The Christmas Egg

by Mary Kelly

  With a sudden lurch it swung out of his sight. He glanced at the marsh. One car was gone, the second, incredibly slow, was only now moving away. All at once he was aware that Majendie was shouting with a new note into his ear. He turned. The inside of their cabin was bright from snow and the lights. The din of the helicopter was deafening. Brett looked into Majendie’s stricken face and, without hearing, knew what would happen. For an instant he felt a presence overhead, crushing and inimical. It struck, a punching downward blow on the front of the car. The rear lifted and bounced back. Brett and Majendie were flung from the seat against the front seat and collapsed helplessly over Stephanie. The car slithered, rocked, and was still.

  Brett was propped at an angle with the floor by the heap that was Majendie and Stephanie. He bent his knees, pushed with his feet, arched his back, and thus managed to stand upright, at least, as upright as was possible in the car. Tears streamed down his face. His nose was running, warm and fast. He had hit it on the front seat as he fell. He licked his upper lip and recognized the tinny taste of blood. He shook his head, blinked, and looked out. The helicopter was going away over the marsh, barely clearing the ground, in a series of hesitant leaps, like an old lady jumping puddles. Out of the corner of his watery eyes Brett saw the flicker of a distant bonfire. He looked around, straight ahead through the driver’s compartment. The flames were darting not from the horizon but from the radiator.

  He felt as if his jaw and lips were frozen, but he knew he would have to make them work. He shuffled his feet precariously, turned, and bent to the open window. His voice came, cracking horribly. He yelled. Although the helicopter was further off, its noise still raged. He spat out blood and turned back to the interior of the car.

  “Majendie!” he shouted.

  “What is it?” Majendie, evidently too shaken to shout, was only just audible. “I can’t get up.”

  “You must,” Brett bawled. “The car’s on fire, the engine . . .”

  A wail from Stephanie interrupted him.

  “Get your free fingers to the door catch on your side,” Brett went on, shouting. “Fall out and roll away. Stephanie, listen. Listen! When he’s gone, wriggle and bump until you fall through the door. Keep your head up as you fall. Then you roll too. And shout all the time.”

  There was no need to tell them, he realized. He dropped to the back seat and tried to swing his feet against the door. They couldn’t kick with any force from such a position. He stood up again, aware of Majendie’s furious heaves and struggles to get his back to the opposite door. The flames were shooting up quite fiercely. Of course, the police assumed that an unmoving car was abandoned. Brett tried to strike his hands against the door catch. The old hearse—if they didn’t get out quickly it would be a hearse, all right, he thought. Old. A frightful possibility struck him.

  “Where’s your tank?” he shouted to Majendie. “Back or front?”

  “Front!”

  Brett flung himself against the door. The tank couldn’t be broken or it would have gone up by now. It must be just the carburetor. But very soon—a gravity tank—gas would be pouring out, pools of it, and a continuous jet of flame from the broken pipe . . .

  “There’s a tap,” he heard Majendie yell, “driver’s seat—otherwise the tank may blow—full at Folkestone.”

  Brett gave a desperate shove and the door flew open. He fell out of the car. “This way,” he croaked to the others.

  Someone touched him. He hadn’t forced the door, it had been opened. Someone with laboring breath dragged him clear. Twisting his head, he looked up.

  He opened his mouth and a whisper came out. “Ivan!”

  His astonishment melted. “The tank,” he said urgently. “Switch the tap off, Ivan, down near the steering column.”

  Ivan hesitated.

  “The driver’s wheel,” cried Brett. “Or take the knife from my left trouser pocket and cut me free. Quick.”

  Ivan fumbled.

  “Left!” Brett shouted in despair.

  Ivan had the knife. With movements painfully slow he cut Brett’s arms free. They were stiff and numb. Brett worked and shook them as Ivan sawed through the rope around his ankles. Feeling it give, he pulled his feet apart, snapping the last few strands, scrambled up, and ran weakly around the trunk.

  Ivan ran with him.

  “No,” cried Brett, “the others. Pull them out, well away, both of them, then free them. Hurry. I’ll help you when I’ve finished.”

