At the counter, the girl laid the glittering knife on a strip of black velvet. Warren stared at it, feeling sweat on his face.
“It’s a beautiful piece of steel, sir,” the girl prattled on. “You must be careful how you handle it . . . it is as sharp as a razor.”
Warren touched his temples with his handkerchief.
“I’ll take it,” he said, then looked furtively around the crowded store, fearful some newspaper man had spotted him and was witnessing him buying a murder weapon.
Five minutes later, he left the store with a neatly done up package in his hand. His chauffeur-driven Cadillac was waiting and he got in. He glanced at his wrist watch. The time was twenty minutes after one o’clock. The thought of lunch made him feel slightly sick. He told the chauffeur to take him back to the hotel.
Once back in his suite, he poured himself a big shot of whisky, then telephoned down for a chicken sandwich. He didn’t want it, but felt he should eat something.
The package from Drew & Stanton lay on his desk.
It was while he was nibbling at the sandwich, staring out at the busy harbour with its yachts and motorboats moving to and fro that the telephone bell rang.
It was Jesse Hamilton who said he was in the lobby and could he come up. The tense note in Hamilton’s voice alarmed Warren.
“Yes, of course.”
He dropped the half eaten sandwich into the trash basket. He finished his whisky, then stood by his desk, waiting.
Hamilton came quickly into the suite. One look at his drawn pale face told Warren something bad had happened.
“What is it, Jesse?”
“Mrs. Forrester is dead,” Hamilton said. “She’s been murdered.”
Warren stared at him. For a brief moment he felt a surge of relief run through him. His eyes shifted to the package on the desk. Then the full impact of what this could mean hit him. He sat down abruptly.
What happened?”
“She was killed by Detective Brock,” Hamilton said. “He was guarding her yesterday. He claims she invited him to the bungalow, teased him and when he got fresh, she kneed him and clawed his face. He lost his temper and hit her so violently he broke her neck.”
Warren stared out of the open window, his mind busy.
“Do the press know?” he asked finally.
Hamilton shook his head.
“My man was watching the bungalow. He called me first, then Terrell. The Homicide squad are there now. The press will get on to it pretty soon.”
“This is a hell of a thing, Jesse. What are we going to do? How will Forrester react?”
“He wanted her dead . . . well, she’s dead. This could be a solution, sir.”
“It could be the solution if he were normal, but he isn’t. I must see him. Where is her body?”
“Still at the bungalow.”
Warren got to his feet and began to pace the floor, his face set with concentration.
“Tell Terrell to move her to the morgue,” he said, pausing. “Forrester is certain to want to see her. Get the morgue cordoned off. The press mustn’t know about this. There is a chance if he is satisfied she is dead, he will decode the formula . . . and that’s all we care about.”
“I’ll fix it, then I’ll call you. Will you wait here, sir, until I get it set up?”
“I’ll wait.”
When Hamilton had gone, Warren lit a cigar and went out on to the terrace. He had to wait eighty long, nerve-racking minutes before Hamilton called.
“It’s all set, sir. She’s now in the morgue. The press aren’t on to it. I’m sending a car for you.”
“Right . . . have a car waiting at the back entrance to Forrester’s apartment block,” Warren said. “I’m going there right away. If I can persuade him, I’ll drive him myself to the morgue. When I leave with Forrester, no one is to follow me. Tell Terrell to have enough police to block off any following car. I don’t care how they do it, but they are to do it. No one is to know I’m taking Forrester to the morgue.”
“I’ll fix it. Give me half an hour. By then I’ll have the operation set up and you can go see Forrester.”
Warren waited ten minutes, then asked for an outside line. He dialled Forrester’s number. After the usual long delay, Forrester answered.
“This is Warren. I am coming to see you immediately. It won’t be necessary for you to wait until tonight,” and before Forrester could say anything, Warren hung up.
He moved restlessly around his sitting-room, out on to the terrace, and back into the sitting-room while the minutes dragged by. Then after twenty minutes, he left his suite and .went down to the hotel lobby.
The hall porter came from behind his desk.
“There’s a car waiting for you, sir,” he said.
Warren nodded. He went out into the hot sunshine. One of Hamilton’s Agents got out of the waiting car and opened the rear door. Warren nodded to him. He was carrying the package, containing the barbecue knife. He got into the back seat. The Agent slid under the driving wheel and set the car in motion.
“Mr. Hamilton thinks you shouldn’t be seen going through the cordon, sir,” he said. “There’s a rug by your side. If you don’t mind, would you please get on to the floor and cover yourself with the rug so the press won’t spot you? I’ll tell you when.”
“All right,” Warren said.
A quarter of a mile from the cordon, the Agent slowed the car.
“Please get on the floor, sir.”
Breathing heavily, Warren squatted on the floor of the car and pulled the rag over him. The car accelerated. It reached the cordon. Four police officers, alerted, waved it through.
“Okay, sir,” the Agent said and pulled up outside 146, Lennox Avenue.
Warren removed the rug and got out of the car, clutching the package. Hamilton joined him.
“Sorry about that, sir,” he said. “I thought we shouldn’t take any chances. I have a car waiting at the back. I’ll come up with you and I’ll wait outside the apartment. I’ll take you both down to the car and then to the morgue. You will both have to get down on the car’s floor. If the press spot you, we won’t be able to shake them off.”
“Yes,” Warren said. He was feeling uneasy and his heart was hammering.
The two men walked into the apartment block and got into the elevator.
“Are you telling him about his wife?” Hamilton asked as the elevator creaked upwards.
“I have to . . . I have no alternative. He is certain to want to see her,” Warren said.
“Dr. Hertz is standing by. I have four men on the staircase in case of trouble. I’ll be right outside the door.”
