The Doors Open (20 page)

“They’re using a silenced gun, so keep your head down. Move along behind this stack, and see if you can feel your way round into the next bay.

Another shot hit the stack behind them.

Nap put up his hand, felt in one of the sacks and identified a turnip.

“That should keep the bullets out all right,” he reflected.

“We’ve got to get moving all the same. We can’t go back, because we shall show up against the light at the end of the passage. If we stay here they’ll rush us. Can’t think why they haven’t already. Perhaps they think I’ve got a gun.”

Jenny seemed to have found a way past the end of the stack so he followed her.

They found themselves in a similar bay.

“Try that door,” whispered Nap. It was almost bound to be locked. At that moment he heard one of the men. He was coming round the end of the first bay they had entered. There – he was using his torch. It flashed on for a moment, then off.

It was a matter of seconds now. He felt rather sick.

Jenny was whispering something.

“Nap – the door’s open – a lot of men–”

He couldn’t make out the last bit, but the first sounded hopeful.

He tiptoed back after her, and saw that the door, which led into a sort of shop front, was ajar.

He eased in.

Jenny was there all right, and he realized with a bit of a shock that she was not alone. Several men were moving softly in the darkness. They were making no attempt to molest him, and as his eyes got used to the dark he thought they looked like market porters.

Nap sat down on a crate and waited. There was nothing else to do. The men must know they were there.

In the darkness he made out Jenny sitting beside him, so he held her hand. That seemed quite logical too.

They were in a sort of greengrocer’s shop or selling room. The door through which they had come was rather an ill-fitting affair. Through the chinks they could see the flashes as Luciano’s men hunted outside among the sacks and bales. They seemed to have lost the trail.

Presently they heard the mutter of voices in conference.

Then someone came up to the door of the shop in which they were sitting.

The handle rattled, and the door swung open. A torch flashed in the room, and Nap heard a startled exclamation in Italian from the man who was holding it.

Then every light in the place came on.

The scene which followed will always remain sharply etched on Nap’s memory.

It was Luciano himself who was standing just inside the room, a big torch in one hand – its light dimmed to nothing by the blaze of the overhead arc lamps – in the other hand a gun. Behind him, crowding the doorway, were his two henchmen. But it was the figure in the middle of the room which seized Nap’s attention. He was an immensely tall, broad man, with a big white gloomy face. He stood in an attitude which was at once loose and drooping, yet alert – rather like a heron fishing, thought Nap. He was dressed in black: not the black of the stage villain but the respectable black of a suburban householder. The black of a churchgoing worthy.

Nap had never seen him before but he recognized him at once from Major McCann’s description.

Luciano apparently knew him.

He put away his gun, snapped off his torch, and walked a step or two further into the room. In a voice which sounded faintly conciliatory he said, “Well, Birdy, this is a surprise.”

Birdy McLaughlan said nothing. Perhaps he felt that he was in a strong position. There were at least six of his men in the room, and Nap felt there were probably more at call. He recognized two of them. They were the men who had come up and stood beside the car when it had broken down.

“I did not know,” with a well executed smile, “that this lady and this gentleman were friends of yours.”

“They aren’t,” said Birdy.

Luciano was plainly at a loss.

“Well then,” he said, “perhaps they had better come along with me and the boys.”

“And perhaps they hadn’t,” said Birdy.

Nap felt that he was making things rather difficult for Luciano. So, evidently, did Luciano, who, after shooting a dirty look at Nap, decided that the only thing to do was to withdraw with what dignity was left to him.

“Well,” he said, “I’ll be going.”

“Not yet you won’t,” said Birdy. “Not until I’ve said what I want to say.” He spat with great precision, nine inches to the left of Luciano’s neat dancing shoe.

“The last time we met,” he went on, “I told you that I didn’t like you. I said that I had no use for you. I stood up in that so-called eating house that you run and said it to you. And I gave you my reasons. Now that you’ve been so good as to come and visit me, perhaps you’ll do the same.”

