“You say you found him?”
“Yes. Let go of me!”
“What’s your name, young man?”
“What?”
“I asked you your name!”
“Derek, James Derek! Now, phone the police!”
Canfield took the man’s wrist and pressed hard against the vein. The arm withdrew in pain and Canfield ran into the crowd after Basil.
The man in the pin-striped suit winced and turned to the secretary. “Did you get his name, Miss Richards? I couldn’t hear.”
The girl was sobbing. “Yes, sir. It was Darren, or Derrick. First name, James.”
The man with the waxed moustache looked carefully at the secretary. She had heard. “The police, Miss Richards. Phone the police!”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Poole.”
The man named Poole pushed his way through the crowd. He had to get to his office, he had to be by himself. They had done it! The men of Zurich had ordered Jacques’ death! His dearest friend, his mentor, closer to him than anyone in the world. The man who’d given him everything, made everything possible for him.
The man he’d killed for—willingly.
They’d pay! They’d pay and pay and pay!
He, Poole, had never failed Bertholde in life. He’d not fail him in death either!
But there were questions. So many questions.
This Canfield who’d just lied about his name. The old woman, Elizabeth Scarlatti.
Most of all the misshapen Heinrich Kroeger. The man Poole knew beyond a doubt was Elizabeth Scarlatti’s son. He knew because Bertholde had told him.
He wondered if anyone else knew.
On the third-floor landing, which was now completely filled with Bertholde employees in varying stages of hysteria, Canfield could see Basil one floor below pulling himself downward by the railing. Canfield began yelling.
“Get clear! Get clear! The doctor’s waiting! I’ve got to bring him up! Get clear!”
To some degree the ruse worked and he made swifter headway. By the time he reached the first-floor lobby, Basil was no longer in sight. Canfield ran out the front entrance onto the sidewalk. There was Basil about half a block south, limping in the middle of Vauxhall Road, waving, trying to hail a taxi. The knees of his trousers were coated with mud where he had fallen in his haste.
Shouts were still coming from various windows of Bertholde et Fils, drawing dozens of pedestrians to the foot of the company’s steps.
Canfield walked against the crowd toward the limping figure.
A taxi stopped and Basil grabbed for the door handle. As he pulled the door open and climbed in, Canfield reached the side of the cab and prevented the Englishman from pulling the door shut. He moved in alongside Basil, pushing him sideway to make room.
“I say! What are you doing?” Basil was frightened but he did not raise his voice. The driver kept turning his head back and forth from the street in front of him to the gathering crowds receding behind him. Basil did not wish to draw additional attention.
Before Basil could think further, the American grasped the Englishman’s right hand and pulled the coat above his wrist. He twisted Basil’s arm revealing the red and black cuff link.
“Zurich, Basil!” the field accountant whispered.
“What are you talking about?”
“You damn fool, I’m with you! Or I will be, if they let you live!”
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” Basil babbled.
The American released Basil’s hand by throwing it downward. He looked straight ahead as if ignoring the Englishman. “You’re an idiot. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I don’t know you, sir! I don’t know you!” The Englishman was near collapse.
“Then we’d better change that. I may be all you have left.”
“Now see here. I had nothing to do with it! I was in the waiting room with you. I had nothing to do with it!”
“Of course, you didn’t. It’s pretty damned obvious that it was the chauffeur. But a number of people are going to want to know why you ran. Maybe you were just making sure the job was done.”
“That’s preposterous!”
“Then why did you run away?”
“I … I …”
“Let’s not talk now. Where can we go where we’ll be seen for about ten or fifteen minutes? I don’t want it to look as though we dropped out of sight.”
“My club … I suppose.”
“Give him the address!”
CHAPTER 32
“What the devil do you mean I was there?” James Derek shouted into the phone. “I’ve been here at the Savoy since midafternoon!… Yes, of course I am. Since three or thereabouts.… No, she’s here with me.” The Englishman suddenly caught his breath. When he spoke again his words were barely audible, drawn out in disbelief. “Good Lord!… How horrible.… Yes. Yes, I heard you.”