The Sheep and the Wolves E-Book

Max Afford

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 321

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Sheep and the Wolves by Max Afford is a riveting mystery that weaves a tale of deception and danger among a seemingly innocent group. When a wealthy landowner is found dead under mysterious circumstances, suspicion falls on those closest to him. As secrets are unearthed, the lines between friend and foe blur, revealing that not everyone is as they appear. With a cunning detective at the helm, the investigation uncovers hidden motives and dark truths that will leave readers questioning who the real wolves are. Dive into this thrilling narrative and discover whether the sheep will prevail or if the wolves will outwit them all.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Sheep and the Wolves

BOOK ONE — THE CASKET

BOOK TWO — THE CONSPIRACY

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

The Sheep and the Wolves

By: Max Afford

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published 1942

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

All rights reserved.

BOOK ONE — THE CASKET

"I'VE READ SOMEWHERE," observed Elizabeth Blackburn, "that the gentleman should always rise when a lady enters the room."

Jeffery, stretched full length on the couch, reached out and took her fingers. They were warm and soft and faintly sticky. He said casually, "Dame called Edith Post wrote it. Along with something about a lady never perspiring."

"Then that lady never opened a garden party at Staines on an August afternoon!" Elizabeth freed the hand and dragged at her hat, shaking her head to release the blonde curls. "Darling, you are the complete bottom! At least you might have come with me."

"Nuts!" grunted Jeffery. "How was the clambake?"

"Rather a wash-out. Endless fuss and only fifty pounds raised."

"Sounds quite a set-up!"

She was clicking her lighter. "To cap everything, when I got outside, I found the Rover had a flat."

"How did you get back?"

Elizabeth Blackburn blew a perfect smoke-ring. "Mr. Stewart-Riggs drove me in his Bentley."

There was, she noticed, a half-filled liquor bottle partly concealed under the couch. A brittle hardness crept into her tone. "Nobody you know."

"Just as well." His mouth twisted. "Sounds another pansy-pants to me."

It was coming. She knew it was happening again and she strove to keep her voice steady, almost casual when she replied.

"As a matter of fact, I'd never met him myself until this afternoon. He's an acquaintance of Ella Halversham's—they met in Switzerland just after the war. He's travelled a lot. Now he's come to England to settle down. Bought a big estate in Kent—place called Holmedale near Sevenoaks."

She reached for the ash-tray as she added, "He asked me down there."

"Matey sort of guy, isn't he?"

She gave a hard little smile. "Darling, Mr. Stewart-Riggs hasn't the slightest interest in me."

She rose and crushed out her cigarette, striving to keep the irritation out of her voice. "Aren't you being just a little childish, Jeffery? Taking a dislike to a person you've never seen."

He muttered. "The jerk attends garden parties—that's enough for me!" He stood up, swaying a little. "What's this guy like, anyhow?"

She was reaching for her shoes. Now she looked up.

"Know those men of distinction in the whisky ads? That's Stewart-Riggs to the life. Fiftyish, well-dressed and greying in the polished diplomatic manner." Something of the old flippancy came back into her tone. "And so very well-bred that our drive home was duller than a choir-girls' picnic!" She had crossed to him. Now she reached up and tweaked his ear.

"Jeffery."

Moodily he turned.

"I cleared the afternoon mail as I came up." She tossed four envelopes on to the table and took up the drinks. As she handed one across she noticed he had retrieved the bottle from beneath the couch. She raised her glass.

"Here's to crime!"

He stood with his drink in his hand, not tasting it.

"Baby?"

At the term, her eyes came up. He went on. "How would you like to see New York again?"

He saw her face tighten.

"So that's the reason you've been giving at the seams lately! You've still got that she-wolf clawing at your heart."

He frowned. "Don't get the meaning."

She slapped the envelopes together almost irritably. "Who else but Muriel Armarti!"

He said shortly, "You're on the wrong beam." He drained his glass and held it, caressing the smooth surface with his fingers. "Muriel Armarti doesn't figure anywhere in this. That's all in the past." He reached out for the bottle and tilted it over his glass. Then, very deliberately, he downed his drink and tossed the empty glass on to a chair. He was almost to the door when the girl cried out.

"Where are you going?"

"Out!"

But she was in front of him, the letters fallen and splayed across the carpet.

"Darling, what's the matter with us?"

Face set, lips compressed, he stared at her without speaking.

