Why Pick On ME? (12 page)

“That was quite a trick you pulled on me,” he said to Diestl. “Congratulations.”

Diestl went over to the dying fire. He stood with his back to it, his hands in his trouser pockets. He smiled thinly.

“The police are hunting for you,” he said smoothly. “It is my duty to tell them you are here. You realize that?”

Corridon grinned.

“It wouldn’t be wise to tell them I’m here,” he said cheerfully. “Naturally, you don’t want to be drawn into this business. That’s why I came here. You hoped I would have been caught after the shooting. That was why you sent your fat bodyguard to see I didn’t get away. Unfortunately, I did get away, and now you’re stuck with me.”

Diestl raised his black eyebrows.

“I don’t know what you are talking about. You can’t stay here. You’d better go.”

“Ring up the police now,” Corridon said. “Go on. Tell them I’m here, and don’t kid yourself you three will be able to talk yourself out of trouble.”

“If it wasn’t for Lorene,” Diestl said with his thin smile, “I would most certainly call the police. Naturally I hesitate to involve her in any unpleasantness. It would be better if you left.”

Corridon lit a cigarette.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m staying here. But don’t let us waste any more time. I intend to be frank with you. Up to an hour ago I was an agent attached to O.S.S.5, the English branch of the cloak and dagger boys. You may have heard of them. Their job is to hunt down spies and saboteurs, and they are under the direction of a certain Colonel at the War Office. He is on to you. I was ordered to contact you and find out as much as I could of your activities. Because you outsmarted me, and I made a mess of this letter-stealing stunt, I have been tossed out into the cold, hard world. In other words, authority has once again washed its hands of me. Does this bore you?”

Diestl shook his head.

“If it amuses you, go on. I have no idea what you are talking about, but no doubt that won’t worry you.”

“It doesn’t,” Corridon said cheerfully. “The Colonel is particularly anxious that you should have no idea he is on to you. That is the reason why he is sacrificing me. I don’t see it his way. Since I am between the devil and the deep blue sea, I have no alternative but to offer you my services.”

“I should have no use for them,” Diestl said. “I don’t make a habit of hiring murderers.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t entirely accurate,” Corridon said. “Carl Bruger is a professional murderer.”

For a second Diestl’s face tightened, then he recovered himself.

“I don’t know who you are talking about.”

“I suppose you have never heard of Ivan Yevski?”

Again Diestl couldn’t control a slight start.

“No, I haven’t,” he said, but his thin smile had gone.

“The fact is,” Corridon went on, flicking ash on the carpet, “we know a lot about your organization. We know about the jade rings. The Colonel has been extremely active. He has quite a dossier on you and your followers. I would be useful to you. Don’t let’s beat about the bush. I’m not fussy who I work for, providing the money is reasonable. I know the inner workings of O.S.S.5. I know their agents. I know their methods. I could tell you who to watch for. For all you know you may have some of them working amongst the group you control. I could ferret them out for you. Besides all that, there’s nothing I don’t know about explosives, sabotage, and the gentle art of removing undesirables. I could teach your recruits a lot. I should need money, of course, and shelter, but I should be an excellent bargain. I assure you of that.”

Diestl studied Corridon. The cold, black eyes were piercing.

“I can only conclude you are either mad or drunk,” he said. “I have no idea what you are talking about. I suggest you leave immediately.”

Corridon laughed.

“Still cautious? Perhaps you’d better ask yourself if you can afford to be without me. No. 12 was caught, you know, and he talked.”

A shadow passed across Diestl’s face, and his jaw muscles tightened.

“Don’t trust him!” Feydak said, harshly seeing the change of expression. “He’s up to something.”

“Probably he is, but I think he may be right when he says we can’t afford to be without him.” A small automatic sprang into Diestl’s hand. He levelled the gun at Corridon. “What do you know of No. 12?”

“That’s better,” Corridon said. “At least, you admit you know who I’m talking about. You wondered where he vanished to, didn’t you? Well, I’ll tell you. O.S.S.5 nabbed him. They took him to a quiet little room in the basement of a silent lonely house and they worked on him. They weren’t particularly fussy how they handled him either. After a while, he talked. Then to make sure he wasn’t holding anything back, they worked him over again. Perhaps he hadn’t anything more to tell them, but they are hard to convince; and extremely enthusiastic. He wasn’t quite tough enough to withstand their attentions. He died under the treatment.”

