by Roy Lewis
There was no longer a dark figure against the next gable. Grout had not counted on such a swift reaction from the fugitive; he had hoped for the element of surprise. He heard scrambling feet, caught a brief glimpse of a fleeing man making his way across the flat area of the roof and Grout shouted.
He was rewarded with a bullet.
It came with a smack and a thud. It struck the tiles at his feet, across to his left and shattered several of them as Grout stood stock still in astonishment at being fired at. Not only was the man desperate enough to use a gun but he had even equipped himself with a silencer.
A black, unreasoning rage took Grout by the throat. He was not used to being shot at in the course of his duties. There was something altogether too professional about this turn of events and it enraged him. With a grunt he lumbered across the roof, heedless of the danger from the gunman, and gave chase.
He reached the next gable and caution had not entirely deserted him in spite of his anger. He kept away from the edge, made no attempt to expose himself and peered over. He caught sight of a vague, swift movement some forty feet away and ducked back to shelter but there was no bullet. He looked out again and the gunman had disappeared. Grout took a deep breath and surged over the edge, out into the open, dropping ten feet to a flat piece of roof and glaring around him angrily. The gunman had gone. Grout charged across to the gable top and looked wildly around him. Within seconds he guessed at the man’s route; the roof of the next building was perhaps fifteen feet away; the darkness of another alleyway between lay below him. Almost without thinking Grout stepped back, took a run and leapt.
He struck his elbows painfully, barked his knuckles and the edge of the roof drove all the breath out of him but he clung, pulled himself up on to the roof and lay there for a moment, panting. As he did so he heard a curious sound, a mingled cracking noise and a muffled shout. He struggled up to his feet and in the dimness of a clouded moon he saw that he was again on a flat roof, extending away into the darkness, seemingly interminably. Halfway across the roof was a patch of newly laid tar, sealing for the flat area of the roof. To the right of it was a skylight. Grout came forward carefully and his pulse was racing as he waited for the bullet that could at any second come whirring out of the darkness. The skylight was broken. Grout knelt at its edge; it was perhaps fifteen feet square and the glass had been shattered. He glanced back to the tar and guessed what had happened. Whether the gunman had intended going into the skylight or not was unimportant; he had skidded while running across the new tar and he had gone through the skylight.
Grout licked his thick lips, considering his options. He could wait here, hope the others came along, or he could attract their attention. On the other hand the gunman could be hurt … a fall through the glass could have cut him badly, and when he struck the floor below he might have further hurt himself. Grout peered through the skylight but could see nothing.
He put out his hand, felt an iron stanchion within the frame and then with his elbow he smashed away some of the glass. After only a moment’s hesitation he sat on the edge of the skylight frame and lowered himself gingerly through the open skylight, bracing himself on the stanchion. Next moment he was dangling in mid-air, holding with both hands to the stanchion and the muscles in his shoulders cracked as he hung. He had no idea how far below him the floor might be. He had no idea what he might strike. He braced himself for the shock and closed his jaw tightly then dropped. To his amazement it was like falling onto a trampoline. He bounced three times, uncontrollably and farcically on his feet then fell forward on to his face. It took him several moments to realize that he was lying on an interior-sprung mattress.
He was unable to enjoy the sensation. There was a quick sliding sound from the darkness to his left and Grout rolled sideways, falling to the floor. This time his fall was more painful; the drop was all of ten feet and he realized he had been lying on a pile of mattresses.
A bedding factory; he was in a bedding factory and now it was to be a macabre game of hide and seek among piles of mattresses. There was the hum of machinery in the air but above it Grout could hear the clanging sound of metal, a gun hand banging against a metal door. Grout came charging out into the alleyway between two dark piles of mattresses, and he could see nothing but he heard the man at the far end of the factory floor move quickly at the sound of Grout’s clattering feet. Grout began to run forward towards the doors at the far end where the fugitive was trying to get out yet once again, discretion made him step sideways into the cover of the piled mattresses. There was silence ahead of him.