"We've got to have this out," she said desperately. "Everything will seem all right, just as it was when I first came in. And I think, 'Thank God, we're back on the rails again.' Then suddenly this bickering starts and goes on and on."

Under the black bars of his brows, the glitter had died. She watched his face relax.

"I've told you how it is. This place is driving me psycho—I've got to get free. Guess I'm not built to stay penned up in an expensive apartment. Some guys maybe, but not me." Across his broad back, she could see the material of his coat crushed and wrinkled where he had lain in it all the afternoon. "It doesn't need a crystal ball to figure what's gone out of life. I'll give it to you in one word—excitement!"

She said quietly, "And you expect to find it in New York?"

He wheeled on her. "What do you figure I did in Moratti's agency? Played kiss-in-the-ring?"

It came out before she could check it. "Surely that depended on the sex of your clients!"

He jerked savagely at the curtains and the westerning sun poked a finger into Elizabeth's hair, turning it pure gold. She stood smoothing her frock over her small neat breasts. And then she spoke.

"I'm sorry I said that, Jeffery." There was no answer. "But if I you're sickening for the El Morocco and the view from the Rainbow Room, you'd better get it out of your system pretty soon." She swallowed something in her throat.

"When do you want to leave?"

He turned. "We go together."

"I told you I didn't like New York." She lowered her eyes, avoiding his dark face. "In your present mood, it's much better if you fly solo." She hesitated before she asked, "When would you like to go?"

He gave her a glance that was as curt and cold as his reply.

"A plane leaves tomorrow afternoon."

"All right—you'll be on it."

"What will you do?"

"Stay with Mother and Dad at Chippingmarle." Her tone was determinedly casual. "It's months since I've been home."

A short silence. "Beth," he began. But she held up both hands, palms outward. "Let's not talk about it any more, Jeffery. We've made a decision—it isn't going to do either of us any good to go back on it." Her eyes were still on the carpet and for the first time she seemed to see the four white rectangles patterned across it. Abruptly she stooped.

"Whom do we know staying at the Dorchester?"

"Search me!"

She straightened and held out the envelope, a finger underlining the embossed address.

She was beginning to tear at the gummed flap when suddenly she paused. "Do you mind?"

"Don't give it a thought! Muriel Armarti can't afford to stay at the Dorchester either!"

Elizabeth Blackburn said quietly, "All right, Jeffery. Now we're quits!" She slit the flap and drew out a sheet of furry note paper. It rustled luxuriously when she opened it.

Jeffery took the letter. Attached by clip pin to the top corner was a card. It bore an address: "Fosdyke Museum of Antiquities, 86th West Street, New York City" and beneath it a name—"Otis T. Peterson, Representative."

Under the engraved address of the hotel, the message ran.

"Mr. Otis Peterson would be very grateful if you could call the above address at your earliest convenience. He has a proposition which he thinks may interest you. He also requests that you keep this correspondence in the strictest confidence."

It was signed—"Henry Lessing, private secretary."

He looked up. "Know anything about this guy Peterson?"

Elizabeth said promptly, "He's a buyer or a collector for the Fosdyke family. Travels around the world picking up bits and pieces for the museum. That's why he's in London—probably trying to bid for the Crown Jewels!"

Jeffery turned the letter over in his fingers.

"I wonder if the old bird would be interested in buying a few antiques from this family? A .45 automatic, rusty through disuse, an unused set of brass knuckles and an out-of-date private eye, sound in wind and limb except for a pickled liver!"

"Why not give the secretary a buzz now?"

"And get an assignment routing among the junk stores in Kensington Church Street?"

"Don't be a fool, Jeff!" She came close to him, looking up and seeing his face etched strongly against the light. "Peterson wouldn't bother you with anything like that."

He had crushed out his cigarette and was standing loosely, fingers scraping his jaw, his whole attitude one of irresolution. For just another few minutes his wife hesitated, then she crossed to the telephone.

"Why is it I can never remember the number of the Dorchester?" He said, "No, baby. I'm leaving for the States..." But beyond that, he made no movement to restrain her as she picked up the directory and began flicking through the pages.

"There's all tomorrow morning to put in somehow," she reminded him. "The plane doesn't leave until the afternoon."

Henry Lessing said, "Sit down, Mr. Blackburn."

The private secretary was a gaunt young man, with butter yellow hair and eyebrows so fair that their existence was assured only after a second glance. He gestured to a deep arm-chair near the window.

