Alistair MacLean - Puppet on a Chain

I didn't take to him at all. Like most people, I don't like snakes and this was what this man irresistibly reminded me of. He was very tall and very thin and moved with a sinuous grace. He was effeminately elegant and dandified and had the unhealthy pallor of a creature of the night. His face was of alabaster, his features smooth, his lips non-existent: the dark hair, parted in the middle, was plastered flat against his skull. His dress suit was elegantly cut but he hadn't as good a tailor as I had: the bulge under the left armpit was quite perceptible. He held a jade cigarette-holder in a thin, white, beautifully manicured hand: his face held an expression, which was probably permanent, of quietly contemptuous amusement. Just to have him look at you was a good enough excuse to hit him. He blew a thin stream of cigarette smoke into the air.

'What's all this, my dear fellow?' He looked French or Italian, but he wasn't: he was English. 'We're not open, you know.'

'You are now,' I pointed out. 'You the manager?'

'I'm the manager's representative. If you care to call back later — ' he puffed some more of his obnoxious smoke into the air — 'much later, then we'll see — '

'I'm a lawyer from England and on urgent business.' I handed him a card saying I was a lawyer from England. 'It is essential that I see the manager at once. A great deal of money is involved.'

If such an expression as he wore could be said to soften, then his did, though you had to have a keen eye to notice the difference. 'I promise nothing, Mr Harrison.' That was the name on the card. 'Mr Durrell may be persuaded to see you.'

He moved away like a ballet dancer on his day off and was back in moments. He nodded to me and stood to one side to let me precede him down a large and dimly lit passage, an arrangement which I didn't like but had to put up with. At the end of the passage was a door opening on a brightly lit room, and as it seemed to be intended that I should enter without knocking I did just that. I noted in passing that the door was of the type that the vaults manager — if there is such a person — of the Bank of England would have rejected as being excessive to his requirements.

The interior of the room looked more than a little like a vault itself. Two large safes, tall enough for a man to walk into, were let into one wall. Another wall was given over to a battery of lockable metal cabinets of the rental left-luggage kind commonly found in railway stations. The other two walls may well have been windowless but it was impossible to be sure: they were completely covered with crimson and violet drapes.

The man sitting behind the large mahogany desk didn't look a bit like a bank manager, at any rate a British banker, who typically has a healthy outdoor appearance about him owing to his penchant for golf and the short hours he spends behind his desk. This man was sallow, about eighty pounds overweight, with greasy black hair, a greasy complexion and permanently bloodshot yellowed eyes. He wore a well-cut blue alpaca suit, a large variety of rings on both hands and a welcoming smile that didn't become him at all.

'Mr Harrison?' He didn't try to rise: probably experience had convinced him that the effort wasn't worth it. 'Pleased to meet you. My name is Durrell.'

Maybe it was, but it wasn't the name he had been born with: I thought him Armenian, but couldn't be sure. But I greeted him as civilly as if his name had been Durrell.

'You have some business to discuss with me?' he beamed. Mr Durrell was cunning and knew that lawyers didn't come all the way from England without matters of weighty import, invariably of a financial nature, to discuss.'

'Well, not actually with you. With one of your employees.'

The welcoming smile went into cold storage. 'With one of my employees?'

'Yes.'

'Then why bother me?'

'Because I couldn't find her at her home address. I am told she works here.'

'She?'

'Her name is Astrid Lemay.'

'Well, now.' He was suddenly more reasonable, as if he wanted to help. 'Astrid Lemay? Working here.' He frowned thoughtfully. 'We have many girls, of course — but that name?' He shook his head.

'But friends of hers told me,' I protested.

'Some mistake. Marcel?'

The snakelike man smiled his contemptuous smile. 'No one of that name here.'

'Or ever worked here?'

Marcel shrugged, walked across to a filing cabinet, produced a folder and laid it on the desk, beckoning to me. 'All the girls who work here or have done in the past year. Look for yourself.'

I didn't bother looking. I said: 'I've been misinformed. My apologies for disturbing you.'

'I suggest you try some of the other night-clubs.' Durrell, in the standard tycoon fashion, was already busy making notes on a sheet of paper to indicate that the interview was over. 'Good day, Mr Harrison.'

Marcel had already moved to the doorway. I followed, and as I passed through, turned and smiled apologetically. 'I'm really sorry — '

'Good day.' He didn't even bother to lift his head. I did some more uncertain smiling, then courteously pulled the door to behind me. It looked a good solid soundproof door.

Marcel, standing just inside the passageway, gave me his warm smile again and, not even condescending to speak, contemptuously indicated that I should precede him down the passageway. I nodded, and as I walked past him I hit him in the middle with considerable satisfaction and a great deal of force, and although I thought that was enough I hit him again, this time on the side of the neck. I took out my gun, screwed on the silencer, took the recumbent Marcel by the collar of his jacket and dragged him towards the office door which I opened with my gun-hand.

Durrell looked up from his desk. His eyes widened as much as eyes can widen when they're almost buried in folds of fat. Then his face became very still, as faces become when the owners want to conceal their thoughts or intentions.

'Don't do it,' I said. 'Don't do any of the standard clever things. Don't reach for a button, don't press any switches on the floor, and don't, please, be so naive as to reach for the gun which you probably have in the top right-hand drawer, you being a right-handed man.'

He didn't do any of the standard clever things,

'Push your chair back two feet.'

He pushed his chair back two feet. I dropped Marcel to the floor, reached behind me, closed the door, turned the very fancy key in the lock, then pocketed the key. I said: 'Get up.'

Durrell got up. He stood scarcely more than five feet high. In build, he closely resembled a bullfrog. I nodded to the nearer of the two large safes.

'Open it.'

'So that's it.' He was good with his face but not so good with his voice. He wasn't able to keep that tiny trace of relief out of his voice. 'Robbery, Mr Harrison.'

'Come here,' I said. He came. 'Do you know who I am?'

'Know who you are?' A look of puzzlement. 'You just told me — '

'That my name is Harrison. Who am I?'

'I don't understand.'

He screeched with pain and fingered the already bleeding welt left by the silencer of my gun.

'Who am I?'

'Sherman.' Hate was in the eyes and the thick voice. 'Interpol.'

'Open that door.'

'Impossible. I have only half the combination. Marcel here has — '

The second screech was louder, the weal on the other cheek comparably bigger.

'Open that door.'

He twiddled with the combination and pulled the door open. The safe was about 30 inches square, of a size to hold a great deal of guilders, but then, if all the tales about the Balinova were true, tales that whispered darkly of gaming-rooms and much more interesting shows in the basement and the brisk retail of items not commonly found in ordinary retail shops, the size was probably barely adequate.