Rough Surrender (31 page)

By three in the morning he had a young Egyptian constable sharing the car with him. The police had questioned the butler but gained very little from it. There was another constable inside the house waiting, just as they were outside. At just after seven with dawn about an hour away, Smythe returned.

The constable gripped the back of Leonhardt’s seat and moved close to whisper, “There he is.”

“Yes. Indeed.” Even by the pallid light of the moon the distinctive trim of the car coasting to a stop at the front of the house, marked it as Smythe’s.

“We’ll wait a moment, sir, and then go in after him.”

“No. We’re going now.” Given enough of a chance, he and his butler might overpower the constable. “Follow me.” He checked the revolver was in his pocket then smoothly opened the door.

“Sir! You must wait.”

The constable scurried after him as he marched toward Smythe’s front door. The door was ajar, he stepped in, nudging it with his shoulder, his hand on the concealed gun.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the mustached police officer in the foyer was saying. “I must insist on us... Constable Trentman! What are you doing?” He glared over Leonhardt’s shoulder at the constable panting hard behind him. Another set of footsteps would be Mawson.

“Shall we all retire to my office?” Smythe suavely swept the group with a cold smile, treating Leonhardt to an especially thoughtful pause. “That might be a sensible place for us all.”

“Of course, sir.” The mustached constable ushered Smythe and his butler ahead down a long hallway.

The carpet muffled their footfalls. Like a funeral procession, but if anyone died, it would be Smythe. The revolver swung inside Leonhardt’s coat. Not that killing him would help...it wouldn’t help at all, but if he’d done anything to Faith. No. He let the tension leave his muscles, rolled his shoulders. He needed to keep a level head.

At the very end of the hall the stony-faced butler opened a set of double doors.

In the large office–a place of warm timber tones, green wallpaper and down-turned desk lamps–Smythe chose to sit on the solitary timber-and-burgundy chair. Beside it was a large table stacked with neat piles of paper and leather-bound books.

“Please.” He indicated the burgundy couch. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

The butler closed the doors and stood beside them with his arms by his sides–a wooden soldier waiting for orders. The two police constables sat on the couch, their white uniforms as conspicuous as flags of truce.

“Sitting seems a waste of time.” And a poor way to dominate the room. Leonhardt left Mawson to keep the butler company and perched on the corner of the desk, a few feet from Smythe.

“Don’t wrinkle any documents, Leonhardt.” Smythe gave a languid smile. “Now, what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

The senior officer sat up. “A young woman has gone missing. A Miss Faith Evard. We have reason to believe, sir, that you may be involved.”

“Ah. I see. Would you have a daguerreotype of the young woman? To refresh my memory.” He pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and a tin of matches. “Smoke if you wish to.”

“You know very well what she looks like, Smythe. You saw her yesterday outside your brothel when we rescued Beth from you.” Leonhardt kept his unblinking gaze on the man, though it seemed to faze him not at all. “The woman you’d beaten black and blue.”

“Did I? I saw her outside a brothel?” Menace glinted in Smythe’s eyes. “I deny ownership of course, or involvement. And, dare I say it, what a bad place to take your...lady, Leonhardt.”

He counted up ten of his very loud heartbeats.
Shooting the man here and now had benefits, but temporary ones. Threats would do no good unless they had backbone. Stick to the facts. Stay calm
. “You were heard by an officer to threaten us.”

“Excuse me, Mr. Meisner, but I am in charge here.” The senior officer held up a hand. “Your Packard was seen on the street where the young lady went missing this morning. Also a hair ornament that belonged to her was found in the place, approximately, where the vehicle was parked.”

“Is that it?” With a flick of his wrist Smythe lit his cigarette. He tossed the burnt-out match to the desk and it tumbled close to where Leonhardt sat. A tendril of smoke rose and petered out. “Paltry evidence,” he drawled. “I couldn’t convict a child of stealing a biscuit on such poor evidence.”

“Well...” The officer frowned.

“Has anyone seen me do anything? Seen me grab this lady and fling her down and tie her up? Put her in my automobile?” He lifted his eyebrow at Leonhardt. “Smack her around?”