"Mr. Peterson won't keep you waiting very long," he added.

Jeffery glanced at his wrist-watch. "The appointment was for ten-forty-five," he grunted.

Lessing said pleasantly, "There's been an unexpected caller—another collector." He moved to the small desk and picked up a card from the blotter, "Archdale Stewart-Riggs." He looked up. "Perhaps you know him?"

Blackburn shook his head.

"She's not a large island but she holds a whale of a lot of folk." He lit a cigarette and let his eyes wander over the desk with its leaf-calendar marking the date—Thursday, August twenty-third. A small row of books was set behind it. Jeffery read the titles absently, not interested but just filling in time. A Guide to London and Suburbs, a slim Geographia map of the city, Hamilton's "The Roman Way," Walling's "Egyptian Antiques and their History," and next to this—incongruous in such a setting—an obviously American edition of "Balanced Diets for Diabetics." He caught the secretary's glance and muttered.

"Your boss some kind of invalid?"

Lessing looked surprised. "Oh, no," he said. "His arthritis hasn't progress as far as that. Only in his hand..." He paused as Jeffery grunted something and turned away.

He noticed that his fingers were trembling and wondered what excuse he could find to ask for a drink.

Over the last few weeks he had grown almost reconciled to grey awakenings, but on this particular morning his mood of depression was unusually black and bitter. As he had phoned the air depot for a reservation, Elizabeth had packed his suit-case, working with an air of quiet detachment that only served to put an edge to his temper. He realised now that this break affected him more than he dared admit for he had an instinctive feeling that this time it would be for keeps.

It was while Elizabeth was gathering old newspapers for wrapping his shoes she had come across a photograph of Otis Peterson and passed it over to him. The spotty newsprint showed a small plump man in his mid-fifties—eggheaded and balding. He wore rimless glasses below a domed forehead but the scholarly impression was belied by a tight rat-trap mouth above a jutting authoritative jaw. The chin of a person used to giving orders and having orders obeyed.

Blackburn looked at his watch again. In his irritable impatient mood, this waiting irked him. Who was this other guy taking up his time? What name had the pin-eyed secretary mentioned?

Stewart-Riggs...?

Blackburn's fingers, drumming on the arm of the chair, stopped.

Surely this was the bird Elizabeth had mentioned. It had taken all this time for his mind to register. But that's how it was with him these days—his mind as slow as his muscles were loose. Maybe Beth was right. Maybe the booze had got him for keeps.

The buzzer on Henry Lessing's desk shrilled. The secretary stood up.

"Mr. Peterson will see you now, Mr. Blackburn."

Side by side they paced the carpeted corridor. Turning a corner, they almost collided with another man coming into the opposite direction. A tall, slim, immaculate grey man—hair, eyebrows, tie and suit all blending into a monotone.

Henry Lessing nodded.

"Would you mind waiting in the office, Mr. Stewart-Riggs? I'll be back in a moment."

A well-bred voice said, "Thank you." Blackburn stared at the visitor, taking in a face that was somehow wrong and unbalanced. Two pale eyes raked him from head to foot and soundlessly, Archdale Stewart-Riggs passed on.

Jeffery muttered, "Something wrong with that guy."

Lessing said, in that slightly supercilious aloof manner. "Curious colouring. Almost albino." A few paces further along he paused and tapped politely on a door. A metallic voice answered. Then Jeffery found himself inside and Lessing was speaking obsequiously.

"Mr. Blackburn, sir."

Otis Peterson did not rise. With crooked fingers, he pushed a silver box across the desk.

"Smoke?"

Blackburn shook his head.

"A drink?" The spectacles were full on his face as Jeffery wiped the back of his hand over his lips again. Then the tubby representative of the Fosdyke museum nodded to the glass and chromium cabinet. The young man rose, striving to control the shaking of his fingers as he poured himself a lavish Scotch. He swigged it quickly, felt it spread warm and soothing through his stomach, then he refilled the glass and returned to his chair. Otis Peterson said: "Jeffery Blackburn. Aged thirty-four. Irish-Italian extraction. Flight Commander with the R.A.F. during the war. Then travelled to the United States, spending five years there. Became an oilfield roughneck, a chauffeur to a wealthy widow in Florida, then a test pilot at Murac in California—"

The visitor stared. "What's the pay-off?"

