She rang the bell, and the interview was over.
* * * *
Roger knew where he had seen her face before—in the newspapers.
It had been a bad likeness, but he had placed her when she had talked of currency smuggling—one of the biggest rackets with which the Yard was dealing, one with widespread ramifications and an incredible number of loopholes. She was Mrs. James Delaney—the Honourable Mrs. James Delaney. Her husband was the son of an impoverished peer, and as far as the Press reports had implied, the charges against him were trivial. So this was a job where the Yard had played canny with the Press, giving no indication of the scope of the offences.
His room was large, and had every comfort; it overlooked the garden at the back. Off with the old luxury, on with the new. Tea arrived; and half an hour afterwards, two bulky brief-cases were brought in. Then he was left on his own. . . .
He felt a strange nostalgia.
Here was his work; the careful study of amassed facts, the scrutiny of detail, the building up of a case. This one had started when a Customs officer had discovered that Delaney was taking a hundred pounds above the allowed maximum, in sterling, out of the country—nothing remarkable. But some correspondence had been found in his cases—the fools always had something like that, they seldom destroyed all the evidence—showing a list of French and Swiss people with whom Delaney was in contact. Currency smugglers, all small, had been in touch with the same people. There was an astonishingly detailed account of what the Yard man had asked Delaney and what information he had given away.
It was nearly eight o’clock when he had finished, rubbed his eyes after the concentrated reading, and rang the bell. The footman answered him promptly.
“I would like to see Madame,” Roger said.
“Madame would like you to dine with her, sir, and dinner will be at eight-thirty. It is not usual to change.”
* * * *
She had changed into a black dress which had touches of white at the cuffs and neck. She waited for him in a small room, off the dining-room; there was an elaborate steel and coloured-glass cocktail bar. She was grave when she offered him a drink; grave while they drank; she looked pale but not worried, and she knew what the answer was going to be. But she didn’t ask a question until dinner was nearly over and they were at the sweet; it had been a meal to dream about.
She looked at him suddenly.
“Have you reached an opinion?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“You’re quite right. He has little chance of getting off.”
“Have you found any loop-hole?”
“There isn’t one. He wasn’t clever when dealing with the police.”
“No,” she said, and smiled, as a mother might smile over an erring child. “He isn’t used to dealing with the police. He is under remand———”
“There was a note about that. He’s at Brixton, and the case comes up at the Old Bailey on Monday or Tuesday next week. I’m sorry, but it’s a simple fact that he hasn’t a chance. You probably think it’s harsh, because before the war this wouldn’t have been an offence, but——” he shrugged. “At least he hasn’t involved you in any way.”
“I am not involved. I didn’t know what he was doing. I had no idea that I owed so much to that particular kind of activity.” She smiled; she was really quite beautiful. “I am vain enough to think he probably sank deeper and deeper into it, because of me; that is why it is essential that I should help him. He mustn’t go to prison.”
“You can’t prevent it.”
“He wouldn’t go to prison if he were never tried, would he?”
Roger saw the truth then, in a blinding flash.
“And he won’t be tried if he’s removed from Brixton before the trial or on the way, will he? You know the daily routine at Brixton thoroughly—I want you to decide what is the best way to get him out. Then I want you to organize it. I have everything ready to leave the country; once I am safely away with him there will be nothing to worry about. Mr. Kennedy is extremely able, and he is arranging all that for me. Don’t say that it can’t be done, Mr. Rayner. It must be done.”
CHAPTER XV
PERCY drove Roger from the Delaney house to London, and they picked Kennedy up at Putney Bridge. It was high time Roger knew where to find Kennedy; high time he went over to the attack, but—patience was vital, Kennedy was still dangerously wary.
Kennedy sank down in his corner and spoke almost as soon as the door closed.
“She says you’re very sure of yourself.”
“I am.” Roger had told the woman that it could be done; and knew that it could.
“When are you going to do it ?”
“Sunday night. There’s always less discipline on Sunday night at any jail.”
