1950 - Mallory (11 page)

W
hy, Brian’s dead. He died nearly two years ago.’

Corridon made no attempt to conceal his surprise. His eyes shifted from the girl’s face to the complicated pattern of blue and white flowers on her dress. What she had just told him was the last thing he expected to hear, and at once wondered if she knew Mallory was being hunted, and if by saying he was dead she hoped to throw them off the scent.

He said quietly, ‘I didn’t know. I’m sorry. If I’d known I wouldn’t have bothered you…’ and looked reluctantly away from the blue and white flowers on her dress and met her eyes.

‘Oh, it’s all right,’ she said quickly as if anxious he should not be embarrassed. ‘Two years is a long time. At first I missed him terribly, but it’s no use living in the past, is it?’

‘I suppose not,’ he returned and swung his hat against his knee, not sure what was to happen next, ‘Well, that’s that. I guess I don’t have to look further. It’s disappointing.’ Then because he felt he hadn’t struck the right note, he added, ‘You can’t imagine a fellow like Mallory dead.’ He took a step back, bent down and groped for the strap of his rucksack. ‘Well, I won’t keep you...’

And all the time he was floundering he felt her big serious eyes on him, and wondered what she was thinking of and whether she knew he was one of Mallory’s enemies.

‘Oh, you mustn’t go away like this,’ she said quickly. ‘Please come in. Were you an Air Force friend?’

‘Well, I met him,’ Corridon said cautiously. ‘I thought a lot of him. My name’s Corridon - Martin Corridon. I don’t want to be in the way.’

She drew back, opening the front door wide.

‘Please come in.’

He stepped from the dazzle of the white wall into a large airy studio. The wooden framework of the giant skylight made a square-shaped pattern of shadow and sunlight on the green cork flooring. Facing him was an easel on which stood a half-finished canvas of a nude woman. He knew nothing about art or painting, but he was immediately struck by the strength of the picture and the strength of character that came from the woman; her steady dark eyes seemed to look straight into his as he paused before the canvas.

‘That’s good,’ he said involuntarily. ‘Is it yours?’

‘Yes.’ She stood by his side, her thick mop of hair reached just above his shoulder. Her hands went into the big pockets of her dress. She was so close to him that her arm touched his.

They both stood looking at the painting in silence, then she said, a wistful note in her voice, ‘Brian would have called it one of my French postcards. He used to be a big help to me. He had a natural flair for perspective.’

The nude woman’s eyes began to worry Corridon. They were too honest and penetrating, and he turned away to look around the big studio thinking how orderly and neat it was.

Along one side of the room was a bookcase that stretched the length of the wall. The books, still in their bright dust jackets, were additional colour to the cut flowers and the framed canvases that hung on the off-white walls. Several armchairs stood about the room away from the easel. A big divan covered with solid-looking cushions took up one corner and a big radiogram took up another. He looked at the other paintings on the walls. They were hers. He recognized the same strength, the same strong colours and firm, unhesitating brushwork. He found himself thinking it was odd that such a brittle-looking girl could produce such pictures. It was, he supposed, an indication of her character, and that there was in her a hidden strength.

Although he was feeling awkward, without the least idea what to say and do next, he was aware that she was completely at ease with him, accepting him without hesitation as an old acquaintance.

‘When did you meet Brian?’ she asked suddenly and swung round to look up at him, and he was uncomfortably conscious that she had the same honesty and penetration as she had created in the disconcerting eyes of the nude woman she had painted.

‘I ran into him during the invasion,’ he said, wishing now he had studied more carefully the particulars of Mallory, Ranleigh had given him. We shared a Nissen for a week. He lent me ten pounds. I wanted to repay him.’

‘Do sit down,’ she said. ‘It’s such a long time since I met anyone who knew him. I wish now I’d taken more interest in his friends. Is it too early for a drink?’

‘It’s never too early for me,’ Corridon said and took off his coat. And as she opened a cupboard to produce a bottle of gin and a bottle of Dubonnet, he went on, ‘I spent a long time in hospital after the war. Then I went to America. I’ve just returned, and suddenly remembered I owed your brother this money. I thought it’d be an excuse to meet him again. I tried the telephone book but he wasn’t in there, but I saw your name. He once mentioned he had a sister, Ann. I guessed it was you and came along.’

‘What did he say about me?’ She brought the drink and set it on a stool near him. He noticed her hand was unsteady. ‘Do sit down.’

