Petrella at 'Q' (16 page)

On neither occasion did the following of Mr. Adams present any difficulty. He took a bus from the corner, rode out in it to Blackheath where he had a flat in one of the large houses on the heath, went straight in and turned on the television. The watcher, having been told not to make an all-night job of it, left him to it.

Manfred Tillotson got to his feet, moved over to the circular table in the corner, and poured himself out a drink. He put three fingers of brandy into a tumbler and added an equal quantity of dry ginger-ale and a single cube of ice. All his movements were neat and precise.

Carrying the tumbler, he went out of the room, down the hallway to a door at the end, his feet making no noise on the thick grey carpeting on the floor.

It was a bathroom, and there was a girl lying in the bath with her back to the door. Manfred reflected that you could never really judge a girl’s age until she had her clothes off. Dressed in the style she affected, Julie would have passed for sixteen. Undressed, it was clear that she was older, though not, perhaps, very much older.

Hearing the click of the door opening, the girl turned her head.

“You should never lie in a strange bath with your back to the door,” said Manfred. “There was a man called Smith who finished off three wives, just because they were foolish enough to do that.”

The girl blinked at him. She said, “Why did he do it, for God’s sake? And how?”

“Why was for the insurance money. How was by putting one arm under their knees and lifting them. Their heads went under and they drowned.”

“They must have been daft,” said Julie. “If I’d been one of them, do you know what I’d do.” Manfred took a sip from his drink and stood looking down at her. He said, “I’m sure it would be something original.”

“I’d hook out the plug with my foot. All the water would be gone long before I drowned.”

Tillotson said, “I wonder why none of the Mrs. Smiths thought of that. You’d better get dressed, sweetie. My brother’s coming in at six.”

“So what?”

“Samuel doesn’t entirely approve of our arrangements. He says I’m mixing business with pleasure.”

“I could never see what was wrong with that,” said Julie. “But then I’m an old-fashioned girl.”

“I’ll pour you an old-fashioned drink.”

They were both finishing their drinks when Samuel Tillotson came in. He was older and greyer than his brother, but with the same thickness in the neck and body and the same length of arm and breadth of shoulder. Julie was more afraid of him than of Manny. She finished her drink quickly and said, “Well, I’ll be off.”

Samuel followed her out in silence, shut the front door behind her and came back into the room.

“Don’t say it,” said Manfred.

“Don’t say what?” said Samuel.

“That it’s a mistake to mix business and pleasure. What will you take?”

“A small whisky and water. With that girl, it might be. You know how she came to us?”

“Through Ma Dalby.”

“Right. She arrives from Liverpool. Young and broke. Ma Dalby picks her up. Boards and lodges her. And offers her the usual line of employment.”

“Which she accepts.”

“For a time. Until it occurs to Ma that she’s an intelligent girl. A cut above the average runaway. And happens to have taken a secretarial course in her last year at school. So she offers her to us.”

“Where she has given great satisfaction.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Samuel. “More water, if you don’t mind. Satisfaction in the office. Satisfaction in the home.”

“Then what are you beefing about?”

Samuel Tillotson tasted his drink again, found it to his satisfaction, and swallowed a mouthful. Then he said, “You know Ma’s routine. She likes to know the real name and real address of her girls. They always give her false ones at first, but she has ways of finding out. With Julie it was easy. She had a suitcase with a twopenny lock. As soon as she was out of the house Ma had it open. There was a packet of letters. From an ex-boyfriend. She thought it must have been an ex-boyfriend. Some of them were quite—intimate.”

“So what,” said Manfred. “Girls carry things like that about with them.”

Samuel didn’t seem to hear him. He was gazing into the heart of his drink. Swirling it round gently and peering at it, as though it had some secret he could unlock. He said, “The letters were all handwritten. One of them was still in its envelope. The name and address on the envelope were typed and the envelope had been torn open so roughly that the stamp and postmark and part of the girl’s name were gone. But the address was there. 138 Colefax Road, Liverpool. Ma made a note of it before she put the letter back.”