  Ivan pulled open Majendie’s door; Brett, the driver’s. The hood was blazing in patches. Brett could feel the heat of the flame. He bent down and groped for the tap, low, to the right of where the driver’s knees would come, where he had himself seen a tap on a very old car. The searchlights didn’t reach so low. But he found it, and turned. If it worked, if the whole thing wasn’t pushed in, it would cut off the flow of fuel and the fire would be confined. He straightened his back and saw that the key was still in place. He switched off, although he didn’t know that it would now make any difference.

  He jumped out of the driver’s compartment and staggered. His knees were shaking. His shins ached as if he had just gotten over a bout of influenza. A trickle of blood still oozed from his nose. Wiping the back of his hand across it, he went through Majendie’s door. Stephanie was gone, and Ivan, terribly short of breath, was heaving Majendie by the shoulders along the floor.

  “All right,” said Brett, “I’ll do it.”

  He stepped crosswise over Majendie to replace Ivan, and dragged him backward out of the car.

  “My dear boy!” Majendie kept repeating in a badly shaken voice. “My dear boy, if that tank had cracked—it’s an old car and the metal is most likely not quite—I don’t like to think . . .”

  Brett held him up while Ivan cut him free. “All right?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you, yes. Quite sound in limb, if not in wind. No, I can stand; I won’t be downed. Went through worse than this in ’15, dear boy. See to Miss Cole.”

  But Ivan had already released her. She jumped up as if she’d been bound with nothing more painful than cobwebs, but she was crying.

  “Oh, Mr. Majendie,” she sobbed, flinging herself at him and seizing his hand. “Your poor dear old car!”

  “There, my dear, don’t cry.” Majendie made a supreme effort, in spite of his trembling voice, to be quite himself. “I’m not a pauper, you know. Poor old lady, she’s keeping us warm—although, I believe, the fire’s contained now. Mr. Nightingale’s work, that. It’s all right, my dear, all over now.”

  Brett looked around for Ivan. He was walking rapidly away, almost running.

  “Ivan!” cried Brett. “Ivan, wait. Please.”

  Ivan turned, and stopped. Brett ran toward him, slipping in the snow, saving himself in a final lurch only by catching hold of Ivan’s arm.

  “My knife, please,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Ivan stared at him. Reluctantly, with a nod, he put the knife into Brett’s hand. The blade was still open.

  “Thank you,” said Brett, “thank you, thank you.” He hesitated, looking down at Ivan, who was so much smaller. “I’m sorry. Everything I said—I did know you were listening, but I wanted to try to show you that I saw how it all came about. I’m sorry.”

  Ivan spoke, a soft rapid sentence of which Brett understood not a word. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that Ivan must have spoken Russian. How could he possibly answer that? He ran off in his mind his brief Russian vocabulary—Tsar, Kremlin, Soviet, niet. He was silent.

  So was the marsh. Outside the wind-like roar of the fire the hush was broken only by brushes of real wind. The helicopter had gone; the cars were still. And through the silence came a shout.

  Ivan started. Brett, nearly falling, discovered that he had been leaning on him.

  “No,” he said, holding him back, for he had made as if to run away. “Where would running take you? Only to them. It’s hopeless. The ditches? No, no, you won’t do that again. You did
something even harder, came back when you needn’t have, risked being caught—no, made it certain—all for three strangers. Don’t go. Just clinch it, finish it, prove it—to Majendie who knew other Karukhins, to them, who’ll see the only one that’s left. Don’t try to run away. Go to meet them.”

  He stared down into Ivan’s face. Behind them, Majendie’s voice rose in a quavering shout.

  “They’re coming,” said Brett. “They’ll be here in a minute. Don’t let them just find you, Ivan, go to meet them. Quick, go now. Show them, show them—please.”

  Without looking at him, Ivan took two steps forward, three. He stopped. There were men running toward him, a lot of men.

  Brett tried to will him to go on. But he knew he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t even strength to do that. He gave up, and a whole phrase of Russian slipped into his mind. It was foolish, extravagant, inapposite, the title of the opera in which, very shortly, he would be playing the part of a professional buffoon. “Lyubov k trem Apelsinam!” he said.

