Death Ray (10 page)

She stubbed out her cigarette and took a deep breath. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Finn.’

She leaned forward and kissed me on my cheek. ‘Thank you, Finn.’

I felt my cheeks redden.

She smiled. ‘OK. What about him?’ she said, stiffening and jerking a thumb in the direction of the waiter.

‘Good question. Is there a phone in this hotel?’ I asked.

‘Yes. There’s a kiosk in the lobby. Why?’

‘I’m going to call and request some assistance. I expect my commanding officer will enjoy interrogating him.’

As I got up from my chair, she grabbed my arm. ‘Be careful what you say on the telephone, Finn. The operators have a nasty habit of eavesdropping.’

At the bottom of the hotel staircase I sneaked a look into the lobby to locate the telephone kiosk and see whether the awkward man was still in reception. Luckily he was engrossed with a customer. I shot across the lobby and into the kiosk, closing the sliding door behind me. I took out the piece of paper with Brigadier Devlin’s telephone number on it and picked up the handset.

‘Which number please?’ chirped a voice on the other end of the line.

‘Beaulieu five-one-five-four, please.’

‘Thank you. I’ll try to connect you.’

The wait seemed endless. Come on,
come on
! I thought. Pick up the phone.

‘I’m sorry for the delay,’ the operator said. ‘Still trying to connect you.’

‘Hello?’ It was Walker.

Finally!

‘It’s Finn,’ I said.

‘Is there a problem?’

‘
Yes!
’ I hesitated. How could I explain everything
without
letting the operator – who I assumed was eavesdropping – hear it all. I had an idea. ‘Is Nils there?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Wait.’

Nils came onto the line. ‘Finn?’

I switched to Norwegian and spoke quickly. ‘We’ve got a big problem,’ I said. I told him where I was, that Véronique’s cover had been blown and an attempt made on her life, that one of Renard’s men was tied up in a hotel room awaiting collection by the brigadier, and that Véronique was presently getting ready to confront Renard at the Pavilion dance.

‘Good Lord, Finn! And what about Loki and Freya?’ he asked.

‘They followed Renard. He’s gone to the Flamingo Club. To do a spot of business – maybe to make arrangements or hand over the blueprints. I’m heading there as soon as we’ve finished talking.’

‘Not so fast, Finn. Hang on a minute while I speak to the brigadier.’

I sat in the tiny, cramped, stuffy kiosk that reeked of wax polish for what felt like a lifetime.

‘Finn?’ Nils said, returning to the phone. ‘Listen carefully,’ he said, still in Norwegian. ‘We’re on our way. Best thing for you to do is locate Loki and Freya and then sit tight. Back off. No more heroics. The situation is far too dangerous. And Véronique must stay put. The brigadier’s orders are that under no circumstances should she confront Renard before we arrive. Is that clear? Under no circumstances! Make sure she
understands
. It’s best Renard thinks the attempt on her life was successful. OK?’

‘Understood.’

‘Great. We’ll meet you outside the Pavilion dance hall at about eight o’clock. Well done, Finn. Sounds like quite an adventure.’

He hung up.

I raced back upstairs. Reaching the end of the fifth-floor corridor, about to knock, I realized the door to Véronique’s room stood slightly ajar. I remembered that I’d closed it behind me. I definitely closed it! Through the gap I saw something that sent a chill through my bones. Where was the waiter? He wasn’t where I’d left him. ‘
Véronique?
’ I whispered. ‘Is everything all right?’

SOMETHING WAS VERY
wrong. I just knew it. Reaching into my coat pocket, I removed the waiter’s revolver and held it tightly. Was our weapons training about to be put to the test? This situation was real, and it felt totally different from our practice sessions taking pot shots at makeshift targets in the woods behind Mulberry House. No amount of training can prepare you for the awful sense of trepidation in your belly. I gathered my thoughts and tried to calm myself. After all, I’d been in tight corners before. And good old Smithy had prepared us for exactly this situation – close combat in confined spaces. He’d called it
instinctive firing
. Basically, you forget about taking careful aim. Simply point and shoot – two quick shots. At close range it works because it’s fast – hopefully faster than the enemy. That’s all that matters. I took a deep breath, moved to one side of the door, then kicked it open with my foot and glanced in. Maybe my imagination was running wild. Maybe I was being stupid. Perhaps I had forgotten to close the door, after all. ‘Véronique?’

