andrea only a few yards away.

  He smoothed his hands along his thighs to take away the dampness from his palms, a characteristic gesture whenever he was contemplating action of any kind. Then he climbed carefully on to the iron rail nearest the wall, digging his fingers into the cracks between the brickwork to haul himself up. He stood there for a moment to take in his position. He was leaning in to the wall with a fifteen-foot drop to the concrete yard below him. Just above the level of his head and now only a yard and a half to his left was the sill of the window he wanted to reach.

  He edged a couple of inches to his left where the rail began to slope sharply down to ground level, and began stretching towards the windowsill. He had both palms flat against the wall as he leaned his body over. He passed the point of balance and let his body continue to fall outwards. His left hand contacted the windowsill and he let his feet swing out into space. For a second he hung there with one hand, his fingers slipping on the hard stone. Then he lunged up with his other hand to take a firmer grip.

  Slowly his muscles tightened as he drew himself up. His eyes reached a level with the bottom of the window, and he stayed there for several seconds, scrutinizing the bedroom. It was empty.

  He had lowered the top half of the window that morning in order to air the room, and now he had only to get a grip on the bottom half of the window frame, the top edge of which was still almost two feet above him. He braced his arms again, leaning his head and shoulders inwards as he pushed himself upright. He hooked his chin over the window and held himself there for the brief instant it took to transfer the grip of one hand. Seconds later he was standing inside the room.

  He moved silently across the deep carpet and halted by the door. He could hear nothing and wondered whether all his acrobatics had been in vain. It was quite likely that whoever had unlocked his door had left long ago.

  However he was still taking no chances. He inched the door open slowly, then pushed it wide and stepped straight through and to one side.

  He made the move silently and then stopped. There were two large comfortable armchairs in the room, both of which were normally pushed up against the walls. Now one of them had been twisted round to face the outer door to the corridor. A thin curl of pale blue smoke was drifting up from it, but so far the occupant was still hidden in its depths.

  Larren made no sound on the carpet as he moved towards the chair. He stretched out both hands and seized the high back, heaving backwards and then jumping clear as the chair crashed over.

  There was a high female shriek that echoed above the crash, and a momentary vision of black lace underwear, and long slim legs flailing in the air. A high-heeled shoe flew past his head and almost took his eye out. For the moment Larren could only stand and stare.

  The echoes died away and the young woman gasped and groaned audibly, struggling weakly on her back. Bright blue eyes glared at Larren in savage anger. She made a futile effort to get her skirt to stay up over her knees, but as she was still practically upside down it was impossible. She finally let the skirt drop back to her waist and let her hands fall to her sides.

  Regaining some of her breath she said acidly. “Well, when you’ve finished gaping at my underwear, you might help me up.”

  “I might,” Larren responded evenly. “But before I do, you might tell me who you are and what you’re doing here?”

  She stopped her struggles and made an effort at relaxing. “The name is Christina Bruce, and I’m here because I want to talk to you. Now let me salvage some of my dignity and get up.”

  Larren grinned. “You look better from this angle.”

  Christina Bruce let out something between a snort and a hiss and made one titanic effort to twist herself over and clamber to her knees. Calmly Larren planted his hands just beneath her armpits and lifted her upright. She twisted instantly out of his reach, swinging round to face him.

  She was something like five feet six tall and Larren judged her to be somewhere in her twenties. She was wearing a wide blue skirt, and a blouse of paler blue that was stretched to its limit. At the moment the blouse was taking more strain than it had ever been intended to. She had long blonde hair and her blue eyes, with their glistening black lashes, were still fiercely angry.

  “Do you always welcome guests by throwing them over the floor?” she demanded.

  “I do when they’re uninvited. How did you get in anyway? I know I locked that door.”

  “Your landlady downstairs has another key. When I asked her when she expected you back she let me in and told me I could wait.”

  Larren frowned. “Mrs. Morgan is too damned trusting. I’ll have to have a word with her.”

  Christina favoured him with another glare. “Hadn’t you better check up on the family jewels, just in case I’ve been helping myself?”

  “I’m sorry,” Larren tried to make amends. “I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that somebody tried to operate on me with a sten gun a few days ago, it’s made me a little distrustful of strangers.”

  The glare faded a little. “Of course, I — I read about it in the papers. I’m sorry about your wife.”

  Larren drew a deep breath. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here?”

  She looked away and smoothed her skirt down self-consciously. “I wanted to talk to you, about — about that night. You see, I knew Tim Carter very well. I was going to marry him.”