Damn him
. He kept his hands still despite wanting to put them to Smythe’s neck. He’d not give the man the satisfaction of seeing he was riled.

“No? Greer, have you seen any young lady being kidnapped by me lately?”

“Ahem. No, sir, I have not.” The butler readjusted his feet then went back to being a statue.

“Have you found anything bad in my vehicle? I’m sure you’ve searched it by now? Yes?”

“Ah, yes. Trentman,” the officer snapped. “Go and search Mr. Smythe’s auto, please.”

When the sheepish-looking constable stood and made for the door, the butler eased one door open. Outside, a car motor ran to a stop and a vehicle rolled in. A door slammed.

What can I do?
It was galling to see Smythe sitting there smoking and looking smug. He was so guilty the words were nearly printed on his forehead. And what he’d said before, had that been what he’d really done to her? The matchstick beneath his fingers snapped and a piece spun across the table toward Smythe.

The man’s lips twitched and he uncrossed his legs, leaned over to whisper. “Careful, dear fellow, that might be construed as assault if it hit me.”

The front door shut as the constable left but instead footsteps sounded in the hall. Had he forgotten something?

The study door opened and Jeremy stepped in. The barely restrained excitement in his gaze made Leonhardt slide off the desk and straighten his cuffs. Smythe blew out a determined puff of smoke.

“We’ve got you, you bastard.” Jeremy jabbed his finger at Smythe.

“Steady on there!” The constable rose to his feet.

“No. Wait.” Jeremy’s lips curved in a grim replica of a smile. “Just came from your headquarters. They’ve found a dress at a warehouse rented by Smythe.”

“That means nothing.” A muscle ticked beside Smythe’s eye. He waved the cigarette, stubbed it out on an ashtray on the desk and stood.

“Oh it does. It’s comes from a particular seamstress. Even torn as it is, it will be identifiable as Miss Evard’s.” He glanced at Leonhardt. Sadness brimmed from his eyes. “Sorry.”

Hell. Torn
. No way the police could have verified the seamstress yet, but the dress was going to be hers, he knew it.

And Smythe did too. A red flush swept his face and he slipped his hand inside his coat.

Leonhardt felt the hard metal of his weapon. A step closer and he was an arm’s length away, crowding the man just enough. “Getting ideas, Smythe? What’s in that coat? You’re outnumbered.”

“I’ve done nothing. Even if that dress does belong to your lady, there’s no proof I was involved. Any employee of mine might have stolen the key. You should be out tracking them down.”

“Where is she, Smythe? Where? If she dies because of you...if she’s injured, I’ll hunt you down.”

“And what, Meisner? What?” He sneered. “I’m innocent until proven guilty under British law.”

“Sirs!” The constable cleared his throat. “Please, I must insist you stand apart.”

“Hah!” Leonhardt put on his meanest smile, then stepped so close he smelled Smythe’s hair cream, and looked down at him, making sure the man knew the height difference. Another foot and their shoes would touch. He dropped his voice an octave. “Tell me. If she dies, you
will
be linked to this. Murder is a hanging offense here. You want to die?”

The flicker in Smythe’s eyes, the flinch of his arm, gave him warning. He grabbed the man by the throat and thrust him into the wall, pinned his hand inside his pocket. Another thump to punch the air from his guts and Smythe grunted. As he writhed, a small pistol tumbled from inside his coat to the floor.

A scuffle and a
thump
then a gasp behind his back told him the butler had gone down.

“My word. I do hope you weren’t planning on using that on us, Mr. Smythe? I’m most unhappy with that pistol, sir. I think we have enough to take him in for further questioning. Mr. Meisner, could you release him, sir?”

He growled then shook the man’s throat. “In a moment, constable. Going to shoot were you? Have some real guts and tell us. Or do you want to die on the scaffold?”

The gurgle from Smythe made him loosen his fist on the man’s throat. He gasped for a few seconds, coughed and wheezed.

“I’ll tell you. Lars has her. No idea what he’s doing. None. Told him to let her go at the cemetery...behind the pyramid. Was just a little reminder for you. Saying don’t mess with me.” His lips stretched. “That’s all.”