Without a change of inflection in his voice Peterson went on: "Crashed a 974 over the Mojave Desert and spent the next three months in hospital at Las Vegas. Recuperated in Canada and became a lumberjack. Back to the States joining a group of loggers at Clearwater, Idaho. Then went to New York, joining the Louie Moratti private detective agency. Wounded in shoulder during a raid at the Roebuck Hotel in Chicago. Returned to London and married Elizabeth, only daughter of Sir Charles and Lady Bickford, of Chippingmarle, Berks. Couple met originally when Elizabeth Bickford was in charge of a cipher department during the war. Marriage reported far from successful..."

"Chief allergy—snoopers!" Jeffery thrust back his chair. "Thanks for the two drinks."

"Have another."

"Forget it!" He was half-way across the room. "Haven't got time." Behind the desk, the collector remained stone still.

"I'm giving you a chance, Blackburn—a chance to do some special inquiry work in an assignment that is right up your street. If you succeed, there's a cheque for a thousand dollars attached to it."

The other stared at the ovoid head, at the lips moving in that frozen face, choking down the taunt, saying nothing.

"If I've checked on you, I have two good reasons. One is because this could be a very dangerous business and I want to be sure of my man. I want to have faith in him."

Blackburn's lip curled. "I'm getting dewey-eyed!"

"The other is because I never buy a pig in a poke. I like to have every single detail in black and white—whether it's hiring a man..." the voice slowed a trifle "...or buying ten thousand dollars worth of mischief!"

There was no sound in the room save the tapping of the collector's fingers on the manila folder.

"If it wasn't for certain additional details here, I'd say you were finished, Blackburn. Pushed completely over the edge. But seeing you and hearing you talk, I feel there's still a spark of something there. The something that sent you crawling down the ventilating shaft of the Roebuck Hotel when you got Ferdie the Bat in Chicago—"

The other man snapped into his words.

"Moratti!" The slow fire in his voice was reflected in his flushed face as he took a step forward. "Louie Moratti, the two-timing punk! He gave you this dope on me!"

Peterson's voice took on a sudden rasp. "Yes, Moratti! The best friend you have in the States. Before you start calling him names, Blackburn, think back! When you ran up against that patch of trouble in New York almost twelve months ago, Moratti was no two-timing punk!"

The younger man stiffened and his tone was cautious.

"Patch of trouble?"

"Your disgraceful affair with the woman known as Bianca Milland—" The collector stopped abruptly, the words choked by the expression on the other man's face.

Then Blackburn said very softly, "Just what do you know about Bianca Milland?"

Another three seconds passed...then the collector shrugged.

"But of course, you're married now. You've put all that kind of thing right behind you."

(But not nearly far enough. The picture, all these months forced into the recesses of his mind, swam into sharp focus, seeming even clearer than on the night he had first entered the apartment with the mirrored ceiling supported by pillars of black and gold. The picture of her body stretched on the white ermine rug.)

The collector was watching him.

"Moratti told me in confidence of the incident. Naturally, I'm prepared to honor the confidence—under certain conditions."

The plump little man sat down, then leaned forward so that his image was reflected in the surface of the desk. He was dipping a hand into his pocket, dragging at a key ring. There was a click and the slide of a drawer. Then he was holding something swathed in wash-leather, holding it gently, carefully, placing it on the glass surface and laying aside the soft folds until the object was revealed.

"It's not to be touched," he warned.

It was a tiny rectangular casket, the palest turquoise in color, tooled and faceted on the four sides. Jeffery raised his head.

"Nice trinket."

"Ten thousand dollars," said Otis Peterson. He was revolving the gem-like object by turning the wash-leather mat slowly at the edges. "A month ago we were staying at Shepherd's in Cairo—my niece Susan Ann, Henry Lessing and myself. A Greek named Cassamattis came to see me one morning. He showed me this casket, offering it for sale.

"His story seemed quite genuine. A friend of his had been in charge of the laborers opening up tombs in the San el Hagar valley for Professor Pierre Montet of the University of Stratsbourg. One of the laborers had been caught stealing the casket; the friend had confiscated it. Thus it had come into the Greek's possession. So far so good!"

"Good enough to hand over ten thousand dollars?"

Peterson lifted his eyes from the desk.

"I've told you I'm not a man to buy blind. Before I even discussed business with Cassamatis, I got in touch with a man from the British School of Archaeology in Egypt. I paid him a handsome commission and three days later, he brought me the full history of the casket.