When Luciano had ignored this opening – wisely Nap felt – Birdy McLaughlan went on:

“Now here are two more reasons for you. I don’t like people who come into my territory and start shooting. I don’t like people who come into my territory at all. When they start shooting I like them even less. That’s one thing. The other thing is that from what I’ve heard you’ve been getting into bad company. Perhaps you’ll tell me this. What’s the
colour
of the money you’ve been taking?”

He put such a degree of unexpected emphasis into these last few words that everybody present looked at Luciano to see what his reply would be.

Apparently he understood the innuendo only too well. He looked quite horrible, Nap thought. Both venomous and impotent.

“It wouldn’t be red, would it?” went on Birdy. “It wouldn’t be a dirty filthy red?”

Without a word Luciano turned and left the room. His two men went with him. They heard their footsteps echoing along the empty colonnade.

“They’ve got a good walk home,” said Nap. “I’ve wrecked their car.”

“Serve the bastards right,” said Birdy. “Give them five minutes and you can go too.” He seemed to have lost interest in Nap and Jenny and his men had long ago resumed what they were doing. It was something to do with tins and packing cases, but Nap took care not to appear too inquisitive. As far as he was concerned Birdy could have robbed the Bank of England.

Five minutes later he and Jenny were walking quietly up the Strand. One of Birdy’s men had seen them as far as the corner of Henrietta Street and had then left them without a word.

They weren’t a chatty crowd.

Nor were Nap and Jenny feeling talkative.

Logically they should have been bubbling over with excitement and relief. In fact, neither of them seemed inclined to talk. They were both absorbed with their own thoughts, and when Nap’s hand accidentally touched Jenny’s he apologized with quite unnecessary fervour.

As a matter of form Nap asked the Temple porter to come up with them, but there was no one in his rooms. Not even Paddy, though the clock on the mantelshelf showed that it was long past midnight.

When the porter had been rewarded for his efforts and had returned to his lair below stairs, Jenny sat down on the sofa whilst Nap revived the fire.

“I wonder where Paddy is,” said Jenny. “Do you think those men – some of the others have been sent after him–”

“If only he had told us where he was going,” said Nap crossly, “then we might ring up and find out whether – Jenny, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” said Jenny.

About an hour later, rather guiltily, they started thinking about Paddy again.

“We might try the police,” said Nap. “But it seems so silly. He’s probably just making a night of it–”

“Nearly two o’clock, darling.”

“Yes, sweet, but you know what Paddy is.”

“I don’t think I ever really knew him,” said Jenny. “That was half the trouble. You’re different.”

“I’m easy to see through, I suppose,” said Nap.

“Don’t be silly.”

Another half-hour passed.

“Look here,” said Nap. “We must do something. We can’t just go to bed – I mean – you know what I mean.”

“Of course,” said Jenny gravely. “The proprieties must at all costs be preserved. Let’s make up the fire and then we’ll sit in this chair and wait for something to happen. We’re bound to get news soon.”

It was half past three when the telephone bell woke them.

Nap jumped to the receiver and a very polite woman’s voice at the other end said, “Mr Rumbold?”

“Yes – who is it?”

“This is Night Sister in Charge. I’m speaking from Raheres. We have a Mr Yeatman-Carter here–”

“Paddy Yeatman-Carter – yes. Is he hurt?”

“He has some minor injuries. A broken collarbone. Nothing to worry about. There are two other gentlemen with him. One has a broken wrist–”

“Two other – what’s it all about, Sister.”

“He can tell you himself in the morning, Mr Rumbold. He wants you to come round and see him. Not before nine o’clock, please.”

“It’s Paddy,” said Nap. “He seems to have got involved in an accident. He’s in hospital. I’m to see him tomorrow.”

“Someone will have to tell him – about us.”

“Yes,” said Nap thoughtfully. “I think you’d better explain.”

“When you see Patricia you’ll have some explaining to do yourself, darling.”

2

At nine o’clock next morning Nap was walking along one of the spotless chlorodol-smelling corridors of Rahere’s Hospital. It had been agreed that he should have the duty of breaking the news – with the proviso that he might exercise discretion if the patient’s situation seemed too serious to withstand the anticipated shock.

Paddy was apparently in a private room.

