“You can be a bastard at times, can’t you?” Corridon said, and laughed. “You know what you can do with your dreary little savings. I don’t want your money, and I don’t want your job.”
Ritchie smiled.
“Well, I’m glad to hear you don’t want my money,” he said. “Pity about the job. Perhaps I can appeal to your sense of patriotism?”
Corridon pushed back his chair and stood up.
“You’re wasting your breath. Why pick on me? Why don’t you do the job yourself if it’s that important?”
Ritchie said evenly, “I picked on you, Martin, because the job can only be done by a man without honour; a man who is a twister, a liar, and a cheat. That’s why I picked on you.”
Corridon laughed.
“I believe you’re serious,” he said.
The cold grey eyes met his, and his were the first to give ground.
“Yes, I’m serious,” Ritchie said. “Your reputation is rotten. You won’t be suspected. It’s a job after your own heart. There’ll probably be some private plunder. I don’t say there will, but there may be. Want to hear about it?”
Corridon sat down again.
“It’s time you went to the Foreign Office,” he said, nodding to the desk clock. “Have you the time?”
Ritchie got up, crossed the office, opened the door and said something to Miss Fleming. He came back slowly to the desk and sat down.
“This is much more important than the Foreign Office,” he said. “And that makes you more important, too.”
“Go ahead and tell me. I don’t promise anything, but at least I’ll listen.”
“I’ll be very brief,” Ritchie said, and went on, speaking rapidly. “There exists an organization in this country that is growing in strength and numbers every month. Its object is to do as much damage to this country as it possibly can. I have no idea who is behind it, but I suspect it is financed by our enemies in Europe. I think it is worked in this way: the head of the organization is in touch with a number of foreign powers. He is for hire. Suppose, for example, it is felt by one of the foreign powers that our exports of coal are menacing their own market. They approach the head of this organization. Can he do anything to help them? The money is unlimited. He has a number of men placed in the mines. He gives them their instructions. A month later there is a coal strike, and our export figures suffer.
“Take another example. You may remember the Minister for European Affairs died through a shooting accident. It wasn’t an accident. We have no proof of that, but we’re quite sure it wasn’t an accident. He was becoming a nuisance to a certain European country and this organization undertook to remove him.
“I won’t waste time giving you further examples. The organization is continually at work: sabotage, strikes, murder, and dozens of other means to slow down this country’s recovery are being practised under its direction every day. We’re trying to find out who is behind it.”
Corridon flicked ash onto the carpet and frowned.
“I don’t see where I come in. You don’t expect me to find him, do you?”
“I think you could,” Ritchie said. “I think you could find him much more easily than anyone else I know.”
“Because…?”
“Because the boss of this organization is looking for men like you. He is looking for men who have a grudge, who want easy money, who have no scruples, nor any sense of patriotism. You are a trained saboteur. You have an impressive war record, and you have a reputation that might tempt him.”
“It hasn’t up to now,” Corridon pointed out.
“That’s because you haven’t made any effort to contact him. We caught one of his men. He was attempting to destroy machinery at Harwell. We found the ring on him, and we persuaded him to talk. We know now that every member of the organization carries one of these rings, by which they can recognize one another. We know too that the road-house on Western Avenue – it is called The Red Roost – is one of their meeting-places. This man we caught was obstinate, and it was very difficult to make him talk. He killed himself in his cell before we could give him a second examination.”
Corridon grunted.
“So you want me to go along to the Red Roost and see what happens?”
“Yes. Do you know the place?”
Corridon nodded.
“It’s run by Major George Mainworthy. I’ve met him. Do you think he’s tied up with this?”
“He may be. I don’t know. All I know for certain is the place is used from time to time by members of the organization to meet and make plans. Will you do it?”
“I don’t know,” Corridon said, and stood up. “I tell you what I will do. I’ll go to the place tonight and see what happens. I’m not going to make any effort to get into this, but if I’m propositioned, I’ll play along with them. The chances are nothing will happen. In that case I’ll look elsewhere for my fare to Paris. I’m not promising anything. You know me. I don’t look for trouble.”