"Something else made the casket even more valuable. The Egyptians of that time believed that every man possessed a Ka—a spirit double, a vital force born as counterpart with the body, living with it and accompanying it into the next world. Sometimes the Ka was housed in a statue, sometimes in an ornament. Or a casket of skilled workmanship such as you see here."

Jeffery turned, glancing at his wrist.

"Is there much more of this? Time's running short. I'm leaving for the States this afternoon."

Peterson said curtly, "Have a drink."

The young man hesitated a moment. Then he nodded. "Thanks. Might steady my nerves. You're beginning to scare me." He crossed to the cabinet and then turned, holding a brimming glass.

"With restraint, I can make this last five minutes. Go ahead, Peterson."

"I had Lessing get in touch with the Greek. He made only one stipulation—the money was to be paid in cash. I was expecting this—cheques, especially foreign ones, are too easily traced. Cassamatis arrived at the hotel on the following morning. He seemed very nervous and on edge, I remember. The deal went through and I locked the casket in the safe deposit at the hotel.

"Later that afternoon, Lessing came to me while I was resting, saying a visitor outside wanted to see me. Henry wouldn't have disturbed me, except that the caller was an odd person calling himself Menena and he wanted to talk about the casket. I followed Lessing out. Waiting for me was a character straight from the Arabian Nights—an elderly man in a tarboosh, burnoose and slippers. He was bearded like a prophet. I asked him his business and his reply just about took my breath away.

"He told me that the casket had been stolen from his house. It was the property of his ancestor and its value was beyond reckoning. So, to save further trouble, would I please return it to him! The cool request staggered me and I lost my temper. I told him I'd paid a tidy sum for that object and he'd come to the wrong shop. He wanted the police department! The old boy just shook his head. I told Lessing to throw him out. I guess Henry was a bit rough, but the apparition wasn't a mite ruffled. He only said that maybe I'd change my mind when I saw him again."

Peterson was swathing the casket in its foldings. There was a scrape of a drawer and a click as he locked it away.

"The police found the Greek's body that same night—strangled—with something that could have been a silken cord!"

A pause. Then Blackburn made a harsh chuckling sound.

"Comic strip crap! What are you trying to sell me?"

"Cassamatis was murdered—"

"By some of his snotty-nosed buddies in Skid Row! He had ten grand in cash!"

The collector had not moved from his desk. "He wasn't killed in the slums and the money wasn't touched. The police found it all, folded neatly as his clothes—"

Jeffery's hand was on the door-knob. "Clothes?"

"You're so impetuous, Blackburn. You don't give me time to explain. The Greek was found dead in a house on the Mena road, his body completely naked and lying on a large white ermine rug...and nearby the police found a male scarab beetle, impaled through the back but still alive."

He stood frozen and facing the smooth panels of the door, not seeing them, not feeling the planes of the knob under his hand, yet feeling too much, with his whole body trembling and his skin prickling and tight with a forbidden memory.

"Blackburn."

Fingers, moist, hot, dropped away from the door.

Blackburn came forward. Peterson moved to the cabinet, standing before it, bandy legs apart and his hands clasped behind his back.

"The following day we left for Port Said where we were to join a twelve passenger freighter for London. We had three days to wait. On the second evening, I came face to face with Menena in the hotel foyer; he nodded and thrust an envelope into my hand before he passed by. When I opened it, I found a piece of paper on which was written a date: August 25th.

"I suspected monkey business and dismissed the whole incident from my mind. On the morning we were due to sail, however, Susan Ann called me from her bedroom. When I went in, she was standing with Lessing, staring at the row of strapped and packed suitcases against the wall. On the largest of the grips, a piece of paper had been pasted—bearing a date. August 25th. Sue declared it hadn't been there when she left the room ten minutes earlier.

"We sailed that same afternoon. On the following evening, Lessing came to me, saying that Menena was on the ship. When I said that this was unlikely, Henry vowed he had seen him walking down one of the corridors. I don't mind saying I was mighty sceptical—until dusk next day. I came out of the dining saloon and there on the deck ahead of me was a figure in fez and burnoose. When I got to the spot where he'd stood there was nothing there except an envelope.

"I picked it up. It was addressed to me and inside, the same paper with the same date." The little man paused and gave a short barking cough.

