Four Stars For Danger

by Burke, John

  If there was anyone out there, he had gone past the door.

  Mark frowned, puzzled and frustrated.

  Then there was the faintest clink from the bathroom, followed by two little moist puffs of sound – the unmistakable sound of some sort of can being opened.

  It dawned on them both at once. Whatever it was that David was bringing for them, he had crept through the far bedroom and let himself into the bathroom from that side.

  Mark threw himself forward. He flung open the bathroom door and stormed in.

  David straightened up from the tray he had just deposited on the lavatory seat. Ellen caught a glimpse of soup bowls, plates, and two opened cans of beer. Then Mark blocked the view.

  He lashed out. David was trying to drag the far door shut with his right hand while his left rose and stabbed clumsily. Something flashed in his clenched fist. Mark gasped, staggered, and steadied himself. He struck out again, and there was the clatter of metal in the bath. Then David had heaved the door shut and was turning the key from the other side.

  Mark held on to the edge of the washbasin. When he turned towards Ellen she saw a gash down the side of his jaw, oozing blood.

  “I’m all right.” He tore off a couple of leaves of pink lavatory paper and smeared the blood under his chin, then stooped over the bath. Ellen thought he was going to spit or be sick; but then he reached in and picked up what he had knocked from David’s flailing left hand.

  It was the opener which had been used on the beer cans: not one of the modern rotary type, and not a triangular hole punch, but a hefty old-fashioned opener with a stained wooden handle and a lethal-looking blade.

  From the bedroom beyond, David said: “Any more of that, and it’ll be the last meal you get. Shouldn’t have brought it anyway. You’re lucky.”

  Mark did not reply, but picked up the tray.

  There was no sound of David leaving. He seemed to be standing there, waiting.

  “Cold meat and salad,” said Mark. “And this soup’s out of a tin. Still, we’re only on the en pension terms, so we can’t expect the best all the time.”

  “And get this straight.” David’s voice was harsh and shrill. “I’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Mark and Ellen exchanged glances. So he had been listening!

  “Not betraying anyone,” David ranted on. “No more than I’ve been betrayed. Not once, but over and over again.”

  “Sad,” said Mark.

  He carried the tray into the nursery, and Ellen sensed that he wanted her to close the door audibly behind them. She slammed it.

  Earlier she had felt hungry. Now she was not so sure. They drank the soup, which had once been hot but was now merely warm, and then she picked at the cold ham.

  How would this figure in her book? Pretty Plates for the Prisoner...Condemned Girl’s Breakfast …

  Only it was lunch.

  Mark leaned over the tray and muttered: “He’s on his own. Must be, or he wouldn’t have come up like that, without a guard.”

  After a while Ellen pushed her plate away, the food half finished.

  Mark went to the window.

  He leaned on the narrow inner ledge, and inserted the blade of the can opener between the frame and the base of one window bar. It went in only a sixteenth of an inch, and stuck. He began to knock it with the heel of his palm, until his hand reddened to purple.

  Ellen put her head against his. “If David hears...”

  “Let him come up.” Mark faced out over the yard, speaking in an undertone. “He’s not the type to use a gun on us. Let him come in with his bare fists, and we’ve got him. He won’t risk it.”

  “He’ll be in trouble when the others come back.”

  “Don’t sound so sympathetic.”

  “Mark, I think he’s sick.”

  “Very sick.”

  Mark got a grip, and leaned on the handle of the opener. He pulled it towards him. Sweat beaded his brow.

  Ellen felt her teeth grind together. If the opener bent, or snapped …

  The lower end of the bar moved. The screw was eased out a fraction of an inch. It screeched as it came, and Mark stopped. He drove the opener in further, banging it into the wider space, and tugged again. The screw came loose, with an even more agonising squeal.

  Mark wiped his hand across his forehead and then took hold of the middle of the bar. When he pushed to one side, it slowly pivoted on its upper screw.

