Mad About the Boy? (37 page)

Malcolm Smith-Fennimore blew a smoke-ring, crushed out his cigarette and lit another one. ‘Very interesting,' he remarked. ‘Nicely put together, too. I must read some of your stuff sometime. You haven't got a shred of proof, though.'

‘Oh, haven't we?' said Haldean. He shifted his weight on to the ball of one foot, like a boxer about to strike. ‘What about the paper we found in Lyvenden's cigarette case?'

Smith-Fennimore didn't reply.

Haldean held up the original and the translation. ‘I'll read it, shall I?'

The cigarette which Smith-Fennimore was holding to his mouth trembled, but still he said nothing.

Haldean cleared his throat.
‘We, the undersigned, promise to transfer the sum of One Million and Forty Three Thousand Pounds Sterling, currently held by Smith, Wilson and Fennimore, Bankers, London EC3, under the title of “Russian Investment Holdings: 1904–14” less a commission of Twenty Thousand Pounds Sterling, to be divided between the undersigned, to the Account of Yusif Dolokhov, Bank of Vaud and Fribourg, Geneva, Number RN3426750956YD. Signed: Victor, Lord Lyvenden. Malcolm Smith-Fennimore.'

Smith-Fennimore ran his tongue over his dry lips. ‘So you've found out some of the bank's private business, have you? I can't see that's any of your concern.'

‘Oh, really? Not even when the money's not yours to transfer? That's theft.'

‘Tell everyone who Yusif Dolokhov is, Haldean,' said Ashley, quietly. ‘That'll explain what's been going on.'

‘Yusif Dolokhov,' said Haldean, looking round the room, ‘is a prominent member of the Central Committee of the Russian Communist Party. He's also known to be very hot on the Third International, which is behind the Bolshevik uprisings that are making Europe such an interesting place. Soviet Russia is desperate for money Smith-Fennimore decided to supply some. Smith-Fennimore is funding a revolution. Aren't you?'

Smith-Fennimore licked his lips again. ‘I can't see why these private details of bank transfers should be read out to all and sundry' His voice was unsteady. ‘But even if you have been poking around in my affairs, you still haven't proved a damn thing about murder.'

‘Oddly enough, I thought much the same,' said Haldean unexpectedly. ‘You were safe – you were absolutely safe – as long as no one guessed what you'd done. But what if someone had seen you that day in the corridor? What if someone had seen you usher Arthur into the room and wedge the door tightly shut? And what if that same someone had written to you demanding money
and you paid up
?'

Smith-Fennimore's face turned putty white. ‘I . . . I . . .' he began, then stopped.

‘After all,' went on Haldean implacably, ‘all the letter said was that the writer had seen what you'd done in the corridor outside Lord Lyvenden's room at quarter to two or so on Tuesday. If the answer was nothing, you would not have left two hundred pounds under the floor of the summerhouse.'

Ashley drew a large brown envelope from his pocket. ‘I saw you go into the summerhouse, Commander. You left this envelope concealed under the loose floorboard. It contains two hundred pounds in cash which we will be able to trace to you and a note in your handwriting.'

Smith-Fennimore, his face a ghastly colour, tried to summon up his old manner. ‘I really can't see why I should listen to any more of this.' He edged down the room, away from Haldean. ‘In fact, I'm not going to any longer.'

Ashley moved forward to block the french windows but Smith-Fennimore made a sudden leap, not for Haldean, but for Isabelle. Holding her tightly by the throat, he wrestled her round in front of him. Pulling out his gun he clapped it to her head. ‘One move from anyone and she's for it.' Sir Philip started forward and Smith-Fennimore's finger tightened on the trigger. ‘I mean it,' he grated. He started backwards towards the french windows. ‘Come on, Isabelle. You're coming with me.'

Isabelle made a valiant attempt to free the clutching hand from her throat. ‘Malcolm, stop it! You're hurting me!' Her voice was a gasp. ‘Malcolm, let go!'

The grip on her throat increased, an ugly caricature of an earlier caress. ‘To be someone else's wife, my dear? I don't think so.'

‘You damn swine!' It was Arthur Stanton. He slipped from between the policemen and stood between Smith-Fennimore and the window. ‘Let her go. Let her go or so help me, I'll kill you.'

The gun jerked up to cover Stanton. Stanton, regardless, walked towards him.

Isabelle squirmed desperately in Smith-Fennimore's grasp, then stamped down hard on his foot. Grunting, he slackened his grip and she wriggled free. Smith-Fennimore pulled the trigger as Stanton sprang.

