“Please yourself,” said Sloan. He half-turned in preparation for another thrust. “Rayner, I’ve just come from West’s wife. She’s pathetic. She’s afraid that he’s dead, but she doesn’t know for certain. She’s frightened by things she can’t understand. She’s had a lot of that Cry muck poured into her, and it hurts her like hell. She knows what I know about West—there wasn’t a straighter man living. I’m going to scrape the mud off West’s name somehow. If you’re smeared with that mud, look out. If you’re not——”
Roger said: “I’m sorry for his wife.” He didn’t know how he got the words out, but Sloan didn’t seem to notice any oddness in the sound of his voice. Sloan might be foxing or, but more likely, had been carried away with his own emotions.
“All right,” Sloan said. “Tell your friend Kennedy what I’ve said.”
He went to the door. Roger let him out.
* * * *
Roger closed the door and went back to the sitting-room and saw nothing except the image of Janet’s face, superimposed on the memory of Sloan’s. His eyes stung, his hands were clammy. He sat down and leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling and at that image. It wasn’t a help to know that Sloan kept faith; nothing was a help.
Then he opened his eyes. The sight of sandwiches nauseated him. He poured himself out a strong whisky and soda.
It was a waste of time trying to guess how and why Sloan had so quickly connected Kyle, Marion, and Kennedy with him. He could see the build-up in Sloan’s mind; add to that Sloan’s tenacity, and in this case his burning desire to get at the truth, and it was all the explanation needed. By far the most important factor was the fact that Sloan had reason to suspect Kennedy.
Roger got up, took the money and the diamond out of the drawer and locked it in the small safe. Sloan had forced the pace. He himself had played cautiously for as long as he dared, and Kennedy was half-way to trusting him. He had never done a thing, since Kyle’s visit, to cause distrust. He was no longer followed everywhere, but in spite of that, he hadn’t put a foot wrong.
The first task was to find Kennedy’s home address.
As he was turning away, the telephone bell rang. It was Kennedy, who said:
“Well?”
“I must see you.” That rasping note should shake the man’s composure.
“I’ll come——”
“You won’t, you’re to keep away from here. Get that into your head. Where are you?”
“I’ll meet you——”
“Listen,” said Roger, “I’m not a stooge any longer, I’m a partner. We take the same risks, by relying on each other. I’m not going on with hole-in-corner business. Where are you?”
Kennedy said: “Percy will pick you up in half an hour’s time, outside the Burlington Arcade. He’ll bring you to me.”
* * * *
Roger went into the kitchen, tore some paper into squares, and, with steady hands, shook a little flour out of a tin into each square. Then he screwed the pieces of paper up; he had a dozen little screws when he’d finished. He wiped all trace of the flour away, and put the bags, wrapped in a large handkerchief, into his pocket.
* * * *
Percy was at the wheel of the Daimler, and didn’t get out. Roger climbed in. The car moved off swiftly, and the blinds fell, with the familiar whirring. Roger opened the side ventilation window, and waited until the car had turned two corners, then tossed one of the small screws of flour out. He waited for three more turns, and tossed another.
The journey took fifteen minutes, and he didn’t think they had gone farther than five minutes away from the Arcade; Percy had been driving over the same ground. As they slowed down, he dropped out another paper- bag.
Percy opened the door without letting up the blinds, Roger glanced up and down the dark street. Except that it was one of London’s squares, he couldn’t identify it. He glanced down at the pavement; the little white bag had burst ten yards or so away, the flour showed pale blue beneath a lamp.
He followed Percy to the house and saw that the number painted on a round pillar was twenty-seven. A manservant opened the door; so Kennedy lived in style. Percy came in and, without a word, took him upstairs. It was luxurious: carpets, tapestries on the walls, good furniture and soft lighting—the home you would expect of a millionaire. Percy led the way to a room on the right, tapped and opened it at a call.
It was a study; book-lined, with a magnificent carved-oak desk; a film set of a room falling just short of opulence. Kennedy stood by a white Adam mantelpiece, with a brandy glass in his hand and his eyes only slightly open. He tipped his head back to look at Roger.
“All right, Percy,” he said.
He was in a dinner-jacket. A cigar, half-smoked, lay on an ash-tray on the mantelpiece. On another, at the side of a chair, was a half-smoked cigarette; it was red-tipped, so a woman had been here to dinner.
The door closed with a click.
“What’s the cause for alarm, West?”
The slip. West instead of Rayner, betrayed Kennedy’s state of nerves. If Kennedy realized what he had done, he had the wit not to correct himself.
Roger said: “Why didn’t you tell me you were wanted by the police?”
Kennedy said softly: “But I’m not, and you know I’m not. You had a previous visit from Sloan, and he slung the
