Why Pick On ME? Page 8

  Corridon came in again. A left-hand punch caught him on the side of his head, and the following right whizzed over his shoulder as he ducked to avoid it. He clouted Huey in the ribs with a left and a right before moving out of range.

  Huey didn’t like those punches. His grin went and he snarled at Corridon.

  Corridon knew it was dangerous to come in against a man with a punch like Huey’s, but he couldn’t afford to waste time sparring for an opening. He feinted with his left, weaved back as Huey’s right hand sailed towards him, then caught Huey with a solid right-hand punch on the side of his neck. Huey staggered and dropped his hands. Corridon jumped in and hit him hard on his jaw. Instinctively Huey raised his shoulder and took some of the steam out of the punch, but Corridon knew he was hurt, and moving in, he recklessly allowed Huey to grab him. It was like being grabbed by a bear.

  Huey’s great arms encircled Corridon’s ribs, and he felt them creak under the pressure. He shoved the palm of his hand under Huey’s chin and forced his head back. For a long moment the two men strained against each other, but Corridon had the extra leverage, and Huey had to release his grip. As he staggered back, Corridon slammed him on the point of his jaw. Huey fell forward on hands and knees, rolled over, and was trying desperately to get to his feet as Corridon sprang to the door.

  But the delay had been fatal. Corning up the steps at a run were four flat-capped policemen.

  Without stopping in his rush, Corridon whirled round, jumped over Huey’s bunched-up body and threw himself into the automatic lift. His thumb sank into the button as the police burst into the hall. The doors swung to as one of them shouted and dived towards him.

  Breathing hard, Corridon pressed the top button and the lift began its swift, smooth climb.

  He reckoned he would have about two minutes, not more, when he reached the top floor. They would come up the stairs almost as fast as the lift. He had had time to see they were all young, tough-looking men. A ruff up four flights of stairs wouldn’t be anything to them.

  Almost before the lift had stopped moving, he had the door open and had darted out into a long corridor. He could hear the pounding of feet on the stairs, and he looked quickly to right and left. At the far end of the corridor was a window. A door faced him. There was another door further down the corridor. He didn’t hesitate, but made a dash for the window. Reaching it, he pushed back the latch and threw it open. Within reach was a stack-pipe, and immediately above his head was the roof and guttering. He had no fear of heights, and could climb like a mountain goat. The stack-pipe to him was as good as a ladder.

  He climbed out onto the sill, reached for the stack-pipe and got a grip on it. He heard a shout from below as he swung himself off the sill. He hung for a moment while his toes searched for a hold, then he pulled himself up the pipe until he was within reach of the guttering. He put out his hand and cautiously tested its strength. It seemed strong enough, and with his heart in his mouth, he transferred his weight to it, pulling himself up with an arm-lift to the gently sloping roof.

  The gutter creaked and sagged, and for a moment he thought it was going to tear away from the wall. He heaved desperately, got his chest on the roof, and with a convulsive wriggle, got his legs up, too.

  He lay for a moment, getting his breath back, knowing how easy it was to start sliding. Once on the move, he would have nothing to stop the momentum, and he would pitch off the roof into the street.

  He examined the roof. The light of the moon was strong enough for him to see it sloped up to a sharp peak and then down the other side. To his right was a flat roof on a lower level to the one he was on. If he could reach the lower roof before the police got there, he would stand a chance of giving them the slip.

  Very cautiously he groped in his pocket and brought out a small, heavy jemmy. He smashed a tile, and then another, making foot and handholds. Working rapidly, pulling himself up from tile to tile, he reached the top of the roof. The other side of the peak sloped down to a substantial gutter that connected the roof he was on to the sloping roof of the adjacent house. He let himself go, slithering down the tiles until he landed in the gutter. Immediately he set off towards the flat roof.

  He moved silently and swiftly, and as he came to the end of the gutter, he paused to peer carefully ahead. For a moment or so he saw nothing, then he caught sight of a shadowy figure by one of the chimney-stacks, looking in his direction. He crouched down into the shadows and waited.

