and one of Oily Joe’s mob. His name was Myers. He took another step forward, the gun still raised.
A third man came in.
Sloan said : “Get—away.”
And then he jumped——
Roger shot out his foot. Sloan kicked against it and went sprawling as the gunman squeezed the trigger. The bullet spat out, the sharp crack echoed. The bullet buried itself in the wall, and Sloan sprawled forward, unhurt. The two men from “behind the gunman pounced; wolves couldn’t have moved quicker. Before Sloan could save himself, he was manacled with regulation handcuffs.
Sloan suddenly became still.
Myers grinned at Roger. “Saved a lot o’ trouble, ain’t it? Okay, get him out.” He nodded to the others, who dragged Sloan towards the door, and at the doorway hoisted him between them so that they could carry him downstairs. He disappeared, and he was alive: they’d gone to a lot of trouble to keep him alive.
The thin-faced man said : “All okay?”
“That made a lot of noise,” Roger said.
“Nice and quiet up here. You don’t have to worry. If anyfink was ‘eard, we’ll fix it. So long.” Myers swaggered out of the room and closed the door behind him. The footsteps on the stairs sounded loud as the other men carried Sloan.
* * * *
He didn’t know how long he sat there before he heard the tapping. At first, he hardly noticed it, but it continued so persistently that he raised his head and looked about him. It came from the kitchen door—Harry, of course. He had forgotten Harry, forgotten his urgency when Harry had gone to open the door to let Sloan in.
He went across the room and turned the key.
“Thank you, sir,” said Harry. He didn’t look any less frightened. “I was afraid that you might get hurt.”
“What else are you afraid of?”
“I—I don’t think I’m afraid of anything, sir. I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry your supper was spoiled. Shall I prepare something else ? I will gladly——”
“Do you know where the dictaphone is in the flat?”
Harry gulped. “I’ve disconnected it, sir. I did that before I spoke in the first place.”
Roger said abruptly: “Get me a whisky. Help yourself to what you want. Then come and sit down.” He wasn’t sure that these were good tactics; one man would be more at ease with drink and in a chair; another would feel acute embarrassment. Harry had poured himself out a beer, in a glass tankard. Roger gave him a cigarette.
“Thank you, sir.”
They lit up.
“If it’s not blackmail, what is it?”
The fear was there, hovering in Harry’s eyes, but the new situation had given him confidence, and his voice was steady as he answered :
“I’ve noticed a lot while I’ve been here, Mr. West. One day before you arrived a lady came asking for you. I was here, fixing the place up. A Miss Day, she was. Miss Marion Day. I noticed in the papers what happened to her afterwards. It was from her I got an idea who you really were, sir. And I—I was a friend of Ginger Kyle’s. Very good friends we were in our young days. We got mixed up with the same bunch. I’m not pleading innocence, sir. We went into it with our eyes open, and we knew the risk we was taking. I was lucky—I’ve never bin inside. Made a little packet, and if it wasn’t for—for pressure, Mr. West, I would be retired now. Ginger ought to have had a nice little pile waiting for him when he came out. Instead o’ that, they didn’t look after him. They killed his wife, or he thought they did. And when they killed him—I can’t help it, Mr. West. If I’ve judged you wrong, I’m for it. I’ll take my chance, same as Ginger did. And others. But it seemed to me you slipped out the other night so’s they shouldn’t know, and you wasn’t working with them wholehearted. Are you, sir? If you are, then okay, I’m for it. If you’re not, if you’re against them—I’ll help if I can. My word on it, Mr. West.”
He sat back. His forehead and long upper lip were beaded with sweat, and that cloudy fear hovered in his eyes.
But—was that put on?
Was this another of Kennedy’s trick tests?
CHAPTER XXII
ROGER could tell Harry the truth; and Harry might send word to Percy, and so bring about the end of it all.
He could be non-committal; but if Harry were still spying on him, that would be as damning.
He could reject the offer, report to Percy—and if it were genuine, damn Harry, send Harry to his death. You slid into accepting that as a fact. You didn’t tell yourself that no one would kill as freely and as ruthlessly as Kennedy; you knew that it was true. The man was completely amoral, he didn’t regard killing as most men did. It was necessary, it was done—an obstacle removed, like a chalk mark wiped off a blackboard and leaving only a smear as trace.
Harry stirred in his chair and stubbed out his cigarette.
