his arm and stood up. ‘Suppose we meet at the Amethyst Club tomorrow night? I’ll let you know how I have got on.’
‘Yes,’ Ranleigh said. There was a strained expression on his face. ‘We expect quick service. That money means a lot to us.’
‘It means quite a bit to me, oddly enough,’ Corridon returned, and couldn’t quite conceal the jeering smile.
‘We’re trusting you,’ Ranleigh reminded him.
‘That’s right,’ Corridon said, added, looking at Jeanne, ‘but you have my IOU.’
She said nothing, staring at him, her big dark eyes brooding and her mouth a hard line.
‘Well, so long.’ He turned to the door. ‘See you soon.’
Neither of them said anything and he looked over his shoulder at them. Ranleigh was holding the I O U. Jeanne still stood by the table, her fingertips near the gun. There was a tense atmosphere in the room, but Corridon didn’t let that worry him. He had the money. It had been absurdly easy; the easiest job he had ever done. Of course there was Jan, but Corridon believed in taking risks. When they realized he wasn’t going through with the job they would threaten him, but he was used to threats. He didn’t believe they’d dare do anything except threaten, and he knew how to look after himself. Jan and his gun didn’t scare him, and if they were troublesome he had only to tell Zani about them. Zani would be quick to act. He was always on the lookout for information to give to the police, especially information that didn’t involve his clients. These three would be a gift to Zani.
He repeated, ‘Well, so long,’ and went into the neat little hall, opened the front door, ran down the carpeted stairs.
Seven hundred and fifty pounds! He’d go along and see about Effie’s mouth. He’d go right now.
As he moved into the street he noticed an elderly man in shirtsleeves rearranging the display in the flyblown window of the tobacconist’s shop. His thick awkward fingers were building a tower of cigarette cartons on a dusty shelf. He looked up and caught Corridon’s eye. Corridon winked at him.
chapter four
I
C orridon had never stayed in one place long enough to make a home for himself. Since his return to London he lived in a three-room flat over a garage behind St. George’s Hospital. He rented it furnished and thought he was lucky to have it in spite of the exorbitant rent. A woman came in every day to keep it clean and Corridon had his meals out He scarcely ever used the small, scantily furnished sitting room. It was damp and dark, and during the day the constant noise of car engines, the hiss of hoses on coachwork, the yapping of dogs and the whine of an electric saw working nearby came in through the badly fitting windows to distract him. The bedroom, also damp and dark, overlooked a high wall that shut out the light.
Discomfort and the lack of a homely atmosphere meant nothing to Corridon. He never noticed his surroundings. The flat was a place to sleep in, and as such it served its purpose and it had several advantages. It was near the West End. It had bars to every window and a solid oak front door. The rooms over the garages were used by commercial firms who moved out at six o’clock each day and did not appear until nine the following morning. There was no one to spy on him, and at night the flat was as lonely and as impregnable as a fort.
Corridon had returned to the flat earlier than usual. He had had supper in a pub in Shepherd Market and had walked along Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner, arriving at his flat a few seconds before nine o’clock. As he let himself in he heard Big Ben strike the hour, and paused to count the strokes. The chime of Big Ben always gave him a feeling of nostalgia, reminding him of the time when he was in France when he used to listen each evening in some secret hiding place to the nine o’clock news, knowing that Big Ben was still there and would be there tomorrow to strike out the hour.
When the last
‘Yes,’ Ranleigh said. There was a strained expression on his face. ‘We expect quick service. That money means a lot to us.’
‘It means quite a bit to me, oddly enough,’ Corridon returned, and couldn’t quite conceal the jeering smile.
‘We’re trusting you,’ Ranleigh reminded him.
‘That’s right,’ Corridon said, added, looking at Jeanne, ‘but you have my IOU.’
She said nothing, staring at him, her big dark eyes brooding and her mouth a hard line.
‘Well, so long.’ He turned to the door. ‘See you soon.’
Neither of them said anything and he looked over his shoulder at them. Ranleigh was holding the I O U. Jeanne still stood by the table, her fingertips near the gun. There was a tense atmosphere in the room, but Corridon didn’t let that worry him. He had the money. It had been absurdly easy; the easiest job he had ever done. Of course there was Jan, but Corridon believed in taking risks. When they realized he wasn’t going through with the job they would threaten him, but he was used to threats. He didn’t believe they’d dare do anything except threaten, and he knew how to look after himself. Jan and his gun didn’t scare him, and if they were troublesome he had only to tell Zani about them. Zani would be quick to act. He was always on the lookout for information to give to the police, especially information that didn’t involve his clients. These three would be a gift to Zani.
He repeated, ‘Well, so long,’ and went into the neat little hall, opened the front door, ran down the carpeted stairs.
Seven hundred and fifty pounds! He’d go along and see about Effie’s mouth. He’d go right now.
As he moved into the street he noticed an elderly man in shirtsleeves rearranging the display in the flyblown window of the tobacconist’s shop. His thick awkward fingers were building a tower of cigarette cartons on a dusty shelf. He looked up and caught Corridon’s eye. Corridon winked at him.
chapter four
I
C orridon had never stayed in one place long enough to make a home for himself. Since his return to London he lived in a three-room flat over a garage behind St. George’s Hospital. He rented it furnished and thought he was lucky to have it in spite of the exorbitant rent. A woman came in every day to keep it clean and Corridon had his meals out He scarcely ever used the small, scantily furnished sitting room. It was damp and dark, and during the day the constant noise of car engines, the hiss of hoses on coachwork, the yapping of dogs and the whine of an electric saw working nearby came in through the badly fitting windows to distract him. The bedroom, also damp and dark, overlooked a high wall that shut out the light.
Discomfort and the lack of a homely atmosphere meant nothing to Corridon. He never noticed his surroundings. The flat was a place to sleep in, and as such it served its purpose and it had several advantages. It was near the West End. It had bars to every window and a solid oak front door. The rooms over the garages were used by commercial firms who moved out at six o’clock each day and did not appear until nine the following morning. There was no one to spy on him, and at night the flat was as lonely and as impregnable as a fort.
Corridon had returned to the flat earlier than usual. He had had supper in a pub in Shepherd Market and had walked along Piccadilly to Hyde Park Corner, arriving at his flat a few seconds before nine o’clock. As he let himself in he heard Big Ben strike the hour, and paused to count the strokes. The chime of Big Ben always gave him a feeling of nostalgia, reminding him of the time when he was in France when he used to listen each evening in some secret hiding place to the nine o’clock news, knowing that Big Ben was still there and would be there tomorrow to strike out the hour.
When the last
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