“Hallo?”
Roger schooled his voice. Sloan might guess it was Rayner, but he couldn’t be sure.
“Mr. Sloan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m warning you, Mr. Sloan. They’re after you.”
“Who——”
“Use your wits. There’ll be an attack. Maybe a rundown. It’ll come quick. I’m warning you, Mr. Sloan.”
“Listen! Who——”
“I’ve warned you, just look out. And there’s another thing, Mr. Sloan.”
“Well?” Sloan had stopped expecting to be told the name of his caller.
“Remember the Copse Cottage job. Girl you never traced. Have a try in Paris. 23 Rue de Croix, District 8. Got that?”
“23 Rue de Croix, 8. Yes. Will you——”
“It’s the same job, and they mean to get you.”
Roger rang off and slipped out of the box. That was as far as he dared go; farther than was safe. He walked to the Strand and beckoned a taxi from the rank near the Savoy.
“Do you know Ealing?”
“Palm of me ‘and, brother!”
“Try and find Merrivale Avenue, will you?”
“Orf the Common, ‘seasy. There an’ back?”
“With a wait in between.”
“It’ll cost yer the world.” The cabby laughed his joke off. Roger sat back, legs crossed, watching the passing lights, letting his thoughts roam. A great deal depended on whether he got back without being missed. He smoked two cigarettes, and was half-way through a third when the cabby slowed down near Ealing Common Station.
“What number, Merrivale?”
“Thirty-five.”
“Okay.”
Number 35 Merrivale Avenue was a small house, standing in a tiny patch of garden, which even under the light of the stars, looked neat and tidy. No lights were on; it was now nearly half-past eleven, and there were few lighted windows in the long street. Roger rang the bell, and waited; rang again and knocked immediately afterwards.
A light went on, footsteps sounded on the stairs.
The man coming was Pep Morgan, who knew Roger West well; once, had known him very well indeed. He ran a private inquiry agency, and seldom risked a clash with the police. He opened the door, a ball of a man wrapped in a thick dressing-gown. His sparse hair was awry, and his nose and mouth were screwed up in annoyance. He squeaked:
“What the hell do you want?”
“Your services,” said Roger. “Fifty pounds for a job that’s not worth ten.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll tell you when we’re inside, maybe,” said Roger. He squeezed past the round ball as a woman called out from upstairs: “Pep. Who is it. Pep?”
“Just a client, m’dear, just a client.” Pep closed the door and put on the light of a front room. He had bright- brown eyes, from which all traces of sleepiness had vanished. He eyed Roger closely. “I don’t know you,” he said.
“I hope you never will.” Roger took the fifty pounds from his pocket and put it on top of a small upright piano. Pep hardly glanced towards it. “This is a simple job, there’s no risk, and there’s nothing illegal, but it’s urgent. First thing in the morning—if you can’t do it earlier!—I want you to arrange for a man on a bicycle to start from the Burlington Arcade, take the first right and then the second left—got it?”
“I’ll write it down.” There was a pad and pencil near the telephone. Pep’s stubby fingers moved swiftly. “Yes?”
“And around there he’ll find traces of flour, which was dropped from a passing car. There are more traces, in different streets, usually at corners—always at corners, except one place. That’s a few doors from a house numbered twenty-seven. The number of the house is painted in black on a cream, fluted column.”
Pep wrote swiftly. “Yes?”
“I want to know the name of the street and the name of the owner of the house—just that and no more. As soon as you’ve got it, leave word at your office. A Mr. Brown will call you, probably about lunch-time—all he wants is that name and full address. All clear?”
“What’s worth fifty quid?”
“Being hauled out of bed.”
Pep rubbed his button of a nose. “Okay,” he said.