Carefully Grout moved out, still seeking cover. It seemed as though the man ahead of him could not get out; if that was the case, he might turn like a cornered rat. Grout needed cover. Fifteen feet away from him he could make out the dim shape of a square, glass-walled container. Through the glass something glowed, whitely, swirling in an artificial dance. Grout moved quickly towards it and he made out three pot-bellied vats.
Next moment, the container starred crazily as a bullet smacked into it and feathers drifted out of the shattered opening. Washed and dried, like tiny ghosts in the dark air, but Grout had no time to admire them. He was on his knees, scuttling for the cover of the vats as he was suddenly aware that the flavour of the situation had changed considerably.
The man with the gun was no longer running. He was unable to get off the floor of the factory and he would have a little time in hand to make his escape before the police got around to this factory. Provided he could dispose of Grout.
So now he was coming after Grout. And he had a gun. The silencer spat again and Grout heard a violent clang as the bullet struck the vat. Grout lurched away from its cover and ran between the piled mattresses once more. He felt far from heroic and was now fully recognizing his own foolishness in coming down into the factory after the man with the gun.
He heard the steps coming after him, more slowly, more carefully and the realization that this man was a professional, doing his job with care, slowed Grout’s own blood.
The man wasn’t panicked even though the police would soon be here. It was necessary that Grout also should maintain a cool head. Iron steps loomed up ahead of him. He went up them quietly and carefully. At the top of the steps he found an unlocked door and eased himself through it. Beyond was a low ceilinged room opening up into another, piled high with burlap bags. Grout turned at once, realizing he had walked into a dead end.
He was too late. He heard steps on the rungs outside.
Grout looked quickly around. There was no weapon to hand, just bags, piles of soft bags, full of feathers. He could think of nothing less useful to repel a man with a gun. He looked up above him and caught sight of a chain dangling from the ceiling. He climbed up on one of the piles of bags and reached for the chain. It was looped into a hook, suspended from a trapdoor in the ceiling and Grout realized that the chain was used for lifting bags up through the trapdoor.
For a moment he thought of trying to force open the door, climb through to escape from the man coming up the stairs but there simply wasn’t time. He could hear the man nearing the top of the iron staircase and in a matter of seconds he would be opening the door and there was nothing Grout could do about it.
In desperation, Grout unhooked the chain and linked the short hook at its end into the topmost bag of feathers. He clutched it to his chest and stood upright. The chain swung, creaking, the door opened and the man with the gun stood there, arm raised as Grout threw himself from the top of the bags.
The explosion seared across his eyes and he felt as though he had been struck in the chest with a sledgehammer. He was knocked off balance, swinging sideways on but even so he collided violently with the man standing in the doorway, and with a surprised grunt the man went down. The mouth of the bag was torn open by the fall and it spilled feathers in a cloud, a vast white mass of down. It filled the air, it covered Grout and the man underneath him so that they were forced to spit out the fine down as they fought for breath and fo
r life. Grout was the heavier of the two but they found difficulty in getting to each other. The gunman tried desperately to free his right hand but it was the one thing Grout had seized for immediately and he now hung on the man’s wrist twisting the gun away from his body, hammering the man’s hand on the floor, trying to make him release the weapon.
A fist took Grout at the side of the head and the white down was suddenly shot with violent coloured stars. The two men rolled away from the bags and collided with the door. The gunman grunted as the edge of the door struck his skull but he gave no sign of weakening and he swung again at Grout’s head, a wild swinging blow that lost direction and ended behind Grout’s left ear. Grout felt the fingers of the man’s right hand loosen their grip and with one final, grinding blow to the floor he succeeded in forcing the hand open.
