said.
He asked for a list of the staff of nine; she assured him that all of them were thoroughly reliable and had worked for Wiseman, the previous owner, for several years. He examined the salary list; it was high—he paid his staff well! Rose Morgan received a thousand pounds a year, and the annual wages bill came to a little over five thousand. Rent, rates, other general expenses, were as much again. Before the business paid a penny profit, it had to show income over expenditure of ten thousand pounds. According to the figures it did that without much trouble; the profit for the past two years had been nearly five thousand. The profit was to be his share.
As Charles Rayner, he had a private bank account with a credit of over two thousand pounds, and Government securities which made him worth ten times as much as Roger West.
This opened a completely new vista; he could call himself rich. He felt the lure of wealth; began, as the days passed, to expect the little luxuries he had never had before. He could stand outside himself, in an odd fashion, and watch the effect of this on him. He took to luxury and plenty of money as a duck took to water.
Harry, who “did” for him, was a quiet, vague individual, with a doleful face and big, brown eyes, a perfect servant who never intruded; that was part of the luxury attack on him. There was tea first thing in the morning, a drink ready before luncheon and dinner, perfectly cooked food, pressed clothes—everything.
He had accounts at three exclusive restaurants and two big stores. He bought clothes of good quality and cut. He could have whatever he wanted, and had only to sign the bill and, later, the cheque.
Kennedy didn’t come again during the next ten days. He heard nothing from Kyle or from Sloan. He was withdrawn more completely from his old life than he had ever dreamed possible. The past had begun as a nightmare and become a distant dream; frighteningly distant. He had to remind himself of it and also to remind himself of his chief objective—to find out the truth about Kennedy and all Kennedy stood for.
He found the business, as such, absorbing; there were many callers. He bought from this man and sold to that; he found that the business had many old and valuable contacts. It could get foods which were in short supply with little difficulty, and therefore could command its own price. There was nothing in short supply in which the firm didn’t deal, but he checked carefully and found that everything was above board and legal.
There was one thick barrier to all investigations; everywhere he went, he was watched. Waking and sleeping, he knew that he was watched.
Day by day, he grew into life as Charles Rayner.
Day by day, Roger West receded.
By the end of three weeks, he knew that the greatest danger to success would be himself; the new conditions, the constant surveillance and the desire to be free from it —and real freedom would come only when Kennedy was sure of him—worked together to soften his mind. Soften— or harden it?
Exactly a month after Kyle’s visit, he sent a registered letter to Mr. John Pearson at the Strand G.P.O. Kyle didn’t telephone; Roger was at once pleased and sorry about that.
It was on the morning after he had posted the money to Kyle that he received a letter marked “Personal”. It was the first he had received since coming to the flat, and Harry brought it to him with his morning tea. He waited until the man had gone, and then opened it with unsteady fingers. Inside was a single slip of paper on which were two words: Kyle’s dead.
The morning papers confirmed it; Kyle had “fallen” in front of a train at Edgware Road Tube Station.
Kennedy came on the telephone later in the day. “Did you get my message?”
“Yes.”
“Take it to heart. I’ve a job for you.”
“Where?”
“You’ll be brought to me—remember the male nurse? You can call him Percy. He’ll meet you at the corner of Putney Bridge, near the old theatre. Just make sure you’re not followed. Leave at once—Percy will expect you in an hour’s time.”
Kennedy rang off. Roger leaned back in his chair and faced up to the new situation. For the first time he was to be used for a job. He rang for Rose Morgan.
“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”
“I’m going out, and I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”
“Tell Harry he needn’t get luncheon, but I expect to be in for dinner.”
“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”
“See Renfrew when he comes, and apologize—say I’m ill. Handle everything else yourself.”
“Yes, Mr. Rayner.”
Rose was like a machine.
Roger put on his hat and went downstairs. He reached the Strand and beckoned a taxi from a rank. “Harrods,” he said, and sat back, looking out of the tiny rear window. No one followed him except the usual stream of traffic. Three quarters of an hour after getting the message, he was at Putney Bridge.
Percy sat at the wheel of a big, roomy black Daimler— an old model, but it had an air. Percy was in chauffeur’s uniform and wore a peak cap. He nodded, but didn’t smile when he got out and opened the door for Roger, behaving in the same way as Rose Morgan—like a machine. Roger sat back on the luxurious seat, and a feeling of well-being came upon him like a cloud or a shroud. He watched the traffic coming over the bridge and along Putney High Street, with its steep hill. At the top, the driver turned right towards Richmond. Not far along he heard a whirring sound which reminded him vividly of the cine-camera at the nursing home.
The blinds were dropping at the windows; they were worked from a control button at the front.