  He repeated the process on the next bar. It took longer. His bruised hand would not grip so firmly, and it seemed to take an eternity before he could drive the blade far enough in between iron and woodwork to get a good purchase.

  “I’d prefer us to be out of here,” he said breathlessly, “before our pals get back this evening. I imagine that’s when they’ll be here.”

  There was a snap. This screw had broken off. The bar came free. He pushed it, and made a space wide enough for them to squeeze through.

  Ellen looked out. There was a nasty drop on to the cobbles below.

  She said: “I...I don’t think I can...”

  “Not very inviting, is it?”

  They leaned on the window-ledge. From far off came a vague mumble that grew gradually clearer and more rhythmic. It was the familiar throb of the truck.

  “Hell,” said Mark. “They’re not waiting for this evening. I wonder what the programme is?”

  He pulled the bars back into their normal position, and backed away from the window. Below was the sound of the truck turning round the end of the house. It stopped. Two doors slammed, and a few seconds later there was the muffled slam of a house door downstairs.

  Mark returned to the window and looked down.

  “Nice,” he said appreciatively. “Very civil of them.”

  The truck was parked immediately below the window. To Ellen it still seemed an awfully long way down; but the canvas cover looked less hostile than the cobbles.

  “Let’s not waste any time,” said Mark.

  He pushed the bars apart again, and set the little table under the window. Awkwardly he balanced himself across the window-frame, swinging round and supporting himself with his hands on the table while he got his legs out of the window. His feet scrabbled down the wall as he got a grip on the bars. He looked down once; then again. Then he pushed himself outwards and let himself drop. Ellen heard the thump and twang of the canvas. She leaned out.

  Mark grinned up at her. “Come on. It’s cushier than it looks.”

  She turned back into the room, picked up her bag, and leaned out of the window again.

  “Catch!”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake...!”

  But he caught it, and then edged to one side of the cover, settling his weight against the metal strut underneath and waiting for her.

  Ellen wriggled out. She wasn’t happy about going feet first, backwards, like this; but it was impossible to sit on the ledge and take off from there – the upper limits of the bars were too tight.

  She lowered herself, feeling panicky as her feet scraped the wall and then hung free. She clung like grim death to the bars. It was impossible to let go. She wanted everything to stop now, right here. It was too much effort to go on. She didn’t want to die: just to cease to be.

  “My love,” said Mark gently. “Come on – it’s easy. I promise. Just let go.”

  She let go. She hit awkwardly, with her knees bent at an awkward angle. The canvas was like a rough, unspringy trampoline. She bounced once, fell sideways; and Mark caught her.

  They lowered themselves from the end until their feet touched the rim of the tailboard, and then dropped to the ground.

  Ellen wanted to prop herself against the side of the truck and get her breath back. She wanted to rest before they went one step further. But Mark jerked a thumb towards the corner of the Hall and the beginning of the gravel drive.

  They moved away.

  Against the nearest garage door stood two large containers with thick handles on either side. They looked like
heavy, dumpy milk churns, but were a leaden grey.

  Mark hesitated. “I’d love to know if those are full or empty. Being delivered – or ready to go.” Then he took her arm and they reached the corner of the house.

  The window on to the terrace was open.

  Van Lynden was saying:

  “...waiting for us. Not sure enough to be too nasty. But nasty enough to ask too many questions. I bluffed, but a Security Officer does not stay bluffed for long. Somebody has talked.”

  David said: “If you mean me...” “You, yes. To any woman who came along. And that interfering couple upstairs. Also there is some stupidity about a parish clerk.”

  “But I told you about that. He phoned the other day. Complained about flooding of the ditch by the road. Wanted to know what action I was taking. I told you, and you said stall him, there was no hurry.” “Well, there’s a hurry now,” said McIntyre. “We’ve got to lift our sample flasks and get out.”

  The telephone rang. David’s voice drifted away.

  Ellen gazed longingly at the open stretch of grass and the drive tilting away down towards the gates. The gates and the road, the nice every day, ordinary road and the ordinary world outside. All they had to do was run for it.