"I wasn't putting up with this kind of hanky-panky for very long! Henry and I went to the skipper. He told us what I'd half begun to suspect—that there was no one of that name or description on the passenger-list. In the end, we demanded a search, but we might just as well have saved our time. No person even faintly resembling Menena was on board.

"On the evening before we berthed at Tilbury, I was talking to Sue on deck when Henry came up. He was white-faced and panting. He'd come out of his cabin just in time to see Menena go into mine—and had locked the door on him. The three of us went below. When Lessing threw open the door, the cabin was empty. Unless our persistent friend had crawled through a tiny porthole there was no way he could have escaped. But on the wall over my bunk a date had been written in black chalk. Yes—the same date!"

Little hard eyes blinked in the glare of the light from the unshaded window.

"We saw Menena twice after that. As Sue, Henry and I were stepping off the boat train at Charing Cross my niece gave a little cry and pointed along the platform. A white-robed, turbanned figure was disappearing among the crowd..." The speaker breathed on rimless lenses and polished vigorously. "Yesterday morning, I happened to pass Lessing's office. The door was open. He was standing by the window staring down into Park Lane. He called me across. Standing near those gates into the park was Menena, apparently quite unconcerned by the glances of the passing folk, Menena in burnoose and slippers, smack here in the heart of London!"

Otis Peterson hooked his spectacles back into place, reached across and picked up a desk calendar, holding it in clawed fingers.

"See today's date? August twenty-third. That gives you three days to get to the bottom of all this hocus-pocus!" He shot back a cuff. "Eleven-fifteen! From now on you're part of my pay-roll!"

Jeffery spoke very quietly.

"Keep talking."

In the act of replacing the calendar, the collector's head twisted.

"That's all."

A steady voice said, "What about the house in Mena Road?"

The small mouth sneered. "A high-class brothel!"

"What else?"

"How should I know?"

"You're still lying!"

Something ugly and dangerous had crept into the room. Blackburn had risen, shoulders hunched and straining at the material which bound them, head thrust forward, eyes narrow and glittering. Very softly he repeated, "You're still lying, Peterson."

For three tight seconds their glances locked. Then the squat man made a fluttering, placatory little gesture.

"Why the devil don't you listen!" But the bark was curiously hollow. "I told you, Blackburn! We left on the following morning. There was no time..."

"How did you know it was a brothel?"

"The police..." Rimless glasses were askew and a hand flew to straighten them. "But I can't see what this has to do with the present assignment."

A hard mouth said, "Can't you?"

"I've given you all necessary details..."

"A bed-time story about a gyppo bogey-man and a family curse! They've stopped dishing that up even for the Sunday supplements! If this bird's getting in your hair, why not dial Whitehall 1212?" He kicked back his chair. "As an assignment I wouldn't touch it with a forty-foot pole! Thanks for the three drinks, Peterson, but don't expect me to return the hospitality. Check 'em up to a wasted hour when—"

The scream from the corridor beyond had the harsh shrillness of a pencil drawn across slate. Peterson jerked and his round face went blank and foolish with sudden panic. "Susan Ann!"

"Uncle Otis! Henry! He's here!"

Peterson was making little mewling noises and groping blindly for the door. Jeffery shouldered him aside and grasped the knob, flinging wide an entrance. Almost opposite a young girl in her mid teens stood rigid in the doorway, one hand at her throat, the other jabbing the air in the direction of the corridor. Blackburn's head swivelled. At the far end and just disappearing around the corner was an outlandish figure, robed and slippered. Then the collector pushed past and was running to the girl.

Jeffery was already half-way down the passage, his footsteps thudding into the carpet. At the bend, he ran almost full tilt into a wild-eyed Lessing, coming from the direction of his study.

He panted, "Not that way! Can't get out—I've locked the door!"

Jeffery pulled to a halt.

"I saw the guy turn—"

Lessing indicated a right-angle opening just ahead. "This way!"

But when they reached the corner, the passage stretched before them blank and bare. Two doors broke the uniform panelling.

"My bedroom," the secretary explained as they loped along. "The other's just a junk-room—cabin trunks and grips." As they halted he swung open the nearest door and his companion glimpsed a small neat room so spartanly furnished as to provide no cover for the quarry they sought. Then Jeffery had crossed and was stalking among the labelled trunks in the box-room. When he re-appeared, his face was grim.

"Neat little vanishing trick!"

