Kennedy ?
Roger took the instrument off its cradle, hesitated, then put it to his ear. He schooled his voice, spoke with little movement of his lips.
“Hallo.”
“Roger!” His heart leapt at the name, for this was a woman. “Roger, please help me, I ——”
This was Marion—Marion, in trouble.
“What’s the matter?”
“I can’t tell you here, I must see you. I’ll be at Piccadilly, by Swan and Edgar’s in an hour. Please help me.”
“Marion, listen. I——”
But she’d gone.
* * * *
Roger stood outside Swan and Edgar’s, hub of London, watched the traffic and jingled the office keys in his pocket. He hardly noticed people, but every policeman in sight seemed to be twice life size.
Marion was a quarter of an hour late.
Half an hour——
It was no use waiting, she hadn’t been able to come.
He had grown fond of Marion, as one could grow fond of the only really friendly soul in one’s life. He had once had the opportunity to use her to help himself, and had missed it because he hadn’t trusted her.
Had it been a mistake to come here? And a mistake to talk to Kyle, a mistake to——
The male nurse appeared, short, flashily dressed in a loud blue suit and bright brown shoes and a spotted red-and-white bow tie. He strutted.
“Getting tired?” he asked.
“What do you want?”
“You, Mister Rayner. You’re wanted at the office. If I was you, I wouldn’t come away so easy in future.” He held up his arm, and a passing taxi stopped. “Inside.”
Roger obeyed. The male nurse gave the office address.
“What’s all this?” Roger demanded.
“You’ll find out.”
There were three traffic blocks; a ten-minute journey took them twenty minutes, and not another word was exchanged. The male nurse waited for him to start up the stairs. He went towards the office door, and the man said;
“Other side—that’s where you live.” He tossed Roger a key. Roger opened the door opposite the office, and stepped into a well-furnished, bright, and colourful sitting-room.
A radio was on, and Kennedy sat with his legs stretched out and his eyes closed, a dreamy expression on his face, listening to Brahms. The male nurse closed the door and then went out of this room into another. Kennedy kept his eyes closed, but as the music stopped, he said:
“So you had a visit from Ginger Kyle, did you?”
His manner was overbearing, even threatening. Revolt had to start some time.
Roger chose now.
CHAPTER XIII
AS he stared at Roger, Kennedy kept his eyes closed, or nearly closed. Roger strode across the room and switched off the radio, took out his cigarette-case, and lit up.
“I spoke to you,” said Kennedy, and opened his eyes wide; they burned as if at white heat.
“I heard you.”
“Then answer me.”
Roger said: “One of these days I’ll break your neck. Are you congenitally crazy? You let me come here without a briefing, easy meat for anyone who happened along. Kyle doesn’t matter, but Sloan does.”
“What did you say to Kyle?”
“Just now I’m asking the questions. Why didn’t you brief me properly? Or did you think I had a sixth sense? If I’d been able to tell Sloan all about the business, who I’d bought it from, what it was, he’d have gone away satisfied. Now he’s after me. He’s a bull-dog type. He’ll keep at me until he’s satisfied, and that probably won’t be for a long time. I thought you were supposed to be good.”
Throughout all this, Kennedy gradually sat up in his chair and drew in his legs. He didn’t blink, didn’t look away from Roger. The cigarette tasted unpleasant. He stood his ground, and Kennedy said softly:
“It was unavoidable.” Kennedy stood up. He had submitted to the first squall of revolt, which was a minor triumph. “I also had a visit from the police at my office.”