  Two other figures appeared. The moonlight caught the glint of buttons. There must be a sky-light on the flat roof, he thought.

  “Seen anything of him, Jack?” one of the figures whispered.

  “He hasn’t come this way. It’s my guess he’s still up there. He couldn’t climb that roof. No one could climb it.”

  “The sergeant’s having a look from the opposite house. The fire-brigade’s coming.”

  “All right, you two, cut out the chattering,” another voice said. “Spread out and keep your eyes open. He’s left his gun in the flat, but he may have another. So watch out.” Two of the figures moved away into the darkness. The remaining policeman stood looking to the right and left as if undecided which way to go, then he began to move towards Corridon. He walked softly, but Corridon could see by his movements he didn’t expect to run into him. He was obviously satisfied that Corridon was trapped on the sloping roof, and there was nothing to be done until the fire-escape arrived.

  Corridon crouched down in the darkness. The policeman was very close now: a big, burly figure. Corridon could hear his heavy breathing. He braced his feet against the side of the gutter and prepared for his spring.

  The policeman was almost on him now, and must have sensed Corridon’s presence for he suddenly stiffened and stared intently into the darkness where Corridon was hiding. Corridon sprang at him, his hands moving out for the policeman’s throat. He got his grip, dug his thumbs into the veins either side of the policeman’s neck.

  The policeman hit him heavily in the body, making him gasp, but he hung on, gritting his teeth and increasing his pressure. The policeman lifted his hand to hit again, but Corridon’s grip had cut the blood from his head, and suddenly he blacked out, going limp and making Corridon stagger.

  Panting, Corridon lowered him gently to the ground. He stripped off the policeman’s cap and jacket in the matter of seconds. Hastily removing his own overcoat and jacket, he put on the policeman’s clothes, rolled his things into a tight bundle, tucked it under his arm, and stepped out of the shadows into the moonlight

  “You all right, Jack?” a voice called.

  He looked to his left. On a nearby roof he saw the silhouette of a policeman who waved to him. He waved back, crossed the flat roof to the shadows cast by a chimney-stack. Somewhere on this roof there must be a skylight, he thought. He looked around. Immediately below him was the roof of a garage; beyond the garage an alley. He could see figures moving about in the street. There seemed a lot of policemen down there. In the distance he heard the clang of a fire-bell. He would have to make his escape before they discovered he wasn’t up on the roof or before they found the unconscious policeman.

  He decided it would be too dangerous to drop onto the garage roof. They would be certain to see him. It was the skylight or nothing.

  After a quick search he spotted a galvanized covered trap in a patch of shadows. He hooked his fingers under it, raised it and looked down into a small room full of trunks and wooden cases.

  He dropped into the room, reached up and replaced the trap, then stepped silently to the door. He opened it and found himself on a flight of stairs. There was a light burning in the hall below.

  The clang of the fire-bell was very loud now, and he heard voices below him. He leaned over the banisters.

  An elderly man and woman stood before the open front door, looking into the street. They were motionless with tense excitement as the fire-escape came rushing down the street.

  Corridon started down the stairs, moving deliberatel
y and without a sound. He kept his eyes on the man and woman, expecting them to turn at any moment and see him. But they were far too interested in the arrival of the escape to think of looking behind them.

  Silently, he moved down the passage, leading to the rear of the house. He walked sideways, so he could watch the two as he went. The passage curved slightly, and once round the bend, he again paused to take stock. He found himself at the head of a short flight of stairs that led to the back door.

  He went down the stairs, turned the key in the lock, and gently pulled the door open. The dark little garden that stretched out before him ended in a low brick wall that ran along the alley he had seen from the roof.

  He walked down the garden path to the wall, and glanced over. The alley seemed deserted. He swung his leg over the wall, and dropped quietly to the other side. He paused for a moment to get his bearings; to the left would take him to the Albert Hall, to the right Hyde Park Corner. If he could reach Marian Howard’s flat in Dover Street, he could hide there until the search had died down. He began to walk slowly and quietly down the alley.

