"Why, you rat . . ." Bix began, indignant.

"And suppose he isn't to be trusted?" Netta asked. "I wouldn't scream for help."

"You wouldn't?" Bix asked, his eyes popping. "Is that on the level?" He looked at me. "Beat it, three's-a-crowd, you're in the way."

"Suppose we cut out this cross-talk and get down to business?" I urged. "Now you've seen her, will you play?"

Bix sipped his whisky, eyed Netta, eyed me.

"Yeah, I guess I can't refuse a honey like her," he said. "But it's a hell of a risk."

"Skip it," I said. "You know it's dead easy. Don't listen to him, Netta, he's trying to be important."

"Seriously, is it risky?" Netta asked; her eyes searching Bix's face.

For a moment Bix wrestled with the temptation to exaggerate, decided against it. "Well, no," he admitted, scowling at me. "Once you sell the pilot the idea and you've already done that, it's easy enough. We'll meet at the gates of the airport, go in together, have a drink at the mess. I'll then offer to show you over my kite and we'll go down to the dispersal point. No one will be around if we get down there before twenty-two-fifteen hours. You two will get into the kite, and I'll show you where to hide. We take off at twenty-two-thirty hours. When we get to the other side, there'll be a car waiting for me. All you have to do is to get in the back. I'll dump my kit and some rugs on top of you and off we go. Once we're clear of the airport, you can come up for air, and I'll drop you off wherever you want to be dropped off."

Netta thought for a moment. "It's really as simple as that?"

"That's right. I've done it before, and I'll do it again. But I warn you, I claim a kiss from my passengers."

"You won't kiss me," I said coldly. "I'd rather swim the Atlantic if those are your terms."

"So would I," Bix said hurriedly. "I wasn't talking to you, lug."

Netta smiled at him. "There won't be any difficulty about that," she said. "I think the terms are most reasonable."

We kidded back and forth for twenty minutes or so, sank a number of whiskies, and then, at eight-ten, Bix said he guessed he'd better be getting along.

"See you two outside the airport at twenty-one-forty-five," he said. "And don't get steamed up. It's in the bag." He took Netta's hand. "See you soon," he went on. "Don't forget if you ever grow tired of that lug, I'm next on the list. Redheads go straight to my heart."

"I'll remember," she said, gave him a long stare which seemed to weaken him, then she smiled. "If I see much more of you," she continued, "I think I'll be changing my mind about my lug, although he is a nice lug if you overlook his table manners."

"He can't help that," Bix said, grinning. "He hasn't been house-broken like me."

He took himself off as if he was walking on air.

The moment the door swung behind him, Netta lost her gaiety, looked anxiously at me.

"Are you sure it's all right?" she asked. "He's such a boy. Are you sure you can trust him to get us across safely?"

"Quit fussing," I said. "That guy's done over a hundred operational trips. He's bombed Germany from hell to breakfast and back again. Maybe he does look like a boy, but don't let that fool you. When he says he'll do something, he does it. He's taken a liking to you, and that means we're as good as there."

She heaved a little sigh, took my arm.

"All right, darling," she said. "I won't fuss, but I'm nervous. What do we do now?"

"We go back 'to the flat, pick up your things and get over to the airport. Come on, Netta, the journey's begun."

Ten minutes later we were back in Madge Kennitt's flat.

"You're travelling light, I hope?" I asked, as I tossed my hat on the chaise-longue.

She nodded. "Just a grip. I hate leaving all my lovely dresses, but I'll be able to buy what I want on the other side." She came over to me, put her arms around my neck. "You've been wonderful to me, Steve. I can't thank you enough. I don't know what I'd've done without you."

For a moment I felt like a heel, then I remembered the way Littlejohns had looked, curled up on the floor, and that stiffened me.

"Forget it," I said. "You ready now?"

She said what I hoped she would say: what I knew the success or failure of my plan depended on.

"Give me five minutes, Steve," she said. "I want to change. This get-up isn't warm enough for an air trip."

"Go ahead. Get into your woollies," I said. "I'm damned if I don't come in and help you."

