He stared down at it, then at the picture of Kyle’s dead wife.
These were alike, with unmistakable family likeness.
* * * *
“You pick good lookers,” Roger growled, after a long pause.
“Please!” Kyle’s dignity rose again. “That is my daughter.”
“Sure?”
“I am quite sure,” said Kyle. “That is Lucille.” He gave a gentle smile. “Years ago, I sent her to France, to my wife’s family. I met Denise during the first Great War. Lucille was so good and clever, and I did not want her smeared with my reputation. My wife and I agreed it was best. We had anxious days during the last war, my wife suffered most, because I wasn’t there to help her bear her loneliness, but all was well, Lucille was in a country- district, no harm befell her.” The pedantic phrases had a touch of dreaminess.
“Lucky Lucille,” Roger’s voice seemed to stick in his throat. “Where does she live now?”
“In Paris.”
“What’s her address?”
“That I shall not tell you.”
“Let me have that address. Kyle. You’ll regret it if you don’t. Afterwards, you can clear out of here. I’ll stake you for a few weeks.” Roger took out his wallet, and counted ten one-pound notes; Kennedy had given him fifty.
Eagerness but not avarice gleamed in Kyle’s eyes.
“I’ll stake you for ten a month,” Roger said. “I’ll send them to your address.”
“No! No, that wouldn’t be safe, I’m at Joe’s.” Joe’s was a verminous den, a doss-house that remained a blot on London, as it had been in the dark, squalid London back streets of Victorian days. “Send it to—but why are you going to stake me?”
“I don’t like men who use my name. You’ll keep quiet. If anyone asks, you came here to beg, and I kicked you out.”
“Yes, yes!”
“Where’s Lucille?” In a lonely pauper’s grave, somewhere in Surrey, a nameless corpse.
“She is at 23 Rue de Croix, Paris 8.” The information came out slowly and reluctantly; but it came. “You won’t harm her?”
“No. I’ll post ten bars a month to you in the name of John Pearson at the Strand Post Office—Trafalgar Square end. Now clear out. If anyone worries you, telephone me here.” Using block capitals, he wrote the number, taken from the telephone, on a strip of paper, printed the name of John Pearson, c/o the Strand G.P.O., as a reminder, and pushed it across the desk. “Don’t write, don’t come again unless I send for you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, but—I don’t understand.”
“You don’t have to.” Roger stood up. “Pull your hat over your eyes when you go out, don’t let anyone get a good look at you. You might be in trouble if your friend knows you’ve been after him.”
Kyle nodded. For years, in prison, he had done what he was told, the habit of obedience was strong in him.
Roger went into the outer office with him, watched him pick up his cap and go out, small, spindly, nervous. Roger followed him down the creaky narrow stairs, a few steps behind him.
Ginger Kyle slipped away towards the market.
Another man came along the street, walking briskly.
Detective Inspector Sloan of the Yard, tall, blond, with an alert, eager face, good blue eyes and powerful body and shoulders, watched Kyle keenly.
Roger, his heart hammering, went upstairs. At the second-floor landing, he paused.
Sloan was coming in from the street.
CHAPTER XII
ROGER opened the dictaphone panel, switched the machine on, then sat at his desk. He opened a drawer, took out some papers—the first that came to hand—and spread them out. Sloan’s footsteps sounded on the landing. Roger heard the outer door open.
Kennedy was a fool not to have primed him. But was he? This had all the signs of a trap; the empty office, and Sloan’s visit. Would Kennedy have let him stay here alone without a purpose?
No.
Sloan’s footsteps were firm, not heavy: Roger knew them well, they had worked on a hundred cases together.
Sloan tapped.
Roger wiped his forehead, and called: “Come in.”
Sloan thrust the door open firmly and took a good look round the office before coming in and closing the door.
