He shut the door, found a key in the old-fashioned rim-lock and gently locked it. The cook didn't appear to be curious and he'd observed a street exit on the far side of the kitchen. He reached the hall. A telephone was ringing in the study. It stopped when he was halfway across the room as someone lifted an extension. Mark eased the handset off the contacts, and heard Suzanne's voice speaking in French.
"... as much time as I could. You must have made a quick trip. I do not like it here alone, Papa. And my Ginger has changed. Can I not come to you at Moorfell? He is so hard, so gone from me since he knew Mark Slate was in London. He tells me he will see me sometime. I have done what you told me and I thought Ginger"—she pronounced it Gingaire—"and I would have fun together."
"Suzanne—listen!" Dr. Karadin's voice was sharp. "Already I have had to silence one talkative woman—do not try my patience with your aimless chatter."
"Silenced! Oh, Papa—no, you have not killed that Dancer Woman? Oh, Papa!"
"Stop it, Suzanne—stop yowling. Of course I have not killed her. I do not like violence—you know that. But some things have to be done. Now, others in the organization will deal with her as Ginger and the London guard will deal with Mark Slate, and I can get on with the work that will make our fortune. Think of that, my little Suzanne. Think of having all the money you need to travel and live in luxury with beautiful clothes and cars... and your pick of the men. Think of all these things and do not worry because you are a little while alone. It is a big, big thing we are engaged in—so be good for Papa, eh? And not do silly things to upset me."
"No, Papa. But I would not be any trouble if you let me come to Dartmoor. I could drive my little new car. I would like that."
Karadin sighed gently. "Yes, yes, very well. Perhaps it is better that you should be here. Ginger will be too busy to spend much time with you. But do not hurry here for I also am very busy. Start tomorrow and stay overnight at any hotel you fancy. You can find your way?"
"I know the way from Exeter to the beginning of Dartmoor—but all those little roads confuse me."
"In the desk drawer in my study you will find a small map. It covers the area around Princeton and Dartmoor Prison so that anyone looking at it will think it is a map only of that. All you have to do is follow a dotted line leading north-east from a side road. The map key says... 'bridle path, unfit for motors, dangerous in fog, beware bogs'. The track itself, as you will see, is two miles from the main road. The side road sign says 'To Shale Farm only'. There is a tor—a high rock outcropping—a few hundred yards from where you turn. It is a good landmark for you."
"Is the track dangerous, Papa?"
"Not if you keep to it and do not wander off on to the moor. Where is Ginger now?"
"I heard him ring the alarm for the guards. I expect they've taken Slate down to the basement."
"Good. You keep out of it—understand? As soon as the cook leaves, Ginger will send for the transport to take Slate away. You did very well, Suzanne—very well indeed. We have taken two very dangerous people out of circulation. It was disturbing that they should be in London, and at that particular place, at such a vital time. But we gave them no opportunity to report to their organization. Now, I must go. Be good, my little one. We will meet soon."
Mark Slate carefully slid open the drawer while Suzanne was saying her long-winded goodbyes, found the map, checked it, then stowed it in his pocket. He was already on the second floor by the time she had replaced the receiver, and the faint tinkle as she dropped the handset guided him to her room.
He halted at the open door, momentarily surprised by the startling decor and furnishings. Most rooms in these old Nash houses were spacious with high ceilings. Here, false ceiling, curved, painted brilliant sky-blue with coils of white cloud, suffused with golden light from hidden lamps, gave greater depth and breadth to the room.
Bright red and blue sail cloths were angled across the high windows, fore-standing against the superbly simulated sea scene painted on three of the walls. The door side of the room was a stone jetty. Rope bollards with padded tops faced a small, low stall with a backdrop painting of a life-like water side bistro. A capstan stood in front of a dressing table, set against the background of a ship's chandler's store, the table being the counter, To the left were sliding doors of a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe, the doors painted to appear like loaded shelves of the store.
The centre of the floor was one step below the "jetty"—a sand-colored, nylon-tufted carpet spread to meet the seascape walls. Resting on the carpet was a miniature yacht—white, sleek and beautiful—with one brilliant tangerine sail suspended from its mast. Aft of the mast, white and blue lounging chairs, deck lockers, tables were spaced below a slender guardrail. Fishing nets were draped from the "jetty" to this rail.
He couldn't see the stern half clearly because the sail was so fixed that it could be swung to partition or blank off each end. But under its boom he saw the lower portion of a bed, part of a cabin washbasin and bedside cabinets. He trod softly over the "jetty" as he heard the telephone being pushed over a hard surface.
Then the sail swung around to disclose the bed and top half of the furniture. It also disclosed Suzanne, stretching arms wide, yawning. Against the background of sails and sea she looked like—well, what she was. There was no time for Mark to indulge in fanciful allusions to water nymphs or mermaids. He had to cover the distance in two massive leaps to clamp his hand over her mouth.
He almost laughed because surprise, then fright, had frozen her body to the arms-stretched stance she had taken. Only her mouth and eyes moved. Both grew wider and wider. Mark grabbed her before the mouth was open wide enough to release the screaming bellow which, from such a chest development, might well have aroused the interest of the neighbors.
"I'll be very brisk and business-like," said Mark, holding her squirming body. "If you give me trouble, I shall make you unconscious very quickly. I don't want to do that, but I most certainly can—and will. Trouble from you means screaming or trying to run away. I'll give you an example." He pressed his finger into one side of her neck. Her body began to droop in his arms. "You see? Your head started to buzz and the life seemed to go out of you. If you give me trouble, I'll cripple you—understand?"
She nodded, fiercely jerking her head against his restraining hand, which he now removed from her mouth.
"Please," she whispered. "Please don't hurt me—please!"
A negligee lay across the foot of the bed. He flung it at her. "Put it on."
She recovered now. "Ginger? What has happened to my Ginger?"
"He's sleeping downstairs."
"You have hurt him! I will kill you!" She sprang at him, hands clawing for his eyes.
He gripped her wrists. "Trouble—don't give it—remember? No, he's not dead. But I'll go down and finish him off if you don't behave." His gay manner changed swiftly, menacing power flowing out of him. She cowered back. Her gaze flicked to a row of switches.
"Don't try it," said Mark. "The guards are sleeping too. So is the cook."
A gleam of admiration lighted her eyes.