25 The Enemy Within by Creasey John

Author:Creasey, John [Creasey, John]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: blt, _Marked, _rt_converted probably
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Thirteen

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IRIS came hurrying down the stairs. She wore an apple green house-coat, high at the neck, with wide shoulders and flared sleeves. Her hair was untidy and fell to her shoulders; it was the colour of ripe corn. Her eyes were wide with distress, and as he hurried towards her, she gripped his hands tightly.

“Have you heard?”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“It’s unbelievable!”

“It’s happened,” said Corliss gently, “and you aren’t going to improve the situation by worrying about it. Where can we talk?”

“In here.” Iris led the way into a homely room, with books in open shelves on two walls, a corner fireplace, a bowl of daffodils and, by an easy chair without arms, a work-basket, open as she had left it when she had last been working. On a table was a sewing-machine, with a polished wooden cover. It was hard to associate that with Iris Grahame, yet this was obviously her room. There were several water colours on the walls and, on an upright piano, three photographs; one was of André Milanov.

“The newspapers are upstairs,” she said, and sounded breathless. “Shall I fetch them? Annie didn’t know. She just brought the papers in with the tea, as usual. I telephoned you, but there was no answer.”

“I’ve moved.”

“Moved! Do you mean——”

“I don’t mean anything, except that you’ll have to call me at a different number,” said Corliss. “You’re worrying too much, my sweet, and it’s been a hell of a shock. It would have been for anyone, and after the strain you had yesterday, it hit so much harder.”

“Yes,” she said. She looked at the photograph; it had been taken when Milanov’s bubbling personality was evident, and had caught him in his most attractive mood. “I just can’t believe it, Charles. Yesterday he was so gay, even last night——”

“Did you see him after the show?”

“No. It didn’t worry me, he said he might not be able to make it last night. It was this damned work of his!”

“Now take it easy.” He put an arm gently round her shoulders, but she wasn’t crying or anywhere near crying. “People have all kinds of queer jobs to do. Some of them get hurt while doing them.”

She turned her head and faced him, with those great eyes so grave and her expression so intent.

“Charles—was he a spy?”

“My dear——”

“I suppose you’ll never tell me the truth,” said Iris. “You’re not allowed to. You were watching him because he was suspected of spying, wasn’t he? He was a Russian. He told me that he was a white Russian, that he hated the Politburo and everything to do with it, but probably he was working for them. Tell me, Charles.”

Corliss said slowly: “Yes, Iris, that’s right.”

“And you——”

“You can look at it two ways,” Corliss said. “Either that I chased him to his death, and he preferred suicide to being caught. Or else that I drove him to kill himself, which was better for him than the disgrace of a trial and perhaps execution.” He took his

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