‘I don’t remember,’ he returned, dropping into an armchair.

He wasn’t going to tell more lies than he had to. As it was he found it extraordinarily difficult to keep up this pretense. He kept having to check the impulse to tell her why he was looking for Mallory, and about Jeanne, Jan and Ranleigh. ‘We got talking about families and he said something about you. The name Ann stuck in my memory. It’s a name I like.’

‘And you don’t remember what he said? I’m afraid I’m a little sentimental. It would be nice to know.’

He was flustered now, and groped about for a ready lie.

‘I don’t really. Something about - well, I think he said you were beautiful.’

She looked at him searchingly.

‘He didn’t say that. It’s all right. I shouldn’t have asked you.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just come out of my stupid head. I didn’t know I was going to meet you.’ He hurriedly changed the subject by asking, ‘How did he die? Or perhaps you’d rather not talk about it.’

‘Talk about it?’ she said and sat forward, colour coming into her face. He wondered why he had thought she was plain. Like that, her eyes alive, she was radiant. ‘Given the chance, that’s all I want to talk about. He was absolutely magnificent. He was shot down a few weeks after D-day, and was made prisoner. He escaped and joined one of the French Underground Movements. He managed to get a letter to me. It was the last I had from him. It was brought by an American pilot, a friend of his. It was a wonderful letter. He seemed so happy to be working with these people. There were eight of them; they derailed trains. The leader was a Frenchman, Pierre Gourville. Brian said he was a fine man; a man of tremendous courage and faith and patriotism. Brian always wrote the most graphic letters, and in this one he brought all eight of them to life. There were two Frenchmen, two Frenchwomen, two Poles and three Englishmen, including himself. He wrote about the girl, Jeanne Persigny, one of the Frenchwomen. He had a great admiration for her. They must have been wonderful people. It worried me to think he was doing such dangerous work, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t even write to him. Then later I heard from the Air Ministry that he had been caught by the Gestapo and had been shot while trying to escape. He died only two days before the fighting stopped.’

This was a blank wall, Corridon decided, convinced she was telling what she thought to be the truth.

‘I suppose it’s certain he is dead?’ he asked tentatively. ‘Odd things happen, you know.’

She looked up quickly, a puzzled expression in her eyes.

‘Why do you say that?’

He decided to see just how much she did know.

‘I talked to someone about your brother recently. One of his friends: Rita Allen.’ He saw her give a little start and clench her fists. ‘I don’t know if you’ve met her. She said your brother is alive. She claims to have seen him some weeks ago.’

Her sudden anger at the mention of Rita Allen went as quickly as it had come, and she sat for a long moment staring at him.

‘How could she say such a thing? Why did you go to her? I don’t understand.’

Corridon moved uneasily.

‘Your brother mentioned her. I ran into her a couple of days ago. We met by chance. When I heard her name I remembered your brother had said she was a friend of his. I naturally asked her if she could tell me where he was. She didn’t know, but said they had met some weeks ago.’

‘How could she?’ Anne repeated angrily. ‘You’re making a mistake. She was never a friend of Brian’s. He told me about her. He met her when he was stationed at Biggin Hill. It was a physical attraction - nothing more. You know what young officers were like in those days. They were afraid of missing something. She threw herself at him, and then began to pester him for money. He didn’t see her more than two or three times. How could she say such a thing?’

Baffled, Corridon sank further down into his chair.

‘I don’t know. She made out she had known him for six years or so. She even said he had furnished a house for her.’

‘A house?’ Angry indignation struggled with amused contempt. ‘But that’s ridiculous. Brian only knew her for a few days, then he was posted overseas. He never saw her again.’

‘He may not have told you everything,’ Corridon said, irritated by her emphatic faith in her brother. ‘After all brothers don’t usually tell their sisters—’

‘But that’s not the point,’ Anne said sharply. ‘That has nothing to do with it. ‘We’re not discussing my brother’s relations with this woman. She said he is alive. Well, she’s lying.’

‘But why?’ Corridon demanded, forced to argue. ‘Why should she?’

For a moment Anne was disconcerted, then she said, ‘How much money did you give her for that information?’

It was now Corridon’s turn to be disconcerted.

‘How did you know I gave her money?’

‘I tell you I know the woman. She would say and do anything for money.’

‘Well, all right, I admit I paid her, but why should she say he is alive?’

