Read Vulture is a Patient Bird Online
Authors: James Hadley Chase
Vulture is a Patient Bird (9 page)
"The Borgia ring?" Burnett was surprised. "So he is after that? My congratulations, Miss Norman. Play me the tapes."
She shook her head.
"I want one thousand pounds in ten pound notes before you hear the tapes, Mr. Burnett."
His smile became fixed.
"Now, Miss Norman, that won't do. How do I know you even have the tapes? I must hear them . . . let us be reasonable."
She had the tape-recorder already loaded and she let him listen to three minutes conversation between Shalik and Garry Edwards, then as Shalik was saying, "All that will be explained tonight. You will not be alone. The risks and responsibilities will be shared," she pressed the stop button.
"But nothing so far has been said about Mr. Kahlenberg," Burnett pointed out, looking hungrily at the tape recorder.
"When you have brought me the money, you will hear the rest, but not before."
They regarded each other and Burnett saw it would be useless to try to persuade her. He got to his feet, reminding himself that one thousand pounds meant as much to Max Kahlenberg as one penny meant to the Prime Minister of England.
Two hours later, his Saturday afternoon ruined, Burnett was back with the money. He listened to the tapes, his fat, purple face becoming more and more startled. He realized as he listened that he was getting these tapes cheaply.
"Splendid, Miss Norman," he said as she wound off the last tape. "Really splendid. You have certainly earned your fee. Any further information you can get like that I will, of course, pay you as handsomely."
"There won't be a next time," Natalie said. Her face was white and her expression of self-loathing startled Burnett. She thrust the tiny tape recorder at him. "Take it away!"
"Now, Miss Norman . . ."
"Take it! Take it!" she screamed and fearing a scene, Burnett grabbed the recorder and the three tapes and hurriedly left. It was only on his way down in the lift that he realized she hadn't returned the expensive eavesdropping microphone. He wondered if he should go back for it, but her distraught face and the wild look in her eyes warned him not to. He would pick up the micro-, phone after the week-end when she would be calmer.
Some three hours later, Daz returned to the flat. He had already checked with Burnett who had told him the money was waiting for him.
Elated that he was going to lay his hands on such a sum, he had dated a chick to meet him at Billy Walker's Boozer that was once an elegant restaurant and from there they would go to a club in King's Road and from there into her bed.
He was through with Natalie. With a thousand pounds in hand and with his know-how, Dublin would be the place for him.
He was slightly startled when he entered the flat to find Natalie sitting on the settee, white faced, trembling and crying.
"What the hell's up?" he demanded, thinking how ugly she looked.
She dabbed her eyes and straightened.
"I have the money, Daz."
He moved further into the room.
"You have? What are you so miserable about? You oughta be pleased."
"Judas wasn't pleased . . . he hanged himself."
Daz had vaguely heard of Judas. He wasn't sure who he was, but he had an idea he was a baddie and not a goodie.
"What are you talking about? Who's hanging who?"
"Nothing . . . you wouldn't understand. Are you hungry?" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Where's the money?"
"You're not hungry? I've bought you a steak."
"To hell with the steak. Where's the money?"
Looking at him, she was shocked to see the greed on the lean, handsome face.
She got unsteadily to her feet and went to a cupboard. She brought the money to him in neat stacks.
It made her heart contract to watch him fondle the money. This couldn't be the man she loved so desperately who had opened the hidden door in her life: this was a greedy, vicious young animal who mauled the money as he had mauled her body.
"Are you pleased?"
He ignored her and began stuffing the money into his various pockets.
"What are you doing?" Her voice went shrill.
He stowed away the last packet of money and then regarded her.
"Getting the hell out of here . . . that's what I'm doing."
"You mean now you have the money, you — you don't want me?"
"Who the hell would want you?" He pointed a finger at her. "I'm going to give you some advice. From now on, baby, keep your legs tightly crossed. That's your trouble. You dig your own grave," and he was gone.
Natalie stood motionless, her hand against her slow thumping heart. She listened to the lift descend, taking him out of her life forever.
