‘I dare say that’s true enough,” Shaw murmured. “Look, you couldn’t put me in touch with any of his friends, could you — that gang you spoke of?”
“No. They’re all split up and gone. The usual lark, I reckon, falling out among themselves. I tell you again and I tell you straight, I’m not a ruddy inquiry bureau. I don’t get to hear everything, not by a long chalk. I don’t know where any of ’em are now. Can’t even remember their names — if ever I knew ’em.”
“They weren’t actually your tenants?”
“I tell you I don’t know. I didn’t inquire all that closely. It was only those complaints that made me take any interest, and one nigger’s like another so long as he pays up.”
Again Shaw glanced sideways. Jiddle was looking slightly worried and anxious; Shaw had the feeling he was playing safe now, had suddenly decided he might already have said too much. Shaw knew the reputation of the area in which Jiddle worked; lives were at stake around those areas, when a man indulged in rackets that spelt big money to some one whose nose might be put out of joint by careless talk, and kid-glove methods weren’t customary. Nevertheless, Shaw decided to chance another question.
He asked casually, “That girl-friend you were talking about, Jiddle — the white one. Was she mixed up in any of this?” Jiddle shrugged indifferently. “Couldn’t say. Maybe, maybe not. I wouldn’t think she was, not to look at her. I believe she was real gone on him, and that’s all I do know.” He drove in silence for a while after that, swinging into the Fulham Road, then he said, “Tell you what. I said I wanted to help and I meant it, only I got to be careful. Why not have a word with the girl? Only never say I sent you. Right?”
Shaw said quietly, “That’s a promise, Jiddle. I can find a way of squaring that.”
“Mind, I don’t know her address or her name, come to that, but you’ll find her easy enough. She works in the King’s Road, Chelsea — a place called Helene’s. It’s a dress-shop, not a big place — you know the sort of thing I mean — where you get the class stuff, see? You’d get her there any day. Only remember what I said: I don’t come into this.”
They turned for home then, and within a few minutes they were heading towards Knightsbridge again. Jiddle said he would drop Shaw the moment he got either an absolutely clear road or one so busy that Shaw wouldn’t be noticed getting out, and then he would beat it fast. But as luck would have it the conditions didn’t suit Jiddle anywhere, and it was as they came past the Albert Memorial, intending to head south again into the quieter streets around Pimlico, that the other car ran up close and Jiddle spotted it at once in his driving-mirror.
He said tautly, “We’re being tailed. Hold tight.” A string of vicious oaths ripped out, and then he went silent and tight-faced; he accelerated and then a little later swung the wheel over hard, tyres screaming, into Sloane Street and then hard left at the first turning, then right again, disregarding all traffic regulations and losing the car behind. Half-way down the street he pulled up towards the kerb, but kept moving, and snapped, “Out, chum.”
“But—”
“You heard. Out. There’s an alley just there — get up it, get lost. It’s me they’re after, a thousand nicker to a penny. I know ’em. Don’t want you to get hurt.”
Shaw looked down as he felt the hard rim of a gun-muzzle dig into his side. He shrugged, pushed the door open, and got out. The moment his feet touched ground Jiddle leaned over and yanked the door shut and then accelerated. Dodging back into the alley which ran between two small, exclusive shops, Shaw watched from cover. Jiddle was nearly at the end of the street when the other car came round the corner on two wheels, tyres screaming, straightened, and hurtled down towards him. No one had seen Shaw, and he edged out when he heard the rattle of gunfire, saw Jiddle’s car slew round almost in its own length, run up on to the pavement, hit a lamp standard, then over once… twice… three times, and then burst into a roar of flames. As the other car swept past, it slowed, and a stream of bullets tore into the Humber.
Then the car accelerated again and was gone.
A police whistle shrilled, and almost at once the crowd gathered, Shaw, his face white, slid back into the shadows, went up the side alley. He couldn’t help poor Jiddle now; those men would have done an efficient job and he would be as dead as mutton, and there was far too much in the balance for Shaw to get mixed up in yet another murder. He would have to leave this to the police and keep his name right away from Jiddle’s — it was the only thing he could possibly do. This was another of the occasions on which Esmonde Shaw found himself detesting his job with every fibre of his being.
Sick at heart, Shaw walked quickly into Sloane Street and picked up a taxi, wondering if Jiddle had been right about who those men were really after.
CHAPTER SIX
Next morning Shaw went carefully through the papers, and in the Late News he found what he was looking for.
A car had been fired at off Sloane Street and a body had been found, charred, in the wreckage. The body had not so far been identified as being definitely that of the owner of the car — in other words, Jiddle — and whoever had fired the shots had got clear away in a fast car, a stolen car which had later been found abandoned a little way beyond Eccleston Bridge. No arrest had been made.
And none would be, Shaw thought savagely. Those men would simply vanish.
After that, Shaw made a telephone-call to Albany Street, and when he got through he didn’t waste any time. He said, “Deb, it’s me. I want to see you urgently. Can you talk Eastern Petroleum into giving you the day off, d’you think?”
“Darling,” she said, “I was just on the point of leaving for the office. Is it really important?”
“Yes, very.”
There was the briefest of pauses and then, because Debonnair Delacroix knew Esmonde never said things lightly, she told him she would fix it. She said, “Leave it to me. I’ll ring Pauline right away.” Pauline was her secretary, a girl who was still a little overawed at working for a girl who’d once been in the Foreign Office. “Coming round?”
“Right away, if that’s all right.”
She said fondly, “Never too soon for me, darling, and you know it.” He rang off, let himself out of the flat into Gliddon Road, walked down to the Hammersmith Road, and found a taxi. He was soon ringing Debonnair’s bell at the Albany Street flatlet. He heard high heels clicking along the short passage that formed the hall, and then she’d let him in and he was taking her in his arms. As she kissed him, her hazel eyes were wary, anxiously searching his face. As they went together into the sitting-room she asked, “I suppose it’s still to do with the night before last?”
He nodded. ‘There’s something I want you to do for me, if you will.”
“I’ll help all I can. You know that.”
“Yes, of course I do, darling.” He squeezed her arm, looked fondly down at the girl’s almost tawny skin, the skin which made the blood pump faster in his body… he looked away. He was here on business, and time was short. He knew he could rely on Debbie absolutely, could even sometimes take her pretty fully into his confidence. Her Foreign Office work — which had been responsible for throwing them together in the first place — was guarantee enough not only in Shaw’s eyes but in Latymer’s too. But all he said now was:
“I want to get in touch with a girl.”
Her eyes sparkled, suddenly mischievous. “Really, Esmonde!”
He went on, “She’s a girl who works in a shop. It’s a small place — a dress-shop in the King’s Road, Chelsea. Helene’s. D’you know it?”
“I don’t.” Sitting on the arm of a chair, she smoothed her frock over long, slim thighs, blonde head bent to hide a hint of quite irrational jealousy. She knew it was irrational and it didn’t last long. She looked up, her lips curved in laughter now. “But it sounds as though you’ve reconnoitred the ground pretty well yourself, doesn’t it, Esmonde dear?”