‘Wasn’t that what you were expecting to hear? If she had told you he was dead you would have had no further interest in her.’

Corridon stared at her. This was something he hadn’t thought of, and it disturbed him. As he sat trying to make up his mind whether Rita Allen had lied to him. Ann got to her feet and moved across the room and stood near the easel.

‘You worry me,’ she said after a long silence in which he watched her uneasily. ‘Brian never mentioned your name. There’s something about you that makes me think you don’t know my brother. What exactly was it you wanted with him?’

Corridon got quickly to his feet. He was about to say something when he saw through the window a man in olive-green trench coat and black beret come staggering into sight. It was Ranleigh. A frantic, breathless, sweating Ranleigh who ran gasping towards the studio and fell up against the front door and banged violently on the knocker.

Corridon sprang across the studio, jerked open the front door and caught Ranleigh as he fell into the hall. He was breathing in great noisy gulps and grabbed hold of Corridon.

‘What’s happened?’ Corridon demanded. ‘What are you doing here?’

Ranleigh was trying to recover his breath. His chest heaved with the effort. He seemed to be suffocating.

‘What’s happened?’ Corridon said again, and shook him.

‘They’re right behind me,’ Ranleigh gasped. ‘I had to come here. There was nowhere else to go. That blasted fool has killed two policemen!’

‘Shut up!’ Corridon said, and looked quickly over his shoulder.

Ann was standing in the doorway.

‘Did your brother ever mention Ranleigh in his letter?’ Corridon asked her. ‘One of the eight? This is Ranleigh. You said you wished you’d taken more interest in your brother’s friends. Well, here’s your chance now.’

T
he latch of the green painted gate set in the six-foot wall lifted, and the gate slowly opened. For several seconds nothing happened, then a policeman poked his head round the gate and surveyed the courtyard with alert eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder, shook his head and allowed the gate to swing open. Truncheon in hand, he stepped slowly and reluctantly into the courtyard, followed by another policeman also holding a truncheon.

There was a twenty-foot gap between each bungalow. From where Corridon was standing, half concealed by the window curtain, he could look through the window, past the gap between the bungalows that screened No. 2a, and see part of the courtyard and gate. He watched the two policemen making their cautious way along the concrete path, and through the open gateway he could see a crowd of excited spectators, standing on the opposite side of the road at a safe distance.

Ann stood at his side, also looking out of the window.

Still moving cautiously the two policemen advanced towards the right-hand row of bungalows. Corridon sympathized with them. They were hopelessly and inadequately armed to deal with what they supposed was an armed killer; but in spite of their caution, there was no hesitation in their slow advance.

‘Did they see you come in?’ he asked Ranleigh without looking away from the window.

Ranleigh was slowly recovering his breath. He sat limply in a chair, and when he spoke his voice was steadier and his breathing less laboured.

‘I don’t think so. I had a good fifty yards lead and turned the corner and bolted in here without seeing anyone. I don’t think they saw me. Are they out there yet?’

‘They’re searching the courtyard now.’

Ranleigh struggled to his feet.

‘If they catch me I won’t have a chance. They won’t believe I didn’t know he was going to shoot. It was coldblooded murder before witnesses.’

‘Sit down and shut up,’ Corridon returned, with a warning frown towards Ann. ‘If they don’t know you’re here you’ll be safe enough.’ And as Ranleigh again slumped into the chair, Corridon went on to Ann, ‘I’m sorry about this. There’s no time to explain now, but there is an explanation. Whatever happens I intend to keep you clear of it. I suppose you’re bound to take sides?’

She looked at him, alarmed but not frightened.

‘I’ve never seen either of you before,’ she said steadily. ‘If the police question me I shall tell them what little I know.’

Corridon smiled.

‘That’s the most sensible thing to do, but we can’t let you meet those two fellows.’ He glanced at Ranleigh. ‘We’ll have to tie her up. Look around for a cord or something, and hurry.’

She made a quick step back, but he caught her wrist.

‘Please be sensible,’ he said. ‘I won’t hurt you. Don’t scream or make a fuss. Both Ranleigh and I are wanted by the police. We don’t want to get rough unless we have to. So will you just do as you’re told? As soon as those two have gone, we’ll leave you. I promise you won’t come to any harm.’

‘I knew you weren’t genuine,’ she returned. ‘No, I won’t make a fuss. I heard what he said. He’s a murderer, isn’t he?’

