stroke died away, he closed and bolted the front door, turned on the light and climbed the steep flight of stairs that brought him directly into the sitting room. There was a smell of damp and Ronuk in the room, and a cold cleanliness that constantly reminded him of a waiting room in an institute for the poor.
He emptied his pockets before removing his coat and found the envelope that Ranleigh had given him. He had pushed it into his pocket and had forgotten about it. He flicked it against his fingernails, then carried it into the bedroom, turned on the light and sat on the bed. He was tired. He had had little sleep the previous night and he yawned, thinking of what he had done during the day, satisfied the way things had turned out.
He flopped back on the pillow, swung up his legs and lit a cigarette. Seven hundred and fifty pounds! He had paid the bundles of pound notes into his bank, grinning when the cashier had given him a quick, surprised glance. Then he had gone along to a pleasant house in Kensington and talked to the plastic surgeon who had done so much for him when he was in hospital recovering from the Gestapo’s attentions. He had told him about Effie.
‘I don’t care what it costs, Doc, but fix it for her.’
And the doctor had made an appointment to see Effie.
Shying away from the thought of Effie’s gratitude, Corridon had telephoned her and told her what he had arranged, then hung up quickly before she could begin to thank him.
He had a man to see in Whitechapel and another man to see in Balham High Street. Two small parcels he had brought back with him from America, carefully sewn inside the flaps of his trench coat pockets, exchanged hands. He took a bus back to the West End, had dinner and returned to his flat. The day had been satisfactory and lying on his bed, he had a feeling of well-being as he stared up at the ceiling.
The room was silent; no outside sounds came to him. There was something reassuring about the thick iron bars at the window. He felt shut in, away from all interruption, with no sense of loneliness, and as he lay there, relaxing, he thought of Jeanne Persigny, seeing her as she stood before Crew’s hearth, her hands in her trouser pockets, her face expressionless, and he wondered what she was doing at this moment. Tomorrow night he would meet her at the Amethyst Club, and he would tell her he wasn’t going through with the job. He could imagine her reaction. Scorn and anger would blaze up in her eyes.
Ranleigh would stare at him, embarrassed, like a man who has caught a friend in a shabby act. Jan would feel for his Mauser. Corridon’s mouth twitched into a grin. He would tell them to screw. There was nothing they could do about it.
Remembering the envelope that Ranleigh had given him, he picked it up and opened it and drew out several sheets of paper. He began to read the neat typewritten words without interest. Mallory meant nothing to him, and he read what Ranleigh had written because he was relaxing and had nothing else to read.
Brian Mallory.
Born: 4th February, 1916.
Description: Height: 6ft. 1in. Weight 182 lbs. Hair: dark brown. Eyes: hazel. Complexion: fair. Heavily sunburned.
Peculiarities: Voice affected by a wound received while escaping from P.O.W. camp. Speaks in a whisper, unable to shout or raise his voice, but practice has enabled him to make himself heard by enunciating his words with remarkable clearness.
Mannerisms: When angry has a trick of grinding his right fist into the palm of his left hand. When pleased slaps his hands and rubs them briskly together. Invariably holds cigarette between index finger and thumb. Has the habit of lighting matches by flicking their heads with his thumbnail. Prides himself on a poker face: seldom laughs or smiles.
Corridon gave an impatient grunt, skipped the page and began to read at random.
Relations: As far as is known only relation is Miss Hilda Mallory, The Dell, Wendover, an aunt, who brought Mallory up after
He emptied his pockets before removing his coat and found the envelope that Ranleigh had given him. He had pushed it into his pocket and had forgotten about it. He flicked it against his fingernails, then carried it into the bedroom, turned on the light and sat on the bed. He was tired. He had had little sleep the previous night and he yawned, thinking of what he had done during the day, satisfied the way things had turned out.
He flopped back on the pillow, swung up his legs and lit a cigarette. Seven hundred and fifty pounds! He had paid the bundles of pound notes into his bank, grinning when the cashier had given him a quick, surprised glance. Then he had gone along to a pleasant house in Kensington and talked to the plastic surgeon who had done so much for him when he was in hospital recovering from the Gestapo’s attentions. He had told him about Effie.
‘I don’t care what it costs, Doc, but fix it for her.’
And the doctor had made an appointment to see Effie.
Shying away from the thought of Effie’s gratitude, Corridon had telephoned her and told her what he had arranged, then hung up quickly before she could begin to thank him.
He had a man to see in Whitechapel and another man to see in Balham High Street. Two small parcels he had brought back with him from America, carefully sewn inside the flaps of his trench coat pockets, exchanged hands. He took a bus back to the West End, had dinner and returned to his flat. The day had been satisfactory and lying on his bed, he had a feeling of well-being as he stared up at the ceiling.
The room was silent; no outside sounds came to him. There was something reassuring about the thick iron bars at the window. He felt shut in, away from all interruption, with no sense of loneliness, and as he lay there, relaxing, he thought of Jeanne Persigny, seeing her as she stood before Crew’s hearth, her hands in her trouser pockets, her face expressionless, and he wondered what she was doing at this moment. Tomorrow night he would meet her at the Amethyst Club, and he would tell her he wasn’t going through with the job. He could imagine her reaction. Scorn and anger would blaze up in her eyes.
Ranleigh would stare at him, embarrassed, like a man who has caught a friend in a shabby act. Jan would feel for his Mauser. Corridon’s mouth twitched into a grin. He would tell them to screw. There was nothing they could do about it.
Remembering the envelope that Ranleigh had given him, he picked it up and opened it and drew out several sheets of paper. He began to read the neat typewritten words without interest. Mallory meant nothing to him, and he read what Ranleigh had written because he was relaxing and had nothing else to read.
Brian Mallory.
Born: 4th February, 1916.
Description: Height: 6ft. 1in. Weight 182 lbs. Hair: dark brown. Eyes: hazel. Complexion: fair. Heavily sunburned.
Peculiarities: Voice affected by a wound received while escaping from P.O.W. camp. Speaks in a whisper, unable to shout or raise his voice, but practice has enabled him to make himself heard by enunciating his words with remarkable clearness.
Mannerisms: When angry has a trick of grinding his right fist into the palm of his left hand. When pleased slaps his hands and rubs them briskly together. Invariably holds cigarette between index finger and thumb. Has the habit of lighting matches by flicking their heads with his thumbnail. Prides himself on a poker face: seldom laughs or smiles.
Corridon gave an impatient grunt, skipped the page and began to read at random.
Relations: As far as is known only relation is Miss Hilda Mallory, The Dell, Wendover, an aunt, who brought Mallory up after
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