The Tide Can't Wait (18 page)

“Eleven-fifteen,” Lenny said. “If you don't appear by eleven-thirty, they'll assume I broke faith with them and—and deal with me, as Leon put it.”

“Where will you be?”

She gave him the address of the building. Barr stared at her, shaking his head. “Don't you realize the meaning of this, Lenny? If, after I get Leon and his contact, I can't reach you in time—”

“I realize it,” she said. “I'm just assuming your little man with the yellow mustache will be around in case you don't have time.”

“Not only Stark, but Snyder,” he said, but the way in which he said it told her a lot. He would need both of them with him. But he couldn't tell her that. He would have to risk her, taking the chance that they could get Leon and the contact and still get the few blocks to where she would be. Barr had to play it that way, she knew, leaving her expendable.

Without Tommy in this, she wouldn't have a chance. As she thought it over, she realized that she would need Barr after all. If something slipped in the careful timing Tommy had planned, then there would be only he. She knew Leon would have men watching her, to make sure of her. No, she needed Barr and Stark and Snyder.

“The timing is close,” Barr said, looking up from the map she had drawn.

Too close,
she thought.
Much too close.
But she didn't say it aloud. She just sat and watched him.

Lenny returned down the path toward the inn, Barr went through the back door to his garage. Johnny Griggs was sitting there, smoking a cigarette. “Is Price ready to go, Guv'ner?”

“Probably,” Barr said. “Keep an eye on him all day. Get a pal to help you. I don't want him out of your sight except when he's in his flat. And keep in contact with me.”

“Depend on me, Guv'ner.”

Barr took out his wallet. “And this pays you up through tonight—just in case.”

The money disappeared quickly. “I always say it's easier to get it from a man than from his estate.” With a cheerful grin, Griggs walked rapidly away. Barr returned to the house, got his hat and coat and, with a brief glance at Portia's cottage, went to his car and drove down the alley.

A small Morris backed its way out of Portia's garage, turned and nosed toward the village. Wise to the ways of her little car, Portia herded it slowly and steadily toward London. There was no need for hurry, anyway. She knew where everyone would be when she got there.

At ten-thirty that night, Lenny made a last adjustment to her black dress and went into the living room to join Tommy. He was waiting, a small gun in his hand. He thrust it at her. “Can you use it?”

“No, they frighten me.” She pushed it back at him.

“Then take this.” He gave her a small clasp knife in a belt sheath. “Around the leg, just above the knee.”

She drew up her skirt and he fixed it to the inside of her leg. It felt heavy and awkward. “Must I wear it?”

He rose, completely serious. “You may have to use it, Lenny. I know these men. If we can't win, you might be better to use it on yourself.”

She sat down so that he wouldn't know how frightened she was. He said, “Now you know what to do.”

“Yes.” She glanced nervously at the clock. There was more than enough time. Even so, she rose and started slowly for the door. “This is it, Tommy.”

He took a long stride and caught her shoulders, turning her so that he could look down into her eyes. “Lenny.”

“Yes, Tommy?”

He bent and kissed her forehead. “Good luck.”

She turned and went out. Her footsteps rang hollowly on the sidewalk as she went along, seeking a cab. She found one within two blocks, gave her destination and settled back. She used a pocket mirror to make a final examination of herself, the tension gripping her stomach so tightly that it hurt.

Two prominent spots of rouge on her cheeks, eyes heavily mascaraed, lips a vivid red.

The cab reached Soho Square all too soon. She paid the driver and waited until his lights were out of sight. It was very quiet here at this hour. The office buildings, the motion-picture places were dark. The traffic on Oxford Street was muted. She settled the cheap fur stole Tommy had given her about her shoulders and started walking. The heels she wore were too high.

By the time she reached her destination, she felt less lonesome. There were other women. One stood, her back to the wall, not moving. There were few men about. One stopped and talked to the girl leaning against the wall. She wore a white sweater that stood out boldly against the night. The man said something that made her nod. They walked off together, disappearing into the gloom.

