telephones rang now and then; two men laughed easily at something one of them said.
“Stole the governor’s pasport, I see,” the sergeant observed. “Know whose house that was you chose to break and enter, Alfie?”
“Boffin or something, in’t he? But what’s it matter anyhow.”
“Hardly a boffin, mate.” The sergeant chuckled. “Bit of a laugh, old Chartermain getting invaded by a common thief.”
“I ain’t no common thief,” Kendig said loudly. “I was just-”
“You were just what?”
“Nemmind. I talk to my solicitor.”
“Do that,” the sergeant said. “One passport, diplomatic, property of William David Chartermain, Esquire. One wallet-size photograph of suspect identified by himself as Alfred Booker. One money belt, canvas. One ring of car keys to fit a Rover automobile. Rover, Alfie? Traveling in style, aren’t we.”
“I just happened to find those keys.”
The sergeant glanced at the youth who was copying down the items. “Those aren’t Chartermain’s keys-I think it’s a Jaguar he drives.”
“And a Mini. No Rover-I know the house, sir.”
“Right. Let’s have a look for a stolen Rover in the neighborhood. Just getting in deeper every minute, aren’t we Alfie.”
“You can go right to bloody hell, copper.”
“Let’s have a look at the inside of this belt now… Well well well! Seems our friend the master spy must keep a devil of a cash fund in his library-and American dollars at that… Let me make the count… mmmhm… Roll me over, laddie, this would dent the bloody Westminster Bank… five one, five one fifty, five two… Mark this now, seven thousand one hundred fifty dollars in notes of fifty and one hundred denominations. We’ll run a list of serial numbers but you’d best keep it to a single original, no copies. Chartermain may prefer there be no record. We’ll have to clear it with him.”
“Aye Sergeant.”
The sergeant hit his intercom key. “Are you chaps ready to fingerprint our boy?” He released the key and said to the youth, “Ought to find a proper way to hint to the old boy he ought to put first-class locks and alarms on his house if he means to keep this sort of lot on hand-”
Kendig scooped up the little photograph from the desk and made his break. He went out like a projectile: vaulted the phone desk, rammed shoulder-first into a policeman and hurled the man against his partner, dodged among the desks, caught glimpses of their faces agape, elbowed a third in the ribs, slithered past a belatedly swinging club, stiff-armed the last cop off his feet, wheeled through the door and sprinted into the night.
He had a forty-yard jump on them before they came boiling out into the street. There was the shrill silly bleat of their whistles, the clamor of their voices, the rattle of their feet; he rah around the corner and pushed along as fast as his legs could pump, aiming straight for the traffic light at the intersection. That was his only prayer of reprieve, the traffic light. Cars flowed through it along the high street; it was changing as he ran and they were stopping in their neat obedient column. He flung a glance over his shoulder-some of them were a lot younger than he was, some of them had longer legs and better wind; the pack was dissipating but the leaders were gaining on him frighteningly fast.
He heard himself gasping when he shot across the curb. The light held; the cars hadn’t started to roll. He aimed for the front car of the row. If that door was locked…
He jerked it open. The man stared at him open-mouthed. Kendig gripped the man’s arm and yanked him bodily out of the driver’s seat. Crammed himself into the car and searched for the gearshift with his left hand. It had been in gear and when the original driver’s foot came off the clutch it had stalled out and now he had to find the key and the pack was just into the intersection now and the driver was lurching to his feet shouting.
Kendig punched the door-lock button and the driver heaved helplessly on the outside handle. The key turned, the ignition meshed. Behind him a burly fool was emerging threateningly from a van. Kendig popped the clutch and roared away through the red light.
They’d be in cars within ninety seconds. He’d ditch this one within five minutes. The escape had worked but he had nothing now, nothing but his wits and the clothes on his back-no money, no papers, not a single possession except the two-inch-square photograph of himself that had been the most important object on the sergeant’s desk.
Now they had him naked and running and when he left the car in a dark passage and dogtrotted away into the night he was breathing deep and grinning from ear to ear.
— 21 -
The telephone brought Ross awake and he fumbled for it in the darkness.
“Up and out, Ross. Meet me in the lobby in five minutes. Our man’s broken surface.”
“The hell time’s it?”
But Cutter had hung up on him. He found the lamp switch and threw the sheet back and plunged into his clothes. He slid his expansion-banded watch on-it was just past two o’clock in the morning.
Cutter was irritatingly natty in a dark blue suit, tie knotted properly; how much advance warning had he had? Or hadn’t he been to bed yet? The lobby was empty except for the hall porter. Cutter said, “Car’s picking us up,” and led the way out onto the curb of Park Lane. A few taxis whizzed by. A faint drizzle misted the air but there was no real fog. Ross buttoned up his topcoat against the chill and raked fingers through the mess of his hair. “What’s happened?”
“He broke into Chartermain’s house and the cops intercepted him.” Cutter laughed. “Think of that.”
“They’ve arrested him?”
“He was arrested. He made a break from the station house. He’s on the loose again but they’ve stripped him down to nothing. Here we go-this must be Chartermain.”
The chauffeured Humber slid in and the rear door popped open; Chartermain was leaning forward bulkily in the backseat. “Didn’t expect to see you chaps again quite so soon.”
Cutter climbed across Chartermain’s knees and Ross took the jump-seat and reached for the strap when the car lurched forward. “Flabbergasted me, truth to tell,” Chartermain said. “The cheek!”
“It’s not far, is it?”
“Just round the park in Knightsbridge. Four minutes’ drive this time of night. I say, I’m sorry to knock you out of bed at such a beastly hour.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cutter said. Ross couldn’t stifle a yawn.
Chartermain took an envelope from his pocket. He had a pair of tweezers; he extracted the envelope’s contents with them. “Don’t touch it-it hasn’t been dusted yet. I never knew him to have such a sense of humor.”
Ross couldn’t make it out. “What is it?”
Cutter was leafing through it with the point of his mechanical pencil. “Jules Parker’s passport. I see he removed the photograph.”
Chartermain said, “Found it on my desk with a note. Dear William, I do hope you’re enjoying the game- something like that. It’s in here.” He tapped the envelope. “Bloody cheek.”
“Did he cop anything?”
“My passport. The police retrieved everything. They seem to think he took a great amount of money from the house but that couldn’t have been mine. We don’t keep loose money about.”
“Was it dollars or sterling?”
“Some of each. Total value near three thousand quid.”
“That’d be his own money,” Cutter said.
Chartermain was a short sandy man, square-faced and amiable in appearance; he was a little heavy but not grossly overweight. He had a false leg-the left one-but he didn’t use a cane.
“Here we are.”