Lessing was mopping a flushed and sweating face. He said hopelessly, "It's happened before. Once on the ship coming across. Just disappeared into smoke. Incredible—like, like witchcraft, almost!"

When they reached the main corridor, the doorway was empty. They moved into the room. Susan Ann was standing by the long mirror, being very grown up and applying a geranium lipstick to her soft, immature mouth. Her uncle, perched on the satin-covered bed, rose quickly as the two men entered.

"No trace, sir," Lessing said briefly.

Before his employer could comment, Jeffery said brusquely, "What happened in here?"

Sue Peterson dipped her golden head, ostensibly to examine her handiwork but he knew she was summing him up.

"You're Jeffery Blackburn, aren't you? Uncle's told me all about you."

He said shortly, "Okay, okay, chicken! But what happened?"

She turned, fitting the lip-stick into its golden container and by the awkwardness of the movement, he sensed that this was a fairly new routine.

"I was resting up before lunch..." she indicated the glossy-faced movie magazines on the bed. "I guess I must have fallen asleep. When I came to, there was a sort of crazy sound out there in the corridor. I couldn't figure out what it was—not at first."

She paused and looked at him. Jeffery nodded.

"Go on."

"So I got up and crossed and opened the door..."

Her voice rose half a tone.

"And I just about dropped dead from shock! I was so close I could have touched him—his old beard and face weren't more than a foot away from me."

"What's this?"

It was Henry Lessing and he was stabbing a finger at the swinging door.

A square of paper was fixed to the centre panel with cellulose tape. On it was drawn the date, August 25th, enclosed by a crude design of a looped cord. Otis Peterson gave a gasp.

"Now do you believe me, Blackburn! Now will you act?"

Three faces stared at him, one globus and sweating, one young and pink and tight and the third a pair of wide beseeching eyes. Jeffery was looking at Sue Peterson as he answered.

"Don't rush me. I've got to figure this thing out."

* * *

Big Ben was striking midday when the taxi dropped Jeffery in Whitehall. He strolled through the gates of Scotland Yard, traversed a shadowed lane and climbed a flight of stairs. Pausing outside a door marked "Chief Inspector," he heard the rattle of a typewriter within.

"Don't get your finger caught!"

Chief Inspector William Read looked up as his door opened.

"Jeff!"

"Howdo, Chief?"

"Take a pew, son."

"Thanks. I'd rather prowl..."

"Haven't seen you around, son." Read tossed a charred match into the ash-tray. "Been busy?"

"No. Just lazy. How's things with you, Chief?"

"Quiet enough. Anything on your mind, son?"

"Care to give me some advice?"

The other nodded.

Jeffery pulled his chair closer.

"Got anything on a murder in Cairo about a week ago?"

The Chief Inspector's teeth wedged his cigar. "Big place Cairo...big crowd of people..."

Jeffery said, "Habeas corpus was a bird named Cassamatis—a Greek. Found dead in a house on the Mena Road." He crushed out his cigarette. "Stark mother naked!"

Grey brows rose a fraction. Read said grimly, "What kind of house?"

"A joint, but high-class." Jeffery sat back, clasping his hands behind the chair.

"Shot?"

"Strangled."

"Marks?"

Blackburn shook his head. "Choked with a cord. Some kind of silk according to rumor."

Read was watching him. "Any particular details?"

Jeffery's reply was a shade too casual. "I'd like a line on the owner of the joint, or the tenant or what have you."

The cigar ash glowed brightly. "Run across something interesting, Jeff?"

"Chief..."

"Yes, son?"

"Ever heard of a bird named Stewart-Riggs?"

"Not on our books." Read was studying his companion's face, noting the tiny beads of perspiration forming on the short upper lip.

"Friend of yours?"

"No. Beth's met him."

Read nodded. "How is she these days?"

The other said simply, "Right now she's come out in a rash of garden parties. Opened another at Staines yesterday."

Read said dryly, "Enjoy yourself?"

"No, Chief. I let Beth tackle it alone. Not my dish at all. Crawling with titles just the way Lady Halversham likes it!"

"Who's she?"

"Offspring of two first cousins, I'd say! Zany is the world for Ella." Jeffery gave a tight grin and ran a hand through his crisp black curls. "But the peeve's quite mutual. She thinks I'm a maverick..."

The comment was expressionless. "That so, son?"