  Larren was silent. For want of something to do he righted the armchair and pushed it back against the wall. His eye found the shoe she had lost when he tipped her over and he held it out to her. He said slowly, “I guess I know how you feel. Will you accept an apology for the reception I gave you?”

  She nodded. “I suppose so. Being shot at like that must make you pretty suspicious.” She looked up. “How did you get in anyway?”

  “Via the window.” He turned away while she replaced her shoe and moved over to a glass-fronted cabinet by the wall. “Will you take a drink?” he asked. “Just to show there’s no ill feelings.”

  She smiled. “I could use a small brandy.”

  Larren selected a couple of bottles from the row in the cabinet and poured a brandy and a whisky. Handing her one glass he drained the other himself. He refilled the glass again and said quietly. “Let’s sit. I promise I won’t tip you out again.”

  She laughed, seating herself in the armchair and crossing her legs above the knees. The movement showed off the smooth roundness of her thigh above the top of her stocking, but she didn’t seem to notice. Larren made a half-hearted attempt to pretend that he hadn’t noticed either as he pulled up a second chair opposite her.

  He said, “Suppose you tell me about yourself — and Carter?”

  She looked down at her glass. “There’s not a lot to tell. I met Tim several months ago. He was a nice guy and I saw a lot of him. Then a few weeks ago he asked me to marry him. The next thing I knew he was off on another of his trips abroad. He was a representative for some big textile firm, he never did say which one. I had a card from him one day, from Madrid, and then the next morning I read in the paper that he was dead.”

  Larren made no comment and she went on slowly. “I wanted to find out more about what happened, what he was doing there in Paris. So, when I read that you had returned to England I looked up your address in the phone book and came here.” Her eyes searched Larren’s face. “What did happen?”

  “It was all in the papers. There was nothing else.”

  “Did he — did he say anything before he died?”

  Larren held her gaze steadily. “I’m afraid not. He died instantly.”

  She looked away. “I see. I thought he might have said something for me. Something — Oh, I don’t know. I just wanted to talk about him. Find out what he said, what he was doing before he died.”

  Larren said quietly. “We were only with him for a few minutes. We didn’t get time to ask him anything, and he didn’t have time to tell us much. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it was.”

  Christina drank her brandy and stood up. “Maybe I shouldn’t have troubled you. I just felt that I had to come. You see, I couldn’t even get to his funeral. I had to do something, I couldn’t just forget him. This was the only thing I could think of.”

  “I understand. I only wish there was something I could say to help you.”

  Christina’s eyes were misty. “I’d better go now, thanks for listening to me.”

  Larren led her to the door. He said again, “I wish I could help you.”

  She gave him a strained smile and then turned and hurried away. She didn’t look back.

  Larren returned to his room and leaned thoughtfully against the door for a moment. Then at last he moved over to the inlaid bureau that stood in one corner of the room and carefully checked through all the compartments. Everything was just as he remembered leaving it. Frowning he went into the bedroom and checked the drawers in the dressing table. Again there were no signs of interference.

  He returned to the main room, still baffled, wondering what it was that caused him to doubt the validity of Christina Bruce’s story.

  Then he remembered. She had specifically asked if Carter had passed on any message before he died. And Carter had tried to say something in those last few seconds. Was it possible that someone else had observed Carter’s death from some place of hiding? The Algerian who had got away for instance. And was it also possible that Christina Bruce had been sent to find out what those last words were?

  CHAPTER 4: MEET THE REDHEAD

  Larren poured himself a third whisky and spent the next half hour in alternately drinking and trying to decide whether there had been some ulterior motive behind Christina’s visit. It suddenly dawned on him that he had made no attempt to find out where she lived or how he could contact her again, and he cursed himself in disgust. Plainly he had been out of the game much too long.

  In an effort to redeem himself he pulled out the file that Smith had given him on Anton Vargo and began to study it. On top was the photograph, which showed Vargo to be a dark-featured man with thinning hair and almost black eyes. His looks must have once been a match for any Italian tenor in the business, but now they were older and too hard and strained. Below the photograph was a physical description; age, forty five, height, five feet eight inches, build, thickset, a mere list of figures.

  The remaining sheets gave an account of his life story, or at least the little that was known. The last three pages were a condensed version of Tim Carter’s reports; it seemed that Carter had been watching him for several weeks. Vargo’s movements had been nothing to arouse suspicion until he had flown to Madrid and then instantly doubled back across Europe. Obviously Vargo was contacting someone in Paris, hence the attempt to cover his tracks, but there the trail had ended when Carter died.

