Harry, quiet and unobtrusive as ever, asked if he wanted dinner.
“A snack will do.”
“Very good, sir.” Harry went into the kitchen. Roger put on some records; Wagner—Wagner suited his mood, the melancholy made a background to his thoughts. They were fragmentary. The clever cunning of it! The sugar coating over crudeness. The continued attempts to break down his resistance and corrupt his mind. Whether he got Sloan or not was to be a vital test; Kennedy might regard it as final. Succeed, and he would be close to the black heart of this affair; fail, and the woman in green—he did not even know her Christian name—would be able to say : “I told you so.” No use arguing with himself about that. Succeed, and Kennedy would lower most of the barriers. Fail—and die.
Fail—and take terrible risks with Janet and the boys.
He stirred in his chair, smoking, restless.
The woman in green was now with Kennedy, sure of herself, yet human and prone to mistakes. She had started to tell him what they were going to do that night and had broken off; and it was obvious that they were going out of town. Kennedy’s wife would probably be with them; Percy would almost certainly drive them. They probably wouldn’t be back that night. Kennedy was away from Mountjoy Square, then; and Percy, too. Kennedy’s wife? He couldn’t guess.
Kennedy was sure that he didn’t know the address at Mountjoy Square.
Kennedy and his sister were now sure that he would “play”; the shadow and this caution was routine. It was too big a thing on which to take a chance. He would be watched, everything he did until Sloan was caught would be noted, he had no real freedom of action, unless he took a desperate chance.
It would be the only chance, leading either to complete success or abject failure. It meant breaking into 27 Mountjoy Square. He’d need a skilled cracksman; he could find one, if necessary. He laughed-
If he held on, sent for Sloan and trapped him, then afterwards success would be much easier. On balance, he ought to wait; he’d gone so far, and Sloan would be the last man in the world to blame him for going on. Sloan was one of the few who would really understand what he had been doing, but—there was one incalculable factor.
If he caught Sloan, what would Kennedy do?
Use the other Yard man? Or kill him?
Could Kennedy use Sloan successfully? Hadn’t he all that he wanted, already?
Roger stood up suddenly. “He’ll kill——” he began.
The door from the kitchen opened silently, and Harry came in with a tray.
“Did you speak, sir?” His sallow face was expressionless.
“Talking to myself. I’m too much on my own, Harry!”
“That has been my opinion for some time, if I may say so, sir.” Harry put down the tray, took a silver-plated lid off a dish of mixed grill. “That is the best I can do at such short notice, Mr. West.”
He drew back; his doleful brown eyes had an unusual glow. He seemed to come alive. And by saying “West” he had flung a verbal hand grenade.
Roger said slowly: “I don’t think I heard you.”
“I think you did, sir.”
Keep calm.
“How much do you know about this, Harry?”
“A little, sir.” He was solemn again, the glow had gone, but there was something in him which hadn’t been there before. “Also, I have had my instructions to report on your movements and your telephone calls while at the flat, sir. I have duly carried out my duties. Except——” he paused.
This was a form of torment. It was impossible to know what was in his mind; Roger felt as if he were in the midst of a furious explosion, but Harry’s voice was so quiet. He’d known the man for nearly two months, and studied him. All he’d seen was a well-trained automaton, obeying orders with smooth precision, never obtruding, always at hand.
Now, he was a man; a human being primed with dangerous knowledge.
“Except what?” Roger held the arms of his chair tightly.
Harry gulped; he had screwed himself up for this—yes, he was frightened. Tension, springing out of nowhere, was brittle and dangerous.
“When you went out the other night, sir.”
Roger didn’t speak, but thought of the dictaphone he knew was hidden in this room. He’d never located it; it had been wiser to leave it untouched, and guide all conversation into channels which Kennedy could safely hear. He couldn’t control this conversation.
“I saw the brown paper at the door, and that told me you had gone—I thought I heard you,” said Harry. “But I didn’t report to Mr. Briggs.”
“To whom?”
“Mr. Briggs—Percy, sir. Percy is the man to whom I have had to make all my reports.”
“I see. And why didn’t you inform him?”
“I weighed everything up and decided that it wouldn’t be in the best interests,” said Harry. He formed every word carefully, had to force it out, because of his fears. Of what? Of Roger’s reaction, when he knew the truth? Was this—blackmail? The word seemed to scream at Roger.
Harry was a crook, and must be a professional, or he wouldn’t have this job; Harry had a stranglehold over his “boss”. Roger stood quite still, watching his composure break now. The grill stood on the table, getting cold. Harry seemed to shrink, yet there was a form of courage in him. He licked his lips before he spoke again.
“You see, sir——”
No, he couldn’t get it out.
Roger said slowly, forcing down his rage. “All right, Harry. Let’s have it. How much do you want?”
Harry raised his hands, a swift, startled gesture. “Want? It’s not blackmail, I wouldn’t put on the black, it’s——”
The front-door bell rang.
CHAPTER XXI
INTO THE PARLOUR
HARRY jumped, as if someone had kicked him, and darted a glance over his shoulder.
Roger said: “Never mind that. If it’s not blackmail, what is it?”
“I—I think I had better see who that is,” said Harry. The ringing had made him turn pale, his hands weren’t steady. “It might be Mr. Briggs.”
Roger grabbed his arm.
“Forget it. What——”
Harry pulled himself free and hurried to the door. Short of grappling with him, which would probably be heard outside, there was nothing Roger could do. He watched the man’s thin back and sloping shoulders as he opened the door of the tiny hall. He heard the outer door ( opening. He looked round the room, in a despairing effort to locate the dictaphone; he was reduced to despairing efforts. He heard a man’s deep voice :
“All right, I know he’s in.”
It was Sloan.
“Really, sir.” Harry’s voice rose in. a protesting squeak. “Mr. Rayner is just having——”
Sloan filled the doorway.
Roger said evenly: “Getting tough?”
“I’m always tough when I’m in a hurry, and I’m in a hurry now. Is there a place where your man can go without hearing us?”
Harry’s eyes became cloudy again.
“Kitchen, Harry,” said Roger. He might have said: “Kennel, Fido,” and meant the same thing and had the same effect.
Harry went off, hurriedly, and closed the door leading to the kitchen. Sloan went across to it and turned the key in the lock. He looked very big, powerful, and aggressive.
Roger said: “I don’t know that I like you in this mood, Inspector.”
“Forget I’m a policeman. Did you telephone me on Sunday night?” Sloan was in an angrily aggressive mood.
There was a dictaphone, taking all this down.
“I did not.”
“I want the truth, Rayner.”
“Why don’t you ask your friend Kennedy?”
“Don’t be smart. After I came to see you, I was twice run down. Nearly run down. They were murder attempts. They came immediately after I’d called to see you. I’m giving you a chance to save yourself from trouble. Did you telephone me?”
“No.”