‘Good lord, no. Ranleigh wouldn’t hurt a fly. Some of your brother’s pals are in this country. Jan did the shooting. You remember Jan - the Pole?’

She was too bewildered to be frightened.

‘What does all this mean? Why have you two come here?’

‘Sorry, it’ll have to wait until later,’ Corridon returned as Ranleigh came into the room carrying a collection of belts and scarves he had found in Ann’s bedroom. ‘Keep an eye on them,’ he went on, taking two belts from him. As Ranleigh went to the window, he continued. ‘You’re not going to make a fuss, are you?’

He had released her arm, but was watching her closely, suspecting she was going to scream, but she said, ‘No. What do you want me to do?’

‘Turn round and put your hands behind you.’

She obeyed and he rapidly bound her wrists together.

‘Too tight?’ he asked, and was surprised to find how much he disliked doing this to her.

‘It’s all right’

He rolled one of the silk handkerchiefs Ranleigh had given him into a ball.

‘Now open your mouth.’

He could see now she was beginning to be frightened.

‘I won’t make a noise,’ she said, and backed away.

‘Look, if we slip up and they find you, they’ll want to know why you didn’t make a noise,’ he explained patiently. ‘I must gag you. It’s for your own safety.’

She lost a little of her colour, but let him adjust the gag.

‘That’s fine,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Let’s go into your bedroom. You can lie on the bed until it’s over. I’ll let you free as soon they’ve gone.’

He went with her into the little hall and through to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at him. He could see she was very worried and frightened now.

‘I wish you’d trust me,’ he said, kneeling at her feet. He slipped a scarf round her ankles and bound them together. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to you. I give you my word. As soon as they’ve gone I’ll free you. Now lie on the bed. I hope you’re not too uncomfortable.’

She dropped back on the pillow.

‘I can guess how you’re feeling,’ he went on, anxious to reassure her. ‘But it’s going to be all right. You’re not scared, are you?’

She hesitated, then shook her head. He patted her shoulder, smiled at her, then hurried back into the studio and joined Ranleigh at the window.

‘Any sign of them yet?’ he asked, peering over Ranleigh’s shoulder.

‘No. I think they’re going from house to house,’ Ranleigh returned. Corridon could feel him trembling.

‘I must say you certainly jump feet first into trouble,’ Corridon said. ‘You must have been crazy to let the cat out of the bag in front of her. What happened?’

Ranleigh drew in a shuddering breath.

‘He shot two policemen! The mad, irresponsible fool! He suspected I was up to something, and accused me outright of betraying them to you. When I denied it he drew his gun. We were in the hotel lounge. Then, of course one of the residents came in and saw what was going on. Jeanne knew it was all up, and told us to pack and get out. Someone in the hotel must have called the police. We hadn’t taken ten minutes to pack our things, but the police were coming in as we reached the exit, one of them rushed towards us, and Jan shot him down. Before the other poor devil could move, Jan shot him too. It was the most coldblooded thing I’ve ever seen.’

Corridon lit a cigarette.

‘That’s one thing you don’t do in this country - shoot coppers,’ he said grimly. ‘It starts the worst kind of trouble. What happened then?’

‘I suppose I lost my head,’ Ranleigh said wearily. ‘As soon as I saw the chaps were dead, I dropped my bag and bolted into the street. People were staring at the hotel. I suppose they heard the shots. I must have looked pretty wild. A man tried to stop me, but I dodged him and ran like hell.’ He swung round, his face twitching. ‘You’ll scarcely believe this, but Jeanne came rushing out of the hotel screaming for them to stop me; as if I was the killer. Of course that set the crowd after me, and in the confusion Jeanne and Jan calmly got into the police car and drove off. They passed me without even looking at me while I was running down the street with the mob at my heels.’

Corridon concealed a grin.

‘That needed a nerve. Well, go on, how did you get here?’

‘I was lucky. Once I ran slap into a policeman. We had a scrap but I got away. I dodged and doubled back, hid and ran again. They lost me eventually, and I took a taxi to Victoria Station. As I was paying the driver I saw a police car coming and one of the policemen shouted to the driver to hold me. I bolted, and it started all over again. Then I remembered I was near Cheyne Walk. If I hadn’t dodged in here I’d’ve been caught.’