Lenny walked across the street into a darker area. Someone was coming, a man by the sound of the footsteps. Lenny continued on. He came nearer, slowed. She let her step falter.

He said, “It's a lovely evening for this time of year.”

“I beg your pardon,” Lenny said. She lifted her chin and marched on. The man scratched his head, shrugged, and kept going. Lenny came to another block, crossed the street, and started back up the other side. In the distance, Big Ben chimed the hour. Eleven. It was happening now. It had already started. The muted traffic from Shaftesbury Avenue faded in her ears. There was no sound but the pounding of her heart. It was happening now, but where was the man she was supposed to meet? And where was Tommy? Had he made it?

Unhurried footsteps approached her. She saw the man at the corner ahead. They would meet in deep shadow, almost before the door of the place where she was to take him. From one of the buildings someone laughed, a raucous sound. Someone else swore. There was another laugh, drunken this time. Lenny tried to work the dryness from her mouth, but the saliva wouldn't come. The man was very close. It took all her will to force her legs forward.

They were almost opposite each other. She gave him a sidewise glance. He spoke in French: “You are that rare type, a blonde Latin American.”

“Yes,” Lenny said. She spoke in French also, but badly. It was an effort to keep her voice steady. “Shall we go in here?”

The areaway of the building was small and dimly lighted. She did not look at him, but opened the door, walked down a hall that smelled of cabbage and brussels sprouts and stale beer. The door she wanted was the third, the back corner. It was unlocked, yielding easily to her touch. She found the light switch and a dangling, unshaded overhead bulb came on, revealing an iron bed, a lumpy mattress, a dresser, a single chair, a washbasin with a distorted mirror above it. The place was mean, grubby, and Lenny could not help feeling the same.

“Ah,” he said. He shut the door and snapped the lock. “This is perfect.” He was still speaking French. Now, however, she caught an accent. Going to the dresser, she turned and studied him.

He was small, slender, quite dark. He had a smooth skin and full reddish lips. His teeth showed whitely in a brief flash. His eyes were large and liquid and in them she saw a strong, sharp intelligence. This man reminded her of Leon, except that there was more to him than there was to Leon.

“And now?”

“The money. The instructions.”

He reached into his pocket and brought out a thick envelope. Lenny took it and opened the envelope. Inside there were a good many bills, American, in fifty- and one-hundred-dollar denominations, wrapped in a sheet of white paper.

“The instructions?”

“There on the paper.”

“It's blank,” she said stupidly.

“They are there,” he insisted. “You hold it to heat. Now, please.”

Lenny opened the dresser drawer, put her hand into it and closed her fingers over the sachet bag. She drew it out slowly, extending it to the man, fighting an impulse to glance at the windows.

Tommy had said, “I'll get to the room before you and make a substitute for the sachet bag. There'll be a matchfolder from The Club on the dresser.”

But there was nothing.

And Tommy had said, “If I don't make it before you do, stall as long as you can.”

He hadn't come yet.

The man half-turned his back to her and held the sachet bag up to the light, examining it. She looked at the windows. There was only grime and reflected light where the curtains had parted.

“Are you satisfied?” she asked.

He dropped the bag into the pocket of his coat. “Fully.” He made a half-bow in her direction. “We will go now.”

“Are there no verbal instructions?” Lenny did not move from her position near the dresser.

“Yes, you are to come with me.”

She hadn't counted on this. “I am supposed to go elsewhere.”

“This way you will see Leon sooner.”

She held herself rigid. “Leon and I have already made our arrangements.”

“They have been changed. Come.”

It was a command. She looked into the expressionless face, the cold eyes, and she knew that the game was close to its end.

“All right.”

He went to the door and she preceded him to the street. His hand touched her elbow, guiding her to the corner and around it. A small black car was parked at the curb and he indicated that she should get in.

The man drove slowly into Mayfair. Before the car turned into the Mews, Lenny realized where they were going. He parked before the closed garage doors and she walked to the entry and up the stairs with him.

