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  “Why?”

  “The lady’s left it empty, and Gissing might be planning to use it Obviously he might have wanted her out of the way in case we trace the Austin to the house, but why should we take that for granted? Ask me again, and I’ll say I’ve got a hunch!”

  “I told you,” Marino said. “Lissa can pick men.” He tapped Scammel’s photograph. “Be very careful.” To emphasize the words, he took a small automatic from his pocket and held it out. “I know you Yard men don’t carry guns without special permission. I talked Hardy into agreeing that you should. Use this until you can collect yours from the Yard.”

  Roger took it. “I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

  The tapping of Marino’s finger seemed like a warning of disaster; the little gesture, so deliberate and full of meaning, hovered in front of Roger’s eyes as he went out into the welcome cool of the evening. The gun made an unfamiliar weight in his pocket. He drove to the Yard but did not trouble to collect another gun. He went to the canteen with Sloan, had supper and made plans, as carefully as if he knew that Gissing would go to the house. After eight-thirty, when dusk was falling, he turned into Bell Street, Chelsea, where he lived. He would only have a few minutes, for he wanted to be at “Rest” by full darkness, but it would be better than nothing. The street looked friendly and pleasant in the fading light, and neighbours waved. He pulled up alongside the house, and walked up the path as Janet opened the front door.

  “Darling! I didn’t think you were going to make it!”

  “No faith in me,” Roger said. “That’s the trouble.” As they went indoors, he raised his head and sniffed. “No odours of frying. No noises of tape recorder or television. I deduce that my two sons are not at home.”

  They turned into the front room, which was pleasant but just a little shabby, for most of the furniture had been here for over twenty years. But it had comfort and charm.

  “Scoop’s out at some exhibition, they’re showing three of his African paintings,” Janet said. “And Richard rang up — he’s a chip off the old block, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s he done that I wouldn’t do if I could help it?”

  “Working overtime. He has to go out on location, or something, he sounded very excited.” Janet watched as Roger poured out a modest tot of whisky and splashed in a lot of soda, and he got the impression she was waiting for something.

  “What are you going to have?” he asked, although she seldom joined him except on special occasions.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  He sipped and frowned.

  “Then what —” he began, and suddenly he remembered. “God! What a clod I am! What did you buy?”

  Her face lit up.

  She had bought a suit in a blue-brown check which obviously she loved, and which she was sure was a bargain; he hadn’t seen her happier for a long time, and for a short while, as he watched her face, he forgot the Shawns, Ricky, Marino and even Lissa.

  Twenty minutes later, in a very different mood, he left the car in a yard near “Rest” and walked along the side of the garden, under the trees towards the back door. No light showed. Plain-clothes police, patrolling the road, had signalled that no one had gone in. It could be, probably would be, a complete waste of time.

  He let himself in with a key made at Scotland Yard’s workshop, modelled from the soap impression he had taken on his last visit to the house. Using only his flashlight he left the kitchen and looked into each room. Nothing had changed. There was a faded easy-chair in the hall, and at the far end, beneath the stairs, a cupboard used as a cloakroom, big enough for him to hide in. Even if the door were opened, he could squeeze back, out of sight. He sat in the chair and put a cigarette to his lips but didn’t light it. At first he found himself thinking of Scoop painting, and wondering what Richard, so much more intent and industrious, had been doing during the day on his scripts. His thoughts veered to Janet, then to Lissa Meredith. He found himself comparing them, in looks, in manner, and suddenly wrenched his thoughts away, to the missing Ricky and the dead Scammel.

  Suddenly he heard a car approaching. Nearer it came, and nearer. He stood up as it stopped outside the house.

  • • •

  Roger waited by the front door, heard footsteps and retreated to the cloak-cupboard. He was inside, with the door open a crack, when a key turned in the lock. He couldn’t see who came in, but the footsteps were those of a man. He heard a faint cough; then the light went on by the front door, not bright enough to show anything here. As his eyes became accustomed to the crack of light, he saw a man of medium height, wearing a black Homburg hat and a raincoat of a darker shade than that worn by the man who had followed him at Hammersmith Underground that afternoon. He took off the hat and coat and Roger made ready to draw further back; but the man flung them on to the easy chair, threw his gloves after them and went into the drawing-room.

