said:
“Shawn is doing valuable work which he can only do in England, but I know no details. Marino believes that someone is very anxious to get him back here. Kidnapping the boy and bringing him over here would do that. Marino didn’t know that you were involved. The Yard got on to you by tracing the car, then getting the Paris police to see Mrs Norwood. The Paris police connected her with you, because of the recent suspected smuggling.”
“Goon.”
“We found out that Scammel worked for you, so did a man named Jaybird. We found Scammel’s body less than twelve hours after the kidnapping. That’s the job you’ll pay for.”
Gissing waved his hand, as if it wasn’t worth a thought.
“You don’t have to tell me how good you are at the Yard, I’ll take it as read. Marino went to the Yard, and you were assigned to help him. And Marino told you the story.”
Roger was glad of the whisky; his mouth kept going dry.
“Marino told me that we had to get the boy back, and try to keep Shawn in England.”
Gissing didn’t speak, just looked; and his eyes narrowed, the faint lines of the smile faded.
“He wanted the whole business kept secret, and I said we hadn’t a chance of getting results if it were. He lost too much time before releasing the story.”
“Or I was too quick,” Gissing said, mildly. “If the story had been released twelve hours earlier, it wouldn’t have made any difference. We had the boy here, and we’ve got Shawn back in the country. He’s going to stay. Get on with it, West. I’m not interested in the mechanics of the investigation. I want to know what Marino told you about — whoever is anxious to get Shawn back. How much does he know?”
“If he knows anything, he didn’t tell me.”
“So he didn’t,” Gissing said softly. His face lost every hint of amiability, became vicious. “You’ve got a bad memory.”
“If he knows anything, he didn’t tell me.”
“He just sent you here for a pleasant little vacation?”
“You know the answer to that one,” Roger said. “He hoped that they’d trace you over here, and I could identify you.”
Gissing laughed, and this time his laugh did nothing to give Roger an easy mind. It was hot, so hot that Gissing took off his gloves. He leaned further back in his chair.
“I know about that. You’re the only man here who could point a finger and say “That is the man who talked to David Shawn.” Now he can’t find you, and so he can’t identify me. You didn’t find a fingerprint or anything that would help at “Rest” — I hadn’t been there for weeks. Clarice won’t talk, and no one else can — no one would rat on me. That puts you on a hook, but you can climb off it. You can have a long vacation, up in these hills, and when it’s all over and I’ve gone, you can go back to your wife and family. You’re like Shawn, quite the family man. But first, you have to tell me what Marino told you.”
“I’ve told you all he told me.”
Gissing’s right hand strayed to the table by his side. Absently — or was it absently? — he picked up a paper- knife; all that betrayed his tension beneath the cloak of calm. He had put prints on that knife and it became a vital thing. He nursed the knife. His dark eyes held no expression. His lips were set tightly. Slowly he began to smile.
“You do understand, don’t you, West? I’m going to get that story. If you have to be smashed up before you’ll talk, it is not going to worry me. But sooner or later you are going to talk.”
“There isn’t a thing more I can tell you,” Roger declared flatly.
Insisting on that was a waste of time. Everything was a waste of time. They would set to work on him and they would know their job, it was going to be hell. He hadn’t even reached the stage of thinking about escape. He simply felt fear creeping into him, driving away the warm glow from the whisky. Then he had a wild idea — “escape” came to him as a word; escape and the desire to hurt Gissing. The man wouldn’t expect —
Gissing had hurtled Shawn away from him, without effort Gissing would never be unprepared, and two silent, powerful men were a few feet away. The only hope he had was to use persuasion, trying to make Gissing believe what he didn’t want to believe. He wouldn’t succeed by raising his voice, if there were a chance it would come by holding himself steady, behaving as Gissing behaved.
He shrugged.
“Now let’s have the story, West.”
“There isn’t a story,” Roger said. “You’ll only waste your time. I can’t get away so I can’t identify you, you’ve drawn my teeth already.” He actually managed a smile. “You’re good at kidnapping, you might be luckier next time.”
Gissing’s eyes narrowed, he weighed the paper-knife in his hands; pale hands, well shaped, well tended; the nails were filmed with colourless varnish.
“I’m lucky this time,” he said.
“You just think you’re lucky.”
Gissing put the knife down and stood up, slowly. He drew nearer. He was close enough for Roger to reach with his foot One kick, and he would stagger away, but — two pairs of eyes were watching.
Gissing looked down; from this angle his expression was vicious.
“West, I am the man who kidnapped the boy, and had Scammel killed. Jaybird, just behind you, followed Shawn to Barnes to make sure he wasn’t leading the police there. He saw those detectives who took too much notice of Shawn, and he ran them down. The other man behind you brought the boy here. That is how tough we are.”
