“I’ll believe you. How are you going to do the job?”
“I want two powerful men, one waiter’s rig-out, one police-constable’s uniform, and a girl, to give me an alibi. The uniform must be a good one, with genuine fixings— numbers and badges. Dinner will be taken into his room that night by my waiter. My constable will follow and deal with the duty warder. I shall want to drill that constable and waiter myself, and they need to be good. You’ll have to make arrangements with the restaurant from which Delaney gets his special food to allow my waiter to work for them that night.”
“What risks are you going to take yourself?”
Roger laughed. “I’ll drive the car we get away in, if you call that a risk.”
“I can’t see the scheme yet,” Kennedy said.
“I’ll work that out with the two men and the girl— you’re not interested in the scheme, only in the results.”
Kennedy laughed; his eyes were half-closed, just silvery slits.
“In some ways you’re better than I expected, Rayner! What else do you want from me?”
“Two cars. An ordinary, shabby one outside the prison, and a fast one stationed half a mile away. How are you going to get the couple out of the country?”
“By air.”
“Where from?”
“I’ve a private airfield near Watford.”
“I don’t want to know where it is, yet,” said Roger, “but when I’m in that fast car, I want someone with me who knows the road and can guide me there without losing a minute. Then I want a different car ready at the airfield to take me away. All right?”
“I’ll see you,” said Kennedy. “I want you to keep going, don’t make any mistake about that.”
* * * *
It was dark outside Brixton Jail. Only a few lights glowed at the street lamps; beyond the high grey walls, dim yellow squares shone against blackness. Two policemen stood on duty outside the iron gates. A little Morris car, grey, dirty, and with adjustable registration plates which could be changed by pressing a button in the dashboard, was round the corner from the gates. Roger sat at the wheel, with a girl by his side—a pretty little blonde showing no intelligence and no nerves; if she had any, she didn’t betray them that night, She would swear, if need be, that he had been with her all the evening, at her rooms.
He knew what was happening inside, could follow every move of the policeman and the waiter.
* * * *
The waiter had arrived first.
There was a trail of them, most nights, to the prisoners under remand, who had privileged treatment if they had plenty of money. The waiter came from a nearby restaurant. He carried his tray, with a huge metal cover over it. The gate guards let him through. He walked to the main doors of the remand building, and there a warder lifted the lid off the tray.
“Don’t let it get cold,” said the waiter.
“Smells all right.” The policeman lifted the lids off the three dishes. The light was good enough to let him make sure that nothing was being taken in which the prisoner might use—to help himself escape or to do violence; suicide was the most likely form of escape. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“Days mostly. I’m doing a special turn to-night.”
The warder laughed.
“Okay.”
The waiter went inside. The building was badly lighted, bare, but not like a prison; the remand “cells” were plainly furnished rooms with low ceilings. Another warder, a tall, gangling man with drooping eyelids approached the waiter.
“Who for?”
“Mr. Delaney.”
“Okay.” The warder led the way, jangling his keys. A prisoner had a midget radio on, playing softly; it wasn’t allowed, but there were ways and means, according to the station in life of the prisoner; you just didn’t hear that music if you were on the staff. The warder unlocked the door of Delaney’s room, and as he did so, a constable appeared at the end of the passage. He walked smartly along, as the waiter went inside followed by the warder.
The warder would watch every movement, make sure that nothing but the food passed from waiter to prisoner.
Delaney sat in an easy-chair. He was fair, blue-eyed, slim, dressed well—almost an exquisite. His expression spoiled his good looks; he was frowning, and looked as if he were suffering physical pain. He didn’t look up as the waiter approached the small table and began to lay the cloth. A cigarette drooped from his lips, and his eyes were closed; he had long curling lashes, as fair as his hair.
The constable turned into the room.
“Now what?” asked the warder.
“Mr. Carnody sent me from the Yard,” said the constable easily. Carnody was a Yard Superintendent who dealt most frequently with Brixton. “Just seen old Do-Do. He said you could tell me what I want. About him.” He nodded casually towards the drooping prisoner.
“Just you wait a minute,” said the warder.
