telephone number. “They may tap your line so tell me to come to you. It’s not far. I can get over very quickly.”
Corridon gave her a sly smile. The situation amused him.
“I wish I could always be sure a pretty girl would come to me if I phoned,” he said. “Nothing like joining the secret service to see life.”
Her steady grey eyes looked into his.
“I’m afraid you won’t see much he with me,” she said, her voice impersonal as a brick wall.
“I suppose not,” Corridon said regretfully. “Did Ritchie tell you you’d have no trouble with me, and I always act like a gentleman?”
She laughed.
“No, he didn’t. He said you always had an eye on the main chance, and I was to be careful.”
“He hasn’t changed a scrap,” Corridon said, opening the door. “He’s like an old hen. All the same, you’re too good-looking to be an agent.”
She walked past him to the head of the stairs.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” she said.
He followed her down to the front door. As he opened it, he said, “I suppose we had better kiss in the doorway. We have to convince those two blokes, you know.”
“That’s quite unnecessary,” she returned, and stepped into the mews. “Good night.”
She went away into the darkness without looking back.
CHAPTER THREE
I
The two men who had followed Corridon from the Red Roost now proceeded to shadow him wherever he went. They were experts, and it was only because in the past Corridon had had considerable experience of this kind of thing, that he knew they were continually on his heels. It was not until the second day that he managed to catch a glimpse of them.
One was short and thick-set with a red, puffy face and a bull neck. Corridon thought he might be a German. The other was tall and thin with deep-set, glittering eyes. His flat-featured face, his close-cropped blonde hair and his habit of smoking cigarettes wrapped in brown tinted paper suggested he might be Russian.
Rather light-heartedly Corridon christened them Huey and Duey.
These two were dangerous. Corridon knew the signs. They were killers. Both of them seemed nervous. Huey, the short one, continually twitched and blinked his eyes. Duey, the tall one, played scales up and down his thighs with his long, thin fingers. Both of them moved like shadows, making no sound on their crêpe-soled shoes, and both had eyes like bits of dark glass; expressionless, cold and inhuman.
Thinking about them, Corridon wondered if he wasn’t running his neck into a noose. It was like Ritchie to land him in something that could end in sudden death. Ritchie had no personal feelings for his agents. The country came first. “You can always get another agent,” he had once said to Corridon, “but I’ll be damned if you can get another England.”
Corridon wondered if Marian Howard knew the type of men she was up against. He had taken a liking to her. She had looks, courage and integrity. Although he lived by his own doubtful rules, he approved of integrity in others. He would warn her the next time they met, he decided; not that it would make any difference. Once you were fool enough to get into Ritchie’s clutches, you were done for. And besides, Ritchie was just the kind of man a girl like Marian would admire, Corridon thought sourly.
Huey and Duey had moved into the mews flat opposite him. How they got possession of the place defeated him. It had been a bookmaker’s office; then suddenly, the bookmaker’s sign disappeared, and a pencilled notice informed his patrons he had moved to Park Court, an alley that ran parallel to Grosvenor Mews, and there were Huey and Duey lurking behind the net curtains.
From this vantage point they were able to watch Corridon with the minimum of effort, and he realized that Ritchie’s foresight in establishing Marian as a light-lady was sound. Her weekly visits wouldn’t excite the suspicions of these two: it was the kind of behaviour they would expect of
Corridon gave her a sly smile. The situation amused him.
“I wish I could always be sure a pretty girl would come to me if I phoned,” he said. “Nothing like joining the secret service to see life.”
Her steady grey eyes looked into his.
“I’m afraid you won’t see much he with me,” she said, her voice impersonal as a brick wall.
“I suppose not,” Corridon said regretfully. “Did Ritchie tell you you’d have no trouble with me, and I always act like a gentleman?”
She laughed.
“No, he didn’t. He said you always had an eye on the main chance, and I was to be careful.”
“He hasn’t changed a scrap,” Corridon said, opening the door. “He’s like an old hen. All the same, you’re too good-looking to be an agent.”
She walked past him to the head of the stairs.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” she said.
He followed her down to the front door. As he opened it, he said, “I suppose we had better kiss in the doorway. We have to convince those two blokes, you know.”
“That’s quite unnecessary,” she returned, and stepped into the mews. “Good night.”
She went away into the darkness without looking back.
CHAPTER THREE
I
The two men who had followed Corridon from the Red Roost now proceeded to shadow him wherever he went. They were experts, and it was only because in the past Corridon had had considerable experience of this kind of thing, that he knew they were continually on his heels. It was not until the second day that he managed to catch a glimpse of them.
One was short and thick-set with a red, puffy face and a bull neck. Corridon thought he might be a German. The other was tall and thin with deep-set, glittering eyes. His flat-featured face, his close-cropped blonde hair and his habit of smoking cigarettes wrapped in brown tinted paper suggested he might be Russian.
Rather light-heartedly Corridon christened them Huey and Duey.
These two were dangerous. Corridon knew the signs. They were killers. Both of them seemed nervous. Huey, the short one, continually twitched and blinked his eyes. Duey, the tall one, played scales up and down his thighs with his long, thin fingers. Both of them moved like shadows, making no sound on their crêpe-soled shoes, and both had eyes like bits of dark glass; expressionless, cold and inhuman.
Thinking about them, Corridon wondered if he wasn’t running his neck into a noose. It was like Ritchie to land him in something that could end in sudden death. Ritchie had no personal feelings for his agents. The country came first. “You can always get another agent,” he had once said to Corridon, “but I’ll be damned if you can get another England.”
Corridon wondered if Marian Howard knew the type of men she was up against. He had taken a liking to her. She had looks, courage and integrity. Although he lived by his own doubtful rules, he approved of integrity in others. He would warn her the next time they met, he decided; not that it would make any difference. Once you were fool enough to get into Ritchie’s clutches, you were done for. And besides, Ritchie was just the kind of man a girl like Marian would admire, Corridon thought sourly.
Huey and Duey had moved into the mews flat opposite him. How they got possession of the place defeated him. It had been a bookmaker’s office; then suddenly, the bookmaker’s sign disappeared, and a pencilled notice informed his patrons he had moved to Park Court, an alley that ran parallel to Grosvenor Mews, and there were Huey and Duey lurking behind the net curtains.
From this vantage point they were able to watch Corridon with the minimum of effort, and he realized that Ritchie’s foresight in establishing Marian as a light-lady was sound. Her weekly visits wouldn’t excite the suspicions of these two: it was the kind of behaviour they would expect of
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