“Well?”

“There is a Colefax Road in Liverpool. But there is no number 138. The numbers go no higher than ninety.”

Manfred thought about it. He said, “It doesn’t prove anything. Julie would know that Ma liked to have their names and addresses. The other girls would have told her. So she faked up the envelope. Right?”

“That’s what I mean by the dangers of mixing business and pleasure,” said Samuel. “You’re saying that because you want her to be what she says she is. A little Liverpudlian, hungry for money and sex. I can think more dispassionately about her.”

“And what does your dispassionate thinking tell you?”

“It tells me that we are up against some very clever people. And it tells me that, with our plans for the fourteenth, this isn’t a time when we can afford to be careless. She must be watched.”

“I don’t mind her being watched. But nothing must be done to her until I am convinced.”

Samuel pinched his brother affectionately in the muscles of his forearm. He said, “Dear Manny, no step shall be taken until we are unanimous. As always.”

On Thursday evening a wind of near gale force, non-stop from Siberia, was hitting the East End of London, slinging bucketfuls of frozen rain horizontally down the street. Milo Roughead had put on two extra pullovers and brought with him an oilskin coat borrowed from a boating friend.

“Nasty night to be out in,” said Mr. Grandlund. “I’ll get you a cupper. Warm the inner man.”

Milo was half-way through the cup of tea when he put it down, snatched up his coat and bolted down the stairs. Mr. Adams was on the move.

He was battling down the street, head lowered against the wind. He passed the bus stop. His objective turned out to be the Underground station. Milo gave him fifty yards, then followed him, in time to see him disappearing down the moving staircase. He bought himself a ticket to the end of the Northern Line. The station was an old-fashioned one, with emergency stairs. Milo went down them fast. He could hear a train coming. He reached the platform in time to see Mr. Adams get in, two carriages farther up. This suited him well. He jumped in after him. The train was on the Bank switch and was nearly empty. They had reached Essex Road before Mr. Adams moved. Fortunately three other people got out with him. They all travelled up in the lift together. When they reached the street, Mr. Adams and the three other men turned right. Milo turned left and walked away from them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Adams cross the New North Road and make off up Northampton Street. He reversed smartly and followed.

The weather helped. It was the sort of night in which a pedestrian kept his head down and ploughed steadily forward without much regard to what was happening around him. It was quite a long walk, up Alwyne Road and Willow Road, then left again. His knowledge of London geography told Milo that they must be getting close to Canonbury, that much bombed area which had blossomed into fashion after the war, and was now full of tarted-up Georgian houses and blocks of new and expensive flats.

“He can’t be walking for pleasure,” said Milo to his sodden feet. “Must be getting somewhere soon.” At this moment Mr. Adams turned to his left up a shallow flight of steps and disappeared into the building.

Milo slowed down, wiped some of the rain out of his eyes and read, above the doorway, in golden letters, “Basildon Mansions”.

What now?

There was no sign of the porter. Presumably he was down in his own snug basement with his nose glued to the television and a glass of something in his hand, lucky sod.

Through the glass of the swing door, Milo could see a board with the numbers of the flats and the names of their occupants. There were twelve flats, starting with la and lb on the ground floor and running up to 6a and 6b. It was clearly out of the question to knock on twelve different doors and if he waited in the hall he was going to be much too conspicuous when Mr. Adams finished his business and came out. On the other hand, having followed him so far he wanted to finish the job. The flats were new and expensive; too expensive for the sort of income earned by a cashier in a firm of estate agents.

A thought occurred to him. He walked across and inspected the lift. The tell-tale evidence above the gate showed that the last person to use it had taken it up to the fourth floor. This was interesting, but not conclusive. If Mr. Adams had been making for a flat on the ground floor, or even possibly on the first floor, he might not have used the lift at all.