Feydak caught his breath in a gasp of horror.

Corridon turned to look at him.

“I doubt if you are anything like as tough as No. 12,” he said, smiling into Feydak’s white face. “I doubt if you’d last half an hour with these boys. But, of course, you would probably talk before they even started on you.”

“That’s enough,” Diestl said curtly. “Give me the name of this Colonel.”

Corridon shook his head.

“Is it likely I would give away one of my best cards? Do something for me and I’ll do a lot for you. I want a job and shelter. In return I’ll make myself useful to you. Is it a bargain?”

Diestl looked over at Feydak.

“Well, take him to Baintrees,” he said, “We also have methods of making people talk!”

CHAPTER
FIVE

I

Except for the glow of Bruger’s cigarette, it was pitch dark in the van. Corridon sat on the floor, his back braced against the side of the van as it swayed and banged over an unknown road. He had now lost all sense of time and distance, and had no idea where he was being taken.

Bruger and Yevski had arrived at Lorene’s flat and had taken charge of him. He was content to go with them, knowing his position was dangerous, but realizing it was a risk he had to take. He had made progress. He now knew both Diestl and Feydak were connected with this organization. Whether or not, Diestl was the controlling head remained to be seen. Corridon doubted it. Bruger and Yevski had been very curt with Diestl, scarcely hiding the contempt of the professional for the amateur. It was also obvious that Feydak was only very small beer in the organization. He seemed afraid of Bruger and Yevski, as well he might be. Seen together, they looked a murderous couple, and Corridon was wary of them himself.

Lorene had been bustled into her bedroom by Feydak before Bruger and Yevski had arrived. She had seemed shocked by what had been said by Corridon and Diestl.

“Keep out of it,” Feydak had told her. “Don’t say anything. Can’t you see this is dangerous, you little fool?”

She had gone into her bedroom without a glance at Corridon.

There was a small tradesman’s van outside the flat when Bruger and Yevski had taken Corridon down the stairs to the street. Yevski drove and Bruger got into the back with Corridon.

Neither of the two men had said a word to him, and during the long ride, Bruger maintained his cold, menacing silence.

After more than an hour’s drive, the van slowed down, turned sharply and went on at a reduced pace. It came to a sudden stop, throwing Corridon off balance.

The van doors were opened.

“Get out,” Bruger said in his soft, guttural voice.

Corridon dropped to the ground as Yevski came round the van, a Mauser automatic in his hand.

As far as Corridon could see, for it was almost pitch dark, except for the van’s headlamps, he was standing on a gravel drive, surrounded by tall trees. He could make out the dim outlines of a vast, rambling house, and as he turned to look at it, a lamp lit up over the imposing front entrance.

“Come,” Yevski said, and moved up the flight of broad stone steps leading to the house.

Corridon followed him and Bruger brought up the rear.

The front door opened and the three walked into a lofty, big hall, panelled in oak and lit by clusters of electric lamps set along the wall.

A man in a wrap-over white coat, black trousers and black, crêpe-soled shoes closed the door behind them.

“You’ve taken your time,” he said to Burger in a cold, flat voice.

“Well, we’re here now,” Bruger said surlily. “This is him. If you’ll take him off our hands, we’ll get some sleep.”

“All right.”

Bruger and Yevski went away together. The man in the white coat gave Corridon a quick, hard look.

“Come with me,” he said curtly. “Dr. Homer wants to see you.”

Corridon studied the man with interest. He was tall, slight and dark. He had a wide, high forehead, small black eyes, a thin slit for a mouth and a thin, beaky nose. Corridon knew his type well. He was the kind of man the Gestapo employed during the war. A man devoid of human feelings, a machine that did what he was told as ruthlessly and as efficiently as an automaton. There was nothing too horrible that he would not do. If Bruger and Yevski were dangerous, then this man was deadly.

“Follow me,” he said, and walked silently across the hall, along a wide passage to a door covered in green baize. He turned the handle, opened the door, and stood aside, motioning Corridon to enter.

