“Don’t ask me,” said Hardy bluffly.
But he knew, and it wasn’t simply that Marino wanted a detailed description of Gissing.
“Is Gissing still in the country?” Roger made himself ask.
“If he were he’d be behind bars. Or I’d sack half the staff.”
They turned into Grosvenor Square, and in spite of heavy clouds blowing up, the usual photographers were shooting at the Roosevelt statue. The huge American cars, dwarfing all but a few Rolls-Royces and Hardy’s black Daimler, seemed to gather for shelter beneath the waving flag of the Stars and Stripes.
Hardy had obviously been here before, he was recognized and taken in hand, and they were whisked up to Marino’s office, where Herb, forewarned by telephone, was opening the door for them. He looked absurdly young.
“Come in, gentlemen, Mr Marino’s free right now.” He opened Marino’s door.
Marino didn’t get up, even for the Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard. He stretched out his right hand, gripped Roger’s firmly, searched his face and seemed relieved by what he saw. They sat down beneath the portraits of the august dead.
“I would offer you a drink,” Marino said, “but I guess you’ll say it’s too early.”
“Think it’s too early, West?” Hardy asked.
“Not if I’m off duty!”
Hardy grinned, Marino pressed a bell, Herb came in and produced an assortment of bottles. Marino poured out, making a formality of asking Hardy what it would be before he poured a whisky and soda. Herb went away.
“Well, now,” said Marino, “you’re very good to come over at such short notice, Mr Hardy. I surely appreciate that. You’ve been a great help from the beginning. I’m hoping you will be able to help even more.” Roger was glad of the drink, to help him cover his rising excitement “The way it’s turned out, you’re almost the only man we know who could recognize Gissing, Roger. And we want Gissing very badly.” He sipped his drink. “And we think he’s in the United States.”
“So that lets us out,” Roger said.
Marino’s smile showed amiable disagreement. He leaned forward, with one of his rare body movements.
“And we think we can put a finger on him.”
Roger sat up, abruptly.
“We can’t be sure, because we haven’t a photograph, fingerprints or anything else to go by,” Marino said. “And we want him identified so that there can’t be any doubt. We can’t pick the suspect up until we’ve identification — unless he tries to take another powder, we would hold him then. I’m told you’re often assigned to cases overseas, and in this case we certainly need your help, and you want Gissing as much as we do. Can you spare the Superintendent for a week or so, Assistant Commissioner?”
14
SUSPECT
EXCEPT for the perpetual drone of the four jet engines and an occasional lurch when the aircraft dropped through space and then went on as if nothing had happened, Roger would not have known that he was flying. By day, they had looked down fifty thousand feet or so to the Atlantic Ocean, which seemed flat and hardly ruffled. Occasionally they had sighted a ship. England was already three thousand miles away, and New York lay half an hour’s flying time ahead. It was dark in the clouded heavens.
Roger had an empty seat beside him; there were several others in the cabin. Most of the passengers were dozing. Two, who had been air-sick after the first few minutes, were looking wretchedly in front of them. One of the two stewardesses walked from the little kitchen aft, smiled at Roger and disappeared into the crew’s domain. A man snored faintly, a newspaper rustled.
In Roger’s mind was a mixture of looking forward and looking back, and looking back was easier.
Looking back to Janet’s startled exclamation when he had told her, her quick flash of “Not again!” and then her quick “I mustn’t be silly, I’m sorry, darling”, and her bright cheerfulness from then on until he had been ready to go. It was only the previous morning that Marino had said what he wanted.
The stewardess came out, and stopped by Roger.
“Won’t be long now, Mr West, you’ll see better if you move back, the wing is in your way here. There’s an empty seat.”
“Oh, fine. Thanks.” He moved at once.
“It’s wonderful by night,” the girl said.
“Wonderful” was just a word. The lights became brighter, a cloak of diamonds catching the eye and holding it. Flaming rubies and winking emeralds from the neon lighting as they drew nearer, the glitter from the windows of the skyscrapers which lit the sky, dark patches of the East and the Hudson Rivers, the floodlit funnels of the big ships and little ships lying alongside the miles of docks, a fantasy of light and dark, colour and shadow. They seemed unending, as if a moment in time had been caught and held, but the aircraft was losing height, belts were fastened — and then suddenly they were down, taxi-ing along the runway, and the tension which most passengers felt melted in relief. Everyone began to move and talk at once, the stewardesses called out: “Keep your belts fastened for a minute, please.”
He had travelled as Mr Roger West, and hoped that no one knew him as an official from Scotland Yard. He was to be met privately at the airport and taken to the Milton Hotel Marino had arranged everything.
The stewardess who had fussed him while on board shook hands, there was no trouble at Customs, just the