  A pale-faced man of middle age; that fitted this man and Gissing. Roger didn’t move, heard the other walking about, fancied there was the chink of glass on glass. After a pause there came the unexpected, a bang of wood on wood followed by the rippling of fingers lightly touching the piano keys, then a melody, a familiar tune — I’m Gonna Wash That Man right out of my Hair. Its gaiety came to life, played well, as if the man enjoyed playing for its own sake. He went into other hits from South Pacific without pausing; he didn’t need music. It was so normal, so light-hearted, that it seemed to mock any suspicion.

  The man began to sing lightly, voice and music filled the house. Tunes from My Fair Lady, Guys and Dolls, then further back — Annie Get your Gun and Oklahoma, all without a pause, as if the player had come here just to do this.

  Where was the touch of the sinister?

  The music stopped, and the silence seemed to hurt, to be false. Sounds of movement followed, the drawing-room door opened. Roger didn’t close the cloakroom door, he just drew back. The man walked towards him, and he held his breath. He couldn’t see what happened, but the door slammed, as if the man had pushed it as he passed. Darkness surrounded Roger. He waited a few seconds, then opened the door a crack, heard water running from a tap, and the man humming. He re-closed it but kept his ear to the keyhole. He knew when the man passed, gave him time to reach the drawing-room again, then opened it once more.

  There could be deadly danger here, if the house held danger. Gissing — was it Gissing? — had noticed the door open once, would be suspicious if he saw it open again.

  He had played enough to satisfy himself, apparently, and it was very quiet A clock struck ten. The chimes were light and clear, a friendly sound. As the last faded, Roger heard something else; another car.

  He pulled the door so that it was almost closed, and he could only just see out. The old pattern was repeated — the slamming of a car door followed by footsteps. This time there was a sharp ring at the door bell. The pianist appeared, didn’t look towards the cloakroom, just opened the front door. He hid most of the newcomer, but wasn’t tall enough to hide David Shawn’s rugged face.

  If the face were not enough, the gruff voice with its undertone of harshness supplied everything that was missing.

  “Are you the man who called himself Jack?”

  “Jack” — and it was “Jack” Gissing, thought Roger.

  “I am,” said Gissing. His voice was pleasant and urbane, could easily have been the voice of the man who had telephoned Shawn at Wavertree Road. “David Shawn, I presume.” Laughter tinged with mockery lurked in the voice. “You must have shaken off anyone sent by the Embassy to follow you, or I would have had a telephone message by now. So we can talk freely. Come in.”

  Shawn came in; Gissing wasn’t small, but he was dwarfed. He looked up at the big man, smilingly, suave, quite self-possessed, untroubled by Shawn’s hugeness. He closed the door. Shawn, without hat or overcoat, wearing the same grey suit that he had worn the previous morning, unruly hair roughly combed, face still like a piece of chiselled stone, looked down on him.

  R
oger couldn’t see Shawn’s eyes, but guessed what they were like; hot coals.

  “I haven’t come to talk,” Shawn said. “I’ve come for my son.”

  “And you shall have your son, quite safe and unharmed,” Gissing said easily. “You needn’t be at all worried about him, Mr Shawn. But we needn’t stay here.”

  He turned and led the way into the drawing-room. Shawn hesitated, glowering at his back, and then followed. Roger slipped out of the cupboard, closed the door softly, stepped across to the wall and crept towards the drawing-room. He opened the dining-room door next to it as a quick way of retreat.

  “I told you I didn’t come to talk,” Shawn growled.

  “I know, I know,” said Gissing, and the laughter still lurked, as if the giant amused him. Yet Shawn’s eyes must tell their story, and Shawn could crush him; if Gissing knew anything about Shawn, he would know that he was in acute danger. Judging from his voice, he didn’t give the possibility a thought. “We won’t waste words, Mr Shawn, but there are one or two details to be settled. What will you drink?”