She said, “This was not part of the plan.”

He rapped sharply on the door panel. It opened. A tall, rugged blond man who looked startlingly like Tommy at first glance stepped back to let her enter. A man was seated, legs negligently crossed, on the divan. Another man was in one of the heavily carved, straight-backed chairs. He was slumped forward and she could see the ropes that bound him to the chair. A trickle of blood ran from the corner of his mouth. It was Tommy.

She stared from Tommy to the man on the divan and glanced around at the others who stood just inside the door.

“Where is Leon?”

“Here's Price,” the blond man said in French. “Take him, instead.”

Lenny threw back her wrap, letting them see how her black gown was cut. She lit a cigarette and blew a long ribbon of smoke. “I thought Leon took better care of him than that.” She spoke in French, her voice sharp.

The blond man laughed and said something vulgar. Lenny gave him a cold, scornful look. “Leon would kill you for talking that way to his wife.”

“Wife?”

“Soon enough.” She took a chair and crossed her legs. The men looked at one another but said nothing. “What are we doing here?” Her French came out easily.

“Waiting for Leon,” the blond man said. He nodded to the man on the divan. He was small and dark like the one beside the door. “Go to the buttery. Tell him I have done as he said and am waiting with them both.”

The man got up. When he stood beside the other, Lenny saw that they looked enough alike to be brothers. Neither of them spoke. She could hear them both going down the stairs and then the car started up. Only then did she realize that the one man had the sachet bag.

She felt sick. The dark man had not been the real contact then. Leon had not trusted her and the true contact was being made somewhere else. Not at the buttery, because Barr would have been there.

“Why did Leon change the plan?” she demanded. “It was a good one.”

“Maybe he didn't trust you alone with all that money,” the blond man said. He was on the divan now, sprawled back, his legs extended. Tommy had not moved.

“He is no son of a pig like you,” she retorted.

He laughed at her.

Lenny stubbed out her cigarette. It tasted vile. She said, “What do we do with this one now?” She indicated Tommy with a toss of her head.

“That is up to Leon. We found him looking in dresser drawers in the room where you just were.”

She met his amused gaze unblinkingly. Leon had not only failed to trust her, he had been one jump ahead of her. She said, “And you brought him back here? What was the matter with the alley?”

He winced under her sharp voice. “A shrew,” he said. “Leon is welcome to you—if he still wants you.”

Lenny stood up. She walked to where Tommy hung in his bonds and stared down at him. “So now we haul our garbage with us. Leon and you are both fools!”

She thought she saw Tommy's eyes flicker. Quickly she glanced at the blond man. He was watching her, not Tommy.

The blond man merely shrugged at her insult. Lenny raised her voice a notch. “And what of Barr? What is he doing now—waiting for us all?”

“Barr came to the buttery. There was no Leon. He went away.”

She swore at him in vulgar French. “Why wasn't he taken care of?”

She could feel Tommy's hand on her leg. It moved slowly but there was strength in it.

“The time will come. And no woman talks to me like that. I am not Roget. Be quiet.”

He rose in an easy, fluid motion and slapped his hand across her mouth. She fell back, her side striking the edge of Tommy's chair cruelly. She could feel Tommy's hand on the flesh of her thigh and deliberately she took a full moment to straighten up. When she did, the full weight of the sheath knife about her leg was gone. There was only the weight of the leather.

A hand pressed to her lip where it was cut, she took a half-step and kicked. The sharp toe of her shoe raked the blond man's shin. He swore and jumped back, his face white with anger.

She said quickly, “You weren't hired to strike Leon's woman.”

“I wasn't hired by Leon,” he said. She could see by his eyes that he wanted to strike her again. The fact that he did not told her he was not sure of her status. At first, he had linked her with Tommy; now he did not know where she stood. They stared at each other.

A rap came on the door similar to the one the dark man had given. The blond man opened the door quickly and Leon came in, a tall, sallow-skinned man behind him.