"A maverick." Jeffery's faintly olive face, a heritage of so many mixed blood, was as dark as his voice was moody. "Something apart from the herd, irresponsible, footloose, never satisfied. Seeking something in one place, running like hell to find it, when discovering it was away back behind..." the words slowed. He was staring at the brand of his burning cigarette. "Quite the wrong type to marry—especially with a swell kid like Beth..."

Chief Inspector Read said quietly, "How long is it now?"

"Six months."

"Then give it a chance, son."

The answer was mocking. "Sure, doctor!"

Read stabbed his cigar across the desk. "That's your trouble! You've knocked around the world, got yourself caught up in all kinds of excitement. Then you come back here and fall for a pretty little blue-blood with a pedigree as long as piccadilly."

"Attraction of complete opposites!"

"...and straight away you get the delusion that it's all a mistake, that you're a misfit living on your wife's money! And so you start hitting the bottle!"

Blackburn's mouth tightened. He said softly, "Okay! I'm a rat, a heel and a drunken bum!"

"Self-pity!"

"By Jesus no!" The hand fell away as Blackburn leapt to his feet "Anything but that!" He was gripping the back of the chair, his whole body rigid. "Chief, you know me better than any man living. Believe me when I say I've faced up to most things. But never that..." His voice went suddenly husky, choked in his throat.

Chief Inspector Read was placing his half-smoked cigar on the lip of the ash-tray. Below him the young man was passing a hand across his face.

The elder man was standing, gnawing a lip. Abruptly, he picked up a glass and strode to a cupboard in the corner. He returned, carrying the liquid carefully.

"Son..."

Jeffery's eyes swivelled to the glass. "No..." he muttered. "Not here! I'm trying to...to..." The cigarette dropped from his lips and as Read stooped to pick it up, their faces came level.

Jeffery said, "Why did you do this?"

Squat fingers were mashing the cigarette into the ash-tray. "Because," said William Read quietly, "I think you need it."

"By God I do!" Jeffery reached out hungrily but his hands were so slippery he had difficulty in bringing the glass to his lips. It rattled against his teeth. As he set it back empty, he gave a long sighing breath.

"Thanks, Chief."

The Chief Inspector took up the glass and moved back to the cupboard. From inside he took a tea-towel and began drying and polishing.

"Tell me," he said, "about this assignment you're working on."

Jeffery said slowly, "I'm not working on any assignment."

Read had found a smear on the glass and was back at his polishing. "Then why this interest in a stripped Greek on the Mena Road?"

"Idle curiosity."

"Didn't Otis Peterson's proposition interest you?"

Blackburn's head jerked sharply. "How did you know—?" He stood up, steadier now and more controlled. "Who's kidding who, Chief?"

Read came back and picked up his cigar.

"When I told you I hadn't seen Beth, it was the truth. But I've heard from the lass." He gestured to the telephone. "She rang me here about half an hour ago."

"What did she want?"

"You!" The older man rolled the cigar in his fingers. "I said I hadn't seen you for weeks and asked what you were doing. Beth told me about this appointment at the Dorchester."

Jeffery frowned. "But why did she ring here?"

Read said smoothly. "No doubt she'll explain when she arrives." His eyes went to the clock on the wall. "Any time now. I hope she isn't late because I've booked a table for lunch."

The muffled tapping of the typewriter next door filled the silence. When the older man continued, his voice had dropped a tone.

"Pity about the Peterson assignment. Beth hoped it might turn out to be something worthwhile. She mentioned you were going through a difficult time but she wasn't worrying. It was just that you had too much time on your hands. There was nothing wrong with you, she said, that some first-class action and excitement wouldn't cure..."

Blackburn's restless finger made a diameter inside the wet ring. Read waited, chewing his cigar. A brusque gentleness had crept into his tone when he continued.

"What was wrong, son? Why turn it down?"

Jeffery said, quietly and simply, "I was scared, Chief. I'm scared now! Just as I've been scared for the past three months. With this difference. At last I've got the guts to face it...

"You know the old bromide about the crashed flier who has to get back into another kite before the nerves take him to pieces? That's how it is with me, I guess. Months ago in the States I took on a case and made a complete bloody shambles of it. Moratti wanted to get me back into harness at once. Instead, I got out from under and went on a three-day bat.

"I wouldn't have gone near the Dorchester if Beth hadn't insisted. She even arranged the appointment. And I was scared to the pit of my stomach even before I got into the lift.