No reply. There was nothing for it. Counting to three quickly under my breath, I leaped into the room and spun around, trying to look in all directions at once. I saw a gun pointing at me. I fired twice. Two dull pops
emerged
from my silencer, followed by little wafts of smoke. The large mirror on the wall shattered. I’d shot my own reflection!

Regaining my composure, I realized the room was empty. The door to the bathroom, however, was open. ‘Véronique? You in there?’

Still no reply. Cautiously I stepped forward, my brain full of frightful visions of what might lie inside the bathroom. Maybe the waiter was in there, his arm tightly gripped about her neck. Perhaps he’d drowned her in the bath! Holding my gun in front of me, I couldn’t stop my hand from shaking. ‘Véronique?’ My voice quivered.

Holding my breath, I shoved the door open hard, so it swung right back on its hinges and would smack anyone hiding behind it. It crashed against the wall and slowly returned towards me. I stepped inside. There was no sign of Véronique or the waiter. Totally baffled, I moved back into the bedroom. I sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched my head. What had happened? Where were they? I’d not seen them pass me in the lobby. Had they taken the lift while I’d used the stairs? Had they gone out a back way? None of it made any sense. Then I had a horrible thought.
A really awful thought
. What if the waiter had regained consciousness while I’d been talking to Véronique? What if he’d overheard everything, managed to wriggle free and overpower her? I’d mentioned that others were following Renard – Loki and Freya! If I were the waiter, I’d be rushing to warn Renard, and
that
meant Loki and Freya were in great danger. I’d had to find them – fast.

Leaving the hotel, I walked briskly in the direction of the square. According to Véronique the Flamingo Club was situated on the other side of town. Keeping one hand inside my coat pocket, I was conscious that my grip on the handle of the revolver was tight, and that my palm was sweaty. I wanted to run as fast as I could, but knew that could be a big mistake. People would be suspicious of someone running. It was best to walk confidently and with purpose, to look like you knew where you’re going. At the same time I wanted to keep an eye out for Véronique and the waiter. For all I knew he may have been waiting outside the hotel, intent on seeking revenge. The urge to keep looking over my shoulder was powerful. But I remembered what Jacques had said during our lessons at Mulberry –
Keep your head still and move your eyes. Don’t under any circumstances peer over your shoulder – it’s a real giveaway
. The last thing I wanted was to draw attention to myself. So, shining my torch onto the pavement, I headed across town, dreading a tap on my shoulder or an arm being wrapped about my neck from behind – an arm covered in coiled serpents, belonging to a man with a thumping headache and with a huge grudge against the person who gave it to him!

It began to rain, gently at first, but it soon became a deluge, giving me the perfect excuse to run the last few hundred yards. I turned a corner and entered a quiet
side
street. If Véronique’s directions were correct, somewhere on the left-hand side was the Flamingo Club. Dodging the puddles, I walked slowly along, looking and listening carefully. Where the hell was it? Hearing voices behind me, I spun round.

Two men in army uniform staggered out of an alley. They were drunk and boisterous, their hats perched on their heads at precarious angles, their coats unbuttoned. They pushed past me, one giving me a fuzzy look, the other barely noticing my existence. ‘The Flamingo Club?’ I asked hopefully. One of them turned, almost falling over in the process, and waved a hand in the general direction of the alley. ‘Thanks,’ I said. They went on their way, singing at the tops of their voices.

Rain poured from broken gutters, splashing down on abandoned crates. The alley smelled of cat pee and I thought I heard rats scratching in the darkness. There were other noises too. They sounded like the vibrating, hollow notes of a double bass being plucked and the sharp tinny slap of cymbal against cymbal. A faint glow leaked out from beneath a shabby wooden door. As I approached the music grew louder. I turned the handle and entered.

Inside I was greeted by a dimly lit narrow hallway, staircases leading both up and down and a small counter, behind which sat a rather plump woman dressed in a hideous but revealing purple dress. Her make-up was so thick it looked as though it had been applied with a shovel, and a cigarette dangled from her lips. ‘What
can
I do for you, young man?’ she asked, her voice unnaturally deep and gravelly.

‘Is this the Flamingo Club?’

‘Downstairs,’ she replied.

I looked and saw that an arrow painted on the grubby wall helpfully pointed towards the basement. ‘Thanks!’