The gun clattered to the ground. They rolled again, struggling furiously and the fugitive was underneath Grout but fingers reached for Grout’s eyes, gouging furiously so that Grout was forced to jerk his head away. His reaction was enough to give his opponent control of the situation momentarily; he bucked violently and Grout lost his balance. He was thrown backwards against the wall, struck his head and once more crazy colours flashed before his eyes. In a daze he rolled, expecting a fist, a boot, some form of attack from the other man but there was none. He whirled on the floor, half-sitting and saw the other man through a haze of drifting white down, staggering away from Grout, but not towards the door.
He was crouching, bending, searching and Grout knew what he was looking for. The down impeded his vision, slowed him down but not long enough to allow Grout recovery of the situation. Grout struggled to his feet, desperately attempting to regain his balance in one wild charge but already he could see that he was too late. The man was gasping in triumph as he bent down, groping through the drifting down, picking something up from the floor.
The gun.
Grout stood riveted in the centre of the room, unable to move. It was as though it were a bad dream. It all had an element of suspended animation about it; movement seemed slow and agonized when it came, as though Grout were watching a slow-motion replay of a situation. The man came up from his crouching position and he was turning to face Grout. He rose to his full height, turning as he did so and the thunder of the gun was excruciatingly loud in the confined space … the silencer had been damaged, or released when the gun clattered down.
The bullet went nowhere near Grout, it had been fired too quickly, in nervous reaction. But Grout knew that the next unhurried bullet would wing its way home, straight into his chest. He saw the man facing him, saw the arm raised to a classic firing position, the professional making the kill and the chain was to Grout’s left. Almost instinctively he grabbed it, swung it and it described a dark arc through the still drifting down.
The second bullet went into the ceiling. There was a scream from the man, its thickening suddenly changing to a gurgling sound and then he was down on his knees, clutching his throat, making animal sounds. Grout staggered towards him, saw that the hook on the end of the chain had entered the man’s throat, half-lifting him from his feet with its impetus, and had torn into his neck diagonally. From the spurting blood, Grout guessed it had torn the man’s jugular vein.
There was nothing Grout could do about it. In a sick daze he fell to his knees and then lay on his back, as the last feathers came down, small fluffs of down. Just before he lost consciousness he was vaguely aware of the tiny snow-white fog that hung, lifted by a light current of air that was undetectable by him, so light that it could hold only the finest feathers.
Only the very finest feathers.
Eagle’s feathers.
CHAPTER TEN
The coloured concentric circles stopped whirling and shimmering and a deep blue darkness descended.
Grout opened his eyes and the darkness turned to a dim, flash-lit greyness. He was aware of people and voices and someone saying, ‘He is regaining consciousness.’
Grout struggled to sit up and found himself looking into the face of Detective Chief Inspector Cardinal. It was Cardinal’s annoyed face, when his lean ascetic features seemed more drawn than ever and the thin line of his lips was marked with a downward turn that signified his displeasure.
‘You’re still alive then, Grout.’
Perhaps it was this he was displeased about. Grout put one hand to his forehead and groaned. He felt very sorry for himself and then he remembered the other man and the sickness came back to his stomach.
‘Clifford?’ he asked stupidly.
The displeasure in Cardinal’s mouth became more apparent and was matched by his tone of voice. ‘The man you were chasing wasn’t Clifford. What the hell were you doing down here, anyway?’
Grout opened his mouth but it seemed pointless to try to explain; he guessed that Cardinal’s question had been largely rhetorical in any case.
‘Is he … dead?’
‘Very. You really opened up his throat with that hook.’ Cardinal was staring at Grout with a vague curiosity. ‘Self-defence, of course. I’ll be interested to read your report on the whole matter.’
Grout struggled to his feet; Cardinal rose also, making no attempt to assist the detective sergeant. He seemed to be in a thoroughly unpleasant mood.
‘I thought he might be Clifford trying to escape,’ Grout muttered again.
‘Well, it wasn’t Clifford. The bastard wasn’t at the villa. This man, the guy whose lights you put out, he was apparently called Schneider. So much we’ve got from the others we caught in the net, but that’s all they’re saying up to now.’ He paused, observing Grout sourly. ‘You were damned lucky we found you so quickly, Grout. We heard the rumpus the pair of you raised and came running, thought you might need assistance.’ Cardinal pulled a face. ‘You could have tried something less messy in your methods of self-defence. And more efficient, too. This chap Schneider will have nothing to tell us now.’
