The Thousand Faces of Night. Jack Higgins

and Harris were with you. You were stunned. In a blind panic, they ran for it, leaving you. Maybe they forgot the money in the heat of the moment or perhaps they left it deliberately, hoping the police would think it was a one-man job. By a miracle you got away, because I picked you up myself in Paddington Station next day, but the money had disappeared.’

      Marlowe stared out of the window, a frown on his face. ‘What if it’s all true? What if it happened exactly as you say? It still won’t get you anywhere.’ He laughed contemptuously. ‘If you caught me with the money in my pockets you couldn’t touch me. I’ve served my time.’

      Masters sighed deeply. ‘You know, I thought you were smart, Marlowe. That’s what used to make you stand out amongst the crowd of mugs that hung around Faulkner’s club in the old days.’ He shook his head. ‘Do you think you’ll ever get to spend that money? Will you hell. I’m after it because to me it’s part of an unfinished case. Faulkner’s after it, and Butcher and Harris and every other cheap crook that knows the story. You’re branded clear to the bone.’

      Marlowe swung round and gripped Masters by the right arm. His face had turned to stone and there was a terrible expression in his eyes. ‘Listen to me, Masters,’ he said, ‘and listen good. If anybody gets in my way I’ll stamp him into the ground, and that goes for you, too.’ His fingers dug painfully into the policeman’s arm and his voice trembled slightly. ‘I spent three years in a Chinese prison camp, Masters. Did you know that? I worked in a coal mine in Manchuria for twelve hours a day up to my knees in water. Most of my friends died, but I came home. And do you know what? Nobody seemed to know a war had been going on.’

      ‘Is that supposed to be an excuse?’ Masters said.

      Marlowe ignored him. ‘I took a job as a driver with Faulkner. Good money and no questions asked. He tried to make a monkey out of me, but I ended up making him look pretty stupid.’ He released the policeman’s arm. ‘I’ve spent eight years of my life in prison, Masters, and I’m only thirty.’ He leaned back suddenly. ‘Okay, I’ve got the money. I earned it and now I’m keeping it.’

      Masters shook his head slowly, and there was something like pity in his voice. ‘You’ll never get away with it. If Faulkner doesn’t catch up with you, I will.’

      Marlowe shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t count on that if I were you.’

      The car slowed as they approached a junction, and as the lights changed it started to pick up speed again. With a sudden movement, Marlowe jerked open the offside door, jumped out into the road, and slammed it behind him. He threaded his way quickly through heavy traffic and dodged down a side street.

      Once away from people he started to run. He knew he had only a few minutes’ start at the most. As he approached the end of the street he slowed and turned into another main road. A bus was pulling away from a stop in front of him, and he broke into a run and jumped on to the platform as it gathered speed.

      As the bus moved away into the main traffic stream he slumped down into a corner seat. His chest was heaving and there was a slight film of sweat on his brow. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and smiled wryly. Things had moved fast, faster than he had anticipated, but he was still ahead of the game and that was all that counted.

      He dropped off the bus at the next stop and went into a hardware store where he purchased a cheap screwdriver. Then he crossed the road and plunged into a maze of back-streets. He walked quickly, head lowered against the driving rain, and finally emerged into another main road where he caught a bus for the City.

      A little more than an hour after giving Masters the slip he was in the vicinity of Paddington Station. It was raining harder than ever now and the streets were almost deserted. He crossed the road towards the station and turned into a narrow street that was lined on each side with tall, decaying Victorian houses.

      About half-way along the street he paused and looked up at one of the houses. Above the door a grimy glass sign carried the legend ‘Imperial Hotel’ in faded letters. It was typical of a certain type of establishment to be found in the area. Places where a room was usually required for only an hour or two and never longer than a night. He mounted the steps slowly and passed inside.

      He found himself in a narrow hall with several doors opening off it. Directly in front of him stairs that were covered with a threadbare carpet lifted to a gloomy landing. On his left a middle-aged woman was sitting in a cubicle reading a newspaper. She looked up and blinked red-rimmed watery eyes, and then carefully folded the paper. She spoke in a light, colourless voice. ‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’

      Marlowe’s eyes moved quickly over the rows of keys that hung on the board behind her head. ‘I’d like a room,’ he said. ‘Just for three or four hours.’

      The woman’s wet eyes flickered briefly over him. She produced a battered register and pen, and said, ‘Sign here, please.’

      Marlowe took the pen and hastily scrawled ‘P. Simons – Bristol’. The woman examined the entry and said politely, ‘Any luggage, sir?’

      He shook his head. ‘I’ve left it at the station. I’m catching a train for Scotland this afternoon. Thought I could do with some sleep while I’m waiting.’

      She nodded. ‘I see, sir. That will be fifteen shillings.’

      He gave her a pound note and, when she turned to the board, said, ‘I’ll take number seven if it’s vacant.’ He laughed lightly. ‘My lucky number.’

      The woman handed him the key. ‘It’s facing you at the top of the stairs, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to give you a call?’

      He shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ll be all right.’

      He mounted the stairs quickly and stood on the landing listening. The hotel was wrapped in quiet. After a moment he unlocked the door of room seven and went in.

      Light filtered palely through one dirty window, giving a touch of colour to the faded counterpane that covered the double bed. The only other furniture was an ancient mahogany wardrobe and a plain wooden chair which stood on the far side of the bed. There was a door marked ‘Toilet’ in one corner.

      Marlowe wrinkled his nose in disgust. The room smelt musty and damp. Somehow there was an odour of corruption over everything. He went to the window and wrestled with the catch. After a moment it gave, and he lifted the sash as far as it would go and leaned out into the rain.

      The hotel backed on to a maze of railway lines and he could see Paddington Station over to the left. Beneath the window a pile of coke reared against the wall, and there was an engine getting up steam not far away. He lit a cigarette and leaned out into the rain. There was a hint of fog in the air and already things were becoming misty and ill-defined. He shivered suddenly as a gust of wind lifted rain in his face, but he did not shake because of the cold. He was afraid. For one brief moment his courage deserted him and he allowed the thought to creep into his mind that perhaps the long years had been wasted. Perhaps what he had come for was no longer here.

      With a sudden convulsive movement he tossed his cigarette far out into the rain and crossed to the toilet door. A small rounded oval plate had ‘Toilet’ printed on it in black letters, and was secured by two screws. Marlowe took out his screwdriver and started to unscrew the plate with hands that trembled slightly.

      When he had taken one screw completely out, the plate swivelled and the thing which had been concealed behind it fell to the floor. He dropped to one knee and picked it up with trembling fingers. It was a small metal key. He held it in the palm of his hand, staring at it, and a sudden exultation lifted inside him. It was there. After all this time it was there.

      He heard nothing and yet some instinct told him that he was not alone. He was conscious of a slight draught on one cheek and knew that the door was open. He turned slowly. Faulkner was standing just inside the door. He held up what was obviously a duplicate key to the room and twirled it gaily round one finger. ‘I’ve got one too, old man, though nothing like as valuable as that one. What’s it open, a safe-deposit box? Very clever of you.’

      He