  Ivan turned. “Oranges? Love of three oranges?” he said in a tremulous London voice. He shook his head, pityingly, as Brett realized. “Sometimes you say things make me think you’re daft.”

  He turned back and walked toward the approaching police.

  “Well, sir,” said Beddoes, with a poker face and back, “there was no incident till about two miles past Charing, when the Majendie brake, followed by the plain blue truck from Kellett’s, pulled into the forecourt of a public house. One of Majendie’s men was seen to get out and go into the lavatory at the side of the court, whereupon both men left the blue truck and entered the front of the brake, which immediately drove off at full speed. At the time, both vehicles were thought to form one party, but it seemed remarkable that one should have been abandoned in view of the belief that they were both loaded with valuables.” Beddoes glanced swiftly at Brett. “Accordingly our nearest car proceeded to give chase, which, owing to the considerable speed necessarily maintained, soon became obvious. The brake began to be driven recklessly. As a result of radio communication with the county constabulary, patrols were diverted to intercept, and in swerving to avoid them on their appearance, the brake overturned at the side of the road. Fortunately the occupants escaped with bruises and shock. When apprehended, the men from the truck volunteered that they had been heading for Richborough and confirmed that a helicopter was expected there at six-thirty, giving the exact location of the landing. They had been ordered to follow and seize the brake because it was believed that it might contain an article of value, which they were to deliver at Richborough. The information was immediately communicated to the county constabulary . . .”

  “Who thought that as he’d had such a letdown over the truck he’d been chasing, they’d restore his spirits by letting him in on their party.” The Superintendent smiled. “Our Inspector, you see, he knows that marsh like the back of his hand. The plan was for him and another to hide in the nearest drainage ditch, wait for the landing, send up a flash of lights, and dash forward to secure the helicopter, leaving the rest to close in. Of course, when we’d been given the exact spot, we were able to take up much tighter positions than we’d expected, which was a great improvement, and we had cars at the road points to stop anyone getting off that way. When we picked up Sergeant Beddoes here, the Chief suggested he might replace our Sergeant—you know the idea, big gesture, Christmas, all that. Plenty of time to get him here from Charing, so that was settled quickly.”

  “What was?” asked Brett.

  “Why, that he should nip up to the helicopter too. And so he did. The plan didn’t go without a hitch. They couldn’t run as fast as they’d have liked, on account of the snow. Isn’t that so, Sergeant?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And as the pilot hadn’t left the machine, he was able to start up. They just managed to heave themselves aboard as the thing was airborne. Then, of course, the pilot showed resistance, and in the scuffle the Inspector took a knock that laid him out, which was particularly unfortunate as the whole point of choosing him was that he could take the controls. He belongs to the local flying club.”

  “Beddoes!” said Brett, “what did you threaten that pilot with?”

  “I didn’t threaten him, sir. I’m afraid I had to incapacitate him.”

  “How?”

  “With a kick, sir, in the first place. Then I’m afraid I had to hit him when he went down. On the chin, sir, and the nose, but not to breaking point. Then, sir, I sat down at the controls. I made a few experiments . . .”

  “I know.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to hit the car. And finally I managed to bring the machine down.”

  “Very creditably, considering everything,” said the Superintendent. “Of course, the undercarriage was completely buckled and one rotor jammed and snapped.”

  A head and a uniformed shoulder were poked around the door. “The girl’s father s arrived, sir.”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll be out in a second.” The Superintendent turned to Brett. “I must go and soothe parental agitation. She seems a nice girl.”

  “Very nice,” said Brett.

  The Superintendent went out and closed the door.

  “Boil me!” said Beddoes in a low and pithy voice. He sat down on the edge of the table. “A very nice girl. Boil me! I never get these jobs with nice bits of blondes thrown in. No, no—send the Sergeant chasing down the Dover road after a load of perishing Christmas puddings, that’ll do for him.”

  “Beddoes, I’m sorry. I thought about that brake what they thought, except that I counted on the lot and they on Majendie’s party piece. And I don’t remember that you put forward other suggestions. Weren’t you surprised?”