  She glanced at Mark. His hand tightened on her arm. David’s voice swam back out of nothingness. “That was Sir Henry. The Cadwallader Foundation’s in it now. Been receiving some disquieting reports, says Sir Henry. Wants to drive over and have a look round himself. See the lie of the land, he says. All very matey. But determined.”

  “So we move,” said van Lynden.

  “What about the two upstairs?”

  “We leave them.”

  “Now, look,” said David. “If you think I’m going to be responsible for them – going up and feeding them; trying to explain to the Foundation and the police and anyone else who comes...”

  “You will not have to feed them. Or to explain anything to anyone. You are coming with us.”

  “That wasn’t the deal,” said David.

  “Things have changed. There have been too many blunders. We cannot afford to leave you.”

  “But that was the whole idea. The whole deal,” David insisted plaintively. “I don’t want to leave here. I’ve got it nice now, I want to keep it going.”

  “You are a fool. You think you can explain away everything that has happened? When they investigate those tunnels and find what we have left...”

  “That was nothing to do with me. I had nothing to do with the tunnels.”

  “Tell them that. You didn’t notice the subsidence on your own land? You did not know where the lead came from, why the truck came here so often, what we were after? You were only the cook – you think they believe that?”

  “You promised me...”

  “It has gone wrong. So we all go.”

  “Where?”

  “We leave the country. You will enjoy it.”

  “Plenty of sailing,” said McIntyre, gruffly friendly rather than ironical.

  “Those two, up there.” David was still querulous; still, Ellen realised, confusedly regarding himself as a responsible host. “I have told you. We leave them.”

  “But they can’t get out. If they’re not found...”

  “They will probably be found. If they are not, that is their misfortune. They were not invited to meddle.”

  Again Ellen glanced round at Mark, imploring him to run. They would be in full view of the long window as they sprinted below the terrace, but she wanted to risk it. She wanted desperately to be on the move.

  Beyond his shoulder she saw that the doors of the end garage were ajar. Through the gap she could just distinguish the gleam of what was inside: Fiona’s blue Sprite.

  Mark followed the direction of her gaze. He nodded. They backed away from the corner and crossed the cobbles.

  There was no lock on the doors. The car must have been hurriedly pushed in and the doors hurriedly pushed across by someone with little time to spare.

  “Ready?” Mark whispered.

  They each took hold of a door and pulled. The squawk of the hinges incited answering squawks from birds in the trees behind the garages.

  And there was a shout from the house.

  Mark dived for the car. McIntyre was already leaping from the end of the terrace and heading for them.

  One door of the garage creaked inward again, driven by its own weight on the warped hinges.

  Ellen whimpered. She let McIntyre come at her because she no longer had the will to dodge. Then Mark came spinning out of the garage and tackled McIntyre low. They went down on the cobbles. Breath exploded from McIntyre like air puffing out of those beer cans. Mark scrambled up and said:

  “Run!”

  Van Lynden was teetering on the edge of the terrace, and he had a gun. But it wavered. Mark shoved Ellen brutally before him, away from the drive. The drive was too long, too exposed. They floundered up the hillside and into the sheltering undergrowth.

  “Up there!” van Lynden was snarling. “After them – up there.”

  There was the crackle of branches and the snap of twigs underfoot. Ellen’s breath rasped in her throat. The incline steepened.

  “No,” she sobbed.

  Not worth the effort. No use. No escape.

  Mark smacked her brutally across the bottom as though she were a faltering horse. He drove her up the slope ahead of him. They came out on to a path and began to run along it. From the corner of her eye she saw that someone was racing to intercept them – someone who knew the paths and was murderously confident that they would not get away. McIntyre’s teeth gleamed fitfully under the green and gold of trees and sunlight, the lattice of brightness and shadow. He might almost have been laughing; or perhaps drawing in breath as painfully as Ellen was.

  “Up here!”