Milo had a further thought. Each of the flats clearly ran the whole way from the front to the back of the building, one on either side of the central hallway. It was a fair bet that the main living-room would be in front, overlooking the street, with the bedrooms at the back. He turned up the collar of his coat and went out again. The front door of an office building opposite afforded a certain amount of shelter. Milo started to count windows. The top two floors were unlighted. Below that a light showed on the left but not the right. That must be 4a. On the next floor down both sides were black. 2b on the right showed lights, but not 2a.

It was at this point in his observations that Milo realised that he was not alone. Three men were closing in on him, one from either side coming slowly, blocking escape; the third coming straight at him and coming fast.

He had very little time to think. Groping behind he felt for the handle of the door. It was not that he expected it to be open. He wanted something to give him purchase. As the man in the centre launched himself at him he half turned, holding on to the big handle, and kicked. His foot landed low down in the man’s stomach. The man gave a sharp gasp, more anger than pain, and folded forward. Milo hurdled his body and made for the doorway of Basildon Mansions. As he reached it, the door opened and a very large woman came out. She was wearing a fur coat and a fur hat, and was attached to a small furry animal. Milo slid past her, kicking the animal as he did so. The woman said, “Really—” and at that moment received the full impact of the first of his pursuers.

By this time Milo was inside the lift and had latched the outer grid. There were two men in the hall. The front one was doing what looked like a slow waltz with a grizzly bear. The second was trying to get past. Milo pressed button number 6. As the inner door slid shut he noted both his opponents making for the stairs.

By the time the lift reached the top floor Milo had done some thinking. Much depended on whether he had put number three out of action. If he had, the simplest plan would be to take the lift down again and bolt for the street. But he rather doubted it. Number three, he guessed, was no worse than winded. If he was now guarding the front hall, he could certainly block him until the other two got down. And since it was clear that they knew he could identify them, and were prepared to risk it, this led to a conclusion which was far from comfortable. What he wanted was a place of refuge with a telephone and a more reliable witness than the woman in the fur coat. He had an idea where he might find all three, but it was going to need luck and split-second timing.

He waited, with the inner door of the lift open and the grid shut until the leading pursuer reached the top landing. It was, as he had thought, Len Mason and he guessed that the second one was his brother Chris. Milo was glad to see that both of them had bellows to mind. As they reached the lift, he pressed button number 2.

Flat 2b, which had been showing a light, was the flat on the opposite side of the landing. As soon as the lift had stopped, Milo wrenched open the grid, dived across, and leaned on the bell.

He could hear the men clattering down the stairs. Also footsteps inside the flat. It was going to be a very close thing.

The door of the flat opened. Milo leaped inside, slammed it behind him and fixed the chain on the door. The occupier of flat 2b was a thin elderly man with silver-grey hair and a placid expression.

He said, “Is somebody chasing you?”

There was a thud on the front door.

Milo said, “I’m afraid that’s right, sir.”

“Do you think they are going to break down my door?”

“I think they’ll try,” said Milo. “Have you got a telephone?”

“I have a telephone,” said the grey-haired man, “but I fear it is not operative. It has been out of order for a week. The Post Office allege that they are short of staff.”

The assault on the door was increasing in fury. The men seemed to have got hold of some sort of battering ram and were smashing it against the wooden panels.

“They’ll have the whole door down in a minute,” said Milo. “Have you got a back entrance?”

“I have,” said the man, “but I have no intention of using it. I intend to defend my domicile.”

“I admire your spirit,” said Milo, “but these are violent men.”

“Then we are entitled to adopt correspondingly violent measures. One moment.” He went into the nearest room and reappeared holding a pair of very large old-fashioned pistols.

“I keep them loaded and primed,” said the man.

“Have you got a licence for them?”

“Quite unnecessary. They are genuine antiques. See Section 14 of the Firearms Act”

The top part of the door disintegrated and the head and shoulders of Chris Mason appeared. The grey-haired man said, “I was a magistrate for many years in India and I always held to the view that the law allowed a man to employ a
reasonable
amount of force in countering an unprovoked attack. I am told, by the way, that this weapon throws high.”