  Shawn said: “Where’s my son? If you don’t come across, I’ll break your neck. Where is he?”

  Gissing actually laughed.

  “If you break my neck, how are you going to find your son?” he asked. “Be sensible, Mr Shawn. Sit down. Whisky? Rye? Bourbon? There’s ice in the kitchen — just wait a moment, and I’ll go and get it.”

  He was not a dozen feet away from Roger, and coming nearer.

  10

  BARGAINING

  ROGER backed into the dining-room, but there was no time to close the door properly. Any movement would catch Gissing’s eye, he would look up involuntarily. He might not notice that the door was ajar if it were not moving. Roger saw his shadow, and dropped a hand to Marino’s gun.

  Shawn said: “You stay right here.”

  “Mr Shawn, don’t —”

  Gissing looked as if he had suddenly been turned into a puppet pulled by its strings into a whirligig. The shadow of his arms, legs and head made crazy movements, then vanished. There was a thud, next a moment of silence before Shawn said thickly:

  “I’ll break your neck after I’ve broken up the rest of you. Where’s my son?”

  There was another moment of silence. Roger moved forward into the hall, taking a greater chance, and stood so that he could just see into the room; the door was wide open. He saw Gissing’s feet and legs, on the floor. Shawn stood with his back to the door, blocking the rest of the room from Roger’s sight.

  “You don’t seem to understand,” Shawn said, and his voice seemed higher-pitched, as if he were fighting for words. “I’ve come here for Ricky, and if I don’t get him, I’ll kill you.”

  Lissa had said that he had been hovering between sanity and insanity for a long time. No sane man would talk like this; no sane father would take such a chance with the man whom he knew or thought he knew had kidnapped his son. It could be a big bluff, of course, but was Shawn in a mood to bluff? He didn’t sound like it He sounded as if he thought that he could come here and find Ricky, and take him away; and if he didn’t, he would kill.

  Gissing made no attempt to get up.

  Into the silence, Shawn said thickly: “And a gun won’t stop me.”

  So Gissing had drawn a gun. Roger couldn’t see it, could only see that neither of the men moved.

  “If it comes to killing,” the Englishman said, “I’ll start Don’t be a fool, Shawn. I can tell you where to find Ricky, and I promise you he’s not hurt. I had a message about him two hours ago.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Back in the States.”

  Shawn’s breath hissed. “Whereabouts in the States?”

  “You needn’t know where he’s been, all you want is to make sure that he comes back. To you — not to England. It was a mistake to bring him over here, Shawn. It was a mistake to come here at all. Go back home and wait, and he will be sent to you. The only thing he won’t have is — this.”

  Roger wished he could see, but dared not go farther towards the room. Shawn was standing quite still. Gissing’s legs moved, as if he were dragging himself along the carpet, farther from the giant. Then his feet disappeared, and a hand showed, palm upwards for a moment. The finger ends were covered with a thin adhesive tape; to guard against leaving fingerprints.

  A scuffle of movement told of Gissing getting up.

  “Catch,” he said.

  “Shawn’s right hand moved, clutched in the air and closed round something which Gissing had thrown.

  “That’s his,” said Gissing. “The gold identity tag his mother had made for him to wear round his neck. He was asleep when it was taken off, and he doesn’t know it’s missing. See the mark in the corner? Where it dropped the first day he had it and carried it round in his hand? Remember that?”

  Shawn didn’t speak; Roger pictured his chest heaving.

  “And I tell you he is perfectly all right,” insisted Gissing. “All you have to do is go home, and take his mother with you. Then Ricky will be sent to you. No one will get hurt, you and your wife will be happy again.”

  “She’s happy right now,” Shawn said. The words came out in slow succession.

  Gissing laughed; and as the sound came Roger knew that it was a mistake. Shawn’s shoulders heaved as he flung himself forward. It happened too swiftly for Roger to do a thing. He waited for the roar of the shot, and actually moved forward, gun in hand, in readiness for an attempt to stop Gissing shooting again.