As Corridon passed him he smelt a strong aroma of brandy. He walked into a small, comfortably furnished room in which a bright fire burned. A single lamp shed a hard white light on the red Persian rug. Before the fire, half hidden in a big armchair, a man stirred, leaned forward and regarded Corridon curiously.

“It’s Mr. Corridon?”

“Yes,” Corridon said.

“Excellent. Go away, Ames,” the man by the fire said. “I will ring when I need you.”

The man in the wrap-over white coat went out of the room and closed the door.

“Come by the fire. You must be feeling cold,” the man in the chair said. “Let me introduce myself. I am Dr. Paul Homer. I really am very pleased to have you here.”

“I am entirely sure it is mutual,” Corridon said dryly, and walked over to the fire. He sat down in an armchair opposite Homer, and stretched out his long legs. He examined Homer curiously. He saw before him a big, fat, pink and white man with a round, fleshy face, small unblinking eyes and a wide, grimacing smile. His big yellow teeth dominated his face. They reminded Corridon of the teeth of a horse.

Homer wore a white wrap-over, coat, similar to the one Ames had on. His massive legs were in white and black check trousers. His thick hair, white as a dove’s back, grew thickly above his ears and was swept back in a Lloyd George haircut.

“This is very unexpected,” Homer said, and beamed. “Diestl has told me about you, and, of course, I know you well by repute. So you wish to join us?”

“That’s the idea,” Corridon said, took out his cigarette-case and offered it.

Homer shook his head.

“Thank you, no. I find I am much better without smoking. I gave it up soon after the war. I am very glad you have decided to come in with us, Mr. Corridon,” he went on. “You are the kind of man we need here. You have an impressive record, and I am sure you will be of great service to us.”

“I hope so,” Corridon said, a little surprised at the trend of the conversation. “But I must warn you, I expect to make something out of it for myself.”

Homer gave an explosive giggle.

“I see you have a sense of humour,” he said. “Well, of course that is excellent. But for the moment you are on probation, and I am afraid you will have to be content with an amateur status. But once we are convinced you are genuinely with us, then we will reward you suitably for anything you do for us.” The yellow teeth flashed in the lamplight. “I understand Diestl is a little suspicious of you. I am afraid he is a very suspicious person. I don’t believe he entirely trusts me or any other member of our organization.” Again he gave an explosive giggle. “Of course he’s right. It’s so much better to be safe than sorry.”

“Do I consider myself a prisoner then?” Corridon asked, his face politely interested.

“Well, perhaps that is rather a strong word. Let us say for the time being your liberty is restricted.” Homer waved a fat hand airily. “And while we are on the subject, do take my advice and don’t attempt to run away from here. We have taken elaborate precautions to prevent people from leaving us. The grounds are surrounded by a ten-foot electrified fence. I assure you it is impassable and extremely dangerous. At night, police dogs are released and they too are extremely dangerous. Personally, I wouldn’t dream of going out into the grounds after dark. Then there are extensive zones in the grounds covered by photo-electric rays operating alarm bells. The gates are also well guarded.” Again he waved his hand. “And it is an implacable rule that anyone caught attempting to escape must be liquidated. This may seem a little harsh to you. But we have a number of people here in protective custody, and it would be a disaster if any of them did get away.” The yellow teeth flashed again. “I am afraid Ames is a little brutal, but he has cut down the number of would-be escapees considerably, and he has instilled an excellent spirit of discipline amongst those who were inclined to be difficult.”

“Sounds rather like a concentration camp to me,” Corridon said blandly.

“I assure you it isn’t like that at all. So long as we get co-operation from everyone, life here can be extremely pleasant. It just happens that the odd man or woman who is difficult is disciplined for the sake of the general harmony.”

“Would it be tactless to ask just where this place is, and what it is supposed to be?”

Homer took out a white handkerchief and patted the end of his nose with it.

“Well, I think it would,” he said apologetically. “Later, you will be told the exact location, but until you have come through the probation period, it is better for you not to know. You can see it makes an attempt to escape much more hazardous if you don’t know where you are. As to the place itself, it is registered as a hydropathic clinic. The police and other busybodies are satisfied that we are genuine, and we have quite a reputation in the district. The only peculiarity is that we are always full, and can never take new patients.” He gave Corridon a sly smile. “In actual fact, of course, Baintrees is the headquarters of our movement.”