Then she walked slowly to a chair and sat down. She remained there as the hands of the clock on the wall moved around its face, marking the hours. Then when the light began to fade she eased her stiffness by stretching out her long, slim legs. Her mind began to work again. After all, she told herself, why should he care? I could have guessed what was going to happen. She closed her eyes. Now her lack of charm and her plainness was underlined as it had never before been so underlined. She realized all along she had been praying, waiting, hoping for a miracle, but this wasn't the year of miracles.
She thought of the long, lonely nights ahead of her. She knew too that her conscience would be burdened by the guilt of her betrayal. She had done this disgusting act of disloyalty only to keep Daz for herself. Why go on? She asked herself. You can't hope to live with yourself . . . so why go on?
She went into the kitchen, moving slowly like a sleepwalker and found a small, sharp vegetable knife. Taking this with her, she paused to put the front door on the latch, then she went into the bathroom. She turned on the bath taps and stood in a black daze until the bath was half full of tepid water. She kicked off her shoes and stepped into the bath. Her pleated skirt ballooned out and she pressed it down. She felt the comforting water soak through her clothes to her despairing body.
She lay still. Would it hurt? They said it was the easiest way to die. Gritting her teeth, she drew the sharp blade across her left wrist. She cut deeply and she fought back a cry of pain. The knife slipped from her hand. For a brief moment, she looked at the water surrounding her, now turning pink and darkening, then she closed her eyes.
She lay there, thinking of Daz with his handsome face and his long black curly hair and his beautiful strong body until she quietly slid away from a life she no longer had use for.
Chapter Four
Armo Shalik returned to his suite at 08.30 hrs. on Monday morning. He was met by Sherborn who reported that Fennel was in Paris. He explained the circumstances while Shalik sat at his desk, glowering at him.
"I hope I did right, sir. Had I know where to contact you, I would, of course, have consulted you."
The fact that Shalik had had an unsatisfactory week-end with a call girl somewhere in the country, and he had no intention of advertising this fact to Sherborn, increased his rage.
"Well, he's gone. He said nothing about what he thought of the Kahlenberg set-up?"
"No, sir. He was in and out like a rocket."
Shalik had a feeling this was going to be a black Monday. Had he known that the three tapes, recording the details of his plan to steal the Borgia ring had already arrived on Max Kahlenberg's desk, he would have considered this Monday to be a disaster, but he didn't know.
Irritated and short tempered, he presided over the 09.30 hr. meeting, explaining to Gaye, Garry and Ken Jones that Fennel had had to leave and was now in Paris.
"There is no need to go into details," he said. "Mr. Fennel left so hurriedly he was unable to tell me his opinion about Kahlenberg's security measures. I trust he will be able to tell you when you all meet at the Rand International hotel. As I have a busy morning, there is no useful purpose served in prolonging this meeting." He looked at Garry. "You have studied the maps I gave you?"
"Yes . . . no trouble," Garry said. "I'll get there."
"Well, then the operation is now in your hands. I have done my best to make it easy for you. It is now up to you. You will be leaving tonight, and you will arrive at Johannesburg tomorrow morning." He paused, hesitated, then went on, "It is only fair to warn you that Fennel is a dangerous criminal, but absolutely necessary if this operation is to succeed." He looked directly at Garry. "You appear able to take care of yourself, so I will ask you also to take care of Miss Desmond."
"That will be my pleasure," Garry said quietly.
"Oh, Armo!" Gaye said impatiently. "You know I can well look after myself. What are you fussing about?"
"Men fuss over beautiful women. I am no exception," Shalik said, lifting his fat shoulders. Again he looked directly at Garry who nodded. "Well, bon voyage and success, Sherborn will give you your tickets and all the necessary details."
When the three had gone, Shalik looked for his list of appointments which Natalie always left on his desk. He couldn't find it. Again, he had a feeling that this Monday was going to be more than tiresome. Angrily, he went into her room. That she was not sitting at her desk as she had always sat for the past three years startled him. He looked at his watch. The time was 10.00 hrs. Returning to his office, he rang for Sherborn.
"Where is Miss Norman?"