The gun clicked uselessly. Smith-Fennimore fell under Stanton's attack and pulled the trigger twice more. Scrabbling on the floor, he threw off Stanton, evaded Ashley's clutching hands, avoided Sir Philip, cracked his fist into Sergeant Ingleton's stomach and raced for the window.

‘Come on!' yelled Haldean. ‘After him!'

Constable Bevan slapped a hand on Arthur Stanton's shoulder.

‘Let him go!' yelled Ashley.

Stanton caught hold of Isabelle as Haldean led the way out of the window at a run. ‘Are you all right?'

‘Of course I am,' she said in a croak, clutching her throat. ‘Come on! After him!'

By the time they got out of the house, Smith-Fennimore had vanished. ‘Split up!' roared Ashley. ‘We'll take the front of the house.' He turned on the two policemen following Stanton. ‘You there! Let him go! Smith-Fennimore's the one we're after.'

Haldean set off at a run, Isabelle and Stanton behind him. He expected Smith-Fennimore to go for his car and, as he reached the old stables, there was the growl of an engine and the Bentley shot past them, nearly clipping the wall of the yard.

Haldean swore and made a leap for his car. By the time he had started the engine Isabelle had scrambled into the front seat and Stanton had bundled into the back. Screaming down the drive in fourth, he was just in time to see the Bentley turn left through the gates and lurch wildly out on to the road.

‘Where's he going?' yelled Stanton from the back.

‘I don't know,' called back Haldean, hunched over the wheel. ‘Not the village, thank God. It might be the coast road.'

The coast road. There was something about the name that tugged at Stanton's memory but his mind remained infuriatingly blank. The road twisted and curved and for a time they lost sight of the car in front. A cart loomed up in front of them and Haldean swerved, misjudged his distance, and ended up with a wheel on the grass. He revved the engine again and they shot off, desperate for a sight of the Bentley.

‘Look down the side roads as we pass!' shouted Haldean. ‘He might turn off.'

‘No, there he is, look!' called Isabelle. The road straightened out and they were running along an open stretch with hedges on one side and the sea on the other. The Bentley was just visible as it went over a dip and started to climb the other side.

Stanton suddenly realized he had been this way before. Then, desperate for shelter, he had held on to the hedge while the sea raged over the wall, terrified by the roar of the thunder and the violence of the lightning. The lightning! He had a quick, vivid, terrifying picture of lightning forking down and a road which reared up like an angry horse. ‘Slow down, Jack!' he yelled. ‘The road's wrecked!'

Haldean saw a barrier across the road at the top of the hill, a flash of white as Smith-Fennimore turned to look at them, followed by a hideous howling squeal from the brakes of the Bentley as the big car slid sideways through the barrier. For a moment Haldean thought the car was safe. It seemed to settle on the edge of the cliff, then, with a ghastly inevitability, toppled over and with a roaring crash fell lazily end over end down to the beach. Smith-Fennimore was flung free and clung desperately to the cliff edge, hands scrabbling in the chalk. Haldean stood on the brakes and skidded to a halt beside the hedge. He switched off the engine and in the silence came a sound he never wanted to hear again: a scream followed by the repeated thud of a man's body, falling.

Haldean scrambled out of the car and ran as if demons were after him, looking for a way down to the beach. There was just one possible path and he half climbed, half fell down, choking with impatience, utterly heedless of broken nails and bleeding hands. Then he was on the beach, the soft sand clogging his heels, running to the body twisted at the base of the cliffs.

He flung himself down on his knees beside Smith-Fennimore. He had seen too many flying accidents to doubt the outcome. From the way the legs were bent back it looked as if the spinal cord was snapped at the hips. ‘Malcolm!' he cried. ‘Malcolm!'

Smith-Fennimore's eyes flickered open. His voice came in little painful gasps. ‘Jack?' Haldean reached out and grasped his hand. ‘I haven't long. I know. You were right. I killed Lyvenden. I asked him if he'd taken care of Tim and he boasted about it. He thought I was pleased. He'd never be found out, never, and we were safe. Hated him.' His hand tightened and his face contorted. ‘I wanted to help Russia. I loved Russia so much. They're going to have a perfect world. I wanted to help. But . . . but the things they did . . . and I knew. They were ruthless. I didn't stop them. I went rotten inside.' His eyes closed momentarily. ‘Why you, Jack? I liked you.'

Haldean swallowed. ‘I had to help Arthur.'