Grout swallowed hard, fighting off the nausea that still affected him and ignoring the throbbing of his skull. ‘There might be something on him that’ll be useful to us, sir.’
‘There might be,’ Cardinal said coldly, ‘but you’ll be glad to hear that the German police are looking though his pockets. I shouldn’t think you’d want to be doing that. There’s blood everywhere.’
Grout was sick in the corner of the room.
They returned to the villa within half an hour. There seemed to be a lot of noise upstairs, a group of investigators were combing the building. Schneider’s pockets had been emptied but they discovered there was little there of assistance to them, except his pocket-book. The interrogation of the men arrested at the villa was being carried out by the German police and Enders joined them, leaving Cardinal and Grout to look through the contents of the pocket-book. It contained a wad of euros in a thick wallet. Schneider’s passport was stuffed into the back of a separate pocket-book, together with a flight ticket to Schiphol airport. Grout stared at the photograph of the man he had killed and the photograph stared back, dark-haired, beetle-browed, neat collar and tie. It could have been the photograph of an aggressive businessman. Grout said so.
‘Hardly that. A professional killer, it would seem,’ Cardinal said, glancing at the photograph. ‘And according to Enders, one of the best contract killers in Europe, or was… . So it’s a feather in your cap, Sergeant Grout, if you don’t mind the allusion. Mind you, Herr Enders tells me that Schneider’s assignments seemed not to have been too numerous of recent months, so maybe he was losing his touch. You crossed his path when he was not on his best form. In decline, so to speak.’
Grout ignored the jibe. He was just thankful to be alive. ‘You mean Enders knows he was a professional killer?’
‘Of course.’ Cardinal appeared surprised at Grout’s innocence. ‘But knowing the man was a gun for hire is another thing from actually catching him with one in his hand. That’s why Schneider was so keen to put a bullet in you, so keen to get away. This would seem to be one occa
sion when he was carrying his gun and was cornered. Even so. …’
He paused, glanced over his shoulder and Grout suddenly became aware someone else had entered the room. He turned and his eyes widened when he saw the woman advancing towards them. She was blonde, beautiful and more than well-proportioned. She was also clearly used to the impression she made upon men.
‘This,’ Cardinal said with a hint of amusement in his tone as he observed Grout’s reaction, ‘is Signorina Carmela Cacciatore, of the Carabinieri Art Squad.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Grout stammered, feeling his response was somehow inadequate, and Carmela smiled.
She turned to Cardinal. ‘I have some colleagues going through the rooms upstairs. So far, they’ve turned up nothing by way of artefacts, or documents that might prove useful but it will take a while. We will continue the search. These people, they often have quite ingenious ways of hiding looted materials.’ She smiled again at Grout. He felt overwhelmed. ‘I understand you have had quite an adventure … and conducted yourself with bravery. You have our gratitude. As for the man who has died … he was not known to my people. But we tend to deal with fraudsters rather than killers. That is not to say some of our targets do not cross the line. … There have been suspicions about the villa. … You have something there?’
Cardinal was silent for a few moments, staring at the airline ticket in his hand. ‘I’m just wondering,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘our contract killer might have had another reason for getting out so urgently. Maybe he wanted very badly to get to Amsterdam. Now I wonder why he would want to do that?’
‘I can’t imagine,’ Grout said. ‘Who are the others arrested in the villa, anyway?’
Cardinal continued to stare, almost absentmindedly, at the airline ticket. ‘One of them is English, from Clifford’s organization. I guess he’s been acting as Gus Clifford’s personal thug, and we’ve got enough on him to put him away for a while in England. I’m letting Enders deal with him, though, to see if he can pick him up on any offences over here. The other two chaps are Germans … I don’t know where they fit into the picture at all.’