Ritchie smiled.
“I think you’ll frail it, Martin. From now on keep away from me. Don’t attempt to communicate with me either by letter or telephone: These people, if they take you up, will watch you. Don’t underestimate them. They have been in existence for six months, and they have only made one slip. So watch out.”
Corridon lifted his heavy shoulders,
“Don’t count your chickens. Nothing may happen, but if it does, how do I tell you?”
“One of my people will contact you. You can leave that to me. The password will be – what shall it be?”
“Spring-time in Paris,” Corridon said with a crooked smile. “It’ll give me an incentive.”
CHAPTER
TWO
I
Soon after nine o’clock the same evening, Corridon backed the 2½ litre M.G. out of the garage below his flat, and drove rapidly towards Shepherd’s Bush.
He drove mechanically, his mind preoccupied.
Since leaving Ritchie he had been busy putting Milly’s affairs in order. She had left no will nor possessions, apart from some bits of indifferent jewellery and the six five-pound notes that had been found in her bag.
Corridon had persuaded Rawlins to release the jewellery, and had sold it, striking a hard bargain. With the proceeds he had arranged with his solicitors to take care of Susie’s immediate needs. Then rather rashly, he had promised to let them have a further sum of money at the end of the month.
Having taken care of Susie for a few weeks, he was now on his way to the Red Roost.
Ritchie had said that this mysterious organization had unlimited money, and Corridon decided this was probably true. If it was able to organize a coal strike, it must have considerable resources. It seemed possible that here was an opportunity to make some money, not a few hundreds, but real, solid money.
It wasn’t likely, Corridon thought, that the organization would keep its money in a bank. There were too many snoopers these days for large sums to remain in any bank without questions being asked. The money would be hidden somewhere where it could be easily got at. The obvious thing to do, Corridon told himself, was to find the hiding-place and help himself.
He swung the car through the gateway of the White City, past the turnstiles, and out onto Western Avenue. Once on the broad arterial road, he increased his speed.
The Red Roost was about two miles beyond Northolt airfield. It stood back from the road and was screened by an eight-foot wattle fence. Corridon had once been taken there by a friend who was a member of the club. He remembered there had been a slight commotion before he was allowed in. Even when accompanied by members, guests were not encouraged.
He wondered if George Mainworthy would remember him. He thought it possible. He hadn’t seen Mainworthy for four years. The last time they had met had been in a Soho pub. Mainworthy had been drunk and was abusing a blank-faced, shifty-eyed youth who was with him. The quarrel was carried on in low, fierce whispers, then Mainworthy suddenly smacked the youth’s fate who promptly pulled out a knife. If Corridon hadn’t intervened, Mainworthy would have been injured. Mainworthy had left the pub white-faced and shaken, and Corridon had bought the youth a drink.
Corridon made a habit of collecting unsavoury information. Time and again, his knowledge of other people’s indiscretions had turned an awkward situation into a favourable one. He never knew when some tale he had heard could be used to his advantage, and he was always on the look-out to add to his store of information.
The blank-faced youth had been ready to talk about Mainworthy. Perhaps the pound note Corridon slipped into his hand had helped to oil his tongue, but Corridon had chosen the right moment. The youth was hating Mainworthy just then. He told Corridon why Mainworthy had been forced to resign his commission in the Guards, and a cumber of other unsavoury details.
At the time Corridon had no idea the information the youth had given him would be of any use to him, but now, as he drove along Western Avenue, he saw how he could handle Mainworthy.
Ahead of him was the red glow from the neon lights that decorated the outside of the Red Roost, and a moment later he slowed down and swung the nose of the car through the imposing entrance.
He came upon the car park, and as he pulled up, a blond youth in a purple and silver livery came up and saluted.
“Good evening,” he said, bent forward and peered at Corridon. “Are you a member, sir?”
“Good evening,” Corridon said mildly, and got out of the car. “No, I am not a member. I’d like a word with Major Mainworthy.”
The blond youth lifted a languid eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the Major sees no one except by appointment.”
“That’s too bad,” Corridon said. “Is there anyone here who I can talk to?”
