In the taxi, Toni sat away from him, putting her feet up on the tip-up seat.
'This photographer . . . she's marvellous, isn't she?' she asked. 'Darling Garry, don't lie to me . . . tell me.'
He watched the street lights and the rain beating on the pavement, and he sighed. 'Okay . . . yes . . . she's marvellous.'
Toni's small, pretty face tightened with misery.
'Will you be coming back, Garry?'
'Now look, Toni . . .'
'I'm asking you . . . will you be coming back to me?'
He hesitated, thinking of the tawny-haired woman who now filled his mind.
'I don't know.'
'Well, thanks for being truthful.' She moved closer to him and slid into his arms.
Fennel told the taxi driver to take him to the end of Hornsey Road where Jacey had his shabby flat. As the taxi passed Jacey's building, Fennel peered through the rain splashed window, looking for trouble, but saw nothing to alarm him. At the end of the long road, he paid off the taxi and walked back, keeping in the shadows, his eyes alert for trouble.
He reached the entrance of the block, stepped inside and looked at the steep stairs leading to the upper floor of the building, lit by a yellow light bulb.
Instinct warned him he could be walking into danger. He hesitated, then moving silently into the smelly lobby, he stepped into the telephone booth behind the stairs. He dialled Jacey's number. He listened to the steady ringing for some minutes, then he hung up. It was unlikely Jacey would be out in this cold rain at this hour . . . it was after 22.00 hrs. Jacey got up early and went to bed early. Fennel hesitated. His equipment which he had to have for the Natal trip was up there. He had to get it. It was securely hidden in the rafters of Jacey's attic. It would want some finding if they search for it. He hadn't told Jacey where he had hidden it so they would have no success if they had put pressure on Jacey.
He grinned suddenly as an idea came into his mind. He lifted the receiver and dialled 999. To the answering police voice, he said, 'There's bad trouble at 332 Homsey Road . . . top flat . . . could be murder,' and he hung up.
He then moved cautiously out of the booth, listened, then walked into the darkness and the rain. Keeping in the shadows, he crossed the road and stood in the entrance of a dark alley to wait.
He didn't have to wait long.
Two police cars came swiftly out of the night, pulled up outside the building and four policemen ran up the steps.
Fennel looked up at Jacey's darkened windows. After a few moments a light flashed up. He waited, leaning against the damp wall of the alley, shivering slightly in the bleak cold. After some twenty minutes, three of the policemen came out, shoving two powerfully built men into the police cars. The two men were handcuffed. They drove away. That left one policeman up there.
What had happened to Jacey? Fennel wondered. Well, he couldn't wait. He had to get his equipment. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and tied it across his face, making a mask, then he crossed the street and entered the building and ran silently up the stairs. When he reached Jacey's floor, he paused to listen. Jacey's front door stood open. He could hear the policeman moving around in the room.
Fennel crept like a ghost to the door and glanced in. The far wall was splashed with blood. His back turned to him, the policeman was kneeling by Jacey's body.
Fennel grimaced. So Jacey, the poor stupid sod, had been carved. He didn't hesitate. Moving swiftly, he was on the policeman before the man realized he was being attacked. With laced fingers, Fennel smashed his hands down on the man's bent neck with one shattering, terrible blow. The policeman spread out over Jacey's blood- stained body.
Fennel darted into the tiny, evil smelling bedroom and up the ladder that led to the attic. In seconds, he had got the bag containing his equipment, then slid down the ladder, out on to the landing. He paused to listen, then went down the stairs to the ground floor, three at the time. Panting, he reached the front door where he paused again, hearing the distant sound of a police siren. He slid out into the rain, ran across the road and backed against the wall of the alley as an ambulance and two police cars came roaring to a standstill.
Fennel grunted . . . well timed, he thought, then set off by the back alleys until he reached a main road. He saw a cruising taxi and waved. The taxi pulled up and he told the driver to take him to the Royal Towers Hotel.
He arrived outside Shalik's suite and rapped on the door. There was a delay, then the door opened. George Sherborn, a pertly, elderly man who acted as Shalik's confidential secretary and valet regarded Fennel with startled disapproval. He knew all about Fennel and after hesitating, stood aside and let him in.