When he arrived outside the door Nap stood for a moment rehearsing an appropriate opening to what was likely to be one of the most embarrassing speeches of his short life.

From the complete silence reigning on the other side of the door he imagined that Paddy must be alone.

Well he couldn’t stand there for ever.

Summoning up his courage he seized the handle, opened the door and walked in.

Paddy was sitting up in bed, but he was not alone. Nurse Patricia Goodbody was sitting beside him, and they were holding hands.

It took Nap about half a second to grasp what he had seen and then the pure rich humour of it hit him between the eyes and he threw back his head and gave a great roar of laughter.

“Really, Rumbold,” said Paddy in his stiffest voice. “I can’t see that this is a laughing matter. It’s a bit unfortunate you should have come in when you did, but believe me, I should have broken the news to you in a proper way at the first opportunity–”

He had not let go of Patricia’s hand and was looking as dignified as anyone can look with his shoulder in plaster, his hair on end, and a day’s growth of beard on his face.

“Nap,” said Patricia, “this is going to be a bit of a shock for you, I expect.”

“When did this – er – when did it happen?” asked Nap.

“The first moment I saw Patricia this morning,” said Paddy. “I knew – we knew.”

“It’s just not possible,” said Nap. “I know all about hospitals. I’ve been in them. Nurses come round at six o’clock. Love at first sight is a very beautiful thing, but not at six in the morning.”

“Nap, you’re being horrid,” said Patricia.

“Really, Rumbold, making due allowances for the shock it must have been for you–”

“All right,” said Nap. “It would serve you right if I kept it back for a bit longer, but I can’t. Just let me tell you what I came here this morning to say–”

He told them, and one way and another it was some time before they could get down to the business in hand.

“Look here,” he said at last, “we can’t go on like this all morning. There’s work to be done. First of all, do you mind telling me how you come to be lying here looking like a casualty clearing station–”

“It really was the most amazing show,” said Paddy. “I still don’t quite know how it all happened. It all started with the Hornet’s Rugger Club–”

“Rugger,” said Nap. “In this weather!”

“Not playing Rugger. It was the club dinner. The Hornets always have their annual dinner at the beginning of June. Of course, I don’t often play now, but I like to get along to the old functions and keep things going. I keep in touch with a lot of the chaps I used to know before the war. Ronnie Selden – you remember him, Nap. He joined the Hyde Parks at the same time as you did and got a Company just before you left. And Duggie Malcolmson and little Harry Sparkes. And a lot more, too. A damn fine crowd.

“Well, the dinner was a pretty good show. We always have it in the Bell out at Winchmore Hill. The proprietor’s a supporter of the club from way back, and he always puts on a good party. There was jugs of beer and Chris Carter made a most amusing speech – you should have heard some of the things he said about the government – pretty caustic, I can tell you. And then we sang a few songs. As I said, it was a good evening. But I think everything would have gone off quietly enough if it hadn’t been for the Crusaders–”

“The who?”

“Crusaders. You must have heard of them. Another Rugger club. They have the ground just across the way from ours, and of course there’s a good deal of healthy rivalry. I forget how it started. You know how these things are. I believe one of their forwards brought a hammer on to the field back in 1890, or something of the sort. Anyhow we always have a match on Boxing Day and it’s a bit of a local derby. Well, getting on towards closing time somebody noticed that one or two types from the Crusaders were drinking our beer. They’d infiltrated into the party. I don’t suppose that would have mattered, either, in the ordinary way. You get pretty laissez-aller at that time of night, and there’s nothing wrong with the Crusader types – they’re very decent citizens, off the rugger field. But unfortunately they had one big fat fellow there – a back row forward called Gumboil – or some name like that – who got pretty tight and climbed up on the bar and started shouting things. Well, Ronnie Selden – you know Ronnie – he got a bit tired of this and in the end he leant across and pushed him over backwards – absolutely smack-o in among all the beer barrels.

“After that things really did hot up.

“Well, I didn’t want to get involved. I don’t think I’d had as much to drink as some of the others, and I can’t say I really care for these free-for-alls. So when the tankards started to fly I slipped out and made tracks for home.