  “Surprised! You should have seen it. Not just the puddings—pâté, sausages, fruit, turkey, cigars—enough to feast a battalion, all rolling over the road. The doors burst open, you see. Prize picking in that ditch, I guess. There’ll be tramps passing the sign the length and breadth of England. On the way here they were telling me that Majendie’s Christmas and New Year parties are famed in the district, especially at Nackington.”

  “Nackington?”

  “Traffic headquarters. Apparently his guests by the time they leave have an idiosyncratic interpretation of the highway code. Of course, I thought of picking a pudding apart to see where the diamonds were.”

  “Aren’t you satisfied? Isn’t it enough to have made me feel like Prometheus? Yes, there was snow, as on the mountain peak, and a descending eagle . . .”

  “I didn’t feel like the king of the birds, I can tell you. How I love terra firma! I say . . .” Beddoes hesitated. “Would you mind if I had a cigarette?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Brett.

  He watched Beddoes take out the cigarette and a match, and wondered at the length of time he took to get a light. The flame danced like a midge around the cigarette end, because, as he at length realized, Beddoes’ hands were shaking.

  “You know what you’ll be given for all this?” he said thoughtfully.

  “A putty medal. Sooner have a check.”

  “Promotion,” said Brett.

  “Boil me! P’s and Q’s all the time.” Beddoes puffed out a ribbon of smoke. “The pilot. Is he American?”

  “No, he affects the accent. His real name is Maurice Wright. He’s British, so we can gobble him up. But you haven’t mentioned the point about him. Have you forgotten or did you never hear it?”

  “What?”

  “That he used to be Guzmann’s personal assistant.”

  “He did? Very interesting. No hope of tripping up Guzmann himself . . .”

  “But no harm in trying. The Hampstead people—how odd, to know largely who they are.”

  “They’re odd, if you ask me. Not quite the thing, as the old bird would say.”

  “Majendie? Do you know what he called your flash? A Verey light.”

  “Distinctly passé.”

  “At least it’s honorably pas
sé. Anyone who’s tasted trench warfare has a right to have spent the rest of his life in a jewel box. Besides, he came through that episode in the car with flying colors, and look how he’s borne up since. So less of the old bird, Beddoes.”

  “But that reminds me—you’ve heard that this wasn’t the usual exit for the stuff—sorry, the stolen property?”

  “No?”

  “The man in the truck told me. By the way, I suppose you have sent home to get them to see to Kellett’s? All right, I only asked. Well, the helicopter was a last resort, to clear it as quick as possible in view of dangerous complications. I suppose they meant Mrs. Karukhina. As a rule they go by discreeter channels.”

  “They’d have done better to stick to them,” said Brett. “I’m sure it wasn’t for want of advice from Wacey.”

  “He skipped off, I gather. Sauve qui pent. Not the philosophy of Ivan the Terrible—no, can’t very well call him that since he’s donned his halo. Strange! Blood of the Boyars, I suppose, and so on. Well, no again, because I think the Boyars were mostly swine. How did he manage to get to your car without being stopped, either by them or by us?” ‘

  “You forget his capacity for being overlooked—and underestimated. Besides, how he came is nothing to why. Can you make smoke rings to order, Beddoes, or are they quite fortuitous?”

  “Just a chance. You haven’t seen Ivan since they locked him in?” said Beddoes slowly.

  Brett shook his head.

  “They asked him that. He said he went back because he had a friend in that car.”

  “But he’d never set eyes on any of us till today. Good God!” Brett jumped out of his chair. “Surely we’re not going to have to start thinking about Majendie again?”

  “Oh, boil, bake, and fry me slowly!” said Beddoes. “Sometimes I wonder . . .” He sighed ostentatiously and shook his head.

  “What?” said Brett. “Well, what did he mean by it?”

  “Forget it. He’s not too bright, after all. And you know the old bird—Majendie’s really all right, don’t you? Well, stop worrying. More to the point,” said Beddoes with a sly look, “to ask why he decided to give himself up. After all, to face a murder charge is no sneezing matter.”