  Suddenly a dazzling white light lit up the sky, and looking up, he saw a searchlight sweeping the roofs. He quickened his pace. It would only be a matter of minutes now before they realized he was not up there.

  Haste was nearly his undoing. A figure moved out of the shadows, and he almost walked into it.

  “That you, Bill?”

  Corridon found himself face to face with a policeman. The man scarely gave him a glance. He was staring up at the flood-lit roofs.

  “They’ll have him now,” he said with satisfaction. “But they’ve taken their time about coming, haven’t they?”

  The up-turned face and the pointing chin was too good a target to miss. Corridon knew once the man took a good look at him the game would be up. He set himself, and his fist smashed against the policeman’s jaw. The man reeled, then fell over on his back.

  Corridon made a dash down the alley.

  II

  Corridon dodged into a doorway near the Piccadilly end of Dover Street. He paused for a moment to look up and down the street. Satisfied no one was paying any attention to his movements, he groped his way down a passage and began to mount a flight of steep stairs. He was breathing heavily. Knightsbridge, the Park and Piccadilly had been alive with police. Patrol cars were prowling the back streets; plain-clothes men were watching the various underground station entrances along the route from the Albert Hall to Piccadilly.

  It had taken him more than an hour to reach Dover Street. For twenty minutes or so he had lain in the bushes in the Park waiting for a chance to dart across Piccadilly to the darkness of Shepherd Market. From there he had gone to Berkeley Square, slipped down a back alley leading to Brewer Street, and from there to Dover Street.

  Marian’s flat was on the top floor. He pressed the bell push, and then stepped across the passage to look over the banisters.

  Marian opened the door, and he turned. For a moment he didn’t recognize her without the heavy make-up she had worn when they had first met.

  “Hello,” he said, keeping his voice down. “Can I come in?”

  She stood aside.

  “Of course.”

  He entered a gaudily furnished sitting-room where an electric stove was burning.

  “Get Ritchie here,” he said, as he took off his overcoat. He tossed it on a chair. “I’m in plenty of trouble.”

  “They may be watching the flat,” she said. “Is it as urgent as all that?”

  He grinned.

  “I’ll say it is. You’re supposed to have gentlemen visitors, aren’t you? I’ve got to talk to him.”

  She looked at him sharply, then went over to the telephone. She dialled, waited, then spoke rapidly and softly. Corridon stood before the electric stove, warming the back of his legs.

  She replaced the receiver and turned.

  “He’s coming.”

  Corridon nodded.

  “Have you heard the news yet?”

  “What news?”

  “Lestrange was murdered tonight.” He tapped himself on the chest. “I’m it.”

  “I’ll get you a drink. You must need it,” she said, and went out of the room.

  No fuss, no questions, but only a thought for his needs, Corridon thought approvingly. She moved up even higher in his estimation. He flopped down on the settee, and rubbed his face with his hands. The side of his head ached where Huey had hit him, and his legs felt heavy. The climb over the roof and the excitement of the chase had tired him.

  She came back with whisky, a glass and a soda syphon. She put them on the table within reach of him.

  “Would you like something to eat?” she asked.

  He shook his head and poured a stiff drink.

  “I’m fine. He won’t be long, will he?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  Corridon drank some of the whisky, felt in his pocket for cigarettes, made a half move to offer them and smiled.

  “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I don’t think Ritchie’s going to be pleased with me. I led with my chin this time,” Corridon said, frowning. “Well, he got me into this, and he’ll damn well have to get me out of it.”

  “He will,” Marian said with quiet confidence.

  “I’m not so sure. There’s going to be a row about this. Someone may want my blood.”

  “I’m afraid they’ll want his blood, too,” Marian said. “He doesn’t hide behind his agents, you know.”

  Corridon suddenly felt uncomfortable. He had been thinking entirely of himself up to now. It hadn’t crossed his mind that Ritchie was more likely to get shot at than he.