She laughed uneasily, went to the bedroom door.

"You keep out, Mr. Harmas," she said with mock severity. "It's a long time since you saw me undress, and I'd be shy."

"You're right," I said, suddenly serious. "It is a long time: too long, Netta."

But she wasn't listening. She went into the bedroom, shut the door. I listened, heard the key turn.

I sat on the chaise-longue, lit a cigarette. The palms of my hands were damp, the muscles in my thighs twitched. I was in a regular fever of excitement.

Five minutes crawled by, then another five. I could hear Netta moving about in the next room. Cigarette ash covered the carpet at my feet.

"Hey!" I called, my nerves getting the better of me. "Time's getting on, Netta."

"I'm coming," she said; a moment later I heard the lock snap back and she came out. She was wearing a light wool sweater, coal-black slacks and a fur coat over her arm. In her right hand she carried a fair-sized suitcase. "Sorry to be so long," she said, smiling, although her face was pale, her eyes anxious. "It's only five minutes after nine. Do I look all right?"

I went over to her. "You look terrific," I said, putting my arm around her waist.

She pushed me away almost roughly, shook her head, tried to keep the smile on her lips. It looked lopsided to me.

"Not now, Steve," she said. "Let's wait until we're safe."

"That's all right, kid," I said.

She'd pushed me off too late. I'd already felt what she had on under the sweater, around her waist.

"Come on, let's go."

I picked up my hat, glanced around the room to make sure we'd left nothing, crossed to the door.

Netta followed. I carried her bag. She carried the fur coat on her arm.

I opened the door.

Facing me, his eyes frosty, his mouth grim, stood Corridan.

chapter twenty-four.

Nettaas thin scream cut the air with the sharpness of a pencil grating on a slate.

"Hello, Corridan," I said, soberly, stepping back, "so you're in at the finish after all."

He entered the room, closed the door. His pale eyes looked inquisitively at Netta. She shrank away from him, her hand to her face.

"I don't know what you two are doing in here," he said coldly, "but that can wait. I have a warrant for your arrest, Harmas. I'm sorry. I've warned you enough times. Bradley has charged you with stealing four rings and with assault. You'll have to come along with me."

I laughed mirthlessly. "That's too bad," I said. "Right now, Corridan, there's more important things for you to worry about. Take a look at this young woman here. Don't you want to be introduced?" I smiled at Netta who stared back at me, tense, her eyes glittering in a white face.

Corridan gave me a sharp glance. "Who is she?"

"Can't you guess?" I said. "Look at her red hair. Can't you smell the lilac perfume? Come on, Corridan, what the hell kind of detective are you?"

His face showed his astonishment.

"You mean it's . . . ?" he began.

I shook my head at Netta. "I'm sorry about this, kid," I said. "But you can't beat the rap now." I turned back to Corridan. "Of course. Meet Netta Anne Scott Bradley."

Netta recoiled. "Oh," she gasped furiously, then: "You a" you bastard!"

"Soft-pedal the language, honey," I said. "Corridan blushes easily."

Corridan stared at Netta, then at me.

"You mean this woman's Netta Scott?" he demanded.

"Of course she is," I said. "Or Mrs. Jack Bradley, known as Anne Scott, if you like that better. I told you all along she hadn't committed suicide. Well, here she is as large as life, and I'll show you something else that'll interest you."

I grabbed hold of Netta as she backed away.

Her face was grey-white like putty; her eyes burned with rage and fear. She struck at me, her fingers like claws. I grabbed her wrists, twisted her arms behind her, held her against me.

"Take it easy, kid," I said, keeping clear of her vicious kicks. "Show the Inspector your nice line in underwear." I caught hold of her sweater, peeled it over her head. Then tucking her, screaming and kicking, under my arm, I yanked down the zipper on her trousers, pulled in two directions.

Corridan gave an angry snort, stepped forward. "Stop it!" he exclaimed. "What the hell do you think you're doing."

"Skinning a rabbit," I said, carrying Netta over to the chaise-longue and forcing her face down on it. I had a job to hold her, but I at last got my knee in her back and pinned her.

