Hell Is Too Crowded - Jack Higgins [37]
For one single, terrifying moment, he thought he must be going mad, and then, quite suddenly, he was aware of the truth, or at least a part of it.
He started to get to his feet and behind him there was a quiet movement. Even as he turned, pulling the .38 from his pocket, a hand thudded solidly against the nape of his neck and he slumped forward on to his face with a cry of pain.
(9)
WHEN he opened his eyes again, he was sprawled on his face beside the body. There was only one added refinement. In his right hand he was firmly clutching a Mauser automatic with an SS bulbous silencer fitted to the barrel.
There was something familiar about it--something very familiar. It was the gun with which Anton Haras had tried to kill him in Manningham.
He could not have been unconscious for more than five minutes; that much was obvious. He scrambled to his feet, sat on the edge of the bed and massaged his neck muscles.
What a fool he'd been. What a blind, stupid fool. The smell of the gunpowder fresh on the air, the warmth of her body. It had been so obvious that she had only been dead for minutes. Perhaps the fatal shots had been fired as he was coming up the stairs and he had walked straight in like a lamb to the slaughter.
One thing was certain. If the police caught him here, he was finished, which was obviously what Haras had intended. This time it would mean the death cell plus all the trimmings, right up to the bitter end one cold, grey morning.
The room had been turned upside down, drawers pulled out, clothing scattered everywhere. It was hardly likely the Hungarian had overlooked anything incriminating.
Brady moved out quickly into the other room. As he mounted the steps to the door, he paused. Draped across a chair, was a woman's light raincoat and underneath it was her handbag. Obviously she had intended going out. Perhaps only the arrival of Haras had prevented her.
He emptied the bag on to the floor quickly and scattered its contents with one hand. There were a couple of banknotes, some coins, lipstick, jewelled powder compact and car keys.
There was also a letter, newly opened, the stamp bearing the postmark of the day. It was addressed in neat angular handwriting to Miss Jane Gordon, Carley Mansions, Baker Street, and he took out the single sheet of paper quickly and examined it.
It was the briefest of notes. Dear Jane, looking forward to seeing you tonight. I'll be free from nine o'clock onwards. Your loving mother.
But it was the printed address at the head of the notepaper which he found most interesting. 2 Edgbaston Square, Chelsea. Marie Duclos had lived in Edgbaston Gardens. Now what was that supposed to mean?
For a moment he remembered the street lined with narrow Victorian houses with the graveyard and the church at the end and something elemental stirred inside him, lifting the hair on the nape of his neck. It was as if he was afraid--afraid to return to that place.
He shrugged it off with a grim laugh and opened the door. Whatever happened, he was going back there. He had no choice.
When he reached the hall, the porter was still drowsing over his magazine. Brady crossed to the door quickly and was already disappearing into the night as the man glanced up.
As he hurried along the pavement, a bell sounded shrilly on the night, and a police car swung round the corner from the Marylebone Road and braked to a halt in front of Carley Mansions.
Brady kept on walking, quickening his pace slightly. He turned into the bustle of Oxford Street a couple of minutes later, got into the car and drove away.
There was a taste of fog in the air, that typical London fog that drifts up from the Thames, yellow and menacing, wrapping the city in its shroud.
At least it made things easier for him. He passed a policeman standing on a corner by a crossing, moisture streaming from his cape. Brady braked to a halt to let someone cross over and the policeman waved him on. Brady grinned. What was it Joe Evans used to say? The best place to hide from a copper