The elevator came to a standstill. While Warren walked to the front door, Hamilton moved silently along the passage and leaned against the wall.
Warren rang the front doorbell.
After a delay, he heard Forrester’s voice asking who was there.
“It’s Warren . . . I’m alone, Paul.”
He heard the lock turn, waited, then pushed open the door. Forrester had retreated back to the bedroom doorway. In the hard sunlight coming through the big sitting-room window, he looked gaunt and pale. There was a tic developing near his mouth that alarmed Warren.
“I have news for you, Paul,” Warren said, remaining near the shut front door.
“Did you bring the knife?” Forrester demanded. His voice was a little shrill and very aggressive.
“Yes, I’ve brought it,” Warren held up the package. “You won’t need it. I’m sorry, Paul . . . what I have to tell you will be a shock.” He paused, then said slowly and distinctly, “Your wife is dead.”
“Put the knife on the table,” Forrester said.
Warren didn’t move.
“Your wife is dead, Paul,” he repeated.
Forrester flinched, then he stared at Warren, his eyes remote, the tic by his mouth flickering and jumping.
“I warned you not to be clever,” he said. “Give me the knife!”
Warren moved to the table, put down the package, then moved away.
“I’m not being clever, Paul,” he said quietly. “This is something I couldn’t foresee. Your wife was killed an hour or so ago. I’m here to take you to the morgue where you can see her body.”
Forrester didn’t seem to be listening. He picked up the package, stripped off the paper and looked at the glittering knife.
“Paul! Are you listening to what I am telling you?” Warren demanded, raising his voice.
Forrester reluctantly took his eyes from the knife and stared almost sightlessly at Warren.
“Yes . . . I am listening.”
“Your wife was killed by a police officer who imagined she was encouraging him, but she wasn’t. There was a struggle, and he broke her neck,” Warren said.
Forrester turned the knife in his hands. The blade glittered in the sunlight.
“I don’t believe you. You agreed to my terms . . . now you come up with this stupid lie,” he said.
“I am not lying,” Warren said. “I am here to take you to see her. This is something that happened out of my control. Will you come with me? You can see her. She is at the morgue.”
Forrester suddenly seemed to shrivel.
“Are you telling me that Thea is dead?” he said. “That a police officer killed her? You really mean this?”
“I am sorry, Paul . . . yes.”
Forrester threw the knife from him. It clattered against the wall. The tic by his mouth was now jumping madly.
“I understand . . . yes, you aren’t a liar,” he said after a long pause. “Your people killed her, didn’t they? I know all about your professional butchers . . . the State against the individual! You don’t care about the individual. There is nothing you and your people wouldn’t do to get your grimy hands on my formula.” His voice was rising and he looked wild, his eyes burning. “I should have guessed you would kill her rather than risk a scandal. You fool! Couldn’t you know I loved her? I wouldn’t have hurt her. I only wanted to frighten her. She would have come back to me. I could have persuaded her. You had to kill her!”
“Paul! Stop this!” Warren said sharply. “You . . .”
“Don’t tell me to stop!” Forrester cried. “My formula is going to die with me! I have only remained alive because I was sure Thea would come back to me! Now it is finished! One of these days, someone will discover my formula, but it will take time and time is everything. With time, countries like this country, countries like Russia must grow up ― must become adult. This country and Russia are now in the delinquent stage of youth. Perhaps in ten years ― perhaps in twenty years ― they will learn to understand their responsibilities to the innocents they rule over. Then and not before this formula of mine will be a weapon for peace and not for destruction.” He took a quick step back into the bedroom, slammed and locked the door.
Warren rushed into the passage.
“Quick! Get in there and stop him!” he shouted to Hamilton.
Hamilton’s four agents piled into the room and rushed the bedroom door. The door held. They rushed it again and it smashed off its hinges.
They were several seconds too late.
A coded cable was brought to Lu Silk as he was sun-bathing on the terrace of Cuba’s most luxurious hotel, the famous Nacional de Cuba. He lay in a lounging chair, wearing a pair of blood red shorts, sun glasses and a straw hat tilted over his nose. On the table by his side was a glass of rum and lime juice, the clinking ice frosting the glass. The cable had come sooner than he had expected. He had been hoping to spend at least a week at the hotel, soaking up the sun and relaxing before he began work again. He tore open the envelope and studied the string of letters and numbers, frowning. Then with a muttered curse, he heaved himself out of his chair and walked back to the hotel.
In his air-conditioned bedroom, he decoded the cable. It ran:
Silk. Immediate. Lindsey. Del Prado. Mexico City. Complete operation. $10,000 credit your name Bank Nacional de Mexico. Radnitz.
When Radnitz said “Immediate’ he meant immediate and Silk swore again. He called down to the hall porter and asked when the next plane was due to leave for Mexico City.
“15.00 hours,” the hall porter told him.
“Get me a reservation. I have a quick business trip,” Silk said, “I’m holding this room. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”
He dressed hurriedly. He had less than an hour and a half to get to the airport. Dressed, he threw the necessary overnight things into a small suitcase. From a drawer, he took his .38 automatic. He checked the gun, checked the silencer, then slid the gun into his shoulder holster.
The hall porter rang back to tell him his seat on the aircraft was reserved and there was a taxi waiting.
“I’ll be right down,” Silk said.
He frowned around the room. He thought of the ten thousand dollars waiting for him in Mexico City. When the job was done, he would come back and relax maybe for another week. He picked up the suitcase, surveyed himself in the mirror, straightened his tie, adjusted the angle of his hat, then left the room.
As he went down in the elevator, he suddenly thought of Chet Keegan. He missed him. Then his scarred face tightened in a sneer of indifference.
He wouldn’t need Keegan for this job . . . it was an easy one.
THE END