  “Well, he shouldn’t have picked on me,” he said irritably. “I didn’t ask to handle the job.”

  “You were the best man he had,” Marian said. “He admires you.”

  “Me?” Corridon said, startled. “Oh, rot! He picked on me because I have an unsavoury reputation. He’ll break a blood vessel when he hears what’s happened.”

  “He chose you because this is the most important and vital job we have on our hands at the moment,” Marian said seriously. “He told me himself he was relying on you. Of course, he admires you.”

  “Let’s agree to disagree,” Corridon said, finishing the whisky. “That was just what I needed. Better put the bottle away. He disapproves of agents who drink!” While she put the whisky and syphon in a cupboard, he went on, “And by the way, I don’t think this is the sort of setup you should get mixed up with. The two blokes who are shadowing me are dangerous.”

  She smiled.

  “I’ve seen them. The short one is Carl Bruger. He was in charge of an execution squad in Poland. The tall one is Ivan Yevski who was responsible for removing the gold fillings from many Jewish mouths. Of the two, I would say he is the more dangerous. But if you want to make an omelette you must be prepared to break a few eggs.”

  Corridon shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, if you know what you’re walking into, that’s all right. I just mentioned it, although I knew I should be wasting my breath. Ritchie seems to have the happy knack of picking mugs who don’t know what’s bad for them.”

  She laughed.

  “It’s not as bad as that, and thank you for thinking of me. I do wish you wouldn’t be quite so bitter about Colonel Ritchie. He is only doing his job.”

  “I know,” Corridon stubbed out his cigarette and reached for another. “But he should leave women out of it.”

  The front door bell rang sharply.

  “Make sure that’s him,” Corridon said, getting to his feet. “They may have spotted me coming here.”

  She went out of the room.

  Corridon waited, his ears cocked, but he relaxed when he heard Ritchie’s calm voice as he greeted Marian. The door pushed open, and Ritchie came in.

  The two men looked at each other while Marian disappeared unobtrusively to another room.

 
; “Well, you’ve started something this time,” Ritchie said curtly. He looked tired, and his eyes were angry. “What in the name of glory have you been up to?”

  “They set a trap and I walked into it,” Corridon said. “I have only myself to blame. As I think you know, I had a date with Lorene Feydak on Sunday. Her brother and a man who calls himself Joseph Diestl were at her flat. Diestl offered me two hundred and fifty pounds to steal letters from a woman who was supposed to be blackmailing one of his clients. I jumped to the conclusion this was a test. If I agreed and pulled the job off, I thought Diestl would then let me into the organization. Instead, it was a trap, and they’ve used me as a cat’s paw for Lestrange’s murder.”

  “You met Diestl on Sunday?”

  Corridon nodded.

  “Why didn’t you report to Marian? Suppose you had been killed? I shouldn’t have heard of Diestl. Surely you can see information like that is vital?”

  “I spent the night with Lorene Feydak,” Corridon said. “At the time I didn’t think the information was very important.”

  Ritchie stared hard at him, then went over to the settee and sat down.

  “If you had told Marian what was in the wind, I would have had someone watch you. You would then have had a witness. It’s not like you to play the fool.”

  “All right,” Corridon said savagely. “I’m slipping, but I didn’t want this damned job. You pushed it on to me. I know I should have reported to Marian, but at the time it didn’t seem necessary. I had this girl in my hair until…”

  “Yes, I think you are slipping,” Ritchie said quietly. “I’ve never known you to make excuses before.”

  “Oh, go to hell!” Corridon exclaimed. “I’m not making excuses. I’m telling you what happened.”

  “You realise Lestrange is a key man?” Ritchie said. “There’s going to be an awful rumpus about this. You seem to have been particularly clumsy. You were seen entering the flat. The woman and a man who lives in the flat above hers have given very accurate descriptions of you. The police know it is you. The woman claims she kept jewellery in the desk, and you took it. She says you shot Lestrange down in cold blood.”