Corridon grunted, ‘Well, you can’t stay here long. You’ve complicated things, Ranleigh. I’m not blaming you, but you’ve properly upset my apple-cart I was getting along with her until you arrived.’

But Ranleigh wasn’t listening. He was too wrapt up in his own troubles.

‘They won’t believe I didn’t do it,’ he said, gritting his teeth. ‘What devils those two are. First they push Crew’s murder on to you. Now they’ve pushed this on to me.’

‘Oh yes, they’re devils all right,’ Corridon said with a grin, ‘but that doesn’t mean ...’ He broke off, nudged Ranleigh and jerked his head to the window. ‘Here they come.’

The two policemen and a bald headed man in a biscuit-coloured corduroy suit who walked just behind them, appeared from behind the row of bungalows and advanced towards No. 2a. ‘Go into the bedroom and leave this to me,’ Corridon said. ‘Keep your eyes open. You may have to leave in a hurry.’

The front door bell rang as Ranleigh slipped into the bedroom. Corridon gave him time to shut the door, then went to the front door and opened it

‘Something wrong?’ he asked casually.

‘We’re looking for a man we believe came this way,’ one of the policemen said abruptly. He looked past Corridon’s burly form into the hall. ‘He’s tall and thin; one arm and one eye and a scar on his face; dressed in an olive-green trench coat and a black beret.’

‘I haven’t seen him.’

The man in the biscuit-coloured suit pushed forward. There was an aggressive look in his small, watery eyes, and his unshaven chin was thrust forward.

‘And who are you?’ he demanded. ‘I haven’t seen you before.’

Corridon eyed him up and down.

‘You want a shave,’ he said with his infuriating grin. ‘Or are you trying to grow a beard?’

‘Who are you?’ The fat, flabby face turned purple.

‘The name’s Henley. I’m an old friend of Miss Mallory. And what’s it to you?’

‘My name’s Holroyd - Crispin Holroyd.’ As if he expected Corridon to know the name. ‘I’m a good neighbour of Miss Mallory’s. Where is she? I’d like a word with her.’

‘She’s out shopping,’ Corridon returned, and looked away, turning his attention with studied rudeness to the policeman. ‘Anything else you want to know, officer?’

‘No. If you haven’t seen our man, that’s all.’

‘No, I haven’t seen him.’

Holroyd pulled the policeman aside and whispered in his ear, Corridon caught the words: ‘Stranger here - never seen him before - don’t like the look of him.’

He winked at the policeman.

‘If you like to stick around for the next half-hour, Miss Mallory will be back. She’ll vouch for me.’

‘That’s all right,’ the policeman returned irritably. He scowled at Holroyd and pulled free from his grasp. ‘Come on, Bill,’ he went on to his companion, ‘we’re wasting time. He must have gone straight on.’

Corridon watched the two policemen and Holroyd walked down the path. Holroyd was protesting to them, but neither of them took any notice of him.

‘All clear,’ Corridon called when he had shut and bolted the door.

Ranleigh came out of the bedroom. He was tense and pale.

‘What are we going to do with her?’ he asked, jerking his head towards the bedroom.

‘Leave her for the moment. The point is what are we going to do with you?’

Ranleigh went into the studio and began to pace up and down.

‘I don’t think I have a hope. The best thing I can do is to give myself up. Perhaps they’ll believe me.’

‘Did anyone see the shooting?’

‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. They were all hiding from us. It was done so quickly. They heard the shots, of course, but I bet they didn’t poke their noses out to see who was shooting.’

‘Still, the police must know by now there was more than one of you. They’ll have Jan’s description. Maybe they’ll pick him up first. They may find the gun on him.’

‘That won’t let me out,’ Ranleigh said hopelessly.

‘No. We’ll have to do something. In a couple of hours they’ll get organized. They’ll throw in every available man. The police really go to town when one of their own kind gets knocked off.’

‘What the hell am I to do? Shall I give myself up?’

‘You’d better come with me,’ Corridon said after a moment’s thought. It won’t be long before they find out about Rita Allen, then they’re going to come after me with everything they’ve got. I’m going to Scotland. I didn’t tell you Mallory once owned an island off Dunbar, did I? He had a house up there. It might make a good hideout for us. He might be there. That’s where I’m going, and you’ll come with me.’

‘And we’ll come too,’ Jeanne said in her cold flat voice from the doorway, and Jan slid past her into the room, threatening Corridon with his pistol.