“What’s the trouble?”
A cold, hard voice behind him made Corridon turn. A youngish man in faultless evening dress, a blood-red carnation in his buttonhole had come quietly along the path without the attendant or Corridon hearing him. He was square-shouldered, dark, clean-shaven and arrogant. His eyes were still and hard and black.
“Who are you?” Corridon asked, with his most pleasant smile.
“I’m Brett, the floor manager here. What’s your trouble?”
“No trouble,” Corridon said. “I want to see Major Mainworthy.”
“Does he know you?”
Corridon lifted his broad shoulders.
“He may not remember me,” he said. “We haven’t met for some years. My name is Martin Corridon. If you will be so kind, tell him I want to talk to him about Ernie.”
Brett’s thin mouth tightened.
“Who?”
“Ernie. He’ll know.”
Brett signed to the attendant to go away. He remained motionless, his black eyes on Corridon’s face. When the attendant was out of earshot, he said curtly, “What’s the idea?”
“No idea. I want to see Mainworthy.”
“Who’s this Ernie you’re talking about?”
“Ask Mainworthy. If he wants you to know he’ll tell you.”
For a moment Brett hesitated, then with a quick, angry shrug, he turned on his heel.
“Come with me.”
Corridon followed him along the path, past a big floodlit bathing-pool where a few Spartan men and women were swimming, up stone steps on which stood tubs of black and yellow tulips, cleverly lit by concealed lighting. It was obvious no expense had been spared to give the place an air of sleek luxury.
The club was a long, single-storey building with a thatched roof and rough-cast walls. Neon lights in amber and pale blue outlined the whole building.
Brett pushed open a door and entered a brilliantly lit bar-room. A number of men and women in evening dress sat up at the bar on high stools, drinking. They glanced at Corridon curiously, and two of the women smiled at Brett, waving to him. He gave them a curt nod as he crossed the bar into an office.
“If you will wait here,” he said, opened a door at the fat end of the office and entered the room beyond.
Before the door closed, Corridon had a glimpse of another office, considerably larger than the one he was in.
He rested his hips on the desk while he lit a cigarette. There was a faraway look in his eyes, and his ears were cocked, but he didn’t hear anything.
Five minutes dragged by, then the door jerked open and Brett came out.
“You can go in,” he said, waving towards the open door, and went out of the office.
Corridon pushed himself off the desk and entered the inner room. It was luxuriously furnished, and a bright fire burned in the fireplace. There was a desk by the double windows, and behind the desk sat George Mainworthy.
He hadn’t changed much since Corridon had last seen him. He was a little older perhaps, and stouter, and his dark, swept-back hair was growing thin at the temples. He was, Corridon guessed, in his early fifties. A man with a faded military appearance, a heavily dyed moustache and a slack weak mouth.
“You wanted to see me?” he asked, without moving. His small eyes were suspicious and watchful, his voice hushed like a sidesman whistling in church.
“Why, yes,” Corridon said, plainly at ease. He shut the door and crossed the room. “I wanted to join this club.”
“Then you don’t want to see me,” Mainworthy said, and reached across the desk to a bell push. “Brett looks after that side of the business.”
“Don’t ring,” Corridon said, sitting down. “I’d rather deal with you. It’s not quite straightforward. I understand there are formalities, and a fifty guinea entrance fee. I haven’t fifty guineas, Major, but I still intend to join the club.”
Mainworthy slowly withdrew his hand. He stared down at the snowy blotter.
“Indeed? And you know someone who will put you up?”
“There’s you,” Corridon said cheerfully, “and I dare say if I could find Ernie he would put in a good word for me. Remember him, Major? The last time I saw you with him was about four years ago. He tried to knife you.”
Mainworthy sat very still, his face expressionless.
“So it’s like that,” he said, and his voice was bitter. “I’ve heard about you, of course. You have a reputation for being dangerous and unscrupulous, haven’t you?”
“I’m afraid I have,” Corridon said lightly, “but don’t rub it in. I’m not proud of it.”
“Why do you want to join this club?”