Was it though? He searched Smythe’s face and saw evil there. Saw utter disdain and satisfaction. As if he knew more had happened than he’d said out loud. As if something awful was planned for Faith.

“You know, Leonhardt,” Smythe whispered, “I wonder who killed that other girl you fished from the river? Lars can be rather naughty.”

Cold washed over Leonhardt like the coming of an ice storm. Every goddamn moment would count.

He leaned in and whispered back, right in the man’s ear. “I’ll see you in hell, Smythe.” He pulled him off the wall and shoved him into the chair, then stepped back, wiping his hand on his trousers. Without turning away from Smythe and his dead ugly eyes, he spoke, “How fast can I get to the Western Cemetery by car? How fast can your men be there, constable?”

“The telephone at the Heliopolis Hotel is the fastest means of communicating, sir. Twenty-five minutes for my men, perhaps, across the Nile and the bridges...it takes time. Longer from here.”

“We don’t have time.” He clenched his fists, cracking his knuckles. “I know a faster way.” God help Faith...and him. The aerodrome was a minute away, if that. “I’ll get an airplane. I can fly. There’s one craft fuelled and ready to go.”

Well, he could take off, and turning couldn’t be that hard, could it?

As he strode for the door, Smythe laughed. “Have a nice death, Leonhardt. Even I know you can’t land in the sand. There’s nowhere to land out there. Nowhere!”

One flight only under his belt, and that would damned well have to be enough. You could see the pyramids from Heliopolis, or so the pilots said. He could steer by sight. Faith would be waiting for him. If she was alive, she’d be waiting. He wouldn’t let her down. She’d be alive. She had to be.

Chapter 33

He sprinted with Jeremy across the grass. They’d driven straight through the closed gate and onto the field. Jimmy had left her airplane ready to go as he’d asked him to. At least he knew the way of engines, had memorized all the specifications of the Bleriot because that’s what he did.

Engineers knew engines, remembered them...though the ones that left the damn ground and flew gave him the willies.

As he stalked toward the craft, he eyed it–his enemy, and his only hope. Like some sort of child’s toy made large. Paper, timber and cloth, and a few bits of wire to keep it strung together. Cut the flying cables and it’d fall apart. The noise of the grass underfoot seemed loud. The acrid smell of the castor oil lubrication and fuel stung his nose.

“Jeremy! Take away the ladder once I use it then stand by the propeller. Be ready to swing it when I ask you to. Care you don’t get hit. And, man, thank you!”

Jeremy nodded, gave a quick two-fingered salute. “Good luck!”

“Thanks.” He threw the ladder upright, clambered up the steps and into the wickerwork seat. The way his heart thumped at him, it might pound straight through his chest any moment. Damn-it, he wasn’t scared of this. Nothing scared him.

“Nothing scares me,” he muttered as he primed the carburetor, checked the coil ignition, ran through the starting sequence and glanced at the sole gauge–the oil pressure indicator. Everything worked the way it should. His hands were shaking, sweating. “Damn.” The last time he’d felt like this he’d been ten years old.

Didn’t matter. He was going. Doing this. Had to. “Contact!” The propeller spun, sang, the Bleriot vibrated and, as Jeremy threw himself to the side, he lowered his goggles and advanced the throttle, and the plane trundled forward.

The trees scrolled past, the wind picked up and the familiar oil speckled the goggles. “Maybe it’s good that I can’t see. This way I won’t see the ground coming. Haaa!” he yelled as the wheels left the ground, throwing out his defiance with that shout. Fear wasn’t getting him, not today, he
had
to be brave.

At fifty feet up, a gust of wind blasted at him, and one wing lurched downward. The plane canted, headed earthward. He struggled with the foot pedals. “Up, up, up!” Slowly the wings tilted and came back to level.

Without careful forward pressure on the stick, the plane steered down at the ground. Without constant attention, he’d be a smear on the landscape. The thing was alive and plotting against him. “No, you don’t. No way. I’ll master you, you bastard of a machine.” He never talked out loud either, just like he was never scared. He grinned at how ridiculous this would seem on the ground then laughed.