  There was a final page detailing Vargo’s habits, his favourite haunts, the clubs and restaurants he used, and the number of his flat in Anglia Mews, Kensington. There was also a complete list of his friends and acquaintances. They were few, and noticeably no women. Then there was a final note to say that Vargo was back in London, having arrived via Iberia Spanish airlines from Madrid the previous afternoon. It seemed that Vargo was still making a pretence at covering his trail.

  Larren read the whole file through three times and studied the photograph for several minutes. Satisfied at last he found a notebook and a pen and filled several pages with a peculiar shorthand of his own that not even a code expert would have been able to decipher. He added the few addresses in the same unintelligible manner and then read the original through for the last time.

  When he had finished he carried the file into the bathroom and held it over the toilet while he snapped his cigarette lighter near one edge. The paper blazed swiftly and crumpled to ashes between his fingers. He coughed as the smoke swirled up into his lungs and then dropped the remains into the pan and flushed them away.

  He returned to the living-room and hesitated over the whisky before putting it away. He had been relying too much upon the whisky bottle since Andrea died.

  Far too much for what he intended to do tonight.

  He stared about him for a moment and then moved into the bedroom. Grimly he closed the window, just in case anyone else decided to use his own method of entry. Then he turned back to the tall wardrobe and pulled it open. From the back of the wardrobe he took the only souvenir he had ever kept of his wartime days with S.O.E., a heavy sheath knife with a six-inch blade.

  He took off his jacket and slit the bottom of the inside pocket so that the knife blade could hang unnoticed between the coat and the lining. Then he found Andrea’s sewing box and stitched the sheath inside the pocket. When he put the jacket on again his workmanship was invisible and the only difference was the slight weight of the knife against his right breast.

  He replaced the sewing box and stood for a moment by his wife’s dressing table. A photograph of Andrea smiled up at him, a portrait that had caught the red lights in her auburn hair. Her face seemed strangely alive and he could feel a tightening constriction in his chest as he looked down at her. He swallowed hard once, and then turned angrily out of the room.

  It was getting dusk when Larren drove his sleek MG sports through Kensington and turned into Anglia Mews. The street lamps were already lit and the shadows were massing thickly beyond the range of their glow. Larren drove slowly through the mews and studied Vargo’s flat as he passed. There were no lights, and no sign of life.

  Larren turned into the next street and parked the sports tight against the kerb. He climbed out from behind the low wheel and flexed his muscles tentatively. There was no one in sight as he walked away.

  He found what he was looking for three minutes later, a dark ill-lit road that ran along the back of the Mews. He followed it cautiously. The Mews were obviously very old buildings, and now what had once been stables behind them had been transformed into garages for modern cars. Larren found the one behind number five, Vargo’s, and stopped.

  There was not a soul in sight and he moved closer to inspect the garage. It was partly open and there was no sign of a car. In the gloom, however, he could just make out a gleam of oil on the floor that proved that a vehicle of some kind was normally housed there. The signs indicated that Anton Vargo was out.

  Larren hesitated as he looked up at the back window of the building above the roof of the garage. If Vargo was out, then this was the time to search his belongings. It was doubtful whether an agent as well trained as Vargo would leave anything incriminating where it could be found. But there was always a chance that the man might slip up. Besides, he had to start somewhere, and he knew that he was capable of going through Vargo’s flat without leaving any trace of his presence.

  He made up his mind quickly and jumped up to catch the edge of the garage roof with his hands. The last sixteen years of rough living had left him almost as fit and agile as when he had been dropped into occupied Holland, and he pulled himself on to the roof with no difficulty at all.

  Swiftly he moved across the roof and flattened himself in the shadows of the wall just beside the window. Perfectly motionless he strained to catch the slightest sound from inside. There was nothing.

  The top of the window was open by about three inches and he pulled it down slowly. The cords were well oiled and it came down without a sound. Equally silently he slipped through the window and waited inside for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.

  He could just make out the dim shape of a bed to his left and he moved round it cautiously. He found the wall with his hands and began feeling for a door that would let him out on to the landing. Behind him the curtains sighed in the breeze from the open window.

  He found the door and opened it slowly. He stood tensed then, listening for any sounds from below before exploring farther. There was nothing from below, but quite suddenly he heard a movement from behind, a gentle creak as though somebody had stirred on the bed. He moved like a cat, wheeling round in the same instant that the light clicked on.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19