A Hundred Thousand Dragons (22 page)

‘It sounds half-baked,' said Isabelle.

Jack scratched the side of his nose. ‘Well, it is, really. We don't have the key word and we don't have a coded message to read. I can't believe that C, C, L, C and so on is the code. It's too easy.'

Isabelle threw the pencil at him. ‘Do you mean to tell me that we've been fiddling around with bits of paper when we could have been having dinner?'

‘It was you who wanted to have a crack at the book,' said Jack, dodging the pencil and returning it to her with a grin.

‘It's about time I was off,' said Rackham, standing up and boxing his papers together. ‘I'll ask Superintendent Ashley to interview Vaughan again. He might know more than he's let on about the location of this city.' He paused, looking at Jack. ‘Do you want to talk to Ashley first? I don't want to say anything that you're not happy with him knowing.'

‘Tell him, Bill,' said Jack, reaching for his hat. ‘Tell him everything.' He buttoned up his coat, avoiding Rackham's eyes. ‘I'd . . . I'd be grateful if you could do that. I think a dickens of a lot of Ashley and I don't know how he's going to react.'

‘He'll be fine,' said Rackham reassuringly. ‘You just wait and see.'

Jack, Isabelle and Arthur turned the corner into the crowds on the Strand. ‘Where shall we eat?' asked Arthur.

‘There's always the Savoy,' suggested Isabelle.

‘I might have known,' said Arthur with a grin. He turned to Jack. ‘That's all right with you, isn't it?'

‘Fine,' agreed Jack absently.

‘What's the matter?' asked Isabelle.

‘It's Freya,' he said slowly. ‘If it wasn't for her, I wouldn't have made it, you know? If she is Miss Kirsch, she must know Von Erlangen murdered the prison guard. She'd know an innocent man died.' His face twisted. ‘I don't like to think of her mixed up in it.'

‘She might not be,' said Isabelle. ‘After all, you said he was a secretive type. It would be easy enough to say he was planning to escape without going into details.'

‘That's true,' agreed Arthur. ‘Not that we're sure she is Miss Kirsch, of course,' he added. They stopped on the corner of the entrance to the Savoy Hotel, waiting for a stream of cars and taxis to go past. ‘It beats me why she married a swine like that.'

‘She must have been very young,' said Isabelle. ‘She's our age, isn't she, Jack? And, after all, he was a Von Something. Poor thing,' she added softly. ‘She was frightened of him, wasn't she?'

He nodded. Freya must have felt trapped. If he ever met her again, could he persuade her to trust him? He'd like to have her to trust him, to see her smile, for heaven's sake. She wasn't married any longer. She was free . . .
‘God Almighty!
' he said, stunned. ‘It's her. The woman in black coming out of the Savoy. It's Freya Von Erlangen.'

Jack dived through the traffic and, threading his way through the crowd on the opposite pavement, intercepted the woman in black.

It was Freya. She looked anxious and annoyed as he stood in front of her, effectively barring her way. She obviously didn't recognize him.

‘Freya? Mrs Von Erlangen?'

Her face paled and her eyes widened. ‘I . . . I think you must be mistaken.'

She moved to get past him. Instinctively he reached out and put his hand on her arm. His senses flared. His memory hadn't played him false; she was a lovely woman but her beauty was hidden by her fear.

‘Freya! Please. You saved my life. You saved me from
him
.' She shrank away, her eyes darting round for an escape. ‘Please, Freya, don't go. I don't want to harm you.'

‘Who are you?' The words were a frightened whisper.

‘I'm Jack, Jack Haldean. I was at Q'asr Dh'an. Don't you remember? You stopped him from shooting me. You looked after me.'

He saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. ‘You are the British pilot,' she said wonderingly. She spoke with a soft German accent but her English was fluent. ‘I remember. You escaped in the aeroplane.'

‘Yes, that's right.' He dropped his arm. ‘Look, I know you're in trouble.'

‘You can't know anything.' She stepped back from him, looking for a way to escape.

He felt as if he'd caught a wild bird between his hands. At any moment she might dart into the crowds and be gone. Bill Rackham's guess came to his mind. ‘I know you're Miss Kirsch,' he said quietly.