  Mark drove her off the path again and they clawed their way up to a higher level. McIntyre did not slacken. And van Lynden’s livid face shivered up through the trees like some floating, deadly fungus.

  They were chivvied round an old drystone hut whose roof had crumbled in. A heap of corrugated iron drove them at a tangent along the hillside. Another path, a streamer of beaten earth that petered out between clutching brambles, and then a firmer path. They were getting further and further from the drive. Over the ridge perhaps there was a descent to another road. Somewhere there must be a way out – if they could get there in time.

  Ellen’s bag swung away from her shoulder, and the strap was dexterously hooked by a trailing branch. She fought to free it. Mark, tearing the branch away, flung the bag against her hip and said: “Women! I told you...”

  There was an opening in the cliff face a few yards above them. Ellen clambered towards it, stumbled, and fell. Pain lanced through her ankle. She got up again but could hear the rustling and crashing of their pursuers not far behind.

  Mark’s hand was on her arm again. He tried to steer her. They lurched up the hill and into the opening.

  Water dripped slowly but regularly somewhere, some distance away, well into the hillside.

  Van Lynden was shouting something, outside, far too close.

  They retreated from the entrance, Mark testing the way with his foot. Ellen wanted to stop. The dank darkness was suffocating. But it was too late to go back. Mark sought his way, shuffling along, until there was a slight curve in the cave or tunnel or whatever it was, and the light from the mouth was cut off.

  Ellen stopped. She couldn’t bear to commit herself another inch of the way into this gloom. She fumbled for the catch of her bag, dipped in, and found the pencil-torch.

  Its beam picked out the moist walls of the tunnel, with shining patches of solid rock. The roof sagged ominously.

  A few feet ahead was the dark stain of a gap in the floor. A few more steps, and they would have plunged in.

  A beam of wood was braced between the two walls of the tunnel, fitted with a block and tackle. The wood was new, and the torchlight struck an oily gleam from the bloc
k. Mark went to the rim of the hole and looked down. He waved Ellen nearer. She kept her toes a few inches from the opening and stabbed the beam of the torch downwards.

  The shaft went down some twenty feet. At the bottom, sprawled out brokenly, was Fiona, her dead face staring sightlessly upwards.

  Chapter Eleven

  Van Lynden laughed. The resonance boomed along the tunnel. Instinctively Ellen doused her torch.

  “Splendid. A good place to choose. It will save us a great deal of trouble.”

  “How do we get them out?” McIntyre must have been standing a little way back from the tunnel entrance, poised ready.

  “We do not.”

  “If they start grubbing about in there...”

  “They will come up against the barriers. Or,” said van Lynden with inexplicable relish, “they will be...pulped. Consumed. Like so many other varieties of organic matter in there.”

  Ellen put out her hand to find the wall. When she was sure of her position, she shuffled back from the opening and braced herself against the side of the tunnel. Mark blundered into her, then settled his shoulder against hers while he, too, scratched and explored the surface of the wall.

  “You and Parr finish off,” said van Lynden. “I’ll stay here in case they try to come out. Load the specimens, and get back here to set the cylinders up.”

  There was a silence that was no silence. The mine adit creaked like an old house. There was a gentle groan of woodwork, a persistent drip, a medley of little rustlings and ploppings.

  Mark tweaked Ellen’s elbow. Apprehensively she followed as his shoulder moved away. Flattened against the wall, they went crabwise for what might have been a few feet or several yards. Then Mark seemed to fall backwards. He wasn’t there any longer. Ellen croaked a protest; and his hand found hers and guided her round a right-angled bend.

  She flicked the torch on again.

  They were in a side tunnel. Flakes of earth dropped from the roof to the ground like spatterings of water, perhaps dislodged by their movements, slight as they were. There were lumps on the floor where larger fragments had fallen, nearly obscuring the uneven rails of a crude tramway. The tunnel sloped down towards the junction with the adit, and a shallow conduit along one side carried a slow trickle of muddy water.