The hand trembled in Haldean's. ‘Stanton. Jealous of Stanton. Isabelle loved him. I knew that. Barriers. You're right. I crossed a barrier. Rotten . . . inside. Yashin tried to kill you. I wouldn't let him.' His face contorted once more. ‘He said you were dangerous. You were. You knew, didn't you? I thought I could fool you. Told Yashin I'd fool you. Argued . . . I was so damn pleased when I saw you alive. Didn't want you to die. Thought I'd fooled you.'

‘You did for a time,' said Haldean softly. ‘Then I realized it had to be you, despite everything, even the cigarette burns.'

‘Morphine. Took morphine. Didn't hurt. Yashin did it. Thought it'd work.'

‘It nearly did,' said. Haldean unsteadily. ‘But Malcolm, it was a hell of a risk. What if we hadn't got there?'

The ghost of a smile flickered and was gone. ‘Always liked risk . . . and . . . and it didn't matter. Not after what I'd done.' He twisted in agony. ‘I can't feel my legs.' He coughed blood and Haldean held his head.

A voice beside him said softly, ‘I'm here, Malcolm.' It was Isabelle. She knelt down and took the twitching hand from Haldean's grasp. In a convulsive movement Smith-Fennimore held her hand to his cheek and kissed it.

His breathing grew harsher and then, with a judder, his head rolled back and he was still.

Isabelle leaned forward and kissed his forehead. Blindly, she turned to Stanton standing behind her. ‘Take me home, Arthur. Please take me home.'

Haldean remained kneeling by the broken body. Time seemed frozen. The sea creamed in and out behind him, the gentle surge of the waves like the far-off breathing of a living thing; and he grieved for the man who might have been.

Eventually he became vaguely aware of other figures on the beach, looking at him, talking about Malcolm – endless talk – and men cautiously approaching the burnt-out wreck of the Bentley many yards away. Then strong, kind hands lifted him to his feet, a blanket was wrapped round his shoulders and a flask of brandy put to his lips. The sharp, pungent taste made him blink and choke. When he looked, he saw that it was his uncle holding the brandy, smiling at him encouragingly. ‘It's all right now,' he managed to say, his voice sounding like that of a drunken man. ‘Let's go home. It's over.'

It was nine o'clock in the evening the next day. Haldean hadn't wanted to talk at all when he had been brought back from the wrecked Bentley at the foot of the cliffs and, rising early, he'd spent most of the day in London. He'd got back shortly before dinner. Now, dinner over, everyone was in the drawing room. Haldean, Isabelle was relieved to see, had lost that awful haunted look.

The telephone rang in the hall and Isabelle went answer it ‘That was Mr Ashley,' she said when she came back into the room. ‘He wanted to tell us that the last of the gang from the Paradise Club have been arrested.'

Haldean gave a sigh of satisfaction. ‘That was today's task. Ashley and I have spent the day in Scotland Yard. I hoped they'd get the lot and it sounds as if they have.'

‘And a good thing, too,' said Sir Philip, putting down his newspaper. ‘Mind you,' he added, looking at Haldean and Stanton, ‘from what you told me, it seems remarkable that there was anyone left to arrest. They seemed to be killing each other off nicely.'

‘Did they get Vargen Yashin?' asked Haldean. ‘The one they called The Boss?'

She shook her head. ‘He shot himself before they could arrest him.'

‘What did I tell you?' said Sir Philip with quiet triumph. ‘It's a great pity he didn't shoot himself first. It would have saved us all a good deal of trouble.' He shuddered. ‘My word, when I think of that night they came here . . .'

‘Things might have worked out differently for that poor devil, Malcolm, if Yashin hadn't been involved,' said Haldean, reflectively.

Sir Philip gazed at him. ‘
That poor devil?
' he repeated incredulously. ‘What the deuce d'you mean, Jack?'

Haldean smiled. ‘Don't you see what a tantalizing prize Malcolm must have been? Not only was he rich and sympathetic to the cause, he had over a million pounds of Tsarist gold in his bank. Apparently this bloke, Yashin, was a very persuasive character. I bet Yashin made a point of cultivating Malcolm.'

‘I think part of what made Malcolm do what he did went back to his friend, Jimmy Chilton,' said Isabelle. ‘You remember how I told you about that? He said how rotten things were here, that a man like that should be left to die of cold. The Communists say that they want to make life better and fairer for everyone.' Sir Philip made an impatient noise and Isabelle turned to him. ‘I don't know I believe them, Dad, but it can sound very attractive.'