He thought she was going to faint. Once more he took her arm, but this time to stop her from falling. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I really do mean you no harm.'

Her lips moved soundlessly but she couldn't speak. She leaned against him for support and it was as if a flicker of fire ran through him.

‘Come over here,' Jack said, gently ushering her to the side of the building.

‘Do I have a choice?' she whispered.

Jack nodded vigorously. ‘Of course you have a choice.' He released her arm and stood back. ‘If you'd rather, I'll say goodbye now. I'll walk away, but all I want to do is help you.'

Her breathing steadied and her eyes searched his face. ‘How?'

‘I can try. After all,' he added, ‘if you are Miss Kirsch, you're in trouble.'

‘Yes.' The word was scarcely audible. She shook her head, like someone coming up from under water. ‘How did you know?'

Jack took a deep breath. ‘As a matter of fact, I didn't. It was a friend of mine, a police inspector, who guessed.'

‘You're in the police?' Her voice was very low.

Jack took her hands, feeling her tremble. His mind was racing. There had been two women, Miss Kirsch and the woman in the Hammer Valley. If Freya was Miss Kirsch, she should be in New York but she
wasn't
in New York. Unlikely as it seemed, she was in England and therefore, unlikely as it seemed . . . ‘You were there, weren't you? You were there in the woods in the Hammer Valley, the night the car caught fire?'

She gave a little cry. ‘
Mein Gott!
Who saw me? Did you?'

He shook his head. ‘Not exactly, but I know you were there.' And he did know. Her reaction left him in no doubt.

She clutched his arm. ‘And the man who was killed? Madison? The newspaper, it said it was a man called Madison. You know about Madison?'

‘I know Madison is your husband.'

There was no mistaking her fear. She gazed at him wordlessly.

‘Freya,' he said awkwardly. ‘When I say I want to help you, I mean it.'

Her breathing steadied. ‘You – yes, you. I remember now. You were grateful to me. You were always grateful to me. Perhaps you can help.' She looked around at the crowds and the traffic. Her hand tightened on his arm. ‘We cannot speak here. Will you meet me? Later on, I mean? Come to my hotel in an hour. We can talk there.'

‘All right,' said Jack guardedly. It would, he thought, be remarkable if he saw her again, but what choice did he have? There was a policeman on duty a few yards away. As she had admitted to being Miss Kirsch, he could have her arrested as an accessory for the murder of the American prison guard, but his stomach turned over at the thought. ‘Which hotel are you staying at?'

‘My hotel? It's . . . It's the Stirling on Melbourne Street, off Tottenham Court Road. You know it?'

Jack felt his heart sink. She'd had to think about that answer. If she was staying at the Stirling, he was a Dutchman. The hotel might exist but he was fairly sure she wasn't a guest. ‘Who do I ask for?'

‘Miss Kirsch,' she said, after a few moments' hesitation. ‘Yes. Ask for Miss Kirsch.'

She walked off. Out of the corner of his eye Jack saw Isabelle and Arthur about to cross the road and, with a small gesture of his hand, motioned for them to stay where they were. As she turned to walk on to the Strand, Freya looked at him intently before disappearing into the crowd.

He looked across the road to where Isabelle and Arthur were standing. With a slight inclination of his head towards them, he walked towards the Savoy. They didn't speak until they were in the lobby and out of sight of the street.

‘Well?' demanded Isabelle. ‘Was she Freya Von Erlangen?'

‘She's Freya Von Erlangen, sure enough, and Bill was right. She's Miss Kirsch. Not only that, she's also the woman who was in the Hammer Valley.'

Isabelle stared at him. ‘What are you going to do, Jack?'

‘I'm supposed to be meeting her in a hour's time at her hotel. She said she was staying at the Stirling on Melbourne Street.'

Isabelle and Arthur exchanged worried glances. ‘Are you sure that's a good idea?' asked Arthur.

Jack shrugged. ‘What choice do I have? I couldn't detain her by main force and she was as jumpy as a kitten. She was scared to death when I jumped out in front of her and she nearly had a fit when I called her by her proper name. I don't know if she's really staying at the Stirling, but I'll give it a go. Thanks for staying out of sight, by the way. I don't know if she was being watched, but I don't want to draw either of you into it more than necessary.'