Placing my foot on the first step, the woman barked, ‘And where the hell do you think you’re going?’

‘You said the club was downstairs.’

‘You’re too young. More than my job’s worth. If we get raided I’ll be in the soup again.’

‘
Soup?
’

‘Never mind. Now hop it.’

‘Hop it?’

She frowned at me. ‘Are you as stupid as you look?’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’ll only be a minute. I’ve got a message for a friend. And he’s downstairs. Asked me to meet him here.’

‘Really? If that’s true, then my name’s Vera Lynn!’

Where had I heard that name before …? Then I remembered. The wireless at Mulberry. Mrs Saunders loved to sing along to tunes, and Vera Lynn was one of her favourites. ‘Nice to meet you, Vera,’ I said jokingly.

She laughed. Actually, it was more of a cackle that rapidly deteriorated into a splutter, then a hacking cough that reddened her cheeks and had her reaching for a tissue. ‘You a comedian?’

‘No.’

‘Sorry, but like I said, it’s more than my job’s worth.’

I took out my wallet and removed the crisp one-pound note we’d been issued with in case of emergencies. I folded it and placed it down in front of her. I could almost see her drooling. ‘It really is important,’ I said.

She hummed and hawed a minute and then reached out and snatched up the money, quickly making it disappear by wedging it down her ample cleavage. ‘Who’s this
friend
?’ she asked.

‘I expect you know him,’ I said. ‘He’s a regular here. Mr Mouton. Félix.’

Her eyes lit up. ‘Félix! Why didn’t you say so? You could have saved yourself a lot of money. Go ahead.’

I considered asking for my money back but decided against it. I sped down the stairs and through another door, entering the heart of the candlelit Flamingo Club. In one corner a jazz quartet thumbed, strummed and bashed out crazy improvised rhythms amid a haze of cigarette and cigar smoke. Couples danced in a small area in front of them. There was a bar, tables and chairs dotted about, and snug-looking booths down one wall. The place was packed. Many people were in uniform, others in civvies, a good few in evening dress. The party-goers were a smart crowd, just like Renard, although the surroundings appeared far less salubrious. I’d never felt so out of place in my life. I cast my eyes about the room in search of Loki and Freya. There was no sign of them, but the place was so crowded they could well have been hidden from view. I couldn’t see Renard either, or Véronique, or the waiter. I noticed the barman peer at me curiously. I couldn’t loiter. I had an idea and headed
towards
him. ‘I’ve got a message,’ I called out over the hubbub. ‘For Mr Mouton.’

He studied my face for a moment and then beckoned me forward to within earshot. ‘You can give it to me. I’ll see he gets it.’

‘Sorry. I have to deliver it personally. Is he here?’

The barman responded by nodding towards a door at the rear of the club. ‘Mr Mouton doesn’t like being disturbed. Best if you wait out here.’

‘Oh, I see. Thanks.’

He leaned forward again. ‘Want a drink?’

‘Sorry. No money,’ I replied.

He took pity on me. ‘Have it on the house. What’ll it be?’

I peered at all the bottles lined up on shelves behind the bar. Most I didn’t recognize. ‘Whisky?’ I said hopefully, fully expecting the barman to refuse.

He snatched up a tiny glass and reached for a bottle. He poured me a shot. I couldn’t believe it. ‘There you go.’

‘Thanks!’ It was the first drink I’d ever ordered in a bar. Clutching it, I wandered around the club, soaking up the rhythm, breathing the thick, smoky air, listening to the high-spirited laughter and chatter while doing my best not to bump into the revellers. I like this place, I thought. It buzzed, it breathed, it had life. Of course, it was all rather shabby and seedy, but I felt a million miles away from wartime Britain and its self-imposed austerity. Someone grabbed my arm. I jumped out of my skin, spilling half my drink.

‘Finn! What are you doing here?’

It was Loki. He and Freya were huddled in one of the cosy booths. I squeezed in beside them and filled them in on all that had happened.

‘Jesus!’ said Loki, wide-eyed with astonishment. He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s after seven.’ Then he pointed across the club. ‘Renard disappeared out the back ages ago; through that door. We’ve been waiting here ever since.’

Freya leaned across. ‘And we haven’t seen Véronique, Finn. Or the waiter from the Cadenza.’