  No shot came. Almost in the same moment that Shawn staggered backwards, Roger side-stepped out of sight. He saw Shawn’s head on the ground, near the door, and pressed further back, but didn’t think that Gissing would come any nearer. Shawn was breathing like a man with asthma; his head vanished as he struggled to his feet.

  “I don’t want to kill you,” Gissing said evenly. “But if you do that again, I will. Go and sit in that chair.”

  There was silence.

  “Go and sit down, you great hulking fool,” Gissing rapped out. “Sit down!”

  There was a sound of movement, and the creaking, as of the man’s bulk being lowered into a chair. Roger moved again so that he could just see inside the room. He saw Shawn’s legs and feet, and Gissing standing sideways to the door. Gissing wasn’t likely to look round, he was watching Shawn as he would a maddened tiger.

  “I’ve told you how to get the boy back. I’ve made it easy for you. I’ve got two tickets for you on a jet leaving London Airport early tomorrow morning. You’re going on that “plane, Shawn. If you don’t —” He stopped.

  Shawn didn’t speak, but the question must have been in his eyes. It seemed to Roger that Gissing revelled in this, relished the moment when he could hurt, by the pause, by the threat not yet shaped with words.

  Still Shawn didn’t speak.

  “If you don’t,” Gissing said, “I’ll give you tickets for another “plane, in four days’ time. The boy’s right ear will be in the same envelope.”

  Roger heard a horrible retching sound, as if dredged up from the depths of Shawn’s heart

  Gissing waited for seconds which seemed like minutes, then moved a little nearer his victim, still covering him with his gun. Roger was holding his breath, as if resisting the brutality in Gissing’s threat and the inevitability of what would happen if Shawn did not obey. This had been planned to the last detail, and there could be no way out while Gissing remained free to give his orders.

  Then Gissing said briskly, coldly: “That’s all you have to do, Shawn. Leave now, tell no one where you’ve been or what you’re going to do. Take your wife to London Airport on time. Here are the tickets.” He drew an envelope from his pocket and tossed it on to Shawn’s lap.

  As Shawn took it, his right hand appeared for an instant.

  Gissing waited again; he used silence to twist the knife in the wound, to make the hurt lasting, unforgettable. Roger hadn’t seen him clearly, knew him more from the deceptive softness of his voice than
from his appearance; and from what he had said and how he had said it. In his way Gissing was as much a giant as Shawn. Lacking the larger man’s physical strength, his was the strength of the utterly unscrupulous. This man mattered in the way that evil mattered. He knew exactly what he wanted, rode roughshod over everything to get it. Shawn might believe that once he was back in the States all would be well. Not likely. Any man but Shawn, any man not screwed up until his nerves screamed at him, would know that after the first demand would come the second; after the second, the third.

  For the first time, Roger felt sorry for Shawn.

  Watching the two men, Roger’s entire attention had gradually been riveted on what he was seeing, what he was hearing, moment by moment. All thought had been numbed — and thought was only just beginning to come back. What next? He could stop Gissing now; he could stop Shawn too. While they were unaware of his presence they would be easy victims. Ought he to stop Gissing? After the first demand, the second. There was no way of being sure that Gissing was the only man who mattered; that if Gissing were caught it would be easy to trace the boy. It might be harder. Gissing might lead to the boy; so Gissing could serve a purpose if he were free.

  There was more. Behind the kidnapping and the need for finding the boy, there was the work that Shawn was doing.

  Reason said that Gissing might be one of many; at least of several. So ought he to let Gissing go as a sprat to catch a mackerel which might not exist. He had plenty of time to leave the house, walk up the private road and give the waiting police a description of Gissing’s car. From the moment a warning went out, radio would trail him to his journey’s end. Gissing couldn’t escape the net once it was drawn around him. And there were only a hundred yards or so between Roger and the first pull at the net Police forces in Great Britain could be alerted in a matter of minutes. France, the Low Countries, Eire, Northern Ireland — they would all co-operate.

  Roger could see Marino again, give him his report, and leave him to handle Shawn. That wasn’t his business, Shawn didn’t matter in his investigations except where he got in the way.