‘But who could be watching her?' asked Isabelle.

‘Craig? Now I know she's the woman from the Hammer Valley, she has to be associated with him in some way. Look, I'm sorry about dinner, but I'm going to have to skip it.' He broke off, thinking. ‘Will you go into the lounge and wait for me there? I want to check something with the clerk at the reception desk.'

It was nearly a quarter of an hour later before he joined them. ‘I was right,' he said, sitting down. ‘I thought Freya must be trying to get hold of Madison's stuff from his room and she was. She told the clerk she was a relative of Madison's and asked if she could have his things. He told her they'd all been given to the police.'

‘D'you think she's after the paintings?' asked Isabelle.

Jack nodded. ‘I'd say that's certain. I can't see her lusting after the alarm clock. I phoned Bill but his landlady said he'd left for this card party. I left a message and she promised to get it to him.' He picked up his whisky and swirled it round in the glass. ‘I wish to God I knew I'd done the right thing. I told Freya I wanted to help.' He looked at them wryly. ‘I don't think this is what she had in mind.'

‘If she's under Craig's thumb, you are helping her,' said Arthur. ‘I thought he was a brute.'

‘Yes . . .' He drank his whisky unhappily. ‘I know that,' he said eventually. ‘She was scared stiff of the police, though. Thanks for the drink, Arthur,' he added absently.

‘That's all right,' said Arthur. ‘We thought we might as well have something while we were waiting.'

‘Waiting?'

‘We're coming with you, of course.'

‘Don't be idiotic,' said Jack shortly.

Isabelle put down her gin fizz decisively. ‘Jack, listen to sense, for heaven's sake. I know you've always thought she's the bee's knees, but we're not elbowing our way into a date, we're trying to keep you out of danger.'

‘Danger?'

Arthur leaned forward. ‘You must think there's some danger, old man, otherwise you wouldn't have rung Bill Rackham and you wouldn't have been so leery about letting her know we were around. You can't go alone. It's not just her, it's Craig. Having said that, I don't see how you can possibly trust her.'

‘I don't know if I do trust her,' he said in irritation.

‘Well, act as if you don't trust her, then!' Arthur lowered his voice. ‘By her own admission, she's been mixed up with two murders, one in America and one here. I don't know why she was in the Hammer Valley, but it seems damned odd to me.'

‘I can't understand that business in the Hammer Valley,' said Isabelle thoughtfully. ‘Not unless she bumped off her husband.'

‘I don't think she's bumped anyone off,' said Jack seriously. ‘I don't think she could. Seeing her again brought it all back, you know?' He intertwined his fingers and looked down at his palms, then shook himself and stood up. ‘Come on. If you are coming with me, it's time we were going.'

They took a taxi, instructing the driver to drop them on the Tottenham Court Road at the top of Melbourne Street.

Isabelle got out of the taxi, looked around her and shivered. Melbourne Street was a narrow passage leading off the Oxford Street end of the Tottenham Court Road. It opened out into a small cobbled square, intersected by alleyways.

Two sides of the square housed cheap hotels, their lights glaring in the gathering dusk. The other sides of the square were blank with the blackened brick walls of warehouses. The Stirling was the second hotel on the right-hand side. It had obviously been a private house at one time, and its grimy, stuccoed porch and worn mock marble steps testified to how both house and square had once seen better days. A dog, sitting by the railings of the steps down to the kitchen, eyed them warily as they passed, before subsiding with a low growl. The air was dusty and still and a heavy silence hung over the square. Even the noise of the traffic on the Tottenham Court Road was deadened.

Jack looked at his watch. He had five minutes to go before he'd promised to call for Freya. By common consent, they retreated out of the square and back into the narrow passageway.

‘There's not enough cover for a mouse,' said Jack in disgust, standing under an unlit street lamp. ‘I hoped you'd be able to come into the hotel and sit in the lounge, but these hotels are more like boarding houses. Anyone who's not a resident would stick out like a sore thumb.'