"I have no idea, sir," Sherborn returned indifferently. Shalik glared at him.
"Then find out! She may be ill. Call her flat!"
The buzzer of the telephone sounded. Impatiently, Shalik waved to Sherborn to take the call.
Sherborn picked up the receiver and said in his pompous voice, "Mr. Shalik's residence." There was a pause, then in a voice suddenly off-key, he said, "Who? What did you say?"
Shalik looked angrily at him, then stiffened for Sherborn had lost colour and there was alarm in his eyes.
"Hold on."
"What is it?"
"Sergeant Goodyard of the Special Branch is asking to speak to you, sir."
The two men looked at each other. Shalik's mind flew to those three dangerous currency transactions he had recently made when he had moved some nine hundred thousand pounds out of England. Could Scotland Yard have possibly got on to that? He felt his hands turn moist.
Steadying his voice and not looking at Sherborn, he said, "Tell him to come up."
Three minutes later, Sherborn opened the door of the suite to be confronted by a large, heavily-built man with probing eyes, a mouth like a fly trap and a jaw like the prow of a ship.
"Come in, sir," Sherborn said, stepping aside. "Mr. Shalik will see you immediately."
Sergeant Goodyard moved into the room. He stared at Sherborn, then lifted heavy eyebrows.
"Why, hello George . . . I thought you were dead."
"No, sir," Sherborn said, sweat on his face.
"A pity. You keeping out of trouble?"
"Yes, sir."
Sergeant Goodyard surveyed the outer room with a critical eye.
"You've found a nice little nest here, haven't you, George? Better than Pentonville I dare say."
"Yes, sir."
Sherborn opened the door to Shalik's office.
After staring at him for a long moment, Goodyard walked into the impressively luxurious room.
Shalik glanced up. He regarded the police officer as he came slowly to the desk.
"Sergeant Goodyard?"
"Yes, sir."
Shalik waved him to a chair.
"Sit down, sergeant. What is it?"
Goodyard settled himself in the chair and looked stonily at Shalik who felt the unease that all guilty people feel when under police scrutiny, although his face remained expressionless.
"I believe Miss Natalie Norman works for you?"
Surprised, Shalik nodded.
"That is right. She hasn't come in this morning. Has something happened to her?"
"She died Saturday night," Goodyard told him in his flat, cop voice. "Suicide."
Shalik flinched. He had a horror of death. For some moments he remained motionless, then his quick, callous mind became alive. Who was he going to find to replace her? Who was now going to look after him? The fact that she was dead meant nothing to him. The fact that he had relied on her for the past three years to arrange his social and business life meant a lot.
"I'm sorry to hear that." He reached for a cigar and paused to clip the end. Was there any reason?"
What a bastard! Goodyard thought, but his cop face revealed none of his disgust.
"That is why I am here, sir. I hoped you could tell me."
Shalik lit the cigar and let the rich smelling smoke roll out of his
mouth. He shook his head.
"I'm sorry, but I know nothing about Miss Norman . . . nothing at all. I have always found her an efficient worker. She has been with me for three years." He leaned back in his executive chair and looked directly at Goodyard. "I am a busy man, Sergeant. It is impossible for me to take much — if any — interest in the people who work for me."
Goodyard felt in his overcoat pocket and produced a small object which he laid in front of Shalik on the white blotter. "Would you know what that is, sir?"
Shalik frowned at the thick paper clip: the kind that is used to clip together heavy legal documents.
"Obviously a paper clip," he said, curtly. "I hope you have reason for asking me such a question, Sergeant. You are taking up my valuable time."
"Oh, yes, I have a reason," Goodyard was unperturbed by Shalik's sharp note. "I understand, Mr. Shalik, that you are engaged in many transactions about which rival companies could be interested."
Shalik's face hardened. "Surely that is no business of yours?"
"No, sir, but it could explain this object here," and Goodyard tapped the paper clip.
"Just what do you mean?"
"This apparent paper clip is a highly sensitive microphone which is illegal to possess and which is used only by authorized bodies. In other words, sir, this gadget is only used in espionage work."
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