The door from the kitchen opened silently, and Harry came in with a tray.
“Did you speak, sir?” His sallow face was expressionless.
“Talking to myself. I’m too much on my own, Harry!”
“That has been my opinion for some time, if I may say so, sir.” Harry put down the tray, took a silver-plated lid off a dish of mixed grill. “That is the best I can do at such short notice, Mr. West.”
He drew back; his doleful brown eyes had an unusual glow. He seemed to come alive. And by saying “West” he had flung a verbal hand grenade.
Roger said slowly: “I don’t think I heard you.”
“I think you did, sir.”
Keep calm.
“How much do you know about this, Harry?”
“A little, sir.” He was solemn again, the glow had gone, but there was something in him which hadn’t been there before. “Also, I have had my instructions to report on your movements and your telephone calls while at the flat, sir. I have duly carried out my duties. Except——” he paused.
This was a form of torment. It was impossible to know what was in his mind; Roger felt as if he were in the midst of a furious explosion, but Harry’s voice was so quiet. He’d known the man for nearly two months, and studied him. All he’d seen was a well-trained automaton, obeying orders with smooth precision, never obtruding, always at hand.
Now, he was a man; a human being primed with dangerous knowledge.
“Except what?” Roger held the arms of his chair tightly.
Harry gulped; he had screwed himself up for this—yes, he was frightened. Tension, springing out of nowhere, was brittle and dangerous.
“When you went out the other night, sir.”
Roger didn’t speak, but thought of the dictaphone he knew was hidden in this room. He’d never located it; it had been wiser to leave it untouched, and guide all conversation into channels which Kennedy could safely hear. He couldn’t control this conversation.
“I saw the brown paper at the door, and that told me you had gone—I thought I heard you,” said Harry. “But I didn’t report to Mr. Briggs.”
“To whom?”
“Mr. Briggs—Percy, sir. Percy is the man to whom I have had to make all my reports.”
“I see. And why didn’t you inform him?”
“I weighed everything up and decided that it wouldn’t be in the best interests,” said Harry. He formed every word carefully, had to force it out, because of his fears. Of what? Of Roger’s reaction, when he knew the truth? Was this—blackmail? The word seemed to scream at Roger.
Harry was a crook, and must be a professional, or he wouldn’t have this job; Harry had a stranglehold over his “boss”. Roger stood quite still, watching his composure break now. The grill stood on the table, getting cold. Harry seemed to shrink, yet there was a form of courage in him. He licked his lips before he spoke again.
“You see, sir——”
No, he couldn’t get it out.
Roger said slowly, forcing down his rage. “All right, Harry. Let’s have it. How much do you want?”
Harry raised his hands, a swift, startled gesture. “Want? It’s not blackmail, I wouldn’t put on the black, it’s ——”
The front-door bell rang.
CHAPTER XXI
HARRY jumped, as if someone had kicked him, and darted a glance over his shoulder.
Roger said: “Never mind that. If it’s not blackmail, what is it?”
“I—I think I had better see who that is,” said Harry. The ringing had made him turn pale, his hands weren’t steady. “It might be Mr. Briggs.”
Roger grabbed his arm.
“Forget it. What——”
Harry pulled himself free and hurried to the door. Short of grappling with him, which would probably be heard outside, there was nothing Roger could do. He watched the man’s thin back and sloping shoulders as he opened the door of the tiny hall. He heard the outer door ( opening. He looked round the room, in a despairing effort to locate the dictaphone; he was reduced to despairing efforts. He heard a man’s deep voice :
“All right, I know he’s in.”
It was Sloan.