Corridan grabbed my arm, but I shook him off.

"Take a look at that belt," I said, pointing to the heavy money belt that was strapped around Netta's waist.

Corridan paused, muttered to himself, stood away.

I undid the buckle, jerked off the belt, stood back.

Netta lay on the chaise-longue, her fists clenched, her breath coming in great sobbing gasps.

With a quick shake I emptied the contents of the belt on the carpet at Corridan's feet.

"There you are, brother," I said dramatically. "Fifty thousand pounds' worth of jewellery! Take a look. Allenby's loot."

Corridan gaped down at the heap of assorted rings, necklaces, bracelets on the carpet. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds gleamed like fireflies in the electric light.

"I'll kill you for this!" Netta screamed, suddenly sitting up. She sprang to her feet, flung herself at me.

I shoved her off so roughly that she sprawled on the floor.

"You're through, Netta," I said, standing over her. "Get that into your thick little skull. If you hadn't killed Littlejohns I might have played with you, but you killed him to save your rotten skin, and that let me out. What the hell do you think I am? A sucker? I wouldn't cover up anyone who did what you did to Littlejohns."

Netta crawled to her feet, then flopped limply on the chaise-longue, buried her face in her hands.

I turned to Corridan who was still staring at the heap of jewellery as if hypnotized.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," I said. "I promised myself I'd crack the Allenby case because you acted so damn high-hat. I've done it."

Corridan's face was a study. He looked at Netta, at me. "But how did you know she had the stuff on her?" he demanded.

"You'll be surprised how much I do know," I said. "She and Jack Bradley were behind the Allenby robbery. I'll give you all the facts, and then you can manufacture the evidence. Do you want to hear?"

"Of course, I want to hear," he said, knelt down, scooped up the jewellery, dropped it back into the belt. "How did you get on to this?"

He put the belt on the table.

"I got on to it because I never believed Netta committed suicide," I said, lighting a cigarette and perching myself on the table. "I was sure she hadn't killed herself after I had searched the flat. Most of her clothes and all her silk stockings had vanished. I've known Netta for some time, and have a good idea of her character. She wasn't the type to commit suicide, and she had a passion for clothes. It seemed to me, after the body had been kidnapped, that some other girl had died in her flat, and Netta, taking fright, had run off with as many of her clothes as she could carry."

Corridan leaned against the wall, eyed me.

"You told me all that before," he said, "and I worked that out for myself anyway."

"Sure," I said. "But there was plenty still to puzzle me. For one thing, who was the dead girl? Then another thing foxed me. Why should Netta, although she'd taken time to pack her clothes, have left sixteen five-pound notes in the flat and that bunch of bonds worth five thousand pounds? That got me for some time until Madge Kennitt told me a girl and a man had been with Netta that night. The girl was obviously the one who'd died. The man either killed her or was Netta's accomplice. It seemed to me the reason why Netta had left the money in the flat was because she didn't trust her companion, and he didn't give her a chance to get the money from its hiding-place without him seeing her do it. So she had to leave it there, but hoped to collect it later, but I found it first." I glanced over at Netta, but she didn't look up. She sat with her head in her hands, motionless.

"Go on," Corridan said quietly.

"Who was the mysterious man, and why didn't she want him to know about the money?" I went on. "I've talked to Netta, and she has told me he was Peter French, who was Anne's lover. That's another way of saying he was Netta's lover. You see, Netta never had a sister. But we'll come back to Peter French in a moment.

"Nine months ago, Netta married Jack Bradley. For some reason they kept the marriage a secret, and they didn't live together except at weekends which they spent in a cottage at Lakeham, bought by Bradley as a hide-out for them both. Netta called herself Anne Scott when she was at Lakeham. She tells me that French killed her sister because she knew he had killed George Jacobi. Since she never had a sister, that was obviously a lie. Who then was the girl who had died in Netta's flat, and was later found in the cottage? I want you to get this clear, Corridan. The girl who was kidnapped from the mortuary and the girl we found in the cottage were one and the same."